institutesamples | you know what I'm sayin'?

John moves closer, looking down curiously before ruffling Sherlock's hair.

"Just get some rest or you'll be useless. And when you're useless you're bored. And when you're bored..... you're a pain in the arse."

A part of him would love to see Sherlock being annoying right now, it beats this horrible depressive state, but maybe in time. He turns away, taking the gun over to the desk.

"I'm always bored," Sherlock grumbles, but as he hears John's footsteps move away from him, the detective tumbles out of the couch onto the floor with a thump. He manages to clamber to his feet in sort of a half-daze, his coat hanging off of him lopsidedly - it might be a strange reminder of the time the Woman drugged him. Sherlock walks into the desk, smacking the corner painfully with a hip (he doesn't seem to feel it.) He takes a perch against the wall, stationed next to the chair with his back carefully nestled into a corner so that he's sort of half facing the door andt the window. Apparently the couch is too comfortable for him.

Sherlock pulls his coat around him, pulling the scarf out of his pocket to ball up under his chin, and shuts his eyes to whatever ambient light is left.

"Sherlock," he sighs, "you're bloody useless. Back to the couch, Doctor's orders."

Putting the gun away in a drawer and locking it, he gets up and tugs on Sherlock's sleeve, trying to lead him back. He has such strange habits, especially when it came to sleep and rest. But this was John's workplace. If he wanted to stay, he was going to stay out of the way.

Sherlock opens his eyes to stare blearily up at John, and for once, doesn't make much of an argument, only looking grumpy and paler than usual. Back to the couch he trudges, and then simply falls into it.

"You will be here when I wake up with the list of things I requested," Sherlock rumbles from the couch, his voice layered with sleep. "Or I will throw up in your desk. Every single drawer."

Sherlock throws his arms over his head and curls into a ball beneath his coat. No more than a few minutes pass before the detective's breathing shallows and slows, Sherlock passing into what seems to be bricklike slumber.

"Yes," he sighs, sitting on the edge and feeling Sherlock's forehead. He tries to focus on healing, but he's not sure what, exactly. Still, every little helps.

Returning to his desk, he watches Sherlock until the man falls asleep and gets up. He switches the computer on, plays some soft music and retrieves a pack of cigarettes from another drawer.

He might as well get the shopping in before he falls asleep himself.

One last look at Sherlock and he he goes to the door, glancing at his stick before striding straight past it and locking the door behind.

~~~~~

It's with caution that he unlocks the door and peers inside. Sherlock hasn't moved an inch. What a relief. He checks the locked drawer, just in case, and hides the cigarettes once more, taking a mint out instead and setting out Sherlock's shopping.

No new emails (that he wants to read, anyway), no missed calls, and no students queuing. He leans back and closes his eyes.

When John finally decides to trundle off to bed, Sherlock trails him quietly, and they have a quiet, decidedly familiar argument - the topic isn't, but the tone is, and Sherlock takes comfort in tormenting his flatmate.

"I'm coming with you," Sherlock speaks quietly, still hazy from sleeping so hard. He needs more sleep. He's still deeply fatigued and hung over.

"Fine," John's answer is tired. Worn.

"I steal covers," Sherlock hazards quietly.

"You're not getting any.

"Any what, John?"

"Covers, Sherlock."

"Fine, I'll just use you.

"Like hell you will. You'll be on the floor. With your coat.

"John," Sherlock shoots him a faintly hurt look. They travel through hallways, out of the main office building and into the dorms for the resident faculty. Sherlock's still following him, silent as a shadow.

"Sherlock." John's tone is edged now, and the doctor looks up at Sherlock as they pace quickly through the hall, Sherlock's long strides more than capable of keeping up with the doctor. They march into John's room, and John shuts the door behind him, not bothering to strip out of his clothing. He just collapses into his bed with an exhausted sigh. Sherlock, in a rare show of compliance, curls up on the floor and is quiet for about five minutes.

"John, it's cold." Sherlock tries to pout and can't seem to find it in himself. His lips curl upward helplessly. Thankfully he's facing away from John so the man can't see his amused expression.

"Sherlock. You're a reptile. Find a rock." Sherlock notes John is cranky, and this is what sleep deprivation does to him. To make up for lost time (and to harass John), Sherlock picks himself off the floor unsteadily - he's still not slept off all of the scotch, and then falls over onto John.

"GET OFF!" snarls John, wriggling beneath him and pushing against Sherlock with his hands.

"You said find a rock!"

"I also said get UNDER it!"

"Ah, right," Sherlock uncurls off of John onto the other side of the bed, and then languidly reaches out to pull John over on top of him, using the man's stockier frame like a normal human being would use a blanket. John's patience is growing thinner by the second. Sherlock is his friend, his flatmate, and a total arse when he wants to be.

"What I didn't tell you," John starts, narrowing his eyes and shoving at Sherlock a bit. "Is that I will have outrageously emotional, human, earth shattering sex with anyone and anything I find in my bed. Is that something you want to risk?"

This puzzles Sherlock. Anything? Horses? Tables? He debates putting a shovel into bed with John just to text this theory. Maybe a rubber ducky? Lampshades seem novel too. Sherlock is endlessly amused by the possibilities.

"...yes, actually," John peers up at him. "I thought the emotional bit would be more than enough."

"John, I'm a telepath," Sherlock explains with patent condescension, peering up at the form of the doctor on top of him quizzically. "Do you honestly think I'm as intimidated by emotions as you think I am? They don't make sense to me, I'm not afraid of them."

"Fine, I'm going to---..." John trails off almost immediately, letting out a harsh puff of air, realizing that hey, he could just move. He does so and tried to shove Sherlock roughly off the bed.

Sherlock stiffens faintly at John's touch, and then removes himself from the bed easily. He doesn't say a word, picking up whatever of his belongings are anywhere nearby and steps out without so much of a goodnight. A light hand shuts the door behind him gently. John crawls back into bed, but watches Sherlock go, wondering just what in the hell has gotten into the detective. He hears a quiet noise outside, the sound of wool shifting and someone taking a seat quietly against the wall. Sherlock's been thoughtful enough not to block John's path out.

John exhales slowly, passing a hand over his face. He utters a string of curses as he gets up to open the door. "Fine. Whatever. Get in. Just don't think you're getting the covers all to your-..." Another faculty member wanders by. John nods politely. "r... self." He clears his throat. "We're not gay."

Sherlock doesn't move, leaning forward to rest his chin on the top of his knee. "Go to sleep John. I daresay you need it more than I do."

"Not until you go to bed." John is apparently every inch as stubborn as Sherlock. The detective emits a frustrated noise. He shifts from the door, steps in, and then curls back up on the floor, balling his coat underneath him to serve as a pillow. John cannot help but press his palm to his face.

"Sherlock! Bed. Now."

"If you insist, doctor," the tone from Sherlock is undeniably peeved. Sherlock strips out of his clothing, the coat getting tossed on the bed, trousers and shirt shucked for functionality's sake. The coat gets pulled over himself before he curls up in a tight ball on the very edge of the bed, leaving all of the covers for John to cocoon himself in, if he so desires. "Your sense of masculinity is very easily threatened," he mutters. "Sharing a bed with a man does not a homosexual make. And trust me," growls Sherlock. "If you ever share a bed with me in that context, you will know it. None of this idiotic subtext."

"..... I wasn't threatened. I just don't want you hogging things," John's voice is deeply defensive. "Stop being such a... baby."

Sherlock considers this for a moment, and then rolls over abruptly, casting an arm around John's middle and pressing his nose into hollow behind his jaw. "What about now?" There's a subtle, teasing growl in his tone, even though he sounds tremendously exhausted.

The doctor stiffens, and not in the homoerotically desired way. A tight swallow and he clears his throat. "No, fine, whatever. But I'm telling Mycroft. Clearly you need help, he can have a rentboy shipped over right away."

Sherlock's not in the mood to play gay chicken with John, but at least he smells nice. Because playing that game that would be strange, even for him. A hand goes up to ruffle John's hair gently, and Sherlock shifts away, giving John breathing room. He tucks his coat around his chin and reaches out one hand, fingertips resting against the middle of John's back. "Eyeballs. In your tea."

"....yeah, that only works as a threat if it's something that wouldn't happen anyway." John yawns and feels strange having Sherlock's fingers on his back. Not bad strange, but he doesn't want to move for some reason. As though it's be a bad thing to chase the touch away.

"You carry most of your tension in the middle of your back," Sherlock observes hazily, fingers tracing the muscles on either side of John's spine. "You're in pain?"

"No. not pain." But John aches constantly. ""Don't tell me you're an expert masseuse too? Reflexologist?"

"I have some knowledge in human physiology, John, though I am not at your level of expertise." Sherlock's thumbs press into a knot beneath John's shoulderblade gently, beginning to work at the tension . "I am neither, however."

A half-grunted sigh escapes John. "Yeah well... give it a go." This isn't gay, right? It's a massage. yeah. It's normal for it to feel good. And it's only exciting because....it's not exciting, no that's not it. it's just different. because.... it's like being a kid again. A slightly horny kid with a lot of tension and a friend who knew about physiology.

Sherlock sighs patiently, giving John a shove with his hand. "On your stomach, please, at this angle I might hurt you or cause you more pain." Once John's rolled over properly, Sherlock shifts to sit alongside his flatmate, his fingers sliding up the back of John's shirt to carefully massage the muscles between his shoulderblades, strong thumbs and violinist's fingers firm, but gentle.

Sherlock's shove rolls John over and the doctor feels the chill as his shirt is lifted, tries to ignore the shiver that comes with his breath. he could take his shirt off but, too much effort. He likes the way it feels, the mixture of warm and cold. "This is a nice change..."

"What is?" Sherlock hands glide across John's back easily, his palms warm against the other man's skin. He's practical about his movements, tugging up the shirt and moving it about to access the muscles at John's upper back, mixing accurate pressure with his thumbs and alternating with slipping his palms for a more generalized weight.

"Being taken care of." John folds his arms and squirms a moment to get more comfortable. "You're not bad. With my training, young padawan, you could become a master."

"John, books would make me a master, not imaginary made up words," Sherlock is at least, starting to sound more like himself. Sleeping for a bit seems to have brought the edge back to his mind. There is decided telepathic silence from him as he shoves John's shirt up more to work on his neck - his touch here is gentler than it was on John's back, fingers rubbing light circles at the base of John's skull, trying to convince the muscles that they should just relax. John does relax under his hands, and Sherlock feels a vague wash of relief that he hopes does not translate through the physical contact he has with his flatmate. He's not always great a shutting himself up.

Sherlock's hands are unusually gentle on this task - avoiding the exit wound of the bullet that punctured through John's shoulder (though he does his best to work around it delicately.) He trails his fingertips - calloused on the left, soft on the right - down John's spine, repeating the movement up and down his back a few times before going to continue at his lower back, pressing his thumbs into stubborn knots. "Do the cases do this to you?" he queries lightly, his hands seeming tireless in the face of John's tension. He patiently finds and works through each knot, occasionally having to lean in with more pressure than he'd normally use. There's not much weight behind his body though.

Whenever those quick fingers come close to the scar, his fingers pull at the pillow, only slightly, but enough for a man like Sherlock to notice. It wasn't a wound that doesn't really bother him until others become aware of it and he appreciates Sherlock's delicate handling of it. If anything, he reacts more than usual in the worry that Sherlock will discover something with his 'connection'.

"Not the cases, exactly. Just you," he kids. "Lower. Press in a little more and push up..."

"Sorry," Sherlock mutters to the back of John's head, strong fingers obeying his directions. He grunts faintly. "Oh, I see what you mean." The detective's intentions seem bent upon the rather coiled knot near the exit wound. Still, he's careful, only applying force when he's absolutely sure he'll need it and that he won't hurt John. Sherlock works fairly tirelessly, though there's a faint, subtle tremor in his hands and arms after about forty minutes. At that point his touch is more methodical, thoughtful, spinning slow circles on the doctor's back meant to soothe and to relax him mentally as much as physically.

Sherlock's using the last vestiges of wakefulness to gently send thoughts of sleep, of being home, the sound of quietly playing violin in the middle of the night somewhere off in the distance. (He hasn't neglected to bring the instrument with him. It sits propped up against John's nightstand, and as far as Sherlock's concerned, that's the safest place in the world it could be. There's a funny noise coming from Sherlock's throat - he's humming along softly with the tune the violin plays (though an octave or so lower). Sherlock can sing - fairly well, in fact. It's unclear if John will know, but Sherlock hums something of Schubert's work to him.

Once Sherlock's convinced that John's back is in better shape than he's left it today, then, and only then, does Sherlock settle in on the very edge of the bed. The detective gives John plenty of space, though his fingers settle somewhere on John's skin, faint telepathic contact giving into mental static, and then nothing as Sherlock finally, mercifully falls completely asleep.

Edited 2012-11-04 07:20 (UTC)

It's quite early on that John begins to fall asleep, though it's a light sleep he's sometimes pulled out of by a touch here or there. Sherlock's influence sends him off into a much deeper slumber soon after.

At some point in the night, he shifts and the break of contact wakes him, though he doesn't quite realise that's the reason. He jolts a little, not afraid, and it's such a rare pleasure to wake without a sense of fear or depression.

Rolling over, he watches Sherlock at the edge of the bed and pulls him closer, half on top of himself but too tired to do much about it. He holds him there, feeling sleep heavy, and mutters, "Thank you for coming back. I needed you. Still do".

Sherlock is instantly awake. John's touch is something Sherlock was not expecting and after the weeks catching brief naps in strange places, any change in his environment is enough to rouse him fully. The alcohol has mostly drained out of him. His mind comes to life immediately, rolling through possibilities of his environment - John's bed, a dorm room, America. John is here, and they're both safe. Relief cycles through the tight, alert feeling in his chest. Not wanting to disturb the doctor, Sherlock lets John pull him over, subtly assisting by moving himself along carefully. He doesn't dare open his eyes, keeping his breathing in the rhythm of 'asleep.' His coat hangs off of his mostly-naked form, Sherlock in boxers alone (that's how he sleeps, don't panic, John.)

Keeping his movements clumsy and slow, Sherlock nestles closer into John's side, arm arcing over the doctor's chest to hold him, fingers splayed on the smaller man's chest. The detective's hair is a mess, curls flat on one side and absurdly wild on the other. His head ends up on John's shoulder, and Sherlock buries his nose in the crook of the doctor's neck so that all he can smell is the remnant of John's aftershave, whatever cologne he might use.

It doesn't take long for sleep to reclaim Sherlock. He's still exhausted. The contact is just spare enough, that Sherlock's emotions echo faintly at John. Just the singular, quiet concept, safe before Sherlock is asleep again.

When alone, John often sleeps on his back, thrashing about during nightmares and occasionally waking in foetal position. When there is a warm body nearby, he has a habit of gravitating towards it. And so, in the morning, Sherlock can find John tangled up against him like a weed. Despite the moments of waking, it's the best sleep he's had in a very long time, cheek planted against Sherlock, crust forming at the corners of his mouth.

Sherlock has managed to wrap himself around John, long arms securely holding the smaller, stockier man close to his chest. One of his legs has wrapped around John's at the back joint of his knee, and then around his ankle. John will probably find his face resting against Sherlock's chest, the detective's nose and chin planted into his hair, his breathing steady and quiet with the obliviousness that comes from incredibly deep sleep. John waking does not rouse Sherlock, but there's no chance in the world that John will be able to untangle from his friend without waking him immediately.

Shifting slightly in his sleep, his arms tighten around John unconsciously. Sherlock mutters something, eyebrows furrowing tightly in toward one another. John gets squished a little more firmly, and Sherlock's entire body stretches out for a moment, and then goes back into pretzel up with John's once more.

Before John's fully conscious, his hands run over smooth, warm skin, trailing patterns and caressing softly. It's nice to wake up with somebody. But then he begins to remember who that somebody is when a sound escapes them. He stiffens a little and tries to pull away, gently. It's not working.

For a moment, Sherlock stretches and John sees his chance, but he's not quick enough and gets trapped in the claw that is Sherlock's ridiculously lanky body once more.

"Sherlock," he says, "Uh, hm... Sherlock." It is nice though, he thinks, as he tries to extract himself. "Shit, I really need to get laid."

John's touch rouses Sherlock, his blue eyes snapping open, wide and horribly alert, only to shut again when the detective realizes exactly who's next to him, and ... Sherlock's mind halts a little as John's hands run over his skin, throwing his mind into total chaos. One hand reaches for John's, to stop him, though not with any real intent or protest. John struggling against chest really does pull Sherlock into consciousness, and blue eyes land on John's face in a mixture of sleepy bewilderment and irritation.

"Oh, hold still," Sherlock's peevishness is the only word that escapes his mouth. "You've been like that all night, it's not like five minutes of being conscious changes it."

Sherlock really doesn't know everything there is to know. Like morning glory. Not that John HAS any, but, still. What if his mind wandered and he remained too comfortable to...stop things.

"Sherlock, we're grown men. We.... don't need to cuddle. You can only cuddle when your life's in danger. It's just the way of the world."

He says all this, but he's long since stopped struggling.

Sherlock stretches in place, an expansion and tension of muscle beneath John's arms, the movement lazy. One hand unpins from John to collect the covers to throw them back over the two of them - warding off the natural chill of the room.

"Do you think an arbitrary rule set devised by homophobic army men in life-threatening situations has anything relevant to offer this situation, John?"

Not really anyway, but Sherlock's quite comfortable and warm for the first time in awhile, and he'll be a bit put out if John decides to bolt from the bed. Sherlock lets his chin rest on top of John's head, one hand going to check the tension in John's back with medical precision (he's learned, in fact, rather quickly, where John seems to store it.)

"It's not homophobic," he huffs, tugging the covers up once Sherlock puts them within reach. "Nobody wants to rub their bits on their friends, regardless of gender or sexuality. It's just not done."

He highs softly under the pretence of accepting the contact grudgingly. In truth, it's welcome.

"I should train you up to be my nurse."

"You'd know if I was... Rubbing my bits on you, John. Thankfully that is not an issue at the moment." Sherlock grabs John, yanking him into a brief and awkward embrace. "I am glad you are alive and safe. I am very glad to see you. Judging on the effects of post traumatic stress syndrome, I will not deal well with sleeping on my own for a week or so. After that, flashbacks and nightmares, time scope unlimited... any erratic behavior should be treated as the psychological effects of having Jim Moriarty shoot himself in front of me."

Sherlock pauses for breath, curling closer to John. "I am not myself. Apologies."

"Accidents happen, Sherlock, even with you."

John is still stubbornly pretending he doesn't appreciate the closeness. But he's been in Sherlock's shoes before (never his bed, though) and he can understand completely the desire to have somebody close to ground him. All the better that it's a friend who understands.

Sleeping with a girl you've just met and screaming your lungs off in the middle of a night, ranting and raving at her is never a good idea. And had happened more than once to John in the beginning before he'd shut himself off.

"Probably would have been better if it was me shooting that time, eh?" he frowns, rubbing Sherlock's back. "It gets easier."

He never thought it would until that Taxi chase. Never thought it'd be quite as easy to laugh and feel normal, even if the situation was far from it.

"I'd joke it's a nice break having you not acting like yourself. But... it's good to have you back in any shape or form."

He could also argue Sherlock at least knew he was alive and had hardly seen his best friend committing suicide. But now's not the time to split hairs.

Sherlock doesn't say much of anything for a bit, blue grey eyes focused on the ceiling. His expression is deeply thoughtful, though one of his slender white hands is kept in contact with John's skin, though the detective isn't transmitting at the moment. His other hand has been gently checking John's back for renewed signs of tension, but it almost seems automatic for Sherlock. After a few minutes in silence, Sherlock unhands John, turning around in the bed to put his back up against him. It is a strangely trusting gesture, as Sherlock hasn't turned his back to an entrance since arriving at the Institute.

"I'm to be a chemistry substitute when needed. Librarian when I'm not," his voice is soft, thoughtful. "I'm no use teaching anyone how to fight and my mental abilities aren't strong enough to be considered remarkable." Sherlock's voice turns a bit bitter. "So, library it is." The sheets are run through the fingers on one of his hands, Sherlock testing the make and material, running an inner process to determine thread count and manufacturer. Also, how difficult it would be to get blood out of them.

"It is my deduction that the major players in Moriarty's ring have been dealt with, though there will always be more to the web then we realized. To everyone save our immediate colleagues I'm still quite dead. For their own safety and for the lack of domestics. I've made sure Mrs. Hudson is being well cared for. Mycroft has constant watch on her residence."

John looks at Sherlock's back when it's offered and closes his eyes, silently thanking god his friend it okay. That he's back.

He rubs his friends arm and slides it round with a half sigh, saying, "I'll give you a check up later, okay? Unless anything's hurting now? You know.... I might finally get to use you as my guinea pig."

He's not sure Sherlock belongs in a library with other people. It'll be interesting, though. Entertaining, even. And, as he said, he was no teaching anyone to fight. John would be out on the field alone.

"And.... what about me?" he asked.

"All of me is hurting, John. I haven't slept in a real bed since the last time you saw me." Sherlock's voice is a little muffled by pillow, regaining its usual controlled stiffness. "If you need a test subject, I'm more than willing. I have an exceptional pain tolerance."

Sherlock's skin raises in gooseflesh at John's touch, but it's involuntary, and the detective, lanky as he is (and underfed, he's lost a bit of weight) certainly seems more cold than anything else. He's quiet at the last question, rolling over abruptly so that his face isn't more than about four inches away.

"What about you, John? We'll still work together?" There's a faintly hopeful note to his tone.

John slides his hands over Sherlock's back, trying to sense at first, but he feels silly. He's not sure his 'trick' works like that, so he begins a little more of a proper examination, fingers pressing in here and there.

"Not that, you know the answer to that, smartarse. Who was following me? If Mycroft's been through the Dr's files again, I swear to god...."

Even if John passes his hands over Sherlock's back, he'll be able to mark the knots compounded upon older tension. He bites back a grunt of discomfort as John prods at him, stiffening slightly.

"What about you? No one went rummaging through your files, if that's what you're asking." There's a brief, shameful pause, Sherlock bowing his head. "...Molly kept an eye on you for me. I told her not... to get too involved. I didn't want her of all people getting caught up in this any more than she already had. Mycroft's men kept a distant, but keen eye on 221B. No one entered or left without him knowing. I... I watched occasionally. You looked miserable."

John goes back to the spot that made Sherlock grunt and focusses his attention, sending a healing warmth through his hands to fix it as best as he can. He stays quiet as he listens to Sherlock and licks his lip, before biting back as much sadness as he can.

"I was pretty miserable, yes. Good, nice deduction."

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and this is an IM log transcribed.

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updating from phone sorry for slow!

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