institutesamples | you know what I'm sayin'?

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."

Sherlock practically collapses in on himself as the healing heat from John's hands, unable to disguise the noise that escapes him. God, that's good, and he has no trouble in letting John know whatever he's doing is working quite well. Turning his head over his shoulder, he looks over at his friend thoughtfully.

"Sarcasm isn't helping."

"It's helping me a little," he smiles, wryly.

Moving his hands lower, he smiles to himself. "You know, I used to do this to women. Well, I was a little more subtle, but it worked."

He sits up and gives Sherlock's shoulder a light tap. "On your back, I want to see the front, maybe finish fixing that pretty face of yours."

Sherlock rolls over obligingly, looking up at John out of a stupor of not hurting. At least that part of him. His ribs are still a bit out of kilter and he's beginning to realize the shiner that John imparted to him yesterday still aches a bit [though the medical man will note that Sherlock has healed a two days worth in a night.] He still looks fairly abysmal, skinnier, if possible. His chest and side are still covered in fading bruises, but it's better than yesterday. Sherlock shuts his eyes to the world, smirking.

"Are you trying to get it to work on me, John?" Sherlock's voice is a playful rumble, and he stretches carefully in place - laying on his back is a little less comfortable than on his uninjured side. He flicks open an eye to watch John's reaction.

John again begins to feel about, gently, finding the worst spots and laying his hands over them, healing. It's curious though....

"I didn't do this much healing last night.... but you seem much better than you should. You weren't kidding before, were you?" Still, he helps with the finishing touches on Sherlock's ribs and moves to look at his face, hand on his cheek and moving towards the eye.

"You'd be in love with me if I was."

Sherlock just smirks over at John, reaching up one arm to playfully muss the doctor's hair. It's a sweet, teasingly boyish gesture.

"Maybe my actual ability is to mirror other people's powers?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow and instantly regrets it, his face screwing up into regret. "Not kidding." He flinches a little as John goes in for his face, grimacing back into the pillow a little. "Just... hold on." He goes to shove at John's hands gently, emitting a little noise of protest.

Sherlock apparently doesn't like anything near his eyes.

John pulls back and waits.

"It's alright. Just the same as before, hardly any pressure.... what are you worried about?" he asks, a little worried himself.

"Eyes," mutters Sherlock. "Don't like anything in the eyes. Or near them. Just... be gentle."

Not that he ever thought John was capable of being anything else with his face. Except when the soldier gets angry enough to rearrange it. Sherlock forces his hands back down to his sides, though fingertips find contact with John again, perhaps the side of his leg or a toe.

"I will be," he promises, "this time."

He's gentler than he'd been with the ribs, and tries to get it done quickly, thumb reassuringly brushing down the corner of Sherlock's eyebrow.

He looks at the hand touching his knee.

"About your....you know, gift, so to speak... Can you just...take peoples thought and feelings or do they have to allow you to?"

"Gift," snarls Sherlock softly, trying not to wrench away from John's hands as they land on his eyes. The heat however, causes him to sink back into the mattress reflexively. The touch at his eyebrow might actually be appreciated, judging how the detective's face unscrunches a bit at the caress.

The hand doesn't move. It's just there.

"You have to allow me to, though I could probably figure out how to fight with it. I can transmit and receive. The willingness to send, or the lack of discipline not to has to be there. Here, let me show you."

Sherlock opens up a link back to John - on his end, it's silent, the detective's face narrowed in concentration. This takes more work than I like to admit, Sherlock's mental voice is soft. I have to think about one thing, and then nothing else at all to be able to communicate.

John puts his hand on Sherlock's with one thought forced through his head: "Stop".

He looks down, frowning apologetically.

"You already have an unfair advantage. I... don't want you to do this without warning me, in case... I think about things. By accident. While I'm trying not to...."

He feels terrible asking it, but some things he'd rather keep private and he feels on edge with the thought that he could transfer it across to Sherlock.

"How did you discover it, anyway?"

Sherlock's mind recoils at the word - there's a dim impression of the detective being chagrined, even mutely a little embarrassed. He blinks up at John cautiously.

"I don't mean to do it sometimes. I started hearing things when I touched people, at first. It's only through physical contact, thankfully, otherwise I'd be losing my mind at the idiocy of the every day mind. Once when I touched Mrs. Hudson's wrist in the flat after the Americans broke in looking for the Woman's phone. The fear from her was astounding." Sherlock swallows tightly. "That... is why the man fell out of the window, coincidentally, because our poor landlady was broadcasting terror so very loudly I couldn't ... really ah..." Sherlock trails off. "I couldn't help it."

A bit of confusion in Sherlock's eyes. "What could you possibly be thinking about that you think would offend me or would be something I'd react poorly to?" A pause. "I can't force things from you, but if you're not making an effort to hide what you're thinking - imagine more like having a room across the house those thoughts exist in, and you're having a conversation with someone in the room."

Sherlock removes his hand from John, and his mind is completely silent again. Horribly, horribly quiet.

you know what I'm sayin'?

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