Chapter Text
Another successful case, ending in another late-night (well, early-morning) visit to the Chinese restaurant on Baker Street. By now, John and Sherlock were familiar faces: frequent repeat customers and good tippers, for all they kept odd hours. It was enough to earn them a table even near closing time. The restaurant staff was happy to let them stay after the neon “open” sign was turned off, while the clatter and bang of dishwashing and end-of-the-shift cleanup echoed from the kitchen, along with snatches of animated discussion in a blend of English and Chinese, liberally peppered with laughter.
As usual, only John ordered food and ate like the starving wolf he was, using a fork to shovel down the calories his shapeshifter's metabolism demanded, closing his eyes in bliss as he chewed. Sherlock, in turn, commandeered the cheap, disposable wooden chopsticks set out beside the fork, snapping them apart and using them to steal the most interesting bits off of John's plate with devastating pinpoint accuracy.
He'd worked his way through several prawns, most of the miniature ears of corn, and a smattering of pea pods when he realized John had slowed his pace and was taking more measured bites, chewing slowly and thoughtfully, watching Sherlock with a considering expression.
It was his “doctor face,” the one he wore when making diagnoses. “What?” Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows before delicately liberating another prawn from the plate.
“I think,” John said, “It's time we got you home and put to bed.”
Sherlock was familiar enough with John's phrasing to read this for what it was: not a proposition, since that would have been, “get you home and into bed.” John was referring strictly to matters of sleep.
“I'm not even remotely tired,” Sherlock scoffed around a mouthful of prawn. “I'm good for at least another week, possibly two.”
“Mmmmm, yeah, right, 'course you are,” John said, nodding. “In that case, I'm tired, and we need to get me home.” He picked up his teacup and drained it in one decisive gulp while signaling to the young man currently sweeping the floor that he was ready for a takeaway box.
The walk was bracing; it had rained, clearing and cooling the air, washing the streets and making them gleam. At first Sherlock strode along at a pace that had John working to keep up, and Sherlock felt smugly vindicated; his energy levels were just fine.
That lasted for about three minutes, and then Sherlock noticed John was keeping up more easily. Gravity began asserting itself as a slow drag, and Sherlock felt his reserves draining away, the need for rest beginning to catch up with him. Irritated, he put on another burst of speed, but it faded even more quickly than the first.
John said nothing, but he no doubt recognized what was going on, which irritated Sherlock even more. He latched on to the irritation gratefully, because it filled his brain and helped him delay thinking about the inevitable.
By the time they reached the door of 221B, however, even staying irritated was becoming an effort. The stairs towered much higher than usual, stretched out of proportion like something in a low-grade nightmare. Sherlock made it up them on his own, but he tripped twice, his foot not quite rising high enough to clear the next step, and John had to steady him the second time.
“Yep,” John said, as he helped Sherlock through the door, juggling the takeaway box at the same time. “Good for another week. Don't know why I didn't see that.” His tone was gentle enough to take any sting out of the words, but Sherlock still made a low, hissing noise of disapproval in his throat. He didn't take kindly to “I told you so”-s, even if they were deserved.
“You go on,” John said, ignoring the hiss. “Get ready. I'll be along in a minute. I want to put the kettle on.”
Sherlock, too groggy to protest further, complied. He managed not to wobble too badly as he sought first the bathroom, then the bedroom. He changed into a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, then stood, swaying, staring dully down at the bed.
He'd always hated sleeping; unconsciousness seemed like such a waste, minutes and hours of life ticking uselessly away. Becoming a vampire had changed some things. Now he could go weeks, even a month, without needing to sleep – but there was a price. Vampire sleep was an absolute, uncompromising void: dreamless, deep as death; complete oblivion, like stepping off of a cliff into nonexistence. It wasn't for nothing that vampires in the past had rested in the equivalent of fortresses, deep underground, surrounding themselves with guards and human servants in their periodic times of utter helplessness.
For an individual as primed to live and think and do and feel as Sherlock, there was something deeply horrifying about such a complete surrender of the self, not to mention the physical loss of control involved. It offended him and (though he rarely liked to admit it, even to himself) frightened him.
The bedroom door opened to reveal John balancing a steaming mug on top of a plastic-jacketed library book: another of the dreadful thrillers he loved so much, Sherlock couldn't help noticing, even in his compromised state. He was firmly of the opinion that John's writing would improve by leaps and bounds if he ever began reading proper literature for inspiration, but Sherlock knew by now that attempting to convince John of that was a lost cause.
“Lie down,” John said, depositing the book and tea on the table next to his side of the bed. He gave Sherlock's shoulder a gentle squeeze in passing. “You look completely done in. I just need to get one more thing, promise.”
Sherlock, unable to resist any longer, let his legs fold and drop him onto the mattress. He lay there, sprawled untidily, for nearly a minute before an act of will allowed him to move his limbs into a more dignified arrangement. He opened his eyes when John re-entered the room, without having realized they'd drifted closed.
John was going through his standard set of safety checks on the very-illegal service pistol in his hand, brought out from its current hiding place for the occasion. John thought the hiding place was a secret, and Sherlock let him keep believing that. It wouldn't do to have John change the pistol's location at some inconvenient juncture and force Sherlock to waste time looking for it. John was already touchy enough on the subject after the target-practice incident.
Sherlock had found the pistol in its first hiding place shortly after John moved into the flat. The accompanying clip of ammunition had been silver. Sherlock had held the clip and pistol in his hands for a long time as he thought. He'd been doing research about shapeshifters and the military, given his new flatmate's background, and had encountered the statistics regarding invalided lycanthropes and suicide. Thus there was a very simple reason for someone as basically law-abiding as John to have kept such a thing, regardless of how many laws it broke. Sherlock had a vivid imagination, fueled by natural genius and trained deductive skills. He could see it, in his mind: John – calm, solid John, the man Sherlock was starting to consider, against all odds, to be his friend – sitting at the cheap desk in his dismal little pre-Baker-Street flat, holding the very same pistol, considering, weighing, deciding . . .
The image made Sherlock ill, so the next time he couldn't take the boredom and pettiness and worthlessness of everyday life, he'd gone and pulled the pistol from its hiding place, loaded up the clip and fired every last silver round into the wall. Then he'd laughed, because those bullets were much better suited to marking out a smiley face than ending a good man's life. John, naturally, hadn't understood – he'd been furious, in fact. That was when the pistol moved to its new hiding place . . . and, a few days later, a new clip of ammunition (not silver this time) joined it. Sherlock had no idea how John managed that particular acquisition, but while John might be moral to a fault, if he ever decided a particular rule, law or regulation was bollocks, he could be nearly as clever as Sherlock at circumventing it. Sherlock approved.
Lying in bed and remembering, Sherlock allowed himself a satisfied half-smile. John, finishing his checks, didn't notice. He set the pistol on the bedside table as casually as he had the tea and library book, then began to strip off his clothing.
Another thing Sherlock had learned about John was that he had three ways of being naked. There was the “practical” version – part of getting dressed and undressed on a daily basis, showering, things of that nature. Under those circumstances, John was perfectly casual and not embarrassed in the slightest, probably a bit of leftover barracks-mentality. However, when things shifted to a sexual context, John could, and sometimes did, show a certain clumsiness and self-consciousness when unclothed that Sherlock found oddly appealing: John's staid, conventional upbringing showing through years of adult experience.
John's third and last type of nakedness was something else altogether. It was almost as if, by removing his clothing, John was becoming less vulnerable, not more. He carried his weight balanced forward and held his shoulders particularly straight at those times, almost confrontational in his body language. When Sherlock finally understood, it was like a light bulb clicking on. For a lycanthrope, removing clothing was a declaration of intent to change shape, to become something dangerous. It was at least a warning, if not an outright threat.
When John crawled into bed, he was definitely the third sort of naked. He moved like the trained fighter he was, even when he was punching his pillow into shape and propping it against the headboard for a backrest. When he settled down with a sigh, picking up his book, he also slid the pistol closer, within easy reach.
John had never spelled things out for Sherlock, but then, he didn't need to. Every time he ran through this self-imposed bedtime routine, the message his actions sent – strong and clear – was that he was settling in for guard duty. Anyone or anything that tried to come after Sherlock in his sleep would have to get past a naked ex-Army shapeshifter . . . with a gun. It was, in Sherlock's opinion, the most reassuring thing anyone had ever done for him, and it made the oblivion he was about to endure almost tolerable.
John stretched, then crossed his legs casually at the ankle and smiled at Sherlock. “Go to sleep,” he said, and if his voice was warm and human, his eyes were a wolf's: cool and alert.
Sherlock had never told John how he felt about sleeping, but despite John's general obtuseness and undisciplined thought patterns, every now and then he was capable of a very creditable deduction on his own. Not that Sherlock was going to say so out loud; it wouldn't do for John to get too inflated a sense of his own abilities. But he appreciated this one instance, greatly.
“Yes,” he mumbled, then yawned. “Sleep.” He let his eyelids drift closed.
“See you in the morning,” John said, “or whenever you wake up.” He leaned down and kissed Sherlock's forehead; Sherlock barely felt it. His five human senses were fading, leaving just his more subtle and tenacious vampire awareness. All around him he could sense the life of the city, the currents of motion and energy that drove it, the rivers of force that ran along the various Straight Tracks crisscrossing London, and, behind it all, the backdrop of countless mortal heartbeats, pulsing like tiny stars in a night sky.
One star was clearer and brighter than all the others, beating no more than a foot away, and Sherlock focused his fading attention on it: steady, familiar, soothing, safe. He listened to John's heart until sleep descended like an executioner's axe and cut him away from the world.