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As soon as John Watson opens his eyes, he knows it. He can feel it in his bones, in his skin, in his toes when he stretches and curls them, even in his hair.
Today is a Down Day.
John first discovered the concept of Down Days in university. As a non-scholarship student, he’d had to work a great deal more than his classmates to put himself through school. Whatever time that wasn’t taken up with classes, labs or studying had been devoted to whatever menial job he’d had, and as a result, he was constantly working when his classmates and friends were spending time at parties, films or clubs. Once in a while, though, the stars would align, and John would find himself with no assignments due, no job scheduled, and a whole day of nothing on his hands. Nothing but downtime, to read the paper or that book he’d been meaning to pick up, check his email, drink tea and eat snacks, and generally just unwind. All in bed, if he could help it.
When John wakes up today, he knows instinctively that today is a Down Day. It’s January, and London is swathed in cottony blankets of snow that hasn’t yet had time to turn into grey mush. The holiday rush (as well as Sherlock’s birthday, nearly as aggravating as the holidays, great anti-celebration git that he is) is over, and Sherlock has just finished a case involving an older woman, a younger man, a vast sum of money embezzled from a company listed on the FTSE 100 index and a private tropical island. They had tumbled into bed together late last night, Sherlock still giddy from the twists and turns of the case, including an unscheduled side trip to Isla Pardito, where they had found the two principal characters cozied up in a cabana on the beach, the money in actual bundles (“Bundled, John! Can you believe they kept it with them, where anyone could have found it and just helped themselves!”) in a suitcase under the bed. (“Under the bed, John! Really, how idiotic!”) (“Sherlock, shut up about the bed, I’m much more interested in this bed, thank you very much.”)
John sighs contentedly and begins to make a mental list of what he wants to collect to keep him happy today (tea, breakfast, laptop, newspaper, medical journals, Sherlock). But a thought stabs into his brain as he reaches the end of his list:
Sherlock will never agree to a Down Day.
John sighs again as he gets up and changes into jogging bottoms and a soft T-shirt. He will just have to make his restless partner see reason.
~~
As he anticipates, Sherlock is dressed (in his usual trousers and snug shirt) and busy. He has been busy, in fact, for a while, if the five containers of snow in various melting stages are anything to go by.
“Ah, John. Good, you’re up. Would you mind titrating a solution of bromothymol blue for me? I’m checking to see if different rates of temperature changes affect the rates at which pH changes when using acids—Mmph!”
Sherlock glares at John, who has placed a hand over his mouth and is giving him a cool, assessing look.
“Sherlock, where’s your laptop?” He removes his hand so the detective can answer.
“John, what in the world do you think you are doing?”
“Laptop?”
“Under the sofa, but yours is right on the table. Now, would you mind explaining—“
“Are you finished that pathology journal you got the other day?”
“No, I haven’t even looked at it, but what are you—“
“If I reheated that rice pudding in the fridge, would you eat it?”
Sherlock is gawping at him. “John, what—“
“Would you eat it?” John’s voice is calm and non-threatening, but his eyes have taken on a bit of the flinty look he gets when he is mentally digging in for an argument. Sherlock sighs; sometimes, it really it easier just to give in, if only to put an end to this kind of thing quickly so he can go back to work.
“Probably, yes.”
Inexplicably, John’s face lights up and he rubs his hands together. “Excellent. Alright, Sherlock, listen carefully. Today is a Down Day for you and me. There is no work today; you don’t have a case, I don’t have a shift at the surgery, it’s snowing, and you are coming back to bed with me.” He turns away from Sherlock, flicks on the kettle, pulls out mugs and tea, and gets the aforementioned rice pudding from the fridge. He frowns and pokes it with a spoon. “You didn’t put maggots in this again, did you?”
Sherlock can’t seem to find his voice. Stop working? Spend all day in bed? Is John insane? Does he even know Sherlock at all? Before he can answer, John stirs the pudding again and says, “Seems fine. And go put your pajamas back on, yeah? Can’t spend all day in bed in wool and silk, right?”
With a strangled breath, Sherlock can finally form words. “What are you talking about? Not work, go back to bed? Who do you think I am?”
John flashes him a quick smile as he drops a teabag in each mug and scoops pudding onto plates. “You’re a man who’s been working hard and needs a break. Today you’re taking one. We’re going to lie in bed, drink tea, catch up on our reading, and recharge. Doctor’s orders. Come on, you’ll enjoy it.”
“I highly doubt that.” Sherlock’s voice is dry as dust.
John moves into the sitting room and begins gathering their laptops, today’s Guardian and Times, and the fleece blanket from the back of the sofa. “Pour the water for the tea, will you?” He calls over his shoulder as he carries his bundle upstairs. “And go change!”
Sherlock is ... stunned. He cannot believe that John has suggested such an odd idea. Where did this come from? John is not a lazy man, he hardly seems the sort to spend a day lollygagging about in bed, and he should know that Sherlock, of all people, would never agree to such a thing. Unless...
As John comes back into the kitchen, Sherlock stands up, a sly smile curving his lips. He catches John by the wrist as he moves past to check the pudding in the microwave. “This seems like an awful lot of effort to get me back into bed,” he murmurs. “I assure you, coming down wrapped in only a sheet would have gotten me back much faster.”
John chuckles. He pulls his hand free and musses Sherlock’s hair. “Oh, this isn’t about sex,”
Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, but his brain is buzzing. Not about sex? Spend all day in bed and not have sex? Then what on earth is the point?
He doesn’t realize he’s voiced the last thought aloud until John chuckles again. “Sherlock, you’re overthinking it. Really, it’s just about spending some time recharging the batteries, catching up on things we’ve been putting off, and just being together. Really, that’s all.” He pulls the plates from the microwave, puts them on a tray, and pours hot water into the mugs. He adds them to the tray and says, “Come on. Don’t keep me waiting.”
John knows Sherlock’s resolve is weakening when he says, “The snow, John...” and gestures to the table. He rolls his eyes.
“Plenty more where that came from. Now, come on!” And he carries the tray out of the kitchen.
Sherlock looks from the door to the table, back to the door. He rolls his eyes, gives a little huff of contempt, and follows.
~~
When Sherlock arrives in the upstairs bedroom, he can’t believe his eyes.
John has transformed it. He’s appropriated the pillows from the sofa and the duvet from Sherlock’s bed and created a soft, decadent mound of white. The fleece blanket is thrown over John’s desk like a table cloth, and he’s spread Sherlock’s tea mug, pudding, the newspapers, and Sherlock’s journal across it. Sherlock’s laptop is plugged in and charging on the bed. John’s left the curtains partly open so they have a view of the soft snow, still falling and laying its hush over the busy street outside. John himself is firmly ensconced on his side of the bed, watching Sherlock with an impish grin.
“What’s all this, then?”
John’s smile widens. “When I spend a day in bed, I do it right. Aside from the loo or for more tea, we have absolutely no reason to leave this room. And I knew you didn’t change…” and he gives Sherlock a stern look, “… since you left your pajamas here. Go on, put them on and join me, won’t you?” He pats the bed beside him invitingly.
Sherlock rolls his eyes, but does as requested. He folds his clothes carefully and lays them on John’s desk chair, then stands for a moment, lost. “Now what?”
John sighs. “Now grab me the newspaper, get your tea and pudding, and climb into bed! Jesus, Sherlock, this isn’t rocket science.”
Sherlock frowns. “John, I really don’t see the point of this.”
“Look, just get into bed with me, will you? And I’ll explain it to you.”
Once again, Sherlock does as requested. While he enjoys being in bed with John, enjoys it immensely, he genuinely does not see what this is about. He feels very odd, being in his pajamas in the middle of the day, in bed but not having sex.
John takes his hand. “Alright. So, Down Days are just what I said earlier, a day to rest and come down from life, you know? They’re just time to recharge and relax. You know how to relax, right?”
Sherlock gives a most undignified snort as a response, and John laughs.
“Right, I guess that answers that. Well, think of it as an experiment, if you like, since you didn’t get to do your snow thing this morning.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes again. “Honestly. What precisely would I be measuring here? And how can I control for variables, since I’ve never done this before? Your scientific method—“
“Sherlock, it was a joke. Seriously, relax!” John squeezes his hand. “Now, there are a few rules for Down Days, especially if you’re in bed and especially if you’re with another person. Primarily, no crunchy foods—the crumbs, you know. No sex, as I said before. And the big one, which is going to be hard for you, is minimal talking.”
“What? Why?”
“Because we’re here to unwind, Sherlock. Read and rest and all that, and I don’t know about you, but I can’t do that when someone’s talking my ear off! So, no talking unless absolutely necessary.”
Sherlock has had enough. First John pulls him away from his work, now he’s sitting in this ridiculous marshmallow den, and there’s not going to be any sex, and no talking? This is beyond insane. He throws the covers off his legs, gets out of bed, and picks up his trousers from John’s chair. “John, this has really been most entertaining, but I have work to do. Enjoy your lazy day or whatever this is, but regretfully I cannot join you.” He zips up his trousers and pulls his T-shirt over his head.
He’s buttoning up his shirt when he hears John say firmly, “Sherlock. Sit. Now,” but he doesn’t stop.
“No. I don’t know what this is, John, but relaxing isn’t really what I do. What I do, is work and solve crimes and to do that, I have to experiment. And now I’m going to get more snow so I can conduct a legitimate experiment.” He drains his mug of tea and slams it on John’s desk; it hits with a muffled thump. “If you’ll excuse me,” and he turns to go.
“Sherlock, stop.” And Sherlock does.
Everyone who has met John knows he was in the army, as a doctor. They often don’t realize that as a captain, he had other men and women under his command. They also don’t often realize that a big part of military life is discipline.
But when Sherlock hears that tone of voice, that Captain Watson voice, the voice that stops him in his tracks, the voice that has such an effect on his limbic system, he realizes, and he stops immediately.
“Turn around and look at me, Sherlock. Now.” And he does.
John is sitting up in bed, away from the pillows. His straight posture is at odds with the soft look in his eyes. “Why are you fighting me so hard on this? What is wrong with a day off every once in a while?”
Sherlock is rigid. The Captain Watson voice has him pinned where he stands, and it’s firing every nerve in his body. John doesn’t know this, no one knows this, but Sherlock finds the Captain Watson voice mind-numbingly erotic. The first time he heard it, or a version of it, in Baskerville, it went straight to his groin, and it was then that he decided John was meant for him.
But Sherlock can’t explain this to John, he , he can’t… He squeezes his eyes closed and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Open your eyes and look at me.”
Sherlock does. John’s posture has relaxed minutely, but his eyes haven’t changed, and neither has his tone of voice. “Will you please talk to me and tell me what the hell is going on?”
Sherlock’s shoulders slump. “I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because! Because I hate lying around and doing nothing, John, I hate it! It’s all I did when I left Uni, it’s all I could do! Jesus, I was stoned out of my mind most of the time, there was nothing else to do but lie in bed, either high as a kite or bored stiff and planning how I would score my next fix.” Sherlock stops shouting, aware he is trembling. “I have to work, John. It’s how I stay sane, and being here, doing nothing, I feel restless, jittery, I can’t concentrate, I can’t focus and I hate that feeling, I hate it, it feels like I have the shakes all over again.” He exhales, a huge breath, and drops into John’s chair, burying his head in his hands.
He doesn’t know how long he sits there before he hears a rustle of bed covers and John is crouched in front of him, his hands over Sherlock’s, his thumbs rubbing soft circles on the backs.
“Look at me.” The voice is soft now, just John. Sherlock peers though his hands.
“Sherlock. Are you honestly comparing a day off to your time as a junkie? They’re not even close!”
“I don’t expect you to understand, John.”
“And I don’t. But I do understand this: you work incredibly hard, and so often you’re running on empty, or close enough, and it’s not healthy, Sherlock, it’s not good for you. And I’m not saying we have to make this a regular thing. I’m saying, for one day, instead of working or running around London or wherever, we just take a moment to breathe, enjoy each other’s company, and just… not think. Can you do that? Just once?”
Sherlock feels his hands being pulled from his head. He looks at John. “Why is this so important to you?”
John’s ears turn pink. “No reason. I just used to this when I was in Uni, and I remembered how great I felt, after. It’s a good feeling.”
“John.”
John looks away, but doesn’t take his hands from Sherlock’s. “You’ll think it’s ridiculous.”
“Nothing you do is ridiculous to me.”
“You think this is ridiculous.”
“I think perhaps I misunderstood your intentions. Explain it to me, if you would, please, John.”
John heaves a sigh. “Fine. Okay, look. You and I, we’re in this… relationship, I guess we could call it. And it’s like nothing I’ve ever had before. We work together, we live together, we sleep together… it’s amazing, it’s all adrenaline and running and excitement and I love it, Sherlock, I do, it’s … incredible.” He sighs again. “But you know, one of my favourite things about relationships is where you reach the point with the other person where you can just… be. Just be yourself, not ‘on’ all the time, just sit in silence and know the other person is there, with you, and you don’t feel the need to make conversation just for the sake of saying something, or be entertaining, or clever or witty, you can just be yourself, you know?” He frowns. “I’m not explaining it very well. You’re always yourself, you never say something just to talk. But I thought it would be nice to show you, you know, that just being with someone can be… good. Comfortable.”
Sherlock is silently watching him. He tilts his head to the side, fixing John with his almond eyes. They’re blue today, like his dressing gown. “Have you felt this way with me? You’re not comfortable, you feel the need to be clever and witty with me?”
John shifts uneasily. “Not really, I just … It’s not like I feel as though I have to impress you, exactly, I just feel… sometimes I wonder if you’ll get bored with me, so I feel like I should keep you on your toes, or something.” His face is scarlet with embarrassment; his idea earlier, of spending the day cozied up with Sherlock in bed as the snow falls, feels more and more ridiculous. He remembers his first instinct when he woke up: Sherlock would never agree to a Down Day. He’s wishing now he had listened to his gut.
“Did you do this with other people? Other… girlfriends?”
John’s face feels nuclear. “A few times, yeah, and it was great, every time. Whenever it worked out, I’d have my own day, but if I was in a relationship, yeah, whoever I was with would be there too. And it was so lovely, just spending time together, being peaceful. And I’ve been thinking that it would be a nice thing to do with you. For you.” He’s sure his face is a lighthouse beacon ships can see from miles away. “But it was stupid. I should have just left you alone to do your thing, really.”
Sherlock stands up and unbuckles his belt. He unzips his trousers and pulls them off, standing there in his boxers. As John watches, he carefully folds his clothes again and pulls on his sleep bottoms and T-shirt. Then he fixes John with a look.
“I’m sure your tea’s gone cold, and mine’s gone. Get back into bed, and I’ll fix you another.” He kisses John behind his earlobe, his favourite place to kiss the doctor. “I mean it. I’ll be back in five minutes, with tea,” he says as he leaves the room.
When he returns with fresh mugs, John is back in his spot, reclining on his pillows, reading the Guardian. Sherlock hands him his tea, and gets carefully into bed beside him. He shifts carefully until he is snuggled in beside John, sips his tea, and places the mug on the nightstand.
“Alright. No talking, no sex, just tea and comfort, right?”
The smile John gives him is radiant. “Right. But if you’re good, and you let me read my newspaper, and you relax, I might see my way clear to bending the rules a bit.” Under the covers, his hand ghosts over Sherlock’s thigh.
Sherlock shivers involuntarily. He picks up his journal with a determined expression and leans into John.
“Sherlock?”
“Mmm?”
“If you have to work at it, it’s not relaxing.”
Sherlock sighs.
~~
The day passes, for Sherlock, remarkably peacefully. Just as John wanted, they hardly speak except to ask the other to pass something over. They sit quietly together, reading the newspapers, Sherlock his journal, John his novel. Sherlock posts an entry on the unreliability of fingerprints in kidnappings to his website and John writes up their last case for his blog. Uncharacteristically, Sherlock does not make snide comments on his typing, his title, or his writing; instead, he flicks through his inbox, saving interesting messages for tomorrow and deleting the others without a reply. John gets up once to make more tea.
By six o’clock, the sky is dark and the streetlights are illuminating the downy snowflakes as they continue to fall. It’s completely silent in the upstairs bedroom in 221B, except for the occasional rustling of pages.
Finally, John puts his book aside and stretches. He turns on his side to face Sherlock, and takes his hand. “Sherlock.”
“Hmm?”
“It’s gone six. Are you hungry at all? We can order a takeaway, have it in here.”
“Mmm, I’m fine. Get yourself something, if you want.”
John uses his index finger to trace circles on Sherlock’s palm. “I feel great now. Thanks for being here with me today. How’re you doing?”
Sherlock puts his laptop aside and stretches. “My back’s quite stiff from sitting for so long, but otherwise, I actually do feel … good.” He’s surprised; he thought by this point he would be sweating for John to set him free.
John’s fingers slip from Sherlock’s palm and trace their way up his ribs. “Well, it’s a good thing you know a doctor who may be able to do something about that back.” He moves his hand across Sherlock’s chest and up to his neck, where he pauses on Sherlock’s throat and mock-frowns. “Are you sure you’re relaxed? Your pulse is a little fast for someone who’s been in bed all day.”
Sherlock catches John’s wrist and kisses it. He fixes the doctor with hooded eyes. “I seem to remember you saying something about possibly breaking one of the rules? I believe I kept my side of the bargain admirably.”
John curls his fingers around the detective’s jaw and brushes one across his earlobe; he is rewarded by seeing Sherlock’s pupils suddenly widen and hearing his breath catch. “I believe you did, yes.”
Sherlock’s voice is lower, so low John can feel it in the pit of his stomach. “I hope you weren’t referring to the rule about crumbs in bed.” He leans closer to John. He smells tea and clean linens and warmth and John. “Because I think that’s a good rule.” He kisses John’s neck where it meets his shoulder, and feels the shiver under his lips. “And even though we’re talking now, I hope that wasn’t the rule you meant, either.” He kisses John’s neck again, taking the time to suck and worry the skin with his teeth. John’s breath leaves him in a huff. “But I thought you were hungry?” He pulls away, or tries to, but John’s got his arms wrapped around his neck and one hand on the back of his head.
“Sherlock…” John groans, as the detective plants soft lips on his earlobe and runs his tongue across the back side of it. When he hums his response, John can feel it travel through all the nerves in his face.
“So what should I do for my stiff back, John?” Sherlock is practically purring in John’s ear, and suddenly John can’t get the extra pillows off the bed fast enough. He swings his leg over Sherlock’s hips and straddles him.
“You need to loosen up, Sherlock. Those muscles will seize up if you don’t move.” He grinds his pelvis into the detective’s. “Move, Sherlock, now.”
~~
At eight o’clock, they’ve moved from the bedroom to the sofa, and are sitting in front of a flickering fire, watching an episode of some medical drama. John is finishing the last of his sweet and sour chicken, and Sherlock is picking at his ginger beef. His feet are in John’s lap, and the doctor is rubbing his arches absently.
“How’s your back?”
Sherlock quirks a corner of his mouth. “Coming along, thank you. I may need one more treatment, just to be sure.” He twitches his feet, and John jumps a bit.
“I’m sure we can take care of that later. It’s best to have a little rest period after exertion, you know.”
Yawning, Sherlock sets his takeaway carton on the coffee table and brings his palms together, fingers under his chin. “I think I’ve had enough rest today, thank you. Besides, my understanding of major muscle groups is that they need to be used periodically to maintain peak performance.”
John chuckles. “I don’t think we’re in any danger of a “use it or lose it” situation here, Sherlock.” He puts his takeaway box on the floor and moves his free hand to Sherlock’s ankles. “Thanks for staying in with me today.”
Sherlock’s eyes glitter in the dim sitting room light. “It was my pleasure. And I mean that, John. I’ve never spent my time that way; I’ve never even considered it, frankly. I didn’t realize how… good doing nothing could be.”
Switching the position of his hands, John starts rubbing Sherlock’s foot in earnest. “Don’t get me wrong, Sherlock. I love our lives, I love what we do. The crimes, the running, even the occasionally shooting…” Sherlock smiles briefly. “…I love it all, I do. But once in a while, I just need some space to breathe. You get that, don’t you? And I won’t make you do it again, if you don’t want to. I’m just glad you were here today.” He squeezes Sherlock’s foot gently.
“I am too.” Sherlock closes his eyes, feeling John knead the ball of his foot. His hands are strong, the skin soft, not callused like they were when he was first invalided home. He opens his eyes again as John picks up his other foot. “You’re not boring me, you know.”
John jumps again, his hands yanking on Sherlock’s foot.
“You said earlier that you felt like you had to, what was the expression? Ah yes, keep me on my toes. And I can assure you, John, my toes are well and truly taken care of.” And here he wiggles the appendages in question. When there’s no reply, he reaches down and clasps John’s hands in his. “John.”
“Sherlock?”
“John. I mean it. How could I possibly be bored of you? You surprise me, you challenge me, you push me in new directions every day! Do you truly feel so ill-at-ease with me, that you need to try to be someone you’re not? Do you feel like I push you into things you don’t want to do?”
“No! God, no, Sherlock.” John rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands; Sherlock’s feet feel cold and exposed. “No, of course not. I told you, I love our lives, I love what we do. Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I was—“
“Panicking over nothing,” Sherlock interrupts firmly.
“I suppose I was.” John smiles briefly, and starts rubbing Sherlock’s foot again.
The television starts showing the early news, and Sherlock flicks it off in a huff. “Now John. If you’re quite through panicking over nothing…”
John’s eyes narrow. “I hope you’re going somewhere with this, I already feel like a berk.”
“Well, it’s just that I think my mandatory exercise rest period is complete, so if you think another treatment is warranted, then perhaps we should go upstairs, hmm?”
The smile that crosses John’s face is quick and almost feral. He stands and pulls Sherlock to his feet. “I think we’ve spent enough time upstairs, don’t you? And to properly stretch that back, you need to work the muscles in a variety of positions.” He indicates the rug in front of the fire. “Right here’s just fine, I think.”
“Is that your medical opinion, doctor?”
“It is.”
“Very well then, let it not be said that Sherlock Holmes does not take his doctor’s advice.” And he sinks to his knees, pulling his doctor along with him.