Chapter Text
4 months, 2 weeks and 5 days, John thought as he stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting room, looking at Sherlock shifting through stacks of papers. That's how long it had been since Sherlock Holmes had returned from the dead. And some days, most days, John had to remind himself the detective was ever gone at all.
With his reputation more or less restored, at least enough for Sherlock to continue his beloved work, and Moriarty's network dismantled, Sherlock had walked straight into his old life, dragging John along. And John had allowed himself to be dragged, because he wanted things back to normal. Or at least something like they used to be.
Except things weren't. Sherlock was, if possible, even more secretive now than before, as if afraid that even John would betray him. He never stopped or slowed down in any way, working around the clock, seven days a week. His rather spectacular resurrection had garnered him a slew of interesting cases and he seemed bent on taking on all of them. As a consequence he was so thin it was positively unhealthy.
This had to end. He had kept dropping hints, pushing it in front of him, hoping Sherlock would see sense on his own. What had he been thinking? Sherlock never saw sense. He saw just about everything else, but never sense. John hated the thought of confronting Sherlock on this, partially because wrestling with Sherlock over lowly bodily needs had always been difficult, but mostly because he was afraid of rocking the boat. That if he brought this up, Sherlock would push him away entirely and he would lose him all over again.
Well, it had reached the end of the line. If he didn't confront Sherlock, the man would simply work himself into an early grave.
“Well,” came from the dark haired detective, “what is it?”
“What is what?” John could feel his throat clench in anticipation of the coming battle and not in a good way.
“You have been standing there for fifteen minutes, sighing and licking your lips. Since it's unlikely you will go away before you have said whatever it is you want to say, out with it. I have work to do and you're distracting.” Sherlock felthis irritation grow. Why did John always have to hover that way? It was distracting. It made him think of things he shouldn't. Of things he wanted but would never have, could never have. Why couldn't he just leave him alone? And this case was actually quite interesting, despite the fact that it was Mycroft's: recovery of a stolen prototype. Though how these incompetents had managed it was beyond him. For God's sake, Parmenter, the ring leader, had been discharged from rehab only three weeks prior to the theft.
John licked his lips nervously again. “Sherlock, we have to talk.” He pushed himself off the door jamb and started to cross the room. He might as well just leap straight into it; nothing would be gained from beating around the bush. “You need to stop.”
“Stop what?” Sherlock said distractedly, never raising his head from the papers. He was so close, he knew that what he was looking for was right there, right under his nose. If only he could see it. If only John would just go away so he could think.
“Thisneeds to stop,” John continued, grabbing hold of the papers, tugging gently. “Or we need to.”
Sherlock's head snapped up. “What are you talking about?”Dear God no. He hadn't meant it, he didn't want John to leave. John couldn't leave, he never left. It felt like there wasn't enough air in the room. He swallowed convulsively. “Why are you going?”
“I didn't say I was going anywhere. But there has to be some sort of resolution to this.”
“This, what this?” His brain couldn't understand. What had he done wrong? He had tried to be considerate, as much as he knew how. He had kept experiments and body parts in closed, labelled containers when at all possible. He tried not to play his violin between midnight and 5 am. He had taken John with him on almost all his cases, even the ones that involved a lot of thinking. (Thinking had never been John's strength.)What more could he do?
“You,” John said softly. “Have you looked at yourself lately? I mean really looked.” He swallowed. “When you...got back, you had lost weight, and God knows you didn't have anything to spare.” He couldn't help a small snort. “And not only have you not put on weight since you came back, you've lost more.” John tried to keep his voice steady, but it was so difficult. “And then there's your sleeping habits. Or complete lack of them. When was the last time you slept? And catnaps on the sofa don't count.”
“You know I don't eat or sleep while working. That can hardly be news to you.” John knew this, of course he did. So why was it wrong now?
“And you have been doing nothing but!” John’s volume increased. “When was the last time you had a day off, or just- just a spare hour, Sherlock?” Now it was not only his voice, but his whole body that was shaking.
Sothatwas John's problem. “You know how I detest being bored.” He had to work. When he was working he needed less food, and more importantly, less sleep. Less sleep meant fewer dreams. Of any kind. It was only logical. And he could keep himself from thinking, or rather, he could keep his brain from thinking of certain unwelcome subjects.
“This is more than just not being bored, Sherlock.” John was fisting his hands at his sides, taking deep breaths, trying to remain calm. “This is unhealthy and it has to stop.”
“Or what?” Sherlock sneered. “You’ll tie me to the bed and force-feed me?”
“That's one possible solution.” Apparently the breathing exercises wereworking, because his voice was sounding completely steady and matter-of-fact. Might as well step right into it, he was not going to get any calmer. “But whatever happens, if this continues, then we're over. Because I can't stand to watch this any longer, Sherlock. Something has got to change.” God, that came out a lot more pained than he had intended.
Sherlock’s hand gripped the table edge so tightly his knuckles turned white. No. No, no, no! John couldn't leave, impossible. He stood up so fast the chair turned over with a loud bang. He whipped around to face John, to go over to him and shake some sense into him.
Or he intended to. But suddenly it was the room that was doing the whipping around. Everything was off kilter. And why were the floorboards so close to his face?
John only barely managed to keep Sherlock from banging his silly head against the floor. Damn it, he had been in much worse condition than John thought. All the more reason to do something, now. Sherlock seemed to be out cold. He manoeuvred Sherlock into the recovery positionand briefly considered calling an ambulance, but dismissed that notion immediately. Sherlock in hospital was always intolerable and was to be avoided if at all possible.
He couldn't stop himself from running a hand down Sherlock's side. Dear God, he could count the detective’s ribs even through three layers of cloth. That was it, it ended right here, even if he had to force-feed the man.
Sherlock stirred and groaned deeply. John put a hand on his shoulder to hold him down. “Stay.”
“I'm not a puppy,” came the piqued response, Sherlock's voice was a bit muffled by his hand, which was tucked beneath his chin.John was kneeling right by his face and the hand on his shoulder felt nicely warm. Far too nice. He had to get away.
“Unfortunately not. A puppy would have enough sense to eat and sleep. Which you will do, starting right now. Or I am going to tie you to the bed and force-feed you.”
Sherlock rolled onto his back and crossed his arms with a sour expression, but didn't move to get up. When John was using that voice, it was no use struggling. John rose from where he had been kneeling and went to the kitchen, turning in the doorway. “I mean it, stay.”
“Whroof,” Sherlock replied sarcastically.
In the kitchen John quickly filled a glass with water and picked up a packet of biscuits. He would have liked to make some tea and toast, they would make more of a proper meal, but there was no telling how long Sherlock would stay put. The man was a bloody menace, to himself most of all. He went back into the sitting room, knelt down next to Sherlock and held out the biscuits and water. “Eat.”
“Rather difficult lying down.”
“You can sit up.”
Sherlock pushed himself into a sitting position, regretting the sudden movement when the whole room spun like a roundabout and threatened to go off kilter again. John hurriedly put down the glass and biscuits and reached out to steady Sherlock. “Easy. No need for you to pass out again.” John’s voice was warm with exasperated humour. His strong hands pressed gently against Sherlock's shoulders, the warmth of his palms spreading through the fabric of the detective’s shirt and jacket, soaking into Sherlock's skin. It made him far too comfortable. He quickly shrugged them off. “I'm not an invalid.”
“Well, finish that,” John answered mildly, pointing at the biscuits and water as he went back into the kitchen to make some toast with cheese – if his memory served there was still some left in the fridge that hadn’t gone off - and some tea.
After Sherlock had finished the biscuits, water, tea and toast, he made to get up, having spent the entire meal sitting on the floor.
“Oh no, you don't.”
“You plan to keep me on the floor all day?”
“No, I'm planning to tuck you into bed.” Sherlock made a face. “You were going to return to that,” John waved at the table, “weren't you? Well, you're not going to. You are going to bed.”
Sherlock shook his head. He couldn't go to bed. Bed meant sleep and sleep meant dreams. The last thing he wanted to do these days was dream, any of his dreams. He had to distract John.
“I can't, what I'm working on is of national importance.” There, John's more quaint personality traits should do the rest. He was loyal to his country after all.
“Not biting. Whatever it is, it can wait till tomorrow. You will do no-one any good collapsing again. And eating a bit isn't enough.” He grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him towards his bedroom.
John had always been stronger than he looked, and even though Sherlock had to admit that his current habits had taken more out of him than he liked to admit, he should have at least been able to break John's grip. Instead he found himself manhandled into his bedroom and forcefully shoved onto the bed, John looming in front of him, arms folded and a stubborn, fierce look his face. Oh, this could prove interesting. Sherlock could feel his pulse speed up.No, don't think of that, he chided himself. Far too dangerous and complicated. John knelt down in front of him, to remove his shoes. Sherlock quickly kicked them off, pulling himself fully onto the bed. He didn't wat to comply, but being with John in such a position, the doctor kneeling between Sherlock's legs, was far to dangerous. Far too many possibilities. “What now?” He tried for the coldest, most superior voice he could, succeeding quite well.
“Well,” a smile broke through on John's face, but did nothing to dissolve the stubbornness. “Personally I would prefer to change, but you could sleep with all your clothes on. Again. You are going to rest though.”
“What? Are you planning to stay in here all night, to make sure I don't get up?” Sherlock managed to change his growing sense of distress to outrage as he spoke. His thoughts were in a jumble. John, in his bedroom, maybe even in his bed, keeping watch, all night. It would be so easy to reach out, touch him, hold him. Would Johnallow that? No, far too dangerous to even try. Better to keep things as they were. It was enough, it had to be.
“Do I need to?” John's voice left no doubt in Sherlock's mind that he would stay, if Sherlock didn't comply and quickly.
“Fine.” The word came out sharp and irritated, just like he intended. John shouldn't think he had won too easily. Sherlock manoeuvred himself beneath the duvet, turning his back to the other man, pulling it up to cover his shoulder. But he kept his eyes open. He had no intention of sleeping.
John remained where he was. He knew Sherlock far too well, knew that the other man would keep himself awake out of sheer stubbornness. Sherlock drew a deep sigh and closed his eyes trying to relax his body without falling into the yawning chasm of exhaustion now looming in front of him. But here, as in every other part of life, the laws of nature won out over sheer force of will. He had been without rest for too long and sleep quickly dragged him under.
The last thing he heard was John's soft, “good night, Sherlock.”
As he closed the door, John shook his head. Why did Sherlock insist on running himself on empty lately? Well, it wasn't on anymore. He would rest and recover, John would see to that.
It was time for a vacation.