John rouses slowly. Mm. Mm? Sherlock? All right?
It’s early yet, very early. The light has just barely moved into the steel grey of dawn, shadows still casting long around the room. It’s cold; John automatically slides toward the middle of the bed.
Yes, Sherlock says. John’s arm comes over the dip of his waist to pull him closer, and John blinks harder against the sleep at the edges of his eyes. Brow furrows; heartbeat jumps. Sherlock is trembling.
What’s wrong? Sherlock’s fingers find the hem of John’s sleep shirt and twist into it. Sherlock? What’s the matter?
Sherlock closes his eyes and turns his face toward the pillows, shaking his head with a rickety, unhappy smile. It’s nothing. I’m just - cold.
John reaches out to brush the hair away from his forehead; he’s sweating. You wouldn’t wake me up for nothing. John’s hands slide over his ribs, his arms. The clenched line of his jaw. Soothing, sweeping, softening the tremors in his wake. Bad dream, was it?
I wasn’t asleep, Sherlock says, and John hums. Not the same as a nightmare, no, but not exactly different, either. He leaves his hand in Sherlock’s hair.
It’s quiet, for a moment. All the things there are to be said about it have already been said, and John knows when to keep his reassurances to himself. This isn’t about talking, he doesn’t think. This is about not being alone. This is about keeping watch.
Then Sherlock says, Tell me what you were dreaming.
There was a dog, John says automatically, even though there wasn’t. Or, there might have been: he doesn’t remember. But what Sherlock is really saying is, tell me about something else, and whether he dreamed it really isn’t the point. You, and me, and a dog, out in Regent’s Park. Must’ve been spring, because it was sunny but you still had your coat on.
Sherlock shifts, shuffles a bit closer. Playing fetch, were we?
John smoothes his hair back, again and again, soothing, catching his fingertips on the ends of the curls. He presses a kiss to Sherlock’s temple because it is in reach. We were on a case, of course.
So he invents: a case about a missing dog toy, a caricatured villain, a run through London. He takes the time to talk about all their favourite places, like the bistro that makes the best tiramisu, and the pub where John first kissed Sherlock in front of all the Yarders, and the shop that carries the lavender honey, and the view from the bridge out over the Thames. He talks about the people and the bustle, the busyness and the synchronicity of millions moving together. He talks about the way the city lights up with fairy lights in the winter, and how it blooms with flowers in the spring, the crisp glow of it in autumn. He talks about the rain, and the way the whole city smells green. He talks about the stars.
John talks, and he talks, and he talks, and slowly, something in Sherlock begins to soften. He scoots closer, and closer again, and grows heavy against John’s chest. His fingers loosen; his shoulders relax.
Are you asleep, bumble, John finally whispers, when the dawn has become more light than darkness. Sherlock, still and warm against him, doesn’t respond.
