Sleepless
part sixThe bed was smaller than it had sounded. Despite hearing the word "double", it seemed Sherlock's brain had processed instead the amount of space he believed they would each want for themselves and imagined something far more spacious. Not even a standard double--a small one. For a single occupant Sherlock imagined the designers of the Ark had thought themselves rather generous. For a shared bed it was simply... well, small.
The whole of the room was made with more of a functional mindset than one of comfort. The table was thin with only enough surface area to be made use of by the single occupant expected to sit in the single chair, both made of light wood, possibly birch, probably imitation. One could almost kick the bed or the chest at its end from the doorway. Sherlock estimated there to be between one hundred and fifty and two hundred square feet in total, most of which was taken up by what was still considered to be a small bed for two grown men to lay upon. He did not miss the presence of the camera situated in the corner of the room, encased in protective glass, with an unobstructed view of everything from the white duvet to the door. There was nothing there that said it was John's room, though; no personal touch. He supposed that made sense. They'd taken off with their things, never depositing them into the Ark before chasing off into the horizon for a fate improved from certain death. John was an occupant, not an owner. The place reeked of cleaners and stale, recycled air. Sherlock didn't like it. He'd never like it. The walls were far too white.
John immediately sat upon the bed, offering up most of the walking space for Sherlock's observation. In his blue and white checkered shirt and blue denim jeans, John was the only bit of color in the room which of course meant he was easier to track and observe from even the worst video resolution. Intention was easy to read in their surroundings. This was not to be a place of comfort nor a place of personal reprieve. This was a laboratory, not all that dissimilar from the one they'd left behind, and the tests and observations did not end behind closed doors.
"So, this is it," John said, face in no way trying to mask the fact that he knew it was hardly a point of pride. "They all look like this. Well, for our lot they do."
Sherlock nodded, taking his meaning. They weren't exactly residents so much as they were guests. "Nice that they don't even bother trying to hide the camera."
"No point, is there? Wouldn't really change anything if they did; you'd still know they were watching you. They watch everything. Not even our dreams are safe."
"Pardon?" Sherlock leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his stomach as he looked down at his companion who was not at all unsuited to the task of inoculating him to their new surroundings. He'd already rather adequately explained the tit-for-tat society built up in the underground by his actions and interactions and his confidence gave assurance that their situation in and of itself was not dire despite the potential for issue looming ahead. Still, there were questions about the limitations of ethics in current scientific practices that hadn't come up in either observation or conversation. There were certain implications in John's statement that made Sherlock more than a little uneasy if it meant someone messing around in the palace of his mind.
John was hardly slow on the uptake. "Not now," he clarified, gesturing with palms out to stop that particular train of thought. "They didn't implant anything into our heads or something. I mean before. People... watch them. For fun. Like going to the pictures."
"Oh. Well, that explains it."
John grimaced slightly as he failed to follow unspoken leaps, brows burying his eyes in expressed confusion. "Explains... what? Mary?"
"Mm. Heterosexual women generally stare at my face while avoiding direct eye-contact for at least the first few minutes. Wide-spaced eyes, prominent cheekbones, usually takes a bit to decide if they find the proportions to their liking. She exhibited none of the signs of a first encounter but isn't on the medical staff so would not have a reason to have seen my face before--photos don't count. So she's already met me in her own way which would be impossible outside the explanation you've provided," Sherlock explained, never too humble to disguise his appreciation for his own visage amidst the knowledge he was just as likely to be considered horse-faced as he was pretty. He was rather pleased, in that respect, to have his own face back. Tremendous scarring would have required a new focus on discerning other people's moods and motives if there was a prominent reason for them to look away from him and avoid eye contact at all cost.
John smirked with the expected amount of second-hand embarrassment for Sherlock's aesthetic certainty. His nod said he agreed all the same though he rubbed nervously at the back of his neck, the metal collar clicking against the back of his nails. "Yeah, no, she's uh... she's not the only one but we were definitely her favorite. Little embarrassing to think of everything people have been able to see but uh... yeah. You can just assume nothing is sacred anymore."
Not necessarily. Sherlock pulled his lips into one corner of his mouth, eyebrows arching with dissension. "Any given day you spend the majority of it either asleep or engaged in mundane tasks so the probability of someone watching you at a time when you would prefer to believe you were alone is rather minimal."
"Yeah, no. She's already admitted to having watched me masturbate."
"She what?"
"Told me what she did afterwards, too. I am never shaking that woman's hand."
Sherlock made a concentrated effort to bring his brows back down from his hairline and set his lips into an accepting pout. "Noted," he said, with really nothing left to say to that end. That, in a way, explained the extreme familiarity and sexual tension even better than the assumption they'd actually slept together. Being trapped in a white box, underground for two years had certainly blurred some lines in regards to civilized and genteel conduct.
John's neck was flushed, the tip of his nose rosy, but with a cough he carried on. "But, um, yeah. With the right clearance anyone can watch. Mary's a tech so she can see whatever she wants but really everyone who has computer access has access to the main Ark hub thing. It's all connected to the same server or mainframe of whatever it's called."
Sherlock nodded, remembering Mary having said as much before. "You ever seen?" he asked instead. "She ever showed you?"
"Not interested, to be honest. Snooping's your brother's hobby; not mine." He pointed to the camera in the corner as explanation. Whether it was truly by Mycroft's design or not, the CCTV-type implications were justly similar. John sat back on his palms, kicking his shoes off at the end of he bed before pulling his black socked feet up against the duvet with legs crossed. "Can't say I really cared to see what you were getting up to without me," he shared, looking down at his discarded footwear as though it would remove the underlying query of what had happened and if he'd been missed.
Idiot. "Nothing extraordinary," Sherlock said, and left the honest answer of jumbled reality as an unnecessary fact. He wasn't there anymore, he was here. Dreams did not matter. What did matter was the lack of anything stimulating in the room. There was one book on the small table and apart from it nothing. They'd walked by workout facilities and communal dining areas but the sameness and whiteness of it all was numbing in its banality. Surely there was more to do than sit and rot in muted expectation. "So we just... stay in here?" he asked.
John's apologetic shrug and smile were not in the least comforting. "Bit like prison, I imagine. Plenty of time to better ourselves but not much room for application. Think I've read just about every book I managed not to read while in school and I can do about fifty push-ups before my body says stop. It's dull. It's very, very dull. And then every now and then someone wants to draw your blood, poke your bits, and make you run on a treadmill for an hour so they can monitor you under stress. Almost started to look forward to those. Still predictable but at least it's something." He scooted back on the bed even further, retreating to the left side as he left his legs now stretched out in front of him. "I believe you've got an appointment with them tomorrow, actually. Baseline stuff. So, ya know.. eat well and get a good night's sleep."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sleep. I think I've done enough of that for a lifetime."
"Yeah, you think that. Then you get so bored a bit of a kip sounds like a fantastic way to pass the time."
"We do have a case," Sherlock reminded him, almost insulted by the idea that they had nothing better to do than nap through the day like big cats.
John shrugged, tucking in his feet once again to leave the other half of the mattress empty. "And we have to wait and see what Diana can do or if Mary can get us any files. This is the part where we wait."
He hated waiting. He hated their lack of agency. He hated the white walls and the tiny table and the one chair and the small bed. Did nothing in the Ark work the way it was supposed to or was it only in his own mind that some semblance of normal society would have been a good idea to maintain? Eggshell would have been better than ivory white. Marshmallow. Mocha foam. Muted beige.
"Come here."
Sherlock looked over at John who was patting against the empty spot on the duvet. "What, on the bed?" Stupid question.
"Yeah, on the bed."
"Why?"
John rolled his eyes with a head shake of exasperation. "Jurassic Park," he said with a tone to match his eyes.
It was an absurdly nonsensical statement to extend sarcastically. Sherlock's nose wrinkled as he tried to work out some possible code, thinking back to the film he'd only seen the once and admittedly hadn't exactly been paying attention to at the time. He hadn't been of a mindset to appreciate it above any greater determining factor that it was there and loud and didn't require any attention spared on his part. His thoughts had solely been on his future and in fear of what remained for John. In all honesty, he remembered nothing of it except for the soothing strokes against his skin and hair that helped to keep his stomach settled and his nerves--Oh. Jurassic Park. Right. He felt a scowl settle over his features as he grimaced at his friend. "I'm not scared," he corrected, though even as he said so he remembered his arms were wrapped around his own middle, hugged against his belly, and set to have them relax to his sides in what he hoped garnered no further attention.
John smiled gently, fluffing the pillow as he looked away. "Didn't say you were. Though frankly, this is all a lot to take in in one day and if you think I can't tell when you're stressed, you're an idiot. I'd offer you a cuppa but we're rationed so just trust me and get over here."
On the bed. With John. It was unavoidable having agreed to share the room and waiting until night hardly made a different when one lived underground and thus without sunlight--what time was it anyway?--but he wasn't tired. John didn't look tired. They were awake and in the middle of discussing... well, nothing anymore but they couldn't possibly have gone over everything there was to know about the Ark in just the time they'd spent. Not that there wasn't plenty of time to inquire more later but... well...
Sherlock stepped away from the wall and towards the bed only after it became apparent that his reluctance screamed of apprehension and anxiety, neither of which were quite true nor subjects of inquiry he wanted to pursue. He and John had spent a great deal of time together in the black SUV, sitting less than two feet apart, sometimes sleeping in the seats across from each other. He wasn't concerned about the intimacy of proximity or touch. Ancient conversations about 'personal bubbles' had been pointless lessons in why people needed their own space but he was beginning to reconsider that viewpoint when half a shared bed was not much more than the width of a man. He didn't bother taking his shoes off but instead sat and laid flat with a back far more stiff than he'd intended, staring at the ceiling.
"You going to relax or do I need to tell you to do that too?"
"Why are we laying in bed? Neither of us are tired," he argued, still looking straight up and managing to avoid all but John's shadow as he laid.
John leaned over and rolled him to his side, positioning him like a wire-framed doll till his face was towards him and his weight shifting forward to the point where only a simple lean would have him resting on his front. Done and pleased, though putting on airs of exasperation, John settled into the bed beside him, facing him, and curled his arm around his head where his hand could pass beneath his curls on a comfortable angle for repetitive strokes. Sherlock stared at John's metal collar with his jaw set in awkward discomfort for only a few moments before his gut seemed to settle with the dissipation of uncertainty. This was nice. This was easy. It wasn't nearly as claustrophobic as he'd imagined it would be to have his body right there, next to his, their breath shared and heat exchanged. John smelled of ozone--or perhaps it was the bed. Really, it didn't matter so much anymore so long as his fingers continued with their roll against his scalp.
"You're worse than a child sometimes, you know that?"
Sherlock hummed, letting his eyes fall closed. "Yes. Nails too if you're going to keep this up."
"Clipped most of that off but yeah, alright. Better?" he asked, the short whites of his nails providing slightly more stimulus as they were, indeed, short. But it was nice. Tension Sherlock hadn't remembered storing seemed to melt from him, cares lessened and apprehension gone as John's presence beside him faded from odd to preferred. Maybe he had been a little worried. Perhaps it all was a bit of a shock to wake up to. But of all the things that had changed between life, dreams and now, this moment felt like the biggest course correction of all. And it was pretty good. So at least there was that.
"If you need my help thinking things through, you let me know. Otherwise, I'm just going to stay like this for a bit," John whispered, his breath dry but inoffensive.
Sherlock nodded, his hand rising to rest against John's hip as he rather gave up the thought of thinking of anything for now as three years without touch beyond the stimulation of procedure and pain gave his brain a cease and desist in light of a reintroduction to pleasure. Three years in a bottle just to be trapped in a box, only this time no longer alone.
Maybe the bed wasn't too small, now that he thought about it. Maybe everything, just for now, was just right.