Sleepless
part eightThere were some things John should have known ahead of time that he'd simply ignored and not listened to, little voices that spoke and were quickly silenced because he worried too much or he was just being indecisive. He should have listened. Having Sherlock awake was literally a dream come true and he'd never been a fan of letting the man die peacefully in his sleep--it just wasn't him. This should have been better. Sherlock being awake should have meant that things would improve and gears would start turning. It didn't. All it seemed to mean was that if John wasn't careful he had a front row seat to watching Sherlock Holmes tear himself apart from the inside out due to stagnation and limitless limitations.
John kissed his forehead as he slept as a small consolation to the maelstrom trapped within. He'd known what Sherlock was like without a case, having witnessed the variety of sulks or erratic tension that filled the detective to the breaking point. He'd seen the destructive wake of boredom in the holes in the walls and heard the cries for stimulation in the awful pull of the bow against the strings. Getting him a case that utilized his talents always brought him back and re-energized him above the slip of desperation. Their case was caught up in bureaucracy, though, and no one had bothered to get the man a violin. He was trapped on the launch pad, grounded on the runway, suspended high before a fall. He didn't want books and could care less about making friends. Guilty as it made John feel, there was only one thing he could think of which might give him pause and offer something else to think about while obsessions drove him mad.
He wished guilt weren't the prevailing emotion that extended past the acts. Even if the worry for sanity was higher than the pull of lust, the underlying motivation was still and always had been love. He didn't want to see him hurt himself because they'd trapped him in a cage. So if he undressed him because his eyes were wild with frustration, if he kissed him because he was shouting at the chair, if he pulled him to bed because he'd all put clawed his own hair out, it might not have been because he was still the most amazing human being John had ever known, but if he didn't he was quite sure that soon nothing could temper that storm. Sex was, regrettably, a tool. All they had was each other now and so, well, what else was there to do?
Sherlock knew. He'd known even the first time when the awkward transition between all but screaming and being kissed up against the wall caught him by surprise. John could almost imagine those first thoughts that must have come to mind--questions about whether being insulted and shouted at turned John on or if there was anything possibly attractive about flared nostrils and a red face. Sherlock too often took his anxiety out on John and it needed to stop, needed to be redirected, and with one hand down his pants, John very quickly found a way to make him stop, recenter, and fight his way back from mindless frustration into a place that knew that John was a friend. He didn't apologize for the way he was and John didn't ask him to. He only asked that he trust him and let John take all his tension and anxiety and focus it on something within their grasp.
It was a reset. Press the right buttons, elicit the right responses, and Sherlock could be taken from level ten--brink of insanity--to level two--mildly inconvenienced. Used to be a handjob could birth stars in his eyes and wipe his mood clear of the angry tension. That hadn't lasted long. The predictability of movements, the sameness of sensation, he'd fall from ten to a six instead and wake up broody and annoyed. So they moved on to more. They did things John had never in his life considered doing before and yet found himself only too willing to try if it meant he'd have his Sherlock back in the end. A cock in the mouth was a small concession against madness. On reflection, it wasn't even really that bad when the man it belonged to made some of the most drool-worthy sounds and ear-ringing expletives as he arched against the sheets. It was an odd arrangement that always seemed to start out as rehearsed and scheduled but at least it melted into desire before the end. He didn't like that it had to be this way but if someone had a better idea for how to shock the mind and senses of the most brilliant man he'd ever known, John was more than willing to listen and give it a try.
In the meantime, he didn't mind in the least waking up with Sherlock naked in the bed beside him, hair in complete disarray and slumped with his face nearly planted into the pillow in sweet exhaustion and the buzz of serotonin. Even if Sherlock didn't consider the idea of dying a virgin worth his time or concern, John was glad to not carry the regret of not having been like this with his boyfriend partner if things ended badly and they were sent to their deaths. The more red tape they could not cross, the more certain that seemed to be. Mary had gotten them medical reports but they hadn't been at all useful in the way Sherlock had hoped they might be. He wasn't allowed samples. He wasn't allowed to borrow lab equipment. All he had was notes on cellular regeneration and two years of hand copied study material on the various things they'd done to him to try and find a cure. John wanted to punch Mycroft for those. He'd seen cadavers treated with more humanity than that. The ends justified all, he supposed, but the means still tasted like bile.
John tightened his arm around Sherlock, knowing he'd be annoyed if he were awake and knew the thoughts that were running through his head. He didn't like being saved when he saw himself as a savior. He didn't like people being concerned because that meant he was human. John pulled him close and raised himself up to bury his nose in his hair, Sherlock's head nearly tucked behind his like a shielded talisman. He would protect this man. Always. Whether the stubborn arse wanted him to or not.
Sherlock slept only a few minutes more before they both grabbed their things and headed down to the communal showers. There was only one other man in the test subject group, the other three being women, and so they rarely ran into anyone else when they visited the gents. All showers, no baths. It was a small thing to be annoyed with but Sherlock tended to hone in one small things to obsess over when he was still stuck on the real issues at hand. He was at a three, then. Still not too bad. John took the shower stall beside him, it's blue tiles lined in impeccably bleached white grout lines, and washed the traces of sweat from his body with a rag and a squirt of liquid soap.
"It's all tied up in the politics," Sherlock said above the rush of the overhead spray. His voice echoed well enough that even at his usual tone, which blended in with the rumble of water, he could be heard by less than shouting.
John let the water beat against his back as he kept his ears out from the spray. "That isn't news, Sherlock."
"I mean, that's where we'll find our clues. Pretty much all we've managed to do is eliminate our own country as being behind this. Even if it was produced by the military and not us, the fact that the military was willing to hand me over rather than make up a story to protect their own interests lends itself to this not being something anyone in the UK expected let alone orchestrated."
He nodded, looking down at the white tiled floor where he could see Sherlock's shadow and the swirl of water spiraling down towards the drain. No suds. He'd gotten sidetracked. "So the ones responsible are probably the ones who most want us dead," John guessed, following along with the standard case inquiries in which he did his best to prove he wasn't stupid and could follow along with Sherlock's own deductive leaps.
Except he'd gotten it wrong. "Not necessarily," Sherlock corrected. "Even my brother thinks we're a threat to the world and may ultimately have to be put down. No, it's the ones who most want to control us. It will probably be one of our greatest defenders, actually. Someone who thinks they can fix this. They thought they could play god once before and whose to say they actually learned their lesson?"
John nodded his head, sinking his neck beneath the pounding water as it massaged against an ache. "So we're looking to expose people who don't want to kill us. Doesn't exactly sound like its in our best interest, Sherlock."
"We are going to die, John."
It took a second for John to decide if the echo had stolen the final sound in the word 'aren't' and distorted his words into a fatalistic prediction rather than words of well-meant comfort. But he hadn't misheard. Sherlock felt sure that they would die. It wasn't new news but it still felt dry in his throat as John swallowed. "I know," he said, happy for the wall that kept them separate for the moments of blatant honesty sometimes offered up in blindness. "You're trying to solve our murder. And if Diana pulls through for us, I think you will."
"My murder. Yours is technically suicide."
John chuckled quietly, not a sound made as he smiled at the gallows humor offered through the tiled wall. "Well, if Sherlock Holmes is going to jump off a bridge, there'd better be someone there to yell at him on the way down."
Sherlock's gentle laugh was louder and fell in synch with the beating water that crashed against their flesh and floor. He didn't say anything further but the water at his feet still ran clear. And that was fine. They all needed those private moments to be okay with the thought of losing everything and realizing the limit of power in ones hands. John quickly finished washing his hair and turned the water off slowly so Sherlock would expect the sudden loss of extra sound.
"I'm going back to the room," John told him as he wrapped the ivory towel around his waist and pulled the dark green dressing gown secure around his body. He didn't wait for an answer. He didn't need one. Despite every assurance that Sherlock needed him to remain sane, the hero did not take comfort in admitting failure to that which he'd pledged to protect. Everyone needed to be alone now and then. John waited only so long as to know that Sherlock had heard him then walked back to their room to wait some more.