John jolted upright in his bed, trembling. Remembering what he was taught for stress relief, he started to breathe. In, out. In, out. In, out.
He surveyed the room as he calmed down. It took him a few moments to place where he was — it was his room in the flat on 221b Baker Street. Of course it was. He had been living there for over a year. He should have realized he was there as soon as he woke up.
John huffed and turned towards his alarm clock, the glowing red numbers telling him that it was the unholy hour of 4 o'clock in the morning. He dropped back down onto the bed, frustrated.
He hadn't had a nightmare relating to the war in a very long time — not since meeting Sherlock — and it was unnerving that he had had another one.
He laid there for a while, his adrenaline still high, unable to go to sleep.
Just as he was drifting off again, he heard a floorboard outside his door creak. He felt his soldier-trained nerves flare. His brain woke up immediately and before he knew it, he was alert and on his feet.
He heard another creak as he quietly made his way towards the door. They're moving away from my room, he noted idly.
Once his brain rushed to catch up to his idle observation, his first thought was, Sherlock!
John rushed to the door, not even trying to stay quiet as he flung the door open and dashed out of his room and into the hallway.
As soon as he was in the hallway, John stopped. It was Sherlock, in his pajamas, walking down the hallway. It was nothing to worry about. Relieved, John started back towards his room, but once again, he stopped.
Sherlock had turned around, and John could see that his eyes were closed.
Sherlock was sleepwalking.
John groaned, frustrated. A sleepwalking Sherlock was a dangerous Sherlock. If this were a nightly occurrence, well…he didn't even want to know what had happened the nights before and what would happen the nights to come. He really didn't.
He was reaching out an arm to wake Sherlock up when Sherlock started speaking. "Blunt force trauma to the head," he said, sounding, for what it was worth, just like he usually would when he was awake.
Automatically, without even thinking about it, John replied. "There's no case, Sherlock. We just finished one." It's the only reason you agreed to go to sleep at all.
Sherlock, of course, didn't reply, just continued ambling his way down the hall, this time towards John, who, by this point, was too fascinated to stop him, his previous thoughts about not wanting to know what would happen all but vanishing from his mind.
When it was clear that Sherlock was headed for John's room, John stepped backwards and into the bedroom to clear the doorway, and, as a second thought, pulled a few messy shirts off of the floor and threw them onto the bed lest Sherlock slip and fall.
Sherlock walked into the room, looking for all the world like he was awake except for the fact that his eyes were closed. John continued to watch him as Sherlock made his way towards John's bed and tumbled inside of it, wrapping John's comforter around his body and turning to face the wall and away from John in one swift movement.
It took John a split second to realize that Sherlock had just stolen his bed.
"Really, Sherlock?" John said out loud to the man's sleeping form. "Really?"
John was tired and now he was grumpy and distressed and his bed had just been stolen and he really didn't know what to do. He went through his options in his head:
Sherlock's bed? No, Sherlock probably didn't even sleep in his bed. The last time John had seen it, the bed had had a dead owl in it. He didn't particularly want a dead owl for a bed mate.
The couch? No, that wouldn't do — Sherlock had been performing experiments on it earlier in the week and John reallydidn't want to risk it.
The floor? Um, yeah, right. Puh-lease. John Watson would not be caught dead sleeping on the floor of his own flat.
This lead to only one solution, however: His own bed. John sighed and made his way towards the bed, where Sherlock was still huddled in his sheets. John tried to make himself comfortable as best as he could — which was no easy task, considering that Sherlock and his long, long limbs were taking up most of the space — and tugged at some of the blankets, miraculously getting some free from under Sherlock's deadweight body to wrap around himself.
As John settled in, Sherlock rolled over again, his and John's faces so close now that their noses were almost touching.
John sighed and promised himself that he wouldn't think about this too hard, and that Sherlock wouldn't even know what had happened the next day anyway, and gingerly wrapped his arms around Sherlock's body, pulling him into a hug.
When the sleeping detective didn't move, John smiled and pressed a chaste kiss to Sherlock's forehead.
Freaking sleepwalking, John thought, before he drifted off peacefully to sleep.
(And no one really had to know that Sherlock opened his eyes and kissed back.)