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Literature Text
Sherlock sits on the couch, his chin rests on his knees. He lazily wonders around the room with his eyes. Tiredness makes his face grey and lack of sleep turned his sharp gaze into dim chips of coal. The adrenalin of the recent chase has almost vanished and only sluggishness stays with the detective.
Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He will never admit this aloud, but he really wants to rest.
Heavy and fogged thoughts slowly cross his mind, tangling his conscious. One lock of his dark hair tickles his cheek. The sudden cold touches Sherlock's bare feet.
His head slips down on the chest, causing pain in his neck.
Suddenly something warm covers his body. A blanket. John's. Because it has a unique smell. John's smell. Sherlock's amazing mind protests of another attempting to think.
The detective wants to open his mouth to say something, but his tongue has become very lazy and incredibly heavy.
The blanket has never been so welcoming and warm. It's because it belongs to John. Sherlock's cheek touches the pillow and some seconds later he understands that he is no more in the vertical position. John's hand carefully draws away hair from the detective's face.
On the doctor's face appears tiny, caring smile as his fingers glide down Sherlock's cheek.
"Good night, my sleepy detective" he whispers.
A quiet noise of protest leaves Sherlock's lips, making John chuckle.
"Oh, sorry. Good night, sleepy consulting detective, the only one in the world."
A satisfied grin slightly twists Sherlock's lips and second later John feels his steady breath. Morpheus takes Sherlock Holmes to his mystery kingdom of dreams. Dreams of thrilling chases, tough puzzles and riddles. Dreams just for Sherlock.
John sits near his friend for a while, watching Sherlock's chest moving slowly up and down. Then after a second of hesitation he climbs on the sofa too, near his detective, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's shoulder and resting his own head on the same pillow.
The last thing John Watson can remember is the warm body near him and funny noises of his friend's sleepy murmurs.
Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He will never admit this aloud, but he really wants to rest.
Heavy and fogged thoughts slowly cross his mind, tangling his conscious. One lock of his dark hair tickles his cheek. The sudden cold touches Sherlock's bare feet.
His head slips down on the chest, causing pain in his neck.
Suddenly something warm covers his body. A blanket. John's. Because it has a unique smell. John's smell. Sherlock's amazing mind protests of another attempting to think.
The detective wants to open his mouth to say something, but his tongue has become very lazy and incredibly heavy.
The blanket has never been so welcoming and warm. It's because it belongs to John. Sherlock's cheek touches the pillow and some seconds later he understands that he is no more in the vertical position. John's hand carefully draws away hair from the detective's face.
On the doctor's face appears tiny, caring smile as his fingers glide down Sherlock's cheek.
"Good night, my sleepy detective" he whispers.
A quiet noise of protest leaves Sherlock's lips, making John chuckle.
"Oh, sorry. Good night, sleepy consulting detective, the only one in the world."
A satisfied grin slightly twists Sherlock's lips and second later John feels his steady breath. Morpheus takes Sherlock Holmes to his mystery kingdom of dreams. Dreams of thrilling chases, tough puzzles and riddles. Dreams just for Sherlock.
John sits near his friend for a while, watching Sherlock's chest moving slowly up and down. Then after a second of hesitation he climbs on the sofa too, near his detective, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's shoulder and resting his own head on the same pillow.
The last thing John Watson can remember is the warm body near him and funny noises of his friend's sleepy murmurs.
Literature
John
My words gush out like oil from a barrel- dark, toxic, bitter. They spill all over the couch and slosh onto the floor. I desperately want to make them stop, to scoop them all up and pour them back inside so I can hide them away in the space where all my other unwanted words go, but they keep on flowing, filling up the room, drowning me. I'm scared they'll drown John, too. I try to tell him that. Try to tell him to ignore what I'm saying, to leave me alone, to just leave, but he won't have any of that.
Because he's John- steady, dependable John- and without me telling him he seems to know exactly what I need. He pulls me into his arms as read
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"You boys enjoy yourself here." The older woman behind the counter says as John pays for his order of coffee. "We will. I mean we're not - We're just friends." John falters with his answer. "Oh. Of course." she responds with a coy smile that tells him she doesn't believe a word of his protest. Nobody ever does.
They're on a case for Mycroft in small town just outside of London; investigating attacks on government employees who vacation there. There have been four killings thus far. They're staying at an inn up the road from the cafe where the employees and their families usually stay. Apparently the inn is linked to the attacks; according to
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Comfort
"John, it's okay, it's alright now."
"NOW IT'S NOT! It is not okay!"
I had never seen John so scared, so angry, so out of control. It frightened me. He was always calm, held himself back, always in control. But he wasn't as I watched him. He breathed rapidly and shallow, I could practically see his heart pounding away in his chest. He was scared stiff by what he had seen, even if it wasn't real.
"Okay John, you need to calm down," I soothed.
"NO! I just
ARGH!" John yelled. He was falling apart right in front me. I needed to comfort him somehow, I just didn't know how. Feelings isn't something I know a great deal of, they'd become eve
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Aww, how sweet, I love it, thanks!