.

Sherlock usually has a presence larger than the room. Much unlike me. He can be loud and obnoxious, infuriatingly brilliant as he spews out deductions at a crime scene or Scotland Yard with a touch of sarcasm, arrogance and despise. Even when silent, he carries himself with an unabashed presence, making just about every head in the room turn towards the man in the perfectly tailored suit, fresh clean-shaven face and artistically unruly dark hair. In his faithful long wool coat he often bears the graphic silhouette of a dark avenging hero of justice. His whole presence is crafted, manipulated by Sherlock himself to display this unattainable, ascetic, dangerous genius. Thus making all those moments of candour, camaraderie and vulnerability all the more touching.

The Baker Street genius projects himself as distant, superior and in a genial category of his own. It's a difficult position to maintain, but I have no doubt he's earned it, and that he proves himself worthy or our awed admiration often enough. Not because the world often challenges him, but because he constantly feels the need to prove himself. It's not born out of self-doubt, it's an engrained need to excel himself every single day.

He drives himself too hard, sometimes. Hardly stopping his demanding work – where all of his energy seems to be directed at proving himself the best – to keep up with the mundane tasks of eating, resting, sleeping.

Even at Baker Street, away from the prying eyes and scrutiny of the world, Sherlock is always restless. Chasing theories as he studies the cold hard facts of case files, creating science mayhem as he experiments with the boundaries of scientific knowledge as much as he can in his improvised kitchen lab, or co-plotting world domination with his brother when Mycroft pays him a visit.

Very rarely I see Sherlock not engaging his fast track mind on his work. And in those rare, run-for-cover instances, he's hardly ever relaxed enjoying a well-deserved break. He's usually jittery and climbing up the walls (or shooting at them), desperate for the next case.

It makes those rare times when he's subdued and quiet all the more poignant.

Like now.

I know Sherlock retired to his bedroom because I almost carried him there, as he stumbled over weary footsteps and I helped him carry his own sleep-drunk body along the corridor. He wasn't hurt; luckily. He had just pushed himself too far, so far he almost collapsed back at the Yard. Dehydrated, starved, overwhelmed by exhaustion. Worst of all, he had methodically masked all the symptoms of his condition from me, so I wouldn't tell him off or even force him to a deserved break.

I had been blind-sighted by his energetic moves, frantic words and magnetic facial expressions. I had fallen on the trap of his scintillating brilliancy, let it rapture me, and I did my friend a disservice by not taking into account his vulnerable humanity. I had faithfully followed a selfless superhero and failed to challenge his larger than life personality.

Now I find myself hesitating to leave Baker Street. I wanted to remain around until I was positive that Sherlock had allowed himself, finally, to succumb to his body's need to rest. Until I could hear his peaceful long breaths from the other side of his bedroom door, and no more tossing and turning on the mattress. At that point I intended to gather my things, go downstairs, exit and patiently try to hail a cab to take me back to my place.

Sherlock, of course being the old sly detective he is, off-handedly gave me the choice to stay the night at Baker Street. On the sofa, or even at the untouched abandoned bedroom upstairs. Maybe that was the real reason, all along, of why he didn't occupy my old room with crime scene re-enactments, science experiments or even a general public admittance Science of Deduction Museum that honoured my friend's immodest achievements.

In order to have me stay the night, the exhausted detective introduced one last coercion: he told me that in exhaustion riddled times he often woke up precociously with insomniac spells, too riled up to sleep or rest again.

'If I do wake up with insomnia again', he told me with an inconsequential shoulders shrug, 'there's always that nitroglycerine experiment I've been working on...'

'Nitroglycerine', I repeated, not knowing whether to take him seriously.

'Yes', he said sternly. 'Oh, and by the way', he added as an afterthought, 'you may want to keep away from the thermos bottle on the kitchen sink.'

'Right', I said, determinedly, with a slight frown.

He seemed content with my promise, and with a child-like sigh as I pulled the covers on him, he fell asleep with an innocent expression. Curls hanging perilously over his forehead, parted lips looking pink and relaxed even if still a bit chapped from the dehydration, a slight angle to the end to his eyebrows resembling an expression of curiosity. As if falling into swirling dreams full of the eagerness and sweet expectant innocence of a child.

I gave him a small squeeze in the arm, turned off the light and closed the bedroom door behind me as I left.

That happened a while ago. I was determined to leave Baker Street – go home – but something kept holding me back.

Maybe home is a feeling and not a place. Maybe I feel it when I'm here.

Exhausted as I was from following Sherlock Holmes wherever his fast track mind took us in order to solve the case and save a life, I kept finding small excuses to stay a little while longer. Light the wood in the fireplace to warm up the flat, wash those dishes in the sink (without moving the thermos bottle), there were all these small grounding tasks I performed willingly as I absent-mindedly kept a watch over my friend's sleep.

And all the time I went about in the kitchen, or sat at my armchair sipping a strong cup of tea, Sherlock's movements were barely audible through the flat's silence. He was sleeping restlessly, but nevertheless giving his body a chance to catch up on his basic needs.

As the tea level neared the bottom of my cup, I got more engaged with the familiar setting around me. The one I still believed I should abandon at last – go home – but couldn't bring myself to part with. The fire crackled peacefully as the orange glowing timber reduced to carbonized wood and silvery ashes. In front of me, the greyish leather chair of my absent friend seemed cold and empty without his presence. Partly strewn over with warm light from the mantle and partly lit by the cold moonlight that crept in through the condensation rimmed window panes behind the chair.

Restless, I ended up turning my back on the lonely flat and walked over to the window, from where one could view the quiet, still street. The gelid cold emanating from the glass surface was a reminder of the real world I needed to return to. 221B was only a refuge right then, one that couldn't last long. The morning lights were soon to break over the city, and then there would be another regular day to have at the surgery, after being swamped by the busy movement of anonymous people on the rush hour full underground. Meaningless rituals, senseless repetitive work; how could I sense it differently after all Sherlock and I went through tonight?

Sitting on the low window ledge, maybe a foot up from the wooden floorboards, collapsed against the cold window pane, staring out into a cold empty street, I know not why do I feel so defeated and tired.

Something has got to me.

In my busy time following the mad detective, and then taking care of the said mad man, I had felt engaged and alive. Needed, useful, full of life. As energetic as Sherlock, sharing his glory, bursting with his successes carried over.

Sherlock is sure to sleep for quite a few more hours yet, while I return to my routine first, on my own and pressing stubbornly through a boring work day.

Being at my mad friend's side is like an addiction, and now I'm thrown back into reality on my own.

Perhaps, with a bit of luck, Sherlock will find himself another case where he needs me before the end of the week.

If I survive a week; with Mrs Chandler's varicose veins. I swear the woman comes to the surgery every single day to check their progress, and her legs would be so much better if she spared herself the long walk...

I let a silent, frustrated sigh pass through my lips and I close my eyes, my head against the cold window that separates me from the cold world outside.

Soft footsteps startle me all of a sudden. They are not sharp, loud or even decisive. Barefooted steps, gentle and mindful, approach me over the wooden floorboards, then over the soft fibres carpet. I turn my head in surprise, looking over my shoulder. Sherlock is quietly staring back at me. Hardly looking like himself. All tension washed out of his features, all violent sharp gestures removed potentially from his now slackened hands, falling limply at his sides. He looks peaceful, rested, as he contemplates me. If it weren't for the strong sharp look in his eyes, I might have pondered if he was indeed awake, as all of his posture is softened and his body seems flexible and warm.

'Sherlock, you shouldn't be out of bed. You'll get a cold without even a blanket on your back.'

I study his shoulders under the silky pyjama for sings of stiffness or cold, but find none. Maybe the fireplace has warmed the living room more than I thought.

Sherlock softly tilts his head to the side and I wonder what I've done to surprise the genius now. Is it because I'm still here, but haven't taken the sofa to sleep on?

'You are worrying about me, John, when you are the one shivering cold', he points out, rationally.

I unstick my face from the cold window pane. Am I? Must have been the cold window then.

'Am fine, Sherlock. And you still need to sleep more.'

He shrugs. 'So do you.'

I blink, worried. 'Did I wake you?'

He takes some time to answer, as he studies my stiff joints while I get up in front of him. Finally he nods; yes, I woke him up. 'I'm sorry', I say reflexively, before I wonder how.

'You fell too silent', he tells me as a brief explanation.

'Well, that was the point. I didn't want to wake you, Sherlock, by making noise.'

His brows frown slightly, bringing tension to his features.

'You, doing your John things, don't wake me up.'

'Then what did?'

'I woke up when I stopped hearing you.'

'When I sat by the window?' I ask, incredulously.

'When you fell silent', he insists, enigmatically.

'I don't get it', I say thickly. 'Did I wake you?'

'Just drop it, John!' he expresses some frustration. 'You are most expressive when you are comfortable and content. All the small sounds you make – you huff, you mutter, you pace, you tap your fingers on the counter – they are like a musical symphony with each instrument a different contribution. Underneath them all there's your rhythm, only yours, regulated by your steady heartbeats. Even when I don't see your face, your dozen different smiles, there are so many other ways you keep expressing your presence. I can tell you apart in a crowd. I can focus on all that is John and not some random stranger. Without looking I can tell how you feel, how was your day, what are your hopes. I do it every day. I believe it's one of those things you are supposed to do, to be attuned to your friend's needs.' I can only nod, a bit too dumbstruck to tell him he's taken friendship to a blatant level of endearing stalking; and that I actually enjoy it, his attention and care, implicit and tangible at once. 'John, I don't believe I've heard you quite like I should have tonight. My exhausted physical frame has put its own egotistical needs first. I fell asleep as you were making all those little sounds and felt comforted with that lullaby.'

'What woke you up, Sherlock?' I ask at last. 'If I didn't make a sound...'

'The same as when I have insomnias, John. The silence woke me up.'

'I'm not usually here for the night.'

He hums, in agreement.

'Tonight you were here, and I still woke up with your silence, John. That won't do', he tells me seriously, like one would to a child being naughty.

'I'm sorry', I say reflexively, again. Or because I don't know what else to say. He gives me an amused eye roll and a smirk.

'Like a symphony', he mutters. 'Much better.'

Then he turns and starts towards the sofa. I'm left behind confused, standing still in the middle of the living room, a cold shiver running down my back as the last dregs of warmth leave the fireplace.

I look over at Sherlock, he's bringing over the chequered blanket for me.

'John. I wish you'd allow yourself to go home.'

I frown, clasping onto the coarse fabric of the blanket. Is he sending me away with a blanket?

'Yes, a cab', I end up saying, as I gather my thoughts.

Sherlock's eyes open wide in disbelief.

'Don't be an idiot. I mean 221B. I wish you'd allow yourself to feel at home. You have no desire to leave Baker Street, cross the city or even go to work later... So what did you want to do once at home?' he asks seriously.

I can feel myself blush. 'I dunno. Watch the telly till I fall asleep?'

He rolls his eyes in mockery of my simple ways, but firmly grasps my shoulders and steers me towards 221B's long sofa. I sit on it with the blanket drawn over me. He takes the television remote control and turns over through the few channels that are active at this time of the night. I let myself sag against the back cushion, feel it as it envelops my tired shoulder frame, it's comforting. Sherlock finally settles on a channel, either by reading my responses to the flashing images as he flickered through or by simple guessing. My eyelids are dropping and the images get blurred by sleep. In one last consciousness grasp I can sense the weight shifting on the sofa as Sherlock takes a seat by my side and the blanket beign gently tugged partially to his side. He must know I'll be deep asleep in a minute. Perhaps it hardly matters. Perhaps in a minute he'll be as deeply asleep as me.

.

A/N: Not really much of a plot lurking in here, I know. Sorry I took so long, the flu had my brain all muddled.

221 "chapters", 100 plots or mini-plots, all posted between series three and four. One common line of dialogue: "Just drop it, John".

As I close this collection, I fully intend to open a sequel soon enough. If you care to meet me there I'd be most grateful. If, on the other hand, you fell it's enough, I completely understand – I may even agree – and I'm also very grateful. A thousand praises to whoever made it thus far, it's both incredible and humbling.

As always, still not British, a writer, or anything other than myself. -csf