Sometimes the Mind Palace gets too noisy, and the only solution is a very narrow bed and a silent promise: You're not alone.
On Baker Street
It had been a rough night. Outside, the London rain was relentless, hammering against the glass as if trying to break into the room. John had already turned off the light and was drifting off when he heard a faint, hesitant knock.
He opened his eyes. The door creaked open, and in the sliver of light from the hallway, he saw Sherlock’s silhouette. No coat, no dressing gown—just a thin white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. He looked pale, almost translucent in the shadows. His shoulders were tense, and his eyes—usually so sharp and focused—were darting around the room, searching for something to hold onto.
"John..." his voice was barely a whisper, quieter than the rain. "The Mind Palace... it’s too loud tonight. The boredom has turned into something... corrosive."
John sat up instantly, throwing back the duvet. His medical brain kicked in—Sherlock looked like he’d just been pulled out of a freezer.
"Sherlock, you’re freezing," John said softly, hiding his worry. "What happened? Another experiment?"
"No. Just... melancholy. It tends to thicken when the city goes quiet," Sherlock replied, stepping inside and awkwardly hugging his elbows. "I don’t want to be alone. Can I... stay here?"
John froze for a second. His heart skipped a beat, but he just nodded, keeping that distance that was their shared shield.
"Sure. Take the armchair, Sherlock. Grab the throw. I was going to sleep, but if you need to read or just sit in the dark—it’s yours. And there’s enough room on the bed, I promise I won't be in your way."
Sherlock didn't say anything. He silently sank into the deep armchair by the window, disappearing into the shadows. John lay back down and pulled up the duvet. For an hour, the room was silent, save for John’s breathing and the distant roll of thunder.
He was almost asleep when he felt a movement. A soft rustle of fabric, a floorboard creaking. He kept his eyes closed, feeling the mattress dip on the other side.
Sherlock had slipped under the edge of the duvet like a shadow. He lay right on the edge, rigid and still, as if he was terrified of being an intrusion. John lay with his back to him, sensing the cold radiating off Sherlock’s frame. And then...
John flinched. Under the covers, a hand—long, thin, and ice-cold—slid tentatively forward. His fingers brushed against John’s shoulder blade through the pyjama fabric. It wasn't an embrace; it was the gesture of someone drowning, reaching for anything solid in the dark. The fingers were trembling slightly as they pressed against his back, as if Sherlock was trying to warm himself just by being near another person.
John didn't move. He didn't ask questions. He knew that if he said anything, Sherlock would build his walls back up and vanish. Instead, John just reached back and covered those frozen fingers with his own hand, a silent promise: I’m here. You’re not alone.
Sherlock let out a long, shaky breath. The tension in his body finally began to melt. The trembling stopped, and after a few minutes, John felt his breathing go deep and steady.
Curiosity got the better of him. John slowly rolled onto his side, the mattress creaking. In the half-light, Sherlock’s face looked like it was carved from ivory. His eyes were shut, but the twitch of his lashes gave him away—the brain was still working.
"Your pupils are dilated, your pulse is up, and your breathing broke rhythm two minutes ago," Sherlock muttered, his lips barely moving. "You’re studying me like I’m a specimen in a lab, John. It’s... exhausting."
"I’m studying a man who managed to get a deathly chill in his own living room," John retorted quietly.
The bed was definitely too small for the two of them. To fit, Sherlock had to tuck his endless legs up. In the cramped space under the heavy duvet, the usual barriers were falling apart.
"You're still cold," John stated. It wasn't a question.
Sherlock’s eyes snapped open—sharp, brilliant, and wide awake. He stared at John with that mask-like intensity.
"Your deductions are, as usual, superficial, Watson," he countered, though his shoulder gave a traitorous shiver. "The room temperature has dropped two degrees; it's a natural vascular reaction. Nothing more."
He tried to straighten up to regain some dignity, but the bed was merciless. His heel hit the footboard, and his knee bumped awkwardly against John’s hip. A heavy, almost tangible awkwardness filled the room.
"Look," John whispered with a wry smile. "I apologize, but this bed was never designed for someone with your... anatomical reach. It’s short enough for me; for you, it must be torture."
"It’s... a miscalculation in interior planning," Sherlock exhaled, staring at the space between them.
John was also on his side, facing Sherlock. In the dark, he could see the silhouette of his face and the tension in his neck. John kept his hand under his head, trying to stay casual despite the heartbeat thumping in his chest.
"You'll have to lie diagonally if you want to stretch out," John noted. "But then you'll kick me onto the floor, and as the owner of this room, I'm protesting that."
Sherlock gave a faint huff of a laugh. He shifted carefully under the covers, tucking his knees in. John, feeling that Sherlock had finished his maneuvers, decided that staring directly into the face of the world's greatest detective was a bit much for one night. He slowly rolled onto his back, staring at the dark ceiling.
The mattress sprung under his weight. Now John was lying flat, and Sherlock was on his side next to him, a sharp, angular silhouette.
"You know, Sherlock," John said, his voice sounding surprisingly loud in the quiet. "In Afghanistan, I slept on rocks, in the mud, under fire. But I swear, it felt... more spacious than this."
"Space is subjective, John," Sherlock muttered, eyes closed.
"I'm not used to a six-foot-something flatmate trying to curl into a ball while still taking up three-quarters of the bed," John teased, turning his head slightly toward him. "If you move your knees any closer to the center, I’m going to have to sleep on the bedside table."
Sherlock opened one eye. A spark of his usual competitive spirit glinted in the dark.
"I could calculate the trajectory of your fall if that would help you relax," he parried, but he moved back a few inches toward the edge, nearly slipping off.
John gave a short, quiet laugh—the kind that always acted like a sedative for Sherlock.
"Don't," John said softly, stopping him. "Move back, Sherlock. I don't want to explain to Mrs. Hudson tomorrow why you're sleeping on the rug."
Sherlock hesitated, then slid back toward the center. The black, cloying boredom that had been eating him alive an hour ago just... evaporated. It was replaced by a strange sense of safety. It wasn't logical, but it was there—in the shared warmth and the way their shoulders occasionally brushed.
"John?" Sherlock called, just as they were both drifting off.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For... not asking unnecessary questions."
"Go to sleep, Sherlock," John’s voice was thick with sleep. "And move your knee; you’re invading my territory again."
Sherlock obediently tucked his legs in, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He closed his eyes, feeling the 'noise' in his head finally go quiet. That night, the Great Detective didn't analyze the world. He just slept, knowing he wasn't alone.
I noticed that in my music there is a lot of metal bands from different countries, so I came up with a hetalia AU, where they are all metalheads, let's call it metalia 🤘
I start with England, for which I was inspired by "Iron Maiden"
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