if...- SH alt. ending pt 2

I wake up for the third time tonight from yet another nightmare which, of course, slips out of my mind as soon as my eyes spring open with a gasping of breath. No matter how hard I try to cling to the visions I saw in sleep, all I'm left with is a sheen of cold sweat, vague whispering in my head and a tight, clammy feeling like a fist twisting my insides. I lie still for a few seconds to allow my heart to slow back to almost its usual pace, before pushing the twisted sheets away and half-falling out of bed. For the third time, I pad barefoot towards the kitchen for yet more whiskey. Since I don't have any other sleeping aids on hand, that is what I have settled for. It doesn't help much, really, but the heat of the drink in my throat and stomach is mildly comforting, and helps banish the ghosts and keep the stupid nightmares away for an hour or two. I'm almost embarrassed by my plight - I'm a full grown man, for crying out loud, and yet bad dreams still terrify me out of sleeping. Stupid, stupid, but there's nothing I can do, is there?

Sherlock is still on the couch as I quietly pass through the living room. His long legs are crossed under him, hands resting in his lap with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to reveal two nicotine patches on his left arm. He is lying languidly against the back of the sofa, head tipped back and curls all over the place. Mouth open slightly, eyes closed - he could be sleeping. Something subconscious draws me to him, urging me to move closer, but I don't. It's.. probably just some silly primal instinct - with my mind so troubled it would be natural to seek out companionship, wouldn't it? Safety in numbers, right? Shaking off the thought, I continue through to the kitchen. I take the whiskey bottle from the cupboard and watch the glass I've been using for several seconds. There's no point. I'd only be back in a few hours anyway, wouldn't I? So, I ignore the tumbler and head back to the room with my new friend.

His position is almost exactly the same as it had been when I last saw him a few minutes ago, only this time his head is held upright and his eyes are open, following me as I walk past. I pause for a moment when I notice, glancing back at him. Sherlock's gaze travels down to the bottle, back up to my face, expression impassive, and for some reason I am suddenly very aware that I'm not wearing a shirt. My cheeks heat up involuntarily, no doubt due to his scrutiny. Then he shuts his eyes and steeples his fingers, raising his hands to under his chin, middle fingers pushed against his lips. A shiver runs down my spine as I return to my room.

The next time I wake, I know whiskey isn't going to be enough. There are tears on my face as well as sweat, my entire body aches and, despite being unable to remember any of what had caused it, an unbearable feeling of dread and despair courses through my veins with every rushed pulse of my heart and digs sharply at my insides. Something in my mind is telling me that I don't want to be alone, and yes, some human comfort would be welcome, but the only other human in this flat is Sherlock.

The next thing I know, I'm creeping into the living room and trying to figure out how I got there. Instinct making me do things? I know it isn't conscious, I'm not thinking about it, never made the decision to get out of bed and leave my room. So… what? I'm sure I could stop if I really wanted to… so why haven't I? A mocking voice in my head states the obvious for me. Because you don't want to. My body makes its way quietly to the couch, where Sherlock is still sitting like a statue with his eyes shut and his fingertips pressed together. He doesn't stir as I climb up onto the sofa next to him, pulling my legs up under my chin and looping my arms around them, chin on my knees. I glance up at him, and see with a start that he's looking right back.
"Can't sleep," I mumble, the surprise at him watching me fading as fast as it had arrived.
"I can tell."