Snowflakes fell around John as he walked. He zipped his favourite black military jacket before stuffing his hands in his pocket. As much as he loved the jacket it certainly wasn't pulling its weight in keeping him warm.
John didn't actually consider himself to be a sentimental man but he couldn't escape the thought that his hands would be much warmer if someone else's were intertwined with his.
He didn't know why he felt quite as depressed as he did. It wasn't as if his day had been particularly trying or upsetting. It wasn't as if Sherlock had uttered some scathing criticism and he hadn't blown up any thing in the flat.
He just felt sad. He felt lonely.
He had Sherlock…but somehow Sherlock just wasn't enough. Or to put it more accurately, couldn't give him the kind of attention he wanted. He wasn't just talking about sex, if he really wanted that he could just pull some slapper at a pub, what he wanted was someone just to hug and hold.
It was horribly sentimental, and he cringed at even thinking about it. He, Doctor John Hamish Watson, veteran of Afghanistan, wanted someone to hold him. It was ridiculous.
He walked slowly through Regent's Park. He'd decided to take the scenic route back to Baker Street, hopefully managing to clear his mind before he faced Sherlock. But the hauntingly beautiful snowy landscape offered no condolence.
He made his way past the Open Air theatre, recalling the time Sherlock had taken him to see Gershwin's 'Crazy For You'. Sherlock had dragged him out of the flat; he expected it to be another case but was more than taken back when they'd arrived at the theatre. Throughout the whole performance he expected some kind of assassin to leap out at them, but no one did and it had been quite a pleasant night.
He'd seen a side to Sherlock that night that he'd never seen before. Sherlock was calm, relaxed and sociable. Sherlock claimed he was oblivious to modern culture but his knowledge of the arts was quite astounding.
He realised he was smiling stupidly and immediately stopped, silently scolding himself for being so ridiculous. He sighed and watched as his breath, warm from his body, became visible in the cold and floated softly upwards.
John never particularly liked the cold and certainly not now since he was paying the price for his lack of layers, especially on his legs. Somehow, jeans weren't the most snow-friendly of garments.
He was halfway across York Bridge, concentrating all his effort on trying not to slip and dislocate a hip. Laced up Loafers weren't the most reliable shoes to be wearing on iced pavements.
The walk would usually take twelve minutes max but he'd spent the better part of seven minutes walking over the sodding bridge. Eventually, he escaped the park and its frozen grasp.
The black door of Baker Street loomed at him as he approached. A strange wave of apprehension washed over him as he walked up the steps. He reluctantly pulled his hand out of the pocket to get his key out of his jeans. The old lock took his key reluctantly and John made a mental note to pop to a locksmith when the snow melted.
The heat that washed over him was gratefully received as he peeled his jacket off his frozen frame once inside the hallway. The smell of stale coffee hit his poor nose, causing him to recoil slightly.
He hated coffee. John was a tea man through and through. It wasn't just the taste he didn't like; it was the smell and the aftertaste it left. He couldn't stand anything coffee scented.
He climbed the stairs slowly, his leg practically screaming at him to sit down. The stale coffee smell emanated from the living room but strangely enough no noise accompanied it. All was silent in 221B, which unsettled him for some reason.
"Sherlock?" John spoke as he opened the door to the living room expecting to see the lanky figure of his flatmate somewhere. But Sherlock was no where to be seen.
John ran his fingers through his soaking wet blond hair. He wondered where the detective could've gone to.
John knew Sherlock wasn't on a case because Sherlock would have dragged John along with him and Mrs. Hudson would have pretty much leapt at him as soon as he stepped through the door.
John pulled off his damp jumper and placed it on the back of the sofa, deciding to put it in the dryer after he'd found Sherlock. John made his way up the stairs, his curiosity driving him on. He decided to try looking in The Black Hole of Baker Street or as it was more commonly known; Sherlock's bedroom.
He knocked gently on the door and received no reply. John knew it was probably hypocritical of him to walk in considering he'd given Sherlock a right bollocking last week for walking into his room whilst he was getting changed.
"Sod hypocrisy." John walked in and stopped in his tracks and as soon as he'd registered what he saw he mentally kicked himself.
The lights were on and Sherlock sat upright in his bed…fast asleep. His left arm dangled lazily off the bed, holding a book in his hand. Sherlock looked so peaceful and vulnerable as he slept. John backed silently out, hoping his sudden arrival wouldn't wake the detective up.
John smiled to himself and shook his head. Sherlock was a remarkable man, an impossible man and extraordinary. Somehow reality and all its normalities didn't seem good enough for Sherlock Holmes. That was why John adored seeing the moments where he was human.
The stench of coffee made John crave tea as he made his way back to the living room. He realised that for once he could read his newspaper in peace. With that prospect in mind John made himself a cup of tea before pretty much collapsing into his favourite chair.
The newspaper heralded no interesting news. Just mediocre reporters writing about the 'fascinating' lives of celebrities or publicising the utter stupidity of a bloke who'd driven his car into a lake because his Sat Nav told him to.
John chucked the newspaper next to him, feeling slightly disgusted at the world for being so mundane. He looked at the bookshelf but quickly decided he wasn't in a reading mood. He drummed his fingers on the armchair.
He decided to go to bed; thinking that a few hours of sleep would improve his mood. He pushed himself up off the chair hearing more clicks than he'd care to admit. He sighed heavily before turning to the door.
And stopped when he saw Sherlock standing there. His hair was bedraggled and his pale blue pyjamas and blue silk dressing gown was as dishevelled as if he'd been turning frequently. His knuckles had turned white from where he clung to the doorframe desperately. But it was his puffy red eyes that were firmly locked on him that startled John.
"Sherlock." John hid his surprise and regarded his flatmate calmly. He ran a doctor's eye over his friend's current state. Silently working out if drugs played any role in his friend's current state.
"John." Sherlock spoke in his usual tenor voice, a deceptively normal voice belied by Sherlock's current condition.
"Are you alright, Sherlock?"
"Fine. Thank you."
John nodded slowly. He'd have believed Sherlock if he'd missed the slightly edge in Sherlock's voice when he spoke. John moved towards his friend, without saying a word he placed Sherlock's arm around his shoulder and placed his arm around Sherlock's hip.
He walked his friend to the sofa. Sherlock walked but put more weight on John than he really wanted to. John gently lowered him onto the sofa.
"What happened? You were sleeping nicely when I walked in."
Sherlock stared down at his curled toes. "Nightmare." He muttered almost inaudibly. Almost.
John heard it but didn't comment; instead he started to go towards the kitchen to do a very British thing and make them both a cup of tea when he felt Sherlock's hand grab his arm desperately.
"No. Please. Don't go, John." Sherlock's bright blue eyes looked up at him pleadingly. The man looked terrified.
John felt something clench in his chest. He'd never seen Sherlock so frightened before. Sherlock, the calm, collected, precise, logical, emotionless thinking machine was begging with him through teary eyes. And John had absolutely no idea why.
Sherlock's iron grip was still on John's arm, holding him where he was.
John smiled sadly. "Do you want to talk?"
Sherlock reluctantly let go of John's arm, he lent back in the sofa and pulled his knees chest, clutching them tightly. He looked like a lost child as he stared wide eyed into the distance.
John knew that Sherlock didn't normally react well to physical contact but whenever anyone was this shaken the only real medicine that would help was a hug…even for a sociopath.
John sat on the sofa next to Sherlock; he shifted to the furthest end, his back leaning against the arm as he brought his legs up. He opened his arm to his friend. Sherlock looked nervously at John, he didn't move and for a second John thought Sherlock wasn't going to do anything but then the world's only Consulting Detective collapsed into his friend's arms.
John wrapped his arms around him protectively, holding him tightly. Sherlock's breathing deepened as his tense body slowly began to relax into John's chest. John ran his fingers through Sherlock's unruly brown curls, whispering comforting words in his ear.
John didn't push him to talk; he just held him until he felt his body loosen and his breathing became slow and even which signified he'd fallen asleep.
John was horribly uncomfortable as he had the whole of Sherlock's weight on him, but watching the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest and the wonderfully peaceful expression on his face more than made up for his discomfort.
John planted a small kiss on Sherlock's forehead.
He knew he'd have to have a serious chat with himself about his feelings towards his flatmate/friend/partner in crime but at that particularly moment, he just enjoyed the sensation of having someone to hold.
He never honestly wanted to see Sherlock in that kind of state again, but if it meant he got to hold him like he was doing and comfort him, then he didn't entirely mind if Sherlock had another nightmare…especially since a small smile had appeared on the Detective's face.