I found a 30 day prompt challenge. I am not going to even bother trying to do them in 30 days, but I do want to eventually do them all.
I am going to try to do them all in the same "universe" except for the AU one of course, If a fic isn't in the same universe, I will say so in the Author Notes.
They will be set all through the series and possibly before and after. I will note when they take place, so assume spoilers for the whole series.
I will not necessarily do these in order. I will do them as I get the inspiration.
Some might just be short drabbles, and others may be rather long.
Xx
This is for the Day 14 prompt: "Comfort". There isn't a specific time when it is set, I'd guess I'd say sometime before "The Reichenbach Fall".
It's been a long day at the office for John. Apparently he was not the only one who had a long day.
Just an FYI, that part towards the end about being tired but your mind not turning off, that's how it feels to have ADHD. I struggle with that every single night. In a small way I can sympathize with how a real life Sherlock would feel.
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As much as he tried not to subscribe to the 'I hate Mondays' Garfield aesthetic, John had to admit that of all the Mondays that he has had in the clinic, this might be the most Monday of them all.
Sure, the morning started fine. In fact, it had actually started rather well, he had to admit. Whenever there wasn't a 6 foot man-child stomping around your flat either complaining that he was out of eyeballs or using the kitchen table to experiment on said eyeballs (leaving you with no room to eat your jam and toast), that is a pretty decent start to the day.
It wasn't like it was unusual of Sherlock to not be there when John was getting ready for work, even though the sun was only barely showing its tendrils over the London skyline when his alarm went off. John doubted that the man had even been arsed to sleep the night before.
He was not his roommate's' keeper. Well... Actually, that wasn't true at all. He had been his roommate's keeper many times. But John was determined not to dwell on those moments and try to keep his good mood going as he got ready for work.
Then it all went south, fast.
Between a belligerent woman who became physically violent when he tried to give her a shot (took 4 doctors and nurses to hold the 20 stone woman down), a sick child throwing up on his favorite jumper, and upset patients who all had their appointments pushed back because of said issues, it was a pretty shit day.
The sky was a brilliant orange red hue when the last grumbling patient finally walked out the front door, and the receptionist locked it behind them. John sighed and slumped down into his seat. All he wanted to do was go home, crawl into bed, and forget this day had ever happened. Unfortunately, that was not going to happen, He had to stop by Tesco and pick up a few things. As usual, the refrigerator was bare of anything that didn't used to be a human body part.
John finished the last of his paperwork as quickly as he could, nodded a tired goodbye to the equally disheveled receptionist, and slipped out the back door, locking it behind him. It was a short walk to the closest Tesco, thankfully. He could only hope that the chip and pin machine would cooperate this time.
No such luck.
Almost an hour after he entered the store, and 10 frustrating minutes of having a less than enthusiastic associate help him check out his 20 items, he finally left with his 4 bags of groceries, hailed a cab, and headed towards Baker Street.
If John had been tired before, now he was pissed and quite worked up. He -REALLY- hoped that Sherlock was still MIA, as he was pretty sure that he didn't have the patience to deal with that man right now.
He clomped up the stairs louder than necessary, but the stairs had it coming. He had to take his frustrations out somewhere, and they never complained other than that one damn stair that creaked very time you so much as put a toe onto it.
"No, no, I don't need any help." He called out to no one in particular. He went in the kitchen doorway and plopped the bags down on the floor. As usual, the table was covered with all manor of implements and body parts and who the hell knew what else.
It only took a few minutes of rooting around in the kitchen to put everything up. He hadn't heard any noises from the living room, but he hadn't looked over either, so he figured that Sherlock was either deep in thought, or more likely he was nowhere to be seen.
Which made it all the more surprising when he turned around and walked into the living room.
There, on the couch, curled up in a little ball, was Sherlock. Even in that position, his long legs hit the end of the mocha colored couch. He had what John was pretty sure were his favorite pair of blue striped pajama pants, a dark gray shirt, and a fluffy blue dressing gown that was open and spilled down to the floor. As usual, he was barefoot, his long thin feet pressed against the far end of the couch. His face was turned towards John, but he was deeply asleep. His chest rose and fell in a marked, even rhythm.
All the anger in John melted away. This was quite a rare sight. Sherlock, unguarded, at his absolute and most natural, not putting up some idiotic, petty wall between himself and the world. John quietly walked over to his chair and grabbed a knitted throw that Mrs. Hudson had made- he assumed for Sherlock- as it had already been here when he moved in a couple of years ago.
Gently as not to wake him- he was a notoriously light sleeper unless he was well and truly exhausted (which he looked like he was now, then he could sleep like the dead) he laid the throw over him as best he could. Sherlock shifted a bit and made a little grunting noise, but then fell silent and still again, his breathing pattern returning to its former steady state.
John smiled and shook his head. "I swear, every time I think I just can't take any more of you, you show me that you might actually be human after all." He whispered to himself.
Somehow despite the day, after all of this, he found that he wasn't quite ready to sleep yet. He was bone tired and weary, but his mind was still wide awake. He wondered, was that how Sherlock felt all the time? If it was, it would be torture. What if your body was tired but your mind never stopped? It would be a constant fight of body vs brain. Could that possibly be enough to drive a person crazy after dealing with it your entire life? Maybe.
He frowned. If that really was what Sherlock had to deal with all day, every day, it would take its toll over time. While there was really no excuse for how Sherlock acted most of the time, this could be part of the explanation of why he does the thing that he does.
Surprisingly, John found himself almost pitying the detective. How would it feel to be trapped within your own mind, to have no one who understood how isolating that was? Mycroft would probably be the only other person who would, but at the best of times they were frosty to each other. He could only imagine the Christmas dinners.
No. No, he couldn't.
John shook off those disturbing ideas. He hoped that he was wrong about that. Of course, either way, he could never ask Sherlock about it. As a doctor, his innate urge was to help, but he was no psychologist. Hell, he had been seeing his own psychologist for while. This was not his area of expertise, nor was it really any of his business about his flatmate's inner workings.
He boiled some water and made a nice extra strong cup of tea, grabbed a book about 20th century battlefield medical techniques, and plopped down in his chair ready to enjoy an extraordinarily rare quiet evening in 221B Baker Street.
John wasn't quite sure what woke him up, but most likely it was the sunlight streaming in from the windows directly opposite him. Everything was fuzzy and warm and comfortable, and for a few moments at least, he resisted opening his eyes.
With his eyes still closed, he listened. He didn't hear any tromping around the room or yelling or violin or crap telly. So Sherlock, once again, wasn't here.
Slowly, almost painfully slowly, he opened his eyes, instantly regretting it when the sunbeams from the far window flooded him with too much bright. He squinted and took stock of the room.
He had fallen asleep in his chair, that much was obvious, His neck and shoulder were going to be paying for it all day. He sighed. His half drunk, ice cold cup of tea was on the table, and next to it, the book he had been reading. It was closed, and there was a scrap of paper that had been used as a bookmark.
He didn't remember putting the book down. He didn't remember any bookmark on the table next to him, And he certainty didn't remember being under Mrs. Hudson's throw. He looked to the couch, which was barren, other than the two pillows on the right hand side which were wedged slightly into the corner, almost sinking into the cracks after being slept on yesterday.
A warm smile came to John's face. There was only one explanation.
He was loathe to move. It was so inviting- snug and pleasant to be under the throw. John knew that the moment he took it off, the chill of the drafty old flat would seep into his bones. He'd rather put that off for as long as he could.
But without even looking at his watch, he knew that he had been lucky that his circadian rhythm had woken him up when it did. He was sure that his alarm clock upstairs was blaring to an empty room right now. He very well could have slept there another 4 or 5 hours and been perfectly content, but as it was, he had just enough time to grab a quick shower and get dressed and get to work without being more than a couple of minutes late.
With a long sigh, he tossed the throw of of him, gave a long, languid stretch, and headed upstairs to get his work clothes and to turn off the bloody alarm.
Maybe, if he was lucky, today would be a better day.