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Sherlock hasn't slept all night. He's been too awake, too wired, too restless to sleep. He sits on the sofa, long fingers drumming nervously on his thighs. He wishes he had some cigarettes but he ran out last week. He'd been too engrossed in the case to buy more last week, a mistake he sorely regrets now. He stares anxiously at the door for a few moments before springing up and crossing to the window. He presses his forehead against the cool glass pane and gazes at the ground below, his eyes scanning the sidewalk, as if expecting something.
Or someone.
And of course he is. He has been for the past 12 hours.
This is foolish. This is foolish and childish and he knows it but he can't help it.
He hasn't seen or heard from John since last night at the crime scene. He'd been talking with the police, answering more of their stupid questions, when John had approached him.
I'm taking Sarah home. She can't be here anymore. I'll see you at home later.
At home. It was the first time John had referred to their flat as home.
Sherlock hadn't even had a chance to say anything in return. Not that he knows what he would have said. There weren't really words for the way he'd felt when he'd returned to the flat to signs of a struggle, to the cold fear that had gripped his chest when he'd realized someone had taken John. Nor were there words for the relief he felt when he arrived at the scene, fearing all way that he would be too late and he'd be recovering two corpses, rather than two abductees.
It had been much later when he'd finally answered all of Dimmock's questions and been able to hail a cab back to Baker Street. He'd noticed the light in their parlor and expected John to be waiting for him with a fresh pot of tea; John was nothing if not a habitual tea drinker. In truth, it had been Mrs. Hudson with the tea, a welcome distraction after such a long evening, but not the one he'd been expecting.
It had taken even longer to explain to her what had happened (and yes, they would pay to have new locks installed on their door), and it was well into the early hours of morning when he'd realized there was still no sign of John. He'd tried not to think about it – John was a grown man after all, more than capable of taking care of himself. He was a military man, a soldier, strong and able.
But then again, John was also the man who had been abducted right from their flat – their safe place. He'd only stepped out for a few minutes and that had been long enough for John to be taken away. That had been minutes. The last time he'd seen John had been hours ago.
So he'd tried the logical thing and planned to text a message to John's mobile. Just to be on the safe side. He'd been about to hit send when he'd noticed said mobile on the coffee table. Of course it was there. John hadn't had time to grab it as he was being kidnapped.
He'd thrown the mobile across the room.
That had been six hours ago.
Since then, he hasn't been able to sleep. Or eat. Or even drink a cup of fucking tea. Rather, he's paced. He's sat. He's played his violin. He's paced some more. He's done everything he can think of but he just can't sleep.
Sherlock drags himself away from the window, returning to the sofa. He lies flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He's still consumed by the thought that something has happened to John. Sherlock knows the odds of this happening twice in one night are astronomical, but he can't shake the irrational fear. Fear. He's not used to that emotion. He's had no place for it since he was a child, no time for the cold metallic taste it leaves in his mouth. He hadn't felt fear in a long time, not since he'd learned that he could dispel most of his fears with cold hard facts. But even the facts aren't enough right now.
He's surprised, of course, by the strength of his feeling. Up until this point, he's never considered what John means to him. Until now, he'd always taken him for granted in a way. In the past few weeks, they'd settled into their routine as flatmates, colleagues, tentative friends but that that had been it. But now, in the wake of this strange evening, he realizes how much he relies on John, how much he needs John, and how absolutely lost he would be if John were to leave him now. He purposely doesn't open up to people (it's easier and safer to remain alone, always has been), but with John he's taken a risk. A calculated risk, but a risk nonetheless. One that is proving well worth it.
Of course, it's not perfect. He knows that he difficult to know and even more difficult to share a flat with. He knows that he treats John like absolute shit sometimes, but through it all, John stays. Despite everything, John hasn't left yet and Sherlock promises that he'll be damned if he's going to let anyone take John Watson away from him ever again.
But then he can't promise that. Smart as he is, he can't control everything, can't stop things he can't predict, like the abduction tonight. It's not fair. Not fair that he feels this way. He never asked to feel attachment to someone, let alone a man he'd only just met. This wasn't right, wasn't something he knew how to do or handle or process.
He wishes, not for the first time this evening… morning… whatever, that he could just shut his brain off, could just stop thinking for one bloody minute. But he has nothing to help him. He's managed to stay clean since John has moved in, but in the absence of his cigarettes and even his fucking nicotine patches, he doesn't know what else to do.
He's not sure how long he lays there, lost in the stupor of his own mind, when he finally hears footfalls on the steps (measured, even, steady, heavy – too heavy to be Mrs. Hudson). He bolts upright just as the handle creaks and John pushes his way into the flat.
Never before has the sight of someone been so relieving, been so exhilarating.
"Where were you?" his voice is louder and thinner than he intended. His limbs feel all prickly and he doesn't like the way John is looking at him, eye widening in surprise before narrowing in concern.
"Sarah's," John gestures towards the door with his thumb. "Told you last night."
"I didn't realize you'd be staying there," he says, trying to force calm back into his voice. He knows he must look a sight. He hasn't eaten, hasn't slept; he's been wearing the same clothes for nearly 48 hours now. But none of that matters now.
"Yeah, well, neither did I," he explains, shucking his coat and hanging it on the rack. "Hadn't planned on it, actually, but… she was just so shaken, Sherlock. She was afraid to be alone and asked if I'd stay the night. And it wasn't like I was really in a position to say no. It was my fault after all."
Sherlock looks at him curiously. "What do you mean?"
John crosses to a chair and flops down in it, sinking deep into the cushions and closing his eyes. "I just can't help but feel responsible. If I hadn't asked her out, then none of this would have happened. It wouldn't have happened – at least not to her. God, I'm a shit date."
"A shit date wouldn't have stayed," Sherlock points out, trying to be helpful.
"I guess you're right," John muses, his eyes slipping closed. "Then I'm a shit flatmate. Could've checked in with you."
"You're not a shit flatmate," Sherlock says seriously. He's thought all sorts of uncharitable things all night long, towards a great many people, but not towards John. He's not sure he could, now. "You're a good friend."
"Are you talking about to Sarah or just in general? Because I don't think I'm going to be seeing her again anytime soon."
"Both," Sherlock says, deciding less is more. John opens his eyes and glances at him quizzically. There's a question on his lips, Sherlock can almost see it, but John doesn't say it.
"So… Did you ever find what they were looking for though? The circus smugglers?"
"A pin, of all things. A jade pin worth nine million."
John whistles. "To be almost killed for a nine million pound jade pin. Imagine... is that what my life is worth?"
"Nine million couldn't have replaced you," Sherlock says quietly.
John looks up at him, his face curiously unreadable. It isn't surprise. It isn't shock. It just sort of… is. Like the man himself. John Watson simply is.
"Good night then, John. Or should I say, good morning, at this point. I'm off to bed."
As Sherlock leaves the room, he thinks he hears a soft reply, but he's not sure. It doesn't really matter.
John is back. He is safe. He is fine. He is in Baker Street. They are both where they belong and he can finally get some bloody sleep.