John Watson sat in the living room of 221B Baker Street, his fingers hovering over the keys on his laptop, struggling on how to put the previous night into words for all to see. His mind traveled back to that night, to the scene at the pool. He mentally shuttered as he recalled the bomb that was unceremoniously strapped to his chest. He shook his head slowly and glanced up to his flatmate that was sitting in the chair opposite. Sherlock Holmes was staring at John intently, his eyes gleaming intelligently from behind his dark curls as he watched John's face, examining him.
"What?" John asked, wondering just how long the consulting detective was looking at him.
"Are you alright?" Sherlock eyed him, waiting for his response.
"Fine...fine, why?" John was slightly caught off guard by the taller man's question.
Sherlock looked at him for a couple more seconds, his eyes flitting across his face, before launching into his speech, monotone detective voice and all. "Well, you've stopped typing two and a half minutes ago, your pulse and breathing has quickened, your pupils are dilated, although you're not really staring at anything, are you?, and you're shaking slightly."
John gave his flatmate a deadpan stare. Of course Sherlock knew how he was feeling? Why should this even shock him?
"Okay, fine, I'm still a little shaken up about last night..." John admitted hesitantly.
"Obviously," Sherlock said, absently waving a hand. "My guess is that you're-"
"Scared?" John replied sarcastically, cutting off Sherlock.
"On-edge, wound up, take your pick," Sherlock corrected.
John adverted his eyes, letting his thoughts go back to the pool.
"I'm fine," he lied, knowing it was futile to lie to Sherlock. He looked back to his open blog, pretending to be engrossed in his article. He could feel Sherlock's eyes still studying him. He ignored the feeling and let his mind drift back to the night previous.
"It's different, you know," Sherlock stated, pulling John back to the present.
"What are you talking about?" John said, exasperated. He was getting a little more than tired of Sherlock's matter-of-fact tone and arrogance.
"In the Army, you were accustomed to violence, expecting death around every corner. But now that you're 'home', you have, most likely subconsciously, assumed that your life isn't in constant danger. This little stunt of Moriarty's caught you off guard. Your body's betraying you," he concluded.
John stared at him, dumbfounded. He studied Sherlock's face about to tell him off (even thought he was complete right...he's always completely right), when he noticed. Sherlock's eyes were slightly wider than usual. His hands, held in front of him and steepled, were trembling. No way. The great Sherlock Holmes...afraid?
"Oh my God, you feel it, too," John murmured.
"What?" Sherlock asked incredulously. John ignored him and closed his laptop. "Where are you going?" he asked, watching as John slipped on his coat.
"We are going out for a pint," John replied, tossing Sherlock his cloak and scarf.
"Sorry John, I don't drink. Kills the brain cells and slows my thinking."
"One drink won't kill you, Sherlock," John said. He walked down the stairs and slammed the door behind him. Sherlock sat in silence for a few moments before following his flatmate out.
John watched, transfixed, as the bouncer threw a drunken Sherlock out the front doors of the bar, only to stumble and land flat on the ground. He groaned, rolling over and clutching his side. John hurried over to help his flatmate to his feet.
"Bastard! I should go tell your wife about your affair with the bartender!" Sherlock yelled, slurring his words slightly. John shook his head as Sherlock swayed on his feet. He pulled the taller man's arm around his shoulders and hailed a cab. He all but threw Sherlock into the car and climbed in behind him. John sat silently as Sherlock went on and on about the 'idiots' in the bar. He didn't pay much attention to the drunk ramblings. Instead, he was musing himself with that fact that Sherlock has probably never had a drop of alcohol in his life.
At the bar, John had been sipping a beer as Sherlock downed glass after glass of scotch. John could tell he was tipsy after the second glass, and tried to get him to stop, but as he stood in line at the bar to tell the bartender to cut Sherlock off, he somehow got a hold of three more glasses. If that wasn't bad enough, a girl tried to flirt with the detective, buying him a couple rounds of shots, at which point Sherlock had switched from scotch to whiskey. By the time John got back to his flatmate, he had insulted the woman to the point of tears, and the bouncer was throwing him out.
John came back to the present as they pulled up in front of 221b, and John was amazed to find that Sherlock hadn't even paused for breath since getting into the taxi. John paid the cabbie and started to haul Sherlock up the stairs. He slipped his hand into Sherlock's coat pocket for the key, unlocked that door, and made his way up the stairs, dragging Sherlock with him. They went through the living room without pause, and into Sherlock's room. John took off Sherlock's coat and scarf, then dropped the taller man onto his bed, where he slowly crawled up and put his hair on the pillow. John looked at the drunken man, shook his head, and pulled the covers up to Sherlock's chest. Sherlock looked barely awake, his eyes struggling to stay open. John turned and started to make his way out of the room and to his own when he heard a soft whisper.
"What?" he asked, turning back to Sherlock.
"Don't leave," he said, a little louder, his intelligent grey eyes turning somber. "Please."
John came to stand next to the bed. "And where should I stay, then?"
Sherlock's eyes never left John's as he scooted over to the side, away from John, to make room for the doctor.
"No. No, no, no way," John replied, turning again to the door.
"You were right." John stopped as he pondered what Sherlock meant. Before he could ask, the detective continued. "I do feel on-edge, worried, even. But not for my life," he paused, then, "I really have no idea what I would do if you were to die, John. I was actually ready to kill all three of us, not just to stop Moriarty, but because I realized that I honestly don't think I could possibly live without you."
John looked at his drunken friend. "That's just the alcohol talking, yeah?" John said cautiously, more to himself than to Sherlock.
"Actually, 76% of drunken conversations are things that the speaker really want to say, but cannot say without the help of losing their conscious, even partially, to alcohol," Sherlock replied, seemingly hurt that John would even suggest such a ridiculous notion.
John had no response to this, and ended up just staring at the younger man. Sherlock motioned for John to join him, and when the doctor didn't budge, he added, in the most desperate sounding voice John had ever heard, "Please."
Sighing with defeat, John took off his own coat and threw it on a dresser. He slipped in next to Sherlock, making sure to lay on top of the sheet so they weren't touching, and turned his back to the detective. Sherlock wrapped his long arms around John and rested his chin on the shorter man's head. The alcohol didn't take long to drift Sherlock off to sleep, leaving John to lay there, wondering if sleep would ever come. John involuntarily noticed how warm and...comfortable...Sherlock's body was. He shook away these thoughts and began debating if he'd be able to sneak away before Sherlock woke up completely sober. He dismissed it as impossible and thought instead about if Sherlock would remember any of this in the morning. The next thing he knew, he was out cold in the loving embrace of his best friend, the great Sherlock Homles.