Title: Reminisces
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John
Rating: K
Summary: Post-Reichenbach dreams are unpleasant, and John searches for a way to comfort Sherlock unobtrusively.
Author's Note: A new series of random ficlets, mostly fluff, or at least angst ending in warm-and-fuzzies. I'll add to it whenever my wretched muse allows...
Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Sherlock or BBC.
John drew his legs up closer against the chill of the evening, his body edging slightly nearer to the fire's soothing warmth. A calloused finger slid across the glowing screen, flicking to the next page of his novel. The e-reader was a luxury he appreciated, a gift from his flatmate a month after his birthday had passed, when Sherlock's superior brain had finally registered that birthdays were events not to be forgotten and had hurried to purchase the expensive electronic as his unspoken apology.
John's eyes had barely scanned the next sentence when the silence of the room was broken by a soft padding of bare feet. Looking up, his eyes met his flatmate's bleary gaze, open dressing gown thrown over bare chest, the limp belt ends trailing behind dragging feet. Sherlock rubbed his eyes with one fist, before plopping himself down in the armchair opposite his friend, curling up with a huff to stare moodily into the flames. John's eyes regarded his friend affectionately. No one could pull off "stroppy toddler" like the famous detective.
"Can't sleep then?" he asked gently, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His only answer was unintelligible muttering, as Sherlock burrowed further down in the chair, a black look crossing his face.
John's forehead frowned. The nightmares must have been quiet tonight, because he'd heard no sounds from the bedroom down the corridor. "Sherlock, Moriarty's dead," he reminded him, careful to keep the compassionate pity from his voice, if not from his eyes.
"I know!" The snapped reply was spoken with too much force, and John subsided back into his chair to let his friend brood. He leaned his head back against the soft cushion of the chair and waited silently for a moment, noting the angry, glowering dark eyes, the long, twitching fingers.
John closed the case on his e-reader with a sigh and set it aside. He had a wealth of experience in dealing with a petulant Sherlock, and knew this would require his full attention. "Well, guess I'm done for tonight." They sat for several moments in companionable silence, content in each other's company, the dark lines on Sherlock's face gradually lessening as he listened to the even breathing of the doctor, and the occasional pop of the firewood.
After a quarter of an hour of unbroken quiet, John sensed the inward turmoil still radiating from his friend and shifted in his chair, trying a different approach. "Did I ever tell you, Sherlock," he began, as the detective startled out of his reverie to glance in annoyance at his companion, "about the time my regiment was ambushed while escorting a supply convoy through the Eastern mountain regions?" He knew what bait to use, knew of Sherlock's curiosity about his past in spite of John's reticence on the subject, and now watched in satisfaction as his flatmate's head raised up a degree, unable to keep the flicker of interest from flashing in the cold, cobalt eyes.
John hid a smile. "It was in the summer of…" his voice trailed on, recounting the memory with less pain then he would have once thought possible, but was rewarded as the look of horror gradually lessened in his dear friend's eyes. Ever the story-teller, John quieted his voice as the tale went on, settling into a low, gentle rhythm of words. Sherlock's body began to uncoil, and the grey eyes slid closed as John continued, until only the furrowed, concentrated brow told the doctor that his friend was still listening. Twenty minutes later, as he drifted from one recounting to the next, John was finally repaid with the sound of a gentle snore. Smiling fondly across at his newly-returned flatmate, he stood and draped a fleecy throw over the long, lanky form of the detective before retiring to his own room upstairs.