Inspired by: Common Knowledge by The Assassin's Pen where Sherlock comforts baby Rosie when she wouldn't stop crying all night, and John and Mary were exhausted. :)
John noticed the missed call as he was going on his lunch break. It was from Rosie's school. He pressed to call back and brought the phone to his ear, hoping for the best. She was only five and still getting used to attending school. After chatting briefly to explain who he was and why he was calling, he was put in touch with the school nurse.
"Yes, hello Dr. Watson. Your daughter is here in my office because she skinned her knee. I've disinfected and bandaged it up, of course, but she refuses to return to class and keeps begging for you to come pick her up."
"I can't. I'm at work right now," John said, taking a seat in the cafeteria with his lunch.
"How about I put her on the phone?" the nurse said, and he agreed that that would be a good idea.
"Daddy." Rosie was sobbing. "Come pick me up. It hurts. It hurts so much."
"Rosie, dear, be strong. It's just a few more hours, okay? I'm at work right now. I can't just leave to pick you up."
"Send Father then," she said, and John could picture her crying face and his heart ached at the sound. "Pleeeease. It hurts so much."
"Okay, okay. I'll call your Godfather, and I'll see if he can come pick you up. Okay? Just stay strong, Rosie. You can do this. Think about other things, and it won't hurt anymore, okay?"
"Okay," she said.
"Good. You can do this." John exchanged a few more words with the nurse before hanging up to call Sherlock. Sherlock didn't pick up. John tried again and received the same response. Nothing.
So John texted him, Where are you? What are you doing?
He ate while he waited. He sent another message. By the time his lunch break was almost over, Sherlock still hadn't replied. John sighed and went to find his manager. He couldn't leave little Rosie all alone.
Sherlock was home after solving a case for Lestrade about an hour after John and Rosie were back.
"What happened?" Sherlock said, stepping into the living room. He saw Rosie sitting in John's lap, cradled in his arms, still teary-eyed and weary. "Ah."
"Thank goodness you're back," John said. "I called you and texted you, and you didn't answer."
Sherlock dug his phone out of his pocket. He'd muted it because it kept ringing and distracting him from the case. He scrolled through the various missed calls and texts from John. "Well you could go back to work," Sherlock said, checking the time. "You've only missed about an hour of it."
"Hm. Very funny," John said. Rosie sniffled, and he began rocking her back and forth. He glanced down at her. "It doesn't hurt anymore, right?" Sherlock sat down in his armchair.
Rosie nodded. "It still hurts."
"Alright." John tightened his arms around her. "You're okay. It doesn't hurt anymore."
Sherlock found it fascinating that Rosie found hugs so comforting. Sherlock himself had experienced a few hugs before, and they were mediocre at best. They certainly weren't something to covet. Physical affection rarely was. Or, at least, that was what he told himself.
He decided it must be something that emotional, sentimental human beings liked. Either that, or it was genetic, because John also appreciated hugs. Mary did too, and Molly perhaps, now that Sherlock thought about it. Irene didn't seem as much of a hugger, though. Lestrade… Why Lestrade was one of the few times when Sherlock had been hugged. That meant Lestrade liked hugs, otherwise he wouldn't willingly hug someone, much less Sherlock.
"Go back to work, John," Sherlock said, rising to his feet to pluck Rosie out of his arms. "Rosie and I will have some fun so you don't think about your knee."
"But it hurts to stand," she said. He set her on her feet and wiped a few stray tears away.
"Are you sure?" John stood up.
"It doesn't hurt, Rosie. It's all in your head," Sherlock said. "Now, what do you want to do? Shall we have a music battle?" He reached under the table to drag her small keyboard out.
"I don't want to," Rosie said with a small pout.
"I'm really going to go then," John said, standing by the doorway.
Sherlock waved at him to leave. "Then how about I tell you about my latest case?"
Rosie jumped with a smile and clapped her hands. "Was it a murder?"
Sherlock grinned, chuckling. "Ooh you are learning fast, my dear."
When John returned home, exhausted from work - really, he probably shouldn't have gone back, but he felt so guilty about leaving early - he found Sherlock and Rosie on the couch. Rosie was lying on his chest, her eyes closed, and her back rising and falling with each soft breath. Sherlock's eyes were closed too, and John wondered how they'd both fallen asleep. He tossed off his coat and entered the kitchen to prepare dinner.
"John."
John turned around. Sherlock peered at him with slitted eyes, still foggy from sleep.
"What?" John said, expectantly.
Sherlock stared at him for a few more seconds before turning his head back around and wrapping a hand around Rosie. "Nothing."
John frowned quizzically before resuming his previous intention of making dinner. Sherlock roused Rosie, and they all had a quiet meal together. Rosie was in much higher spirits and told them the story of how she'd skinned her knee. They'd been playing on the swings and jumping off them while in the air and she went a bit too high and fell and scraped her knee.
"My hands are hurting too," she said and showed them the cuts on her palms.
John helped Rosie in the bath, careful not to get any water on her knee. Then he wrapped her knee in fresh bandages.
"It doesn't hurt anymore, right?"
She nodded. "A little bit."
"Well, you're being very strong," he said and kissed her on the forehead. After tucking Rosie into bed, John returned to the living room, where Sherlock was putting together the data of his latest case.
"You know Rosie hates naps. How'd you get her to sleep? You couldn't have exhausted her with the story of your case. And you didn't tell her too many details, right?"
Sherlock didn't look up from his seat on the floor. "This isn't the first time, John. You'd be surprised how comforting the sound of a heartbeat can be." John searched his mind and had a vague recollection of Sherlock lying on the couch and tiny, baby Rosie on his chest, sound asleep after a night of endless crying. "Would you like to give it a try?" Sherlock said. "I'm quite curious if it'd be as effective on an adult as a child."
"No no, that's fine." John held a hand up. "Thanks, though." Sherlock glanced up. "Really, Sherlock. I-" He shook his head. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
Sherlock smiled but it didn't reach his eyes. "You'd be fine without me, John."
"No, really," John said, as Sherlock ducked his head back down to his scrapbook. "I mean it, Sherlock. Thank you."
Sherlock was silent.
"Well, good night then," John said, stepping towards the stairs.
"Good night," Sherlock said, softly.
John was awake about three hours later, though, with shaken nerves and faded images of a bloodied body. He laid in bed, tossing and turning, for an hour before heading downstairs to use the toilet. Sherlock was still lying on the sofa, eyes shut but hands steepled together. John watched him breathe for a while, before using the toilet and returning with a throw blanket to cover Sherlock.
"John," Sherlock said, eyes snapping open just as John was tucking the blanket around him.
John jumped. "Jesus, Sherlock! If you're awake, say something."
"I just did," Sherlock said with a frown. John sighed and sat down on the edge of the sofa near Sherlock's feet. "Was it a war nightmare or a Mary nightmare? Or maybe even a Rosie nightmare? Quite possible seeing as she was injured today and you're rather protective."
John shook his head, resting his face in his palms and his elbows on his knees. "Neither." He wasn't sure if he wanted Sherlock to know.
"Neither?" Sherlock said, lifting his head up to get a better look of John's worn face.
"It." John swallowed, his voice thick, and said his next words in a slow, measured way. "It was a Sherlock nightmare."
Sherlock lowered his head back down, and a silent minute passed before he adjusted his position to make more room. "John. Would you like to try it out?"
John's gaze snapped to Sherlock's. "Try what out? If you still have-"
"Not that." He rolled his eyes. "The heartbeat."
John stared at him, then laughed. "Sherlock, I'm not going to-"
"I'm serious," Sherlock said.
John shook his head and stood. "No. It's fine. I just needed to use the toilet-"
"Yet you sat down and told me about a nightmare."
"You knew I had a nightmare," John said, tossing his hands in the air. "There's no point in hiding anything from you, Sherlock."
Sherlock shrugged. "It was an educated guess."
John shook his head. "Forget it, Sherlock." He turned towards the stairs.
"Please, John," Sherlock said, stopping John in his steps. "It'll help you sleep. I want to help. Let me help."
John's hands curled into fists. He bit his lip, gathering his courage to turn and face his friend. "Sherlock, I saw you die."
"I know," Sherlock said.
"Sometimes, I still see you dead," John said.
Sherlock scooted to the side to make room for John. "I'm alive. Come hear the proof."
John debated in his head. He knew if he went upstairs, he'd stare at the ceiling until daylight, but he wasn't about to stick his head upon another man's chest. He sighed, resigned. "This is ridiculous," he said as he laid down beside Sherlock on the couch. Then he steeled himself, reminded him that no one would know, and propped his head on top of Sherlock's chest, right above his heart. He could hear the contracting and relaxing of Sherlock's heart and it was…
"Incredible," John said.
Sherlock laughed, causing John's head to bob up. "You would think that, wouldn't you?"
It was different from listening to a heartbeat with a stethoscope, as he did at work. Here, he could feel Sherlock's warmth, feel Sherlock's heartbeat, feel Sherlock's breathing. John's eyes slid shut to better focus on the sound, the steady, pounding reassurance that Sherlock was real and alive, breathing and beating, not splattered in a bloody mess on the pavement.
John's own breathing evened out and he was fast asleep in five minutes.
Sherlock jerked to a start and stumbled off the couch, eyes wide and gasping. John lifted his head up and stared at Sherlock. "What's wrong?"
Sherlock sat on the ground and hid his face with his hand, ruffling his hair. "Nothing. Go back to sleep, John."
John sat up. "What happened? I heard your heartbeat increase and-" He caught a glimpse of Sherlock's pale face in the dark, the haunted, wild look in his gray eyes. "Sherlock."
"I'm fine." Sherlock stood, turning his back to John. "I'm going back to my room."
"Sherlock, do you get nightmares too?" John swung his feet off the couch. He rose and treaded closer. Sherlock remained still. "Come here." John stepped in front of him and wrapped his arms around him.
Sherlock was tense and rigid. He could still see the flashes of red, feel the searing pain upon his back, the tight metal chains on his wrist.
"Whatever it was about," John said in a whisper. "It wasn't real."
"It once was," Sherlock said in a hoarse reply.
John's arms tightened around him. Sherlock relaxed and told himself that it was over. Moriarty's network was over. Hunting them down was over. He focused, instead, on John, on the feeling of John, on the warmth of John, on the wonderfully strong and steady presence of John. Sherlock could understand why Rosie liked John's hugs. John was very warm, and his jumper was very soft. It made the hug quite pleasant.
Lying with John on his chest had been quite pleasant as well. Reassuring, in a way, because John was calm and peaceful, and Sherlock didn't have to worry about John being hurt. He couldn't stand that - John being hurt.
Perhaps hugs weren't so mediocre after all. Perhaps physical affection could be rather enjoyable, and comforting, not that Sherlock would voice such thoughts. After all, he wasn't an emotional, sentimental human being.
No, no. Not at all.
I'd love to know what you thought! Thanks for reading. :)