Chapter 1: Sharing a flat.
Sound was everywhere. Screams, explosions, gunshots, people shouting orders, everywhere there was noise. John ran through the trench, gun in one hand, medical bag in the other. Chaos. Confusion. People were going over the edge and falling back down, shot before they could take a step. The medical officers were doing their best, but they all knew it wasn't enough. People were dying, all around them, their screams of pain filling the trenches, twisted sounds that humans weren't supposed to make.
John shot up in bed, his breathing harsh, hand flying to his gun. For a moment, he was completely disoriented. The window was in the wrong place, it should be behind him. Baker street, I'm in the new flat. He brought his hands up to his face, trying to rub away the afterimages of the dream, trying to push away the memories that were threatening to overwhelm him. He was still holding the Browning loosely in one hand, which was hardly comforting. He looked at it, running his fingers along the metal. He'd killed a man with it yesterday, shot him through two windows to save his new flatmate, who was apparently insane enough to risk his life for a mystery. Then again, he was hardly one to talk. Everyone does insane things.
That was when he heard the sound, drifting up the stairs. It was soft, melodic, relaxing, the quiet playing of the violin. Sherlock. He grasped at the sound, using it to anchor him to the present. The song was a lullaby, and the lingering notes smoothed away the panic John had woken with, bringing back his fatigue. Slowly, he lay back down, and closed his eyes. He could see Sherlock in his mind's eye, the violin tucked under his chin, fingers moving over the strings. His eyes were closed, posture straight. John smiled in the darkness, and then sleep pulled him under. This time, he was untroubled by nightmares.
Ooooo0000ooooO
Sherlock was busy measuring the effect of moisture on blowfly larvae, when he was distracted by a door opening upstairs. He looked up, and the maggot he was currently working on wriggled off the Petri dish and fell to the floor. He glanced back and scowled, trying to replan the experiment to accommodate the loss of the unfortunate larva. It would be no use with dirt on it. He turned his attention back to the remaining maggots, pointedly ignoring John as he walked into the living room.
"Morning," John said, and Sherlock shot him a disdainful look, before turning back to the box containing the experiment. Apparently unconcerned, John went to the kitchen, and Sherlock heard him filling the kettle. It was strange, to be sharing a flat with someone again. Mycroft had ensured him a private apartment while he was in Uni, and since then, he hadn't been able to find someone that was willing to put up with him. Sherlock idly wondered how long John would last, and then decided that it wasn't worth a hypothesis. He returned to his contemplation of the larvae.
"Tea or coffee?"John called from the kitchen. Sherlock paused, surprised. He contemplated the question briefly, and then decided that there was no harm in a cup of coffee between cases.
"Coffee, black, two sugars," he replied, and John emerged into the living room with two steaming cups. He set one down on the table beside Sherlock, and peered into the box.
"Lovely," he said. "If any of them get on the floor, clean it up. I don't want to be stepping on maggots, this place is bad enough already." Sherlock looked up, first at John, and then at the room around them. It was a little untidy, sure, but it wasn't that bad, as far as messes go. He surreptitiously swept the fallen maggot under the carpet as soon as John looked away. There was an awkward silence as John sipped his tea, and Sherlock measured out the water for the last group of larvae.
Once the day's adjustments and measurements were done, he closed the box and put it under the coffee table. John eyed it distrustfully, but didn't say anything. Sherlock brushed off his hands on his trousers, picked up his coffee, and took a suspicious sip. It was very good, the paradoxical sweet bitterness colliding in his mouth, just the way he liked it. He looked up and met John's anxious gaze. Instead of words, he simply gave John a smile and returned to the coffee, finishing it off in seconds and setting the empty mug aside.
"I heard you playing violin last night," John commented. "Couldn't sleep?" Sherlock glanced over at the violin in question.
"Sleep is boring. I've trained myself to go without it for days." He saw the concerned expression on John's face, and quickly changed the subject. "Did I wake you?" He already knew the answer to that. He'd heard John wake up at 1 am, with a shout and the creak of bedsprings. That was when he'd gone for the violin, wondering what John dreamed about. The war, obviously, but what about it? Was it being shot in the shoulder? Or the patients he hadn't saved? Or the soldiers he'd killed in self-defense? Or simply the war itself, and no particular event?
He'd heard John lie down again, and had continued playing for half an hour, contemplating what he knew about the Afghanistan war. Very little, of course. He didn't pay attention to big wars; that was firmly Mycroft's area. Perhaps it was time to do a little research on his new companion.
"No, you didn't wake me," John said finally. And that was all. Sherlock drifted off to his laptop, and John turned on the television. The day passed without more interaction between them, but they were both aware of the other person's location at all times, their presence a faint comfort to them both.
A/N: Hi, Tazia here. Thanks for reading this new story. I'm co-writing it with ticklethedragon1. I wrote this chapter, and she'll write the next, but most chapters will be written by both of us. We'll let you know in the author's notes who wrote what. And most of the chapters will be longer than this, we're just getting started.
Enjoy, review, and have an exiting day! See you next time for Chapter 2: Saving Each Other's Lives.