Title: Left gloves

Author: ganzvielliebe

Beta: ishipthat

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, the BBC do. The characters belong Arthur Conan Doyle. I don't make any profit with the story.

Rating: PG

Word count: ~2100

Summary: It's 3:46am when Sherlock "visits" 221B Baker Street, not quite knowing what to expect, not quite knowing why he is there at all. (post-Reichenbach; a bit slashy)

A/N: It's my first Sherlock fic and I must admit it was quite a challenge to write it from Sherlock's POV. I'm rather content with the result though :)

Thanks to Abi for beta-ing 3

Sherlock stood in an alleyway opposite of 221B Baker Street. Darkness surrounded him, protected him. There weren't any people on the street, but there usually weren't at 3:46am Tuesday night. He was going to go inside the house and the only question was how. Okay, actually, there wasn't a question. The front door – no, there was a risk of being seen even though it's 3:46am; do not underestimate the coincidence. Ergo, he had to look at the back. There were no windows he could get through on the ground. First floor – two windows. One to the bathroom, one to his former bedroom. The bathroom window was almost inaccessible, which only left one window where he could stand on a small ledge.

Thus, he went to the back of the house. He knew that there weren't any trees and a ladder was nothing he could hope for. The brick wall was rough enough to hold on to, at least for the three-to-four metres. Sherlock climbed up carefully; he clung to the wall ignoring the pain in his fingers. It was irrelevant as long as he could hold on. Pain reduces the receptivity. Reaching the projection he was surprised to find the window unlocked.

"Too incautious, too careless and way too easy, John. Didn't I teach you anything?" A low whisper in the dark.

He pushed the window open and eased himself inside. Luckily, his eyes were already accustomed to the dark, enough to see something. His- … the bed was made. Nothing lay on the floor. He touched the furniture. No dust on the shelves, neither on the bedside table. Maybe a new flatmate. He dares turning on the bedside lamp. With a closer look on the books he discards his flatmate-theory. Still his things, just tidied up. Perhaps John was looking for a new flatmate and therefore had made the room presentable...

Sherlock slowly made his way to the living room as he hadn't seen any light from there when he had stood in front of the house. The living room was as empty as expected. He looked around thinking for a moment of all the hours he had spent in there. He shook his head.

On the table, there was a cup half filled with tea. Already cold. John drank tea to relax. He had probably been interrupted. Or maybe not. A glass stood on the table. Empty. The smell of whiskey still on it. John rarely drank alcohol because it wouldn't do well with his pain killers. He only drank out of frustration or to forget.

Sherlock frowned before noticing that also this room was clean. Apart from a book, a newspaper, John's laptop as well as his phone all placed on the table. John had been bored – obviously. Sherlock grabbed the phone; it was turned on (not that it would have made a difference if it hadn't been).

The latest message was from Sarah."Hey John. Why don't you come over tonight?" John hadn't replied. Similar messages on the days before. Never an answer. Quite unusual. John didn't decline those kind of invitations. Or at least, he didn't ignore them. For John, it was a question of politeness.

Sherlock had the desire to go to John's room. He was curious of what he would read in the room, which answers he'd find in there. However, he was absolutely sure that John was at home. Going inside his room was a risk he had wanted to avoid. But it brought him back to the question of what he was doing in the flat at all. Just looking around, deducing things... Apparently his subconscious had guided him to John's room since he was already standing in front of the closed door. No light could be seen under the door. No noise to be heard.

Sherlock opened the door tentatively, his heart pounding in excitement. This was a bad idea. He mustn't be seen. But when did he ever mind danger and bad ideas? He gazed inside. It hit him that this was the first time he entered the room since John had been living in there. A look at John told him that he was obviously asleep which gave him the opportunity to examine the room a bit: It looked … functional as far as Sherlock could tell in the dark. A wardrobe. A shelf with a few books. A desk and a chair. Besides the bed, naturally. It actually resembled Sherlock's old room surprisingly much. They both used their rooms only to sleep and to put their belongings somewhere. Sherlock could only see rough shades; details faded in the dark. One thing caught his attention though. He stepped closer to the shelf placing his fingers on one object. The skull. His skull. The skull that used to be in the living room.

Sherlock glanced at John. Puzzled, not sure what to make of it. Why would he keep it in there? It didn't make sense – at least not yet. He let his fingers wander over the shelf, trying to find another familiar object. Something that could explain this to Sherlock. But the next thing he saw wasn't on the shelf. Sherlock was almost baffled which itself was really rare. He took off his gloves to touch the object. Elegant wood beneath his fingers, sharp strings. His violin. Sherlock stared at it.

Those things – his things – he hadn't missed them – he didn't miss things, but they brought back memories. Nice memories to be honest. Those things didn't betray any solution to this riddle though. Sherlock noticed that he had started pacing. He wanted to shout, he needed to scream. He wanted to get rid of the blankness on his mind. Facts, numbers, dates, letters, even codes. Nothing fit. No pattern. Frustrated. Why. Why? Why?

He leaned against the wall. Frustrated. Almost exasperated. For the first time, he watched John intensely as if he could find the answer there. John who was stirring in his bed, but still asleep judging by his regular breathing. Sherlock knew that once John was asleep he was asleep, but if he woke him up right now, he'd probably be shot by the gun John kept in his bedside table.

John's stirring increased, movements became more rapid.

Sherlock couldn't help but was fascinated by the sight. No, fascination was the wrong word. Captured? More fitting. He couldn't take his eyes from John, his friend who seemed to be suffering a nightmare. Now tossing and turning. Heavy breaths. Painful sounds.

Sherlock didn't know what to do. In those dull TV-series John used to watch people would caress the sleeping one's hair. If Sherlock did it, he'd have a bullet in his chest.

Nightmares – caused by anxiety, fear... possibly enhanced by the use of drugs, alcohol and pain killers. He should probably get out of John's sight. People usually wake up from nightmares. Most likely remembering the content of their dreams vividly.

Despite that knowledge he approached John observing closely. John's eyes – more or less still. No REM-sleep. Nightmares appear in REM-phases. Common nightmares do. Repeated nightmares not necessarily. Repeated nightmares … PSTD. Sleeping disorder. Sherlock didn't expect John to be still suffering from the war experiences. Maybe it was due to the pain killers which lay on the bedside table.

But none of these definitions and descriptions explained why Sherlock was trembling as if he was having a nightmare himself, or why his own pulse was too high, he reckoned that the same referred to his blood pressure.

He waited until John calmed down again, visibly exhausted, still shaking. He was laying on his side, curled together, blanket wrapped tightly around his body.

The irresistible urge to touch John emerged inside of Sherlock. He knew he was being stupid, but he couldn't help it. Before he knew it, his hand was arm was stretched out, his fingers stroking John's hair. Slightly damp from sweat. John breathed deeply. Now, Sherlock was fascinated – truly fascinated. Had John relaxed a bit? Strange coincidence. Because of the physical contact? Not plausible. Did it really help people? No proof. He had never considered it worth an experiment, because that was something writers had invented – at least he had thought so. But he couldn't deny the fact that John's fear and pain from the nightmare was rapidly subsiding under his touch.

An outsider might describe the look on Sherlock's face as affectionate or fond. An outsider would see how Sherlock placed a kiss on John's temple. An outsider could have heard but not understood whispered words. They wouldn't hear Sherlock's pounding heart though. They wouldn't see the goosebumps on Sherlock's skin. They wouldn't understand Sherlock's utter confusion.

He could hardly bear the warmth flooding through his body. Some kind of warmth he had never felt before, spreading like a fire. He couldn't explain why he was trembling. Neither did he know why he had kissed John, even less why he seemed to have lost the ability to breath.

Why?

He left the room as quickly as possible, left the house through the front door.

Shaking. Confused. Warm.

When John wakes up his whole body is aching. Dried tears on his cheeks. Another nightmare. The same as usual. Sherlock falling from the roof, crashing on the ground. Blood. Helplessness. Caught between slow-motion and time lapse. Except it is less of a nightmare than a memory. He still can't deal with the death of his best friend.

He constantly tries to keep himself occupied. Which is hard when you've lost all interest in the things you used to love. The first phrase of a novel makes him shut the book at once, because he knows he can't escape real life. The articles in the newspaper are just boring, because he compares them to his life with Sherlock. He has neglected his blog, because he doesn't know what to write. His phone is always turned on but the messages he gets are ignored.

He forces himself to get up, to act as if he had a daily routine. A cup of tea, a sandwich.

He goes into the living room and lets his eyes travel through the room. No dirt that hasn't been there yesterday. The cup of tea still half full. The glass still empty. The glass … He wonders. He shakes his head. For a moment he has thought – has wished – that he has left the glass a few centimetres away from the spot where it is now. Not more than wishful thinking. He is being delusional.

He sighs and walks to the bathroom to brush his teeth, to shave, to act normal. No signs that someone has been in here. Well, of course not. John considers smashing his head against the sink. He should have given up by now. He should have come to terms.

But he still peeeps inside of all rooms every morning, also Sherlock's old room hoping to find the window open as he always leaves it unlocked.

The window is open indeed. John stares at it. Gaping. Blank mind. A spark of excitement for the first time in a whole month. A spark of life. Nervousness catches him when he inspects the place. Centimetre by centimetre. No traces on the window or in the room in general are to be found. But it wouldn't have been Sherlock if there were. John doesn't even think of the possibility that the window has been pushed open by the wind. He just wants to believe. In the evidence. In Sherlock.

A smile on his face. It almost hurts as if his muscles have forgot how to do this movement.

Back in his room, he gets dressed, he wants to go out for a walk. Maybe today he doesn't need the anti-depressants resting on the bedside table which are usually the only thing that gets him through the day. If it wasn't for the pills he might have already died of listlessness (he wouldn't commit suicide though).

He casts one glance at the violin on the desk smiling fondly recalling how beautifully it sounded when Sherlock played it or how upset he was when Sherlock began playing at 4am. He wraps one of Sherlock's scarves (he keeps them in the wardrobe) around his neck before leaving the room.

Too busy, too hyper to notice that there are gloves on the chair he hasn't left.