His mind was working over time. John, the bomb strapped to his chest, gave him a look of absolute horror, blood pouring from his nose. "I am giving you one last chance, Sherlock Holmes" Moriarty said with a hiss
"Answer me."
"I don't know!" Moriarty hit John again.
"TELL ME!"
"I don't know!"
Moriarty cocked the gun and pointed it at John's head.
"Are you sure? I don't think you would like to lose THIS game would you?" Sherlock bit his lip, trying to keep strong
"Please" he begged. There was a click in the gun, as Moriarty fingered the trigger.
"I don't like seeing you this weak Sherlock. It puzzles me." John closed his eyes and took his last shuddering breath.
"Goodbye Sherlock" John whispered.
BANG!
...
Sherlock woke with a start, his sheet tangled around his legs, his shirt drenched in sweat. Panting he sat up in bed. Ever since that night at the pool… he knew. Since then, the dreams had gotten worse, more violent, more heart wrenching. Oh, he was very certain of his feelings for John. He got up and made a cup of tea before sitting on the couch, deciding to ignore it. He couldn't act on his feelings anyway. He could just picture John's expression if he told him. Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, laying his head back on the arm of the couch and kicking his feet up. His hair was a mess and the bags under his eyes were immense. There were four nicotine patches on his arm in a little row. He looked over at the clock. 3:00am. How did he let himself fall for him? At first he just found him annoying. More like a pet than an actual person, but that night, seeing him grab Moriarty by the neck, risking his life for him, seeing him on the edge of death… He pondered waking John but thought better of it. What would he say? He imagined his smile and the feeling of running his fingers through John's coarse blond hair. Sherlock smiled as he slowly, slowly drifted back into sleep.
...
Tick. Tick. Tick. John sat in bed, twiddling his thumbs. Insomnia was fairly common with him as he was a light sleeper to begin with. He checked his blog. Nothing had changed. He closed his eyes. He heard a clunking downstairs. Sherlock up for a midnight snack, he guessed. Up again? This was not an uncommon thing over the last few weeks but this was his third day in a row. John hoped that Sherlock wasn't as shaken by Moriarty's bomb scare as much as he was. He sometimes thought he could still hear the bomb ticking against his chest, but it was usually just the clock on his bedside table. 3:00am. Even in Afghanistan, he wasn't as scared as he was right at that moment, and those were some of the worst memories in his life. John looked at his hands. They were both violently shaking. That was odd; his hands were usually steady, even when nervous or afraid. He remembered the night Mycroft told him so. The day after he met Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had been so good to him. Taking him in when he knew he wasn't exactly in the best of shapes and helping him clean up his act and start fresh back in London. But since that night, Sherlock seemed distant and angry, as if John had done something wrong, which, to his knowledge, he hadn't. He opened his eyes again and checked his phone. Nothing. He got up and started pacing. Had he done something wrong? Was he slowing Sherlock down? Of course not! That was preposterous, he told himself to stop letting the way Sherlock was treating him get to his head. They were friends. John pushed his fingers through his hair and sat down on the bed, putting on his slippers. He couldn't seem to shake the nervousness he had around the brilliant consulting detective. All he could think of was the things sergeant Donavan had said about Sherlock on the night of their first case.
"One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."
He couldn't help but take it to heart; Sherlock could be so intense sometimes. He shuddered before, switching off his bedroom light and going to join his psychopathic roommate.
...
"Sherlock? Are you awake?"John murmured into the darkened room. There was a grumble and a sharp inhale before Sherlock sat up and turned on the light, illuminating the kitchen and living area the two men shared.
"Well, I am now." John took in Sherlock's disheveled appearance.
"Oh, sorry, I was just worried, that's all. I'll let you be." John turned to go.
"No, it's ok, I'm up now anyway, I was only asleep for a couple minutes." John sat down in the armchair across from Sherlock. The two looked at each other in silence for a moment before either of them said anything.
"You've been up a lot lately, is everything alright?" John asked. Sherlock smiled slightly and looked at the doctor. He sighed,
"I'm good. I'm fine."
"That's good, I was worried." John repeated, he was sounding like a bumbling idiot.
"I'm going to go now. Just making sure that everything was ok."
"Thank you."
"Alright, good night" John got up and left, feeling stupid. He wasn't even sure why he had gone down in the first place. Sherlock watched him go with a pang of longing. He was definitely sure of his feelings for John. Unquestionably.
