A/N: Hi, I haven't been around for a long time now have I *waves* but I finally wrote something that could be published on here so I hope you enjoy
This is just my interpretation of the characters so sorry if you don't agree/they're ooc
Just a friendship fic between Sherlock and John, in case people want to know beforehand :3
Sherlock blinked awake, for a split second not entirely sure what had woken him until he heard a noise. It took less than a moment for him to be fully awake and listening intently. The scrape of a chair made him know the sound was from the kitchen, the small hint of light from under his door let him discard many hostile theories on who was wandering their flat in the early hours of the morning. It wasn't until he heard the shuffle of familiar footsteps, however, that he finally laid back down in his bed, fully content to go back to sleep if it was just John wandering around.
His eyes opened two seconds later though, a frown on his face. John must be used to him by now, having bouts of restless nights, unable to sleep because of a case or a new experiment. But for it to be the other way around, for Sherlock to be sleeping peacefully while John was on edge was unusual to say the least. He tried to pretend that John was just getting a drink but the light was still on and there were still noises that he couldn't quite identify coming from the other rooms. For John to not only be up but not be trying to sneak around, to not be considerate as he usually was of everyone around him. That was unheard of.
And warranted investigating.
John shot up in bed, panting like he'd run a mile. He panicked for a second, his quilt wrapped tightly around his legs, trapping him before he realised what it was and untangling himself, stumbling out of bed and towards the door, or where he hoped it was in the dark. He tried to get his bearings, tried to get his breathing and his heart rate under control but telling himself it had just been a dream, a memory didn't seem to be helping. The sudden difference in comparison of the dream to real life didn't comfort him either. To go from the vividness of an old night terror – almost unbearably bright sunlight, the deafening sounds of life and war raging around him, a sudden shock of pain and gush of warm blood as he tripped and fell – and found himself in bed with an abrupt jolt. And it was dark and cold and quiet. So quiet he could still hear the ringing in his ears of imaginary bullets and he was telling himself that he needed to be silent but he couldn't get his stuttering breaths to agree with him.
His hand closed on the door handle, a small sigh of relief slipping from his mouth before he opened the door wide, wincing at the loud click the door made. He pushed past the reprimand bubbling in his mind, the suffocating feel of the darkness in his lonely room enough for him to not care what he was doing, flicking on the main light in the hall as he stumbled towards the kitchen and the bottle of numbing scotch he knew was waiting for him, hidden away in a corner of a cupboard in the hopes that no one would notice or find it because it was only ever used in occasions such as this. Though he didn't know why he tried so hard with a flatmate like Sherlock, of course he would know this was happening, knowing him he'd just be ignoring it- maybe to save John the embarrassment about talking about it, more likely because he wasn't one to talk about anything other than cases if he had his way.
He downed the first drink without a second thought, pouring another as he sat down at the kitchen table, leaning back until the chair creaked. He took joy in the small noises he was making, anything to keep the silence and the darkness at bay for a moment even if he knew it was just a fake reassurance. Even if he knew at one point he would have to slip back into his room quietly to try and avoid detection.
Sherlock slipped quietly through the hallway, the noises from the kitchen making sense the closer he got. He peeked through the kitchen doorway, not knowing whether it was a good idea to get caught out at this moment or sneak silently back to his room though as soon as he saw John, his eyes staring into the middle distance and the liquid in his glass trembling as he held it slightly aloft, as if he'd forgotten he'd even gone to take a drink, he knew that he was seeing something he wasn't meant too. The thing that had him frozen to the spot though was that he hadn't seen it coming, hadn't known that there was this side to the reliable John Watson.
John snapped out of his thoughts, giving a shaky breath before tipping his head back and finishing his drink, he didn't even not what number he was on now. It took a moment to feel the nagging sensation of being watched and he got ready to launch the now empty glass at whatever was watching him from the doorway before the dots connected that it was just Sherlock watching him quizzically. He gave a gulp and a laugh dropping the glass to the table with a clatter. "God Sherlock, don't do that. You should be thankful I didn't have my gun on me."
"You normally take your gun with you to sit in the kitchen in the middle of the night?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, slipping into the usual banter they shared, instead of asking the question on the tip of his tongue. What are you doing? He walked forward, grabbing a glass off the draining board and running the tap for a glass of water. He knew it was an obvious and downright lame excuse for him to be down in the middle of the night himself, he could have made up any number of more interesting ones but he knew none of them would be believed. "I didn't hear you go out tonight. What's the occasion?"
"What?"
Sherlock frowned as he heard John gulp behind him. He'd noticed the Scotch bottle before, assumed John had some whenever he came back from a night out or when he himself was being particularly infuriating for the doctor. He was disconcerted to say the least to now wonder if his observations had been wrong. "Oh, nothing."
John stared at Sherlock, trying to gauge his reaction as he himself let his eyes wander over the scene in front of him. He couldn't help but feel soothed by the perplexed expression on Sherlock's face; it was almost satisfying to be a blip that couldn't be identified by the consulting detective or maybe it was the alcohol that finally had him feeling calm and relaxed and wondering whether Sherlock would actually sit and listen to him. "Did you know, the first time I met you and your brother Mycroft, you both got one thing wrong in your deductions?" He thought he'd try an odd approach to the subject, pouring himself another drink as he did so, ignoring the look Sherlock gave him for doing so.
"Oh? I know I got your sister wrong but that doesn't count as something big, does it?" Sherlock sipped his water, still leaning against the sink, wondering where this was going.
"No, getting my sister's gender wrong isn't a big thing at all. I'll tell her you said that." He chuckled, swirling his drink. "Your brother on the other hand said I missed the war."
Sherlock's frown deepened, it was something that he himself had observed as well, or thought he had. His eyes trailed to the table, the phone he'd seen earlier in front of John shifting into focus. "Were you ringing your old therapist?"
John blinked at him before looking down and laughing. "As usual, you're annoyingly brilliant. But I was just debating it, really. Haven't had to ring her so far since living with you and I'd rather not break that habit."
"You should have just knocked on my door." Sherlock blinked, eyebrows raised as John let out a loud laugh. "What?"
"You? Mr Compassion? I'll remember that next time, promise." John raised his glass to him in a mocking toast and went to take another swig before he felt a strong hand push the glass back to the table. He looked up as Sherlock sat opposite him, tugging the drink out of his hand and off to one side.
"I think you've had enough and I'd like to hear this while you can still form words coherently."
John narrowed his eyes disbelievingly. "Are you analysing me now, really? Because if so I'd rather you left me in peace to my drink."
"I don't think you do, otherwise you wouldn't have started a conversation with me. No, you don't really want to be alone right now."
"As I said, if you're going to deduce me I think I'll take the-" His words caught. The silence? Drinking until he didn't care anymore? Neither seemed a good options, but then again being vulnerable and laid out for Sherlock to see scars he hadn't let him see before also didn't seem like a favourable option.
Sherlock gave a soft smirk as John went silent, the smile widening at the glare he got two seconds later for pushing the glass further out of reach of a grasping hand. "Ah, ah, you can have it back when you answer my question. I would have agreed with Mycroft. You run into danger with me more often than not, someone haunted by war would shy away from that, not run head first into it."
"Then you're both idiots." John grinned in satisfaction, it wasn't often he got to say that. The smile slipped though as Sherlock waited for an answer to which he sighed. "Alright, alright. How about this? If someone was to ask me what living with you was like, how do you think I'd respond?"
Sherlock frowned. That didn't answer his question. "That you find me fascinating and brilliant and all the other words to that effect in the English language?" His mouth quirked as John snorted. He couldn't help but not care that his question wasn't being answered as John seemed to be becoming more and more like his usual self with every passing moment instead of…broken; the only word that had stumbled into his head when he had been frozen in the doorway earlier.
"But…?"
"But, you'd also like to throttle me on a day to day basis as well?"
"Something like that. So would I say I liked living with you or didn't?" John waited until Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, seeming bored. "Well it's kind of the same feeling with…before we met. The war took up a long stretch of my time. When people talk about it though, it's like it was one event, not many interlocking ones that all had a different meaning. Some days still haunt me, where everything went absolutely wrong and I ended the day staring at all the people I couldn't save, and wondering if there was someone else on the other side doing the exact same thing as me. Then there were other days when everything went right and there wasn't even that much bloodshed to mar the victory with me wondering about the dead the other army would have to grieve over."
Sherlock absorbed the information quietly before he noticed that John was getting nervous at his silence, probably expecting some barbed response about it all. "So, you don't miss it and you're not haunted by it?"
"No, I'd say it's an odd mixture of both." John hummed thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair again. "Though both feelings have dulled quite a bit since being here. I think it was the contrast when I got sent home and was expected to live a civilian life, get a boring office job and just exist somewhere. The war, good or bad, gave me a purpose, I was saving lives. The job as a GP I have now doesn't give that same feeling, it's our work that does." He slipped his hand past Sherlock's in his state of thought and grabbed his glass back, toasting him with less sarcasm this time before downing the remainder of his drink.
"Hmm." Sherlock fathomed before taking the glass from John again and refilling it along with a glass for himself much to John's confusion. "It would seem Dr Watson, that you are more complex than I gave you credit for." Sherlock repeated John's gesture before taking a sip, a mildly disgusted expression on his face at the taste making John laugh. "Another question for another drink, there are slip ups, the amount of liquid already taken from the bottle hazards as much if it's only used in these occasions, but what brings them on? And why was today's any different that you almost phoned your therapist?"
"That's two questions."
"And unlike last time you haven't already drunk some of your drink."
John half smiled at Sherlock's quick answer, giving in to his friend's intrigue. "My slip ups as you call them are the same as your infuriating boredom moments. When my life slips back into the civilian one I can't stand, I lose focus which normally sets off a dream or two of memories best left forgotten."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow quizzically again. "Really? Surely the dangerous side of our work should be more of a trigger. The pool-" He bit his lip, inwardly cursing. That particular moment in time surely would trigger a bad response.
"You'd think so but no." John smiled warmly to prove his point, a small feeling of gratitude bubbling in his chest as he noticed Sherlock stumble on his words; actually thinking about the implications they might have instead of rushing bluntly on without thought of the consequence. "I don't know how it works, don't ask me. But our encounters don't remind me of war time. It's more…personal? Just us two or maybe it's because I get to help save people and unlike in war where it's just the 'enemy' on the other side of the battlefield I know we're hunting down murderers or god knows what else."
"You and your morality." Sherlock gave a mocking sigh, noting that John had answered the question in detail, ignoring his second. "And tonight was just an average night in that case?" He saw more than heard John gulp again, his Adams apple bobbing. "But we just solved a case yesterday…"
John coughed, shuffling under Sherlock's gaze. "You asked me the date earlier."
"What?"
"That was the trigger, the date. Today was the day…"
"You were sent home." Sherlock's eyes widened, slipping to John's shoulder as he rubbed it unconsciously. He pushed the drink back towards John, taking a swig of his own, this time barely registering the taste. "How did I miss all of this, right under my nose?"
"Probably because you thought you had observed all there was to observe about me." John smirked; trying to bring back the levity they usually held in their insulting nature to one another and ignore the fact that he'd just opened up a lot more than he'd ever intended too. He'd probably regret in the morning, once the alcohol left his system, now he just felt surprisingly hollow, still waiting on Sherlock's verdict. Still waiting for him to stand up and walk off as if John had disappointed him.
"Maybe so, I'll have to keep an eye on that. Maybe I can find out the signs, the symptoms." Sherlock pondered to himself, almost forgetting John was still there.
"Are you diagnosing me?"
"No, yes, kind of. Well, wouldn't it be helpful to know if there are any signs before you have a-" He didn't know what to call them, nightmares sounded too childish and he didn't want John to take offence. "That and you can always wake me up if this happens again- for scientific analysis of course."
"Huh, maybe. Just didn't think you'd think about it so seriously." John blinked at him a few times, wondering if he was actually hearing right or if the alcohol had muddled up his senses. Though from the abrupt change in direction at the end of the sentence he assumed it was Sherlock trying as per usual that everything he did had an ulterior motive for himself.
"Of course, can't have my favourite doctor breaking, now can I? Where would I be without my loyal conscience beside me?"
John snorted. "Don't you have one of your own?"
"Not as good as yours, obviously."
"What am I? Jiminy Cricket? Well, don't worry, Pinocchio. I'm sure one day you'll be a real boy and have your own conscience and emotions." John stood up, stretching. He couldn't decide whether to go to bed now, he wasn't nervous to try to sleep anymore but he actually felt like a night spent chatting like this wasn't all that bad after all.
"Pinocchio?" Sherlock tilted his head to one side, rifling through the database in his mind for that reference. He did hate to prove John right when he didn't know something commonplace.
John blinked at him. "Really? You don't know…" He laughed as Sherlock pouted. "Well, I think you need another drink. I think it's going to be a long night."
"Oh?"
"Well, we've got some movies to find to educate you with." John grinned, not even caring that Sherlock would file the next few hours under useless and try to delete them as soon as possible.
Not that Sherlock did file it all under useless. Instead he filed the night away in a small section of his mind labelled 'learning something new about John Watson' and wondered if anything else would join it soon.
But John didn't need to know that.
A/N: How was that? :3 I hope you enjoyed and don't ask how it went from war to disney, Jiminy Cricket came into my head at one point and I amused myself thinking that Sherlock would have deleted things like that from his memory bank. XD Who knows~ My brains odd and this was just meant to be a drabble about what I thought of John's feelings and look how long it got ._.