Author's Note: Hello! I just thought I'd give my loyal fans(the three or four that I have) something to entertain them for the next few months while Playing With Fire is under reconstuction.
I just got into Sherlock this week, and I have to say, it's an amazing show. Really, it is. The writing is exquisite, the crimes are mind-blowing, and I honestly think that it has the best comedy and suspense of any Sherlock Holmes story to date. That, and the two main characters play big roles in other movies that I love(Benedict Cumberbatch- Khan in Star Trek:Into Darkness. Martin Freeman- Bilbo Baggins in The Hobbit: The Unexpected Adventure).
Yes, I have my shipping goggles on. O-O I see it, I ship it.
Anyway, these are just a collection of Johnlock drabbles, because I felt like it. It's a cute pairing. Get over it.
Sherlock is a BBC production, and obviously I'm American, so how can I own it? In other words, Sherlock ain't mine.
=== DOOM ===
John was used to nightmares, though after he met Sherlock the flashing images of war and death that took over his mind at night had calmed down to an unpredictable basis. He could never figure out why the man, who was such an insufferable prick and the main source of John's daily stress, would be the cure for his night terrors. There was just something so reassuring about Sherlock Holmes, something that John just couldn't place; it felt like something that was right there, it should have been obvious, it stared him directly in the face and mocked him as he searched for its name.
The nightmares came back to a nightly basis after Sherlock's fall. Only now they weren't about the war.
Now they were about Sherlock.
Most often, in his dreams, John would see the world's only consulting detective lying dead on the concrete, his head smashed in by the force of the landing and scarlet blood everywhere, all over Sherlock and John's hands, those brilliant gray eyes staring up at John blankly, lifelessly.
Other times, not rarely but not common either, John would see other deaths of Sherlock, all the ideas that his mind had entertained, if even for a second, during their crime-solving adventures. Sherlock twitching on the floor of the school, face blanching with death, while the cabbie smiled triumphantly. Sherlock asphixiating as the Chinese smuggler's henchman strangled him with a red cloth. Sherlock being ripped to pieces by an enormous hound with bloody, glowing red eyes. Sherlock's charred body laying in the center of destruction as Moriarty's cold, high-pitched cackling filled the dusty air.
For three years, these images haunted John, to the point where he would sometimes see them during the day, if he kept his eyes closed for too long of a time. Even when Sherlock came back, John still had these dreams, though the shock of the man's return kept them at bay for the first few nights.
"No... no...!" John groaned in his sleep, tossing around ferociously. "No... Sherlock... please..."
He started to scream the man's name, and shrieked it one last time as he bolted out of bed, having woken up from the terrible ordeal his mind insisted on forcing him through. He was shaking, sweating, panting with terror and anger, anger at Sherlock for dying, for daring to leave John like this. And guilt began to course through him as the memory of helplessness gnawed at his heart.
For those few seconds, John had forgotten completely that Sherlock wasn't dead, that he was actually just below, a moment's stumbling down a short flight of stairs away. He sat on the edge of his bed and buried his face in his rough, sweaty hands, and he sobbed.
"John? John, are you all right? I heard you calling for me," Sherlock's deep, baritone voice asked through the door that John had securely locked. He waited impatiently for an answer. "John, what's going on?"
Sherlock heard, barely, the sound of soft whimpering, sniffling. John, crying? What for? Did he have another night terror? Sherlock thought that those had stopped...
A click told Sherlock that John had unlocked the door and he reached for the knob just as the door swung open. He was completely taken aback when John's arms flung themselves around him and held him to the veteran army doctor as close as was physically possible. John buried his face in Sherlock's chest, and the detective felt his body tremble as he cried into Sherlock's shirt.
"J-John...?" Sherlock almost interrupted the moment, but thought better of it.
For a while, they just stood there, John clinging to Sherlock like his life depended on it and Sherlock bemused at the situation. Eventually the doctor calmed down enough to get coherent words out.
"Sh-sherlock?" he asked, his voice sounding very young and frightful. "C-could I...erm... sl-sleep in y-your bed... tonight?"
Try as he might, Sherlock couldn't come up with a reason not to let John sleep in his room. He was sure there was at least one excuse, but his mind seemed to be failing him at figuring out what it was. "I suppose so," he said softly.
He steered John gently into his room, letting him sit cautiously on the bed and closing the door behind him.
They lay there in bed for a good half hour before Sherlock finally asked, because he had to be sure, he had to know he was right. "What was your nightmare about, and don't deny that you had one because it's obvious."
John's bloodshot eyes avoided Sherlock's almost calculatingly. It was something he was ashamed of, something he didn't want Sherlock to know. "You," he said in a voice that was less than a whisper.
Of course it was. The way he clung to Sherlock, the last three years of thinking, knowing, that his best friend was dead, and then the fact that John didn't cry when he had night terrors about his service. It really was obvious, as was what the dream was about- Sherlock's death, inevitably. And Sherlock did not hesitate to say all of this to John.
John didn't mind. It was comforting, actually, listening to Sherlock carry on and explain his every thought, his deductions that as first glance didn't make sense but once explained were perfectly logical. After so long, not hearing that soothingly deep voice in his ear, John reveled in every word Sherlock said, no matter how quickly they poured out of his mouth.
"Right, as always," John whispered when the detective was finished. He scooted ever slightly closer to Sherlock, wanting to feel his presense rather than see it. His eyes lifted to meet the gray ones that made his heart pound, if he weren't so terrified of Sherlock suddenly getting up and leaving John alone. "I missed you, Sherlock. I missed you so much..."
A finger on his lips shushed John, and Sherlock's soft hush echoed lightly in his ear. "It's fine, John. It's okay. I'm here now. I won't leave again."
John gave a hitched, hoarse laugh. "You'd better not, Sherlock Holmes."
He eventually fell back to sleep, but only when Sherlock's arms were around him, protecting him from the fears that made his entire body ache with sorrow, and for the first time in three years, John was able to rest in his sleep.
=== DOOM ===
Yeah, angst. I'm pretty good at that, aren't I?
Anyway, hope you enjoyed. I like the implied, tense, fighting-not-to-show-it canon stuff. For some reason, I don't like the phrase "I love you" being said, at least by these two characters. Perhaps John would say them occasionally, but Sherlock would have to be drunk or desperate to say that to John...
In any case, review if you want. This is more of a dump than anything else. You get cookies if you do review, though, and I have a brand-new batch waiting in the oven. :D Chocolate chip.