Disclaimer: I don´t own Sherlock or any recognizable character. =(

Furthermore, I also don´t own the title, which is borrowed from Robert Frost.

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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

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Sherlock woke with a start. Gasping, he sat up, staring into the darkness around him until he realized that he was in the living room, had been sleeping on the sofa, and had very likely had a nightmare. Its remnants were in fact still there, lingering on the edges of Sherlock´s consciousness; he tried to grab them, but they escaped a closer inspection by disintegrating into oblivion like wisps of smoke. All the same, the detective knew it had been about John. There hadn´t been a pool this time, but he had sensed a seriously menacing presence; just as usual, Moriarty kept hovering in the background, unseen but steady.

The detective was tired of going back to the pool and related issues in his sleep, and he didn´t have any explanation for it either. Yet it happened on a fairly regular basis, the last time shortly after the Baskerville case. Sometimes the dreams were livid enough to wake him, sometimes he only recalled them if some coincidence triggered his memory. There wasn´t always a pool, but there was always John. He featured invariably, as did Moriarty, or rather, the threat which Sherlock was associating with him.

Despite his superiour mind, Sherlock´s dreams, like all people´s, weren´t particularly organized or making complete sense, and he mostly forgot about them- deleted them. But these nightmares were beginning to wear him out. He´d probably never forget the look on John´s face anyway, the whirlwind of emotions which had caught Sherlock by surprise when his gaze had locked with the doctor´s after seeing him there: shock, astonishment, apprehension, concern and anger were only the most prominent ones of them. For an endless, horrible moment Sherlock´s brain was sending frantic error-messages stemming from what he had dubbed 'faulty data overload': can´t be John, doesn´t make any sense, please not John.

When his friend had revealed the semtex, these messages hadn´t changed much: please not John, please not John, but at least the source had altered. Sherlock had forced himself not to look at John too much, was in fact glad about having to concentrate on Moriarty, for John had looked absolutely petrified and as though he was going to panic any minute.

Sherlock didn´t like to think about John´s susceptibilities, because he needed John to be strong. To be more precise, he needed to be able to think that John was always going to be there, that nothing could harm him. Technically, that was impossible, as Sherlock was very well aware of, but John had after all survived every injury so far, had already proven how hardy he was.

Sherlock had pictures in his head of John after he´d been injured in Afghanistan, of lying unconscious in a hospital bed, connected to IV lines and monitors and what not, pale and lifeless, and whenever these pictures obtruded the detective´s mind, he felt the most vulnerable.

They must have sprung from his imagination, of course, but it showed that he cared about John, and on bad days on which there were no cases and nothing to occupy him at all, Sherlock thought he must be going mad because pictures like that were exactly what Moriarty was planning on using against him, he was convinced of it; the consulting criminal had seen how strong their bond was, which made them both very vulnerable.

Neither of them would ever forget the night at the pool, the way Moriarty had threatened them, alternating between being creepily calm and alarmingly unhinged.

It had been unsettling, to say the least, that he had simply walked away after the phone call. Which was exactly what he wanted- having them feel vulnerable, worried, unsafe. Feeling watched. Endangered.

Sherlock scrambled to his feet, too agitated to stay put. He looked around and saw John´s jacket on the hook; good, so he had come home in the meantime. Sherlock paced around the living room, picking up his violin and putting it down again. He had promised John not to play during the night anymore, and he´d already broken that promise twice. Therefore, he proceeded to pace, mute and irritable.

At one point, he heard steps on the stairs which led to John´s room; a moment later, the doctor appeared, tousled and sleepy-eyed; he padded straight towards the window, picked up the bow and handed it to Sherlock: "Here."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows: "Changed your mind?"

"Yes. Go on, play."

"Why?"

"Please."

"But why? You didn´t want me to play during the night. I distinctly remember your rather colourful swearwords after it happened the last time."

"Yes. I know. But it´s much worse like this, with you marching about."

"I wasn´t marching."

"Yes, you were." John set his jaw determinedly. Usually, Sherlock´s steps were light and barely audible, but he had been positively stomping just then.

"You are lucky that Mrs Hudson doesn´t hear the lower frequencies that well anymore."

"Are you seriously telling me that you woke up because I was walking around?"

"Well. I didn´t exactly wake up from it, but I couldn´t go back to sleep either." He rubbed his tired eyes: "What´s up with you, anyway?"

Sherlock shrugged, avoiding John´s gaze: "Couldn´t sleep. Dull."

John narrowed his eyes: "You have been dreaming."

"No," Sherlock denied, "I haven´t slept at all."

"You were dozing on the sofa when I came home."

"I wasn´t dozing, I was thinking."

"Right."

The truth, of which both of them were only too aware of, was that the night at the pool had changed much more than was visible at the surface. They had become more protective of each other, were constantly looking out for unexpected perils, were literally keeping vigil.

John didn´t like it when Sherlock was standing at the window for too long, for he could be too easily watched; Sherlock on the other hand didn´t like the idea of John going out for pub crawls with Mike Stamford, because it meant he would have to return home on his own. The night had become something one best avoided on one´s own. That´s why Sherlock had waited up for John; falling asleep on the sofa hadn´t been planned.

Every time John went out alone, he sent a text to Sherlock once he´d arrived, usually under the pretence of having forgotten to tell him something, or asking Sherlock to go and get the groceries. Sherlock also kept John informed where he was, and had thus found out that typing a text message while running after a suspect was rather impossible.

Almost as impossible as keeping up the pretense that nothing had happened, that everything was all right and that there wasn´t any madman out there who was very likely going to strike again whenever it´d please him. Since there seemed nothing they or even Mycroft could do, John was adamant in keeping his blog updated regularly; he didn´t want to give Moriarty the impression that he had been intimidated, though he didn´t like the attention that the press was giving Sherlock lately.

John could see the dark smudges underneath Sherlock´s eyes, the way he was fussing around with the bow right then, the exhausted slump in his shoulders, and knew what had chased his friend out of sleep once more. Sherlock, just like him, seemed to be waiting for something bad to happen any day now, and the longer it took, the more nervous he was becoming.

John subdued a sigh; what a sorry pair they were.

"Shall we watch some telly then?" he asked, since he was wide awake again.

Sherlock gave a mixture of a nod and a shrug, and John nodded: "Okay. You turn it on, I´ll boil some water."

It had become a bit of a routine, he thought as he put the kettle on, his mind wandering back to the night in which they hadn´t died, the night in which they had settled down in front of the telly with a cocoa for the first time.

After the adrenaline had worn off, John had been exhausted. He didn´t want to go to Sarah´s anymore, and not only because his shirt had been soaked with sweat; he just wanted to be home. Home in his own bed and surrounded by his own things and with Sherlock.

The detective was unusally quiet in the cab ride back to Baker Street, and John let him be, too depleted for talking. He concentrated on the houses which were flying by outside; if he closed his eyes, he´d be back with Moriarty, back in the van into which he had been pulled forcefully, and he didn´t want that.

Silently, they walked up the stairs. John´s legs still felt like jelly, which he resented. He was made of sterner stuff, wasn´t he? After all, the night could have ended much worse.

"I´m going to have a shower," he mumbled once they had entered the flat, steering towards the bathroom.

Sherlock didn´t reply; he went straight to the window and picked up his violin.

He didn´t play, though; John waited for the first sounds while he shed his clothes, but they never came.

The doctor stayed in the shower for ten minutes, letting the hot water revive him somewhat. He felt like an amateur, a bloody, stupid, sodding amateur. Not that he had had much chance, but still- he should have been able to do something, for heaven´s sake.

Pondering this, he put on his robe in order to go to his room and find fresh clothes. He stopped in the living room, though; Sherlock was standing by the window, violin and bow seemingly forgotten in his hands. He appeared to be looking at his shoes, and something in his posture had John wondering whether this was going to be a Danger Night. He quickly went upstairs to his room and got dressed, then he returned to the living room.

Sherlock hadn´t moved, and John was at a loss what to do; knowing Sherlock, he would outrightly deny something was wrong, and would probably be inaccessible for God knew how long.

After a moment of consideration, John went into the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboards; of course, Sherlock had not done any shopping, so they still were out of milk, but he found the container of Instant Hot Chocolate he was certain he´d seen in there before. He put the kettle on and spooned the powder into two mugs.

Sherlock was still staring out of the window when John nudged his arm. He turned his head to look at his friend, a little frown appearing on his forehead: "John." His tone was peculiar, rough and sounding as though he was speaking around a lump in his throat.

"I made cocoa," John said, unnecessarily, since the scent of the beverages was wafting up from the mugs. "To restore some energy."

Sherlock looked as though he was about to protest, but he didn´t say anything. "Thank you," he murmured, not moving.

"Aren´t you going to take it?" John asked.

The detective seemed at a loss of what to do for a moment, then he put down the violin and accepted the mug. John raised his in a mock salute before he took a sip; it was too sweet, but it felt about right just then.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Sherlock, who was holding the mug with both hands, shuddered involuntarily before looking at John with something akin to trepidation: "I messed up."

He didn´t need to explain.

John shook his head: "You didn´t."

"Yes, I did. I messed up everything." His tone told John that there was more than hurt pride nagging at him.

"I was stupid, and you nearly paid with your life for it."

"Well, yes. That much is true." It was meant as a joke to relieve the tension, but clearly it wasn´t the time for jokes.

Sherlock´s eyes were wide:"You once asked me if I was caring at all, and I denied it. But I was wrong. And now I can´t stop thinking about it."

"About what?"

"About what he said. You´re not safe with me, John." His voice was barely audible now. "I put you to his attention..."

John watched him, shaking his head: "I think I did have a say in that."

"I manipulated you."

"You wish."

Sherlock didn´t smile at that, but he remained silent, evidently not wishing to argue any longer. He was tired and a good deal more shaken than he tried to let on. John didn´t want his friend to get worked up about it any more than he already was, therefore he suggested the only distraction which he could think of right then.

"Come on," he motioned his head towards the sofa. "Let´s see what´s on the telly."

They hadn´t really liked the film which was being shown that night, but it didn´t matter; they were glad about the company, each of them huddled into a corner of the sofa. John had since made sure that they always had some cocoa at hand.

The sound of the electric kettle switching off pulled John from his thoughts; Sherlock was sitting in the middle of the sofa when he came in with the two mugs, looking a little forlorn. John handed him the mug and sat down next to him, using his free hand to spread the blanket from his armchair over their legs. Sherlock didn´t seem to mind.

John sipped his cocoa and tried to focus on the movie- The Lion in Winter- but it was difficult, since Sherlock seemed unable to relax. He was sitting with his elbows on his thighs, the empty mug still clutched between his fingers, and his eyes seemed glued to the screen.

Yet John could tell that he was absent-minded, and it didn´t bode well. He´d work himself into a state of frenzy, one which could well lead to something else, something uncontrollable, like a Danger Night but worse.

John sat up straighter: "Sherlock."

The detective flinched, obviously having been lost in thought, and turned his head towards his friend: "What is it?"

"You´ve been miles away," John stated, a smile audible in his tone.

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but he clearly was at a loss for words.

"See? You didn´t once object to the historical liberties they´ve taken," he motioned towards the telly.

Sherlock put his mug down: "I can´t stop thinking." His voice was low.

John put his mug down and tentatively put his arm around Sherlock´s shoulders, gently pulling him close, a little surprised that Sherlock actually allowed it: "Close your eyes," he said, leaning back against the cushions with his friend in his grasp.

Sherlock gradually relaxed against him, and eventually closed his eyes as instructed, just listening to the sounds of the movie. John´s presence was warm and solid, and his familiar scent was calming Sherlock down. He hadn´t expected any kind of physical comfort from John, but it felt good, and he was finally able to concentrate on something else than the voices and pictures in his head. John was strong, just like Sherlock needed him to be.

It was nothing but a reprieve, he knew, and he knew that John was aware of it; those nights on the sofa with old movies and cocoa, they were just small stops on the way. There was going to be some kind of showdown once Moriarty was going to surface again, that much was certain. Though not now, he told himself wearily. Not yet.

The combination of warmth, exhaustion and background noises lulled him into sleep, and his head sank against John´s neck. The doctor, who was quite engrossed in the movie, hummed in agreement and leaned his cheek against Sherlock´s curls.

Once the film had ended and some documentary had begun, it didn´t take long for John to doze off as well. Apart from the speaker´s voice and other sounds from the telly, all was quiet in Baker Street 221B.

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The End

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Thank you for reading, and please leave some feedback.

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