This is the result of boredom and procrastination and a slightly unhealthy obsession with BBC's Sherlock.

Enjoy!

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It was a normal Sunday afternoon. Key word: was.

At approximately three o'clock, as John was at his laptop and Sherlock was lying casually on the couch, eyes closed, in a meditative state, it began to rain. Well, perhaps that was a bit of an understatement. It did not merely rain; it started to pour, the great, billowing clouds condensing together and releasing a torrential downpour. Passerby on the streets below clung to the sides of the buildings, hoping to find some sort of shelter, and quick flashes of lightning dotted the sky.

John generally liked when it rained. Not the usual halfhearted drizzle and mist that settled over London, but the stay-inside-for-hours-because-you'll-drown-if-you- step-out kind of rain. However, while John found it peaceful, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open in discontent. John passed it off as Sherlock being, well, Sherlock. He smirked to himself, believing that the detective was annoyed due to his mental processes being disrupted.

Typical.

He was about to resume updating his blog post about their latest case (it really had been quite fascinating - "The Hounds of Baskerville") but then Sherlock inhaled sharply, and his mouth parted, and John stopped typing on his keyboard, because clearly his flatmate was about to say something. Probably about how John should stop clicking away at the keys because Sherlock needed all the quiet he could to concentrate on whatever it was that he was doing, and the occasional boom of thunder could not be helped (but apparently John's typing could be; therefore, he should obviously stop.)

But Sherlock said nothing of the sort. Instead, he said something rather unexpected: "What are your thoughts on death?"

John's mouth hung open for a solid ten seconds, his brain trying to sift through the jumble of words and make sense of them. Together, strung in a sentence, they were unrecognizable, coming from Sherlock. Anyone else, yes, he could understand. But it was such a random question, and not one that John had ever expected to hear from Sherlock Holmes. So instead of answering, he just stared.

Sherlock stared back, and then slowly raised one eyebrow. A look of annoyance flitted across his face at John's lack of response.

"Well?" he inquired, again, an edge of impatience in his voice. "Your thoughts?"

John didn't know exactly how to handle this situation. So, instead of overanalyzing the question, he just decided to give a straight answer. After all, wasn't that what Sherlock was asking for? (Although, with him, he could never be quite sure.) And instead of thinking about why Sherlock was asking about death, John passed it off as an outsider's opinion for perhaps a new case that had recently come up.

"Death? Well, I've seen a lot of it. Tragic, really. But, we deal with it almost every day, and there's really no avoiding it. So I suppose you make the most of everything that comes your way and deal with what happens next...later." He nodded to himself, slightly pleased with his simple answer, as he figured that was all Sherlock wanted to hear.

He was wrong.

The detective shifted his gaze first to the window, watching beads of water slide down the glass, then up to the ceiling, his eyes taking on a far-off look. "Were you afraid to die in Afghanistan?"

That question made John just a bit uncomfortable. Even when Ella would ask about his time in the war, he would find some way to shrug it off. He'd seen a lot of death, yes, and he didn't particularly feel like bringing those memories back. Every time he did, a cold weight would settle in the pit of his stomach, and he would feel himself slipping backwards into his mind, to a place which was very difficult to escape. Death was necessary, as was life, but death always took more from people than life did, and it was never easy. Never.

But Sherlock was patiently waiting, clearly prepared to get an answer to his question, and there wasn't really an option to avoid it, as John had with Ella's questions. So he inhaled shakily.

"Yes."

There...that was it, it was out in the open. The brave ex-army doctor was afraid of death more than he was of life. In fact, he was still afraid. Damn Sherlock and his damn questions and damn prying and - dammit.

He gently closed his laptop, unable to think clearly any longer, unsettled. He was about to set it on the table, when, so softly he thought he might have imagined it, Sherlock breathed, "Me too."

John froze, his mind incapable of processing anything the detective was saying as of late. There was something chilling about the way Sherlock had said it, too, perhaps as though the fear was slowly suffocating him (because John knew exactly how that felt, and exactly how one acted when suffocating under a fear - oh yes, he knew.) But that didn't make sense whatsoever.

Sherlock was almost immortal. He was so far above anyone else's intellectual level that it was impossible to think of him caring about trivial, everyday, human fears. Why, of all times, did he choose to think about mere mortal concerns now? It seemed so out-of-place that John failed to wrap his mind around the (possible) true meaning of Sherlock's past few words.

John rubbed his eyes in exhaustion, and quietly said, "What was that?"

"Hmm?"

"What did you say?"

"Nothing, John." Case closed.

But John couldn't let it go. He was fatigued, a little frustrated, and utterly confused, so the question spilled from his mouth before he was able to stop it. "Sherlock, why are you thinking of death?"

Sherlock glanced over at him, and his eyes were piercing. "Because death is my work, John," he drawled, his voice impatient, as though talking to a child. But underneath it all, there was definitely a current of something - something John couldn't identify. That scared him a bit.

"Are you frightened of death?" he ventured cautiously, his heart thudding in his chest. He knew the answer that he should expect, and it was almost a relief when he heard the "no" that was provided. After all, Sherlock had no reason to be. He was brilliant enough, actually, to somehow find a way to avoid death. Yes, he might be reckless, he might be vulnerable, he might have the potential to die, but the idea of Sherlock actually dead was unfathomable, and John chuckled internally at his own foolishness.

But it was unnerving when the flat fell utterly silent after that, Sherlock deep back in meditation, but slightly stiff, unable to fully concentrate. The sound of the rain was the only thing to break the cool atmosphere that had settled over the flat. And John's heart shattered, just a bit, because he knew - dammit, he knew - that Sherlock had just lied.

Sherlock was a bloody human being, and for some reason, John couldn't process that. He couldn't process the idea that Sherlock might someday die, and that Sherlock was afraid of that day, no matter how improbable that was. John couldn't process that, because that meant that the possibility was there, that it could happen, that Sherlock could be completely gone, and that introduced the reality of John's own mortality.

Everyone, he recognized, was afraid of what lay beyond life. He just hadn't realized that that "everyone" included the world's only consulting detective.

Sherlock didn't say anything after that, and neither did John, and that evening, everything was normal (thank God for normalcy), and they ordered boxes of Chinese food, and discussed Sherlock's latest case. John tried to feel relief when, yes, that was probably why their discussion earlier that day had occurred, and he shouldn't have been doubtful - but there was a nagging sensation in the back of his mind (and rightfully so, he reckoned) that refused to believe that was the only reason.

He pushed it away and ate, but after that, he could never quite place Sherlock back on his pedestal of immortality.

Sherlock Holmes, as impossible as it seemed, was somehow human.

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Thanks for reading - it is much appreciated!