Noxi: My first attempt at JohnLock. Which is subtle enough to almost not exist (but still there to warrant a mention), so don't be frightened. Post-Reichenbach because ALL THE FEELS.
BBC Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Damn them.
The Midnight Hour
His black coat fluttered like wings in the distance as he fell, and fell and continued to fall. John's heart seized in his chest as he watched the body of his best friend plummet to the ground, and he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but watch as he slammed -
He woke with a start, choking back the scream he'd nearly let loose. He was shaking, and out of breath. He was sweating badly, the sheets sticking to his legs, tangled in his feet. His hand immediately sought out the cold, reassuring metal that he kept at his side constantly, and when his fingers curled around the pistol he sighed.
It was no comfort, but he felt somewhat better for having it near. He'd taken to sleeping with it during Sherlock's absence and –
He sat up quickly, and regretted it, his back groaning in protest. His current sleeping arrangement was proving to be detrimental to his health, and yet it had never been this bad before. He glanced up and realized that he was on the floor.
"Dammit," he muttered, and rubbed the back of his neck, finding another crick. He had been sleeping on the couch, before he'd fallen off, before he'd dreamt of Sherlock –
Sherlock.
He glanced toward Sherlock's bedroom, wearily rubbing at his face. The door was open. All the way. Rarely was the door ever left all the way open. Since John had taken to sleeping on the couch, Sherlock had taken to mostly closing his door. Not all the way, but mostly.
He left it open just enough that John could peek inside and check on him. Not that he was going to admit that he knew that Sherlock knew that he did that.
It sounded ridiculous when he thought about it; checking in on Sherlock. But it was just another tally on the list. Why he'd started sleeping with his gun at his side. Why he'd started sleeping on the couch. Why at even the slightest noise he awoke. Why he still dreamt of it, waking so abruptly in the middle of the night as if he'd been tortured in his sleep. And if he thought on it, in a sense he had been tortured. At least, his heart had been.
The fall had taken its toll, and it didn't matter that Sherlock had come back but by god he was grateful for it every single day.
His eyes adjusted a little better to the darkness and he rubbed tiredly at his face, pulling a knee to his chest. He was exhausted. He was exhausted and he still couldn't sleep proper.
He sighed and reached out to steady himself, going to check in on Sherlock for the night, because he wouldn't be able to sleep if he didn't. He had to watch as his friends chest rose and fell, the swell relieving him of the dread that crept in every night as the darkness consumed him and the nightmares haunted him.
He grabbed a hold of the couch and his fingers brushed against something.
He looked down and where he had once slept, and should have been empty, was now taken over by something else; someone else.
His mind went into overdrive as he reached for his gun, glancing at the front door to see how he had missed a break-in, how he hadn't heard it, and why on earth they had decided to lie on the couch directly next to him.
Logic John.
And then he saw the hand.
The pale stretch of hand and the long delicate fingers which could only belong to his violinist. His chest tightened, he couldn't breathe and suddenly he wasn't in 221b anymore.
He was falling to the sidewalk as hands held him back, muffled voices surrounding him as he tried in vain to get to his friend. He had to. Sherlock was his friend. Sherlock needed him.
And he was lying there. On the concrete. Face empty and broken. Blood pooling around him quickly.
His hand reaching out to John across the threshold, still so delicate, untouched by the fall, as if he only wanted to say goodbye one last time.
He nearly sobbed into his hands.
It was Sherlock's hand, his long, slender fingers peeking out from under the stark white sheet that covered his body. It was so cold, so bright, so dead.
And John couldn't stop himself from collapsing to his knees again.
He clenched his jaw tight, biting back the sobs that threatened to wrack his body. He hadn't cried. He did everything he could not to cry. He hadn't cried, not once since Sherlock had taken that fall.
And he was going to lose it now? Because of a bloody hand?
"Think," he berated himself, hearing Sherlock in the back of his mind. The door was still shut and he would have woken if someone had come in. He knew that, because he'd been a light sleeper ever since the incident. And he knew whose hand that was.
Sherlock was sleeping on the couch.
The tweed coat, Sherlock's signature, was draped over him, and his hand; fine, delicate, long, was definitely his. But John couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that Sherlock was sleeping right there.
But the hardest thing to accept was that he had not seen a movement of breathe once since he had started watching him, nor had he heard any intake of one either.
Crimson spilled out across the concrete, staining the ground forever. Eyes never blinking, hands never moving, his chest unnaturally still –
He reached out quickly, his fingers wrapping around Sherlock's delicate wrist, the bones fine between his firm grasp. He breathed in, his chest tightening painfully at the warmth. Sherlock was still warm.
He took another breath. The body could stay warm for thirty minutes after death, and Sherlock had always been particularly warm despite his stature or what anyone said about him. He wasn't cold – not his body or his character. He was the most human of them all, the best man he had ever known.
Sherlock was alive. He was damn it all.
John closed his eyes as his skilled fingers instantly sought out the pulse point that should have been just a flinch to the left of his middle finger. He waited, counting his own heartbeats as they grew louder and louder in his ears.
Sherlock was alive. He was right here, asleep and warm beneath his grasp. He pushed back the dread that closed up his throat, cutting off his oxygen, and knew he needed to be patient, knew that his own anxiety was keeping him from feeling what was there.
"Dammit John," he murmured to himself, fighting the urge to panic. He would not panic. Sherlock was right here and there was absolutely no reason to get worked up. He was a doctor for gods sake, and he was being ridiculous. There wasn't any reason to panic.
But he had every reason to panic. He'd been a wreck since the day Sherlock had jumped off of St. Bart's and plummeted to his supposed death. He'd been dead inside since the day he'd seen Sherlock's face, empty and devoid of all life, covered in his blood as he lay still on the ground.
"Just stop it."
Not Sherlock. Not him, not before his own time. He was supposed to go before Sherlock did. That was his purpose. Protect Sherlock. Keep Sherlock safe. Give his life for Sherlock. He'd lived through enough war, and death to know that his life had seen plenty. His time was over. But Sherlock's?
"Stop this," he pleaded, begged, as he stood before the one thing that should never have existed.
Sherlock's had only just begun.
He exhaled deeply, pushed away the haunting memories, took a steadying inhale and waited.
And then he felt it.
He released the breath he was holding the moment he felt that tiny jump beneath his fingertips, his chest deflating. He leaned against the couch heavily, muscles relaxing.
But he did not let go of Sherlock's wrist, still holding to that pulse, still needing that reassurance that he was still okay. Because he couldn't stop his heart from pounding a frantic beat in his chest. Couldn't stop his hand from trembling violently.
He used to wake the nights after Sherlock's fall panicked, out of breath, calling out Sherlock's name into the darkness as if he would hear him. As if he was still there, watching Sherlock gracefully plunge to the ground beneath St. Bart's, his coattails fluttering behind him like a bird's wings.
Except these wings were broken, didn't work. These wings would never carry Sherlock to safety.
He was a wreck then. Some days he was unable to leave the flat at all, some days unable to stand the sight of it completely. There were nights when he couldn't sleep for the nightmares, and others when he couldn't keep his eyes open and he had to let the nightmares take him.
He was a soldier; he was used to death, to trauma and depression. This shouldn't have been any different.
But the fact of the matter was that it was. It had been Sherlock.
His best friend. The man he had grown so close to in mere months. The man he'd lost in so few seconds and he hadn't even realized how painful that really was until one night it was like the hurt just turned on, and he couldn't stop shaking. Like he'd just barely escaped an explosive and the after-shock was wearing off and now he was facing the downward spiral of his emotions.
Sherlock had given him something he'd never had before. Fun, adventure, a friendship he would never be able to replace. Sherlock had settled into a spot in his heart that had now been ripped out, and he didn't know what to do. He would have given his life for Sherlock, would have traded places with Sherlock on St. Bart's in a heartbeat if it meant his consulting detective hadn't had to give up a year of his life just to protect him.
Protect him. John Watson. Soldier. Army Doctor. He'd been to war, had seen death a hundred times over, had seen things no man ever should. What did Sherlock think he needed protecting from? And why on earth did he think he couldn't be included in it?
"Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."
He looked up, searching for Sherlock's face in the darkness. But all he saw was the black mass of curls resting against his forehead, Sherlock's face buried in the collar of his coat that he was using as a blanket.
His brushed his thumb across Sherlock's skin, right at the crease in his wrist where it bent. And then his fingers curled in and John froze as Sherlock shifted in his sleep, or what John hoped was sleep. He let out a shaky laugh.
"You're a fool," he whispered. And he was. Sherlock, not a hero?
He was mad for thinking that. But it was just like Sherlock to think nothing of himself. Just like Sherlock to have some grand scheme, to go through with it and then show up one bloody year later as if he'd forgive him and say everything would be alright.
But he couldn't deny his detective, his flatmate, his violinist, his best friend. In the end, all he had ever wanted was one thing, one miracle.
"Sherlock," he muttered, reaching out and brushing aside the black curls that had settled over his forehead, fingers gently grazing over the one thing he'd never been able to come to terms with. The one thing that Sherlock would not explain.
The white scar stood out on his pale features, marked only by the small scar on his lower lip but that one wasn't as noticeable. He was lucky the mass of curls hid it from view but not John's. John was always aware of it.
Sherlock had refused to tell him how he'd gotten. He'd refused to tell him a lot of things when he came back one year ago. And John, he just didn't have the strength to fight him on it. Because all John had wanted was one thing.
"…not now John…" Sherlock suddenly mumbled, hand twisting in his, brushing their fingers together.
John jerked his hand back as Sherlock's coat slipped further from his face. He waited anxiously to see if his eyes would open, but they never did.
He sighed, and dropped onto his back, closing his eyes. He had to sleep. Before he was up all night, before he woke Sherlock. He had to sleep.
He straightened the blanket around his legs, tucked the pistol beneath the couch and pushed the fallen pillow behind his head.
He didn't know what had prompted Sherlock to sleep on the couch, but he was strangely glad for it.
And before he closed his eyes one last time he reached up, pulling the end of the coat over Sherlock's hand, their fingers brushing.
xXx
"Come along John," Sherlock called, the excitement obvious in his gait, his ridiculously long legs carrying him further than ever. Lestrade had called with a case, finally. They'd gone without one for a week. A week of an unbearable Sherlock. John was almost as happy to be about as Sherlock, though not for what had brought it on.
He trailed behind, the late night seeping into his bones. It was going to be one of those days, but it didn't matter. He'd go wherever Sherlock did, he'd protect him. He'd vowed that ever since Sherlock had returned.
He watched as Sherlock's hand snaked out, hailing the nearest cabbie and John watched as his slender wrist peaked out from his sleeve, and the panic from the night before hit him.
But he could also feel Sherlock's hand in his, the warmth of his skin still there. It was a conflicting mix, the anxiety and the relief that ate at him. One minute he feared that absence. And the next, he was feeling like an idiot.
He sighed, dragging a hand across his face.
He was surprised his detective hadn't woken up. For all of his grand observations, he must have been well, and truly asleep for him to not have felt John's touch. For which he was truly grateful for. He wasn't sure he would have been up to explaining that last night.
He stepped forward, standing just behind Sherlock, waiting for the cabbie to pull toward them when Sherlock stilled, ever so slightly. His hand dropped, fingers flexing experimentally and his head cocked.
John almost laughed at the look of confusion on his friend's face until he realized that he was looking at his hand, his wrist.
"John," he started, and John didn't wait for Sherlock to ask. He turned away as if he hadn't seen. He pretended to look elsewhere, hands placed neatly behind his back and stepped to the cab, and for once opened the door for Sherlock.
"Coming Sherlock?" he asked, holding Sherlock's eyes, the color matching the drab weather; slate gray.
Sherlock blinked slowly, opened his mouth slightly as if to say something, but didn't. He merely pressed his hand to his chest, confusion clouding his features. For a moment, John thought he was going to ask him. He could see the question in his eyes as he curled his hand to his chest.
But then he was moving, toward the cab and slipping inside.
John took a deep breath, shook his head and dipped into the cab after Sherlock, settling into the seat beside him.
They were silent as the cab took off, Sherlock telling the cabbie for the Yard. John sank back, closing his eyes momentarily. They were shoulder-to-shoulder, and the comfort of his friend at his side was exponential. He'd gone a year without Sherlock and that year still ate at him. He wished he would just shake it, shake the nightmares. He'd shaken Afghanistan, why couldn't he shake this? Why didn't having Sherlock back change things back to the way they were?
"Sleep well?" He opened his eyes to find Sherlock staring out his window, but he'd learned well enough to know that Sherlock was tuned into him, his movements, his breathing.
He sighed. Wouldn't do any good to lie to Sherlock. "No, though I suppose that's apparent." Sherlock barely glanced his way.
"Obviously," he remarked.
John shook his head. "Obviously," he echoed back quietly, watching the cars slip by the window.
"And what about you?" he asked, wondering if he could get an answer out of Sherlock for once, wondering if he had indeed been awake last night.
But instead of answering he was surprised once more when Sherlock looked down at his hand again, puzzled, as he curled his fingers into his palm. John watched, shocked, as Sherlock swept back his hair, where the small scar stood at attention, always prominent to John's eyes, and his fingers hesitated over it for a fraction of a second longer than they should have. John didn't miss the puzzlement that clouded his features as he did.
"Fine," Sherlock muttered, barely glancing at John. And John could tell that, in fact, Sherlock did seem more rested than normal, seemed a bit happier. Could just be the case; a double murder with another one missing and a message left behind was sure to have Sherlock in good spirits. But this was something different. John knew the signs of sleep-deprivation, better than Sherlock might have thought. He knew when Sherlock did and didn't eat, knew when he was particularly happy or upset about something, and he knew when his detective was sleeping and when he wasn't.
Sherlock had distinctive wrinkles beneath the corners of his eyes, small yet infinitely there. They became more prominent when he didn't sleep. John couldn't see them now.
That was a miracle in and of itself. He'd woken most nights to find Sherlock awake into the late hours of the night. He suspected for reasons that may have been similar to his own but he would never know for sure. Sometimes he found Sherlock muttering in the kitchen over an experiment, or huddled about his laptop, typing away. How many times did he peek into his bedroom and just barely miss Sherlock catching him, because he'd been pacing the floor. Thankfully, on most occasions, he'd been in his mind palace.
No, for once Sherlock had been lying on that couch above him, for whatever reasons, and had slept.
And John knew then that he wouldn't mind sleeping on the floor at all.
A/N: Thank you for reading. I don't know if I will continue this, but if you'd want it too, let me know. Tell me what you think of it. I would very much appreciate it.