Sherlock sat behind his microscope, studying a specimen from his latest case involving the murder of three businessmen. When he found traces of mascara in the sample, he sat back in the chair.
"So it was the secretary." he thought to himself. As he was preparing his slides for a new experiment, Sherlock heard a loud crash coming from John's room. Concerned, he walked into his friends room. The detective found a lamp knocked over on the floor. Sherlock figured John must have hit it by mistake while he was sleeping. Right as he was about to leave, the doctor trashed in his sleep. Surprised, Sherlock stared at John in wonder. His friend hadn't had a nightmare for several months now. Obviously, he wasn't very far into the dream because he hadn't started talking or screaming. He did however, clutch his sheets, turning his knuckles white. John's shoulders tensed and he started to shake. The detective had seen a lot of violent scenes before, but the one thing he couldn't watch was his best friend in discomfort. Sherlock grabbed his violin from the living room and cringed when he saw that it was 2:30 in the morning. He hated waking John this early, but it was the safest way he knew how to help him.
Nocturne in E flat major. That was one of John's favorite pieces, so Sherlock began to play the slow, steady song. The notes rang through the flat as Sherlock watched John eagerly. Nothing. By the time he finished the piece, John was mumbling in his sleep and sweat was beginning to form on his forehead. Sherlock couldn't understand why it didn't work. It always did. Discouraged, he foolishly clasped John shoulders and called out to his friend in a smooth, baritone voice.
Sherlock got rewarded for his ignorance when John's fist made contact with his nose. Icy pain shot up his face and blood began to drip onto the ground. Fumbling for a tissue, Sherlock sat down and tipped his head back. He silently willed the bleeding to stop. A few moments later, the detective heard shallow breathing coming from John's bed. He saw his friend upright, and running his hands through his damp hair. John drew slow, shuddered breathes. Sherlock's stomach dropped when he realized his best friend was crying. Quietly, he snuck out of the room.
John pressed down on his patients shoulder. The bleeding began to slow and the doctor bandaged the arm. Out of nowhere, a sweet sounding tune echoed through the air. The rhythm calmed John and made him forget of the war-torn battlefield around him. Suddenly, a loud shot rang trough the air. Pain exploded in his shoulder, causing him to scream in pain. Horror stirred in his chest. Then, someone grabbed him from behind. Alarmed, John lashed out. His vision began to blur, and as his mind slowed, he thought of all the things he would lose if he died. He could never say sorry the Harry, or see the London Eye again. Slowly, John began to fade...
Doctor John Watson awoke with a start. Images of his nightmare haunted his memories. His breathing became shallow and a bead of sweat formed on his brow. Scared of the returning nightmares, he began to could chase murderers through the back streets of London, but he couldn't face the nightmares . His whole body shook with tremors. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Sherlock leave.
"Great," he thought, "I've probably gone and disturbed any sleep he may have been getting." Ashamed, he sat on the edge of his bed, with his elbows on his knees, and silently sobbed.
The sound of John's crying travelled to the kitchen, where Sherlock was waiting for the kettle to boil. Impatient to get back to John, he poured the water before it was boiling. Warm tea would have to do. Tea in hand, Sherlock stood at John's door and watched him. The doctor had stopped crying and was now attempting to breathe normally.
The detective cleared his throat and John visibly tensed. Sherlock silently handed him the tea, Which John cradled in his hands. The doctor stared at the beverage as if it was the most interesting thing in the room. Meanwhile, Sherlock cursed his lack of experience in comforting people. Both friends sat quietly. Absorbed in thought.
John was strangely comforted by Sherlock's tall figure hunched beside him. He was touched that the detective had made him tea in an attempt to comfort him.
Sherlock let his mind wander. He thought of why John was impossibly patient with him and remained loyal after all this time.
"Why do you stick around me John? I'm aware I'm not an easy person to be around." He suddenly asked, with a sad smile on his face.
John started talking but had to clear his throat, as it came out croaky.
He tried again.
"You give me something I lacked. You're my best friend although you can be as annoying as hell. Sometimes I ask myself the same thing. Why do I follow you all around London, risking my life? Why do I put up with your horrific experiments?Because I appreciate what you do for me Sherlock. You give me this life. I needed this. All of this. Thank you for everything. I wouldn't have it any other way."
Sherlock sat for a moment, digesting John's answer, when the doctor spoke up again.
"I know you care too Sherlock."
"How can you be so sure?" Sherlock asked, testing his friend.
"If you didn't care, you wouldn't be sitting here right now."
Sherlock didn't reply, because he knew John was right. They sat quietly a little longer before John let out a stiffed yawn. Sherlock rose from his seat on the edge of the bed.
"I would be lost without my blogger." Sherlock admitted."Goodnight John." He left the room, closing the door behind him. The detective heard a faint response behind him.
"Goodnight Sherlock."