John was having a bad day.
It wasn't as if this was something new, or something that hadn't happened before. In fact since living with Sherlock he'd become accustom to having many bad days and after starting a relationship with Sherlock bad days were much more bearable. But Sherlock wasn't home today.
He had taken a case in Berlin, of all places, and for once Sarah wasn't feeling generous enough to give John the days off to be able to go. He had sighed as Sherlock stood at the front door, bags packed, with John leaning into him. He didn't have any idea how long this case would last. It could take hours or days to solve, but neither of them was looking forward to separation. Sherlock had given him a small, slow kiss goodbye and then he was gone.
That was nearly a week ago.
One thing that he had discovered since their relationship began was how much he enjoyed and took pleasure in Sherlock's physical touch throughout his day. Even the smallest things would keep a smile on his face. Their fingers brushing as he hands Sherlock a cup of tea, small kisses as he left for surgery in the mornings, every simple touch and gesture sent his heart fluttering.
But the most surprising thing was coming home from a bad day. Sherlock would hear it in his steps, see it in his tight face and tense shoulders. He would immediately open his arms and John would climb into the long pale limbs and simply allowed himself to be cuddled. The tension would seep out of him as Sherlock's warmth enveloped John and he could relax in the embrace. He would bury his nose into his neck and simply breathe Sherlock in. He smelled like home and it always made John relax.
He crashed onto the sofa, feeling stiff all over, trying to forget his day. The office had been packed. Stuffy noses, kids crying, miserable adults with the flu. Usually he could handle it, but it was his last patient that tipped the scale from an exhausting day to a bad day. The thirteen year old boy walked in with bruises and handprints all over him, needing a note to miss school that day. He hated abuse cases. He hated calling social services. He hated that it always brought him back to his days as a kid. A drunk dad. A neglectful mother. A sister who was fast following into their father's footsteps. He hated those memories. He hated the fact that anyone else had to go through that. The boy had looked so much like himself it scared him to the core.
He buried his face into the sofa as his phone pinged. He pulled it out and scrolled to open the new message.
Bad day? SH
John stared at his phone, wondering how Sherlock could do that. Just know, even not having talked to him all day.
Yes.
He wasn't even sure what else he could say. He wished Sherlock was here. He could always make John feel better. Even just being there, not doing anything. John found himself craving Sherlock even more. He felt a little silly, but his memories threatened to overwhelm him and bring him to place in his mind that he didn't want to go to. He didn't talk about it very much with Sherlock, but he didn't really need to. Sherlock just knew, he never pushed John into talking about it, and he was thankful. Most people, including his therapist, thought that his nightmares at night were of Afghanistan, and sometimes they were, but most nights he dreamed of his father coming to his room, beating him senseless just because he could. His mother ignoring every bruise and black eye, pretending not to see John's red eyes or tear stained face. He took a deep breath trying to keep his memories at bay.
He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't hear the light footsteps as they came up the stairs, or the door opening with ease.
"John?"
The deep voice caused the thoughts to scatter into the wind. Sherlock. He lifted his head from where it was buried into the sofa trying to push through the cloud of emotions to find the face of the one man in his life who mattered. The ice blue eyes met his own and he watched as the eyes seemed to cut through him, finding out everything he needed to know without John having to say a word.
"You're home." He said a little breathlessly. He hadn't expected Sherlock to just show up, he wondered why he hadn't let John know he was coming home, they had been texting nonstop through the trip, except for today. He had just figured Sherlock had gotten wrapped up in his case.
"I wanted to surprise you." Sherlock said with a small shrug, looking away, almost as if embarrassed by the sentiment of it. John knew he probably was. It was still something he knew Sherlock was getting used to, although he'd come a long way.
Sherlock put his bag down at the door and walked slowly to the sofa and sat down into the small space available to him. He opened his arms immediately and John nearly threw himself into them. Sherlock wrapped his arms gently around him and just held him.
"Do you want to talk about it?" He asked as John buried his face into the crook of Sherlock's neck. John knew he really didn't have to say anything, Sherlock already knew, but he realized that Sherlock was just simply giving him a chance to talk, to get it out if he needed too.
"I just hate having to call social services." He said in a small voice. "It always brings back the memories when I see it like that, so plainly on someone else, on another kid."
Sherlock simply nodded his head in understanding as he held John just a little bit tighter. He could feel the tension leaving him, the memories brushing away as he concentrated on Sherlock's steady breathing. He counted every breath and matched his own with Sherlock's until the memories faded away and there was nothing but the two of them.
He lifted his head and placed a gentle kiss on Sherlock's lips. "Thank you." he whispered.
John had a bad day. But Sherlock made it better. He always did.