Story takes place some time after John and Sherlock reunite post- Reinbach. Inspired by the song MakeDamnSure by Taking Back Sunday, which has some wonderful angsty feelings/lyrics that I thought mirrored the John/Sherlock relationship very well.
Also I normally don't do this, but today's my birthday, and some review love would be greatly appreciated : )
He is tired. John can feel it; a dull ache throbbing from the very depths of his bones. It wasn't the constant running around London; no, he could handle that any day. It's that it had happened again. Sherlock had gotten hurt – this time a stray bullet from the man they were chasing that grazed his side. The detective had dismissed it as a mere flesh wound, but to John it was something more. It was another time he could have lost Sherlock, and there was nothing he could do about it.
It makes him feel small.
It makes him weary.
"I'm going to bed," John mutters as he walks through the living room of their flat. "You should get some sleep too, Sherlock – I'm sorry, what are you doing?"
Sherlock is laying flat on his back on the Persian carpet, staring straight up at the ceiling. He does not answer. That in itself is troublesome; usually he would have at least gotten some kind of smart ass remark by now.
"Sherlock?"
"I'm stargazing," Sherlock answers in a flat voice.
"Ha ha, very funny. You don't know any stars. You don't even know the planets."
"Then maybe you should join me," Sherlock says, patting the carpet next to him. "Come and sit."
A shower and a soft bed were calling his name, but when it came to Sherlock, he has never been able to refuse anything.
"So what constellation are we looking at?" he jokes, or attempts to anyway.
Sherlock smirks, but says nothing, making it clear that he just wants to enjoy the calm. So John is quiet, and the two of them lay side by side, staring up at the ceiling in a comfortable silence. It was the way it had been between the two of them since the beginning, but now after everything that had happened (after the fall, his mind whispers, but he pushes those thoughts far away) he appreciated those moments of peace so much more.
John's leg spasms and their thighs touch. He flinches, afraid that he had breached that invisible but ever present barrier between Sherlock and anyone else involving physical contact. He's surprised when the other man doesn't pull away. John takes a breath and decides that he likes the sensation. The warmth makes him feel grounded, somehow more anchored in the moment.
"You're angry at me." Sherlock says. It's not a question.
John weighs his words carefully. How close is too close?
"I'm not angry," he says finally. "Well, I take that back. I was angry when you got shot, but I was more scared than anything. Every time you put yourself in harms way just for the sake of a case I get like that."
"It was imperative to lull the perpetrator into a false sense of security," Sherlock says, waving a hand in the air as if to wave aside all of John's objections.
Sherlock suddenly turns on his side to look at him, catching John off guard – it's been awhile since he's been the object of Sherlock's keen scrutiny. His brilliant green eyes seem to bore into John's soul and give him the distinct impression of being scanned.
"It bothers you. Why? Why does my well-being affect you?" Sherlock asks.
His voice was so uncomprehending that it makes all the thoughts in his head turn into angry black smoke. He wants to scream. He wants to punch things.
How do you not see? You know everything! How can you still not see that people care about you?
John can't do anything but stare at the other man, and it's as if he's never really seen him before. From his long eyelashes, to the thin limbs, to the sharp planes of his face, everything about him just screams fragile. He looks like he could be knocked over by mild gust. This man, this person who is his everything, is so breakable.
He had been such a fucking idiot not to see it until it was too late.
Something stirs inside him, something fierce and animal and savage. It isn't love; John realizes. The feeling is too strong for that. It's more like an intense desire to break Sherlock down piece by piece, like a lion does to a gazelle. To rip him apart until he actually admitted that he needed someone. And then he wants to pour a part of himself into his every orifice, a little piece to keep him safe.
Because you are mine.
"Because you're my friend," John says instead. "And I can't lose you again. Not like before."
Because to do this would be the worst possible thing for Sherlock. He can't belong to someone else. He belongs to the world. He belongs to the anomalies; the minute details; to the patterns that no one else can see. If Sherlock were to be with someone, he would be giving up a piece of himself. And John simply can't bare that.
A hint of recognition flickers darkly in Sherlock's eyes. "I'll be more careful," he says slowly. "For you."
The air between them is still until a sudden yawn nearly splits his friend's face apart. It reminds John of a lion he had seen at the circus who could swallow a man's entire head.
"I think I'm going to sleep here," Sherlock announces. He stretches, catlike, and snuggles deeper into the carpet. His hip rests lightly against John's.
" Yeah, well don't blame me when your back aches in the morning," John counters lamely. He can't bring himself to move. Viewing Sherlock in his more domestic moments usually has this kind of effect on him; where he can't do anything but watch and marvel that he's probably one of the only people in the world allowed to see him like this.
Sherlock starts to snore lightly, and John can't help but feel content. This is enough. It always would be. He would protect Sherlock, from the outside until the day came (if it ever came) when the other man would let him in.
But until then, he would never be far away. He would wait in the shadows, ready to be called into action. He is a soldier once again, but this time for a much more worthwhile cause.
Sherlock would never be broken again.
He would make damn sure.