John's eyes burst open as he awoke with a sharp inhale. It took a few seconds of frantic gasping for his heart to slow down enough for him to relax, and remember that he was safe, at home, with his wife at his side. He glanced over at Mary's sleeping form; she hadn't been disturbed by his awakening, and, as usual, had somehow acquired most of the blankets. With a fond smile, John loosened one from around her, and pulled it over himself. Then he remembered what his dream had been: the Pool again. And he promptly pushed the blanket down until it was around his waist. The thick wool reminded him uncomfortably of the Semtex vest parka he'd been forced to wear that night.
Funny that he should think of that, after so many years. Except that it was where he and Sherlock had first met Moriarty. And now Moriarty was back. Somewhere. John shivered, and pulled the blanket back up. So far Sherlock hadn't been able to find him, but he would. He'd better. Moriarty's voice echoed through John's head, making a mockery of John's attempt to sacrifice himself for his friend: "Oh, he's sweet; I can see why you like having him around. But then, people get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal."
Somehow, John wasn't surprised that Moriarty saw him as nothing more than a loyal pet; heaven knows, sometimes he felt like one. Always chasing after Sherlock, following him all around London, trying to pull him back from the edge of the proverbial cliff… But wait. John rethought Moriarty's words. "He's sweet...people get so sentimental about their pets..." That actually could go either way with him and Sherlock.
Yes, Sherlock was unquestionably the smarter one, and John just as undoubtedly the loyal follower. But who was the one who tried to see that the other got proper nourishment every day (nicotine patches do not count as eating, Sherlock!)? Who needed to be taken out on runs so he wouldn't make a mess in the house (Mrs. Hudson would have a conniption if there were any more gunshot pictures or dissolved tables in the flat)? Who had to discipline the other for misbehavior (punching a recent veteran to make him punch you back is Not Good; faking your death for two years, not telling your friend, and then showing up on the night he is about to propose to his girlfriend is Very Bloody Not Good)?
John's previous anxiety was suddenly overtaken by a flood of mirth; he found himself covering his mouth with his pillow to try and keep from giggling. But Mary was disturbed anyway. She stirred, and mumbled something about anchovies. Out of courtesy, he slipped out of bed, tiptoed into the washroom, shut the door. Then John sank to the floor, and laughed until he finally was lying on his side, moaning and holding his face because it ached so much.
Sherlock would hate the notion that he was John's pet, just as much, if not more, than the other way around. He wondered if that possibility, that Moriarty's cruel phrase could work that way too, had ever occurred to the detective. Knowing his friend's immense ego, probably not. Just thinking about it again made him dissolve into giggles again.
It's odd what sort of thoughts come to you and seem funny at 2 in the morning.
Wait a minute. It's 2 in the morning?! John stared at the washroom clock. No wonder this is so funny. Good grief, I need to go to sleep. I have work tomorrow, and who knows what my pet- he snickered again as he got up off the floor- will want me to do.
Just as he left the washroom, John's phone beeped. A text message; he groaned.
Oh, Sherlock, what now?
After all, who else would be texting him at this time of night? Possibly Mycroft, but he generally showed more respect for John's need for sleep. He scooped up the phone, checked the message.
Come to Baker Street immediately. -SH
John's eyes narrowed at the lit-up screen. Finally, he answered, Why? Is there a case? Or have you found a new clue about Moriarty's whereabouts?
In the past, he would have gone at once, without bothering to ask what was happening. But he had a wife now, and in a month or so, he would also have a child. If Sherlock wanted him to come and hand him a cup of tea that was three feet away, or listen to his new violin concerto, or anything not directly pertinent to a case or some kind of danger, then he could forget it. Sherlock had to learn that he was not John's only responsibility anymore.
The response was prompt: No. -SH
John mentally went through all other possible reasons why Sherlock would want him right now.
Is there a fire?
No. -SH
Have you blown something up?
No. -SH
John sighed. It appeared they were going to be playing a guessing game at 2:15 in the morning. Better end it quick if he didn't want to keep playing, and go through all possibilities at once.
Has there been a flood, death, or any danger to you, Mrs. Hudson, or the flat? Are you, Mycroft or anyone in your homeless network sick, injured, or in any other way, shape or form in need of a doctor?
No. -SH
Then it can wait until morning. Go to SLEEP!
There was no reply for several minutes. John suspected that Sherlock was sulking at his refusal to comply. Too bad. He set the phone back on the nightstand, and burrowed back into the covers, ready to try sleeping again-His phone beeped.
John was tempted to ignore it, and see what Sherlock wanted in the morning. But that was the sort of thing Sherlock was more likely to do. And even though it was probably some snide comment about sleep being boring or something, John opened the message.
I'm lonely, John. -SH
Five minutes later, John was on his way to Baker Street. What could he say? It was his responsibility to look after his pet detective.