Terror Through Tornadoes
John initially wakes up because of the lightning. He doesn't even notice the thunder at first, but the sudden brightness in the room draws him out of his restful sleep. He blinks slowly in confusion, then harder, when the lightning flashes again. It's followed by a clap of thunder so loud that he unashamedly flinches.
He sits up in bed, drowsily pushing the blankets off of him. He stretches his arms above his head before padding quietly out of his bedroom. Thunder cracks again and he very nearly misses the first step when he flinches. He curses the weather before slipping downstairs, unsurprised to find Sherlock sitting up on the couch. However, his elbows are propped on on his knees and his face is in his hands, his hair rumpled even more than usual.
John frowns in the darkness. "Are you awake?"
"I am now," comes Sherlock's somewhat muffled reply.
John doesn't know if he should be more bothered by the storm or the idea that Sherlock had been asleep. In the end, however, he decides to let it go. "You wanna cuppa? Warm milk? Coffee?" he questions, walking into the kitchen. He flicks the light on, blinking from the intense artificial light.
Sherlock's curt response is a "No".
John shrugs. "Suit yourself." No sooner than he pulls out the kettle, the kitchen light flicks off. "Sherlock!"
"It wasn't me," Sherlock complains, sounding far away. John looks back but he can't see anything; leastwise, until lightning lights up the room again with a crack. John flinches again, grateful that, in this darkness, Sherlock can't see him. Sherlock wouldn't understand much of how thunderstorms could bother John, especially since his war days. John has no desire to have that conversation right now, much less so early in the morning with a sleep deprived Sherlock.
"Great," John mutters, setting the kettle onto the counter with a little more force than necessary. "Sherlock? Where did you go?" He turns and, suddenly, Sherlock is right there. He gasps and flinches backwards, colliding with the kitchen chair.
Sherlock must have been more awake than John admittingly was because, instead of watching, Sherlock catches John's arm and prevents him from falling.
"Stop that," Sherlock hisses, drawing his hand away. He proceeds to open the refrigerator and fish around for whatever it is he happens to be looking for, all the while John is trying to get his bearings back. However, when the thunder cracks again, John flinches towards the one living thing in the room. Which happens to be Sherlock. John feels his face flush crimson as he stutters out an apology. Sherlock waves him off, dodging around him to walk back to the living room without a word. John stares after him, still embarrassed.
It isn't five minutes later when the wind suddenly picks up, the lightning grows in frequency, and the thunder gets impossibly louder. The rain pelting against the window, usually a nice distraction, makes John's heart patter unevenly. He isn't usually afraid of storms and he doesn't know why or how his defenses have gone so far down, but they have. And he's left shivering in his armchair while Sherlock stands at the window and stares out.
He bites his lip, drumming his fingers against the armrest of the chair briefly before he stands. "Going to check on Mrs. Hudson," he says, because he's nearly sure that their lovable landlady couldn't be sleeping through this.
Sherlock doesn't respond and John doesn't say it again, just carefully finds his way down to 221A.
"Mrs. Hudson?" He knocks on her door lightly, surprised when she opens the door immediately, looking frazzled.
"Oh, hello, dear," she states, "Did the storm wake you, too?"
"Yeah, Sherlock and I are awake... If you want to come up, you can, you know."
"Thanks, dearie." Another crack, another bang. This time, it was Mrs. Hudson flinching and John has no inhabitations about wrapping an arm around her. "Had you by any chance had the telly on?"
"For a bit; they said high winds and heavy rain-" As if on cue, the wind picks up drastically again, the interior door to 221B swinging open and slamming against the far wall. Both John and Mrs. Hudson jump before John swears. "Get the key to 221C, it's the basement, we'll be safer there," he hisses, turning Mrs. Hudson around and going to close the door. "We've got a draft problem..." he mutters, before raising his voice. "Sherlock!" He locks the door, bolting it.
Sherlock doesn't reply and John isn't entirely surprised; however, his thoughts go blank when thunder claps again and the whole flat creaks with the pressure of the window. He's paralyzed, for one split second, vividly surrounded by bombs and gunshots, screaming, and shouting, and death...
"Sherlock...!" He takes off up the stairs two at a time, squinting into the darkness of their flat, trying to discern his flatmate. "Sherlock, come on, now, we're nipping to the basement."
"I'll pass."
"Sherlock-"
"No, thanks."
His flatmate sounds so incredibly calm that it makes John want to hit him. Through all of his panic and fear, Sherlock is completely fine and it's so uncredibly unfair and-
Another echoing boom.
"Sherlock, now!" he shouts, his tone surprising even himself. He is totally aware that this is the very first time that he's really ever yelled at Sherlock and he cannot bring himself to care. "For God's sake, please!"
There is the soft clack of a cup, although what Sherlock is drinking, John doesn't know, and the footsteps of the detective padding across the floor. "You are extremely tense," Sherlock murmurs. Lightning illuminates their faces, John's panicked, Sherlock's curious, and John clutches onto the sleeve of Sherlock's ratty pajamas without thinking. He's just glad that he doesn't have the habit to whimper. Or shriek.
He is aware that he's trembling too hard to contain, that his grip on Sherlock's sleeve is making Sherlock's sleeve shake. Sherlock doesn't say anything but John feels him brush his shoulder closer, probably to ascertain just how hard John is shaking.
"Go down," John orders, his breath quiet over the storm. "Go down, go down..."
Surprisingly, Sherlock complies, only uttering a "Be careful" to John as they headed down.
They both join Mrs. Hudson in 221C, although John isn't quite so calm to sit down. Instead, he leans heavily against the wall and counts his breaths compared to his heartbeat, trying to calm down. Sherlock looms somewhere in the darkness and Mrs. Hudson tries to make small talk, but John isn't into it. He just focuses on breathing, because he's safe, because Sherlock's safe, because his makeshift family is safe, because they're in 221B, because they're only experiencing a storm...
He loses track of when he calms down enough to sit down, next to Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock, who's somewhat sulking by hugging his knees. He loses track of when the storm calms down, of when he calms down...
... and the next thing he knows, he's waking up on the couch and there's a blanket tossed over him and Sherlock is sitting in his chair and watching him.
"... Can I help you?"
"Thunderstorms remind you of the war." It isn't a question.
"Occassionally, yes," John replies, sitting up. The power's on, the clock reads 11:00, although the events of previous hours couldn't have been false due to Sherlock's latest thought.
"But not usually."
"Not usually," John agrees, stretching and pushing the blanket off of him.
"So, why last night?"
John shrugs, standing and stretching again. "Did I... Did I fall asleep in the basement?" he muses, looking towards the doorway of their flat.
"Yes," Sherlock says, steepling his fingers under his chin. "Brought you up."
"Ah. Thanks," John says, genuinely grateful, because if he had slept in the basement, he is pretty sure that he would have more than a stiff neck. "Sorry about last night, though," he adds lamely. "I was kind of..."
"Clingy."
"No, but bordering on-"
"Obsessive?"
"No!" John frowns at the detective. "Scared, Sherlock. I was scared," he says defiantly, although he doesn't quite meet Sherlock's eyes.
Sherlock nods slightly, after a moment. "I know," he replies simply before he slips his legs off the chair and stands. "It may storm again tonight. It shouldn't be as bad," he states as he walks into the kitchen, vanishing back to his bedroom.
"Ah, okay, well, thanks?" John replies too late, shaking his head slightly. Sometimes, he seriously wondered what was going through Sherlock's head. Because it had almost sounded like Sherlock was trying to, erm, well, help.
Nah. That couldn't be right.
John looks back to the blanket, unfamiliar, probably Sherlock's.
Huh. Maybe he did, after all.
I was woken up by a storm. Or rather, my mother telling me that it was storming and that our lights were going to go out. Me, I just wanted to sleep. You know, that general situation.
I know London doesn't really get terrible weather, or so it seems as returned through a Google search. They average 30 tornadoes a year, although apparently they're so weak that people don't even know... So, maybe the weather here is a bit unrealistic! But that's the power of fiction!
Reviews go down there. Thanks!
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