AN: Some Johnlock set to the song Night Terror my Laura Marling, as requested on Tumblr. One-shot.
Disclaimers: I do not own any characters. All modern characters belong to BBC Sherlock and all original belong to Sir Author Conan Doyle.
It was happening again.
Sherlock was dragged from his daydream by a loud crash from upstairs, followed by a string of unsuccessfully muffled obscenities. In the process of turning to look to where the source of the sound came from, he had knocked his experiment over on his lab notes, the small crystalline solids bouncing along the tabletop and notebook to cram down into the binding. Sherlock furrowed his brows together and wiped away at the mess, trying his best to preserve what he could of his substance. It wasn't too terribly important, the experiment. He could run it again. It was just tedious and time consuming, and he was likely to receive a ration of shit from Anderson for delaying it for a case /yet again/. Not that his opinion or needs mattered to Sherlock.
The rest of the experiment could sit and be perfectly fine for use later, so Sherlock stopped cleaning up and leaned forward on the table, steepling his hands together and resting his chin on his thumbs. His index fingers tapped his nose in his favorite musical time signature – 6/8 laced with triplets– as he closed his eyes and listened to John's mutterings, to his shuffling about upstairs, to the creak of his bed as he sat and stood, sat and stood again, pacing the floor above him. It pained Sherlock every time it happened, and they were becoming more frequent as of late.
John's night terrors were, after all, Sherlock's fault. He had convinced his best friend, his companion, his partner, his 'partner', that he had committed suicide, had died right before his eyes, and then left him for years to cope with it. Granted, it was to protect him, to protect Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. But the damage was done, as was made very apparent on nights like these. Sherlock hadn't successfully found a way to calm him down. Tea was ignored and physical affection only seemed to upset him further. Favors, such as cleaning the flat, were granted a dull 'thanks' while John sulked, wallowing in the grief that swept over him for the short while after he woke.
When the noise persisted, Sherlock's eyes popped open and shifted to look toward the sitting room where his violin case was sitting on the coffee table. John had always shown an interest in his music, oftentimes moving from the kitchen to his chair to sit and listen, to ignore his blog and marvel at Sherlock. It was endearing, to say the least. But maybe, just maybe, that would help.
He knew exactly what it was he would play. Sherlock had composed a piece of music while he was gone just for John. There were several parts to it, each describing the things he missed about John: the comfort of afternoon tea; the thrill of the chase on cases; the long nights spent gathering information; being scolded by him when he was up performing experiments until all hours of the night and then neglecting to eat; and, finally, at night when they slept peacefully at 221B Baker Street without a care in the world. He strode over, gliding over the floor in a swift motion with his robe billowing out behind him, and clicked the case open. He let his fingers slowly glide over the taut strings and polished wood before he set about readying it to play.
Within no time, he had it tucked beneath his chin, eyes closed, shoulders relaxed, and was gently pulling the bow across the strings, a soft vibrato pitch filling the space in the room. He decided to go with the 'tea time' theme, humming along as he went about playing. The noise upstairs had stopped abruptly and all was silent in the short pause in music. Sherlock froze in place for a moment, eying the doorway into the living room before he resumed playing. The music had drifted upstairs and lured John to slowly and carefully make his way down the aged, creaking stairs. Then the soft padding of feet prompted Sherlock to start the gentle flourish, much akin to an andantino, and his body swayed along with the swing of his arm, first allowing his knees to bend a little and bounce on the balls of his feet back up to full height at the top of the series of triplets. He paused then and noticed that John stopped entirely in his tracks, then continued on with the rest of the tune, which John took as a sign to sit and listen.
It wasn't too terribly long. Sherlock had actually exaggerated a few parts that John showed a particular interest in, and he watched his partner, deducing what he could: wrinkled shirt and pants uneven on his hips, so he was tossing and turning; disheveled hair and sleepless, red-rimmed eyes, so he had outwardly expressed his distress on an emotional level; his room was likely to be a mess if the state of his hands were anything to go by. Sherlock had left him in the middle of the night, perfectly sure that he would be fine alone for a couple of hours. Unfortunately for him, he was he wrong.
When the music ended, he stood absolutely still, bow still on strings, long fingers delicately wrapped around the neck, and reveled in the silence that followed his own piece. John cleared his throat after a moment and Sherlock looked over at him, met with a truly heartbreaking sight. John was starting to grow emotional again as his jaw was hard set, he swallowed a couple of times, and his gaze was cast down toward one of the legs of Sherlock's chair.
"That was lovely," he croaked, wincing when his voice broke in the middle. He coughed once and looked up at Sherlock, who set his violin back in the case, snapped it shut, and joined him in his respective chair. He leaned forward and placed a hand on John's knee, which John quickly took into his own, giving him a hard squeeze for a moment, seeking reassurance. Sherlock returned with equal pressure. That seemed to do the trick.
"I'm sorry," he started, but Sherlock waved his other hand in dismissal.
"You've nothing to be sorry for. It was out of your control."
They gazed at one another, silent for several minutes, searching each other's eyes for the wordless expressions of love and devotion. They were found with ease, and Sherlock broke the comfortable silence first.
"So it helped?"
John blinked once, his mind too muddled to figure out what that meant. "Hm?"
"The music. It helped calm you."
"Ah, that. Um… Yes, yes it did."
Sherlock's lips quirked up into a small smile. "Well, good. That's, uh… that's good. I'm glad."
Another moment of silence passed, this time a bit awkward.
"Well, I should head on bac—"
"Sleep in my room." Sherlock studied John's quizzical face. Normally, Sherlock had joined John in his room and preferred that his own room not be touched. But it was about time to get over that anyway. "Come sleep with me tonight. I promise not to leave this time until you rise for the morning."
If John's expression was anything to go by, he rather liked the idea. There was a light in his eyes that was unmatched by anything else the world had to offer, and Sherlock was easily lost in it. He stood, pulled John up from his chair, and led him to his bedroom. John immediately collapsed onto the bed, followed by Sherlock. They shifted around until Sherlock's longer, leaner body was rightly pressed against John's shorter self, chest to back, one arm beneath the pillow with John's head and the other snaking its way around John's waist. His smell, the soft hair, the warmth that radiated from him was enough to lull Sherlock back to a dreamy state, where life was carefree and everything was just grand.
But there would be a constant battle in Sherlock's mind for a long, long while. He would fight with himself over his own justification for leaving London and doing what he had to do. He would mentally kick himself every time he was reminded of the days John was left alone to deal with the loss, and he would kick himself harder when he remembered the day he came back, watching those emotions all come crashing down on John at once in mere seconds and leaving him in a terribly emotional state. But he was there to fix it, there to directly protect John, both from outside danger and from himself. Sherlock wouldn't do that to him again.
"Thank you, Sherlock."
"Anything for you, John."