title from adele. kingdom!verse.
You and I Have History
john has a vision of the future whilst dreaming and sherlock promises to never leave.
John is dreaming again.
(And Sherlock knows what those are, but he does not see them does not—)
It is not often he gets proper sleep and it is less often that those nights go without plaguing John.
Sherlock does not need much sleep (transport stops him from living breathing bored! so bored anything but boredom). He has always relied on adrenaline since he was a boy. So it is extremely rare for him to miss John's nightmares, even if he's quiet about them.
John rarely calls out—grunts and short bursts of exclamations, normally. (Signs of learning to keep quiet in dangerous situations, Sherlock deduces too many times.) But beds squeak and moan and ordinary people do not move in REM.
Sherlock barges in and (can't i get some privacy what do you want) does not waste time in calling out John's name. He learned quickly that only shaking wakes his flat mate the fastest. He risks getting punched in the face, but it is worth having his friend rest easy.
A minute later, he's awarded for his efforts with a cut and a swollen left cheek.
(The first time he arrived at a crime scene with a cut on his lip cheek jaw, Lestrade said nothing. Anderson joked about domestics and Donovan looked pleased.
By the third, no one noticed.)
A moment's pause before John truly awakens. "Jesus."
"It's fine. I'm fine. Are you?" Sherlock asks, hovering next to John who's curled up in blankets.
"Yes. Thanks," he mutters into his pillow as he turns away from Sherlock. "Go put ice on that."
He ignores him (don't you ever listen to me, john says and sherlock almost smiles back)—as usual, but now (for this very moment and perhaps only this moment) because John is shaking and he never shakes after he wakes he's usually so calm collected barely a crack in his defenses. Sherlock doesn't know what John saw—he never does though he fathoms guesses—but this must have been something awful.
"John."
No acknowledgement. Not confident of himself (and Sherlock has never been good at this comforting stuff) he slides next to his friend, barely touching him. "John," Sherlock says more gently, "tell me what you saw."
He doesn't answer right away. Actually, it takes fifteen minutes before John faces his friend and Sherlock hates how scared he looks.
"Sherlock," John rasps, both a plea and a bargain.
"I'm here," he murmurs, eyes soft.
(He does not know John was about to dismiss him, about to continue on because he is a soldier. He fought a war in Afghanistan and he's fighting one again on the streets of London with a friend a soldier, fierce except right here right now.)
(And John does not truly understand why.)
John grabs his wrist suddenly, sharply, nails digging into skin. "Sherlock," he says again.
"Hm?" Sherlock twists his arm subtly enough to grasp back, confirming his presence in a gesture.
"You fell. You fell and burned and burned and burned—" John gasps (for air for support for what?) "—I couldn't find you..."
"I'm not going anywhere," he says (too late and too early).
(His gut and his heart twist something awful but Sherlock ignores it because he isn't he can't he won't.)
If John hears him, Sherlock does not know. The pressure on his wrist disappears but he can't quite let go yet.
(Or at all.)
(Too late and too early.)
(He's already too far gone.)