A/N: Hello there! Another oneshot, another random idea that occurred to me. Slight Johnlock, nothing remotely explicit, just light fluff. Not even that really. Read and you shall find out! :)
Set after TRF, doesn't follow season 3 canon. Just a solitary plot that I thought I would share. Hope you enjoy!
No matter how he tried, John could not tear his eyes away from the figure on the hospital roof, that familiar black coat billowing in the wind. Sheer terror gripped his body with an icy fist, squeezing the air from his lungs as horrific shivers jolted down his spine.
This wasn't happening...
"Stay right where you are. Don't move! Please will you do this for me?"
"Do what?" he felt himself croak.
"This phone call, it's... It's my note."
No. No, this can't... this isn't right. This is not real. It can't be real!
"Sherlock, please." he begged, his voice barely above a strained whisper, desperation almost tangible. "Don't. Just don't. Come down! Please just come down! Stop it!"
"John, listen to me –"
"No! Don't you dare! Don't you dare, you bastard! Just come down!"
"I'm sorry."
"Sherlock..."
"I'm so sorry."
Then the phone went dead.
"Sherlock, no!" A soul-crushing silence was all John heard in reply as he jammed his phone closer to his ear, as though clinging on to that last echo of the detective's voice.
"I'm so sorry."
High up on the building, he saw the dark figure spread his arms out wide as though about to take flight. But instead of floating upwards, he tilted forward and dropped like a stone.
Everything slowed.
"Sherlock!" The cry tore itself raggedly from his throat.
The floor became thick liquid as John tried to run to his friend. His heart had stopped; there was no beating in his ears, just an endless deafening silence.
No sirens. No voices. Every sound of the London street had ceased. There was just silence.
Then a horrific drawn-out scream pierced through the emptiness, threatening to shatter his very being into a million shards. His own scream, like that of a dying animal.
Perhaps he was dying.
It sure as hell felt like it.
The scream seemed to last forever before it morphed into a deep moan of sheer agony. The body of his best friend was still plummeting towards the cold concrete below when John was thrown to the ground by a force from behind.
As he hit the tarmac, the world blurred. But he still saw when the body made contact with the unyielding concrete, no ambulance station to block his view this time. Every horrendous, nauseating detail played itself out in excruciating slow motion. Sherlock's body halted its descent abruptly with a sickening thud.
Move. Get to him. Get to him! Get up!
John tried to scramble back to his feet but his muscles refused to comply. He was paralysed, sprawled out on the ground, watching the dark bundle that lay on the ground next to the hospital.
Motionless. Cruelly, heartlessly motionless.
He could see the pool of blood even from here. The deep red seemed to seep into his vision, a dark plume that crawled in from the edge, obscuring his mind. His thoughts. Except one.
"Sherlock." he mumbled, barely audible. A crowd of people had gathered around the dark mass, obscuring his view. "Sherlock!" He couldn't get to him. He couldn't move. Helpless. Useless. Paralysed. Fading... The world fading...
Move, he silently willed the body. Please just move. Sherlock, get up! Be alive... Please just be alive...
"Sherlock!" His cry rang out through 221B as he jolted awake with his sheets clenched in his fists. His knuckles had turned white and his palms were sore from gripping so hard.
In order to stop the gut-wrenching sob that almost erupted from him, John clamped a clammy, shaking hand over his mouth. Hard. Hot tears coursed down his cheeks as he shuddered in the darkness.
Pain. Aching, relentless pain ripped through his whole body. How many times had he been forced by the workings of his own spiteful mind to relive the moments when his whole world had collapsed? The falling of the detective, his body hitting the ground, John's own inability to do anything to help. Or anything at all for that matter.
Most nights he would avoid nightmares and get through unscathed; but every now and then the flashbacks of the fall would pay him a visit just to remind him what it was like to be broken. What it felt like to die but keep on living.
It was true torture.
Afghanistan be damned – he'd rather be shot in the shoulder again than see Sherlock fall to his death. At least he knew he had a chance of surviving the bullet; as for the alternative, he wasn't so sure.
But of course, Sherlock had survived it, which John found to be ironic considering he was the one that had been lying in a pool of his own blood.
Sherlock was alive and well. So why was John still so haunted by it?
Slowly, his sobs began to subside and he was left shaking and cold and parched. His throat was on fire – had he been shouting out loud?
God, he needed some water.
Still trembling he untangled his limbs from the bedding and padded towards his bedroom door. The flat was in darkness and he felt his way to the kitchen. Choosing not to turn on the light for fear of waking Sherlock, he stood by the table for a moment. Adjusting to the darkness his eyes could make out the door to Sherlock's bedroom at the end of the short hallway.
Feeling compelled by some unknown and invisible force he crept towards it and noticed it was slightly ajar. He just wanted reassurance. That Sherlock really was alive. That he was there, in the flat, and not lying cold and pale on some slab in a mortuary.
Peeking his head slowly through the opening, John scanned the bed and could just make out a head of curly black hair resting on the pillow. A silent sigh of relief. For a few moments his gaze lingered and then he backed out and returned to the kitchen.
Now able to make things out fairly clearly, he grabbed a glass from the cupboard and proceeded to fill it from the tap.
His tired eyes were stinging and red raw. Standing by the sink, he gulped down a whole glass before filling it again.
"Shit..." A deep sigh escaped him as he rubbed his eyes. They were glassy, stained with tears. One hand supporting him as he leaned against the counter-top, he lifted the water to drink again.
The rim of the glass was just touching his lips when the kitchen light flicked on. He jumped in shock, just recovering enough to prevent his pyjamas getting a soaking. Head whipping round, John noticed for the first time that the detective was standing by the table, gaze fixed upon him. A shaking hand rested on his chest over his heart to calm the frantic beat.
"Jesus..."
"Not quite."
With a huff, John squeezed his eyes shut tight and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Are you OK?"
"Why are you awake? Did I wake you up?"
"Yes."
"Sorry, I tried to be quiet. Didn't turn the light on, thought it might wake you."
"You were shouting."
John opened his eyes. "What?"
"Upstairs. You were shouting. Everything alright?"
The doctor flinched under his scrutinising gaze. "Bad dream is all. Was I really shouting?"
"Bad dream?"
A hand waved in the air dismissively. "Afghanistan." he lied. "Get 'em all the time."
"You were shouting my name."
John froze.
"And crying. You've been crying. Your eyes are red." Sherlock reached a slender hand out to graze John's cheek as he studied his eyes.
"Yeah, thanks for pointing that out." John gently swatted away the hand and sniffed.
"What did you dream about?" Sherlock questioned.
"Nothing. It's nothing. It's OK." he said flippantly.
Sherlock frowned. "I heard you shouting my name loud enough to be heard from down here, at three o'clock in the morning no less. Several minutes later, you came into the kitchen with sudden great consideration for my being asleep to get a glass of water. Usually after a bad dream you come down and turn all the lights on to get a drink, not caring if I wake up or not. But this time you didn't want me to see you or hear you. You didn't want me to know. You're visibly shaking and sweating and your reaction to my turning on the light suggests you are severely on edge."
"Sherlock..."
"Your eyes are bloodshot and tear-stained which tells me you've been crying hard for a while. You lied to me when I asked what your dream was about which implies further that it was either one you don't care to recount or something that you don't want me to know. I'm thinking it's a combination of the two."
"Sherlock."
"You're obviously deeply shaken. Judging by the shouts and the fact that you looked into my room to make sure I was there, I'm assuming it was a dream concerning my welfare. You're clearly terrified. You needed reassurance of my presence. I've never seen you cry this much before. It is not nothing, John."
A tense silence ensued, the doctor looking at the floor with the glass of water still clutched in his hand. Sherlock's eyes never left him.
"Wow, even at three in the morning you've got the whole arsehole thing spot on." he joked weakly.
"John." Dull brown eyes slowly drifted upwards to meet icy blue. "Let's sit." Sherlock ghosted his hand on John's back to guide him into the living room and towards the armchairs. They sat down opposite one another.
"Sherlock, please, just..."
"Tell me."
"I don't – "
"Tell me."
"Sherlock..."
"John." They stared at each other, a silent battle being waged between them. "Tell me." he repeated.
John admitted defeat, exhaustion evident in his voice. "Fine."
"It was about that, wasn't it."
A mutual understanding passed between the two men. "Yes. That's why I..."
"That's why you came into my room. To make sure I was there, to make sure I was still alive and it wasn't all another dream." There was only a nod in reply. A beat of silence.
"Put your water down."
"I'm sorry?" John looked at him inquisitively.
"Water. Put it down for a second." John complied. "Now give me your hand."
A hesitant hand was raised and Sherlock held it gently and pulled it towards him. John was forced to move forwards in his chair to prevent himself from toppling out of it altogether. "What are you doing?"
"Shh." Sherlock pressed the hand against his own chest. John swallowed. Through the grey shirt, he could feel the steady beat of the detective's heart. At first he squirmed in mild discomfort but the lulling pulse eased his nerves. The surprising warmth of Sherlock's seemingly icy skin seeped into him. For the first time in a while he felt calm, content.
"Feel that? I'm still alive."
"Yes. You are. Excellent deduction."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and they both laughed. Beneath his hand John felt Sherlock's body quiver with the action. It sent a jolt of something down his arm, through his body and right down to the tips of his toes.
In a sudden burst of realisation, Sherlock's smile sobered into a more serious expression which concerned the other man. "You think I might do it again. That's why you're so worried."
Finger's shifted to lightly grip the grey shirt. "No. I don't think you would do that again. I wouldn't bloody let you. God knows it damn near killed me the first time."
"Killed you?"
"I don't think you quite realise that there are actually people that care about you. Maybe it's a new concept to you, but that's a thing now. A pretty big thing. Me, Lestrade, Mycroft – "
Sherlock scoffed. "He does! Believe it or not, Mycroft does care about you, in his own way. I've seen it. But that's not the point. I'm not worried that you're going throw yourself off of another building again because I'm not going to let that happen. I made that mistake once. I won't be making it again."
Sherlock was watching him, taken aback by the honesty and firmness in John's words and expression.
"I'm scared that one day something serious will happen and you won't come back. I'm fucking terrified that something is going to happen and there won't be a time when you turn up on my doorstep looking the same and announcing, 'hey, by the way I'm not dead'! I know there's a risk; occupational hazards and all that. God knows we see some scary situations, don't we? But I just want to know. If you do anything like that again, I want to know. Just a word. One text. A sign. Anything. I don't care, just promise that you won't leave me out of it again. And for the love of God try not to do anything too reckless."
John stared long and hard at Sherlock who stared right back. In reply, Sherlock wrapped his fingers around John's hand. "OK."
He blinked."OK? Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"OK. Good. Umm... OK."
There was a strange, awkward silence.
"What?"
He'd expected an argument of some description. "Nothing, just didn't expect that, is all." He cleared his throat. "I um, better get back to bed now. Feel much better, ta." He reluctantly extricated his hand from Sherlock's. Picking up his water, John made to leave the room. "Night."
The detective nodded. Just as John was about to leave the room, he jumped up. "John!" Said man turned back to him. "I um, I'm flattered." he shuffled his feet a little awkwardly. "You're all OK now?."
The sudden rushing wave of relief, content and admiration that John felt towards his consulting detective compelled him to reach up and place a gentle kiss on his temple just beneath the wayward dark curls.
"Yes. All OK. Goodnight Sherlock. Sorry I woke you up."
"Don't be. Good night John."
A/N: Argh! I'm not good at endings! :( That's something to work on... Hope this was all in character enough. Hope you enjoyed and feel free to leave a comment, etc.
Much love!
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