The London night was colored with the many lights of the city, turning the blackness of the sky above into the dim glow of the streets below. People dashed and staggered and strutted down the sidewalks, adding the brightness of life to the gleam of the city. Among this confused blaze of vivacity, John Watson was lost.
He had took an old friend's invitation to a party, only to find it packed with the sort of chaos he only remembered being present on a battlefield. After excusing himself, he had walked a few blocks, and now he realized he had no idea where he was, with his limp worse than ever and his head pounding from the memory of the party. Damn it, I only accepted one drink! What the hell was in that?
John peered around for a cab, and held his hand up, calling. One pulled up next to him, and he scrambled into it, wincing as his leg was jerked.
The cabbie glanced at the rearview mirror. "Where to?"
"221B Baker Street, please," John said. As they drove off, John reflected on the evening. He wished Sherlock could've come with him, but his flatmate had coldly replied, "I don't do well at parties." John's attempts at coercing him to come along had been fruitless, and now he was sincerely regretting his decision. He leaned back, sighing. What he would've given for a quiet evening… Yes, a quiet evening, spent with Sherlock and books and violin-playing… Peace. Or a case…
John shook his head. The taxi-driver case had been wrapped up only a week ago, and it was pointless to wish for something that was probably out of his reach, and, honestly, more hectic than the party. But Sherlock had seemed so restless for the past week, and John honestly worried for his friend's health and safety. He had denied the accusation of having drugs a little too vehemently. It was a real problem, living with someone like Sherlock. But John wouldn't give it up for the world.
"Here you are, sir." They were at Baker Street, and John dragged himself out, paying the cabbie and limping to the door. It must've been late—Mrs. Hudson was nowhere to be seen, but there was still a light shining from beneath their door.
John hung his jacket up on the coat-hooks, sparing Sherlock a single glance. "I see you've been missing me."
Sherlock didn't look at him, plucking slightly at the violin strings. "…Party was too much?"
John nodded and sat down on the edge of the couch. "It was ridiculous. Stan offered me a drink of something—"
"—and you, like an idiot, accepted it." Sherlock glanced over at him. "No, don't take it personally. But it's obvious—"
John sighed, and turned to collapse on the couch. "Sherlock, I don't feel good right now. Do you think you can save it?"
Sherlock blinked. He was always eager to share his conclusions with John, but he was reluctant to bother him when he obviously wasn't feeling well—John's palms were pressed to his forehead, and he wasn't listening to him. "Oh. Okay," he said, and quietly plucked his violin strings some more.
After a few minutes, John spoke again. "Ah, Sherlock—do you mind if I just spend the night on the couch?"
"No, not at all," Sherlock replied sulkily. John sighed and closed his eyes.
It was war again. John couldn't get away from the whizzing bullets or the cracking of the guns and the screaming… He realized he was screaming too, and tried to run from the death being dealt among the ranks. But pain exploded in his shoulder, and he fell. He shouted for help, even though his vision was fading. He shouted and shouted until his throat burned…
He awoke suddenly, his shoulder and leg aching. It was dark, the opposite of his sunlit nightmare.
The room was empty.
John felt the familiar fear of being lonely, abandoned, taking over him. His heart wrenched with loss and betrayal.
"Sherlock!" he called. Tears began running down his cheeks. There's no one there… No one who cares…
Sherlock couldn't sleep. He was bored, mindlessly bored. Nothing had happened in ages. It was past midnight, according to his phone, but he couldn't force his mind to stop working and keeping him awake. It was the worst feeling ever. He couldn't stand it—lying there with nothing to do.
He suddenly sat bolt upright—he swore he had just heard John call his name. Sherlock listened for a moment. There it was—a soft sobbing, and then John cried, "Sherlock!" again.
The sociopathic detective stood, tiptoeing silently to the door. He listened. John was still crying. It hurt his heart—he didn't want his John to be in pain. Sherlock grabbed his dressing-gown, pulled it over his shoulders, then opened the door.
John heard the door open. "Sherlock?" he asked. At his pained, sorrow-stained voice, Sherlock darted to the couch, kneeling.
"Shh. It's okay." John heard Sherlock's voice in his ear, and his heart leapt with joy. He reached out, fumbling in the dark until his hand was caught by Sherlock's.
"Don't go," he sobbed. Sherlock squeezed his hand. He wasn't going to leave. Not ever, he knew it in his heart. He needed John as much as John needed him right now.
"I'm here. It's okay." I'm never going to leave. Sherlock reached out with a trembling hand, to touch John's hair. He'd always wanted to feel that short hair—it always had looked so soft. John was shaking, his eyes closed, grasping Sherlock's cold hand in his warm fingers. Sherlock blinked nervously, but he was able to gently bring his hand down on John's head. John jumped slightly at the touch, but Sherlock kept whispering comforting words in his ear. His hair was truly soft, and Sherlock couldn't stop himself from stroking it. "It's okay. Shh. I'm not going to leave."
John's tears were drying, and he whispered, "Good." Sherlock smiled, still running his fingers through John's hair, and he bent down to give him a tender kiss on his cheek.
Not long after, Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, and John was still lying on the couch. The lights were on again. "So you can't sleep?" Sherlock asked, looking over at John.
John sighed. "Every time I do…I—I have nightmares…"
There was a long silence, John wishing Sherlock could help, Sherlock trying to think of some way to comfort him. Eventually, Sherlock reached for his violin. "Do you want me to try and play you to sleep?"
John half-sat up in his surprise. "Really? You'd honestly do that?"
Sherlock nodded, looking right into John's eyes. "Why not?" John shook his head, smiling. It was just shocking to see Sherlock's heart—his caring side. Shocking, but it saved me tonight. John settled back, a warm feeling growing in his chest.
"Sure." Sherlock put his violin to his chin, pulling out the bow with a flourish. John closed his eyes and listened to his playing. It was some soft, gentle tune that he had never heard before, but soothing. He allowed himself to be carried away on the waves of music and drift off into sleep.
This time, there were no nightmares.
Here is my somewhat better-edited Sherlock fic! I hope you like it. (You can make up your own minds about the party and the cut before Sherlock plays John to sleep. ;) ) Please review!