John paced the living room.
Sherlock sat, motionless, eyes following his every movement.
Step, step, step, turn. Step, step, step, turn.
Quick. Forceful. Alert. John's eyes flicked towards the stairs. Shouts sounded from outside, bleeding through the walls of 221B Baker Street. It had been growing all day, the sounds of the looters in the streets. The screams, the looting, the quiet crackle of fire eating away at businesses, homes, lives. John glanced towards the stairs again. Sherlock imagined the gun hidden in John's bedroom, the quicksilver flash as John aimed, fired, took down another looter, aimed again. Imagined the red seeping across the cobblestones as John became just another casualty in the senseless violence. Imagined 221B without John. Impossible, now; he'd have to get another place. Too many memories here. John turned abruptly, walked through the doorway.
"No!" The word was out of Sherlock's mouth before he quite realized he had spoken, and suddenly he was clinging to John, to his back, trying to pull him away from the stairs. John struggled to free himself, and Sherlock's grip gentled, though by no means abated. "John, no", he repeated, softer this time. John turned in his grasp to look Sherlock in the eye.
"Sherlock, there are people out there. People hurting. What am I supposed to do?" He was rigid, a soldier once more, focused, hard, burning with a job to do, a desire to protect. Sherlock shivered and wrapped his long arms around John tighter, assuring himself that John was still there, still safe. John tightened his jaw. "Sherlock. Let go." Sherlock buried his face in the other man's jumper, inhaling the warm, homey, John-scent. "Sherlock."
"Please," Sherlock whispered into the fuzzies of John's jumper. "Please don't go." John tried to gesture towards the door, towards the sound of London burning, but Sherlock pulled him still closer.
"But-"
"Stay with me." he breathed. "Keep me safe." The words I need you floated across his mind, but he immediately tucked those away. "Please," he repeated instead, hugging John for all he was worth. John stared at the top of his head, while Sherlock focused on the jumper, the particular knitting pattern, the wool (from the sheep in Northern England), the color (no dye- oatmeal-colored wool really didn't complement John's skin color, he should really think about buying him a few new jumpers, or maybe some nicer shirts? He had never given Christmas presents before, but now wasn't a bad time to start thinking about it-) John pushed his fingers through Sherlock's hair, a gesture of comfort (and did it mean what he thought it meant? Please, let it mean- let it mean- let it mean-).
"All right," John sighed. Sherlock released a shuddery breath into John's ridiculous jumper, then looked back up into the ex-soldier's weary eyes. "I'll stay with you." Sherlock, nearly weak with relief, hung on for another moment, then gently disentangled himself from his good doct- the good doctor. John offered his hand, and Sherlock took it, giving him a small smile. Together, they walked back to the couch and settled down, John nestled into Sherlock's body, a warm weight against the coldness starting to melt in his throat. Sherlock pressed his lips to John's neck as they focused on each other's breathing, in, out, in, out, a small oasis of calm in the chaos of the night.
o.O.o
A/N: For all those in England tonight. My thoughts are with you all, from across the pond, and it seems senseless to - well, to write anything, especially fanfic, right now, but there's nothing else I can really do. Please, stay safe. It has to end sometime. Love, a kid from across the pond.