It was quiet in the flat. There were no sounds of glass beakers clinking together, no horrid screeches being pulled from an uncaring violin. No sounds of life save for John's quite steps in the empty flat. No Sherlock. It was much too quiet in John's opinion. Still, despite the uneasy silence of the flat, he was determined to make the best of the rare moment of calm.
He padded his way into the kitchen, none at all surprised by the mess scattered over the counter, and set his heart on a simple breakfast. He grabbed the kettle and filled it, popping (thankfully non-mouldy) bread into the toaster. There was a tug at his gut, a worrying sense that something wasn't right, but he wrote it off as not being used to the eerie calm.
The outside door slammed open, followed by footsteps pounding up the stairs. He turned in time to see his flatmate stalled in the doorway, a hand gripping the frame and chest heaving. He felt the detective's sharp gaze move over his body and let go of any hope of a restful day. Then, before he could even blink, Sherlock moved around the counter and pulled him in close.
John froze, arms in the air, and waited for his brain to make sense of it all. Sherlock was… hugging him? Lanky arms were tight around his torso and there were hot breaths being let out against his neck as the man ducked to fit against him.
"Sherlock," John started calmly, "what the hell are you doing?" His hands dropped to Sherlock's shoulders, grabbing and trying to push in a vain effort to get away. Only when he stopped and accepted the contact did he notice the shaking of his friend's form.
"Sherlock?" His hands loosened their grip and he (not so) reluctantly wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders. The detective didn't seem as though he would say anything, or even that he was consciously aware of what he was doing, and the shaking was not subsiding. John let one of his hands rub at the base of Sherlock's skull.
They'd only hugged a handful of times. Usually the extent of their physical contact was limited to simple brushes of fingers, a reassuring hand on the back, a hand to help guide during a chase. Every once in a while Sherlock would flop down on the couch, his head in John's lap, and would let (silently demand) John run his fingers through his hair.
Hugging; that only happened on rare occasions. After a case when one or both of them had almost died, like when John had woken up in the hospital after being knocked unconscious for two days by a suspect or the time that Sherlock had (stupidly) fallen into the Thames in the middle of winter. A deathly strong grip, after the punch of course, upon Sherlock's return from the dead.
Hugging, for them, was an action used to convey strong emotions, an action used to prove that the other person was alive and well and there.
"Sherlock," John tried again, his hand cupping the nape of Sherlock's neck. "You're scaring me."
The man in question let out a strangled sound, almost a whimper, and held tight for a short moment before he pulled away completely. He met John's eyes and the doctor watched as the walls started to reform, blocking out the emotions that had just been expressed. He grabbed Sherlock's arms and shook him once.
"No, don't do that. Do not cut me out like that. Tell me what's wrong." He saw a falter in the mask, a hesitation that showed compliance.
"Please, Sherlock." He felt muscles relax, watched as Sherlock's shoulders sagged and his eyes grew wet.
The kettle screamed and the toast popped up, startling them both. John's hands moved automatically, taking the kettle off the burner and shutting it off as he abandoned the idea of tea. He turned back to Sherlock only to find the man gone.
He rushed to the living area and let out a relieved breath when he found his flatmate curled up on the couch, his back to the room. He silently cursed himself for the interruption, hoping it hadn't caused the detective to complete his emotional shutdown.
"Sher-"
"Please don't."
"What?"
"Just leave it, John. It's nothing."
"It's not nothing, Sherlock. You were practically in tears."
Sherlock let out a grumble and curled in on himself more. John couldn't help the fond smile that made it's way to his face. The detective was fully dressed, coat and all, and attempting to curl into a ball despite the extra fabric.
John silently made his way to the couch and sat down on the coffee table. He let Sherlock sulk and ignore him for a few minutes before he reached out and buried his fingers into the dark locks. He heard Sherlock stop breathing, as if he was assessing the contact, followed by a sigh as the man relaxed.
A few minutes more passed, John gently massaging Sherlock's head in the companionable silence. Eventually he felt he needed to broach the subject.
"It's all right, you know. To cry. Sometimes you just need to. Sometimes people say things or do things and it just gets to you. It cuts deep into your heart for reasons you don't understand and it brings tears to your eyes and plants an ache in your chest.
"It's okay to want comfort, Sherlock. It's not something to be ashamed of or embarrassed about. I don't know what happened, but if you need comfort, I'm willing to provide it." He swallowed, his thumb caressing the spot just behind Sherlock's ear. "More than willing, if I'm honest."
He waited for a response, and when none came he began to draw his hand away. The curls moved as Sherlock turned to face him with a curious and cautious gaze. John gave him a tentative smile and once more ruffled the detective's hair.
"Budge up, huh?" John asked quietly. Sherlock moved slowly, sitting up and shedding the coat from his shoulders as John sat down. The doctor urged Sherlock back down, fingers returning to the soft ringlets as he gazed fondly at his friend's face.
"Want to tell me what happened?" John tried one last time, completely expecting the negative response he got. "Okay, we'll just sit here, then. Mind if I turn the telly on?"
He found a show that Sherlock would tolerate and continued massaging his fingers through the soft locks. He glanced down once, only to see Sherlock staring up at him, an odd look on his face. John simply smiled in return.
I won't leave you.
He was rewarded with soft eyes and relaxed features and a hand reaching for his own free one. He turned his attention back to the telly as Sherlock entwined their fingers.
The next time he looked down found Sherlock asleep.
John took in his friend's face, relaxed in sleep and so much younger, and felt a tug at his heart. He followed the pull and leaned down to press a kiss to Sherlock's forehead. He went back to the telly, smiling as Sherlock turned towards him and held his hand tighter.
Thank you.