Sherlock hugged his legs tighter to him; pushing himself further back into the couch as lightning streaked passed the window.
He hated storms
He knew it was irrational, hating inanimate objects was something he often criticised John for ("Sherlock, the toaster burnt my toast again, I think it hates me." "Yes John, robot sentience has been achieved in our kitchen")
But he couldn't help it; it was a hold on from his less reasonable years, a fear born of naivety.
He hadn't been heavily supervised as a child, his parents had given up. Nothing would hold him in his room (or the house for that matter) and the nanny agency had told his parent that they didn't have anyone willing to take Sherlock on and they needed to stop calling them.
So at the ripe age of 7, while Mycroft was away at university, Sherlock was afforded free reign of the house and the grounds on the condition he didn't cross the boundary fence. This one restriction didn't really bother Sherlock; it wasn't like they were short on land with a golf course bordering one side of the house and woods on the other. Sherlock left the golf course alone mostly, he'd dug for subterranean life there once and the head groundskeeper had gotten very cross with him, cross enough to tell his father who in turn had also gotten very cross and taken away his chemistry set. It hadn't bothered him too much, it was easy enough to break into Mycroft's room to continue his experiments but it was still an inconvenience.
At any rate, the woods provided him with plenty of entertainment, he'd 'borrow' a botanical textbook from Mycroft's room (why his parents wouldn't buy him his own copy baffled him) and walk through the woods identifying all the species he came across. He memorised the ones that could be made into poisons or medicine (these two classifications often intersected). The nightshade family fascinated him, some of the most deadly and effective poisons know to man could be made from the family and yet at the same time the classification included plants like tomatoes which are perfectly palatable.
It was late August when it happened.
Sherlock had wandered farther than he usually did, all in the name of science of course, studying the sporadic appearances of so called 'fairy rings' of mushrooms. He was too focused on the ground to notice the grey storm clouds that quickly rolled over, the thick pearl of thunder soon after managed to break his train of thoughts.
The rain followed soon after, big fat wet drops pelting the ground, exploding on impact. The cold water ran down Sherlock's back causing him to shiver, he needed to find shelter. He ducked his head under Mycroft's book (his brother wouldn't be pleased) and started to run. There was a loud crack as lighting hit a tree, splitting it down the centre, on his left. The wind whistled past him turning the already cold rain to freezing on his skin. He stopped, noticing the rise in his already pounding heart rate, his breathing going from steady to hysterical. The rain that had plastered his clothing to him was easing off, the wind dying off.
'I'm in the eye' he quickly realised, he'd read about this in another of Mycroft's books, the calm centre of the storm, the order in the chaos.
Now he could see he spotted a small hollow underneath a rotting log, probably dug out by a badger or similar kind of creature. He crouched down, forcing his body into the small space. He was already fairly lanky at age 7 owing to the fact he ignored meal times to the best of his ability, they interrupted his concentration, and grew faster than Mummy could keep him in clothes. He disregarded the twigs and rocks as they dug into his skin, scratching at his exposed legs. Mummy wouldn't be too please at the mud on his clothes but he hoped she would see the logic in his actions.
The wind was starting to pick up again, rain falling erratically on the ground. He hoped it would blow over quickly, he did not fancy spending a night in a dark, damp hole. At any rate, the hole would eventually flood with water if the rain kept up.
There was a flash as the lightning announced itself, streaking across the sky as the thunder rumbled behind it. Sherlock started when the lightning cracked again, the tree it hit burst into flames, the wind and the rain seemed to do nothing to abate it.
The lightning was flashing all around him; he could feel the energy, the heat in the air.
'It's going to hit me next.'
He started hyperventilating before her could tell himself how irrational he was being. How common and stupid he was being, storms were nothing to worry about. He tried to push himself further back into the hole but it no use, the hole was barely big enough to fit him in it as it was, there was nowhere to go.
The thunder hurt his ears as it rumbled loudly overhead, the wind howling through the trees, water started dribbling into his hole. The lightning was more frequent now, lighting the world around him with an eerie glow.
There was another crack then it all went black.
They found him early the next morning, wet, hypothermic and in shock. The search and rescue dogs were brought in but there weren't much use, the rain had washed his scent away, they didn't react until they were right on top of him.
They found out later that the lighting, in a way, had saved him. A tree had been struck and fell over the entrance to his hole, completely sealing it off and preventing the water from leaking in from the outside. Without it the water would have flooded him out and made him take his chances out in the weather. Which despite his thinking wasn't as safe as it sounded.
His Mother was nearly beside herself when they towed the tree away and pulled him from his sludgy hideaway, his Father's usual stoic expression pulled into something Sherlock recognised as worry. Mycroft had made the 2 hour trip from University to come and help look for his baby brother, a significant gesture of emotion on his part, pulling him into an awkward hug when they met at the house. He hadn't liked it but endured it for Mummy's sake.
"Sherlock?"
He snapped out of the memories with a jerk, the storm still raging outside.
A hesitant John Watson stood at the doorway to the lounge room. Hair roughed up from tossing and turning, pyjama's askew.
Nightmare, Sherlock quickly surmised, the dark rings under his eyes suggested that it had woken him early in the night and had not been able to get back to sleep since.
John shuffled quietly across the room, carefully lowering himself onto the couch.
He hesitated slightly before asking,
"Need some company?"
Sherlock gave a small non-committal shrug.
He saw the relief flood John's face that he hadn't been waved off before he controlled his features and settled back further on the couch, pulling his feet up underneath him.
They sat in silence for a time, each taking comfort in each other's presence as the world went to hell outside.
"It reminds you of Afghanistan?"
Sherlock broke the silence, the sounds of the storm grating on his nerves, he hadn't meant it to be a question but his voice had gotten away from him.
John's eyes flickered to his for a second, conveying the usual surprise a correct deduction brought, before he focused on the couch, his hand moving to play with a loose thread on his pyjama bottoms.
The silence seemed to drag this time, every second felt like an eternity punctuated with the steady drum of the rain.
"Sometimes." He murmured softly
He didn't look up, Sherlock wasn't sure he had actually spoken at all.
"Sometimes the drilling of the rain sounds like bullets in a gun fight, the flash of lighting and the rumble of thunder like a set charge…" his sentence trailed off as if he was unsure of how to finish it, his eyes a million miles away.
Sherlock studied his profile in the half light, the haunted look in his eyes, usually covered by his caring, cheery nature, sitting on the surface. He looked old, beyond his year, every sadness, every atrocity he had ever witnessed seemed to weigh down on his face creating artificial years.
Sherlock told his own story, John didn't react at all but he knew he was listening, probably storing all the information away for a time when he could process it, when he could pick the details out of it to try and fill his little picture of Sherlock's life.
It didn't sound like the storm would ever give up, banging on the window of their little flat like it wanted to come in, wanted to join them and make their misery worse.
Sherlock didn't say anything when John pulled the throw off the back of the couch and pulled it around both of them, creating a little cocoon of warmth from the chill of the flat.
A little cocoon of safe from the storm around them.
Sherlock relaxed.
XXXX
"John, do you have any edible sugar?"
Mrs. Hudson knocked softly on the door of the flat as she opened it. It was quite early for most people but John was usually up at this hour even on the weekend, he liked to keep a consistent schedule. Sherlock, like in most things, was more unpredictable when he came to sleeping habits and she didn't want to deal with one of his moods if she woke him up, as much as he complained about sleeping he certainly was grouchy when anyone interrupted him doing it.
She couldn't stop the smile that curled onto her face when she saw her two boys curled up on the sofa under the throw she'd given Sherlock. She closed the door quietly behind her and tiptoed down the stairs.
Her cake could wait.