Hello everybody! Wow, it has been a long time since I have last written, about five years, give or take. I usually just read fanfic now, but lately after reading so much Sherlock fanfiction it kind of inspired me to start writing again (a whole summer's break with nothing to do helps too). Even though this isn't my first fic, I am counting it as a first since it's been forever since I last wrote so the experience felt pretty new again, kind of like learning how to bake a cake without any measuring cups. Hope you enjoy this fic and feel free to review and tell me how my first attempt goes!
I do not own any characters in Sherlock as BBC has those rights. But a gal can wish.
Chapter 1: Earl Grey
He felt the burning sun on his neck as a bead of sweat rolled down, following the crevice of his back. The air was hot and dry but his body underneath all the armor, gear, and protocols felt sticky and uncomfortable. He didn't know what had happened next but the scene changed and he was running; his heart was beating in his chest like the bullets that pattered out from his companion's rifles. He kept running even when he looked back and saw that there was no one chasing. A sense of urgency kept pushing him forward even when his legs began to cramp and his throat felt like sand paper. The scene changed again but this time he was kneeling on the ground over a wounded soldier. He was pressing his hands against the young man's throat even when the blood continued to ooze out onto the dry sand. The young man was trying to say something but the more he tried to talk the more he choked and coughed up droplets of crimson liquid.
He tried to tell him to remain calm; that everything was going to be alright but all that could escape his mouth was a hoarse cry and him repeating the phrase, "I'm sorry, I am so sorry". He saw a water droplet sliding on the soldier's cheek before it ran down. He couldn't tell if the drop was from him or if the soldier had shed a tear.
Suddenly the injured soldier grabbed his shirt and pulled him close. The young man struggled to pull himself up a fraction off the ground as the blood continued to pulse out. Streams of blood trickled out from both sides of his mouth as he opened his mouth and whispered into the doctor's ear. He could barely hear it, the whisper as soft as sand shifting in the wind.
"…on…"
The soldier says it again, louder and rougher as he exerted the last of his energy before lying back down onto the dense sand. With a last shudder and a wet cough the young man looked up back at doctor where his eyes glazed over and his heart stopped beating.
"John…"
A sound akin to thunder boomed as pain blossomed from his shoulder. Another sound echoed louder as the scene began to change again, melting away into a blurry haze.
"John."
The world began to rumble and shake as his name was being called louder and louder.
"John!"
He woke up with a start to find a tall figure shaking and calling his name but it was too dark in the room to see. His training kicked in before he could stop himself as the scorching heat of the Afghan sun and the dusty atmosphere had seemed to have followed him. John felt his fist collide with what felt like a hard cheek before he felt something equally as boney and hard collide with his own face, pushing him back down onto the rumpled sheets of his bed.
He blinked a few times as he sat up and looked around. Memories of falling into a koi pond the day before while he was on a case with Sherlock began to resurface. The dark-haired genius had bluntly told a pretentious but naïve heiress that her fiancé was truly having an affair with not a woman, but with her limousine driver. She had been so outraged that she tried to hit him with a nearby porcelain vase. With an agility to rival that of a cat's, Sherlock quickly sidestepped the incoming vase only to bump into the poor doctor who stood a bit too close behind him. John quickly stepped back but realized too late that he was already standing on the edge of the pathway and fell into the pond. He remembered telling the consulting detective that he felt cold even after they returned to their flat, had a nice shower and a hot cup of tea. He had gone upstairs pushing his already aching joints to try to reach the comfort of his bed before promptly passing out once he felt his head hit the pillow.
He blinked once more to clear the last remaining image of his dream and of the memory of the pond to find Sherlock staring at him while nursing a swelling cheek.
"Did you just punch me?" John asked, as he tried to calm his still rapidly beating heart.
Sherlock just narrowed his eyes in response, "you had hit me first."
"I'm sorry." John replied guiltily while wiping away the sweat on his brow. Hesitantly he looked up at the genius. "Why are you in my room anyways?"
It wasn't the first time John has had nightmares, even when he had screamed murder at night and woken up swinging (he had at one point accidently punched a hole in the wall which left him with bruised knuckles). On occasions, after particularly bad dreams he will wake up and go downstairs to find a steaming hot cup of tea, but not once has Sherlock personally come into his room.
Sherlock undeterred by the question just crossed his arms and explained, "Even someone as incompetent as Anderson can see you are very unwell. You began shivering erratically in the cabbie, your leg began bothering you even before you began to climb the stairs, and your temperature is approximately 40 degrees C. Your nightly commotion has caused me to halt my experimentation on the new samples of liver tissue Molly has sent me and I am unable to focus." He finishes his statement snidely and with an upturn sniff of his nose.
John felt his face heat up with embarrassment that Sherlock had heard him through the thin walls of the flat. He mumbled another apology as he awkwardly ran a slightly shaky hand through his ruffled hair. He should have known that he was sick; the symptoms were all there and he simply ignored it in hopes that it was the case wearing off on him and that he hadn't had more than 4 hours of sleep per day. That would also explain the insanely vivid dream of a past he longed to forget; he usually only got them when he was very sick or drugged with anesthesia.
Sherlock rolled his eyes as he took in his flatmate's reaction. "Please John, do stop apologizing or else you will be asked to join one of Mrs. Hudson's soap operas. As a doctor John, you must know that fluids are a necessity for sick patients." With a dramatic sweep of his blue bathrobe, he crossed the room before briefly stopping at the desk where John kept his laptop. Under the desk lamp sat two mugs of tea, still steaming and looking very inviting.
He looked back; his perceptive blue-grey eyes glinted in the darkness. "After my loss of concentration I decided that tea was necessary, however I've made too much tea for my own consumption and I know you are more than willing to help." He finishes his statement by picking up the two mugs and walking over to John's bedside to hand him one.
This night was becoming stranger and stranger, here was his supposed 'high functioning sociopath' of a flatmate' in his room who not only woke him up from a nightmare, but is now also inviting him to have late night tea with him. Sherlock was definitely acting odd, he was not carrying himself with his normal regal arrogance that he tended to uphold during a case or when he was irritated. John had caught the genius glancing at the wet clothes sitting in the corner of the room after he had not properly thrown it into the hamper.
John takes a tentative sip from his brown mug. Mhmm…Earl Grey and it was the perfect temperature. He looks up from his mug and hesitantly asks the question that had manifested in his mind as Sherlock continued to stare at the wet clothes. "Sherlock, are you…are you worried about me?"
A brief pause in Sherlock's actions as well the stiffening of his body posture told John his answer. Sherlock simply turned to look down at the steam arising from his own cup. "Don't be so banal John; I simply could not have you ill and moping around the house like some sort of inebriated office worker when there is much to be done around the city. Tomorrow we will need to see Lestrade about the testimony of the limo driver as the fiancé has made it clear that we were not to come near the vicinity of his estate. You must be there with me as I refuse to be alone in the presence of the dull workers at the Scotland Yard." He finished his statement with a slight grimace.
Was that really Sherlock's main reason as to why he is treating John with one of his favorite teas? Or was it really because he felt guilty for causing John to catch such an awful cold? John wasn't sure, but in the end he dropped the subject as he knew that was as far as Sherlock is willing to open up. A slightly awkward stillness filled the room as both men stared into different areas of the room, avoiding one another's gaze. Sherlock seemed to be incredibly fascinated with the few cobwebs in the corner of the room that John had forgotten to catch while John continued to stare down at the mug he held in both hands. Seconds felt like minutes as not a word was spoken between the two until John finally broke the silence.
"He was only 20 and had only been in Afghanistan for a year." John fiddled with his mug handle before continuing. Clouds outside the window had moved away, allowing moonlight to pierce into the room.
The more he told his story the more he felt his throat tighten up as memories of his fallen comrades floated back to the surface of his mind. The more he remembered, the more prominent the image of a baby-faced, blond haired Caucasian began to appear.
His name was Darren and he had warm, chocolate eyes that never seemed to dull with fatigue or pain; instead it would brighten more with resilience. He was friendly and comforting, a great contrast to the harsh environment. His ability of cracking jokes and making people laugh became a welcomed relief as the days seemed to stretch as far as the dunes of sand they had to tread through. He was still so full of optimism, talking about how the hardship of being a soldier was lessened when he knew he could help relieve others' of their pains, even if for a while.
Bright, and brave, he was the poster child of hope and promise.
Then, hell exploded around them. Gunfire, shouting, and sand filled the air as they tried to find cover from the relentless bullets. Everything happened so quickly and before John fully could assess the situation, he was already kneeling next to the young man on the sand. Darren was bleeding out fast. A piece of shrapnel had cut deep into his carotid artery. He was going to die. John knew there was nothing he could do; this wasn't the first time he had seen death, but for some reason the pain was overpowering.
He apologized profusely for reasons that to this day, still did not understand to what he was apologizing for. Maybe he was apologizing that he couldn't save him, or maybe it was because the world was going to lose another great person. As he kneeled on the sand trying to staunch the blood flow, Darren had pulled John close and whispered into his ear.
"…It's ok, it's alright…"
Darren had died with a sad smile on his lips as John watched the life slowly flicker before dying out from the once warm eyes of a fallen comrade. A beloved friend.
John had to look up from his mug and instead focused on the moon shining brightly outside. He took a deep breath, his inhale felt shaky and uncertain.
He felt himself jump slightly when he felt the bed shift. Sherlock had risen off the bed and signaled with his hand for John to relinquish his cup. John looked down and was slightly surprised to see his cup already empty. He hadn't realized he had already finished; he must have been thirstier than he realized.
He hands the sturdy mug over to patiently waiting hands as Sherlock takes it and walks over to the doorway. He pauses right before taking another step out and looks back, his gaze is unwavering and piercing as the moonlight seems to make his eyes even more dramatic. John looks away when Sherlock's eyes become too intense; it made him feel vulnerable and exposed.
Sherlock's deep baritone voice cut through the silence of the room. "John, do not apologize for an event that you could not have predicted nor prevented. As with any war it is not the fighting that is the inevitable, but the casualties that are inflicted. Your comrade knew the hazards of becoming a soldier and he died accepting these risks. He would not have given up his life so easily if he discovered how much grief his death would cause. Instead John, be thankful that his death was quick and that you were there to help him in his final moments."
The dark-haired genius turned his attention back to exiting the room right before he gave a final glance past his shoulder. "Be thankful that you are still here, as the evidence from the wound on your shoulder can suggest. I can name a few not unfamiliar companions who are. Go to bed John, you will be needing your rest for tomorrow. I will not have my blogger trailing behind me and slowing me down."
He left with not so much as a flutter of his bathrobe as John continued to sit in stunned silence. He slowly lowered his head back onto his now cool pillow and tugged his blanket higher. He was still trying to comprehend the night's events; from the nightmare, to the rude awakening, to the sudden confession, and until finally the oddly comforting words his flatmate had supported.
Sleep had finally began to tug his eyelids down once more as his stomach filled with warm tea continued to soothe his body. Instead of the usual cruel sun beating down and the sticky blood coating his hands, his dreams were now filled with laughter and bizarre stories told over a campfire in the middle of a quiet and cold desert. He dreamt of Darren sitting on the sand talking animatedly and maybe, just maybe he saw the young man lift his eyes from the fire, and mouth the words, 'thank you' before looking away and continuing his story.
He slept that night feeling better than he had felt in a very long time. He wasn't quite sure what made him dream of Darren a second time that night, but after that he no longer had any more nightmares concerning the baby-faced soldier dying in his hands again.
He woke up to Sherlock's rapid violin playing as the consulting detective played with a fervor that could only be described as him becoming excited at a new lead. By the time John had gotten up, taken a shower, shaved, dressed, and gone downstairs his flatmate was already gone. Next to Sherlock's violin case on the coffee table sat another steaming cup of tea with two slices of buttered toast. A post-it-note was left on the cup:
'Couldn't wait. Finish eating and meet me at the Scotland Yard. Murderer is the estranged fiancé.'
John took a long sip of the tea; he gave a relieved sigh as the warm liquid relaxed the dry inner walls of his throat. He felt his body sag with relief against the couch as he didn't realize how dehydrated his body had been as the only thing he really had to drink was the tea from the night before. He quickly finished off the perfectly buttered pieces of bread before grabbing his usual jacket and headed for the door.
That night after a good case, Sherlock eventually gave in to John's demands for food for the skinny consulting detective's body. After a well-deserved dinner at Angelo's (by candle light as usually, even when John had tried to voice his opinion), the two were back at 221B Baker Street. The second John took off his jacket and shoes he collapsed promptly onto the couch in the living room. His cold was not completely gone and he felt the exhaustion of his body wanting him to rest.
"John, unless the case was too taxing on your mind or the fever had given you temporary amnesia there is a bed upstairs for you." He narrowed his eyes as he continued to observe the tired doctor. "Perhaps you have caught the stupidity that seems to linger in the air around Anderson, if so then I must perform a craniotomy to test this hypothesis."
"Sherlock, get near my head with a scalpel and you can kiss goodbye to all your experiments. And yes I know of the mold experiment that you've been keeping in the box, behind the vacuum, in the supply closet." John tersely replied as he lazily waved a hand in the direction he was hoping his flatmate would be in. He was much too tired to even care at this point as his eyes remained closed.
The last thing he remembered before giving in to his body's demands was feeling a thick and heavy blanket covering his body and hearing the deep, velvet-like voice he had become so accustomed.
"Good night John."
Author's Note
Whew, finished. This took me a lot longer than I thought it would, but I'm glad I decided on it and completed it! I feel very accomplished :)
I called this story Thirsty, because of that feeling, you know, when you are so thirsty that it seems to hinder everything that you do and when you finally get that drink of water or that something that you crave it is like the best thing in the world. It feels like everything is right, even if just for a moment and your whole body just seems to breathe a sigh of relief. That's what I kind of see in the relationship between Sherlock and John, whether on the show or in the fanfic that I love to read, everyone can clearly see that their friendship is something they both need.
Writing their personalities was a bit difficult too. I cannot tell you how many times I wrote their lines or their actions, only to have to erase it all and having to start over again. I hope in the end I was finally able to get it down, or so I hope. At least close enough so that it isn't a total divergent of their characters.
So tell me, was it a hit and miss? Or is it something worth continuing. I originally decided to write this as a oneshot, but I might continue this into a multi-chapter, slow building love story. I'm kind of a sucker for this pairing if you couldn't tell. It's a guilty pleasure of mine, like eating from the peanut butter jar with a spoon.
Oneshot or continuation? Please leave a review of what you think!
