For my best friend and partner in fangirling who was unhappy yesterday.
Sherlock paused outside John's bedroom door. Inside, he could distinctly hear the sound of distressed, heavy breathing. The memories of war, despite what Mycroft said, did haunt John. For despite the adrenaline, the rush, there were still the memories of pain, of fear. And it was this that still haunted John to this day.
John didn't like him barging into his bedroom whenever he felt like it, so instead of simply opening the door, he knocked. And waited. John said and did nothing.
"John?"
There was silence. Then, "leave me alone, please."
So quiet, so tired. He didn't like it. John was strong, he was brave. He shouldn't be like this, he should be happy. Sherlock wanted him to be smiling and carefree, not frightened and ashamed.
Why was John hiding? He had nothing to hide.
"John, let me help you."
"Why?"
Why? Well, because John was hurting. And he wasn't going to let him be hurt on his own. "Because I want to help you."
"Why?"
Sherlock sighed. "Why am I explaining my actions?" he wondered aloud. "Because it's bad to leave people who are emotionally pained alone. Especially when they have a pistol in their bedside drawer."
"I'm not going to do anything stupid! Just go!"
"John, why won't you let me?"
"Because," Sherlock had to lean to the door to hear, "I don't want you to see me like this."
"I'm coming in." Sherlock decided.
John, frankly, looked awful. He was sitting, leaning against his bed, his blonde hair was out of its usually neat, combed style, his face was pale, and his eyes were wide and sore-looking. Sherlock could see the tremor in John's hand, confirming that it was the memories of war causing this reaction. He walked back out.
John placed his quivering hands over his eyes and exhaled slowly. How pathetic this was. He couldn't blame the detective for leaving. Footsteps made him look back up and he blinked upon seeing it was Sherlock, having returned, his violin in one hand, the bow in another.
"Classical music has soothing abilities." Sherlock announced, before seating himself on the bed. He placed the bow on a string and started playing the instrument. Mellow, soft notes spilled out of the violin and despite the horrors that his subconcious mind had shown him, John found himself relaxing as the blessed melody filled the room.
Sherlock was adamant that he would not stop playing until John was happier. He'd stay there all day if he had to, he decided. He didn't have to. Within several hours, the doctor was clearly relaxed and the once haunted look had disappeared from his face, leaving a peaceful one in its place. Finishing off the song and placing the bow on the bed, he looked down at his roommate.
"How do you feel?" He knew of course, but there was nothing wrong with affirming things.
"Better. Thank you."
Satisfied that John's hurt had subsided, Sherlock took his violin and walked back to the living room, placing it back into its holding place. He could hear soft, shuffling footsteps -John was wearing his slippers, clearly still in need of some comfort- and suddenly there were arms around his middle, and blonde hair under his chin. Apparently, he was still that comfort. Putting an arm around the ex-soldier, he decided, he was fine with that.
