Thank you so much to those who favorite! They make me smile. Reviews just plain make my day and only take a moment. I'm collaborating with someone on a longer fanfic that I will start posting soon, so I hope you all like it. All disclaimers apply.
John was keeping warm in an all too familiar cafe, the ambiance almost comforting. He and Sherlock would come quite often, when they had the chance. He was a veteran now, having just returned from his tour in Afghanistan. However, his tour had been cut short. Four years was what he promised. The doctor had stayed for a little more than three. Ironically, he had faced several bullet wounds, which had left John with a cane, and had fallen seriously ill not too long after that. So here he was, jacket zipped and watching the snow outside whilst nursing his tea. God, he missed the good stuff.
The bell by the door jingled, alerting anyone that someone had walked in. John focused on his surroundings out of habit, which wasn't that difficult anymore: people chatting, machines whirring in the workspace, the muffled traffic from outside, and-
The blond froze, hearing an all too familiar voice place an order. Sherlock. After all this time. Quietly, he got to his feet and started digging through his pocket for his wallet as he made his way over to the counter again. "Here. I'll cover it. My treat."
Sherlock frowned, glancing over toward the source of the voice and freezing as he caught sight of the man. "John?" he asked, somewhat uncertain that he would even be able to recognize the man after more than three years apart. "It's fine, you know... I can pay for it," he said, digging in his pockets for enough change to cover his order. "What are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be in Afghanistan, saving lives and all that..."
The veteran gazed up at him, a small smile spread across his face. He was worn, thinner, and the war had most certainly taken its toll on him. Nonetheless, here he was. John knew it would take time to adjust to civilization, as his jacket was zipped up tight from the climate change. He missed London more than he thought: the cases, chases, chaos, rants, arguments, deductions, the sweet sound of a violin playing at 2 AM, the explosions, experiments, even the body parts in the refrigerator (as disgusting as it was). However, what- or rather whom- Captain John Hamish Watson had missed most was none other than the detective himself: Sherlock Holmes. "I was." He replied simply. "Honorably discharged. It was a bit unexpected. Honestly, I thought I'd be staying over there for the remainder. Nonetheless, I had been given the details of today's flight and here I am."
"So you just came home today? Where are you staying?" he asked, frowning slightly as he looked the man over with concern: muscular and tanned from Afghanistan, weight loss- most likely from illness, the cane... "You were hurt... How badly? I ought to be buying you a drink, rather than the other way around. Did you need anything, or have you still got a drink?" He asked, glancing around until he spotted the seemingly recently unoccupied table he assumed John had been seated at. He quickly pulled the change from his pocket, placing it on the counter to pay for his order before picking up his cup and moving toward the table. "Do you mind if I join you?"
"Not at all." John replied, moving back towards the table where his army duffle lay. "And yeah, I just got back today. Roughly two hours ago. It took forever to leave the airport. To be honest, I didn't expect to run into you here." He ignored the remaining questions, knowing it was best that they go unanswered: especially the one about his injuries. Sitting down, he continued to nurse his own tea with both hands. It made him feel useful somehow, using his right to steady his left.
Sherlock nodded, following after John and moving to take a seat. "Where are you staying, now that you're back?" he asked, his gaze remaining fixed on the man as he sipped at his tea, "I hope they didn't just send you back and expect you to fend for yourself... That wouldn't be very fair," he said, frowning slightly as he considered the fact that John might not have anywhere to go.
"I was hoping to find a flat somewhere." John explained, looking up at him. "I didn't have enough time to make proper arrangements with anyone before I came back. I already started looking on the plane, made a few phone calls. Hopefully I'll be able to find somewhere with luck on my side."
Sherlock took another sip of his tea before setting it on the table. "Perhaps you'd like to come stay with me? I have an extra room... It's entirely up to you, of course, but you'd certainly be welcome," he said with a shrug, feeling somewhat embarrassed for asking.
Immediately, the shorter man turned his gaze to him. "You... You what?" He asked in disbelief. So Sherlock found another flat since their days in Uni. "It sounds great, actually." He replied, a smile spreading across his face. "I don't want to intrude or anything."
"You wouldn't be intruding," he said softly, wrapping his hands around the mug to absorb the tea's warmth. "It's fairly small, and I don't spend a great deal of time there, but it's enough for two people, certainly. You're more than welcome to stay there... If you'd like to keep looking for another place, that's fine, but at least stay with me until you find something."
"Thank you." John had no idea if it would be temporary or not, but at least there'd be somewhere to go in case he couldn't find a place of his own. "It means a lot to me, actually."
Sherlock shrugged, "It's no trouble, honestly... It's been sort of lonely living alone," he admitted, his gaze fixed on his tea, "I'm glad you made it back... I was worried I'd never get to see you again," he admitted softly.
"Feels good to be back." John replied. "Honestly, with what all happened, I didn't know if I would. If the bullet didn't kill me, which it nearly did, it would have bee infection."
Sherlock hesitated for a moment before nodding, not liking having to think about John potentially dying. "It's alright, though... Nothing bad happened. You're still here," he said softly, finishing off his tea and pushing the mug aside.
The blond nodded, draining his tea. "Exactly." He replied, moving away from the topic. "And that's what matters right now. So, how is everyone?"
Sherlock shrugged, "I don't know. Mycroft is still annoying as ever. He's about the only one I see on an at all regular basis... Far too regular for my liking," he said, wrinkling his nose slightly.
"You know he means well." John told him. "Mycroft really does. This also coming from someone with a pretty reckless sibling... Just in case you've forgotten."
Harry. Of course. "I haven't. He's still bloody annoying," he muttered, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest, "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, as unwilling as he may be to admit that."
"Let me guess: you think me staying with you will help Mycroft stay off your back more often."
"Partially, but that's not the only reason I'm asking," he said with a shrug, "He's become completely unbearable, I can't take it anymore. I was about ready to leave London. He's largely the reason I spend so little time at home. At least if I'm off on my own he can't find me as easily."
John nodded understandably. "Of course." He answered, relaxing a bit. "What about the other reasons- if its alright to ask, that is."
"I've missed you," he said simply, giving a small shrug, "I-Living alone hasn't exactly been easy," he murmured, frowning slightly as he looked down at his hands.
"Sherlock..." The veteran reached out, gently taking his hand without even realizing. "Its alright. I'm here. You don't need to worry about being alone anymore."
Sherlock swallowed thickly and nodded, pulling his hand away after a moment. "Perhaps we should be getting home," he said softly, avoiding John's gaze as he rose to his feet and moved toward the door, fishing a cigarette from his pocket as he went and immediately lighting it once he was outside.
"Home. Of course." The term seemed foreign, as it was something he had nearly forgotten. Without another word, John hoisted up his bag and slung it over his shoulder; ignoring the effect it had on him as he hailed a cab.
Sherlock looked John over with mild concern, rolling his eyes and exhaling the smoke from his lungs as he extinguished the remainder of the cigarette against the pavement. "Let me take your bag, at least," he said, pulling it from the man's shoulder before he had a chance to protest and moving to get into the cab as soon as it had come to a stop, giving the cabbie the address as he slipped inside.
John rolled his eyes as he slid into the cab. "Sherlock, I'm alright." He assured. "You should have seen some of the packs I've had to carry in the heat of Afghanistan in full uniform. That duffle bag is nothing."
"I don't care. I wasn't there to carry those for you, but I can carry this," he said, shrugging and turning to look out the window as the car began to move.
"I'm used to it." He explained. "In training, we were conditioned to march miles with them. Carrying a duffle a few steps isn't going to kill me."
"I didn't say it would, I just said I could take it," he said, glancing over at John and raising an eyebrow.
"Its not required." He replied simply. "You don't need to."
"I know I don't need to. I want to," he said, sighing in exasperation as he rested his head back against the seat, staring up at the ceiling.
This time, it was John's turn to look at Sherlock ludicrously. He was independent, used to helping others. Not the other way around. "Since when do you leap at the opportunity to help me out?"
"Since now, apparently. Shut up," he muttered, not looking at John as he spoke, "Does it really matter?"
"Yes." The blond answered bluntly, his only reply. He was fed up. Fed up from being cooped up in the hospital. Fed up from the doctors, nurses, and others tending to his wounds and digging in his mind to ensure he was mentally stable. It was true that doctors often made the worst patients. However, there was an underlying cause for all of this. One he wasn't so keen to share.
"Fine, whatever. Carry your own bloody bag," he muttered, turning his back on John and staring out the window, hating how difficult things had become. He'd wanted nothing more than to have the man back since John had left years before, but now that John was back, he seemed to be incapable of doing things right around the man, and he was terrified that John would grow annoyed with him and leave.
John shrugged off the comment, acting as if he didn't hear. However, Sherlock's tone had hut. He didn't mind a little help every now and then. it was fine. Since being injured and nearly falling victim to infection, it was constant. No one could ever seem to leave him alone to figure things out. People were smothering him, downing him in innocent acts of responsibility and/or compassion that they didn't even recognize it.
Sherlock sat in silence for the remainder of the ride, digging some crumpled bills from his pocket when the cab pulled to a stop and quickly paying the cabbie before getting out of the car and moving to unlock the door, leaving it open behind as he stepped inside and moved to make his way upstairs.
John sighed, gesturing for the cabbie to pop the trunk ans nodded gratefully as he did so. The blond really did want to be with Sherlock. He really did. He just couldn't stand being smothered. Hoisting the duffle onto his shoulder and shutting the door, John made his way inside and shut the door behind him. Damn. Stairs. John certainly wasn't used to stairs, but he was capable of climbing them at least for now. The climb itself took longer than expected, as the shorter man had to juggle the cane and the bag, but nonetheless, he left the landing and stepped inside 221B.
Sherlock had already flopped himself down on the couch by the time John made it up the stairs, having listened carefully to the man's slow steps. "Bedroom is through the kitchen and down the hall," he said, gesturing vaguely in that direction and hoping that John would simply take the room without question, even if it was somewhat apparent that it was the bedroom Sherlock had claimed, however rarely he might sleep in it.
"Mine or yours?" He needed confirmation, tired of the continuation of phases of 'a possibility' or even 'we'll have to see'. Hell, all of Afghanistan was the unknown every minutes. He needed solidity, confirmation, certainty.
"Yours now. My things are in there, but I've slept in that bed perhaps five times in total while having this place, so it's hardly mine. You're welcome to it," he said, keeping his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "I don't tend to bother with going to bed."
John turned to meet Sherlock's gaze, posture in a manner of attention purely out of habit. His own gaze was serious, determined, and almost cold. He wasn't the same John Watson who had left the country roughly three years prior. "Neither do I."
Sherlock glanced up at the man, watching him in silence for a moment before dropping his gaze. "The other room is upstairs, if you insist upon being stubborn, but I can guarantee I will not be using that bed regularly, so you may as well take it. You're still recovering. I'm not taking pity on you, I'm simply being reasonable. You will get better with stairs in time, but there's little point in making things unnecessarily difficult for yourself in the meantime... Though you seem determined to do just that."
It was too late, however. John had already started up the stairs to the empty room knowing that in the event he did manage to pass out from sheer exhaustion, what went on would be less disruptive compared to if he were on the same floor as the detective himself.
Sherlock sighed in exasperation, rolling over so his back was to the room as he laid in silence, trying to ignore the laboured footsteps of his friend as the man made his way upstairs.
John shut the door behind him, maybe a little louder than intended on his part from the combination of emotions as well as his luggage. The duffle fell to the floor with a 'thud' and the blond settled on the bed. Empty room, clear slate. Even if Sherlock was downstairs, the empty room with minimal furniture was a nice change.
Sherlock huffed at the slight slam of the door, sitting up briefly to retrieve a cigarette and his lighter before laying back on the couch, distractedly taking a drag from the cigarette. Mrs. Hudson would lecture him on smoking in the flat, he was sure, but she never got too cross with him, so it wasn't enough of a risk to bother giving up the habit.
John pulled his duffle closer before sorting through everything that was in it so he could put it all away. As long as he kept busy, mind occupied, he could prevent himself from falling asleep. It had taken John a little bit of trial and error as well as a little conditioning, but now he could keep himself up for several days a time before he crashed.
Sherlock remained on the couch until he'd finished his cigarette, eventually getting to his feet and making his way upstairs, knocking gently on the bedroom door. "I'm making tea... Do you want any?" he asked, not caring that he'd just finished a cup less than an hour before. He knew sleep would be unlikely for him, and any attempts to go to bed would prove pointless, so adding more caffeine to his body would not go amiss, though he wasn't sure whether John was intending to sleep or not.
"Thanks for the offer, but I'm fine." John called back, having yet to transition to London. His mindset, habits, routine and mannerisms that had come back with him were from Afghanistan. He glanced at the clock. On a good day, he'd be keeping his mind busy. On a bad one, he'd be up regardless keeping watch or tending to soldiers who have been wounded or killed in the middle of the night. All his clocks remained on military time to make things easier, but the veteran did turn them back to match up with the time here in London. John learned to go through the night without caffeine: the pure adrenaline of survival working through him instead. Besides, the tea over there is bloody bitter. Hardly drinkable.
"Suit yourself," he said with a sigh before turning to make his way back downstairs. It was fine... John just needed some time to himself, and that was completely fine. He was being absurd if he expected anything different. He'd been through a lot, after all, and it's not as though he'd gone out seeking Sherlock, it had simply been a chance encounter that had led them to living under the same roof again. Once he was back downstairs, Sherlock put the water on for tea, pacing around distractedly for a moment before retrieving his violin, running his fingers lightly over the strings in soundless practice until the kettle began to boil.
To John, it almost seemed like the two of them were unintentionally switching roles, but he immediately forced those thoughts out of his head. No. None of that. The shorter was on his laptop, busying himself with potential flats, trying to find any in his price range. However, none could be found so far. Nothing within walking distance of the usual shops. He wasn't able to return to work yet if he even would at all, and taking cabs all the time could be quite costly. Everything John came up with was either way out of his price range or simply inefficient to make the flat worth it.
Once Sherlock had finished preparing his tea he returned to the living room, setting the mug on the table before picking up his violin again, placing bow to strings this time as he moved toward the window, drawing out random bits of melodies in a simple effort to distract himself from the increasing tension between himself and John.
John scrubbed at his face. 'Damn it, Sherlock.' he thought, trying think back to the last time he slept. Nothing. He couldn't remember. As far as John knew, it had at least been a few days,, and a brief glance at his reflection in the window confirmed it. Five days? A week maybe? It was too much to go through every day. Would the familiar feelings of fear an panic increase with avoidance as a coping mechanism? Or would it gradually decrease over time. Regardless, John felt himself shut down his laptop and barely made it over to his bed before the voluntary part of his brain followed suit.
Sherlock completely lost track of time as he played, eventually putting his violin away and moving over to the couch to lay down, his eyes gradually falling closed as sleep threatened to wash over him.
The all too familiar sound of gunshots resounded in the otherwise silent sandy and rocky wilderness of Afghanistan. The vibrations of which resounded through the soldier. They had been ambushed, and everyone was fighting to drive the enemy back to where they came. Heart racing and adrenaline coursing through his veins, he ran trying to seek some sort of cover. Every which way around him, men were falling on both sides. Just before a ditch they had dug could be reached, a sharp burst of pain erupted from his right leg. As soon as he hit the ground, his vision blurred. Before he knew it, another burst of pain had exploded from his left shoulder, and everything instantly had gone black.
John Watson shot up in bed in a cold sweat, heart pounding as he tried to catch his breath. Fuck. He knew it. He knew it would happen. Every time. Every damn time his body crashed, the PTSD related nightmares seized the opportunities to plague him. John glanced at the clock. Two hours. He was out for two. And two hours was as much as he could possibly take. All the rest he needed, if one could even call it that, came from those two hours and no one could tell him otherwise.
Sherlock had slipped into a doze, but began to stir as he heard sounds of distress coming from upstairs. He sat up, blinking in confusion at the quiet sounds, before rising to his feet and making his way up to John's bedroom, pausing at the door before knocking softly. "Are you alright?" he asked, speech slightly slurred from sleep.
So Sherlock had been sleeping too. Maybe John had been lucky this time. Upon hearing his flatmate's voice, the veteran immediately jumped, nearly falling out of bed. He was vulnerable. Exposed. And the veteran loathed it. "Fine." He answered with the same tone as his shoulder and tea, maybe a bit sharper. The events were too much of a blur and his main focus was to keep his voice steady as well as his breathing.
"Can I come in?" he asked, vaguely aware that John was likely anything but fine. He hated that the man was so affected by everything, and he wanted to help, somehow. Already he missed the John who had left him years before... The John who would be lecturing him about proper sleep and trying to bribe him into it, rather than the other way around.
John opened his mouth, about to say 'No' far too harshly and much too fast. However there was something in Sherlock's tone that prevented him from doing that. He honestly missed Sherlock all this time, and the guilt of pushing the taller man and best friend away was stetting in. "Fine." It seemed like that's all John could say these days, almost as if it were a reassurance to himself. However, his tone was quieter, as that the single four letter word had a multitude of meanings.
Sherlock immediately opened the door, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand as he let himself in and made his way over to John's bed. "I was worried about you," he murmured sleepily, moving to lie down on the very edge of the bed, not wanting to intrude too much on John's space. "You were gone far too long... I hated you not being here," he said softly.
"Were you?" John asked, glancing over at him. His breathing was beginning to become a little more relaxed. However, his pulse was still rapid from adrenaline and sleep would now be impossible for at least a few more days. He didn't even care if Sherlock planned on crashing in his bed as well. It may as well be. However, John was fully aware he wouldn't be sleeping the rest of the night.
"Mm... Are you alright? You don't have to be alright, you know. I always try to be alright, but it usually just ends up making things worse," he mumbled, burying his face against the pillow to stifle a yawn. "You probably don't want to talk about it, but I'm here if you do. I think we both know I'm likely to be no help whatsoever, but I'm here all the same. I'm sure you've already grown annoyed with me, even though you only just got back... Please don't leave again. I'll try to be less annoying."
"There's no need for apologies." John answered. Though Sherlock didn't say it, it was implied. Thankful he was at least dressed in some fashion (t-shirt and flannel bottoms as everything had been put away), He got to his feet and moved to look out the window with his cane in hand. Honestly, he kind of owed it to Sherlock. "It was never your fault today. That was me not thinking clearly and being and upright and total arse."
"It's fine... I'm usually the upright and total arse. It's about time you took a turn. I just wasn't sure how to handle it," he said, sighing softly as he forced his eyes open to look at John. "Depriving yourself of sleep won't help anything, you know... Come lie down, at least."
The blond glared, not at Sherlock, but at the bed. As if the piece of furniture was the cause of it all. "I got my two hours." He replied simply. "It'll last me for more than you can imagine."
"John, bloody come here. Night terrors are to be expected... I certainly had enough over the past few years, and I had far less reason than you. Just come here. I'll wake you up if you're restless. You need sleep, you're exhausted, and that's coming from me. Just come lie down."
The shorter exhaled. Yep. He really owed it to Sherlock. "Fine." He replied, settling on the bed. But I'm not promising anymore sleep." He's had full night watches followed by days in sleep then. "Bloody PTSD..." He muttered under his breath, laying his cane next to his bed.
"Mm, it's to be expected," he murmured, shifting closer to the man once he'd laid down on the bed, "Just try to relax, at least... I know you're capable of staying up, but that doesn't mean you should."
"True. Even before my casualty, I was so fucking hardwired to stay up and keep going. Its war, Sherlock. Not a bleeding case where you can always regroup back at the flat. You rely on what you know as well as your instincts and keep going."
"You're not there anymore... You need to remember how to relax again," he murmured, tucking his head down against John's shoulder. "I'm a light sleeper... Even if I fall asleep, I'll wake up if you begin to stir. You're safe, John."
John immediately flinched at the sudden contact. He had been sleeping on his right side since the incident (actually using his leg seemed to irritate it) in order to give his bad shoulder a break. He was wary and quite self-conscious about the shoulder in question, so any physical contact had him a little on edge. "Trust me: I wont be able to fall asleep even if I wanted to. If you want to sleep, its fine by me. One of us has to."
Sherlock pulled back slightly, looking at John with concern. "Is my presence making you uncomfortable?" he asked softly, about to get to his feet and leave the room if John so much as said yes.
"No, not at all." John answered, honestly this time. "Its just-" He immediately cut himself off, almost as if second guessing himself. "I'm just a bloody pain in the arse." He finished, covering up the suspicion of his hesitation.
"Please be honest with me, John. I'll leave if you want me to... but I'd prefer to be close to you, at least for now. I... Well, I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again. I like having confirmation that you're here," he said softly, dropping his gaze.
"Its not you, if that's what you're afraid of." John replied. He was just starting to realize how sweat-soaked his shirt was and instantly moved to pull on another. Grabbing a clean t-shirt from the drawer, he immediately froze in realization how he couldn't switch shirts out up here. Not with Sherlock around. "I told you. Its just me being a prat."
"John, it's me. You needn't be so nervous around me. I'm about the easiest person you could be around right now. You've been shot, you have scars. Change your bloody shirt. I'll roll over, if you want, but you're being absurd," he said, sighing with exasperation, "Things used to be so easy between us. Now everything I do is wrong, it seems. You were always the one person with whom that wasn't the case," he said softly as he rolled over so his back was to John, doing his best to ignore the twisting of panic in his stomach, worried that things might never return to normal between them.
John clumsily pulled his soaked shirt over his head. Much easier said than done when one hand is occupied with a cane while the other was shaking too much to do anything properly. Damned tremor. His left shoulder was practically patchwork: a whole network of scars not only from the bullet that tore through his shoulder entirely but from the operations to reconstruct whatever damage could be fixed. Sherlock was right, though. He always was. His PTSD was tearing them apart, and there was nothing John could do.
Sherlock pressed his eyes closed, trying to fight off the increasing panic before quickly rising to his feet and moving toward the door as he felt his composure slipping fast. He hurried downstairs, bracing himself against the wall as the panic overwhelmed him and he found himself gasping for breath. He knew he was being ridiculous... That he shouldn't even be involved to the point of having an emotional response to something so simple. It should be fine that John had grown tired of him... Everyone always did, so he shouldn't be surprised. He'd been stupid, always hoping that John would always be the one who was different, the one he could feel safe and welcome with. Now everything he did made the man uncomfortable, and it was seeming more and more likely that nothing would fix that with each minute that passed. Years of nights spent lying awake, worried that the one man who mattered to him might never make it home, and now he'd come home... but he'd changed. Whatever part of him that had allowed him to tolerate Sherlock seemed to be gone, and Sherlock absolutely hated it.
"Sherlock?" John had heard Sherlock rush down the stairs and instantly became worried upon hearing his panicked breath. No. Impossible. Sherlock was always collected. If not, the detective was outraged, not falling into panic. With Sherlock occupying his mind, the clean shirt lay forgotten on a chair, the veteran immediately made his way downstairs. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I... I don't know what I did just now, but I didn't mean it. You know I didn't." He hadn't stepped into the rest of the flat yet, and the shorter was already feeling as guilty as hell.
Sherlock shook his head, careful to keep his back to John as he moved across the room. "I'm fine," he breathed, pressing his eyes tightly closed as he attempted to force himself into taking deep breaths, to no avail. "Just go back to bed... Please..." he said, not wanting the man to see him completely falling apart.
"Sherlock... " John could see himself reflected from Sherlock: torn apart, vulnerable, wanting to stay strong to keep composure. It was a wake-up call. Silently, he crossed the room and lay his free yet unsteady hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I've been such an arse to you since I came back. You let me stay with you with no hesitation and this is how I treat you... God, I'm a fucked up mess. If this ever happens again where I push you away or seem to he a bit, well, not myself, do the two of us a favor and ignore me. That's not me, and you know it. I don't even know how to live with myself most of the time anymore, let alone others. Hell, I don't even know what I'm feeling half the time. The point is: I missed you like hell over there. You almost lost me, and no I don't want to lose you. If you want to kick me out or something, fine. I'll have my things packed and on standby until I can find somewhere. I just can't stand to see you like this."
Sherlock quickly shook his head, spinning around and ducking his head down against John's neck before the man could see the tears threatening to spill over. "Don't leave. Please... Please, John. Just stay here. Make this your home... Please," he whispered, carefully wrapping his arms around the man and holding him tightly. "I've lived without you, and I've no desire do do so again. Please," he begged, suddenly regretting his lack of sleep over the past few weeks as he realized just how much of a mess he'd become. "I'm sorry."
"Not your fault." He repeated. "Flatmates should know the worst about each other, and I neglected that." The blond exhaled, wrapping his free arm around Sherlock protectively before continuing. "If I seem upset or royally pissed for no reason or even just not my typical self, please don't blame it on yourself and for the safety and well-being of the two of us, don't go taking it out on me. That's just my PTSD. I've been taking longer to get around for obvious reasons, and I sometimes overestimate myself. If you hear me in the shower, don't come rushing in to help unless I either call for you or have been in the bathroom for an obscene amount of time for my normal schedule. You'll learn it soon enough and I need to become independent. However, if its blantly obvious I need help and I'm being a stubborn ass, feel free to ignore me and help me anyway. Chances are that I really do need it and will thank you later. The night terrors, as you have seen to some extent, are probably the most satanic thing to grace the planet, and I'm always a sticky and trembling wreck afterwards. I rarely sleep because of them, running on pure adrenaline until I crash, and I only go about one round of it, which lasts about two hours. After that, like you have seen, there is practically zero chance of me falling asleep until I crash again."
Sherlock nodded, his breathing steadying somewhat until he felt able to pull back enough to look at the man, though he kept his arms wrapped around John. "This is going to sound absurd, and you'll likely hate me for asking since you wish to be independent, but would you be opposed to, perhaps, sharing a bed for the time being? I-Well, it could solve a number of problems at once. My bed is somewhat larger than yours, so it would be the logical choice. That way we can both sleep on this level without you feeling like a nuisance. I'm asking for largely selfish reasons, honestly. Sleep has never come easily to me, as you're aware, but I've been following the news about the war, to some extent. The more I followed it, the more worried I became. Every time I closed my eyes I'd see you dying in some way or other. I'm exhausted, John... I can't sleep without some form of catalyst at this point. It's been weeks," he said softly, still feeling uncomfortably emotional about it all, "I want you close... And maybe my being there could make it easier for you to sleep as well. If you'd rather not, if you'd rather I leave you alone and let you sleep in your room, that's fine. I'll do that, but I'm not likely to sleep much if that's the case," he said softly.
John nodded understandingly. "Its alright." He assured, holding him close and breathing in Sherlock's familiar scent. It had been years, damn it! "I don't mind." He assured. "I really don't. I'm not guaranteeing that I'll sleep. You on the other hand, clearly need it. I'm being driven insane from it, and I take it you're the same without it. I would gladly go without for weeks on end if I was able. Besides, you cant solve cases very well if you're exhausted." John shook his head. "God, I'm a wreck I honestly should have come with an instruction manual or something."
"You're fine... You're alive and bloody gorgeous as always," he murmured, trailing his fingertips lightly over the marks on the man's shoulder. "Do you have any idea how much I missed you, John Watson?" he breathed, part of him warning him he'd regret his actions come morning, but he was largely too tired to care. Carefully, he moved to press a light kiss to the bullet scar. "Thank you for coming home," he whispered, pulling away reluctantly and making his way to bed, desperately hoping the man would follow him.
Upon contact, the veteran flinched but remained still otherwise. 'This is Sherlock.' He told himself. 'Sherlock wouldn't hurt me.' Upon feeling Sherlock's lips pressed up against him, John felt himself grow hot. "There's no need to thank me." He answered, following Sherlock like a dog who had been out on the streets for far too long. "I have a couple of colleagues who deserve the gratitude. If it werent for them, my injuries would most likely be fatal."
"I ought to send them gift baskets or something, then... Is that what people do to show gratitude?" he asked, frowning slightly as he flopped down on the bed and glanced over at John. "I suppose it matters little... Come lie down. We can talk, or whatever you'd like to do. I'll stay up for you, if you want."
"There's various ways. Anything, really regardless of how simple. Always the thought that counts. As far as I know, they're still over there." John explained, crossing over to the bed and sitting down on its edge. Sherlock's room must be the master, then. "You need to get some sleep. I'm perfectly fine just laying here with you if that's what you need."
Sherlock nodded, shifting to slip under the blankets himself before pulling them back slightly in a silent invitation to John. "So long as you're close," he murmured, wanting nothing more than to be able to fall asleep breathing in John's scent.
"I promise." John replied reassuringly, carefully climbing into bed as well. "I'll be here." He vowed, pulling the covers up over himself.
"Thank you," he whispered, hesitating a moment before shifting closer to John, carefully curling up against the man's chest. "Goodnight," he murmured, closing his eyes as he breathed in the man's scent, eventually drifting off to sleep.
"Goodnight, Sherlock." The veteran allowed himself to relax some, enjoying Sherlock's company. Though he allowed his body to rest John never fell asleep like he did earlier.
Sherlock slept soundly for the first time in what felt like an eternity, shifting closer to John through the night.
It was sadly only a few hours later until dawn, and John merely lay content next to Sherlock. He hadn't slept at all that night as usual. However, Sherlock was content, and he certainly felt a little safer with the detective around. He didn't dare wake him. With Sherlock unable to sleep for weeks on end, John figured it would be best to just let him sleep.
Sherlock slept for a few hours before beginning to stir, unaccustomed to sleeping for any length of time. He groaned as he was pulled back to consciousness, burying his face against John's neck as he attempted to hold onto sleep for a while longer.
"Shhh. I'm right here, Sherlock." He assured, shifting slightly. "I'm not going anywhere."
Sherlock nodded, nuzzling close to the man and pressing a sleepy kiss to his neck before slipping back into a doze, feeling safe and comfortable next to John.
John wrapped a protective arm around him, murmuring quiet reassurances that he was here in 221B and not in Afghanistan like the detective's nightmares portrayed.
"I know," he mumbled, pulling back slightly and shaking his head in an attempt to push away the remnants of sleep. "I missed you so much," he whispered.
"Missed you too." John replied. "I would have written while I was stuck in the hospital over there, but I doubt you would have been able read it regardless of what hand I used."
"It's alright... I understand. You were busy before being in hospital, and then you were hurt. It's fine," he murmured, distractedly trailing his fingers over the man's scar again, "You're a very brave man, John..."
"Not because I was busy. Because you honestly wouldn't have been able to decipher my sorry excuse for chicken scratch." He watched Sherlock's slender fingers, flinching slightly in reaction to his touch, but not like that first time the precious night. "Really? I don't feel that way after going through a series night terrors."
"You are... You're the bravest man I know," he murmured, noticing as John flinched slightly at his touch. "I won't hurt you, John... I'll be gentle," he said softly, moving to press a light kiss to the scars again. "You're incredibly gorgeous..."
"Am I?" He asked, pretty much in response to both. Sherlock was as gentle as he could possibly be instead of fighting with him, and the blond couldn't ask for any more than that. "So I'm apparently brave and 'incredibly gorgeous' as you put it. What could possibly possess you to think that?"
"Over three years of thinking of you near constantly, only to have you come back being even more incredible than I imagined?" he suggested, raising an eyebrow.
"I'm damaged, Sherlock." The shorter admitted. "Broken. How can you possibly think that I'm more incredible? I think the separation really messed with you."
"John... Shut up," he said, rolling his eyes. "You are amazing. You are not broken, John. You will never be broken. Yes, maybe you look a bit different... Maybe you have some scars, and have injuries that have not quite healed yet. Maybe it will take longer than expected for you to become your normal self. Maybe you need to practise going up and down stairs a bit more. That's all fine. You are not broken, you are you. You are Captain John Hamish Watson, the man who has saved likely hundreds of lives, and who still managed to come back to me intact. Maybe you were broken, but you were put back together. Now you have these scars, to show everything you've been through... To show how incredibly strong you are, and how lucky I am to have you here with me. Don't ever say you're damaged, John. Damaged and broken both imply weakness... If anything you've come back stronger, though you may not know it yet."
John fell silent, listening to the detective carefully. Every deep, baritone syllable that came from him held more meaning than the soldier could ever think possible. Broken. Scars. Injuries. Damaged. Weakness. That's what he thought: what he thought of himself. However, Sherlock was thinking differently: just as he always did. Amazing. Fine. Together. Strong. Hero.
"I'd be lost without my blogger." Sherlock continued. "In the past, you've praised me, reminding me I'm a hero even though I deny it. I used to think heroes didn't exist, John. I never believed in them until I met you. You are everything I will never be, and you are more than worthy of the recognition. Welcome home, John Watson."