The moment his head hit the soft pillow and his eyes closed, John fell into a deep sleep. But almost instantly, the feather-like blankets became his battlefield.
You fucking bastard! He heard. You can never do anything right! We're going out on the streets! John's seven year old self whimpered as he hid behind the kitchen wall. It was late at night, when his parents thought he and Harry had already fallen asleep. Well, Harry had. John woken up to the sound of yelling and had come down to investigate.
Young John thought it'd be like a mystery novel, he'd brought his magnifying glass and pretended to creep down the stairs like a spy.
But what he heard struck him like a bolt of lightning. His mother, his kind, patient, beautiful mother was red faced and furious at a man he thought could do no wrong. The child sank down to a sitting position and listened, because he could not bring himself to run away. Yet the screams were more terrifying to him than any monster under his bed, for these monsters were real.
I'm not the one at fault here! Bitch!
The last word was spat out by a voice an unrecognizable voice.
Get out! Leave! Don't ever come back here!
Again, another unrecognizable voice. Who were these people in his house? Where were his parents, his loving, caring parents?
Fine! I don't need you!
John felt loud thumps of footsteps storming out the back door.
These mysterious people hadn't seen him.
But once the door slammed, he heard sobbing. Frantic, uncontrollable sobbing on the other side of the wall. It was heart wrenching, to hear such a beautiful voice shatter like glass.
John bowed his head and as the rhythm of the crying vibrated through his small, numb heart, he began to cry alongside this foreign woman. Silent tears streamed down his face, everything was dark and scary. He wanted to run outside, and see his father outside the garage saying he was just stargazing and ask John to look with him. They'd name the constellations, from left to right and laugh when John pointed out Peter Pan flying to Neverland.
But he knew that somewhere, in his old, red truck, Mr. Watson was crying to the same beats of this woman.
Where had his family gone?
The slow, beautiful melody ended and Sherlock lifted his bow off the strings. All was silent for a blessed second. No cars, no police sirens, no chatter, no sounds at all. He slowly opened his eyes and savored the precious moment in the middle of the night.
He had often felt this, these seconds of pure silence, and he knew that during these hours, time seemed to slow down. As if not wanting to break the moment, Sherlock breathed in slowly and a small smile crept onto his face.
However, the glorious time did not last long. From upstairs came a quiet, muffled thumping. Sherlock's eyes snapped open and his ears pricked up as a sound came through the floor of the room above him.
John.
Ever so quietly, Sherlock made his way to the stairs and began to climb. Violin still in hand, the detective reached the top of the stairs and the entrance to his flatmate's bedroom.
"John?" Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper.
Hearing no reply, he pushed open the door and found John tossing and turning, and grunting with what seemed like frustration in his sleep.
"John." Sherlock said again.
But John was in too deep of a sleep to hear Sherlock's low voice.
Sherlock stepped in, closing the door behind him as to not disturb John with the light from the hallway. Minutes passed with Sherlock standing next to John's bed, watching him as he flailed his arms wildly in his dream.
Sherlock's eyebrows were furrowed in frustration, not sure how to handle another human being, but wanting to help in every way possible.
Finally, when the grunts became whimpers, Sherlock got an idea.
He raised his left arm with a wooden instrument in his left hand, and began his soft tune. The song blanketed John and wrapped around him with warmth. It was like lying in a field of soft grass during the spring time out in the country. Time slowed down and enveloped the listener with captivating wonder as the melody created sunshine for John on his bloody battlefield.
Sherlock Holmes played with passion, each finger placed with care, feeling that if he got even the slightest note wrong, the sun would disappear and the gray clouds would come to bring rain and thunder and lightning on this beautiful scenery.
John's face smoothed out with content, sighing as the warm song comforted him.
On the ending note, that crystal clear note, John cracked open a sleepy eye.
An arm reached out and tugged at Sherlock's loose pants, and at the same time John mumbled something. That something was soft. So soft that even with his excellent senses, the detective couldn't hear it.
Sherlock lowered himself so that his face was level to John's and he simply said, "Yes, John?" in the same soft voice.
This time, the voice was clearer, but still soft, and it said, "Stay with me? Please?"
"Alright."
Young John cried and cried and cried. Sobs racked his small body and his hands were clenched in fists. Suddenly, he felt a familiar presence standing above him. John couldn't make out the face, but he knew he could trust this man.
"John," He said, "It's time for bed."
The voice, that voice. Could it be? Was it really true?
Seven year old John stood up quickly. He stepped hesitantly closer to the man.
It was!
John smiled through his tears and grabbed the hand of the man.
"Come on dad! You have to read me a bed time story!" He said laughing.
"Oh alright," The man's face appeared and the loving expression could warm anyone's heart.
The pair reached the bedroom and John opened the door while dragging his father by his hand.
John suddenly took an intake of breath.
His mother. Sitting in the chair next to his bed.
Oh no, what was going to happen?
He expected the worse, but his mother surprised him.
"Hi honey!" She said brightly, getting up to kiss him on the cheek, "I've been waiting for you, John; Mummy has a new song for you."
John's eyes widened and all doubt and unhappiness seemed to melt off him.
"But you have to get into bed first," His father's gruff voice added.
John quickly climbed into his green-with-red-fire-trucks bed and settled in as his parents sat on the edge.
Once everything was settled, his mother began to sing.
Oh, she had a glorious voice. It was like a violin, beautiful and clear and high. The best thing was, she sang with passion and John loved that about his mother. But the song was a whole other story; it was soft and slow and cast a warm feeling all around John. There was no other way to describe it other than it was like a sunny spring day.
Just as young John was drifting off to sleep, he reached out and grabbed his father's hand and whispered, "Daddy?"
"Yes, John?"
"Stay with me? Please?"
"Alright."