Most nights were pretty good since Sherlock came home after those 3 long years of fighting, running, and being oh so clever. It was definitely quite a shocker when he showed up at the flat for the first time while John was making tea in the kitchen. It cost John a pretty nice tea pot that Mrs. Hudson had given him as a birthday present as consequence. Getting back into the rhythm of things again did take some effort and, after an equally shocking visit to Lestrade, they were back solving mystery after mystery as if nothing had happened.
But there were some things that Sherlock didn't like to talk about; things that John knew haunted his mind every now and then because he could recognize it on Sherlock's face as he did years ago on his own after getting back from the war. He wouldn't say it was PTSD, Sherlock was too resolved and clever for those illusions and flashbacks to fool him, so John summed it up to simply bad memories. Until those bad memories started to come to life, so to speak.
It was a particularly cold evening in March in the flat on Baker Street mainly because the heating had quit after a power outage occurred several hours prior. John and Sherlock made use of the fireplace in the sitting room and a makeshift campsite was now present in front of it. The fire was nice and toasty, but it didn't reach past the sitting room by any means which included their respective bedrooms, forcing them to take refuge in front of the fire hopefully for just the one night. Of course no power meant no internet or TV which didn't leave much for Sherlock to focus on other than the forever changing flames within the fireplace, and even that didn't occupy him for long.
"Bored." Sherlock mumbled. He was sitting in front of the fireplace with his long legs tucked under his chin and his equally long arms wrapped around his legs. His chin was resting on top of his knees while his eyes were focused on the flames. John, on the other hand, was dozing in his armchair comfortably covered in blankets with a cooling mug of tea on the table next to him. He lifted his head slightly with half-opened eyes and frowned at Sherlock.
"Well, it is after all night time, did you ever think about, I dunno, sleeping?" John asked with a hint of sarcasm and an obvious tiredness to his voice. Sherlock just tugged the quilted blanket around him closer and said nothing. John sighed and snuggled in further into the chair.
"Well you're not gonna start shooting the wall again at two in the morning, so go to your mind palace or something and—yawn—chase some old bad guys around…" John murmured towards the end and was soon drifting back off to sleep. Sherlock looked up at his friend from the floor and made a noise of exasperation with a hint of jealousy.
"I wish I could…" Sherlock whispered to himself. Reluctantly, he stood up with the blanket still wrapped around him and pushed his leather chair closer to the fireplace where it would definitely retain the heat the fire was putting out. Animal skin had a lovely way of doing so. After becoming content with the surface temperature of his chair, Sherlock settled down in it and pulled his legs up to his chest; minimizing the amount of space where his body heat would escape and rewrapped the blanket around him for better coverage. With a heavy sigh, Sherlock settled in and placed his head on the back of the chair; staring up at the ceiling almost willing it to start cracking or to do something interesting. But of course it didn't so Sherlock closed his eyes and did as John suggested, he searched his Mind Palace for something interesting to remember.