This story was "bought" by Johnsarmylady at the tumblr birthday auction for Mark Gatiss. She wished that I put John Watson in danger. Well, I did.
The events of this story take place a couple of weeks after "The Hound of Baskerville", with John having not quite forgotten the events in laboratory.
I own nothing but my heartfelt thanks to Mark Gatiss, Stephen Moffat and of course Sir ACD for giving us those fabolous characters.
My thanks also go to Mapleleafcameo for kicking out serveral of the mistakes I made.
The hour had just struck three as John Watson was sitting in front of his computer, shivering almost imperceptibly. He was uncertain if the physical reaction was caused by the low temperature in the flat or due to the aftermath of the horror he had experienced just so recently.
The sudden touch of a woollen blanket that was being draped around his shoulders startled the doctor and he flinched.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock apologized softly.
"It's all right." John tried to appear calm but the light tremor in his voice as well as the hunched shoulders gave him away to the ever-observant consulting detective. For a moment Sherlock allowed both hands to rest upon the blanket, before he walked into the kitchen to put the kettle on.
John wished Sherlock's hands were back on his shoulders, missing both the warmth which had seeped through the blanket as well as the comfort the touch had provided. Seeing his friend making tea bemused John. Was Sherlock as much affected by the close call as he was or did he merely think John was in need of being fussed over?
Either way, John didn't complain when a cup with the steaming tea and a dash of milk was put on the table, right next to his laptop. He took the cup in both hands, inhaling the scent of the tea, not even noticing that he closed his eyes while doing so.
Sherlock sat down across from John, resting his chin on his hands and fixing the doctor with his gaze. Seeing his friend so vulnerable pained Sherlock more than he let on. He had never been comfortable touching other people but felt that the simply gesture of putting his hands upon John's shoulders had relaxed the man and provided the comfort he was obviously in need of. The moment was gone and Sherlock knew that repeating the action wouldn't work. Instead of feeling comforted, it would merely puzzle John and make both of them feel awkward.
"Do you..."
"Thank you!"
Both men had spoken simultaneously.
John opened his eyes and returned his friend's calm gaze.
"Do I want to talk about what happened?"
Sherlock nodded encouragingly.
John didn't answer right away, wondering if he wanted to relive the hours underground; trapped, hunted while having expected to get buried alive.
The detective observed the emotions that were flickering across John's face. "You don't have to." He looked down at his hands that were mirroring John's, holding the teacup exactly the same way. "Writing the blog probably is as good as talking to me, perhaps even better."
There was no hurt in Sherlock's voice but John felt the need to contradict him in this point and shook his head.
"You know that that is not true. Besides," he turned the laptop for Sherlock to see what he had written up to this point, "I only managed to write down the headline so far."
"The Five Orange Pipes," Sherlock said uncommitted, having read the headline when he had provided John with the blanket.
John shrugged. "A name as good as any."
The tremor that ran across John's shoulders a few seconds later told Sherlock otherwise and that his friend was perhaps not ready but willing to talk. By sinking further into his chair, he anchored himself for the story he was about to hear.