A/N: Apologies that I haven't updated in absolutely ages. I had humungous writer's block on this.
Thanks to Eve & Vikki for lifting that.
Chapter 4
John tossed and turned in his sleep, frowning. In his dream, he was back on the rooftop at Bennett Street, setting up the shot. Just as he held his breath to pull the trigger, he saw Sherlock out of the corner of his eye; put off, he missed the shot.
As Sherlock's gaze shifted to the source of the gunshot and ultimately John, John heard a tutting behind him. 'You know the price for screwing up, Johnny Boy.'
John awoke screaming as Sherlock crumpled to the floor. Relief mingled with horror as he realised that it was 'only' a dream and he curled in on himself crying silently. He still could not believe that he had become a hired killer, let alone that he was in the employ of Jim Moriarty.
'John?' The man in question jumped as Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder. He lifted his gaze to meet the cool, grey eyes of his friend filled with guilt and concern. John shook his head, his eyes bright with tears. 'My friend, I'm concerned, talk to me.'
John said nothing. He couldn't trust himself to open his mouth; he didn't know what would come out – bile, screams … the truth … So he gritted his teeth and forced a small smile, shaking his head again.
Sherlock closed his eyes and bowed his head. ' I know this is my fault. For what it's worth, I'm sorry. If there had been another way, John, any other way, I would've taken it. I hope you know that.' He squeezed John's shoulder and left the room sighing heavily.
He watched his friend leave. He knew he needed to get a grip. Sherlock knew something was wrong, but as yet didn't see exactly what. It was only a matter of time before he latched on to him, analysing and making deductions.
John got up and went to the bathroom, turning on the shower; he let the hot water soothe him. He was a soldier; he could do this, he had to do this.
/
The next morning, John came down at his usual time of 7.30am for breakfast before surgery; Sherlock was sat on his chair 'thinking'. John greeted him with a tired 'morning Sherlock' and went to make tea (coffee for Sherlock). As he was pouring the boiling water, he heard Sherlock speak from directly behind him.
'What was last night about, John The night terrors don't usually affect you that badly once you've woken up.'
John turns to hand him his coffee. 'It was just the migraine. I was certain that if I opened my mouth to speak, I was going to be sick, so I didn't. I'm OK now, the nausea has passed.' He starts making toast to prove his point.
Sherlock looked at his flatmate. He was pale and his hands were shaking slightly as he loaded bread into the toaster. There were dark circles under his eyes, which were bloodshot. Migraine seemed a feasible explanation for the physical symptoms. He supposed that the pain of the headache would cause increased sensitivity to emotional trauma. Eventually, he speaks, 'Are you sure you should be going to work today, John?'
John looks up. 'It's a headache, Sherlock. I've taken painkillers, I'll be fine now the nausea has passed' He forces a smile. [please buy it]
Sherlock nods. 'You're the doctor'
A/N: I know it's a short chapter. I promise more to follow in the next days