Gregarious

The music hurts his ears. Dreadful eighties nonsense. Heinous crime to the term music.

It smells gastly, cigarettes, normally fine, but there's an ache in him now, he can't be near someone who smokes without wishing he still did. It's when the smoke mixes with stale beer and food that the smell is unbearable.

The pub he finds himself scanning is shabby, old, the only people here are regulars and children just about allowed to drink, it's probably their local, maybe they think it's cool.

But he's here, with John. Why is that again?

Oh yes, it had been the eyes, wistfulness just emanated from them. He had to follow. Didn't much think of saying no. Ever since the… incident he's been loathe to leave the doctors side.

John wanted a pint. Again, why? Alcohol just slows you down. He doesn't much care for the stuff.

He's had enough, but he doesn't want to drag John away. He waits until the glass has only a fifth left.

"Can we go now?" It's more petulant than he'd intended but it does the trick.

John laughs and downs the fifth in one before standing and shrugging on his jacket. "You have to be the single most gregarious person I've ever met." The doctor remarks.

Sherlock smiles and follows him out into the cold air. "My mission in life."

Doctor and detective stroll back to their flat, some might say that they're a little to close to be considered platonic, but hey, let 'em talk.

The dark haired one stops suddenly and turns on his companion.

"Never do that to me again."

John smiles innocently. "Do what?"

"That was a test, you didn't complain when I asked to leave! You wanted to know how long I'd last!"

The quiet London evening is filled with laughter as the shorter one speeds off into the night. The tall one hot on his heels.

I doubt John could out run Sherlock, he's at a disadvantage due to the height difference, but then after the war his stamina is probably much better than Sherlock's so hey you never know!
Cashwin's word. Hope it's okay.

Command

It isn't his turn but quite frankly he's given up trying to get Sherlock to the supermarket. The detective seems wholly against any type of shopping, dull, he says, boring.

He wonders if he should put up with this, this and all else that drives him mad. He probably shouldn't but he does.

It isn't like he's commanded to do things or treated like a slave. Sometimes Sherlock can be a little curt, but then so can he.

John Watson smiles to himself at the self service machine (it doesn't hate him anymore) and thinks that there's no place like home even if the one who waits there is a bit demanding.

Demanding, now there's a way to put it lightly.

Scare

He thought it had stopped, but it seems to have come back since the… incident. Probably some kind of memory thing, a soft of déjà vu. It hurts him to hear it, the screams, the thrashing. He finds himself walking up the stairs, treading lightly.

It's not like it keeps him awake, he's awake anyway. Nothing sinister, he doesn't get nightmares, it's the nicotine that gets him. He knows that your only supposed to have one, but he figured as he used to be a chain smoker he could get away with two. Now he uses three or four, that's what you get.

He opens the door carefully, there's no creak, breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn't go in yet. Just stands in the doorway, the threshold between leaving Watson the hell alone and interfering with what is obviously a touchy subject.

A violent scream makes him flinch and he crosses said threshold in an instant, grabbing the doctors shoulders and, unsure of what to do, shaking him awake.

At first he fights a bit but once his eyes are open he shrinks away, recoiling from Sherlock's touch. He looks ashamed.

Sherlock searches his mind for something to say but comes up empty. "Is there anything I can do?" He asks, best he could dredge up.

He moves back slightly, sitting on his heels by the bed, John sits up and puts his head in his hands.

"I'm sorry," He tries again. " but please, let me help."

The doctor looks up at him, pain in his eyes. A haunted shadow of a man in this weak state, but Sherlock doesn't see John as weak.

John faces his fears by actually sleeping, Sherlock knows that if he had nightmares of that severity, he'd do anything to keep them away. He'd probably take far too many sleeping pills medication, or even revert back to being a user.

John manages a small rueful smile. "I don't think there is."

"Would talking about it help?" He's clutching at straws here but he's never wanted anything as much as he wants to save his friend from the horrors that plague him.

The smile is a little bigger but it still won't reach John's eyes. "It might do." He scoots over a bit and gestures for Sherlock to sit next to him. "Your lucky, my therapist's been wanting this out of me for weeks."

To be continued. My genarator throws nice words at me. Guess the next one. I dare ya!