Silent Afflictions

Waiting for the Silence

For the third time in the past hour, Sherlock heard John jerk himself awake on the sofa. The man was a contradiction as Sherlock understood it. He would get comfortable, his eyes would drop a fraction, as would the book he was holding – not that he'd actually turned more than three pages in the last two hours – but within 5 minutes he'd seem to realise he'd fallen asleep and jerk awake once more.

Checking the time, the younger man saw it was gone midnight; well past the good doctor's usual bed time. Sighing, he looked over to his friend who seemed to be trying to get comfortable again, while not being too comfortable as to drift off again. "John, you're dropping. Go to bed."

Despite the blunt words, they were oddly caring for Sherlock and John would have smiled if he had the energy. He was stubborn though. "No, I want to wait for Rose."

"Why?" Sherlock asked. If it were anyone other than his friends, he wouldn't have bothered to ask, but despite the apparent unusualness of the question, he genuinely wanted to know why John wanted to wait for the young woman; he didn't think she'd be injured or otherwise need medical attention and there wasn't anything they could do to improve the earlier situation. So why would the rational doctor want to deprive himself of needed sleep when he didn't need to.

John looked over to his friend, hoping to make him understand what it was to look after someone you cared about. "She was upset."

"She's always upset," Sherlock dismissed before thinking it through, getting a raised eyebrow from the sleepier man. "Well... Not always, but still. This isn't the first time she's been upset."

"No," John allowed before elaborating. "But I haven't seen her that upset before. I just want to know when she's home safe."

Sherlock frowned, nodding slightly as he lent away from his computer, thinking a little more on his friend's words.

His younger flat mate had gone out earlier that day, though they only knew from the front door shutting behind her but it had long since gone dark and a heavy storm had fallen over London throwing lashings of rain down on the streets outside as the sky had periodically light up with the sparks of lightning that rumbled loudly from above.

After an hour or so of John's silent fretting, Sherlock had suggested that if her absence was bothering him that much, he should call her. While John had wanted to give the young woman some space, he knew he'd feel better for checking in on her.

However, when they had called her phone, they heard it ringing from her bedroom downstairs making them both a little more concerned; Rose very rarely left her phone at home.

They moved on though, Sherlock consoling John that Rose was indeed perfectly capable of looking after herself and in this weather – even if she was out in it – the worst that would happen was that she may catch a cold. John had accepted this and moved on a little, however Sherlock had spent the next few hours trying to identify the unusual feeling in the put of his stomach.

After a while, he'd realised it was worry for his friend.

Now – at the thought of waiting for his friend to come home – that unfamiliar niggle seemed to settle a fraction. It was for his own peace of mind that John was waiting for her, not a reflection on her own ineptitude. Rose would be fine, John just wanted to make sure for himself that she was in fact alright when she came home.

This now seemed an obvious deduction that caused the intelligent man to frown; he should have realised that a lot sooner, though he does seem to be learning a lot today. Like yet another insight into her family...

Her parents hadn't so much as surprised Sherlock, he would admit he hadn't expected the turn of events to turn out quite so dramatically.

Her mother was certainly no surprise; she was practically an older version of Rose herself, though it seemed a little more worn down for her additional years. She was bright, paid attention and had intelligence to match Rose's own, however it seemed she had long since been out the habit of paying quite enough attention to her daughter. Rose had surpassed her mother long before he'd taught her.

Tina however was a stark contrast to Rose and her mother in almost every way. She didn't pay attention at all – barely listened in fact – and seemed to make up her own mind before even considering what was in front of her. As though she would determine who the murderer was in one of John's silly films within the first five minutes and no amount of uncovered proof could persuade her otherwise.

Sherlock had disagreed on many things that her parents had said – and insinuated – earlier that day, however most clearly and obviously was Rose being a run-away. She had none of the signs of a run away and by the sounds of it they had all but told her to leave.

In a rare moment of reflection, Sherlock Holmes found himself comparing her family to his own and finding himself feeling a rare bout of gratefulness that his own parents were nothing like hers. Yes, they had their faults – everyone did it seemed – but they were good people. His mother was a little overbearing sometimes, but she was one of the few people who actually knew how to deal with him and his brother. The Holmes sons were a handful for sure, but his parents had actually done a very good job in raising them.

An unusual sound broke the young Holmes out of his nostalgia however and as he opened his own eyes, he found that the good doctor had finally succumbed to the sleep he needed and was now snoring on the worn-out sofa.

Checking the time, Sherlock saw it was 12.58 am and decided in that moment to do something he hadn't done before; he'd wait up to ensure his friend got home safely. After all, if John thought it was important, he may as well see it through, if only to see what results it yielded.

Standing up, he grabbed a spare blanket that had been thrown over the back of a chair and draped it over the sleeping doctor before deciding a cup of coffee may be in order to help him stay up a little longer.

Taking a steaming cup of coffee back to the living room, Sherlock stood by the window watching the rain pound against the glass as the pane shuddered slightly against the wind. Frowning a little at how the weather had turned, he thought vaguely that he certainly wouldn't want to be out in that weather.

It was at that moment that the cold, blunt Sherlock Holmes – infamous for his brash insults and harsh methods – identified a particular emotion.

He'd experienced it before but never really put his finger on it, the experience being so fleeting that he hadn't really paid it much mind.

Empathy.

He wouldn't want to be out in this storm and so was concerned about his friend being out in it. It was a strange notion that many had tried to teach him in his life but now the pieces had truly fallen into place, he wasn't too sure he liked the notion any more than he did before...