A/N: Grown from a sudden longing.

Still no cases, I'm afraid. I'll try to come up with something more intricate next time.

Keep keeping safe, keep keeping strong. -csf


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Sherlock Holmes is not a man who gets frightened easily. As many thrill seekers, he revels on that eyes wide moment as one hops off an airplane with two engines on fire, a second away from being clear of the hellish ball of fire and metal, about to pull the handle on the parachute, desperate delusions that it may not open running wild in his mind.

It's John that tells him off, as he reaches the ground. Needed he wait that long to open the ruddy parachute?

The famous detective smirks, for he knows John would have been only too keen to join him in the manic, erratic manoeuvres to reclaim possession of a diplomatic nightmare letter from a prince in a foreign potency to a prime minister, stolen by a lover, handed to a pizza delivery man, scooter-ed to the airport and handed to a retired aircraft pilot with a heart condition who, unfortunately, suffered a catastrophic heart attack when Sherlock burst into the cockpit. John guided Sherlock through heart massages and all the other fine points of CPR to no avail. With the plane crash landing into the sea – sabotaged, it seems, by the prime minister's security team, perhaps – it was pointless for the detective to fly the vessel to safety. He did manage, however, to make it turn round, double back over the airfield where John was presumably desperately calling his friend's name, and gasping in anticipated horror. Sherlock calculated a course that made the aircraft safely crash into the sea – no fishermen or cruise ships about – and popped the parachute nearby the airfield where a tiny speck of blue jeans and off-white jumper awaited for him in frantic gestures, curses, pleads. Honestly, if John doesn't mind his heart rate he may get some heart problems of his own.

But that was nearly two months ago.

Today is self-isolation day. Again.

All days are now self-isolation days.

They all blend into one another.

Sherlock misses his fix of adrenaline and heroism.

He can only guess how strung up John is, the original adrenaline addict.

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I'm popping popcorn in the microwave (after cleaning the machine carefully and removing all biological specimens from the grotty space, curry leftovers and unmentionable others). Haven't made popcorn in a while.

You can't really have Movie Night without popcorn.

Sherlock didn't know about movies with popcorn, and of being a couch potato for a night. It was just one of those things the hermit, stoic and spartan detective didn't know before I became his flatmate. I'm sure Sherlock had plenty of fun with his former flatmates; I'm just not sure they saw the fun of his peculiar habits and sense of humour. Pickled toes and microwaved eyeballs are turn offs for most regular folks, and I can't blame them. As for me, I don't let those minor things bother me. Doctor and soldier, remember?

For some reason, Sherlock is more into this Movie Night than usual. He asked me for a scary horror film. A very scary one.

He did laugh at Hitchcock's woman getting stabbed in the bathtub, saying she would have seen the intruder's shadow across the shower curtain, and that the black and white blood was very inky and not behaving like proper coagulating blood as it drained away through the plug hole. He may have had some more objections, but I elbowed him in the ribs and told him to shut up.

I apologised for it some time later.

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John is ever the warrior, watching tight jawed the nonsensical plot forming in vivid pictures on 221B's telly. At least that is what crosses Sherlock's mind as he returns to the sofa, briefly asking "what did I miss?"

The soldier launches into a quick, farfetched explanation of the plot so far, without taking his eyes off the screen. Sherlock, for his part, does not take his eyes off John, analysing the quick, shallow breath, the tense muscles, the dilated pupils. Surely John is not so highly reactive to cheap fiction!

Sherlock tries every day to get this level of attention from John. Must Sherlock join the ranks he defeats, and start acting as a deranged killer to get John's full attention?

It's all too predictable, a bad celluloid waste of effort and a meagre logic narrative. By the end of it, all the secondary characters will die, one by one, and the hero will make it out alright due to a romantic love's self-sacrifice, or the romantic conquest is spared as a winner's prize. It really doesn't abode well for brain cells and masses, that this was another box office hit. Sherlock would not accept a true romantic lover's sacrificing themselves for him, nor would he acquire possession on account of saving their life. Why does John excuse those as poetic liberties for artistic expression?

Honest, John must dim some of his neuron synapses to follow such contrived cinema plots with meekness.

Sherlock takes a seat by John's side, barely disguising a contemptuous huff.

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I pretend Sherlock's huffing and puffing is not happening at the moment. For if I acknowledge it in the slightest, it will send the detective into a rant over the plausibility of the plot, the female protagonist's lack of winter suitable clothing while the male counterpart is wrapped up in a fur trimmed coat, or the Art Deco teapot making a backdrop appearance in a Victorian era period story. Watching a film with Sherlock can be incredibly distracting, and he loves to pick it apart so much that I lose track of the plot. Even in action movies I lose track of the number of explosions, or in – lord forbid – crime dramas, the new dead bodies and plot twists.

If only Sherlock would allow himself to sit back and enjoy the film, maybe them I could find out who killed that man in the Orient Express at last.

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It mesmerises Sherlock that John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, is a man who is munching popcorn in an automated abstraction, as he lives and breathes a silly digitisation of a celluloid film some seventy-something years old.

'John, put something on I will like to watch.'

The doctor blinks and looks up. Takes Sherlock's cue and hands over the bowl he has been clinging to as a lifeline. Sherlock evenly divides the remaining batch of popcorn. A start over.

With an extra pinch of popcorn for Sherlock for the effort.

'Just drop it, John', the detective pre-empts John's protests. 'You made the popcorn on account of me. Technically they were meant for me.'

Sherlock can still make John giggle. Not always on cue, though.

'Yeah, sure. Lemme think of another movie...'

The blond gets up from the sofa, stiff limbed, and wobbles over to the telly (the remote for which has long succumbed to Sherlock's experiments, and now magically operates the shower head, somehow; apparently it's a health and safety upgrade in Sherlock's world, a disposable device in case the investigator spills on him concentrated chemicals that corrode metal taps). John mulls it through and finally settles on a highly unrealistic front cover film.

'You'll like this one, mate.'

And Sherlock secretly trusts he will, for John knows him better than anyone. Except maybe Mycroft, his brother. But Mycroft would never know a scary film to advise. That's got to be John.

In order to keep John from going too smug from his correct choice, Sherlock starts picking apart the film from the first murky plot scenes.

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Sherlock won't settle down. I guess this isn't working so well. I repress another elbow to his ribs, because the last one made my elbow sore. I need to make sure the skinny detective is feeding himself more than just popcorn.

For now I keep my focus on the film, secretly appreciating the detective's snide comments on the plot, the acting, the lighting and the soundtrack. You see, I know this film well so it doesn't bother me. Sherlock is the one in for a few surprises yet.

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There is something about watching scary movies in the company of someone like John. The sturdy soldier's quiet nature is an anchor for Sherlock's fast beating heart as the protagonists on screen keep making awkward and implausible choices; really, there's a ritualistic killer on the loose and you decide to separate to investigate the spooky woods?

'Sherlock, we did that with that garrotter's case.'

'Yeah, but we're professionals. Those idiot kids clearly are not', he huffs.

John hums, gravely, and gives in.

Sherlock turns his attention to the quiet man who is so good at keeping his quiet façade. One moment he wears his heart on his sleeve, pleading to Sherlock to take the emotional case of an orphan young lady being stalked, or explaining why he needs the ladder back from Sherlock's experiment with the ceiling carbon monoxide detector's threshold to rescue a kitten stuck up a tree. The next he's the quiet spectator of a mass massacre of teenager characters on the telly as if he has seen far worse.

John has. He must still be somewhat desensitized to violence, too good at spotting the ridiculousness of faked injuries. Good heavens, he seems to be enjoying it!

Sherlock nudges closer, appreciating the solid presence of John as the preposterous plots unfolds further damage to the pre-doomed characters.

This is Sherlock's favourite way to watch a scary movie. By John's side.

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The lanky detective is a curling ball of tense, twitching muscles, every time the television screen makes him jump off his seat.

I could chuckle, really. This is the man who defeated Jim Moriarty?

Jim would have chuckled too.

Sherlock inches closer, unconsciously, seeking warmth or the comfort of another person. Like a small child. I wrap an arm around him – his ribs are protruding again, how did I miss that? – and nudge him closer.

Cat-like eyes flash my way. Have I pushed him too far? He studies me intensely for a couple of seconds. Then he gives in, slowly drifting his gaze back to the screen. He trusts me enough to let his guard down.

The usually standoffish detective allows himself to lean his head against my good shoulder. I rub small circles on his arm and, sure enough, soon he starts relaxing somewhat.

This is the best way to have scary movie night; with a warm presence beside you, reminding you that you are safe now.

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Sherlock feels a bit exposed, but he doesn't bring himself to push John away (it's John's movie of choice, after all, if anyone needs to leave it's John).

In fact, he enjoys John's protective presence. He feels safe by his side. John is the most dangerous man Sherlock knows – all soft smiles and woolly jumpers, but he's been trained to kill without breaking a sweat. The fact that a dangerous fighter who could get away with murder is protecting you is apparently something that Sherlock enjoys deep inside. He wonders if he should be disturbed by that, at some level. Maybe he trusts John too much. But for now he'll keep at it, for he's much too comfortable, much too safe, to care otherwise.

He further collapses his dark curls on John's broad muscular shoulder – it's as if John carried the world on them, sometimes Sherlock believes he tries. John hums an approval distractedly.

Safe, peaceful, and for once with a soothing orderly quiet in his mind, slowed to a sluggish, sheepish contentment, Sherlock allows his eyes to close softly.

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I look down in surprise at the soft lips that exhale warm air to the rhythm of Sherlock's dreams. He's sleeping on, ignoring the exaggerated gore on the telly.

It'd figure the detective's best lullaby would be a scary movie.

And he needs to sleep. Sherlock never sleeps right. Sometimes because my comings and goings disturb him due to my strange shift hours at the hospital, sometimes because those goings fill him with anxiety that I too might catch the virus. I know he's been lying to me when he promises he'll catch up on his sleep as I go to work. His good intentions derailed by fear. And when I'm home, he's hesitant to leave my side and miss out.

Something, perhaps the close contact between us, has soothed Sherlock's quick mercurial mind to a halt, and allowed me the role of his guardian. I will keep him safe, from scripted villains, deadly viruses and the rest of the world. Time has slowed to a standstill, there's only the two of us here now.

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