Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. I actually dreamt this. It seems my brain is mulling Tumblr prompts (I know, it was November's, but I'm not so good at deadlines) even in my sleep... Hope you enjoy!
Grief
It was a recurring joke between them, that John should just drop his day job as a doctor and simply be Sherlock's...well, anything and everything that the moment called for. PR responsible, doctor, provider of tea, bodyguard, snuggler and lately - after one special night and a mistake with some poorly labelled experiment - official lover and boyfriend.
As much as he loved the man, John refused to be reduced to a permanent satellite, if only because he was certain they'd both go spare. Sherlock was amazing, brilliant, and insert all the praise in the thesaurus, but he was also intense. A few boring hours here and there handling sniffles and stomach bugs, and yes, even the odd, dreaded hypochondriac, were positively relaxing.
Coming back to a boyfriend locked in the bathroom could have been very nice. A lesson in lockpicking with a delightful reward at the end? But a keen ear revealed something that doused John's high hopes in ice. A continuous, wheezing sobbing.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, let me in!"
Luckily, the sleuth did, and it was obvious at a glance that at least he hadn't been physically harmed. "Come here," he said, arms opening spontaneously, and his boyfriend took refuge, curling against him, but seemingly unable to breathe long enough to tell John what happened, and just in case, whom he needed to shoot.
The last thing they needed, if you asked John, would have been an intrusion right then. Even a well-meaning one. How could they deal people right now? If Mycroft had texted him, he'd have replied to bugger off. Sherlock couldn't deliver his usual confrontational snark, and John couldn't help but feel that he'd be weighed and found wanting.
Of course, the man couldn't be bothered to ask to be allowed in. Before John could snarl at him, though, two things happened. His boyfriend abandoned him to throw himself at his brother, not in an attempt to assault him, but like a child at a long-awaited relative finally coming home. And for once, John looked. Mycroft near-buckled, seemingly saved only by his faithful brolly, but very much shakier himself than the British Government John had met so many times. And the elder Holmes' eyes were red and puffy, too. What could have happened?
John might be a bit in shock himself, because it had to be Anthea (or whatever her name was today) who gently tugged him towards the kitchen, with a quiet, "Tea?"
Tea, yes, of course. It might not fix things entirely, but it would help. Even preparing it was a ritual that calmed John's spinning brain, settling him down until he could, hopefully, be more useful than he had been.
In a whisper, he asked her, "Do you know?"
Barely audible over the kettle getting filled, she replied, "Let's say, Holmes' private version of Operation London Bridge is on."
John must have looked as confused as he felt, because, with an eyeroll, she added, "Mummy."
"Oh." Well, lucky him that he didn't actually ask for a name to murder. He might not be the best person to take cues from on the matter, but – grief. Yeah. He knew grief. For the first time since walking back home, John felt less inept.