They are just pulling up to the stop on Baker Street, and John starts to go for the door, sparing a last glance for Sherlock before he goes.
Sherlock watches John all the way out, and then climbs out to follow him, smirking across the top of the cab. "You're welcome." He makes it to the door first and unlocks it, holding it open for John.
John looks a little flustered and there is a silent tension before he accepts Sherlock's politeness and goes through first, ascending the stairs with no hint of a limp. He opens the second-floor door a little hesitantly though, peeking inside for a barely-noticeable second before entering. He can see that the dropped mugs remain on the kitchen floor from earlier, and the unheated water too is just waiting on the counter to be used.
Sherlock follows, entering the kitchen behind John and immediately bending to pick up the fallen mugs. "Sorry. Not much time to clean up, earlier," he admits, wondering if the chipped mugs are worth keeping. He holds them up to John, inquiring with his eyes.
John shakes his head, looking for some sort of paper bag to contain the sharper chipped pieces. "Pity, but there's not really anything to do about it.." He glances around and finally shuts the cupboard that he had unintentionally left ajar this whole time after being startled. "What time is it, anyhow? Half one, two?"
"What does it matter?" Sherlock asks under his breath as he dumps the long-cold water from the kettle into the sink. He pauses, then runs the water again to fill the kettle. Tea. Tea should help this uncontrollable jittery feeling he can't quite quantify. The kettle goes down less calmly than he'd wanted and he curses in two languages in his head. Nevertheless, he pretends it didn't happen and turns the stovetop on.
John has a concerned expression on his face, but he doesn't say anything and just leans back against the counter, observing Sherlock like Sherlock observes so much else. He grabs a couple of tea bags and slides them across the counter towards his flatmate. "Sherlock. What is it?" he tries not to sound too concerned. After all, they both know that Sherlock just shot a man, twice. That can certainly have an effect on someone.
He curses again (in his head, in three languages this time) when John catches him, and at first he doesn't even try to play it off as nothing.
"I—"
Then he thinks better of it.
"Nothing."
Then he thinks better of that.
"Well, John, I—"
Then he thinks better of speaking altogether and tosses the tea bags into a pair of mugs. Having done some menial action, it helps to kick-start his speaking function.
"I was afraid." A simple confession for anyone but Sherlock Holmes.
John's expression softens and again he almost embraces Sherlock, getting as close as a hand brushing along the man's sleeve. "I- It's only human, Sherlock. Natural. Guns, dealing with extremely unpredictable men... it might have been only a matter of time." John doesn't seem to really understand the magnitude of the confession, or maybe he is just trying to ignore it and keep the discussion at this level. Maybe not.
Sherlock turns his head and fixes John with a piercing look, the face that says idiot without having to use the effort for words.
"If I'd been afraid of Rice, I'd have let Lestrade send all his men in the front and locked myself in one of the squad cars." That is clearly not what he meant by afraid.
"I-" John stops before he's even really started speaking, and his memory flashes back, Sherlock's behavior when they got back to the apartment in the morning, at his appearance on the scene at the travel agency... His voice comes out very inadvertently soft, and there is a queer expression on his face as he finds himself unable to look Sherlock straight in the eye. "Oh."
Sherlock knew this would be a Bit Not Good, and he rather wishes he'd listened to the first plan of brushing it off as nothing. So he breaks eye contact, frowns to himself, and steps quickly out of the kitchen to the sitting room, where he sweeps up his violin and starts playing. Noise, not even a recognizable tune. Just noise to fill up the space between his ears.
John sighs through his nose, making ready with the tea and deciding to add a plate of cheese and crackers to the side. God knows Sherlock doesn't eat enough. After a few minutes of simply tolerating the grating violin, the water is ready and John fills both mugs, balancing them with the plate he had prepared. It takes a little concentration and a lot of balance but he manages to get everything out into the sitting room in one go, clearing his throat loudly to alert Sherlock of his presence. He acts like nothing had happened. "I got some cheese..."
The bow on the strings slows as Sherlock turns his head to John. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't look angry. Perhaps slightly confused, but he's thankful that John doesn't mention it.
Brief weakness, that's all. Right?
He takes a breath, nods once, and turns back to the window to start playing again. After a few moments, John recognizes it as Bad Romance.
John smirks and looks back up to Sherlock. His eyes amusedly ask, Really? and he sits down a bit stiffly on the couch, Sherlock on the lounge chair. "Bond, then?" He asks, really fine with anything at this point. His muscles are still a little sore, but he's trying to stretch them better little be little.
Sherlock watches John out of the corner of his eye, a concerned frown flickering when he sees John stiffness and there's a brief flare of still-prominent hatred for Rice seated in his eyes. But he extinguishes it quickly, setting the violin down in his seat and vaulting over it to the DVD player.
In two quick minutes, Quantum of Solace has started. Sherlock backs away from the telly, and when he's near the sofa, turns just slightly and asks with his eyes if he can join John.
John raises his eyebrows and does that funny pursing thing with his lips. "Hm?" he asks, looking at Sherlock as he brings the cheese and cracker he had taken, up to his mouth.
Sherlock shifts from one foot to the other, frowns, and lingers just another handful of seconds. Then, he decides that he doesn't need permission and he doesn't even know why he's asking, so he flops down onto the sofa beside John without a word. He snatches a slice of cheese and stuffs into his mouth, glancing sidelong at John to see if he's done anything Not Good.
John's amused gaze leaves Sherlock just as the investigator looks over to John. The veteran watches the car chase nonchalantly, but he is completely taken in by the scene. Everything is moving so quickly. John doesn't comment on Sherlock's unusual proximity, and tries to relax a little, sighing quietly and fidling with the hem of his jumper.
Sherlock pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs to perch his chin on his knees as he watches silently. Now and again, he'll send a glance at John, then focuses again on the telly.
"Why does he choose such expensive cars to ruin?" Sherlock says under his breath.
John chuckles, briefly looking at Sherlock. "I don't really think it's a choice... Just in the moment, you know?" His arm brushes Sherlock as he reaches to put down his tea mug. He's accustomed to having the couch to himself, but this is fine too. "What, what would you recommend he do?"
He watches John's arm on the way down for his tea, then turns his eyes back to the telly. "The rate he goes through these vehicles, it has to be a substantial drain on his budget, or MI6's budget at least. There has to be a dependable car for a more reasonable price that he can throw down a mountain as often as he'd like. A Mazda is easier to replace than a Bentley."
John flat-out grins, looking at Sherlock with his brows raised. Really? "I suppose. But it wouldn't make as interesting a movie, for most people."
The scene is almost over, and John stretches widely, avoiding hitting Sherlock with his arms. Still stiff.
He ducks under John's outstretched arm, and he tries to hide the amused smile that appears despite himself. "It would be more realistic." He pauses, cocking his head at the telly. "Then again, we're not dealing with fight scenes choreographed with lasers anymore, so any level of realism is certainly a welcome break."
"Well, if we wanted to watch a realistic movie we would have watched a..." John searches for something. "Documentary, I suppose. Not really something I am personally keen on."
"Hm. Dull," Sherlock agrees lowly. He settles back against his legs, practically hiding his face in his knees. He's thinking about reaching for his tea, but it's all the way on the table and he would have to reach across John, and for some reason he really doesn't want to do that.
About two hours later, most of the cheese and crackers are gone- a joint project of both of them, but mostly John of course. The tea mugs are both empty and on the table. The credits begin to roll, and John rouses himself to stretch again and glance over at Sherlock. "Sh-" He begins, but stops, brow furrowing. Is he really asleep? It looks like it. John stands, eyes going soft. This is probably the first time he has ever seen Sherlock asleep. He tries to quietly gather the mugs and plate, but winces as he is sure their quiet clinking as he places them in the sink, will wake Sherlock up.
Sherlock jerks awake at the unexpected noise, giving a sleepy mutter of "John?" and giving a quick look around. This is why he doesn't sleep; reflexes are dulled and the senses go fuzzy, reducing his usefulness significantly.
John comes back into the room, heading for the DVD player to put the movie back away. He knows Sherlock won't on his own. "Go back to sleep." His tone is a little scolding, and he looks concerned. "Didn't mean to wake you."
Sherlock blinks slowly to try to focus on John across the room. It's not late, there's no reason he should have fallen asleep. Especially with Bond on the telly and John sitting next to him. He can't wrap his brain around it. John won't stop being blurry, so he squeezes his eyes shut instead.
"Yes, okay." He stands too quickly and wobbles, falling back into the sofa uselessly. He gives a frustrated grunt and instead sprawls out all across the sofa and buries his face in the Union Jack pillow.
John smirks, trying not to laugh yet relieved that Sherlock is taking his advice. But, finishing clearing up, he gets an odd feeling. He doesn't know how comfortable he feels sleeping- he had gotten used to knowing that Sherlock was up, awake and presumably watching over the night. Creepy yet true. He heads upstairs anyway, but shortly gives up on that and comes back down, taking a book with him. He flops in an uncharacteristically limp manner into the lounge chair, starting to read.
He doesn't know why he doesn't want John to go upstairs, he always goes upstairs. It shouldn't really be any different. Besides, Sherlock checked John's room, the window is locked, he should be safe.
Nonetheless, when John returns and sits in his chair, Sherlock smirks and turns his head from being buried in the throw pillow to peer sleepily across the room at him. After a moment, Sherlock asks: "Problem?"
"No, nothing. Go to sleep, why don't you?" John looks worriedly at Sherlock. "For once, if you can..." He flips through the pages of the book. It is Brave New World, and he's read it enough times before that he can just look for the parts he wants.
"You never have trouble sleeping," Sherlock notes, words half-obscured by the pillow trying to swallow him back up. His body is telling him that John's right, that he should sleep, but his mind is more interested in answers. No matter how small.
"Well, you never seem to sleep." John replies a little defensively, looking over at Sherlock. He doesn't look angry, just a minuscule bit pouty. "But that doesn't mean it's not allowed."
Sherlock ignores him, and he narrows his eyes to survey and read. "You're not in a great amount of physical pain, not enough to keep you from sleeping, anyhow. You don't appear to be under a great deal of emotional duress, most of that was negated by watching the film. You've grabbed one of your favorite books, one you've read enough to wear away the corners of the pages and for you to be able to skip the bits you don't like." He pauses for another moment, searching John for answers. "And it has nothing to do with your nightmares. So, John. Problem?"
"Comfort reading?" John shrugs. "I suppose I haven't really been conscious all too long today..." He is grasping for reasons, not sure what else to say if Sherlock asks again. He hopes Sherlock doesn't, and it shows a little in his eyes.
It looks for a moment that Sherlock is actually upset, that he regrets it just for the barest moment. But it's gone quickly because he doesn't want anyone to see that, least of all John. So he flips onto his opposite side and curls up into himself on the sofa.
John lets out a sigh that is louder than he had hoped for, and decides on a chapter of the book. Maybe it was a bad idea to come down here, but he wouldn't have been able to sleep anyway.
Sherlock doesn't sleep. He runs the day back in his head over and over, staring at the back cushion until John's breath regulates and his book drops softly to the floor. Sherlock gives him another ten minutes (Rice has his gun on John, Rice is going to shoot John, Rice is a dead man) before he rises slowly from the sofa.
John's asleep sitting up, breathing heavily but not snoring. Long day. Sherlock drapes the afghan over John, and without stopping, he moves to his room and locks himself inside.
AN: Well, this is the end of this part of the story! I mean.. it goes on from here, but I thought this was a good place to stop. If you've been holding off on reviewing till the last chapter- now's the time! (I like having this number of chapters- it's like one for every Doctor!) Thanks so much to TheShoelessOne (.net/u/253338/TheShoelessOne ) for, well, putting up with me. As well as those few of you who have given your support along the way in reviews.
Don't forget to put either/both of us on Alert if you want to read more stories of this variety! And thanks again for sticking with me! :-) -Dan