Written a very long time ago and just now rediscovered. Un-beta'd, as per usual.
Word Count: 641
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock or anything associated with it.
I knew from the moment I took in Sherlock Holmes that I'd found a treasure. Even then, when he too was broken, he managed to fix the world. It seemed that the only thing keeping him going was fixing problems that mattered. He even helped repair me. My husband had been, as he put it, "an abusive sod who should have never laid eyes on such a wonderful woman." With Sherlock's help, he was buried six feet under and rotting in hell, and I was able to heal.
The thing is, I don't believe Sherlock wanted himself to heal at that time too. I helped tape up some of his cracks as he continued his consulting detective business, but it seemed nothing I did would really patch him up. Though, if anything, he became like a son to me, and to him I became a mother. And soon enough our patchwork family grew.
Sherlock found another broken soul, fresh back from the war. The poor dear still had nightmares and the occasional flashback. John Watson was a fascinating man though. When the detective brought him home, I knew that the doctor would too be like a son to me soon enough. Sherlock is truly predicable with who he socializes with. He takes in the broken, heals them, and sometimes, just sometimes, he keeps them for himself.
The first time John had a nightmare at 221B, I heard my Sherlock dart up to his room. It was near dawn at that time, I remember, as the terror John felt awoke me as well. I went upstairs soon after him and saw the two sitting on John's bed, with Sherlock simply existing and letting the poor doctor use him as an anchor. Despite the outward harshness of my detective, he really was kind soul at heart, as proved by how calm John became with him being there.
The second time was less terrifying. Instead of a heart wrenching scream, John had simply woken up and visited the still awake Sherlock in the living room. It was two in the morning when the kettle whistled and soon the aroma of John's favorite tea filled their room. Sherlock was there to fix up John again.
The third time was the last time the soldier had a nightmare and it was barely that. That night, he slipped into Sherlock's room, on one of the rare nights he slept and just stayed there for a couple minutes before returning to his own room. I only know because I heard John move about.
That was my Sherlock, my fixer-upper. If he could have, I would bet that he would have liked to fix the world. I know it would be odd for one so blunt, so genius, and a highly-functioning sociopath to do that, but I wouldn't put it past him. Of course, it would be easier if Sherlock would just allow someone to fix him instead for once.
That's where John came in. After the nightmares stopped, it was time for Sherlock to undergo his repairs. Slowly, the consulting detective began to act more…emotional than he had in I'm guessing a very long time. Though, that all seemed to go out the window when he was knee deep in a case. Work always came first it looked like. But John and I soon found out that wasn't the case.
That is why my Sherlock now lies in his grave. It's because he liked to fix the world too much. And in doing so, he learned to love it, love us. He protected us with the only thing he had; his life. Maybe I didn't get to mend all the patches, maybe John didn't get a 'good night' every night, but I'll be damned if we didn't make a difference in Sherlock's life as he made in ours.
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