A/N And, obviously, this is a different take on the fireplace scene from tHoB. Remember that I love reviews~ c:
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
V. Seeking Solace
A hound.
A massive hound, muscles rippling threateningly under its thick, night-black pelt, fiery red eyes glowing like embers out of a gruesome, twisted face, curled lips drawn back from glistening black gums, huge yellow fangs dripping slippery ropes of saliva, so prepared to slice and rip, to tear and kill, kill, kill…
John doesn't believe him. It shows in his eyes, those amazing, ever-shifting eyes: the green-lit brown of sunlight through amber autumn leaves, freshened with hinted whispers of summer-sky, birdsong blue. He's skeptical, uncomprehending, —so many things, but not the most vital thing, not what Sherlock needs right now. Because what he needs, above all else, is comforting—some kind of stupid, false reassurance, to tell him… to tell him what? Not that the hound doesn't exist, because he knows now that it does. Not that it's harmless—that would be an impossible lie.
He doesn't know what he wants.
So he simply says, "Help me."
John's eyebrows arch in disbelief, and, with a low sigh, he raises a hand—perfectly steady, not shaking like Sherlock's own—to his forehead, massaging his temples wearily. Sherlock watches in tense silence, fingers tightly gripping the thick wooden arms of the chair he's sitting in, entirely aware of how uncharacteristic and weak-sounding his last statement was. The crackling of the soft flames contained in the fireplace before them adds ambience to what would otherwise be a completely mute atmosphere, and the golden orange shadows flit across John's face, accentuating its weary lines.
"…Okay." The doctor drops his hand and stands suddenly. "Up you get."
"What? Why?" Sherlock demands defensively.
"Because I'm going to help you." It's an ambiguous answer, and not one that he necessarily trusts, but he humors it anyway, getting to his feet and standing there stiffly.
John takes a step and a half forward, neatly closing the distance between them, then opens his arms and calmly wraps them around Sherlock's thin form, just holding him there for a moment, his hands joined loosely, their chests pressing together. It's only when confronted with John's solid, warm body that Sherlock realizes just how cold his own is, just how much he's trembling.
"Just relax," John mumbles into his shoulder, lips moving against the fabric and sending strange electric chills down Sherlock's spine. "It'll be fine. Everything will be fine."
"What are you doing?" Sherlock asks, and his voice sounds too low and hard, too mechanical next to John's easily compassionate tones. Everyone in the pub is probably staring, and it feels like there might be a hot flush on his usually pale face, an actual, material flush…
"It's called a hug, and is, in fact, a gesture commonly shared between two human beings." John sounds sarcastic and fond both at once. Neither is an attitude that Sherlock particularly appreciates being directed towards himself, but it somehow comes off as not all that unappealing.
"I—"
"Just calm down. You asked me to help you, and so I am. Appreciate it while it lasts; you can't expect me to maintain this for too long."
He can't quite figure out why those words are a disappointment.