Possible anxiety trigger warning! Nothing graphic, John gets reminded of bad memories.
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Lestrade was sitting behind his desk, holding a bag of ice against the back of his head. A bomb had gone off in a car in the middle of a very, very hectic investigation, in the middle of a very grey october afternoon, which had led to minor injuries for several police officers. Most of them were being effectively checked over by John and the rest by (somewhat less effective) emergency service personnel, and it was thus determined whether or not they needed to go to a hospital.
Greg was not entirely sure if he ought to tell John that every third or fourth person he checked over was, in fact, Sherlock, or if that would just earn him another thump on the head. Or worse. He had seen the doctor examine his fiance at least five times now, which was strange, as he normally found the doctor not only extremely efficient, but just as competent. That was not half as strange as the fact that the detective let him, though. It showcased a singular patience that more usually, not to say, to his knowledge at least, exclusively, were displayed in the other direction in that relationship.
"Stop it" "Stop what?" Lestrade looked up to see Sherlock standing in the doorway. "I wasn't doing anything. Besides, this is my office!" "You were thinking. It's annoying". Sherlock answered, completely disregarding the other half of the statement.
The Di snorted, then frowned. "Is John alright? That sort of explosion has to bring back memories..." he was interrupted by the detective rolling his eyes. "Of course it did. What's it like in your funny little brains? You're all so vacant. John has been taking my pulse every ninth minute since we got back here, he is obviously trying to cope with a light attack of PTSD, brought on by the clear trigger that not even you lot can have possibly missed".
"Every ninth minute, huh?" John stepped into the office with three cups of coffee, handing one over to Greg, saving him from having to reply to the consulting detective. The doctor was looking a bit rough around the edges, so to speak, but perfectly calm. "You are dealing with it" Sherlock said blankly, grabbing his own cup rather restlessly.
"You alright there, Greg?" the doctor asked, looking him over almost as perceptively in regards to injury and health as Sherlock would in regards to everything else, and the DI nodded, gruffly repeating words about how he was just fine which he had already told the parametics, Sally and a few random busybodies.
Greg drank his tea slowly while he watched the strange partnership which played out before him, as John once more grabbed Sherlock's wrist and the detective merely rolled his eyes in what looked like benign amusement, between two people that was so very different, but who in all things vital, might just be more alike than anyone had suspected.
John turned around after hanging up his jacket in the hallway, and found that Sherlock was watching him vigilantly. "I am alright, love" he assured his partner "a little bit on edge, but fine". "I will make you tea" Sherlock breezed past him, hanging up his treasured Belfast coat on the way, heading for the kitchen. Amused, John followed him.
"Really, Sherlock" he noted, pulling some leftovers out of the fridge to heat up for dinner, not up for something complicated at the moment "I am going to be fine". Sherlock shrugged off the comment, clearly aware, and John decided he could very well let his partner be a bit overprotective if he wanted to be.
Letting Sherlock prepare the tea, John heated their dinner up in the owen and devided it onto two plates. After a few minutes, they could settle together on the couch for food and tea.
With the telly on but not really watching, they ate their dinner mostly in silence except the occasional jibe from Sherlock about some incompetence or other from Andersson during the course of the case.
"It was a low point even for him, honestly he still lovers the IQ of the whole street whenever he speaks, I can practically smell the stupidity. How hard can it possibly be to separate a fingernail from a bright red dress?"
Or "Sally seemed less than impressed by his nonsensical babble today, and he no longer shows up smelling from her perfume. maybe she finally realised he wasn't going to leave his wife for her".
John kissed Sherlock on the crown of his head as he rose after the meal, busying himself in the kitchen for a few minutes, putting things away and making two fresh cups of tea. He was feeling a bit out of sorts after the day they'd had, but the peace of their flat and Sherlock's company had gone a long way to help him.
He returned with the cups to find the consulting detective's eyes focused on him again, but he did not comment this time. He almost jumped when Sherlock spoke. "Will you be able to sleep?" John considered for a moment, then shook his head. "I'd rather not try, at least not yet". He was not surprised, but he did feel a surge of affection, as Sherlock promptly responded, voice obvious "I will stay up with you".
Settling the cups on the coffee table, John went and rummaged around their DVD collection, finally settling on doing a bit of a Doctor Who marathon, specifically choosing that Lazarus episode Sherlock liked so much because the villain reminded him of Mycroft.
That settled, he joined the resident high-functioning sociopath on the couch, cuddling together so thightly that John couldn't immediately judge which feet were his and which instead belonged to Sherlock by eye alone.
They stayed that close together for hours, Sherlock not moving until the episodes had run through. When they had, he got up without a word of complaint to change the disk, returnign to the sofa with a blanket. The simple gesture made John warm inside in its honest care. They returned to their previous position and continued their marathon.
John started to fall asleep by the seventh episode. As he felt his eyes drift shut, he could also feel Sherlock brush a kiss across his forehead. Sherlock didn't usually do that sort of thing, though he liked it when John did, but it did not surprise him that he did now. To have a car explode that close to him brought John back to a large number of bad memories, and though he usually thrived on chaos, he knew it was only natural to have some side-effects from the trauma he had suffered in the war. And Sherlock, of course, had been able to read his distress like in an open book.
Rousing himself, John let Sherlock shut of the telly, and they headed to their bedroom together, Sherlock curling up around him protectively once in bed, like a giant, worried octopus. Closing his eyes with a smile, John mumbled a soft "thank you". He slept without dreams that night, and he was sure it was because of Sherlock.
So, this idea just suddenly jumped out at me. I am not entirely sure about the way it turned out, but that might just be writersblock speaking. Some feedback would be welcome because of that though, well, especially welcome. Remember that reviews is the only payment fanficwriters recieve for their work! And it pays appalingly bad, by the way.
Just to clearify: John is not meant to be suffering from a full-blown anxiety attack here, as that would be far more severe. He doesn't actually have PTSD in any distinct form, following canon, but naturally he's got some very nasty baggage from what happened to him. Such a clear trigger affects even him, who is generally coping well, aside from perhaps some rare nightmares. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners.
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