A/N: A short piece. -csf
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A calm sense of belonging hangs in the air. Warm and rich violin strings quiver melodically, as Sherlock trial and errors a new composition of his own creation. Outside, the rain splatters hard against the window panes, the soft grey daylight framing my friend's slender shape as he cradles the violin under his chin. The blue silk dressing gown, sleek and cool, flowing over the mussed up pyjama bottoms and t-shirt. I notice he is barefooted and somehow that detail seems all important to me, but my reasoning is too cloudy to make sense of why would that be. He hasn't turned around yet, though I am slowly descending the last couple of steps onto the landing, spying on my friend through the flat's open door. Something in his attitude, however, welcomes me all the same. Just a minute angling of this body towards the old armchair, a reference underlying his considerate invite. Thanks, I think I will. Just as slow, hardly rushing this early morning, I zone in on the red fabric and seek the warm solace it brings me.
'Did I wake you?' the man asks, deep voice overflowing with connection. He knows he hasn't.
I shake my head minutely. No social conventions, no polite lies. Just the two of us, home, a little longer.
I notice that I have not just sat in my armchair, I snuggled into its embrace. Like a child, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around, neck bent down, closing in my vulnerable organs. I close my weary eyes, let Sherlock run his deductive analysis of me, unfiltered.
'John...'
He says my name in a soft intake of air; like he could have said, you should have called me. I could have warded off your nightmares.
He did anyway. His violin did a beautiful job of extracting me from theatre of war, and drifted me thousands of miles back to Sherlock and 221B.
These days I don't sleep right. Constant bags nestled under my eyes, reflecting into dark pools the painful memories of war I replay over and over again. Sleeping pills only trap me in my own theatre of war. Noise cancelling headphones lock in the explosions and insurgents cries. Lavender drops just give me a mild headache. It's my friend who knows how to shield me from the war. Because Sherlock is light and courage and victory; he alone can defeat the armies that cross the scorching sands, and wilt their shadows to the dusty corners of 221B, where they lurk, waiting for me to be alone again.
Softly, Sherlock parts bow from strings, and my heart sinks as I realise he's done playing. Perhaps he resented his captive audience of one being half-asleep by now. Through hooded eyes I see him lower the violin to his chair and walk off in a couple of long legged, flexible and silent steps. He's barefooted, so I could have missed his movements but for the soft rush of air as he walks past me, the soft contrast of silk rustling over cotton. He could have been wandering about the flat, and I wouldn't have heard him from the upstairs bedroom. He could have visited the landing, gone up the steps, listened outside my bedroom, and I would have been none the wiser.
I let my eyelids drop all the way deeply diving into that dark abyss once more.
The softest touch of a blanket falls over my shoulders – cashmere? – warm, light and a tangible connection to 221B and Sherlock.
Feels like an oversized version of his first scarf. I handled it on multiple occasions. Loved that scarf. The soft touch and the depths of blue and grey they held, refracting the light bouncing off Sherlock's eyes. It wouldn't survive my friend's fall. Little else would.
Next I hear the simple sound of porcelain clinging over a wooden surface, spreading the fragrance of tea. I let the warm air diffuse and fill 221B.
Soft brushing fingers readjust the blanket to Sherlock's satisfaction, and then my friend resumes his former place as the dedicated musician by the window overseeing London. Securing 221B against any external agency. I wonder how the epicentre of crime fighting can be my safe space, and if any criminals will be targeting Sherlock just as he stands by the tall windows and peruses the street, baring his soul through melodic cadences and twirls. My breath hitches and Sherlock's melody deepens.
'Just drop it, John. Stand down and come home,' he whispers.
I'm already home, Sherlock.
Safe and protected, I finally let go of the war, the fall, the enemies we hold, and I allow myself to fall asleep once more. I'll sleep peacefully for a couple of hours. The tea will be cold and Sherlock will insist on a full English and even eat a little to influence me. His laptop will be out and he'll read aloud the latest client emails and solve them too fast, too eager, too happily. I will admire that radiant brilliance and let it soak slowly into my bones.
Some days I let Sherlock be my light, my whole focus, as it's too hard to be John Watson. He knows that at days like this, I hide in his light, until mine can shine a little brighter. He's the lighthouse in the storm when I'm lost at sea, and it's alright. I'm there when his dark moods threaten him with addiction and try to morph him into something he's not. I'm there to remind him how to be the real Sherlock.
Together, we're home.
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