Sherlock has chased after a criminal through London without John Watson on his heels. He's attacked, and wishes he had heeded John's warning to be more careful.
It’s nearly midnight when Watson finally comes through the front door. I’ve been dozing on the sofa, not exactly waiting for him.
Well, yes, I’ve been waiting. I’m curious, and it annoys me that I’m curious.
John Watson annoys me. The red-pants mystery, the smirky girlfriend, the way everyone has adopted him. He’s slotted himself into my life, made himself at home in it. He seems to possess all my qualities, but in reverse: I’m an arsehole, he’s considerate; I’m erratic, he’s dependable. He’s friendly, I’m friendless. How can anyone hate a man like that? It’s no wonder I have no friends.
Because I am a rude genius, I will count on him being a nice idiot.
I think a lot abt sherlock's habit of giving people little quick kisses on the cheek, like he does with mrs. hudson sometimes or with molly in one ep. just imagine if he did that with john.
Some where in Kent, (in England, of course), there's a hill called Holmes Hill, and on that hill is a cottage, called Watson's Cottage. I know this because I happened to drive that way coming home, as there was severe queues on the M25 for this time of day.
It gives me (frankly an absurd) amount of joy, and peace, knowing that no matter what, these two will somehow always be together. It almost makes one believe in something grand, and Romantic, and silly, like soulmates.
It is so rare to witness John struggling with food. He is not a picky eater like me. In fact – before we visited my parents - I had no idea if there was any food he couldn’t stomach.
Currently, he is trying his best to put on a brave face when exposed to my mother’s cooking, which is detestable at best. One should think that she grew up in a place where there was no way to preserve fresh food, but her parents had access to both fridge and freezer. Nevertheless, she cooks everything to an unrecognisable mush when Father isn’t quick enough to suggest that he make dinner.
In all fairness, I did warn John that the culinary “treats” in my childhood home would leave him nauseous and appalled. Of course, he thought I was just being my dramatic self.
“Sherlock, darling, I have met your parents, and they are lovely. Surely, your mother knows how to cook. She’s an intelligent woman.”
“Intelligence has nothing to do with it, John,” I tried to reason with him, but to no avail.
“We are visiting your parents this weekend, and that’s final,” he said in his captain’s voice.
“Fine. Consider yourself warned, though. I suggest you bring some snacks with you, or you will get all grumpy when you’ve thrown up after dinner.”
Suffice it to say, I was not rewarded with a snog after that statement.
***
“Have some more broccoli, John,” my mother urges him.
He swallows thickly and looks at the almost grey bits of broccoli he is offered. I decide to rescue my poor boyfriend.
“I will have some,” I say, grip the porcelain bowl with the atrocities, and feign loosening my grip. With a spectacular crack, the bowl hits the tiled floor, spreading the disgusting vegetables far and wide, while the bowl only gets slightly chapped.
“William Sherlock Scott Holmes!”
“Apologies,” I mutter and sweep up the gooey mass with some thick kitchen roll.
I catch John’s eye when I seat myself again, and I must look away quickly lest I fall into a fit of giggles. He is obviously aware that it was all a ploy to save him and his dignity.
***
“Thank you for that, love,” John whispers when we’re tucked up in bed later.
“I did contemplate to let you suffer through it, but I want you in her good graces. She already adores you for putting up with me, but I have no idea how she will react if she gets wind of your true opinions about her cooking.”
John shudders by the mere thought; Mummy can be quite intimidating.
“I guess this explains your aversion to eat properly,” he muses. “If your childhood was filled with overcooked – “
“It was, John. Only Mycroft and Father’s cunning ways kept me from starving. I didn’t have broccoli for ages until Angelo persuaded me to taste his after I had told him about my abominable experience with it. He was outright scandalised when I told him Mummy boiled them for twenty minutes.”
“It shouldn’t be done like that!”
John laughs when I imitate Angelo’s voice and accent, and he ends up gasping for air when I continue.
“She thinks the vegetables are alive and need to be annihilated?”
“Oh my God,” John wheezes, “he didn’t know how funny that was, did he?”
“Of course not, John. Food is a very serious business for Angelo. I thought you knew that.”
John sobers a bit and clears his voice awkwardly.
“Well, yeah, I do. Remember when I told him how my mum used to make Carbonara?”
It is my time to start laughing.
“Cream, onions, and garlic, John. What was she thinking?”
“Dunno, but I’ve never been more grateful for my mum’s passing than I was then. He was very gracious about it afterwards.”
“Obviously. Family is also extremely important to the Italians. You can dine there for free on your own now, you know. He felt awful when you told him your mother had been dead for more than a decade.”
“And why would I go to Angelo’s without you, my darling? To quote our Italian friend: “It shouldn’t be done!”
“Quite right,” I agree.
***
The next morning, John rises early to beat Mummy to the kitchen.
“Heaven knows what she is capable of doing to the scrambled eggs, not to mention the bacon,” he whispers when I complain about him leaving the bed - and more importantly me - in favour of cooking.
All that aside, the breakfast is a great success if my mother’s gushing is any indicator.
“How do you manage to get the eggs so fluffy but not runny, dear?”
“It’s fairly easy. You just finish them when they’re still a bit wet. The temperature in the eggs will ensure that the mass keeps cooking for a few more moments after they’re taken out of the pan. And then they’re perfect.”
“I will try to remember that. Or perhaps you can remind me, darling?” Mummy addresses Father, who makes just as perfectly scrambled eggs as John does.
My Father agrees vigorously, but his expression is somewhat sceptical. Mummy’s ability to forget domestic chores in a heartbeat is after all legendary.
John rushed through the door of 221B Baker Street and closed it behind him with a shaky gasp.
He took a second to listen-- silence. Alone?
That was going to have to be good enough. John let the paralyzing fear claw its way out from his lungs in a sob while he slid his back down the door until he lay in a heap on the floor.
Sherlock had been in his bedroom, getting dressed post-shower when he heard the door. He paused to listen, confused. His first thought was John but the speed at which the door opened and closed was faster than John's normal pace. Just then, the soft thump and the crying sounded.
"John?"
Sherlock went to the living room to see John crumpled in a way he'd never seen before, making his stomach drop. Immediately he went to John's side and dropped to his knees. "John."
Badge clipped to his belt loop-- just come from work.
New scuff on the side of his shoe-- clumsy from a hurried stride.
Large folds in his cardigan-- pinched between John and the door, slid down while pressed against it.
No screaming or running outside-- no natural disaster.
Just a personal one.
John's vacant yet wild eyes were the last piece of evidence that Sherlock needed to understand.
"John, it's alright," he soothed, reaching to hold John's shoulders but deciding at the last moment not to, lest it agitate him further while in an active flashback. "You're alright, John. I'm here. You're safe, at home."
Sherlock's voice floated somewhere through the cursed memory, between bombs exploding and the screams of men getting ripped apart. Arterial spray clouded his vision while an armored man shook him violently, begging him to be saved in a yell barely heard over sharp gunshot--
HIT THE DIRT!
"No!" John's face screwed up in pain. He covered his head with his arms and cried while Sherlock watched, even his cold heart breaking at the sight. He whispered the same words in a soothing sort of mantra, over and over, hoping to bring his friend back from war.
Seconds later, John partially surfaced with a gasp and blinked hard through blurry tears, searching.
"Sherlock?"
"Right here." Sherlock placed his hand over John's and brought his face closer into view. "It's alright, John. You're safe."
"Sherlock." This time, John sounded relieved not to be alone, although his gaze was still far away. He grimaced and squeezed Sherlock's hand very firmly. "Sorry, I--"
Sherlock cut him off.
"Trust me. " It was just as much an imploring statement as it was a question.
"Yes," John answered without hesitation, closing his eyes and swallowing while he dropped his head back to rest against the door.
Sherlock got up quickly and went to the kitchen, returning with a prepared syringe and needle. He went to work tugging John out of his shirt and cardigan sleeve while John forced his breath to even out in between quivering gasps and whimpers.
Sherlock injected the syringe into the muscle of his bicep and watched John carefully.
"Haloperidol and promethazine," he explained quietly, before the doctor could ask what he was being injected with.
John simply nodded and closed his eyes, able to manage his breath just through his nose now. He didn't speak.
Sherlock turned to cap and dispose of the syringe, then turned back and decided it was too soon to get John to his feet. So, he sat beside him instead. Drew up his knees and said nothing.
John swallowed again and sighed.
"S-Sorry."
"Don't apologize."
John blinked away a tattered memory of a single ear and chunk of shoulder joint sitting atop dark and bloody desert sand.
"It was from work..." he kept his head back against the door, but turned to face Sherlock while he explained. He didn't bother to wipe away the tears that continued to fall.
"Surgical consult, got yanked in before I could say no. Industrial explosion, tore the guy to shreds... they got me because of Afghanistan." Sherlock had already connected the dots, but didn't point it out. "Felt like I was back looking at a solidier who'd run over an IED. Held it together at work, but..." he trailed off.
For a few minutes, Sherlock just watched him silently. Noting the rate at which the sedative began to work, but also trying to wrap his head (heart, mostly) around what it would be like to serve in active combat and then come home as if nothing had happened. Single or double murders, suicides, accidents-- those were one thing. But it felt a wide gap between those and war, for a reason Sherlock couldn't really name. Perhaps because he knew John Watson, the doctor with nerves of steel, and to see him unravel this way truly meant something about the caliber of horrors he'd witnessed.
He'd wait to consult John on his current case until tomorrow, he decided.
"Where did you get those medicines?"
John asked, and Sherlock smiled. Getting back to normal already.
"Pinched them when I was in rehab."
"Rehab? I didn't know--"
"I never told you. Didn't work anyway, clearly. Mycroft felt it necessary to try once I'd discovered opium."
John raised an eyebrow at him, but Sherlock ignored it in favor of getting up and bending over to take hold of John's torso.
"C'mon, I'll help you to your room."
Soon the sedative had taken stronger hold of the doctor and he was drifting off comfortably, now that he was settled in bed. Sherlock pulled blankets over him and turned on his desk fan, both for the white noise and for potential anxiety relief later, if a bad dream woke him.
"Thank you, Sherlock."
"Of course. Get some rest, I'll be here if you need anything."
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