Fic - January, 1944 - John/Sherlock, PG
Title: January, 1944
Author: lotherington
’Verse: Long Ago and Far Away
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: John/Sherlock
Summary: WWII AU. January, 1944. Sherlock and John spend a day together in the flat. Sherlock finds something out that John would probably rather he didn’t know and telephones Mummy to ask a favour.
Rating: PG
Contains: Descriptions of PTSD
Word Count: ~2,650
Notes: Again, I’m a horrible liar - this is probably the third of four linked parts, though you know, it could be the third of five or six the way it’s going! Forgive the curtainfic, too, if you will.
January, 1944
‘Have you slept at all?’ Sherlock asked, appearing in the kitchen doorway, one of the sheets from the bed wrapped tightly around himself.
‘Of course I have,’ John said, pouring Sherlock a cup of tea from the pot. ‘I’ve not been up long.’
Sherlock glared at John, sitting down at the kitchen table opposite him. ‘Don’t lie to me. Don’t insult me by lying to me.’
Sighing, John pushed the jug of powdered milk he’d made up towards Sherlock. ‘Alright, I... I dozed on and off for a while and came down here earlier on.’
‘How early?’ Sherlock demanded, stirring his tea.
‘Oh for God’s sake, what does it matter?’ John shouted, throwing a teaspoon down onto his saucer, the noise it made loud and ringing.
Sherlock stared steadily at John and sipped his tea before answering. ‘I worry about you.’
‘You don’t worry about anyone,’ John muttered, looking out of the grimy window he’d removed the boards from whilst it was still light. The sky was a cold grey.
‘I worry about you,’ Sherlock repeated, his voice a hiss, his eyes narrowed as he leant across the table. ‘And don’t you dare tell me otherwise.’
John sighed. He grabbed his stick and the teapot and took his time about rinsing it out at the sink. He fetched the kettle off the stove and refilled it, putting it back onto boil, measuring fresh tea leaves out into the pot.
‘If it’s about what happened the last time we--’
‘No,’ John said forcefully, slamming the teapot’s lid down onto the counter.
‘Because I don’t--’
‘I don’t care what you do and what you don’t, Sherlock,’ John snapped, pulling a dark brown bottle off a shelf above the counter that usually housed chemistry equipment, rummaging in a drawer until he found a spoon. ‘Just...’ he unscrewed the top of the bottle and poured some of the syrupy mixture inside onto the spoon. he brought it quickly to his mouth, his shaking hand threatening to spill the liquid. ‘Just shut up about it,’ he said after swallowing with a grimace. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re not--’
‘Sherlock.’
Sighing, Sherlock stood, going to kiss the back of John’s neck. ‘Let’s not quarrel,’ he mumbled, tilting the bottle on the counter to read the label.
WALPOLE BRAND
CONCENTRATED
NERVE AND BRAIN
EXTRACT
John’s shoulders slumped as he relaxed back into Sherlock’s body. ‘Go and put some clothes on,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ll catch your death.’
Sherlock kissed John’s skin once more, pulling away and going back upstairs, the sheet gathered in his hands.
***
‘Well?’ Sherlock said with a smile five minutes later, in the kitchen doorway again, holding his arms out in a camp pose, one eyebrow raised. ‘Do I pass?’
He was wearing a navy blue woolen waistcoat with tortoiseshell buttons and two pockets, one of them bulging with the familiar outline of his cigarettes and lighter. His shirt was another plain white one, the cufflinks tortoiseshell too, and his trousers a deep grey. His tie was brown.
John’s lips pulled up in a smile. ‘You silly sod,’ he murmured, pressing their lips together when Sherlock bent down. John himself had on a thick, v-neck jumper, the wool sea-green. His trousers were grey too, his shirt white, his tie grey and fastened loosely. ‘I’ve got the grill on for toast - get the jam and marmalade out of the pantry.’
Ten minutes later, after moving around the kitchen and each other in a well-practised routine, John and Sherlock were sitting at the table in the living room, the breakfast things spread out between them.
‘Shame we haven’t any eggs,’ Sherlock said. ‘I like the way you make them.’
John smiled, spreading butter thinly onto his toast. ‘They’d run out at the shop.’
‘Pity.’ Sherlock pulled a book on entomology towards himself and flipped it open, eating one-handed as he read. John watched him with fond, tired eyes.
A minute or two later, Sherlock reached out for his teacup and found his hand caught and held tightly in John’s.
‘What’s all this in aid of?’ Sherlock asked, his lips parting to reveal his crooked teeth in a small smile.
‘I’m just... glad you’re here,’ John said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s knuckles. ‘Here, have your tea, I’m sorry.’
‘No, it’s... it’s fine,’ Sherlock said, squeezing John’s wrist before lifting his teacup to his lips.
They ate in companionable silence, Sherlock poring over the illustrations of insects he was particularly keen on, John mostly staring out of the window.
‘I wish there was an adventure to be had,’ John whispered, sipping his tea.
It was a moment before Sherlock replied. ‘...Hm?’
‘Oh. Nothing.’ John stood, taking hold of his stick, stacking a few plates up and carrying them back to the kitchen.
‘What have you done with my spare violin?’ Sherlock called from the living room just as John wedged the kitchen sink plug into the plughole.
‘It’s in its case, next to your chair, where it always is,’ John called back, rolling his eyes.
‘Ah yes, so it is,’ Sherlock muttered, pulling it onto the chair, clicking the clasps of the case open. He took the instrument out, pushed the case to the floor and sat down on the chair, beginning to tune the violin as John washed up.
‘Right then, Doctor Watson, let’s test your knowledge of that sentimental old rubbish they’ve taken to playing on the wireless.’
Laughing, John dried his hands with a raggedy old teatowel and went to sit in his chair. ‘They’ve been playing sentimental old rubbish for years, have you only just started paying attention?’
‘Naturally. For a shilling, then, listen well.’
Sherlock played the opening notes to The White Cliffs of Dover, eyes closed, body moving with the music, putting as much effort in as if he were playing some of his usual classical fare.
‘Don’t insult me,’ John said, grinning.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows and continued to play.
‘The White Cliffs of Dover,’ John laughed.
‘They’re going to get harder,’ Sherlock said, relaxing his stance.
‘I think I can manage. Go on.’
By the afternoon, Sherlock had managed to play through a number of popular songs, including It’s a Long Way to Tipperary, We’ll Meet Again, You’d Be So Nice to Come Home to, This is the Army, Mister Jones, and had even managed a heavily improvised version of In the Mood. He was halfway through Over the Rainbow when John’s eyes drifted shut and he fell asleep in his chair.
When Sherlock noticed, he softened his playing until the song finished and placed the crocheted blanket from the back of the sofa over John, brushing a kiss to his forehead.
Humming under his breath, Sherlock settled at the table again, glancing over at John, fast in his chair. He smiled and rummaged around in the papers on the desk that John had spent a few minutes earlier on tidying up, looking for the book he’d been reading at breakfast. Whilst he was searching, he discovered a stack of letters, all neatly typed, the letterheads of various hospitals and doctor’s surgeries printed at the top of each piece of paper.
Dear Dr. Watson... we regret to inform you that at the present time and in the current circumstances in which you find yourself there is unfortunately no position for you at the Royal London... Dear Dr. Watson, in light of the injuries you sustained whilst on active service, I regret to inform you... Dear Dr. Watson, I am afraid it is simply not possible to offer you a position at the present time...
There were twenty letters in the pile at least, all shoved underneath the stack of books and old newspapers the table was a permanent home to. Sherlock looked over at John again, pressing his lips together tightly. John’s expression was troubled even in sleep, a frown marring his brow, a ray of cold light falling over his face. Getting up, Sherlock pulled the curtains closed so that John wouldn’t be disturbed by the daylight. He moved over to the telephone table and sat down cross-legged on the floor, pulling the phone into his lap as he dialled one of the few numbers he’d bothered to memorise. It picked up after several rings.
‘Holmes residence, Alice speaking.’
‘Hello, Alice, it’s Sherlock.’
‘Oh, Mr. Holmes! This is a nice surprise, your mother was just saying not two days ago--’
‘Yes, yes, is Mummy there?’ Sherlock asked, keeping his voice quiet.
‘She’s just in the library with the children, I’ll go and fetch her for you.’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind.’
There was silence for a minute or two from the other end.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Mummy.’
‘Oh, it is you! You know, it’s been so long since I last heard your voice that I was quite convinced Alice was playing a little trick on me,’ said Mrs Holmes, her voice as prim and clipped as ever. ‘Goodness knows what you’ll actually look like when I see you next. I imagine anyone could saunter in and claim to be you and I wouldn’t be any the wiser. A vagrant, perhaps, or a showgirl...’
‘Mummy,’ Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. ‘Really.’
‘Well then, what is it you want? You only ever telephone when you want something.’
Sherlock flushed at the all too true accusation. ‘I was wondering whether any of the children required long-term medical attention.’
‘Sherlock, they’re not to be experimented on--’
‘It’s not for an experiment!’ Sherlock protested, dropping his voice again when John shifted in his chair. ‘It’s not for an experiment. Do you require a live-in doctor? Or nurse?’
‘What on earth are you talking about, Sherlock?’ Mrs Holmes asked, sounding huffy.
‘I was simply wondering whether you’ve a position for a medical professional in the house,’ Sherlock murmured, fiddling with the telephone cord.
‘And why were you simply wondering this?’
Sherlock paused for a moment. ‘John’s found it rather difficult to find a position since he’s been at home.’
‘Ah,’ Mrs Holmes said. ‘I gather he was rather badly injured?’
‘Well, somewhat, but--’
‘I haven’t a position for him, Sherlock, but the children could always do with a check-up. Are you at Baker Street?’
‘Yes, I’ve a week’s leave,’ Sherlock replied.
‘Splendid, I’ll be in touch with Mycroft and tell him to send a car for you and Doctor Watson on Thursday afternoon. I’m sure you’d like me to pretend I requested he come?’
‘Yes, yes, I would like that, Mummy.’
‘Very well. I shall see you on Thursday, Sherlock. Goodbye, now.’
‘Goodbye, Mummy.’
The phone line went dead. The clock downstairs struck for two.
***
A shout from John made Sherlock jump up from an experiment involving potato roots later that afternoon. Most of Sherlock’s chemistry things were either in boxes in Mrs Hudson’s flat for safekeeping or at Bletchley Park with him and the limited tools he’d found scattered throughout the flat hadn’t proved exactly conducive to advanced science. Other than John, there was very little in the flat for Sherlock to experiment on, hence why he’d gone rummaging in the kitchen cupboards and eventually found a very withered, very sprouty potato to cut up and subject to various indignities.
John shouted again and twisted violently in his chair, his face distressed. Sherlock crouched down and took hold of John’s right shoulder, shaking him awake.
‘John,’ he said, touching his palm to John’s face, stroking his jaw. ‘John, wake up, it’s just a dream, I’m here, wake up.’
Coming round with a jolt and a shiver, John blinked his eyes open, breathing heavily, sweat breaking out at his temples.
‘It’s alright,’ Sherlock whispered, pressing his lips to John’s. ‘It’s alright, I’m here.’ He stroked John’s face and kissed him gently again, anything to get that frightened, far-away look off his face. ‘I’ll go and make some tea,’ Sherlock said, rubbing John’s right arm, standing up when John swallowed and nodded.
Sherlock went back into the kitchen and filled the kettle, lighting the hob and putting the water on to boil.
‘How long was I asleep?’ John asked, his voice shaky as he got to his feet and fumbled with the blanket, trying to fold it up, his shoulder clearly giving him grief.
‘A few hours,’ Sherlock said, busying himself with the pot and the tea leaves. ‘I thought it would be cruel to wake you.’ He looked over at John and smiled. John smiled back, taking a few more deep breaths before grabbing his stick and joining Sherlock in the kitchen.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ he asked, pulling his bottle of nerve tonic off the shelf and pouring himself out another spoonful, swallowing it down with a grimace.
Sherlock turned and glanced around at the kitchen. ‘Oh, the potatoes? Um. Experiment.’
‘Of course,’ John said, huffing a laugh, kissing the top of Sherlock’s arm. He went back into the living room and settled on the sofa, closing his eyes again. A few minutes later, Sherlock walked in with a tray, the teapot, cups, milk and sugar all set out. He placed it on the coffee table and kissed John’s foreheads.
‘Back in a moment,’ he said, going off to the bedroom where his suitcase remained unpacked, returning with a tin of biscuits.
‘Who did you steal these from?’ John asked with a smile when Sherlock prised the lid of the tin open.
‘I didn’t steal them,’ Sherlock said, putting a couple of biscuits each in the saucers on the tray, replacing the lid on the tin then settling on the sofa, his head in John’s lap. ‘An old dear in the town made them for me after I got her cat out of a tree. Damnfool thing had climbed right the way to the top and couldn’t get back down. I had the afternoon off and nothing better to do, so...’
John smiled again, stroking the back of one finger down Sherlock’s cheek.
‘Oh, Mummy telephoned whilst you were asleep,’ Sherlock said, sitting up, pouring milk and sugar into the cups, then the tea.
‘How did she know you were here?’
‘Mycroft, I presume,’ Sherlock lied smoothly. ‘She wants you to go and examine the children on Thursday afternoon. I’ll come with you, of course, she’s going to tell Mycroft to send a car.’
‘The children? Is she still looking after all those evacuees?’
‘Yes, a couple are quite grown up now, apparently.’ Sherlock bit into a biscuit, stirred the teas and rested his head in John’s lap again. ‘She says they’re in need of a check-up and she’d appreciate it if you’d go and see to them rather than get someone else in.’
‘Oh,’ John said, sounding surprised. ‘Yes, of course I’ll go.’
‘I said you’d be happy to,’ Sherlock said after swallowing his mouthful of biscuit. John reached out to pick up his cup and saucer, resting it on the arm of the sofa for a moment. He stroked Sherlock’s curls back. He scratched Sherlock’s scalp gently, sipped his tea and looked down at Sherlock, who turned his head and pressed his nose to John’s stomach.
‘Are you feeling better now?’ Sherlock murmured into the soft wool of John’s jumper.
John touched his hand to Sherlock’s face. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, much.’
Author: lotherington
’Verse: Long Ago and Far Away
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: John/Sherlock
Summary: WWII AU. January, 1944. Sherlock and John spend a day together in the flat. Sherlock finds something out that John would probably rather he didn’t know and telephones Mummy to ask a favour.
Rating: PG
Contains: Descriptions of PTSD
Word Count: ~2,650
Notes: Again, I’m a horrible liar - this is probably the third of four linked parts, though you know, it could be the third of five or six the way it’s going! Forgive the curtainfic, too, if you will.
January, 1944
‘Have you slept at all?’ Sherlock asked, appearing in the kitchen doorway, one of the sheets from the bed wrapped tightly around himself.
‘Of course I have,’ John said, pouring Sherlock a cup of tea from the pot. ‘I’ve not been up long.’
Sherlock glared at John, sitting down at the kitchen table opposite him. ‘Don’t lie to me. Don’t insult me by lying to me.’
Sighing, John pushed the jug of powdered milk he’d made up towards Sherlock. ‘Alright, I... I dozed on and off for a while and came down here earlier on.’
‘How early?’ Sherlock demanded, stirring his tea.
‘Oh for God’s sake, what does it matter?’ John shouted, throwing a teaspoon down onto his saucer, the noise it made loud and ringing.
Sherlock stared steadily at John and sipped his tea before answering. ‘I worry about you.’
‘You don’t worry about anyone,’ John muttered, looking out of the grimy window he’d removed the boards from whilst it was still light. The sky was a cold grey.
‘I worry about you,’ Sherlock repeated, his voice a hiss, his eyes narrowed as he leant across the table. ‘And don’t you dare tell me otherwise.’
John sighed. He grabbed his stick and the teapot and took his time about rinsing it out at the sink. He fetched the kettle off the stove and refilled it, putting it back onto boil, measuring fresh tea leaves out into the pot.
‘If it’s about what happened the last time we--’
‘No,’ John said forcefully, slamming the teapot’s lid down onto the counter.
‘Because I don’t--’
‘I don’t care what you do and what you don’t, Sherlock,’ John snapped, pulling a dark brown bottle off a shelf above the counter that usually housed chemistry equipment, rummaging in a drawer until he found a spoon. ‘Just...’ he unscrewed the top of the bottle and poured some of the syrupy mixture inside onto the spoon. he brought it quickly to his mouth, his shaking hand threatening to spill the liquid. ‘Just shut up about it,’ he said after swallowing with a grimace. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re not--’
‘Sherlock.’
Sighing, Sherlock stood, going to kiss the back of John’s neck. ‘Let’s not quarrel,’ he mumbled, tilting the bottle on the counter to read the label.
WALPOLE BRAND
CONCENTRATED
NERVE AND BRAIN
EXTRACT
John’s shoulders slumped as he relaxed back into Sherlock’s body. ‘Go and put some clothes on,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ll catch your death.’
Sherlock kissed John’s skin once more, pulling away and going back upstairs, the sheet gathered in his hands.
***
‘Well?’ Sherlock said with a smile five minutes later, in the kitchen doorway again, holding his arms out in a camp pose, one eyebrow raised. ‘Do I pass?’
He was wearing a navy blue woolen waistcoat with tortoiseshell buttons and two pockets, one of them bulging with the familiar outline of his cigarettes and lighter. His shirt was another plain white one, the cufflinks tortoiseshell too, and his trousers a deep grey. His tie was brown.
John’s lips pulled up in a smile. ‘You silly sod,’ he murmured, pressing their lips together when Sherlock bent down. John himself had on a thick, v-neck jumper, the wool sea-green. His trousers were grey too, his shirt white, his tie grey and fastened loosely. ‘I’ve got the grill on for toast - get the jam and marmalade out of the pantry.’
Ten minutes later, after moving around the kitchen and each other in a well-practised routine, John and Sherlock were sitting at the table in the living room, the breakfast things spread out between them.
‘Shame we haven’t any eggs,’ Sherlock said. ‘I like the way you make them.’
John smiled, spreading butter thinly onto his toast. ‘They’d run out at the shop.’
‘Pity.’ Sherlock pulled a book on entomology towards himself and flipped it open, eating one-handed as he read. John watched him with fond, tired eyes.
A minute or two later, Sherlock reached out for his teacup and found his hand caught and held tightly in John’s.
‘What’s all this in aid of?’ Sherlock asked, his lips parting to reveal his crooked teeth in a small smile.
‘I’m just... glad you’re here,’ John said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s knuckles. ‘Here, have your tea, I’m sorry.’
‘No, it’s... it’s fine,’ Sherlock said, squeezing John’s wrist before lifting his teacup to his lips.
They ate in companionable silence, Sherlock poring over the illustrations of insects he was particularly keen on, John mostly staring out of the window.
‘I wish there was an adventure to be had,’ John whispered, sipping his tea.
It was a moment before Sherlock replied. ‘...Hm?’
‘Oh. Nothing.’ John stood, taking hold of his stick, stacking a few plates up and carrying them back to the kitchen.
‘What have you done with my spare violin?’ Sherlock called from the living room just as John wedged the kitchen sink plug into the plughole.
‘It’s in its case, next to your chair, where it always is,’ John called back, rolling his eyes.
‘Ah yes, so it is,’ Sherlock muttered, pulling it onto the chair, clicking the clasps of the case open. He took the instrument out, pushed the case to the floor and sat down on the chair, beginning to tune the violin as John washed up.
‘Right then, Doctor Watson, let’s test your knowledge of that sentimental old rubbish they’ve taken to playing on the wireless.’
Laughing, John dried his hands with a raggedy old teatowel and went to sit in his chair. ‘They’ve been playing sentimental old rubbish for years, have you only just started paying attention?’
‘Naturally. For a shilling, then, listen well.’
Sherlock played the opening notes to The White Cliffs of Dover, eyes closed, body moving with the music, putting as much effort in as if he were playing some of his usual classical fare.
‘Don’t insult me,’ John said, grinning.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows and continued to play.
‘The White Cliffs of Dover,’ John laughed.
‘They’re going to get harder,’ Sherlock said, relaxing his stance.
‘I think I can manage. Go on.’
By the afternoon, Sherlock had managed to play through a number of popular songs, including It’s a Long Way to Tipperary, We’ll Meet Again, You’d Be So Nice to Come Home to, This is the Army, Mister Jones, and had even managed a heavily improvised version of In the Mood. He was halfway through Over the Rainbow when John’s eyes drifted shut and he fell asleep in his chair.
When Sherlock noticed, he softened his playing until the song finished and placed the crocheted blanket from the back of the sofa over John, brushing a kiss to his forehead.
Humming under his breath, Sherlock settled at the table again, glancing over at John, fast in his chair. He smiled and rummaged around in the papers on the desk that John had spent a few minutes earlier on tidying up, looking for the book he’d been reading at breakfast. Whilst he was searching, he discovered a stack of letters, all neatly typed, the letterheads of various hospitals and doctor’s surgeries printed at the top of each piece of paper.
Dear Dr. Watson... we regret to inform you that at the present time and in the current circumstances in which you find yourself there is unfortunately no position for you at the Royal London... Dear Dr. Watson, in light of the injuries you sustained whilst on active service, I regret to inform you... Dear Dr. Watson, I am afraid it is simply not possible to offer you a position at the present time...
There were twenty letters in the pile at least, all shoved underneath the stack of books and old newspapers the table was a permanent home to. Sherlock looked over at John again, pressing his lips together tightly. John’s expression was troubled even in sleep, a frown marring his brow, a ray of cold light falling over his face. Getting up, Sherlock pulled the curtains closed so that John wouldn’t be disturbed by the daylight. He moved over to the telephone table and sat down cross-legged on the floor, pulling the phone into his lap as he dialled one of the few numbers he’d bothered to memorise. It picked up after several rings.
‘Holmes residence, Alice speaking.’
‘Hello, Alice, it’s Sherlock.’
‘Oh, Mr. Holmes! This is a nice surprise, your mother was just saying not two days ago--’
‘Yes, yes, is Mummy there?’ Sherlock asked, keeping his voice quiet.
‘She’s just in the library with the children, I’ll go and fetch her for you.’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind.’
There was silence for a minute or two from the other end.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Mummy.’
‘Oh, it is you! You know, it’s been so long since I last heard your voice that I was quite convinced Alice was playing a little trick on me,’ said Mrs Holmes, her voice as prim and clipped as ever. ‘Goodness knows what you’ll actually look like when I see you next. I imagine anyone could saunter in and claim to be you and I wouldn’t be any the wiser. A vagrant, perhaps, or a showgirl...’
‘Mummy,’ Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. ‘Really.’
‘Well then, what is it you want? You only ever telephone when you want something.’
Sherlock flushed at the all too true accusation. ‘I was wondering whether any of the children required long-term medical attention.’
‘Sherlock, they’re not to be experimented on--’
‘It’s not for an experiment!’ Sherlock protested, dropping his voice again when John shifted in his chair. ‘It’s not for an experiment. Do you require a live-in doctor? Or nurse?’
‘What on earth are you talking about, Sherlock?’ Mrs Holmes asked, sounding huffy.
‘I was simply wondering whether you’ve a position for a medical professional in the house,’ Sherlock murmured, fiddling with the telephone cord.
‘And why were you simply wondering this?’
Sherlock paused for a moment. ‘John’s found it rather difficult to find a position since he’s been at home.’
‘Ah,’ Mrs Holmes said. ‘I gather he was rather badly injured?’
‘Well, somewhat, but--’
‘I haven’t a position for him, Sherlock, but the children could always do with a check-up. Are you at Baker Street?’
‘Yes, I’ve a week’s leave,’ Sherlock replied.
‘Splendid, I’ll be in touch with Mycroft and tell him to send a car for you and Doctor Watson on Thursday afternoon. I’m sure you’d like me to pretend I requested he come?’
‘Yes, yes, I would like that, Mummy.’
‘Very well. I shall see you on Thursday, Sherlock. Goodbye, now.’
‘Goodbye, Mummy.’
The phone line went dead. The clock downstairs struck for two.
***
A shout from John made Sherlock jump up from an experiment involving potato roots later that afternoon. Most of Sherlock’s chemistry things were either in boxes in Mrs Hudson’s flat for safekeeping or at Bletchley Park with him and the limited tools he’d found scattered throughout the flat hadn’t proved exactly conducive to advanced science. Other than John, there was very little in the flat for Sherlock to experiment on, hence why he’d gone rummaging in the kitchen cupboards and eventually found a very withered, very sprouty potato to cut up and subject to various indignities.
John shouted again and twisted violently in his chair, his face distressed. Sherlock crouched down and took hold of John’s right shoulder, shaking him awake.
‘John,’ he said, touching his palm to John’s face, stroking his jaw. ‘John, wake up, it’s just a dream, I’m here, wake up.’
Coming round with a jolt and a shiver, John blinked his eyes open, breathing heavily, sweat breaking out at his temples.
‘It’s alright,’ Sherlock whispered, pressing his lips to John’s. ‘It’s alright, I’m here.’ He stroked John’s face and kissed him gently again, anything to get that frightened, far-away look off his face. ‘I’ll go and make some tea,’ Sherlock said, rubbing John’s right arm, standing up when John swallowed and nodded.
Sherlock went back into the kitchen and filled the kettle, lighting the hob and putting the water on to boil.
‘How long was I asleep?’ John asked, his voice shaky as he got to his feet and fumbled with the blanket, trying to fold it up, his shoulder clearly giving him grief.
‘A few hours,’ Sherlock said, busying himself with the pot and the tea leaves. ‘I thought it would be cruel to wake you.’ He looked over at John and smiled. John smiled back, taking a few more deep breaths before grabbing his stick and joining Sherlock in the kitchen.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ he asked, pulling his bottle of nerve tonic off the shelf and pouring himself out another spoonful, swallowing it down with a grimace.
Sherlock turned and glanced around at the kitchen. ‘Oh, the potatoes? Um. Experiment.’
‘Of course,’ John said, huffing a laugh, kissing the top of Sherlock’s arm. He went back into the living room and settled on the sofa, closing his eyes again. A few minutes later, Sherlock walked in with a tray, the teapot, cups, milk and sugar all set out. He placed it on the coffee table and kissed John’s foreheads.
‘Back in a moment,’ he said, going off to the bedroom where his suitcase remained unpacked, returning with a tin of biscuits.
‘Who did you steal these from?’ John asked with a smile when Sherlock prised the lid of the tin open.
‘I didn’t steal them,’ Sherlock said, putting a couple of biscuits each in the saucers on the tray, replacing the lid on the tin then settling on the sofa, his head in John’s lap. ‘An old dear in the town made them for me after I got her cat out of a tree. Damnfool thing had climbed right the way to the top and couldn’t get back down. I had the afternoon off and nothing better to do, so...’
John smiled again, stroking the back of one finger down Sherlock’s cheek.
‘Oh, Mummy telephoned whilst you were asleep,’ Sherlock said, sitting up, pouring milk and sugar into the cups, then the tea.
‘How did she know you were here?’
‘Mycroft, I presume,’ Sherlock lied smoothly. ‘She wants you to go and examine the children on Thursday afternoon. I’ll come with you, of course, she’s going to tell Mycroft to send a car.’
‘The children? Is she still looking after all those evacuees?’
‘Yes, a couple are quite grown up now, apparently.’ Sherlock bit into a biscuit, stirred the teas and rested his head in John’s lap again. ‘She says they’re in need of a check-up and she’d appreciate it if you’d go and see to them rather than get someone else in.’
‘Oh,’ John said, sounding surprised. ‘Yes, of course I’ll go.’
‘I said you’d be happy to,’ Sherlock said after swallowing his mouthful of biscuit. John reached out to pick up his cup and saucer, resting it on the arm of the sofa for a moment. He stroked Sherlock’s curls back. He scratched Sherlock’s scalp gently, sipped his tea and looked down at Sherlock, who turned his head and pressed his nose to John’s stomach.
‘Are you feeling better now?’ Sherlock murmured into the soft wool of John’s jumper.
John touched his hand to Sherlock’s face. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, much.’