(no subject)
Written for this prompt.
It was the furtive rustling which startled John violently awake. In the dim light from downstairs, he was able to make out an ominous black figure, standing by his closet, rifling through his wardrobe.
"It's me," Sherlock said, belatedly.
John flopped back onto his pillow, took a deep, steadying breath, and waited for the rush of adrenaline to subside. Swallowing once, and trying to keep the anger from his voice, he asked, "What are you doing?" It never did well to be sharp with Sherlock, who could be so easily offended. He did make it difficult, though.
"I need to borrow one of you jumpers. The striped one."
"You need to borrow - why? Sherlock, it's gone two in the morning." John should have known better than to ask, because he didn't want to know. He scrubbed both hands over his face.
"I don't have any of my own, John. Wool doesn't really work for me. I need it to go out."
For a while, John listened to the metal scrape of hangers along the rod. "None of them will fit you."
"That's why I need the striped one, obviously. It's longer in the sleeves."
"Seriously, Sherlock," John stopped himself. What was the point in arguing. He clenched his eyes shut, held his breath, and let it go.
He was drifting back off when Sherlock said, "You were dreaming."
"Hm?"
"You were dreaming when I came in. What were you dreaming about?"
John blinked several times, but he couldn't make out Sherlock's face in the dark. He tried to remember what he had dreamt about.
"Leeches," he said. The scraping hangers slowed, then paused. "Why?" John asked, and the hanger sound resumed.
"I'm interested in the way the subconscious manifests in dreams. Rarely useful in my line of work, but on occasion, interesting."
John thought the last thing he needed was Sherlock Holmes psychoanalysing his dreams. Or spying on him while he slept. He didn't know which was worse.
"Was there anything else?" Sherlock asked. John sighed deeply. He glanced at the clock. 2:17. All things considered, it was still early, for Sherlock.
"I think - I was in the desert, or something. It was windy, and there were...leeches on me. I was pulling them off. That's it." The leeches had been black and thick as slugs, and had stretched a good eight inches before snapping off. When they did they had ripped great bleeding chunks from John's flesh. He had had to be somewhere important, but he couldn't get there until the leeches were off. No matter how many he pulled, there were never any fewer.
Sherlock said nothing, pawing thoughtfully through John's wardrobe.
"I spilled wine on the striped one," John suddenly remembered. Sherlock's dark form bent down to root through the pile of laundry on the closet floor, then rose with the striped jumper in hand. He sniffed it once, then pulled it on. In the light from the hall he examined the burgundy stain on one sleeve. He then snatched another jumper from off its hanger and asked briskly, "Are you awake?"
"Yes, Sherlock, I am awake. Thank you."
Sherlock tossed the jumper onto the bed. "Good, then put that on."
"What?"
"You're awake, and I could do with the company." Sherlock retrieved John's cane from behind the door, dusted it off, and adjusted the height to suit him. "Are you ready?"
Sitting up, John shrugged into the jumper and pulled on a pair of pants. "Yes," he said.
Once outside, Sherlock leaned heavily on John's cane, and pulled a cap over his distinctly non-regulation hair. They took a cab to the pub, and John followed a limping Sherlock inside. He hadn't breathed a word of his intent, and he took the corner seat at an isolated table, (plenty at this hour,) leaving John to sit with his back to the room. John never sat with his back to a room, and doing so now left him distinctly uncomfortable. Sherlock's gaze had darted past him, and returned just as quickly. His brow furrowed momentarily. "I'm sorry if you're uncomfortable, but I have to be able to see."
John dismissed this with a shake of his head. "Not at all." He rose to order two beers from the bar. He would end up drinking both of them, so he didn't bother asking what Sherlock would have. If he were perfectly honest with himself, he would say he was a little bit angry. There was a lot of ex-military in this particular pub, either returning or shipping out soon. If he had known Sherlock was going to come here, sporting a fake limp and a fake war record, John would have refused to join him. If John wanted to stay perfectly honest with himself, he would admit he had known Sherlock's intent the moment he had dusted off the cane. John returned to their table and plunked down his beers. No coasters, so the condensation rolled and puddled at the bottom of each glass.
"It couldn't be helped," Sherlock said, reading John's thoughts as he was wont to do.
"No, Sherlock, it could have. You don't have to have been shot to come here."
Sherlock watched him steadily, but John refused to meet his eye. He raised one beer and drained half. He had a good view of the door to the loo, so he watched that, stubbornly.
"There's a man at the bar," Sherlock said. "Black jacket, third from the end. His wife's body was identified this afternoon by her dental records. He reported her missing over a month ago, yet he's signed up for another tour of duty. Rather hasty for someone whose wife only as of today has been confirmed dead."
"So you think he killed her."
"No. I think he's covering for whoever did. After the phone call he received earlier this evening, he'll have alerted the person he's covering for, but now he feels torn between his duty towards his wife and his duty towards a brother in arms." Sherlock retrieved the cane and levered himself up. "He won't talk to someone he thinks couldn't understand," he said, and limped away.
"You don't understand," John muttered. He finished his beer and then reached for the other, switching to Sherlock's seat in the corner. He watched him approach a haggard man at the bar; thirty five, thinning black hair, drunk. For a moment, John tried to imagine being that man. Wife dead, covering for the man who killed her. It had probably been an accident. In Afghanistan that sort of thing happened, people died in accidents and you moved on, you had to. No wonder this man wanted to go back.
Five months ago, fresh from the war, John had shot and killed a man because he had thought he had to. He hadn't even thought twice. Back then Sherlock had covered for him. John didn't know what that meant. Maybe he was the one who didn't understand.
It was nearing dawn by the time they returned to Baker Street. Sherlock had spent the cab ride furiously texting Lestrade. Once inside, John hung up his jacket and went to switch the kettle on, checking to see there was enough water. Residue from the tap had calcified along the coil and flaked off to hang, suspended, near the bottom. John clicked the switch and the orange light popped on. He knew Sherlock had been watching him since the cab ride home, but he didn't feel like acknowledging it. He settled a tea bag into a mug and waited for the water to boil.
"Would you go back?" Sherlock asked. He was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the hall.
"I can't."
"I know. But would you, if you could?"
John sighed and trained his gaze on the cabinet handle. Looking at the same thing, Sherlock could have concluded that the man who had lived here ten years ago had been a chronic junkie, and had died of an epileptic fit. All John could see was that the metal was old, and all the shining brass leaf had worn away.
"I don't know," he said. When Sherlock remained silent, John continued. "I left a lot of good people back there. Could have...helped them. And - " And things were simpler, he didn't say. So often with Sherlock nothing made sense. John's eyes drifted down to his mug, to the steam rising gently from the kettle mouth. He quirked a half smile. "But. It's a bit pointless, isn't it?" He turned and looked at Sherlock, standing in the doorway in John's stained jumper, his hair matted flat from the cap. "You have to do the best you can where you are."
Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. The kettle clicked off and John poured his tea. "Did you want any?" he asked.
"No." Sherlock shrugged out of John's jumper and made as though to hand it to him, but didn't. His fingers tightened around the bulky material. "I'll wash it for you," he said.
"No need. I was going to do it."
"No," Sherlock said, "I'll wash it." Slowly he walked into his bedroom and closed the door. A moment later he reopened it. "Are you going to leave?" he asked. There was a long, still pause.
"No," John said, gently. Sherlock nodded.
"Good." The door closed.
John pulled the tea bag from his mug and abandoned it on the draining board. Seeing as Sherlock almost never washed anything, John doubted he would ever see the jumper again. That was fine. John went to stand near the window, looking out over a blue-grey Baker Street, letting the hot mug warm his hands.
It was the furtive rustling which startled John violently awake. In the dim light from downstairs, he was able to make out an ominous black figure, standing by his closet, rifling through his wardrobe.
"It's me," Sherlock said, belatedly.
John flopped back onto his pillow, took a deep, steadying breath, and waited for the rush of adrenaline to subside. Swallowing once, and trying to keep the anger from his voice, he asked, "What are you doing?" It never did well to be sharp with Sherlock, who could be so easily offended. He did make it difficult, though.
"I need to borrow one of you jumpers. The striped one."
"You need to borrow - why? Sherlock, it's gone two in the morning." John should have known better than to ask, because he didn't want to know. He scrubbed both hands over his face.
"I don't have any of my own, John. Wool doesn't really work for me. I need it to go out."
For a while, John listened to the metal scrape of hangers along the rod. "None of them will fit you."
"That's why I need the striped one, obviously. It's longer in the sleeves."
"Seriously, Sherlock," John stopped himself. What was the point in arguing. He clenched his eyes shut, held his breath, and let it go.
He was drifting back off when Sherlock said, "You were dreaming."
"Hm?"
"You were dreaming when I came in. What were you dreaming about?"
John blinked several times, but he couldn't make out Sherlock's face in the dark. He tried to remember what he had dreamt about.
"Leeches," he said. The scraping hangers slowed, then paused. "Why?" John asked, and the hanger sound resumed.
"I'm interested in the way the subconscious manifests in dreams. Rarely useful in my line of work, but on occasion, interesting."
John thought the last thing he needed was Sherlock Holmes psychoanalysing his dreams. Or spying on him while he slept. He didn't know which was worse.
"Was there anything else?" Sherlock asked. John sighed deeply. He glanced at the clock. 2:17. All things considered, it was still early, for Sherlock.
"I think - I was in the desert, or something. It was windy, and there were...leeches on me. I was pulling them off. That's it." The leeches had been black and thick as slugs, and had stretched a good eight inches before snapping off. When they did they had ripped great bleeding chunks from John's flesh. He had had to be somewhere important, but he couldn't get there until the leeches were off. No matter how many he pulled, there were never any fewer.
Sherlock said nothing, pawing thoughtfully through John's wardrobe.
"I spilled wine on the striped one," John suddenly remembered. Sherlock's dark form bent down to root through the pile of laundry on the closet floor, then rose with the striped jumper in hand. He sniffed it once, then pulled it on. In the light from the hall he examined the burgundy stain on one sleeve. He then snatched another jumper from off its hanger and asked briskly, "Are you awake?"
"Yes, Sherlock, I am awake. Thank you."
Sherlock tossed the jumper onto the bed. "Good, then put that on."
"What?"
"You're awake, and I could do with the company." Sherlock retrieved John's cane from behind the door, dusted it off, and adjusted the height to suit him. "Are you ready?"
Sitting up, John shrugged into the jumper and pulled on a pair of pants. "Yes," he said.
Once outside, Sherlock leaned heavily on John's cane, and pulled a cap over his distinctly non-regulation hair. They took a cab to the pub, and John followed a limping Sherlock inside. He hadn't breathed a word of his intent, and he took the corner seat at an isolated table, (plenty at this hour,) leaving John to sit with his back to the room. John never sat with his back to a room, and doing so now left him distinctly uncomfortable. Sherlock's gaze had darted past him, and returned just as quickly. His brow furrowed momentarily. "I'm sorry if you're uncomfortable, but I have to be able to see."
John dismissed this with a shake of his head. "Not at all." He rose to order two beers from the bar. He would end up drinking both of them, so he didn't bother asking what Sherlock would have. If he were perfectly honest with himself, he would say he was a little bit angry. There was a lot of ex-military in this particular pub, either returning or shipping out soon. If he had known Sherlock was going to come here, sporting a fake limp and a fake war record, John would have refused to join him. If John wanted to stay perfectly honest with himself, he would admit he had known Sherlock's intent the moment he had dusted off the cane. John returned to their table and plunked down his beers. No coasters, so the condensation rolled and puddled at the bottom of each glass.
"It couldn't be helped," Sherlock said, reading John's thoughts as he was wont to do.
"No, Sherlock, it could have. You don't have to have been shot to come here."
Sherlock watched him steadily, but John refused to meet his eye. He raised one beer and drained half. He had a good view of the door to the loo, so he watched that, stubbornly.
"There's a man at the bar," Sherlock said. "Black jacket, third from the end. His wife's body was identified this afternoon by her dental records. He reported her missing over a month ago, yet he's signed up for another tour of duty. Rather hasty for someone whose wife only as of today has been confirmed dead."
"So you think he killed her."
"No. I think he's covering for whoever did. After the phone call he received earlier this evening, he'll have alerted the person he's covering for, but now he feels torn between his duty towards his wife and his duty towards a brother in arms." Sherlock retrieved the cane and levered himself up. "He won't talk to someone he thinks couldn't understand," he said, and limped away.
"You don't understand," John muttered. He finished his beer and then reached for the other, switching to Sherlock's seat in the corner. He watched him approach a haggard man at the bar; thirty five, thinning black hair, drunk. For a moment, John tried to imagine being that man. Wife dead, covering for the man who killed her. It had probably been an accident. In Afghanistan that sort of thing happened, people died in accidents and you moved on, you had to. No wonder this man wanted to go back.
Five months ago, fresh from the war, John had shot and killed a man because he had thought he had to. He hadn't even thought twice. Back then Sherlock had covered for him. John didn't know what that meant. Maybe he was the one who didn't understand.
It was nearing dawn by the time they returned to Baker Street. Sherlock had spent the cab ride furiously texting Lestrade. Once inside, John hung up his jacket and went to switch the kettle on, checking to see there was enough water. Residue from the tap had calcified along the coil and flaked off to hang, suspended, near the bottom. John clicked the switch and the orange light popped on. He knew Sherlock had been watching him since the cab ride home, but he didn't feel like acknowledging it. He settled a tea bag into a mug and waited for the water to boil.
"Would you go back?" Sherlock asked. He was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the hall.
"I can't."
"I know. But would you, if you could?"
John sighed and trained his gaze on the cabinet handle. Looking at the same thing, Sherlock could have concluded that the man who had lived here ten years ago had been a chronic junkie, and had died of an epileptic fit. All John could see was that the metal was old, and all the shining brass leaf had worn away.
"I don't know," he said. When Sherlock remained silent, John continued. "I left a lot of good people back there. Could have...helped them. And - " And things were simpler, he didn't say. So often with Sherlock nothing made sense. John's eyes drifted down to his mug, to the steam rising gently from the kettle mouth. He quirked a half smile. "But. It's a bit pointless, isn't it?" He turned and looked at Sherlock, standing in the doorway in John's stained jumper, his hair matted flat from the cap. "You have to do the best you can where you are."
Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. The kettle clicked off and John poured his tea. "Did you want any?" he asked.
"No." Sherlock shrugged out of John's jumper and made as though to hand it to him, but didn't. His fingers tightened around the bulky material. "I'll wash it for you," he said.
"No need. I was going to do it."
"No," Sherlock said, "I'll wash it." Slowly he walked into his bedroom and closed the door. A moment later he reopened it. "Are you going to leave?" he asked. There was a long, still pause.
"No," John said, gently. Sherlock nodded.
"Good." The door closed.
John pulled the tea bag from his mug and abandoned it on the draining board. Seeing as Sherlock almost never washed anything, John doubted he would ever see the jumper again. That was fine. John went to stand near the window, looking out over a blue-grey Baker Street, letting the hot mug warm his hands.