#flashbang event

***

They’d been called away from London, on a kidnapping case. One Tommy Winthrop, 28, begging them to come help find his fiancée, Evie Slater, 26, last seen 54 hours earlier, when she left to visit a friend and never came back. The only clue? One wilted red rose, stuffed in their mailbox. No security footage. But for the flower, it was as if she’d simply vanished into thin air.

Sherlock had immediately been interested in the mystery and, with the ticking clock of a missing persons case, they quickly packed their bags and took the first available train. Just the two of them, as Mariana was both busy and feeling slightly under the weather.

“Calling this one The Adventure of the Wilted Rose,” John had announced on the train. “Unless something more interesting comes up. But. I mean. A wilted rose, left behind like a… a… calling card? Yeah, that’s perfect for a title. Do you think it was a calling card? Hm? Any theories forming in that big brain of yours?”

Sherlock looked out the train window.

“Not enough information.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, but. What do you think? About the rose. Mm? Was it.. A calling card? A warning? A… reason?”

“A reason?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, yeah, cause… Well, red rose, that’s for, like, romantic love usually, right?”

“So I’ve heard…”

“Yeah. And. I’m thinking… A jilted lover. Tommy said they just got engaged two weeks ago, right? Well, maybe some guy - or, or girl, you know - from Evie’s past heard about the engagement and… They felt like… She… belonged with them, not with Tommy.”

Sherlock stared at him with interest and shining eyes, leaning a bit over the train’s table, towards him.

“So, uh,” John continued. “Red rose for romantic feelings, wilted because the love…” He realised something. “Is…" This did not sound good for Evie. “Dead.“

"Brilliant, Watson,” Sherlock exclaimed, loud enough to earn them some curious looks. “Truly, excellent.”

“You think so?” John asked, feeling his face flush.

“Absolutely. It’s a very good theory. Of course, just a theory, as we do not yet possess enough facts. But you provided us with a place to start.”

John wondered if Sherlock truly had not thought about that possibility. He didn’t ask. He was pretty sure he must have thought about it too, and if Sherlock confirmed it, he would feel less proud of himself. 

So he just shot his friend a smile before adding,

“Yeah… But.. Actually, I’ve just realised. The fact that it’s wilted.”

“Yes?“

"Not a good sign. For Evie.”

“No, indeed.” Sherlock tapped his fingers to the table. “We must hurry, once we get there. If she is still alive, I suspect whoever took her will not keep her that way for long.”

They didn’t know how right he was. They were still in the train when they got the news: Evie Slater had been found dead in a bin, close to her home. Her throat had been slit.

Their kidnapping case had just turned into a murder case.

As for the wilted rose…

“Dehydrated?“

”Severely dehydrated", John said. “Whoever took her must’ve not given her water at all. No food either, but…”

“Lack of water kills faster.”

“Yeah… Especially in the summer. Her kidneys had already failed. If the kidnapper had waited a bit longer…”

The mysterious wilted rose had turned out to be less a symbol of dead romance and more a reminder that living beings died without access to water.

They still investigated the jilted lover avenue. No luck. They tried to find out if Evie had pissed off some hardcore environmentalist group. Nothing. No enemies at all.

The second day was coming to an end. They were back in their hotel room. It was late. John was already in his pyjamas, lying on his bed, when Sherlock sat up as if he’d just made an amazing discovery, and announced he needed to go check something.

“Right now?” John asked. “Can’t it wait till morning?”

“The sooner the better!” Sherlock said, and hurried to put his shoes on.

“Yeah… I’ll just…” He started slowly pushing himself off the bed.

Sherlock looked at him with a mixture of pity and concern.

“It’s alright, Watson,” he said after a few seconds. “I’ll go on my own. I only need to check one thing.”

“Are you sure?” John asked.

“Yes. I shall take Mini Mike with me. You rest.”

John let himself fall back on the mattress. 

“Alright. Be back soon.”

“Mm, no promises,” Sherlock said, and closed the door behind him. 

20 seconds of blissful silence later, John started feeling guilty for letting Sherlock go off on his own, at night, investigating something connected to a murder case.

He took his phone and typed out a text:

Be careful, alright?

He looked at it. For some reason, it felt too sincere. 

Maybe he just didn’t want Sherlock to know he was feeling guilty. Or maybe he didn’t want him to think he was actually worried. He wasn’t, after all. Nothing more than a slight unease.

He added another sentence, to make the text into something less serious. A joke.

Be careful, alright? I’m not coming after you if you get kidnapped too :))

He sent it, and after a few seconds Sherlock replied with a thumbs up.

He felt better, after that. Still, he decided to either wait up for him, or check in if he wasn’t back in an hour.

He set an alarm, just in case he fell asleep.

He did fall asleep.

He did not hear the alarm.

***

The call ended.

John tried not to panic.

It’s alright. It’s alright, he’ll just go to the reception desk and ask if anyone saw his friend.

He put his shoes on, took the mic and opened the door.

His blood froze. The feeling of dread in his chest rose, choking him.

Right outside, on the doormat, someone had left a single wilted rose.

He tried to breathe in, but felt he wasn’t getting enough air.

His hands shook as he grabbed his phone. He called Lestrade.

She did pick up, after only two rings. There was a lot of noise on the other end. People talking to each other. A crowd.

“What is it?” she asked.

He opened his mouth to talk.

He couldn’t. He felt like he was going to burst into tears if he did.

“Alright. Watson?”

For a moment, he felt slightly flattered that she had saved his number.

He nodded, not realising that it didn’t help.

“Did something happen to Sherlock?”

He took a big breath, squeezed his eyes, willed himself to calm down.

“Yeah,“ he managed to say. "He- He’s been kidnapped.”

She immediately made her way out of the noisy room and asked for more details. He told her everything he knew, and she told him she’s getting in her car and she’ll be there as soon as possible.

After they hung up, John stayed in the same spot, still shaking from the adrenaline.

Lestrade was coming. That was good.

But he had to do something, too. He had to try to investigate, gather clues at least. He couldn’t just sit around, waiting for Lestrade to arrive.

Every minute mattered.

***

*216 minutes later*

He didn’t know if it was luck, or a stroke of pure genius on his part, or adrenaline and the fear of losing his best friend working miracles. But his little investigation had been fruitful, and the clues he’d uncovered - though, mostly circumstantial - led him to believe that Evie must have been held in an abandoned theatre. And if Evie was, then Sherlock must be there, too.

He called Lestrade to tell her his suspicion. She didn’t seem too convinced, but admitted it was a possibility.

“But don’t do anything until I get there. Alright?”

John didn’t answer.

“Watson. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Every minute counts.”

“I know,” she answered, at first placating, then, after having a moment to think about it, irritated. “I know! Who do you think I am?”

“Sorry…"

She sighed, seemingly deciding he wasn’t in his right mind.

“I know you’re worried. I’m worried too.”

A pause.

“I’m getting off the phone with you and calling the local police to let them know about your suspicion. Alright?”

“Yeah.“

“Alright.” She paused, again. “We’re still in the first 24 hours. The first victim was killed on the third day. Wasn’t she?”

“Yeah. Very early on the third day, but… Yeah.”

“You see why I’m reminding you this.”

As if he could forget.

But he did know what she meant.

“He’s probably still alive.”

“And will be for a while,” Lestrade added. “Just… Don’t do anything stupid, Watson.”

“Alright…" he half-heartedly agreed.

They ended the call.

One hour. Or however long the local police took, if they decided his suspicion was worth their time.

One hour.

She was right. He’d been gone for 13 hours. If the killer just wanted to get rid of him, he’d likely have done it already. If he was sticking to the same m.o. as in Evie’s case, then they had time.

Nothing guaranteed, of course. The killer could simply… Change his mind. Kill him earlier.

And even if he didn’t… He withheld water from his first victim. 

Past 24 hours of not drinking water… Heatstroke. Organ failure. Seizures.

He couldn’t let Sherlock go through that.

13 hours since he last saw him. 14 hours if he waited for Lestrade. 

But what if it took longer? What if they had to wait for a warrant?

What if he was wrong, and he wasn’t being held there? 

He couldn’t lose precious time waiting around.

John looked up at the old, imposing building.

He was already there, after all.

He had the gun Sherlock brought along. The one John always refused to use. He had water, and his first aid kit.

He’ll just… See if there’s a way in.

***

“I’m in!” he whispered for the listeners before he realised, if there was a deranged kidnapper slash killer around, he should probably be very, very quiet. 

He’ll just do some voice-over narration, if he decided to publish this case.

That is, if he - or anyone - managed to save Sherlock.

He shuddered.

Oh god.

Don’t think about it.

He’ll be fine. He’ll be alright. He’s Sherlock.

He can’t die like this.

He walked along the dusty, ruined corridors, gun out. He checked every little room he came across. If he were to hide in such a big building, for any reason, he’d choose a very small room.

He came to the stairs and climbed up, thinking he might find something in one of the changing rooms.

Nothing.

Just eerie silence. 

Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe he wasn’t here.

He tried to drive the thought away.

It was a huge building. And given the clues he’d uncovered, it would make sense for the kidnapper to bring his victims here. And being held hostage wasn’t a particularly loud activity, especially after 13 hours, after you’d grown tired of screaming for help and even if you did still want to scream, your throat wouldn’t let you.

He felt a lump in his own throat. 

Poor Sherlock. He must be so scared. 

He must know people are looking for him, at least. 

But neither he nor John knew if those people would manage to find him. And if they did find him, to get him to safety. 

What if they couldn’t?

What if Sherlock was alive right now, and they were both thinking about the same thing, and yet… And yet, from Sherlock’s perspective, nothing will happen. He’ll wait, and he’ll wait, and he’ll hope someone’s coming, better late than never, and he’ll keep hoping until he passed out from dehydration and then… Nothing.

John felt tears forming in his eyes.

No. No, no, no. No, that couldn’t happen.

He blinked them away.

He checked the last of the changing rooms, then made his way to a longer corridor. Something about it gave John the impression that he’d reached the part of the building the general public was meant to see.

He opened a door, and it became apparent he had found one of the balconies. Definitely not a good place to hide a kidnapping victim, but he entered, just to look around at the seats, the ornate walls, the beautiful but decrepit stage…

He gasped.

Right there, on the stage… On the fucking stage, tied to one of the two poles, near the very back…

“Sherlock?“ he asked before thinking better of it.

He listened, to see if his unwise question resulted in either the killer making a move, or the poor bastard tied up to the pole looking up at him.

Neither happened.

He hurried closer to the edge of the balcony, and… Yeah. His mouth was tied, obscuring part of his face, and his head was hanging, as if he was unconscious. But it was definitely Sherlock.

He froze for a second, shocked that he actually found him, and paralysed by the realisation that to get to him, he must take his eyes off him again.

It was still quiet. The killer might not be there. Or he could be in the stalls, below the balcony, or in the wings. Such a big, open space. Plenty of room to hide.

He needed to move. 

He didn’t want to take his eyes off Sherlock. He felt as if he was abandoning him.

For a moment, he was grateful the detective didn’t notice him. 

If John felt like he was abandoning him, what would a dizzy, scared Sherlock think?

Alright, he thought, not willing to make noise again. I’m coming to you. Hold on, Sherls.

He hurried out, back to the corridor, and found the nearest set of stairs that would take him down. His heart pounded. What if he was only gone for a few seconds, but when he got to the stage, Sherlock will have somehow disappeared?

He entered through the stalls, looked at the mass of chairs for any sign of the killer, then turned to the stage, to Sherlock.

To Sherlock, now awake, and a 40-something-year-old man pulling his friend’s head back by the hair and pressing a knife to his throat.

“Yeaah, I was there,” he said. “Good thing you decided to announce your presence. Gave me time to move.”

John straightened his arms to better aim at him, kicking himself for not being quieter.

"Let him go. Now.”

“No, I don’t think so,” the man said. “You’re interrupting. Put the gun down.”

John didn’t.

He tried to think of something clever, to persuade the man to let his friend go, or at least lower the knife.

Shit. Maybe he should have waited for Lestrade.

The man moved to hide more of his body behind Sherlock. The knife moved too, scraping Sherlock’s neck.

“No, please-” John begged, and instinctively moved to take a step forward.

“One more step!” the man roared.

John willed himself to freeze.

“Alright.”

“One more step and I slit his throat.”

“Alright, I’m not moving. Sorry.”

“And put that gun down.”

John considered his options.

He couldn’t really shoot the man. Besides the moral aspect of it - which wasn’t bothering him too much at the moment - he very likely physically couldn’t do it. The only part of the man he could clearly see was his face, and his face was only a few centimetres from Sherlock’s. If he tried to shoot and missed - which was a real possibility due to the distance and his not having shot a gun in years - he might either shoot his best friend in the face, killing him instantly, or lead the man to actually slit Sherlock’s throat. Killing him instantly.

Put down the gun? Couldn’t do that either. This was his only bargaining chip, the only way he could keep himself at least slightly in control of the situation. What if he put it down and the man just killed Sherlock, right then and there? Right in front of him. How could he live with himself if that happened?

Only one option, then.

“Can’t do that, sorry. What don’t we just… Talk. A bit.”

The man sighed, clearly annoyed.

“I-I don’t. Wanna talk.”

“What do you want, then?”

“I want… You… To go away. So I don’t have to dispose of your friend earlier than I have to.”

“Alright…" John said. “You’re right, you know? He is my friend. He’s my best friend, actually. His name is Sherlock. But I call him Sherls sometimes. And I’m John.”

“I know.”

John blinked. 

He did not expect that.

“H-how do you know?”

“I’ve done my research, didn’t I? After I caught this one. You have a podcast. I listened.”

Shit. Ok. He not only knew their names, but had heard a few episodes too. And he still seemed willing to kill Sherlock.

John didn’t know how to continue.

“Um. Alright… What’s your name?”

The man sighed, or rather groaned in frustration.  But he did answer.

“Peter.”

“Ok. Ok. Listen, Peter. I’d really like to-” A lump in his throat cut off his voice. He breathed in, and continued. “-go home. With him. Alive and well. So… I’d really appreciate if you would… Just… Let him go. Please?”

That wasn’t gonna work, was it.

“That’s not gonna work,” Peter said.

Yeah, it would’ve been too good, wouldn’t it?

John decided to change tactics.

“Alright, well what do you wanna do? Cause I’m not leaving. I’m not putting my gun down. You’re not gonna get to… Peacefully complete your… Ritual, or whatever it was.”

“It’s research.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not getting that back. So, we could stay here and talk. Which. I- I don’t think you’d like. Or you-” he hesitated saying the next part aloud “-could kill him now, and then I immediately kill you. And nobody wins. Or. You could just.. Let him go.”

“Yeah, I already said that’s not happening.”

“You could run away,” John said. “I won’t follow.”

Peter seemed surprised by John’s words. He seemed to consider that plan.

“I’m serious,” John said, and hated that he had no secret plan to actually capture Peter if he made a run for it. He could probably try to catch him, but he wasn’t very confident in his running abilities. And what if Peter still had the knife, and saw that John was going back on his word, and circled back to stab Sherlock, who would still be immobilised? He knew who the killer was now. He could just tell the police. And they would catch him. “I’ll stay with Sherlock. To untie him. You could escape.”

Of course, the best case scenario was the local police, who should have heard from Lestrade by now, waiting for Peter outside the building. But they weren’t that quick, and they wouldn’t know to look out for Peter anyway.

“What do you say?” John asked.

For a few seconds, it seemed like it was gonna work.

Then Peter said,

“Yeah, but you’ll tell the police who I am…”

“I won’t,” John lied.

“You’re lying. I mean, I’m not judging you, it’s… Your civic duty and whatnot. But… Yeah, no. If I’m going to jail I might as well finish what I started.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Peter, do you have anyone you love? Parents, sib-”

“Yeah, yeah. I- I’m not gonna… Change my mind just cause you love him. Yeah? The girl… Had… Family too. I know… That stuff…”

Alright. That won’t work, then. Another approach.

“Peter,“ John said, aiming his gun better. "Listen to me. If you kill him. I will kill you. I’m not joking.”

“Yeahh…” Peter said. “But… I told you, I’ve done some research. And I… Just… I don’t think you’re gonna shoot me. Doctor Watson.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t think you understand what I would do for Sherlock. Fi-”

Peter laughed. It echoed in the empty theatre.

John’s brows furrowed in confusion. He didn’t seem to be pretending. He was actually laughing.

“Final warning,” he shouted, trying to cover the sound of laughter. “Let him go. Now." 

He prayed it would work. He really didn’t wanna risk shooting at them from that distance.

The man let out a final wheeze, then stopped laughing.

"You know what? You’ve convinced me, actually.”

John felt a tiny bit of tension melt from his shoulders. Still, he kept his gun trained on the killer.

“I don’t need to see him… Fade away, too. Yeah. Saw the girl, already.”

John breathed a bit easier.

“I mean,” the man said and glanced at Sherlock’s terrified face before looking back at John. “This might actually be more interesting.”

What?

John saw the knife turn just a little - a better angle for cutting a throat. The beginning of a movement, from the left to the right.

“No!!” he screamed, and pulled the trigger.

He closed his eyes, fearing, in the moment after pulling the trigger, that he might not have hit the intended target.

He heard a muffled yelp, followed by the knife clattering to the floor, then a body falling down.

He opened his eyes.

Peter was on the floor. Sherlock was clearly alive, panting, with his head still tilted back and his kidnapper’s blood on his face.

And at the very left of his neck…

“Shit,” John said, and hurried towards the stage, praying the man didn’t have time to cut too deep. “Let me see. Let me see.” He got to the stage just as Sherlock opened his eyes and made an attempt to straighten his head. “No, stay like that! Don’t move.”

Two more steps, and…

“Let me see,” he whispered, and inspected the small cut on Sherlock’s neck. It was bleeding, but not profusely. John dropped to his knees and rummaged in his backpack for the first aid kit. He picked some gauze and pressed it to Sherlock’s injury for a few seconds. He grabbed his phone, turned on the flashlight, and looked again.

It wasn’t deep. Just a small cut that was only bleeding like it was because of the location. Now, with the flashlight, John could see another, very superficial scrape along the middle of the neck. Most likely received when the kidnapper adjusted his position. That one wasn’t even bleeding. Just a bit red. 

He’d been extremely lucky.

“You’re ok,” he told Sherlock, and finally looked at his face.

He’d been crying. He still was.

“Sherlock…”

He raised his hand to touch his face, but Sherlock flinched away.

Alright. Fair enough. He’d just been through something horrible, maybe he should have warned him.

He quickly covered the injury on his neck with another piece of gauze, then turned his attention back to Sherlock’s face.

“I’m untying you,” he said, and quickly removed the bandana covering his mouth. His face fell when Sherlock opened his mouth to reveal he’d also been gagged with some sort of rag.

“Jesus Christ…” he whispered. He pulled it out, carefully, then threw it on the floor.

Sherlock immediately turned his head to look at Peter’s body, lying on the stage floor in a puddle of blood. The kidnapper’s face was… Well. It was barely recognisable.

“Look at me, Sherls.”

Sherlock did. His eyes were wide, and still terrified. They looked at John like they couldn’t believe what they just saw. Like they didn’t even recognise John. Like John was… A danger.

He couldn’t… He couldn’t be scared of John, could he? Yes, he did just kill someone. And the bullet came dangerously close to Sherlock. And he could have very well killed Sherlock himself. But… Surely, his friend understood that he had to, right? Peter was moving the knife. He was about to kill Sherlock. So he had to shoot him. Surely, Sherlock understood.

And him flinching away from John was just a coincidence.

“Can you talk?”

Sherlock opened his mouth. He couldn’t get any words out, so he closed it and tried to swallow.

John expected this. After hours without water, and having to hold that rag in his mouth… His mouth and throat were probably too dry to speak.

“Hold on,” John said, and pulled a bottle of water out of the backpack. He brought it to Sherlock’s lips. “Just a sip, yeah? We don’t wanna… Overwhelm your body.”

Sherlock did take one sip. Then, he immediately tried to speak again.

“Ba-“ He swallowed again. Coughed. "Bath…”

“Bathroom?“ John guessed.

"Mhm.”

“Right. Yeah. Shit. Ok, hold on.”

He moved to the back of the pole and started untying the rope holding Sherlock’s body pressed to it. The bindings seemed rather tight. Once they were loose, blood would return to the parts that were now more or less numb and… Well. 

Ouch.

Wait.

John checked Sherlock’s hands, to make sure the rope around his wrists had not acted as a tourniquet and cut off the entire blood supply. If it had, the limb would be long dead now, and untying it would mean allowing the dead blood to flow to the rest of Sherlock’s body, which would NOT be a good idea at all.

But fortunately, Sherlock’s hands looked fine. He touched one of his fingers.

“Can you feel this?”

“Yeah.”

“What am I touching?”

“Finger.”

“Alright.”

He inspected the ropes around his wrists closer. Yes, they were tight, and his poor friend’s hands were red where they had rubbed together, but the bindings weren’t tight enough to cut off all blood flow. Thank god.

“Alright, I’m untying you now. Just had to check something.”

He untied Sherlock’s wrists, then checked his legs too.

They were fine, too, so he untied them.

Sherlock was already groaning and grinding his teeth as the feeling returned to his body.

John got up, to see if he could help. He wasn’t sure how long Sherlock could remain upright, given the combination of feeling returning to his body, having sat upright for hours and possible muscle spasms from both that and dehydration. So he touched his shoulder, to try to steady him.

Sherlock flinched.

He didn’t pull away or anything, but it was enough.

One time was a coincidence. Two times, paired with the way he had looked at him…

Yeah. John had managed to make his best friend afraid of him. Hadn’t he.

Well, in that case, this was going to suck for Sherlock, because he clearly couldn’t walk on his own and there was nobody but John around to help.

“Can you move?” he asked, more as a courtesy. He knew the answer already.

Sherlock tried to take a step and almost came crashing to the ground. 

John caught him.

“Right. Don’t worry, it’ll come back to you. Let’s find a bathroom, yeah?”

They moved too slow together, so John left him on one of the chairs while he ran out of the room, to locate the nearest toilet. It was, fortunately, just outside the stalls, so John returned to Sherlock quickly enough.

When he got to him, Sherlock had his eyes fixed on Peter’s body.

“You killed him…” he said, and sounded like he still couldn’t quite believe it.

John felt his shoulders sag in defeat. That settled it, then. It wasn’t his imagination. He wasn’t making this up. Sherlock really was upset with him. 

“Yeah,” John admitted. “Well. I had to, didn’t I?”

Sherlock looked away, as if rejecting John’s argument.

He supposed he was right to. It didn’t have to be like that. If only he’d waited for backup. If only he’d been smart enough to know how to persuade Peter to let Sherlock go… But he wasn’t. He had to kill someone, and endanger his best friend.

He was right to be mad at him, of course. But it still stung.

“Come on,” John said. “I found a bathroom.”

He helped him hobble to the bathroom and left him there to do his business. He hurried back to the stage to retrieve his backpack and the water.

“Sherlock!” he shouted when he got back. “I’m leaving you the water bottle next to the door, yeah? You can… Take it and drink some water, alright? Just… Slowly. Ok?”

No answer for a few seconds.

“Did you hear me?” John asked, already fearing that Sherlock had passed out or something, and who knows if he locked the door or not-

“Yes! Thank you!”

Alright. John calmed down. Good. He was ok. Everything would be ok.

He’ll… Try to explain himself to Sherlock, later. When the waters calmed down. He’ll tell him he tried to reason with Peter, and… And perhaps, if the roles were reversed this wouldn’t have happened. Perhaps Sherlock would have been able to save John without killing anyone. But John couldn’t. He messed up by not waiting for Lestrade. He messed up by announcing his presence. He messed up trying to negotiate with Peter and could have very well messed up his shot and become the cause of Sherlock’s death.

That’s what he was, wasn’t he? A mess-up. Sherlock should have expected this by now.

At least he’d managed to rescue his friend. That was the most important thing.

John pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“I’m gonna call Lestrade and tell her you’re ok, yeah?”

“Lestrade?”

“Yeah! She was coming to help!” John replied, then winced as he realised that he gave Sherlock the perfect reason to be even more disappointed in him. He hadn’t known he was supposed to wait for Lestrade, but decided to investigate the theatre on his own. 

He certainly could deduce it now.

“I see…” Sherlock’s voice came, quieter than before.

Yeah, John thought. Of course you see.

He called Lestrade.

“Half an hour, Watson,” she answered.

“Yeah, so, I didn’t wait.”

He heard her sigh, and could almost see her closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose.

“He’s ok. I- I mean-”

“You found him?”

She sounded impressed. John’s mouth curled into a small smile, if only for a second.

“Yeah. He’s a bit injured, and.. Dehydrated and stiff and he should really eat something. But. He’s safe now.” Something occurred to John. “Unless the kidnapper had an accomplice or something, but I don’t think-”

“Was the kidnapper with him?”

“Yeah. He’s uh… He’s. Dead. Now.”

“How?”

“I… Had to… Shoot him.”

A long silence.

“He was gonna kill Sherlock,” John added.

“Yeah… You know you’re gonna have to give a statement. At the station.”

“I know.”

“Alright.” Another long silence, followed by a relieved exhale. “How injured did you mean?”

John explained it in more detail. She went quiet for a while, possibly with the realisation that Sherlock really had been that close to dying. John wondered if she blamed him too, for being the reason Peter even considered killing Sherlock that early. He didn’t ask, of course. He was sure that would result in her telling him outright just how stupid he was. And he really didn’t want that.

She instructed him to call 999 and tell them what happened, and assured him that, if Sherlock had to go to the hospital while John was questioned, she would go with Sherlock, so he wouldn’t be alone.

“That’s great,” John said, thinking that Sherlock would probably prefer that too. “Thank you.”

They hung up. John called 999 and told them what had happened.

Sherlock got out while John was still on the phone. He had washed the blood off his face, and was now sitting down next to the bathroom door, holding the water bottle and taking small sips every ten seconds or so.

John hung up the phone. He looked at Sherlock. He had made himself so small. Knees drawn up to his chest. Holding on to the water bottle like a child would hold on to a toy. His hair was a mess, even though he had clearly tried to smooth it out in the bathroom. He was even shaking a little bit. Breathing very controlled.

All of the sudden, all the fear and stress John had been feeling since he found the wilted rose, and the immense relief of seeing Sherlock alive and safe hit him with such intensity that he immediately teared up. His body screamed at him, begged him to run to Sherlock and hug him, hold him close and pet his hair and tell him, ‘I’m so glad you’re alright, Sherlock, you don’t know how scared I was, how relieved I am, how much I love you, how absolutely broken I would have been if you died’. 

John bit his lip, and told himself he can’t, he can’t invade Sherlock’s space, Sherlock didn’t feel comfortable, didn’t feel safe with him at the moment, he couldn’t make Sherlock uncomfortable just so he could feel better.

He tried to refrain from bursting into tears, but he couldn’t keep them at bay for long. The fear, the relief, the shame of messing up and the way his heart clenched because he couldn’t even hug his friend… He gasped, once, and covered his mouth as his tears fell. He turned around, so that Sherlock wouldn’t see him, or maybe so he wouldn’t see Sherlock. Probably the latter. Sherlock wasn’t looking at him anyway. He hadn’t looked at him once since he’d left the bathroom.

He forced himself to calm down in record time, wiped his tears away, and sat down on the floor, opposite Sherlock. He looked at the detective for a while, telling himself that if Sherlock looked back at him he would attempt to at least apologise, if not talk about it.

But Sherlock seemed to avoid his gaze even more than before. So John looked away too. 

They sat alone, in tense silence, for around ten minutes, until the police and ambulance arrived.

***

It was early evening when John returned to their hotel room. He unlocked the door with his key card, knowing that Sherlock must already be inside. Lestrade had texted him as soon as Sherlock was given the ok from the hospital. He knew he must’ve arrived at the hotel almost two hours before John.

He opened the door and saw the light was on. Sherlock was on his bed. He was texting someone, or maybe just writing something down, but he stopped as soon as John entered the room. He greeted him with a stiff “Hello.”

“Hi,” John said, and sat on his own bed. Sherlock was still avoiding looking at him, of course. “How you feelin’?”

“Alright,” Sherlock said. “Thank you.”

Tense, awkward silence again. John eyed the remote, thinking that it would be easier to just turn on the telly and try to pretend everything was fine. But it wasn’t. And he couldn’t stand his best friend not wanting to even look at him. They needed to have a talk. He just… Didn’t know how to start.

“Um…”

A small silence, as John was trying to gather his words. Then…

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock said as if someone forcibly pushed the words out of him.

For a moment, John wasn’t sure what Sherlock could possibly be apologising about. Then he realised.

“No,” he answered, “No, it’s ok. I-I mean I get it. You… Need your space. I understand.”

Sherlock raised his head, and looked at him for the first time in hours.

“What?” 

They stared at each other, with mirrored expressions of confusion on their faces.

“What- What do you mean ‘what’?”

“I am expressing confusion at your response.”

“Yeah, I know- Why- W- You- Wait, why were you apologising?”

Sherlock looked down again, avoiding John’s eyes. He clasped his hands together, as he usually did when trying to calm his nerves.

“Because I made you kill someone.”

For a few seconds, they were both silent. Sherlock was still looking down. John was trying to understand what the hell was going on. Two floors above them, some kids were arguing with their parents. John and Sherlock’s room was so quiet, they could hear them pretty well.

“You didn’t make me kill him,” John finally said. “What do you even mean?”

“You… Told me to be back soon, and take care. And- I did try to take care, but I underestimated the danger I would be in. I put you in the exact situation you warned me not to put you in. You even said you would not come after me if I-”

“Oh my god. Sherlock. Don’t… Don’t you dare finish that sentence. You have to know I was joking.”

Sherlock smiled the tiniest smile.

“I know. But… I still inconvenienced you.”

“Sherlock…”

“And you had to come after me. And you had to kill someone. To save me. So… I’m sorry. Please, John, forgive me. I- I know it doesn’t work that fast but I-” John numbly noticed that Sherlock was tearing up. “I can’t have you be mad at me, or, you can be mad but please don’t be distant. Not now. John. Please.”

John just stared at him. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, the pieces were clicking together, and he was slowly realising what had actually been going on.

“I’m not mad…” was the only thing that he managed to say.

“Then why-” Sherlock was breathing very controlled again. Trying his best to stay calm. Not to cry. “I- I thought… No. After it became clear that I couldn’t get myself out of there… I… I trusted you to find me. Even if you said you wouldn’t come for me, I knew it was a joke, and you would… Try to find me. If not on your own, then with Gwen’s help. But… The hours passed. And I was afraid.”

John’s heart clenched.

“Sherlock…”

“I was afraid. And. In pain. And I… seriously considered the possibility that I might die there. And… And then you found me! And you tried to negotiate, and when that didn’t work, you… You killed someone. To save me. And- I don’t want to insult your skills, Watson, but you were quite far away, and I didn’t think you could hit him from that distance. And- And you did. And- After all that. As you were untying me, I thought… Everything will be alright now. Because John is here. And-” Sherlock blinked, and two tears rolled down his cheeks. “And I thought you would hug me, I thought, you would be happy to see me and you would tell me, ‘I’m so glad you’re alright, Sherlock’. But you didn’t.”

“Sherlock, of course I’m glad you’re alright-”

“You just… You helped me, yes. But you kept your distance.”

John stared as Sherlock wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. 

Had he really misunderstood so badly?

“I… I thought you were scared of me.”

“Why would I be scared of you?” 

“Well. I mean. I killed someone.”

“To save my life.”

“Yeah, but… I thought…” He considered explaining that he failed to bring backup, that he announced his presence, that he failed to convince Peter to give up, but those had more to do with disappointing Sherlock than scaring him. “Well. Why did you flinch, then?”

For a moment, Sherlock did actually look disappointed.

“Watson. You are a doctor. And you have PTSD. Do you honestly think that was in reaction to you?”

“Well… Not at first, but…” But two times? And it wasn’t just that. “And. You were looking… I mean, you looked at… Peter’s body. And then at me. And you looked like. Like you didn’t even know who I was anymore.”

“Of course I knew who you were!”

“Yeah, no, I don’t mean- I mean like you didn’t… Like you couldn’t believe what I’d just done.”

“Yes!” Sherlock said. “I was amazed that you managed to do it! Both because you were far away, and he was very close to me, and… Because… You have often refused to use our gun, even on known murderers.”

“Mate, it was either that or he slit your-” John stopped abruptly, not wanting to finish the sentence.

They were both silent for a moment.

The last puzzle pieces finally clicked in John’s head, and he had the complete picture.

“You… You didn’t want me to.. Give you space.”

Sherlock looked down and shook his head vigorously.

“You… avoided looking at me because… You thought… You thought I was mad at you.”

Sherlock nodded, then looked back up.

“Are you really not?”

“Sherls…” John reached out a hand, and his friend took it. “I’m. Not even a little bit mad at you. I’m just… So damn relieved that you’re alright. And…”

And now that he understood what had happened. That Sherlock hadn’t been scared of him. Or disappointed. Just… In understandable distress after being kidnapped and almost dying. 

He’d needed John to be there for him, to comfort him. And John had done his best to keep his distance.

“God, Sherlock, I’m so sorry.”

He opened his arms to invite a hug and Sherlock more or less pounced on him, wrapping his long arms around him and burying his face in his shoulder. John returned the gesture, holding his friend as close as he’d wanted to in the theatre.

“Does that mean you forgive me?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded. “Oh. That’s good.”

Neither broke the hug, and after a few seconds, John realised his friend was trying to control his breathing, again. Which probably meant that he was trying to keep himself from crying.

Hm.

He didn’t know what happened in the few hours they were apart, after the local police and an ambulance had arrived at the old, abandoned theatre. But John supposed his friend didn’t have time to have a proper cry about what happened, and especially about what could have happened.

It might do him good. To let it all out, as they said.

But he couldn’t exactly tell him that. Could he?

It was Sherlock. He probably could.

Still. He decided on a more subtle approach.

He stroked Sherlock’s back, trying to get him to relax. He told him,

“It’s ok… It’s alright, mate.”

His hand moved up, to stroke Sherlock’s hair, too. His head was warm under his palm. He was warm.

John squeezed his eyes, trying not to think of how easily he could have lost him.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, for both their sakes.

Sherlock let out a quiet sob. Then another. John let his palm rest on the back of Sherlock’s neck, and his friend adjusted his arms to hold on better.

He was crying in earnest now.

John let him.

He whispered “It’s ok,” every now and then.

After a while, he started itching to call him something, some pet name that would condense his affection for him into one single word.

Something like sweetheart. Or darling. Or love.

But he couldn’t. He didn’t want to be too much, and anyway, the first two didn’t really feel like his words. Maybe he’d used sweetheart many years ago, with an ex. But so much time had passed. And darling. That was too Carol Watson.

And love… He did sometimes call people love. It wasn’t as weird. He could get away with calling him that, just this once. Special occasion and all.

Still. He probably shouldn’t.

His friend kept crying.

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” he whispered. 

Oh, but he couldn’t keep it in. Buddy and mate and his name just weren’t cutting it anymore.

“It’s alright, my love.”

Ok. Yeah. Didn’t really plan for that ‘my’ to get in there.

Sherlock definitely noticed, and was so taken aback that he immediately went from crying his eyes out to little more than sniffling.

“It’s ok,” John added, trying to pretend he didn’t even notice what he’d said. 

Sherlock didn’t say anything. He took another half a minute to completely stop crying, then slowly extracted himself out of John’s arms. 

He sniffed.

“I think… I might have needed that. Thank you, John.”

“Of course,” he answered. “Anytime. Just-” He chuckled, to try to ease the atmosphere, “-maybe next time without the kidnapping and almost getting murdered?”

“Yes!” Sherlock laughed once, and pointed at him, like he usually did when he got a joke he didn’t expect to get. “Indeed!”

 Now, where could that man have gone? Did he even leave his room at all today? I don’t remember hearing him leave, nor do I recall planning to. Anyway, guessing what Sherlock is doing is about as productive as pinching glass, so just in case, I should go find him. A forewarned man is worth two or something. I got up from the couch with a groan. I’m too young for my back to hurt like this. I guess it has something to do with last week’s chase… or all the time I spend editing. Anyway, I started walking to his room, which always had the door closed, and knocked once, then twice. But there was no answer.

 — Sherlock, it’s me. Uh, John. Is everything all right? I haven’t heard you go out today…— Silence. — I was wondering, uh, if you needed anything, or if… I don’t know, uh, you were hungry. Or… you’re probably asleep. Don’t worry, I don’t need anything, just to know that you’re okay… Ah, I’m probably bothering you. I’m going to stop–

I heard the door suddenly open, roughly kicked open; my heart nearly sank to the floor. Are they robbing us?! Bloody hell, I can’t let them take our stuff, our evidence, or whatever they were after. I had to come up with a plan, fast, anything.

— Watson! — The detective called urgently. I started to breathe again at that moment. Damn it, that man is going to give me a heart attack one day. — Watson! Are you home?

— Oh. Yes! Just a sec. — I headed into the kitchen, almost laughing at my absurdity. But there’s no time for such things with Sherlock. There’s always something even more absurd. What is my life…

He was carrying an owl in a cage. Hogwarts style. A damn white and light brown owl, it was beautiful, that’s true. Its round face and big eyes inspired tenderness, its plumage seemed as soft as silk, and it even looked friendly and polite… but again:

—What the hell are you doing with an owl? — I asked as Sherlock placed the cage at the table with decorum and care. — Where did you get an owl? How… how did you even find the cage? Sherlock? We don’t have the space to raise an owl. I don’t even know how to do it!

The detective ignored my protests, as he usually does, until he was able to get it out of the cage and place it on his arm, just like that. As if it were the thousandth time he’s done it.

— Watson, I recommend you moderate your tone. — Sherlock suggested, his voice filled with involuntary disdain. — Owls tend to get upset if they see upset humans; I don’t think you want scars all over your face.

— I already have scars on my face. — I grumbled at him in annoyance, raising an eyebrow. — And you’re not answering a single one of my questions. Where did you get the owl?

— It’s for a case — He stated simply, scanning the room as if searching for something. — Do we have mice? I need to prove something.

— That doesn’t answer anything. — I tried to insist. But it was a lost cause. I just sighed and thought. At least this is podcast content.

I heard the front door close and turned around again, somewhat skeptical. I found Mariana approaching, confused. Then her face changed to shock, to later morph into a pleasant smile and a pair of excited eyes, like a child who’d been told he’d be going to Disneyland tomorrow.

— Hedwig! — She exclaimed in astonishment, quickly shortening her distance until she was standing in front of Sherlock, who was holding the owl. I could have sworn I saw the hint of a smile form at the corner of his mouth. — ¡Madre mía, qué cosa más chula! Sherlock, where do you get it?

— A friend lent it to me. — He explained vaguely, lowering his arm so Mariana could see it better. — It’s trained. You can pet her if you want.

They didn’t have to ask her twice. In a moment, Mariana had the owl in her arm already, cuddling it like it was the cutest thing she’d ever seen. If Archie were awake, he’d feel completely betrayed; I’ll be sure to tell him later.

— ¿Haz venido a traerme mi carta de Hogwarts? ¿A que si? — She sounded ridículous, like the voices you make when you’re pampering babies or little dogs. It made me chuckle underneath my breath — Haz llegado algo tarde, pero te lo perdono por ser tan mona. ¡Ah! Que si eres mona, preciosa. Nunca había visto una lechuza tan chula como tu. Madre mía que hermosura. 

— ¿Lechuza? — I finally enquired. — That’s how you say Owl in Spanish?

— No, no. Owl is a búho. — She explained. — Lechuza is…. uh…. 

— Owl? — I playfully asked. 

— No, no. It’s….

— It is an owl. — Sherlock added, grabbing the owl again on his arm.

— But a búho isn’t the same thing as a lechuza! — Mariana groaned while trying to find the right word; she knew there was one for what it seemed. — You know? Búho is like… the ones with the angry faces. — She put her fingers on her eyebrows downwards, imitating an annoyed frown, which made me laugh mockingly. — And Lechuzas are the ones that look round and white.

— But they’re both called owls. — I added, just to tease her. I knew what she meant. 

— ¡Qué no, Joder! John, you don’t know anything. — She grabbed her phone, then quickly typed something. — Yes! See? There is a difference. Lechuzas are barn Owls. Búhos are Horned Owls. — No le hagas caso preciosa, es que es cortito. — She scoffed at my direction, then proceeded to turn back to the owl.

— So the barn owl speaks Spanish? — I teased again, just to get the reaction.

— Yes. — Mariana thundered with annoyance. — She, unlike you, is smart and can understand multiple languages. 

—Indeed. There is a difference. — Sherlock explained with an aloof tone, unfazed by our childish discussion, while redacting a note on paper. — Great horned owls are larger, have prominent ear tufts, and hunt by perching and ambushing prey, while barn owls are smaller, lack ear tufts, and have a distinctive heart-shaped face, hunting by flying and using their excellent hearing to pinpoint prey. — He then attached the envelope to its little claw. — However, this one is merely an exhibition owl. And I need it to deliver a message.

— Why do you need to deliver a message with a bird? — I questioned with confusion. — What, the post office is closed for the day? 

— Very funny, Watson. — Sherlock said with the least amused tone I’ve ever heard in my entire life. — Yet, incorrect. The postal office is not closed yet, thus. My message can only be delivered via avian. It mustn’t be intercepted or read; furthermore, it lacks a physical address to be sent in the first place. So, utilizing any courier service would be futile. 

— M’right, mate. I guess… — I asked with confusion, likely knowing I wasn’t going to get an answer. 

— Say goodbye to… what did you call it, Mariana? Hedwig? — Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

— Harry Potter. — I explained.

— What?

— Never mind… 

— Aw, goodbye, Hedwig. — Mariana smiled as she scratched the owl, I mean barn owl’s head. — Ten mucho cuidado a dónde vayas. Ojalá verte otra vez.

Sherlock nodded and left after putting the barn owl back in its cage. After a few seconds of silence, Mariana turned to the tv and smiled widely again. — So…. Yellowstone?

 — Oh, shut up.

“Am I supposed to offer to take the couch?” Sherlock asks him, sounding very much like the idea is as horrifying as sleeping on the streets. John rolls his eyes.

“Nah, mate, we’ll be fine.” They will be - no, really, they will be. Sherlock will moan about John’s snoring and John will doubtlessly kick a pair of outstretched, gangly legs out the way at least thrice, but they’ll catch something like shuteye, he’s sure of it. Or John will, anyway - Sherlock’s not likely to sleep much, despite John’s repeated recommendations toward it.

“And you’re sure you don’t want the couch?”

“Oi!”

“Just….checking,” Sherlock says dubiously. “In any case, I very likely won’t have much use for the bed.” John smirks to himself, pleased with his knowledge of his friend - Sherlock Holmes may be able to read anyone like a book, but there are probably very few who can read the man himself just as easily.

“Yeah, well, just don’t hog the blankets if you bother to get some rest,” says John, yawning and kicking off his boots, decidedly ignoring the heart motifs that cover the walls and furniture, grateful it doesn’t extend to the pillows. “I will shove you off the mattress.”

“I’d like to see you try,” says Sherlock absently, already lost in thoughts of the strange little Russian woman they were hired by, his eyes focused on some invisible spot in the ceiling. Fondly, John pats his shoulder before making for the loo - with any luck, he’ll get a few hours in before dawn.

It’s a surprise, therefore, when John wakes up in the hotel’s queen bed the next morning and finds Sherlock not just asleep, but asleep in his arms.

It’s cute, actually. Charming, even. A little- well, okay, a little panic-inducing, and not for ‘no homo!’ reasons so don’t even try it. Just- well- they’ve not- they’ve not…done this. They’ve done the hugging, even the cuddling, or something adjacent to it, them lying practically on top of each other on the couch when John was trying to prove a point and Sherlock stubbornly refused to be moved, there’s even been the odd kiss on the cheek - New Year’s Eve at The Volunteer comes to mind. There’s not many boundaries they haven’t crossed, to be frank about it.

But sleep? Sleep is something so precious to them both, or certainly precious to both their bodies, since Sherlock derides sleep as an unfortunate and bothersome necessity. So rarely gained and gained well by either of them, what with John’s nightmares and Sherlock’s abominable habits, and yet…christ but John feels well-rested. Not a nightmare in sight. And Sherlock?

Sherlock’s sleeping like a babe, all six feet and two inches of him. He’s tucked himself dangerously close to John’s armpit, at which point in the night John must’ve shifted his arm to accommodate and laid it loosely around the man’s shoulders, though it’s almost certainly going to be impossible to move without waking Sherlock up. John’s other arm faces far less plausible deniability: it’s stretched out and culminates in a hand settled quite proprietarily on Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock’s upper limbs, and one of his gangling legs, are brought in tight, one hand fisted in John’s t-shirt like a child might hold a teddy bear, while an extended leg is thrown haphazardly over both of John’s.

They’re sleeping a bit like lovers, if John’s being completely, totally honest about the whole thing, and the notion is less earth-shattering than he’d expect. His pulse isn’t racing, his head isn’t pounding, he just - he feels at ease. Like this is how they should’ve been doing the whole flatmate thing all along, like there’s a rightness to their close proximity, like John’s heart might burst if he got any happier. Still, he ought to wake Sherlock now - the detective wouldn’t choose this kind of blatant, vulnerable exposure were he conscious. And yet…

It’s just- look, he looks so peaceful. Dark, intelligent eyes closed gently against the world, hair fluffy and messy and gleaming in the sun that streaks through the curtains (blackout curtains the website said, yeah right, who are they kidding), face utterly relaxed and letting out the tiniest kitten-like snore every few minutes. John can’t remember the last time Sherlock wasn’t either straining with thought or loose with fluidity but in constant aggressive motion. Here he is now, calm and sweet and unworried, and John could just…let it go on.

But they’ve work to do. Oh, damn it. Daring to brush a hair gingerly from Sherlock’s face, John whisper’s his bedfellow’s name.

“Sherlock,” he says again softly when there’s no response. “Sherlock, come on, it’s morning.”

“Shh,” Sherlock mumbles, and it’d be funny if John weren’t waking up more and more every moment, and suddenly facing a very serious problem.

“Sherlock, mate, I’ve got to take a piss like you wouldn’t believe,” John says in a bit of a panic.

“Go piss, then,” replies Sherlock in vague confusion, burying himself deeper into John’s warm body.

“Right, I would, except you’re kind of trapping me here.” Sherlock finally opens his eyes at that, squinting hard in John’s general direction. “Look, I’d leave my arm if I could but since I’m not exactly a bit of Ikea furniture- thank you.”

At last, Sherlock rolls away from the cocoon he’d made in John’s side, still staring groggily in complete bafflement, but John’s too desperate for a wee to worry about it much. By the time he renters the tiny hotel room, Sherlock is already up and pacing, throwing clothes and things vaguely in John’s direction and declaring they’ve got to set out at once.

They decidedly don’t talk about the sleeping thing. It’s for the best, probably - but John can’t help his twinge of longing for the surprising comfort afforded him this morning, resigned to the fact that it isn’t likely to be a repeat incident.

Ah well. It’ll pass.

-

-

-

A few days after the conclusion of the case (and the punch that little old lady could pack, you would not believe), they’re once again safe and sound at Baker Street, when John collects the mail and finds a nasal strip delivery addressed to him among the bills and adverts.

“Sherlock, I think these are yours,” John calls out, waving the small box at him to get his attention. It’s a Saturday, and Sherlock’s huddled up with his feet and arse perched on the sofa, watching the live footy results with intensity, so it’s a few moments before he notices. But once the strips catch his eye, Sherlock’s springing up in one fluid movement, hurrying over to snatch the box out of John’s hand.

“You know, I don’t think I knew you were a snorer,” John says, reading the package. “Granted, you don’t sleep enough for me to really notice but the few times you do bother to sleep I don’t recall you- Sherlock. What are you doing?”

“Testing the measurements,” Sherlock replies, bending nasal strip to nose and making thoughtful little ‘hmm’ sounds.

“Right. That’s my nose, though?”

“Yes,” says Sherlock, clearly and slowly, as though John’s being thick. John bats his hand away, irritated.

“Are those meant for me?” he asks. Sherlock beams, his work apparently complete.

“They’re a perfect fit!” proclaims Sherlock, pleased with himself. “These had quite excellent reviews but online shopping is such a gamble; fortunately, this one paid off. Where are you going? Your nasal strips-“

“Not even getting into it,” John calls over his shoulder, heading for the shower - he’s needing one, anyway, and it’ll prevent him from getting into a tiff with Sherlock over some misguided attempt at helping.

Thea nasal strips are conspicuously missing from view when John’s dressed and returned to the lounge, the live results over and Sherlock reading a book on the ‘unknown secrets of fungi’, or whatever the title boasts, so he considers the matter laid to rest.

When John retires for the evening, however, he finds the argument-inducing package sitting neat and unassuming on his nightstand, and nearly storms out to declare that he is not a snorer, but deflates and lets it rest.

He can just toss the stupid things and forget it ever happened, right? So John does- or, he starts to, anyway, swiping the package and making for the bin, except…

Well, a bit of research can’t help. He looks the brand up and-

“30 p?” he gasps aloud. It’s not a fortune, mind, but it’s a hell of a lot more than a package from Boots might cost, John’s guessing. He proceeds to read the website - everything from the reviews Sherlock mentioned to their so-called success rate, to the method applied to these particular nasal strips.

Well. What’s one night sleep with them on going to do?

“Fuck me,” John says aloud the following morning, bleary-eyed but quickly becoming alert and refreshed, his usual grogginess absent. Even his mouth doesn’t taste as sleep-tangy as it usually does.

Best sleep of his life, probably. Fuck’s sake.

-

-

-

“Sherlock?” John calls from his bedroom. “What’s this then?”

“Humidifier,” Sherlock calls back, not bothering to get up from the lounge floor he’s been supine on for the better part of two hours.

It’s been only two nights since he’s started on the nasal strips and John’s already being accosted with some other sleep tool. The humidifier, gently humming and letting out a barely-perceptible steam spray over his room, is certainly a less insulting gift than the previous, but it’s significantly more confusing.

“Right. Why’ve I got a humidifier again?”

“Your bedroom is too dry,” Sherlock explains, barely raising his voice enough to be heard over the distance between the lounge and John’s room. “Poor ventilation is the most likely culprit, but there could be any number of contributing environmental factors.”

“Yes, I understand the purpose of a humidifier, thanks very much,” John says tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m just- I’m just checking here, are you running some sort of experiment, or testing a theory out, or-“

“I’m improving your sleeping conditions!” Sherlock declares, insulted. John blinks in surprise.

“What for?” he asks. Sherlock says nothing. “Sherlock, what for?” Silence. “Sherlock, if this is some sort of experiment, I’m telling you right now-“

“For the last time, Watson, I generally conduct experimentation that follows the standard code of ethics set by my forebearers,” Sherlock insists, still refusing to get up from the floor. “As I said before, your room is dry, and your sleep will benefit. That’s all.”

“So…” John says, considering the small machine on his nightstand, “it’s a gift, then?”

Again, Sherlock does not respond, but John decides to let the whole thing go and appreciate the humidifier as a present and nothing more. He doubts it’ll have much of an effect on him, but it seems Sherlock’s in a giving mood, and it would be rude to refuse him.

And of course, as is to be expected, John sleeps for nearly nine hours uninterrupted - better, even, than that first night with the nasal strips. For God’s sake, is Sherlock the bloody doctor or is John?

-

-

-

The ‘sleep improvement’ gifts continue in that fashion over the next few days. Immediately following the humidifier is a heavy-duty portable air con unit that is placed atop a simple but sturdy stool John’s never seen before, filling the room with mildly cool air (it’s not set to blasting, since heat’s still just barely beginning to creep into London this time of year) that makes him never want to leave his bed. Sherlock pokes his head in, the morning after it’s been set up, nods approvingly, and goes back about his day.

John, who had been moving slow in an effort to lounge in the comfort of his new offerings, was naked save his pants at the time, and for that reason opted not to use the opportunity to do any more digging into why Sherlock is so invested in his room being comfortable. A theory is forming in John’s brain, anyway, and he’s willing to wait things out and see if he’s right.

The next gift, arriving three days after the last, is a huge duvet-looking thing, although it feels soft enough to use as its own blanket, forget sheets or any similar such nonsense. It comes with a couple of matching pillow cases, all in a subdued, vintage-wash type of red and off-white. John puts his hand to the blanket and sighs, watching as it sinks into the comfortable, fluffy fabric. Sherlock claps delightedly when he notices John testing the bedding out.

“Swindon Town!” he says in excitement. John, already half-asleep at just the prospect of tucking himself into this thing, blinks uncomprehending in Sherlock’s direction.

“What about them?”

“The colours, Watson,” Sherlock explains, gesturing to the pillow cases and duvet. “You stated six or seven months ago you missed the freedom of childhood bedrooms, when there were no qualms about action figures or sports iconography. I specifically chose something that would harken to that type of room design without embarrassing you, unless…unless, of course, I misunderstood…”

“What? No, that’s- Sherlock, this is lovely mate.” John puts a reassuring hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, shaking away his own expression of surprise. “You didn’t misunderstand, I just wasn’t expecting- I mean, I was mostly on a tangent, but still, this- I’m just thrown off, because, well, I mean- you remembered that?”

Sherlock looks at John as though he’s being thick.

“Yes,” Sherlock says slowly, drawing the word out. “You said it. Of course I remember it.”

He doesn’t remember the dishes, or the laundry, or where he left his rosin half the time, and he actually likes using the rosin, since it means using his beloved violin. And yet, Sherlock remembers a stupid, half-drunken rant on John’s nostalgia for childhood bedrooms. John is hit with a wave of affection so fierce it nearly knocks him off his feet. Somehow, he stays steady - and decides his theory is that much stronger.

“Thank you,” John says after a while. Sherlock nods primly and, considering it for a moment, touches the duvet as well.

“Very nice,” says Sherlock softly, almost longingly. Before John can swallow his fear and invite Sherlock to try them out with him (innocently, mind, he’s not a complete pervert), Sherlock snaps into perfect posture, drawing himself to his full height.

“I’m glad you like them, Watson,” he says sincerely. “Now, I have a mouse in a wall in need of assistance.”

“Sherlock, we’ve talked about Graham in the walls-“

“You’ve talked about it.”

“-and if he chews through the wiring Mariana and I will kill you. Together. Joint effort.”

“I’d like to see you try!” Sherlock replies over his shoulder, already turned on his heel to, hopefully, retrieve his wayward mouse.

John sighs. The invitation will just have to wait, he supposes. He’s not sure why, but he feels he’ll just know when Sherlock’s ready to join him - and it’ll have something to do with these bloody perfect gifts.

Sure enough, the following morning after yet another elevated night’s sleep, the lounge has been taken over by what appears to be a brand new mattress.

“Alright, this is a bit far now,” John says in dismay, hands on his hips. Sherlock opens only one eye, observing John from his spot on the right side of the mattress, presumably testing it. “Sherlock, that thing must have cost a ton!”

“£200, actually.”

“This is what I’m talking about! 200- wait, seriously?” John stops his frantic disapproving hand-waving in midair. “That mattress only cost you 200 p?”

“Mattress topper,” Sherlock clarifies, rolling neatly over to the left side and settling in. “Hypoallergenic down alternative. Supposed to be very comfortable. Lie down with me, Watson.”

“Sorry?”

“Here,” Sherlock encourages him, patting the just vacated spot to his right. “Give it a try. Might be a bit too soft on your aging back-“

“Oi!”

“-but I have a feeling you’ll find it as agreeable as I do.” Shaking his head in some mad, rather familiar combination of resign and affection, John kneels on the floor and tests the firmness of the mattress topper with his hand, first.

“God, that’s…oh that’s quite nice actually…what is that? The sheets, I mean?”

“French linen, 100 thread count - it’ll only get softer with repeat washes.”

“They know what they’re doing over there, I suppose,” John mutters, flopping onto the mattress topper beside Sherlock. Sure enough, it feels wonderful. Soft, yes, but not without a certain firmness. He got used to the inflexibility of the cots the army provided, back when he was active, and never quite shook the need for something at least half-firm beneath him for a good night’s sleep. This, atop his already firm mattress, will do quite nicely.

“You accept, then?” Sherlock asks him. His voice is even, normal, but when John peeks over in the man’s direction, Sherlock is stock-still, eyes boring into the ceiling. John is not a cruel man - he feels no need to draw this out. But still, he wants to remember this moment: what Sherlock looked like before everything changed.

“Yeah, alright,” John says after he’s memorise Sherlock’s expression, ironed it into his brain. “Just do me a favour: if you’re coming to bed late, try to be quiet, yeah? No point in investing in all this if you’re just going to wake me up sneaking under the covers.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen comically, staring into John’s as though he’s just said something shocking and scandalous.

“Watson, I- or, that is-“ Sherlock flounders a moment longer before he simply gives up altogether, his rueful smile accompanying John’s satisfied one. “Oh, alright then.”

“If I’d realised all this was half for you, I wouldn’t have been nearly as grateful.”

“Not true!” Sherlock proclaims, standing from the mattress topper and stretching. “The nasal strips are all yours.”

“Very funny. Hey! Where are you going? Sherlock! You’re helping me put this thing on my bed, I’ve got a humidifier and an air con to navigate between now, and I’m going to need some help!

-

-

-

The fan is blowing pleasantly cool and surprisingly powerful air over them both, they’re snuggled under a laughably oversized but supremely comfortable blanket, while held from below by European linen sheets and a ridiculously plush mattress topper. Between the humidifier reducing the dryness in the air and the state-of-the-art nasal strip John’s got on, he’s breathing easier than he has in years. By all accounts, they’re the two most comfortable men in London, maybe the country.

And yet.

“Sherlock,” John whispers. There’s a distinctly emphatic sigh, the soft ‘fwump’ of the blanket being tossed around, and the bounce of the bed as John’s bedfellow shifts around on it. This has been happening steadily for the last hour and a half, ever since Sherlock trudged in wearing his blue cotton pyjama trousers and nothing else, a heavy-duty memory foam pillow tucked under one arm.

“Sherlock,” John tries again, a little louder this time but determinedly soothing in his tone, trying to placate. Sherlock grumbles something inaudible and just rolls about the mattress with more vigor, picking up his insanely heavy pillow and fluffing it aggressively before slamming his head back onto it.

“Sherlock-“

“Go to sleep, Watson.”

“How the hell am I meant to do that?” John asks good-naturedly, grinning at Sherlock in the dark. Sherlock, for his part, rumpled and sleepy-looking, appears about ready to leave the bed. “Hey, hey, I’m only joking, relax.”

“This arrangement clearly isn’t working despite my best efforts-“

“Sherlock, would you get over here?” John interrupts, arms wide open. Sherlock blinks at him.

“Over where?” he asks. John sighs and decides to demonstrate rather than explain, reaching out and gently pulling Sherlock to him. He tugs at a bony hip, the other hand pushing a little more forcefully on Sherlock’s back, until they’re finally arranged in a similar fashion to that night two weeks ago in the shitty hotel room. Sherlock’s legs move almost on instinct, one tangling with John’s and the other tucking up between them. He blinks at John in surprise.

“Better, d’you think?” John asks, sleepy and content. Sherlock is radiating…something. Not heat, not exactly, though the warmth of his body is pleasant contrast with the fan beside the bed. And though there’s certainly something shy and bashful spreading over Sherlock’s cheeks, that’s not quite what John feels either. It’s something unnameable - but comforting. From the way Sherlock’s foot strokes unthinking lines along John’s calves to the tight grip Sherlock has on his t-shirt, there’s a pleasant, tingling sensation that rubs John the right way all over.

“I suppose,” Sherlock concedes after a long while, still totally baffled by this turn of events but making no moves to change their positioning. In fact, he just noses, tentatively, at John’s throat and sighs, relaxing into the embrace.

“Good,” says John, pressing an absent kiss to the top of his detective’s head, stroking Sherlock’s back as he does, coaxing them both into sleep. “Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, Watson,” says Sherlock, kissing John back, though he seems less absent about it, lips lingering for a while on John’s cheek - not so much out of a desire to continue the kiss as a reluctance to break it.

“You’ll suffocate like that,” John says amicably, the distant part of his brain that’s still online thinking this is going to need to be a conversation in the morning, and the settled, cozy part of him thinking fuck morning, if this is the new bedtime routine let it last forever.

“Mmmf,” says Sherlock petulantly against John’s cheek.

“Sherlock,” John says a little more sternly. When that doesn’t do the trick, he cups his friend’s cheek and forcibly removes him from John’s face. “Good night.”

“But-“

John kisses Sherlock soundly on the mouth. There’s not heat to it, not really, just a golden kind of warmth, that same feeling of rightness John got when Sherlock folded into his arms, when he woke up in the hotel room and found Sherlock wrapped ‘round him. It’s just his lips on his best friend’s, firm and sweet and chaste, and when he pulls away, Sherlock lets out the most satisfied sound he’s made all night.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” John murmurs. Sherlock nods in a daze, pressing his cheek against John’s chest and practically purring.

“Goodnight, Watson,” he says again, and this time John can hear the tiredness, the sleep that pulls at them both. “‘Til morning, then.”

When morning comes, they don’t talk about it- there’s no need. Sherlock’s smile could power entire seaboards, could beat out all the stars in the sky, and his good morning kiss knocks the breath right out of John’s lungs.

And in front of him there sat the noteless side of the paper. Sherlock spun the pen between his fingers lazily. He reached for one of John’s notes, it was a little pitiful how many of them had floated right off the board. “Edit audio”, read this one. Or that was what was deciphered from it.

Words can be simple things once they are taken out of your pure thoughts. Simple, inaccurate, but actual.

The back of Sherlock’s pen grazed the linguistic constructions. Out of it came the softest rustle, yet it made him aware of having the capacity to hear, silence furled in on itself and reminded that it is night. It is quiet. However, you do exist. And that air of existence didn’t want to contain itself, it just kept reaching to feel.

Pen came to scrape paper. Well, no it didn’t. It came to add to it, perhaps complete it as it happened to have a purpose. The lapse shifted away and then, shoving thin strokes of sunshine through the window, it was morning.

Sherlock cleared a decent part of the table as John entered the kitchen.

“Good morning, Sherlock, up all night, were you?” He asked. “I certainly heard something at 3 am.”

“Good morning. Not all. And I don’t think that noise was my doing.” Sherlock turned over and folded the paper, and put the pen beside it.

“What’s that?” John sat down opposite Sherlock with a bowl of cereal.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. A few notes.”

***

The writing was carved into the paper and over it spilled splotches. Ink dripped, slipping into the next words, pulling over the previous ones. The shine of the sun ran dry through the paper, pointing to its roughness, how it took in all the weight of feeling.

“It didn't end up meaning anything though, but, God, it was Huge. Again, it doesn't really matter that much, seeing as, well, it got set on fire but… mate, what are you writing?” Watson's voice emerged from behind Sherlock, upon the sofa.

Sherlock lifted his gaze. Past Watson, in the corner of the living room stretched thin silver, it glittered in the light of the falling sun. Odd indeed. Perhaps a trick of the dust and light in the mess of the room. Hadn’t had a brush up in a decent while.

“Research stuff or what?” John slipped closer to him, hovering behind; Sherlock swiftly pulled the paper away. He brought the pen to his ear defenders, a slight click as he hit against them.

“No, rather unserious compared to that. Just some particular… emotion notation, I’d say.”

Watson backed up. “Oh, yeah. Cool, good. People usually save the introspective stuff for when they're alone though.” He coughed, expecting attention to what he’d been saying previously.

“If I decide to be introspective about my experiences when alone, I often find it ends in a puzzling detachment of myself. Besides, it isn't that complicated.”

Was it not? He put the paper back in place, but the words had got smudged beyond their shapes. Sherlock crossed a good bit of it out. It wouldn’t be too wise to attribute such value to his emotion, other things were pulling at his string of focus, much more potentially life threatening.

“Well, neat anyways I suppose. I’ve tried holding a few diaries, never really worked out,” John spoke and Sherlock dared to glance at him. Then to gaze. Then start to feel a sense of uncertainty wrap around himself. “Ah.”

There really was a spider web in the room. A bug tangled up in the dim-lit corner. A shadow crept over it.

Sherlock pulled on his ear defenders and escaped to the pen, twisting around with his fingers, swooping words onto the page to just get it bloody over with. It's what comes with joy – the fear of losing it. The ache of hurting it. It's irrationally sensible, writing it down is making it make sense and it matters but then it is priority to forget and discard it because, no, your emotions will play no such part when it comes to the safety of everything, everyone around–

Watson sat next to him, watching him write and… it popped. Liquid poured out the pen, sticking to Sherlock's hand before he dropped it onto the sheet. It oozed. Few sentences on the top of the page remained unscathed. And that little amount of words below, cut through between ink, read simply.

John sat away. “Oh, whoops. Seems like ‘emotion notation’ won’t be going too well.”

“It certainly won’t be.” Sherlock took hold of the paper, moving to the kitchen.

“I love you. You” and one ink split, “love” and yet another ink thread, “me.”

Too blunt. Blue slid off and into the water after a good scrub.

“You mustn't suffer because of it,” it cut off, the rest of the pathetic sentence was drowned out. Sherlock tore it. This was utterly useless in the end. Soft light slipped away bit by bit, giving way to shadow, to this late evening.

“Bad luck, isn’t that?” Watson said, as Sherlock allowed himself to pass back into the living room.

“Maybe not, I feel like the paper was distracting me anyway.”

“Assumed so, don’t think you were even listening to my impressive story.” He spoke while lifting in his hand another pen, from the floor, judging by the shoved mess.

Sherlock reached for the pen, whisking it away from Watson’s hand. Hm. “Right. I’ll be resigning to my room now.”

“Ah. Will you come back out anytime soon?”

“I suppose not.”

“Welp, I wish you… for you to go to sleep at a reasonable time. Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John.”

Yo! I participated in a Sherlock & Co Flashbang event! Check out the fic my partner for the event somePandalol made, aye? You can find it Here on ao3, as well as other folks submissions in the Sherlock & Co Flash Bang October 2024 collection!