A coward is incapable of exhibiting love; it is the prerogative of the brave. – Mahatma Gandhi
It had been a long night, and John was knackered.
Tromping through the moors, that horrible fight with Sherlock, chasing after fake Morse code signals (honestly, UMQRA? Idiot), and the failed reconnaissance date with Mortimer. God, it had been one strike after another. John just couldn’t win.
And he couldn’t sleep.
His bones ached from the damp, his head throbbed with exhaustion, every muscle begged for release, but his restless mind would not let go. He tossed and turned, twisting up in his sheet, wrapped tightly in guilt.
Sherlock’s voice echoed in his head, scared and terse and tinged with panic.
Look at me. I’m afraid, John. Afraid.
He had confided in him, revealed his emotions, laid himself bare and vulnerable, and what had John done?
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Submitting my THoB fix-it for @hiatustory‘s May theme: bed sharing. Word count: 1954 ~ short and sweet! ♥
