Chapter Text
Sherlock frowned as his eyes raked over John, lying curled up on the sofa across the room. He looked so small in the dim evening light, like a small animal protecting itself from the cold. He'd only just been released from Moriarty's clutches in a flurry of bomb jackets, swimming pools and snipers. Sherlock was beyond relived to have him home safe, but guilt gnawed at his insides as he realised it was all his fault. Moriarty knew that John was his weakness, only a few months living together and he'd made more of an impact on him than anyone before. But Sherlock knew that if it wasn't for him, John wouldn't be curled up, battered and bruised, on the worn sofa of 221B.
Sherlock was deep in thought, contemplating his guilt, when a small whimper dragged him abruptly from his reverie. John struggled on the sofa, mumbling indecipherably in his sleep. His brows were deeply furrowed and his lips were moving quickly. Whatever he was dreaming of, it wasn't good. The detective was immediately by his side, kneeling at the head of the sofa and analysing John's every expression with sharp eyes. Cautiously, Sherlock put out a hand and softly took John's in his. John's lips stopped their frantic mumblings and stilled, but the frown held firmly in place.
"Sher..." John mumbled in his sleep, his lips clumsy and heavy as they tried to make the words.
"I'm here John." Sherlock whispered.
John didn't seem to hear him; he was still writhing around on the sofa with distress. Sherlock quickly tried to come up with a way to ease his night terrors without waking him, but to no avail. John was becoming more terrified by the minute and Sherlock was at a loss of how to comfort him.
The protectiveness he felt at the sensation of John's shaking hand in his finally gave him the inspiration he needed. Slowly, comforting words began to drift trough the near silence of 221B.
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you
Sherlock sang softly from his heart, allowing the barriers to break down for just one moment. He knew he loved John. He'd known since the moment he realised John was the one who shot the cabbie for him. That glance across the car park was all it took, and there he was. The love of his life. To Sherlock, it all seemed so pitifully cliché, but sometimes not even he could hold back the most human of emotions.
John began to calm and his hand went limp in Sherlock's grasp. The detective continued his lullaby. The lyrics a solemn promise to John, whether he heard them or not.
Tears stream down your face,
I promise you I will learn from my mistakes
Sherlock's voice began to waiver as he came to the stark realisation that the lyrics described him more than John. His deep rumble became uncertain as he sang.
When you love someone but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?
Sherlock's voice cracked heartbreakingly at the words and he couldn't continue. It was only seconds later that he felt the salty tracks of tears down his pale cheeks. John was limp and pliant against the sofa with a neutral expression replacing the frown, completely unaware that his flatmate was next to him, crying silently as he held John's hand.