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Sherlock lay on his bed. He was fully clothed, still had his shoes on. But before John retired for the night, he had asked Sherlock to try to sleep and this was Sherlock's attempt to honour his promise to try. There were many things on Sherlock's mind and he was trying to organise, prioritise. But he kept getting distracted by the weather. It was raining, of course, but he was certain he had heard thunder as well. He tried to estimate how far away it was. He found this work comforting.
John was having a nightmare. He'd watched a war movie before bed which was not his best idea and now he was suffering for it, writhing and moaning softly as he watched explosions killing off the blurred faces around him. And then, Sherlock was there, and he was running ahead of him, shouting about a case. John tried to tell him there was no time, that there was a war going on, but he couldn't make his voice work. Sherlock stepped on a small mound of dirt and John froze, trying to scream even more loudly but it was so hard, and he tried to tackle him to save him but he was stuck. Then there was the loudest explosion yet and John gasped as he woke up, the windows actually rattling. For a second he thought there had really been an explosion and he almost called out for Sherlock. Then the sound of rain reached him and he realised it was thunder . . . it had struck at the same time as the dream explosion and made it seem worse. He flopped back down on the bed, gasping softly.
Sherlock heard a noise from within the flat. It came from John's room. It was movement, but then it stopped. Sherlock ran through the catalogue of options and realised that it was one of John's dreams. Sherlock wasn't sure what to do. It had gone quiet now -- perhaps John had fallen back to sleep. He didn't want to startle him with a knock at the door. Sherlock picked up his phone.
Do you need me? SH
John flinched as another crack sounded. He picked up his phone and read the message. The thought that he might have shouted out loud made his cheeks flush.
No, I'm
John swore as the message sent before he could finish it. His shaking hands were not making this easy. He focused on the typing, sending another message.
Sorry, I'm fine. -JW
The storm is moving our way. Thunder will be louder. I am here, John. Say the word and I will come to you. SH
Sherlock set his phone down. He tried to go back to what he was thinking about, but couldn't remember what it was.
John set his phone down and sighed, rubbing his face hard. Another crack made him jump and he knew he wasn't going to be sleeping any more. He got up and went down to the kitchen to make some tea. He knew Sherlock was up, but he walked quietly anyways out of habit. He was just putting the kettle on when another crack sounded, and he dropped the kettle. Water was spilling everywhere and John was just watching it, trying to even out his breaths and calm down.
Sherlock heard John in the kitchen. John was trying to get through this on his own -- Sherlock would not take that away from him. He understood the importance, the worth, of solving one's problems oneself. But then he heard the thunder and a crash in the kitchen. Sherlock opened his bedroom door and could see John standing still, looking down at the ground. As he walked to the kitchen, he called, "I'll make tea, John. You go back to bed." He grabbed a towel and began tidying up the water at John's feet. He reached up and touched John's hand briefly. "You're okay. I'll take care of it."
John closed his eyes when Sherlock touched his hand and just barely held back from holding on to it. "Let me get the kettle," he said, moving to kneel beside him.
John was always taking care of Sherlock, and he wanted to do the same for John. But it seemed second nature when John did it, and Sherlock wasn't always confident about his own abilities. Sherlock was careful how he looked at John; he did not want to push. He decided that if John wanted to talk, he would start the conversation. For now, Sherlock would just stay by John's side until John told him otherwise.
John put the kettle up on the counter and watched Sherlock cleaning the water. "Um, thanks," he said quietly, leaning against the counter.
Sherlock smiled. He felt woefully unsure. "Biscuits?" he asked, standing and moving to the cupboard. He stopped smiling because he worried that smiling would now seem strange. However, when he looked over at John, he smiled again, without thinking. He realised what was making him so uncomfortable was the nature of John's problem, not John himself. John trusted him, and he trusted John: John would somehow let him know what he did or didn't need. It was just that this was a problem Sherlock could not relate to: Sherlock deleted his bad memories as useless information and, as far as he was aware, they never troubled him again.
"No thanks," he said, shaking his head. "Um . . . I don't think I actually want tea either," he admitted, squeezing his fists so his hands wouldn't shake. "I'm sorry I woke you up."
Sherlock smiled again. "You may be surprised to know that I was not asleep. I was trying -- as instructed by my doctor -- but no sleep came," Sherlock said. He tipped away the tea he had just poured for both of them and put the mugs in the sink. "Are you going to go back to bed?"
John shook his head. Another crack sounded and he flinched. "Um . . . no, I'll just watched some telly, I think," he said.
"Turn it up as loudly as you need to," Sherlock said. "Shall I sit with you for a while?"
"You don't have to," John said, moving into the sitting room. He knew he could only be comforted by physical contact, and he couldn't ask Sherlock for that. His cheeks flushed at the thought.
"I am aware," Sherlock said. It was at moments like this he wished he was . . . just better at these things. He had nothing to call back on -- the question 'what would I want in this situation?' was useless to him. He looked at John who was on the sofa, his legs tucked to his chest. He looked so small. "I think I shall sit up for a while, if you don't mind." He went over and sat next to John.
John glanced over and sighed softly, flinching every time thunder struck. The telly was as loud as if could go, but it wasn't helping very much.
Sherlock could sense that John's anxiety was not easing. His body was closed, he could see the veins in John's hands they were so tightly fisted. This must be what John needed to do, but Sherlock had an idea. "Let's turn off the lamp," he said reaching up to pull the chain. The room was now dark except for the white glow of the television. "Now you'll be able to see the lightning. When you see it, you'll know when to expect the thunder."
John nodded. "Oh, okay," he said. A few minutes later lightning flashed and John's whole body tensed. He squeezed his eyes shut and gasped softly at the loud rumble.
"It's close now, which means soon it will pass." He reached over and put his hand on John's, loosening the grip until it released and fell with Sherlock's hand into the space between them. Sherlock did not let it go, just let it rest, his fingers gently stroking John's.
John flushed and bit his lip as Sherlock took his hand, as he processed that they were holding hands. Maybe he would be good at physical comfort. When the next lightning flash lit the flat, John scooted over and leaned against him, clutching his shirt when the thunder finally sounded. "It's not usually so bad," he mumbled, keeping his eyes closed.
"It's okay," said Sherlock, because it really was. He lifted his hand to John's head and stroked his hair. "Here, lie down," he suggested, offering his lap to John, who rested into it, still curled up. Sherlock kept petting John's head with one hand and slipped the other past John's waist, back into John's hand, which was hugged into his belly.
"I had a nightmare and the thunder -- " he flinched and squeezed his hand. " -- is making it worse."
"You can tell me if you think it'd help," Sherlock said, allowing John to squeeze as tightly as he wanted. "Or not. We could talk about something else or we could just be silent. This is just about you, John. I just want to help."
John thought about Sherlock exploding again and shook his head. "I don't want to talk about it," he said.
"Shall we talk about something else then? I could tell you a joke," Sherlock said, smiling in the dark. "Or should we just stay like this and not talk?"
"You know jokes?" John asked surprised.
"Of course not," Sherlock laughed. "I guess that was the joke. I could tell you a story if you want. I do know stories." As he stroked John's hair, he felt his fingers fall to John's cheek and caress it. "Or you could tell me a joke -- perhaps describe your last date? I don't doubt that was ridiculously humorous," he teased.
"Shut up," John grumbled, swatting his thigh. "Tell me a story," he said, now only shutting his eyes against the thunder.
"All right then," Sherlock said and began his story. "There was a figure, a man, who took a taxi to a park. At the park, another man was sitting on a bench. The first man approached the second and said to him, 'I have been looking for you for eleven years.' The second man stood up to leave, but the first man grabbed him, roughly. From an observer's perspective, it looked as if the two men might fight. Instead the first man took off his scarf, handed it to the second and left. The second man realised he was cold and put on the scarf. It smelled of flowers, I'm not quite sure what species. He tucked his hands into his jacket pockets. In one, he found a piece of paper with his name written on it in a handwriting he didn't recognise," Sherlock stopped abruptly and then added, "The end."
John blinked for a good minute before turning, laying on his back, and looking up at Sherlock. "What kind of story was that?"
"It was a dream I had. I don't think I usually dream. Or I don't remember that I dream. But I remembered this one." They were still holding hands, their fists resting on John's stomach. Sherlock smiled, "It's the only thing I could think of."
"You're lucky," John smiled softly. "I haven't had a nightmare in a while, so I guess it was about time," he said quietly. He turned to face Sherlock's stomach now, burying his head away when thunder sounded. He smelled like home.
Sherlock tried to think of something else to say, but he had an odd feeling. The truth is he was enjoying this, he liked this. There was a little part of him that wished the storm would last all night, just so John would stay in his lap. Sherlock determined that the odd feeling must be guilt. It was a selfish desire. He knew enough not to share it aloud. So instead, in a quiet voice, he asked, "Anything that might have triggered its return? Obviously the thunder didn't help but has something happened to bring the nightmare back?" he swallowed. "You don't have to say."
"I watched a movie before bed," John said quietly. He started absentmindedly drawing on Sherlock's stomach with his free hand, his finger making small circles. "I didn't expect the storm," he added.
"A bit daft, John," Sherlock said lightly. "Still. Now you know not to do that again. What does 8888 mean?"
"What?" John asked, looking up at him.
"The code you're drawing," Sherlock dipped his head to call attention to John's finger. "Does it have to do with my dream? Have you figured out what it means?" He was still smiling. He hoped this was okay by John.
"It wasn't anything," John said, pulling his finger away quickly. How long had he been doing that for? "Just . . . passing time, I guess."
"I liked it," Sherlock said before realising he wasn't just thinking it in his head. "Shall we invent a meaning for it?" Sherlock steepled his hands to his mouth, his usual thinking position. "The average person takes about 960 breaths an hour. 8888 breaths was about nine and a quarter hours ago. However, I saw you breathing awkwardly in the kitchen and your dream undoubtedly increased your rate, so let's call it eight hours. What were you doing eight hours ago?" Sherlock looked at his watch. "It would have been almost nine o'clock last night. It must have been important if you are unknowingly marking its passage with every breath."
John couldn't help laughing. "Sherlock, I was just doodling little circles, just for something for my hand to do while I talked," he said.
"Still," Sherlock said cheekily. "You know everything has a meaning. I couldn't figure out my dream, but I sussed this one. We got in around eight last night. Didn't you take a shower shortly thereafter? My showers are not usually so worthy of commemoration." Sherlock's hand was holding John's again. He lifted it back up to his body. "You have taken thirty four breaths since you stopped. That's 8922 you'll need to draw now."
John smiled softly and did as he was told, lightly tracing the numbers onto Sherlock's stomach.
"Your breathing seems more regular now," Sherlock noted. "Does this mean you are feeling safer?" He had meant to say better but decided not to correct himself.
John nodded. "I am," he said quietly.
"I'm glad I could help. Does this mean you are going to go back to bed now?" Sherlock paused. "Or would you like to stay like this . . . for a while?"
John was so relieved Sherlock had suggested it so he didn't feel as awkward choosing it. "Can we stay like this a bit longer?" he asked quietly.
"We can stay this way as long as you'd like," Sherlock said. He said it aloud. What had happened to the uncertainty that had been causing him to overthink his every move earlier? Maybe it was because the room was now almost pitch black and silent: the channel had signed off. Or maybe it was just exhaustion, he might have been asleep by now if the nightmare hadn't happen. Whatever had loosened his tongue, Sherlock decided not to fight it. "Thank you for letting me take care of you. I like taking care of you," he said. "It means something."
"You're very good," John whispered. Suddenly, a crack of thunder sounded so loud that the windows of the flat rattled. John gripped his shirt tight, buried his face into Sherlock's stomach and he swore loudly. He had forgotten about the storm.
The thunder surprised Sherlock too; instinctively, Sherlock scooped both his arms around John and pulled him into his body protectively. Then he realised what was happening, that it was just the thunder he had stopped listening for. "I'm sorry about that," Sherlock mumbled. "I guess it startled me. I hope my over reaction did not make things worse." He was still holding John in his arms.
John scooted to better settle into Sherlock's arms. "I forgot about it," he mumbled.
"As did I. Let's go back," Sherlock said, "to when it was nice." He swallowed and then said quietly, "Is this okay?" Sherlock did not want John to move out of his arms, but he didn't want to unintentionally encourage John's fears.
John snaked his arms around Sherlock's neck and buried his face there. "Do you mind?" he asked softly.
"I do not," Sherlock said. He slid his hands over John's back, at first to get in a more comfortable position before realising that the movement itself -- the active touching -- felt good. He let his hands continue. Warm breath was on his neck, he felt John's soft hair against his ear. He exhaled long and slow.
"You were in my dream," John whispered, closing his eyes now and focusing on Sherlock's arms. His big hands cupped his back so nicely and warm . . . he felt so safe there.
"The dream wasn't real, John," Sherlock whispered back. "You are here with me now. And this is real."
"You were blown up and . . . and I couldn't help you," he breathed, gripping him a bit tighter and pressing his face against Sherlock's skin. He took a deep breath to remind himself that he was home.
"See, that's how you know it wasn't real. You always help me. I'm the one who struggles to help. You don't struggle, John. It's just your mind playing tricks, that's all. It's not real. This, this is real. We're safe."
John nodded. When the next crack of thunder sounded, John didn't even flinch. "Thank you," he whispered. And because the moment felt right to do it, John pecked a small kiss just under his jaw line.
A small moan escaped from Sherlock's mouth at the touch of John's lips on his skin. He regretted it. John was just thanking him, it was nothing more than that. In no way was it appropriate to let a thank you kiss elicit a moan. This was precisely why Sherlock was bad at helping, he was too selfish. He was supposed to be making John feel good but then he can't stop himself from turning everything around and making it about him, about what made him feel good. He scolded himself. He shifted awkwardly, putting some distance between them. "I'm sorry about that," he mumbled, "I don't know why . . . I didn't mean to. I don't want you to think I was making this . . . something other than what it is."
John followed him and pressed two more kisses along his jawline. "Please don't apologise," he murmured, pressing another kiss closer to his ear.
"John, you don't . . . owe me anything. I wanted to help you because you're my friend. Not because . . . I wanted something in return." Sherlock meant every word. But John's mouth -- he tried to stop thinking of it, to stop feeling it on his face.
John trailed the soft kisses back down, towards his mouth. "I know, Sherlock," he murmured. "You're so good to me," he said, pausing just before his lips. "You make me feel safe." He met Sherlock's eyes and bit his lip. "Is this okay?"
Sherlock thought for a moment. John was vulnerable: he could be confused or dozy from exhaustion. He might regret this tomorrow; Sherlock could not bear that. But John was also the sensible one, the one who didn't make impulsive moves, the one who thought about consequences before acting. "John," Sherlock said, breathing the word into John's mouth as their lips met, softly, slowly, for the first time. Sherlock memorised every detail of its tenderness.
It took everything inside of John to not push back, to not kiss him as wildly as the desire building up already. Sherlock seemed hesitant and he wouldn't do anything more until he knew Sherlock wanted it, too. It was late, and maybe John just misread or overreacted to Sherlock's help.
When the kiss ended, it was Sherlock's turn to feel vulnerable. He turned his head, as if not looking at John meant John was not looking at him. He softly said, "I have thought a million times about that kiss. Wondering and wanting. And now . . . and now I will think about it a million more times, knowing and still . . . wanting." It felt like a confession and it was so true, it almost hurt.
John brought his hand up to Sherlock's cheek, lightly stroking with his thumb. "I know you think the fear has addled my brain, but I've been feeling like this about you for a while," John admitted. "I've tried to ignore it and get rid of it because I didn't know how'd you feel," John said quietly.
"This is what I want," said Sherlock. "This . . . you . . . us." Sherlock raised his hand up to the one against his cheek, moving John's hand to his mouth and kissing it lightly first and then more passionately.
John bit his lip softly. "I love you, Sherlock," he said quietly, raising his eyes to Sherlock's.
"I love you, too, John," Sherlock as he moved his mouth over John's face, sort of kissing but mostly just touching, taking in John's skin. "I have thought very much about this, as feelings do not come very comfortably to me. But I've come up with no other possible solution that explains the things in my head: needing to be with you at all times, wanting to look after and be looked after by you, wanting to . . . touch and be touched by you."
John closed his eyes to take in the feel of Sherlock's lips on his skin. So soft . . . he turned his head and pecked a kiss on his lips. "I always want to be with you, and I can't stop thinking about you . . . you just make me feel so safe," he murmured against his lips.
Sherlock hid his face again in the crook of John's neck. "I just want to do things right. As you know, I tend to fascinate or irritate people. I don't want to be that to you. I want to . . . just . . .," he couldn't find the words because this was too unfamiliar. He squeezed his arms around John which made him feel safer with this new openness. John's body, his weight on Sherlock's body, it just felt . . . so good.
"Sherlock," John murmured. He brought his hand up to Sherlock's hair and lightly pet his head. "You do fascinate me, but you certainly do not irritate me, not in the ways that matter." He paused and rubbed his head for a bit. "We'll figure it out together, " he said quietly.
Sherlock felt an urge, and whether it was do to John's words or his touch, he wasn't sure and wasn't sure he cared. He felt like he needed to get John closer.
He moved John over and stood up. He eased John onto his back against the sofa. He tucked a pillow under his head and stretched out John's legs. "Are you comfortable? he asked. "Is this okay?"
John nodded up at him. "Yes, this is okay," he said quietly.
"Good," Sherlock said. "I want this to be nice for you." He lowered himself onto the sofa, snuggling his body around John's. He knew he seemed kind of awkward -- he felt kind of awkward, he guessed. This night had taken an unusual turn. Sherlock just wanted to make everything right. Still pressed against John, Sherlock lifted one hand and touched the tips of his fingers to John's mouth.
John pecked kisses on Sherlock's fingers. He'd always loved how his hands looked -- long, slender fingers -- beautiful. He sucked the tip of one into his mouth.
God, Sherlock thought, that felt so right. John's mouth was soft and warm. He slowly pulled out his finger and traced its wetness around John's lips. He lifted his head and kissed him.
John happily kissed him back, bringing his own hand up to Sherlock's cheek.
Sherlock smiled and then rested his head on the pillow next to John's, curling his body even more tightly. They didn't talk anymore, just listened to each other breath until they fell to sleep on the sofa in the dark room.
Outside, the storm had broken and there was no more lightning, no more thunder. They were both safe. Together.