Work Text:
They were in the Forest of Dean, investigating whether the slaughter of rare white deer was related to trophy hunters who had been encroaching on royal estates, when the autumn storm made landfall in Cornwall and travelled rapidly up the country to encompass South Wales and the West Midlands. The gale force winds reached them while they were on the scene where the first white body had been found, the head having been removed. Sherlock was all for working through the winds, despite their being much stronger than forecast, before the data was swept away by the weather. John, though, shouted and begged and pleaded and finally manhandled him back to the car and drove them back to civilisation, all the while ignoring Sherlock’s angry protests.
Back in their rooms, the battering of the wind outside was matched only by the volume and tempo of the diatribe Sherlock unleashed. To his surprise, John did not respond with anger or justifications, just stood there and took it with a fixed expression. He didn’t move until Sherlock heard the word “coward” pass his own lips and stumbled to a halt, realising the line he had just crossed. Even then, John didn’t speak, although the muscles of his neck stood in taught lines. He nodded curtly and walked into his own room, not quite slamming the door.
One hour and three cups of tea later, Sherlock’s google search was complete. It had shown him that a GP holidaying in Kent with his wife, young daughter and younger son, had been killed in the Great Storm of 1987. He had been helping a young couple trapped in a car under a fallen tree, when the winds had uprooted another and swept it with wicked precision towards him. His wife and daughter had been safe in their cottage, but the son had been travelling with him and, the report claimed, had sat watching the life ebb from his crushed father, breath by breath.
When Sherlock walked into his room without knocking, tea in hand, John was sat on the bed, staring out of the window at the lashing rain. He glanced up as Sherlock offered him the mug, and Sherlock tried to make his eyes speak for him.
I understand now.
You’re not a coward. You never were.
You’re the bravest man I know.
I am so sorry.
The tiniest hint of a resigned smile pulled at the corner of John’s mouth. He turned back to the window, raising the mug to his lips. Sherlock hesitated, and then sat beside him on the bed, close but not imposing, ready to listen, ready to wait, ready to beg forgiveness if that was what John asked of him.
Almost imperceptibly, John relaxed beside him. At some point he put down the mug, and his arm brushed Sherlock’s as he moved. Some time later he shifted back onto the bed, curling up around the pillow, eyes still open and watching the window. A while after that Sherlock turned where he sat, rested a hand on John’s shoulder, kneading gently until his eyes closed, although he did not sleep.
They remained for hours in silence, listening to the howl of the wind.