Work Text:
Bang!
John jerked awake, blinking in confusion as his brain slowly came back online. It took him a few seconds until he realized that it was the middle of the night and he was lying in his bed.
The pitch-black darkness of his room was suddenly illuminated by a fleeting flicker of whiteness, accompanied by the same booming sound that had woken him up.
There was a storm raging outside, he realized. The telltale sound of heavy rain clattering against the window pane was loud and steady and he could hear the wind howling outside, making the shingles on the roof above him rattle as if it were about to collapse any second.
Ah yes, the storm.
He had forgotten about that. His colleagues had mentioned it during their lunch break at work today, but John had only listened to them with one ear, being deeply engrossed in a patient’s file he needed to catch up on. They had said something about it being one of the heaviest storms predicted to hit London in a few years, mentioning something about a severe weather warning, too.
He wearily ran a hand over his face before he got up out of the bed. Now that he was awake he knew that there was no way he could avoid going to the loo. A quick glance at the watch told him that it was two o’clock in the morning and it was with a heavy sigh that he slipped into his plushy pink slippers (a gag gift from Harry) and donned his navy-blue dressing gown, frustration spreading deep within his belly.
It was always difficult for him, going back to sleep after having woken up in the middle of the night. Even three years after being back home in good old England, he still had those nightmares that brought back unbidden memories of exploding grenades and amputated limbs of former friends. Therapy with Ella had really helped and he could handle these nightmares much better than before. They also came less frequently, occasionally even allowing him a couple of weeks of uninterrupted, blissful sleep, something that he had not dared to hope for since he had come back from Afghanistan. But sooner or later they inevitably came back upon him, haunting him, and he hated those nights when he lay awake, brow shining with cold sweat, hands clammy after he had woken up dreaming of the screaming and the crying.
He padded towards the door and quietly climbed down the stairs, planning to use the loo quickly and have a glass of water before going back to bed in the doubtful hope of getting some more sleep tonight.
Even though it was the middle of the night it didn’t necessarily have to mean that Sherlock was asleep. His mad-as-a-hatter flatmate and best friend didn’t have the same daily routines normal people did and he often claimed the calm and quiet of the night to conduct an experiment or dive deep into his mind palace to brood over one of the many crimes and puzzles he occupied himself with. Or he took the opportunity to play the violin, a sore subject both John and Mrs. Hudson had given up nagging him about. If Sherlock decided he wanted to play Bach at four o’clock in the morning he would, no matter how many times Mrs. Hudson threatened to raise his rent or John claimed he would dump a bucket of cold water over him to stop him from playing….
But Sherlock was clearly not playing the violin right now. In fact, it was eerily quiet, so maybe the man had decided to be reasonable for once and go to bed at this time of the night as he should.
John entered the sitting room quietly and cautiously looked around to see if Sherlock was here. But there was no sight of him and John sighed in relief. He really wasn’t up to a late-night discussion about a case. Although they currently had no case, at least none that John knew of. However, chances were that the workaholic detective had managed to snatch himself a new one in the short amount of time since dinner in which they hadn’t seen each other. Sherlock regularly checked his e-mails - who knew if a client hadn’t posted a request for help during the hours in which John had slept?
But no, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen which meant that he wasn’t on a case. If he were, he would be on the sofa, doing some research or looking for something in his mind palace. Or he would be out. But a quick glance at the hook by the door showed that this wasn’t the case, as the Belstaff still hung there, neat and dry. That meant that Sherlock must be in his bedroom where he only went to sleep, never anything else as far as John knew.
He tiptoed to the bathroom and tried to be as quiet as possible about his business. Even though he knew that Sherlock was a heavy sleeper - if he managed to decide to sleep at all - he didn’t want to risk waking him. On account of that, he didn’t flush after peeing, and he used the sink in the kitchen to wash his hands, even though he had to clear it of the usual mixed clutter of used teacups and dirty vials from Sherlock first.
Having poured himself a glass of water from the tap he stepped up to the large windows to take a look outside. The rain was still pounding steadily against the glass, making it hard for him to discern anything happening out there: it was all a wet, blurry haze of grey and black. The trees were bending from the heavy winds, large branches tearing loose, flying down the streets.
John cursed silently as he thought of the potential dangers to anyone venturing outside into this madness. Anyone could be hurt or even killed by loose objects flying around. He thought of all those homeless people in London and hoped they would be able to find shelter somewhere, to keep away from the cold and wet. There would doubtlessly be many car accidents in London tonight. The fire brigade, as well as A&E would have their hands full tonight as well as all day tomorrow.
He drained his glass, grateful for the fact that he wasn’t working in A&E. After everything that had happened in Afghanistan, he wasn’t exactly cut out for all the stress there, possibly triggering his PTSD. He had thought about it at the beginning, especially when patient after patient came in with a common cold, the boredom of it all almost killing him. But as soon as his cases with Sherlock had started to become a regular thing, he had realized the value in having something stable and non-heart-attack-inducing in contrast to chasing after criminals, as he did with Sherlock all day. His day job and his additional ‘job’ of being Sherlock’s ‘colleague’ complimented each other well and he wouldn’t want it any other way now.
He sighed and turned to climb upstairs again, determined to really try and catch some more sleep. At the moment that he turned, a flash of lightning once again lit up the room - and John almost had a heart attack when he saw a figure sitting on the ground, a few meters away from him.
“Jesus Christ!”
Automatically, his hands flew to his pocket to draw his gun - which of course wasn’t there, being safely stored away in his drawer upstairs. His next instinct was to grab a knife from the counter but something stopped him, his eyes drawn to the figure whose face he could not see, his whole body on alert. The person had not moved to attack him, instead, it still sat there, completely still in the darkness.
The mystery man was squeezed into the small space between the side of the couch and the wall and John’s legs twitched with the urge to just pounce on the man, pull him out of his hiding place and subdue him quickly.
John’s mind was racing as he thought about what to do. In a matter of seconds, he had gone through a list of potential enemies, possibly interested in invading the flat. Disappointed ex-clients, angry ex-convicts that Sherlock had helped catch, or common burglars, ignorant about whose flat they had chosen to break into - all those crossed John’s mind.
Just then another bolt of lightning flashed, and in that one second of brightness, John could see a mop of dark curls that looked very familiar. The lightning was accompanied by a booming roll of thunder and suddenly John could hear a sob ringing out in the dark, followed by the sound of heavy breathing.
“Sherlock?!”
John squinted, trying to see better in the darkness and he stepped forward, closer to the man huddled into the corner on the ground.
It was indeed Sherlock. Even in the spare light of the living room, heavy shadows cast across the room, he recognized the angular face with the sharp cheekbones, the unruly curls sticking out from his head. He was sitting there pressed against the wall, his knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped around them.
“Oh Christ, Sherlock, you’ve almost given me a heart attack!” he exclaimed, chuckling in relief and taking a deep breath to slow down his accelerated heart rate. “What are you doing there on the floor? I thought you were a burglar or something. No wait, don’t tell me. It’s an experiment, right?”
He frowned when no answer came. Sherlock wasn’t even looking at him, instead, he was staring straight ahead, his eyes glassy as if he were completely else.
John snapped his fingers to get his attention. “Are you in your mind palace? Hey, Sherlock!”
Something wasn’t right. Sherlock wasn’t behaving like his usual self and a knot of worry twisted in the pit of John’s stomach, eyes narrowing as they raked over his friend’s still body, taking in all the details.
“Sherlock?” he asked again, squatting in front of his flatmate, finally able to really see his face.
Sherlock, dressed in a white t-shirt and loose grey sweatpants, was pale as a sheet, even paler than usual. His grey-blue eyes were unfocussed, pupils dilated, as he stared into empty space. Harsh, laboured breaths of air went past his slightly parted lips. The knuckles of his fingers were almost white as his long, delicate hands pressed around his legs, visibly harder than necessary. He was shocked to see the man was trembling all over.
“Sherlock?” he asked again, urgency slipping into his voice again now that he could see that something clearly was very wrong. “Hey, what is it? Has something happened? Christ, talk to me!”
Sherlock directed his gaze at him then, his dark eyes clearing a little. He opened his mouth, trying to speak, but no sound came out and something like despair flashed in those piercing blue eyes. Sherlock swallowed then, shaking his head in frustration, as he stared at John wide-eyed, his long pale neck exposed in the sparse light falling into the corner where he was sitting.
But then another roar of thunder ripped through the silence, and Sherlock whimpered, his eyes widening even more before he squeezed them shut as if he was in pain, rocking back and forth, his whole body stiff as a board.
John could only stare at him in shock.
The whole situation suddenly became very clear to him. Sherlock was scared, scared out of his wits. Because of the storm outside.
He did not understand and for a moment, he was inclined to hit Sherlock’s knee with the back of his hand and call him out on his joke. Tell him to stop playing around.
But he didn’t for he could see that Sherlock wasn’t playing. This was very real. He wanted to understand how a man who was not afraid of serial killers, guns being pointed at his face, lethal toxins he was exposed to regularly, could be afraid of something simple as thunder and lightning, but he couldn’t waste a second now wracking his brains on that matter. There would be time for that later.
All that he could see was that Sherlock was in the middle of a panic attack - and that was simply unacceptable.
“Hey,“ he said firmly as he switched into doctor mode, trying to catch Sherlock’s eye, “it’s alright, Sherlock. I’m here. You’re safe, everything’s alright.”
He reached out and very softly touched Sherlock’s knee, carefully testing the waters with this hint of a touch. He cheered in silent triumph when Sherlock glanced at his hand with wide eyes but didn’t shirk away from it. Encouraged, John began to rub a pattern of small circles with his thumbs to calm Sherlock down.
“Hey, hey, “he soothed quietly, “calm down, hm? Nothing will happen to you here. You’re safe inside this house, Sherlock, and I’m here with you.”
He continued to rub small circles on the trembling knee and when Sherlock still did not react in a negative way, he placed his entire hand on his knee and stroked it carefully. He changed into a rhythm where he was slowly stroking from the knee down towards the shin, all the way to his bare feet, murmuring to him that everything would be alright over and over again.
After a few minutes of doing this, Sherlock’s breathing eventually calmed down, even if only a little. John was glad, but it was still hard to observe the rigidness of Sherlock’s long, lean features, see the naked fear in his eyes and not be able to do anything against it. He wanted to do more.
“Can I … he hesitated then, uncertain if he was pushing things too far with his question. “Can I come over?”
Sherlock swallowed, still unable to stop himself from shaking. Eventually, he managed to look up, his eyes nervously flitting over John’s face as if to assess his state, waiting for John to laugh at him for being afraid of something as simple as a thunderstorm. He looked like a cornered animal, torn between lashing out or bolting in the face of an enemy, and John’s jaw clenched in sympathy as he waited for his friend to trust him. After a minute, when Sherlock could detect nothing but seriousness and sincere compassion in John’s soft features, he gave a tiny nod.
“Come here then,“ John said and he went down on his knees and carefully pushed himself into the corner next to Sherlock until they were side by side. It was a very tight fit, but he managed, immediately wrapping his arm around the crouching man’s shoulder, pressing him close to his body. The tension in Sherlock’s thin frame increased as soon as their bodies touched, so John stayed still and did nothing but hold him without real pressure, waiting for the younger man to relax with his own heart pounding in his chest.
After a minute or two, Sherlock’s breathing finally slowed down as the stiff muscles in his body untightened, prompting John to squeeze and rub his shoulders in encouragement. This apparently soothed Sherlock considerably, causing the younger man to bury his nose in the crook of Johns’s neck, seeking the warmth and comfort of his body, his arms still wrapped around his knees against his chest.
Thunder roared once again in a vicious reminder and Sherlock whined suddenly as he flinched, his fingers digging into John’s arms under the cotton of his pyjamas. The sound was so unexpected that John’s heart leapt and he reacted instinctively, placing one hand at the back of Sherlock’s head, the other around his knees, gently pushing and shoving him forward so that the trembling man was eventually completely pressed against John.
Curled into himself, held by John’s soothing, strong arms, Sherlock continued to breathe heavily against John’s chest, moaning softly as the thunder outside built up to a roaring crescendo, flashes of lightning illuminating the sitting room every few seconds. The storm was directly over them now it seemed. John could do nothing but hold Sherlock tight and whisper comforting words into his dark curls, stroking the man’s trembling back and shoulders, his mind still struggling to comprehend what was happening here.
“Hey. Shhhh. Hey, calm down, “he whispered as he rocked them both back and forth, pressing Sherlock firmly against him as the detective gasped for air, his shoulders heaving with his heavy breathing. “Shhh, it’ll pass soon, I promise. We just have to wait a little longer.”
They sat there like that for a while. John shushing and holding and soothing, Sherlock panting and whimpering and trembling.
What a pair they made. The situation was almost too abstruse to be real and John spared a second to think about the insanity of the situation. But then he was pulled back into reality by an especially pitiful sob from his friend when the thunder suddenly exploded around them with such malice, that even John flinched, the loud noise invoking the familiar terror of screaming people in the midst of battle and chaos around him. He gritted his teeth, and took a couple of deep breaths, forcing himself to remain calm.
Sherlock needed him. He couldn’t afford to lose focus now.
As his own breathing calmed down again, he became aware of Sherlock’s hands on his arms, desperately clinging to his shirt with panicked force, as if it was a lifeline and John allowed it without a second thought. If it helped him, he would never stop him from doing it. Sherlock’s rapid, shallow breathing against the base of his throat made him shiver, and once again he wished he could do more. He wished with all his might that he could wipe away the clouds, make the storm go away, and force the sun out of its hiding place if it meant that it would make Sherlock stop trembling and panicking like a man possessed.
Christ.
He was starting to get almost hysterical. He needed to pull himself together, so he counted to fifty, then to a hundred, as he sat there in the darkness, trying to keep Sherlock from hyperventilating.
Another bout of thunder flared up, but a little quieter this time, and John held his breath for a moment as he waited for Sherlock’s hands to loosen their grip on him. He could feel the other man’s heart jackrabbiting in his chest, against John’s, and he did not know if the stupid little words he was murmuring directly into his ear had any effect, but he kept on whispering them anyway.
After a while, the pounding of rain against the window panes became louder again, but the thunder was audibly quieting down. Occasionally, another flash of lightning illuminated the room, but it was decreasing, too and John exhaled warily when Sherlock stirred in his arms, slowly raising his head towards the window as if to peek outside.
John decided to take this opportunity to move them.
“Come on, “ he said firmly, giving the younger man’s shoulder one last encouraging squeeze before he stood up, pulling a tense, hesitating Sherlock up with him.
“Let’s get you into bed, come on.”
Sherlock was still trembling like a leaf as he helplessly wrapped his arm around himself. Dressed only in his loose shirt and sweatpants, barefoot, his head hung low, he almost looked like a frightened child. Something stirred within John and he wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist protectively, stroking his arm with his free hand as he slowly pushed them both forward.
Slowly, he led him into his bedroom, pulled up the neatly done covers, and gently pushed the younger man into the bed.
“Here, “he said as he pulled the covers back down, “there you are, nice and warm and cosy.”
Sherlock had curled onto his right side into a fetal position and now he was looking up at John from where his head lay on the pillow. The fear was still very much evident in his sharp features: cold sweat on his brow, his skin sallow and his silvery eyes damp as they reluctantly focussed on John.
“I-I’m sorry, “he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. “So stupid of me.”
“No, don’t be sorry!” John reassured him quickly, relieved that Sherlock was able to speak again, yet dismayed that his first words were so self-deprecating. This wasn’t the Sherlock he knew: self-confident, annoyingly arrogant super detective Sherlock Holmes, cleverer than anyone, surpassing everyone else.
It felt wrong to hear him say such things.
John squatted down next to the bed so that he was at eye level with his friend. “It’s not stupid, “he stated firmly. “You’re not stupid.”
Sherlock’s eyes fluttered close. “I-it’s embarrassing, “he whispered, pulling up his hand to cover his face, but John stopped him mid-movement.
“No, none of that, “he said gently, carefully pushing a loose curl out of Sherlock’s ashen face.
“Sleep now, alright?”
Sherlock hummed, his eyes still squeezed shut.
The storm was still raging in the distance and as John sat by Sherlock’s side, waiting for him to fall asleep, he could see that his friend was still shivering underneath the covers. He started stroking his hair, his shoulders, his back, a stream of comforting words quietly flowing out of his mouth as he did so. But it wasn’t enough and Sherlock’s breathing changed again, getting more irregular and distressed by the seconds, his lips falling open as he broke into a sweat.
John could see he was on the verge of another panic attack, and for a moment, he was at a loss of what to do.
Then a thought crossed his mind which he immediately dismissed. He couldn’t do that, it would be too much.
But when Sherlock was still trembling and breathing raggedly two minutes later, his hands curled into fists on the pillow in front of him, John just couldn’t bear it anymore and he swiftly climbed into the bed from the other side before he could stop himself. He crawled underneath the sheets, lying down next to Sherlock to spoon him from behind.
“Wh-what….wh-what are you doing?” Sherlock stammered in surprise, trying to look at John behind him over his shoulder.
“Trying to calm you down, “John said quietly as he wrapped his arm around the slim waist. “Is this okay?”
Sherlock hesitated, then nodded.
He lay his head back on the pillow, his thin frame tense at the unexpected presence of John’s warm body next to him. To distract him - and himself - John reached forward and took Sherlock’s hand, still squeezed tight into a fist, into his. He pried it open with gentle force, his thumb wandering down to his slender wrist to take his pulse. Sherlock’s breathing was rapid and loud between them, as John silently counted in his mind.
“Shhh, “he soothed again, murmuring into the softness of dull, chocolate-coloured curls, against the clammy skin of the back of his neck. “Your pulse is racing. Come on Sherlock, everything’s alright, calm down.”
They lay there like that for a long time, their bodies aligned next to each other underneath the sheets. While John held Sherlock from behind, he rubbed soothing circles into the palm of his hand, whispering soothing words into his ear, praising him for his courage, reminding him that he was here with him every second of the way. Sherlock still flinched every time a clap of thunder could be heard from afar, but John squeezed his shoulders reassuringly then and eventually Sherlock calmed down.
The trembling receded until it finally stopped completely. The breathing changed from rapid, distressed panting into longer, even inhales of breath. John continued his soothing motions as his mind expertly took notice of every change in Sherlock’s body, eventually realizing with relief that his pulse was slowly approaching a normal rate of beats per minute.
“Sherlock?” he whispered, after a while.
He got no answer. Sherlock had finally fallen asleep, his upper body rising up and down, slow and steady - and John exhaled in relief.
Thank God.
He thought about going up to his own bed, but he did not dare leave for fear that Sherlock would wake up and panic again.
So he stayed.
It was more than a little weird. Sleeping with his best friend in his bed, wrapped around him as if they were more than friends. But at the same time, it also felt right. Sherlock had needed him and how could he have refused to help him?
Never had he seen Sherlock in such a state like this. Never so … terrified. He was intrigued as to the reason for this irrational, mystifying fear and he decided to get to the bottom of this. It was such a strong reaction, that John suspected a psychological trauma behind it and he resolved to find out what had happened to his best friend.
His eyelids started to get heavy, so he gave in to his sleepiness. He could think about this tomorrow…
///
He woke the next day to discover that Sherlock was gone. Rubbing his eyes he glanced at his phone: it was half-past seven. His alarm would go off in a few minutes because he had a morning shift at the clinic.
A quick glance into the bathroom and sitting room showed no sign of his flatmate. He looked at the hook at the door and his suspicion was confirmed when he saw that the Belstaff was gone. Concern blossomed in his chest and he bit his lip as he tried to work out what to do.
A glance outside the window told him that the storm was long gone. It was still looking gloomy outside, it was still drizzling. But there was no thunder and no lightning, he was sure that Sherlock would not have gone outside if it had.
To ease his worries he quickly texted Greg and Molly to ask if Sherlock was with them. He sighed in relief when Molly texted back shortly, informing him that Sherlock was looking at a fresh corpse that had come into the morgue, courtesy of a heart attack.
Sherlock was safe and sound then. He would be occupied for the next few hours.
Now knowing that Sherlock was alright, John quickly showered and got dressed to get ready for work.
///
When he came back from work Sherlock was sitting on the couch, frowning at his laptop.
“Hey, John said casually, as he took off his jacket and started making tea. “Everything alright? How was the corpse?”
“Boring, “came the familiar answer. Sherlock looked like always, blue silk gown hanging off his slim shoulders, a deep frown on the detective’s pale features.
“Hey, Uhm, “John said, leaning against the counter as he waited for the tea to brew. “What was that last night?”
Sherlock didn’t look up but his eyelids fluttered for a second and John could see his shoulders tensing.
“Nothing.”
“It didn’t seem like nothing.”
“I’m telling you it was.”
“Sherlock.”
John’s voice was kind but firm and Sherlock sighed, his jaw clenching as he looked outside the window, avoiding John’s gaze.
“I don’t want to talk about it, “he said quietly, eyes dropping to the floor.
“Alright. I won’t pester you then, “John relented, keeping his eyes on his visibly uncomfortable friend. “Just know that you can talk to me if you want to. Anytime.”
He poured the tea into two cups and made his way across the room, stopping at the couch to gently press one of the cups into Sherlock’s thin hand. Sherlock looked up at him then, his pale eyes wide and uncertain.
“Here. Drink.”
John then sat down in his own chair, grabbed the newspaper from the coffee table, and started to read, sipping his tea quietly.
After a minute he heard a soft sigh, and he threw a glance at Sherlock above the newspaper. Sherlock was looking at him intensely, eyes unexpectedly soft and pleading.
“Thank you, “he said quietly and John gave him a soft smile and a simple nod.
“You’re welcome.”
///
It was Mycroft who approached John a few days later, inviting him for a cup of tea at the Diogenes Club. The older Holmes got straight to the point, telling John that, as Sherlock’s physician, it would be sensible for him to know the story behind Sherlock’s fear of thunder and lightning, as a safety measure for future episodes so to speak. He assured John that he had his little brother’s permission to do so. Sherlock wanted him to know about this even though he couldn’t talk about it himself.
Apparently, when Sherlock had been ten, he had had a best friend called Victor Trevor. They had been practically inseparable, spending every free minute together, out in the woods, or on their bicycles. One fateful summer day, after playing outside all day they had been caught in a late thunderstorm out on the fields. Victor had been struck by a bolt of lightning right in front of Sherlock’s eyes. The boy had been rushed to the hospital, but he had died after three days in a coma, due to multiple organ failure.
Needless to say that Sherlock had never been the same afterwards. He had never found another friend like that and he had started to get into brawls at school to the point where the schoolmaster had to call their parents regularly. He had been tormented by nightmares for years and he had been forced to undergo therapy several times, all to no avail. To this day, his extreme fear of thunder and lightning, in short astraphobia, had not turned for the better but Sherlock had refused to talk about it with anyone since he had been twenty. John was the first person to learn about the detective’s secret weakness, apart from Mycroft as well as Mr. and Mrs. Holmes.
It was heartbreaking. John felt incredibly sorry for the ten-year-old Sherlock, losing his best friend like that. Witnessing his death. That must have been incredibly horrible, no wonder Sherlock was traumatized.
He knew that Sherlock did not want to talk about the incident and he decided to respect his wish. But from that day on, he ended up following the weather reports religiously, making note of any possibility for severe weather, so that he would always be prepared should it turn for the worse. Luckily, storms like that didn’t occur very often in their area. But when they did, John swore to himself he would be there for Sherlock.
And Sherlock who knew that John had heard the terrible story about his dead childhood friend didn’t say a word about it, preferred to pretend that nothing special had happened that night. But the next time thunderclaps roared over London’s grey sky, bringing John to Sherlock’s door, a silent question on his face, Sherlock opened his covers without a word. This time, Sherlock fell asleep much faster.
Sherlock never had to go through another stormy night alone.