Work Text:
The small landing at the top of the stairs was dark except for a gold point of light emanating from the keyhole in John’s bedroom door. Sherlock knelt down and peered inside. John was awake and sitting upright on the edge of his bed.
Definitely another nightmare, Sherlock thought to himself, watching as John wrapped his arms around himself and took some deliberate deep breaths. John’s room was all military neatness, softened by a few particular items. A patchwork quilt folded at the end of his bed. A pair of brown house slippers. A calendar on the wall with a picture of London at night. A small potted plant (Enlglish Ivy, a gift from Harry) on the windowsill. John had even stuck a small twig into the soil to help the ivy grow better.
A minute of two passed, and John still appeared distressed. His frame was bowed, and his head was resting heavily in his hands. Sherlock felt a prickle of genuine concern. Normally his flat mate was solid and composed, even when he was afraid or in pain. Soldier conditioning. Sherlock couldn’t be sure from this distance, but he thought the corners of John’s eyes looked a bit red. And so distant. Whatever John was thinking about, it was far away from Baker Street. John reached up to massage his left shoulder, wincing at the pressure. He sighed deeply and looked up to stare at the dresser across the room. After a moment, he stood up slowly made his way over the dresser, walking softly over the old floor boards. He opened the top drawer and began methodically pulling out stacks of sweaters and setting them on top of the dresser. Finally, he pulled out something from the bottom. A neatly folded, dark colored shirt – one Sherlock didn’t recognize as John’s.
It’s mine! Sherlock thought with a jolt. It was his shirt, a dark blue button-down he’d misplaced weeks ago! John hovered next to the dresser, fingering the shirt’s softness between his thumb and finger.
Something….something soft, warm, and edged with aching was happening in Sherlock’s chest. He subconsciously had one palm flat against John’s door, his eye pressed closer to the keyhole. His gaze kept flicking from John’s weary expression to the gentle way he was holding the shirt.
John let the shirt unfold in his hands. With a brief (and slightly guilty) glance around the room, he turned and limped back to bed. Sherlock tried to study John’s face, but he couldn’t see it from his limited angle of view. Sitting back down on the bed, John rotated one of his pillows 90 degrees and tugged it down next to him. He held the shirt in his hands for a moment, considering it, rubbing his thumb over the breast pocket. He looked…sad. Defeated somehow. John glanced sideways at the pillow and then draped Sherlock’s shirt over the pillow, tucking it in around the edges of the pillow. For a moment, he just let his hand rest on the middle of the pillow, his thumb still stroking.
John regarded the shirt-wrapped pillow for a moment, his brow furrowed unhappily. He ran a haggard hand over his eyes and then gave a half-hearted rub to his injured shoulder. Without turning off the bedside lamp, John lay back down, pulled up the quilt, and curled his entire body around the pillow, pressing his face into it and breathing deep.
It smells like me Sherlock thought, his heart giving a particularly strong throb. Sherlock had both hands on the door now, but he had no intention of entering. He continued to watch John. After several minutes, John seemed to have fallen back asleep, his arm clutching the pillow to his body, his face pressed into the faint scent that lingered on the shirt.
Outside the bedroom door, Sherlock’s heart was beating hard in his chest, and he suddenly realized he was smiling and he didn’t quite know why.