Caseland Challenge 16: October Fest
It happens at least once a night, has ever since the bomb exploded. Sherlock starts awake, almost flying to an upright position, covers sent tumbling off the bed. John knows by now to approach gently, and turns slowly, tenderly taking Sherlock’s hand in his. Sherlock’s hand is guided up John’s bare chest, to rest on his beating heart.
Then, and only then, does Sherlock lay back down, his hand remaining over John’s heart, his face buried in John’s shoulder.
He never lets John out of his sight, not once since he was released from the hospital. John catches his eyes glued to the scars he knows are under John’s clothes, where the bomb cut and tore.
John tries to ask. Sherlock always responds the same. That he is fine. That he in no way sees Moriarty around every corner, under every bed. That he certainly doesn’t see John’s blood emptying into a swimming pool every time he closes his eyes.
Sherlock’s hands shake at crime scenes and everyone pretends not to notice. Even Anderson and Donovan play along. They saw Sherlock clutching John’s bleeding body, heard the begging, the gasping sobs.
John unobtrusively takes Sherlock’s trembling hands in his, rubs them between his scarred fingers until they still, if only for a moment.
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