Fic: Comfort
Comfort
Rating: G
Characters: Sherlock & John (could be seen as pre-slash if you've got your goggles on)
Warning: SPOILERS FOR S2E2 (HOUNDS). You've been warned.
Summary: A deleted scene after Sherlock's outburst by the fire in THoB.
*****
After returning from his wasted trip onto the moor and failing to get anything particularly useful from Dr. Mortimer, John was most definitely in need of a pint. A pint and a quiet moment to process Sherlock’s earlier outburst. He had never seen Sherlock so genuinely upset, so vulnerable, so human. He had been almost manic since his decision to go cold turkey with the cigarettes, but earlier, that had been something different. He wanted to believe Sherlock - wanted to believe Henry Knight - but as a rational man, he just couldn’t. It was too easy to explain away: Henry had been a small boy before, overactive imagination practically a guarantee, and now he was incredibly fragile, susceptible; and Sherlock had been buzzing from nicotine withdrawal and sleep deprivation, something John had given up arguing with him about. John was willing to believe there was something out there, an escaped lab rat - or, more accurately, dog - but not the monster the others had claimed to see.
Downing the last of his pint, John got to his feet with a sigh and made his way upstairs to his room. Thank God he wasn’t sharing with Sherlock - he needed some space and if he was honest with himself, he was still feeling a bit sore about Sherlock’s angry ‘I don’t have friends’. He knew that what they had, this strange more-than-just-friendship, was new to Sherlock, but the fact that Sherlock dismissed it - and him - so easily was disappointing. He knew he should take it with a pinch of salt, shrug it off, but after the whole episode with Irene there had been a subtle strain in their relationship that hadn’t been there before and it left John searching for validation of their closeness. Should have known better than to expect that from Sherlock, he supposed.
John unlocked the door of his room and let himself in, shutting the door behind him - and coming to a halt when he saw Sherlock perched on the end of the bed. He had obviously been waiting for John for some time and he looked up as soon as John moved into the room proper. Sherlock’s eyes were red and puffy and the way his hands were so tightly clasped together suggested that he was still struggling to keep himself from shaking.
“How did you get in here?” John asked, then sighed and shook his head, “No, you know what, don’t even bother. What are you doing here?”
“I know you think I’m being ridiculous.”
“No more than usual,” John quipped, but regretted it a moment later when Sherlock’s face fell, “Sorry. I’m sorry. I just - can’t this wait ‘til morning, Sherlock?”
Sherlock held his gaze and then looked away uncertainly.
“Yes, yes I suppose so,” Sherlock said, making no move to leave. “Plenty more to follow up tomorrow. Busy day. I want to go back to Baskerville, for one. There must be something there. Yes, I suppose we’ll do that tomorrow, if we can.”
Sherlock had still made no move to leave and it suddenly hit John: Sherlock was afraid. In fact, he was terrified. And he didn’t want to be alone.
Before he even realised he had done it, John stepped forward and laid a hand briefly on Sherlock’s shoulder. It was only as Sherlock’s eyes flew to his in surprise that he realised how very rarely he touched Sherlock, how rarely Sherlock invited touch. Oh, he was happy to drag John here and there or to manhandle him into his jacket and John was used to that - but John hardly ever initiated contact between them. He supposed the events of today might count as exceptional circumstances.
“Look, you’re worn out, you need to sleep. Do you want me to give you something?”
He could practically see the snarky reply Sherlock was prepared to give, but it was dismissed almost instantly as Sherlock's gaze fell to the floor.
"Sleeping pills don't work for me."
Unsurprising, John thought to himself, given Sherlock's history of drug abuse.
"Then just... Just lay down and have a rest, alright?" John suggested, waving his hand at the bed, "I'm not going to sleep just yet."
"I... Thank you, John, but I wouldn't want to impose."
John couldn't help but laugh at that. "Never thought I'd see the day."
Sherlock gave him a small smile - more a twist of the lips - and ran a trembling hand over his face. He hesitated for a moment, thinking, then raised his face towards John.
"I saw something, John. Something awful."
John found himself moving to sit on the bed beside his friend.
"I want to believe you."
Sherlock let out a scoff of angry amusement and ran his hand through his increasingly wild hair.
“Come on,” John insisted, pressing his hand to Sherlock’s arm, “Lay down and just stop thinking for one minute.”
Sherlock scoffed again but finally gave in, scooting back on the bed and laying down. He kicked his shoes off as a last-minute consideration and drew his long legs up onto the bed.
“You’re safe here,” John said softly, pressing a reassuring hand to his friend’s shoulder, then smiling, “I’ve been tempted to strangle you many times, but right now I think I can resist.”
Sherlock smiled too and reached out to twine his long fingers around John’s wrist as John went to move away.
“John,” he started hesitantly, “What I said earlier -”
“It’s fine.”
“No. I hurt you,” Sherlock said, his hand tightening on John’s arm, “I’m sorry. I should explain. I don’t have friends, but I do have you. And calling you my friend doesn’t do justice to everything you are to me.”
John didn’t think he’d ever seen Sherlock so sincere and he perched on the edge of the bed beside him, smiling softly.
“Thank you.”
“It’s simply the truth.”
“Thank you anyway.”
There was a moment of silence and then John cleared his throat and moved to rise to his feet.
“Stay,” Sherlock said quickly, his hand twitching against John’s arm.
John looked first at the hand still wrapped around his wrist and then at Sherlock’s wide eyes, his expression still tainted with fear.
“Yeah, alright. I’m not going anywhere, just relax.”
John managed to squeeze onto the bed beside Sherlock and propped himself up against the headboard. Sherlock didn’t seem to want to let go of him for long and as soon as John was comfortable, his hand twisted in the fabric of his jumper.
“It’s going to be alright,” John murmured, resting his hand on top of Sherlock’s head, “You’ll figure this out and we’ll stop...whatever it is out there.”
“I need to regain my objectivity,” Sherlock said, half to himself, “I’m useless like this.”
“Feeling things doesn’t actually make you weak, Sherlock. It makes you human.”
Sherlock scoffed and said nothing more in reply, his body relaxing ever so slightly. John was staring mindlessly at the ceiling, but he could feel the almost imperceptible tugs from where Sherlock was fiddling with his jumper. He reached over and caught Sherlock’s hand in his own, twining their fingers together. Sherlock locked his fingers tightly around John’s and let out a low sigh, his forehead coming to rest against John’s side.
“Sleep,” John whispered, “You’ll feel better in the morning with a clear head.”
Sherlock nodded and moments later, his whole body finally relaxed as he fell asleep, his fingers still twined with John’s. It didn’t look like John would be getting his bed back tonight, but he’d slept in more uncomfortable positions before, so after extracting one of the pillows from under Sherlock’s head and wedging it between his head and the headboard he was sleeping soundly in no time.
END
Rating: G
Characters: Sherlock & John (could be seen as pre-slash if you've got your goggles on)
Warning: SPOILERS FOR S2E2 (HOUNDS). You've been warned.
Summary: A deleted scene after Sherlock's outburst by the fire in THoB.
*****
After returning from his wasted trip onto the moor and failing to get anything particularly useful from Dr. Mortimer, John was most definitely in need of a pint. A pint and a quiet moment to process Sherlock’s earlier outburst. He had never seen Sherlock so genuinely upset, so vulnerable, so human. He had been almost manic since his decision to go cold turkey with the cigarettes, but earlier, that had been something different. He wanted to believe Sherlock - wanted to believe Henry Knight - but as a rational man, he just couldn’t. It was too easy to explain away: Henry had been a small boy before, overactive imagination practically a guarantee, and now he was incredibly fragile, susceptible; and Sherlock had been buzzing from nicotine withdrawal and sleep deprivation, something John had given up arguing with him about. John was willing to believe there was something out there, an escaped lab rat - or, more accurately, dog - but not the monster the others had claimed to see.
Downing the last of his pint, John got to his feet with a sigh and made his way upstairs to his room. Thank God he wasn’t sharing with Sherlock - he needed some space and if he was honest with himself, he was still feeling a bit sore about Sherlock’s angry ‘I don’t have friends’. He knew that what they had, this strange more-than-just-friendship, was new to Sherlock, but the fact that Sherlock dismissed it - and him - so easily was disappointing. He knew he should take it with a pinch of salt, shrug it off, but after the whole episode with Irene there had been a subtle strain in their relationship that hadn’t been there before and it left John searching for validation of their closeness. Should have known better than to expect that from Sherlock, he supposed.
John unlocked the door of his room and let himself in, shutting the door behind him - and coming to a halt when he saw Sherlock perched on the end of the bed. He had obviously been waiting for John for some time and he looked up as soon as John moved into the room proper. Sherlock’s eyes were red and puffy and the way his hands were so tightly clasped together suggested that he was still struggling to keep himself from shaking.
“How did you get in here?” John asked, then sighed and shook his head, “No, you know what, don’t even bother. What are you doing here?”
“I know you think I’m being ridiculous.”
“No more than usual,” John quipped, but regretted it a moment later when Sherlock’s face fell, “Sorry. I’m sorry. I just - can’t this wait ‘til morning, Sherlock?”
Sherlock held his gaze and then looked away uncertainly.
“Yes, yes I suppose so,” Sherlock said, making no move to leave. “Plenty more to follow up tomorrow. Busy day. I want to go back to Baskerville, for one. There must be something there. Yes, I suppose we’ll do that tomorrow, if we can.”
Sherlock had still made no move to leave and it suddenly hit John: Sherlock was afraid. In fact, he was terrified. And he didn’t want to be alone.
Before he even realised he had done it, John stepped forward and laid a hand briefly on Sherlock’s shoulder. It was only as Sherlock’s eyes flew to his in surprise that he realised how very rarely he touched Sherlock, how rarely Sherlock invited touch. Oh, he was happy to drag John here and there or to manhandle him into his jacket and John was used to that - but John hardly ever initiated contact between them. He supposed the events of today might count as exceptional circumstances.
“Look, you’re worn out, you need to sleep. Do you want me to give you something?”
He could practically see the snarky reply Sherlock was prepared to give, but it was dismissed almost instantly as Sherlock's gaze fell to the floor.
"Sleeping pills don't work for me."
Unsurprising, John thought to himself, given Sherlock's history of drug abuse.
"Then just... Just lay down and have a rest, alright?" John suggested, waving his hand at the bed, "I'm not going to sleep just yet."
"I... Thank you, John, but I wouldn't want to impose."
John couldn't help but laugh at that. "Never thought I'd see the day."
Sherlock gave him a small smile - more a twist of the lips - and ran a trembling hand over his face. He hesitated for a moment, thinking, then raised his face towards John.
"I saw something, John. Something awful."
John found himself moving to sit on the bed beside his friend.
"I want to believe you."
Sherlock let out a scoff of angry amusement and ran his hand through his increasingly wild hair.
“Come on,” John insisted, pressing his hand to Sherlock’s arm, “Lay down and just stop thinking for one minute.”
Sherlock scoffed again but finally gave in, scooting back on the bed and laying down. He kicked his shoes off as a last-minute consideration and drew his long legs up onto the bed.
“You’re safe here,” John said softly, pressing a reassuring hand to his friend’s shoulder, then smiling, “I’ve been tempted to strangle you many times, but right now I think I can resist.”
Sherlock smiled too and reached out to twine his long fingers around John’s wrist as John went to move away.
“John,” he started hesitantly, “What I said earlier -”
“It’s fine.”
“No. I hurt you,” Sherlock said, his hand tightening on John’s arm, “I’m sorry. I should explain. I don’t have friends, but I do have you. And calling you my friend doesn’t do justice to everything you are to me.”
John didn’t think he’d ever seen Sherlock so sincere and he perched on the edge of the bed beside him, smiling softly.
“Thank you.”
“It’s simply the truth.”
“Thank you anyway.”
There was a moment of silence and then John cleared his throat and moved to rise to his feet.
“Stay,” Sherlock said quickly, his hand twitching against John’s arm.
John looked first at the hand still wrapped around his wrist and then at Sherlock’s wide eyes, his expression still tainted with fear.
“Yeah, alright. I’m not going anywhere, just relax.”
John managed to squeeze onto the bed beside Sherlock and propped himself up against the headboard. Sherlock didn’t seem to want to let go of him for long and as soon as John was comfortable, his hand twisted in the fabric of his jumper.
“It’s going to be alright,” John murmured, resting his hand on top of Sherlock’s head, “You’ll figure this out and we’ll stop...whatever it is out there.”
“I need to regain my objectivity,” Sherlock said, half to himself, “I’m useless like this.”
“Feeling things doesn’t actually make you weak, Sherlock. It makes you human.”
Sherlock scoffed and said nothing more in reply, his body relaxing ever so slightly. John was staring mindlessly at the ceiling, but he could feel the almost imperceptible tugs from where Sherlock was fiddling with his jumper. He reached over and caught Sherlock’s hand in his own, twining their fingers together. Sherlock locked his fingers tightly around John’s and let out a low sigh, his forehead coming to rest against John’s side.
“Sleep,” John whispered, “You’ll feel better in the morning with a clear head.”
Sherlock nodded and moments later, his whole body finally relaxed as he fell asleep, his fingers still twined with John’s. It didn’t look like John would be getting his bed back tonight, but he’d slept in more uncomfortable positions before, so after extracting one of the pillows from under Sherlock’s head and wedging it between his head and the headboard he was sleeping soundly in no time.
END