beyond the gravestones (sherlock/johnlock fanfic)

Chapter 13

That night, John woke up sweating and breathing hard. He'd seen it happen again - Sherlock's body whooshing through the air and smashing on the pavement, spread-eagled and broken.

Calm down. He's sleeping in the next room.

But what if he isn't? What if he's actually dead and I dreamt it all, him coming back, everything?

Don't be ridiculous.

But try as he might, he couldn't go back to sleep, and he couldn't decelerate his heartbeat, and goodbye John kept ringing in his ears like some sort of awful cacophony from hell. Finally, he gave up and went to the bedroom, calming down only when he saw the moonlight illuminate Sherlock's face. He was clearly agitated, mumbling and thrashing, but he was alive.

John had seen it before, whenever someone innocent died - the guilt, the nightmares, the restlessness, the sulking. They lasted anywhere from a few hours to a few days, and Sherlock was usually best left alone with a blanket and a cup of tea. But John couldn't bear to leave him alone now, and he slid into the blanket.

"You really are the most human human being I have ever known."

"John?"

"Sherlock. Did you have a bad dream?"

Silence, then a rustling of bedsheets as Sherlock buried his face in John's chest.

"Shh. It's okay. You're not alone anymore. I'll stay here till you fall asleep - and after, if you want."

"I want."

"Good. No more thinking. Go back to sleep now."

***

Next Tuesday found John struggling hard to stay awake, although it was barely noon. Between a restless detective and a screaming baby, it had been nearly impossible to sleep the night before. He tiredly stirred the coffee, rubbing his eyes; it wouldn't do to fall asleep at work again. The door opened and the receptionist (he was yet to learn her name; she was the fourth since Mary) peeked in.

"Er, there's a man at the desk who doesn't have an appointment, but he keeps insisting that he has to see you - says it's a matter of life and death. Shall I send him in?"

Before John could even nod, Sherlock sauntered in. John rose, alarmed. Sherlock never visited him at work. "What's wrong? Is Rosie fine? Did the flat blow up again? Is Mrs Hudson - "

Sherlock simply grabbed his arm and dragged him out, and he barely managed to mumble an apology to the receptionist. When they were bundled up into a taxi and well on their way to god-knows-where, John noticed that Sherlock was positively bouncing. Huh. So much for not getting any sleep.

"Another break-in, John!" he said cheerfully.

"Ah, another dead relative paying a surprise visit in the middle of the night? That's nice, I suppose. Certainly something to be happy about. If the three on the door is green, you're doing the dishes tonight."

"Fine. Any other colour means you do them. And you didn't sleep last night."

"With Rosie's tantrums and you prowling around the flat like some sort of half-deranged otter, no, Sherlock, I bloody well didn't."

"Hm. Did you think about what Mrs Hudson said? About selling your house?"

A pause.

"Yes. I'm selling it. I can't afford the mortgage on my own, and even if I could...I can't go back there. I don't want to. "