Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Despite having been an avatar for well over two decades, going on three, John didn’t have a whole lot of knowledge regarding them other than what he’d learned from personal experience and his Dad’s old notebook. Simple things such as being kind to spiders, how to deal with worm infestations, and stranger danger among other things which seem more like basic manners and common courtesy in all honesty. 

Then there were his brief encounters with other avatars such as the Corruption, the Spiral, and the Slaughter which were all rather pleasant, though each disturbing in their own right, given the circumstances of the encounters.

However, none of that mattered at the moment as he was now faced with the important question of his life at the moment: Should tell Sherlock about his nature? That is if the detective hadn’t already figured it out and simply chose to not mention it until John was ready. 

Ever since they moved in together a couple months ago, John has been hyper-aware of both himself and the pesky mist that INSISTS on clinging to his person and the floor he walks on. Never in his life has he ever felt so tethered to the earth than has in these past months, not including his time in the army, and it’s been slowly driving him nuts! Not to mention his ‘feeding habits’ have been mucked up for a while because he doesn’t want Sherlock to get suspicious.

So naturally, he was bound to slip up eventually as one does.

It had been the morning after a rather thrilling case involving a series of murders linked to a supposed business deal-turned betrayal with all the victims being former colleagues of the suspect. By the end of it the living room was covered in all sorts of papers, books, binders, and the occasional pen and/or pencil. It had been a miracle that John even made it to the bathroom without getting an old bank statement stuck to his foot.

He barely managed to make it to the kitchen and set the kettle to boil when he heard the telltale shuffling of a certain detective rising from his long overdue slumber. John went about preparing breakfast, simple eggs and toast, when Sherlock finally appeared sporting his favorite blue satin robe, tank engine pajamas, and the worst case of bedhead that would earn John the sharpest glare if he were to so much as giggled.

Just as the podcaster had turned to greet him, Sherlock had stepped on one of the many stray pens that had been thrown amidst their shared exhaustion fueled investigation. John watched in slow motion as his friend’s foot slid back causing his body to fall forward, head angled dangerously close to the corner of the table. Without thinking, John ghosted across the cluttered space and caught him mid fall, using his hand as a buffer between the detective’s head and the table.

“Are you ok, mate?” Sherlock’s eyes were wide with sudden alertness as he was helped up and then immediately guided to sit down at the table. He watched as the doctor picked up the opposing pen that had nearly ruined their morning and tossed it into the living room with the rest of the mess. It wasn’t long before the detective had a cup of tea in his hands as he observed the way John carefully stepped around sheets and paper balls with a sort of apprehensive grace, nowhere near the swiftness he had displayed mere seconds ago. 

Though what really caught the detective’s interest was the dull mist that licked at John's heels as he went back to cooking. While that would be normal on occasion for someone like Watson, noting the possible signs of a minor anxiety disorder. But the way it moved seemed unnatural for those experiencing loneliness and seemed to fade once John made his way over with a plate in each hand and an awkward little, “Good morning, Sherlock.”

“Looks like we’ve got a lot of cleaning up to do. Thank goodness Mariana is visiting her sister because I don’t either of us would survive her wrath this early in the morning.” John chuckled as he ate, glancing around the disaster that is their lounge. 

“Indeed, as she would be wearing her bunny slippers at this time of day which have firm leather-based soles and hard plastic eyes.” said Sherlock behind his mug, hiding his grin as he thought back to when she had chased John around the flat with one of her slippers. He attempted to jump a rooftop while following Sherlock on a chase and nearly fell four stories. Not that the detective was spared either though rather than a shoe, it was a stern lecture.

“Thank goodness for that. Those beady eyes still haunt me.”

Chapter Text

“Come now Watson, we mustn't lose her!”

“I’m doing my best Sherlock!”

They had attempted to corner a woman in her late 20’s who had stolen several pieces of jewelry from the local jeweler she’d worked at for several months. They were currently chasing her down a series of interconnected alleys in the denser part of east London.

The original plan was to corner her at the local pawnbrokers that she had been frequenting only recently when the jewelry began to disappear. Well as it turns out the owner of said store, a man in his late 50’s who they’d talked to early on, was in on it and pulled the alarm the second they walked in. Which to now as they weaved through alleys and around bins. It was well past the afternoon with the streetlamps having just turned on.

Due to the minimal lighting, it became more and more difficult to navigate the dimly lit alleyways while chasing their suspect. Though none of that seemed to matter nor apply to Sherlock as he traversed the cramped space with minimal issue. The only reason John hadn’t lost them both by now was because he was using his fog to feel his way around. It had been dreary all week, so it wouldn’t look out of place to anyone, even to Sherlock. 

They watched as the woman took a sharp right, John already knew it was a dead end, with Sherlock close behind. The podcaster had just turned the corner when he heard the sound of metal against bone and saw the detective crumple to the ground. The woman had attempted to throw the metal pipe she had used at Watson and missed by about a meter, not that she noticed as she turned to flee up a fire escape. 

John rushed to the fallen man’s side when he noticed the blood blooming from his crown like a twisted halo. He could feel all of his medical training rush back to him in that moment as he maneuvered Sherlock onto his back, and quickly removed his jumper so he could stop the bleeding. Years of medical knowledge ran through his head as he dug a first-aid kit from his bag and set to work. All the while he could feel something in his chest tighten. It squeezed and ached and burned as he gazed upon his unconscious friend as his attacker fled.

That coward had hurt his best friend and ran with her tail between her legs, thinking she had won without a care for the possibility that she may have killed a man in the process. All over some stupid gems! John’s blood boiled as rage settled into his bones with the Lonely reacting in kind. All at once the alley was filled with thick heavy fog that slithered and clawed at the walls, its chilled winds snapping like vipers.

John was angry and upset, but chose to channel it into tend to Sherlock’s injury rather than lashing out at the nearest bin. Thankfully it was only a minor laceration, head wounds tend to bleed a lot, though there was a very likelyhood of the detective having a concussion. As he worked and dialed 911 the fog had thinned and stretched above the buildings and into the streets, not that John cared as he followed with Sherlock held warily in his arms.

It always had a tendency to do as it pleased with or without John’s involvement.

By the time he reached the street, Lestrade, the police, and an ambulance were already there waiting. After a bit of questioning from the police, the paramedics allowed John to ride in the back of the ambulance as they worked on Sherlock. The podcaster had shot a message to Mariana about what happened, what hospital they’re heading to, and to please bring a bag for the detective who will most certainly need it.

It had barely been an 20 minutes since they had arrived and Sherlock had been taken to be treated, though there it what unlikely that he would need surgery but Watson thought it’d be better to be safe than risk a blood clot or hematoma developing, when Mariana arrived in her pyjamas with Sherlock’s bag. John had just finished filling her in when the doctor gave the news that there was no internal bleed or brain damage before leading them to his room.

Sitting next to the detective, with his head bandaged and hooked up to machines, the podcaster’s barely contained rage reignited if only slightly. He took deep breaths, clenching and unclenching his hands, to keep himself from ghosting and hunting down the woman who had hurt his dear friend. But he couldn’t, not now anyway.

Both of his best friends needed him to be present, but holding in so much emotion without any form of release made him anxious and antsy. He felt like a boiling kettle with no spout, lid welded shut with no way to exhale the building pressure inside him. He couldn’t remove the lid and release the stream, it felt nauseating. But he didn’t want to risk being found out and scaring off the two greatest things to ever happen to him like had so many times before. John knew what he was and refused to let it show, not in front of them. Not now or ever if he could help it.

Mariana must have noticed the tension whether it be from the frantic bouncing of his leg or the way his breathing would stutter every few breaths. The pocaster could taste her worry for both Sherlock’s health and John’s well being. 

“He'll be ok, I'm sure of it.” She placed a hand on his shoulder, purposefully kneading at it with her fingers. Despite his anger towards the situation, he could feel gradually it cool to a simmer at the contact. It was as comforting as it was grounding. It helped keep him present.

“Yeah, I know. Sherls ‘s as tough as he is stubborn. I’m more worried about what he’ll be like once we get home. God forbid we have to replace the couch cushion again- or-or my swindon town mug again .” John couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped out with Mariana joining in. 

They both knew how moody the detective gets whenever the doctor would force him on bedrest. John had already made a mental note to look up bee documentaries and maybe introduce him to Star Wars while he’s at it.

“I wish you the best of luck, and please make sure he doesn’t blow up the microwave again.”

“Wait -You’re not gonna help?”

“I need to fill out medical documents, a police report, and inform Lestrade about Sherlock being unavailable till his head gets better. Plus I have very little medical knowledge.” She had her hands on her hips and brow raised. It made sense considering she was technically their business manager and John was a doctor, hence making him the most qualified of the two. That and the fact that he lived with their favorite local, currently injured, consulting detective.

“Yeah that -that’s fair. I mean what’s the point of having an army doctor- well, ex-army doctor- as a flatmate-slash-investigative partner if not to avoid being stuck in a bright, noisy hospital room.” He knew how much Sherlock hated hospitals. Loathed them to his very core really.

Whether it’d be the sterile smell, the bright buzzing lights, the unsteadiness of the cheap plastic chairs, texture of the bedsheets and gowns, or the pointed beeping of the machines. All of which the detective had complained about, among other things, when he’d taken him to get his thumb reset after the Illustrious Client.

It was then that a knock sounded from the door followed by a pair of Scotland Yard officers and a disgruntled nurse entering. The nurse’s face was riddled with frustration and exhaustion, the struggles of working the graveyard shift, as she watched the officers swiftly make their way over to the pair. John’s hackles raised at the sudden intrusion as he had to make a great conscious effort to keep his fog at bay. It hated the breach of privacy about as much as he did, though it seemed a bit too receptive to being forced to stay hidden.

“Pardon the intrusion gents, but we may have found the suspect. We just need whoever was at the scene to verify that we have the right person.” said one of the officers, an older man, as he scanned the room before his gaze fell onto Watson, specifically the blood stains on his sleeve that had gone unnoticed till now.

The other officer, a much younger one, thankfully felt the unease in the room as he quickly added, “We could pull up the video feed from the interrogation room if you’d like. I-In case you don’t feel up for riding down to the station that is.”

“Yes, that would be great. Thank you.” John was so thankful that Mariana had stepped up to respond as he was attempting to ground himself, almost literally, by nibbling his cheek and digging his nails into his thigh. It’s not that he was upset with the officers for doing their job -but rather the mention of the person who put his best friend in the bloody hospital for some bits of fucking jewelry! 

The younger officer excused himself to retrieve their laptop while the older officer explained where and how they had found the suspect. Apparently they had found her in hysterics running around in the middle of the street screaming and wailing. When police attempted to calm her down she attacked them wailing incoherently. It had gotten to the point that they had to use a full-body restraint just to get her into the car so she wouldn’t hurt the officers or herself. 

The young officer quickly returned with laptop in hand. He pulled up the feed before handing it to John. The video showed the woman, her hair and clothes a rumpled mess and makeup runny and smeared, with her hands cuffed to the table and a detective sitting across from her. The detective’s questioning was met with whimpers and pleas to not abandon her. It escalates to the  point that she attempts to injure herself to ‘prove that she was real’ or ‘to keep from fading away’.

Looking at it reminded John of the numerous soldiers he’d met and fought with during his army. He’d seen men bright and determined be broken down and torn to shreds both mentally and physically. Seen those same men who’d charge into battle with pride have mental breakdowns with some snapping in a blind fury or inconsolable, sobbing mess. Watching this woman was like seeing someone bounce between both ends of the spectrum in quick, erratic succession.

It left a heavy pit in the podcaster’s stomach along with another feeling that he can’t quite place.. It’s similar to how one would feel after eating a large meal, leaving you full and content. The fog that makes up his being rolled and stretched like a cat basking in the sun. “Ye-Yep. That’s-eh. um. That’s her.”

“Indeed.” Every head spun around to see the now awake detective attempting to sit up to get a better look and the laptop. John quickly and carefully passed it to Mariana before getting up and guiding Sherlock to lay back down, much to the detective’s annoyance.

“I want to see.” He moved to sit back up leading to John having to hold him down with a firm hand on his chest. This caused the detective to pout, glaring at the podcaster- and doctor mind you- who stared back in slight amusement.

“I’ll show you once you lay back down. You’ve got a concussion, mate.”

“I am acutely aware of the current state of my skull Watson. Now can you please pass me the laptop, I wish to assess her mental state and deduce what may have possibly triggered it.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re already doing some psychological- test thing- on her before they process her.”

“But what if it is merely an act, a facade! A guise at which she could use to plead insanity and hence-forth avoid justice!”

“Well justice needs to lay down before I have these lovely officers cuff you to the bed.” Mariana snorted at the idea before quickly covering it with a cough. The officers, after retrieving their laptop, had left saying that they’ll call if any more information is needed regarding the case.

John was just thankful that it was out of their hands because couldn’t handle juggling case work and tending to Sherlock. God knows the poor lad wouldn’t do it himself especially when a case is involved. But that didn’t stop the growing pit of guilt from forming in his chest. 

Yes, he was angry at the woman. Practically at the end of his rag if not completely off tether honestly. She stole jewelry, costed them many hours of much needed rest, led them on a wild goose chase, and sent his best mate to the bloody fucking hospital!

It’s easy to forget how close his ties with the Lonely are, borderline symbiotic if not exactly that. Because of this it often reacts to John in many ways, but more prominently through his emotional and mental state. It’s its own being with thoughts and feelings with a fierce protectiveness for its disciples. So it shouldn’t be surprising to him that it acted and reacted the way it did. 

As long as John can keep it in check there shouldn’t be anything to worry about. He could feel it curl and coddle in an attempt to sooth his rising anxiety about the situation. The best thing to do for now is to make sure Sherlock doesn’t burn down the flat out of boredom.

Chapter Text

“All I’m saying is that you two are the luckiest blokes- I mean not that being ill is any good, no sir-y. But~ thankfully you both currently share a building with a very skilled and rather handsome army doctor -well ex-army doctor but you get my point- anywho-”

“John, as much as I’d love to listen to you ramble, it feels like that giant clock tower is ringing inside my skull.” Mariana muttered; her face pinched as she curled into a ball on the couch. The doctor huffed in amusement and shot her a look of pity as he rounded the couch to tuck the bits of loose blanket back under her.

“Are you referring to Big Ben?”

“No Watson, what she is *sneeze* referring to is the Elizabeth Tower. You have lived in the UK your entire life- not to mention the 5 going on 6 months in London- how do you not know this?” questioned Sherlock who was equally bundled and curled up in his plush chair with Archie tucked and snoring on his chest.

“Wha- Hey! I do know that, I-I just couldn’t think of the name is all.” He in fact did not know that, but he wasn't gonna tell Sherlock.

“You are an insult and an embarrassment to Londoners everywhere Watson. The Queen is rolling in her grave.” John squawked in offense while his resident patients laughed at his expense, or at least the closest thing to laughter a pair of sick blokes can do between the sneezing and coughing.

They had recently had a potential client come in who ended up having a rather nasty case of the flu but was asymptomatic. John had gone to the shops for groceries and conveniently enough medicine as it was flu season. Which left Sherlock and Mariana to interview a potential client. 

Apparently (from what Sherlock said anyway) the client wanted to frame his wife for cheating, as they were in the midst of getting a divorce, so that the prenup they’d signed would be invalidated and she’d walk away with nothing. 

Bastard of bloke that one was. If John had been there, he’d have knocked the teeth out of his gob, or at least what was left of them anyway. The Lonely echoed with glee how Mariana had really raked him through the coals for it after Sherlock had deduced and dismissed him. The guy must’ve been pretty peeved because John had noticed a new dent in the wall of the stairwell that he was certain wasn’t Sherlock’s doing.

“Well then, I guess you lot can fix your own tea and soup then- how’s that?” The doctor turned on his heels towards the kitchen. He could hear their giggles and weak attempts at apologizing. 

Not that he really cared as he already had their mugs, tea bags, and marshmallows (for Sherlock of course) set out, waiting for the water to boil. While he waited, he went through a mental checklist of ingredients for a soup that his Gran used to make for him whenever he got sick as a kid. Simple, delicious, and filling.

“You two are lucky that you're my best mates, or I’d have you make the bloody tea yourselves.” the doctor huffed as he strolled into the lounge with three mugs (one of which had marshmallows obviously) and a bottle of Tylenol.

After passing around mugs and medicine like party favors, John plopped onto the opposite end of the couch to Mariana, effectively sandwiching himself between them both. Which was perfect as they were both within reach, making it easier for the doctor to monitor them in case they got sicker. 

A bonus to being claimed by a fear is that you’ll become hyper aware of the physical and mental states of people both around you and within your domain. It’s mostly used for feeding and in some cases, depending on who or what you ask, to seek out other avatars or potential new ones. That last part is a bit of rarity these days, but it does still occur.

This essentially makes Watson a human thermometer and an MMPI-2 all rolled into one charming podcaster. He could take their temperature and monitor their conditions without the need for a thermometer and minimal physical contact, or none at all if he used his mist. 

Though John does still use it because he didn’t want to out himself or get grilled by Sherlock who’d leap at the opportunity to deduce him. Given his everlasting boredom.

They ended up watching a documentary about bees, as it was Sherlock’s turn to pick, while John cooked. It was a simple soup with a tomato and cream base with just a touch of seasoning. After that and another round of medicine, the ill pair dozed off with John just barely hanging on.

The sun had already set, and not wanting either of his best mates to wake up sore, John quietly rose and scooped up Mariana, blanket and all. He'd already washed and fixed his bed for her to sleep in till she got better. 

He wasn't going to entertain the idea of carrying her down to 221A because-

1. It'd be harder for him to care for them both &-
2. Too many stairs

After tucking her in he made his way back to the lounge to find Sherlock clinging to consciousness. The drowsiness from both the medicine and a full stomach was taking its toll on the detective who, in his stubbornness, took to pinching his arm to stay awake. 

“C’mon don't pinch yourself Sherls, you gotta rest. They do say that sleep is the best medicine.” John spoke as he gently pried his hand off his arm. Using that point of contact he measured Sherlock’s temp and pulse.

“Alr'dy took m’ medicine.” replied Sherlock, curling into a tight ball and using his other hand to pinch at his neck. The movement woke Archie who hopped down to go eat a bit more before bed. 

“You sure did mate, but you still need to sleep.” John carefully shoved his arms under Sherlock’s back and knees as he spoke, “Now c’mon, let’s get you to bed you poor sod.”

He then lifted the detective with a grunt, stumbling a bit to adjust to the added weight. This jolted Sherlock awake as he flailed a bit before latching onto John’s neck, nearly choking him. The detective paused for a moment, deducing, before snuggling into the flushed doctor.

“You’re cold.” he stated, his tone clearer and even. Unfortunately, John had gone for a quick feeding under the guise of forgetting to get more of those oat biscuits that Sherlock insists on having plenty of around the flat. 

He did get more while he was out though. 

“It is pretty nippy out there mate. Hehe- Damn near turned me into a bloody popsicle.” John gave a nervous chuckle as the detective nuzzled his scalding forehead into the juncture between his neck and shoulder. At least he stopped pinching himself trying to stay awake.

With the spindly man now comfortable in his arms John started towards said man’s room with his mist trailing curiously behind them. He thought it best to bundle the detective in good and snug because he refuses to let him miss out on some very much needed rest. Frankly if Sherlock had it his way he’d down the maximum dosage of cold medication and power through it.

It was a bit of a struggle to open the door seeing as his hands were full of Sherlock and Sherlock refused to move from his nook. A good bit of maneuvering, and teasing from the mist, John had gotten the door open and a clingy detective into bed. He pried the octopus of a man off him just enough to peel back the weighted blanket. 

Not wanting to wake the now dowsing detective, and with no way out of his death grip, John laid down on his back and pulled the blanket over them both. The podcaster briefly wondered if he should check on Mariana and Archie before settling in for the night. A small attempt to free himself was met with a grumble followed by a vice grip on his neck and torso.

John would never admit to the squeak that slipped out. He flushed bright red when he felt a pair of slim hands snake under his jumper. Even in his sleep, Sherlock was determined as he was stubborn. He was currently determined to seep the cold out of Watson to sooth his fever ridden body. It took a minute of shuffling for them to get comfortable. John ended up lying on his back with Sherlock snuggled on top of him. 

The mist saw this as the perfect opportunity to stretch out along the floor, up the walls, and along the tops of furniture. Thankfully it avoided crawling over them so as to not risk disturbing Sherlock. It wasn't very often that it was able to expand and explore the flat with it usually being confined to whatever room John was in when no one was around. 

Sherlock’s room was entirely new territory that it was eager to fill every crack and crevice of along with the rest of 221 Baker Street. There was very little that John could do to dissuade it as he was using it to keep an eye on the building and Mariana in case, she needed something.

Looking down he couldn’t help but smile at his best friend. With Sherlock’s insomnia and habits it always made John happy seeing him sleep in or taking the occasional kip throughout the day and during low points in a case. Even his mist picked up on this and seemed equally as joyful curled around them, forming swirls and cat tails like burning incense.

In its enthusiasm of exploration and the detective’s well-being it accidentally brushed against his neck causing him to stir. It, combined with John’s heavy influence, shoved itself under and into every nook and cranny it could find as Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open.

“What was that?” he sniffled, propped up on his elbow and glanced around the room. Everything was as it should be, and nothing was out of place though some of his empty beakers looked as if they’d been frosted over or fogged up.

“What was what?” John moved to sit up as well, thankful that there was no fog in sight. There was a pause of silence between them as Sherlock glanced around the room, absorbing every last detail and cross referencing in his mind. Meanwhile John was focused on guiding his mist either outside or down into the stairwell and 221A.

A minute ticks by until Sherlock ultimately decides to lay back down, taking John with him. He didn’t get a response as the detective went back to his nook against John’s neck and dosed off. Seeing as he wasn’t getting up anytime soon to either clean or edit the podcaster chose to give in to the drowsiness that began to seep into his bones.

Despite knowing he might end up getting sick as well because of this, John found that he didn’t really care all that much. Besides it was late, everyone was asleep and taken care of (including Archie), and 221 was secure so he had nothing left to worry about at the moment. With a content sigh John snuggled closer to Sherlock and let sleep take over.

John did in fact end up sick a couple days later.

Chapter Text

John knew before he even opened his eyes that it wasn’t going to be an easy day. His scars ached, his ears were ringing, and he could feel the ghost of a migrant setting in. It didn’t help that he’d had a particularly bad night terror about the early days of his first tour. The echoes of gunfire, chopper blades, and explosions sent chills down his spine.

Fog slithered from underneath his bed and crawled up the sides. It flocked to his person to soothe him. Brushing and curling itself against his arms and over the back of his neck. Its chilled presence and gentle breeze helped ground him, nearly lulling him back to sleep. That was until the loud shriek of a violin sounded from the lounge.

He could taste the potency of Sherlock’s boredom as if the man were looming over him. It was bland with an odd, cardboard aftertaste. They hadn’t had a case in the past 2 weeks, and the detective was going stir crazy, borderline manic at times. There’s only so much movie nights, trips to the Volunteer or a local cafe they recently found, self-care days, in house symphonies, and crappy telly can do to entertain the man and his hyperactive mind.

Neither John nor Mariana minded of course as that was just how he is. That along with his interesting experiments and nightly antics. However, he’s been testing John and his near bottomless amount of patience he had reserved for just Sherlock and his shenanigans. 

Within the past couple weeks, he’s had to put out 3 fires, order another cushion, bathe Archie who somehow got covered in glitter, and he’s even woken up one afternoon to Sherlock mucking about the flat violin in one hand, sticker covered skull in the other, and an entire carton’s worth of cigarettes stuffed in his mouth. Thankfully none of them were lit, but he did scold the man on why it wasn’t the smartest idea and a serious choking hazard.

Sherlock did seem apologetic for most of the property damage, and glitter bombing the dog, thankfully it was food grade, so John wasn’t upset too with him. It’s hard to stay mad at him whenever he does that sad puppy look whenever he feels he’s upset John in some way. He still isn’t sure if Sherlock is aware that he does it or not.

 Though he did make sure the detective helped clean and replace whatever collateral his restlessness caused. 

Another cry of a violin sounded, this one more melodic. The fog rolled and flattened itself along his blanket like it were a field of grass. John would love nothing more than to dissolve into it and not have to deal with the world for a little while. But then he wouldn’t get to have his morning tea and breakfast, so that idea was no good.

Getting out of bed was a herculean task even with his cane as any amount of pressure on his bad leg was borderline excruciating. Thankfully their flat was one layer, or he’d have wept at the idea of having to traverse stairs. He had to shoo away the mist that stubbornly clung to him as he left the sanctity of his room.

After a quick trip to the bathroom, John was halfway to the kitchen when he saw the detective hanging upside-down on the arm of the sofa trying to play his violin. Well technically he was if ungodly screeches were a genre of music. It seemed that he either hadn’t noticed John or was simply ignoring him.

Slowly moving about the kitchen John could hear the Lonely whispering comforts from the crevices and cupboards. It felt his pain as he started the kettle and reached for the mugs. His shoulder protesting at the stretch made him consider using his cane to knock a couple of mugs off. 

“You won’t catch them before they hit the floor and break.” John nearly jumped out of his skin, letting out a very manly shriek. He spun around to see Sherlock lingering in the doorway of the kitchen with his hands comfortably tucked into the crooks of his elbows.

It was obvious that he wanted to say something, but was trying to figure out how to phrase it without being misinterpreted. His expression, usually calm and composed, held a hint of concern with his eyes flicking between John, the cabinet, and the steaming kettle. He was gathering and absorbing information, deducing how to move forward.

John meanwhile was trying not to have a heart attack this early in the morning. He was gasping, hand on his chest, and leaning heavily on his cane. They’d had plenty of sit-downs about it with Mariana threatening to attach a bell to the man. That led to Sherlock going on a tirade about how impractical and hazardous it would be, especially during a case.

“My apologies Watson, I thought you’d have noticed the lack of music and would’ve turned to observe why. This would’ve resulted in you seeing me, then offering me tea followed by asking what I’d want for breakfast.” He paused to breathe and for dramatic effect as one often does amidst a long bout of boredom.

“W-Well you're right about the last couple bits. Just having a bit of trouble getting mugs.” John said as he attempted to reach for the mugs again only to hiss as the pain flared again.

“Would you like some help?” Sherlock shuffled closer so that he was right next to him. John wanted to decline. Show him that he was fine and that he could get the stupid mugs that looked like they were purposely pushed back in a way that John wouldn’t be able to reach without a stool or someone else's (Sherlock’s) help.

John sighed, his stubbornness deflating as it dawned on him. Of course, Sherlock would know it was a bad pain day and that John’s stubbornness wouldn’t let him ask or accept any help if given the option. “If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” Sherlock stated matter-a-factly as he herded him to sit at the kitchen table. John watched the detective flit about the kitchen filling Archie’s food bowl and making tea, scrambled eggs, and toast.

Warmth bloomed in his chest with a fond smile growing across his lips. He couldn’t help but chuckle as he watched Sherlock cooking with newfound determination. It was like making breakfast was the biggest, most fascinating case he'd ever received. 

Once finished he strutted towards the table, proud as punch, with mugs in one hand and both plates balanced perfectly on his other arm. He looked like one of those waiters one would expect to see in fancy restaurants, minus the duck themed trousers and old uni hoodie that John had spent the past week looking for.

“Ta Sherls.” John said as took a sip of his tea, humming at the warm, peppery taste of ginger gracing his taste buds. He didn’t know that they had any other flavors aside from chamomile and peppermint. If he had to guess, it was probably from Sherlock’s stash of comfort foods. 

John made a mental note to add it to any and all future shopping lists.

They ate in a comfortable silence and the glow of morning sun bleeding through the curtains. John listened to Sherlock talk about his latest experiments, trains, interesting TikToks he found, and bees, especially bees. He spoke so enthusiastically about them that John was worried he’d have to perform the heimlich maneuver.

By the time they were done eating Sherlock was in the midst of a major info dump about bumble bee social behaviors and hive structures. All the while swiftly gathering the dishes and dumping them into the sink. John moved to get up, hissing when put too much pressure on his leg.

Sherlock was quick to help him up and guide him to the sofa, both completely forgetting the cane propped against the edge of the table. John could feel mist lick at his heels as they walked. It slithered up the leg of his trousers, curling around his leg to help ease the pain. 

The doctor was once again ushered to sit, propping his leg up on the end table, and having a light-weighted blanket thrown across his torso. As much as John appreciated the detective for his help and attentiveness, he still felt equal parts embarrassed and guilty for needing it.

“There’s no need to feel guilty, Watson.” Sherlock, ever the mind reader, spoke as he rounded the sofa with fresh ginger tea in hand. “I have been in great need of stimulation due to the lack of cases as of recently, so I consider this a much-needed distraction from my boredom.”

The podcaster snickered, accepting the drink as the detective joined him on the couch. He leaned into him with a determined glint in his pale blue eyes, “An opportunity to give you even a fraction of the care that you give to me on a near daily basis is an opportunity that I refuse to not take advantage of.”

John paused for a moment to process what he’d said in all its complexity. ‘ To give you even a fraction of the care that you give to me.’ His usual flat tone held a hint of tenderness. A tenderness that’s often heard after tense and emotionally charged cases but has also begun to make its way into the domestic parts of their lives.

 It would always tug at John's chest whenever he heard it, and combined with Sherlock’s many habits and mannerisms, whether grand to miniscule, always made his heart do weird things. Hearing it now, paired with Sherlock’s soft expression and words, made John’s face flush and heart stutter. Sherlock being the wonderfully brilliant man that he is noticed, analyzed, and deduced. A small frown graced his pristine features.

“My apologies, it seems that I’ve made you uncomfortable.” He muttered shuffling away from his friend. This yanked John out of his trance just in time to catch his hand just as he got up to leave. “W-Wait!”

The motion caught Sherlock off guard causing him to stop mid step, body tense as he turned to look at him. There was a short pause between them as they stared at each other in silence- both equally startled by John’s outburst.

Sherlock, hyper-aware of the new point of contact, was shoved by what felt like a strong gust of wind. This had him toppling over onto John who jerked forward to catch him. The detective ended up with half his body draped over Watson and the other half sprawled awkwardly on both the sofa and floor. Looking up, flushed with embarrassment, Sherlock noticed John’s equally pink face mere inches away from his own.

They quickly separated, stuttering out apologies that soon dissolved into more awkward silence and them sitting on opposite sides of the couch. The detective’s body was rigid as he tried to process the last few seconds while John sat stunned- his face a slightly darker shade than before. In the back of his mind, he could hear the Lonely’s resonant, warped laughter.

He’d have to have a serious discussion with the eldritch entity if it was going to continue mucking about the flat like this. Not that it’d make a difference, but that didn’t mean that John wasn’t going to try.

“Sorry for falling on you and making you feel embarrassed or uncomfortable about your leg.” Sherlock muttered, rocking slightly to expel the nervous energy he felt building up.

“No no no, i-its okay mate! You didn’t make me feel uncomfortable at all!” John stuttered. He noticed Sherlock flinch slightly and lowered his tone as he continued, “I was just a bit caught off guard by what you said is all.”

“Well, it's true.” Those few words that the detective was able to squeak out made John’s chest tighten. Aside from his Mum, he wasn’t used to being cared for and treated like he was something of great importance. 

“I know and I’m absolutely chuffed that you’d do that for me. It’s just not something that I’m used to is all.” He scooted closer to him, ignoring his leg’s protests at the movement, and carefully taking the detective’s hand into his own. “Is this, okay?”

It took a bit before he got a response, though he’d wait for however long Sherlock needed, in the form of a small nod and threading their fingers together. John hummed, leaning forward to retrieve the remote and put on a movie.

He settled on the Iron Giant, one of his personal favorites from when he was a kid, adjusting the blanket to cover them both. All the while he gently stroked the back of Sherlock’s hand with his thumb. 

They snuggled close while their tea sat forgotten on the end table. Being kept lukewarm by a thin layer of mist clinging to the ceramic like drink cozies. Not that either man had noticed with John pointedly ignoring the Lonely's faint presence lingering just outside the flat.

For what purpose he wasn't sure of, but quickly forgot about as Sherlock guided them both to lay down. Sandwiching himself between John and the couch resulted in perfect pressure he desired at the moment.

A dysfunctional start to a quiet, lazy day that they both had needed for a while. Neither man would trade it for anything.

Chapter Text

The pair sat in the back of an ambulance, bundled up in orange blankets, or at least John was. Sherlock sat next to him–ear defenders on and body tense–twisting the blanket in his hands. John could taste it without needing to ask. He knew that the detective was struggling, and trying desperately to keep it together. At least until they got back home.

He wanted to touch him, to hold him and tell him that it’ll be ok. But all the flashing lights, their wet clothes, the wind, and the sheer amount of noise they had to endure just minutes ago, it made sense that Sherlock would be very touch-adverse at the moment.

The best thing John could do at the moment was be there for him. To answer questions, make statements, call an Uber, and guide his friend into it with gentle words and as little contact as possible. Seeing his best friend flinch when his hand brushed against the car’s old leather seats made John’s chest pang with guilt. Guilt that he couldn’t do more to help

The ride back was filled with silence aside from their labored breathing. Sherlock sat silently enduring the rough leather seats, the stench of soggy fabric and floral air freshener that stung his nose and tickled his throat, and the occasional bumps of the car driving over odd patches in the road.

He had traded the shock blanket for John’s jacket which had been the least soaked piece of clothing, and was used to shield the microphone from any further water damage. The podcaster watched Sherlock abuse the jacket. Twisting and pulling the sleeves to their limits. Picking at any loose thread and pulling it free to twist between his thumb and forefinger.

Watson was tempted to do some shoutouts to fill the silence, but figured that there’d be no point since this adventure wasn’t going on the podcast. Maybe he’ll put it on Patreon or the discord. It was messy from start to finish. 

What started out as a favor to the irregulars grew into a full-blown drug bust. Thankfully Sherlock was actually willing to let the police help before it got too serious. They’ve spent the past 52 hours questioning different parts of the network, researching, and investigating several pharmacies. 

Sherlock had pointed out early on that they were painfully inexperienced and were just mixing things together, and selling it fast and cheap. He’d even gotten his hands on a small sample of the stuff, much to John’s dismay. Sherlock was like a kid in an unsightly, confusing candy store. John meanwhile was running on bitter coffee, thanks Gregson, and the occasional one hour nap– if he’s lucky. 

Despite Sherlock’s promise to be careful John couldn’t help the anxiety that set his nerves alight and had him literally, and figuratively if he could get away with it, hovering around the detective. The only reason he stopped was because of Sherlock's grumbling and Mariana threatened to duct tape him to a chair. Even the Lonely itself demanded that he cease his worrying and rest while the detective was distracted.

 If you can call an under slept, overworked detective running on adrenaline and sheer mental will studying a highly dangerous drug ‘distracted’ .

The car jolted as it ran over a shallow pothole, making John smack his face against the window. He glanced over to see Sherlock stiff as a board, eyes staring straight ahead, with hands curled into fists in his lap. No longer toying with the article of clothing that now lay abandoned in the footwell.

They were only a block away from Bakers Street which was a relief in itself, but also made John worry that Sherlock might realize it too and jump out of the car to make a run for it. He probably knew several shortcuts to get home and would undoubtedly beat John there by a good 10 minutes or more. The doctor occasionally stole glances at the detective to make sure he was still buckled in.

Thankfully he had waited until they were outside of 221 before leaping out, John’s key miraculously appearing in his hands, and flew up the stairs. John followed after thanking and tipping the driver, mainly due to the now soggy backseats. He ended up running into Mariana who peered out her door with a look of concern with her gaze lingering on the open door of 221B. “What happened?”

“Its been a rough one, especially on him. I’ll send you the audio when I feel less like a drowned rat.” He chuckled with his eyes drifting up to the silent flat above.

Mariana seemed to pick up on the implication that it wasn’t going on the podcast. She offered to keep Archie overnight– he’s been with her since the start of the case–and they could all go for a walk tomorrow if Sherlock was up for it. John thanked her and attempted to hug her much to Mariana’s dismay.

When John finally entered their flat most of the lights were off aside from the kitchen light he’d likely left on in their rush to get to the scene before the police raided it. 

Despite how successful they were in closing the case and catching the bad guys, John wished that they (Sherlock) could’ve waited for the police to breach it first rather than diving headfirst into an active drug den. It looked like something straight out of Breaking Bad if it were built by a bunch of teens who watched too much Sci-Fi and had a B+ in chemistry.

The mist whispered its condolences for both men. It had been the reason that John had managed to find Sherlock in a sea of sweaty, drunken bodies. 

They had chased the guy through the pissing rain into an underground rave hosted in an abandoned warehouse. It was an overwhelming experience that was filled with yelling, loud music, flashing light, and it reeked of alcohol, drugs and musk. It was also extremely claustrophobic which did wonders for John’s anxiety. He could only imagine what it was like for Sherlock who–after apprehending the suspect and police carting him away–had locked up amidst the chaos of police cars, ambulances, and upset party-goers.

John went about drying off and changing into his night clothes as quickly and quietly as he could manage. All the while mist slithered about the kitchen whispering what all they had, and even reminding him about the clothes in the dryer. 

Pack of oat biscuits and water bottle in hand and a warm set of jammies and soft towel on his arm, John made his way to Sherlock’s room which has remained silent since they got home. The door was slightly ajar with the only sound coming out being soft, ragged breathing. 

“Mind if I come in?” John tapped his knuckle against the door frame, eyeing the shaking Sherlock-shaped lump under the blanket. The only response he got was a small whimper that made John's heart ache. 

Making his way over to the distressed detective--narrowly avoiding several pieces of soggy clothes–John sat on the edge of the bed eyeing his friend's quaking form. All he could see of him was a tuft of dark curls poking out from where the blanket is held closed. 

“I've got some warm jamjams and a towel for ya, mate. Can't have the master detective getting sick after solving such a thrilling and successful case.” His voice a low timber as he maneuvered the items in his arms. 

He could feel goosebumps creep up his neck as he turned to sit the biscuits and water (with a coaster) on the bedside table. The doctor was silently hoping that he wasn’t overwhelming him. Turning around, John was met with a pair of watery, sea glass eyes peering at him from underneath the bedcover. 

John almost considered shutting up, but then he caught a glimpse of mocha skin beneath the covers with zero shirt in sight. His face flushed a bit upon realizing that Sherlock was bare-arsed and freezing under that blanket. 

“Ya know you're lucky I grabbed a pair of pants because I don't have the slightest idea where you keep anything other than your fancy robes and trench coat.” He sat the stack of semi-folded garments in front of the bundled-up detective. There was a pause as Sherlock stared at the stack of clothes. Contemplating and processing.

In a flurry of fabric and movement, he threw off the blanket and lunged for the clothes. John barely had enough time to turn away, catching a glimpse of his skinny, scarred torso and NOTHING ELSE! The doctor sat staring at the door listening to soft grunting and rustling fabric behind him. This went on for a few minutes before it went quiet aside from their shared breathing.

John remained where he was, not tuning until Sherlock was ready. He couldn’t rely on his mist to know for sure otherwise the detective would see it and think something was up. But that didn’t stop him from using it to block out some of the noises outside thanks to the hollow layer between the walls. 

Due to it being so late there wasn’t any traffic, but there was the occasional twat who’d honk at people on the sidewalk, some drunkards who talked a bit too loudly, or animals hunting and socializing just outside 221B. John just hoped that it wasn’t too obvious. 

There was a sudden pressure against his back accompanied by the taste of lavender and a hint of ginger. He turned his head to find Sherlock curled up with his face nestled between John’s shoulder blades, breathing in his person. It made John feel warm and fuzzy in his chest knowing that the detective found comfort in his presence.

Carefully and slowly as he could manage, John turned out with his arms open. Sherlock sat up and stared at the invitation–contemplating and calculating–before falling limply into his embrace. With a little bit of adjusting, they ended up with John leaning back against the headboard and Sherlock tucked comfortably in his lap. 

“It's quiet.” Sherlock’s voice came out hushed and rough as he toyed with the split ends of John’s hair. John hummed in response, running his nails along the detective’s spine while internally panicking. Struggling to figure out whether he should just leave it and pray Sherlock doesn’t focus on it–something he’ll 100% do–or remove the thick layer of fog and hope that Sherlock would let it go–he definitely wouldn’t.

Thankfully the problem was solved for him by a rather bold owl directly outside the window. The sound of course spooked both of them for a moment before they dissolved into quiet giggling at the timing. John took the opportunity to remove most of the fog from the walls to allow some noise to filter through.

They ended up scooting down to lay flat on the detective’s bed with Sherlock sprawled on top of the doctor. John meanwhile lay half asleep staring at the glowing stars on the ceiling wondering if he should tell Sherlock about his connection to the Lonely. 

Does he even know about the Fears, or is he blissfully unaware like the majority of the population? Would John be able to stomach the knowledge that he’d be introducing his reckless, selfless detective to an entirely new world of dangers?

The thought of putting Sherlock in even more danger made John physically sick. But he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life lying to the most important person in his life because that’s what Sherlock is to him. He’s the most strange, interesting, smart, wonderful, and bizarre person he’s ever met or will ever meet, and John won't have it any other way.

The world could be ending, and he’d still choose this beautiful, brilliant man in a heartbeat.

"I think I left my jacket in the car."

Chapter Text

The past couple months have been… strange to say the least. Not their usual sort of strange, but something about it felt different.

And it was starting to make John anxious. 

Everything has been business as usual in terms of their personal lives and business with Sherlock having a field day with their most recent case. John will admit that there was something comically interesting about finding an elderly man's corpse–having previously been stored in a meat freezer shortly after passing away according to Sherlock– dressed to the nines with cement bricks for feet at the bottom of the Thames like something straight out of a classic mafioso movie.

What was originally assumed to have been the work of some mafia or gang ended up being done by some pompous man child who watched way too much TV. Apparently the dead man was his Dad who had cut him off due to some rather disgusting behaviour that John refuses to think or speak of. Upon receiving the news, the son got angry and attacked him, causing the elderly man to trip and fall down the stairs, killing him. 

Long story short, they arrested him and his lawyer/accomplice– an old college roommate–who he'd gotten to steal the will and change it before the reading. The case itself took maybe two to three days, but was so packed full of content that it got spread out to multiple parts. 

All well and good, nothing abnormal at least for the detective and his doctor/podcaster right? Nothing weird or too far out of the ordinary. 

That's what the listeners would think anyway because they weren't physically there to notice the subtle, and not so subtle glances Sherlock threw at him. Whether it was during a tense situation, chase, conversation, short-lived interrogation, or even while they were in 221b.

And John could feel whenever he snuck a glance in his general direction with the hairs on the back of his neck rising to greet it. Sometimes he'd even turn to meet his gaze only for the detective to snap his attention back to whatever he was doing as if it never happened.

Then there were the emotions attached to those fleet glances. Subtle splashes of flavor complimenting the blended palette of Sherlock's complex mind. Sweetness mixed with savory, hints of richness and subtle sours. They were unlike anything John had ever experienced. A luxury that he has the honor of living with, but one he refuses to truly indulge in. He deeply respects and cares for Sherlock, and refuses to invade the strange and unique inner workings of his mind. So strong willed yet delicate in its innermost structure.

Those glances--when left uninterrupted–ccould last from seconds to nearly an hour. Carrying a hint of suspicion, caution, and curiosity. Gracing John's tongue with whispers of buttery and briny sensations like salted caramel whenever it'd flick out to anxiously wet his lips. 

It was a knee-jerk reaction, born out of habit and instinct. Something John had grown into long before he started living in Baker Street. It made it easier to gauge Sherlock's moods, but not by much. Even with his gifts as a lonely avatar, the detective always managed to surprise him in the best and most stressful of ways.

This being one of said stressful ways.

Primarily due to Sherlock's sporadic bouts of interest in John both during and outside of cases that the podcaster's other habits have been thrown for a loop. 

Normally John didn't mind being the subject of Sherlock's curiosities or being on the receiving end of his rants. He honestly felt flattered, honored even, to be considered interesting enough to hold the detective's attention. Even without him knowing what he was 

However with the detective’s focus bouncing around and off of him at any time of day, John struggled to find time to feed. There were times that he’d wait till Sherlock finally slept, was out updating his mental map of Central London, or deep into an experiment. During those moments John would use the excuse of walking Archie, editing, taking a stroll, or staying up late to satiate the ever-present hunger that lived under his skin.

Regardless he was able to eat in relative peace with minimal issue. That was until he noticed someone watching him on one of his strolls. There was the slightest hint of familiarity that lingered on them, mostly likely a part of the homeless network. John tries to avoid feeding on the network the best he could as a disturbance in it won’t go unnoticed by Sherlock.

This created a new slew of problems because if the network was watching him then that meant that Sherlock was too. It was the only logical answer because otherwise they wouldn’t even bother with him aside from the rare bit of conversation. John won’t deny that he enjoys listening in on the rumors and street gossip which quite a large chunk of the network thrive on. 

This left him in a nasty predicament because despite the detective’s best efforts he couldn’t function around the clock, but the network does. It reminded him a lot of the Web, but instead of spiders and webs it was like a self-operated machine. One that Sherlock had the blueprints memorised for. Meaning that if John needed to feed he’d either have to be extremely careful at the risk of being found out, or he’d have to do it outside of his territory which has its own set of risks.

It had gotten to the point where his feeds had to revolve around both Sherlock and the weather. Bad weather meant a dip in activity in the network, but even that wasn’t guaranteed to line up with Sherlock’s fluctuating interests. While John tried not to let it affect him on the outside, internally it felt like a storm was brewing. The longer he’d wait the worse it got, and the Lonely was quick to notice the shift. 

Despite what many assume about fears and the Entities connected to them, the eldritch horrors do care for their avatars. At best it’ll alter the environment to be more suitable for the avatar. At worst it’ll draw the avatar into itself which comes at the risk of the avatar losing themself and being consumed by their Entity. 

All of this has built up, leading to John’s current situation: he was hungry. The fog churned with a sort of restlessness that has started to have an effect on his sleep, and by extension his mood. Whenever someone, mostly Sherlock, asked, John blamed his night terrors and editing. It left a sour taste in his mouth having to lie, but what else could he say that wouldn’t make him sound crazy?

“Hey mate, sorry for being so moody recently. I haven’t had my weekly fix of a person’s loneliness and fear of disappearing thinking one will notice or care.”

Yep, totally doesn’t sound like something a murder, cannibal, or sociopath would say. Absolutely.100%. 

It didn’t either that the mist that usually lightly trailed behind him, barely visible and crawling along this floor, had started to thicken and linger. Creating a sort of snake trail behind him as he walked and coiled around his feet like a snake ready to strike. This led to him having to focus on keeping it away which further negatively affected his mood.

Both Sherlock and Mariana have noticed the shifts in his temper, and have tried to understand why, but that unfortunately led to more deflecting and lies. John was certain that the detective was growing suspicious, doing his own sort of observations and small experiments to sort of test the bounds of John’s emotional flexibility. Not that the doctor minded, letting his best friend come to whatever conclusion he finds.

John was currently strolling on ‘an evening stroll’ with the excuse of stretching his legs, having spent most of the day editing and scrolling through the discord. He knew that Sherlock didn’t believe him and chose not to say anything other than “Be safe.”

Starvation thrashed and crawled at his mind the farther he got from Bakers Street. It had nearly been two weeks since he last fed and it was becoming more difficult to keep himself from plucking some poor sod in broad daylight. It made him sound like some kind of vampire.

And here he was lingering in an alley next to a bar ways away from home, hidden amongst the bins and thick fog that had begun to roll in. The Lonely made itself known as it slithered and crawled along the streets, through the alleys, and even over shorter buildings like the busy bar packed full of people.

John hated how his mouth had begun to water as the taste of sorrow fummed out of the place as if it were on fire. Imagining how easy it would be to simply walk in and feast to his heart's content. The fog carried similar savoriness from all across Central London, but this place seemed much more fruitful. And safe.

Yep,John definitely sounds and feels like a vampire.

It wasn’t long before someone finally stumbled out the side door, a rumpled looking man in his late 30s with a half-empty bottle of cheap beer in his hand. He was leaning heavily against the door frame yelling either for or at someone inside before waving a dismissive hand and slamming the door. He reeked of sorrow, rejection, pain, anger, and loneliness. Sweet, savory, rich and delicious. John watched as the man stumbled willingly, though very inebriated, into the heavy fog and quickly vanished. 

It wasn’t long before a few others followed suit in a much similar way as the first. All stumbling, drunk and laughing before quickly vanishing into the haze. With each one John soaked it all up. Absorbing and devouring their pain and sorrows. Feasting on the swells and picking at the dips like a vulture on a decaying corpse. 

Thankfully John still had the piece of mind to release them, using the fog to guide them home. He wanted the fear not their lives. The thought of it made him physically ill despite the rush of energy. It felt like he got a full night's sleep and a hearty meal all in one. 

By the time he’d returned to 221B it was almost an hour later, which was significantly longer than his normal walks. So he wasn’t surprised to find Sherlock waiting for him on the couch with Archie asleep on his lap. Despite his poker face, lit by the harsh light of his phone, John could taste the anxiety rolling off of him. It caused a pit to form in his stomach knowing that he had caused the detective to worry.

“Hey mate, sorry it took so long. Got side tracked by the ducks again.” They both knew that the ducks at the park weren't usually awake at this time of night, but neither chose to point it out. As he took off his shoes he noticed Sherlock wringing his hands together, his brows furrowed in deep thought. It wasn’t until he was sure that John wasn’t going anywhere that he finally spoke up.

“John, there is something that I must speak to you about.” The use of his first name grabbed his attention and quickly had him seated next to the detective in an instant. An ingrained response that the taller man used quite often for both work and personal reasons, mostly to get his way i.e. more biscuits.

“Of course, what’s going on?” All previous relaxed fullness was quickly drowned out by worry. He didn’t like that way Sherlock’s anxiety overpowered the usual ginger that John associated with his dear detective. The silence that followed, aside from Archie’s snoring, felt heavy as Sherlock continued to fidget and chew his cheek as he tried to form his words in a way that would best convey his point. All the while John sat patiently, allowing his friend however long he needed.

“Do you feel lonely, John?” If it weren’t for the soft, fragile tone he’d used John would’ve immediately panicked thinking he’d finally been caught. Not that he'd know how to navigate that conversation either let alone this one.

“W-Well how could I? I’ve got you, Archie-boy, Mariana, my Mum, Stammo, my army buddies, and the listeners. This is probably the least lonely I’ve felt in ages.” Okay he was aware of how sad that sounded, but hey this isn’t about him. 

There was another long pause with Sherlock once again fighting with himself while the doctor could do nothing but remain calm and open. It wasn’t until a sharp, metallic taste started to ooze from Sherlock, who’d doubt bitten through the skin of his mouth, that John finally moved. Gently prying the detective’s hands apart to cradle them into his own. Messaging the backs with his thumbs while taking deep, exaggerated breaths. 

Sherlock's tense gaze zeroed in on movement of his hands and chest as if making sure John was real. It took a bit before they were both doing breathing exercises with Sherlock massaging the callouses on John’s hands. Their rough texture being one of the few reminders of a time that now felt like an eternity ago.

“I fear that what I’m about to say will make you think that I’ve finally gone mad.” The tremble in his voice lingered, but at least the taste of blood and anxiety began to thin giving way to the warm ginger scent that was Sherlock Holmes.

“I’d honestly be more concerned if you weren’t at least a little nutty. I like you as you are Sherls.” This drew a small laugh out of the man which did wonders for John’s stress.

“Promise you will not think I’m crazy?”

“I promise, cross my heart!” He snickered while raising his left hand and drawing an X over his heart, making the detective laugh and lightly jab him in the arm.  

“Stop it, this is supposed to be a serious conversation Watson!”

“Can’t help it, mate. It’s part of my charm.”

“It is not, but whatever.” Their giggling and banter eventually fizzled out to something a bit more somber with Sherlock continuing to toy with John’s fingers. It took a bit more encouragement for the detective to finally say what’s been on his mind.

“There are these things, beings who I’m not entirely certain are from our world, or general plain of existence, that gorge and sustain themselves on a person’s phobias. They often use a select few to become their conduits as a means of feeding and expanding their influence across the globe.” 

There was a pause, allowing John a moment to process what he’d said before continuing. His tone and fragrance again tainted with anxiety and something else that the doctor couldn’t place. Whatever it was, he didn't like it. Something about it didn’t sit right.

“The reason I even know of all this is primarily due to my family history which is something I don’t think I’m capable of getting into at the moment.” Sherlock had been growing more and more tense as he continued to speak.

“Hey hey, it’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it. That's your personal business and I’m more than fine if you never want to bring it up again.” Carefully he drew the detective into a hug, allowing the man plenty of time to pull away if it was too much.

When he didn't, John began to apply pressure around his shoulders paired with their pattern of pats and scratches along the spine. It hurt being able to now feel the way Sherlock trembled in his arms as he returned the embrace, massaging the threads of John’s jumper between his fingers. They sat like that for what felt like hours just holding each other with John gently rocking them both.

It wasn’t until Sherlock started to pull back did John let go, letting his hands once again return to the detective’s. As much as wanted to save the rest of the conversation for tomorrow given how much the topic seemed to bother his friend, he knew that stalling would only serve to stress him out more.

“Th-The reason I tell you is because I fear that one of them has set their sights upon you, and I do not wish for you to fall victim to it.” What a minute. Had he finally figured it out? But if he didn’t then why is he so worried about John when it should be the other way around?

“There is also another reason as to why I know what I do and why it greatly worries me, but you must trust me when I say that I would never cause you harm if I can prevent it.”

“Sherlock I trust you with my life and then some, and I know you’d never intentionally hurt me. Why are you saying all this?”

“I believe it would be better if I show you even if I fear that it may forever change the way you see me.” This had John extremely confused, brows furrowed as he waited for the detective to elaborate. What could he possibly have to show that would make John view him differently.

Sherlock pulled away putting about a foot between them, much to John’s dismay. The addictive sugars of fear churned and mixed with Sherlock’s natural ginger and lavender in a way that made the doctor nauseous.He sat back taking deep, calming breaths, closing his eyes to help compose himself. The change was subtle, something that someone wouldn’t notice unless they were specifically looking for it. 

Small lines formed on the detective’s face, dry cuts that framed along the sides and under his eyes. If he looked closely, John could see similar lines forming symmetrically down the sides of his neck. Though what was more striking was the luminous line that arched gently just above his forehead like a neon sign.

Sherlock started to visibly tremble with fear emanating off of him like light from the streetlamps outside. Slowly John reached over, taking one of Sherlock's shaking hands that gripped the cushion as a lifeline into his own. Threading their fingers together like they would during their more stressful cases. At first he flinched at the sudden contact before slowly melting into it, even going as far as to lean forward slightly.

“Promise you won’t fear me John.”

“I promise Sherlock.”

Ever so slowly he opened his eyes, with the newly formed lines following suit. Each one peeling open to reveal equally luminous, sea glass blue eyes that all held so much fear that it physically pained the doctor. Even the floating eye held that same stunning blue and syrupy sweet fear.

John must have looked some mix of shocked and mesmerized because Sherlock dove into damage control mode. “I-I know that this must be startling for you and I will not blame you if you no longer wish to be entangled with me. I-I can assist in finding you new living arrangements a-and as for the podcast we can figure some out- maybe-treat it as more of a business for the listeners and then you can go about you life without having the burden of seeing me! I-I just-!”

Sherlock was trapped in a spiral, a full blown panic attack as he began to hyperventilate, his eyes struggling to focus on one thing. Each one shifting and rolling in different directions as he fully pulled away from John and put as much distance as possible. Curling into a tight ball and squishing himself into the far corner of the couch.

Sweet, savory flavors and aromas flooded the room, the fog puffing and slithering from its hiding places at the sudden shift out of curiosity and worry for the shaking, sniffling source much like its avatar. Who sat paralyzed, feeling like a roach being fumigated by the most delicious of toxins. Burred beneath it all was the faint warmth of ginger tea that John’s mind clung. The warmth embodying a lighthouse guiding him through a sea of instinct and supernatural impulses.

He could be starving to death, deprived of fear and sorrow, and still choose to follow that guiding light even if it led to his demise. Because he treasured that light for more than he cared to feed into his inhuman cravings.

Slowly, slower than he thought possible, John moved closer to the distressed detective, stopping just shy of an inch, who now began to pull at his hair in a fleeting attempt to self-soothe. He rose his hands even slower, his body heat rising enough for the man to feel his presence with the mist climbing up the couch, thinning and stretching with worry like decorative cobwebs. 

As carefully as he could, he pried Sherlock’s hands from his head, pulling them close and running his thumbs across his knuckles. He willed himself to ignore the detective’s piercing gaze as John lifted his hands to press gentle, feather-like kisses against those same acid burned knuckles that had been used for various strange and morbid experiments. Cradling those same hands that had brought pain and tragedy to many and will continue to do so for evermore.

And yet despite it all, despite himself, Sherlock couldn’t help but weep at the sight of someone he held so dear. Someone who had accepted him as he was from day one, complications and all. Even now with his entire, horrific being on display. John Watson, a man of kindness, bottomless patience, and the embodiment of all Sherlock had once hoped that the world would be, held him with such gentleness and kindness that not even The Eye could’ve foreseen it.

John, a man of many surprises, took it several steps further and guided Sherlock into another hug. One that felt as if he were trying to channel all his love and compassion into it to ensure that Sherlock could never mistake it for anything else.

“You don’t ever need to worry about scaring me away, mate. I understand your pain and want you to know that you aren’t alone. You are one of the most important people in my life, and you mean the world to me.” John's tone was soft and sweet, oozing with nothing but love and care that Sherlock may have found overwhelming if it hadn’t come from him.

He nearly tackled them both off the sofa when he grappled on Watson, squeezing him as close as physically possible as he began to properly weep. Sobbing and burring his face into John’s neck as he clung to him, thankful his other eyes closed as the expanded visual range had felt severely overwhelming after so long.

With his many eyes not shut, he focused on the feeling of being pulled into John’s lap. The slow, deliberate pattern of pats and brushes of the spine, the gentle rocking, the expansion and contraction of John’s chest, and what sounded like the humming of a tune he’d recently learned on his violin. All of this, all of John, created this bubble of stimulation. A pocket in time filled with nothing but acceptance, care, and love.

All wrapped in the beautiful watercolors that was John’s mind. A mosaic piece of a man who’d lived through hell yet still emerged just as kind and wonderful as he was before if not more so. Sherlock to stay like this forever, trapped in the pocket dimension with nothing but John and his mind to keep him company. He’d be the happiest man alive. Even when death finally comes to claim him, he wouldn’t choose to die anywhere else other than in the arms of his dearest friend.

Peeling his waterlogged eyes he finally noticed the mist that had filled the flat, spilling over the back of the couch. Curling and puffy like cumulus clouds. But what he found that was truly shocking was the mist that had begun to flow from John’s person. Its pale, wistful body blending where it met with John’s like a boiling kettle missing its lid.

“Y-Your part of it?”

“More like it’s a part of me, mate. Has been since the day I was born.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No, it's more like having your childhood dog grow up with you and never leave.” Sherlock hummed at this, deep in thought. As if John could read his mind, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“But?”

“Telling me tomorrow or never won’t make a difference to me Sherlock. I like you as you are, who or whatever that may be.”

. . .

“I like you as well John.”