Sometimes It Storms

Dancing in the Rain (figuratively)

"I see my best friend, John. I see his sandy blond hair, grown longer now that he's been home for a while. I see the walls of his room in our flat at 221B Baker Street. They're covered in pictures, memories, stories. Of our adventures together, and of his adventures on his own. I see - my Dobble! I knew I didn't leave it at Lestrade's!"

"I confiscated it," John said, sounding more awake and less robotic than before. " 's for your own good."

Sherlock stood up then, shifting his weight and extending his stiff arms and legs. Silently, he began walking away from the closet, leaving John alone, still on the floor.

"Sherlock?" John asked nervously. Then, softer: "please don't leave me."
Sherlock took a few more steps, and pulled closed the shades on the windows. Long strides carried Sherlock back across the room, and he extended a hand to John.

John grabbed it, unsure of what was happening, but putting trust in his friend. Sherlock helped him to his feet and, still holding his hand, led him down the stairs and into the sitting room.

With John trailing behind, Sherlock walked the perimeter of the room, pausing at each window to draw the shades, shutting out the storm raging outside. He continued ambling about the flat, stopping next in his own bedroom. He stripped the blankets off his bed and handed them to John. "Hold," he instructed simply.
They grabbed blankets from the laundry room, John's bedroom, and the sitting room, and set them in a heap on the floor.

"What are you doing?" John questioned, feeling like Sherlock had gone mad. It often seemed that way with him, though. There was usually a reason, but Sherlock usually neglected to explain until it all was over and done with.
"What are we doing," Sherlock corrected, continuing his rounds about the flat, now gathering a stack of thick books in his arms. "Heavy, we'll need weight..." Sherlock mumbled, looking around. "Not the microscope, there's always a chance it will collapse..."
"What are you going on about?" John asked again, his arm getting tired from Sherlock pulling him about.

"Grab that chair, John."

John remained where he was, staring at Sherlock, waiting for an explanation. Sherlock let go of John's arm and bustled around, grabbing another chair from across the room. He placed the chair on the outskirts of their pile. It looked vaguely sacrificial, John noted, laughing to himself. Sherlock paused after setting down his chair.

"Didn't I speak aloud? I could have sworn I said it." Sherlock mused, looking at John who hadn't moved yet, just watched Sherlock with a tinge of annoyance in his patient expression. "Grab that chair, John." Sherlock repeated. A tense pause ensued, as John still refused to move. "Now I know you heard that. Problem, Watson?" Sherlock squinted at John, pulling out his deducing face. "Oh," he said, rolling his eyes. "Really, John? This seems a bit petty, even for you. Grab that chair, please, John."

John shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, sort of. "Better, yes. And it's not petty, Sherlock, it's basic politeness. I know you can do it, and it's basic respect." John stopped his rant and took a deep breath. "But no, that's not what I'm waiting for. What are we doing? You hate not knowing things, have some empathy for god's sake! And don't say you're incapable, because I know you're not. I know you're not, Sherlock."
Sherlock tilted his head slightly, calculating something, perhaps. He took a step towards John, as if to comfort him, but John stepped back, apprehensive. Sensing John's anger, Sherlock conceded, making eye contact. "I am sorry, John. We are building a blanket fort. I read in a book that it helps calm people during storms. I... thought it might help. Plus, it typically engages peoples' memories of childhood, utilizing regression as a coping mechanism... I also am curious what you were like as a child."