Not Afraid

Chapter One - Nightmares

Pressed against a canvas sky painted with dusty grey clouds, his coat whipping in the wind and tiny snowflakes tumbling from the heavens to swirl around him, Sherlock stood on the very edge of the hospital roof, a smudge of black against the white, as fragile and fleeting as a leaf caught in a storm. John's heart was thundering harder than it ever had, harder than when the bullet from the Afghan gun tore through his shoulder. It rattled in his chest, fighting against his ribcage and screaming to be free. The pure fear that he felt was unlike anything he had ever experienced. It set an icy fire to his bones and his legs trembled as he held his phone to his ear, staring up at his best friend who stood atop the hospital roof, speaking of notes and apologies.

"Goodbye, John," Sherlock's voice crackled through the phone, strained and breaking, as if he was supressing a world of emotions. He had never sounded so raw and honest before, always throwing up a sheer façade of clinical analysis to ward of human error.

"No, don't," John heard himself say but most of his words were drowned by the thrumming of blood in his ears. However, something told him that it wouldn't stop Sherlock. It was more of a sound of regret, a plea with himself. His whole body shook, Sherlock not the only leaf caught in the storm that was Moriarty. John took the phone away from his ear; it felt like it was burning into his skull, and then, just as he saw Sherlock begin to tilt forwards, over the lip of the roof, he screamed," Sherlock!"

But it was too late. Much too late. Sherlock was falling, tumbling through the air and John could do nothing but watch in perfect terror as his friend hurtled towards the ground. His mouth dropped open in horror and his heart plummeted into his shoes. The bitter wind whipped his hair and he couldn't comprehend the world. He started forwards, legs bumping into each other, limbs unresponsive with shock and suddenly he too was falling, something having crashed into him and the ground rushed up to meet him in a swirl of black and grey melting together.

John sat bolt upright in bed, clenched fists gripping the bedsheets and sweat pouring from his face to soak into his pale tee-shirt. His breaths came in short, sharp bursts as if he had been running hard for a long time. Just a dream. It was just a dream. John exhaled deeply and checked his wristwatch. 5:47am. Knowing he would never get back to sleep now, he swung his legs out of bed, setting his bare feet on the floor and glancing instinctively over at the cot which sat in the corner of his room. Rosie slept soundly and John envied her for that. He stood, running his hands through his hair before crossing the room to glance at his sleeping daughter. Bundled up among her soft blankets and surrounded by multitudes of soft toys gifted by well-meaning friends, it was almost difficult to actually see the baby. Her blonde hair was tangled and curling around her head like a small halo against the pillow and her tiny thumb was tucked into her mouth, bow lips parting to let it in. The rest of her was obscured by plush, apart from her tubby little feet, poking out from the ocean of blankets. She looked like Mary though Mrs Hudson had said she had inherited John's eyes. John couldn't see it himself but then again, he wasn't one to stare deeply at his own reflection. Smiling fondly at Rosie, he rearranged her blankets so they covered her little feet and left the room, heading downstairs and into the kitchen where Sherlock had abandoned some experiment involving nitric acid, fingernails and chalk. Rolling his eyes, John swung the fridge door open to fetch an apple.

"Jesus!" he hissed, trying to contain his alarm so he didn't wake Rosie or Sherlock. Four dismembered hands sat on metal dishes in the middle shelf of the fridge where the veggies were supposed to go. "Heads, hands, what next? Arses?"

John grabbed an apple from the bottom shelf, briefly wondering if the hands would have tainted the fruit and closed the fridge door with a snap. He shook his head, somewhat despairingly, and bit into the apple anyway. It wouldn't have been the worst thing to happen to something he had wanted to consume. John tugged the waistband of his pyjama pants higher on his hips and padded into the lounge, throwing himself into his chair with a deep sigh. Why was he still dreaming about Sherlock's swan dive from the roof of Bart's Hospital? That was so long ago and anyway, Sherlock had faked the whole thing and was perfectly safe and well. So why did it still bother John? He took another bite of his apple and stared into the fireplace where hot coals still glowed, weakly fighting off the winter chill that seeped into the flat. He supposed he should stoke it up. After placing his apple on the arm of his chair, he knelt in front of the fire and poked at the coals with the fire poker. Then he put some kindling over the coals and blew gently at the glowing orange, encouraging flames to splutter into life and lick the kindling. Another huff of air and fire engulfed all the kindling with delight. John sat back on his heels and watched the fire with satisfaction. He loved keeping the fire going, for some reason. His therapist would tell him that it was something to do with sustaining life and energy and it being a coping mechanism for grieving for Mary but John reckoned he just liked warmth and comfort and a fire offered that. Not to mention that when Sherlock got up and asked how the flat stayed so warm overnight, John could smirk at him and feel like he had one upped the genius.

Back in his chair, now with his feet propped up on a footstool in front of the blazing fire, John finished his apple and tossed the core into the flames. It sat for a moment on a chunk of wood before it was devoured.

"John?"

He whipped his head round to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, eyes bleary and pyjamas rumpled. His hair lay in messy curls and he looked confused which wasn't a look Sherlock wore very often.

"You're up early," John remarked. "Did I wake you up?"

Sherlock mumbled something incoherent and stumbled into the kitchen, bumping into the stack of books he'd left there from the night before. John couldn't help but smile. Sherlock could be a right pain in the ass but, none the less, he was John's pain in the ass, hands in the fridge and all.

"Seriously though, did I wake you up?" John asked over his shoulder as Sherlock clattered with the kettle and a teacup.

"Yes," Sherlock groused, clearly only able to handle single word sentences at the current time.

"Sorry," John said and suddenly, from upstairs, he heard crying. Rosie was awake. Inhaling deeply, John rose from his chair and padded upstairs, into his room where Rosie was gripping her favourite teddy bear and bawling as if her life depended on it. Mouth wide open, tears flowing down her rosy cheeks, eyes glazed with water and dribble everywhere.

"There, there, Rosie darling, daddy's here," John cooed, reaching into the cot and plucking Rosie from her swaddle of blankets. "Don't you cry now, daddy'll get you a bottle and everything will be just fine and dandy."

John hoisted Rosie to his shoulder and, patting her back gently, carried her back downstairs and into the kitchen where Sherlock was trying (and failing) to find the tea leaves.

"I know I put them somewhere," he mumbled, flinging open cupboards and tossing aside sheets of paper with random scribbles on them. He was rather like a small cyclone whirling through the kitchen in mild distress. "John, where's the tea?"

"By the jar of apricot jam, top cupboard, to your left," John said, rolling his eyes and, with one hand, making Rosie's bottle. She had stopped crying now and instead sucked on the ear of her teddy bear, watching Sherlock with avid fascination as he riffled around the kitchen, still unable to find the tea. He darted around the box of test tubes he had pinched from Bart's Hospital and then stopped, throwing his hands into the air.

"I can't find it," he announced dramatically, as if the world might be ending.

"You didn't look properly," John told him in a tone his mother might have used and opened a cupboard beside him at head height, pulling out the tealeaves and handing them to Sherlock who took them and peered at the tin. He made a coughing sound in his throat and then started making tea while John, laughing a little under his breath, took Rosie and her bottle to his chair by the fire and slid the teat between Rosie's teeth. She took right away and drank happily, a look of baby bliss on her round features; eyes closed lightly and mouth turned upwards while still managing to be closed around the teat. Adorable. She was adorable, John thought, holding the bottle gently and cradling her in his arms. After a while, Sherlock swept into the sitting room and, after placing his cup of tea on the small table that sat between his chair and the fireplace, he threw himself into the chair and tossed his head back, staring at the ceiling.

"What were you dreaming about?" he asked, still examining the ceiling. John blinked, caught unawares.

"Pardon?" he said. Rosie had fallen asleep all of a sudden, as babies are want to do, so he eased the bottle from her mouth, placed it on the floor beside him and cuddled her closer to his chest as she snuffled a little.

"I said," Sherlock said, lowering his gaze so he could make eye contact. "What were you dreaming about that caused you to rise at some ungodly hour of the morning?"

John didn't even bother asking how Sherlock knew he had woken because of his dreams. There were many things he didn't bother asking nowadays; he knew Sherlock would tell him anyway. He considered the question. It was stupid, the dream. There was no reason why he would still be having nightmares about the time Sherlock appeared to have committed suicide. "You taking a swan dive off the roof of Bart's."

Sherlock frowned, eyeing John as if he had said something utterly absurd. "But that was years ago!"

"I know," John shrugged. "I don't get it either."

Sherlock was silent for quite some time and John knew he was turning the events over in his mind, analysing them like he always did. Rosie looked as though she wasn't going to be waking up soon so John left Sherlock to his thinking and carried Rosie carefully back to her cot, laying her among her blankets and covering her so she stayed warm. He tucked her teddy bear in beside her and just watched her sleep for a while. Yes, she looked like Mary. John closed his eyes for a moment, seeing Mary in his mind's eye, telling him to just get over it. He opened his eyes and left the room, checking his watch again. It was still much too early to even think about doing anything remotely productive so he headed back into the sitting room, grabbed his laptop and plonked himself back in his chair. Sherlock was still thinking, his fingers steepled under his chin and his eyes closed. John opened his laptop and jumped online to check his blog. His most recent account (The Stick Man and The Gallows) had had several thousand views already, even though they'd only just wrapped up the case the other day with Sherlock telling John he had solved it days ago, when really it had taken him longer that the last few. He smiled, satisfied. Despite everything that had happened in the last year or so, his blog and the duo's crime solving antics were still going strong. As he closed the laptop lid, he glanced over at Sherlock who was still thinking. There was something about him, John mused, tucking his laptop under his chair, something that had made John really look at him these past months. He'd found himself looking at Sherlock Holmes in a way he'd never looked at him before. Appreciation? Well, he already knew the man was a genius. At that moment, Sherlock's eyes flew open and he sat up very straight, very alert.

"John," he said in a tone of urgency. "I'm going out."

John, still mildly startled that Sherlock had suddenly burst from his thinking space, blinked several times. "Out? Why? Where?"

"As ever, John, you fail to form a coherent sentence," Sherlock chastened but John knew he was only saying it lightly, jesting. "I need to check something."

With that, he was gone, flying from the flat in a flurry of coats, scarves and childish vigour. John didn't bother racing after him; he'd get a text if Sherlock wanted him to come and help. He'd become used to that in the years that they had been best friends. Best friends. It was an interesting term, really. You had friends and then you had...best friends. John wondered if Sherlock knew the difference. Then he wondered if he himself knew the difference.

Over the course of the early morning, John bustled around playing with Rosie (this involved making goo-goo sounds, throwing teddies in the air, laughing, blowing raspberries on her stomach and mussing up his hair for her to tug), making breakfast (French toast with bacon and banana for Rosie and oats with milk and yoghurt for John), sewing the ear back onto Rosie's favourite teddy bear that had been a gift from Lestrade, washing up, keeping the fire going and waiting for either a text from Sherlock or for him to return. It seemed his life revolved around that man. Well, and Rosie, of course.

"John?"

Much to John's disappointment, it wasn't Sherlock calling. He slid the glass he was drying away in the cupboard and slung the tea towel over his shoulder, cringing slightly as the damp material soaked a dark patch into the back of his shirt. Mrs Hudson poked her nose into the kitchen, her well-meaning face creased with worry. She looked as if she had been crying.

"Mrs Hudson," John said in mild alarm. Mrs Hudson didn't cry all that much, and when she did, it meant something was wrong. So, he asked a question which could pretty much ask itself in this situation. "What's wrong?"

Mrs Hudson twisted her hands together, seeming unable to speak. Very concerned now, John crossed the room to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, looking her in the eyes, checking for duress, anxiety or drug use. He knew she had some medicinal marijuana in her kitchen somewhere and while he didn't condone the use of it, he knew she took it sometimes and hadn't dared to reprimand her for it. But there was none of that in her eyes. Just worry.

"Mrs Hudson," John said again. "What is it?"

Finally, Mrs Hudson opened her mouth. Her voice came out creaky and upset. "Oh John," she said, fresh tears welling up in her eyes. "Haven't you heard?"

"Heard what?" John asked, baffled.

"The fight!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed. She ducked out from John's grip and snatched his arm, dragging him to the window and yanking open the curtain. John tripped over his feet after her, trying not to protest too much. Dim, winter light poured into the flat and John blinked the afterimage from his eyes. Once his vision had cleared, he was able to see two men on the street below, standing several feet apart and clearing yelling at the tops of their lungs. From his elevated position, John could just make out that Sherlock was one of the men standing in the middle of the road. They were holding up traffic and several people had got out of their cars to shake their fists and join in the yelling. Wondering what on earth Sherlock and this other man who looked suspiciously like Mycroft were standing in the middle of the street fighting about, John popped open the window to let the sound in. Unfortunately, the winter wind whipped their voices away so John couldn't make out anything except the anger in their tones.

"Mrs Hudson, can you keep an eye on Rosie, please?" John turned from the window and Mrs Hudson nodded. Rosie was lying on a purple playmat in the middle of the floor, chewing on a rattle and dribbling everywhere. John dashed from the flat after glancing at Rosie as he always did before leaving her in someone else's hands. But when Mycroft and Sherlock fought, things that people would rather not see nor hear tended to happen. John didn't think the privacy of the whole nation ought to be broadcast on the snowy lane of Baker Street. He hurried down the stairs and eased open the front door, not wanting to let either Mycroft or Sherlock know he was listening in. He peered around the door and suddenly, he was able to hear the conversation, clear as day.

"...always been afraid, Sherlock!" Mycroft was saying in his condescending tone which really got Sherlock riled up. It always did. Mycroft was standing quite still, his umbrella tip on the ground and his hands clasped over each other on the curved handle.

"Afraid?!" Sherlock countered furiously. He threw his hands into the air. "I don't suppose you helped much with that one!"

Mycroft moved closer to Sherlock and lowered his voice a little. "You cannot blame it all on me. You made you like this, as I recall you saying once."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, his gaze on the snowy ground. Then he looked up and even from the sideways profile John had of him, he could see Sherlock was absolutely wild. And...terribly sad. "I made me like this because that's who you were. I idolized you, even though I hated you. You knew how to deal with what we are, you were detached so I had to become detached to be like you, to cope!"

"Oh Sherlock," Mycroft reached out to touch Sherlock with a single hand, but Sherlock jerked away, flinching his body backwards. "You should never have wanted to be anything like me."

And suddenly both men were broken, Sherlock sagging a little and Mycroft walking backwards, shoes sifting snow behind him. John, gripping the doorframe very tightly, had no idea what was going on but Sherlock was close to snapping. Close to collapsing in the middle of the street. His heart hurt for him. Moments away from bursting onto the street and fetching Sherlock, John watched as Mycroft looked at Sherlock one more time before turning away and climbing into his car. Sherlock was very still as the car drove away and the traffic wound around him, horns honking and people yelling out of their windows. But Sherlock just stood there, oblivious, as the world rushed around him. His shoulders slumped, pale snow gathered in his dark curls and his suit was rumpled. Without another thought, John shoved open the door properly and dashed out onto the street, hardly feeling the chill of the snow on his bare feet. Ordinarily, he'd have been hopping over the ground, hissing and swearing but he was not feeling ordinary right now.

"Sherlock?" he said, reaching the other man. Sherlock didn't respond so John took his arm and lead him through the traffic. For the first time, Sherlock didn't twist in his grip, didn't protest to being touched. Instead, he followed John like a child, back into the house, up the stairs and into the flat. John took him to his chair and sat him down. Sherlock's face was blank though his eyes were filled with emotion. He stared at the same place on the wall, completely still. Mrs Hudson stood by John's shoulder as he watched Sherlock watching the wall.

"I'll go," she whispered and John hardly nodded. Something was wrong with Sherlock, terribly wrong and John needed to know what it was. Mrs Hudson's feet creaked on the floor as she left and it sounded very loud. Even Rosie was uncharacteristically quiet.

"Sherlock?" John asked in a low voice. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

Silence. John eased himself into his chair opposite Sherlock's and eyed his friend. Sherlock was still staring in exactly the same place. His jaw had tightened somewhat and his eyes were rimmed with red.

"Sherlock, talk to me," John pleaded, leaning forwards and balancing his elbows on his knees. But Sherlock remained unmoving and refusing to speak. It was as if he was deep inside his mind palace with his eyes wide open. He was unreachable in there. But John had never seen him like this and it worried him greatly. He slid off his chair so he knelt in front of Sherlock, grabbing the man's slender hands and holding them.

"Sherlock, what happened?" John's voice was soft, trying to ease Sherlock from his dazed state of mind. "Goddamn it Sherlock!"

Still Sherlock remained silent and John gave up, releasing Sherlock's hands and standing up in anger. Something was wrong but he had no idea what and Sherlock wasn't letting on. John began pacing, recalling the conversation on the snow drenched street. Mycroft had accused Sherlock of being afraid of something and Sherlock had told him that it was because he'd tried to be him. But what was Sherlock so afraid of? What made him fall into a trance that John couldn't get him to come out of?

Rosie began to cry, unimpressed by the lack of attention and possibly because she was hungry so John leaned down to pick her up. She stopped crying instantly and snuggled into his arms with a great yawn. Tired, then. John patted her back gently and continued pacing, trying to figure it out. But he wasn't Sherlock Holmes. He didn't have a brilliant deducing mind. He was plain old John Watson, ex-army doctor and a veteran of more than one kind of war. Once Rosie was happily sleeping, John installed her in the little nest of blankets near the fire that he'd made once he discovered she preferred sleeping in the sitting room during the day and then stood by the window, looking out over the street. Snow swirled from the gloomy sky, blanketing the world outside and creating a paper white city. Sherlock couldn't stay like that forever, he reasoned. But all the same, it worried him. That settled it. He had no other choice. It grated him though, knowing what he was about to do. He crossed the room to the kitchen bench and snatched up his phone. He scrolled through his rather short contacts list and found Mycroft's number. His thumb hovered over the call button as he considered his options. But what option did he have, really? He touched the call button and brought the phone to his ear. The ringtone played for a moment before cutting to Mycroft's answer phone which was curt, clinical and not very conversation inspiring. John wondered if he ought to leave a message. As the answerphone ran to an end, John peeked at Sherlock who was still in precisely the same position that he had been the moment John had sat him down. Yes, he'd leave a message. What choice did he have?

"Mycroft, it's John. Call me as soon as you get this."

He hung up, placed his phone back on the kitchen bench and headed into the sitting room to stand in front of the fire, watching Sherlock. His feet were finally beginning to gain some feeling, stinging immensely, the heat of the fire driving away the chill caused by the snow. By now, he knew it was pointless to try and talk to Sherlock so he just watched, finding himself observing the tightness of the other man's jaw, the way his hair curled over his pale forehead and the sculpted style of his cheeks. The way his cheekbones stood out like they always had. John was pretty sure most men didn't look at other men that way but he was past caring what other men did. Other men also didn't flat share with high functioning sociopaths who solved crimes as an alternative to getting high, marry ex-assassins, father a child without its mother and get involved in all sorts of high profile criminal cases with said high functioning sociopath. John sighed. When it was put like that, his life sounded like one hell of a crazy ride. To be honest, it had been, right from the moment he met up with Mike and talked about flat shares. Actually, he thought, revise that. His life had been crazy the moment he put on his soldier's medic uniform and marched into Afghanistan.