Sherlock One-shots

The Reichenbach Hero (Johnlock)

Warning: This one-shot contains sadness. Enjoy.

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        Sherlock Holmes sat on the couch in the sitting room of 221B at 4:27 AM. His fingers were steepled against his lips, his eyes sealed shut. He had been in his mind palace for the past two hours and thirty seven minutes. In fact, he was so concentrated, the only thing that got him moving was when he heard the blood-curdling scream come from up in John's bedroom.

        Sherlock jumped to his feet, taking the stairs two at a time until he reached John's room, walking into his room swiftly, his trench coat flaring out behind him in a way that could only be described as dramatic.

        "John, what's wrong?" he demanded. The blogger didn't answer, curled into fetal position on his bed, silent sobs wracking his body. Obviously, he'd had another nightmare. Lately, that had been happening a lot, and, though he didn't voice it, Sherlock was growing concerned for his flatmate.

        "I'll make you some tea," he mumbled, attempting to be of some use to his distraught friend. As always, he was unfamiliar in the field of emotions, so he did what he could, though it honestly wasn't much.

        Sherlock sighed lightly, walking into the kitchen of their flat. He filled the kettle and set it to boil, leaving the kettle time to boil and going back into the sitting room, picking up his violin. He plucked a few strings of his violin before running the bow across it, playing a flawless and beautiful tune. The song sounded hauntingly familiar, and Sherlock was sure he'd heard it before, a very long time ago.

I've heard there was a secret chord

That David played, and it pleased the Lord

But you don't really care for music, do you?

It goes like this:

The fourth, the fifth

The minor fall, the major lift

The baffled king composing Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

        Sherlock heard the kettle boiling and he abruptly stopped playing, setting the violin and the bow on the couch before entering the kitchen again, pouring the steaming water into a mug for John. He set about making John's tea, frowning when he heard a loud thump and the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

        'Alright, so apparently, John is coming down here,' Sherlock thought, slightly confused. He'd told John he'd make his tea, so why was he coming down?

        "John?" he called, the sound of footsteps stopping. Sherlock thought of this to be rather odd, considering John would normally have said something, anything, back to him. The footsteps resounded again, much closer this time, proving that John had only paused on the staircase for some reason. John walked past the sitting room and the kitchen where Sherlock stood in the doorway. Sherlock frowned in confusion as John kept walking, a thin blanket trailing behind him. Sherlock blinked a few times to ensure he was seeing correctly, which he was, and then he followed after his blogger.

        "John?" he persisted. Again, John ignored him, walking into Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock was very confused, and he was not confused easily. But, then again, John always seemed to puzzle him one way or another.