Johnlock Fluff (mostly) Oneshots

Storms

Hey yall, I was supposed to update yesterday but some shit happened with my friend and I was talking to him all night to comfort him. Anyway, on with the book. This one is gonna be pretty short, I think, but who knows.

John's POV
The forecast predicted that there was going to be a thunderstorm tomorrow night, and though they didn't specify how bad it would be, I thought it safer not to work on any cases tomorrow. Honestly, the last thing I need is to be taunted by Anderson and Donavan (is that how you spell it? It's the only way of spelling it that didn't give me a red squiggly line underneath it) while having flashbacks of the war. Thunderstorms always made me think of Afghanistan and the time I spent there. Whenever there was a storm, I could hear the cries of fallen soldiers I couldn't save, barely audible over the loud thunder, their faces illuminated by the lightning, each one reminding me that I had failed as an army doctor. I never wanted to be back there.

Sherlock knew that there was going to be a thunderstorm and he was hesitant to leave for any cases that day, though I assured him that I would be fine by myself. Eventually, we came up with an agreement. If Lestrade called with a case which was a 7 or above, then Sherlock would go. If not, then he would stay at home with me. I wasn't too keen on this. I didn't want to appear weak in front of Sherlock, even though I knew he was the one person in the world who wouldn't mind. 

It started raining lightly at around 5pm. I was sitting in my chair reading The Hobbit. So far, I was fine, but I knew that it would worsen. All I could do was hope that someone got murdered very brutally, and quickly. Around 5:45pm, Lestrade called, telling Sherlock that there had been 5 people murdered with nothing in common whatsoever. I saw Sherlock's eyes light up excitedly before he looked towards me guiltily. "Is this a 7 or above?"  He asked. I knew he wanted to go, but I knew he also wanted to make sure I was okay. I remained emotionless because I knew it would be a lot harder to convince him to go if I showed any emotions. "What do you mean 'is this a 7 or above', Sherlock? 5 PEOPLE HAVE BEEN MURDERED!" I heard Greg yell down the phone. 

Sherlock looked towards me and I nodded. "I'll be there, what was the address?" "*insert random London address (idk I live in Aber, ffs lmao)*" "Okay I'll be there soon" He stood up and grabbed his coat and scarf. "I'm sorry I have to go-" He started to apologise. "Don't be, this is probably the most exciting case you've had for months, now go" I commanded him. He leaned down and planted a kiss on the top of my head before he ran out of the door like an excited 5 year old on Christmas morning. 

I continued to read until I heard a loud crack of thunder. Whimpering slightly. I backed further into my chair and tried to ignore it. 

Then came the lightning.

It flashed briefly across the sky, illuminating the dark clouds of London, only for a second, but a second was all it took. 

I yelped and stood up almost involuntarily. There was another crack of thunder, but I could barely hear it. As I ran towards Sherlock's room, all I could hear were the screams of the soldiers on that fateful night, the fateful night in which a bullet had been shot. That bullet eventually lead me here, which was a great thing, but it didn't mean that I wasn't responsible for so many people's deaths. 

When I got into Sherlock's room, I dove for his bed. I sat on it, curled up, with the duvet wrapped around me. Although I had wished Sherlock would leave, I wanted him here now.

I tried to tell myself that I was being irrational, that I was safe at home, that I was no longer fighting the war, but nothing was working. It was true, I was home, and physically I was not longer fighting the war, but there was still a part of my mind that was there in Afghanistan, trying to save all those soldiers injured. In the background of these flashbacks, I could vaguely hear thunder cracking in the background, and I knew there would be lightning and rain as well, but none of that mattered. I was there, in Afghanistan, hearing the cries of the wounded as they fell, knowing that I couldn't save them.

Sherlock's POV
The case was a difficult one, even for me. My brain was working as usual, and I could hear myself telling Graham about the type of mud that would hopefully lead us to the murderer, but I wasn't really realising it. The majority of my mind was taken up with thoughts of John. I knew he wouldn't be okay at the moment, no matter what he had tried to tell me. 

It was around 8:20pm when we had finally tracked the murderer down. Well, kind of. There were 3 places he could be, but I let George and his team investigate each of those and find the murderer. All I really cared about was going home to John. 

I called out to let Lestrade know I was going, when he tried to convince me to stay. He tried to talk me into doing the paper work, which was apparently "nEcEsSaRy FoR mE tO dO sEiNg As I wAs ThE oNe To TrAcK tHe MuRdErEr DoWn". I waved him off and just left the crime scene to go home to my little hedgehog.

I got a cab and told the cabbie the address. Luckily, there was no traffic and I was home in 8 minutes and 25 seconds. I counted to try and keep my mind off John. I threw more than enough money at the cab driver and ran out into the rain. It was around 8:30 and I knew that I had already left John for too long and I needed to get back to him. Hurriedly, I unlocked the door and ran up the stairs 3 at a time. Finally, my long legs were good for something, 

I burst into the flat to find it, seemingly, empty. "John?" I called out. I looked in the kitchen and in his room and in the bathroom. I left my bedroom until last. I found it highly unlikely that he would go in there, after all he would try and go somewhere he is familiar with, and he barely ever went into my room. 

When I had tried every other room, I went into my room. I was surprised to find him there, curled up on my bed rocking himself gently with tears running down his cheeks. Immediately, I ran over to hug him. I took him in my arms and he leaned against my chest. "Sh, it's okay" I whispered gently, stroking his soft blonde hair with my hand. "I don't want to go back there. It's my fault, I couldn't save them" He cried. He turned his head so he was burrowing it into my shoulder. "It's okay, love, you're home now. It's not you're fault. You never have to go back there"

After a while of me comforting him, he fell asleep. His breathing evened and he fell limp in my arms. I got changed very quickly into my pyjamas. I didn't want to leave him for too long so I left the lights in the living room on. It wouldn't kill anyone. I got back into bed with John and held him while he slept.

3rd POV
That night, John didn't have his usual dreams or flashbacks about the war, instead he dreamt of a man, Sherlock Holmes, who saved him.