A/N: I have no idea what I'm doing or how I'm going to end this.
If you're hopelessly obsessed with the BBC's Sherlock as I am then I hope you enjoy this. I hope it's not the worst one you've ever read xD Eventual Angst/Mature Content/Hurt/Comfort
Reviews are welcome but please be gentle D:
Disclaimer: If I owned BBC I would have no need for fanfiction.
Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Lying on the bed disoriented, he was barely aware that he was safely inside his flat at 221B Baker street instead of that dreaded pool.
Steeling himself with another deep breath, Sherlock remarked to the incident that occurred only few days ago. The shock that he had felt when he first saw John, pale faced, push through the pool-side door, the panic as he saw the explosive vest hidden under his coat, the curiosity towards his new-found rival, Moriarty...
The name sent chills down his spine, giving him uncontrollable nightmares since the bloody thing. Sherlock rubbed his temples in frustration but, how did one fully control one's subconscious? He never had much patience for dreams, let alone nightmares. Sighing, he swung his legs over and leapt from his bed, reeling in as much energy as possible to start another sleepless day. Not that he was a stranger to this behavior, God no, he just hadn't been expecting this extreme physical exhaustion as well. Almost as if his body had never recovered and now betrayed him at every turn.
He briefly checked his phone before standing up, 'No new messages' lit up the screen in a rather mocking way. Nothing from Mycroft, nothing from Lestrade, but, more importantly, nothing from Moriarty.
Well, there went his mood. He thumped rather angrily into the kitchen to brew some tea. He grumbled to himself along the way, meaningless jabber about the temperature of the flat, though he was only wearing his silk robe. He placed the kettle on the stove and began the short process of boiling the water.
He scratched an itch and stared at the kitchen table. To an outsider, it looked like a slob's desk that doubled as a dinner table, but Sherlock knew it was cluttered with his ongoing experiments and perhaps a few dishes from when John managed to feed him. John, the best friend he could ever hope for was forever pushing him to behave semi-normally and constantly reminding him of the things he would normally have wrote off as unnecessary. A personal alarm, making sure Sherlock ate and had enough sleep; John had been the most effective motherly role in his awkward existence, as silly as it seemed to say.
Speaking of, a creak of a door let Sherlock know that his flatmate was up as well. He turned his attention back to the pot of tea that was beginning to whistle on the stove top as John, bleary-eyed, strolled into the kitchen with a slurred, "G'mornin'." Sherlock pulled the kettle off the stove, readied two mugs, all the while noting the sleep deprived face of John Watson.
Sherlock didn't reply with words, he merely place the mug of hot tea in front of John. John reached for it blowing on the scalding drink before asking, "Any milk?"
Sherlock snickered, "If you like it rotten, then yes, I suppose we do." John rolled his eyes, "No, thanks." The two shared more silence just sipping away tea in the early morning, John seated at the kitchen table and Sherlock leaning against the counter. Sherlock briefly glanced over his cup to John, eying the bags under his eyes and the unnecessarily strong grip that handled such a fragile mug.
"Are you working later today?"
"Yeah, I've got to pop in about seven, but I should be back around four. Sarah said we'd be swamped today."
Sherlock muttered a noncommittal noise in agreement and felt a sigh go through him as he wondered what he could do that day to bring the buzzing of his mind to a calmer plane. Perhaps Lestrade would contact him or maybe a client with an interesting case would ring. It was anyone's guess, but Sherlock was glad to have spent a few calm moments in the safety of his flat enjoying the company of his only friend.