Yes my dear sweethearts, you're not mistaken and you're looking right, this story really does continue^^
I'm really, really sorry it took such a long time, but somehow my inspiration was gone for quite a while... but at least I have found it again and I really hope you like the new chapter (expectations must be quite high after such a long time, I guess ;)) So without further ado: enjoy our dear boys.^^ (And the next chapter won't take over half a year to be finished, I promise. ^^)
It is different!
The frown running across the former soldier's forehead visibly intensified the longer he was just standing there, his arms dangling at both sides of his stiffened body like he had forgotten about their purpose ages ago. Wordlessly he was staring at the dark haired man with the wild curls who had just asked about his personal trauma as casually as if he had wanted him to pass over the sugar.
This impertinent man in question was still sitting on the bed's corner.
Motionless. Waiting. Observing.
In fact he had to admit it was highly interesting to study his flat-mate while expressing such strong and unknown reactions. The army soldier who had denied himself to show any kind of emotion had gone. Gone about half an hour ago and all that was left was John. The small, slender man with the heap of disheveled, blonde hair, with the still slightly flushed cheeks, who was wearing the torn apart remains of his payama shirt with some kind of stoic, almost proud defiantness.
Nothing but John.
"Tell me about that day", Sherlock finally decided to lowly repeat his question, even though he was perfectly aware of the fact that his roommate hadn't forgotten about it. The little wheels behind his forehead were turning round and round and round like a clockwork on overdrive.
"Please", Sherlock added almost inaudibly, doing his best to sound at least half-way decent and not just blatantly pushy. He had made the mental note that John hated his lecture tone while he was talking to him about such private matters.
Message received and understood.
"You… you don't actually… no", finally a spark of life had returned to the slender body and its owner decidedly started to shake his blonde head, obviously in a desperate search for words to express himself but finding none that seemd to fit his inner turmoil.
"I don't think that is a particularly good idea", he continued, crossing the arms in front of his halfway exposed chest, the head still moving slightly from left to right, left to right. Green eyes followed the movements like they were glued to his limbs.
"Why do you want to know something about that day anyway?" John snapped, purposefully avoiding any kind of eye contact the private detective was trying to establish, everytime Sherlock almost succeeded, he quickly looked the other way. Only once his reactions were too slow. For the split second their glances met a faint smile hushed over the dark haired man's features.
"Because I'm interested in this particular kind of information."
Dear Lord, what stupid question he asks sometimes…
"Sure. That's your answer for anything. That you are interested in it. But I'm not willing to provide you with further information on that matter whatsoever."
There was that defiant tone again. With every elapsed second John was regaining his usual composure. Sherlock wasn't sure if he liked that fact or not.
"Maybe it will help you to just talk about it", he replied as casually as he could possibly manage while hiking his shoulders in a supposed to look uninterested fashion.
"You said you do not like your therapist, that you do not trust her and I have to add that her skills in diagnostics do leave a lot to be desired. So you never talked about that incident, did you?" Sherlock inquired, furrowing his thin, black brows."So why won't you start to tell-"
"It's simple, Sherlock and there is absolutely nothing I have to tell that might be of any interest to you", John briskly interrupted him. "I was a soldier. I was at war and I got shot. And it happened on a Tuesday. Stranger things have happened and…"
A strange kind of jolt suddenly shot through the lean body. A knowing smile was dancing around Sherlock's mouth when he realized it.
The rain has started again…
Loud and heavy the drops where hitting the glass of the window in an erratic staccato. The soothing sound of slowly falling rain had increased until it just could not be overheard anymore.
"I hate this rain", John uttered, voice suddenly hollow and raspy. With a few quick steps he went to the window, drawing the thin, shabby curtains aside to look into the grey curtain on the other side.
"Sometimes… ", he sighed, lowering his tensed shoulders, quickly drawing the curtain back in place as if he had seen something outright dreadful on the other side of the glass. "Sometimes the rain sounds like a machine gun. Somewhere… far away in the distance where I can't see it."
Trembling fingers were adjusting the askew, yellowed tissue, a meek smile had crept onto his features and Sherlock wasn't sure if John even was aware of it.
"It is always the bullet you can't see that hits you, did you know? And I know it sounds stupid, that it is so fucking damn stupid but sometimes… when it rains and I close my eyes, I still feel like I'm back there."
Blue eyes were facing green one when he turned on his heel, the curtain still in his hand.
"Back in Afghanistan. Wearing that heavy uniform that feels like it is about to suffocate me. Being shot. Being bleeding and praying and being terribly afraid of dying."
The heavy rain dashing against the window was once again the only noise in the suddenly so tiny room. Somehow the walls had come closer, boxing them in.
"You weren't afraid of dying when Moriarty put you in a samtex jacket and threatened to blow us all sky high."
Involuntarily Sherlock had whispered these words, the vivid memories of John wearing the explosives, the determined expression on his face when their situation had seemed so terribly desperate and hopeless rushed back into his mind like a roaring wave. That brave, courageous man who had tried to protect him while risking his own life in the process hadn't been afraid of death.
"You weren't afraid of dying." Sherlock spoke under his breath.
"That was something different."
"How so?" Sherlock replied, suddenly feeling slightly confused while John locked his gaze with his.
"It was so different because you were there."