By the time evening rolled around, John had enough of convalescing. He’d also had more than enough of the guilty looks Sherlock sent him whenever he got up to go to the loo. He felt guilty too. Every time he saw the bruises forming around Sherlock’s throat, he wanted crawl into a hole and never come out, but he didn’t see the point in wallowing in self-loathing. Incidents like this were horrible, but they happened, and at the end of the day, all he could do was try to prevent it from happening again. He put his hair in order, then went to grab his friend.
Sherlock stood at the window with his violin tucked under his chin and a bow in his hand. He stared at the bow with a glum expression.
“Put on your coat, Sherlock, you’re taking me to dinner.”
“What?”
“I took one of the pills the doctor gave me, so I have about four hours without pain. I don’t want to spend them watching you mope about the flat.”
He put away the violin and bow, grabbed his scarf and coat, and headed out the door.
At dinner, Sherlock was still morose. Finally, John couldn’t take anymore.
“What’s wrong? It’s not like you to be so quietly depressed.”
“And how am I normally depressed?”
“Normally, you’re shooting holes in the wall and driving me to my wit’s end. I’m sorry for hitting you and choking you like that. My nightmares have never made me physically violent before.”
“John?”
“Yeah?”
“What am I supposed to do if you have another dream?”
“Don’t touch me or try to hold me down. You can talk to me, try to wake me with your voice. That’s about it.”
“Do you usually go all strange and distant after?”
John looked down at his hands. “No. Today’s dream was completely weird. I usually remember my nightmares, but I don’t remember that one. I felt very strange after. Sort of disconnected.”
Fill: No Refuge from Memory: 8a/?
By the time evening rolled around, John had enough of convalescing. He’d also had more than enough of the guilty looks Sherlock sent him whenever he got up to go to the loo. He felt guilty too. Every time he saw the bruises forming around Sherlock’s throat, he wanted crawl into a hole and never come out, but he didn’t see the point in wallowing in self-loathing. Incidents like this were horrible, but they happened, and at the end of the day, all he could do was try to prevent it from happening again. He put his hair in order, then went to grab his friend.
Sherlock stood at the window with his violin tucked under his chin and a bow in his hand. He stared at the bow with a glum expression.
“Put on your coat, Sherlock, you’re taking me to dinner.”
“What?”
“I took one of the pills the doctor gave me, so I have about four hours without pain. I don’t want to spend them watching you mope about the flat.”
He put away the violin and bow, grabbed his scarf and coat, and headed out the door.
At dinner, Sherlock was still morose. Finally, John couldn’t take anymore.
“What’s wrong? It’s not like you to be so quietly depressed.”
“And how am I normally depressed?”
“Normally, you’re shooting holes in the wall and driving me to my wit’s end. I’m sorry for hitting you and choking you like that. My nightmares have never made me physically violent before.”
“John?”
“Yeah?”
“What am I supposed to do if you have another dream?”
“Don’t touch me or try to hold me down. You can talk to me, try to wake me with your voice. That’s about it.”
“Do you usually go all strange and distant after?”
John looked down at his hands. “No. Today’s dream was completely weird. I usually remember my nightmares, but I don’t remember that one. I felt very strange after. Sort of disconnected.”