Hacked

Sherlock continued playing his violin, filling the air with a soft, melancholy tune well into the night. He had slept about five hours the night before, so he was good for a few more days, at least until John started nagging him about his lack of rest. Sherlock always acted annoyed when the doctor took that 'I know what I'm talking about, you git' tone with him, but deep down, he loved it. He loved knowing that there was someone around who worried about him, at first; it wasn't something Sherlock was used to, but he quickly grew fond of John's concern for his well-being, though he would never let him know it.

Sherlock looked after John as well, in his own way. The detective knew that John still had nightmares about the war, well, nightmares were too gracious a word… Night terrors were more like it. Those nights when John woke up screaming and stumbled his way downstairs for a glass of water, Sherlock never met his eyes. He knew John was embarrassed about it, so Sherlock would go about whatever experiment he was currently working on before John wandered downstairs, neither acknowledging what had lead John to the small confines of their kitchen.

Sherlock had found that the dreams occurred more frequently on days where John went to bed stressed; he also found that on nights he played his violin, the doctor slept more soundly. So Sherlock would find himself with his violin in hand, playing a favourite melody in hopes of calming his restless flatmate. It was a small bit of comfort that Sherlock could offer without giving himself away, something he could do for John without his knowledge, a small thing Sherlock could do to be close to him.

That particular evening, before the heated stares that Sherlock cursed for not keeping in check, before John locked himself in the loo, before the longing gaze that was shared as Sherlock tried to drown out his thoughts with the music, the detective had known John had a stressful day at the hospital. He could see the tension in his body as he entered the flat. Sherlock had always prided himself on being able to read anybody like the map of the city burned inside his brilliant head, and John Watson was no exception.

John opened the door and all was as it should be as Sherlock gave him a quick once over and made his deductions.

Wet. Too wet to have taken a cab. Walked.

Why walk? Stressful day?

Tension in neck and shoulders, stiff posture. Swallowing, dry mouth. Clenched jaw. Yes, stressful day.

Mustard stain 2/3 of the way down on jumper. Always puts too much on bacon rolls. Bacon roll for lunch. Stain has had at least 4 hours to dry. Didn't eat until after 1pm. Late lunch. With a patient that required immediate attention? Sherlock recalled the news report on the telly about a gunshot victim.

"Cosway Street. 11:34 AM. Only a 4 minute drive to St. Mary's Hospital. Yes, definitely the gunshot victim"

Sherlock's deduction came to a brief halt as John started shedding his wet clothing and depositing them into the wicker basket Mrs. Hudson insisted they keep for their wash. Sherlock could feel his nostrils flare and his pulse quicken, even as he told himself to look away before he did something he would regret, he could not break the contact his eyes held over John. He studied John's scar, aside from the night terrors, the only reminder that he had been a soldier.

Sherlock found his mind spinning into a fantasy that he did not try to stop. John in his uniform, Sherlock kneeling in front of him as John barked orders at him. Sherlock felt a tiny shiver run down his spine before he snapped back and told himself to look away, half a second too late. John's eyes found Sherlock's, and the detective watched the quick intake of breath. His deduction skills, which he had proved were as sharp as ever a mere minute before, seemed to be failing him now.

Up until that very moment, Sherlock would have boasted to anyone that he could read John Watson as well as any of the other dull people that crossed his path on a daily basis, but right now John was doing something that didn't happen often. He was surprising Sherlock. The doctor wore a guarded expression that Sherlock didn't think possible. Clearly John was able to make himself completely unreadable by the tall, ebony haired detective, and this made Sherlock question how much of John he was ever actually seeing.

What else is he guarding? Why is he guarding anything at all from me? These were the thoughts that flooded Sherlock's mind as he ran his bow across the strings in a rhythmic pattern. Lost in his own conciseness, Sherlock didn't even notice the rising sun, nor the bustle of activity starting to stir from the streets below. The one thing that did snap him away from his thoughts was the soft padding of bare feet coming down the stairs. Sherlock could feel himself smile, but never looked up in John's direction.

"When's the last time you slept?" John asked while making his way to his chair.

"Sleeping. It's so dull. There are so many other things one can do to occupy their time", was the only response he got in return.

"Sherlock, you didn't answer my question."

"I'm aware of that John. Try to refrain from stating the obvious, it's dreadfully boring."

"Just give me a fucking answer! Is that so bloody difficult?!"

Sherlock turned and stared at John at this abrupt outburst, John sat with his mouth gaping open, as if not believing the words that had just come out of his mouth and quickly apologised.

"Sorry. So sorry. Didn't get much sleep last night."

The detective didn't comment, he just watched as John put his shoes on and mumbled a quick goodbye before heading out of the door, as if he couldn't leave the flat fast enough.

Sherlock lowered the violin, and he could feel his stomach twist in knots as he recalled the sharpness in Johns tone. The recollection of the barking question sent a tiny shiver through him as he realised something else:

Sherlock spent all evening playing John's favourite pieces. The doctor never stirred once. John Watson did indeed get a full night of sleep and appeared well rested as he sat in his chair and got ready to start the day.