Disclaimer: I am not Steven Moffat or Mark Gattis or the BBC or in any way possible and so therefore do not own this interpretation of Sherlock Holmes ... unfortunately.

Author's Notes: Spoilers for The Hound. You have been warned. Also this piece hasn't been beta'd. Otherwise its just Sherlock and John needing to work out their issues because dammnit Sherlock, you were a bit of an arse to your blogger - anyway, I do hope you enjoy it. :)

In The Wake

John won't let go off the sugar.

He goes on about it. With that smile on his face. And that glint in his eye the whole way back to London. He can't entirely blame the man because really how often does he get things wrong but in this case he just wants John to shut up. It wasn't a bad theory after all and it did make sense. It just wasn't the answer, the correct solution. Still he let John have his laugh for now and returned it with a smile. As if he didn't care.

Shut it, John.

His blogger catches on though, falls silent and stoic and Sherlock can't help but hold back the breath of relief he's been holding in. Thank god. Enough of that. He is human after all – as much as he likes to think he isn't, that night out there he remembered he was human, that he could make mistakes – glaring ones. Hell, he had even missed out on the herring that it was Doctor Frankland. That should've been so clear. Should've.

The two of them make it to Baker Street. John carries their bags up while Sherlock bounds up the stairs, over to the phone and to their collection of take-out menus. He calls out to John what he wants for dinner, knowing he does still owe John for what happened. He'll make it up to him. Somehow. Start by maybe cleaning up some the kitchen, he figures, glancing around, knowing that while John does tolerate him well … it sometimes does put unneeded strain on him wondering if the jam jar did contain a poison.

(it only happened once, and it wasn't fatal, and he had the antidote but …)

John calls out 'whatever' and Sherlock shrugs, orders Chinese, making sure to get John's favourites. They then unpack, the silence still there. Still. There. Sherlock brushes it aside, heads down to find dinner arrived and John parked in front of the television, eating slowly.

Chewing too mechanically.

His eyes are too focused on the screen.

Sherlock makes a comment. John grunts back. Something hot and unpleasant stirs in his gut. He shifts in his seat, looks over at John to see: weariness and exhaustion and eyes that are a bit too wide and alert - unnaturally so. His mind flicks briefly back to Baskerville, to John's voice on that phone. So scared. So fearful. So …

He twirls his fork in the noodles, lifts the steaming food up and takes it in, chewing quickly quickly now while keeping an eye on John. John. John. He looks fine. He does. And yes what he did was 'not good' but he was safe now. He was fine. Probably just overtired, his very rational mind supplies while his gut churns. He reaches over to grab a spring roll, noticing how they haven't been touched yet. Odd. They are always nearly gone by the time he thinks to get one because John likes them. They're his in a way.

"John, would you like a –"

"Sure," says John, "Sounds good,"

The soldier reaches over and pops one on his plate but turns his attention back to the television. Sherlock's heart does a double beat. He starts to chew the spring roll, and it sounds so loud in the silence that surrounds them. Swallowing deeply he turns his attention onto Britain's Got Talent and they sit like this for the rest of the night until Sherlock gets up, tidies up because John isn't moving.

The spring roll isn't touched.

As he starts to put the leftovers in the fridge, John gets up, calls out 'night' and Sherlock freezes as he hears John go to the bathroom, turn on the tap, the water rushing freely. Moving cat-like Sherlock pokes his head through the door of the kitchen, angling it so that he can catch a glimpse of John, standing there. So very still.

(he thinks of that pool, with John so strong, so brave, so …)

The moment John moves, Sherlock ducks back in and continues the job as John's footsteps fade away, and his door closes, a little too loudly for Sherlock's liking. Too firmly. Too – the silence stretches out and he rushes to put the food inside the fridge. He goes to his chair, pulls out the violin, begins to play but – he stops – listens for something. What. Rather who.

The sound of silence is agonising.

He goes to bed. Just lies there. Willing himself to sleep. His body is relaxing, but his mind is still going. He strains to hear something from upstairs, anything that will clue him into John's mood. There is nothing. So far. He fists the sheet, breathing slowly, afraid to be too loud in case he misses something.

Because John is upset. Upset at him. Even though he was perfectly safe. He was never in any harm. Hell, John jumped into and was thrown into actual harm because of him all the time and he had never blamed Sherlock. It was just a part of the work, like this experiment had been. And he had been in control of the situation, complete control.

John was never going to be hurt. He wouldn't ever truly hurt John – the flash of anger in John's eyes as they sit outside, morning after, eating breakfast.

A flash.

Not anger. No, that was …

"I'm just your friend,"

Searching.

"It's here, it's here in with me,"

His mind wants to shut down, to run.

Sherlock forces himself into sleep uneasy, manually relaxing each part of his body. His eyes are growing heavy and the mattress is so very soft. He exhales and starts to – shouting. His eyes snap open and he sits up, glancing upwards to John's room. Where there is a squeak of the springs on the bed, the muffled sounds of crying, begging, screaming.

Nothing.

His gut clenches, his heart racing. Sherlock glances at the clock, seeing its one in the morning now. He had falling asleep – another yell and he's on his feet, forgoing a dressing gown and bolting upstairs. He reaches John's door, his hand resting on the doorframe. He stops himself from just entering and just presses his ear against the door.

Whimpering.

Sherlock gentle eases the door open, his eyes acclimatising to the dark. He can see John in his bed, curled up so tight, back to him. He's talking, speaking. Sherlock can't make out the words but the tone is indication enough. He's scared. His mind flicks back to the day he met John, to the nights when John would scream at night, lost in a world of phantom shooters and explosions. His mind flicks to the fact that it has been six months since he was last woken up by John.

"John," he calls softly.

No response other than a shift in his body.

"John," this time his voice is louder and this time John stirs ever so slightly.

"John."

Mumbled words.

"John."

He reaches forward, his hand coming to rest on John's shoulder – a fist connects with his cheekbone and he's knocked back onto the ground while John comes up, breathing oh so fast, eyes so very wild. John's fist is frozen in the air. The soldier isn't moving. Sherlock can see from the slight tremor that John isn't here right now. He's far away, very far away and wrestling with two realities. Sherlock remains on the ground, not daring to move until John's woken up.

Awareness slowly comes to his flatmate.

"Sherlock – oh fuck."

John slides out of bed, coming to check Sherlock. He bats away the doctor's hand and shakes his head. It doesn't even hurt, more of a dull ache. Unimportant.

"My fault – I shouldn't have … touched … not when you're …"

His words trail off while John stares at him, eyes wet.

"And I shouldn't have …"

"No, you really shouldn't have," the tone is mild, the intention clear.

Sherlock is at loss at what to say because what can he say that he hasn't already said. He knows John forgives him for his reasons behind his actions. But he can see that John will not forgive him for the actions. The fact he carried through. What can he say to that? What could anyone say?

"Get me out Sherlock! you have to get me out!"

"Please!"

This isn't a natural movement for him. It feels odd and strange. But he does it anyway, reaches forward and pulls John against him. It's a hug, or something like that. He isn't sure how this is meant to help except – there, John exhales, somewhat relaxing and Sherlock lets out a breath he didn't realise he was holding in. They cling to one another, unsure.

"Their eyes were red,"

Sherlock knows he isn't talking about the Hound.

He grips John's tighter.

"Never again," he murmurs to his soldier.

John shakes, his body trembling and Sherlock pulls him in all the more tighter. No, John, never again, he won't do that again.

They sit like that for a while. Or the whole night. Sherlock isn't sure, it doesn't matter but John' warm against him despite the trembles and his mind is racing as he latches onto that emotion that escaped him before: betrayal. That flash of betrayal because John trusts him. He didn't get mad at the others because it wasn't Sherlock doing that, but this time it was Sherlock. He had been in control, complete control.

"I still trust you," says John, "You know,"

He doesn't speak, isn't sure what to say but relief is flooding his body. His eyes feel strangely wet. Emotions are wrestling within him. Its foreign but so right. So right. John seems to understand because Sherlock can feel his smile against his neck, can feel that tired and weary and John smile. Thank you. Thank you. They remain like that as the clock ticks on before he pulls back from the hug.

"We should go back to …"

"Bed," supplies Sherlock.

John nods, but they stay as they are. Unwilling to move. Because they are both unsure - uncertain where they are with one another, what is fact and fiction, and if those red gleaming blood eyes will come back stalking their dreams. They stare at one another, words stuck and useless. The clock on John's bedside table goes another half hour until the two of them clamber to their feet. Sherlock waits as John moves back to his bed, making sure he's safely tucked in. That he's secure.

"I'll just go then," he says somewhat awkwardly.

"Night," says John.

His eyes tell a different story. Sherlock doesn't want to leave because John just looks, so lost. So distant. So weary. So lonely. But once again the words aren't spoken. Its a measure of looks and knowing but even that - Sherlock turns to the door, leaves. He doesn't sleep that night though, on guard just in case his John needs him again. Just in case the red eyes come back, gleaming in the dark.

It takes a few more days to get back into the swing of things. For John to be able to get a solid nights sleep. They deal with it with Sherlock making lots of tea, and silences. Words unspoken but still felt. But they are 'okay' or as much as they can be again.

Fin

Author's Notes: I hope you enjoyed it and I would love to hear your thoughts on this. :)