Rough Day-- Johnlock oneshot

John/Sherlock

Warning: Angst and fluff

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John Watson closed the front door of 221 Baker Street and leaned back against it, screwing his eyes closed and letting out a shaky breath. He was tired and just wanted to lay down in bed and not think for a while. His mind flashed back without warning to the bedside of the young girl who'd died today. The four-year-old had collapsed and had a seizure after an allergic reaction. She'd held on for an hour, and then lost the fight. A single tear found its way out of John's scrunched up eyes as he saw again how pale she'd looked when she was brought in to A&E with her dad, a single father, trailing behind the stretcher.

Oh god…

Losing a patient had always been hard for him, but losing children…. That was another story entirely.

He pressed his hands to his eyes and took several more breaths before he could move again. He wiped his eyes and trudged up the stairs to his flat.

Sherlock lay on the sofa in his pyjamas and dressing gown, hands folded under his chin and eyes closed. He didn't move when John closed the door or hung up his coat or kicked off his shoes or started rattling around in the kitchen.

John sniffled as he waited for the kettle, his mind drifting back again.

Across the room, Sherlock's eyes snapped open at the sound. The tall man frowned, wondering if he'd really heard what he thought he'd heard. He waited, listening.

Another sniffle escaped John and Sherlock bolted upright and hurried into the kitchen.

"John?" Sherlock asked, and John was surprised at how gentle he sounded.

He cleared his throat and looked up defiantly at his boyfriend, daring him to comment on his appearance. "What, Sherlock?"

The genius studied him for a moment. "A patient died today."

Hearing it put into words made a hard lump raise in John's throat. He nodded with difficulty. "A child," he muttered, turning away.

He felt Sherlock move closer silently. He looked up; Sherlock's expression was unreadable.

One long, pale hand found its way into John's, squeezing lightly. The smaller man all but collapsed into Sherlock's arms, burying his face in his neck and breathing deeply, inhaling Sherlock's soothing scent.

Sherlock held him for a few moments, then peeled himself away and led John to the sofa. John watched him walk back to the kitchen and return after a minute and several loud noises. He stared disbelievingly at the cup of tea Sherlock held out to him, then shook his head and accepted it. He took a sip and grimaced; only Sherlock could manage to muck up tea.

Sherlock's face was unreadable, carefully neutral. John sighed.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, knowing he'd regret asking.

"You're sad," the detective observed, sitting next to John.

"No shit, Sherlock," John muttered.

A pause. "Why?" Sherlock whispered, confusion plain on his face. John resisted the urge to cuff him a good one.

"You know why."

"Yes, but—"

"But what?" John cut him off, becoming angry. Angry at Sherlock for not understanding, angry at himself for not being able to save her, angry at the world for no particular reason.

Sherlock studied him silently, then squeezed his hand and got up, padding to the bookcase behind which he kept his violin. He pulled out the instrument and fitted it under his chin, drew out one test note, and began playing without a word. John sat back, confused and angry but always eager to hear Sherlock playing.

The piece that flowed from Sherlock's bow and fingers was unfamiliar, melancholy, and pensive. John found himself calming, his mood lifting somewhat, as though the notes themselves were slowly drawing out all the negative emotions in him. He emptied his mind of everything but the music and the sight of Sherlock's fingers deftly moving across the strings.

As the last note of the piece was drawn out John stared at Sherlock.

"Did you write that yourself?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered, his face and tone carefully casual again. "I composed it shortly after my father died when I was thirteen." He paused in putting the instrument away. "I hadn't played it since."

"Oh."

Sherlock moved to sit beside him again. They sat silently for a few minutes, lost in their own thoughts, until Sherlock snaked an arm around John and lay down, pulling the smaller man to lay on top of him.

John wound his arms round Sherlock's middle, then buried his face in the bony shoulder. One thin hand began feathering his blonde-with-bits-of-grey hair.

"Sherlock?

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"And I you."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment.

"My brother told me after our father died that it wasn't proper to show negative emotions like sadness and grief," Sherlock murmured into John's hair, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head.

"Yeah, well your brother is an idiotic git," John retorted, not looking up.

"Yes, I've found that the opposite is true; victims' families not showing any sign of grief are usually hiding something," Sherlock mused.

John chuckled. Trust Sherlock to draw important life lessons from his work.

It was relaxing, laying like this on Sherlock, wrapped in his arms. John had calmed considerably and was almost asleep when Sherlock spoke.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Why is water wet?"

John lifted his head to raise an eyebrow at him, then lay back down and closed his eyes.

"I'm not getting into that right now."

"But—"

"Shhh."