Data Doesn't Lie (Johnlock)

Chapter 20

SHERLOCK

I had night terrors the evening of our arrival at Mycroft's elegant home. Horrible, twisting images of John being snatched away from me, John being hurt, tortured, killed. I received torment from faceless demons with candle light eyes and crisp, dark suits. It went on for millenia, it seemed, years and years of having to go through such things without John, knowing that it was my fault. I awoke with a cough and splutter as one of the fiery creatures at my side gave a sad little smile. "You're sure it's a dream, Sherlock?"

"J-John!?" I cried aloud, my hands gripping the sides of the bed in panic. The covers felt too restricting. I couldn't breathe, my vision was going black the more I called for him. "John!!" Tears pricked my eyes and flowed in rivers down my face. For a moment, I'd forgotten whether or not I was even awake.

The sound of footsteps brought me back into reality, heavy and thundering down the outside hallway. The door flew open with a loud crack. "Sherlock?!" He answered my whimpers, eyes wide and worried. The blurry sight did wonders for my compressed lungs, which loosened and allowed me breath once more.

I tried to tell him that I was scared, and more than willing to show it. That I was tired of running and hiding and putting him in danger. I was tired of being the world's only consulting detective, a free and open target to anyone who dared to do harm. That I was so tired of being Sherlock Holmes, and so scared of becoming Sherlock Holmes, the man who couldn't beat Moriarty. Sherlock Holmes, the man who'd lost his lover. His partner.

I tried to compress it all into one sentence, but found that I couldn't in the way I wanted to. My sight cleared, and I stared into the warm eyes of my blogger.

"John..."

That was all I needed to say.

JOHN

"Eat," I told Sherlock softly. He'd been staring at his plate for half an hour now. He looked up at me with innocent round eyes. "For me?" I added sweetly. He blinked twice, picked up his fork with a shaky hand, and took a bite of his pancakes.

I lifted his hand gently, holding it in mine to kiss and rub with my thumb. He wouldn't tell me what it was he'd seen in his nightmare, and why it had left him so scared. I was worried beyond measure, making sure he kept his breathing even and calm, giving him plenty of affection without overstepping any boundaries, and holding his hand that trembled so indiscreetly. "I'll be okay," he insisted in a whisper. "I'll get over it." But even then I could hear how his voice broke.

"Lets go for a walk!" I offered. "Surely the grounds here are big enough!" He stared at me as if I'd recommended he eat a bowl of beetle and grass stew. "Oh come on, Sherlock, " I urged, tugging the sleeves of his coat. "Its nice out, for once. Just you and me. "

Still looking unsure, he grumbled something I could scarcely hear about safety and whatever Myrcroft had said the previous night. I rolled my eyes at him. "Since when do you care about what Mycroft says?" He frowned, turning his nose up stubbornly. "Since it concerns whether or not you live or die."

I was taken aback briefly by the sudden coldness in his voice. It made me shiver, despite how warm the dining room was. It took me a moment to recover my words. "It's just a walk, " I mumbled, disappointed. It would do him good, I thought, to be outside. He shook his head no, pushing his plate away. He would not meet my eyes.

"Suit yourself, " I said with a sigh, grabbing my coat on the way out in case I'd need it later. "I'll be in again in time for tea." He didn't answer, of course, for he had his hands steepled in an arch beneath his chin, eyes closed and pondering. Quickly, and as quietly as I possibly could, I told him; "I love you. "

Silence.

With another broken sigh I headed down the decorated hallway and out the door. Still, though he said nothing, I felt his eyes on me as soon as my back was turned.

* * * * *

The estate belonging to Mycroft Holmes was more comforting in the daylight. No longer were there ghostly shadows of twisted old shrubs or sharpened gate pikes waiting to hold my head. In the warmth of this unusually sunny day, the emerald lawn sparkled and a few individually placed statuettes danced around from here to there in a trail leading to a small, but elegant garden. Even walking through the grounds made me feel lighter and less worrysome than my poor detective.

As I wandered this way and that, I thought to myself of how, in what ways especially, I could convince Sherlock that we would be okay. How truly concerned he must be, I thought amusedly, to not even take a walk with me. Nevertheless, here I was enjoying myself while he sulked indoors. Passing a rather ornate rose bush, I let myself pluck the fullest plant as I went. A gift for my troubled detective; red roses for love. Mycroft wouldn't mind.

Still, the garden seemed eerily quiet, devoid of any buzzing bees, clicking beetles, or even the chirp of a bird. Perhaps it was the silence left over from Sherlock's inability to respond to a simple three -worded statement we both knew by heart, my subconscious pressed. He's just distracted right now, I scolded myself shamefully. I couldn't be selfish with things like that.

Out of the quiet, a noticibly loud rustle sounded from behind me, followed by the telltale swishing of a tailcoat in the mid-morning's gentle wind. I smiled to myself, satisfied. "Glad you reconsidered, lo-"

It happened in an instant. A sharp pain to the right side of my neck, a forceful hand pushing into my coat pocket where I kept my pistol, a body behind me grabbing onto my arms just as I fell. I swung my arms this way and another, struggling despite the fact that I was done for. A fuzzy greyness formed in the corners of my eye.

Sorry, Sherlock...I won't be back in time for tea.