errantcomment | Five Times 2AM Sucked, And One Time It Didn't.

Written for a prompt on sherlockbbc_fic.

Rating: PG (Violence, sex)
Pairing: John/Sherlock, Sherlock/Lestrade (implied/unrequited/who knows?)
Summary: Five times 2am was awful, one time it was pretty good, actually.

It’s two in the morning, and Johnny is ten. He’s had a nightmare. A dark thing was coming for him, under the street, and he had to find Mummy and Daddy and Harry, but when he finds them they don’t listen and it’s still coming and it comes up through the street... He shivers as he slips across the dark hall. Harry has a friend over, so her light is still on. He opens the door to her room.

“Harry?” Harry is sitting on her bed, and her friend is too, and they are kissing. Proper kisses, like in the movies. Johnny blinks against the light. She leaps away from her friend and grabs him.

“What are you playing at?” She hisses.

“I- I had a nightmare,” Johnny says lamely. He tries not to cry, he doesn’t understand why Harry is so upset, and the nightmare is still fresh in his mind.

“Don’t be such an idiot,” Harry says contemptuously. Her fingers dig into his arms as she hauls him back to his room. “Don’t ever bother me when I have a friend over,” she snarls as she pulls him along.

“If you ever tell Mum and Dad about this...” she warns as she puts him back into his bed. Her fingers curl into his soft flesh till he cries out. Her eyes are hard.

“Okay, I won’t tell, Harry, stop!” John starts to cry, without meaning to. Harry looks at him for a moment. “Only babies cry,” she sneers and stomps back to her room, closing the door behind her. Johnny is left in the dark, with the shadows and the dark thing in every corner, scraping at the window, breathing in regular hushes as it searches light across the room. Johnny hides under the sheets, and sobs into his sheets, waiting for morning.

II.

On the morning of his thirteenth birthday, Sherlock is watching his alarm clock as the big hand creeps round to two o’ clock. He can hear rustling, people moving, and at two am precisely the attack is sprung. Two boys hold him down, he tries to fight back but already knows it’s useless.

“What did you tell him?” It’s Hiller, big for his age; he already has a fuzz of moustache that he’s very proud of, and smokes Marlboros that he steals from the gardener.

“I didn’t tell him anything,” Sherlock replies. A mistake. A fist punches his arm, and a spreading numbness starts.

“Come on, freak, what did you tell him? How did old Finch know where we were?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says, and then lets out a woof of air when he’s punched in the stomach. He happens to know that Finch spoke to the boy who holds him down on his right side, but Sherlock is not a snitch. “God-,” He stops, and coughs, “Goddamn it Hiller, I didn’t speak to Finch! I don’t care about it!”

“Care about what, Holmes?” Hiller’s voice is soft, a little dangerous.

“I told you, nothing,” Sherlock knows better than to say, though he’s itching to tell him that he can smell marijuana on the bigger boy’s school blazer and the stale beer on his breath. “I swear!” He can hear his voice rising, and a mouth roughly covers it, smashing his lips into his teeth.

“But Holmes, I have several sources corroborating that you were seen entering Hiller’s office, and after you left, he came for me,”

The hand is taken away. “He was talking to me about a scholarship. For science. That’s all,” Of course, Hiller doesn’t believe him. Sherlock is held defenceless as the bigger boy hits him again in the stomach, and then smacks his face.

“Well, you’re lucky. I managed to waylay him,” Hiller sneers. Holmes feels hate, white hot and exquisite. “Next time... You may not be so lucky,”

The boy who talked, Sherlock vaguely remembers his name to be Fforbes, spits in his face as he lets him go, and they go back to bed. Feeling the warm spittle run down his face, curling up round his bruised stomach, Sherlock allows two tears to track down his face as he turns away from the rest of the dorm.

III.

It’s May ninth, year of our most gracious lord two thousand and nine. John pushes his helmet out of his eyes and peers into the dark, jolting along a dirt road in the back of a Jeep. It’s two in the am and he hasn’t slept in almost two days. His mouth feels recycled and dusty. There’s dust everywhere, in his hair, his pack, his bed. He sighs as he lets his gun swing down and reaches for his water canister.

Up ahead, something explodes, and he drops the canister, and brings his gun back up. The Jeep speeds up and John feels his teeth rattle and the helmet bounce on his head. Someone next to him (Johnson?), only just arrived to the front line, all shiny-new, is whooping as they clatter down the road. There are men screaming up ahead, and John knows he will be needed. He leaps down as the Jeep rolls to a stop, feeling his pack thump him in the back as he lands. Keeping low, he runs in the dim moonlight to the source of the action. He hears bullets zip past him, explosions, dust everywhere, and he stumbles, but regains balance and keeps going. Someone is playing his tune: “Medic! For fuck’s sake, medic!” he skids to a halt, and begins work. Someone is saying ‘HailMaryfullagrace’ over and over again to his right. Two other medics come up with a stretcher and load the man he’s working on onto it. He nods and finds another groaning ruin on the floor. He can’t do anything for the poor kid, and holds her hand for the comfort it gives. “Gary,” she whispers, and lies still. John moves on. Always moving, don’t stop, don’t think, don’t wonder who Gary was, whether tonight he will tell his children that Mummy isn’t coming home, don’t stop going. He can vaguely hear a retreat being called, but there are so many people... He can’t leave now. A bullet whines over his head and he swears harshly. There’s sweat stinging his eyes, and he kneels back and swipes at his face with his sleeve. He hears a brak-brak-brak of artillery fire and then-

John, in theory, knows what being shot is like. But nothing could have prepared him for the ice-hot pain that rips through his shoulder. He whimpers, and his shoulder goes numb, a spreading cold like an ice-cube is melting under his skin. His left hand dangles uselessly.

There’s an explosion, off in front of him. He stumbles towards the noise, knowing he’ll be needed. His shoulder is starting to ache fiercely. Someone is near him, he can hear laboured breathing. He crawls over to them.

“Shot... Leg...” the other man manages, and John looks down at the ruin of what had once been a perfect leg. He can’t save it, there’s almost nothing there to save. He makes a tourniquet, and calls for a medic again and again. No one comes, only the whump of explosive and the toc-toc of gunfire answer him in the dust and the crimson-stained dark. More men call for aid, he pulls himself painfully towards them, trying to do what he can as his lung starts to burn and his arm pricks with what feels like pins and needles. And he’s so tired. Surely he could just lie down for a moment? There are more men and women hurt, and he tries to crawl towards them, sobbing open-mouthed and unaware, knees scraped on the harsh desert, but a hole opens up in the ground in front of him and smoothly he slips down towards it. As John slips down, maybe forever, he knows, in a detached way, he’s lost enough blood to drown in the dark, “Please god, let me live,”

IV.

2005, and Lestrade is a little drunk. Maybe more than a little, what the hell. When he spoke to the young man earlier, he hadn’t been looking at the card that the kid had passed to him as solemnly as a sacrament. He was too busy thinking about the kid’s long white hands and long dark hair. The kid had solved the case, as easily as one might solve the cryptic crossword. He had led them to the bar which was the centre of operations, without being asked. Had just shown up at Scotland Yard, and demanded to speak to Lestrade himself. It was lucky Lestrade had been passing through the reception at the time.

Then after everyone had gone home, he’d had a few drinks to celebrate, and help him write the report, but he hadn’t been able to take his mind off Sherlock Holmes. After the last heavy had been loaded into a van and taken away, standing outside the seedy pub on a housing estate in East London, he had lit a cigarette, as elegant as if he had been lounging in a private club in Soho. In London’s twilight, the lighter had lit his face, emphasising the hollows of his cheekbones, and he had looked directly at Lestrade, pinning him with grey eyes.

“I’ll see you around, Inspector,” he had smiled, a smile that had promised whispers in the night and soft skin, and then swept off, as much as one can in a short leather jacket and jeans. Lestrade stumbled on a wall and swore. What was he doing? What was he going to say to the kid? I haven’t been able to work today, all I can think about is the way your so-slim body would look above mine, how your hair would look mussed by my sheets and good sex? Lestrade growls as he rounds the corner, this is so stupid, but he’s drunk, it’s two am, and anyway, he has to use the bathroom. He knocks on the door to the little flat, and it opens. He walks in, cautiously.

“Sherlock? It’s me, Lestrade,” he winces, feeling a little silly. The bedsit is tiny, a couch seems to be doing double time as a bed, and a violin sits on the coffee table next to an over-flowing ash tray. The kitchen is a mess of what looks like complicated lab equipment and old take-away boxes. He moves into the coffee table, and sees him.

On the table, a battered wooden box. A twisted spoon, a little plastic bag of white powder, a lighter. It’s not till he comes back later he finds the syringe on the floor. Sherlock Holmes is lying on his back, eyes half closed, a dribble of vomit out the corner of his mouth. Lestrade is by him in an instant, and rolls him onto his side. The younger man coughs and throws up, bile and something unidentifiable. His eyes don’t open, or even flutter.

“Sherlock, can you hear me?” Lestrade finally recalls his first-aid training. “Sherlock,” he shakes the thin shoulder, and is amazed at how bony it actually is. Sherlock doesn’t respond. “I’m going to call the ambulance,”

Sherlock is taken to the hospital by a cheerful driver.

“Don’t worry, sir, we get a lot of this sort of thing, with any luck he’ll be right as a trivet in no time,”

Lestrade holds Sherlock’s hand in the ambulance. The kid never moves, his eyes flicker uneasily under almost translucent lids.

At the hospital, it is found that the cocaine was laced with heroin, a bizarre attempt to draw in more addicts, and Lestrade spends a sleepless night watching the pale youth in a hospital bed, despite the hospital’s insistence that he’ll be fine. He leans over and kisses the kid on the temple. He doesn’t stir. Lestrade settles in his chair for the night.

John is cold and damp. It’s two in the morning, and he’s waiting at the street corner waiting for Sherlock’s contact. He can vaguely recall his father saying sagely ‘Nothing good happens after two am’. Sherlock has texted to say that he can’t make it; he has another part of the case to pursue in North London. John blows on his fingers and shoves them deep in his pockets. He’s about to text Sherlock, tell him to shove his contact somewhere uncomfortable and go home, when a slim woman steps out of the shadows.

“Julie?” he asks.

“Yes. I’m sorry,” is she crying?

“We’ve been looking for you- why are you sorry?” John asks slightly too late. A man swipes at him from behind, catching him painfully on the shoulder. Julie takes off running, and John, swearing at the tingling in his arm, swings round and catches the man a right ding round the head with his hand, which is holding the Maglite he’s taken to taking with him on these little excursions. The man grunts, and crumples, and John takes off running after Julie. He knows there might be ice underfoot, but follows the sound of her clacking heels nonetheless. Their route soon takes them by the river, and John takes an opportunity to call Sherlock.

“I’m (heff) chasing her by the (heff) by the river. Come quick (heff heff) I’m going to lose- fuck!” a treacherous patch of black ice and John goes over. His head clunks against the paving slab and his phone skitters over the damp concrete. He sees stars for a moment, and then he can hear, tinny, but definitely there “John? Are you alright? John!” He sat up slowly, and reached for his phone.

“I’m,” he winced. His head really hurt. “I’m okay. I think. I lost her though,”

Sherlock snorts, maybe in impatience. “You fell? Well, stay where you are then, you’re no use to me concussed and wandering the streets of London,” he sounds irritated. John rolls his eyes. “I suppose she’ll have got away. Really, John, you have to be more careful,” John thinks about standing, but the effort of kneeling leaves coloured explosions behind his eyes. He sighs, and sits back down. The damp is coming through the seat of his jeans. Sherlock is wittering in his ear, and it’s started to rain. Next time, John is just going to go home.

&I.

The glowing display on John’s clock says it’s two am. An arm pulls him into a warm curve of body and he smiles and rolls over. Sherlock’s eyes are shut, but he’s not asleep, John can tell from the almost-smile curving his lips. He kisses him lightly.

“Love you,” he murmurs in the bedroom quiet.

“Mm. I know,” Sherlock opens one eye and now he does smile. “You’re still wide awake?”

“Yeah,” John lays his head on Sherlock’s chest, marvelling in the sound of the heartbeat beneath them.

“So you’re going to ruin my sleep,” but his arms fold round John. The room is warmly dark, the streetlight outside highlighting shadows and silhouettes.

“Yeah,” John props his chin up on Sherlock so he can look up the length of his body. “Consider it revenge for all the four am concerts,”

Sherlock’s laugh resounds through his chest and John revels in the sound, revels in the fact that he can make Sherlock laugh.

“Sherlock,”

“Yes, oh talkative one?”

John leans up on his forearms, and looks down at his lover’s profile, touched by whatever light filters into the room.

“Will you marry me?”

Sherlock’s eyes fly open.

“What?” he’s smiling, definitely smiling.

“Well, civil union technically,”

“I see,” Sherlock is smiling. “John Watson, you marvel. You wonder,” he pulls him into a kiss. “As if there was any doubt,” John kisses his neck, pressing lips down the line of it, and Sherlock breathes in sharply. John smiled into the point where neck meets shoulder, and bit down gently. Sherlock’s back arches.

“You can never simply say yes, can you?” he teases. He rolls off Sherlock, reaches into a side-drawer. He pulls out a thin gold band. “I thought maybe we should do the thing properly,” he slips it onto Sherlock’s finger. It actually fits, to his relief.

“I love you, John,” Sherlock says, a rare occurrence.

“I know,” John kisses the ring and the finger underneath. Sherlock sits up, and they kiss in the two am hush.