Sherlock pushed open the door and strode out, his long coat billowing around him, barely pausing, his face a hard mask. John followed behind quickly, trying to catch up to Sherlock but failing miserably.
Mycroft was in the middle of the garden, looking around with obvious distaste, his umbrella hanging form his right arm.
He looked up when the door slammed against the wall and gave a small smile when he saw Sherlock striding over to him. Then he seemed to realise that Sherlock did not look the slightest bit happy, as his smile dropped, and his eyes flickered over to John.
"Sherlock," Mycroft greeted when Sherlock came to a stop in front of him, John lingering behind slightly (but making sure he was still within reaching distance for Sherlock).
"Mycroft," Sherlock greeted icily, eyes narrowed.
In the back ground, John glared at all the other people in the garden who were trying not to be suspicious as they got within hearing range.
To be honest, it was quite a surprise for Mycroft to turn up at a crime scene, and many of these people would want to know who this strange person was.
Putting a hand briefly on Sherlock's back, John walked off casually to the back of the house. Then he took out his hand gun and shot upwards.
John slipped back round the front while everyone else went to go investigate. Smirking slightly, John went back behind Sherlock again to find the two Holmes brother in an extremely heated argument, even Mycroft's face was red, a vein throbbing on his forehead.
"DON'T SHOUT AT ME, SHERLOCK! I DID WHAT NEEDED TO BE DONE!" Mycroft bellowed, hands clenching into fists.
Greg, standing behind Mycroft, had wide eyes, and John guessed that he had as much of an idea of how to deal with Mycroft as John did Sherlock.
"YOU HIT JOHN! AND YOU PRACTICALLY KILLED IREENE!" Sherlock yelled in response, looking ready to punch his older brother.
"SHE HAD TO GO! SHE WAS A DANGER TO YOU! AND JOHN DESERVED WHAT HE GOT," Mycroft replied instantly, and that seemed to be the last straw for Sherlock.
He lunged forward, hell bent, it seemed, on beating the crap out of his brother.
Signally quickly to Greg, he immediately tackled Sherlock to the ground, forcing his face into the dirt as he writhed under John.
Shaking his head, John glanced up at Mycroft, John saw Greg holding him back, Mycroft's hands against his back.
Both of the brothers had gone berserk. If Greg and John hadn't been there, God knows what woul have happened.
John waited until Greg forced Mycroft into his car and it drove out of sight before he finally let Sherlock up, the team staring with wide eyes.
John grabbed Sherlock's hand and dragged him with him as they headed off home, stopping to quickly text Greg that they would talk later.
John had a niggling feeling that this case was too easy. There was something about the body that was annoying John, but he couldn't figure out what it was.
Shrugging it off, John tangled his finger's with Sherlock's, glancing up at the tall detective.
His face still looking like he might murder somebody.
Sighing, John looked around and spotted an overpass and smiled, remembering the one Sherlock had confessed his love to John under.
John gently tugged Sherlock under it, away from prying eyes.
Sherlock didn't seem to be paying attention, so John gently back Sherlock against the wall.
When his back hit the cool wall, Sherlock blinked several times in rapid succession before focusing on John and looking confused.
John chuckled softly, leaning up, pressing his body against Sherlock's, and softly kissing Sherlock's delicious lips.
Immediate distraction for Sherlock, something that John knew and was proud of.
Sherlock's hand came to rest on his hips, leaning down slightly to accommodate for John's short height. His eyes closed and a low moan came from the consulting detective's throat.
John smiled slightly, allowing his own eyes to drift closed as his hands came up to tangle in Sherlock's silky black hair.
God, how John loved Sherlock's hair.
Pulling back slightly, John allowed Sherlock to turn them around and press John against the wall. Sherlock pressed his body close to John's, he leant down and nuzzled John's neck, inhaling deeply.
One of John's hand slid down and rested on Sherlock's shoulder. They stayed like that for a little bit, breathing deeply and just revelling in the others company.
When John started to feel the cold (having no jumper thanks to Sherlock) he gently pushed at Sherlock.
When the detective raised his head from the crook of John's neck, John gave him one last, lingering kiss."We should be getting home, it's getting late," John whispered softly, smiling up at Sherlock.
Sherlock, who seemed to be in some sort of daze, nodded absently, grabbing John's hand and striding out from under the overpass.
In the middle of the night, John bolted upright, sweat dripping from his body. Eyes darting around wildly, John's breathing came in harsh pants.
Sherlock, sleeping soundly next to John, gave a little mumble before quietening down.
God, John hadn't had that nightmare for months. Not since the night before he met Sherlock.
The same dream, coming back to haunt him.
The dream of where he couldn't save his friends, who had been severely injured, no matter what he did, they still died. Blood dripped off of their bodies, the sound of explosions, the distant roar of fighting soldiers, each trying to win and go home safely to their families, the panic in their eyes as they realised this was the end for them. Then the glassy blankness that overcame their expressions as they heaved their final breaths.
John groaned, holding his head and bringing his knees up, silent tears streaking down his face and making quiet thuds as they landed on the covers.
Rocking back and forth slightly, John tried to shake the dream away, but it persisted, haunting him, making him feel guilty; more tears dripped down his cheeks at a faster rate.
Turning slightly to face Sherlock, John felt an irrational hope that Sherlock would wake up and comfort him, but Sherlock was fast asleep.
The next morning, and John was edgy and tired. The same nightmare had plague his dreams all night, until he was forced to get up.
Dragging his tired limbs, he changed into something suitable for work, and really just wanted a nice sleep. No nightmares.
Holding back a yawn, John looked over at Sherlock as he stretched out on John's bed. He watched John through sleep lidded eyes, but John turned away before Sherlock could notice something was wrong.
John caught a glimpse of Sherlock's frown as he walked out of the room and into the bathroom.
Sitting down with his nice hot tea, John handed Sherlock his and wrapped both hands around his cup, eyes becoming distant as his dream, his nightmare, plagued his waking thoughts.
"John?" Sherlock's quiet voice snapped him out of it and he started violently, his tea sloshing in his cup.
"Yes, Sherlock?" John asked, feeling edgy.
He could feel Sherlock studying John carefully, and he forced himself to turn and meet the consulting detective's gaze.
"Are you alright?" Sherlock's voice was low, careful, as if John was about to break.
"Hm? Yeah, I'm fine. Perfectly alright. Oh, look at the time, I better be off to work. Bye, Sherlock," John rambled quickly, sculling his tea and giving Sherlock a kiss on the forehead before he rushed downstairs.
After another mundane day at the clinic, John was bone tired and desperately trying to think of something other than his nightmare as he climbed the stairs to the flat, his feet dragging slightly.
When he opened the door, Sherlock was sitting on the couch, head turned and facing the door, frowning.
As soon as John entered, Sherlock stood, smiling, his eyes roaming over John's face.
John smiled happily, yet tiredly, and trudged over to Sherlock, giving him a tight hug, taking deep breaths to try and control his mind.
He needed a distraction.
And Sherlock could be the one that could distract him.