Just Within Your Reach

John Watson - Four

Hey Guys. Sorry for me going MIA. I had a lot of stuff to deal with and I just couldn't get on. I'm giving you this chapter as a make up though. Hope you guys love it.

Comment, vote, tell me what you think.

Oh! And the video above goes with something I added at the end of this chapter that has to do with Sherlock and his violin. I'd recommend listening to it after you've read the chapter so you understand.

John made his way to the kitchen, the smell of fresh tea in the air. He would have to thank Mrs. Hudson the next time he saw her. He missed when she made it, but now he had to depend on Sherlock for the time being. He made his way down the stairs thinking over what had happened. Sherlock had come into his room because of his nightmares, had held him all night, and then rushed out.

John had no idea what to make of it, or if he even did want to make anything of it. He entered the kitchen and looked around. Sherlock wasn't here, so he was probably in his room. They had booked separate rooms, with a door connecting them.

John leaned into the fridge, wondering what to actually cook, when he heard a noise behind him.

He turned around to find a disheveled Sherlock leaning against his kitchen counter. His hair was a mess, sticking up at odd angles. John took the rest of him in. He was dressed in the clothes he'd rushed out in.

John averted his eyes, leaning back into the fridge.

A low laugh went through the kitchen, "Are you making breakfast?"

John shivered, "I was thinking about it." He heard Sherlock hum.

"So? What are we having?" John shook his head, which was still in the fridge. "I don't know Sherlock."

A moment passed. "Are you going to keep your head in there all day?"

John turned, but the look on Sherlock's face wasn't rude, or mirthless.

It was humorous. He was laughing, and kidding, with John.

"No," he said, " do you actually want food, or did you just come down here to mess with me?" John asked.

Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together, and John looked away for a second.

"I think," he said, "that I do want some food."

John nodded, and turned back to the fridge, grabbing some bacon that had been thrown in there when they had first arrived. He got it out of the package, lying it in strips in the pan.

The sizzling was a welcome noise to the quiet.

John moved to the cup of tea and then turned to Sherlock. "You made this?" Sherlock nodded and took a sip. He turned his eyes up to Sherlock.

"This one is actually good, Sherlock." the other man smiled and John's stomach twisted.

He's your best friends. Stop looking at him like that, John thought.

John shook his head head and looked down, hearing a shuffling. "How long do these cook?" John looked up.

"They should be done by now," John turned to set his cup down before he walked over, only to be rewarded with a sharp gasp sounding and the loud clang of iron hitting linoleum. John started forward cursing, and rushed to Sherlock. The pan was on the ground, forgotten by John.

Sherlock was standing, the pan at his feet, looking at his left hand. John cursed and took Sherlock's wrist, pulling it so he could look at the palm of it better. Sherlock let out a little gasp, but John ignored it, and pulled Sherlock to the sink, turning the water on, and pushing Sherlock's palm under without a word.

Sherlock took a sharp breath when the water hit his palm. "Why the bloody hell did you just grab it?" John asked. Sherlock turned a bit to look at him. "I forgot you couldn't just grab it."

"You forgot-How the hell did you-Did you...delete that you have to use a pan holder? John's voice rose a bit. A grin went across Sherlock's face.

"I don't really need it in my line of work," Sherlock had leaned down a bit, and a shiver went through John.

John dropped Sherlock's hand and bent down to pick up the pan, which no longer was 'burn you skin off' hot. He sighed a threw it in the opposite sink. "Now we have nothing to eat," John mumbled under his breath and ran a hand through his hair.

"We should probably go anyways," Sherlock said and pulled his hand from the water, turning the faucet off.

John nodded and made his way to the stairs, ignoring Sherlock when he called for John. He pushed his door open and grabbed his bags, heading back down the stairs.

He felt angry, his chest constricting, and he had a faint pounding in his head. Although he had no idea why he was so angry.

John sighed as he set the bags by the door, only to have Sherlock come from his room, holding his bag as well. John let out another sigh, and picked his bag up, throwing the door open. He made his way out to the car they had "borrowed" from Lestrade, and, once again, threw open the door, hoping in. Sherlock was about a minute later than John, but did the same.

He opened the door, climbed in, threw his bag in the back and started the car. He put his hand on the wheel and flinched a bit. God dammit, John cursed to himself. He should've bandaged Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock began driving, and John looked out the window. He watched building pass, and then they began to disappear, until almost no houses were seen, and woods and fields took their place. It was soothing, the hum of the engine, the feel of the car driving, and the woods passing by quickly.

John leaned his head against the window, and closed his eyes. He was like that for a couple moments, and then he heard a low humming coming from beside him. He didn't move, and just listened. The pressure in he chest eased a bit when he realized what Sherlock was humming. It was one of the works he played on his violin whenever John was upset.

John had looked through the pages one day, and saw the words : John's piece. He had loved the sound of the way Sherlock had played it before, and had loved it even more after that. And he felt a deep darkness coming over him as he listened to Sherlock's humming.

And, as the song hit it's crescendo, John fell into sleep.