Piggyback

 

The rain pouring down outside, made it close to impossible for John to look out of the windows of the restaurant, in which he and Sherlock were currently eating. A soft beating on the roof could be heard as millions of drops splashed against it, in a rhythm only the drops themselves knew.

It seemed never ending, and John feared the dinners end.

He tore his gaze from the windows and looked at his friend sitting across of him. Sherlock seemed unimpressed by the weather. His tall, dark figure was relaxed and concentrated on the food in front of him, rather than the splashing outside. His eyes were distant, clearly showing how far away he was from the present, though with all the brain capacity he had, he could concentrate on both the food and the things on his mind, since he always had something to think about; a flaw in his last case's solution, a stray piece of hair on a woman's jacket sitting a few chairs from theirs or something else, small, tiny, unimportant for people, but important for Sherlock, the greatest perfectionist of them all.

“It's raining.” John said, trying to stir up a conversation and to get in contact with his faraway mate, and, for once, it actually worked.

“Are you so awkward, that you need to talk about the weather with me, John?” A usual arrogant comment. John was used to talk like that, but it none the less hurt his pride.

“It's not like I haven't tried to talk to you about other things.” he responded sourly, mumbling incoherent words sounding very much like prat, and playing with his spoon, with which he had just finished his dinner.

True enough, John had tried to start a conversation, but had been either overheard, ignored or something of the like. A soft sigh escape John's dry lips, and he once again cast a glance outside, hoping against hope that the rain had ceased, or at least lessened, but neither was the case. It was still pouring down, as is someone was emptying an everlasting bucket of water.

Unnoticed by John, Sherlock smiled, the blond's comment humoring him, knowing what John had said was true. Sherlock has just chosen to ignore it, having guessed that it would annoy his friend, and loving said friend's reactions.

Sherlock finished eating and leaned back into his seat, placing both hands together by his mouth, as if praying, a habit of his.

“Should we go then?” He asked, glancing at John over the tip of his slender fingers. John was still staring into the rain and the developing darkness, seemingly hoping it would stop, if he just looked at it intensely enough. So far though, it hadn't worked.

“When it rains that much?” John's eyes flickered from the large windows to his friend, looking at him incredulously.

“Yes. The rain surely is going to keep falling for quite a time still, and I have important matters to tend to.”

John sighed and nodded. Calling a server and paying the bill, the two got from their warm seats, and headed out into the cold-hearted, wet world.

 

The sound of the endless raindrops splashing to the sidewalks and the streets were loud in John's ears, as they opened the door and stared out. Or John stared, but Sherlock being a rather impatient man, pushed past him and went outside, not caring about the merciless weather. Soon after John followed, although eyebrows high aloft, finding his roommate rather odd and careless, but just as soon as he had taken his first step outside, he regretted it again as the first million drops his him in no less than a second. John wrapped his jacket closer around him, and hurried to Sherlock, who had almost vanished in the heavy rainfall and the darkness, that by now had fully enveloped the city. Not a lot of stars were visible. It had been overcast the whole day, heavy, dark clouds filled to the brim with the water that was pouring down now, had circled the city, warning of the rain that was to come that afternoon.

John was soaked even before he reached his mate, who was just as wet, his dark, once curly hair sticking to his forehead and his black jacket looking even more black, if that was even possible. Water was dripping from both's hair and nose, making them look like drowned mice.

The two walked in silence, soon not visible from the restaurant, where they had gotten their dinner, neither having bothered to make food themselves, and neither having the skill.

Mrs. Hudson was out of town for the weekend, to visit some relative of her's, so the two men couldn't rely on her making them eatable food – yes, even though she hated doing it, Sherlock's puppy eyes always made her do it anyway. Therefore they had headed for the restaurant ignoring the warnings of the weather from above.

John grimaced at the thought of their imprudence and looked up at Sherlock, whose expression was like stone, completely unreadable, like usual. “Can't we get a taxi?” John asked, looking around for said transport device. “Sure. Do you have any money?” John patted his pockets, but knew already before doing so, that he was broke, having used the last bit for the food.

“Forget it.” He sighed, and Sherlock chuckled, finding John's face rather amusing.

 

The two walked for a bit in silence, getting more and more wet, both sniffling silently now and then, the cold eating them up. Sherlock was in his own faraway thoughts again, escaping the wet reality that way. He was thinking about a case, they just had solved a few days prior. It had been an exceptionally good one. One that required thinking and investigation. Most of the cases people laid out for them were boring and easy. Straightforward to say the least, and Sherlock wondered why people even bothered to ask for help. But on the other hand, John didn't often understand even the simplest cases. It would just be nice, if their would be more clever minded and cunning criminals out there, and not only the ignorant ones.

Sherlock looked down, expecting to see his friend walking alongside him, but this was not the case. John wasn't there. Sherlock looked back over his shoulder, surprised, and there, a few meters behind him was John, gritting his teeth and clutching his leg.

“John?” Sherlock asked approaching carefully, eyes fixed on John's face, a slight frown on his face, one might could mistaken for concern, although Anderson would be the first to deny Sherlock having enough heart to feel anything for another being.

“Yes Sherlock?” John answered breathlessly, sweat mixing with the water on his forehead.

“Is it your leg again?” The taller of the two asked softly, placing a comforting hand on the blond's shoulder. Said blond just nodded, biting away all the snarky comments he could have responded in return of the obvious question, not daring to open his mouth in case a scream would escape him. Tears had already sprung to his eyes, and John bit his lips to keep himself from making any sound of pain, almost biting hard enough to draw blood.

“Fuck!” He hissed, very unlike himself, as he tried to move. It had been forever since his leg has hurt this much. Years even. There had been small episodes, where it would have given John a slight limb, but this, this was different. This was so much worse.

 

Memories of the of war, and his time in the army came back to him full force, and the horrible images flashed across his eyes, erasing the real world and Sherlock for a moment. Nothing, not even the constant drops hammering upon John, brought him back or were even noticed for that matter. John was gone. Years back. Away from everything but the pain of seeing all the faces, that had died during that war. Even though John had an unhealthy addiction to the excitement of a war, and the adrenaline that went with it, he wasn't heartless. The comrades he had lost, while nursing the fighting soldiers tore painfully at his chest. Tom, Harry, Edward. John still knew the names of all of them. None had slipped form his mind. Never would if the nightmares, he sometimes awoke from screaming, would haunt him until the day he died.

John was loosing it, and soon after he fell unconscious.

 

He woke again some time later, to the sound of soft panting and a slight swaying that indicated, that he was moving. Slowly John opened his tired eyes and took in his surroundings. Surroundings he didn't understand. From wherever he was, he could see the wet concrete passing by beneath him, and arm and his own dangling feet. John was positive that he, himself, wasn't moving, but still there was movement causing him to shift past shop after shop. Unable to help himself and the beginning headache that followed his confusion, he let out a puzzled “huh?”.

“Oh. So you're awake now. How is the leg, John?” Sherlock said it, in a voice that was so unlike his usual arrogant tone, that John for a second got even more confused, but then it everything came back, and it dawned on him, where he was and what must have happened, after he fell unconscious. Getting a little redder in his already red face – it was pretty cold outside and the rain wasn't helping much – after having realized on which back he was, John tried to feel any pain in his lower region. Sherlock's warm, moving body beneath him was rather distracting, but he managed anyway.

“It feels alright again. I can't really move it, but a hot bath will help I'm sure. The pain is gone though.”

“Ah. That's good to hear. We should be home soon. I hope you enjoy this, 'cause my back doesn't.” Sherlock said, the smile on his face hidden in his words.

“Let me down then.” John responded, getting even redder.

“Don't be silly you fat-ass,” Sherlock cooed. “You can't walk.”

John became silent after that, hating the truth and the pain Sherlock was going through because of him. Sherlock's smile vanished, as John didn't reply, and he just focused on getting home quick. The rain was still as heavy and hard as ever, but the friction between John's chest and...lower parts and Sherlock's back kept them distracted enough not to mind the weather.

 

After a short while their street came into view and the two of them sighed with relief. Sherlock's breathing was more like gasps by now – John wasn't exactly the lightest man, and Sherlock not the strongest – and his throat was beginning to burn. When walls once more surrounded them, the air warm and damp, Sherlock's legs buckled beneath him. Quickly, though carefully, he got John down to the floor.

“Think you can walk the stairs yourself?” Sherlock smirked, snarky although exhausted. John just nodded and took a hold of the banister, jumping up one step at a time. Sherlock walked behind him, ready to catch him if his leg should become a bother again – something he of course would deny to the end of his days, his pride and ego stopping him from spilling it.

John made it save and secure to their apartment and quickly got rid of his tacky jacket, Sherlock mirroring him. Then he made a move for the bathroom, and Sherlock for the kitchen to brew some tea. Just before the door closed behind the both of them, John stopped bit his lip.

 

“Thank you Sherlock.”

 

And then he was gone, the locked bathroom door hiding him from Sherlock's widely grinning face.