Drums and Fireworks

Sherlock licked his lips, almost nervously, pressing them into a thin line as he watched BBC Weather.

There was a distinct lack of carrying-on in the town, which would have made Sherlock unsettled on any given day, but this was different. He wasn't even watching the news, per se, but the weather forecast.

There was a thunderstorm heading directly towards London.

It was easily the 'hot topic' around the city. One impending thunderstorm and everyone either chattered on in excited anticipation or wondered if they should take precautions. It was absolutely amazing how simple-minded people were so worked up over the most trivial of things.

Sherlock resolutely looked towards the window.

Rain was beating against the panes of glass. Drizzly London had turned into a completely drenched London and this was only the forefront of the storm. Heavy rain was to proceed the high winds that were expected. Only then would the lightning and thunder move by before letting the city fall back into its usual regime of drizzling sleet.

There would be approximately fifteen more minutes of rain before the winds picked up and the thunder and lightning would begin.

Sherlock's stomach was already upset.

He had a slight, but wholly irrational, fear of thunderstorms. It was something that he tried never to think about and one of the least things that he actually had time to deal with. Besides, it hardly stormed in London. He was fine.

John had gone out earlier. Sherlock expected that he would return home in approximately seven minutes, by which time Sherlock planned on being safely tucked away in his room, feigning sleep throughout the entirety of the storm. He didn't have a means of dealing with this slight phobia, but he also did not want John's opinion on the matter. John, who was ex-military and had lived through things worse than thunder and lightning, much worse. He was a doctor, so he would surely understand phobias. But Sherlock was Sherlock Holmes, the never fazed man of cold, calculating logic. It would harm his pride if John found out about this little irrational thing lodged into Sherlock's mind.

It had started in childhood and had grown since, this little nagging sensation in the back of his head, telling him all the dangers of thunderstorms. Given his location, no, he didn't have to deal with many storms, but it never ceased his reaction when he was introduced to one. It was... annoying.

Sherlock turned off the television and stood, lazily walking back to his bedroom. There was no way to feign nonchalance when his body was thrumming with nerves and anxiety. He fell into bed and drew the plush blanket over his shoulder, staring unblinkingly at the dresser in his line of sight. He had already prepared his room for the storm, as much as he could manage, by closing the windows and drawing the curtains. With the hour as it were, mostly darkness filled his quiet sanctuary. It was pleasant when trying to sleep, but it would be murder when the lightning started.

Sherlock closed his eyes, permitting himself a small sigh.

Six minutes and thirty-seven seconds later, the exterior door to Baker Street was pushed open. Thumping on the stairsteps, sitting room door, and then-

"Sherlock?"

It was hardly a difficult leap, Sherlock thought, to figure that he was in. His coat was still on the back of the door, his shoes sitting underneath the table in the sitting room. His bedroom door, normally open when unoccupied, was now closed.

He huddled more comfortably into his blankets and drew the duvet close, letting his breathing fall into a rhythm that would otherwise signal deep sleep.

His bedroom door opened. There was a thin sigh, something uttered about "bloody sleeping patterns", and then the door closed again.

Sherlock opened his eyes, returning his gaze to the dresser. He was not tired, had never been less tired, in fact. He was far too anxious to sleep, although, if he didn't have an experiment on, he would have swallowed a sleeping pill in hopes to escape the storm. But, he did have an experiment on, so he didn't want to waste hours after the disturbance just to sleep. That was dull.

Thunder crashed.

It caught Sherlock off guard; he was only nine minutes into his fifteen minute count of the storm's ETA. He jumped, cursed his reaction, and curled up slightly. Tension ruled his movements, preventing him from moving or barely breathing more than the shallow inhale-exhale required of him.

His regime was rudimentary, and helped nothing, but was instinctual all the same. First, find something warm and comfortable to wear. Next, close all windows, blinds, or curtains. Then, retreat to bedroom and curl up under duvet. Try to retain a normal breathing pattern, shiver it out, and get through the storm with as little gastrointestinal distress as possible.

It was easier said than done.

Five minutes into the storm, Sherlock's stomach was already so upset that he was swallowing bile every other lightning flash. He'd purposefully not eaten or drank anything during the day, except some water, just in case, but he really didn't want to add to the unpleasantry of his fear by throwing up as well.

Lightning flashed and lit up Sherlock's room, bright and striking even as he hid under the duvet. He squeezed his eyes closed against the brightness and waited for the afterimage to fade into nothingness, swallowing nausea again.

"Sherlock," John's voice said. It was followed by his door opening again. "Sherlock, I don't know if it matters but the power went out and your experiment's gone kind of grayish-green."

Bloody hell, Sherlock thought inarticulately. That experiment had been almost finished, too. So much for going back to an experiment after the storm.

"It's fine," he said thinly, managing to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, prying his teeth apart. His tone did not sound encouraging and he knew John's next line of inquiry before he even voiced it.

"You okay?"

Sherlock shivered tremendously as thunder cracked. "I am-" slight pause for a wince when lightning flashed- "fine."

"You don't sound fine."

Before he knew what was happening, the duvet was pulled away from his head. Panic, irrational and unwarranted, shot into his veins, turning them to ice, as he made a grab for the blankets.

"Sherlock? What's wrong with you? Are you sick?"

"No."

John pulled the blanket back again and Sherlock was subjected to what he suspected was a torch beam. "Sherlock, you're shaking like a leaf!"

"'is cold," Sherlock muttered, grabbing at the blankets again.

John held them away, pressing his hand against Sherlock's forehead. "You don't have a fever, but you're sweating like hell. What's going on?"

Thunder crashed and he curled his legs to his chest in an unconscious reaction to the noise. A red hot flash of embarrassment rushed to his face but he pushed it away; typical human reactions were useless to him.

"Are... are you afraid of thunderstorms?" John asked incredulously.

Sherlock forced back the groan of irritation that threatened to dispose his irritation and instead dragged the blanket back over his head.

"You are, aren't you? You're afraid of thunderstorms." John's voice was unmistakably housing humour. "Why?"

"I am fine," Sherlock muttered, flinching when lightning cracked. "Go away..."

"I do not understand you sometimes," John said, laughing quietly. "Whatever. I'll be in the next room if you need me."

"Why would I need you?" Sherlock muttered.

Thunder cracked and the walls of Baker Street creaked ominously. A whimper caught in Sherlock's throat before he could squelch it.

"Sherlock- Sherlock did you just whimper?"

"No," Sherlock said defiantly, breaking off breathlessly at the lightning.

"Yes, you did. That was you. You're really that afraid of them?"

Sherlock shook his head wildly, even though John couldn't see him. "No, I'm really f-fine. Perfectly fine," he stammered.

The blanket was pulled away again. "Sherlock, it's just a storm. It's not going to hurt you," John said.

Sherlock muttered something that was lost in his panic and pressed his hands over his eyes. He wished John would give him back his blanket.

"Hey..." John's voice was tinged with caring doctor now than humoured friend. "You're alright, Sherlock. Come on." He pried Sherlock's hands away from his eyes. "It's okay."

Sherlock snapped his wrists away and grabbed a pillow to shove over his face.

"Stop that," John said, taking the pillow as well. "You can't get over it if you don't face it. You of all people should be able to handle a phobia."

Thunder rumbled again and, the next thing Sherlock knew, he had his fingers knitted into John's jumper and he was dangerously close to burying his face against the man's chest. With a flash of lightning, he did just that.

"Sherlock- Sherlock." John placed his hand hesitantly against Sherlock's back, not quite hugging him but not pushing him away, either. "Just take some deep breaths, mate. You're drenched in sweat," he added.

As if he didn't know that. His T-shirt was clinging to his skin uncomfortably and sweat was tickling his temples. Sherlock struggled to draw in a deep breath.

"Alright. You're alright; just breathe."

Sherlock was vaguely aware that John was moving, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. Sherlock didn't let go, but moved with him, hiding his face against John's jumper. It was soft and warm, and smelled of their laundry detergent and the aftershave that John used.

Sherlock sighed thinly, shivering as he nudged closer to his flatmate. This was undignified. Very, very undignified, his mind added, but it was simply John. John was a doctor. Any idea that Sherlock had had of not letting John find out about this had gone out the window. His pride was the last thing on his mind right now. He would regret all of this later, he was sure, but there was... unexpected comfort to be found in John's presence. Sherlock, as a child, had never had anyone around, so this unidentifiable feeling to burrow into another person's protective embrace was foreign to him. He did not necessarily dislike it. He would not admit to that, either.

"It's alright," John was saying as he settled back to lean against the headboard. "You're perfectly fine. Everything's going to be okay."

The constant consoling grated on Sherlock's eardrums, but he didn't dare complain. He would rather listen to John's babbling than focus on the roll of the thunder.

Another clap of thunder and John said "Hear that? It's moving away".

Sherlock inclined his head in a slight nod, forcing another lungful of air in through his nose.

He winced, catching the flash on a blink. John's fingers reassuringly pressed circles onto his shoulder. Sherlock pressed closer before stopping himself; there was only so much John that he could lean into lest they both up on the floor.

Sherlock sighed shakily.

The storm tapered off soon, or maybe Sherlock just stopped hearing it. He wasn't entirely sure, but crippling exhaustion was hitting his body with a force that he only ever experienced post-case. He wanted to hold onto consciousness to make sure that things were alright and that John wasn't going to leave his side, but, one by one, the lights flickered off in all rooms of his mind palace. He was left with only the John room, cosy and comforting and smelling of laundry detergent and aftershave.

Sherlock rest his head on John's shoulder and, quite quickly, darkness overtook his entire mind palace.

So, this is another one of those things that I wrote awhile ago and never posted. Went back and tweaked it some... Ideally, I wanted to have a second chapter but it's just not working, so I am by no means promising anything there.

Yes, I know it's a bit OOC. But the bigger they are, the harder they fall. If Sherlock had a phobia, it would be strangely realistic to think it would be a silly one. (Not that this is silly. I'm scared of thunderstorms, too.) So... yeah, I like it. If you don't, I'm sorry.

I do not own Sherlock. Drop a review if you feel inclined to share your thoughts. Thank you!