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The door slammed open; John stumbled into their shared dorm room. Sherlock glanced up from where he was working on his notes and froze. “What the hell happened to you?” Sherlock asked. His limbs are strangely numbed; he thought how someone normal would already be trying to comfort John.
“Can’t you deduce it?” John said sarcastically. Sherlock swallowed uncomfortably. (Split eyebrow, recently scabbed over scrap on right cheekbone - left handed punch. Wincing, moving other limbs gingerly, fought back. Knocked down at some point - scrape on the underside of John’s chin, small patches of dust on his sleeve. John doesn’t start fights but this one must have hit an emotional nerve, otherwise he wouldn’t be angry, only resigned. Emphasis on deduce - he got into a fight over me.)
(Again.)
Sherlock looked away; each bruise and scrape accumulated on John’s soft skin screamed at him. “You need to stop caring what those morons say,” he said. (They’ve always said cruel things. You’re wasting your time.)
“No, Sherlock!” John said loudly. “I can’t stop caring… They talk about ‘us!’” Sherlock stared at the desk. If he was a better person, perhaps he would be looking for the first aid kit they’ve stashed in their room for when this happens to Sherlock instead. If Sherlock was a better person, maybe he wouldn’t have let an “us” happen.
John sat down on their bed, leaned heavily on his elbows. He continued firmly, “I will always care about ‘us.’ I will always defend ‘us.’ Always.”
(Don’t make promises you can’t keep, John.) “I’ll go get the first aid kit,” Sherlock said instead. (Did they shove you down, grind your face against the pavement and tell you how cruel, how crazy I was? Did they shove unhelpful advice down your throat, tell you I wasn’t worth this, that if you were smart you should just walk away?) He got up and fetched the kit from the bathroom.
If Sherlock was a better person, he might be muttering inane platitudes about how people hate no matter what, soothing John into believing everything was going to be all right in the end, and reassuring him with petty words that their bond could never be defeated by mere fists.
Sherlock sat on the bed and poured iodine onto a cotton ball. “Don’t flinch,” he said, carefully dabbing at John’s cuts and scrapes. “It’s a good job that at least you didn’t get any gravel in the wounds.”
John snorted. “Yeah,” he said tiredly. John half-smiled at Sherlock. “The other guy looked worse though.”
“I wouldn’t expect any less,” Sherlock said. (John needs more, deserves better than this. Doesn’t he?) Sherlock moved on to John’s hands. “Do you need help for the rest of your injuries or should I take care of them?”
John said, “I’m fine.” He leaned over and pressed a kiss against Sherlock’s cheekbone. “It’s just a scratch.” He frowned. “You okay? I can take care of myself. There’s no need to fuss over me like this.”
Sherlock packed the kit away neatly and stood up to return it to the bathroom. John shot his hand out and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist. “Hey, Sherlock. I got battered today because I care about you and I want, I need to know that you’re okay. With this.” John tugged gently on Sherlock’s arm. “With us.”
(You got hurt.)
“You got hurt,” Sherlock said. He met John’s eyes briefly. “It won’t happen again.”
“Woah, wait Sherlock, it’s okay, it’s not your fault.”
(You got hurt.)
“I know,” he said. He tugged his wrist out of John’s hand and put the kit away. (John gets hurt because of morons. Because of me.) “Believe me,” Sherlock said, returning to stand next to the bed. “I know.”
John lifted his chin, anxiety wrinkling its way across his face. John asked, “Do you regret this then? Us?”
(Shouldn’t I?) Sherlock didn’t say anything. (You got hurt.) Sherlock shook his head. John grinned and tugged Sherlock down into his lap.
“I’ll look after us. Always,” John repeated. “Okay?” Sherlock leaned his forehead against John’s shoulder. If he pressed his ear carefully enough against John’s neck, he could feel the faint pulse of John’s steady heart.
(How badly I want to hope so.)