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Sherlock found himself both regretful that he hadn’t brought John, and his steady firing hand, on this case and grateful that John was back at the hotel room and safe from danger. Well, as safe as anyone could be with him for a flatmate.
Sherlock had insisted that he was just following up on a lead and that John’s presence was not required. After all, he had been successfully consulting for New Scotland Yard for years before John had appeared.
In fact, John was probably just settling in for his evening routine of ludicrously dull telly and a cup of tea. Usually Sherlock would either be diligently working on an experiment in the kitchen or stretched out across the sofa with his head in John’s lap, John’s warm fingers sliding through the dark, unruly tresses of his hair. While Sherlock always made sure he looked the epitome of professionalism when leaving the flat, he often found himself neglecting this habit when he stayed in. It was a show of trust that John probably didn’t even realize his flatmate bestowed upon him, a crack in his usually impenetrable façade of apathy.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, I’ve been waiting for you to find me.” A subdued voice broke through his thoughts, regaining the detective’s full attention.
“Sorry I’m late, traffic was horrendous.” Sherlock deadpanned, as he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Honestly, people were so predictable.
The man remained calmly seated, completely unresponsive to Sherlock’s attempt at sarcasm. Sherlock ignored the man’s offer of the chair situated directly across from him.
John would have laughed. John, who was safe and far, far away from Sherlock. Beautifully, wonderfully safe.
Sherlock knew that John would be furious that he had followed this lead alone, but he knew that John was exhausted. They had been called on this case in America a few days ago and had been working consistently ever since. While Sherlock was able to function on little sleep, he knew his partner was unable to do so. But he also knew that John was one of the most stubborn people he had ever met and would flat out refuse to be left behind. John would run himself ragged following after Sherlock and making sure the detective wasn’t taking unnecessary risks. Sherlock was unaccustomed to people caring enough to even contemplate such a thing, yet he found himself warmed by the thought of someone, of John, checking in on him.
“You really shouldn’t have come here. See, now I can no longer ignore your interference. I can’t have you ruining everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve. You’ve not left me with many options, Mr. Holmes.”
Sherlock was unable to resist the urge to scoff derisively. “While I do recognize the artistic liberties you took, this case was extraordinarily dull. Harvesting your victim’s organs—there’s no need to be so transparent.”
The man’s face remained carefully blank, until a tiny smirk appeared on his features. “Please then, do enlighten me.”
“I imagine being a psychiatrist with such easy access to the FBI must be very convenient for you.” Sherlock stated meaningfully, feigning an air of indifference.
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re trying to insinuate.”
“Your former patient, Will Graham, was an FBI consultant, was he not? No, don’t answer that. I already know everything. Did he become inconvenient for you? Or did he start to catch on to your little game? You used him to get inside information on cases and then framed him for the murders you committed. You must have been so pleased with yourself for having outsmarted and misled a whole team of FBI agents.” Sherlock drawled knowingly, raising a dark eyebrow at the man.
A small grin appeared on the serial killer’s face. “But not you, apparently. Tell me, Mr. Holmes, how did you figure it out?”
Sherlock smirked. This was his favorite part. It was a pity that John wasn’t here to witness the closing of one of his greatest cases yet. Sherlock imagined that John would have come up with some horrifically cliché name for it on his blog. Perhaps, A Framing in Baltimore, The Psychiatrist’s Deception, or-god forbid-Hannibal the Cannibal. Or something equally as nauseatingly pedestrian.
“It was simple really. While everyone else ran around frantically and mindlessly accepted the first suspect that was presented to them, I took a step back and examined all the facts. That’s when I discovered all the murders had one common factor: you. Will Graham, while clearly unstable, could not have committed the murders you oh so conveniently framed him for.”
Sherlock never saw the attack coming until it was already too late. The detective soon found himself receiving a blow to the head, sending him slumping to the floor unconscious.
Taking advantage of his incapacitated victim, the serial murderer placed the statue back in its place and moved quickly to restrain him. He hadn’t planned on taking another person so soon, but the English detective had just showed up on his doorstep alone and he wasn’t one to miss out on an opportunity. He had no hesitation about what parthe would be taking from him. After all, what was a genius without his brain?
The doorbell sounded and Dr. Lecter paused. Sparing his captive one last glance, he closed the office door soundly behind him.
Sherlock blinked, battling against the murky currents of lethargy and dizziness. His head spun relentlessly, causing a feeling of nausea to rise up swiftly.
Mild traumatic brain injury. Non-life threatening.
Well, this was not going at all as planned.
Scowling at being efficiently gagged and unable to speak, Sherlock listened intently as the psychiatrist’s footsteps echoed in the hallway. The front door was opened and he could hear the murmuring of two voices. Immediately, Sherlock recognized the visitor and froze in alarm. Male. Approximately 30 to 40 years old. Non-smoker. Sherlock heard the visitor enter the house and bit back a curse. His stride was achingly familiar. It was John.
Sherlock worked frantically to undo the zip ties that imprisoned his hands behind his back, but it was useless. His ankles were tied too. He was well and truly trapped here and unable to warn John that he was currently in the house of the Chesapeake Ripper, someone who had murdered countless people and consumed various organs he had harvested from them.
The name, so very simple, evoked such a deep and undeniable response in Sherlock that he found himself unable to comprehend.
All at once, Sherlock was struck by the realization of just how quickly he and John had become integral to each other’s lives. John had somehow managed to slip past Sherlock’s carefully constructed walls on the first day. This was something the consulting detective had not foreseen when the shorter man limped into St. Bart’s lab all those years ago. Sherlock was astounded at the thought of how John had quickly and easily fit into the empty space next to him. Their partnership came easily, as naturally as breathing.
Objectively, John was average in every aspect. When they first met, Sherlock had deduced his military and familial history with little more than a glance. If one cataloged and took apart John’s characteristics and history (and Sherlock had), he was seemingly normal. But all the little pieces put together made something that completely captured all of Sherlock’s attention. After a short time in John Watson’s company, Sherlock had realized his initial conclusion about him had been intrinsically flawed. Just when Sherlock thought he had his flat mate figured out, John would do something that would leave him utterly captivated by the ex-army doctor.
John Watson was anything, he was everything, but ordinary.
John approached the door to the elaborate house and rang the doorbell without hesitation. It was a bit late to be showing up on someone’s doorstep, but Sherlock hadn’t left him with many options. The wanker had run off by himself and John hadn’t heard from him in hours. Granted, Sherlock often ignored John’s texts when he was preoccupied with a case. But still, John couldn’t help but follow any lead he had on the man’s whereabouts. Which had led him to the house of Dr. Hannibal Lecter.
After a few moments a man a little older than John answered the door. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, actually. I know this may sound strange but I’m looking for my friend. We were supposed meet up in the area but I haven’t heard from him in hours.” John answered truthfully, leaving out the bit about Sherlock consulting for the FBI. He probably shouldn’t announce things like that to strangers.
The man stared at John in contemplation before opening the front door wide. “Please, do come in. I have a telephone if you would like to use it.”
“Thanks. I’m Dr. John Watson.” He answered with an outstretched hand, knowing the Doctor title might put the man at ease about inviting a stranger into his home.
“Dr. Hannibal Lecter.” The man replied stoically, accepting a brief business-like handshake. “Though I presume our titles are in relation to different degrees.”
“I’m medical practitioner back home.” John answered as he crossed the threshold into the house.
Dr. Lecter seemed nice enough, but there was something decidedly off about him. It was just an instinctual feeling John got. The fact that Sherlock clearly found some reason to consider him a suspect only increased John’s suspicions. As much as he joked about Sherlock being a smart arse, the man really was a genius and John trusted him. He trusted Sherlock with his life.
“Yes, I noticed you’re not from here.” Dr. Lecter said, leading John through the entry hallway. “May I take your coat?”
“No, It’s alright I-“ John paused as something caught his eye. His heart skipped a beat, and John clenched his fists in agitation.
It was Sherlock’s Belstaff, hanging condemningly on the dark wood coat rack.
What the hell had Sherlock gotten himself into, now? For christ’s sake, could the man not stay out of trouble for one day?
As much as John was enticed by the lure of danger, he couldn’t stand when it endangered Sherlock. It sent John straight back to Afghanistan when he was fighting for his life, for the lives of his friends. It had progressed to the point where Sherlock had began making appearances in his war nightmares. John would be working to save a fellow soldier and army fatigues would morph into designer suits, short-cropped hair would turn to dark wild curls, and sun-tanned skin would fade to pale. It was on these nights that John would wake abruptly from the nightmare’s clutches, the sheets tangled around his legs and his throat hoarse from yelling.
The time after the fall, after Sherlock died in front of him, had been excruciating. The last words he had said to his best friend had been awful and hideously untrue accusations.
You machine!
There was so much that had been left unsaid, and John thought he had lost his chance. He thought Sherlock had died not knowing how crucial he was to John’s very being, how John had forgotten the overwhelming emptiness that consumed his life without Sherlock in it. How every morning John woke up and remembered that his best friend was gone left him feeling suffocated with grief and regret.
Seeing Sherlock’s unmoving body on the pavement had broken him.
Alright Watson, get ahold of yourself. Who knew where Sherlock was, or if he was even aliv- No. Stop it. Just stop it.
“I’m not quite used to the weather here and back home I pretty much lived in my jacket. Guess it’s grown into a bit of a habit.” John continued with a wry grin, shrugging his shoulders carelessly.
And Sherlock said he couldn’t act.
“Yes, I’m sure the weather must be a drastic change.” Dr. Lecter said as he led John to another elegantly modern room. “The home phone is here. Can I interest you in a drink?”
“No thank you, I’ve imposed enough.” John declined politely. The last thing he wanted to do was give this man the chance to drug him. Sherlock would never let him live it down.
“Of course.” The psychiatrist replied shortly, handing the phone to him. He turned and began walking towards the door to give John privacy to make the call. “What brings you to Maryland, Dr. Watson? Business or pleasure?”
John wrapped his left hand around the Sig where it was tucked into the waistband of his jeans. “A little of both actually.”
Sensing the change in his tone, Dr. Lecter paused in his retreat. “You’re with that detective, aren’t you? Sherlock Holmes and his sidekick. Did you really think news of your names hadn’t traveled across oceans?”
“Did you really think Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t solve this case?” John quipped, pointing the firearm at the man’s right kneecap. “Tell me where he is.”
“I must say I am disappointed, Dr. Watson. You’re being terribly rude.”
Then the man spun around quickly, catching John off guard. He slammed his shoulder into John, knocking him back onto the desk. A lamp crashed onto the carpeted floor. Dr. Lecter got his hands around John’s shoulders and viciously slammed him back into the desk, a crack sounding throughout the room as his head made contact with the wood.
Ignoring his spinning head, John managed to land a solid blow to his opponent’s face. Blood gushed from Hannibal’s nose as he inadvertently loosened his grip. John managed to bring his knee to meet Dr. Lecter’s abdomen before shoving the larger man off him.
As he wiped the blood from his face Dr. Lecter smiled cunningly, his teeth eerily red. Then he ran at John, slamming him against the office wall. As John felt the breath get knocked out of him, he hissed when he felt his injured shoulder twinge in protest. Goddamn his old bullet wound.
Feeling a slight pain blossom across his upper arm, John caught sight of a letter opened that seemed to suddenly appear in the other man’s hand. Acting on instinct, he grabbed Dr. Lecter’s wrist in a vice grip and twisted suddenly. The weapon fell to the ground, silent against the carpet. Then John brought their heads together in a brutal collision, and Dr. Lecter stumbled back disoriented.
Quickly, he ducked down to grab the Sig. John brought the gun down harshly towards the back of the man’s head, sending him crumpling to the ground.
Now, to find his mad detective.
Hissing out a curse, John knelt onto one knee in front of where Sherlock was sitting on the ground with his back against the wall. Deftly sliding a pocketknife out of his jacket pocket, John immediately began cutting through the zip ties that encircled Sherlock’s wrists. A muffled, disgruntled sound caught the army doctor’s attention, and he glanced at Sherlock’s face before apologetically removing the gag from his mouth. “Sorry.”
Then Sherlock’s eyes locked onto something over his shoulder. “John, behi-“
John quickly pivoted on his bended knee, his left hand adeptly sliding to where the Sig was tucked comfortably into the back of his jeans. Two gunshots rang out at once.
The serial murderer staggered to the ground, dropped his gun, and clutched at his hand that was bleeding profusely. John smirked, his blue eyes locked on where he had perfectly hit his target. After all, it wouldn’t do to kill the criminal with a firearm he technically wasn’t allowed to carry.
Sherlock’s horrified, choked gasp brought John’s attention back to him. “John.”
A sudden warmth spread across John’s chest, and he glanced down to see crimson on the material of his cream colored jumper. His vision blurred and he wavered on his knee, pitching to the side as he lost his balance.
Fire.
Pain.
Bloody hell, John had forgotten how much being shot hurt.
John vaguely heard sounds of a scuffle behind him.
Then Sherlock was quickly leaning over him, his bright eyes wide with terror and fear. “John. John, what do I do?”
“S-scarf. Apply p-pressure. Shit, it hurts.”
Filled with hatred at his own incompetence, Sherlock frantically grabbed his navy scarf off the floor, bunched it up, and pressed the material firmly to his only friend’s bleeding chest.
Growling in agony, John clenched his teeth and slammed his eyes shut in an attempt to control the sounds of pain his body was begging him to let out. He gathered the strength to open his eyes, and saw Sherlock’s pale face staring back at him in anguish. The detective’s whole body was trembling slightly as he barked instructions into his mobile phone before snapping it shut, and dropping it uselessly back to the ground.
“Sherl’ck.” Blood poured from the wound as John shifted with a hiss of pain.
“Shut up.” Sherlock snapped, tightening his grip on the material that was darkening in color at a distressing rate.
A smile, that was more of a grimace, appeared on John’s face at his friend’s words. “S-some would expect y’to be nicer to someone who’s just been shot.”
“Well maybe you should stop getting shot.” Sherlock growled before glaring at the unconscious figure lying on the ground in the other room. “He will regret ever hurting you, John. I swear, I will make him suffer for daring to point a gun at you.”
“You mad bastard.” John slurred fondly, blinking as his eyes met Sherlock’s. “I-I don’t remember it hurting this much last time.”
Sherlock flinched at his John even being able to talk about being shot more than once. John Watson, once more into the breach.
John dimly realized his body was going into shock, most likely due to blood loss and poor circulation. “Sherlock. Talk t’me. Please.”
Inhaling sharply, Sherlock reached a hand forward and brushed it lightly through the blonde-gray hair covering the injured man’s forehead. “Any preferences?”
“Tell me…tell me ‘bout growing up. What was Sherlock Holmes like as a child?”
Sherlock gazed at John in wonder. “I had a propensity for beekeeping.”
John chuckled lightly, his breathing hitching slightly in pain. “Of course you did. Only you…” He paused to catch his breath, which was slowly becoming difficult. “How long ‘fore they get here?”
“Mycroft assured me the most proficient paramedics would be here within 10 minutes.”
“Well, let’s hope s’not the one time he’s wrong.”
A shudder went through Sherlock’s thin frame, and he tightened his grip on the blood-soaked scarf as he leaned closer to John’s face. John felt soft curls brush his cheek as Sherlock’s head just barely rested on his shoulder, as if he couldn’t get close enough, as if he couldn’t bear even the few inches of space between them. Then again, Sherlock never really was one to recognize the boundaries of personal space, at least not with John.
Catching the stricken look on his flat mate’s face, John sighed apologetically. “Not good?”
“Definitely a bit not good.” Sherlock replied quietly, his impossibly deep voice a rumble.
They were quiet for a moment; John’s labored and abnormally fast breathing was the only sound in the quiet room. “What ‘bout-“
“I took care of him.” Sherlock interrupted darkly, shuffling closer to John while keeping the pressure on his chest.
“What d’you m-“
“Dr. Lecter’s temple became quite well-acquainted with the butt of his own gun again.”
John huffed in laughter before shivering violently. “S’cold.”
Sherlock fumbled to slide his suit jacket off and placed it over the man beside him. He had left his Belstaff coat on the coat rack in the entry room to the house, knowing that anyone who had met him would immediately recognize it. And John had. Of course, John was the one who followed after him. It was always, always John.
The detective raked a trembling hand through his hair in agitation, a helpless sound escaping his throat. He had never felt so terribly useless in his entire life. It was a hideous emotion.
“Sherl’ck. If…If this is the only chance I-“
“John.” Sherlock choked out, gray eyes desperate and pleading.
“No, I need t'say it this time. You are the best and the wisest man that I have ever known. You saved me when I had nothing. I…I count myself lucky to be of use with the work, and-“
“Of use?” Sherlock interrupted in outraged agitation, his bright eyes wild. “John. You are necessary, not only to the work, but to me.” He paused. “You know I don’t find this…sentiment easy.”
John’s eyes drifted closed, his labored breathing scaring Sherlock to his core.
Possible lung injury? Sherlock didn’t see a bullet, so it was currently lodged in John’s chest. John was lying on his back, which would help prevent him from bleeding out.
Damn it, where was the wretched ambulance?!
“John, no. You idiot, what were you thinking? Please. Please, do not stop breathing.”
John smiled. “Someone once told me breathing was dull.”
Beyond being able to control himself, Sherlock leaned forward and pressed a harsh, frantic, yet chaste kiss to John’s lips.
“W-what was that?”
“I would have thought that was obvious.” Sherlock’s facial expression softened after seeing John’s bleary confusion, before quickly morphing back to a look of horror when he started coughing up blood. “You have to stay awake. Do you hear me, John? Keep your eyes on me.”
Pain flashed across John’s face. “Don’t I always?”
Sherlock exhaled shakily, one hand uselessly clasping his army doctor’s, his long fingers intertwined with John’s colder ones.
Sirens in the distance.
Please God, let him live.
John blinked back into awareness, his eyes squinting at the glaring light that infiltrated his senses. The familiar clean and overly sterilized smell let John know that he was in a hospital room.
As John looked around the room, he realized that he wasn’t alone. A completely mad consulting detective occupied the chair closest to the bed. It had clearly been dragged across the room and placed directly next to where John was lying. His impossibly long limbs were folded into that tiny space, yet the man remained stubbornly asleep. John raked his eyes over Sherlock’s lean frame. The man looked exhausted.
John noticed he had neglected to change clothes, still in the rumpled white button down that suffered from a few bloodstains. His blood. The long sleeves were rolled up to expose pale, substantially muscled forearms that were dusted lightly with dark hair. John offhandedly realized his preoccupation was most likely due to Sherlock’s insistence on wearing a suit, which covered every bit of skin. Except he always kept the damn top button undone. The thought of that damned purple shirt send a thrill of heat through John. He resolutely told himself it was annoyance and not any other baser emotion.
Finally, John cleared his throat quietly and attempted to rouse the slumbering detective. “Sherlock.” He grimaced at the rough quality to his voice from disuse.
Sherlock woke instantly, seeming to automatically snap into consciousness. He focused on John immediately, his bright eyes unmoving from John’s reclined form. His eyes flickered from John’s face to the bandaged wound a few times, as if he were torn on where to fix his gaze. His body was taut with tension as he sat ramrod straight in the plastic chair. Though Sherlock’s face was carefully blank, John saw guilt, regret, and loathing warring across his features. He seemed to be waiting for something, but John was at a complete loss at to what.
“So the minute I’m out, you start refusing to eat or shower again?” John said eventually, his throat protesting at the effort.
Wordlessly Sherlock brought a glass of much needed water to John’s lips, which he accepted gratefully. “’Ta.”
Then Sherlock was curling forward in his seat with a low discontented sound; he was close enough to John that his head rested on the bed. Long fingers dug into the bed sheets, as Sherlock seemed to fold in on himself.
John gaped in undisguised shock before he rested a warm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Noticing Sherlock lean into the touch, John slid a hand up his neck and into dark hair comfortingly. Sherlock sighed shakily and scooted closer to John’s side.
“Sherlock, it’s fine. It’s all fine.” John murmured, stroking a hand through dark, unruly curls. Sherlock buried his face deeper in the material covering John’s stomach, clutching desperately at his sides.
As Sherlock leaned over him in the hospital bed, practically crawling into the empty space next to him, John found himself struck by the sheer amount of emotion his flat mate was uncharacteristically displaying. Of course, John knew that Sherlock appreciated his presence; he was useful when it came to the work, after all.
Sitting in that private hospital room, the intense fluorescent lights burning his sensitive eyes, John was dumbfounded at the turns his life had taken. After his medical discharge all those years ago, John had found himself inconsolably out of place trying to assimilate to civilian life in London. If he was completely honest with himself, there was only one reason his gun had been one of the few possessions he owned in that pitiful bedsit. Being in the military had ingrained in him the need to always have an exit strategy.
Then he met Sherlock. Infuriating, arrogant, magnetizing Sherlock. Immediately John had found himself drawn into the consulting detective’s world and never looked back. Suddenly, London was home. Until the fall. Until Moriarty.
Even that psychopath bastard’s name caused an uncontrollable rage to rush through John and he wished more than anything that he had been the one to point a gun between Moriarty’s eyes and pull the trigger. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d killed for his mad detective. Instead, he had to watch his best friend jump off a rooftop to his death.
Two years.
For two years, John had truly believed he was gone. Suddenly, he had found that all the bright, colorful bits of life had faded to a dull gray. He was a ghost, utterly alone and traveling aimlessly with no direction.
“What…what happened?” John finally asked; his voice, gravelly from neglect, sounded startlingly loud in the quiet room.
Sherlock froze, seeming to realize he was practically clinging to John like an overeager octopus, all long limbs and pointy elbows. Immediately he drew back as if burned, his face blank as he leaned back in the uncomfortable plastic chair. He paused a moment before launching into an explanation, hands folded under his chin in his customary thinking pose.
“You fired the Sig a split second before Dr. Lecter, despite being caught off guard. Your bullet hit his hand first, excellent shooting per usual John.”
Despite himself, John felt a grin slip onto his face at the unexpected praise.
“The hand injury threw his shot off, and the bullet initially meant for your heart barely missed its mark. You fell just as I cut through the zip ties with your pocketknife, and I quickly swiped the gun off the floor and incapacitated your shooter. It seems your instinctual muscle memory with firing a gun saved your life.” Sherlock continued.
“And you warned me.” John cut in, gratitude showing on his features.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You tensed before I was able to vocalize a warning so you clearly heard his footsteps at the exact same time that I did, if not before.”
John grinned. “Guess I’m not getting too old after all.”
“Old? Please John, as if I’d be seen around London chasing criminals with an old man.” Sherlock scoffed.
“Gee thanks.”
Sherlock glared in annoyance, but John caught a flicker of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Cheeky bastard. Then they were laughing. John giggled deliriously, wiping tears from his eyes. A low chuckle sounded from Sherlock and he smiled that smile, the one he dared to only reveal in front of John.
The sight of it sent a warm thrill through the injured army doctor, before he groaned in pain that reminded him he had been shot a few days ago.
Sherlock was immediately out of his chair, pressing the button for more morphine, his radiantly green-blue eyes fixed on his flat mate. “John. John, you probably should refrain from laughing.”
John stared up at the detective’s openly concerned face, the bright lights above him creating the appearance of a halo of light surrounding inky black hair. How appropriate. After all, Sherlock had saved his life in many ways.
Then, Sherlock was looking at him with an odd look on his face.
Oh, had he spoken out loud?
“On the contrary, you saved mine. Maybe we should get you a CAT scan if your memory is failing you. Incompetent doctors probably missed it. Imbeciles.”
Apparently he had. Great.
“How…How long was I-“
“The paramedics arrived shortly after you passed out due to blood loss. In the ambulance your heart stopped for exactly 1 minute and 49 seconds, but you were revived before we reached the emergency center. Immediately, you were rushed into surgery, and there were no complications during the operation. You’ve been unconscious four days post surgery. Yesterday you gained consciousness briefly before quickly slipping under again.” Sherlock explained mechanically, eyes staring at the ceiling listlessly.
John stared at him, brow furrowed in confusion. The bloody drugs were clouding his thinking.
Sherlock was obviously bothered, but in typical Sherlockian fashion was tucking it away in his mind palace somewhere. He was probably planning on deleting the whole incident right after John got discharged from the hospital.
“Wrong.”
John started in surprise, glancing back at Sherlock.
Sherlock returned his stare, his brilliant, knowing eyes unnervingly focused. “You’re wrong.”
“What’re you talk-“
“How can you be so obtuse?! You must be doing this on purpose to…to torment me!” Sherlock burst out in frustration, raking his fingers through his flattened curls.
John gaped at him, dumbfounded. “Sherlock? I don’t understand. Wh-“
“You should get that on a t-shirt.” Sherlock said sarcastically.
“Shut up!” John barked sharply, a useful skill he picked up from being Captain Watson in the Royal Army that he never really lost.
Sherlock went silent.
“Now will you just talk to me, you git? Not everyone is a genius that can follow every fantastic leap your giant brain makes.” John said, crossing his arms. He was definitely not pouting.
Sherlock paced across the small room, muttering to himself.
Then, John noticed. Sherlock’s hair wasn’t as gravity defyingly curly because he had been continuously raking his hands through it and had neglected to put product it like he routinely did every morning. His usually obnoxiously perfect shirt was wrinkled and creased in a few places. His complexion was even paler than usual and he looked as exhausted as he did only after a long case. John had known there was something off with Sherlock, but with the evidence so clearly in front of him he became worried.
Had Sherlock been more badly wounded than he let on? Did he find John’s inability to avoid injury tedious? Was he thinking of a way to cut him out without causing a scene? John felt a heaviness in his chest at the thought. Well if that was the case, then he wouldn’t make things more difficult than they had to be. After he healed he could go pack his things and quietly move out of Baker Street. Sherlock probably would be too wrapped up in a new case or experiment to notice.
“You, John Hamish Watson, are the single most infuriating creature I have ever met.”
Before John could muster up a response, the door opened and Sherlock abandoned whatever he was about to say.
“To what do we owe the pleasure, Mycroft?” Sherlock scowled, flopping gracefully back into the cheap bedside chair.
“Clearly I’m not here for a social visit.” The taller Holmes brother sniffed. “I’m here to check on Dr. Watson’s progress. He was shot after all, do keep up brother mine.”
“A phone call would have sufficed.” Sherlock grumbled petulantly.
“Hello, Mycroft.” John said finally, earning a frown from his disgruntled flatmate.
“I’m glad to see your post-surgery recovery is going to well, if not for your own sake then for my dear brother’s.”
“Don’t you have something more productive to be doing? I believe they’re serving fairy cakes in the cafeteria.” Sherlock interrupted curtly.
“No need to be irksome Sherlock, your good doctor survived after all. You seemed to be in a terrible fright these past few days.”
Sherlock stiffened, his back tensed.
Mycroft shifted to stand up straighter, no longer leaning on his black umbrella. “I know better than to ask you two to try and stay out of trouble.” He sighed in resigned acceptance before meeting Sherlock’s eyes for a few moments, then turning to leave. “Mrs. Hudson has been informed of the incident, and there will be two tickets for a flight back to London after Dr. Watson has fully recovered. Unless you’d like to return earlier, Sherlock?”
Sherlock gave the elder Holmes a look that managed to both convey annoyance and question the other’s intelligence. “Don’t be daft, of course I’m staying. Two first class seats on the same flight will be acceptable at your expense, seeing as it was you who called us in on this case that almost killed my blogger.”
It was only after Mycroft left that John realized he had never even stepped fully into the room, instead choosing to wait in the doorway. As if even he hadn’t wanted to intrude on John and Sherlock and the strange bubble they seemed to live in all on their own.
“Well that was unexpected.” John stated for lack of something better to say.
“Tedious.” Sherlock corrected. “My brother never ceases to be meddlesome and infuriatingly tiresome.”
“We could always have a three-layered cake delivered to his office as a thank you.” John suggested, raising an eyebrow in question.
An unrestrained smile spread across Sherlock’s face as a startled laugh erupted from him. “John Watson you are….unexpected.”
Despite himself, John shifted anxiously at the intense scrutiny, his palms suddenly felt clammy as his heart pounded in his chest. Even if he hadn’t been hooked up to a heart monitor that broadcasted the sudden increase in his heart rate, John figured Sherlock would have deduced it himself.
Sherlock cocked his head curiously as he saw, no observed, John’s response
“Didn’t expect to have an injured ex army doctor who suffers from sporadic episodes of PTSD as your best friend?” John replied jokingly, attempting to alleviate the stifling tension that filled the small hospital room.
Bloody hell, had it always been like this and he was just too unobservant to notice?
If it was possible, Sherlock’s luminous eyes seemed to grow wider and brighter than before. “So, in fact…you-you mean I’m your…best friend?” Disbelief colored his tone.
John stared at him in mild surprise, before smiling fondly. “Yeah, ‘course you are. ‘Course you’re my best friend.” And more. So, so much more.
Sherlock shook his head in amazement and leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees. He had never fathomed that anyone, especially someone as good, and strong, and brave as John Watson, would even consider being his friend. And here John was, challenging all of his expectations.
Sherlock had hypothesized that John would last a week, maybe two, as his flat mate before cutting his losses and leaving. Then weeks, months, and years passed, and John stayed. And John didn’t seem to just tolerate Sherlock, he actually appeared to enjoy his company. He praised Sherlock’s deductions instead of running. He pointed it out when Sherlock said something a bit not good instead of getting angry. When Sherlock ran after a criminal, John was only half a step behind him…which had nearly gotten him killed.
The thought of John dying, of John simply ceasing to exist, created a deplorable feeling that Sherlock felt tear viciously through his chest.
“Sherlock? You alright there?
“You died.”
“Er, no actually I’m-“
“No, John. Your heart stopped beating.” Sherlock interrupted, his eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Sherlock, I am fine. Really, one of us was bound to get shot eventually.” He joked lamely, and was promptly ignored by the other man.
“It shouldn’t have been you.” Sherlock nearly growled, clenching his fists until they turned a ghostly white.
John’s brow furrowed and he shifted closer. “Oi! Don’t be like that, this is just part of what we do. You chase every bloody criminal in London and I follow right at your side. You said ‘danger’ and here I am, remember?"
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“You are the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing. I know what kind of man I am, John. I am arrogant, cold, and completely unaware of human nature.“ Sherlock hissed out, dropping his face into his hands. “Why are you still here, John? Why haven’t you run off like everyone else?”
That was enough.
“I love you.” John finally said in exasperation. The moment he said the words, he knew they were true. “Even the arrogant, obnoxious bits.”
The notion that he was in love with Sherlock hadn’t gradually materialized in his mind, rather, it was suddenly there. He just knew. He loved Sherlock’s eagerness to have him assist on cases. He loved their late night dinners after a tiring case when Sherlock would be less guarded and would actually eat a full meal. He loved how Sherlock’s unfathomable eyes would practically glow after he solved a particularly difficult murder. He loved how Sherlock would somehow know when John was having a nightmare and would play the violin in the middle of the night. He loved how Sherlock would crinkle his nose when he was confused, though it rarely happened. He loved how Sherlock put up a wall to keep people out, but for whatever reason allowed John through it. God help him, he even loved finding random body parts in the fridge that Sherlock stored there for experiments.
“John.” Sherlock said hoarsely, his blue-green eyes meeting John’s dark blue ones in disbelief. He seemed unable to vocalize another word, and settled for staring at John in incomprehension.
“Well, that’s out there then.” John said dryly, watching in amusement as Sherlock attempted to understand his confession. Despite himself, a small ball of anxiety at the thought of rejection grew in his throat, and he cleared it nervously.
The sound seemed to snap Sherlock’s brain back online, and the detective was suddenly grasping one of John’s hands in both of his paler ones. “John. You know I pride myself on being completely above sentiment and all the dull, mindless emotions that come with it. All my adult life I have prided myself on being a high-functioning sociopath and sneering at those who were enslaved to insipid things such as affection and feelings.”
John felt light-headed and sick. He tried to pull his hand away, but Sherlock resolutely held it encaged in both of his.
Sherlock finally continued, “John what I am trying to convey is that for the first time in my life I am content to admit that I was grievously wrong about something. Without you, John Watson, I’d be completely unaware of all that my life was missing. And you know how I loathe not knowing things.”
John felt stinging in his eyes, and blinked quickly because there was no way that was going to happen.
Get ahold of yourself, Watson.
The injured doctor tugged on Sherlock’s hand until he understood and quickly slipped into what little extra room there was on the hospital bed. John was sure they looked rather comical: two grown men cuddling on a tiny, sorry excuse for a mattress. And yet, it was exactly what he wanted.
Sherlock pressed against his side, and curled around his supine form. Damn the wires that prevented him from completely surrounding himself with the man he loved. With Sherlock bloody Holmes.
John slid a hand into Sherlock’s dark curls and tugged his face closer, pressing their mouths together in a soft, slow kiss. Sherlock’s hand gripped John’s forearm tightly and the other stayed safely on the bed, wary of John’s healing chest. With an involuntary noise of surprised pleasure, Sherlock scooted impossibly closer to where John lay on his back. The taller man was on his side, his long legs curled against John’s at the end of the bed. John sighed happily, and a feeling of finally, finally welled up inside of him. Sherlock’s lips parted slightly and John quickly took the chance to deepen the kiss, unable to entertain the thought of ending their embrace when it seemed this had been building for years until the precise moment came when everything fell into place. And if it took John getting a bullet in the chest to progress things, then it was worth the wound; it was worth many wounds.
John nipped at Sherlock’s soft bottom lip, prompting him to press closer with a breathy groan. “John.”
“Is this, is this okay?” John managed to pull back the minimum amount of space necessary to speak.
“Yes.” Sherlock said quietly, his deep voice a sinful rumble that John felt all the way down to his bones. Sherlock managed to resume the kiss, pushing their lips together clumsily. What he lacked in experience, he more than made up for with eagerness and enthusiasm.
Sherlock shifted his hips against John’s and shuddered at the exquisite pressure, his mind reeling from the unfamiliar and intense sensations rushing through him. It was perfect and not enough all at once, everything and nothing. And he wanted more, more, more.
Hearing the almost inaudible whimpers that escaped from deep within Sherlock’s chest made John’s skin blaze with heat. He hadn’t known he was capable of this, wanting someone so much that everything else faded to black. That nothing else mattered. Hell, he doubted he would notice if the whole of Scotland Yard walked into the room.
Taking control of the kiss, John gripped the curls on back of Sherlock’s head possessively and pulled the detective impossibly closer. Sherlock was propped up on his elbow, leaning over John to avoid aggravating his injury. Sherlock moaned quietly, the evidence of his arousal against John’s hip.
Feeling proof of Sherlock’s desire, of him wanting John of all people, sent a thrill down his spine. The blonde groaned lowly, the sound escaping into Sherlock’s mouth.
Finally, John pulled back and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s. He felt the other man’s warm breath on his face as he fought to catch his breath.
“God I love you, you beautiful, mad, pretentious wanker.”
“John, your wooing techniques are abysmal and need serious work.” Sherlock announced, snuffling closer into John’s neck. He was referring to his words of course, not the kiss. Sherlock still felt his heart rate trying to return to its resting point, and a sly smile quirked his lips. They would be doing that again. Very soon.
“Well, it’s a good thing I’ve got a gorgeous boyfriend to help me with that.” John replied cheekily, tightening their interlocked fingers.
“No, absolutely not. We will not be boyfriends, the term is a heinous insult to what we are.”
“And what are we exactly?
“Partners. Flat mates. Best friends. Lovers. Everything.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“Me too, John.”
Biting back a smile, John closed his eyes in exhaustion and, for the first time in a long time, was not afraid of nightmares. He wasn’t alone. He knew that he would probably still have to pay for all the cabs, find random body parts in the fridge, and would get overlooked during extremely interesting cases, but he didn’t mind so much. Not when it meant he was the only one who got to see Sherlock’s eyes light up when John said something remarkably less stupid that other people. Or the look of awe, embarrassment, and pleasure that Sherlock got on his face when John said those three words.
All those things would be John’s for the rest of his life, which he suddenly wasn’t so reluctant to live anymore.
In fact, he was actually looking forward to it.