Work Text:
I Love How You Love Me
October 2021
“John I think I’m dying.”
“I've literally seen you almost die three times. You are very, very far from dying. You have a chest cold. And you have that because you took a swan dive into the Thames and swallowed a mouthful of that swamp water.”
“The suspect, which I later proved to be the perpetrator of our investigation, managed to evade me.” Sherlock blew his nose louder than he needed to.
“You zigged when you should have zagged, Sherlock, and he flipped you over his shoulder and right into the river. I saw it. Most of Scotland Yard saw it. I was the one who managed to punch him in the face before he could get past me, too. I may or may not have punched him more than once to subdue him. He was a pretty large bloke.”
Sherlock reached for the bag of cherry lozenges. They really didn’t do much for the cough, but he hated menthol drops. The sort he liked tasted like candy.
“I’m running low on these, John.”
“They’re on my Tesco list, Sherlock, as are aloe tissues, saline spray, and large sticking plasters for that nasty cut on your arm.” Sherlock caught a sharp edge of a railing as he went over into the river.
“Forget about all of that. It’s a waste of time, really. Just make sure my latest Will and Testament is updated so I may die in peace.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you talking about dying on me and chalk that up to you being delirious from illness.”
John made for his coat on the rack behind him. “I’m going to pick up Rosie from school, and stop at Tesco on our way back.”
“John?”
“Yeah, love? Did you need me to pick up something else for you?” John’s eyes showed concern and affection.
“No. I just. Thank you. For your kindness.”
“Sherlock, you’re my husband. I love you. I do these things for you because I love you. When I said “I do” to you in front of all those people…wait...you do remember that, right? Or has your illness begun to affect your faculties?”
“I know you love me. And I know you married me. Sometimes it just surprises me that you did those things. I’m basically a very large baby most days of my life.”
“True. Rosie is four years old, and most days she’s more mature than you are. She doesn’t fight me when it’s time to eat, either. Or come to think of it, when it’s time for bed. You’re not perfect. Much like everyone else on this planet.”
Sherlock scoffed at that. “Everyone else? You’re grouping me in with HUMANITY AT LARGE?”
“You are a human being. Even though you still try to act as though you aren’t. You walk among all of us mere mortals. You’re a person; you love, you hurt, you get sick. Shit happens. But you have someone, quite a few someones, in fact, who care very much about you. There’s a short someone who worries about you while she’s at school. Another, older someone, downstairs who I believe is making you soup and tea and has plans to sit and visit with you while I’m gone. Two married someones; one who gives you cases, while the other lets you play with dead bodies. Even a few people from NSY have asked me about how you’re feeling. So yes, humanity at large might not be the best. People are generally stupid, but individual persons, especially those that love you, are indispensable. Just like you. Your loss would break a lot of hearts, Sherlock. Most of all my own.” John spoke that small monologue as he was putting on his jacket and buttoning it up to his neck. The October air waiting outside to nip at him as he’d step onto Baker Street.
Sherlock was stunned to silence.
But only for a few seconds.
“Thank you for the reminder that I am loved.”
“You’re loved infinitely, Sherlock. There are no bounds to it.”
With that, a wink and a turn for the door.
Ninety minutes later, a four-year-old who missed her papa, barreled into the sitting room of 221 Baker Street.
“PAPA! You feeling good now?” She climbed onto the couch and threw her arms around Sherlock's neck.
Sherlock put an arm around her and squeezed. “Hello, darling girl! I feel better now that you’re home with me! Where’s your father?”
“He’s coming up behind me! He has a lot of bags to carry!” They snuggled on the couch for a few minutes before:
“Hello! I’m here, too! I walked her to the door and told her to go up to see you. I had to go back to the car to get all the bags!”
John was a bit out of breath, three bags in each hand. He kicked the door closed behind him and dropped the bags on the table beside Sherlock who’d been woken up by Rosie’s enthusiastic entrance to the flat. He smiled down at his family.
“I think I got everything! Hopefully, because I’m not going back out tonight for anything in this world.” John stepped closer to the duo on the sofa. “I can see a bit of blood made it through that bandaging on your arm. Let’s go have a look at it in the loo. I’ve got more supplies!”
He turned to rifle through his purchase until he lifted the bag containing the items he needed in victory. “C’mon, my little Rose. You’ve gotta let go of him for a few minutes so Daddy can check out his hurt arm. You’ve got a little homework to do before dinner. You can sit out here and work on and Papa and I will be back here in a few minutes.”
Rosie reluctantly disengaged from Sherlock's person and he kissed her cheek as she slid from his body to the floor. She sat between the table and the sofa and rooted around in the backpack that had just been on her back for her nightly assignment.
Sherlock made his way to sitting and John reached down and got a hand under his right elbow and helped him up and they made their way to the loo.
John made him sit on the toilet lid while he prepared his supplies on the sink countertop.
“John. I can do this myself.” He started to peel the tape and the gauze while John had his back turned away from him. He ripped two of the twenty stitches. Most likely while hugging Rosie a few minutes ago.
“You’re ill. After this, I’m putting you to bed.”
“I'm not a child!”
“Then stop behaving like one and give me your arm.” John took two strides across the floor between them and held out his left hand. “Gimme.”
“Nope. I can do this myself. Go help Rosamund with her school work.”
“She’s fine. You’re not. Give me your arm now.”
“I’m fine, John. Quit fretting.”
“Let me rephrase: Give me your, quite literally, bloody arm, you colossal twat!”
Oh. The Captain Watson voice.
Sherlock surrendered his arm without further argument and left John to his devices. He decided to watch his doctor take care of him. John was in his element; cleansing the area with alcohol wipes; applying skin glue to the torn stitches; Lidocaine to the length of the cut; gauze and then skin tape to secure it.
“All set! Ready for a lie-down, Sherlock?” John was taken aback by the look on Sherlock's face. “What’s wrong?”
Sherlock’s whole body showed his revelation. “Remind me of this moment whenever I refuse to let you take care of me, all right?”
“What’s so special about this time? I’ve patched you up, probably close to fifty times.”
“Because this is the time that I finally saw how much you enjoy taking care of me. I think I love how much you love me.”
“Christ. It only took you eleven years. World’s Only Consulting Detective my ass. The blind could see how much I love you, Sherlock.”
“Well, now I can see, John. Would you help me to bed, Doctor Watson?”
“My pleasure, Mr. Watson-Holmes.”