Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John sighs, leaning against the counter, and closes his eyes.

“Alright there, mate?”

“Hm?” John jerks upright. He's supposed to be manning the register, but no one has come into the café even fleetingly for the past hour.

Mike chuckles. “Didn’t get much sleep, did’ya?”

“Too much bloody homework,” John complains. “I swear, if I am ever going to pass Pardue’s class I’m going to have to sell my soul.”

“Ha! Yeah, I know what you mean. My social life has been shit because of him, I can’t even imagine what finals will be like!”

John groans. “Don’t make me think about it.”

Looking out into the seating area of the café, John sees that it's completely empty save for crumbs and the cups customers didn’t throw away. “What time is it?”

“Hour ‘till close,” Mike answers.

“The best and worst time of my day,” John says, sharing a grin with Mike.

They wipe down the tables, clean the coffee machines, and divide the tips in the tip jar between them. John is glad for the extra cash in his wallet.

Two more straggling customers come and order coffees to-go, minutes before Mike was to turn the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed.’

The sky is dark and cloudy by the time they’re done.

The bell above the door rings as John leaves, waving a hand goodbye to Mike as he walks in the opposite direction towards his dorm.

John’s feet move automatically, carrying him towards his bedsit without thought, letting his mind run amok as it wishes.

The sky darkens further and the clouds grow heavy.

After walking for a few minutes, John feels someone tapping him on the shoulder. He turns.

At first, he thinks it must be Mike, but he barely has time to register that it’s a stranger looming in front of him before wet lips smear against his own.

It’s uncoordinated and messy, and John pushes the stranger away.

“What the hell–” John starts to say, and then he looks up.

Icy eyes streaked with green and gold hold John’s gaze, looking desperate yet determined. The moment lasts for hours, it lasts for seconds.

Fuck it, John thinks, and pulls the stranger in by their shirt, snogging them.[i]

John feels a hand at the back of his neck the same moment he notices faint stubble rasping against his upper lip. Responding in kind, John places his hands on the other person’s shoulders, standing on his toes to get a better angle. The stranger’s other hand grabs at John’s hip.

The warmth of the stranger is torn away from him in an instant, between one breath and the next.

John is knocked off balance as whomever it was runs past him, the displaced air cold at his side.

He turns quickly, trying to catch a glimpse of who he just kissed.

A tall man in ratty clothing dashes across the empty street, something small clasped in his hand.

A wallet.

John frantically feels at his pockets, not feeling his own in any of them.

He runs. The stranger doesn't look back even when John is inches from him.

John lunges, grabbing the man around the middle and pulling. They tumble to the ground in a heap, the gravel of the sidewalk tearing into both of their skins.

Distantly, John hears the light thump of his wallet hitting the ground a few feet ahead, knocked from the stranger’s hand.

The two men grapple, hands flying, nails tearing. John easily gets the upper hand.

John twists the man’s arm behind his back, a muffled scream coming out of his mouth. John ignores it.

He wrestles the thief into submission, forcing his head down on the pavement. He hears a decidedly audible crack.

John stiffens at the sound, too focused on the fact he may have fractured this guy’s skull.

He lightens his hold, taking his hand away from the matted hair and pins down the man’s free arm that’s lying limp next to him. He takes his weight of the man’s back, choosing to hover over with his knees on each side of his hips.

Finally able to take a look, John sees someone desperate and needy. There's blood on the man’s face from where it ground against the gravel, dirt and grime practically covering him from head to toe.

A junkie in need of his next fix, reduced to thievery for money. John feels regret and shame that he kissed him, was planning on sleeping with him.

John keeps his hands where they are, expecting a retaliation.

Nothing happens. No angry quip, no struggling against his bonds, nothing. His only movement is the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Hesitantly, John relinquishes his hold. The junkie stays still, too still.

Unconscious.

John scrambles to retrieve his wallet from the ground before the junkie wakes, his palms scraping against the pavement in his hurry.

Pocketing it, he turns in time to see the junkie blink his eyes open and groan.

The junkie tries to sit himself up, but his arms seem to lose their strength. He clutches at his head, turning on his side and curling in on himself in pain.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

John places a hand on the man's shoulder. “Sit up, let me take a look at you.”

The junkie just curls in further on himself.

“Come on, we need to get to A&E, have your head looked at.”

In a whirlwind of limbs, the junkie tears himself away from John's grasp and backs himself up against the wall of the building lining the sidewalk, his hand outstretched in feeble protection. “No! No, you’re not taking me there.”

His words are slurred and his eyes drop closed, his brow furrowing in pain. His hands shaking as they move to grasp at his head once more.

“You're in no state to be on your own, you have a possible concussion and skull fracture.” Standing up, John offers a hand.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Oh, for the love of–” John grasps the man's shoulders, hauling him to his feet.

The junkie stumbles, nearly falling flat on his arse again. “Don’t--!”

But he has no strength left. He keeps himself flat against the brick façade at his back, limbs trembling, head lolling, eyes fluttering closed and open again.

Slowly, as if approaching an injured animal, John reaches for the stranger again. “I'm not going to hurt you, I just want to take you to the hospital.”

The man squints his eyes and gives John an accusatory glare.

“I promise.”

The junkie looks as if he’s about to snap back at John, but instead a garble of throaty groan leaves his mouth. He leans his head against the bricks and scrunches his eyes closed.

“Just to the hospital.” Pulling the man's arm, John takes the man's weight against his chest as he trips forward.

“NO!” The junkie flails, raking his fingernails against anything he comes into contact with. His feeble swipes barely leave a mark on John’s skin. “Leave!”

John keeps him restrained. It doesn't take much, the man already weak and uncoordinated.

Patiently, John keeps his hands clasped around the man’s thin biceps and waits until he stops moving and loses his stamina.
 
After a few moments, he stills. His knees are bent in weakness and his hands are holding bunches of John’s shirt, his breathing ragged and loud in the silent night.

“Are we done now?” John says.

The response comes with heavy breathes. “No...hospital…”

“My place then,” John concedes, slinging the man's arm around his shoulder. The stranger nods.

John supports the man's weight against his side, arm wrapped behind his back to keep him steady.

They make their way to John’s bedsit, thankfully only a few streets over. John shuffles along with the stranger draped over him, weighing him down.

The man’s head lolls to the side, his cheek pressed against John's temple.

“Hey, stay awake.”

“Hmph.”

“You need to keep your eyes open.”

“Nnnnnngg.” The man seems to only be able to speak in monosyllables, now, apparently trusting John enough now to not intentionally harm him.

“In the event of a head injury, it is imperative to keep the patient awake and aware,” John nearly quotes his textbook.[ii]

He feels a huff of air against his skin before the junkie pulls away, scrambling and nearly falling into a nearby alleyway. John follows, hearing an awful retching sound.

John rubs the man’s back as he waits for him to finish vomiting. It’s mostly bile, pale yellow and acrid smelling. The man spits one final time and John asks, “We good?”

The junkie nods weakly.

The sky starts to lightly weep, rain pattering down onto the pavement and washing away the vomit. The stranger starts to shiver.

The night is quiet save for their footsteps and the pit pat of the occasional rain droplet, thunder rumbling low in the distance.

When John's bedsit comes into sight after several long minutes, he lets out a sigh of relief. “Think you can walk?”

“...Yes.”

“Without falling on your arse?”

The arm around John's shoulder disappears. John steps aside, but close enough to assist if needed.

Standing still for a few moments, the man takes a tentative step forward, and then another. He turns his head and looks at John as if to say, See, told you.

John watches as the junkie wobbles forward a few more feet, following closely behind. He digs around in his pockets for his keys, keeping a careful eye on the man in front of him.

The stranger’s weight shifts-

And he turns to run.

But he doesn't get more than two steps in front of himself before John grabs him with a firm hand on his elbow. “No,” he commands.

John can feel the terror radiating off him, his eyes wide in fear.

“I promise I'm not going to hurt you,” John says again, softening his voice. “I just want to make sure you're alright.”

Those fearful eyes flick over John’s face and posture. He feels like he’s being examined under that piercing gaze, like his skin is being peeled apart from his chest and his heart is being held in a cold grasp. Goose pimples travel across his skin, moving from his hand to his chest and neck.

John hastily releases his hold.

Visibly relaxing, the junkie gives a short nod. John inserts the key in the lock and turns.

The door makes nary a sound as it swings open, revealing the sparsely furnished bedsit within.

John can see the man’s eyes roam across the walls and furniture. He has never felt too proud or too ashamed of his current living quarters, but compared to what he assumes the stranger is used to, he can't complain.

The front door opens into the small living space and even smaller kitchen, nothing separating the rooms other than a stark line of carpet and linoleum. A short hallway leads off of the den toward the sole bedroom and loo. Nothing to turn his nose up at.[iii]

The man stops his excursion of the place just short of the door, awkwardly leaning against the wall like he doesn't know what to do with himself.

John closes the door with a click, muting the sound of the falling rain.

“Here, lay down. Let me patch you up and then you need to rest.” John gestures toward the sofa, not caring to try and guide the man across the distance; John senses that he would only deny the help.

As the stranger lays down, John runs some water into a glass and pulls out a sleeve of crackers. “Here,” he says, setting them on the stool next to the sofa. “Try to eat and drink those, see if you can keep them down.”

The junkie has one of the couch’s pillows under his head. He winces when the old threadbare fabric rubs against the scrapes on his cheek.

John returns to the kitchen and opens the under-sink cabinet. He reaches towards his medical kit in the very back, knocking over various boxes and bottles as he pulls it free.

"You're going to need to sit up for me," John says as he moves to stand in front of the couch. "Come on." He pulls a chair up to the edge of the sofa and sits.

A groan comes from the pile of limbs.

John places a hand on his shoulder. "Sit up or I’m taking you to A&E."

He waits a moment for a response. After a second or two, the junkie slowly pulls himself into a sitting position, his eyes closed to stave off the dizziness.

"Alright?" John asks. He retrieves a waste paper basket and places it on the floor in front of the junkie in case he needs to vomit again.

The man doesn’t respond, his eyes still closed.

John lets him rest his eyes, the lights no doubt too bright to his sensitive pupils. John finds the antiseptic bottle and upends it onto a cotton ball.

“This is going to sting a little,” John warns.

“Hmph.” The man managed to make it sound like, Obviously, you imbecile.

John huffs out a sigh.

The stranger pouts and seethes, but allows John to clean the wound on his bottom lip. It’s full and too pretty of a mouth to fit for a man, but the softness of it makes up for the harshness of his other features—the sharp cheekbones, the gaunt face. John can’t help but think that if he lost the facial hair and were in top health, he would look lavishly posh.

Silence stretches between them, the pellets of rain softly drumming on the roof. It gives a background song to the stillness of the moment.

Dabbing at the welling blood, John says, “You shouldn't have tried to steal from me.”

He gets an irritated huff, the breath ghosting over his fingers. “Yes.”

“Yes, you agree with me, or yes, you had to steal from me?”

John leans back, tossing the bloodied cotton ball into the bin, noticing that the stranger’s eyes are open. He scrunches up his face, thinking, before holding up two fingers, referencing the second option. Yes, I had to steal from you.

John is never going to get any straight answers out of this man, is he. He sighs again, the second time in as many minutes. The man sends John another glare.

John elects to ignore him, selecting a large plaster and another cotton ball.

He pushes the greasy hair back away from the man’s forehead, feeling a slight shiver underneath his hand. He disinfects the deeper cut on his forehead, covers it with antibiotic ointment, and protects it with the bandage. The smaller cuts on the stranger’s cheek don’t require such rigorous treatment, so John simply cleans them of any small bits of pavement and leaves them be.

“Anything else hurt besides your head?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

The man’s large hands shift over his abdomen, raise to cup his ears, and then move to cover his eyes.

John stands and moves to the kitchenette. He rummages around for a clean flannel and opens the freezer to grab an ice cube. 

In his periphery, John observes the stranger on his sofa. He’s pulled up his legs onto the cushions, his knees tight against his chest within the circle of his arms. He looks pitiful.

Who knows how long this man has lived on the streets, or the last time he ate. He’s dehydrated and malnourished, and John’s caring nature screams at him to fix it.

He returns to the chair, holding up the ice cube wrapped in cloth. “Here, suck on this. It'll help the swelling go down and numb your lips.”

The man takes it, his plump lips wrapping around the ice. It looks obscene, and John has to force himself to look away.

“Can I see your arms?” John asks.

Surprisingly, the man places his free arm in John’s outstretched hand, forearm up, vulnerable. John looks it over, observing the small scrapes from when he braced himself on the ground after John tackled him. They were shallow enough to not even have bled initially, but John takes care of them anyway, not wanting to risk the chance of infection. He notices small pock marks in the crook his elbows, both new and old. The skin is purple and bruised from repeated abuse.

John gives the same treatment to the stranger’s other arm, taking comfort in the fact that he’s letting him.

“Looks like all of them.”

“Hm.”

John looks up and sees the junkie’s eyes are closed once more, the ice melting in his loose grasp.

“Hey,” John says as he lightly taps the man’s uninjured cheek. “Stay awake for me, mate.”

He groans. “Sleep.”

“In a moment.”

John stands, taking his med kit and putting back in the cabinet under the sink. Eyes, he needs to check his eyes next.

“So…,” John tries as he washes his hands in the sink. “What's your name?”

“No.”

“Well, I have to call you something, don't I?”

“No.”

“Are you going to force me to make up a name?”

Silence.

“Maybe I’ll just call you ‘No’ since you seem to like that word so much,” he jokes.

John hears a scoff from behind him and smiles.

“Alright, No, let’s look at your eyes.” John finds his pen light in a kitchen drawer and clicks it on, shining the light into the man’s right eye, and then the left.

The pupil in his right eye doesn’t retract as fast as the left. John tutts as the man squints into the light. He clicks the penlight off, his patient sighing in relief.

“Well,” John says, thinking about the man’s vomiting, headache, and uneven pupils. “I’m pretty sure you have a concussion.”

“Yes,” the man says with an eye-roll.

“If you shut up you can sleep.”

He immediately closes his eyes and starts to lay down.

“Nonononononono, you are not sleeping on my couch, you take the bed.”

“Mmmm.”

“Come on, up you get.” John drags him upright, his arms under his armpits. “You can at least help a little you know, I know you're not that incapacitated.”

He doesn't say anything as John drags him down the hall and plops him onto his bed. John isn't sure that his compliance is a good or bad sign.

“I’m going to wake you up every few hours to make sure you’re alright, okay?”

“Hm.”

John sighs, leaving him to get under the covers himself. He grabs his pajamas from his dresser and leaves the room to change into them in the bathroom. As he’s leaving, he peeks back into his room and sees that the man hasn’t moved, but his breathing is deep and even. Feeling slightly reassured, John moves into the living room.

John can sleep anywhere, so he’s not putout about having to sleep on the sofa. He pulls a pillow under his head and covers himself with a thick, knitted blanket. He sets his phone to go off every two hours. Neither him nor the junkie will be getting much sleep that night.

John falls asleep to the sound of distant thunder and rain.

---

When John’s phone rings for the upteenth time that night, he almost doesn’t notice dawn breaking.

He grabs at his phone and taps the screen to silence the god-awful shrill and drags himself upright to check on the stranger in his bed again, yawning.

The junkie had pulled up the edge of John’s duvet sometime in the middle of the night, too exhausted to move his body underneath the sheets. He’s laying on his side facing away from the door, curled into a loose ball.

John places both hands against the man’s shoulder and shakes, knowing from experience that he won’t wake from words alone. “Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up,” he chants.

A low moan leaves the man’s mouth, much more grouchy, but more alert, than the previous times John woke him in the night.

“I know you don’t want to but I need to check your eyes again. Do you need help sitting up?”

The sound the junkie makes sounds too much like a sob. John doesn’t like it.

Without waiting for permission, John uncovers the stranger’s body and bodily moves him into a sitting position against the headboard. The only help John gets is a litany of moans.

John’s eyes skip over the sizeable bump forming on the stranger’s forehead, refusing to feel guilt at its existence.

He checks the junkie’s eyes with the penlight once more, the routine practically set in stone even after only one night.  When he is satisfied, he sets the penlight aside, stretches, and sighs.

“So, how am I, Doctor?”

John’s neck almost feels like it breaks with how fast he turns his head toward the stranger.

The sheer depth of the man’s voice is startling. It sounds much lower than what John heard last night, no doubt pitched higher in fear then. John almost forgets to answer.

“Er,” John starts. “Obviously not good, but not as bad as I feared. Your pupils are reacting more evenly now, and the lump on your head tells me that there’s no skull fracture. I wish you’d let me get you a CT scan but…You need fluids and rest,” he finishes.

John doesn’t mention the pockmarks in the man’s elbows. He doesn’t mention that without his access to drugs that he’ll go into withdrawal in he didn’t know how many days. He doesn’t mention that it would be worse with a concussion.

As John recites the information, the junkie sighs and leans more into the pillows against his back, his eyes closed.

Softly, John asks, “Can you tell me your name?”

After a few moments of silence John thinks that he has fallen back asleep, but then he says, “Sherlock.”

“John. John Watson.”

“I regret to say, John Watson, that it is not a pleasure to meet you.”

John scoffs. “You’re lucky it was me and not some scum who would’ve left you out there on the streets all bloody.”

“Most other people wouldn’t have left me all bloody.” Sherlock’s eyes open, his gaze piercing into John’s.

Not knowing exactly how to respond, John says instead, “Can you tell me who’s the Prime Minister?”

Sherlock looks scandalized. “Why would I know that? Why are you asking?”[iv]

“I’m testing your memory. It’s important when assessing a concussion.” John stops. “...Are you saying you didn’t know who the Prime Minister was even before last night?”

“No.”

“...Okay, then. How old are you?”

“What day is it?”

John thinks for a moment. “Sunday. January 8th.”

Sherlock smiles a small smile. “I am twenty-two.”

“I’m twenty-five.”

“Are you going to relay your own piece of information every time I answer a question?”

John didn’t even realise he had been doing it. “I’m making conversation.”

“I thought you were ‘assessing my concussion.’” Sherlock looks bored with John, like he can’t believe that John would be so pedestrian.

Ignoring Sherlock’s comment completely, John says, “I’m going to make you some breakfast and we’re going to see how much you can keep down, alright? Good,” then turns and walks away before Sherlock can answer.

John crumbles weetabix into two bowls and pours in the milk, one for him and one for Sherlock. He doesn’t have a kitchen table to set them on—he usually just eats in the den—but he refuses to bring Sherlock’s breakfast to him. John may be caring by nature, but he draws the line at letting someone eat in his bed. He doesn’t want to clean soggy cereal off of his sheets.

John sets both bowls on the stool next to the couch and goes back into his room.

“Okay, I’m gonna need–” John stops when he sees that Sherlock has laid back down and covered himself in the duvet. He sighs. “Sherlock,” he says. The name feels foreign yet familiar in his mouth, the syllables rolling off his tongue. He clears his throat and says it again. “Sherlock. Breakfast.”

Sherlock’s eyes blink open at him. “I’m not going to eat it.”

“You need fuel to help heal and I’m not bringing it to you.”

“Hmph,” Sherlock replies, and rolls back over.

“Nope, I’m not having any of this today.” John pulls on Sherlock’s shoulder to flip him onto his back. “I still need to get ready for work while I figure out what to do with you. Up you get.”

Sherlock doesn’t protest this time, letting himself be manhandled out of the bed. John’s grateful for small victories.

When Sherlock is standing steady, John says, “Try to walk on your own but I’m here if you need me.”

Sherlock shoots John an offended glare.

He hesitantly ventures to the bedroom door. He stumbles after a few halting steps and grabs onto John for balance. Almost immediately, he recoils away. He lunges towards the door’s threshold after one more clumsy step, clinging desperately to the frame.

John expected some dizziness and loss of balance, but he doesn’t like that Sherlock can barely do anything more than stand on his own.

Without a word, John takes Sherlock’s elbow and guides him away from the door, wrapping an arm around his middle to steady him. Sherlock accepts the help, pouting the whole way to the sofa.

John settles Sherlock into the cushions and hands him his cereal. “Eat as much of that as you can,” John says, sitting on the other side of the couch and starting in on his own breakfast.

There’s no telly, but John desperately wishes he had enough money for one so the awkward silence could be broken. The sound of John eating is obnoxiously loud in the quiet.

Looking over toward Sherlock, John sees that he’s staring down into his soggy weetabix. “Please eat some of that. You didn’t have anything last night.”

“I’ll throw up.”

John takes the trash bin he left by the couch the night before moves it next to Sherlock’s legs. “There’s that if you need it.”

By this time, John has finished while Sherlock hasn’t even touched his spoon. John stares.

Sherlock is much too skinny, his face full of shadows. The bones in his wrists felt delicate under John’s hands when he patched him up the night before, his skin papery. His eyes look sad and dark, but sharp, like an icicle.

Noticing that he’s probably been looking for much longer than is decent, John takes a breath and stands. “I’m gonna go shower. Eat at least some of that, would you?”

Sherlock stares right back at him, expressionless. John can’t seem to make himself look away, entrapped by those eyes, impossibly blue-green, until Sherlock blinks and looks back down into his bowl, gripping the spoon.

John’s heart races and he doesn’t know why.

In the shower, the heat of the water soothes the cramps in his muscles from the uncomfortable sofa.

After about ten minutes, John steps out into the hallway with a towel around his hips, warm steam billowing from the doorway. As he makes his way toward his bedroom, he sees Sherlock’s cereal back on the stool, soggy and uneaten. Resigned, John ignores it and gets dressed in his work clothes. He pulls an extra pair of loose sweatpants and a spare t-shirt from the drawer and carries them out to the living room.

“Since you’re not going to eat,” John says as he moves to stand in front of Sherlock, “you can take a shower. Put your clothes outside the door and I’ll wash them on my way home from work. You can wear these today.” John hands Sherlock the clothes.

Sherlock’s arms shake as he reaches up and accepts the clothing, weaker than a kitten.

John takes note of the shaking, his eyes following Sherlock’s movement and seeing his fingers clutch into the fabric. John pulls his bottom lip with his teeth.

“Are you still feeling nauseous?” John asks, trying to find something helpful to do to take his mind off of his incessant worry.

“A bit.” Sherlock’s voice is a whisper, his head angled downward toward his lap.

“I might have some medicine for that.”

“Please,” Sherlock says, desperate, his voice cracking.

John takes Sherlock’s uneaten cereal and dumps it in the sink before going to find the blister-pack of nausea pills.

John thinks about Sherlock’s shaking arms and fingers and his stumbling steps from the bed to the door. Will the heat from the shower make him pass out? He hasn’t eaten, his blood sugar is most assuredly too low, and the concussion won’t make things any better. Will he faint and hit his head again? Making his concussion even worse? John doesn’t think that Sherlock can withstand another head injury, at least without proper medical assistance.

John finds the medicine in the cabinet behind the mirror.

“Sherlock,” John says as he exits the bathroom and sits directly next to Sherlock. Sherlock looks startled at John’s closeness, his eyes widening and darting around the room. “Is there anything that you think you can keep down?” John finds Sherlock’s eyes and holds them, trying to convey to the man how important this is. “I’m afraid that you’ll faint in the shower. It’ll help if you eat something.” The packet of pills crinkle in John’s hand. “Don’t take a bath ‘cause I don’t want you to fall asleep and drown.”

Sherlock looks as if he’s about to protest, but John holds up a hand to stop him.

“I know this may seem like basic stuff, but I need to say them. Now, is there anything that you’ll eat?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow into slits, staring at John. “I’m not a child.”

“I know, but if you’ve made these decisions,” John gestures to the mangled, vulnerable insides of Sherlock’s elbows hidden beneath his hoodie, “then I’m not taking any risks with assuming you know how to take care of yourself.”

“You don’t have any authority over me.” Sherlock’s voice is low and threatening.

“I know I don’t!” John rushes to say. “You can leave anytime you want to, I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“You want to make sure no one finds out that you tackled a homeless person to the ground and gave them a concussion.”

“That is not the ca–”

“You’re very obviously a medical student—second or third year I’d guess from the textbooks you have lying around—and the ‘advice’ you have given me suggests that you are well-acquainted with what is and isn’t a concern regarding head injuries. I haven’t seen you look up any new information so it is safe to assume you knew all of it beforehand. The café you work at—I saw you through the windows behind the counter—is a common haunt for students from Bart’s because of its close location. Your hands are also dry in a way that is consistent with constant washing, which a medical student would obviously be doing after all those dissections and...messing about...with…”

John’s barely able to drop the pills and snatch up the bin at their feet in time to catch Sherlock’s vomit. The sound of stomach bile hitting the plastic lining isn’t pleasant, nor is Sherlock’s heavy breathing afterward.

“Hold the bin for a moment, I’m going to get you some water.”

“...Cadavers…,” John hears Sherlock whisper, finishing his aborted sentence as John stands and runs some water from the faucet into a glass. On his way back, he snatches a box of tissues from the side table and hands them to Sherlock.

“That...was kind of amazing. How you knew all that.”

Sherlock responds by blowing his nose. “That’s not...what people normally say,” he says, his voice nasally and weak.

“And what do people normally say?”

“Piss off.”

John can’t help the smile that sneaks onto his face, turning away and hiding it behind his hand.

Sherlock swishes the water around in his mouth for a moment before spitting it back out into the bin, then gulping down the rest of the glass.

“Better?”

“Marginally.”

“Is there anything you think you could eat?”

“...Soup. Maybe.”

“I’ll see what I have.”

Before rummaging around in the kitchen, John takes the plastic bag from the bin and ties the handles together, effectively sealing off the sick, and places it in the larger bin in the kitchen.

In the fridge, John finds a styrofoam cup of miso soup that he didn’t eat from his take-away a few nights ago. “How does miso soup sound?” he calls.

John barely hears the soft “Marvelous” coming from the living room.

He pours the soup into a mug and heats it up in the microwave, popping a spoon in when it’s warmed. He grabs a sleeve of saltine crackers from the counter as he walks by.

“Here you go,” John says as he hands Sherlock the miso soup and crackers. Their fingers inevitably brush in the exchange, a familiar sparking sensation tingling his fingers. “You can take the nausea pills with or without food but it would be easier on your stomach if you had them now.” He picks up the packet that had fallen to the couch when he dived for the bin, and frees one from its casing.

Sherlock holds a hand palm-up, accepting the pill and popping it into his mouth in one smooth motion. “Thank you.”

As Sherlock eats, John takes the kitchen trash outside to the building’s dumpster, not wanting the vomit to stink up the place. When he returns, he sees the empty mug on the stool side-table and Sherlock munching on the crackers.

“Finished? I need to go to work, if you can give me your clothes I can be on my way.”

“Hm.”

Sherlock wordlessly puts down the sleeve of crackers and, achingly slowly, pushes himself up to standing. John instantly moves across the room to help him hobble across to the bathroom, but he finds that his help is being only used as a crutch and not as a necessity.

“Feel free to eat anything you find while I’m gone,” John says.

“Mm.”

John turns the knob to the bathroom door and pushes it open. “If you feel light-headed at all, please just sit down, I don’t want you falling and hitting your head again.”

Sherlock sighs as he takes his arm from John’s shoulders. “Yes, Mum.”

“Leave your clothes outside the door.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says as he stumbles into the loo and closes the door.

John stands there, staring at the wood, awkwardly waiting for a near-stranger to de-robe. And give him his clothes.[v]

The door barely opens enough to snap John’s attention away from his thoughts and to the jumble of fabric being pushed into his arms. The door slams closed before John can register anything other than a flash of pale skin.

With the clothes now in his possession, he has no excuse to linger. But John finds himself hesitant to leave. He tells himself it’s because of doctorly concern.

Turning away, he goes to find a bag for the clothes.

---

“You look like shit,” Mike says as John walks in through the back door of the café.

“Ta to you, too, mate.”

“Er-”

“No, it’s fine.” John waves a hand, putting the plastic bag of Sherlock’s clothes in one of the lockers. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Oooooh,” Mike sing-songs as he tucks his jacket into his own locker. “Pulled some nice stranger?”

John huffs, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I guess you could say that.”

“Any good?”

“Nice lips.” John lingers on the thought before changing the topic. “Oh, did you ever talk to that Michaela girl?”

Mike groans and tells John of his woes while they set up to open the store.

---

All day, John’s thoughts aren’t on the task at hand, but on Sherlock.

While he’s taking orders with a plastered-on smile, he thinks about Sherlock, and how deep the lines on his face seemed when he frowned, but how relaxed he seemed when he was trusting.

As he’s making coffee and tea, he thinks about how Sherlock was unable to eat his breakfast and how he must be starving.

When the coffee steam rises up into his face, he thinks about Sherlock slipping or fainting in the shower, falling unconscious, bleeding and drowning in the water.

When his fingers casually brush against a customer’s, he thinks about the electric feeling across his skin whenever he touched Sherlock, and how he desperately wants to kiss the man again.

The hand he had just touched pulls away alarmingly fast, followed by an indignant shriek. The sound sharply pulls John’s attention out of his thoughts to see that he had handed the customer her cappuccino too harshly, spilling it down her blouse.

“Oh, oh my god, I am so sorry,” John sputters, his heart ricocheting in his chest.

“How disgraceful! Were you even paying attention to what you were doing?!”

“I-I’m sorry, I was distracted–” John stutters as he hands the woman a wad of napkins.

“That is no excuse! Do you know how much–!”

“Miss,” says a soft, frail voice. “I apologize for the inconvenience but if you don’t lower your voice, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You’re disturbing the other customers.”

The woman looks affronted at such a request. She hmph’s then stomps out of the café, her heels clicking briskly against the floor, no doubt leaving to write a negative Yelp review.

“Too bad for her.” Mrs. Hudson turns toward a nearly-paralyzed John. “I was going to offer her a free pastry.”

“I am so sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I was distracted and I wasn’t even looking–”

“Hush.”

John immediately falls silent, chastised.

“I know you didn’t mean to, but the next time I come in to find a customer screaming I might just strangle them, and that is not very professional of me, now is it?”

John looks up, his eyes wide. Even though Mrs. Hudson acts as more of a mother towards her employees than the owner/manager of the café, John was momentarily crippled with fear when he realised she had seen what he’d done. “No, I guess not,” he laughs in relief.

Mrs. Hudson smiles at him. “This better be a one-off!” she toodles, walking away and into the back as she waggles her fingers over her shoulder.

John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He holds it for a moment before slowly letting it out, willing his heart to slow. When he opens his eyes, he sees Mike’s concerned eyes looking at him.

Mike, bless him, had taken over the register after John’s fumble, quickly taking and filling orders.

John turns back to the machines and starts making coffee.

---

On his lunch break, John visits the sandwich shop down the street. He orders his usual, chats with the cashier, sits at his corner table, and tucks in.

John’s mind inevitably veers back to Sherlock.

Is he eating? God, John hopes he’s eating. There isn’t much in the kitchen, but surely there’s more than what was on the streets.

Is he sleeping? John’s confident that Sherlock’s going to sleep most of the day away going by how he acted the night before and that morning. But...with no one there to wake him how will John know that he hasn’t slipped into a coma? He didn’t get a CT scan, there’s no other way of knowing if there was any severe brain damage.

John curses himself. Why hadn’t he set up a system so he’d know that Sherlock was okay while he was gone? He could’ve left his mobile phone with him and called him every few hours from the café phone.

But there would have been nothing preventing Sherlock from just taking his mobile and running. Would he steal anything of John’s and leave? His food, the emergency cash stored in his dresser, his clothes–

John feels like an idiot. He has no reason to trust this stranger, this junkie. He sets down his half-eaten sandwich, no longer hungry.

---

Lost in thoughts and anxieties, John lets his feet guide him back home after his shift. He doesn’t quite expect to find Sherlock there when he arrives, and he doesn’t know if that makes him relieved or sad.

It’s only when John sees the gaudy, glowing sign pointing toward the laundromat does he remember that he’s supposed to clean Sherlock’s clothes for him.

Sighing, John turns and walks into the building, not quite caring that he’s spending money on a stranger who probably won’t receive the benefits of his efforts.

Opting for a longer wash—who knows the last time these clothes were properly cleaned—John settles into one of the chairs in the seating area. He leans his head against the wall behind him and closes his eyes, wishing he had thought to bring some homework assignments or at least a book to keep him occupied.

Nearly 30 minutes into the washing cycle, John hears the phone ring behind the counter. The noise is shrill and pierces John’s ears. It rings for a long minute before it stops, nobody coming to answer it.

After a short moment, John feels his mobile vibrate in his pocket. John frowns, pulling out his mobile.

Unknown number. The phone continues to vibrate in John’s hand while he considers answering, but it goes to voicemail before he can decide.

John’s lock screen is only visible for a brief moment before a second call, unknown, phones him again.

John answers. “Hello?”

“There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?” The voice at the other end of the line sounds almost bored, like he does this sort of thing every day.

Goose pimples shiver down John’s arms. “Who’s this? Who’s speaking?”

“Do you see the camera, Mr. Watson?” The man asks again.

John stands and looks out the glass front of the building. He finds a CCTV camera at the top corner of the building across the street and to the left. “Yeah, I see it.”

“Watch.”

As John looks on, the camera starts to turn, facing away from him.

“There’s another camera on the building opposite you.”

This one, too, turns away.

“And, finally, at the top of the building on your right.”

The final camera swivels away as John watches, fear and excitement running through him. “How are you doing this?”

“Get in the car, Mr. Watson.” A sleek black car sidles up next to the kerb in front of the laundromat. “I would make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you.”

The dial tone drones in John’s ear. Looking around, John notices that there’s no one else in the store, employee or customer. No one to witness him getting into a mysterious car, and no cameras to capture it, either.

The driver steps out and opens the back door, pointedly looking at John through the glass.

This is, most definitely, a very bad idea.

John pushes open the laundromat door and strides across the sidewalk to the car.

When he sits, John sees a relatively attractive woman lounging on the other side of the seat, tapping away at a phone.

“Hello,” John says.

The woman smiles at her phone. “Hi.”

There’s a strained silence. John didn’t know what he expected when he got into a strange person’s car, but it certainly wasn’t an awkward social encounter. “What’s your name, then?”

“Er...Anthea.”[vi]

Desperate to dispel the awkwardness, John asks, “Is that your real name?”

Anthea smiles at him, like she thinks John is such a silly boy. “No.”

“I’m John.”

“Yes. I know.”

“Any point in asking where I’m going?”

Anthea smiles at John again. “None at all.” She turns back to her phone. “John.”

“...Okay.”

They sit quietly, the only sounds the hum of the car and Anthea’s tapping.

After ten more minutes of tense silence, the car drives into what seems like an abandoned warehouse. As the car stops, the headlights shine over a man leaning on an umbrella and a simple chair resting in front of him.

It looks like a scene from an action movie.

With only a small amount of hesitation, John gets out of the car and purposefully walks to the man.

Now closer, John can see that the man is wearing an impeccable grey suit that makes his significant height over John even more imposing.

“Have a seat, John.”

John recognizes his voice from the ominous phone call. He looks how he sounds.

“You know I’ve got a phone. You phoned me. Very clever and all that, with phoning the laundromat, but, uh, you could have just phoned me in the first place,” John says as he comes to stand in front of the man. He doesn’t know where the snark came from, because he doesn’t know who this person is and what he’s capable of if he gets pissed off.

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes one learns to be discreet, hence this place,” the man starts. “Sit down.”

“I don’t want to sit down.”

“You don’t seem very afraid.”

“You don’t seem very frightening.”

The man gives a short laugh. “You are brave, aren’t you? Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?” His expression turns in a second. “What is your connection to Sherlock,” he demands.

“I don’t have one.” John replies, still not sure how a homeless junkie is related to the stately man in front of him. “I barely know him, I met him...yesterday.”

“Hm. And since yesterday you’ve taken him in and are washing his clothes. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”[vii]

“Who are you?”

“An interested party.”

“Interested in Sherlock, why? I’m guessing you’re not friends.”

“You’ve met him. How many friends do you imagine he has? I’m the closest thing to a friend Sherlock is capable of having.”

“And what’s that?”

“An enemy.”

“An enemy?”

“In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he’d probably say his archenemy.” He trails off for a moment. “He does love to be dramatic.”

“Well, thank god you’re above all that,” John says, pointedly looking around the warehouse.

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock?”

“I could be wrong, but I think that’s none of your business.”

“It could be.”

“It really couldn’t.”

“If Sherlock does move in with you, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to...ease your way.”

“Why.”

“Because you are not a wealthy man. Medical school students rarely are.”

“In exchange for what?”

“Information. Nothing indiscreet, nothing you’d feel...uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to.”

“Why?”

“I worry about him. Constantly.”

“That’s nice of you,” John says insincerely.

“But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned; we have what you might call...a difficult relationship.”

John stares at the man for a long moment, feeling strangely protective of Sherlock and offended that someone would think he could be bribed. “No.”

“I haven’t mentioned a figure.”

“Don’t bother.”

The man laughs again. “You’re very loyal. Very quickly.”

John’s response comes out rushed. “No, I’m not, I’m just not interested. Are we done?”

The man stares at John. “You tell me.”

John turns and walks in the direction of the car. He sees Anthea step out and making her way towards him, her eyes glued to her phone.

“I’m to take you home,” she says. “Address?”

John gives the address of his bedsit before saying, “But I need to stop off at the laundromat first. I was in the middle of the wash cycle.”

---

When John arrives back at the laundromat, he finds Sherlock’s clothes in a wet heap at the bottom of the washing machine. He quickly transfers them over to a dryer.

It feels odd to be there again after what happened. He feels like he was ripped out of his own life and placed into someone else’s, only to realize they had the wrong person and put him back where they found him.

The car waits out front, parked until John needs to be taken home.

For the next forty-five minutes, John examines his memories, almost doubting the whole encounter. He glances at the car, thinking he might have imagined Anthea and that she really isn’t behind those tinted windows. That the car is actually a posh taxi service.

John can’t fathom how Sherlock fits into the situation. The man was only inquiring about him, unless there’s another Sherlock whose last name John doesn’t know, so what has Sherlock done that warrants the attentions of a man like that?

The dryer beeps, John collects Sherlock’s clothes, and enters the mysterious car once more.

---

After a painful flirting failure with Anthea, John unlocks the door to his bedsit and braces himself to find his home robbed or empty.

He closes his eyes and pushes the door open.

“You’re late.”

John opens his eyes.

He sees Sherlock lounging on the sofa, his head on a pillow, a glass of water and half-empty sleeve of crackers on the stool.

“You should have been back twenty-five minutes ago.”

Struck momentarily speechless, John only stands and stares.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I–um, here,” John stutters, walking across the room and putting the bag on the floor in front of the sofa. “Your clothes. They’re clean now.”

“Obviously, I can smell the detergent from here.”

John straightens up, dismissing the comment. “You wouldn’t know when I was supposed to be back, you can’t know if I was ‘late.’”

“Yes, I can,” Sherlock sighs, letting his head fall back onto the pillow. “That stain, there,” he gestures vaguely with his hand to a stain on the hem of John’s white polo. “It’s coffee, going by the strength of it, black. I know you received that stain at the end of your shift because the surrounding area is still damp from where you tried to clean it with water when you got off the clock—no other time to try and clean it, a lunch break too short and you’re too busy during your shift. Going by the freshness of the stain, I can deduce that you got it between two and two-and-a-half hours ago, which means you got off work during that time. It wouldn’t have taken you that long to get from your work to here, even including you using the longest setting available at the laundromat that’s on the way here. Hence, you’re late.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“That’s...wow,” John exhales. “Is that a thing you can do? It’s like what you did last night; how–how do you do that?”

“I just told you.”

“Yeah, now that you’ve told me it makes perfect sense, but how do you know what to look for?”

Sherlock squints his eyes open. “Are you really interested?”

“It’s fascinating.”

“I don’t know, I observe.” Sherlock then turns his back on John, facing the sofa. “I’ve used up all my energy,” he says. “I’m done talking.”

John continues to stand there, staring at Sherlock’s back. “I...okay? Wait, no, no.”

John pushes on Sherlock’s shoulder to roll him over. Sherlock groans.

“I need to check your eyes.”

“Oh, dear lord, not this again,” Sherlock sighs.

“Yes, this again. Stay there.”

“I haven’t moved all day.”

John ignores him as he retrieves the penlight from his bedroom.

“Did you eat anything other than crackers?” John returns, sitting on the ottoman opposite the sofa.

“No.”

“What would you like?” John asks as he checks Sherlock’s pupil dilation.

“For you to stop shining this infernal light into my eyes.”

“Hm,” John smiles and complies, feeling much better now that Sherlock’s pupils seem to be returning to normal. “I meant for dinner.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. He looks at John for a long moment, John staring right back.

It isn’t until just then that John notices how fluffy Sherlock’s hair is. He was too surprised at Sherlock’s continued presence and then concern over his health that he didn’t stop to actually look at the man.

When John met Sherlock the previous night, Sherlock’s hair was oily, long, and nearly flat at the scalp. Now that the grease is gone, what John can now see as curls are flying every which way. They look incredibly soft and delicate, begging someone to run their fingers through them.[viii]

He lets himself study the rest of the man in front of him, and it suddenly seems very significant that Sherlock is wearing his clothes.

The shirt is too short on Sherlock, showing a tiny sliver of stomach—too concave, needs to eat more—and the sleeves too tight. It can’t be comfortable for him.

“Why would you care?”

Snapping his gaze back to Sherlock’s face, John asks, “Sorry?”

“About what I want.”

John blinks. “Because you need to eat to gain energy to help you heal. And you’re more likely to eat if it’s something you like.”

Sherlock looks like he wants to say more, but he all he says is, “Japanese.”

John smiles. “Alright then.”

---

“You know,” John says as he shovels fried rice into his mouth, “I half expected you to be gone by the time I got home.”

“Oh?” Sherlock ordered udon soup but he’s picking around the vegetables, only eating something other than broth and noodles when John glares at him.

“Yeah. Thought you would’ve run away from the crazy man who gave you a concussion and took you into his home.”

“I knew you wouldn’t intentionally hurt me.” Sherlock stirs his soup, the noodles catching on his chopsticks. “I saw your caring nature and thought it’d be safer here for the time being.”

Chewing on his chicken, John asks, “Safer than A&E? I could’ve been a murderer for all you knew.”

Sherlock throws John a smirk. “You couldn’t be a murderer. Manslaughter, perhaps, you’re strong enough, but you’d never purposefully kill another human being. The way you acted after you realized I had fallen unconscious was obviously genuine. The fact that you wanted to go to the hospital immediately was also a point in your favor.”

“Why are you so insistent on not going to hospital? They won’t care about the drugs, they just want to help.”

Sherlock scoffs. “You wouldn’t understand.”

John looks at him for a long moment. “Why did you still try to run if you knew I wouldn’t hurt you?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I had just received a concussion, I was confused. I don’t know you nor your intentions. It wasn’t until after that I realized you were actually concerned that I conceded to stay.”

“Well, I’m glad you did,” John says. “I would have worried ceaselessly otherwise.”

They lapse into silence after that, punctuated by the tap of John’s chopsticks and Sherlock’s slurping. It’s not nearly as awkward as the night before, but John latches onto something Sherlock said to dispill the quiet.

“I think I could kill someone.”

Sherlock just turns to stare at him.

On second thought, probably not the best thing to say to the stranger John roughed up not even 24 hours prior.

“I mean, if they were a really bad person,” John backtracks.

“You’re not doing yourself any favors, John.”

“Well.” John’s voice is unnaturally high in embarrassment. “I plan on joining the army, that’s all. To pay for my schooling.”

“As an army doctor?”

“Yeah.”

“‘First do no harm,’” Sherlock quotes as waves his chopsticks in the air.

“I’d be non-combatant.”

“You just said you would kill people.” Sherlock looks bored with the conversation.

John stutters. “I-I don’t know, it’s a war zone! I would imagine they’d give me at least a handgun to protect myself. And I would if I need to.”

Sherlock just rolls his eyes and goes back to his soup.

The silence is even more tense than before. John stares at his plate and refuses to look in Sherlock’s direction lest another stupid comment spills from his mouth.

After an agonizing hour that was probably only minutes, Sherlock’s head flies up and towards John, his curls bouncing.

“You were late. You were nearly thirty minutes late, that’s a lot of time to account for.”

John just stares at Sherlock, continuing to eat his food. “Is that your way of asking me what I was doing?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Just tell me.”

“Actually,” John says, setting his plate down on a side table, “I meant to ask you about that.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him.

“Met a friend of yours.”

“A friend?”

“An enemy.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, understanding. “Which one?”

John can’t believe this. “Well, your archenemy, according to him—Do people even have archenemies?”

“Oh, of course,” Sherlock mutters, shaking his head. “I’ve been so slow, it should’ve been obvious.”

“You have a concussion, slow mental processes are to be expected. What should’ve been obvious?”

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?” Sherlock suddenly demands, not answering John’s question.

John pauses. “Yes.”

“Did you take it?”

“No.”

“Pity, we could’ve split the fee, think it through next time.”

John laughs. “Jesus, what the hell do you get up to? First I’m kidnapped by a crazy man asking after you and now you’re acting like it’s completely normal. Are you some kind of federal criminal? Should I be worried about MI5 knocking down my door any time soon?”

He says it jokingly, but Sherlock just stares at him.

“Oh my god, am I going to get arrested?”

“No,” Sherlock says, drawing out the vowel. “I was just marveling at the massive stupidity of the general populace and what a common person can easily come to believe.”

“Oi!”

“Oh, don’t be like that, practically everyone is.”

Ignoring the slight completely, John asks “So, who is he? The man in the suit?”

“The most dangerous man you’ve ever met and not my problem right now.” Sherlock goes back to eating.

John scoffs. “I can’t believe you.”

Sherlock smiles.

---

When they’re both done, John picks up their dishes, sets them by the sink, and packs their leftovers into the fridge. Sherlock continues to laze about on the sofa, being of no help whatsoever.

As John finishes up, he calls, “Budge up, that’s where I study and I need to catch up on my work.”

John picks up a textbook off the floor as he makes his way to the sofa, pushing Sherlock’s legs. “Move, you lanky git.”

“Mm.”

Sherlock pulls his knees to his chest as John sits. His feet butt up against John’s thigh.

“Your feet are cold.”

Sherlock responds by nudging his feet closer. John sighs.

They stay that way for a long moment, Sherlock wriggling his toes and picking at the sleeve of his borrowed sweatshirt, John silently turning the pages of the textbook as he reads.

The moment feels comfortable. John doesn’t remember the last time he felt so content.

After a while, Sherlock’s fidgeting slows. John looks over to find his face smushed against the back of the sofa, asleep, wheezing out every breath.

John can only see Sherlock’s riot of curls and not a bit of his face, and the sight brings a small smile to his lips.

He continues to read his textbook until the sky darkens and the city-sounds from outside diminish. He sets his textbook aside and pulls his arms above his head, stretching his back and groaning in relief.

Sherlock stirs at John’s side. He makes an unhappy sound before he takes a deep breath and rolls onto his back. He blinks himself awake, scrunching his eyes closed and opening them wide.

John smiles. “Ready for bed?”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“Up you get!” John stands. “I’m still not having you sleep on the sofa with a concussion.” He holds out a hand for Sherlock to take, but he opts instead to slowly raise himself to a sitting position.

Sherlock leans against the back of the sofa for a moment, closing his eyes again and covering them with his hand.

“Alright?”

“Headache.”

“Sleep will help.”

Sherlock stays silent and ignores John’s still outstretched hand as he stands. John moves to assist him but Sherlock avoids his touch and walks down the hall to the bedroom, shutting the door.[ix]

---

Once more, John sets alarms every two hours to wake Sherlock during the night. By morning, he almost regrets taking Sherlock in.

Every time he had checked on Sherlock in the night, he had been awake and irritable, desperately wanting to sleep but unable. A pang went through John’s chest every time he saw those tired, red eyes.

By the time John checks on him in the morning, he’s finally fallen asleep.

He doesn’t look comfortable. His face is mushed into the pillow and John wonders how he’s breathing. His brow is furrowed and he looks almost angry in sleep. John decides to leave him be.

He tries to be quiet as he gets ready, opening and closing his dresser drawers slowly and using the sink in the kitchen to brush his teeth rather than the closer one in the bathroom.

John had just sat down to eat his cereal when hears rustling coming from the bedroom. At first, he thinks Sherlock is waking up, but then he hears whimpers and grunts.

John hastily sets down his bowl and enters the bedroom.

Sherlock’s fighting with the blankets, still asleep, his brow glistening with sweat.

“Sherlock!” John steps up to the bed and shakes Sherlock’s shoulders. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s eyes snap open and he scrambles away from John’s touch. John raises his hands in supplication.

Sherlock’s gaze darts about the room, looking wretched and confused. He’s breathing heavy, a hand to his chest.

John lowers his hands. “...Alright?”

Sherlock looks at him without recognition.

“Sherlock?”

Something seems to snap into place in Sherlock’s mind, for his shoulders drop down from around his ears and he lets out a long breath.

“Are you alright?” John asks again.

“Fine, fine.” Sherlock plops back down on the bed, his chest still heaving.

---

John almost doesn’t go to class that day.

In the end, he justifies to himself, it was just a nightmare. Nothing serious. Nothing he can’t leave Sherlock alone over.

But when he arrives back home, he finds Sherlock on the couch wrapped in a blanket, trembling.

John drops his bag by the door and rushes to his side.

"Sherlock?"

"C-cold."

Immediately, John retrieves the duvet from the bedroom and drapes it over Sherlock’s form, tucking the edges in, exceedingly aware of the intimacy of the gesture. Sherlock’s body is startlingly hot even through the blanket. 

Kneeling down at Sherlock’s side, John unceremoniously places his hand on Sherlock’s forehead, feeling his temperature. Sherlock flitches back when John touches the sore bump, but doesn’t pull away.

"You have a fever." John gets up and rummages around through his med kit for a thermometer before returning to Sherlock’s side. “Open up.”

Sherlock barely opens his mouth before snapping it back closed.

"Hurts."

"Try again for me?"

Sherlock works his jaw for a moment before opening again. John grabs a hold of his jaw, facial hair rasping against his fingers, and sticks the thermometer in.

Sherlock recoils with an “Ng!”

"Sorry." John gives him a sympathetic smile.

They sit there in silence until the thermometer beeps. Sherlock obediently opens his mouth, John taking it and reading from the display.

"Low-grade, not too worrisome. I'm hoping this will sort itself out, yeah?"

"Hm."

John looks at Sherlock for a moment, at his tired face and shaking body. He feels protective, and tries not to examine why.

"Dinner?"

"Tomato soup."

In the end, Sherlock doesn’t eat it.

---

John peruses his textbook in the campus library, waiting on Mike to study for tomorrow’s exam. Recently, he’s been coming home immediately after class or work instead of meeting with Mike like he usually does, but he can’t focus on studying with Sherlock distracting him.

Well, “distracting” isn’t quite the right word. “Needing” was more like it.

Nearly every day, it seems that Sherlock develops a new symptom. Muscle aches, tremors, chills. Nightmares and the occasional fever. It’s getting increasingly harder for John to convince himself to leave the bedsit for class and work.

Sherlock’s senses are a mess. He’ll demand a certain food and then not eat it because it “doesn’t taste how it should,” which often ends with him stealing John’s food. He had demanded John purchase a new shampoo because he didn’t like the smell of it, claiming it was “too bright.”

John considers tracing back Sherlock’s symptoms to what kind of drugs he had taken, but eventually thought it pointless. It would be nearly impossible to tell withdrawal symptoms from concussion symptoms, and if Sherlock  regularly shot up with a cocktail of drugs, then, well. John just wishes he knew what to be prepared for.

“Hey, John!” Mike’s voice calls out.

A chorus of shhhh!s bombard the room as Mike makes his way to John’s table.

John smiles at his friend, glad for the distraction.

---

“Take your clothes off.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

John had just plopped down on the couch, passing by Sherlock who was smoking a cigarette out an open window. John doesn’t have any cigarettes in the bedsit, so Sherlock must’ve left to purchase them.

The fact that Sherlock came back makes John’s chest warm.

“You smell like cadavers.”

John frowns. All he smells is smoke. “Don’t smoke in my flat.”

John stands and walks to the bedroom, pulling his shirt off on the way. He pretends to not notice Sherlock watching him.

He changes into a jumper and returns to find Sherlock with one hand roaming over his jaw, the other dangling the cigarette.

John snatches it out of his hands and snubs it on the windowsill. Sherlock doesn’t look at him, just continues to move his hand over the lower half of his face.

“Is your jaw hurting?” John worries.

“I don’t like this beard.”

Quite frankly, John agreed. “Er, alright.”

“My hands are shaking,” Sherlock says as he holds his hands out. They tremble in the air between them.

John reaches for them and clasps them in his own to still the tremors. His skin is dry and warm.

John doesn’t look at Sherlock even though he can feel his piercing gaze on him.

“I can’t use your razor without cutting myself,” Sherlock says, and John tells himself the rasp in his voice is from the smoke.

“Sounds like you have a problem on your hands.” John looks up and catches Sherlock’s eyes.

“Help me get this ridiculous beard off.” And he says it with such finality that John can’t help but laugh.

“Alright, alright. You berk.”

Sherlock smiles like the cat who got the cream and heads to the loo, John smiling and following behind him.

As John gets everything ready, Sherlock lowers the toilet lid and sits, leaning against the water tank. John is hyper-aware of Sherlock watching him, and tries to will down the flush threatening to rise up to his skin.

John turns from the sink and moves to stand in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes are closed, his face raised like a flower toward the sun. John looks his fill, and can't help but notice the minute changes from a week ago.

The bump on his forehead has gotten significantly smaller. The cut on his lip is still deep, but no longer bleeds when he frowns, and the scrapes on his cheeks are all but gone.

They’re both quiet as John pats a damp washcloth over Sherlock’s face, then applies shaving foam to Sherlock’s jaw and upper lip.

John can hear the cars driving by and his neighbors’ murmurs through the walls.

Sherlock's skin is surprisingly warm under his fingertips, and John might have massaged the foam into his skin for longer than strictly necessary.[x]

When he can no longer realistically continue, he rinses his hands and takes up a disposable razor.

John lifts his right hand and gently holds Sherlock’s head in place as he glides the razor from the mandibular joint down to Sherlock’s jawline, revealing smooth, pale skin beneath the foam.

It’s incredibly intimate, but also comfortable.

A wave of protectiveness crests over him as he continues, gently moving Sherlock’s head so he can get the best angle, Sherlock easily moving along with him under his touch.

John can feel Sherlock’s breath on his fingers and see his eyelashes fluttering.

“Gonna get your upper lip now,” John says quietly.

Sherlock understands his meaning and pulls his upper lip into his mouth, smoothing out the skin for John’s attentions.

John carefully, carefully, runs the blade over the skin, startlingly aware of how close he his to Sherlock’s lip and how he could easily cut the thin skin.

The foam is eventually wiped away, leaving behind smooth, soft skin.

Sherlock releases his lip from his mouth. It’s wet and glistening, dark pink from pressure.

John desperately wants to kiss it.

Turning away, John grabs the washcloth and re-wets it, running it under warm water. When he turns back, he sees Sherlock looking at him intensely.

John was right.

Without the beard, Sherlock looks ravishing.

John gives a small cough of distraction as he cleans Sherlock’s face, avoiding his eye. The skin is still very slightly rough, miniscule hairs the blade missed. John normally would have done another go against the grain, but he doesn’t think he could have stood that much prolonged contact.

“There. All done.”

The tension in the air could be cut with a knife.

John wants to put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and lean down, to press his lips against his. He can feel himself sway toward Sherlock when-

“Moisturizer.”

John blinks. “What?”

“You didn’t put on moisturizer.” Sherlock looks straight into John’s eyes.

“Oh. I don’t think– hold on.”

John rummages through the medicine cabinet before he finds some scented lotion an ex-girlfriend had left.

He flips the cap open and squirts a dollop onto his palm.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “Not that one. Too strong.”

“Oh! Of course, yeah.” John hastily replaces it and comes out with the most generic hand-lotion in the cabinet. He washes his hands and flips the cap open for Sherlock to sniff. “Better?”

“Better.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and raises his face toward John, waiting.

Almost awe-struck at the sight, John rubs the lotion between his hands and, hesitantly, rubs circles into Sherlock’s cheeks and jaw, massaging the lotion into his skin.

Sherlock lets out a satisfied sigh, and John can’t help but notice how certain parts of his anatomy react to that sound.

When John eventually pulls away, Sherlock’s eyes flutter open.

“Mm. Thank you.” He looks relaxed and sated, hazy around the edges where his satisfaction blurs into sleepiness.

“You’re welcome,”[xi] is the only thing John can think to say.

That night, John goes to sleep thinking about how he desperately wishes he wasn’t sleeping on the couch.

---

John wakes suddenly and completely the next morning.

A grab and a glance at his phone tells him that his alarm won’t go off for another 30 minutes.

John exhales hard in frustration at the missed sleep before memories of the previous night hit him with the force of a lorry.

He is definitely, completely and wholly, besotted with the ridiculous man currently sleeping in his bed.

John stares at the ceiling, examines the now-familiar cracks, and feels adrift in the sea of his emotions.

Once his alarm rings, John throws the blanket off himself and checks on Sherlock, as is now his habit.

John finds Sherlock curled into a tight ball, breathing heaving and shivering, staring at nothing.

“Sherlock?” John ejaculates not without a touch of fear.

John drops to his knees and places his hand on Sherlock’s trembling shoulder.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice seems to tremble with Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock grabs at John’s hand and holds it tightly. John lets him.

They stay like that for a long few minutes, John gripping back just as tightly and running his other hand over Sherlock’s sweaty hair, not able to restrain himself from resting his lips on Sherlock’s forehead[xii] and whispering nonsensical platitudes.

“Shh, shh, you’re alright, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

Eventually, Sherlock takes a shaky breath and John pulls away.

“Okay?”

Sherlock looks wretched. His eyes are red and watery, his face clammy with sweat.

He exhales and nods.

Their hands are still clasped and it isn’t until that moment does John realise he had been swiping his thumb back and forth across Sherlock’s knuckles. He stops but doesn’t pull away.

“What do you need?”

Sherlock trembles in fits and starts for a long moment before he responds. “Sh-” he wets his lips, clears his throat, and tries again. “Shower.”

John grips Sherlock’s hand and pushes his other under Sherlock’s shoulder, heaving him upright. Sherlock lets John take his entire weight, and he doesn’t like what that might mean. Trembles wrack Sherlock’s frame that John can feel down to his toes.

He wraps his arms around Sherlock for a moment and squeezes, giving him comfort in any way he can. Sherlock sighs, but John can’t tell if its from relief or frustration.

“Come on, let’s get you in the shower, hm?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispers.

The way Sherlock so completely depends on John just to get to his feet scares him.

Is Sherlock is getting worse? What if John can’t help him? Will Sherlock become so desperate to end the withdrawal that he leaves to score another hit?

John shakes his head to dispel the thoughts, focusing on moving Sherlock from the bedroom to the bathroom.

Sherlock clings to John without shame, whimpering at nearly every movement.

The sounds breaks John’s heart.

Achingly slowly, they make their way to their destination. John sets Sherlock down on the tub’s edge, suddenly aware of what needs to happen next.

The thought doesn't make him blush, but his chest constrict in pain.

John kneels in front of Sherlock. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock glances up, looking meek with his hands clasped delicately in his lap.

“Do you want my help getting undressed?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath and exhales. “No...no, I’m fine.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.” He gives a small nod.

John looks at him. Sherlock strategically avoids his eye, looking off into the middle distance.

John squeezes Sherlock’s knee. “Alright. If you change your mind or need any help, just give a shout.”

---

hey I wont be in class today im sick. but let me know how horrible the exam is!

Delivered: 08:32

Oh, no! Are you sure you can’t make it?

Received: 08:34

im sure, I can barely get out of bed

Delivered: 08:34

I’m sorry, I hope you feel better soon. Need me to bring by anything? Medicine or something?

Received: 08:35

no but thanks. ill let you know if i need anything

Delivered: 08:35

---

John checks on Sherlock three times while he’s in the shower. Each time, Sherlock says he’s fine.

After what feels like an eternity where John chews his nails down, paces a groove into the carpet, and worries too much to eat anything, the sound of running water stops. 

The silence is deafening.

John listens for movement, and after a moment he hears them. The rustle of the shower curtain, the soft pad of feet, the rasping of a towel.

The sounds stop for a second too long for John’s comfort and he rushes to knock on the door.

“Sherlock? Alright in there?”

The door opens a few inches, hiding Sherlock from view. “Bring me your dressing gown.”

Happy to be of any help at all, John immediately retrieves his dressing gown from the bedroom and hands it to Sherlock through the crack in the door, mindful to keep his eyes away from the opening to preserve Sherlock’s modesty.

Sherlock snatches the robe and sniks closed the door behind him.

When Sherlock doesn’t come out or make a noise for a whole minute, John knocks again.

“Sherlock?”

No answer.

“Sherlock, please answer, even if it’s to tell me to go away.”

Silence.

John places his hand on the door knob. “I’m opening the door now,” he threatens.

He turns the knob but doesn’t open the door, giving Sherlock time to protest.

He doesn’t.

Pushing the door open fully, he finds Sherlock sitting on the floor leaning against the tub, his arms wrapped tightly around himself, holding closed the dressing gown. His wet hair drips onto his face and neck, dampening the neckline of the gown.

His tremors are visible from the doorway.

John doesn’t remember going to him, but the next thing he knows he’s vigorously rubbing his hands up down Sherlock’s arms, desperate to warm him up.

He didn’t know muscle aches and chills could get this bad.

“J-John.”

“What is it, what do you need?”

“Hurts.”

John reaches for a towel and drapes it over Sherlock’s head, patting his hair dry.

“Let’s get you to bed first. I’ll take care of it, I promise.”

Sherlock’s lack of a sarcastic response tells John more than he needs to know.

It takes much longer than John would have liked to get Sherlock in bed and under the covers. But once he’s there, he looks infinitely relieved.

Sherlock reluctantly downs the paracetamol with water John gives him, the movement obviously paining him.

John almost feels like crying.

He wordlessly perches on the edge of the mattress and coaxes Sherlock’s arm from under the blankets. Sherlock lets him, watching him with tired eyes.

John’s gaze flickers to meet Sherlock’s before lowering to where he has Sherlock’s hand in his loose grasp, gently massaging the muscles.

He digs his thumb into Sherlock’s palm and rubs in tight circles. His other hand holds Sherlock’s steady, pliant under the attentions. He spirals his thumb outward, vaguely remembering something about pressure points.

John then flips Sherlock’s hand over and uses both of his own to massage the bony top of Sherlock’s hand, paying special attention to the meaty portion of his thumb and each interdigital fold.

Purlicue. Index. Middle. Ring. Pinky.

He bends back Sherlock’s index finger until he meets the slightest resistance, stretching the tendons, then releasing it. He repeats the process with the others, noting how the tremors haven’t eased.

He makes sure to rub his affection into every millimeter of skin before moving up to Sherlock’s arm.

Glancing up, he finds Sherlock’s eyes heavily lidded, but open, with his breath deep and slow.

John pushes the dressing gown sleeves out of the way before turning Sherlock’s arm underside up.

The skin is littered with healing bruises and scars. None of them look less than a week old.

John hesitates, concerned he’ll cause more pain if he touches them.

“John?”

His voice is soft, all breath.

“Sorry, sorry…”

“Don’t be.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Sherlock shivers.

“Do they hurt?”

“Sometimes. Usually.”

John doesn’t respond, only turns his arm back over and runs his hands from wrist to elbow in one long, hard line.

Sherlock hums and closes his eyes.

John continues his ministrations, massaging from wrist to elbow and back down, going wider with each pass.

The heat under his hands calms his nerves, relishing being able to provide Sherlock comfort and relief in this way.

Keeping one hand on Sherlock’s forearm, he pushes the sleeve up further.

Sherlock shivers at the cold air, and John rubs warmth back into his skin in apology. He can feel his calluses catching at Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock’s eyes are still closed, his breathing even, his head turned slightly toward John.

His eyelashes flutter, his lips a delightful pink, the facial muscles slack in relaxation. His drying curls form a hazy halo around his head.

He's so beautiful.

John can't look away.

He must've been looking for too long, for Sherlock nudges his arm against John's hands.

The bicep easily gives under John's strong hands. It's more toned than John realised, and he once again wonders what Sherlock is like when he's strong, sober, and stable.

Sherlock trembles once, the first in minutes.

John massages the muscles with deep circles and broad stroked, naming them as he goes.

Bicep, brachialis, tricep.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and sighs, the air cascading over John's knuckles. Gooseflesh travels from his hands to his arms.

His fingers sneak under the bunched up sleeve to Sherlock’s chest, kneading with his fingers, his other hand awkwardly positioned between Sherlock’s bony shoulder and the mattress.

“You’re too thin,” John says in the quiet.

“Hm. S’what happens.”

“Should eat more.”

Sherlock’s nose scrunches up adorably, eyes still closed. “Nauseous.”

“If you had more food in your stomach maybe you wouldn’t be so nauseous.” John pulls his hands away, unable to go any further with the sleeve impeding his path.

“Don’t stop.” He sounds almost accusatory, and John smiles.

“Your clothes are kind of in the way.”

Sherlock lugs himself upright, pushing the sleeves off his shoulders. He struggles to get them off past his elbows, trying to take both sleeves off at the same time with uncoordinated and tired muscles.

Taking pity on him, John helps removes the rest of the dressing gown from his frame, letting his hands skim across Sherlock’s warm skin. Once it’s off, Sherlock flips onto his stomach, his head pillowed on his hands. John leaves the dressing gown to pool over Sherlock’s bum, protecting his decency.

A content hum escapes Sherlock’s lips.

John smiles. Sherlock is definitely enjoying this.

The chills seem to have gone, but John will touch him for as long as being asked to.

John pulls his legs onto the bed and swings one over Sherlock’s hip, reminiscent of their first meeting. He feels properly guilty, now. For hurting Sherlock the way he did.

John stays hovering over him, hands balanced on Sherlock’s shoulder blades, thinking it not appropriate to sit in this position.[xiii]

The cell phone vibrates on the nightstand and Sherlock startles under John’s hands.

“Sorry, sorry.”

John grabs his mobile to find a text from Mike:

Even worse than I expected, I’m not sure I even knew half of the terms that were on it.
Received: 09:14

It buzzes again in his hand:
I can’t imagine what the make-up lab will be like, I’m sorry, mate.
Received: 09:14

John sighs. He sets the phone down, leaving the messages unanswered.

“Hm? Wassat?” Sherlock mumbles.

“Nothing. Just a classmate.”

John replaces his hands where they were on Sherlock’s back. Not moving, just resting there.

“You...you had a test today. I remember you studying for it.” Sherlock’s words are muffled.

“Hm. Yeah.” John starts to rub his hands down Sherlock’s back, kneading the muscles.

“You didn’t go.”

“No.”

It’s silent for a long moment. John continues his motions, Sherlock’s skin warm under his hands.

“Why?”

The words stick in John’s throat. “You needed me here more.” He coughs to clear the emotion. “I can always take the test later.”

John focuses on Sherlock’s shoulders. He digs the heels of his palms into each deltoid, moving in concentric circles.

The pressure makes Sherlock groan out a breath and melt into the sheets. Sherlock doesn’t respond and John doesn’t say anything, either.

The world is quiet save for the sound of their breathing and skin on skin.

It’s not sexual. Just intimate. John takes stock of his own body and is pleasantly surprised to find that he’s not aroused, although his skin tingles with warmth and affection.

Despite Sherlock laying on his front and hiding any physical evidence to the contrary, John knows that he feels the same. The air is thick, not with tension, but with their own personal bubble of solitude they are loathe to break.

The universe is made up of only them, and this bed, and nothing more.

John moves his ministrations along Sherlock’s spine, digging his thumbs into the valleys along its edge and running them downward. He can count Sherlock’s vertebrae.

He stops several respectful inches above his tailbone, opening his palms and running them back up in a widening path, and back down.

His hands take a final rest at Sherlock’s waist, fingertips still gently stroking, desperate to keep contact.

John risks a glance at Sherlock’s face.

His eyes are closed, his lips parted. His hair has dried into a ridiculous bedhead that John can’t help smiling at.

He thinks he’s asleep until Sherlock’s voice, rough and soft like corduroy, speaks.

“Thank you.”

And John doesn’t know if it’s for staying home, or for the massage, but he responds anyway.

“Of course.”[xiv]

---

John wakes to his phone ringing.

He blindly searches for his phone with one hand, catching it and pulling it up to his face. The screen is too bright and he has to squint to see what it says:

‘Harry.’

He accepts the call, dreading what he’s going to hear.

“Harry? Is everything okay?” He sits up proper, unable to lay down for this.

“JoooOOOOOOHn,” Harry slurs.

John sighs and his shoulders sag.

“Hi, Harry. How are you.” His voice is flat.

“I’m SHIT. Absolutely SHIT-FACED,” she says, even though she’s laughing.

“Why did you call me.” John’s voice is low.

“Oooooo, you’re angry. You’re angry with me, I can tell!” And she sounds happy that she figured it out.

“Yeah, I’m angry. I’ve asked you to not call me when you’re like this.”

“You’re no FUN, Johnny.”

“You know why I don’t like it!” His voice comes out louder than he intended, but now that he’s there, he can’t seem to lower it. “You’re killing yourself and you know it! A-and you won’t let me help you, you don’t seem to think you even need help! You know what drinking did to Mom and Dad and I can’t believe you would do that to yourself! To me!”

The other end is silent save for the faintest sound of breathing.

“It’s not even 9 o’clock and you’re already drunk.”

“John…”

He takes a shaky breath and exhales. Tries to calm down. “I know this can be hard. I know. But you can help yourself, and I can’t help you if you don’t want it. Next time I hear from you, it better be because you’re cleaning up your act. Bye.”

John jabs at the end call button on the screen with little satisfaction. The lack of a hinge to slam closed or a receiver to slam down frustrates him. He throws his mobile onto the other end of the sofa.

Leaning over his knees, he runs his hands through his hair and grips at the roots.

“God!” he grits out.  His muscles are tense.

A soft padding down the hall catches his attention.

John looks up to see Sherlock coming into the den wrapped in John’s duvet. His eyes are red and his hair is mussed. He’s never gotten up before John before.

“I just fell asleep. Why are you yelling.” He sounds wretched, and John immediately feels his stomach drop out from under him in guilt.

“I-I’m sorry. It was nothing.”

“Who was that?”

“Oh, er, just my sister. Harry.”

“Harry?”

“Yeah. Short for Harriet.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s mouth forms a delightful little ‘o.’ “Well. ‘Sherlock’ is traditionally a girl’s name, too. So.”

John’s tongue flicks out to wet his lips. “I haven’t heard of it before so I wouldn’t know.”

“Hm.”

“I think it’s pretty.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets it. His teeth click with the force of his jaw closing, turning away to avoid Sherlock’s gaze. He can feel his face heating up.

“Er, go back to sleep, I’ll be quiet now. I, er, need to email my teacher, anyway. Reschedule the test.”

Sherlock glares at him for a moment, not at all effectively with his hair the way it is and the faint blush painting his cheeks, and turns back to the bedroom.

John composes his email to Mr. Pardue in mortification.

While he’s waiting for a response, he gets ready for his classes, steadfastly avoiding Sherlock until he’s asleep in John’s bed once more, looking like the paintings[xv] he learned about in Art History.

His phone pings, and John reads that he is to come in late that evening and do a make-up lab, which is supposed to be infinitely more difficult than a written test.

John reluctantly attends his morning classes, leaving the bedsit just barely able to resist giving Sherlock a goodbye kiss to his sleeping face. He’s unable to not think about Sherlock every second that he’s in class, and then at work, and back on campus for his make-up test.

He hasn’t been out of the bedsit such a long stretch of time since he brought Sherlock home.

They’ve hardly been apart from each other for more than a handful of hours, John rushing to get back home whenever he has a spare minute.

So, when John finally,  finally, arrives home at 11:36 that night, later than he has ever been since Sherlock’s arrival, he heaves a relieved sigh. He’s ready to sleep for a solid 12 hours, and maybe give himself the luxury of sleeping through his first class.

John tosses his keys on the kitchen counter and closes the door behind him with a soft click. Sherlock isn’t on the couch, nor smoking out the window. Must be in bed.

Not wanting to disturb the little rest Sherlock may be getting, John quiets his footsteps as he walks down the hall toward the bedroom. He turns the knob slowly and pushes the door open.

He finds Sherlock with a pillow behind his back and head, creating a cradle for his body, and the duvet pulled up to his shoulders. His eyes open into slits as John approaches the bed.

“How are you feeling?” John all but whispers. “Have you slept at all?”

Sherlock’s eyes look red and tired. One of his hands comes up to rub at them.

“No. Can’t sleep.” Sherlock’s hand flops back down onto the mattress.

They don’t talk. The slanted light from the window runs across the room whenever a stray car passes, casting Sherlock’s face in harsh shadows.

John raises his hand to place on Sherlock’s shoulder, but he hesitates, his hand stuttering halfway. It falls back to his side.

“I can’t…” Sherlock trails off. He looks so terribly sad that John’s heart aches.

Before he can change his mind, John sits at the edge of the bed and wraps his arms around Sherlock, resting his forehead against the jut of Sherlock’s shoulder. Not squeezing, just offering the comfort of his touch.

Sherlock doesn’t stiffen but nor does he relax in John’s arms.

“I’m sorry,” John says.

“What for?”

“That you have to go through this.”

Sherlock pulls away slightly to look at John. John loosens his grip but keeps his arms around him. They gaze at each other in the dimness.

“John…”

Something about the way Sherlock says his name has John leaning in, and Sherlock meets him halfway.

Their lips touch, comfortable and familiar.

At first, John keeps his mouth closed, but can’t help himself from opening them when Sherlock swipes at the seam with his tongue. John reciprocates, Sherlock softly gasping as he relaxes in John’s arms.

Sherlock puts his hands on John’s back, lightly tugging, and John raises a hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek.

Keeping Sherlock’s head in place, John kisses first his top lip, then the lower. Sherlock makes a noise almost like a cry before he holds John’s hand to his face with his own.

Sherlock’s other hand slides up John’s back, leaving a trail of tingling heat, and into his hair. John shivers.

They kiss for a long minute, taking small licks and sips at each other’s lips.

After a moment, John breaks away and presses his forehead into Sherlock’s.

“Sleep now,” John whispers. “You need your rest.”

Sherlock’s eyes are closed. “I can't,” he whispers back after a moment, his voice full of pain.

John brings up his free hand up to cup Sherlock’s other cheek, Sherlock’s following to cover his, and rubs his thumbs into Sherlock’s cheekbones. Sherlock presses into John’s hands, seeking the touch. John wants to cry.

“Let me get changed,” John says softly.

He places a feather-light kiss to each of Sherlock’s eyelids, and a lingering kiss to his lips. John then tugs his hands free, Sherlock reluctantly letting him go.

John stands and moves to the dresser, quickly and surely changing out of his clothes and into his pajamas before slipping under the sheets.

Sherlock immediately turns towards John and John opens his arms. Sherlock easily moves into them and makes himself comfortable, sighing in contentment when he settles.

John doesn’t resist the urge to place a kiss to Sherlock’s hair.

---

John briefly wakes to Sherlock slowly removing John's arm from around his waist.

“Hm?”

"Shh, go back to sleep. Going to the bathroom."

"Mm."

John stays awake long enough to hear Sherlock pad down the hall and the sound of a door snicking open and closed, but the call of sleep is too hard to resist, and he easily falls back into slumber before Sherlock returns.

---

By the time John has woken up proper, the sun is high in the sky and shining angrily through the window. John mutters and rolls over to mush his face into the mattress, hiding from the sun’s glare. He reaches his arm out across the sheets to wrap Sherlock in his arms, but finds it empty and cold. John frowns.

It’s not unusual for Sherlock to wake up before John, but he hasn’t ever left the bed before John has a chance to check on him.

“Sherlock?” He tries to call, but his voice cracks with sleep. He clears his throat and calls louder, “Sherlock?”

John listens but doesn’t hear any response.

Tamping down his panic, John swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands, quickly making his way toward the silent bathroom.

"Sherlock?" John knocks on the door. "Are you in there?"

He receives no answer.

John opens the door, finding the door unlocked and the room empty.

He practically runs into the den and throws open his front door, hoping that Sherlock only stepped out for some fresh air.

All he sees are people walking along the sidewalk, going about their day, completely unaware that John is well on his way toward[s] an emotional breakdown.

Maybe...maybe he smoked the whole pack that John still hadn’t been able to find and went out to buy some more.

But something in his gut tells him that’s not the case.

That Sherlock must have finally caved.

That he must have finally admitted to himself that his time with John was useless, that the temptation of drugs was better than a sober life.

A life John had hoped Sherlock would want to spend with him.

John wants to run and find Sherlock, wants to use the adrenaline and fear that's coursing through his body to find Sherlock and bring him back. But he knows that would be a lost cause. He'd get nowhere, and all he'd be left with is a sore body and an empty bed.

John steps back inside, closes the door, and slides down the door until he’s sitting. He lets the tears come.

---

John doesn't even try to make it to his classes that day. He spends the day in his bedsit lying on the couch because he can't stand the idea of lying in the bed he and Sherlock had shared the night before.

Was it the kiss that sent him away? That the idea of being with John like that, physically, if not emotionally, was so abhorrent that he ran away?

But Sherlock had kissed him back. He tried to continue the kiss when John had to pull away, even snuggling up to John afterwards.

John rolls over on the couch and faces the back cushions. He remembers the first night he brought Sherlock home and how Sherlock was in the same position that night, too. He can almost smell the tobacco.

Sherlock’s only been gone for a handful of minutes but John already feels an ache forming in his chest.

---

After that first day, John is overcome with loneliness whenever he’s at his empty bedsit. He asks Mike and his other coworkers if he could cover some shifts for them, needing the distraction, but none of them take his offer.

He asks Mrs. Hudson if there is anything else he can do at the café, but instead she pulls him into her adjoining flat, sits him down, and makes him tea.

When he isn’t working, he’s at the campus library studying. He spreads his papers and textbooks across the table he’s claimed as his, but the medical texts only remind him of Sherlock’s withdrawal.

All he can picture is Sherlock out there on the streets, getting high, and destroying that beautiful brain of his.

It’s only when the library closes and they kick him out does he head home.

And every time, every single time, he has a childish hope that Sherlock has decided to come back. That he'll open the door and see Sherlock on the sofa, complaining about the lack of a telly, that John should've been back hours ago, and what were they having for dinner?

But every time, he opens the door to silence.

---

Two weeks pass, and John can’t stand being in his bedroom for longer than necessary. He grabs clothes from his dresser without looking and gets dressed in the bathroom.

When he comes home late at night, he shucks off his clothes and throws them in the ever-growing pile in the corner of the den.

Every night, he lays under the blanket on the sofa and sleeps fitfully.

---

After another two weeks, John only feels resigned when he opens the door the door to his bedsit and finds it how he left it.

A week after that, John stops sleeping on the couch. Three days later, John washes both the sheets and the duvet.

---

The weeks turn into months.

He joins the University’s extracurricular rugby team.

John goes to class. He works. He studies.

At the end of the semester he passes his finals with points to spare.

---

Mike has the marvelous idea of moving in together.

John stares at him for a moment before resigning to the fact that Sherlock isn’t coming back.

John agrees, and he moves out within the week.

---

After graduation, long after memories of Sherlock have faded, he enlists in the army.

Sometimes, John thinks about Sherlock while he's staring up at the Afghan sky, the stars twinkling brightly in the night. He almost doesn't believe his memories, that a man like Sherlock had actually been swept into his life, however briefly.

John wishes that he at least had taken a picture with the man, just prove to himself that he existed.

But it doesn't matter. He probably overdosed a long time ago.

---

Part of John's unit hides out behind a pile of sandbags, everyone else finding shelter from the raining bullets elsewhere. John can't see a way to base before both sides run out of bullets or soldiers, and he doesn’t have confidence that he’ll be able to get everyone out unscathed.

A few meters ahead, John sees one of his men hunkered behind the Jeep, his arm wrapped around his middle. His uniform has a slowly growing dark stain on the abdomen, his head lolled onto his chest, unconscious.

John stands to run towards him just as he hears Murray yell out, "Hit the deck!"

At that same moment,  John feels an intense pressure at his shoulder that knocks the wind out of him and forces him to the ground.

At first, he thinks someone’s pushed him over. But then he sees the blood.

He watches the red pool out in front of him, and he's surprised it doesn't hurt. There’s only that pressure, and an achy feeling radiating out from his shoulder, down his arm, and across his back.

John tries to sit back up, but his arm gives out from under him, and the pain flares up in earnest.

It’s like a searing hot poker is forcing its way through his muscles and bone and nerves. He can feel each shrapnel of bone in his shoulder, shredding the muscle fibers and spilling his blood out onto the sand.

He feels a gentler pressure at his other shoulder and hears a distant, “Oh, my god. Watson? Watson! Can you hear me?” in Murray’s voice.

He tries to sit up again.

Everything goes black.

---

John doesn't remember exactly what happened after that, but the next clear memory he has is of the chief surgeon telling him that it was because of Bill Murray that John survived long enough to get into surgery, but that the bullet completely severed his brachial nerve. The surgeon tells John that they re-attached it as best they could, but all hears is that he may possibly never wield a scalpel again.

As soon as the surgeon leaves the room, John throws the digital clock that’s sitting on the side-table at the wall. The fact that he can’t even use his dominant hand angers him even further.

---

Once he's back in England, John’s told he has to see a therapist. Supposedly, it’s to help him integrate back into civilian life. That night, after his first session with Ella Thompson where she tells him to keep a blog that John knows will stay empty, he doesn’t throw anything, even though he wants to.

He just lies in his hotel room and silently weeps.

---

John has nightmares whenever he sleeps.

His body is too used to the hypervigilance of a warzone. It refuses to shut down and rest, and the precious few hours he does get is wrought with a sense of dread and terror, too nebulous to form a coherent narrative. Just the feeling that everything is wrong and will never be right.

His waking hours are filled with waves of adrenaline cresting and crashing, exhausting his energy. His nights are nothing but vague feelings of running away. Even in sleep he can’t rest.

John consistently shouts himself awake, and he always finds himself more tired than before.

---

“I want you to have this,” Harry says as she slides her mobile across the sticky café table.

John doesn’t touch it.

“Why.”

“Because I’d like to keep in touch.” She looks at him sadly. “And I’m worried about you.”

“Sure,” John scoffs.

He moves to stand up, but promptly trips over his own feet.

Harry startles up to help, but John snaps, “I’m fine!”

The other café-goers stare at his outcry, stare at the broken military man with a limp and a cane and an ego too large to even accept help from his own sister.

John grabs his cane from where it’s leaning against the booth and balances himself against it, getting ready to leave.

“Please,” Harry pleads. She holds out her mobile to him, her hand almost shaking. John wonders if it’s from alcohol or fear. “Just take it.”

John rips it from her hand none too gently and stalks out of the café as quickly as he can manage.

---

John's been back for over a month before he’s invited out by some of his old rugby friends.

They meet at a pub, the same kind they would always frequent after their games.

"'Eeeeeey, Johnny boy!" someone calls when he sees John come through the door.

They’re all exactly as he remembers.

That night, John drowns himself in enough alcohol to forget every moment of his meaningless existence.

Not one person mentions his limp.

---

A few days later, John finally agrees to meet up with Bill, the incessant comments on his blog becoming too regular to politely ignore.

The one-on-one conversation is nice, John has to admit. He’s eternally grateful to Bill for essentially saving his life, but as soon as John steps back out onto the sidewalk and heads home, he almost wishes Bill hadn’t.

---

The next night, John finds himself shooting upright in bed and panting, the lingering feeling of terror not ebbing with wakefulness.

Once the room hazes into his sight, John notices the clammy feel of sweat on his skin, his pounding heart, and the sheets wrapped uncomfortably around his legs.

John falls back onto the bed, one arm above his head, breathing heavily.

On an exhale, he feels terror of another kind sweep back into him, tears springing to his eyes.

His chest is wracked with dry sobs, his lungs bringing in more air than he can let out.

He's tired.

He's tired of living like this.

He can't do this anymore.

[i]  Poor John hasn’t gotten laid in quite some time. With work, and class, and studying, and homework, and class again he just hasn’t got the time. If this is the universe’s way of getting him off, then, well. Beggars can’t be choosers.

[ii] He could also tell you it was in Chapter 14: Traumatic Brain Injury Signs, Symptoms, and Treatments. Page 374.

[iii] How John, a University student and part-time barista, can afford a bedsit such as this without a flatmate is questionable. I don’t know how he does it, either.

[iv] Here, Sherlock is thinking that John must not have access to the Internet and can’t simply Google this question.

[v] John has been in similar situations before, of course. Normally, though, he is helping the stranger along in the de-robing process with a mutually beneficial and expected outcome at the end. This, however, feels infinitely more awkward yet much more intimate than any of his previous dalliances.

[vi] Andrea.

[vii] John hopes that he means what it sounds like, but he doesn’t let himself hope.

[viii] John desperately wants to be that someone, he can admit.

[ix]  John stands there for much longer than he’d like to admit, and I won’t intrude on his privacy by telling you, either.

[x]  He certainly does. He relishes the feeling of the hair catching at his fingertips, the warm skin, and the slide of foam. Oh, he certainly does massage for longer than necessary.

[xi] But what he really means is, “Thank you for letting me.”

[xii] Checking for fever, I’m sure.

[xiii] It certainly isn’t appropriate, but Sherlock wouldn’t mind.

[xiv] But what he really means is, “Anything for you,” which may or may not also translate into some other significant three-word phrase. It’s only been a little over a week, after all.

[xv] More specifically, Jacopo Tintoretto’s Summer, Henry Matisse’s Odalisque, and an untitled piece by William Etty that John’s professor simply called Man Lying Face Down. With the notable difference, of course, that Sherlock is actually wearing clothes.