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John lay slumbering peacefully now; having slipped back into none rapid eye movement sleep phase shortly after the fit had stopped.
Sherlock sat, cross-legged and in a soft t-shirt with the quilt gathered at his waist, facing the end of the bed. His gaze lay unwavering from the small pile of last night’s discarded clothes. A haunting edge lay in the black depths of his pupils.
There is not a soldier alive untouched by the psychological trauma of war and conflict, and very few untouched by the cruel hand of physiological trauma. And they call these the lucky ones. Sherlock scoffs quietly before taming his mind from running away, matching each breath of his with John's own restful, deep inhalations next to him.
Still. Sherlock cannot bring himself to regret the pull of his right index finger, which landed the bullet into John's shoulder. Nor does he regret any of the subsequent decisions bringing them to this bed, now. Except perhaps when he chose to buy flavoured lubricant.
This time, just like the others, when John's groans, screams and twisting in the clammy sheets woke Sherlock, the younger man would gently run his fingers through John's dirty blonde hair. John himself had not awoken this time, too deep within the pull of sleep to be able to even unconsciously draw himself out.
A soft sleepy snore came from the right side of the bed and Sherlock's lips pulled into a fond smile.
Three years ago, almost to the day this month, Sherlock had been assigned the Mark of Captain J Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He had been given a rough location, a name, and a set of three blurry long-range photos. At the time, the world's only Consulting Detective had been the world's finest marksman to hire. Unconquered in his field.
It had been laughably easy to track down the Mark and his squadron and Sherlock had positioned himself perfectly. Rifle set up a nice distance away, great working conditions without a whisper of wind. Perfect. His hesitation came when he saw the man working. Crouched over a fellow soldier, a man with a flesh wound to the thigh, Sherlock observed as this Watson man spoke calmly to the injured, assuring him and binding the wound as he went. Weather beaten hands worked positively, clean and without hesitation; gauzing and wrapping. A humanitarian. A doctor. A man of science similar, though of course inferior, to that which Sherlock himself deployed.
The Assassin's hesitation meant that when he did pluck the courage to complete the job and pull the trigger, Watson had moved incrementally to the right. Watching as Watson dropped with a bullet in the left shoulder, he was too far away to her the cry of pain, Sherlock could not help but feel pleased that he had not killed him.
Logical through his mind was, it supplied that when other men found the two injured soldiers, Watson's percentage likelihood of survival was much less than that of the soldier he had been working on. He might have been deemed too far gone to save. Sherlock couldn't allow this remarkable man's life to be passed over for another's just because his chances of survival were slimmer. They were still chances. So he helped along, by landing a bullet in the temple of the leg wound soldier.
Afterwards, Sherlock had declined to return to his employer. He had let sentiment get the better of him, just as his brother had always warned him against. The supposedly cold assassin felt guilty for causing Watson such pain; rehabilitation would be bad enough but the resultant Post-Traumatic too... Which was stupid, he did not know the man. He was a face on a page, a name and an estimated location. Sherlock slipped away from the underworld scene of crime and hit men to hire to seek more from life. He was only human after all.
He found 'more' months later, in a laboratory at Bart's hospital. He marveled at the strength of resolve and person Watson... John- is. Stubborn to not ask for anything, nor wincing despite the obvious wound and apparent limp. Psychosomatic, his mind supplied again. Generous, head strong and containing an almost elegance in plaid shirts. Unconquered in the face of injury adversity.
In all John is, Sherlock observes the other side to his self.
The assassin come detective took the decision immediately; "How do you feel about the violin?"
Now, with the dim light of the early morning illuminating shady corners of their bedroom, Sherlock unfolds his legs and rolls back to lie down again. He sighs heavily, bored with his overthinking mind analysing details from long ago. He rolls onto his side, back to his doctor, and tucks up to sleep again. In a moment, an arm curls around his waist and pulls him back with little resistance, to be snuggled against John's chest. Sherlock smirks, and rubs a hand down John's arm to link their fingers together over his chest.
Everything John is, and his unconquerable soul.