Work Text:
Three days, sixteen hours, fifty-one minutes and seventeen seconds. That was how long Clyde Bryant had held John in his basement—apparently it was becoming a rather well known fact that in order to get to Sherlock Holmes, one only had to threaten John Watson. But, in approximately thirty-two seconds, Lestrade would be pounding on the front door of the residence of one Clyde Bryant.
In sixteen seconds now, John would see Lestrade as he kicked down the old wooden cellar door. Exactly twenty-seven seconds after that, John would pass out while Lestrade checked him over.
As John is wheeled out of the house on a gurney—only slightly cognizant—Sherlock will run over to his side and clutch at his hand. This is where he will stay for the better part of the next three weeks. Lestrade is happy that he’d asked four separate officers to keep Sherlock away from the house until the suspect had been apprehended—judging by the way Sherlock is currently glaring at Clyde, he surely would’ve killed him if he’d been given the chance.
******
Exactly twelve hours later, John is back in two twenty-one B, having just been discharged from the hospital. Sherlock is flitting about in a manner John’s never seen before, a look of raw worry etched into Sherlock’s delicate features. Worry for John?
John has tried—and subsequently failed—to imagine what Sherlock had done in the few days he had been missing for.
John blinks as a shadow envelopes him and looks up to find six feet of consulting detective looming over his chair.
“You’re sure you don’t need anything?”
“Yes, just as sure as I was the last five times you asked.”
Sherlock stares at him with wide eyes and a slight frown that John thinks is rather adorable. The detective nods once, sits down in his chair, then promptly rises to pace around the room until he finds himself hovering over John again.
“Still don’t need anything, Sherlock.” Then at the look of utter dejection on Sherlock’s face, John adds, “I’m fine, really Sherlock.”
Sherlock opens his mouth. Closes it. Turns in a circle. Looks at John. Swallows.
“Are you alright?” John asks.
“Of course,” he croaks.
Seemingly snapped out of his trance-like state, he flops nonchalantly into his chair with his limbs splayed out at the most awkward of angles, though something about him still seems...off.
They are silent for awhile before John finally stretches and announces he is going to bed. In an instant, Sherlock has leapt from his chair to loom over John.
“Let me help you.” He extends a hand down to John.
“Sherlock,” John sighs. “I’m not an invalid.”
Sherlock frowns. “Three days, John. I couldn’t find you.”
Oh.
“Sherlock–” John begins.
“You must be exhausted,” Sherlock interrupts, wiggling his fingers impatiently at him.
John takes his hand with a sigh—best not to start an unnecessary row.
Despite the fact that John is fairly steady on his feet, Sherlock wraps one arm around John’s middle, placing the other on his waist to steady him. They start to make their way to the stairs when Sherlock pauses.
“What?” John asks.
Sherlock’s brow crinkles as he speaks. “Well, no sense in making you go up and down the stairs. Besides, you should be close so I’m able to keep an eye on you. Why don’t you take my bed?”
John isn’t sure he likes where this is going. “And what about you?”
“I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“No, you barely fit on there,” John says, gesturing to Sherlock’s long legs.
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “It’s just for a few nights. I’ve already made up my mind.”
He steers John towards his bedroom before he is able to protest further and thankfully leaves him to change in privacy. Once he is dressed, he lets Sherlock back in.
“Need anything else?” He asks.
“No, I’m alright. Just need a good nights sleep.”
“Good.”
Sherlock insists on tucking John in—“Drafts John! You could get a chill”—then hesitates, hovering near the doorway. John is quite sure Sherlock is prepared to stand there all night long.
“Goodnight Sherlock,” John says.
He takes the hint and reluctantly leaves the room, his head hanging in an unusually morose manner.
John rolls over and snuggles deeper into the covers, pressing his face into Sherlock’s pillow and reveling in the scent of pure Sherlock that envelopes him like a blanket of warmth and comfort and home.
******
John wakes the next morning to the odd sensation that he is being watched. He slowly peels his eyes open only to see Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the bed, staring intently at him. John blinks under the scrutiny.
“What are you doing in my bed?”
“It’s my bed, actually,” Sherlock notes. “And I’m checking on you. Making sure you’re still breathing.”
John rubs at his eyes. It is too bloody early for this.
“Making sure I’m breathing?”
“Mmm,” Sherlock hums. “You are,” he adds.
“Think I could’ve figured that out myself,” John shoots back.
Sherlock gives a small shrug, an emotion that John can’t quite place passing across his face for a brief moment.
“Well,” Sherlock clears his throat. “Breakfast? Coffee? Tea? Toast? Eggs?”
“No, I’m fine Sher–” John pauses when he sees the way Sherlock’s face falls slightly. John sighs. “Tea would be nice.”
Sherlock gives him a small smile and hops off the bed to start the kettle.
A few minutes later, John is fully awake. Sherlock brings the tea, helps John sit up—even though he insists he doesn’t need the help—and passes him the mug. Sherlock eyes John warily as he sips at the tea as though he’s worried John might spill the burning liquid all over himself.
Once John finishes the tea, Sherlock removes the mug, then returns to the bedroom with his laptop. He settles down next to John, opens his laptop and begins to type away.
******
Sherlock makes John lunch—originally meant to be grilled cheese, but after a very minor kitchen fire, turns into sandwiches instead—and after the fire department leaves, Mrs. Hudson makes sure to bring them soup for dinner to avoid any further incidents.
Sherlock tucks John in again that night and makes sure he is comfortable before awkwardly standing in the doorway and fidgeting with the ends of his dressing gown.
“Sherlock?” John questions, because this behavior is getting far too strange for John to handle without going mad himself. “Are you alright?”
Sherlock’s gaze meets John’s, his eyes round and wide.
“Sherlock?” John repeats.
“I just– I don’t want– What if–” Sherlock sighs, his head dropping a fraction.
“Sherlock, you can tell me,” John says softly.
The silken fabric of the dressing gown bunches and wrinkles under the assault from Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock purposefully turns his head away, unwilling to meet John’s eyes as he speaks. “I don’t like leaving you alone. It– worries me.” Then the words come out in a rush, like a dam breaking somewhere deep inside Sherlock, allowing all his thoughts to flow out freely. “I know I’m only in the next room but if there was an emergency I might not get here in time and you have to be alright because you can’t be not alright John please understand I want to keep you safe I’m scared.” He breathes out those last two words and suddenly everything clicks into place in John’s mind, the missing pieces of the puzzle slotting into place: Sherlock is scared. Of losing him. And– Oh god, John suddenly sees those three days he’d been missing for in a different light. Sherlock must have been frantic. Hysterical. Terrified.
John’s heart crumbles. It makes sense now why Sherlock has been hovering over him so much lately.
“Do you want to stay?” He asks softly, gesturing to the empty side of the bed.
Sherlock stares blankly at him for a moment before his brain seemingly reboots and he gives a small nod. “Thank you, John.”
He slides under the covers, taking care to keep a respectable distance between them.
John falls asleep almost instantly.
******
Gunshots. The metallic stench of blood. Darkness. Pain. Screams. Cries for help.
John startles awake, his heart racing from the all too familiar nightmare and he can’t breathe. Something is covering his mouth. He can’t breathe. He flails his arms around until one hand lands in something plush and soft. His lungs slowly fill with air as oxygen is pushed gently into his mouth. The air is glorious and warm and like no air John has ever breathed before. It makes him feel calm. It makes him feel whole.
He clenches the sheets into a fist in his free hand, trying to ground himself as much as possible. He tentatively opens his eyes to find Sherlock’s wide blue eyes only a mere few centimeters from his own. It is then that he realizes he isn’t being smothered, he’s being saved. In a strange, utterly incomprehensible way that is pure Sherlock. But yes, he is being saved nonetheless.
It is Sherlock’s mouth, his lips against John’s. It is Sherlock’s breath that fills his lungs. It is Sherlock’s warm weight draped across his chest that calms him. It is Sherlock’s presence that comforts him.
All at once, it is gone, leaving John longing for more, more, more. Sherlock is staring at him now, hovering above him, the corners of his mouth pulled downwards into a small frown of concern, his cheeks flushed and rather adorably rosy.
Sherlock sits back on his heels, dropping his head and avoiding meeting John’s gaze.
“I thought you weren’t breathing,” he says in a voice so small and helpless that all John wants to do is wrap him up, hold him tight, and never let go.
“I am now,” John says, still a bit breathless. He licks his lips. The taste of Sherlock still lingers there. Sherlock’s eyes dart to his mouth for a moment before returning to stare at the sheets.
“You were having a nightmare,” Sherlock says.
“You woke me up.”
“I thought you–” Sherlock’s voice cracks and he turns his head away.
“I’m fine,” John firmly reassures him. “Sherlock, I’m fine,” John repeats and because he seems not to have heard him the first time, places a hand over Sherlock’s.
Sherlock blinks at their hands but does nothing to remove his—a good sign, John supposes.
“But– You– What if–” Sherlock stutters for what John thinks is probably the first time in his life, then says, “Three days, John.”
“But I’m fine now,” John assures him. “You found me Sherlock.”
Sherlock doesn’t look at all convinced. It rather looks like he’s about to fling himself at John and never let go.
John hastily undoes the top few buttons of his nightshirt before he can get a chance to actually think about what he’s doing. He takes Sherlock’s hand and slips it into his shirt, placing it right over his heart. His heart is beating wildly like an out of control train and he’s sure Sherlock can feel it too.
“See?” he asks, his voice coming out far too brittle than he’d anticipated. “Alive.”
Sherlock’s breath hitches. His long fingers twitch against the warmth of John’s skin. It looks like he’s about to cry, John thinks. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t cry. He doesn’t feel. Apparently, both of those things are not true when it concerns John.
He splays his fingers out against John’s chest, taking in as much of John’s warm, living skin that he can. Then he trails his slender fingers across John’s chest in a reverent, exploratory manner, mapping as much bare skin as John’s open nightshirt will allow.
John has to force himself to breathe lest Sherlock think he were dead again. He swallows. Lets out a shaky breath. Shuts his eyes. The hand pauses for a moment before continuing its ministrations across John’s skin. The hand is abruptly removed and John is saddened by the sudden loss of contact, but not for long, as he soon finds himself with an armful of Sherlock.
He’s wrapped both arms almost painfully tightly around John, as if that alone could protect him from everything, perhaps even death itself. Sherlock’s face is buried deeply in John’s neck and he can feel his eyelashes flutter against his skin. Soft, deep curls are brushing against his cheek and John tilts his head slightly to nuzzle his nose into them. Sherlock’s entire body is trembling and John wraps his arms around Sherlock, pulls him close, whispers assurances into his hair. Tells him everything will be fine. They’ll be fine.
******
Sherlock sleeps beside him again that night. They don’t talk about what happened in the morning. It is as though it’s been forgotten, pushed back to the depths of their minds.
It is the only thing John has thought about all day.
When he slips under the covers next to John, Sherlock ensures he keeps a respectable distance between them again.
When John wakes, he finds a warm weight draped across his chest. Sherlock’s face is buried in the crook of his neck, his breath coming out in warm puffs against John’s skin. One of his arms is slung across John’s stomach, the other lost somewhere underneath him. Somehow throughout the course of the night, one of Sherlock’s legs has worked its way between John’s. John is not sure where one man ends and the other begins, and that’s quite alright, he thinks to himself.
John is pleased to find that his own arms have wrapped around Sherlock during the night of their own accord, keeping him close. He sighs in contentment and decides to wait to rouse Sherlock.
“Sherlock,” John whispers after some time has passed. “Sherlock, wake up, love,” he says, allowing the term of endearment to slip out knowing that Sherlock won’t hear it in the haze of sleep.
Sherlock shifts and John can feel his eyelashes flutter against his neck as he wakes. Sherlock stills as he realizes his body is tangled with John’s, then seems to relax into John when he realizes his arms are also wrapped around him, returning the embrace.
After a while, Sherlock pulls back slightly, lifts his head to look at John and breaks the comfortable silence they’ve settled into.
“Hungry?” he asks. “Can I get you anything? Tea?”
John tugs at the hem of his t-shirt, pulling him back down on top of him.
“Just this,” John whispers. “Just you.”
“Oh,” Sherlock breathes out. John can feel the word in a puff of hot breath against his neck. They fall back into silence.
“Actually,” John says a few moments later. “You can do something for me.”
Sherlock is immediately sitting up and ready to fulfill John’s request, whatever it may be.
“I don’t think I’m breathing,” John says.
Sherlock looks at him as though he’s grown a second—or third—head. His brows furrow and he places a hand against John’s forehead to check his temperature.
“Are you feeling alright John?”
John sighs. “I’m fine, Sherlock. But I’m. Not. Breathing.” He punctuates every word in hopes understanding will dawn on Sherlock.
Sherlock merely tilts his head in confusion, studying John’s face.
“John, have you hit your head recently?”
John rolls his eyes. “No, you bloody git. I want you to kiss me again.”
“Oh.”
“Come here,” John says, holding out his arms in a silent invitation.
Sherlock tentatively leans forwards and softly presses his lips against John’s. John wraps his arms around Sherlock, his fingers gripping at his waist in an attempt to pull him forwards more.
“Closer,” John mumbles against Sherlock’s mouth.
Apparently that is all the motivation he needs, because he’s crawling forwards and swinging a leg across John to straddle his lap.
When they finally pull back flushed, breathless and panting for air, Sherlock speaks. “I promise to never let you out of my sight again.”
John supposes this should scare him a bit—it is a tad too protective, after all—but instead it ignites something deep in his belly, causing him to tip forwards and capture Sherlock’s lips with his with a sense of renewed fervor.
Sherlock clings to John as if his very life depends on his existence. Perhaps it does, John thinks, filing it away for a later discussion.
Right now, he wants to focus solely on snogging Sherlock Holmes completely senseless.
Sherlock shuffles closer on John’s lap until they’re pressed chest to chest and–
“Oh,” exclaims John with a grunt.
Sherlock immediately pulls back as though he’s burned John, worry etched across his features.
“No, it’s fine,” John says, pulling at his arms to bring him closer again. “I’m fine.”
Sherlock’s brow furrows—John thinks this is rather adorable. “You’re not fine,” he argues. “You’re hurt.”
“Nothing broken,” John assures him. “Just a bit bruised.
“You never told the paramedics that!”
“I’m a doctor,” John reminds him. “I know how to tell if something is broken.”
“But– You– Hurt– John.”
“I’m fine, Sherlock.” John holds out his arms and Sherlock sinks into them, albeit slightly more carefully this time.
After a moment, Sherlock shifts and presses his lips against John’s neck over and over and over as though he can simply heal John through those kisses alone.
“We’ve got all the time in the world,” John mumbles into Sherlock’s hair. He’s not sure why he says it, but he does, and it feels right, because they do have time. Lots of it.
Time for stolen kisses in dark alleys. Time for sleepy kisses in the morning. Time for kisses that speak more than words ever could. Time for heated kisses that promise much more to come.
Because of those three days, sixteen hours, fifty-one minutes and seventeen seconds, they never have to live another moment without knowing how utterly deep their love for one another truly is, always has been, and always will be.