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The One You Trust
Sherlock and John had split up in their pursuit of Thomas Moore, a man they had been investigating for the past three weeks. The case they were working on was a serial copycat killer who was replicating the works of Jack the Ripper. Sherlock, brilliant as ever, was able to deduce him by the pattern of the blood spatter at the three crime scenes and using a bloodied footprint found at the last crime scene.
They had been on a stakeout waiting for Moore to leave his flat to hunt for another victim. The plan was to follow him all night and catch him in the act of creating a fourth victim. Sherlock hadn’t wanted to wait but Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade exasperatedly begged them to follow proper police protocol for once, no doubt tired of filling out false reports that omitted their involvement in the cases and in the words of Sherlock Holmes, “made the New Scotland Yard appear useful”. After some careful persuading, John managed to get Sherlock agree to catch Moore in the act.
It was just past midnight when John saw Moore had begun to lure his next victim into the shadows of the night. He and Sherlock quickly made a new plan, “He’ll likely run, the alleyway he has chosen has two paths,” John chose not to question how Sherlock knew this. He long ago accepted the detective must have the whole London A-Z memorized, and then some unknown routes figured out due to his homeless network. “He will lead the woman further into the alley until they get to the area where all three paths connect. We will intercept him there before he harms the woman and then chase him down the paths where Lestrade will get him. He’ll choose the path on the left. Most people would choose the path to the right – going by their dominant side. But he’s left handed; he’ll go to the left.”
John gave a small smile at the detective, his deductions never failing to amaze him. “Right then, I’ll tell Greg where to wait,” He said as he sent the text.
John should have anticipated that things wouldn’t go exactly to plan. Sherlock loved to be clever. He always risked his life to prove he was. They had split up, Sherlock was to start the chase and John would wait on the alley on the right, in case Sherlock was wrong, while Greg would wait on the alley on the left.
The alley wasn’t long, he could vaguely make out the little courtyard where all three paths met. John should have known something was wrong when 10 minutes later Thomas Moore ran through the shadows, choosing the path that would lead him to Greg, but wasn’t followed by Sherlock. However, he paid it no mind, assuming Sherlock trusted the skills of the Scotland Yard enough to arrest the serial killer. John ran after the man to make sure Greg was able to catch Moore in time.
A few minutes later John was greeted with the sight of Thomas Moore bound in handcuffs with a pleased looking Lestrade at his side.
“Thanks, mate,” Greg said happily, “Where’s Sherlock?”
John looked around, that was definitely not normal. He would have been at the scene by now. “Maybe he’s with the almost-victim,” he said grimly.
Greg nodded. “Donovan, McKinley, go with John and bring the victim back so the paramedics can examine her.”
With a curt nod John set off. With each step he took the feeling in his stomach worsened. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that something bad had happened. The thought spurred John on, causing him to break into a run and leaving the two officers behind.
“Sherlock!” he called desperately for his friend, hoping he’d find him in one piece.
The second John stepped into the clearing he could see two figures. One was a crumpled heap on the floor and one was hovering above the other. Oh God, no. Please no. He thought with a twinge of dread. John felt the adrenaline coursing through him again, causing the army doctor within him to wake.
As he got closer he was able to see that it was Sherlock, unconscious, on the floor; the victim was beside him pressing her hands over his abdomen. “What happened?” He asked firmly to break through the layer of shock.
“He – He was stabbed. It looks bad, oh God,” she hiccupped.
“You did very well keeping the pressure on the wound. I’m a doctor I’m going to take a look now.” He told her calmly, much calmer than he felt.
She nodded and moved away. In the background he could hear Donovan and McKinley talking to her, but none of it mattered at this point.
He focused all his attention on his friend laying bloodied on the floor. After shifting Sherlock’s shirt he was able to see the wound. John breathed a huge sigh of relief. Though there was a lot of blood he could see it didn’t hit any major organs or tear any muscles. It would need at least 10 stitches but it was fine otherwise.
“John,” A voice behind him. “I radioed the paramedics. They’re going to try and get as close as they can to take him. Is he stable enough?” Donovan asked him.
He half turned, “We’ll need to get him to the ambulance but it’s not life threatening,” he replied with relief, blinking away the emotion in his eyes.
He felt a hand grasp his weakly, “John?” a voice below him called softly.
John turned his attention back to his best friend. “Jesus, Sherlock. What were you bloody thinking, you idiot.”
“M’fine,” he mumbled, sounding dazed and not fine at all but trying to sit up nonetheless. “Probably need quite a few stitches. Possibly concussed.”
“Figured as much. Let’s get you to the paramedics then.” John helped the man to his feet, supporting most of his weight.
“No, John,” Sherlock began protesting, sounding closer to his usual self. “They’re all idiots,” he said with a simple flip of his hand. “You’re a doctor. You do it. You’re the only one I trust.”
Warmth spread through John’s chest at his friend’s offhand compliment. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t want strangers to see him so vulnerable. He found himself nodding at the request, silently thanking himself for making the decision to keep a fully stocked medical kit in the flat.
They walked back to the main road where they met Greg who didn’t look at all surprised when Sherlock refused to go to the A&E. However, he was less than pleased when John supported Sherlock’s decision, no doubt expecting him to be the grown up in the situation.
“Jesus, you two, what if something happens?” Greg asked them skeptically.
“Not to worry, Lestrade. Mycroft keeps an extensive up-to-date file of my person which he so helpfully gave to John – not that either of them will ever admit it.” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “John is an extremely competent doctor, I’m sure he can handle this one job. Now if you’d like to stop wasting our time and give John and me a ride back to the flat it would be much appreciated. Don’t think a cabbie would appreciate all the blood everywhere.”
Greg glared at them and looked like he wanted to press the subject further but the words died in his mouth as he caught sight of a very pale Sherlock leaning heavily on John. Years of experience taught him he could not force Sherlock to do anything. Instead he settled for a brief nod and made a motion for them to follow him to his car.
“Um… Greg?” John asked hesitantly once they were driving.
“Yeah, mate. Everything all right?”
“I hate to ask this of you, but do you think you could stop at the clinic after you drop us off? I’ll need some painkillers. Sarah’s working the overnight shift tonight. I’ll call her and ask for some morphine pills for Sherlock. She’ll understand –”
Sherlock interrupted him with a dazed scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous, John.”
John ignored him, still talking to the inspector. “I’d get them myself but I’d rather stay and monitor Sherlock, keep him out of trouble. Please?”
And Greg, who for some reason continued to trust them, bless his soul, had agreed. Once they got Sherlock up the 17 tedious steps it took to get inside 221B, Greg had left for the clinic while John tended to Sherlock. John had even managed to give him some ibuprofen. When Lestrade returned an hour later with the morphine he found a sulking Sherlock on the sofa. He raised an eyebrow at the scene as he handed John the medication.
“Minor concussion and 12 stitches. He’s confined to bed rest, doctor’s orders.” He said with a smirk.
Greg smiled. “Good luck with that, mate. ‘Ta.”
John knew he would need all the luck he could get with the infuriating man.
A few hours were significantly longer than John was expecting to go without Sherlock complaining.
“Bored.” Sherlock’s muffled voice sounded from where his face was pressed into the sofa.
John looked up from his laptop, “Sorry, what was that?”
“Bored, John! I’m so bored.” Sherlock repeated a bit manically.
“Yes, well you could always go to sleep.” Sherlock scoffed. “Right. Heaven forbid you should treat your ‘transport’ properly for once. I’m going to start breakfast and you are going to eat.”
He got up to set the pot for two cups of tea and toast with jam. He knew he could get Sherlock to eat at least that much. Then maybe he could convince Sherlock to sleep before getting a proper meal into him. Or at least have his stomach full enough to give him the pills. The combination of stress from the night before and being silently awake all night left both men in need of some sleep.
John brought Sherlock his tea and toast and set it on the coffee table in front of him. Sherlock didn’t acknowledge it, his back turned to John.
He sighed. “Sherlock, you need to eat.” Silence. “Sherlock, if you don’t willingly eat I swear I will shove this toast down your throat.” More silence. He decided to try a different tactic which sometimes worked when Sherlock was being difficult. “Please Sherlock, for me?” John could see Sherlock’s shoulders tense a moment before he sighed.
“Fine, John.” John smiled as Sherlock turned around and began to nibble his toast. Satisfied, he went to get his own breakfast and joined his friend on the sofa. “I don’t know why you bother. I don’t need you to worry about me and coddle me like a child.” He spat the word like a poison.
“Well someone needs to. If it were left to you you’d probably die of malnutrition. I don’t know how anyone ever put up with you before me, you’re entirely insufferable.” John teased, letting fondness for his eccentric, extraordinary, possibly quite mad best friend show.
“Maybe no one’s ever bothered. I don’t have friends,” Sherlock said looking at John over his tea. “I’ve just got one.” John took a sip of his tea to hide his smile, making sure to lock away Sherlock’s words in his memory. Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “Can I work on some experiments, or are you going to keep me from those as well?”
John noticed Sherlock only ate half his toast but had managed to finish most of the tea. Not enough to take the pills. John wasn’t in the mood to fight Sherlock further, so he let it go for the time being. “Should be fine. As long as you don’t blow up the flat. I could do with some sleep anyway.”
“Well you can rest easy, I’ll only be examining blood samples.”
“Right. See you in a few hours then.” John left for his room, setting the alarm on his phone for noon so he could get up to make lunch. Hopefully he could get Sherlock to eat enough to finally give him the morphine pills. As he drifted to sleep, John wondered how on earth he was going to convince Sherlock to take the damn pills and get some rest.
He woke to the sound of a violin drifting beautifully through the flat. John smiled. Waking up to Sherlock playing was one of his favourite things – as long as it wasn’t 3 in the morning. Thankfully the piece Sherlock was playing was one of the softer pieces so John didn’t have to worry about him pulling a stitch with the movement.
John listened quietly, bracing himself for the fight it would take to get Sherlock to eat. As the piece ended, John sighed and got up. It was time to tend to Sherlock’s stitches and then start lunch.
Sherlock was sitting in his chair with his violin. He looked up as John walked in but didn’t say anything. He followed John with his eyes as he went to get the medical kit.
“Up you get, it’s time to redress your stitches.” To his surprise, Sherlock complied rather easily. With practiced ease John efficiently cleaned, disinfected and re-bandaged the wound.
“I suppose now you’re going to force me to eat again.” Sherlock stated as he pulled his dressing robe back on.
“Naturally. You have to take your medication.”
“It’s not necessary, John.”
“We’ll talk about it later, I’m going to make some soup.” John said as he walked to the kitchen.
“There will be nothing to talk about!” Sherlock called after him, picking up the violin again.
John cooked chicken noodle soup as Sherlock played a series of pieces. They ate in silence at the table. Again, John was surprised at the lack of fight it took to get Sherlock to eat. He seemed to have accepted John fussing over him, allowing him to be a doctor and accepting his role as John’s patient. John could only hope he’d accept his medicine as easily. As they ate, John tried to figure out why Sherlock refused the morphine but would take the ibuprofen. His medical file had indicated Sherlock had been given morphine in the past.
“You should go lie down, Sherlock.” John suggested as he cleared the table and did the washing up.
“John,” was all he said but it was clearly a protest.
“I’m not saying you have to go to sleep or take the pills. Just go sit in bed and relax. I’ll be there in a moment to bring you some more of the ibuprofen.” Sherlock looked like he was about to protest further. “Don’t, Sherlock. Just go.” He told his friend sternly, letting the authoritative doctor tone slip into his voice.
It worked. Sherlock scowled, but he got up and went to his room with a book in hand. As Sherlock left, a thought came over John. What if he doesn’t want to feel vulnerable? It was entirely possible. The man didn’t like to think of himself having human weaknesses such as emotions or other bodily needs. Of course being drugged to sleep would affect him. John smiled. He knew exactly what he would do to get Sherlock to take his pills.
He dried his hands and filled a cup of water. Then he went to the sitting room to retrieve his laptop and both the morphine pills and the ibuprofen pills. He brought them to Sherlock’s room and placed them on the bedside table.
John took two ibuprofen pills and handed them to Sherlock along with the water. Wordlessly he took the pills and downed them in one swift gulp.
John moved the chair closer to Sherlock’s bed. “Right. Listen, Sherlock. You need to rest. If you take the morphine pills, I will stay in this chair for as long as you sleep to make sure nothing happens to you.”
Sherlock gave him a questioning loo before dropping his eyes and softly saying, “No,”
“Sherlock –” John began, but was cut off.
“I mean no, because,” he raised his eyes to meet John’s, “I want you to sit here. With me.” He said shyly.
John was stunned, not quite sure what to make of this request. Sherlock kept watching his face, reading his expressions.
Sherlock’s face was carefully constructed in a mask of nonchalance, as if he didn’t care what John had to say. His eyes, however, begged him to stay. He was tense, waiting for John’s reply.
John swallowed nervously and then nodded. He needed Sherlock to get his rest; and the request wasn’t so bad. Merely an extension of what he had originally suggested.
Sherlock visibly relaxed. He didn’t say anything, just held his hand out for John to give him the pills.
John moved to sit on the edge of the bed. He pressed a pill in Sherlock’s hand and watched him take it. He made himself comfortable on the bed as Sherlock covered their legs with the duvet, both of them sitting up against the headboard.
John picked up his laptop and began updating Sherlock’s medical file with all the details from the past two days. As he typed away, he could feel Sherlock leaning into him as the morphine began to take effect. John made sure he emailed a copy of the file to Mycroft before he moved the laptop aside.
“Stop fighting the meds, Sherlock.” He chided gently. “You’re exhausted, lie down and let them do their job.” He helped Sherlock lie down and get comfortable. Somehow in the process John ended up with a curly haired head in his lap. Sherlock finally looked relaxed and at peace and John didn’t have the heart to make him move.
John turned his attention back to his laptop and began reading. Absentmindedly, John began to run his fingers through Sherlock’s curls.
John was sure Sherlock was asleep when he heard Sherlock slur, “You’ll stay, right John?” He was trying hard to fight the drowsiness.
He was quiet for a moment, choosing his words with care; because who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but when John replied, “Of course, Sherlock. For as long as you want me to.” He didn’t just mean this one night. He’d stay with Sherlock for the rest of his life.
Sherlock nuzzled closer to John. “I’ll always want you.” He mumbled, finally drifting off.
John smiled warmly, “Good.”
The End