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1
The criminal is captured, the police are at the scene, taking him into custody. Greg looks pleased. John and Sherlock are watching everything from the side, still breathing heavily after the chase. How long were they running? They are now in a totally different part of the city from which they have started.
“Well done, I’ll call you lads later for your statements,” Greg lets them know with a smile before taking off.
John’s gaze follows his car till it disappears from his view, then he turns towards the young detective, still crouching next to him.
“Everything all right?” he asks casually.
“Obviously, why wouldn’t it be?” Sherlock answers slightly irritated by the question, as always. He still doesn’t move from his position, while John raises to his feet straightening his legs.
“We should probably head home,” the doctor says, the sentence sounding more like a statement than an offer. He looks down at the younger man expectantly.
He then bends down a bit and offers Sherlock a hand, which, to his surprise, the detective takes without commenting. That’s when John feels something different about his friend. He pulls the detective to his feet, never letting go of his palm.
“Sherlock?” he starts gently. “Your hands are trembling, are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
“Yes, John, I’m sure, now drop it, would you?”
They aren’t far from Baker Street, so there’s no reason for them to take a cab. Sherlock proceeds to turn around and start walking towards their home, however, the second he does, John captures his other hand in his own. Now he’s holding both of them, and the detective has no other option than to face the doctor again.
“Seriously, Sherlock, what’s wrong?” Then the realization finally sinks in. “Is it because of the chase? Adrenaline’s wearing off?”
The young detective hesitates, then nods slightly. “It’s nothing to worry about, John, let’s just go back-”
“No.”
“No?”
John sighs. “I want you to calm down first before we start moving again, otherwise soon you’ll be trembling all over.” He squeezes Sherlock’s hands tighter in his own. “Just- Let’s just stay for a second like this. At least until your hands are better.”
The detective looks at him quizzically. “People will talk,” he murmurs casually, thinking that might scare the other one off, even though deep inside he knows he doesn’t want John to let go yet.
He raises his eyebrow suspiciously upon seeing his friend smiling at the statement.
“I don’t mind.”
2
A bang. Or maybe a crash? Yes, certainly more like a crash.
John signs deeply but puts down the newspaper he was reading and stands up from his chair. One doesn’t need to be a detective to deduce who has dropped what and where to cause this noise, so of course, the doctor immediately heads towards the kitchen.
He isn’t even fully in the doorframe when he starts speaking with annoyance.
“Sherlock, what in the world-” he cuts himself off as his eyes finally fall onto the scene painted in front of him.
There’s indeed a broken cup on the floor, next to which stands the consulting detective, staring at the mess quizzically. He seems to have not expected this turn of events. What’s more concerning, except for this, there’s nothing out of ordinary in the kitchen for once. Meaning Sherlock isn’t performing any of his experiments, rather he’s in the middle of regular, daily activity.
“What happened?” John finally finds his voice, and immediately steps into action, pushing his friend away from the sharp pieces of the china, so he doesn’t hurt himself.
“I dropped it,” Sherlock answers as if this short sentence would explain everything perfectly.
“Yes, I noticed,” the doctor huffs, grabbing a dustpan and a brush and proceeding to clean up the mess before anyone steps on it. “My question is why.”
The detective only shrugs and before John can react he disappears in the living room. The doctor sighs once again, throwing out, what once was a cup, into the trashcan. Then, he follows his friend.
He finds him in his favourite armchair, sitting with his legs pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his knees.
He approaches Sherlock once again, taking him in, observing, trying to find anything unusual. It’s not like the detective has never dropped any dishes, but usually, when he did, he had some kind of explanation for that.
Then it hits him. Sherlock seems to be trying very hard to hide his hands.
John immediately crouches in front of him, grabbing his wrists and pulling them towards himself. The detective, of course, refuses, but gives in after a while, upon realizing he won’t win this fight.
“Any reason why your hands are shaking this badly?” John asks finally seeing what is causing Sherlock to suddenly drop stuff on daily basis. The taller man, once again, only shrugs, not bothering to answer in any other way.
The doctor huffs with annoyance. “I’m just trying to help you, you know-”
“I don’t require your assistance currently,” this time the detective cuts him off.
John doesn’t look impressed, nor convinced. He’s still holding the other man’s hands in his own. He opens his palms, allowing Sherlock’s ones to lay freely on them. He’s glad when his friend doesn’t make any move to actually take them away.
The doctor thinks, carefully examining, patiently observing. He’s counting out each possibility, then deletes some of them with the elimination method.
Eventually, the two neurones reach each other, making a connection.
“Have you been eating enough?” he asks, realizing he hasn’t been paying enough attention to Sherlock’s habits recently.
The slight blush creeping onto the younger man’s cheeks and the way his gaze drops are more than enough to answer this question. John shakes his head in disapproval.
“Sherlock, you need to eat,” he sighs in a sad tone.
“I forgot,” the consulting detective speaks up finally, his voice sounding absolutely sincere. There’s no snarky comment, no rolling eyes, no huffs or sounds of irritation.
John believes it, knowing how easily is for Sherlock to delete from his mind any thoughts related to stuff that doesn’t seem important to him at the moment.
The doctor stands up, once again clutching the other’s hands. The taller man looks at him questionably but lets himself be pulled onto his feet, without a word. He realizes only after a second, that John is leading him back to the kitchen, and he grimaces, but still says nothing.
The doctor sets them on the chair by the table. Then, in a sort of comforting, gentle gesture, he rubs his thumbs over the top of Sherlock’s hands, before finally letting go of them.
“You sit here and wait. I’m going to make you some food and you’re going to eat.” He sees the detective opens his mouth, possibly to protest, so he quickly cuts him off, holding up his finger. “I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer,” he adds, then turns around towards the countertop and starts working.
3
“I’m fine, Sherlock, I promise.”
John tries to get away from Sherlock’s frantic hands hovering over him, but he fails, as the taller man quickly closes the distance between them as soon as the doctor moves.
“Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t have a concussion?” The detective asks for the fifth time since John has been hit by the criminal they were chasing.
“Sherlock, I am a doctor, I’d know if I had a concussion, all right? Please, can you just,” he finally manages to capture the taller man’s hands in his own. “Calm down,” he finishes pulling the held palms towards himself
The consulting detective seems for a second like he’s about to argue, or fight John’s touch. But he doesn’t. He resigns as soon as he notices concern in the doctor’s eyes. He hangs his head, and breaths out shakily.
“I’m okay,” the doctor murmurs softly and Sherlock nods, even though he doesn’t fully believe it.
They are still on the ground, in the exact same spot in which John went down upon the attack. He’s sitting, while the detective is crouching in front of him. The older man is trying to catch at least a glimpse of the other’s eyes, but it’s not an easy job and soon he resigns, realizing that if Sherlock doesn’t want him to see his eyes, there’s no use in trying to.
“Your hands are shaking, you noticed that?” John suddenly breaks the silence between them, as his eyes fall on his mate’s hands. How could he not notice this sooner? They are trembling, almost bad enough for the doctor to have trouble holding them in one place.
The detective nods simply, still not speaking.
“Sherlock,” the older man once again lowers his voice, so it’s quiet and gentle. “What’s wrong?”
This time the only response he gets is the younger one shaking his head frantically. The quivering of his palms increases.
“You can tell me, it’s only us here,” the doctor says encouragingly.
He hears Sherlock take several deep breaths, trying to calm his nerves, get his emotions under control. John hushes him a bit, lightly massaging the shaking palms with his own.
After another second the detective mumbles something that is too quiet and too rushed for the older man to understand, even though the distance between them is very small.
“Beg your pardon?”
“I said,” Sherlock tries again, this time slightly annoyed having to repeat himself. “I got- scared.” He grits his teeth as his voice breaks, ever so slightly.
John’s staring at him with huge eyes, not really expecting that. He quickly recovers, though, simply pulling the consulting detective closer to himself. He proceeds to hold the other’s hands in only one of his, while he runs the second one through the taller man’s hair, sighing softly.
He smiles, when the detective finally forces himself to look at him, worry and fear still visible in his eyes.
“I promise you, I’m all right. Nothing happened,” the doctor reassures softly. “No concussion, just need a few stitches.”
“But you’ll tell me if you’ll feel worse?”
John’s smile grows wider, as he leans forward and plants a light kiss on the detective’s forehead.
“I will,” his voice is so gentle, so soft, it makes it much easier for Sherlock to believe it. “You have my word.”
4
One day he’s going to kill this consulting detective. One day, he’ll be so done that he won’t be able to fight this urge anymore. Or, at least, that’s what the doctor tells himself, as he follows the taller man around the city, utterly resigned.
It’s the middle of the winter, the temperatures are much below zero, no matter if the sun decides to appear in the sky or not. Any normal human being would put some warm clothes on, probably a few layers at least, to make sure they can leave the warm shelter of their home safely, without risking freezing while travelling to work. But, of course, Sherlock Holmes isn’t just a regular, ration human being.
Or rather, he doesn’t think of himself as one.
Which is why any of John’s suggestions about wearing something warmer than just his regular coat were quickly rejected by the detective.
And so the doctor is currently walking a few steps behind the taller man, observing as the trembles run through his mate’s entire body. Sherlock is trying to hide any signs of experiencing the harsh weather conditions, obviously, but he seems to be forgetting that fooling John isn’t that easy by now.
Standing several meters from the detective, the doctor would still notice if something was wrong with his companion.
The older man sighs deeply, finally deciding to, once again, make that effort and try getting Sherlock to stop fighting something that cannot be fought. He speeds up, proceeding to keep up with the detective. It turns out to be harder than it would seem, since the other man’s legs are much longer, due to which he takes much bigger steps than the doctor.
Eventually, though, John manages to catch up with the other man. Now that he’s closer, he finally notices something other than the detective’s quivers. He sees that the taller man’s pace was so quick for a reason - he was trying to somehow lose John or at least keep a distance between them, possibly so the ex-soldier wouldn’t have an opportunity to comment on his body’s reaction to cold.
John automatically rolls his eyes at the thought.
Fortunately, they are now coincidentally heading in the direction of Baker Street. And that is what reassures the doctor that he should take action right this second, rather than wait with it.
“Sherlock, I think we should take a break and go back home,” he states, his voice forceful, hoping it’ll stop Sherlock from arguing.
How wrong he is.
“I see no reason why we should do that, John,” the detective answers simply, not even thinking about stopping.
Of course, it is in common knowledge that Sherlock Holmes isn’t the one to take breaks while he’s in the middle of something. And certainly not just because he’s cold, mind you. It’s bizarre, really. John often wonders how is it possible for such a bright, clever man to be so stupid at the same time, so ignorant to think that his body limits and extensions don’t overlap with those of the other human beings.
“Well, I do,” the ex-soldier isn’t going to give it up so easily. He might be fed up with Sherlock’s ideas and convictions, but he won’t let his partner hurt himself like this. “You are trembling all over. I mean, no wonder, it’s really bloody cold and you, of course, wouldn’t listen to me when I told you to put something warmer on-”
“Your remarks are unrequired,” Sherlock’s voice sounds really annoyed. “I am very well aware of what I’ve decided upon leaving the flat. I’ll be fine.”
“That’s just it! You won’t be fine!”
John huffs, as the detective ignores him. Sometimes he really wants to punch the crap out of this bloody oaf. He speeds up, even more, managing to outrun the taller man. He stops right in front of him, causing the consulting detective to stop as well, which, obviously, is met with a grimace of anger in Sherlock’s expression.
“Sherlock,” the doctor tries again, this time his tone is more of a hiss rather than anything else.
They are really close to their home now. Taking a break now and going back home to get warmed up, wouldn’t be much of a trouble. Just a few more minutes and they’ll be in the warm refuge of their flat.
The detective says nothing. Instead, he tries to get around John, hoping he’ll be able to escape as soon as the doctor is out of the way. Well, let’s just say he should know better than to take the ex-soldier out of surprise.
John catches his hands and starts massaging them in his gloved ones.
“Your hands are completely stiff,” he mutters more to himself than Sherlock. “A few more minutes and you’ll start getting frostbites.” This time his voice is louder, as he directs the comment toward his mate.
“I’ll be alright-”
“Jesus bloody Christ,” the doctor almost yells in frustration.
Then, he does something that catches Sherlock off guard. In this second, the detective expects a lot of things from the shorter man, but certainly not him taking off his gloves and forcing them onto the much skinnier, pale palms.
He’s so surprised he doesn’t even refuse.
Even after the process is over, the ex-soldier’s hands are still gripping his, the thumbs massaging over the top of the detective’s knuckles.
“Now,” the doctor says, sounding very matter-of-factly. “We’re heading home. You’re going to get warm and the next time we leave you’re going to listen to me, understood?”
Sherlock, still sort of out of it, utterly stunned, cannot do anything else than just nod. Still, this small action seems to satisfy the shorter man, who starts walking again, this time dragging the detective with himself, still holding both of the taller man’s hands with one of his own.
One day he’s seriously going to kill this man.
5
“Sherlock, what the hell-”
“Nothing, John! Everything is perfectly well!”
John finds Sherlock flouncing all over their kitchen, between several test tubes and other scientific materials, that the older man has trouble identifying. What’s even more concerning is that the detective seems to be in an amazingly lighthearted mood, which isn’t that frequent. Of course, it’s not like the doctor doesn’t want his mate to be in a good mood, but in the case of this man, him being happy usually means someone dying. And the doctor is far too exhausted right now to be part of another investigation.
Yet, right now, the consulting detective is wandering all over the place, all of his energy focused on whatever is in the specimens at the table. John realizes he can’t remember when was the last time he saw the taller man so energetic.
He looks around, his eyes taking in the state of the kitchen. It’s not like it’s an unusual sight anyway. He just hopes for something that would help him find out what exactly is going on right now.
And, to both his joy and surprise, he finds the clue rather quickly.
There, on the counter, is something that for a regular passer-by wouldn’t make much difference, would be possibly disregarded. However, after knowing Sherlock and living with him for such a long time, John is able to recognize which objects of daily usage might be important in guessing what’s going on in that curly-haired head.
He approaches, and when he’s finally close enough, he takes the object in both of his hands. It’s a rather big, plain-white mug. It’s dirty. Seeing it from the distance, John immediately assumed it was used either for tea or as a container for eyeballs. Yet, now, after smelling the rest of the dark fluid that is still swimming at the bottom of the vessel, there’s no other possibility - it’s coffee. And that would somehow explain Sherlock’s unusual behaviour.
“Sherlock?” John speaks up again, his back still turned to the detective. “How much did you have?”
The younger man doesn’t answer, instead, he makes some kind of noise that is most likely supposed to encourage the ex-solider to continue.
As a reply, the doctor just holds the mug up, finally turning around to face the man. To his surprise, the detective is smiling at him dumbly.
“Not much,” he says, with a small smirk that very visibly betrays the lie. John sighs.
“You can’t do that,” he argues, but there’s no real hit behind his voice as if he doesn’t want to spoil the atmosphere. “What you need is sleep, not tons of caffeine.”
“Mmm,” the sound that leaves the detective’s lips makes the doctor even more unsure about whether the man is listening to him or not.
He’s watching as Sherlock continues working on… whatever his current experiment might be. Finally, his mind perceives something else.
“Oh, Sherlock.” There’s an audible frown in his tone, which makes the detective stop dead in his movements and look up at his flatmate.
John quickly closes the distance between them, then grips the younger man’s wrists, taking them away from the vessels and the table. Sherlock’s still looking at him quizzically, so he holds the other’s hands arms up, in front of his face.
Upon realizing the detective, a very observant man, mind you, still doesn’t understand, he sighs.
“Your hands are shaking. Again, ” he emphasizes the last word. “Seriously, how much did you have?”
The younger man blinks at him a few times, before his eyes wander to the side, deep in thought. After no more than maybe ten seconds, his gaze focuses back on John, his features visibly showing he recalled the answer.
“I- Maybe four mugs,” he mutters rather quietly, realizing the reaction he’s going to get.
And as expected, John’s eyes widen as a wave of anger overtakes him. To both of their surprise though, it disappears as quickly as it has appeared, leaving John breathing deeply, his hands moved up now so he is gripping Sherlock’s palms as they shake from the amount of caffeine in his body.
“Sherlock,” the doctor chokes out. “Sherlock, you can’t-” his voice wavers off, and even as an emotionally clueless person as the said detective, would guess that it’s a sign of both extreme worry and exhaustion.
“I know, I just wanted to finish this and then I forgot to sleep and-” the younger one mumbles. “I-” he stutters, very unusual for himself. He disregards it though, determined to continue. “I’m sorry,” he finishes finally, hanging his head.
John is silent for a few next minutes, before finally huffing, the tension gone from his body. He squeezes the held palms tighter, bringing them closer to his chest.
“Idiot,” he murmurs affectionally, and Sherlock somehow feels this time he is forgiven.
+1
They are both in a dark ally, somewhere in the middle of London. Sherlock’s on the ground, the exact same spot where he was being choked just a few seconds ago. John’s standing over him, his gun still in his hand, as he stares at something that was once someone’s head. Now it’s more of a bowl, filled with remains of the brain, or rather, what’s left of it. Most of the thing is spread over the nearest wall anyway. That’s basically what happens if you shoot someone from a close distance.
The doctor is breathing heavily, while the detective observes the body of his attacker with an interest for a few more seconds, before finally standing up and getting away from this bloody, in the literal sense, mess.
“Well, that would be it, I’d assume,” he speaks up, his eyes still not leaving the scene in front of him. His voice is hoarse from being choked for such a long time while struggling.
It would be a lie to say that he had the situation under control. Clearly, if John didn’t find him at the last moment, he would probably be dead by now. No matter how skilled he is in the fight, there are limitations that he cannot overcome. One of which would be the attacker’s weight and, what comes with it, his force.
“Lestrade will be here soon, he’ll take care of this.” He waves a hand in front of himself, not really pointing at anything, in particular, just directing it towards the corpse.
John still doesn’t answer, which Sherlock suddenly becomes more aware of. Normally the ex-solider would give some remark or comment on what just happened. Only now the detective finally notices that his mate has fallen silent the moment he pulled the trigger.
He swings around on his hill, facing the older man, only to apprehend how tense the other one is. He’s still gripping the handle of his gun tightly, his index finger never leaving the trigger.
Sherlock swears under his breaths, which is rather infrequent of him, before closing the distance between them. He stands in front of John, not fearing being accidentally shot at. If he’s certain about anything in this world, it’s the fact that the said doctor would never pull the trigger if he didn’t feel threatened. No matter how out of it he was at this moment.
He puts one hand on the gun’s barrel while the other one lays gently on John’s hand.
“John,” he says softly, before manoeuvring the pistol out of ex-soldier's hands.
He secures it, before sliding it into the pocket of his coat. Then, his free hand goes to grip the other one of John’s, the one which has pulled the trigger a few minutes earlier. He squeezes their hands tightly together.
“John,” he repeats, hoping he’ll get the doctor’s attention.
And indeed, he succeeds. The older man blinks several times, the shock gradually leaving his body in waves. His breathing finally evens out, at the same time as a weird shadow appears in his expression. Sherlock recognizes this face immediately. He drags John further from the corpse, making sure his mate isn’t facing the massacred head anymore.
“Thank you,” he finally says simply, his eyes soft and his expression sincere.
This makes the doctor look up. As soon as he sees the detective’s face, he nods tightly, using the rest of his energy to calm down.
“It never gets easier, you know?” he chokes after a second or two, his voice wavering ever so slightly.
This time Sherlock is the one to nod silently while staring sympathetically at his mate. He starts massaging his thumbs over the top of John’s hands, just like the doctor did all these times his own hands were shaking.
He notices the older one’s eyes wander to the side, almost as if searching for the man he just shot dead. Sherlock drags him closer to himself, forcing John to keep looking at him.
“If it wasn’t for you I would be the one dead now,” the detective reassures, hoping to make his partner feel better about what he was just forced to do.
“I know,” John answers steadily to his surprise. “That’s because you’re a fuckin’ idiot.”
The younger man is relieved to see a smile forming on the ex-soldier’s face. He takes the sight in, before speaking up once again.
“Stop it. We can’t giggle at the crime scene.”