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Chapter Text

John had felt rotten since the moment he awoke at 5 o'clock this morning, throat burning and feeling the beginnings of a fever. Logically, he should have stayed in bed. He should have called for Mrs Hudson to get him a glass of water and some paracetamol and then he should have just rolled over and gone back to sleep. And John was a logical man... when it came to everyone else.

But John was also stubborn. And John also hated feeling ill, and vulnerable, and staying in bed was just lazy, even if he was sick as a dog - and John Watson most certainly is not lazy.

He stayed in bed, coughing and shivering, until his alarm went off at 6 o'clock, and then he stumbled downstairs, ignoring the vertigo but keeping one hand on the wall the whole time. He eventually made it to the sitting room and thankfully found it to be empty – hopefully Sherlock was still asleep. John liked it when Sherlock slept, because Sherlock didn't sleep all that much and it hurt the doctor inside of him and... and... and what the hell has happened to my brain the fever must be turning it to mush. John frowned at himself and continued on to the kitchen.

It took him a while to reach up to grab a mug for his cup of tea because his muscles were aching and he was still quite dizzy but John likes tea so John got his tea. And then John drank his motherfucking tea, thanking you kindly, sir. And then John had to run to the bathroom to throw up his tea.

As he slouches on the cold bathroom tiles, John contemplates calling in sick. He's allowed to do that, right? But no – no! - he doesn't have time for moping about at home, he has to go to work. It's his duty as a fixing man. So he shuffles upstairs, grasping onto the banister like a lifeline because his vision is blurring in and out but the people need him. Once he finally makes it up to his room, he quickly – or as quickly as he can right now – gets changed and runs his hands through his sweat dampened hair before grabbing his phone and keys, giving his bed one last longing look, and all but stumbling down the stairs.

But before he can make it down the second lot he bumps into Sherlock – literally. As if staying upright wasn't hard enough for John already.

John splutters in surprise which starts off a manic coughing fit. Black dots are appearing at the corners of his vision and he has no idea whether he's still standing or not because the rooms spinning so much and is it honestly possible to cough up your lung? You'd think as a doctor he'd know, but- but-

“John?”

And then he's back, and the coughing has subsided into a mere tickle and the black dots at the edges of his vision drift away to give him a perfect view of Sherlock's face just inches away from his own, a somewhat concerned frown darkening it. Belatedly, John realises that he's almost doubled over and that Sherlock's surprisingly strong hands – one under his left arm and one on his right shoulder, so that he's crouched in front of John – are all that's keeping him from keeling over.

“Back to bed then, John?” And though his tone is light, John can sense some hesitancy behind it, because John is the doctor, dammit, and he should be doing the whole 'caring' thing. And it's with that thought in mind - that being ill is everyone else's job, while John pets hands and gives out medication and mops sweaty brows – John straightens himself up, one arm wrapped protectively around his aching stomach, and squints menacinglyat Sherlock.

“No.”

And when Sherlock just frowns at him confusedly John takes it as his opportunity to exit.

Not very quickly, like, but at least he's proved his point.

John Watson is not weak.

*****

He gets sent home from work with barely a glance from Sarah.

He tries to put up a firm protest, but with the way he was clinging onto the wall, and barely able to form coherent sentences because his head was spinning and his thoughts were all muddled due to his fever, it wasn't really much of a fair fight.

So that's how he finds himself stumbling down the street in a cold sweat, pale and shivering, and earning many a concerned glance from passers-by. One or two security cameras follow his uneven steps, but he doesn't even have the energy to flip them the bird. He's got a mantra of Baker Street, Tea, Bed flowing in his thoughts and he clings to that. But then he gets the horrible urge to puke, and the mantra is forgotten and turned into the single thought of Where the fuck can I puke??! before he stumbles blindly into an alleyway.

He trips over his own heavy feet and falls forward onto his weak arms, which give way beneath him. The ground and the sky and the world is spinning but he somehow finds the initiative and strength to push himself up and slump against the wall, which is blessedly cool on his back.

After a few moments of just blinking slowly he realises that he can't sit like this forever and so the still relatively functional part of his brain reaches for his coat pocket and takes out his phone.

Sherlock is his immediate answer, and also just so happens to be number one on his speed dial.

His shaking hands clumsily hold the phone up to his ear as it connects, barely making it past two rings before it's answered.

“John?”

“Haaay, 'lock.”

The pregnant pause which follows is filled only by John's congested breathing.

“What's wrong? Are you still at the surgery?” He sounds impatient now, and it makes John cringe. Impatient Sherlock is angry Sherlock.

“Mmmn, I'm not feeling... well. I think I- oh, 'lock, can you come and pick me up, please?”

“Okay, okay, okay, okay. Just STAY where you are, alright? I'll be at the surgery promptly.”

John snorts. “Well, that'd be silly, seeing as I'm not at the bloody surgery. They sent me home, can you believe!”

“Yes, John, I really can. If you're not at the surgery, tell me where you are.”

“An alley.”

There's another long pause as Sherlock appears to be trying very hard not to lose his patience.

John sneezes.

“...an alley WHERE, John?”

Ugh, that's a tough 'un! Sherlock always asks the hardest fucking questions. John looks at his surroundings blearily.

“Dunno... there's a- there's a pub jus'cross from me. S'got a blue door, and a pig... s'a pig-”

But Sherlock's already interrupting him, “Alright, good, I know where you are, I'm coming John. Just. Stay. Put. Okay? Don't you dare move, or talk to anyone, or get any more sick. I'm coming.”

And then Sherlock's gone, and all John can do is shiver and snivel as quietly as he can until his knight in sexy armour comes to rescue him. Hahahahaha...

Wait, what?

*****

It's only minutes later, or at least is only feels like minutes later, that Sherlock is calling his name and jogging across the street, his face paler even than usual.

He crouches before John, putting alarge, cool hand on John's feverish skin. His calculating eyes are searching his face, but all John can do is stare back blearily as he slowly comprehends that Sherlock's apparently yelling at him as he rests his palm against John's forehead, and grasps his wrist to take his pulse. He curves a steady arm around John's waist, and pulls John's own limp limb over his shoulder as he drags him off to the awaiting taxi.

“Jesus christ, John, you just about gave me a heart attack! I told you just to stay in bed today, but oh no, why would you listen to the consulting detective? It's not like I'm known for being super smart and observant! You are utterly irresponsible, and you call yourself a doctor? Well, I'm not surprised this happened, nope, not at all with the way you treat yourself- ”

And his rambling doesn't stop, even after they're seated in the wonderfully warm taxi, and Sherlock's coat is wrapped around John's shivering, achy form, and he's pulled against Sherlock's side to keep him from just flopping over. But John just closes his eyes and rests his fuzzy head against Sherlock's pointy shoulder, finally giving in.

And even then Sherlock's rambling doesn't stop, but it does pause for a second and then continue in grumpy mutters under his breath.

Perhaps being looked after every once in a while isn't all bad.

Chapter Text

You would think that after years under that bloody blazing sun in Afghanistan John would relish in the near constant rain clouds in Britain, but today he almost wished he were back there just so he could be warm and dry for a while. Almost. Being shot rather puts you off going back to a place. The poor doctor's jacket did nothing to protect him from the elements, and by the time he arrived back at Baker Street after a long and dull day at the surgery he was very much ready for a hot shower and a cup of tea. Fuck yeah.

John waddled up the seventeen steps to their flat, trying not to drip too much water on the floor for someone to slip on later, and shuffled tiredly into the living room, only to stop dead in his tracks as soon as he took in the scene in front of him.

The room was a complete disaster. His armchair and the leather sofa were tipped over onto the floor, which was littered with debris such as books and papers and parts of chemistry equipment. The curtains were torn from their hooks, giving John a perfect view of the rain lashing down against the night time scenery outside. It looked as though every potted plant John dared to keep in the flat had been emptied into the fireplace for some reason, and all the chairs for the kitchen table were stacked one on top of the other and placed on top of the coffee table so that they almost reached the ceiling. John didn't even want to think about what the huge brown stain on the rug was.

And there, right in the middle of the mess, and no doubt the catalyst for the headache the doctor could feel coming on, was the one and only Sherlock Holmes. Of course his chair hadn't been touched because the prick was currently slouched in it, fiddling with his violin.

John could only gape at him as the detective looked curiously around the room, as if confused at his flatmate's response.

“We're out of teabags.”

No. No, no, no, no, NO!

John could feel the rage bubbling up inside him. He was going to kill Sherlock. Fuck Moriarty, John was going to be the one to really burn the bastard. Literally burn the bastard. Or beat him to death with that bloody ridiculously expensive violin of his. To the man's credit, he had paled considerably in the last few seconds, as though he could read John's murderous thoughts. The doctor squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten. Then he counted to twenty. Then he counted backwards from twenty. But no, he was still angry. He clenched his fists and drew a sharp breath before pointing condemning finger at the man-child in front of him.

“I am going for a walk. I'm not sure how long a walk this is going to have to be, but I imagine very long indeed. If this fu- ahem, if this mess isn't tidied up by the time I return, then I swear on Mrs Hudson's life that I will shove your violin up your ass.”

And with that threat left hanging in the air, John turned on his heel and stormed out the building.

That motherfucking arrogant son of a goat thinks he can just ruin everyone's day as long a it suits him well not any more I'm going kill him if that mess isn't tidied up he thinks I'd take Mrs Hudson's life so lightly well then he's wrong I sure hope Mycroft can afford to buy him a new violin though that would be the least of his worries-

So caught up in his thoughts was John as he rage-walked around the streets with no clue as to where he was or his surroundings, that he was rather taken off guard when all of a sudden he stepped forward only to find that there was no ground beneath his feet.

He has only a split second to flail helplessly before he fell and sort of skidded very ungracefully down a set of steps. He managed to stop himself before he tumbled forward onto his face, but as soon as his brain began functioning properly again he was aware of the sharp pain shooting up his bad leg from his ankle. His grazed hands shook as they peeled back his soggy jeans to reveal an already red and swelling ankle. Cursing quietly, John allowed him a moment to wallow in self pity before he started wondering about the best plan of action to take.

He could always just limp his way to the nearest main road until he found a taxi; but that plan was quickly shot down when he remembered that he didn't have his wallet to pay for the taxi. He also had no idea where he was and it could take some time before he found a main road, and as he tested putting pressure on his ankle, hissing as the pain flared up his leg again, he decided that it definitely wasn't a good idea. Calling an ambulance would be too much, and he didn't want to bother Lestrade or anyone else at this time of night. Whatever this time of night actually is. He'd have to be a lot more desperate and possibly delusional before he called Mycroft.

That left him only one option.

He knew Sherlock didn't like phone calls, but he wasn't going to sit around in the cold waiting for the madman to reply to his text, eventually. He frowned when he realised he was shaking a lot more than he had realised before as he brought the phone up to his ear. It didn't even make it past the first ring before Sherlock had picked up and was rambling in his ear.

“John! John, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please don't be mad! Did you get the texts I sent you? They didn't make you even angrier, did they? I've tidied the flat. Mr Hudson heard you shouting- I mean, I mean, not shouting, you weren't shouting... not that you didn't have a reason to shout. Oh God, you're not moving out, are you?! Please, John, I'm sorry, I promise the flat is tidy now, mostly, and Mrs Hudson even let us pinch some tea bags, so I'll make you tea if you come home, and we can watch that show you like so much, you know that ridiculous one with the- no, no, not ridiculous! Nothing you like is ridiculous, because you like me! …you do still like me, don't you, John? John, are you still there?”

“Sherlock. Christ, breathe, for heavens sake!”

“John! Are you okay?!”

“Well, yes and no. Mostly no.”

“What do you mean, mostly no? Don't move, I'm coming to get you!”

“It's just my ankle- wait, you're coming to get me? How? I don't even know where I am!”

“Mycroft's been following you all night with his creepy cameras, the creep, and he just text me your whereabouts now. Apparently he's concerned for you. Ew.”

“Oh. That's... nice? How long will it be before you get here?” John was admittedly really starting to feel the cold now, and he was going to burn his jacket for being so shitty. His muscles were aching and his leg hurt and he wanted tea and bed and Sherlock. Wait, what? No, actually, yeah. Yeah, Sherlock sounds just about perfect.

Christ, maybe he did bang his head on the way down.

“Why? What's happening? Are you alright?! John, tell me you're alright!”

“Yes, it's just my ankle, really. Makes it hard to stand up.” And John being John tries to shift his leg again to see what happens, only to hiss in pain, making Sherlock frantic once again.

“Well then don't move it, you idiot! I'm only a few minutes away. Thankfully it appears you were on you way back to Baker Street, whether that was purposeful or not.” The doctor can hear the pout in Sherlock's tone, but chooses to ignore it. Bloody man was always pouting. But we won't get started on that. Or how cute he looks when he does pout. And how John sometimes purposefully says the wrong thing-

Ahem. We won't go there right now.

“I'm here, John, I'm here! I'm just getting out the taxi now! Are you down those steps? Oh God, you are! Wait, wait, I see you! Oh, John.”

And sure enough the lanky detective is charging down the pavement, skidding in his designer shoes, his coat flying behind him in a vision of a hero. John takes in the tangled mess of his hair, the eyes wide with panic, and the way that his face is paler even than usual in the dim street lights as he leaps down the steps, taking them four at a time to reach his doctor's side all the quicker.

“John.”

There's so much intensity behind that word. So much fear and uncertainty and love. The way he says that word makes John's heart beat faster but his brain stops altogether and all he can do is stare at the man as large hands hover over John's ankle before moving to cup his face in a move that for some reason surprises neither of them.

“Sh'lock.”

John curses the way the name is slightly slurred, and the frown it brings to his friend's face.

“Are you sure you didn't bang your head? Now is not the time for lies, John.” He should try and bat away the long fingers that are currently prodding at his head, looking for any sign of injury, but honestly he's not sure he can even lift his arms they feel so heavy.

“S'fine. Please, 'lock, take me home.” John nuzzles the hand that's just cupping his ear and fiddling a bit with the hair behind it. He's not sure why he's nuzzling the hand, but it feels nice, so he's not going to stop. He lets his eyes close for only a moment so that he can fully enjoy the feeling, and when he opens them again Sherlock's frowning at him intently.

“Home it is, then.”

John shivers and looks sad and a bit confused while Sherlock sheds him of his pathetic excuse for a coat and chucks it on the ground about two feet away from them as if it had personally offended the detective. John lets out a mournful whine and shivers some more, but he never really gets the chance to complain before he's being wrapped up in thick, expensive wool.

John can only seem to stare awestruck at Sherlock, who huffs and rolls his eyes in his usual way before kindly but firmly manoeuvring the doctor's arms into the sleeves of the coat. John's hands are lost somewhere halfway up the sleeve, and Sherlock's mouth lifts up into a gentle and amused smile as his hand rests on top of the fabric where John's twitching hand lies, fighting the urge to slip out of the sleeve and grasp onto Sherlock's own.

Of course, it's at this moment that John lets out an almighty sneeze (like a bloody hurricane it is!) that manages to hit Sherlock square in the face. John can only stare in mortification at droplets of snot drip down his flatmate's suddenly stony face.

“I-I- shit, fuck, no- I'm so- oh God- ”

But, alas, Sherlock seems to take pity on his poor, injured doctor and merely uses the sleeve of his fancy designer shirt to wipe the snot away, muttering, “Hardly the most disgusting thing that's exploded onto me.”

He then proceeds to get revenge and scare the living shit out of John by sweeping the sodden blonde up into his arms and holding him tight to his lovely, muscled- ahem, chest.

John does not squeal, nor does he blush. No. Really. He doesn't.

The blogger notices his jacket left in the dirt where Sherlock threw it. He points this out to the surprisingly strong wanker, who squints his ocean-blue eyes in response.

“I won't have you wearing it. I'll get Mycroft to buy you another one, if I must. But that one-” he shoots daggers at said coat, “-that one got you wet. It stays on the ground where it belongs.”

And with that Sherlock's striding back to the awaiting taxi, arms full of swooning Watson.

After much arguing, complaining, shivering, and yelps of pain on John's part; and eye rolling, grumpy mutterings, not very well concealed concern, and manhandling on Sherlock's part, the doctor is finally snuggled under his best friend's - “Don 't be ridiculous, John, I'm not lugging you up and down those stairs until your ankle heals” - luxuriously cosy duvet, doped up nicely with paracetamol, his sprained ankle and scraped hands bandaged up courtesy of Sherlock. He was even wearing the man's pyjamas because his are apparently “insufficient” - whatever that means. Not that John's complaining, but he'll keep that to himself, thank you very much.

Sherlock slips onto the bed next to John. He is fully clothed and stays on top the covers, but he turns onto his side so that both men are facing each other. John snuffles at his pillow (and no, he doesn't sniff it... much) and then smiles sleepily at the darker haired man, who returns the sentiment, his eyes sparkling.

“Fanks, 'lock. F'r, f'r comin' to get me 'nd... th'stuff...”

John isn't even sure that he understood what just came out of his mouth, but Sherlock seems to at least get the gist of it and reaches over to stroke his forefinger up and down the length of John's nose. It's weird, but John's kinda into that.

“Idiot. You don't have to thank me. It's not as if I'm going to ignore you when you're... in distress.” At this he frowns, and his bottom lip almost pokes out into a pout. “Though you are starting to make a habit of getting into situations where you need my assistance. One might even think that you enjoy it.”

John's aware that Sherlock's teasing and slightly insulting him, but honestly he's too distracted by the finger still stroking his nose. When Sherlock notices John's eyes trained on his digit's progress, he sighs and lowers his arm. He can make fun of John tomorrow when he's fetching him tea and biscuits, and entertaining him with his insipid TV shows or reading to him when his headache makes him react negatively to other external stimuli. The detective shuffles forward a little until his forehead is resting against John's. The doctor reaches his freshly bandaged hand up until it tangles with Sherlock's between their chests, and then his eyes close, and he falls asleep not a minute later. Sherlock just watches for a while, focusing on the feeling of his best friend's breath ghosting over his cheek, before following him into sleep.

Chapter Text

John had been thrilled when he got the news that some of his old army mates who were still posted overseas were coming home on leave, and made plans with them straight away to go out for a few drinks and reminisce about the good times.

John was currently thinking of ways he could avoid talking about how his shoulder wound came about while he stuffed his wallet, phone and keys into his pockets and fussed over his hair.

“Really, John, you're getting nearly as bad as I am. What are you so nervous over, anyway?”

Sherlock was currently sulking on the couch, grumbling and pouting over the fact that John was leaving him alone for one whole evening to entertain himself. John yanked his hands away from his hair and turned to half-heartedly glare at his friend.

“I'm not nervous. I'm just... worried. Wait, no, that's worse. I, eh, I just haven't, y'know! And with my shoulder and the leaving and- and I...”

John could feel his face getting redder as he stuttered on, and as he finally trailed off and looked up at Sherlock, the man was squinting at him in the way he did when he found something both irritating and adorable. Like that time a puppy was yanking on his trouser leg to get his attention. John thought he'd go off on one at the owner, but no, he just squinted at the cute little thing until John had to physically drag him away.

“You're worried they're going to bring up the bad stuff?”

“Yeah...”

“You know you don't have to go.”

“Uh huh.”

“Excellent! So you'll stay home and help me with my latest experiment? I'm using acid to dissolve different brands of tampons- ”

But John was pulling on his coat and giving Sherlock a quick pat to the top of his head as gentle gesture of affection before he headed out the door.

“Make sure you get something to eat. And don't burn a hold in the table like last time!”

This isn't so bad. John snorts a laugh at Bill's story about the time he got caught by his Major while he was peeing into a water balloon, and chugs back the rest of his pint. A new, full glass instantly replaces his empty one. How does that keep happening? Not that he's complaining. Everything feels so warm and fuzzy and he wants to sing and dance and kiss people. Sherlock. People. A people who be Sherlock? Eh?

He ignores his brain and leans back in his chair, righting himself when he slides down a bit too far, and properly starts to enjoy himself. He takes a sip of his pint-

“So, Johnny, you're gay, right?”

-and promptly chokes on it.

“Eh, bi, actually. There is a difference, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, yeah, you got yourself a man?”

John pouts. “Well, technically no- ”

“Aww man, we gotta get you laid! Hey- hey guys, we gotta go to one of them gay bars, get wee Johnny some dick!”

“Oh, no, really, shit- ”

But everyone's cheering all of a sudden and he's being yanked out of his chair, stumbling slightly as the room spins, but soon he's wedged between Bill and that tall guy that always smells of garlic, and they're off.

To get John laid, apparently. But John doesn't want to be laid! Nah. Well, not by some stranger, he doesn't. There is one man he certainly wouldn't say no to... two, if you count that fantasy he had about Chris Hemsworth, but the chances of that happening are- wait, what was he talking about? Sherlock! Sherlybabes! Yes, John wants his Shercock!

He chokes on a snort at his own incredibly hilarious joke as they approach the club, grinning up at the bouncer who winks at him as they walk past.

Some aggressive porny music is filling up the smokey room, but John hardly notices as he's handed a glass of something strong and pushed into the crowd to “go get him some”. John turns back to his group of friends, startled and confused, but they've already dispersed and John's left all on his own. He stumbles into people, who mostly ignore him, but then he takes a gulp of his drink – face scrunching up as it burns his throat – and is accidentally shoved to the left. He trips over himself, and prepares to land on the hard, sticky floor, but there's an arm around his waist, gripping him tight and hauling him up to lean against a firm chest.

John's head snaps up in bewilderment to look at his saviour, who smirks down at him in return. The guy definitely isn't bad looking; tall and muscular, with a handsome, chiselled face. The low light catches the bits of red in his auburn hair, and his eyes seem to twinkle. John sucks in a gasp, and the arms around him tighten.

“Watch yourself there, love. Wouldn't want you to land on that pretty face.”

The room is spinning again and John can't seem to hold himself up, leaning forward into the sturdy man before him. The man seems to take this as a sign for something, because he chuckles deep in his chest and his hands slides down John's back to cup his behind. John startles at this and moves to push himself away, but then soft lips are kissing down his cheek, lightly grazing his jaw, before moving down to brush against his neck. John whines and leans his head to the side to get away from the contact, but the handsome stranger takes that opportunity to start sucking at the exposed skin, teeth nipping playfully as those large hands grab and grope his ass.

That is the last straw, and even in his drunken haze John is able to give a sharp kick to the man's shin, pulling himself free simultaneously. The stranger yelps in shock and back up to give John space.

“Alright, sorry darling, obviously I came on too strong. How about I go buy you a drink and then we can just chat for a bit? Yeah, okay? I'll be over at the bar when you're ready.”

His hand brushes against John's hip, and then he's gone.

John feels terribly light-headed after the encounter, and he veers slightly to the left, then to the right. He manages to ground himself, and digs around in his pockets for his mobile, absolutely befuddled as to why he seems to be holding back tears. He locates his phone, and grasps it tightly in his hand as he makes him way to the toilets. It's quieter in there, and he feels more sober at he hits number one on his speed dial and waits.

“John? You're not phoning to ask for the answer to one of those pub quiz questions, are you, because-”

Sherlock's cut off by a quiet sob, and John covers his mouth, mortified that the noise came out of him.

“John! What's happened?! No, first of all, are you okay, are you hurt? Oh god-”

Oh no, he's gone off on one of his rants again. John rolls his eyes, and wipes angrily at the tears that won't stop streaming down his face.

“I'm fine, really, I've not been hurt. It's just- it's that we were all at the pub, which was fine, it was almost fun, y'know, but then one of them starts asking me about being gay, so I remind them that I am in fact bisess- biSEXUAL, and then they're all “oh, Johnny, John, we've got to get you some dick, and I'm like “no dick for me, thanks” but then here we are at some place called “Cockpit” and I fall over onto this guy, but he seems to like it, y'know, and he starts touching me and kissing me and I didn't want it, I- I'm trying to get away-”

“WHAT?!!” John shrinks back at the pure anger in Sherlock's tone, and tries to calm him down but Sherlock hangs up before he can get any real words out.

Oh, GREAT! Now- now I'm all alone, and Sherlock's mad and- and I should've just stayed home and helped him out with his experiment but now I've gone and disappointed him and I can't even leave the bathroom 'cause the horny man's still out there, and- and-

John curls up on the floor miserably, and leans his head down onto his folded arms where they rest on his knees, and lets out a few more pitiful sobs. He shivers against the cold breeze coming from the window above and lets his eyes fall shut.

The next thing he knows the toilet door is slamming against the wall, and he jumps in fright at the noise and then the familiar hand that grasps his shoulder and pushes his back to lean against the wall. Sherlock looks more concerned than John can ever remember him looking as his eyes skim over John's blotchy, red face. His own face seems to crumple in sadness as he takes in the mess that is John right now, and cool fingers gently brush the tear stains from his cheeks and he soothes the blonde with kind, soft words.

“Sshhh, John, you're alright. I'm here now to take you home, please don't cry, I can't stand it when you cry...”

John must really look awful.

“ 'm sorry, I dunno what happened, I don't know why I'm crying.”

“You always cry when you drink vodka, John, now let's get you up.”

John almost fall back down a few times, and feels like he's going to throw up for the first few seconds as soon as he's standing properly, but with Sherlock's strong arm around his waist as he leans into the detective's side they manage to make their way out of the grotty toilet and through the crowds dancing in the main bar area. John can't see any of his friends, but at this point he doesn't really care. They've almost made it to the door when a large hand shoots out and grabs John's arm, pulling him back slightly from Sherlock to face the stranger from earlier.

“Oh good, you came back! Do you still fancy that drink? Maybe we can pick up where we left off...” He smirks darkly, and tries to drag John closer, but a firm arm wraps around John's chest and he's pulled close to Sherlock. John turns his head in surprise and relief to look at his flatmate, and his eyebrows shoot to his hairline at the look of fierce rage bestowed upon his face. The detective's teeth are bared in a snarl, his eyes like ice as they lock John's attacker in place. He lets out a low growl, and the blood drains from the stranger's face.

“Don't touch him.”

The man nods slowly, and back off a few paces, eyes wide and hands up in the air in a placating manner, before he legs it.

John gapes in open shock at the man's retreating form as he's dragged out the club and into the crisp night air. John opens his mouth to speak, but before he can get any words out he's being shoved into a cab, and Sherlock's sliding in next to him and rattling off the address. Only then does he turn to face John, hands hovering in the air like they want to touch him but are too afraid.

Sherlock stares at him very intensely for about three seconds, and John makes sure to stay completely still during that time, before long fingers are cupping his face, which is being turned to look directly at the madman.

“That- that rat touched you.”

John stays quiet, blinking owlishly up at him.

“He's not allowed.”

John tries to shake his head, though his movement is limited at present.

“I'm the only one allowed.”

A pause, and then a single nod.

“Good.”

John's cheeks are being squished by Sherlock's giant hands, but he smiles anyway.

“Wuv 'oo.”

“Yes, I love you too, John.”

Chapter Text

The sun had already risen long before the two flatmates made it back to Baker Street. The case had been taxing and had kept them awake for far too long in John's opinion. But after a quick foot-chase round the back alleys of London, a short scuffle between Sherlock and the murderer, and yet another lecture from Lestrade that just went straight over there heads, they were allowed to leave with the promise to go to Scotland Yard the next day to give their statements.

Sherlock was, of course, bouncing up the stairs, still high on adrenaline from the running and the conclusion of another case. He's nattering away to John who's trying to take in as much as he can, but most of his energy is going in to getting his feet up each step. He sighs deeply when they get to the top and hangs up his own coat and Sherlock's; which had been dropped on the floor along with his scarf. The detective is still blabbering on about how clever he is as John pulls out his medical bag, presses Sherlock down onto the couch, and starts to clean up the scrape he got on his cheek from the fight.

Sherlock goes creepily quiet as soon as John starts rubbing antiseptic on the cut. He stares at John in a way that would make him very uncomfortable if he weren't so used to it. Ever since they'd gotten together (or more like ever since Sherlock had claimed John as his own), he'd catch the strange man just staring at him like he is now. He'll stare at him when he's making breakfast, when he's brushing his teeth, when he's reading the paper. One time John was on the loo but he'd left the bathroom door open, and he looks up to find Sherlock standing at the door, head tilted slightly to the left, just watching John.

The weirdest part is that John doesn't mind at all.

He's carefully placing a couple of butterfly stitches onto the cut, following up with a gentle peck of his lips to make it all better, when his phone starts ringing. He groans, and fishes it out of his trouser pocket.

“John Watson.”

There's some mumbling from the other end and his face starts to fall.

“Oh, hi, Sarah, what can I do for you... oh dear, that's a shame, but- no, I understand, of course, though Sherlock and I have just- yeah... alright, no, don't worry, I'll be in as soon as I can. Of course, you're welcome.”

John hangs up and lets his head fall resignedly into his hands for a moment of mourning as he think about their cosy bed, and when he picks it up again Sherlock's pouting at him as he so often does.

“Work is stupid.”

John rolls his eyes. “Oh, so my work is stupid, is it? My saving lives and making people better?”

Sherlock glares half-heartedly in return, but moves his hand up to cup John's face, thumb stroking the dark circles under his eyes. “It's stupid when you have to go in even though you should be doing nothing but sleeping at the moment.”

John mentally blushes at the concern, smiling softly as he leans in to kiss Sherlock slowly, deeply. He loves this kissing thing that they do now, but all too soon he's pulling away, standing up, and pulling on his jacket again.

“I should be home for dinner. Eat something and sleep if you can.” He opens the flat door, but then pauses, and turns back to face Sherlock.

“I love you.”

The detective bites his lip, then smiles slowly and fully, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I love you, too.”

John nods, once, twice, and then he's gone, eyes sparkling with joy.

Eight hours and a lunch break he had to work through later, and John's fighting to keep his eyes open. He barely mumbles a farewell to Sarah on the way out the surgery, and his feet are dragging, old shoes scuffing on the pavement. He blearily lifts his head, tired eyes searching for a taxi to take him home, please, but the roads are almost empty in this area, and so with a heavy heart and even heavier legs he makes his way to the underground.

The route to Baker Street is fairly quiet at this time, and John is thankful that he doesn't have to worm his way through the crowds and fight for space. He stumbles onto the carriage and falls down onto one of the many empty seats with a grateful huff. He's just so tired . He never thought he'd have more sleepless nights now that he's back in London in comparison to being in Afghanistan, but living with Sherlock leaves little time for rest. Not that he'd change a thing. John smiles to himself, letting his head fall to the side to lean against the barrier there, and thinks about Sherlock.

The phone rings and rings before he lets out an over-dramatic huff and answers the call. He knows exactly who it is without even looking at the screen judging on how annoying the ringing is.

“What do you want, fatty?”

“Now, now, Sherlock, there's no need to be so rude. I've received some information from my surveillance team regarding John.”

Sherlock's immediately on alert. He picks himself up from his sulking position on the couch and flails about a bit, “What, what? Is he okay?!”

There's an exaggerated pause before Mycroft continues, “He's quite fine, brother, my team have been keeping an eye on him. He's fallen asleep on the tube ride home, it appears. He's already circled round twice, and he'll miss his stop a third time if you don't get there soon. At the moment he's at South Kensington.

Sherlock hangs up then - no doubt Mycroft will be in touch soon enough to ask about his new found relationship with John. He grabs his coat and runs out the door to find his sleeping beauty.

The detective paces impatiently at Baker Street station as he waits for John's train to pull up. The few people milling about are giving him dirty looks as he huffs, and sighs, and yells a little bit. It seems like forever before he can hear it coming down the tunnel, and he stills, ready to pounce and grab John as soon as he can.

The doors open and Sherlock hops into the carriage, finding John immediately as he is the only one left. He's snoring quietly, more snuffles than anything, his head leaning awkwardly against the barrier. His hair is disheveled and his jacket is only half on, and Sherlock wants to put him in his pocket because he looks so adorable. But the train is just away to leave again, and Sherlock will be damned if he's going to spend half an hour on this godforsaken thing as they wait for it to loop round, so he picks John up around the middle and throws him over his shoulder, then flees off the train, only just skimming his way out, damsel in distress in tow.

John is kind of whacking at him with gentle fists, and mumbling what's probably swear words, but eventually he seems to recognise that it's Sherlock's shoulder he balancing on, and goes limp, almost falling back asleep again. Sherlock very carefully pulls him down so that John's on his feet again, though he clings to Sherlock's coat like a limpet, wobbly legs barely holding him up.

His eyes aren't fully open, but that's okay, Sherlock doesn't mind. He turns around, and bends forward slightly, and John whines and clutches for his shoulders. Sherlock takes his arms and moulds them around his neck. He hesitates, but takes a chance and stands up straight. John's tired legs go straight around his waist, and Sherlock catches them with strong hands before they can slide back down again. He smirks to himself when John's cold nose burrows into his neck as the sleepy doctor falls asleep again.

He wonders briefly if Mycroft is watching all this right now, then decides he doesn't care. Anything for John, always, always. And mum would be so proud of him taking care of his boyfriend, he thinks smugly to himself. Take that, Mycroft - who's the favourite sibling now?

The streets are mostly empty, not that anyone pays much attention to them as they makes their way home. It seems that London is all too aware of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and their insane shenanigans. Sherlock enjoys the peace, humming to himself while John drools on his neck.

He has to hold both of John's legs with one hand to fish his key out his coat pocket, but soon enough they're both securely back in 221B, Sherlock slightly red for exertion after carrying John up all the stairs. He shuffles through the dark flat into their bedroom then gently lowers John down onto their bed. He doesn't so much as twitch at the movement, nor does he when Sherlock strips him of everything but his underwear and tucks him under the covers. Tiptoeing out the room, Sherlock does a quick check around the flat to make sure all the windows are locked and the lights are off, and that there's no experiments on the go. Safe in the knowledge that they'll be undisturbed for the night he returns to their room. He glares at John's mobile and turns it off, doing the same with his phone and the alarm clock. He quickly strips himself down as well before crawling into bed. John rolls over to where the warmth is coming from, tangling their legs together and curving his head down so that he's safely tucked beneath Sherlock's chin, right where he's supposed to be.

Sherlock's heart hurts in that moment and he thinks it's because it's full to the brim of love for John but he keeps trying to cram more in everyday.

He presses his lips against greying, tousled hair, and thinks of John as he falls asleep.

Chapter Text

Sherlock is sulking on the couch when the text comes.

John had made the idiotic decision to visit his sister for the day because she's 'off the drink for real this time', and 'family matters, Sherlock, look at how Mycroft cares for you even when you're insufferable'. His excuses got more and more desperate over time, however to things like 'I've got to give her just one more chance', and 'she's not that mean to me...'. Sherlock had plenty to say about the whole ordeal, but John is persistently stubborn, and once he has his mind set on something he'll stick with it to the bitter end.

Sherlock doesn't hate Harry Watson. Though that doesn't mean he likes her. She's similar to John in so many ways, and not just in looks and stature. They're both stubborn to a fault, and have a quick and fierce temper. They both get the same twinkle in their eyes when they're away to say something witty, and the same dullness when they talk bitterly of their parents and the roller-coaster that was their childhood. Harry is obviously the older sibling, and the times when her protectiveness over 'Little Johnny' shine through it can be very endearing and Sherlock will smirk at the way John blushes at the attention.

But where John is caring and kind, and very in control of his emotions, Harry is not. She doesn't have the same softness that John does, and often she can fly off in a fit of rage, hurting John both emotionally and - Sherlock's recalls with a grimace – physically.

So when Sherlock gets a text from John only seven minutes into his sulk, he's immediately on alert.

Could you come and pick me up if you're free?

But only if you're not busy.

Or maybe just send a cab, please?

xxx

He's starting to think that their relationship consists more of him chasing after John than John chasing after him as he so often complains about.

On my way. x

He hardly minds though.

The cab seems to take forever to arrive at Harry's apartment, and Sherlock is a little concerned because John hasn't replied to any more of his messages. But John doesn't check his phone all that often, which can be very annoying (worrying) when Sherlock's trying to get in touch with him (checking in to make sure he's okay). He's just away to give John a call when the cab comes to a stop and Sherlock realises they've arrived.

The detective peers out the window at the building, and the first thing he sees is a small figure huddled on the front door steps, head bowed and an overnight bag lying at his feet.

Sherlock's sighs at the sorrowful sight, and asks the taxi driver to wait here before he hops out.

John doesn't appear to be paying much attention to his surroundings (Sherlock constantly tells him off for having daydreams when he's by himself because 'people could too easily kidnap you!', but he won't do that now because John looks sad) as Sherlock is already sitting down next to him and cupping a hand around the back of John's neck before the doctor even notices he's there.

He makes a small gasping sound, and flicks his head up to look at Sherlock, but before he can catch himself and hide his face, Sherlock sees the split lip and large bruise darkening his cheek.

Now it's his turn to gasp, and he brings both hands to cup John's face, turning it in his direction so he can inspect the injuries properly. John winces as his thumb probes along the bruise, but when long fingertips brush over the bleeding lip there's an intake of breath and wide, nervous eyes snap up to stare at the detective, who can't seem to take his eyes off his lips.

“She hit you.”

The words are barely whispered, but they make John's stomach twist all the same. Smaller, rougher hands lift up to rest on top of the ones cupping his face. “It's okay, Sherlock- ”

Piercing blue eyes snap up to look at John properly.

“This,” Sherlock hisses, top lip raising in a sneer, “is not 'okay', John. It is not 'okay' for your sister to hit you – twice, may I add. It is not 'okay' for you to be hurt or bleeding or injured in any way. It is not 'okay' that you felt you needed to wait out here in the wind and cold until I came because you obviously didn't feel welcome or safe in her flat. It is not 'okay' that you are holding back tears right now.” John winces at that, and looks down at his lap in shame, but Sherlock's not having any of that, and he spreads his fingers so his hands are covering most of John's face, raising it so that John has no choice but to look at him.

The doctor sniffs in defiance, but Sherlock can see right through it, can see the pain that John's trying to hide. He'd been trying to give her one more chance, trying to help and be a good brother, and she does this? Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek to hold back the diatribe of nasty words for Harry Watson, and instead thinks of all the small ways he (and Mycroft) can make her life difficult.

Ideally he'd like to storm up to her flat and break her hand for ever laying a finger on John, but that's probably not what he would want, and the poor doctor's sniffling and desperately trying not to cry in the middle of the street, so Sherlock decides that the best thing to do is to help him up and bustle him into the waiting cab.

Once safely inside, John sits on the seat farthest away from the him and stares defiantly out of the window. They make it onto the main road in complete silence, but the whole ordeal seems to finally hit him all at once, and the tears start coming uncontrollably even though he tries to hold them back.

John lets out a sniffle, and then a loud sob that clenches at Sherlock's heart, and he turns in his seat and reaches out for the detective who so very willingly takes him in his arms. John presses in close, grasping at his coat lapels, and Sherlock can only hold him tight as he cries into his neck for the whole ride home.

Chapter Text

It was Lestrade who started panicking first. Sherlock and John had been working on the latest case that had completely stumped his team at the Yard. The consulting detective had caught on to a lead and he'd decided to go and investigate an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of London to pick up clues, dragging John along with him. Of course, now Greg wishes he'd listened to the madman when he'd been explaining where the warehouse was, and why, exactly, he'd been going to investigate.

When he hadn't received a text from Sherlock explaining his findings from their search of the warehouse he'd decided to go round to Baker Street himself to hear it. He knew all to well just how lazy the detective could be. Only it was Mrs Hudson who answered the door, and it was Mrs Hudson who explained that she hadn't seen the boys for two days now.

It was Mrs Hudson who was the next person to start panicking.

Lestrade then decided to talk to the eldest Holmes sibling to see if he had any information on their whereabouts; but after a very long, very confusing phone conversation with Mycroft, it appeared that even the British Government had no idea where Sherlock and John had disappeared to.

Little did Lestrade know that Mycroft Holmes was the third person to panic.

A day later and there's a whole team at Scotland Yard trying to track down the pair. If only Lestrade knew where the bloody warehouse was then he could go there and see if he could pick up some bloody clues and then pick up that bloody detective and his bloody boyfriend. But, alas, he was stuck, and everyone else was stuck, and after talking to Mycroft again he'd discovered that even he and his team was stuck.

Where are they?

Lestrade was dozing at his desk - his first sleep in two days - when his phone buzzes next to his head. He groans, and sits up, cracking his back, and fumbles blindly for his mobile. Who the crap is that? He peels his eyes open and squints at the screen. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the bright light, but when they do his heart nearly jumps out his mouth.

Message from Sherlock Holmes.

As quickly as he can with his hands shaking as they are, he unlocks his phone and opens the text.

Woodland Industrial State

Behind grey warehouse

John is hungry

Not a lot of information, but enough. Enough to find his boys.

Lestrade is the first to arrive at the scene, though an ambulance, two police cars, and a Mycroft are right behind him. Lestrade had been speeding all the way from Scotland Yard, terrified of what was going to be here when he arrived. He parks up, and jumps out the car, searching around until his eyes land on the grey warehouse Sherlock had mentioned in the text. He takes off in that direction, heart pounding.

John and Sherlock are, of course, tucked behind the back, and Lestrade comes to a skidding halt before them as he takes in the sight.

They're both seated on an old metal crate, Sherlock with his back leaning against the wall, an open cut on his forehead that trickles down his left cheek. Lestrade can't see any other wounds at the moment, but the detective looks exhausted, dark circles under his eyes and his face gaunter than usual. It certainly doesn't look like he's been treated well here.

John is slumped against Sherlock's shoulder, dead asleep. He looks pale and haggard, and there's a massive bruise on his right cheekbone. He's apparently used Sherlock's scarf as a make-shift sling for his right arm, which rests against his chest. His jumper is gone and his shirt looks torn in several places, but Lestrade can't see any more blood, so he tries not to panic too much.

Sherlock's right arm has John tucked protectively to his side, and cocooning them both from the elements is his great coat.

Lestrade is never going to look at that coat the same way again.

As he approaches nearer, Sherlock's eyes startle open and he tenses, arm tightening around John, the opposite hand reaching down to pick up the gun Lestrade only now notices.

“Hey, hey, Sherlock, it's okay, it's Lestrade.”

Sherlock doesn't lower the gun, but he does just stare for a minute at Lestrade, apparently getting his bearings. His eyes open wider, and he coughs a little. He blinks a lot, and it takes long moment, but soon he's fully awake, eyes bright and alert, though still tired in comparison to usual. He immediately glances down to John, scanning his small form until he's content with what he sees, before he looks back to Lestrade.

“You took your time.”

It comes out as barely more than a whisper, but Lestrade grins and rolls his eyes all the same. Just then the rest of the rescue party arrives, and Sherlock is reluctantly running his hands through John's hair and murmuring in his ear to wake him up. Slowly John does so, but he's very bleary, and squints up at Sherlock in confusion.

The ambulance team appear, though, and Lestrade backs up to give them space. He ends up standing next to Mycroft, and the pair of them watch fondly as John pouts at the paramedic who's sternly telling him to 'keep his oxygen mask on, please, Doctor Watson', and Sherlock rubs his shoulder in consolation.

“They're good together, aren't they?” Lestrade smiles to himself, finally calming down after the stress of the past few days. The couple in question are being lead over to the back of the ambulance, both leaning on each other to get there, giggling and bumping arms. The paramedics roll their eyes fondly at their behaviour, and tell them off for giggling at a crime scene.

“They're both idiots, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade turns to raise an eyebrow at Mycroft, but it drops when he sees the supposed 'Iceman' smiling gently as he watches the couple holding hands in the back of the ambulance, wrapped up in a big orange blanket, while the paramedics do more checks. Sherlock gives a massive yawn, and John stares sleepily up at him, then yawns as well. He uses Sherlock's hand to scratch his nose, which Sherlock then drops a kiss onto.

“But I do see what you mean, yes.”