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"John!" There was a pause. "JOHN!"
"You know what, Sherlock? No. NO!" John slammed his laptop closed with a bit more force than was necessary, but he didn't get up. "You are always expecting me to do something for you, as if I have nothing to do for myself." He pointed his finger at the navy silk sleeve he could just see around the doorway to the kitchen. "I'll make tea for you, or help you with some bloody experiment, or keep you from accidentally killing yourself for the other twenty-three hours of my day. But I get one bloody hour to myself!" John sniffed and then reopened his laptop. "When I'm busy, you can do things for yourself."
After a moment: "Are you upset with me, John?"
"You know the answer to that." Another pause.
"And you're sure it has nothing to do with the email you have attempted three- no- four times to compose to your mother about your alcoholic sister leaving rehab again?"
John's lips pursed together, and he closed the laptop carefully this time, setting it aside. Gathering his jacket, he walked toward the
stairs.
Sherlock was suddenly close behind him. "Where are you going?"
"I"m fucking busy," John replied shrugging on the jacket. "Bugger off."
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Two hours of strolling the city had him in a much more reasonable mindset, if not a happy one. Night appeared early now, particularly on overcast days, and John found himself returning to the flat before his mind even made a conscious decision to do so. Only mildly surprised to find the flat empty, he sat down heavily in the dark and turned on the telly.
By the time the news and weather had ended, his anger had nearly subsided, replaced instead- as it usually was- with sadness and a touch of guilt. Oh, he wasn't at fault this time- surely not- but shouting at people he loved always picked at past wounds. Speaking of which...
He stood and retrieved his laptop, then eased back into his chair. Mum wouldn't be pleased, but she wouldn't be surprised to hear about Harry either. Though there would likely be a follow up phone call, and John would have to promise to come by and visit just to soothe her longing for a functional family. Though honestly she really should have thought about that before she'd sat back and watched Da-
The sound of footsteps on the landing brought his head around. Sherlock stood in the doorway, looking conflicted and rather damp.
"Where have you been?" John asked, eyeing him.
Sherlock swallowed, staring at John's shoulder. "Tying up some loose ends on the case," he said stiffly. He removed his gloves in his careful manner, but not his coat. "The assistant at the bakery was the murderer of course. I just needed to get a yeast sample for confirmation."
"Well, that was easy enough. I'm sure the forensics team at the Yard is getting a thorough talking-to about how to do their jobs, as if they haven't heard it from you enough." John added a small smile, trying to coax the tension from Sherlock's expression.
"Yes, well. Are you...?" Sherlock nodded his head toward the laptop.
John turned to look. Busy? He sighed. "A bit, yeah."
Sherlock nodded once and rounded the corner into the kitchen.
"I'll order us take-out when I'm finished," John said over his shoulder. The only reply was the click of the bathroom door.
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"I'm back!" John called, setting the bag of food on the kitchen table. There was no reply, and the door to Sherlock's bedroom was closed. John hung up his jacket and ventured a knock to the door. "Sherlock? I got a couple things, wasn't sure what you would want tonight." He pushed the door open a bit to see Sherlock laying flat out on his bed. "Everything alright?"
The clarity of John's voice inside his room sat him up suddenly. "Perfectly fine, John," he said, standing, though he looked anything but fine. "I'm sure whatever you ordered will do." He moved around John into the kitchen, blue dressing gown twisting out behind him.
They ate silently at the table in the sitting room, except for John's occasional prompts for Sherlock to eat more. "Just a bit more then."
John pushed a container of rice towards him. "You look still look dreadful."
Sherlock accepted the container but only pushed the rice around with his chop sticks. "This is more than enough for two meals. I'll save some for tomorrow."
John eyed him suspiciously. "You're going to eat tomorrow?" His eyebrow quirked up playfully.
Sherlock's eyes flicked up to his with intention. The action always made something inside of John flinch. It didn't come naturally or comfortably for Sherlock, that much was clear. It was a very carefully learned skill, and Sherlock could wield it like a weapon.
For a moment Sherlock looked confused, but he carefully blanked his expression and dropped his eyes without answering. His slender fingers worked the chop sticks, and he took one final mouthful of rice before folding the top of the container and standing to leave.
A smile was halfway formed on John's lips when Sherlock staggered forward. John's chair toppled back as he stood quickly to catch the man on his way to the ground. "Sherlock!" John said urgently, holding him by the waist and arm and lowering him against the side of the leather chair.
Sherlock came to quickly, though he did seem surprised to be on the floor. "What on earth are you doing, John?"
"You blacked out and nearly fell face first onto...the..." John pulled his hand away from Sherlock's side. It came away bloody. He pulled up Sherlock's shirt with a bit more panic than he intended, his own heart racing. "What in the hell happened to you?" John ran his hands over the homemade bandage Sherlock had wrapped around his abdomen. The wound was on his left side, and blood had seeped through, hot and sticky. Sherlock didn't answer, just watched as John's fingers worked the bandage free while the other hand pressed firmly against the wound.
Carefully he peeled back the bandage to assess the severity. "Serrated knife wound, it appears," John said aloud, to no one. "Nine centimeters in length, not quite into the fat layer." He looked up at Sherlock's face, his non-bloodied hand tilting it up towards his own.
"Are you awake enough to put pressure on this?"
"Of course, John."
John nodded and went into the kitchen, rummaging under the sink for his first aid kit. He returned and laid it out on the coffee table. "I'll need you to lay on the sofa," he said, stooping to lift Sherlock to his feet. They made their way clumsily to the couch, and John carefully positioned him on his side. He turned back to the kitchen to wash his hands. "How much blood did you lose?"
Silence.
John hurried back over when he was finished and pulled on a pair of gloves. "Don't lie to me."
Sherlock sighed. "Less than two liters."
John took a minute to listen to Sherlock's heart and take his blood pressure, then arranged his cleaning and suturing supplies. "But you hadn't eaten until just now?" Sherlock nodded. Fainting probably a combination of minor hemorrhaging and malnutrition then... John peeled Sherlock's hand back from the wound. It was a bit ragged but would be a fairly straightforward suture. "You did a fairly decent job cleaning it anyway," he muttered. "I'll want to do it again, of course." Sherlock jumped when John touched him with his gloved finger and carefully checked for debris. "Sorry. But you'll want to steel yourself for the sutures. They aren't going to feel nice either."
It was another minute before Sherlock admitted, "I can't really feel the pain from that, John. You just startled me."
"Is that normal for you, or is it because there's pain elsewhere?" John began suturing, his hands falling naturally into the mattress technique. Sherlock did not flinch this time.
"Bit of both," Sherlock said, his voice low.
John bit back the rage that was building, barely. "What else then?"
"Bruised rib. Maybe cracked, but I'll let the doctor decide."
"And?" John prompted.
"Minor head injury."
John cursed to himself. He should have just carted his arse off to hospital. "Did you black out or vomit? Headache?"
"No, no, and yes. Mild but distracting." Silence followed as John finished his sutures and then gently cleaned the dried blood from Sherlock's skin before adding a dressing over the wound.
"It's going to tug a bit, so be careful. They will absorb, but I want to keep an eye on them. You will rest for the next three days, at least." John removed his gloves and tossed them into the pile of rubbish he'd started on the floor. "I'm going to sit you up." Sherlock made as if push himself up on his elbow, but John's voice came firmly. "No. I'm going to sit you up." For all of his previous calmness, anger was now clearly seeping through. He carefully rolled Sherlock onto his back, and with one hand on his back and one behind his head, lifted Sherlock into a sitting position. He held the man steady with one hand and rolled the dressing gown off his shoulders with the other, then pulled off the bloodied t-shirt exposing Sherlock's lean body.
The purple bruising around the affected ribs was obvious, but he ignored it briefly, focusing on Sherlock's face. "Look at me, please. Just for a moment. I'll need to shine a light in your eyes, I'm sorry." Sherlock's eyes met his, raw with emotion. Pupils equal size and... responsive to stimuli... "You can hear fine?" Sherlock nodded, snatching his eyes away. "Any numbness, stiffness, memory loss?"
"No. I walked home from the scene, the date is the 3rd of November, you are 39 years old, and this morning you had beans on toast for breakfast." The words spilled from Sherlock's mouth as John turned his attention on the ribs in question, readying his stethoscope to listen to Sherlock's lungs. At least he's being compliant. The thought was hardly a comfort.
"Most likely just deep bruises here," John said, prodding carefully. "No cracks that I can feel. They'll hurt surely, but you'll live." With his work finished, the adrenaline wore off suddenly, and John felt the change in the atmosphere like a slap to the face. He stretched his back, joints popping, then bent to gather up the rubbish on the floor to put it in the bin.
The tension was tangible even from the kitchen. John leaned against the worktop, waiting for the kettle to boil. His mind tried to follow multiple trains of thought at once: How had he allowed this to happen? Why was he even surprised this had happened? What kind of person in their right mind would go about with a knife wound-
The kettle boiled, and John wearily made two cups of tea before returning to the sitting room. Sherlock sat shirtless and slumped, his eyes staring off, his mind somewhere else. "Drink," John said, setting a cup on the table. Sherlock blinked at the cup, and then did as instructed.
Silence.
"Just one thing, Sherlock," John eventually said into his empty cup, trying to will some of the edge from his voice. "Why did you not tell me, your friend- your doctor- that you had a gaping knife wound in your side?"
"It was hardly a knife, John, don't be dramatic. It was meant for cutting bread not stabbing."
"That is not the point!" John shouted, and Sherlock flinched away from the sound. John stared at him, a wave of guilt briefly masking the anger, but Sherlock dropped his face out of view.
It took a few minutes for the words to come, but when they did Sherlock's voice was small. "What is the point then, John? It's all very abstract and nuanced, and that's not really my area."
John sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face, before he said, "The point is that you were seriously injured, and instead of coming to me for help like you should have, you hid it from me. If the wound was a bit deeper you could have bled to death in the flat while I fetched us dinner. You're the most brilliant man I've ever known, but you're an absolute bloody fool sometimes."
"You said you were busy," Sherlock blurted without looking up.
John's eyes widened. "I'm sorry...?"
"You said you were busy, and not three hours before you told me that when you are busy I should take care of things myself."
John laughed coldly. "You know what, Sherlock? Humor isn't really your area either."
Sherlock's eyes snapped up to his then, deadly serious, all their steely defenses back online. Jesus, he could make a man squirm with those eyes. He didn't blink for what seemed like ages, but the tension in his body was obvious, right down to the dark curls against his forehead that seemed to vibrate.
"I always have relied on your direction for such things." Sherlock stood, perhaps more quickly than he should have, and he wobbled a moment before adding, "If you'll excuse me, I have a doctor's order for bed rest."
John watched him go, his stomach sinking.
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Ultimately, John had decided not to follow him and instead cleared the table and climbed the stairs to his room. The events turned over in his mind time and time again. After what seemed like a lifetime of staring at the ceiling, his phone vibrated from his nightstand, startling him enough that he jumped.
I cannot find a logical explanation for why you are angry with me. Your assistance is needed.
John closed his eyes, preparing his words carefully, then typed:
I'm not angry with you. But you should have told me what happened so that I could help you. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.
The reply was quick:
Did you not mean what you said? If it was some sort of joke, it is a rather tedious one to work through. You've told better.
And then, separately:
You were angry.
John sat up in his bed then, typing furiously.
It wasn't a joke, I meant what I said. But there are some things that you should interrupt me for, including serious injury.
Why didn't you say that instead?
John paused. Why hadn't he? Because an ordinary person would've understood that an injury was more important than writing an email or reading a medical journal or watching the telly in peace. But that wasn't the right thing to say, no. Instead:
I should have. I'm sorry. If I come downstairs will you speak to me?
John had nearly given up hope of a reply, when it finally came:
Yes.
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Sherlock seemed small when John crept into his bedroom, the way he was curled in on himself on the far side of the bed, facing away from the door. John cleared his throat, not sure exactly what he had been expecting to see or accomplish here, and closed the door behind him.
"How do you feel?" he said at last, then rephrased, "Any pain?"
"Not more than I can manage."
So he was feeling the wound now? He toyed with the draw strings of his pajamas. "I could give you something. It wouldn't be a bad idea."
"Don't bother, John. I hardly need your permission to take paracetamol, and that's all you would dare to give me anyway."
John shuffled a bit, unsure what should be said next, his confidence lost somewhere between their bedrooms. Sherlock reached behind himself and pulled the duvet back to expose the rest of the white sheet that he himself was curled up on. It seemed like an invitation, but... "Should I sit?"
"Don't be dense, it's incredibly boring."
And so John slid onto the bed, the crisp coolness of the sheet in stark contrast to his flushing skin. He tentatively leaned back against the pillows, and Sherlock's long arm darted out to turn off the one remaining lamp.
"You should try to rest." Sherlock said, sounding casual. "You're insufferable without at least five hours of sleep."
John stared off into the darkness. I will never have this man figured out. Not completely. He is a confusing mess of contradictions... and I love all of it. "Will you also be sleeping?" The only reply was a quiet chuckle. "I- I thought we might talk a minute," John said. "To... clear the air or something."
"Will that help you sleep, John?" Sherlock's voice was surprisingly tender.
John swallowed. "Maybe."
"Then by all means speak."
John licked his lips. "Well first of all you should be laying on your back." Much to his surprise, Sherlock obediently but slowly turned over to stare at the ceiling. Their bodies were much closer now, John could feel the heat between them. So close. "And I'm sorry. I should not have shouted at you." He blinked a few times, gathering the rest of the words, trying to push the memory of the man flinching away from him out of his mind. That had been the look of someone who'd been shouted at more than they had ever deserved.
Sherlock's voice was level, his words eerily reflecting John's own thoughts. "I believe I deserve far more shouting than I have received tonight."
"You don't." John's voice was firm in the darkness. "You're brilliant, and if I forget that you don't think like I do, that's my own fault." He stopped there. He didn't need to voice the laundry list of odd behaviors. Sherlock was more aware than anyone. Oh, he played the role of dismissive, rude prick so well he deserved a BAFTA. But his failings ate him up inside- they always had- especially when they involved disappointing John. "I'll want to check you over again in the morning. Tomorrow I could get... something. For the pain."
"You've done more than enough, Dr. Watson." And suddenly John's hand was enveloped by another, slender fingers sliding between his own, warm palm pressed into his. John sucked in a breath at the contact. "Will you stay here?" The question came in a low rumble, stirring something inside John that he had tried hard to suppress.
The words came out as a whisper that didn't feel like his own. "Of course, Sherlock." And when Sherlock turned onto his side again to fold into him- well, who was John to argue?