Chapter Text
The first time John Watson met Sherlock Holmes the man was unconscious.
Well, sedated.
And strapped to a metal cot.
John’s search for permanent employment ended in a contract with the county and a job traveling from public sector penitentiaries to homeless shelters to psychiatric wards where he treated the ...uh... colourful locals. The latter of these was where Holmes currently resided. Or as Sherlock would put it, conducted his experiments. John found it a bit comical really, he’d only been the man's physician a short while but even he could see Sherlock liked the psychiatrists to think he was the one being studied when in fact the shoe was very much on the other foot.
Sherlock was a wild animal in a zoo, but he was very aware of his cage and used every inch of it to his advantage. And he loved to watch the zookeepers dance.
The young county doctor was surprised the first time he’d met an awake Sherlock. The man was impossibly tall, and thin, and had the clearest blue eyes John had ever seen. They were almost reflective like a mirror. Those eyes would haunt John on occasion, Holmes just did that to a person, they moved so quickly and were always burrowed under thick brooding eyebrows or loose dark curls from that unruly head of black hair.
But when John thought about Sherlock Holmes it was usually that first meeting. He’d looked so young despite his thirty six years, and so peaceful. His body had almost looked small and frail in those huge leather straps.
And John thought, underneath all that abrasive personality and cruel sarcasm Sherlock Holmes might just be a little sad and a little lonely.
Just like him.
***
“Good morning, Doctor. You’re here early.” Sherlock's eyes did a cursory intake of his face and clothes. John had felt uncomfortable the first time his new patient had done this to him, but now he just felt curious about what the young man would see. “Didn’t work out with the new girl you’ve been seeing lately.”
“And you got that from?”
Sherlock smirked in a way that was meant to look superior but John could tell he was just a bit pleased. Most people didn’t really take too kindly to that piercing gaze or having their personal secrets pushed in their faces by a callous, cheeky little bastard. Really, the guy was an arrogant little prick. John knew he should hate it, or at least be annoyed, but it was just so incredible to watch. The tiny things Sherlock could link together, it was crazy, and he'd paint a pretty damn accurate picture of somebody’s life within minutes of meeting them.
“You’ve never been here this early, or on a Monday. You’ve missed a button on your coat and you haven’t shaved in a couple days. You think because you’re blonde it’s not very noticeable, and you’re right, which means you were shaving everyday before because there was a possibility someone might come into contact with your face. There’s a bit of jam on your shoe with the consistency you would find in a restaurant package. And a bit of ketchup on your fingernail so you probably had eggs as well. Your breakfasts before were lighter, healthier meals because you were watching your weight. People only worry about things like that early in a relationship. So there you are, new girl who’s no longer in the picture.”
“That’s incredible. You’re right, I was seeing somebody and we called it off over the weekend.” John grabbed a tissue from the little box of them Sherlock had in his room and wiped his shoe off. For a psych patient Sherlock was allowed quite a bit of freedom. His room was filled with books, newspapers, file folders, there was even some science equipment, test tubes and such, and John still didn’t understand how Sherlock had swung it. There was one thing the man didn’t have, though, and he craved it desperately. John knew Sherlock would have given up his entire little collection if they’d allow him to have just one cigarette. It was the topic of the very first conversation they’d ever had.
John could still picture his very first encounter with the conscious Sherlock Holmes. A seven foot tall body-builder in scrubs had escorted him to one of the most heavily secured doors John had ever encountered (and he’d worked in prisons). There was electronic key swiping and button codes and a dead bolt before the bouncer-turned-hospital-porter could open the door to Sherlock’s mess of a room. And in the epicenter of all that clutter sat a striking young man, his chair turned away from his desk to face the door and his newest intruder. Bright blue eyes sparkled with mischief and a cold smirk stretched his lips thin over his pearly teeth. Pale skin, dark hair, the man was full of interesting contrasts.
His arms and legs had been crossed but when John stepped through the door his lank body began to unfold revealing a tall, slender, man in cotton pyjamas and bare feet. Even his toes were long and thin. It was like staring at what you thought was a leaf and then suddenly seeing the mantis take a step.
“Have you got a cigarette, Doctor? No, of course you don’t, you’ve never smoked. Tried it once when you were young because of peer pressure. After that you had the army as an excuse and by the time you were discharged for that injured leg you were past the age where smoking’s cool.” At this point the young man sighed and grabbed his abandoned newspaper, flicking it open. “They’re lucky I’m not the homicidal maniac they think I am or I would have killed them all long ago for a pack of B and H silvers.”
John smiled at the memory and looked back to where Sherlock was lounging on his hospital bed, arms on his chest, hands pressed together as if in prayer, fingers resting on his lips tucked under his cute button nose. He had very delicate features for such a blunt - okay - rude man. Contradictory, there was no better word for Sherlock Holmes.
“You got one thing wrong this time, Sherlock.” That earned John a glance, not a full look, just an open slit between long, dark, lashes and a glassy iris sliding in his direction. “I wasn’t seeing a girl.”
John almost laughed, Sherlock’s head whipped towards him and the full power of that intense gaze mapped out every inch of his face.
“You’re not lying.” Sherlock said, deep voice betraying nothing just a simple statement but John knew different.
“So, I’ve managed to surprise you at last.” John brushed aside a few papers and set his medical bag on the small bit of desk he’d cleared. The rest of it looked like the ruins of a city after some horrible catastrophe.
“You surprise me all the time, Doctor, what made you think otherwise?” Sherlock sat up on his creaky mattress and began rolling up his sleeve, knowing the routine. John took out the blood pressure cuff.
“I doubt that, you seem to know everything about me whenever I walk in here.” The young doctor said and secured the cuff around his patient’s wiry bicep. John was now also aware, through his medical tests, that despite Sherlock’s small frame he was solid muscle and astonishingly strong.
“And yet you’re the only person I’ve met in this place who’s managed to throw me off my game.” Sherlock said casually as John pumped air into the band tightening around his arm. But John could see a strange intensity in those blue eyes that didn’t match his tone at all. “More often than I’d like to admit, might I add.”
“Must be a pretty dull lot around here, then.” John laughed.
“Well, that is true.” Sherlock’s gaze locked with John’s and it felt like something had grabbed the doctor’s gut and twisted. He didn't know what his patient read on him that time but the smirk was back on that elegant face .
John let the air out and took down the readings. Sherlock always had perfect test results, the man obviously managed to take care of himself despite being confined to one small room most of his days. He reached to undo the cuff, but at the first sound of Velcro ripping John felt cool fingertips brush his own.
“Sherlock?” John wondered if Sherlock had some kind of medical concern. The young man just shook his dark head.
“I’m getting too familiar with this process. I was just going to take it off myself.” Sherlock shrugged and let his hand drop, his face turned towards the wall opposite of where John was standing.
“So, how long have you been in here?” John dared to ask. He very rarely asked questions about his patients' personal lives, even the incarcerated ones.
“Three years.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “Three years, five months, nineteen days.”
“Wow.” John whistled.
“Eight hours, twenty one….er two minutes.” Sherlock corrected and John heard the clock tick.
“That’s precise.” John didn’t really know what to say as he pulled out his stethoscope. Sherlock just shrugged and undid the top two buttons of his white cotton shirt. John slid the round metal under the younger man’s lapel.
“It’s cold.” Sherlock said and John had a hard time making the jump from their previous conversation to understand Sherlock meant the scope. Sherlock’s gaze drifted back to John’s face and the doctor couldn't help the blush creeping up his cheeks. What was wrong with him? Then Sherlock glanced pointedly down at the metal disc pressed over his heart.
“Oh!” John jumped and pulled the stethoscope out. “Oh, sorry. Here.” The doctor pressed the metal into his palm to warm it up then brought it almost to his mouth so he could use his breath to make it that much warmer and more comfortable for Sherlock. He didn’t notice the rapt fascination his mouth had drawn. Pale eyes widened and watched the parted lips hungrily.
John placed the heated, if slightly moist metal, against Sherlock's skin and counted the heartbeats. That was odd, his pulse was slightly elevated. Sherlock always had a perfectly even heartbeat. Almost mechanical.
“Have you been feeling well?” John asked, he decided to take the pulse again just to be sure.
“Yes.” He heard Sherlock answer. The voice sounded far away because of the buds in his ears, but if anything Sherlock was scooting closer. John stepped closer, too. He didn’t want to take a chance that he might miss-count the beats. In fact…
“May I?” John requested and pointed at Sherlock’s wrist. The brooding man said nothing and offered his upturned hand to the doctor. John wrapped his hand around the slender wrist and pressed his fingers into the pale skin sliding them around until he felt the flutter of a pulse.
He counted again and this time listened to the rhythm as well to make sure he wasn't mistaken. He wasn't. If anything the pulse was going even faster now. This was very unusual, he’d never had a more predictable patient than Sherlock Holmes.
“Sherlock? Are you… nervous?” It felt like the oddest question in the world. Nothing ruffled this guy’s feathers. He hoped there was nothing medically wrong. For a homicidal sociopath with delusions of grandeur, hallucinations, and a possible split personality disorder, John really liked Sherlock. Even if he was an obnoxious dick on top of it all.
When John pulled the stethoscope away for the second time the wrist he’d been taking a pulse from flipped over and long fingers wrapped possessively around his forearm. Another hand shot out and gripped the doctor by the front of his coat, knocking the stethoscope off with the sudden movement. It hung limply in John’s frozen hand as Sherlock twisted his coat for a better grip and yanked him forward until their faces were only a hair’s width from apart.
Those eyes were intense at a distance, and up close John could see every fleck of silvery blue, every flash of reflected light. Those knitted brows cast a shadow making that bright gaze all that much more arresting. He could feel a warm breath ghosting over his lips and tickling his nose. Then Sherlock sucked in a huge breath and crushed his lips over John’s. The blonde’s brain short circuited, he stood still as a statue not able to grasp hold of a single complete thought.
Sherlock took advantage of the doctor’s stupor and hanging jaw. He slipped his tongue over the man’s supple bottom lip and dove in for a taste. Toothpaste with coffee undertones. His head was dizzy, he didn’t understand his own actions and his heart and lungs felt tight. Sherlock cataloged all his own responses for examination later on before he turned his full attention to the feel of John’s stubble against his chin, the bumps of his taste buds when the doctor swirled his tongue without even realizing he was doing it. Sherlock groaned at the smooth slide of lips over teeth and the sweet pressure of John kissing him back. Intoxicating.
When John recovered from his brain going offline there was firm hand on his back, an aggressive and inquisitive tongue in his mouth, and a painful bulge in his pants. The doctor shoved hard against Sherlock’s shoulders to dislodge the man but it only moved him an inch or two. John had already forgotten the impressive strength in that lithe body. Sherlock did at least stop kissing him, but the respite was brief and soon the dark haired man was nibbling and sucking on his earlobe, hot panting breaths curled around the outer fleshy shell of his ear and the sound of that labored breathing made John’s knees feel wobbly.
How was it possible anyone could kiss like this?
Especially a Sociopath who couldn’t stand to be touched.
“Sher…ah…Sherlock. Stop!” John pleaded. The tongue had come out to play again and was running a line under John’s jaw. This time John pushed himself away and stumbled all the way back to the desk. He collapsed into the cheap plastic chair, its aluminium legs scraping the linoleum floor.
“What? What the hell was that?”