Work Text:
"Hurts." Tears dribbled down John's face but still, he kept one hand pressed into his bandaged gunshot wound. The bandage appeared to have soaked red some time ago, blood smearing across his bare chest.
When he'd stopped responding to Harold's texts, Harold had rushed over to his loft to find John sprawled on the bathroom floor. John hadn't made a move to get up when Harold had entered the apartment and so far he'd only uttered the one word.
Gingerly, Harold sunk down to his knees and reached for John, glad at least, that he couldn't see a gun anywhere nearby.
John was strong, but Harold was insistent. "John, please, let go. Give me your hand."
He spared only the briefest thought for his pristine suit as he worked his fingers behind John's bloody ones and pried them away from his body. He clutched John's hand in both of his, squeezing it, willing John to pay him more attention, to get his mind away from the darkness drowning him.
There was a gasp and then a sob. Harold thumped his ass down on the cold tile and yanked John toward him with all of his strength. John came willingly enough, crashing into him. Harold cradled John against his chest, spreading one hand over the back of his head, tangling his fingers in John's soft hair, the other coming up protectively around his shoulders.
John let out a soft whimper amid the sobs and clutched at Harold's lapels, his whole body shaking. Holding him tight, Harold leaned over as much as his stiff neck would allow to kiss the top of John's head. Between the two of them, he would need to be the strong one, to carry John through his grief.