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Sherlock had always been his patient, in a way. Ever since John stitched the wound in his chest the first day they met.
Since then–although not always on cases, more often around the flat–John has handled Sherlock's mishaps, both small and potentially severe were it not for John's ability to clean and bandage cuts and burns or sew wounds. John doesn't consider him accident prone, because most of the time Sherlock does things knowing that they can (and will) go wrong.
It almost always follows the same routine. Sherlock’s Watson, could you help, and John's Jesus Christ what happened, to Sherlock’s It was an experiment, or I had the wrong combination of chemicals, or my hand slipped. And of course, John would inevitably end with, you must be glad you moved in with a doctor. He would likely receive an eyeroll or a mild insult to his medical degree–or, occasionally, one of Sherlock's offhand little smiles.
This time, John has to have a look at Sherlock's face instead of his hands.
The rest of the case of Silver Blaze had been completed before Sherlock even thought about allowing John a proper look at his eye. After Silas first hit him, Sherlock insisted they show themselves off the property to take up as little extra time there as possible. John couldn't look while they were walking, and when they got back to the Airbnb, Sherlock just wanted to keep moving.
Sherlock had cleaned the cut himself and put an adhesive wound closure over it at some point, but he still wanted John to have a look at it when they got back to the flat. John didn't mind. (He'd been fretting about it.)
Until now, they’d remained in silence in their respective positions– John stooped over just slightly to look down at Sherlock, and Sherlock sitting almost perfectly still on the closed lid of the toilet. Sherlock’s eyes had fought against the bathroom light, and then closed. They’re open again now, keen and watchful in a barely-conscious way.
“You’re been very tolerant of me dragging you around,” Sherlock suddenly informs him.
“That's the point of the podcast, mate. Why tolerant?” John questions. “Is that the word we’re going with here?”
“Because I’m me. And… I drag you around.”
“We all drag each other around,” John says, still gently prodding at Sherlock’s cheekbone. “Mariana drags us around to keep the business running, I drag you around to keep the podcast going, and you drag us around for cases. I’d say that I’ve just grown used to your habits. It’s like a mutual dragging-around. Like, um… It’s like symbiosis– like we’re all each other’s parasite.”
Unexpectedly, Sherlock smiles. It’s unendingly fond, and John’s heart seizes in his chest in a way that really makes him consider seeing a cardiologist. “Mm, indeed,” Sherlock says.
“Mm, indeed,” John parrots, mimicking the almost-regal tone. Sherlock recognizes he's not being mocked, at the very least, and huffs a soft breath of laughter. John speaks again after a moment. “You know, you're being pretty tolerant about this, too.”
“Hmm?”
“Well, I mean– agreeable might be, uh, might be a better word. That could just be the sleep deprivation getting to you, though,” John says.
Sherlock hums, one pitch, like a half-agreement. “I asked you to have a look at it. Do you expect me to push you away?”
John shrugs. “I mean… you did insist you were fine,” he says, and before Sherlock can argue anything about the case, he interrupts. “Normally you fight me on these things at least a little–that's all I'm saying.”
Sherlock stares up at him with exhausted, watery grey eyes. “You're my doctor,” he says.
It hits John square in the chest.
His doctor.
Maybe it is time to consider seeing a cardiologist. Stammo probably knows somebody.
His.
John doesn't even try a jab. The words certainly come to his lips–to ask if Sherlock really is glad he moved in with him–but they never stumble into the open air. John just stares.
Sherlock, thankfully, has the decency to break him out of his stupor by wincing and darting backwards. John had pressed too hard, too close.
“Pay attention,” Sherlock spits, but with not nearly as much bite as he would've usually had.
“I am– sorry– sorry, I just, I don't know.”
“I'd rather you not zone out while prodding at my face,” Sherlock says.
John sighs. “Yes. Thank you, noted.” He reaches for Sherlock again. Sherlock remains withdrawn, pressing himself backwards. “Sherlock, mate. I'm sorry.”
“Good.”
“Don't be like that– god, you need to sleep,” John huffs. “Is it any reassurance if I tell you it doesn't feel like anything’s broken?”
Sherlock stares for a few moments. “...Yes,” he answers, finally.
“Good. See? I've done my job.”
Sherlock's eyes remain on him. His eyelids flutter, both blinking tears out of his eyes from the pain and trying not to squint at the light. He finally deigns to sigh and shut them.
He's brilliant, isn't he?
The rather common question rings in John's mind again, again, again, like it always has. A simple, common observation of a facet of Sherlock’s. And here John is, so close-up to that astounding beam of brilliance, basking in the light of some unattainable star. He's like no one John has ever met before.
Christ, staring at Sherlock's face for too long makes him poetic.
Definitely nothing to unpack there.
No.
Nope.
Definitely not.
And certainly not, John confirms, when he cups the side of Sherlock's face. He gently traces his thumb over the dark circle below Sherlock's eye, ever-present but accentuated by the dark bruise and exhaustion. “You look about ready to drop,” John says.
“I don't want to sleep,” Sherlock says, melting into the touch.
John does his best not to falter. “You will.”
“I sincerely doubt that.” Sherlock's eyes open again, just a smidge.
John shrugs, in lieu of a comeback. “Well, I hate to say it, but there is some swelling that needs to go down. And by some I actually mean a decent bit.” He pulls his hand away, dreadfully, and nearly faints when Sherlock seems to chase it. John clears his throat. “I'm just gonna have you rest on the sofa with an ice pack. If you want a secret nap when I'm not looking, then… by all means.”
Sherlock grumbles, but he doesn't argue with actual speech, which is a good sign. John gets him set up on the sofa with a weighted blanket and a couple of pillows, followed by the ice pack for his face.
“You're not sleeping?” Sherlock asks.
“No, I mean, not yet. I’ll probably go upload the audio and have a shower, or something.”
Sherlock hums. He holds the ice pack against his eye, but even that seems like it takes a lot of energy.
When John returns about thirty minutes later, post-upload and post-shower, Sherlock is stretched out across the sofa with the weighted blanket pulled up to his chest. His head is turned just so, somehow balancing the ice pack on his face while being basically comatose. It's not just Sherlock's quick dozing, where he rests his eyes to get some of his strength back or to straighten out his mind. It's real sleep– the kind that knocks him properly unconscious and wipes the tension off his face. Well overdue. Well-deserved.
John carefully sits on the edge of the couch, cushion dipping beneath his added weight. He really has no reason to stay up any longer, but he doesn't mind the idea. He doesn't mind the idea of listening to Sherlock's soft breathing or to the beginning of steady rain just a little longer.
John just about jumps out of his skin when Sherlock's warm hand wraps around his wrist. He turns himself to find Sherlock's uncovered eye half-lidded, gazing back at him in a rare, inscrutable way.
John's hand is oh so delicately guided to lay on Sherlock's chest, right over his heart. Sherlock's eyes close again, and his sigh borders on satisfaction.
The ice pack balanced on Sherlock's face has mostly melted by now. John would probably stick it back in the freezer, but he can't possibly get up now. Not when Sherlock wants him to just be there.
Then again, a mostly-melted ice pack is better than nothing.
John doesn't mind staying up a little while longer.