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It happened because of a case, and a surprisingly athletic one at that. According to the video feed, a man made the decision that the 12th of November, at approximately 20:55, was the perfect day and time to commit arson. The building hit was a plant shop in Windsor, and unfortunately, only a few potted ferns and a couple of hydrangea bushes made it out unscathed.
The suspect wore dark clothes, an oversized hoodie, and broke the glass front door with Sherlock had surmised was a brick from a nearby cafe. The weapon was one of opportunity, but the crime itself was full of intent that Sherlock also deduced had lingered for an extended period of time.
On the 14th of November, at approximately 21:15, an official trap was set to catch the arsonist. Lestrade had the man surrounded on three sides of a local pub on the east side of London, with Sherlock and John at the alleyway exit, just in case Artie Darton decided to slip out the back. According to Sherlock, the probability of this happening was less than 12%, but evidently, Artie enjoyed a long shot.
At 21:19, Darton didn’t just try to casually leave The Goat’s Beard Pub , but instead burst through the side door like a man who somehow knew he’d soon face a litany of charges. Sherlock sprinted after him within a matter of seconds, with John only a few steps behind. Darton had a slight head start on them, with the added advantage of knowing exactly what direction he wanted to go. John grunted somewhere to Sherlock’s right as they rounded a corner and into an inexplicably gloomier alleyway, with this one full of the smell of rubbish bins and standing water.
If anything, the stench and moisture of the new location only gave Darton even more stamina and strength than before. His legs and arms pumped with renewed aggression, with Sherlock and John losing him in the darkness.
“Heading down Birch Street,” John called out, loud enough for only Sherlock to hear, before slowing down and veering off course. Sherlock only had to keep up with the suspect for just the amount of time required for John to take a proper shortcut up Birch and block the only outlet.
The plan worked, and John tackled Darton to the ground right at the opening to the high street. Sherlock was still a few meters away, but by the time he reached the two men, Darton was unconscious on the ground with John breathing heavily, and holding a stitch at his side.
“You all right?” Sherlock asked, already helping John to his feet. “Any injuries?”
John groaned, his face tightened as he rubbed at his side. “Just got a good punch in the ribs on me is all. Returned the favour to his jaw…with a goal that I broke a few teeth for my troubles.”
Sherlock smirked before kneeling down to assure that Artie Darton was indeed as knocked out as he first appeared. He was, and according to Lestrade, who arrived minutes later, they’d be adding at least a couple more charges to his already growing list of indictments. The cab ride back to 221b Baker was quiet, with Sherlock texting various people, including Lestrade, with additional information connected with the arson case to Mycroft, whom Sherlock had been dodging for the better part of a fortnight.
Occasionally, the silence would be broken by a soft groan from John, who seemed to be favouring his left side that Darton had used as a punching bag. Even Lestrade opened his mouth to ask if John wanted to go to the nearest hospital, but seemed to decide it was best to keep his opinions to himself. Sherlock watched, but didn’t inquire again if John was all right. At least until they’d gotten into the entranceway and shrugged off their coats.
That was when Sherlock saw it. Dark and a striking colour of scarlet. A blood stain was the size and circumference of a small saucer plate, and was slowly growing.
“You are hurt,” Sherlock whispered, his voice felt small, almost fragile as he said it.
John glanced down, more out of curiosity than panic, touching the wound with only the steadiness of both a current doctor and a former soldier who has seen so much worse. Immediately, the exhaustion that had been present in John’s expression since Darton’s arrest now snapped into the fierce awareness that caused Sherlock’s breath to hitch.
“Get the medical kit,” John said, with a directness that hovered with the right amount of urgency and tenderness that Sherlock needed.
Sherlock was off, already knowing where the kit was. After so many prior incidents, John insisted on the kit staying in the kitchen upper cabinet for these situations. It took less than twenty seconds for Sherkock to get back with the medical kit in hand, with John having already tugged off his thick brown jumper and the vest underneath it.
The weapon used must have been a slender blade to make such a small opening. Fairly shallow, from the level of blood, but painful to be getting on with. John pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and stood, slightly leaning onto the back of the chair. Sherlock placed the medical kit on the kitchen table, opened it, and then waited for John to give further instructions.
“There should be some…gauze and bandages,” John said, his breathing a little laboured. “And gauze. I need to stitch up the wound as soon as possible, but we need to take photos first. For Lestrade to get that bastard for grievous bodily injury. Thank fuck it isn’t deep…”
Sherlock pushed all the worst scenarios out of his mind palace, yanked his mobile out of his back pocket, and took photos of the wound, some close up and further away to show scale. Then, after a quick text to Lestrade, Sherlock sent the photos. John, during this time, did his best to stay still, jaw tense and back rigid.
“Good,” John said, seeming to force his tone to stay even, “Now hand me the - ”
“Don’t be idiotic, John. This is a two-person job, so I will assist.”
Years of living with John Watson prepared Sherlock for this to become an argument. John’s stubbornness made it nearly impossible for him to be taken care of when injured, and it was more likely than not that at least another 10-20 milliliters of blood loss would occur before John finally accepted help. When John nodded and turned a bit to give better access, Sherlock nearly fell over himself getting to the sink to thoroughly wash his hands, then put on sterile gloves.
“It’s not like I’m giving you the go-ahead to perform open heart surgery,” John said, the softest note of a chuckle in his voice.
“Small victories are still victories.”
John’s huff of annoyance switched to a hiss as Sherlock gingerly pressed at the wound site with a clean bandage, then rinsed the wound with clean water. Moments later, Sherlock sat in the kitchen chair as John stood next to the table, left arm lifted up to give Sherlock room to work, and his right arm using the table for support. Lestrade texted back a photo of the weapon that was used, and thankfully, the blade of the knife seemed clean.
After another wash and a new pair of gloves, tweezers were used to clean out debris. John’s breaths were slow inhales and exhales as Sherlock focused on the task at hand, and soon the only part left was loose stitching. However, John made a small noise when Sherlock began to unpack those supplies.
“Are you sure that you - ” John started, but paused at the side glance Sherlock shot his way.
Ten minutes later, John had moved over to the sitting room couch. His wound would need to be looked at again by the morning, but for now, John’s pain level had gone down to a much more manageable degree, thanks to Sherlock.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you knew how to do that?”
Sherlock shrugged from his chair, purposefully not meeting John’s eyes. It was an avoidance tactic that rarely worked for more than the first batch of John’s questions, but Sherlock would take what he could get.
“Because since you’re the doctor, it’s obviously more your area than mine.”
For the second time that night, Sherlock expected pushback. John deplored being seen as capable of only one thing. That he was more than a doctor. Yet again, John merely nodded, and what was Sherlock even supposed to do with this newer pacifying version of his flatmate?
The slight scent of medicinal wipes was in the room, with Sherlock wanting to say something that might cause everything to shift in a way neither one of them was ready for. John’s bare chest rose and fell as he continued to rest on the sofa, one socked foot off of the far cushion and his other foot tucked underneath his leg.
“What you did was…” John said, trailing off a little as he took a deep breath and then released it. “It was good.”
Sherlock grinned, accepting the praise. It felt almost as wonderful as when John called him Brilliant, and caused Sherlock’s mind palace to restructure its walls to put more of John inside it.
The sitting room shifted, or it might have been Sherlock finally giving into the tilt of gravity. It caused him to move towards John, who laid with his eyes closed and lips softly parted. It was too late for Sherlock to blame the next action made on the inevitable adrenaline crash, or the rush of realising someone that you wanted may want you back.
“Sherlock?” John asked, blinking up as Sherlock bent over the sofa, his too sharp elbows bracketing John’s chest, careful not to brush against his stitches. “What are you….”
John’s lips shaped out the next letter, the pursing of them creating a perfect O that created both the start of the word “ doing” and the beginning of a kiss. So with less than a second to decipher, Sherlock chose the latter and pressed his mouth to John’s.
The kiss was soft and warm and a little too wet. Then there was an exhale of breath that Sherlock swallowed, and that broke apart whatever resolve that remained. John pulled Sherlock down, their bodies pressing together with a tremendous amount of power for someone who’d been stabbed less than an hour and a half ago.
Sherlock desired to experiment on how pain receptors overlapped with erogenous zones, but John’s fingers were running through his curls, and Sherlock’s brain was systematically collapsing in on itself.
“Oh God,” John moaned, wet kisses peppering Sherlock’s jaw and throat, and Sherlock gave a truly involuntary twitch. “We should stop, yeah? Is..this ok?”
Consent?
Was that what John was rambling on about?
Couldn’t John see that Sherlock’s mind palace was being redecorated by a full demolition squad with unfettered access to explosives?
A deep inhale came, though Sherlock wouldn’t be able to tell from whom. What Sherlock did know was that he should check John’s dressings after so much activity, along with his own pulse.
“That was…ever more unexpected than getting stabbed.”
Sherlock chuckled at that because it would have been impossible not to do so. John’s laugh joined his, soft and light, with that heated edge that Sherlock would find it necessary to categorise.
“I do hope the kiss was more pleasant.”
Instead of an answer, John kissed Sherlock once more. That should have been a bit more annoying to Sherlock than it was. Maybe this was what occurred when people fell in love. They pushed away data in place of physical displays of affection. Far more awful activities existed in the world than kissing John, so Sherlock could tolerate momentary intellectual detours.
A simple stitch held more than flesh together tonight, and when John healed, there would be more to touch, caress and kiss. Until then, Sherlock was content to have John in his arms, stitches and all that came with them.