Chapter Text
“Is this really necessary, Watson?”
Sherlock scrunched his nose as John dabbed a damp cloth over the area above his lip. He was forced to sit stationary on the toilet seat of their Airbnb’s bathroom while John insisted on “fixing his face” as he put it.
After their scuffle in Mapleton stables, they retreated to their temporary abode. John examined his eye–with plenty of fussing from Sherlock–before both men took turns in the shower, scrubbing the dirt off themselves and settling into their pajamas.
Though as Sherlock stepped out the bathroom, drying his hair with his own personal towel, John had pointed out his nose had begun dribbling blood. The blow that old bastard’s shotgun stock delivered to Sherlock’s face not only gave him that appalling bruise beneath his eye, but also broke many blood vessels in his nose.
So now, Sherlock has been dragged back to their small bathroom, sat on a cold toilet seat, having his face cleaned like an adolescent by his flatmate. What fun.
It could be worse, he supposed. John was a somewhat medical professional, he was useful in that regard, though in this situation a doctor was hardly needed. Sherlock could easily plug his nose with tissue and forget the ache beneath his eye, forcing himself into a restless sleep and being done with his night.
Though there was a softness in John’s touch as his hand held his face up that compelled him to stay. There was a care that lingered in his gaze as he gently swiped the lukewarm rag beneath his nose—he’d even taken the time to ensure the water was warm enough before using it on him to avoid shock.
So maybe he didn’t need the medical attention–hell, he knew he didn’t. But it was nice to be cared for in such a way. Cared for by a man who had no reason to care for him. And that fester of selfish desire that embedded itself in Sherlock’s brain soaked it all up, taking it all for granted.
“Of course it’s necessary! I’m not paying an extra £20 for some cleaning fee because you decided to drip your nose blood across the whole house.” John grinned as he scolded the man who unceremoniously rolled his eyes at his discretions. “Look at you, you’ve already gotten blood on your shirt.”
John gently grabbed the hem of Sherlock’s shirt, attempting to scratch off the dried blood that had seeped into the fabrics. Sherlock leaned forward from the slight tug, a movement he hadn’t actually meant to make.
“I don’t suppose you have any spare garments I could use?” Sherlock was only half joking when he looked up at his companion and inquired about his clothes. John stared down at him, a faint flush creeping up his face. “Uhh– you sure you want my clothes? I know you get a bit.. picky– ‘bout this sort of thing.”
“Do you have a better option, Doctor?”
Something in his voice— a feeling John knew he shouldn’t have always seemed to bubble up at the sound of that voice. That sly, smug, captivating tone that could almost make his knees buckle if he were a little less conscious.
Of course these inside thoughts stayed inside, a dry swallow being followed by flustered words of deflection. “—You try and find something, just make sure you don’t get any more of this on it, yeah?” Sherlock wryly scoffed before sitting up and off the toilet, shimmying his way past John.
A hand pressed against his lower back as he moved behind him, and John couldn’t be more thankful that his head was lowered towards the sink as a deep red painted his face. The gangly fingers of the man ever so slightly slid across him before whisking away to the bedrooms, and John found himself spending an extra dissociated moment wringing out the blood-stained rag.