Work Text:
The doctor gently pressed the damp cloth to the torn skin. Sherlock hissed in pain as John pulled his hand back from the sore spot. “Sorry.”
“It's fine.”
“It's not fine, is it?” John sat on the toilet (lid down, of course) while Sherlock sat on the edge of the bathtub, elbows resting on his knees. John had suggested Sherlock remove his shirt but the detective simply rolled up the bloodied and tattered sleeve to better reveal the wound. A long gash trailed down his left arm that was still oozing blood, the skin red and irritated.
“So how'd it happen?” John asked, leaning in closer, now holding a pair of tweezers in his hand. There were bits debris that were stuck in the wound and John wanted to remove them now, instead of having to deal with a pus-filled infection later on.
“Glass,” Sherlock said.
“Fell on broken glass?”
“In a way.” Sherlock had crashed through a window, keeping up with typical theatrics while on a case, chasing down the suspect. Luckily for him, the window wasn't overly high off the ground, so he didn't suffer a big fall. Most of the damage came from the shards of glass that were still left in the windowsill.
“Gotta be more careful.”
“I am careful.”
John removed a chunk of glass and Sherlock arched his back, biting his lower lip as he swallowed a yelp.
John sighed through his nose, giving Sherlock that judgemental look he never realised he missed until now. That look where John's brow grew heavier and the bags under his eyes grew darker as he wore an expression of mock-disappointment. Mock-disappointment. Because his eyes gave it all a way. Those dark blue eyes still had some light in them, some degree of caring. Those eyes that held back a smile because that's what Sherlock – his Sherlock – did best: get himself torn up so his doctor would have to mend him. And John didn't mind being his doctor for one moment.
“Are your cases getting more dangerous, or are you just getting more reckless?” John asked, placing the shard of glass on a cloth that sat on the sink's rim. Both John and Sherlock had suffered a number of injuries during their adventures. Some could be patched up with a bandage, others required a trip to A&E. At the time, it didn't bother John to see Sherlock get hurt, because he was always there to fix him. But it bothered him now.
Small cut. Can you take a look at it? SH
John had sat straight up in bed when he heard his phone vibrate against the bedside table. That night, he had trouble sleeping. Most nights he had trouble sleeping and the phone was a welcome distraction.
Mary's side of the bed was empty, the blankets pushed back. She was probably feeding Eleanor again. John crept out of bed and got dressed in the clothes he had worn the previous day and left the house without a word to Mary. Because he wasn't going to be gone that long. It was just a small cut Sherlock wanted him to look at.
Small cut indeed. The thing was a proper gash and John had lectured Sherlock about being careful while on cases and urged him to go to the hospital. But Sherlock refused. Of course he refused. Stubborn thing.
When the glass was finally removed, John patted the wound over with the damp cloth, making sure there was nothing left. The hospital would have been able to stitch the wound together, but the only thing in the flat's first aid kit (the kit that John had bought specifically for Sherlock years ago) had a few strands of sterile tape. It would have to do.
When the wound was as closed as it could be, John to spiral bandages around Sherlock's arm.
“Take it easy. No heavy lifting. Try to change the bandages every day. And don't pick at it once it starts to scab over.” John washed his hands, finished with his work.
“John.”
“And try not to have another run-in with glass.”
“John?”
“Yeah?”
Sherlock glanced at his bandages. “Thank you.”
“Yeah. Yeah, no problem. Happy to do it.”
John began to pack up the first aid kit and stored it under the bathroom sink as Sherlock left the bathroom, hand on his bandages.
“How's Mary?” he asked when John followed him out of the bathroom.
“Fine. She's fine.”
“Tea?”
“Sure.”
It was past midnight and John had work the next morning (he preferred to shower the night before work and his hair was a bit puffy from the brand of shampoo he used and he smelled of that horribly scented soap he always used). But still he had time for tea.
“And how's Evelyn?”
“Eleanor,” John corrected, taking a seat at the kitchen table while Sherlock filled the kettle with fresh water and searched for teabags. The kitchen had always been John's area. The fridge was always fully stocked and cupboards organised when John had lived there. Now Sherlock wasn't entirely sure where anything went and couldn't quite remember how John had kept it. Finally, he found the small container of teabags in the fridge of all places. “And she's fine. Six months now. I can't believe how fast that's gone by.” John pulled out his phone and shuffled through a few pictures of his baby. “She's starting to roll now. Soon enough she'll be crawling.” After a moment of consideration, he put his phone back in his pocket. Sherlock couldn't even get his daughter's name right, why would he want to see her pictures?
Sherlock dropped the teabags into two separate mugs and stood by the kettle, waiting for it to boil. “Planning on having more children?” There was a certain edge to his voice as he stared intently at the kettle, refusing to look at John.
John laughed. “No! No, no. Not for a while, anyway. I love Eleanor dearly, but one baby in the house is plenty,” he replied. “And Mary would slap me if I ever suggested having more kids. Too soon for that. Mary hasn't even recovered from Eleanor.”
“What's wrong with her?”
John shrugged. “Cramps or something. Something's a bit off with her womb, but it'll sort itself out in time.”
“You're a doctor, but you don't even know what's wrong with your wife?”
John shrugged again. “I'm a surgeon, not a gynaecologist.”
Sherlock watched a thin line of steam emerge from the kettle's spout. Gynaecologist or not, John still had available access to Google.
“So how've you been? Apart from getting your arm torn open,” John asked, leaning his elbows against the table.
“Fine.”
“Meet anyone?”
“Oh! For--!” A sudden rage took over and Sherlock smacked the wall as he turned to face John. “Why? Why is it so important I meet anyone? Why do I need someone else? I don't. I work alone. I'm happy alone. I'm my best self. Alone.” Everyone asked him that question. Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, even Mycroft. It wasn't as if he could just go into the street and find himself a replacement John. Couldn't fall in love with just any old idiot. People were stupid, boring, predictable. And John was all of that and more.
“Right. Sorry.” John felt obligated to find Sherlock someone. A partner to go on double dates with. Visiting Sherlock had become a bit awkward and maybe strained ever since Eleanor was born. That's what a family did to you: kept you at home and prevented you from visiting friends. But maybe if Sherlock had someone they could somehow stitch close the gap that formed.
Sherlock poured the hot water into both mugs. One of them was placed beside John with a purposeful gentleness. That was the apology he'd get. And John accepted it when he grabbed the mug by the handle and brought it to his lips, gently blowing on the hot liquid. It didn't have any milk or sugar and tasted bitter, but he said nothing.
Sherlock leaned against the kitchen counter, keeping space between himself and John. Silence fell between them. Before, when John still lived with him, there was silence. But that silence filled the room and made the flat feel warm. No one felt obligated to make conversation, or break the quiet.
But this silence was different. It was cold and empty and Sherlock tapped his fingers against the countertop as he tried to say something. The silence became awkward and was only punctured by the sound of John sipping his bitter tea.
“I should get going. Mary's gonna worry,” John said, putting his mug down on the table. The hot liquid sloshed inside, not even half-finished.
Sherlock gave a curt nod, feeling a twinge of jealousy. Soon enough John would crawl into bed next to her. Kiss her, hold her, maybe. And all he had was an empty bed and a room full of silence.
“I'll tell her you said hi.”
John made his way to the door, and Sherlock followed. But before he left, he turned around to face Sherlock and ever so gently placed a hand on the bandages. “Take care of yourself, okay?” he said, carefully rubbing his hand up and down the injured arm. John looked him in the eye. “Okay?”
Sherlock felt the hairs on his neck stand up on end. “Okay.”
John made his way down the stairs and the flat grew a little darker. So Sherlock called out to him:
:
“I never caught him, you know. I uh, well I got a bit cut up and decided to call it a night. I was wondering if you'd like to accompany next time I go out. If I'm getting more reckless, I'd like to have my doctor nearby to stitch me back up again.”
John's heart skipped a beat when he heard the offer. He had sworn off case work with Sherlock when Eleanor was born. It was too dangerous for him and he wanted his child to grow up with normal parents. As normal as a former army doctor and ex-assassin could be as parents. John and Mary had promised each other to change their ways, to put raising Eleanor first on their list of priorities.
“Yeah.” John nodded, deciding he'd have to sneak out. One case wouldn't hurt and Mary didn't have to know. “Yeah. I'd love to.”
The flat grew a bit brighter.