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    Summary

    Sherlock turned to scoop out more salve from the tin, and considered the way James was positioned. He had his elbows and forearms braced on the back of the chair, elevated to just barely above chest-height. That made it easy enough to reach beneath his arm, towards the upper end of his ribcage.

    He was close, but hadn’t actually yet made contact with the man’s torso before James was shying away from Sherlock’s hand, tension visibly climbing the ladder of his spine as his breath hitched in a stuttering, panicky sort of way.

    Apprehension that bordered on outright fear. Sherlock’s heart constricted dizzyingly in response to the realization.
    “Hush, James.” He soothed, kneading gently with the hand he still had on the nape of the man’s neck. “It’s alright.”

     

    (A more or less direct sequel to my previous “James was hurt/concussed after the factory explosions” fic, this time from Sherlock’s POV!)

    Series
    Language:
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