Work Text:
"Hold still, would you?"
John has ordered (well, not ordered, asked) Sherlock to go to the bathroom for him look after his injuries. They have already healed a bit, the marks where John's fist struck his pretty face, but Sherlock must've scratched them open again in his sleep.
Sherlock is sitting on the toilet lid in silence while John kneels in front of him, carefully disinfecting the wound on his cheek. It's not easy. None of this is. But ignoring it would be worse than just acknowledging it as it is. Treating him now, as a doctor as well as a friend, is the very least he can do.
Still, when he's finished he cannot help but look at his own knuckles in silent guilt. There is the distinct layer of crust, the definite evidence of what exactly he has done. A perfect fit for each of Sherlock's wounds.
I could cut myself slapping that face.
Yes, where has he heard that before? Probably from the same woman who tried to tell him what it actually is he feels for Sherlock Holmes, has opened his eyes about how deeply his affection for him was rooted, how intense those repressed feelings really were. And, still to this very day, are.
The twinge of hot guilt sends another wave through his stomach and across his face. Of course, Sherlock cannot cease to notice.
"It's okay," Sherlock assures him once more. He has already tried to tell him so a few days ago when John finally broke down.
He doesn't yet dare to think about what happened. (The rumble of Sherlock's voice against him as he was pressed against his chest, his wet cheeks covered by his own trembling hand, the slow rubs of comfort over his arm, his neck.) It's still too soon, too fresh. Even though it isn't too soon at all, but rather too late, years too late for them to be doing this now. A missed chance.
Gone before you know it.
"John," Sherlock says, and his voice is deep and soothing. He knows this tone of voice, but it is still rare for John to hear this much emotion all wrapped around his chords. If he thought back to the Sherlock Holmes he first met all those years ago...
Will caring about them help save them?
Alone protects me.
I consider myself married to my work.
Well, look at him now. So gentle with him. Patient. He held him, for God's sake. Who would have ever thought? Married to his work? Sherlock has changed so much from the lonely stubborn man he once was. He smiles more, he listens more, and he cries. John knows that he does. One doesn't have to be the world's only consulting detective to deduce that. He risks his life, not to prove he is clever but to save the lives of those he loves. And John's life, too.
He snaps back into the here and now when Sherlock takes his injured hand in his own. With big eyes he looks up and suddenly Sherlock's face is very close and his heart is pounding hard and swelling up to his throat, it seems.
"No," John whispers, and Sherlock flinches ever so slightly.
He loosens the already light grip around his hand. Oh God, he took it as a rejection. He's hurt him again. Damnit, Watson!
"No, I mean... I don't mean this," and he says that as if he knew what this is supposed to be. But he doesn't. He is almost sure they both don't, for once.
"I mean you shouldn't have to soothe me every time I don't seem okay."
Sherlock swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. "That's really nothing to be ashamed of, John. Everyone needs help sometime-"
"Yes, Sherlock. Exactly. Everyone. Even you."
He blinks back at him, but stays otherwise silent. He listens more, yes. But when he actively keeps his own mouth shut, something is definitely not right.
"I don't-"
"Sherlock." John says it again, quieter. He puts one hand to his knee, and Sherlock's eyes widen immediately. John, too, stops. There is a sudden flashback, not longer than a split second, of his own stag night. (Their stag night? There wasn't really anyone else involved.) The vision that crosses his mind's eye is blurry and wobbly, a drunk man's memory.
I don't mind.
He didn't. And he doesn't now. But oh, it all seems too soon, so very soon and ages too late, and how can that even be?
It's only now that John also becomes aware of his posture. Sherlock on the edge of the lid and him kneeling between his legs. His knee is warm, and just where it dissolves into his thigh he feels hard muscle beneath his touch. Breath hitches in his throat into which his heart has leapt. It seems.
Yes, how does it seem? Too soon? Too late? Maybe just right about bloody time?
They look at each other for a long time. Sherlock's iris so blue and clear, his left eye red from the ruptured blood vessel, and there it is, hello again, you sharp and stinging guilt that never fails to surprise him. He bites his lip. That is his answer right there. He has made his decision.
"One question," he starts, his voice barely more than a whisper. But they are close enough to hear anything.
Sherlock gives the smallest nod.
"Yes?" His voice has dropped to be impossibly deep.
John raises his hand, reaching out for him. The back of his hand meets a sharp cheekbone, and he lets it smooth over the tickling layer of stubble around his chin.
"Are you really gonna keep that?"
Sherlock makes a noise that sounds not quite like a laugh and not quite like a sob, but his whole face transforms regardless. A wide smile stretches over his face and puts a new kind of light behind his eyes as he recognises his own bad joke from John's lips. John smiles, too. He loves Sherlock's happy faces a lot. An awful lot. His heart swells even more, and just in this moment he knows they'll be okay. Somehow. Not today, probably not tomorrow, but someday, somehow.
"No," Sherlock answers softly. "It's quite itchy, actually." They both laugh. And my God, laughing together … The last time feels so long ago, so far away. This here will keep them warm.
It might not be the moment yet, but now John knows how to look for it. He knows he will have his eyes wide open when it comes, and he will embrace it and never ever let it go. He will take his chance, for it may be the last he'll ever get.
But for now, it is what it is. They will be okay again. Somehow.