Chapter Text
and all I can do is stand on the curb and say Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.
- Richard Siken
It’s so quiet in Sherlock’s hospital room. The window is firmly closed but still there’s a draft that settles uncomfortably around John’s ankles, the hairs on his arms standing up straight and fair. A new nurse knocks before letting herself in quietly. Both Sherlock and John squint up at her in the light that floods though the open door and it’s only then that John realises how dark it’s gotten, his eyes having adjusted gradually as the sun set outside and the dank greyness of heavy cloud rolled in across the city.
‘Is there anything I can get for you Mr. Holmes?’ she asks once she’s swapped the saline drip and deposited a plastic cup of water onto the table beside the bed. Sherlock shakes his head, and his gaze returns to the far wall.
They haven't been disturbed by anyone else, not even Mycroft. John half wishes someone would announce themselves, demand him at the Yard for more statements, more answers to questions he didn't care about. Anything to break the silence that has befallen them. It’s heavy and oppressive and John can almost feel the weight of all the things that lie unspoken between them.
A door slams somewhere down the corridor and Sherlock starts abruptly, water sloshing out of the cup he is holding and into his lap. His eyes settle on the wet puddle in the bed sheets and a small frown finds itself between his brows, but he doesn't make any attempt to mop it up. John clears his throat and moves to take the water from him, but Sherlock flinches and his fingers clench around the cup so tightly that the plastic buckles and breaks.
John swallows, his arm outstretched. ‘Sorry,’ he murmurs, ‘sorry I…’ He retreats back to his chair slowly, his eyes fixed on Sherlock who is frozen like a frightened animal. He looks bloody awful, and John knows the symptoms of withdrawal well enough by now to recognise that it’s probably been about 12 hours since Sherlock’s last hit. There’s a light sheen of sweat that beads at his hairline and his left eye is rimmed red and watering down his cheek. Bruises are scattered across his face, five smudged fingerprints beginning to blossom a deep violet contrasting the darker, swirling green and brown marks that John himself inflicted only yesterday. John’s stomach roils with guilt at the sight of them - he can hardly blame the man from flinching away from him. John won’t be able to blame him if Sherlock never trusts him again. He doesn’t feel deserving of his trust, not any more.
He hasn’t let himself think about what could have happened had Mrs. Hudson not brought attention to Mary’s posthumous message, had he not watched it there and then in the flat. Mary had expected John to work it out on his own - to have been ready to burst into Sherlock’s hospital room and rescue him from beneath Culverton’s clammy hands without her help. She always had thought far too much of him. Now he imagines himself sitting in his living room and getting the call, the news that Sherlock had slipped away during the night, that there was nothing anyone could have done, just the harsh reality of substance abuse, the DVD still in its paper case sitting on the sideboard and Culverton still at large haunting the hospital’s secret passageways.
He feels sick: at how close he came, yet again, to losing someone he loved, at the state of Sherlock’s health, that it was his fault that Sherlock lay in the hospital bed to begin with. He’s been selfish, he knows that. Locking himself away and pawning his daughter off onto other people to take care of. Believing he was the only one who needed time to grieve, who was confused and hurting. He thinks of the letter he left with Molly and squeezes his eyes closed.
He knows he should call Mycroft, or Greg, or even Molly. He shouldn't be the one sat here. Sherlock deserves someone better, someone more capable of keeping a professional distance. There’s too much between them right now - so much unsaid that John can feel it bubbling up in his throat if he even so much as looks at the man. To care for Sherlock now would mean having to open his heart and he doesn’t know if he’s ready yet, doubts that Sherlock will ever want him to after everything, after all that has happened. He should leave.
John makes to stand, reaches for his jacket. He clears his throat and announces quietly that he’d better be off. Sherlock’s eyes widen and he shakes his head vehemently.
‘Please, no!’ Sherlock’s voice is weak from disuse and the pressure of Culverton’s heavy hands and John’s chest tightens painfully at the horror on his face. He stands still, caught between wanting to reassure him that he wouldn’t go anywhere, that he’d never leave him willingly again - and the unwillingness to open those floodgates. Once he starts to confess he knows he won’t be able to stop himself.
‘Wouldn’t you….. stay?’ Sherlock’s voice trails off into hoarseness, and laying there John has never seen him so helpless, not even with a hastily patched up bullet hole in his chest. Still, John feels a tremor of hope spark fitfully – hope that Sherlock still needs him, still trusts him enough to ask for his help. John realises he never really had a choice.
‘I…of course. Of course I will, yeah.’ His voice is soft but there’s a resolution in his eyes as they lock with Sherlock’s’ that he can’t miss.
‘It’s just that I… I’d rather not be left alone here,’ Sherlock replies quietly, gesturing to the wall and the passage that lay behind it. John nods his understanding but still he holds himself back from the bed, from taking up his position at Sherlock’s side. Sherlock looks as though he wants to say more but is biting his tongue. His lip wobbles slightly and John watches him take a breath as though he is about to speak but nothing comes of it.
John scratches the back of his neck, and as he exhales offers cautiously,
‘Could I come over?’ just as Sherlock says all in a rush, ‘John please come here.’
There’s a beat and a small smile finds its way onto John’s face. The corner of Sherlock mouth lifts gently. John makes his way over to the bed, positioning the chair closer, and sits down with a soft clearing of his throat. His palm ghosts over the thin sheets by Sherlock’s hand. God how he wants to take it in his own, feel the heat of the blood still pumping defiantly around Sherlock’s body, proof he’s still here with him.
‘You’re an idiot,’ John says, but there’s no bite in his words.
Sherlock looks down at where their hands rest, so close but decidedly not touching. Sherlock’s fingers twitch.
‘I know.’ His voice is a whisper, a tiny, scratchy thing. John’s index finger moves a fraction closer, just enough to rest on Sherlock’s own. He strokes lightly up and down, alternating between finger and thumb, a barely-there touch.
They’re tiptoeing around it - around everything, as usual, but it’s just about all John can manage at the moment. He glances up at Sherlock’s face, wanting to gauge his reaction to the small gesture. He looks unbelievably young, eyes round and transfixed on their hands, mouth open in a limp ‘o’. There’s a soft crease between his brows, a little ‘v’ shaped indent that John is desperate to smooth away with a press of his thumb.
Reassured, John gently slows the movement before sliding his hand to cover Sherlock’s completely. Sherlock’s hand is trembling.
‘Cold’, he murmurs. John can see the tremors run the entire length of his body and, well, there’s really nothing else for it, he decides.
‘Is this ok?’ John asks, as he moves to sit on the edge of the bed. Sherlock nods and swallows painfully loudly.
‘Right then.’ He bends to unpick his laces before slipping off his shoes and swinging his legs up next to Sherlock’s as best he can. Sherlock sidles over and lays cautiously on his side, mindful of the tube still attached to his hand. It’s more than a squeeze, it’s really quite ridiculous but neither of them seem to mind as John settles next to him beneath the sheet, resting his arm gently over Sherlock’s shoulder. He’s careful not to put any pressure on Sherlock’s ribs or chest where bruises no doubt litter his body.
They’re so close together. John can feel the stuttered hush of Sherlock’s breath ghost over his face and hear the gentle thump of his heart against his rib cage where their chests are pressed tight, quick and thready. It’s easier than John had anticipated. It feels natural like this. They’re communicating, in their own way, and John knows it’s not the time or place for long conversations or grand declarations. Sherlock needs reassurance, and body heat, and John is more than happy to provide both of those things.
Sherlock looks up at him through his lashes and blinks slowly. John can’t stop himself from inching closer until his forehead touches against Sherlock’s. Sherlock leans in and exhales shakily, his eyes slipping shut. John sandwiches their legs together, starting as Sherlock’s icy feet press at his ankles. He huffs a breathy laugh and tightens his hold. Sherlock ducks his face into the space between John’s neck and the pillow and it’s like they’ve been doing this for years, fitting together with such ease.
John sobers at the thought of what had to happen to push them back together. He tries to ignore the guilty ache that bubbles in his stomach. He is so disgusted with himself for loosing it the day before, and he curses the rage that so often surges up and spills over, damaging anything or anyone it comes into contact with. His knuckles ache and he clenches his hand tight until the pain burns. He resolves to do better - to be better. He needs to, for Rosie, for Sherlock. Two precious points of light in his life that he is determined to hold onto.
They lie in silence, John counting his own deep breaths and trying his best to radiate warmth and comfort with his hold despite the thoughts churning in his head. Slowly Sherlock’s tremor recedes into the occasional shiver and he begins to relax his long limbs under the pressure of John’s solid weight.
’Better?’ John asks quietly. He receives Sherlock’s reply in the weak squeeze of fingers around his own. Sherlock’s breathing becomes heavier and heavier, John finally sensing him slide under into sleep. John presses his lips to the tiny sliver of Sherlock’s forehead that is exposed, thinking long into the night.