Chapter Text
Two men climbed the stairs of 221B under the cover of early morning darkness, their steps heavy and slow, shoulders sagging; made weary by the past eight hours spent in the hospital, as well as the preceding events that sent them there.
The taller figure climbed first, one long arm clutching the banister as if it were his anchour to the ground, while his other hand was affixed to the side of his face; every step was punctuated with a loud moan, followed by a light ‘Sh!’ from the second, smaller figure.
The second figure followed the first closely, only a small step behind; in fact, it was he that held the former upright, not the banister, with both hands grasping his midsection firmly…a heavy-looking plastic bag hung from one of them, swinging back and forth with each lurching step.
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson finally made the trek up to their flat, and the very first action the detective took was to immediately flop down onto the couch and lay his head back, still moaning. After setting the bag down and removing his own jacket (which seemed to weigh so much more than it had this morning), both Johns’ ‘doctor’ and ‘daddy’ instincts took over and he sat in the floor at Sherlock’s feet, where he began to remove the mans’ shoes and socks. “How you feelin’ now, love?” he sighed, ignoring the supreme exhaustion that was creeping along his bones.
Sherlock sat up and looked down at him, his head lolling slightly; the normally sharp, clear look in his eyes was now foggy and muted from the pain meds he’d been pumped full of at the A&E…and he was still clutching his jaw. For that matter, John couldn’t recall a single instant, from the time they arrived until now, that he hadn't been holding it. “Th’till hurt’th,” the detective mumble-lisped, massaging it with his fingers.
John ‘tsk’ed, removing the last sock and hefting himself up off the floor; he then took Sherlock’s hands and helped him stand up so he could peel that giant blasted coat off of his slender frame. “Yeah…a broken jaw takes a little while to heal, lad,” he sighed, then worked to get him out of the rest of his grimy, sweat-soaked clothing. “Just be glad they didn’t have to wire it shut.”
Sherlock, who’d been holding onto Johns’ shoulder while he watched John fumble with his buttons, looked back up at him suddenly, his eyes growing wide; the doctor felt the large hand grasping him tense up, and he glanced at Sherlock…just in time to see his eyes glass over before bursting into tears. The little detective let go of him in the effort to press both hands over the side of his face, with cries of “N-no, no th’ut, ‘a-addy!” and “P’eathe, n-no!”
‘Aw, shit,' John winced…he was tired, too tired, and hadn’t thought that out very well. Cupping Sherlock’s’ uninjured cheek with one hand, he combed his fingers through mussed curls with the other in an attempt to soothe. “No…no baby, listen!...Daddy said they weren’t…were not…going to do that, okay? Shhh, no wires, I promise…just medicine and soft food for a while, that’s all!” he explained gently, trying to keep his own frayed nerves under control…but oh, when he’d seen that, that motherfucker swing at Sherlock—his baby—with a brick clutched in his closed fist…
It had taken Greg, plus two other men, to pull John off the guy and save the bastard from being stomped into nothing but a greasy spot on the pavement.
Frankly, Sherlock was lucky to get away with a hairline fracture along his lower mandible, a few loose molars, and some slight abrasions and bruising where the edge of the brick had connected. But, even though they’d avoided surgery and all that unpleasant business with metal plates and wire, the detective was in for a rough time…John knew that hairline fractures could hurt just as bad (if not worse) as a clean break, and until those teeth firmed back up on their own, Sherlock was going to have to take it easy; no more heavy hits to the face.
This, really, shouldn’t have to be such a concern…but this is Sherlock, after all.
Sherlock gave a hitching little sob and blinked at him, tears still clinging to his lashes. “M-medith’ine?” he asked softly, reaching up to scrub at his eyes.
John caught his hand before he could, though…he didn’t want him putting too much pressure anywhere near that area, let alone rub his eyes sore. ‘Jesus,’ he thought as he wiped Sherlock’s’ face with his sleeve. ‘Whatever they gave him...strong, strong stuff!’
Strong enough to knock him straight into ‘little’ headspace, at least…the poor bloke had been fighting it since they’d left the hospital, after nearly calling John ‘Daddy’ at one point, but managed to pass it off as incoherent mumbling—one benefit from having a broken jaw.
But even without the meds, the normally stalwart detective was one of those that, when in pain, sick, or extremely tired…tended to regress almost automatically.
“Medicine,” John repeated, kissing the hand that he still held and then moving to unfasten his boys’ trousers, leaving him in just his pants for now. “C’mon, monkey…lets get you all set up and comfy in bed,” he said warmly, trying to get the little detective to follow him into their shared bedroom (formerly known as Johns' room).
Sherlock looked at him curiously before taking a tentative, wobbly step and then looked down at his feet, as if he couldn’t quite understand why they weren’t totally cooperating with his wishes anymore…he looked back up at John, eyes still wide and unsure, and reached for him.
John knew he shouldn’t, but he did…he had to smile and chuckle. He really, really shouldn’t take advantage of the poor lad in his vulnerable state, but dammit…that was really fuckin’ cute.
The doctor held out his hands, palms up, and made the ‘Come Here’ motion with his fingers—“That’s it; come along to Daddy!”
Sherlock began to lift his foot again but hesitated, a strange look flashing across his face, and John worried that the medication was already starting to wear off…but no; the little detective took another shaky step and put his finger to his mouth, then caught Johns’ eye again and smiled as much as his injury would allow.
‘Cute little bugger knows what he’s doing,’ John chuckled, waiting patiently as Sherlock toddled his way over into his Daddy’s arms.
The doctor wrapped an arm around his waist and kissed the uninjured cheek. “Good boy!” he praised, walking him into the bedroom and making him sit at the foot of the mattress. “Let’s get you all nappied up…a bath will just have to wait until morning,” he said, gently pushing on Sherlock’s shoulder to make him lie back, leaving his legs dangling over the end of the bed.
Now, it wasn’t very often that John decided to put him in nappies without Sherlock’s clear say-so, but taking into account his current physical and mental state…well, it didn’t seem like such a bad idea at present.
Dark blue cotton pants were whisked down and over his feet and then flung into the corner of the room while the little detective followed their airbourne path, giving a soft giggle. John stood over him and smiled; “Was that funny, hm?” he asked playfully, reaching down to give Sherlock’s tummy an easy tickle and then laughed when he curled up on himself and squealed in protest. “Okay, okay,” he relented, still chuckling. He stopped tickling, but left his hand laying there to keep him from squirming right off the bed. “Lay still for Da’, please…”
Though, he really didn’t need to say it…Sherlock was actually a very cooperative little thing during his changes. There had only been one instance before when John had had to swat the back of his thigh to keep him from kicking, and that one had been more of an ‘attention-getter’ than anything. Even so, the detective had been ‘young’ enough that day that the very action had broken his little heart and he’d burst into tears straightaway, making John feel like a grumpy old arsehole—he was still learning to differentiate between when Sherlock needed/wanted a spanking, and when he just needed to be coddled and loved on.
And anyway, he’d felt so terrible about that miscalculation, that he’d spent the rest of the day cuddling him and spoiling him with treats.
John sighed at the memory; what could he do? The man had his heart, completely and unequivocally.
Sherlock was calm and still now, though, and was watching him curiously as he pulled their box of nappy supplies out from under the bed; since he was coming straight out of underwear, the little detective didn’t need to be washed down…all John had to do was open and lay out one of the ‘Bambinos’ (John thought the name asinine and refused to say it, but had to admit that they were awfully cute…especially when they made Sherlock waddle) and slide it under his hips, then sprinkle a little powder and tape it closed snugly.
Sherlock observed all of this calmly enough, normally fascinated with the movement of Johns’ hands as they performed such a simplistic, yet intimate ritual. But now, the meds were beginning to perform their duty and make the detective increasingly drowsy; when he attempted his normal ‘sleepy-time’ habit of sucking his thumb, it only took once for the pressure to pull on his loose teeth, making him gasp sharply and jerk his hand away from his mouth. He gaped at his wet thumb, which was still stuck out in the prime ‘sucking’ gesture…and if it hadn’t been for the fact that his eyes were once again flooding from the pain and unfairness of it all, it would have been quite comical.
“Oww, ow-ow-owwuh-owwww!” he sobbed, his belly heaving from the effort.
John’s head shot up at the gut-wrenching sounds of distress, and his heart sank when he realized the problem. ‘Damn!’ he thought, quickly shedding his clothes down to his boxers and climbing into bed with him. Reaching down, he grasped Sherlock under the arms and smoothly pulled him up to lie on top of him, the rest of the man’s long torso stretched out between the doctor’s spread legs. “Oh, lad…did you hurt your mouth?” he said sympathetically while patting his back in an attempt to soothe him. “What if we got one of your dum—well, no, that’ll pull on it, too…shit,” he said, making sure to mutter the last part under his breath.
After several minutes of pondering for a solution and finding none, John sighed…what he wouldn’t give for an ice pack right now; hell, he’d settle for enough ice to quick-rig a rag into one! But, the ice maker in their freezer had been without a working motor for weeks now (thanks to Sherlock and his sequestering it for who-knows-what-reason), and John was pretty certain that neither of them had thought to fill the old ice trays that morning…
“Sorry, love, but Daddy can’t give you any more medicine tonight…not after what the doctor gave you.”
Sherlock was listening intently, watching John from his resting place, sniffling quietly…but when his Daddy gave him the bad news, the tears began flowing again in earnest—he cried silently; his mouth open while he buried his face into the crook of John’s arm as his shoulders began to shake. Long, lean legs began to kick and push back on the blankets while he wriggled, trying to find any kind of relief, his nappy crinkling with each movement.
The doctor felt hot tears splashing against his bare skin, and sighed as he wrapped his arms around the trembling form—it was killing him, seeing Sherlock in such pain and not being able to do a damn thing about it…he was a doctor, for christ’sake! He should be able to do something!
But all John could do at the moment was pat, rub, rock, and hum in (what he hoped) was a soothing way.
Sherlock eventually settled back down while being cradled in the crook of his arm, resting his uninjured cheek on Johns’ chest while he listened to his Daddy’s heartbeat echo and mix with the resonating hum…soon, both the meds and the trauma from the evening finally won over, and the little detective nodded off with John gently massaging his swollen jaw with his fingertips.
The doctor sighed wearily; the next couple of days were going to be the most trying of the healing process…especially come morning, when the fog of adrenaline and meds wore off and the full soreness had a chance to set in.
John yawned deeply and rubbed his own gritty-feeling eyes—it was nearly a quarter after four in the morning, and he was exhausted…not just ‘exhausted’, but exhausted.
Very, very carefully, he leaned over and switched off the bedside lamp before lying back down…he was nearly asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Sherlock stirred slightly from being jostled, and just as John cracked an eye open to check on him, he managed to catch the hand that was drifting straight towards the little detective’s mouth…John held it back and carefully placed it back at his side, using his own arms to pin it down and cuddle him at the same time.
‘That’s going to be the worst,’ he thought, as experience had shown earlier…Sherlock was awfully fond of his thumb and dummies.
John lasted as long as he could (which wasn’t very long at all), watching the little detective in the dark to make sure he was more or less alright before falling into an uneasy, fitful rest…his sleep being disturbed by dreams filled with the sound of fists thudding against flesh and the muffled cracks of wet bones splintering and breaking. He unconsciously squeezed Sherlock tighter, both arms fully wrapped around his poor, beaten-up little boy.