Disclaimer: I own nothing and make no profit, except my enjoyment in writing.
A/N: This was written for the Let's Write Sherlock challenge on tumblr. This was the Missing Scene challenge, and so this is something I imagine might have taken place during His Last Vow - that's right everyone, series 3 spoilers! - and it's purposefully short, most of the details I'm hoping the reader to find in the subtleties of the language and actions rather than overtly stated in the text.
Again I caution - series 3 spoilers! Enjoy!
The Man You Have Saved
He skipped the fourth step as he ascended the dimly-lit stairwell. He didn't dare have it creak and announce his presence, whether the man upstairs wanted to see him or not.
When he reached the landing he crossed to the end of the hall and opened wide the window there. Sunshine and fresh air poured in, illuminating the many years accumulation of dust and giving just a small breath of life to the long-abandoned rooms.
Shaking off the poetic sensation the chaotically-moving dust was creating in him, he stepped back to the door near the landing and held his breath as he lightly rapped against it three times.
"John?" he said.
There was no answer from within.
Sherlock carefully turned the knob and pushed the door inward just enough to be able to stick his head inside.
The room was more a picture of emptiness than the truly empty hallway had been with its closed curtains, lack of furniture, and the still, silent occupant of the bed.
John was still fully dressed except for his coat and shoes, and lay sprawled face-down and at an askew angle across the large bed. His hair was mussed and one of his elbows hung off the edge of the bed, his hand tightly gripping the coverlets at the edge of the mattress.
Sherlock would have thought he was looking at a figure in a wax museum or perhaps an unusual murder scene, if not for the almost imperceptible rise of John's back that showed his lungs filling with air.
The detective pushed the door open a few more inches and slipped inside, taking care where he stepped as he crossed the bare room to open these windows as well. He left the curtains drawn in case the sunlight might wake his friend, but the room was unbearably stuffy and desperately needed the outside air.
He turned back and looked at his friend once the two windows were open and was struck again by how like a crime scene it really looked. Either a quiet murder or suicide, or perhaps death from natural causes.
He began tiptoeing back to the door, minding the creaky floorboards as he went.
Unnatural causes, was more like it. It certainly wasn't natural what had happened. And he was still irritated with himself for being blind to the truth all this time.
Mary Watson was an assassin. He should have seen it. He would have, if he hadn't been so surprised by her constancy in John's life.
Sentiment again. What a crippling flaw.
Returning downstairs he put the kettle on and began preparations for a large fry-up. He wasn't all that hungry himself, but he knew John would be. Especially since he had been asleep for nearly fourteen hours.
Sentiment was a flaw he wished he could cleanse John of as well, but he knew that was impossible. And really, it would change who John is, so perhaps it wasn't a good idea. Making him observant and aware of the problems with sentiment was at least an attainable objective.
Some time later when the table was cleared, both plates prepared and the tea steaming, the tired army doctor made his appearance, rubbing his eyes with the heel of one hand.
"I thought tea, considering both of our states of health," was Sherlock's greeting.
John blinked his lack of understanding, but slowly met his friend across the table and sat down at his place.
"Did you make all this?" he asked, blinking away the sleep from his eyes.
"Mm," the detective responded as he took up his knife and fork.
John watched him as he began on the sausages, adding a bite of scrambled eggs to the piece he cut.
"You really shouldn't be eating like this your first day out of ho—..." John said, but trailed off at the look he received from the detective. It could have said, 'really?' or more accurately, 'do you really think you're going to tell me what I can and can't do?'
It was a losing battle, so John took up his own knife and fork and began eating. To Sherlock's credit, it was all quite good.
Silence was their companion through the meal, and the only eye contact made was when their wary glances at each other were noticed, which were of course quickly diverted to some object in the sitting room.
John wiped his mouth and took a sip of tea, feeling full only halfway through the meal. He hadn't realized how much his stomach was shrinking in these last few weeks.
"Did you...open the windows in my bedroom?" he finally asked to break the silence.
Sherlock's eyes slowly came round from the blank telly to meet his. "Yes."
"Right. Thanks."
"Welcome," Sherlock's deep voice resonated through his chest as he lowered his eyes again to his teacup.
"And...thanks for..." John gestured lightly across the table, "this."
The detective pushed his chair back and strode into the sitting room with his mouse-colored dressing gown floating behind him like a pair of wings.
"I've had an email that looks less dull than usual," he called back. "Have a look?"
John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. A flood of images more painful than any nightmare raced across his eyes—images of his best friend with a bleeding wound in his chest, of Mary pointing a gun at him in a darkened hallway, and of Sherlock collapsing in his arms after Mary declared coldly that people like her existed to kill people like Charles Magnussen.
He opened his eyes and looked to where Sherlock was now leaning forward in his chair, reading something on his phone. The detective glanced up, his eyebrows raised in question.
John sat across from him in his own chair, and leaned forward to accept the offered phone.