Enigma

Sherlock didn't even raise his head when Lestrade entered the hospital room. He just sat on his chair, palms pressed together at his lips, staring into nothing. The detective inspector stood there for a little while in silence, fidgeting nervously.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry", he muttered with a glance to John who lay in the white bed, motionless, unconscious, "But there have been three murders, which all must be connected somehow but we can't figure out how. We need you." No reaction from the consulting detective. "Sherlock, please! John won't wake up from you staring at him." At least this remark got him a reproachful look from Sherlock, if nothing else.

"These murders have been very carefully planned, but we don't even have a motive", Lestrade continued to try to pique Sherlock's interest. The consulting detective returned to his former position, folding his hands in front of his mouth.

"I don't do this anymore", he finally muttered. Lestrade stared at him.

"What do you mean, you don't do that anymore? Solving crimes? That's what you live for!"

"Not without him."
Lestrade already opened his mouth to express his lack of understanding but then changed his mind. Years of working with Sherlock Holmes had taught him better than trying to argue with him, especially in a mood like this. He just let out a sigh.

"Well, you know where to find me if you change your mind."

Of course, Sherlock had always known that he put John in danger with his sometimes reckless actions. But for some reason he had always thought of them as invincible. He knew that it was irrational and that John would have laughed out loud at him had he ever told him that, but still... He knew of course that it had been John's own, free decision to follow him, to work with him, still he he couldn't help but feel responsible. In that one moment that he had asked John to come with him and assist him (at the time only to spite Anderson, bloody Anderson) he had put him in the crossfire of London's most dangerous criminals. It had been irresponsible and now this irresponsibility had taken its toll. The doctors didn't even know if he was ever going to wake up again. So Sherlock would just sit here and wait. He had never doubted himelf and his wish to separate from other people, until John had come along. John was different. And now he wasn't sure if he could ever continue without him.

Apparently Sherlock had fallen asleep on his chair. He looked around the dark room that was only slightly lit by the control lamps and displays of the various machines around John's bed. The slow, steady rhythm of the heart monitor's beep was the only sound he could hear. Except for... was that a cough?Yes, there was a weak, almost inaudible cough coming from the bed! Sherlock sprang to his feet and hurried over to John. His eyes were still closed, but his hands! They were definitely moving! Sherlock dashed out of the room to the nurses' station.

"Excuse me, but I have the impression that your patient in 302 just woke up", he politely advised a broody looking nurse. As she got up to check on John, Sherlock took out his phone.

To: Lestrade

I'm on my way!
SH

When John entered their flat at 221b Baker Street he found Sherlock standing in front of several photos and other pieces of evidence he had pinned to their wall.

"Hello", he said. Sherlock didn't even look at him.

"Did you bring milk?", he just asked. John stared at him in disbelief.

"What?", he demanded.

"Milk. We're out."

"Sherlock, I... Did you even notice that I have been gone for three weeks?" Sherlock turned around, took his coat from the couch where he had thrown it earlier and put it on.

"Right. We can get some on our way back from the harbour", he said while he put on his scarf. When John didn't move, the consulting detective stopped and looked at him expectantly. "Well, are you coming?"

"I was in a coma, Sherlock, for almost three weeks."

"Three weeks, yes, you said so. Did they check your short-term memory?" John closed his eyes in a desperate attempt to compose himself and didn't say anything. "So, you're not coming?"

"No, Sherlock, no, I don't think I am." The consulting detective put on his gloves.

"A rolling stone gathers no moss, dear doctor", he said before he dashed out.

With a sigh John sat down on his favourite armchair. Could it really be that Sherlock hadn't even noticed that he had been gone for this long? An hour, yes, but three bloody weeks? Even though he thought he knew Sherlock quite well by now, probably better than anybody else (except for maybe Mycroft, but then again, Mycroft probably knew even John better than he knew himself, because, well... he was Mycroft Holmes), that man remained an enigma. A fascinating, charming enigma that John felt irrationably drawn to, but an enigma no less.

Sometimes he thought, Sherlock just pretended not to care about people, when deep down, he actually did. But moments like these made John doubt his theory. Maybe, after all, he was nothing but cannon fodder to the great Sherlock Holmes. Accepted while useful, but ignored when he couldn't throw himself in the line of fire for the world's only consulting detective anymore.

A knock on the door startled him.

"John, dear, where is Sherlock? He has a visitor", Mrs. Hudson said, almost apologetically. Next to her stood Lestrade.

"It's good to see you up and around, John", he greeted him. The doctor nodded.

"Sherlock's not home", he said, "Just dashed off. To the harbour, if I'm not mistaken."
"The harbour?", Lestrade asked, quite obviously confused, "Whatever does he want there?" John just shrugged his shoulders. "Well, at least he's at it again", the Detective Inspector muttered. John furrowed his brow.

"What do you mean?", he asked.

"Well, while you were gone, he just sat around your room in the hospital and refused to do anything."
"That's true, dear", Mrs. Hudson remarked, "He was with you all the time. Didn't he tell you?" John just shook is head.

"No. No, he did not."

Sherlock crept around the harbour. Due to a rotten blank on one of the jetties, he was drenched in ice cold salt water, which made him shiver to the core in the fresh night air, but that wouldn't stop him. The sailor with the limp in his right leg and the gnawes off finger nails was supposed to meet somebody here in just a couple of minutes and yet, there was nobody to be seen. Sherlock bit his lip. He couldn't have erred, it had been obvious. He narrowed his eyes. Too obvious, maybe? Of course, it had to be a trap! Stupid, stupid, stupid. Yes, there they were, steps behind him. Heavy boots, three persons, most likely men. Sherlock reached for his gun – but couldn't find it. It must have slipped out of his pocket during his unfortunate dip in the harbour basin. He cursed under his breath. Then, due to a considerable lack of options, he raised his arms above his head and turned around. Three men, armed with clubs, stood only a couple of feet away from him. In spite of his situation Sherlock couldn't help but feel satisfied when he noticed that one of them tried not to put too much weight on his right leg and had gnawed off finger nails. Before anything could happen, though, the one with the limp and the nails was knocked out from behind. As the others turned around in surprise, their mysterious attacker was revealed: John Watson with a brick in his hand. After a short moment during which all parties had to process what just had happened, Sherlock jumped at the seven feet tall man at his left, whereas John threw his brick in the direction of the other one. He dodged and then attacked the doctor.

"Took you long enough!", Sherlock shouted, while he held his opponent in a headlock.

"Well, I really didn't want to come, you know. But I knew you would get into trouble without me!", the doctor replied, kicking his attacker spiritedly between the legs.

When they entered their flat, Sherlock threw his wet coat carelessly over the back of a chair, then he let himself drop on the sofa. He looked at John who took his time to hang up his own coat properly and then sat down next to Sherlock.

"What made you change your mind?", asked the consulting detective.

"You know you can be an arse, sometimes", John blurted out, "Why did you act as if it didn't bother you at all that I was in coma, when in fact you actually gave up your business because of it?"

Sherlock turned his head so he didn't have to look John in the eye.

"There were more pressing matters at hand than discussing your illness", he muttered. John looked at his friend and pondered if he should press the matter or not. For Sherlock's sake he decided not to.

"Did you eat?", he asked instead.

"Hm?"

"Did you eat? Three weeks I couldn't look after you, you're probably close to starving."

"I'm good."
"I'll fix us something."
"You do that."

John shook his head. He handed Sherlock, who was still drenched, a blanket and then made his way to the kitchen. He wondered if he would ever be able to figure Sherlock out.

When John returned to the living room, he almost dropped the two bowls of hot chicken soup he was carrying. Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, his purple shirt lay next to him on the floor and he was fumbling with his belt. John cleared his throat politely. Sherlock turned his head, looked at John and then unperturbedly continued to undo his pants. John tried not to look while he placed the bowls on the table.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"I'm getting rid of my wet clothes. I don't want to catch a cold."

"Yes, I can see that, but why are you doing it here?"

"Why wouldn't I?" John blinked.
"Oh, forget it."

Only when Sherlock sat down opposite of him, he dared to look up. The consulting detective was draped in the blanket John had handed him earlier. A quick glance to the floor that was now graced by not only the purple shirt, but also a pair of trousers as well as boxer shorts suggested that Sherlock was completely naked under that thin layer of cloth. John bit his lips. He shouldn't feel as excited about that as he did.

"John, are you okay?", Sherlock interrupted his thoughts.

"Hm? Yes, I'm fine, I'm fine. Eat, before it gets cold!"

They ate in silence. After a while Sherlock looked up.

"I can't work out if Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson told you", he said. He seemed to be angry at himself for not knowing.
"Told me what?"

"Well, that I... you know..." Sherlock regarded his soup intently to avoid John's gaze. The doctor smirked.

"You know, in real life", he sighed, "It's not a bad thing when you show people that you care about them."

"In real life people don't make people they care about targets of London's most dangerous criminals", Sherlock snapped back, then bit his lip and returned to eyeing his soup. John frowned. So that was what it was all about...

"It wasn't your fault, you know", he tried to reassure his friend. Sherlock let his spoon drop into the soup and looked John directly in the eye.

"So, you would have been abducted by Moriarty and put into a Semtex vest and I would have had to blow us both up and thus put you into a coma if you had never met me?"

"Who knows?", John replied. Sherlock huffed scornfully. "So what, Sherlock? I'm an adult, I can make my own choices. If I didn't want to live with you or solve crimes with you, don't you think I would have moved out by now?"

"Where to? ", Sherlock mumbled.

"I've got a job now, I could find something." John sighed. "I don't live with you out of necessity, I do it, because I like the adventure and the thrill and because... because I care about you. A lot." Sherlock threw him a glance John couldn't read. He felt awkward and since he had finished his soup and Sherlock had obviously eaten enough, he quickly got up and carried their bowls into the kitchen. As he placed them into the sink, he felt Sherlock move behind him. He didn't dare to turn around, he stood there frozen to the spot as he sensed the detective coming nearer until he could actually feel his breath on the back of his neck. His senses tingled, his breath was shaky, but he was sure he would break the moment, if he made the slightest move. Then he could feel Sherlock move away from him a little bit, still staying close.

The detective's voice was small and raspy as he spoke: "Non-one did that before." John frowned.

"Did what?"

"Care about me." The doctor couldn't help but turn around now. Sherlock, still only wrapped in the darn blanket, took a step back. If John didn't know any better he'd say the world's only consulting was tearing up.

"That's not true", he claimed, "Mrs. Hudson cares about you, Mycroft cares about you. And I think, Lestrade too, at least a little." Sherlock snorted.

"Lestrade cares about me saving his arse over and over again, that's all. Mrs. Hudson feels obliged and Mycroft is my dutiful older brother. They don't care about me per se." John bit his lower lip. He had always thought of Sherlock as a self-chosen maverick, but never as somebody who could feel lonely, who would long for somebody else. He took a step forward to close the gap between them, then he gently touched Sherlock's cheek.

As Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, John raised himself on tiptoes and gently pressed his lips to Sherlock's. The detective seemed a little lost at first, then he reluctantly kissed John back, even slid a shaky hand into his hair.

My God, John all of a sudden realised, This is probably his first kiss.

He slowly let go of Sherlock and looked him in the eye to look for doubt, for disgust, even. But there was nothing of it there, just curiosity, desire and... fear. Yes, there was fear in the eyes of the most fearless person John had ever known (and he was a soldier, after all).

"Are you okay?", he whispered. Sherlock just nodded slightly.

He is too overwhelmed to speak, John thought, The great Sherlock Holmes. I'll be damned.

He reached up again to cup Sherlock's face and kissed him once more, a little more forcefully this time. Sherlock responded to every move of his lips and every flick of tongue while John gingerly deepened their kisses. They're bodies were pressed together and through the thin fabric of the blanket John could feel the heat radiating from Sherlock, he could feel every lean muscle of the detective's slim body. It was weird, a little frightening, but mostly just beautiful.

"So this is what it feels like", Sherlock mumbled inbetween. John leaned his forehead softly against Sherlock's

"Feels what like?", he asked.

"Being in love", the detective answered, "Usually the actual experience offers considerably more insights than the theory and-"

John shut him up with another kiss.

"I love you too, Sherlock."