Authors Note: For the indispensable Lintila who watched the film with me and squeed (like a proper fangirl) the whole way through!
The only sound in the room was water trickling into the hand basin, steam filling the room with a gentle haze. Watson laid out his shaving tools with care. A habit he'd picked up in the army and never quite shook off. He thought idly that the steam looked like smoke and felt a faint fear tighten in his stomach. Since the explosion Watson barely made it though a day without thinking about the booming sound, about fire and the all consuming choking smoke. Thinking about Sherlock shouting his name in the chaos.
He swirled his shaving brush against the soap and then the brush against his face. Watson angled his jaw at the mirror and began to draw the blade over his skin. He liked shaving; routine was second nature to him. It had been terrible in the hospital, feeling helpless. The only thing that kept him going was the sound of Sherlocks voice and the occasional hand laid softly against his bandages. It had made his heart ache with friendship; and with something else too.
Watson hissed as the razor bit into his skin.
"Damnit!" He shouted.
He leaned over the sink; shoulders sagging and let out a deep sigh as he watched a drop of blood fall from his cheek and, swirling, dissipate into the water.
He tried not to think of Sherlock, closing his eyes so tight he saw faint bursts of stars
The pristine marble felt cool on his palms.
The tap dripped.
Looking up he licked his handkerchief and held it against the little gem of blood swelling from the cut.
Enough of this nonsense, he thought and walked out into the parlor to find his wife.