Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, delightful overlords that they are. Thanks to ACD for the characters.
1.
Something was wrong.
Well, actually, strike that, because several things were Wrong with a capital W, more wrong than this one thing John has picked up on. For one, his chest was bound with Semtex and an earpiece had been shoved rather violently into his ear canal. For another, he was standing at the edge of a bloody swimming pool at midnight when he should be at Sarah's, talking with her over a late night tea, griping about Sherlock's many quirks and the receptionist at work who always smelled like "Satan's dirty underwear" (that had been Sarah's phrase, spoken offhand once when she was slightly drunk; it had made John laugh, helplessly, rolling side to side in his chair—he hadn't laughed like that since before Afghanistan). A third Wrong Thing was that Sherlock was there, at the edge of the deep end, one arm holding up the Bruce Partington Plans (a getting-to-know-you present, John had heard him say cheekily as he walked out to meet him, slow and careful), his body twisted to look at John.
But no, the most Wrong thing of all was the look on Sherlock's face. He was too far away for John to see him properly, but as he came closer, cautiously, listening to John's puppet-words, taking in the Semtex vest under his coat, John wondered what that look meant. It was new, it was something different—could it be Worry? He'd never seen Sherlock worried or frightened, had basically assumed that he was incapable of feeling either one, especially after the row they'd had the day before.
Will caring about them help save them?
Nope.
Then I'll continue to not make that mistake.
And you find that easy, do you?
Yes, very.
He remembered the cold, calculating eyes as Sherlock scanned his face, realizing he'd been a disappointment and not caring.
John did not snap completely back into reality until Sherlock asked him a question. He blinked, surfacing from deep down in his hiding place, trying to hear what Sherlock had just said in the auditory memory he knew he'd saved (when he got like this, frightened or very angry or depressed, he went deep into his own mind, and his memory recorded the sounds around him; he could access the memories once he dug himself out). The sounds of Sherlock's question floated into his thoughts—a perfunctory, snappish "You all right?"—just as Moriarty materialized behind him, taunting into his ear that he could talk. Actually, he couldn't, not quite, but he nodded, once, barely meeting Sherlock's gaze. He struggled to focus, to pull himself out of that hole completely.
"I could've got them anywhere," Moriarty said flippantly, tossing the memory stick into the pool like a dead leaf. And John's mind snapped into place, where it should have been the entire time, and he realized that Moriarty was in front of him, his back turned. His back turned. And John ran at him, forgetting the Semtex, suddenly indifferent on the subject of his own life, and he grabbed Moriarty in a choke hold, yelling at Sherlock to run, infuriated when he did not. And that moment confirmed for John exactly what the look on Sherlock's face had been, because it was more raw and open now; he had been surprised by John's sudden move, and it had shaken something loose in him, and his mask slipped completely off just for a moment: Sherlock was terrified.
This scared John, more than it had any right to; his heart sank when the little red dot slid up to Sherlock's forehead, but as he let Moriarty go, his mind raced. If he's this scared, he's gotten attached, and if he's gotten attached, he can be hurt, and he knows it now, I just saw him realize it, and he's not just terrified for me anymore he's scared for himself because he's been opened up and he can't protect himself, not right now.
"If you don't leave me alone, Sherlock," Moriarty was saying, his voice dripping with so many conflicting things that it was almost maddening, "I will burn you." John couldn't see his face, but he felt the venom surfacing, Moriarty's true nature just gliding under the surface. "I will burn the heart out of you."
Composed again completely, finally, Sherlock deadpanned right back without blinking: "I have been reliably informed that I don't have one." John almost smiled.
"But we both know that's not quite true." Moriarty knew, he knew; he twisted his hips, just the tiniest motion, toward John, and John shuddered.
Sherlock inched closer and closer to John as Moriarty sauntered away, as though not quite believing he would be allowed such an intimate distance without being shot at or blown up. He said something that sounded silly and clichéd to John ("Catch—you—later," John would remember when he woke up in hospital the next day, aching and covered in bandages), something that a person in a film might say, and Moriarty just taunted him as the door swung closed: "Nooo you woooon't!"
There was a pause in which nothing moved but Sherlock's eyes, a point in time where they could not believe they had escaped, could not believe Moriarty would just walk out without hurting or killing one of them—and then Sherlock put the gun on the ground and dropped to his knees in front of John. John's vision blurred with relief, but he would remember later that Sherlock's fingers were shaking as he unbuckled and unzipped the Semtex vest. "Are you all right?" Sherlock snarled impatiently, and John realized that Sherlock had probably already asked him, and he'd been too busy trying to keep his knees from buckling to hear it.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine—Sherlock—" In his haste and panic, Sherlock had grabbed a bit of John's sweater along with the vest and coat and had begun to yank him backward. "Sherlock!" he said again, more forcefully, meaning to assure him that he was all right, really, but Sherlock did not respond; he finally worked the vest and coat free and flung it across the floor as hard as he could. They looked at each other for a moment before Sherlock picked up the gun and ran after Moriarty; John nearly collapsed as everything crashed down on him and he finally let all of the fear and panic hit him, and he leaned against the metal partition and breathed, in through the nose, out through the mouth, rinse and repeat, over and over.
Sherlock returned, gun in hand, no Moriarty, but still agitated, Wrong. He looked like he was made of motion. "Are you okay?" John managed, watching him warily; Sherlock practically tossed the gun between his shaking hands, at one point actually rubbing the back of his head with the barrel.
"Me? Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine," he said, quickly, distracted, wild. Still terrified and not sure how to deal with it.
John tried to bring him down to earth: "I'm glad no one saw that."
"Hmm?"
"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk." Anything to ground him, even that ridiculous conversation they'd had the day after they'd met.
To John's surprise, Sherlock stilled. "People do little else," he joked back, accepting the lifeline back to earth that John offered. He smiled.
And then, the worst possible thing happened.
Sherlock did not deign to turn around and face Moriarty, instead choosing to look only at John, steadily this time, no fleeting skittish glances like before. John met his gaze, and Sherlock asked him with his eyes.
Do you trust me?
John nodded, the barest of nods, and it was all Sherlock needed. He turned around and pointed the gun at the Semtex vest.
John watched his trigger finger, and when it tensed, John tensed his body as well.
There was a bang; an indescribably louder bang immediately followed, and John lunged at Sherlock, who flopped into the pool like a rag doll, letting John cover him. The world exploded around them.
There was cold and chlorine and darkness and then a burst of agony, and everything went blissfully black.
2.
Surfacing.
He saw everything underwater; dark shapes wavered toward him out of the blackness, some he could recognize, others frighteningly unknown. The dark pressed down heavily as he fought to get clear of it—he strained and strained, felt the cords standing out on his neck, his shoulder screaming, and he opened his mouth to shout—
His eyes flew open.
White. There was so much white that he had to close his eyes again; it was too much after all that dark. He opened his eyes again, more cautiously this time, trying to take in little pieces of his surroundings so he could deduce what was going on. (Sherlock would be proud, me deducing, he thought.) Hard plastic chair in the corner, white. Table on wheels beside him, grey. Slippery cotton sheets under his fingers (also maddeningly white) and something soft under his head. A bed. Okay. That was good. Something comfortable, familiar but in an unfamiliar way. The tug of something sticking out of the back of his hand. An IV.
Oh.
Hospital. Sherlock, pool, bomb. Yes.
"Oh good, you're awake," spoke a much-too-bright voice from the doorway. "That's a good sign."
John opened his mouth and found that yes, he could still talk. "What happened?" His voice sounded wrong, scratchy, unused, but it was a voice nonetheless.
"A few broken ribs, severe concussion but luckily no brain damage, and a crushed ankle," the nurse replied. "Some bruising and lacerations, of course, but nothing too serious, and it's to be expected."
Sherlock. "Where's Sherlock?"
The nurse seemed confused. "Who?"
And then Lestrade was there, pushing his way past the nurse with hasty uncaring force.
"Where's Sherlock?" John demanded of him.
Lestrade sighed. "He's all right. Just a mild concussion and a bruised rib or two. He was sent home earlier today."
John could have cried with relief, but he forced the lump in his throat down. "How long—"
"You've been out for thirty-six hours. Painkillers kept you out. They thought it was best."
John nodded, but the motion made him dizzy. "When can I go home?"
The nurse shoved Lestrade to the side at this question. "The doctor wants you here for another few days at least, just to make sure there's no internal bleeding from the broken ribs," she said importantly. John closed his eyes, hating to be on the other side of things instead of being the doctor part of the equation, but he knew the nurse was right.
"Can I ask you some questions?" Lestrade looked at him pointedly, assessing his mental state, but John waved that aside and nodded. He answered Lestrade's questions as best he could, and when Lestrade left, the light in the room had begun to dim. It was getting late, he realized with growing exhaustion. He was glad for the painkillers. His eyes fluttered closed. His last thought before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep was, I wonder if Sherlock will come by tomorrow.
Sherlock did not come by the next day. Nor did he visit the day after that, or the day after that, or even the day after that. John considered texting him but decided against it eventually; he was probably out on some case already, ignoring Lestrade's calculating questions about his health, rushing about the city as though he hadn't just survived a bomb. He didn't want to, but John felt a twinge of regret that he couldn't be out there with him—and, if he admitted it to himself, something twinged even deeper every time he looked at the doorway to his hospital room and Sherlock wasn't standing there, assessing him with curiosity in his pale eyes.
Finally, after six long, unendurably dull days at the hospital, he was released and ordered to rest at home for at least three weeks. He took a cab home, alone, and hobbled with his crutches up the stairs of 221B Baker Street, alone, wincing with each step.
"You're back."
It wasn't until John heard Sherlock speak that he realized how much he'd missed hearing that voice, a constant in his world now, so much so that even going six days without it felt like a summer draught. There was something slightly different about it, just Wrong enough to make John turn and look up at Sherlock, who stood in the kitchen doorframe, leaning rigidly into the wood. His face betrayed nothing, but oh, John knew that voice and it felt Wrong.
John relaxed into a small smile, which Sherlock did not return. "Yes," he said, with a huff of relief. "Finally."
"Feeling all right?"
"Could be worse, I suppose." He wanted to ask Sherlock what was wrong, what he had been doing (why didn't you come visit me?), but exhaustion overtook him suddenly and he used his last ounce of energy to lower himself onto the sofa. He felt Sherlock watching him and couldn't have cared less. He was asleep within seconds.
3.
The next few days consisted of very little speech between the two of them; Sherlock almost seemed to be avoiding him, spending as little time as possible in the sitting room with John. Instead he busied himself with his experiments in the kitchen while John read his books or watched telly or slept in the sitting room. John found it odd, though, that although Sherlock was essentially ignoring him, couldn't seem to stand being in the same room, he was always within Sherlock's line of sight. John caught him twice, standing stock still in front of his test tubes, just looking at John, some unfathomable Thing on his face.
On the fourth consecutive day of silence, John had had enough. "Oi," he called into the kitchen. Sherlock looked up, slightly startled. "How's your rib?" John asked.
"Fine," Sherlock answered shortly, returning to his experiment.
John suddenly felt angry, fire-engine-red angry, enough to want to throw a Molotov cocktail into the kitchen, just to catch Sherlock's attention.
"Oi!" he said again, with much more force behind it this time. He wanted to make Sherlock look, really look at him. This time, though, Sherlock completely ignored him. "Did I do something wrong?" John questioned, not to be deterred. "Are you angry with me for some stupid reason? Because I'm getting sick and tired of whatever this is, and it stops now, yeah?" Sherlock could have gone deaf for all the reaction he showed to John's words.
"Sherlock, will you bloody look at me? What could you possibly be doing out there that warrants so much attention?" And then his mind jumped tracks, and before he could give his voice permission, the words tumbled out. "Why didn't you visit me?"
Sherlock froze. Finally, John thought with burning triumph. There was a pause in which nothing moved, no sounds made their way to John's ears; all of his attention focused directly on Sherlock.
And then Sherlock dropped his test tubes, letting them crash to the floor and shatter and spill, and John watched in utter shock as he strode rigidly into the sitting room, almost at a run, slumped to his knees in front of John on the sofa, and wrapped his arms around John's neck, clinging to him, his breath coming in shaky, shivering gasps. John's arms reached around Sherlock automatically, and he placed one hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, holding him gently still. He felt a drop of something hot and wet hit the hollow of his clavicle and slide down into the neckline of his shirt, then another and another, coming faster now, Sherlock's breathing sounding more and more restricted and much too quick—
Crying. Oh God, he's crying.
"Sherlock, breathe," he instructed. But Sherlock ignored him, grabbing John tighter around the neck, his fingers scrabbling for firmer purchase. It felt like he was trying to burrow directly into John's skin. His ribs ached smartly as Sherlock pressed closer.
He's going to pass out if he doesn't calm down. "Sherlock." With much effort, John peeled Sherlock off of him and reached forward, covering his mouth with one hand, keeping the other hand at the back of his head. "Breathe," he instructed again, his steady eyes boring into Sherlock's wild face, blotchy and streaked with tears. And with some reserve vestige of control, Sherlock closed his eyes, shuddering as he took a slow, deep breath through his nose and let it out. "Good. And again." Sherlock obeyed. After a few more, John felt safe taking his hands away. Sherlock ducked his head immediately, thumbing at the tears now drying on his face, and John looked away, trying to respect his privacy.
"I couldn't," Sherlock said, his voice struggling to exist above a whisper. John scrambled to remember what they'd been talking about before—yes, of course, he'd asked why Sherlock hadn't visited.
"I didn't mean to accuse you of anything," John amended, trying to let Sherlock off the hook; really, they'd had enough emotion to sustain for at least week already. "You certainly didn't have to come."
But Sherlock shook his head, as though determined to see this through; if one thing could be said about Sherlock Holmes, it was that he never left anything half-done. "I couldn't see you because it was my fault you were there in the first place," he said. His voice shook but didn't break; for once, he seemed to have trouble making eye contact. "I became… Well, for lack of a better word, I became attached to you. And I let you go off on your own and never once considered the possibility that Moriarty would try anything with you. I proceeded in an extremely unintelligent and unthinking manner and you suffered for it, and I'm sorry. You should probably start packing soon. I've already found you a place across town. You'll be much safer there." This way I can detach myself and then Moriarty won't be able to use you against me, he didn't say, but John heard it anyway.
John waited, but Sherlock seemed to be out of things to say. He stared resolutely at the floor, guilt hanging his shoulders heavy, clearly expecting the worst. And John watched him carefully, lovingly, waiting in the silence for Sherlock to look up and deduce the forgiveness in his smile. When Sherlock did not look up, John said his name, very softly. "Sherlock Holmes." He put as much love into the name as he dared and finally Sherlock met his gaze. "You are undoubtedly the stupidest man I have ever met," he said fondly.
And Sherlock smiled the smile of the forgiven, and John thought how very stupid and brilliant his flatmate was and how he didn't want to do anything ever again except sleep.