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SH/JW
It was dark out, the moon shining brightly over sleepy London. It was winter, around Christmastime, by the atmosphere. The soft whispers of sheet music left by carolers filled the sidewalks, wreaths hung from doors, garlands from lampposts, businesses decked out in holiday spirit. Mrs. Hudson had, kindly enough, hung a wreath outside, sprigs of holly in the windows. I recalled that holly was supposed to keep away bad spirits. Well, it had better have kept out Moriarty's men.
No, I knew they were dead or behind bars. I watched every single time, after solving every case, knowing that the men would never get out and hurt anyone. And then, to London, England. This was the city where I was born, and where I had settled down. Home.
I opened the door and went up the seventeen stairs to the flat. Christmas music softly danced through the hallways, whispering the holidays to me. Christmas was altogether too commercial, but it had a good start, I suppose. I opened up the door to my flat. John Watson was reading on the couch. He looked up, saw me, and looked down, smiling. It was a weird reaction. "John," I said harshly.
"You're dead," John's voice was singsong, like Moriarty's. The tone made me sick to my stomach. "Dead, dead, red, red, dead." He giggled. I sniffed. There was alcohol in the air, but not enough for him to be too drunk, right?
I entered the room fully and closed the door. "John. I need you to be sober, John."
"Red, red, dead, dead."
I wanted to slap him. I was in no mood for John's drunkenness. Of course, it occurred to me right then that my absence was why he'd turned to the drink. I felt sick again, so weak from three years of endless traveling and crime solving. "John," my voice was pleading, and I felt tears coming to my eyes, "John, sober up, please!" I walked over and shook him. "Please!"
I got what was coming to me, I suppose. John Watson punched me in the jaw. The force of the blow knocked me over, but I was unharmed. Maybe John had knocked a few fillings loose. But John was murderous, standing overtop of me. My legs were long enough, so I could disarm him.
But I didn't.
He fell upon me, all his weight crushing me. I let him submissively, knowing I couldn't fight a drunk John, and also knowing that I was the reason for this. I had dealt with The Woman before, and as such, knew when to be quiet. So I stayed quiet while John beat me up.
He started with my face, punching at my cheeks. I closed my eyes and willed myself to feel no pain. I felt warm blood on my face, and realized he's punched some blood cells in my nose loose. I didn't care. Only when I thought he might try to punch my skull was when I moved my hands to cover it. It was a simple move, a soft reminder to destroy all but the brain. John left my head alone, although he did give one violent yank of my curls.
I let him, biting my tongue against complaining. And yes, even I was surprised at my complacency.
John scratched and clawed and punched at my shoulders. He made me cough by slugging me in the throat. Then, he punched my ribcage. I let him. He gave my gut one good, final slug, and then sat back on his heels, panting with rage, and sober enough now to see the damage. My eyes fluttered open, only to see him crying. I took off my coat and threw the scarf aside. I was all in black, a touch too funeral, my suit absent. I only had my shirt on underneath my coat. I sat up with some difficulty and put a thin hand on his shoulder. "John," my voice was hoarse, so I tried again. "John," that was better, more robust. "I'm here, John. And I'm sorry." I could say nothing else, because I could feel my throat swelling closed, probably from the double hit of emotion and injury.
I let him cry while I touched my face. He'd stayed away from my eyes and skull, and that was all I cared about now. John stopped crying, finally, and I relaxed again, smiling weakly.
John threw his arms around me and I winced. "Sherlock! I've missed you!"
"I can see that," I coughed, about ready to pass out. I was home. Injured and impossibly faint, but home. I could relax at long last.
John pulled away, only just realizing now the damage of his drunken rage. "Oh my God! Sherlock! I'm sorry!" Before I can register, he's unbuttoning my shirt and tugging the tails out of my pants and throwing it across the room. It's cold without my shirt and I feel exposed. I give a shiver, but let John examine me.
My legs are crossed neatly and he is kneeling. He runs his warm hands down my body, feeling what I have kept so private, my skin milky white against the colors of the room. It feels good and I close my eyes…
Until he starts tracing the lines of my exposed ribs. He's doing that with one hand, the other feeling the bumps of my spine. I take his wrists in mine and push them back on him. "It's okay," I say with a laugh, and I mean it. Three years feels like a month to me. "I'm okay." I mean that, too, although that's a stretch.
"You're not okay!" John insists. "Sherlock! You just let me beat me you up!"
"Well, yes, John, but—"
He pushes me onto my back again and I grunt because now I'm done being pushed around. But I can't seem to force my body to sit up again, so I breathe softly and let him do as he will. Because he will, and I will let him. I will let this man who has saved my life before do as he pleases.
Because I love this man. I just haven't told him yet.
John feels my ribcage. "Sherlock, you were gone three years. Did you eat? At all?"
"Very little. Nothing. It feels like nothing." I tell him this because I want him to take care of me. I want him to know that I missed him, too. "I had cases, and oh, I was sick, John, but…" I sighed because I couldn't get it out.
"What?" He soothes, putting a hand to my head. I flinch, but he is running his fingers through my curls, which feels nice. The soft tug of his fingers as they play in my hair…I love it, because if he touches me, it means he will stay and he will let me stay and oh God John feed me because I'm hungry but more importantly I'm home.
"But…I dunno," I sigh. "Nothing. Toast here, fruit there, never anything of sustenance. Kept my brain sharp!"
"And your body weak." John strokes down the planes of my chest and I moan lustfully in the back of my throat.
I don't know what made my body weaker; acknowledging I'd had virtually nothing to eat during the course of three years or that one stroke from John. My breathing hitched, though, and I realized my pants were two sizes too big.
John leaned over and kissed my stomach. Or, more likely, kissed the bottom of a very low plain that dipped drastically after my ribcage. I sighed. A kiss! Did that mean he felt the same? Suddenly, I didn't want a bite to eat, and all the hunger washed away. I had enough money to go shopping, to buy new pants and shirts. I would buy them two sizes smaller and let my starved-thin body be swallowed up by my wool coat. I wanted to kiss John Watson's lips.
"I love you, John," I whispered. And then I crumpled.
My iron strength was gone, and I was beyond hungry, starving, and famished. I wanted to eat something. "John," I moaned, arching my back because my stomach hurt with its emptiness. Everything hurt right now. I wanted to sleep forever in my bed, with John by my side.
"I love you, too," John leaned down and kissed my lips fleetingly. I wanted the kiss to continue, but felt John pulling me to my feet. "We can have a proper kiss after we feed you." He sat me down at the kitchen table and went about getting food. I didn't watch. I didn't care. I was home.
John Watson put a small plate in front of me with toast, slathered with honey. I devoured the food and looked at him skeptically. I groaned because my stomach hurt again, and he gave me a glass of milk, which I drank.
"Refeeding syndrome, love," he said softly. "You've got it bad. We need to be careful."
I had it? I wasn't aware of that. I told him.
"Well, I mean watch you for it." He kissed my forehead and then traced my cheekbones. I leaned forward into the treatment, moaning softly.
"I want more food," I whimpered, nuzzling my face into his hand, subdued because I was hungry and tired and John loved me and who in hell really gave a damn I mean Mrs. Hudson was expecting it so? But John shook his head.
"Bedtime now, Sherlock."
I whined and protested. I wanted food. I didn't want to starve. I knew I wouldn't sleep. John heated me up a glass of milk and I drank it and then I felt sleepy.
John almost carried me to my room. He was about to get my pajamas, but I stopped him, undoing my belt. "Leave it. I don't care. Come to bed with me, John."
John got into bed beside me and kissed all the bumps on my spinal cord, sending delighted shivers throughout my body. "Oh, God," I murmured.
"Sleep," John told me.
And I slept. Home, I was home, and John was beside me.
Everything was going to be just fine.