Title: Pulse
Spoilers: The Reichenbach Fall
Pairings: Sherlock/John (unapologetically, this time)
Rating: T
Warnings: Alludes to drinking; Afghanistan; sex?
Wordcount: 771
Summary: "The heart holds less than half a litre but drives the whole of history. Perhaps that says something about its capacity for love."
Or, five times John Watson took someone's pulse, and one time someone else took his.
A/N: When it says "alludes" above, it means exactly that. I'm sorry I never write things out explicitly.
1. at medical school
There are twelve sites on the body where one commonly seeks a pulse. It only takes an artery, a bony backdrop, and trained fingertips—
Today, the carotid. A patient bares a throat (an act of utmost trust), and John skims lightly away from the thyroid until the tell-tale flutter sings out from beneath the skin. One, two, three... Concentrate, half on the clock and half on the beat. It's funny how quietly the heart speaks, isn't it?
John knows why he wants to be a doctor. It's about serving (saving) lives, about acting the guide when a body betrays the mind it's meant to protect. It's about preservation, standing guard over delicacy, fragility, that strange thing called humanity.
He's not so sure how he ends up a soldier.
2. Harry
Harry's always been the reckless one, John calm and steady. So what's a sister to do when her younger brother joins the RAMC?
Alcohol might not be the best possible answer, but it does the trick. Its sting is harsh enough to blur the pain of betrayal, and she clings to the bottle like it's a lifeline. The irony, then, when she's unconscious on the floor and John's frantically scrabbling at her wrist for a sign, a pulse...
Faint, but present. John thanks and curses in the same brief breath, hauling his sister back to consciousness.
Perhaps it's an unfair burden; perhaps it's too much for one man to handle.
Ah well. Life does not ask so much as command.
3. in Afghanistan
Among destruction life flourishes in its boldest strokes. In the company of death John burns with a fierce intensity.
There are times, however, when that isn't enough. (Not nearly enough.)
Sometimes a pulse weakens, a breath fades, and the spirit slips its bonds. Sometimes blood flows in paths that were never meant to be taken, until there's not even enough to fill up a heart. (The heart holds less than half a litre but drives the whole of history. Perhaps that says something about its capacity for love.)
John Watson has two fingers on the axillary artery and is counting out the quivers (desperate, pleading) when a bullet tears through his shoulder. The bullet shatters. Or he shatters – the pain is the same.
4. at a crime scene
Living with Sherlock Holmes provides a steady stream of unconscious bodies. (Well, the man is danger personified; it shouldn't come as a surprise.)
Maybe it's habit that draws John's fingers to pulse-points (tapping out the same sequence endlessly, a message winging through telegraph wires). Or maybe it's a doctor's reassurance: despite the chaos dogging their trail, the thrum of the heart is constant throughout it all.
Or maybe, just maybe, it's a private reminder – the leap of life that greets John with a welcome thrill, so that he does not surrender willingly unto darkness.
John takes the pulse and keeps on running.
5. Sherlock
Sherlock is crumpled on the pavement. Twelve points where lifeblood can be felt through skin, and the closest is the wrist.
John pushes through the crowd, his fingers frantically searching for the radial artery. (That patch of skin he can map out in his sleep; he's annexed it like it's a battlefield, claimed it solely for himself.)
Then he's expectant, for the familiar flicker to awaken at the touch, because some people can never leave without a last word, and Sherlock Holmes is decidedly one of them.
Come, why the silence?
And John can't tell if the tremor he feels is truly a pulse (please) or the shaking of his hand, but the crowd declares, with the solemn voice of judgment, that it is ended.
They wrest him away, and John's left with empty hands, still waiting for a comforting beat.
+1. John
"John," Sherlock sighs against John's lips. And again at his throat. And again at the raised ridge of his collarbone. He says John's name like an incantation (a prayer), leaving an invisible marker on John's torso with every exhalation.
"Sherlock," John murmurs back, hands smoothing over the planes of Sherlock's body (learning and remembering; he wants it engraved in his muscle memory). His fingertips slide over the brachial, the femoral, trace the sharp jawline where the blood bounds joyfully.
Sherlock's mouth stops above the apex cordis. He hears-feels-tastes the pulse of John's heart, its quickening rhythm almost unbearably sweet. (Oh, to compose a sonata to the sound!)
"Just chemical reactions," Sherlock says, a confession, "but they mean everything."
Pressed beside each other, Sherlock's and John's hearts are beating in synchrony.
"Yes," says John. I forgive you. I absolve you.
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