Title: Hospital Visit
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: G
Warnings: BDSM!AU
Spoilers:The Great Game
Summary: John visits his sub, Sherlock, in the hospital after "The Great Game."
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or series, and I am not making money from this. Likenesses belong to respective actors.
—
Mycroft's umbrella was resting across Sherlock's shoulders. The weight was light, barely enough to ghost the damage caused by the explosion, but the authority was unmistakeable. With the lightest touch of the umbrella across both shoulders, Mycroft was keeping his brother on the bed, relaxed to rest. What was particularly odd was that Sherlock seemed to allow it— boneless beneath the covers of the hospital bed, but glaring at his brother without the usual malice.
That was the sight which greeted John when he limped into the room. He had seen, of course, the tells of Mycroft's dominant nature before— and the man was truly terrifying when he had it in mind to be anything but professionally polite or concerned— but this was a different element now. John had never seen Mycroft take advantage of Sherlock's submissive nature before. It was annoying to think that someone else might have been able to coax Sherlock to a pliable state.
That it was Sherlock's own brother helped clear John's anxiety about his sub. Some of it, anyway.
"Sherlock?"
"You're limping, John." It was slurred, the edge of the tone taken off by the morphine. Pale green eyes took John in with a glance before closing again, cheek resting on folded arms. "Shrapnel, then. How much of it has been removed? You'll need more surgery, I suspect."
A tap to the shoulders with the umbrella and Sherlock quiets. Mycroft smiles and rests the weight back across his brother to keep him still. "Sorry to startle you, John. Just checking in."
"Thanks, Mycroft." The umbrella moved out of the way as John took up his familiar seat by the bed. It was nice to see Sherlock off the machines, and stable, but there must have been something wrong to bring Mycroft's attention and Sherlock's co-operation. But, in this situation, Sherlock was his to look after. "Is there something you needed? Sherlock's fine, isn't he?"
A muttered affirmative from the lump in the bed, followed by a quiet; "Mycroft, go."
There's an admonishing tap with the umbrella that has John almost reaching to challenge Mycroft then and there. But the older man leaves with a few soft words to his brother and another nodded recognition to John. With the chart in easy reach, the doctor looks over the newest lines of information regarding Sherlock's recovery. "You feeling okay, Sherlock?"
"Mm? Yes, of course." Movement and the man is on his back, playing with a long strip of leather John had missed before. "Moriarty had a sub with him at the pool."
Leave it to Sherlock to be resting in a hospital bed and still thinking of the case at hand— still searching out the cause of discomfort and danger. John settled forward, arms on his legs (despite the pain the pressure placed on his injury) and regarded Sherlock with a familiar sense of resignation. "At least take a long enough rest to not kill yourself before you start hunting Moriarty down."
"No. Another man, waiting in the wings." Sherlock's eyes closed, again, in what John suspected was an attempt to block out the dullness of the hospital. "Pulled Moriarty from the wreckage."
"I didn't see anyone." Logically, John knew that he could just order Sherlock down— make him rest and properly recover (he may do that if the man gets too far ahead of himself, anyway), then deal with the resentment later. But Sherlock hadn't exactly overstepped his limits yet— he was still in bed, still technically resting… And the sight of Mycroft obeying an order to leave had been an amusement in itself.
"Obviously. I've given Lestrade my statement, but I sincerely doubt much will come of it. The man was quiet, but not hiding his presence. Obedient. He returned when Moriarty was free of danger."
"How do you know that?"
"He left this." The strip of leather was held up again, and John could see it clearly as a thin collar now that his attention was not on the medical chart.
He took it from Sherlock's hand to examine it. "What's this?"
"An invitation, I suspect." Hands pressed together, resting beneath Sherlock's chin in a now familiar gesture of thought. For a moment, John was curious as to just what the man was thinking about. "A command from Moriarty."
"Wait, Sherlock, are you saying this is Moriarty's collar?" John was leaning forward in his seat now, examining the fine leather. "He propositioned you?"
"Of course."