A/N: So I know it's been a long time guys, for which I am very sorry.
This fic is for Bethan (CrypticNymph), who is my favourite person in the world, a great friend, my fabulous internet wife and my heterosexual life partner – all in one. This is my Christmas present to her. Happy Christmas Bethan!
(The Disclaimer is at the end)
Finally, to all my readers, I wish you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year – may you eat yourselves sick and read lots of fanfic!
'We are but two- the others sleep
Through death's untroubled night;
We are but two – O let us keep
The link that binds us bright.'
The Link That Binds Us
By Blackcurrant Bonbons
~for crypticnymph~
A dim glow seeped through the pale December sky, lighting up the thin blanket of untarnished snow that had coated London the previous night. The bleak, watery sun peeked through the darkening clouds. Except for the hum of the traffic, all was quiet, akin to the calm before a storm.
John shuffled about the kitchen of 221b, his movements controlled, contained. His expression was tight-set and grim, coloured grey from exhaustion. At the opposite end of the room, Sherlock was draped across the armchair; gangly limbs sprawled at awkward angles. A frown furrowed his face, and he glared intently at the laptop screen, not daring to look at John. A quiet, icy tension hung in the room, choking the two men.
John slammed a mug down on the coffee table next to Sherlock. Tea sloshed over the rim, spattering the table. John cursed quietly, wincing as the movement agitated the large gash above his eyebrow.
"Your tea," he muttered gruffly. Sherlock did not look up from his laptop. The detective's gaze, however, was a little too concentrated, a little too forced.
"I didn't ask for tea. I don't want tea," Sherlock said sullenly.
"But you always have tea in the morning-"
"Just because you have the pathetic, compulsive need to control every aspect of your dim, dismal existence, does not mean that you have to force your silly little routines onto me! So for the last time, I do not WANT TEA!" Sherlock spat out in a steady stream of vitriol, his voice rising steadily to a shout, his face contorted in fury.
Shocked, John's mouth gaped open. He blinked, wide-eyed, reeling from Sherlock's tirade. Then, he began to tremble with fury, clenching his shaking hands repeatedly until his knuckles turned white.
John tried to speak through the lump in his throat, but it took him a few painful, humiliating seconds to contain his emotions. "You do realise-I- I almost died last night, Sherlock. I almost died because of you. You made me the bait in your crazed plan to catch the clearly insane suspect, and because of you I almost had a bullet put through my head. You claim to be my friend, but friends protect their friends Sherlock! We both almost died! – You almost died." Flustered, John clenched his lips into a tight, bloodless line.
Sherlock made no move to reply, still gazing intently at the laptop.
John stared at Sherlock expectantly, waiting. The space between them was thick and heavy with things unsaid. John sighed. "I'm going to get some air." The furious doctor stormed out of the flat, slamming the door behind him.
"Bring a coat-" The bang of the door cut off Sherlock abruptly.
The detective sat frozen for a minute, eyeing the door forlornly.
Jumping out of the chair, he picked up the mug, and with a slight hesitation, threw it across the room. It shattered against the wall with a satisfying crack. The still warm tea dripped down the wallpaper in steady streams. The Christmas tree John had placed in the corner shivered violently, shedding a layer of pine needles. Sherlock flung himself onto the sofa, curling his head into the cushions to hide his face.
As he strode through the streets of London, John's anger quickly dissipated. He began to shiver violently in the cold, his leg aching. He was exhausted from the sleepless night before. He had not been thinking straight.
After all, he had agreed to be the bait, however unwillingly. And Sherlock hadn't died. It had been a close call, but the detective had walked out of the building unscathed.
Looking up from the pavement, John realised with a shock that he had walked quite far from home. Perhaps he should get a taxi back. He would go back and apologise to Sherlock. Maybe Sherlock would apologise back, if he was lucky. John would make another cup of tea, and they could watch crappy Christmas TV together.
The roads and pavements were slick and icy beneath the thin soles of his shoes. He should not have gone out.
As if on cue, his foot slipped on a patch of ice, and the ground fell out from beneath him in a flurry of panicked flailing. His outstretched hand broke his fall, but his wrist twisted at the last moment, sending a jolt of agony through his arm. A fiery, consuming pain burnt up his leg as it impacted with the concrete, and he cried out involuntarily. Spasms of pain shuddered through his body.
The last thing he saw before he passed out was a familiar black car pulling up on the pavement beside him. Bloody Mycroft...
At first, Sherlock did not hear the buzzing of his phone. He continued to scrape at his violin, drawing a slow, melancholic tune from the tortured strings, whilst he formulated a suitable apology for John that would appease his partner somehow.
He wanted John back. It had been approximately four hours now. He couldn't work the confounded kettle, and he had cut his hand trying to pick up the shards of the broken mug. He wanted John. He needed John.
The phone vibrated again. Eyeing the User ID, Sherlock answered wearily, and got straight to the point. "Mycroft, look, if this is about Lestrade, for the last time, I cannot and will not tell you how to seduce -"
"Sherlock!" Mycroft barked. Sherlock halted abruptly mid-smirk at the worried inflection in his brother's tone. "It's John." Sherlock blinked, momentarily frozen. His stomach wrenched oddly, twisting with foreign guilt.
Regaining his faculties, he sprang off the sofa, sprinting for the door.
"Where is he? What happened, Mycroft? Where is he? Where is John?!"
"Calm yourself little brother, John is safe. He's in hospital actually - it seems he slipped on the ice, hurt himself quite badly in the fall. Luckily, surveillance was nearby to pick him up. He's been bandaged up and put in a hospital bed. I should imagine he's awake by now, no doubt."
Sherlock knees wobbled in relief. It was not Moriarty. John was safe. Processing again what Mycroft had said, he scowled. "I told you to stop following John."
"Well, it wasn't as if you were there to rescue him, and you're his partner for god's sake!"
Sherlock ignored the barb, and instead flung on his coat and scarf haphazardly. "Just give me the hospital and the ward Mycroft!"
John awoke blearily to the familiar humming of machines and the bustling of nurses and trolleys. He was in a hospital bed. Well, Mycroft was efficient, he'd give him that. Oh well. Nothing to do now but wait for a doctor to come and give him the all clear.
He sat up slowly, assessing his injuries. Sprained wrist, bruising to the ribcage, possibly fractured rib. The fall had no doubt agitated the bullet wound, if the pain was anything to go by.
The IV drip itched, and his wrist ached dully. The numb of the morphine could not ease the fiery agony in his leg, and he squeezed his eyes shut momentarily.
Bored, he soon began to scan the ward in search of entertainment. His eyes fell almost immediately on the bed opposite him.
A man lay there, sleeping. He was pale and wasted, and if not for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, he might have been dead. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, but most of his features were obscured by an oxygen mask. He was riddled with tubes and surrounded by monitors. A drip ran into his hand.
There were three visitors at his bedside – a young man, a woman – who looked to be his mother- and an older man, who could perhaps be the father. Were they family? Friends? Co-workers? Perhaps all three...
The younger man clutched the patient's free hand tightly, even though it was limp and unresponsive. Brother? Boyfriend, perhaps? John thought curiously. Boyfriend, he decided. The frequent worried looks he was sending the patient were most certainly not platonic. The young man had an innocent, clueless look about him. He was teary, but smiling weakly. John's heart tugged with sympathy.
Beside him, the older woman paced the lino worriedly, her eyes red and blotchy, her expression severe. The older man looked haggard, but stood stock-still, although his hands were trembling ever so slightly. His eyes would occasionally glaze over, as if he were replaying a horrible, painful memory.
"Is Martin going to be alright Douglas?" the younger man asked the elder, eyes completely trusting and hopeful.
"I- I don't know, Arthur,"
The woman glared at the man named Douglas. "Don't be silly Arthur; Martin's going to be right as rain in no time,"
"Lying is not helpful, Caroline!"
"Oh, shut up Douglas-"
"Well I'm sorry to break it to you Caroline, but people don't just get up and walk away from car accidents!"
The tart retort poised on Caroline's lips was cut off by a wide-eyed Arthur, who pleaded, "Please don't fight with Douglas, Mum. Martin hates it when you two fight."
John looked away quickly, ashamed. He had intruded upon this private moment for too long. Instead, he busied himself with thoughts of Sherlock, and 221b. Had Sherlock even noticed he'd been gone now for several hours? God, he hated hospitals...
Lestrade stood by the outskirts of the awning of the hospital porch, nursing a cigarette. He shuddered lightly as the snow fell in light sheets around him. He had come as soon as Mycroft had called, and after checking that John was alright, had made for the exit post-haste. Lestrade hated hospitals. They reeked of death, and the tang of antiseptic always burnt the back of his throat.
The click-clack of an umbrella against concrete was the only warning he had. A light shiver coursed through Lestrade's body as he felt a familiar pair of eyes slowly caress the back of his neck. The elder Holmes drew up beside him. Lestrade gulped.
"You can stand under my umbrella, Inspector. I don't bite. Well...only occasionally," Mycroft chuckled.
Lestrade flushed. -Don't think about what he's implying, don't think about what he' implying-
Tentatively, Lestrade moved closer to Mycroft. Mycroft's lips twitched, brown eyes ever so slightly lighting up.
Lestrade, desperate to break the silence, proffered to him a cigarette. Mycroft, with a quiet murmur of thanks, accepted. He brushed his finger of Lestrade's, who flushed under the heated intensity of Mycroft's gaze.
"If you would be so kind," A command, not a question. Well, it always was with Mycroft. Lestrade shivered. His numb hand fumbled in his pocket, scrambling for the lighter.
Suddenly, a warm hand slipped into his pocket. Tapered fingers caressed his thigh through the thin fabric, branding his cool skin with flaming trails of heat.
"I think you require some- assistance, Inspector," Mycroft purred. Deftly, he plucked the lighter from the pocket, squeezing the skin of Greg's thigh between the pads of his thumb and forefinger whilst he did so.
Lestrade inhaled sharply. "Just Greg, Mr Holmes."
Lighting his cigarette, Mycroft smirked. "Just Mycroft, Greg,"
A flash of raven curls gave Sherlock away. John sighed wearily as the man dashed down the hospital ward, ignoring the angry complaints of passing doctors and patients.
"John!" Sherlock exclaimed when caught sight of the man, rushing towards the hospital bed. "You are an idiot! A first class idiot! What were you thinking, going out in the cold, without a coat? And then falling over in an easily preventable accident! Evidently you weren't thinking at all!"
"I was tired Sherlock. I'm...sorry," John looked up at him with wide, tired eyes, belying his point.
Sherlock looked away, abashed. The words sounded rusty and unused on his tongue, as he asked, "Are you alright?"
"Well, apart from a sprained wrist and a fractured rib, I'm absolutely alright, yes."
Sherlock sent him a withering look, but still continued to clutch John's hand.
"And I didn't even get to finish my cup of tea," John lamented. Sherlock's eyes light up. This way he could apologise without doing so openly...perfect!
"Excuse me! Nurse!" Sherlock beckoned demandingly at a nearby nurse, who turned around, looking disapproving at the rude summoning. John frowned at him. Understanding dawned on Sherlock's face.
Searching quickly for a name tag, Sherlock gave her his most charming smile, gently touching her upper arm briefly.
"Ah, two cups of tea would be lovely, thank you, uh, Bethan."
She giggled nervously, smiling girlishly in response, batting her eyelashes. As if suddenly remembering herself, she nodded weakly and scurried off.
Sherlock's smile dropped immediately as she turned away, and John blinked, looking dazed.
"Now, back to the order of business," Sherlock thrust his cut hand into John's face. "I cut my hand. You should have been there to fix it. You weren't. Now it's probably going to get infected and I'm going to die-"
"Sherlock, you idiot, you're not going to die."
Sherlock looked affronted. "I am not an idiot!"
"You sound ridiculous when you say that, because you are an absolute idiot. Now shut up and kiss me!"
"Well, if you insist..."
"Sherlock!"
"Alright! Fine! I believe the colloquial expression popular at the moment is 'calm yo tits'."
"...Don't ever use that term again, please. You sound ridic-"
Before John could get any further, Sherlock cut him off with a kiss.
'We are but two – be that the band
To hold us till we die;
Shoulder to shoulder let us stand,
Till side by side we lie.'
-Charles Sprague, 'The Brothers'
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or Cabin Pressure or the two extracts from The Brothers. Damnation!