Sherlock could not help but remind himself that he was the reason why John got shot. His mind replayed the seconds when John fell forward after being shot in his shoulder. Again. The very same shoulder. As the world's only consulting detective sat quietly beside the hospital bed, he remembered all the times John had went into the line of fire for his sake, and a strange emotion gripped him. He remember the moment when he thought John had died, even though his mind knew that it would take at least a good fifteen minutes for John to bleed out from a clean wound.
Sherlock Holmes was not a man prone to excessive sentiment, but he has realised over the past year while living with John, that he had grown to care for the other man. They had developed an easy friendship, John had put up with his experiments in the kitchen, and last week, he did not even bat an eyelid at the arm that was in the lower shelf of the fridge. To be honest, Sherlock was a bit disappointed at this lack of reaction. So naturally, the next day, he decided to up his game by using a jar of John's favourite raspberry jam for an experiment about beetles. John, to Sherlock's secret joy, almost exploded with effort in order not to hit him. Sherlock like the way John looked when he was particularly agitated.
If only John had some color in his cheeks now, Sherlock thought. The man lay in bed, looking paler than Sherlock.
"Don't be boring, John. Stop lying there and wake up!" Sherlock mumbled, but the morose tone he said that in betrayed his true feelings.
John Watson was his only friend. Sherlock never had friends before. Not in university, where the student population ostracised him because he often told them what they did not want to know about themselves. All his past flatmates left within a month because they simply could not take the explosions and experiments that Sherlock was often engaged in. Well, John was different. His John was above all else.
His John. Sherlock mused. But his thought process was interrupted by the weak sound of John calling out for him.
"Sh'lock", John's voice was weak. 'Where am I? Are you alright?"
The man in question was moved that John's first concern was for him. Looking at John lying there, pale and weak, Sherlock could not help but feel protective of him. Irrationally, he wanted to keep John from harm's way. He wanted to make sure that John will never be hurt again. Such emotions and thoughts were never part of the self-declared sociopath's life. Until John.
"Stop thinking, Sherlock, it's annoying." John smiled weakly.
Sherlock smirked at the use of his own words.
John continued, his expression turning somber. "It is not your fault, you know. You saved my life my pushing me. If it hadn't..." John allowed his sentence to trail off.
Sherlock did something uncharacteristic. He reached over for John's fingers and laced it with his. His actions was unexplainable. He thought about a life where John no longer exist, and he could not bear it. He could not even begin to even think about a world where he did not have his John.
"Sherlock?" John's voice was gentle, he knew that his detective rarely has such human emotions. "It's fine. I am fine." He smiled tentatively, partly because he was touched at such a rare display of emotion from the reticent man and partly to comfort him.
Sherlock smiled, the one that he reserved only for his blogger. He was going to be well again.
My John.