Author's Notes: I wish to thank my wonderful beta-reader, PrincessNala. Thank you for your amasing work!
In the evening…
Sherlock is asleep now, having cried himself into complete exhaustion. He is currently cuddling John quite pleasantly, and the ex-army medic tries to hold himself as still as possible. His restless flatmate succumbed to sleep not long ago, and John is afraid of waking him, so he simply revels in the warmth and comfort that Sherlock is now unconsciously providing. Staring straight ahead, John tries to come to terms with the day, that proved to be so unfortunate and at the same time so eye-opening for both of them...
Earlier this morning…
In the morning Sherlock received a call from Lestrade. The Detective Inspector had a curious case, and of course Sherlock immediately dashed off to wherever the crime scene was. The case proved to be quite interesting, but not too complex - a private party, a jewel heist, all exits closed and a numerous suspects - so it took less than a half an hour for Sherlock to solve it and literally point his finger at the culprit. The man was arrogant enough to stay at the crime scene and even try to disguise himself as the waiter. But the case turned to be a hoax, set up intentionally in order to assassinate the consulting detective himself, because the second when Sherlock made his announcement their suspect pulled out a gun and fired two shots in quick succession.
Time seemed to slow down for John, as he watched the gun discharge. Without thinking, the blond-haired man hurled himself forward and into the bullet's path. There was a sharp, piercing pain in his left shoulder, and he went down, but not before slamming bodily into Sherlock and toppling him over. He heard a soft gasp of surprise, and then two strong arms went around his body. 'Saved you, again', John thought triumphantly, slowly fading away…
John's POV
I wake up in hospital to the dull pain in my shoulder and Sherlock's fearful eyes. As soon as we make eye contact, my friend immediately calms down. But there definitely is some detached, 'not-quite-there' air about him, as if he doesn't quite realise what is going on around him. It appears that he's purposely distanced himself from me by placing the chair, which he currently occupies, in the farthest corner of the room. And there he sits unmoving, his knees drawn up and his expression watchful.
I nervously clear my throat and attempt to start the conversation.
"Sherlock, are you alright?"
"Shouldn't it be me asking that question, John?" comes the immediate reply, and my flatmate snorts in amusement.
"Well, it was you who he tried to kill, Sherlock."
"And it was you who got shot, John."
"Wouldn't be the first time," I try to shrug my shoulders. "Ow! Damn."
"Why?" the grey-blue eyes bore into mine, and I can almost hear his voice in my head. He could've killed you, John.
"I guess it's just the way I am. Don't you worry; it takes more than two bullets to do me in, Sherlock." And I would've died for you, Sherlock, without a second thought.
"You scared me," the detective unfolds his legs and leans forward, elbows on his knees.
"Sorry," I say simply.
"No, you are not."
"Guess you're right."
Sherlock starts to answer, but at that moment the door opens and my physician strolls into the room.
Later, Sherlock's eyes promise.
Wouldn't have it another way, Sherlock.
Our ride home spent in silence. Sherlock seems to contemplate something, judging by the way his eyebrows are drawn together and his palms steepled in front of his lips. So I take my time, going for some contemplating of my own.
We are a strange pair, indeed: Sherlock – the brilliant, unpredictable, astonishing genius and me - the ordinary, boring, unremarkable ex-army medic. But at the same time, we fit together perfectly, and whatever one of us lacks, the other easily fulfills. Sherlock has a knack for solving the most complex puzzles, but when it comes to his own survival he is absolutely clueless. I, on the other hand, often balk at the intellectual challenges, but really pride myself on the ability to get out of seemingly hopeless situations. And when two of us combine our efforts, we really are invincible. Well, most of the time, that is.
Meanwhile the taxi comes to a stop near our front door, and Sherlock is out and through in an instant, leaving me with the task of paying the cabbie. Which, I got to tell you, is not easy, considering the sling on my arm. So when I finally stumble into the living room, my mood is far from perfect.
Of course my flatmate is lounging on the sofa, as usual, his eyes closed and his beloved violin clutched loosely in his hands. I simply stare at him for several minutes, taking in his completely relaxed posture and a serene expression on his upturned face, and suddenly the events of this day seem to blur away, leaving me strangely content and pleasurably numb. Because everything is as it meant to be. Or the shock is finally catching up with me – I'm not sure. We are home, we are safe – the rest doesn't really matter.
"I'm going to take a nap, Sherlock," I announce, pivoting on my heels. "Play something nice, will you?"
"Of course, John," my friend lifts his violin, and a moment later the bow touches the strings. The sweet and at the same time sorrowful melody floats across the room, and I feel my heart skip a beat. Because normally Sherlock Holmes conceals his emotions, but now his violin seems to speak on his behalf perfectly loud and clear.
Sherlock's POV
Somehow in the evening I manage to get into my room and even fall asleep. I dream about death, blood and John. There is so much blood everywhere – on John's clothes, on the floor, on my hands... My favourite scarf is slowly soaking through but I'm still pressing it to the bleeding wound on John's shoulder stubbornly. John's face is deathly white and his breath is coming in short painful gasps. Someone is shouting. I'm scared, mind-numbingly scared for the first time in my entire life. Scared of losing John, I realise suddenly.
Somebody tries to pull us apart, and I tighten my grip reflectively, snarling and baring my teeth. Suddenly there are hands on my shoulders, shaking me roughly, and I look up, meeting Lestrade's desperate eyes.
"Sherlock, you need to let him go!" the Detective Inspector shouts at me. "The paramedics are already here, they need to take him to the hospital! Sherlock, you're killing him!"
Terrified, I immediately let go of John's body and watch with narrowed eyes as my friend is lifted on a stretcher and carried away. Lestrade still has his hands on my shoulders, squeezing them lightly.
"They're going to take a good care of him, Sherlock," he says calmly. "But we need to take you to the hospital too. You're in shock."
"I'm not in shock," I answer automatically. Funny, I remember saying that before. When was it? Oh, right, the cabbie case.
"Yes you are. And besides, John's going to need you when he wakes up."
"John..," I whisper, and in the next moment I'm already up and ready to go. "Where to, Lestrade?"
"That's better," the Detective Inspector praises. "I'll drive you"…
John's POV
Sherlock is screaming in his bedroom downstairs, and finally I can't take it anymore. Wincing, I climb out of bed and carefully pad down the stairs and into Sherlock's room. By that time, Sherlock has already quietened, but I can still hear him making awful choking sounds. I definitely need to wake Sherlock, and I need to do it now.
Crossing the room, I carefully sit down on the edge of the bed, facing my distraught companion, and reach out, laying a hand on his shoulder.
"Sherlock," I call quietly. "Sherlock, wake up. Everything's alright, we're home…" I never finish my sentence, because in the next moment the world's only consulting detective is literally wrapped around me, squeezing tightly and holding on for dear life. "Whoa! Easy, Sherlock, I'm not going anywhere."
"John?" Sherlock's voice sounds so… broken, that it's tearing at my heart. "John, is that you?"
"Of course it's me, Sherlock, who else?" I hasten to reassure. "Um, you need to ease up a bit, Sherlock, because it's getting kind of hard to breathe."
But Sherlock obviously doesn't hear me, continuing his anguished litany.
"I thought I lost you, there was so much blood… And you weren't moving… I called your name, you didn't answer… I thought you're dead… Because of me… Always because of me… Because I'm not able to stop, to simply stop, and I'm always ruining everything…"
Sherlock's arms suddenly tighten even more around me, and I cry out in pain.
"Sherlock, stop!" I wheeze, desperately trying to wrestle free of my flatmate's crushing embrace. "Stop, dammit, it hurts! Sherlock!"
Suddenly he releases me and falls back on the bed, gasping loudly, and I see tears streaming down my friend's face.
Panic attack, my brain registers sluggishly, a bloody panic attack, why I didn't see it before, the signs were so clear...
"Because he scared you shitless, that's why," I say to myself aloud. "And that's okay, everything's fine, he's alright now..."
I am tired, bone-weary tired, and my shoulder throbs dully, so I simply lower myself down and stretch my body blissfully alongside my now sleeping friend. Sherlock immediately shuffles closer, his arm sneaking around my waist and his face practically pressing into the nape of my neck. This ought to feel awkward, but right now I actually don't give a damn. Sighing contentedly, I close my eyes, and in mere moments drift into deep, undisturbed sleep...
The next morning…
When John wakes in the morning, Sherlock is already gone from the bed and apparently, from the room as well, judging by the sounds of violin from down below. But it's not the usual screeching, and that means only one thing – Sherlock isn't thinking right now, he is actually PLAYING. Mesmerised, John gets out of bed and goes into the living room as quietly as possible, afraid to interrupt Sherlock's masterpiece. But that's obviously not going to happen, because Sherlock's eyes are closed, meaning that he knows the piece by his heart. The doctor lowers himself into his chair and listens…
All too soon, the beautiful music ends, and Sherlock opens his eyes.
"Good morning, John," he says quietly. "How's your shoulder?"
"Not bad, actually," the older man rolls his shoulder experimentally. "Yeah, not bad at all. You?"
"Good. Fine. Don't worry."
"Can't help it, Sherlock. It's a funny habit I have – worrying about the closest friends. Best friends, even."
"Am I?"
"Certainly."
The dark-haired man seems to contemplate John's words. "Not the wisest decision, actually."
"Maybe. Or maybe not. Time will tell."
The gray-blue eyes lock themselves onto the deep blue ones.
Thank you, John, Sherlock manages to convey silently.
You're welcome, he reads the answer clearly, whatever happens.
And in that second Sherlock realises suddenly, that he somehow managed to acquire the most important thing in his life.
That from now on he has his personal Guardian.
And his Guardian stares back at him with the warmest smile that Sherlock have ever seen in his entire life.
The name of his Guardian is John Watson.
Plain and simple.
Sherlock tips his head back and laughs.