"Hold on, Sherlock," John told the man bleeding out underneath his fingers. "Just hold on a bit longer."
He looked around for something else to help suppress the wound, but there was so little in the immediate area. The docks weren't exactly the best place to be nearly dying, especially with the close to freezing temperatures and help still so far away. John turned back to Sherlock and his eyes landed on the scarf around the Consulting Detective's neck.
"Forgive me for this," John muttered as he nimbly unwound the scarf from Sherlock and pressed it into the wound. Sherlock let out a bit of a whimper. "Sorry, love."
"My scarf," Sherlock whispered.
"I'm using it, Sherlock. Can't exactly remove my trousers. Not very sanitary."
"No," Sherlock murmured, trying to shake his head. "My scarf…"
"I know it's yours. You hardly go anywhere without it and I'm sure I've seen you nap with it on the couch a few times," John replied. "Just keep quiet and let me keep you alive until the paramedics get here."
Sherlock raised his head and opened his mouth to say something else, but John was secretly grateful that he passed out before making another sound.
John had kept vigil over Sherlock since he'd been stabilized and placed in a hospital room just the day before. He would have liked if this wasn't a usual situation for them, but with Sherlock's intent of running into danger head first and John's impulse to keep his partner alive this kind of thing happened more often than he liked.
"Bloody idiot," John said lightly. He squeezed Sherlock's hand and shifted into a more comfortable position in the chair that had probably started out as a torture device before being gifted to the hospital.
The hand in John's twitched and Dr. Watson was at full alert.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me? Are you in any pain?"
"Where's my scarf?" Sherlock asked, hoarsely.
"What?"
"My scarf," Sherlock repeated with a frown. "I need it."
"I'm not sure," John answered. "Does it really matter? We have more important things to discuss. Like if you're in any pain and why the hell didn't you listen to me when I told you to duck. Your bloody scarf may have saved your life, Sherlock, but I would assume it's either in evidence or it's been tossed. I really don't care at this point. As your doctor and your partner in so many ways, I'm a bit more concerned with your health and recovery."
"No," Sherlock groaned, putting his face in his hands. "Bloody hell."
"What's wrong?" John inquired.
"Just leave me alone," Sherlock told him.
"What?"
"Leave me alone. Surely you understand those words, doctor." Sherlock raised his eyes to meet John's.
John pursed his lips and matched Sherlock's tense glare. "You're not doing this again, Sherlock. Especially over something as ridiculous as scarf. I'll buy you a new one. Problem solved. There's no need to get in a snit over it."
"My scarf was not purchased in a store, John," Sherlock informed the doctor.
"Was it knitted then?" John inquired. "Perhaps we could get Mrs. Hudson to…"
"It wouldn't be the same," Sherlock interrupted. He put on pout that would make a five year old proud. "I need my scarf back, John."
"Fine. I'll find your damn scarf. Now, when the doctor gets in here let him examine you without any fuss. I'd rather not have a repeat of last time. The number of hospitals that will actually admit you anymore without Mycroft's influence are rapidly reducing as the months go by."
"It's not my fault," Sherlock replied. "It's the medical system and their need for absolutely ridiculous rules."
"Oh, yes. The fact that they want to keep people alive and safe with their absolutely ridiculous rules is such a waste of the world's only consulting detective's time and extremely limited patience."
"I'm glad you finally understand, John," Sherlock responded with a thin smile.
John rolled his eyes with a heavy sigh.
Dr. Watson wished he had never agreed to find Sherlock's scarf. He still didn't understand why it was so important to the Consulting Detective. John only received vague answers to his question about the scarf's significance followed by intrusive inquiries as to why he hadn't found it after less than a week.
John had tried though. He searched the scene where Sherlock had been wounded, but even before he had he knew it would be a waste of time because of the number of people that went through there on a daily basis. He would also not admit to the number of times he showered after digging through trash that smelled of dead fish, decomposed bodies and a frat house the morning after.
John talked with the paramedics would had been to the scene and they couldn't remember anything about the scarf, which was understandable considering their main focus had been to save Sherlock's life. And when John turned his attention to Lestrade and Scotland Yard they came up empty. He also managed to get laughed at by Sally as he left the building because he was searching for a scarf that apparently had value to a sociopath that cared about so few things.
After his attempts and Sherlock's annoying nagging that he find the scarf, Dr. John Watson finally turned to Mycroft Holmes. Because if anyone could make something appear out of thin air it would be the elder Holmes brother who seemed to have a tendency to pop up without warning to provide precisely what Sherlock or John needed.
"A scarf?" Mycroft said with some hesitancy and amusement.
"Yes. I'm looking for a scarf," John replied. "It's Sherlock's scarf. I used it to help save his life and now, for whatever reason only your brother knows of, he wants it back. I tried to find it and I can't. I was hoping that perhaps you'd know where it might be or where I could find a new one."
"You believe I'd use my resources to find Sherlock's missing scarf?" Mycroft returned with a frown. "I do have many important matters that I must contend with at any given time, Dr. Watson. Your intrusion alone today has interrupted strategic negotiations that if not resolved will quite possibly end in much destruction."
"I'm aware of that," John admitted. "That you have important matters. Not the part about the negotiations. Your assistant just told me to come on in."
"Well, she's sentimental," Mycroft stated. "I may have what you're looking for, Dr. Watson."
"You have his scarf?" John tried to ignore the fact his own voice raised in pitch.
"Yes," Mycroft answered. He put his hands together and mimicked the pose Sherlock usually took when he sat on the couch to think and ponder his latest case. "What would you do for it?"
"Well, perhaps the better question is what I wouldn't do?" John returned. "Or what haven't I done to find it? Maybe you could ask me what way I could demoralize myself further to get it back."
"You understand that it does hold a sentimental value for my brother. He doesn't have many items that he feels so strongly about."
"You don't think I know this?" John shot back. "I once touched his violin to move it just barely an inch and I nearly lost a hand. I tried to find a better place for the skull and I got the verbal lashing of a lifetime whereas Mrs. Hudson only got the cold stare for a week."
"Jim Moriarty tried to kill you and my little brother made it his mission to destroy him," Mycroft added.
John's mouth open and closed a few times. His fist clenched and he burrowed his brow in concentration. "He doesn't really feel that way about me, Mycroft. I love your brother to bits, but he's yet to acknowledge feeling anything of the sort himself. I'm his blogger. I'm his doctor. I'm his partner. I'm his bedfellow. That's it. There's really nothing else to it and I've accepted this."
"And you're quite sure about that?" Mycroft inquired, leaning back in his seat.
"Mycroft, if you're trying to test my loyalty or see if you can get anything out of me about your brother's activities you don't observe through CCTV then tell me now. I'm quite certain I won't leave your office holding my head up high. I'm almost prepared to get on my knees and grovel to get the scarf back."
"Would you now?"
"I'd walk across hot coals if it would make Sherlock happy," John confessed.
Mycroft eyed John with an unreadable expression for a long enough time that made John feel antsy. This was something Sherlock did on a daily basis, but at least with the consulting detective it was done in a more caring manner. This analysis made John feel naked and more vulnerable than anything in his life ever had.
"I don't believe that will be necessary, Dr. Watson. If I returned you to Sherlock harmed in any manner he would most certainly make my life very miserable."
"I can have the scarf back?"
"Of course," Mycroft answered. "I would have eventually returned it to Sherlock in due time."
John's mind immediately interpreted the Holmes-speak and understood that it meant that when Mycroft needed something from Sherlock that the scarf would have been used as leverage.
"It should be back at Baker Street by the time you arrive home," Mycroft carried on. "Have a good day, Dr. Watson."
John nodded and numbly started to make his way out of Mycroft's office.
"Oh, and, Dr. Watson?"
John turned back around to look at the elder Holmes.
"He does feel the same," Mycroft told him. "You're the first one he's truly loved."
John gave Mycroft a faint smile. "No pressure then, huh?"
The elder Holmes inclined his head and John quickly made his way out of the office.
John hovered outside of the door leading into the flat. He arrived at Baker Street over ten minutes ago and walked inside then up the stairs, but had yet to actually go inside his flat. John took in a deep breath and reached for the doorknob when it swung open viciously.
"I could hear you breathing," Sherlock stated with annoyed tone. "I've no idea why you've decided to stand outside our door, but if this is something new to test my observational skills then I believe I've passed."
"That wasn't…" John sighed. "I, um, I was just…"
"Perhaps you shouldn't speak until you can form coherent sentences," Sherlock suggested, pulling him into the flat. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
"Tea?" John nearly squeaked. He cleared his throat as he shed his jacket. "You're making tea?"
"Yes," Sherlock answered. "I assume this situation will require tea."
"Situation?" John repeated. "We have a situation?" His eyes landed on a gift box sitting on the coffee table. It was open with the scarf that Sherlock had insisted he needed glaring back at the doctor. "Oh, yes. Right. Tea sounds lovely."
John fell onto the couch and stared at the scarf.
"John?"
"Hmm…?"
"Hot coals?"
John's eyes widened as he met Sherlock's twinkling ones. He swallowed as he mentally prepared for whatever teasing Sherlock had in store.
"Yes," John mumbled.
"I love you, John Watson," Sherlock told him. "There are very few people in my life who would have done what you did, what you've done and what you're willing to do. I thank you."
"You're welcome," John said with a smile. Sherlock nodded and walked back into the kitchen. John's focus returned back to the scarf.
"It was my baby blanket," Sherlock's voice floated out of the kitchen. "My grandmother had given it to me before she passed away and I carried it around through much of my childhood. I was aware that it would have been socially unacceptable to continue carrying it and had it made into a scarf."
"I had a bear named…"
"Mr. Bearington. I know," Sherlock interjected from the kitchen. "And you still have him, Dr. Watson. It's underneath those drawing pads you've kept from your university years next to a picture of you and Harry before you left for Afghanistan. You two are wearing forced smiles because you're both angry at the other. She because her baby brother is going to war and you because she's started drinking herself into an early death."
"I really have no secrets from you, do I?" John asked.
"No, but you rather enjoy knowing you have nothing left to keep secret," Sherlock pointed out as he returned with two steaming mugs of tea. He handed one to John and sat down on the couch next to him.
"That's pretty sentimental for a self-diagnosed sociopath."
"And you're a dangerous man wrapped in a cuddly jumper. I think we're all allowed to be contrary once in a while."
John could only smile as he drank his tea.