Disclaimer - I own nothing you recognise.
Challenges listed at the bottom.
Word Count - 1691
Actions Speak Louder Than Words
The gunshot should have been expected, he later thought. He should have realised, anticipated it. Now, because he didn't, he is sitting in a bleak hospital waiting room, covered in blood that isn't his own, praying to every deity that could possibly exist.
John cannot die.
After everything they've been through, everything they've overcome, John is not allowed to succumb to death at the hands of a rat bastard trying to flee the consequences of his crimes.
Sherlock will not allow it.
A cup is thrust into his blood-stained hands and he blinks twice before focusing on the tired face of Lestrade.
"Are you alright?" The DI asks, sitting down in the uncomfortable plastic seat facing Sherlock's own.
Sherlock ignores the ridiculous question, (of course he's not alright, John is in the operating room), and asks one of his own.
"Did you catch him?"
Sighing, Lestrade nodded his head weakly. "He's in custody."
"As soon as I have news on John's condition, I want to see him."
"You know that's not going to happen," Lestrade replied wearily. "You should go and clean yourself up a bit, you know."
"Irrelevant. I want to speak to him, Lestrade."
"You must really think me a fool if you think I'll believe for one second that you only want to talk to the man who just shot John Watson."
Slumping in his seat, Sherlock ran a hand through his already messy hair. Sitting around doing nothing was simply infuriating! Surely there was something he could be doing to help John.
"He'll pull through, Sherlock. John's a fighter."
"Oh? Perhaps I have underestimated your intelligence, Lestrade. I didn't realise you were a trauma surgeon as well as a detective inspector."
Huffing a brief chuckle, Lestrade shook his head.
"Maybe now you'll understand why John gets so mad when you land yourself in hospital."
Not deigning to reply, Sherlock sunk into his mind palace, searching for any and all information he could recall about gun wounds and survival rates. He had to believe that John would be fine.
He refused to consider any other outcome.
"Shane Wyatt has been removed from Scotland Yard," Mycroft said flatly. "The investigation has been closed."
Not waiting for a scowling Lestrade to reply, Mycroft turned to look at his little brother. He was a mess, still covered in John's blood, his hair a messy array from where he'd pulled at it in frustration.
Thankfully, he could relay some good news.
"John has just been moved to recovery, Sherlock. I've arranged for a private room, and as soon as you've cleaned up, you'll be able to go and sit with him."
He watched with satisfaction as the tenseness seeped from Sherlock's stiff shoulders.
"Anthea has a change of clothes for you, and there's a bathroom just down the hall for you to shower. Sherlock… he's going to be fine."
Standing up, Sherlock accepted the offered bag of clothing and turned away. Mycroft was surprised when his little brother paused, turning around.
"You'll… deal… with the assailant?"
"Of course," Mycroft agreed with relish, knowing that Sherlock was fully aware of the actions that would be taken against Mr Wyatt.
"Good. Mycroft… thank you."
Sherlock was away before Mycroft could reply, not that the Government official knew what to say. They didn't do sentiment.
The first thing John was aware of was pain. It ran the length of his right side, worse in his lower torso. Blinking his eyes, he winced at the light, unsurprised to find himself in a hospital room.
What on earth had happened?
His limbs felt heavy as he tried to move, wincing at the sharpening of the pain in his side. Turning his head, he saw Sherlock in the chair by his bed, his head resting beside John's hand, a hand which he held in his own.
Feeling a stab of sympathy for his friend, John smiled slightly. He was far too familiar with the feeling of waiting by a hospital bedside, what with the amount of times Sherlock got himself injured.
The hand-holding though - that was new. Sherlock, to John's knowledge, didn't like to be touched. For that matter, he wasn't the type to sit endlessly beside an unconscious body, though John understood that he was an exception to most of Sherlock's rules.
"John?"
"Hey," John murmured, his throat protesting the speech.
"How long have you been awake?" Sherlock asked, sitting up to look at his friend carefully.
John didn't mention that he hadn't let go of his hand.
"Only a minute or two," John replied, pointing at the water jug with his free hand.
Taking the hint, Sherlock stood up. "I'll just get the doctor and make sure it's okay for you to have a drink."
Before John could complain, Sherlock was out of the room. Rolling his eyes, John pressed the buzzer beside the bed, holding in a chuckle when the doctor came in, sans Sherlock.
The doctor gave him a quick check over, supplying the information John had been waiting for. Apparently, he'd been shot in the hip, there had been a few complications, and he'd been unconscious for three days, and Sherlock had been there the entire time.
No wonder Sherlock had succumbed to sleep. The monotony must have driven him mad.
When Sherlock returned, it was to find the doctor leaving the room, and John sipping iced water through a straw.
"How're you doing?" John asked, as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak.
He frowned. "You're stealing my lines. How are you?"
John snorted. "I've got a new bullet hole. Have you eaten at all since I've been in here?"
"I am capable of looking after myself, you know?"
"Yet, apparently, you're incapable of answering simple questions," John retorted, raising his eyebrow.
"Yes, John, I've eaten. Mycroft has been having food delivered for me. I'm sure as soon as you're cleared to eat, he'll have some delivered for you too. The food here is ghastly."
John nodded, then smirked at his friend. "So. When can I leave?"
Sherlock's laughter could be heard down the corridor.
John watched Sherlock's eyes flutter, the stress and tension of the past few days catching up with him. He knew the feeling well, having spent an inordinate amount of time in the same position.
Not wanting him to sleep in the chair and hurt his back, John cleared his throat.
"You should go home, get some rest," he suggested lightly. "I'm probably going to doze off soon, you'll be bored."
"I'm not leaving you," Sherlock replied, offended. "I'll be fine on the chair, John. Go to sleep."
Sighing, John rolled his eyes, wincing as he shifted over in the bed so the left side was free.
"Come and get in bed, Sherlock. I'll not have you complaining about a bad back for days because you're a stubborn ass."
Sherlock eyed him hesitantly. "John, your side… I don't want to hurt you."
"It'll be fine. You know I'll only fret about you all night if you stay in that chair. Come on, you look done in."
Sherlock seemed to argue with himself for a moment, before he nodded, toeing his shoes off by the chair and climbing into the bed carefully. He stretched out on his side, leaving a small gap between them.
John smiled, reaching out a little to squeeze Sherlock's hand. "Sleep."
"You too," Sherlock replied, his eyes already falling shut. "G'night, John."
Sherlock woke slowly, warm and comfortable. Blinking against the light in the room, it took him a moment to realise why he felt so content. John's arm was stretched out beneath his neck, Sherlock's face pressed onto his shoulder, his hand resting directly over John's heart.
John's head was turned towards him, peaceful in sleep as he rarely was when awake.
It was intimate, but comfortable.
Not wanting to lose the feeling of warmth and, dare he even think it, safety of John's arm, Sherlock closed his eyes again, slowing his breathing to match John's.
He drifted through his mind palace, cataloguing the sensations carefully in the John-specific room. He didn't know how much time had passed when John finally stirred, but Sherlock continued to feign sleep.
John stroked a hand through Sherlock's hair and sighed heavily. Sherlock wondered if he'd try and move, or if he'd 'wake' Sherlock to tell him to get up, but he didn't. Instead, his hand just kept a regular pattern of sweeping through the messy curls on Sherlock's head.
Eventually, Sherlock decided it was probably time that he 'woke up' himself, and he blinked tiredly up at John.
"Hey, sleepy head," John murmured, his lips tilting up in a smile. "Feel better."
Sherlock nodded. "Hmm. You make a fantastic pillow, John."
John chuckled, and Sherlock felt the vibration.
"I was scared," Sherlock admitted after a moment. "So scared that you were going to die. That I was going to lose you."
"Take more than a bullet hole to take me out," John comforted quietly.
"You… I… You need to know that I…"
"You think I don't already?" John asked, and when Sherlock looked up, he had to bite back a gasp at the affection in John's eyes. "Actions speak louder than words, Sherlock. I know."
Sherlock closed his eyes and nuzzled closer. Later, he'd examine their relationship closer, to see if he could pinpoint the moment John knew how Sherlock felt. That the doctor had known it before Sherlock wasn't too much of a surprise given Sherlock's lack of interest in sentiment in general, but… it would be interesting.
Everything about John was interesting. Perhaps that should have been Sherlock's first clue.
For now though, he was comfortable right where he was, and John still hadn't stopped stroking his hair. For now, he could live in the moment and enjoy it.
With John.
"So," John said, a few minutes later. "Think Mycroft will be convinced that I require ice-cream from that little place we went by the Tower of London to heal properly?"
Sherlock snorted.
…
An hour later, they were eating ice cream for breakfast from the little place near the Tower of London… it was delicious.
Written for;
Auction - Ice Cream
Gym - Stair Stepper - Cuddling
365 - 273. Intimate
1000 - 516. Hospital