Title: Sherlock (BBC): Superficial
Rating: Gen
Genre/Relationship: John Watson, Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes
Wordcount: 1,514
Spoilers: None, really
Disclaimer: Do not own
Spoilers: None, really
Summary: After Sherlock reveals he is not dead, but before he and John can find their footing again, John is kidnapped by forces as yet unknown. Sherlock helps Mary to save his life, but there are other wounds that might take longer to heal.
Warnings: Psychological dissection. Please glove up and wear a mask
A/N: With gratitude to the creators of BBC's Sherlock, who own this version of these characters, but not the ideas of this story.
Superficial
There were worse things, really. He'd suffered his share, to be sure, and then some. For inventiveness, it didn't really get better than this—or worse—but in the end, the goal was almost certainly the same. The war hadn't managed to end him, and Sherlock's loss—while it had been a near thing—hadn't done after all. Seeing him last night hadn't ended him either, so he supposed he was pretty hardy stock. Or lucky. Very lucky.
Nonetheless, there was a roaring in his ears, and he still couldn't talk. He smelled of petrol and dampness and there was a foul taste in his mouth.
They'd drugged him, of course. Still, he hoped he'd made a pretty good show of it. His muscles were sore, and there were scrapes and bruises along his knuckles, so probably. He didn't seem to have been handled all that roughly—the scrape along his scalp was new, but he thought it might have happened when they'd dumped him in the pyre. He felt along the edge of it gingerly, wincing as he touched the broken skin, but Mary was there immediately, taking his hand and pulling it away. She kissed his knuckles, clucking over the bruises, and he felt some of the tension in his frame ease just with the clasp of her hand.
"John—John, Sweetheart, it's okay. We've got you."
We? We who? The pale moon of Sherlock's face swam into view. Now I know I'm dreaming, John thought, but dazedly. Why, only last night he'd imagined that Sherlock was back, that he wasn't really—
"John—we've got you. We're here. It's all right." Sherlock's voice, raised in pitch from his normal baritone. "We're going to get you to hospital."
John shook his head violently despite the pain. He tried to sit up and begin to cough.
Four hands steadied him—he knew them all, knew them well, and they knew him, too, knew better than to try to restrain him, knew how to soothe him. He coughed and coughed and felt like wretching, but his stomach was empty, his head pounding. Mary was on her knees and she reached to wrap her arms around him. Confident that there were no broken bones, she hauled him to a sitting position and cradled his head against her shoulder. He felt floppy as a rag doll, but it was good—it was wonderful to rest against her, and when he looked over her shoulder he saw his old friend, his face contorted with worry, hovering in the background. He raised his eyes to Sherlock's pale blue ones and the instant their eyes met, Sherlock dropped to his knees on the ground behind Mary.
"John," Sherlock said. He reached out tentatively, but stopped short. He rested his hand on Mary's shoulder instead, but his eyes remained fastened on John's until the paramedics arrived.
It is difficult to pitch a fit when you cannot talk and are barely in control of your limbs, but he managed. He managed primarily because Mary knew him, and Sherlock knew him, and they knew how loathe he was to being checked in to the hospital.
"No, really," Mary kept insisting. "I'm a nurse. He'll be perfectly fine with me at home." Even with her determination, she wouldn't have won the day without Sherlock's aggressiveness, and finally finally the emergency workers withdrew and left them to it. John was semi-mobile by then, able to manage a hoarse whisper (though not reliably), and Mary hailed a taxi while Sherlock stood with one long, rangy arm around John's middle, holding him upright. John felt Sherlock's vigilance beside him like an army unit rallied for battle, and did not worry about anything.
Next, they bundled him into the back of the cab and Sherlock made arrangements with a service to return the motorcycle to its rightful owners. He could have ridden it back himself, but one look at his face and Mary had known that wasn't going to happen. She sat on one side of John, against the far door, and Sherlock pushed in on the other side. For the first time in hours—for the first time in his life, maybe, John felt warm.
He saw Sherlock and Mary exchange glances. "Home," Mary confirmed. "Let's get him home."
Home was a reverse of the process of getting John into the cab. Mary put her shoulder under his, and Sherlock stooped to support them both and they half-walked, half-dragged a mostly boneless John into the house while he cursed his helplessness. Sherlock wanted the bedroom, and Mary tried to insist on it, but John managed to bully them both, helpless as he was, and was soon ensconced on the couch. Heedless of his modesty, Mary stripped him down to his boxers and washed all traces of dust and smoke and grime away from his body with a warm washcloth. She had beautiful, competent hands, and John looked down and loved those hands, loved that those hands were touching him, taking care of him, even as he felt enraged over his inability to take care of himself.
John saw Mary making gestures over his head, obviously to Sherlock, and tried to turn his neck. It hurt. It hurt quite a lot, but John winced and turned his head just in time to see Sherlock step up behind the couch and drop a towel over his shoulders. He had a casserole dish in one hand, full of steaming water, and John's shampoo, and before John could protest—if, indeed, he would have—Sherlock had dipped a washrag into the hot water and was running it over John's filthy hair.
I'm not bloody helpless, he thought furiously. His throat felt swollen and useless, like your tongue after you've been to the dentist, and he wondered again what they might have given him.
"Of course you're not," soothed Mary.
"Some sort of paralytic, obviously," said Sherlock.
For some reason, this made him laugh, being read so expertly on two tracks by his…by the people who knew him best. The water over his head wasn't warm, it was hot, and Mary kept changing out for a fresh cloth. Soon, he was clean, dry, redressed in sweats and a sweatshirt—a two-person job if there ever was one—and half-sitting/half-reclining on the sofa. Mary held a cup of something hot to his lips—broth, salty and delicious, and his hand closed over hers. He had stopped fighting her taking care of him, not just letting her but assisting her, and he tried a smile—his first real smile since he'd been attacked. The broth loosened his throat some, which was not only sore but dry from the smoke and then the oxygen. He drank all of it, and Mary went to get more. He turned his head to follow her movements, but a great dark shape dropped in front of him and he turned and looked into the pale blue eyes of Sherlock Holmes.
"All right, then, John?" Sherlock had asked. There was little expression on his face, but John knew him so well that he could read a lot out of that little. The sight of that familiar face, so grieved for for so long, made John's heart clench in his chest and his eyes felt full and hot. He told himself it was the aftermath of trauma, this sweep of emotion that threatened to engulf him, but he knew better than to examine that lie too closely.
"Yes," John said, his voice raspy and cracked. They looked at each other. Gently, Sherlock's pale, long-fingered hand reached out and checked the cut on his temple. His fingers were light and dry.
"Superficial."
John looked at him, his eyes enormous. "No," he said, his teeth clenched. "It's not."
Sherlock's hand stilled where it was and John watched his Adam's apple bob for a moment as he pinned him with his gaze.
"John…I—"
"Bastard," John said. His voice was like gravel, but his eyes were surprisingly soft. "Thank God you were there."
Sherlock looked stunned, and he opened his mouth to say something.
"Here now—have some juice," Mary said, sliding in next to John on the couch. She pressed a glass of something cold against his lips and he took a sip of ice-cold apple juice. It was sweet and almost painfully cold, but he drank it all, aware of their eyes on him. His own eyes were closing, his body betraying him and he was literally unable to keep his lids open. Mary eased him down on the couch and covered him with a blanket and he couldn't move, couldn't…couldn't anything, but it was different, it was okay. Mary was here. Sherlock was here. Nothing could hurt him now but them.
He heard them walk to the door, Mary's shoes squeaking, Sherlock's coat rustling as he swept it on.
"He'll be all right." It wasn't a question.
"Yes. He'll be fine. I'll take care of him."
"I know you will."
He heard a light step and knew without seeing that Mary had stepped close and put her hand on Sherlock's arm. "Thank you. I couldn't have…thank you for…saving him."
"Mary."
That was all. Mary. That was all. Mary and Sherlock. Watching guard over him.
Everything else could be sorted later.