Disclaimer:I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any character in connection with him; he was created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The adaptation BBC Sherlock was created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
AN: I... this is the absolute sappiest thing I've ever done, I think. I mean, considering the fact that it's Sherlock. Sorry if there are discrepancies - I barely edited this and I just wanted to get it out before the idea ate me up from the inside and it's probably terribly out of character, but... anyway. This is probably somewhere in the first season... at least in my mind. I'll.. probably edit this, someday, fix it up. Hopefully. For now, well. Here you go.
Human Nature
In the aftermath of their latest case, Sherlock does not move at all.
Mrs. Hudson brings him food that is largely untouched and the hospital staff grows used to his presence, mostly because he is so like a statue that he might as well not be there at all. A small voice in Sherlock's head that sounds surprisingly unsurprisingly like John berates him with a fair amount of exasperation, reminding him that rest is important. Sherlock retorts that how can sitting here all day and night not be resting? and waits on.
John is unconscious for twenty-seven hours and thirteen minutes.
When he stirs, Sherlock sits bolt upright and studies him, as is his method. But John remains largely unchanged since he was first brought in, and if Sherlock avoids looking at his bandaged, recently-shot left arm then the universe has merely been terribly lazy as of late and it is purely coincidence.
John's face is still paler than normal, but the painkillers will take care of any pain. He has already woken before, of course, in fits and bursts, not really awake, caught in army memories and battle visions—but this time his eyes, while still dazed, are sharp and alert, which tells Sherlock that he is well and truly awake now.
"John. John."
He promptly stands up and leans over the hospital bed to look into John's face, which calms, strangely enough, upon seeing him.
John tries to say Sherlock's name as his vision at last clears, but his throat has apparently not caught up with his brain yet, and all that come out is a humiliating mangled little "Sherlck."
His right arm, which is his shooting arm, is at least perfectly fine, and that frankly makes him feel much better even though he doesn't have a gun at the moment and his left arm is his writing arm. At the moment it just feels numb with the painkillers. There seems to be nothing wrong with him, although he does feel rather achy, as if he has slept in in too long, which he probably has.
He clears his throat, groping at the side of the bed with his good arm. "Er—could you, ah—"
Sherlock immediately backs away from the bed, and John feels his bed slowly rising a moment later.
"Er, thanks."
"Why did you do that?"
John glances at Sherlock. "Sorry?"
"Why did you push me out of the way?" Sherlock scowls as though John is one of those unsolvable cases. "You are intimately familiar with guns and the speed of bullets. You must have known there was no chance that you would be perfectly safe when you pushed me. You could have tried to pull me to safety, I suppose, but less momentum that way, so pushing me was safer, only it puts you in danger instead. But none of that explains why."
John stares. "Why… what, exactly?"
"Why did you take a bullet for me?" Sherlock sounds and looks positively bewildered now. I need a camera. How often is Sherlock confused? "Was it instinct? A miscalculation? What—"
"Oh, Christ, Sherlock," John snaps, not amused any more. He's not in the mood to be sappy. Rarely ever is. "Take a guess, why don't you—"
"Sentiment? Panic, perhaps?" Christ, he's guessing. He's really—just—guessing. "Human error—"
"God, honestly—Sherlock—it was not some kind of error!"
Sherlock pauses. Blinks. Goes right on staring.
John sends him his best military-captain glare.
"Don't you call it that—don't call it an error. That's an insult," he scowls. "It was not an error. I got shot, yes, but I meant to jump in front of you. It was partly out of instinct, yes, true, but—" He sighs, shutting his eyes. Sherlock's stare is still unblinking. "Ugh, I did it because I'd rather you didn't die, okay? You were too busy solving your beloved little case to even notice the bloody sniper, and since you practically dragged me along to that case I didn't even have my gun, which, yes, made me panic! And no, it's still not a human error or whatever you want to bloody call it," he says sharply when Sherlock opens his mouth.
He rather gets the feeling that Sherlock has to understand this, that he has to know that Sherlock knows this.
"It was not an error," he says again. "My goal was for you not to die and for me to live, and since we're both obviously here then no it was not a mistake." He clears his throat. "And I don't regret it, either way."
Sherlock looks uncharacteristically stunned, and there is silence in the small room for a long time. John doesn't dare break it, instead meeting Sherlock's gaze evenly, eye to eye.
"Oh," the detective mutters, looking down, just as John is starting to get seriously creeped out by the quiet. "Well. I… thank you, then, I suppose. John. For, ah, saving my life."
"Right. 'Course," John says, suddenly feeling just as awkward. "Uh, its fine. Anytime." Maybe it doesn't feel like that big a deal to him because of his time in the army somehow—but he does know that while shooting a cabbie-turned-murderer for Sherlock is pretty heroic, it's not quite the same as jumping in front of a sniper for him.
Sherlock nods. "Thank you," he says again.
And they sit, in a careless, lazy sort of silence, until John is discharged from the hospital of St. Bartholomew.