Something a little different again :o)
I have rated this an M because of some horrific imagery. Sorry. Mostly fluff after an adventure for our boys.
Safety is a Number 1 Priority
"I am afraid, John" Sherlock's voice was unusually strained as it was spoken to the four walls of 221B's living room.
It was over fifteen minutes of silence before the consulting detective realised he was alone.
"Afraid" Sherlock repeated again, this time quietly as he brought his hands back up to his mouth in a steepled position. He stared from his position on the leather armchair toward the curtain less window opposite him.
The room was cold – the fire had died out at some point during the night from under the sharp mans' nose.
Glancing toward the clock on the crowded mantelpiece, Sherlock saw that it was 10 am. John would be at work.
How bored he must be.
The man was built for adventure, excitement and raw danger, not sitting in an office with several cases of flu and numerous undiagnosed itches.
Sherlock's nose scrunched at the thought of dealing with so many members of the common British public; why would John want to do that?
If only the doctor was here instead of there. He would be so much more useful.
Sherlock lowered his hands to each armrest, his body completely symmetrical for clear thought processes; he had been sitting far too long.
Standing abruptly, Sherlock ignored the dizziness and nausea that washed briefly over him. Thinking that he had better furnish his stomach with something he headed straight for the cupboard above the kettle.
John's biscuits would do, after all, John had bought them; they must be healthy enough.
Grasping two of the sweet tasting wheels, Sherlock shoved one in the general direction of his mouth as he searched for his overcoat.
Finding it, Sherlock hiccupped as his stomach tried to reject the jammy dodger. Once more ignoring his bodies' needs and swallowing the second biscuit entirely, Sherlock threw on his coat and scarf before swiftly exiting the room. Bounding down the stairs, Sherlock checked his phone. Six unread messages from Lestrade and a missed phone call.
"Taxi!" Sherlock shouted as he held the phone up to his ear in order to hear the voicemail message that had been left for him.
Lestrade had sounded almost on the verge of panic when he had called at 8 am that very morning, so with a heavy sigh, Sherlock re-prioritised; redirecting his taxi toward Scotland Yard.
"Lestrade, this had better be important, I had an appointment" Sherlock lied as he walked through the door to Lestrades' office.
"Thank god, Sherlock. I need you to look at these, on the double. Tell me all that you can" Greg pleaded pathetically, handing Sherlock a stash of photographs.
Sherlock looked at the dead bodies before using a spare desk to organise the photographs into a visual pattern.
It took less than an hour to track the latest victim. Sherlock had directed Lestrade with precision to a small porta-cabin on the quayside.
"How on earth do you know that?" Lestrade asked incredulously.
"Do you want me to explain or do you want to find them quickly?" Sherlock asked harshly.
Greg hesitated for approximately two minutes before nodding curtly and shouting for Donavon. "Come with us, Sherlock, I need directions when we get there"
"Of course" Sherlock said abruptly, promptly turning heel and leaving the office with a sweep of his coat.
The ground was oily, hint of saltwater underneath making the earth boggy. Sherlock surveyed the sight upon arrival at the dockyards.
"Stop the car" He barked suddenly.
In shock, Greg skidded the car as he proactively slammed on his brakes.
"Rather dramatic, Lestrade" the consulting detective mused as he collected himself in order to exit the car.
"Why did I have to stop here?" Greg asked with a look of confusion on his face.
"You wouldn't want your car to get stuck now would you? If you did, my apologies, drive right on ahead" Sherlock said sarcastically, slamming the car door with force and striding toward the desolate porta-cabin.
"Sherlock, wait up. Do we need back up?" Lestrade shouted as he leapt from the driver's seat.
"No, the killers are far away by now, might want to take a note of the dent in the cabin wall though – it has an imprinted number plate mark." Sherlock shouted over his shoulder as he reached the door of the cabin.
What lay beyond had a startling effect on the consulting detective.
Lestrade and Donavon watched open mouthed as Sherlock ran from the cabin and promptly vomited on the ground, falling to his knees in the muck, his hands spread flat on the boggy ground.
"My god, Sherlock, what – what's in there?" Greg asked as he ran toward the broken looking man.
Donavon stood where she was, not looking too keenly at the mud beneath her sandal clad feet.
When Sherlock didn't answer, Lestrade walked toward the open door to the contractors work cabin, he dubiously pulled out his gun and tentatively stepped inside.
The blood was everywhere, on every surface and wall, the smell and muggy heat of the room hit the DI full pelt. The parts that were left on the floor were obviously human, some with clothes still attached, others bare and chopped.
The scene was so graphic that Lestrade nearly did the same as his consultant detective. Swallowing down his stomach's rejection, Greg pulled out a handkerchief to spare his nose the vile stench that emanated from the cabin in general.
"Sir, what - ?" Donovon shouted from her position by the gate.
"Don't – don't come in here, Sally." Greg shouted in a fluster. "Stay where you are. Phone for Forensics, now" The DI continued, looking around him in obvious disgust.
It wasn't until Greg noticed the human head in front of him on the food bench that he instantly connected Sherlock's unusual sickness to the scene itself. He had previously seen Sherlock no less than an inch away from a freshly burnt corpse and he had not batted an eyelid or nostril at the sight.
But the fact remained that the features of the object Greg now stared at resembled a mutual friends' face. A face that was usually so warm, often happy and held a smile most of the time, but now, it sat blankly, on its stump, eyes closed and mouth open in mild surprise.
That was enough for Greg to follow suit with Sherlock and run from the scene, slipping slightly on the blood covered floor before he jumped from the door and missed the steps, promptly landing on his knees and vomiting his breakfast violently.
"Sir, Sir?" Donavon shouted, abolishing her sandal issue in order to approach her boss.
"Don't" Greg shouted mid wretch, holding out his hand toward the sergeant. "Don't go in there" Sally halted in her step to look at the two men; her face distraught with worry.
Greg looked up to see Sherlock now sitting on a crate nearby, his hands tightly curled into fists, his face resolute and deathly pale.
"Sherlock, I'm so, so, sorry" Greg said, his facial expression showing his complete horror at the situation.
"It cannot be him" Sherlock muttered, his eyes unfocussed, his suit and coat covered in mud. "It simply cannot be" he continued to mumble.
Standing swiftly, Sherlock approached the cabin door once more, Greg made every effort to stop him from entering by standing shakily and guarding the open doorway. Sherlock faced Lestrade with a cold and calculating steel grey stare.
"I need more data" He growled before pushing Greg aside and clambering back into the bloodbath.
The consulting detectives' smart shoes slipped and squeaked along the wet and sticky floor as mud met blood, he reached the table on which the gruesome head still sat.
Biting back any emotion he may feel, the tall man reached out a shaking gloved hand and touched the rubbery skin of his flatmate's head.
Only just suppressing a sob, the formidable man lifted an inanimate eyelid and stared at the sight.
The largest sigh of relief he had ever exhaled exited through the genius's mouth as he saw that both eyes were in fact a light blue and not the extremely dark blue of his friend.
To his surprise a wild laugh erupted from his own throat and he turned swiftly to admire the scene at which he stood.
"Oh, it's very clever" He mused aloud, seeing Greg's pale face peek in through the doorway.
"What is it, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked weakly.
"It isn't John, Lestrade. But it was designed for us to find and think it was" Sherlock assessed.
"Why?" Greg asked incredulously a tinge of hope in his voice.
"A warning" Sherlock surmised before pushing his way out of the cabin and making his way back to the car.
"A warning?" Lestrade called out. "Of what?"
"What the killer intends to do to John" Sherlock shouted over his shoulder, jumping into Greg's car and reversing it manically, swerving violently to get back onto the road quickly.
"Sir?" Sally asked incredulously as she stared from the retreating car to her boss in confusion.
"Don't worry, he'll be back. He needs peace of mind first" Lestrade said as he watched after his own silver car. "Where are forensics?" he asked, turning toward the brunette.
"On their way" Sally said huffily as she looked down at her phone.
-)(-
Sherlock 'parked' Lestrade's car on the pavement outside the local clinic's front door and flung open his door to hear disgruntled murmuring from pedestrians around the vehicle.
"Excuse me, do you have to park there?" a man shouted out from behind the detective.
Sherlock turned swiftly, his muddy coat billowing around him; "Your wife, she's cheating on you with the butcher." He said coldly before slamming the car door and running up the five steps to enter the building.
Behind him; the man who had shouted out turned to his shocked looking wife with a questionable frown.
"Can I help you?" A bored looking nurse said before looking up to see the handsome features of Sherlock Holmes "At all?" She continued sweetly, batting her eyelashes.
"Doctor Watson, where is he?" Sherlock demanded, placing firm hands either side of him on the reception counter.
"Oh, if you just take a seat, he is in room 3 today, but-" she started but stopped when she saw the mysterious and tall man sweep off briskly in the direction of the consultancy rooms.
"Sir, Sir, you can't go in there!" She called in worry, walking briskly after him.
Sherlock didn't stop, he threw open the door to consultancy room 3 and allowed it to bang off the wall loudly.
John was on his feet in seconds, shocked and alert at the sudden intrusion.
"Get out" Sherlock said fiercely to the young man that was occupying the patient's chair.
"Sherlock, what-?" John protested, being interrupted by the consultant detective, who was now giving his full attention to the young patient.
"You have a small infection, it will go away on its own, now get out" he said flatly.
The young man hastily got to his feet and scuttled from the room.
John stared, open mouthed, at his mud ridden flatmate; the peach carpet was now soaked with brown from the detectives' shoes but the thing that caught John's attention the most was the sincere expression on Sherlock's face.
"Sherlock? What's wrong?" John asked, stepping forward to examine his friend, concern now lining his face as he spotted the sweat layered forehead, the clammy skin and the slight trace of fluid at the corner of his bow shaped lips. "You've been sick" he said bluntly.
"John" Sherlock managed, surprised by how weak and relieved his voice had sounded in the small room.
"Sherlock?" John tried again, lifting his hand to check his friends' temperature.
Sherlock was overwhelmed with relief as he looked down at his calming friend. His ever sturdy and reliable corduroyed trousers, cream woollen jumper and caring expression instantly soothing the detectives' fears and worries.
Hang on, fears? And worries? Sherlock didn't worry, not a once, it got in the way of the job. Sentiment was not an advantage.
John watched the expressions change and blend together on his flatmates face.
"Sherlock, sit down, come on" John said gently, taking the coat from the taller man's shoulders and hanging it up on the back of the door as he closed it.
Returning to the younger mans' side, John raised a hand to guide Sherlock by his lower back toward the chair beside his own desk.
John then prepared a cup of tea from the on-wall kettle in his consultancy room, bringing the mug back, he placed it on the table beside the younger man.
"What happened?" John asked as he crouched down in front of the detective.
Sherlock continued to stare, completely taken aback by how he was not handling this particular situation very well. His usual, cool and calm exterior was not raising itself to the normal standard, instead leaving him with the desire to wrap himself around his friend and protect him from everything.
At that moment, the phone on John's desk began to ring. Taking hold of Sherlock's left knee, John used it as leverage to help him stand up. Sherlock watched in awe as John lifted the phone off its hook whilst leaning over him.
"Hello?" He asked, looking down at Sherlock with that, now, constant worry.
"John, Lestrade here. I assume he is with you?" Greg asked on the other end of the line.
"Hi Greg, yes, what happened? Sherlock, well, he doesn't look well" John said with a furrowed brow as Sherlock tentatively reached for the fresh beverage beside him.
"Ah, John. I called him this morning; we attended a rather…gruesome crime scene. The body is completely torn to bits. Sherlock was first on the scene; and well, the head was the only part that was more or less in tact. It looked like you, John. I swear, even I thought - well, I was certain it was you" Greg finished, the sound of flash photographs being taken and a busy forensic team in the background.
John looked down at Sherlock with comprehension written on every corner of his warm face.
"He took the car and came to find you, he was adamant it wasn't you, but I think he needs reassurance. Can you perhaps make sure he brings the car back?" Greg finished.
"Y-yes, not a problem, thanks Greg; I'll come back with him." John replied quietly, placing the phone back down on its hook.
Turning to Sherlock now, the doctor raised his hand once more to run it over the detectives' fevered brow.
"Looked like me, eh?" John asked gently, looking down at his ward.
Sherlock nodded, turning his steel grey eyes up to stare intently at the soldier.
"Gave you a shock?" John asked lightly.
Sherlock nodded grimly, his mouth dry and his throat sore as he took a sip from his tea.
John turned and walked toward the sink in the corner of the room. Retrieving a flannel from the pack and running it under the cold tap, John wrung it out before approaching the younger man once more.
John placed the cold flannel to Sherlock's cheek first, dabbing it gently from cheek to nose, from nose to chin, from chin to opposite cheek, from cheek to forehead.
Sherlock closed his eyes at the touch, leaning forward ever so slightly to enable further contact with the man in front of him.
"Thought you were a Sociopath?" John whispered with a trace of a smile in his voice.
In a way of a response, Sherlock's hands clutched the mug he was holding tighter.
Taken aback slightly, John decided to fold out the flannel and move it to the back of his flatmate's neck.
"So, did you get anywhere with the case itself?" John asked, his voice lighter as he tried to encourage the silent man to talk.
"We need to place you in protective custody" Sherlock murmured, his eyes still closed. "It was a threat" he continued.
John sunk to a crouching position once more in front of his patient. "Sherlock, it only looked like me, there must be hundreds of people in London that look this generic" John said with a light laugh. "If someone was trying to kill me, wouldn't they have done it already?" he reasoned.
Sherlock opened his eyes to glare at the shorter man "John, I know a warning when I see one. And this one was about you. It had my name written all over it as if it were a letter left for me to find" Sherlock said in a dangerously low whisper.
"Nonsense. I am here, for the entire world to see – my name is on the plaque outside! All someone would need to do is what you did to get in here. It sounds like this guy was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time." John dismissed shaking the hand that currently held onto Sherlock's muddy knee. "Do you want me to come back with you?" John asked.
Sherlock swallowed down his further protestations and simply nodded, once, curtly.
"Ok, give me a second, I'll need to talk to Sarah." John said getting to his feet once more.
"John" Sherlock said before he could stop himself. John turned toward him once more.
Sherlock, shakily got to his feet and placed his empty mug on the desk. He turned to stare at John with something akin to gratefulness as he removed the damp flannel from his neck.
John watched as Sherlock took a step forward and hesitantly raised his arms either side of the doctor. It took a moment, but Sherlock finally wrapped his arms around the smaller man and turned his face toward John's fair hair.
"Thank you" Sherlock murmured in the soldier's ear.
John, completely and utterly surprised by his flatmate, belatedly returned the hug and closed his eyes.
"Not a problem, Sherlock" John said gently.
As if realising his current situation was rather awkward and unusual, Sherlock coughed inelegantly and released the older man from his clutches.
"I'll – just go speak to...Sarah. Stay here" John said warmly as he pointed to the door. Sherlock nodded his understanding before watching John's retreating back.
Fetching his coat from the door's hook, Sherlock mentally berated himself for his obviousness. He would laugh bitterly if he was in more familiar surroundings, it had only just been that morning he had had the revelation. The revelation that he was genuinely frightened of any harm coming to his live-in friend, most likely due to the fact that Doctor Watson had become the most important individual in the detectives' life. Without the soldier by his side, Sherlock doubted whether he would continue his adventures.
John re-entered the small room just as Sherlock flicked his coat collar up, a universal sign that his cold demeanour had returned and his game face had been applied.
John smiled at the normality returning.
"Lets go then, you big buffoon" the doctor teased as he grabbed his coat and keys.
-)(-
John stared at the head with a pale look of disgust.
"Did you have a twin, John?" Lestrade asked from the doorway to the police taped crime scene.
"Nope" John said distractedly as his brows furrowed in the middle.
"Can I have your opinion?" Sherlock asked, not looking up from the chopped appendages lining the slippery floor.
"It looks like me" John said blankly. "Just like me"
"Perfectly sound analysis, but his eyes are light blue, he has a mole on his chin that you do not" Sherlock murmured as he searched through his magnifying glass. "And, he was 8 lbs heavier than your current weight"
"You're right, as usual" John said encouragingly with a small smile. "Well" He continued, applying his gloves and stepping bravely forward. "It's been severed with force; a blunt object too – took a couple of goes to get it off the body I'd say…the spinal cord was severed before death but was undoubtedly the cause of death; dead…three, maybe four hours. He didn't die in comfort that's for sure." John said with a sickened expression. Bending down, John checked the mouth of the dead head, then the eyes and finally the neck.
"He was in a great deal of pain before he died." John confirmed.
"I should say he was; he was dissected" Sherlock said from his position on the floor. "His feet are missing. Kept as a trophy possibly. His legs were severed first, then his hands, arms and the head was saved till last." Sherlock finished grimly, snapping his magnifying glass shut and pocketing it.
"How can you tell?" John asked, Greg thinking the same thing.
"The volumes of blood – positions and the like. The weapon was blunt. Makes a lot of mess. I can tell that the man was still alive by how much blood has left these limbs." Sherlock said dully.
Lestrade's face scrunched in disgust; "What kind of experiments do you do to find these things out?" he asked incredulously.
"The vital ones" Sherlock murmured as he placed his hands in his pockets and pursed his lips.
"At least you don't live with it" John teased as he looked over his shoulder at Lestrade with a smile.
"True. Don't know how you do it John." Lestrade retorted with a half smile "Do we know what we are searching for then?" Greg asked, turning his full attention to the genius that graced the same breathing space.
"We are looking for a madman" Sherlock announced, a flicker of a smile spreading his unusually handsome face.
-)(-
Back at 221B, Sherlock pursed his lips and ran a hand through his hair in an aggravated manner as he and John stared at the photographs, notes and maps currently lining the decorative papered wall.
John gave the detective a sideways glance.
"Sherlock, you should really eat something." John said, knowing his words were more than likely useless.
"Can I have some toast, please, John" Sherlock asked distractedly.
John looked up in surprise and saw the wide eyes of his insane flatmate.
"Sherlock, you really aren't well. You need food and rest…and a bath" John said as he looked down at the dried mud still encasing his friend's slender hands.
"No time. Must track this down, stop him" Sherlock muttered.
"Nope. Come on, it's well past midnight and you are human. If you hadn't have stayed up all night last night then I would let you carry on, but Sherlock you haven't slept for days and you've suffered a big shock today. Come on. I'm putting you in the shower." John reasoned, grasping Sherlock's arm and tugging.
"No, John, no time for nonsense!" Sherlock barked.
"I hoped it wouldn't come to this, Sherlock" John said gravely as he bent down.
Sherlock watched his flatmate curiously to see what he was doing, before he realised it, Sherlock was bent double over the soldier's good shoulder.
"John!" Sherlock barked angrily, flustering about to try and release himself.
"Soldier, Sherlock. No use in fighting" John said as he turned on the spot and walked Sherlock into the bathroom.
"Get in that shower, now. I am going to make you some food, you are going to eat it and then you are going to your bed to have at least four hours sleep. Do you understand?" John ordered, his eyes fierce and cold.
Sherlock opened his mouth to retaliate before John held up a shushing finger.
"Get" John said abruptly pointing toward the shower, no trace of humour in his expression.
Sherlock snapped his mouth closed and began to remove his suit blazer, starting on the buttons of his snugly fitting shirt.
John stayed in the doorway to the bathroom to ensure his flatmate did as he was told before he left to start a very late supper.
Sherlock emerged from the steaming bathroom twenty minutes later in his blue silk dressing gown to a nicely laid table and a plate of chicken risotto.
Without complaint, Sherlock sat down opposite his friend and ate his food. John watched Sherlock carefully, eyeing the tired eyes, the blank expression and the fast pace at which he was eating.
After the plates had been wiped clean of risotto; John stood with a smile to place the dishes in the sink.
Sherlock rose from the chair and hesitated, wanting desperately to return to his work.
"No" John said forcefully, turning toward the detective. "Come on" he nodded toward his room.
"But John" Sherlock started to protest but gave in at the sight of his friends' face.
"Get into bed" John demanded as he opened Sherlock's bedroom door.
To the doctors' surprise, Sherlock obediently walked across the room and clambered under the sheets, throwing his dressing gown on the floor.
"Good" John said, a little taken aback.
"John" Sherlock announced.
"Yea" John replied, walking toward the bed.
"Stay" Sherlock said quietly. "Please"
John weighed it up in his mind, his hands closing into fists and reopening in a continual cycle.
"Ok, where do you want me?" John said, giving in to the detective that had had a very emotional day.
"Somewhere I can see you" Sherlock said gently.
"What?" the doctor asked with furrowed brow.
"Can you please stay close, I need to ensure you are safe" Sherlock voiced, turning onto his back, avoiding John's eyes.
Without words, John removed his shoes and jumper before getting into the bed beside his friend.
"I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock" the doctor said calmly, his bad shoulder just brushing the shoulder of the infamous detective.
"Good" Sherlock murmured sleepily.
-)(-
Waking up, Sherlock felt the unusual sense of panic, confusion and fear before he realised that the man lying close to him was his flatmate.
The snores that emanated from John were very masculine and loud, Sherlock smiled as he turned his head on the pillow to watch the doctor sleep.
"John" Sherlock whispered, his voice groggy from sleep. When the doctor didn't move or react in any way, Sherlock risked the four inches between them and placed a delicate peck to the doctor's frowning forehead.
As the detective pulled away, he smiled lightly at the disappearance of the wrinkled brow.
A sudden jolt of panic electrocuted through the detective as he remembered the case, the madman that was after his John and the head on the bench.
Jumping from the mattress, Sherlock hastily dressed in a clean, mud-free suit before rushing into the front room and burying himself in his work.
It was over four hours later that John emerged from Sherlock's room, his hair ruffled and his eyes sleepy.
"How long did you sleep?" John asked with a yawn to punctuate his sentence.
"Ninety minutes" Sherlock replied sharply, his hands steepled as he stared at the information in front of him.
"Not enough" John mumbled as he headed for the bathroom.
"It is, ninety minutes is the average time it takes for one sleep cycle-" Sherlock started but stopped abruptly when the sound of the bathroom door slamming echoed round the flat.
The sound not only made Sherlock stop talking, but hit him with the usual euphoria of solving a puzzle.
Rushing toward the bathroom, Sherlock awkwardly adorned his still-muddy coat and burst through the closed door.
"Sherlock!" John shouted in panic, reaching for the shower curtain to save his dignity.
Sherlock ripped the curtain away and stared John in the eye, his hands holding John's shoulders tightly.
John looked at his flatmate as if he were mad, wincing slightly as the soap in his hair started to drip down his face.
"John, you must promise me that you will stay in the flat until I return" Sherlock said seriously, his eyes fixed firmly on John's.
John nodded. "O-ok" He stammered brokenly.
"Good" the detective said, dropping his hands, swiftly turning from the man and closing the bathroom door behind him. Sherlock smiled a little as he filed his picture of naked John in the fire proof safe of his mind palace and ran out onto the street to hail a taxi.
Sherlock spent the day with Lestrade, going through previous case files and eventually finding the one he required.
"1976, seven unsolved murders. All dissected; found at seven different locations over a period of a year. All stopped when a Mr Tom Lebre was arrested." Lestrade summarised as he looked through the file.
"Where is this Tom Lebre, now?" Sherlock asked abruptly.
"Capital Punishment" Lestrade answered as he continued to read the file.
"That's…not right…that can't be right. What was the evidence against him? Give me that file" Sherlock said hastily, scrambling to his feet and jumping over the paperwork heap that lined the record store.
Lestrade handed the consulting detective the file and continued to look at the records on his computer.
"He had a prejudice against blonde hair and blue eyes" Lestrade said calmly as he read through the online record. "All the victims were-"
"Considered the higher race…the Aryan Race" Sherlock murmured.
"So…what? Are we looking for an adverse Hitler?" Lestrade asked with a frown.
"No. We are looking for a person with problems, that much is obvious. Jealousy is a vicious motivator." Sherlock mused. "Looking for disabled, either mentally or physically, most probably both. Male. Mid to late 50s." he finished, looking around the room in thought.
Lestrade picked up the phone.
-)(-
After an exhausting 12 hours of searching, Sherlock returned to 221B fruitlessly.
Seeing no John in the living room, Sherlock tried his bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen and the doctor's own room. He started to feel a flitter of panic in his stomach as he ran down the stairs to Mrs Hudsons' rooms.
Knocking three times, Mrs Hudson eventually answered.
"John" Sherlock panted to her, hoping she would understand.
"I'm here, Sherlock" Came the soldiers' voice from the kitchen table. "Just having a catch up with Mrs Hudson" He said gently, getting up and approaching the door.
Sherlock felt the tension in his body ebb away as he looked John over promptly calculating that nothing was wrong. The taller man fell into the doorframe with a sigh of relief.
"Sorry, Sherlock" John apologised noting the state his flatmate was in.
"No, no, its – its fine" Sherlock said, composing himself once more. "I'm just going to – go upstairs" he said with a faint smile before turning heel and walking toward the stairs.
"I'll be up soon" John called after him, exchanging a glance with Mrs Hudson.
Sherlock reached the familiar living room and threw his coat on the floor, making his way for the couch.
Lying down upon it, Sherlock closed his eyes and entered the mind palace.
The detective was so wrapped up in the case details that he didn't hear John re-enter their flat, or him scrubbing his long woollen coat free of mud for the next hour. He was completely unaware of the soldier lighting the fire and hanging the detectives' coat over the guard to dry out, and he was asleep by the time the doctor's lips grazed his head of curly hair.
-)(-
Sherlock woke with a jolt, his head lying at an awkward angle as he half lay on the couch and half hung onto the floor. He rolled off the furniture and stood immediately, looking around himself wildly.
Remembering that John was ok the previous night, Sherlock allowed his body to stretch and strain itself conscious before he caught sight of his faithful coat gracing the fire guard.
He smiled warmly as he connected the muddy cloth on the side of the sink with the now clean material of his coat immediately and headed toward the kettle.
The note was a small white scrap of paper half hidden by a cup on the bunker and Sherlock stared at it in shock.
Those who are considered of Aryan Race will be the only survivors. The World's saviours. The ultimate breed. The Earth shall be cleansed.
Sherlock felt an iron fist clench around his heart; stopping it dead.
Dropping the paper, Sherlock ran up the staircase to John's room. The bed was in a state of untidiness that was unforgivable for the soldier himself, Sherlock surmised that he had been taken during the night, checking each room as he had done the previous night; Sherlock's search proved pointless as the shorter man was no where in the building.
His phone was by his ear before he had time to think.
"Lestrade. They've taken him." He said, his voice wavering with panic.
"Sherlock, are you sure?" Lestrade asked hastily.
"Very. Meet me at the Yard." Sherlock barked before throwing his coat over his arms and running from the flat.
It was difficult to get a taxi at 5 am on a Sunday morning, but Sherlock Holmes managed it.
Running into Lestrade on the doorstep to Scotland Yard, Sherlock grabbed his coat.
"Do you have any idea where they are?" Sherlock asked his eyes wide and staring.
"With the others we had clues sent to us, lets see if there is anything in the office" Greg said, trying to remain calm as he saw the very deathly glimmer in Sherlocks' eyes.
Without a further word, the pair entered the building and ran up the stairs in sync.
There was a large brown envelope in the centre of Lestrades' desk.
Sherlock ripped it open without caution and grabbed hold of the Polaroid's that fell from the packet. He felt sick as he saw John, his John tied up and gagged, unconscious and bleeding.
Sherlock organised them quickly, clearing his mind of all emotional sentiment. He focussed his ever sharp eyes on the back grounds of each photo. An abandoned house.
One carelessly taken photograph had a sliver of a boarded bay window, a poster slicked up the wall declared the location derelict.
After no more than ten minutes, the consulting detective had grabbed a victorious photograph.
"102 Albion Place" he shouted as he turned to walk out of the room. Lestrade hastened to his side and the two left for the ominous address immediately.
"You really care for him, don't you?" Greg asked as he drove the two across town in his silver Mercedes.
"He is…important" Sherlock stated bluntly.
"Important to what? Your work?" Greg asked with a frown.
"To me" Sherlock said through pursed lips.
"He looks after you, doesn't he? Patience of a saint if you ask me" Greg murmured.
"He does. But that is not the only reason that he is irrationally important to me" Sherlock said, honestly.
"Irrationally?" Greg asked incredulously. "Sherlock, do you even know why he is important to you?" the DI asked.
Sherlock looked out of the window distractedly. "I do not understand my feelings. The idea of him in trouble…of dying…it makes me feel nauseous; it makes me angry, no, furious. I want him to be by my side at all times. If he isn't there, I panic, me, Lestrade, I panic" Sherlock said in a rush.
Greg pulled into the abandoned street of derelict houses. Finding number 102; Lestrade stopped the car abruptly.
Turning quickly, Greg grabbed Sherlock's arm. "Sherlock. It's love. It can be painful and it can be magical. You need to tell him, no matter what we find in there. You need to tell him" the DI explained.
Sherlock stared at Greg for a little over a minute before deciding to take the data on board and not waste time arguing.
The two men exited the car and walked toward the house, the front door was unlocked and the electricity was off, but they searched the house armed with weaponry to no avail. The only find was a further Polaroid stapled to the doorframe of the front room.
It was a photograph of a hand, on the hand was an inky black scrawl. Sherlock studied the photograph quickly. It was John's hand and the ink was painted in a pattern resembling the words;
Sherlock Holmes; come alone; unit 5 warehouse 2200 hrs
Lestrade glanced from the photograph to Sherlock's resolute face.
-)(-
It had been 16 hours of pacing, not eating, searching and obtaining weapons before the clock finally struck ten pm. The late hour saw the Consulting Detective already standing in the dark night's heavy rain.
He raised a hand to knock on the unit's door, his heart thudding in his chest.
The door swung open and a short red-haired male stared at him with wide brown eyes, his mouth hung open to reveal very yellow buck teeth.
"Mr Holmes" The man voiced in a weedy tone. "Please, come in". Sherlock didn't allow time for pleasantries. He pushed the door violently and raised his hand to the short man's face. Slamming full force down his arm Sherlock sent the small man flying backward. There was a clang as his head connected with something solid and his body hit the floor hard.
Sherlock stepped inside the cabin as a bolt of lightening lit up the sky, illuminating his soaked and formidable silhouette in the darkness of the abandoned building.
"That weren't very nice" Came a rough toned voice from the depths of the construction.
Sherlock didn't speak but lifted his hand to switch on the lights.
"Don't bother, they don't work" Came the male voice once more. "Reason for the candles, innit" Sherlock turned to face the bodiless voice and saw a bald man sitting at a table, tucking into something that looked like raw meat with a sharp knife.
"Where is he?" Sherlock said in a dangerous whisper.
"He is quite a breed isn't he?" The man said with a mad smile.
Sherlock approached him carefully and was able to see his enemy clearer.
The consulting detective spotted the numerous unsightly lumps and bumps across the stranger's face; he saw the mismatched eyes, the torn clothes, the obese figure beneath and the distinct lack of major teeth as he chewed.
"Where is he?" Sherlock said again, patiently.
There was a moan from behind the consulting detective and it didn't take a millisecond to know it was the man he so desperately desired to see. In one swift movement, Sherlock cupped the back of the elephant man's head and smashed it viciously down on the table; his body slumped, the carvery knife embedded in his cheek.
Wasting no time; Sherlock ran into the darkness of the small cabin, finally turning a corner into the larger building the cabin joined. There, with a work man's lamp illuminating his figure; was John. His naked body hung from his wrists, his wrists were mutilated, deformed and broken, wrapped tightly in rope that was attached to the ceiling above. Sherlock ran at him, lifting him on his shoulder to ease his broken wrists. He shouted for help as he tried to reach John's wrists himself, only just managing to keep him balanced over his shoulder.
Lestrade was by his side in seconds, holding a pocket knife to the frayed rope. John slumped against the consulting detective as his restraints broke.
Sherlock lowered him gently to the floor and hastened to remove his own woollen coat; pulling it quickly over John's shoulders and buttoning it up with fumbling fingers; eager to get some warmth into the cold skin.
"John" Sherlock said, his voice cracking slightly as his eyes roamed his friends' face.
"Sh-" John muttered weakly, his lips trembling. His face was battered and bruised, his skin had been attacked viciously, all cuts and bruises.
"It's Sherlock, John. I'm here" Sherlock said reassuringly as he clutched the shorter man to him, deftly lifting him from the floor in one smooth movement.
"Sherlock" John moaned in pain.
"I'm here, John" Sherlock uttered, an illusive and unnoticed tear streaking his own face.
As Sherlock and Lestrade walked toward the exit of the awful location; it didn't escape the consulting detective that the madman had moved. Continuing to exit the building, Sherlock ran through the rain toward the ambulance that had just arrived.
Placing John on the gurney inside, Sherlock lowered his face to John's ear to whisper 'I'm here' one final time before the paramedic's placed the mask over his face. Sherlock watched the tired eyes of his soldier flutter closed before exiting the ambulance and heading back to the dark building.
"Sherlock, I can't let you back in there" Lestrade shouted as he spied the consulting detective returning to the cabin through the rain.
"I haven't finished" Sherlock growled as he turned to face the fast approaching DI.
"Let us take him in for questioning; he will be punished, Sherlock. I will personally ensure it" Lestrade shouted over the sound of the heavy rain.
"Not good enough" Sherlock breathed before turning heel and re-entering the cabin.
The red-haired man had been taken away by two constables, one holding a compress to the back of his head. Sherlock watched them pass silently before returning to the elephant faced man that remained in place at the table, only now, he was awake and tugging on the cutlery that had viciously embedded itself in his cheek.
"Why did you do it?" Sherlock growled as he sat down opposite the highly dangerous criminal; fixing him with a steel cold stare through a curtain of wet curls.
"Why not?" The man struggled to say through clenched teeth.
"You are against the Aryan Race. There must be a reason" Sherlock stated.
The man leant forward. "I weren't the one against the so called Aryan's, I only eat the parts left over" he said with a sickening smile. Sherlock clenched his jaw and stared at the man.
"Who was the other? How did he know me?" Sherlock continued to interrogate.
"He read up about you. Said he wanted to prove that you weren't as clever as all that." The man explained slowly, eying Sherlock like he was a piece of raw steak. "He said you was a logical man and that the way to beat you was to be the opposite, to be unexpected." He sat back again and began to tug on the wooden handle of the knife once more.
"His dad, he done it in the 70s. Got arrested. Got killed. From what I understand, it were a blonde haired, blue eyed menace that did it. Frankie's always been the same, focussed on the better race, if you like" he explained further. "I only followed for the good tasting meals. I'd kill for meat like this. Keeps me strong." He said with a longing look toward his unfinished steak.
Sherlock followed the man's gaze and saw that there was a toenail beside the plate.
"Out of all that choice, you eat the feet?" Sherlock asked with a look of interest. "Why?"
"Whatever I eat, becomes a part of me. He was a runner. So I ate his best part." That gruesome smile was back as the disgusting creature in front of Sherlock looked up from his meat.
Sherlock stood swiftly and reached quickly across the table. In one slick movement, the consulting detective whipped the knife from the mans' cheek, enjoying the sound of this mans' pain and the sickening crunch that emanated from his skull.
"What would you have eaten from John Watson?" Sherlock growled, his anger at his own curiosity showing through.
The man looked up at Sherlock and smiled once more, his few teeth black and rotten.
"His heart"
Sherlock swallowed before throwing a hard punch in the man's nose, knocking him unconscious once more.
Leaving the building, Sherlock saw that the rain had lifted slightly. Lestrade was holding onto the red haired man named Frankie.
"Lestrade" Sherlock shouted angrily. Greg trembled slightly but refused to let it be known as he watched the formidably angry man approach him through the heavy sheets of rain.
"As I am sure you will not allow me to disembowel this creature while he is still alive. Ensure that he never, and I mean never, sees the light of day again. Same for the other one. Do I make myself clear?"
"Crystal, Sherlock. Go. I'll call you tomorrow" Greg said bluntly, tightening his grip on the shorter man.
Sherlock turned to walk away but turned on a heel and looked to Lestrade.
"Oh, one more thing" The consulting detective said with raised eyebrows as he walked briskly back. Continuing to look toward Lestrade until the last moment, no one immediately spotted the powerfully raised fist connect with Frankie's abdomen.
A shriek of pain echoed between the metal buildings and up into the night's sky as the feeble individual fell forward onto Sherlock's arm.
"Don't you ever try to escape, Frankie, because I will find you and I will kill you in more painful ways than even you can imagine" Sherlock growled viciously into his ear.
Lestrade pushed Frankie back against the car and saw the wooden handle of the meat knife buried deep into the man's side; an extremely painful but not fatal wound. Greg turned to berate Sherlock only to see that he had disappeared into the night and that the DI was alone with a swarm of police constables around him.
-)(-
When Sherlock managed to get himself to the hospital some three hours later, he asked a head nurse where John might be.
Without hesitation she led him to a quiet ward on the ground floor.
Sherlock stayed outside the door for over two minutes in order to compose himself. He looked through the porthole window in the door to see a few people in the 12 ward beds, but only one was awake. Sitting up in the window side bed and hugging a dark coloured item to his chest was John.
Pushing through the door, Sherlock strode toward the individual he so desperately wanted to see.
John looked up at the sound of the door, the skin surrounding his left eye was terribly swollen, cut and bruised, meaning the doctor could only see Sherlock with his right.
The consulting detective allowed his eyes full range of John's visible skin, he was instantly drawn to the completely bandaged hands and wrist casts, then the neck support Velcro-ed together beneath his jaw.
"Sherlock" John said in a whisper, he lowered his arms to reveal that the item he had been holding to his chest was Sherlock's coat.
"I'm so sorry, John" Sherlock said after a brief pause. "This is my fault. I didn't keep you safe"
"No, Sherlock. You cannot blame yourself. I was the one that made you famous, he wouldn't have known about us had I not written so much about you." John hastily said.
"Don't be ridiculous, John" Sherlock dismissed, taking a seat on the edge of John's hospital bed, placing his hands beneath him.
"Sherlock" John whispered weakly. The consulting detective looked up at his friend with soft eyes.
"Where have you been?" the doctor asked, looking down at his temporarily useless hands.
"I…I was still angry" Sherlock explained hesitantly. "I had to rid my energies before coming to see you" he continued with a mild cough.
"Lestrade said you hurt that man pretty badly" John said gently. "But that he would survive"
"An eye for an eye" Sherlock said, looking distractedly up at the ceiling.
"What did you do to de-stress?" John asked curiously.
"I killed the Golem" Sherlock muttered.
"You what!" John shouted, waking a few of the other patients.
"John, calm yourself" Sherlock said quietly, smiling falsely at the other pairs of eyes that now looked over.
"I can't believe you" John said in disbelief.
"It wasn't exactly a clean kill, but it was a necessary death – seeing as Lestrade wouldn't let me kill…that man" Sherlock spat distastefully.
"Sherlock. I want to go home" John said in a whisper.
Sherlock got to his feet straight away, pulling his own coat from the doctor's grasp and instantly pulling it over John's shoulders.
"They wont let me leave just yet, Sherlock, they will keep me in for observation" John said with a small smile at his friends' eagerness to help.
"I know, that's why we aren't going to take any notice of them" Sherlock said quietly as he helped John's bandaged hands through the arms of his own coat.
"You aren't - " John started with some amusement as Sherlock finished buttoning up his coat around the doctor.
Sherlock didn't reply, he only ripped the sheets from the shorter man and swiftly lifted him from the bed. John let out a surprised laugh before turning as much as he could toward the detective's chest, unable to hold on.
"Shh, John, just be quiet, remember what I said about the art of disguise?" Sherlock murmured as they passed through the swing doors.
"I remember" John said quietly as he lay his head on the detective's strong shoulder, feeling the younger man's hands tense on his back and legs as they walked silently passed the receptionist staff and numerous nurses.
Reaching the exit, Sherlock looked down at his flatmate with a smile.
"Can you hail a taxi, I can't -" Sherlock stopped talking as soon as he caught sight of a new and sleek looking black Mercedes.
"Mr Holmes" The driver announced without a batted eyelid. He opened the back door to the car and aided Sherlock gently guide the doctor inside.
"How did he know? I didn't even know what I was going to do" Sherlock said as he closed his door behind him, turning to John to make certain that he was comfortable.
"It is often easier to predict actions from an outside point of view, Sherlock. John, how are you?" Mycroft drawled from the front passenger seat.
John blushed a little under the Holmes' boys scrutiny.
"I've been better, thanks, Mycroft" John replied quietly.
"Sherlock, you will need to re-dress those hands by morning" Mycroft said as he stared at the bandages lining John's hands.
"Yes, I will, Mycroft. John, after all, is a doctor. Just tell me what I need to do" Sherlock said defensively, turning to John to whisper the last part.
"I'm proud of you, Sherlock" Mycroft said genuinely as the driver whisked them in the direction of Baker Street.
Sherlock turned to his brother sharply. "Why?" He shot back.
"You displayed emotion today. More emotion than I have ever seen from you. You used your emotions as motivation to reach the ultimate goal. Anger and love. I know I said that sentiment is not an advantage; however, I do believe I have recently had to eat my own words, as it were" Mycroft said gently, turning back to the two men with a weak smile.
"What?" John asked in puzzlement.
"Lestrade" Sherlock concluded. "Mycroft, really?" he asked with a side smirk.
"Sherlock, need I remind you, a doctor" Mycroft retaliated.
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat. There was no further discussion until the car arrived at its destination.
"Thank you, Mycroft" John murmured as he made to open the car door but halted immediately upon realising he was unable.
Sherlock swept out of his own door and round the back of the car, ripping open John's door to deftly pick him up.
"Sherlock, I can walk" John protested, shivering slightly as the cold morning's air washed over him.
The consulting detective didn't reply but swiftly walked toward their front door; Mycroft appearing at his side to open the door for them.
The two brother's shared a glance that spoke a thousand words before Sherlock stepped over the threshold; John still wrapped up tightly in his arms.
-)(-
Mrs Hudson fussed over the two men when she came out of her flat in her night clothes to see them half way up their staircase.
She insisted on making them tea and a very early breakfast before leaving them alone to rest.
Sherlock raised the newspaper to his eyes, not really reading it at all but using it as an excuse to peer at John, currently struggling with his food and tea cup.
After a few minutes of clinking cutlery, John threw the offending fork away with a bandaged paw in frustration.
Sherlock didn't need words as he visited the kitchen to fetch a clean utensil and once more sat beside his flatmate.
John blinked at his friend in shock as Sherlock sat closer to him, scooped up some scrambled egg on the fork he had retrieved and held it in front of his mouth.
Rather than bite out that he was 'not a child' John opted to be silent and leant forward to eat the forkful in front of him gratefully.
Sherlock smiled despite the situation and deftly refilled the fork for his friend to eat.
Overall, the scene was peaceful and serene, the early morning sunrise illuminated the tiny particles of dust that passed through their living room around them as the younger man fed his partner.
John watched Sherlock silently, wondering what Mycroft had meant in the car. But his hands and forearms ached distractingly and he was very tired.
"Do you want to go to bed?" Sherlock asked bluntly as he scraped the plate clean and let John eat the last mouthful.
"To be perfectly honest, I want a bath…I still feel…like I'm still there" John said, avoiding Sherlock's eyes but looking down at his useless appendages instead.
The Consulting Detective got to his feet in seconds and bent to lift his flatmate once more. This time, John didn't protest as Sherlock scooped him from his chair and walked into the bathroom.
Setting the soldier down on the closed toilet lid, Sherlock turned to start the water in the bath, using the rubber bung to contain the water, he swished it with his hand to make sure the temperature was hot before standing straight once more, pulling his suit blazer from his figure. John watched as Sherlock unbuttoned and wrapped his purple shirt sleeves up his arms before crouching to formally undo the large buttons of John's borrowed coat.
The room was silent except for the water splashing into the ceramic bath as Sherlock worked to remove John's hospital gown.
If this was any other day after any other event; John would have protested against such molly-coddling. But after the night they had shared and the distinct lack of sleep they were suffering from; John was glad to have the care, even though it baffled him.
Getting up from John's side, Sherlock returned his attentions to the bath water, ensuring the correct mix of hot and cold and working out the volume required. John smiled at the domesticity of it; if only he could write about the normal things Sherlock did as well as the incredible ones, people would know that he was human…and that apparently, he did have a heart.
Standing to his feet, John shakily made his way to the bath side, sitting awkwardly on the solidly cold rim.
Sherlock smiled down at John as he turned the taps off and stood straight-backed once more, now reaching warm wet hands towards' John's hands. The soldier winced as the bandages were removed and almost swore when Sherlock undid the Velcro of his neck brace.
The detective looked down distastefully at the items as he threw them behind him onto the floor, John smiled at that, he knew Sherlock didn't like medical dressings – it was such an obvious sign of weaknesses he always said; indicating to an enemy exactly where to attack.
John's broken hands trembled as Sherlock went to remove the plaster casts.
"No, Sherlock, leave them, they have to stay to let the bone set properly" John murmured as he made to stand once more.
Sherlock halted and stood back a little to let the soldier clamber into the bath.
Hissing slightly at the heat of the water; John wobbled on his unsteady feet and almost fell. Almost, but not entirely as a strong silent figure was suddenly holding him, helping him into the water.
As they stood; John in the hot water, the height of the bath making his eyes level with the detective that now held him so closely, they stared at one another unblinkingly. John's arms were tucked up inside the embrace and Sherlock's were wrapped firmly around the soldier's waist until John closed his eyes and leant his head forward, just resting it against the forehead of his best friend.
Sherlock, unused to the feel of a human pressed so closely against him, was struggling to come to terms with the prolonged embrace, and just as he moved away, John protested in the way of a silent frown.
"Sher-" John tried, his voice coming out weak as Sherlock moved away. "Come in with me" John whispered, his eyes open and vacant as they stared at the taller man's chest.
"I don't understand" Sherlock replied mechanically.
"Bath with me" John said again, his voice stronger now as he managed to raise his eyes to see the consulting detective's questioning expression.
There was a silent moment between them before Sherlock removed his shirt and trousers. John turned away as the detective removed his underclothing and climbed into the bath behind him.
Sherlock sat down quickly, not paying heed to the temperature of the water; too wrapped up in the feelings he was experiencing.
John slowly made his way down into the water, crouching before sitting, careful not to get his arm braces wet.
Sherlock caught John as he unceremoniously slipped and hit the bottom of the bath hard.
"Ow" John said with embarrassment as Sherlock's arms were once more wrapped around him.
Sherlock lay back in the warmth of the water and tugged John with him.
"Put your hands on the sides of the bath" Sherlock murmured as he wrapped his arms tighter around the doctor.
John did as he was told and lay back, shamelessly enjoying the warmth of a muscled chest pressed against his back.
Sherlock released one of his arms from John's middle to extend it to his hand, bringing it closer for examination.
"I want you to quit your job" Sherlock murmured as he replaced John's hand onto the side of the bath.
"What? Why?" John asked in obvious confusion.
"Lestrade said I should tell you at the soonest opportunity, when you were taken…I realised that I might not be able to say it to you, and it…it hurt" Sherlock said, thankful for John facing away from him.
"John, without you by my side; the work is dull, it loses its colour. Without you the danger seems needless. Without you, I don't think I would be able to continue. Doctor Watson; you are the most important person in my life…I, I love every inch of you" Sherlock finished. The man had never been so aware of his heart as it pumped unnecessarily loud in his chest.
John stared at the bath taps in front of him with very wide eyes.
"John, please say something" Sherlock muttered, unconsciously tightening his grip on the doctor.
"Sherlock" John said eventually, not turning round. "Can we talk about this after we've slept?" he asked lightly.
Sherlock froze, his chest going rigid as he found himself unable to breathe. He had made the wrong judgement, he had taken a liberty that he really shouldn't have. He had ruined their friendship.
"Nothing's wrong, I'm glad that you were able to tell me, but I'm still feeling…well, I don't feel well enough to make any decisions right now. I would be very grateful if you were to look after me though" John said hastily, feeling the deathly tight grip around him.
Sherlock's head jolted with a realisation as he looked down at John's legs over his shoulder.
"What did they do to you?" Sherlock asked, almost in bark.
"Sherlock, now, shh, it's ok, it's all ok" John attempted.
"John, did they- ?" Sherlock tried again, sitting up in order to have a better look at John's groin.
"Sherlock, stop. It's over now" John said reassuringly, trying to calm the detective.
"It will be for them" Sherlock growled as he tentatively touched the telltale bruising on the doctor's inner thigh.
John turned now, shifting himself round to face the detective in the warm water.
"It's not as bad as you think, they just, got…touchy" John said, putting both hands beside each other on one side of the bath.
Sherlock now surveyed the skin of John's lower back with realisation.
"I will rip them to pieces" The detective said, anger swelling in his chest for the millionth time that day.
"You will not" John said sharply. "They are in prison now and they deserve every hour they spend in their life sentences. If you kill them – you will be giving them the easy way out." The doctor continued with a stern expression.
"The best thing you can do right now is to help me wash and then we can go sleep in your bed and talk about all this after you've had at least 10 hours sleep, is that understood?" John barked.
Sherlock didn't reply, but his facial expression softened as he reached for the soap and gently pulled John back toward his own chest.
After washing every part Sherlock could reach, neither saying a word when his hands clinically reached John's bruised groin, Sherlock turned his attentions to his own body; letting John rest in the water beside him as he washed his hair and shoulders efficiently.
After a further half hour, Sherlock helped John into a pair of Pyjama bottoms before halting mid movement.
"You said 'we can go sleep in your bed'" The detective stated, watching a faint blush blossom across his friends' face.
"Yea well, I would feel safer" John dismissed as he walked shakily toward the detective's bed.
Sherlock let out a small huff of a laugh before closing his bedroom door and curtains, reaching the bed once John had settled.
Climbing between the sheets, Sherlock halted all movement once more as he felt John cuddle tentatively into him.
"So that I don't roll over and hurt my arms in my sleep" John mumbled in a way of explanation for his actions.
Sherlock smiled as he wrapped his long arms around his ward.
-)(-
The following morning was awkward to say the least; John, unable to do anything for himself had had to ask Sherlock for his assistance in the bathroom and kitchen.
Sherlock found that he didn't mind, but John was mortified.
"You said we could talk today" Sherlock said, sitting down to the meal he had prepared for their lunch.
John looked up at Sherlock with apprehension.
"I do not wish to act on my feelings, if that is your concern. I merely wish for you to be with me at all times" Sherlock said calmly as he reached across the table and used John's spoon to scoop up some mashed potato.
"That is precisely my concern, Sherlock." John said before the spoon was shoved awkwardly in his mouth. "I mean" he spoke with his mouth full as Sherlock watched him. "Will you ever want to act on the feelings you have for me?" John continued.
Sherlock frowned. "You mean sexually?" he asked.
John tinged a little pink before looking down at his unreachable food.
Sherlock leant forward to scoop another spoonful together before looking back to John's face. "I have never had sexual desires. I do not know" the consulting detective mused as he popped the spoon into his flatmates' mouth. "Would it bother you if I did?" he asked, frowning as he asked.
"No" John said abruptly.
Sherlock stared at the soldier until John looked up at him with a small smile. "I'm amazed I kept it from you all these months" the doctor said truthfully. "I've loved you…since the day we saw the hound, Sherlock." John said quietly, watching with some amusement as the mouthful of peas fell from the spoon the detective currently upheld.
The two men stared silently at each other over their humble dining table until John could take it no more; he stood and held his damaged hands toward his chest as he leaned across the table to press a soft kiss to the shocked detective's lips.
Sherlock, who seemed to be going through sensory overload, continued to blink, unmoved from his original position.
John laughed as he pulled back "Well kiss me back, idiot" he chided teasingly.
A slow smile spread the younger man's face as he examined John's humour filled eyes and moist lips before leaning forward for a kiss once more, dropping the spoon with a clatter as his hands wound their way around the doctor's neck.
In one crystallising moment; Sherlock and John felt more safe than they had ever done before.
The End