Sherlock had just slipped out of a particularly dreary funeral service that he had never planned to go to, but went anyways.
Arriving to the flat he noticed that someone had broken in, glass shattered over the floor and one of the chairs had been shifted, the man must have bumped into it while bumbling around. It was nothing unusual, perhaps it was even unusual to come home and have nothing missing.
Poor would have to deal with the mess.
The intruder had long since left and Sherlock made his way to the kitchen. There were drops of blood that dotted the floor ,the intruder must have cut himself on the shards of glass,but as he turned the corner his heart stopped.
John.
He was laying ,faced away, a few feet in front of Sherlock. The tall man practically jumped over the distance and wrapped his arms around the smaller companion. "John." He whispered.
He grabbed Johns face and turned it towards his own, a bruise ,induced by surprise, bloomed over his left cheek, a deep violet.
Sherlock checked Johns pulse. Strong and steady, he sighed in relief.
A few cuts here and there but nothing else visibly off (other than his disheveled appearance) Johns dusty blond hair was sticking up in all directions, something that he would fuss over once he awoke. Sherlock lifted him a bit closer and he let out a muffled groan.
His eyes fluttered open, his dark irises clouded in confusion and he licked his upper lip, "Wha ," he tried to speak but bit his tongue, he took a second and began again," What happened?" he asked,
He head rolled limply to the side and he caught sight of the glass and blood on the floor. Panic flickered over his face and his head snapped alertly and his eyes narrowed at Sherlock, "Are you okay."
Sherlock huffed and put on a mildly displeased frown, why was John so concerned about him? He could have sworn John had no sense of self preservation at all.
John had taken the huff as an indication of sorts and rushed into his doctor persona.
"Sherlock," he said gruffly ," did someone hurt you? If they did we need to..." He trailed off.
"Oh."
John glanced back at Sherlock and explained the scene, apparently remembering after the slight moments of fogginess. " I had just gotten back from Bart's when someone launched at me from behind the door, he got a good wallop on my face, but we had a bit of a tussle all the way into the kitchen." He paused for a moment," and then I caught my foot on the table leg, hit my head and blacked out."
Sherlock felt anger stir in his stomach. Someone had deliberately hurt John, in their own home. Unforgivable.
John, gauging Sherlocks external reactions rather than internal spoke tentatively, " Sherlock, you might be upset, but I'm okay."
The look on Johns face was not okay. The way he grimaced when he shifted and the unsettling memories of the incident flashing over his visage. John wouldn't feel safe in the flat for at least three weeks and would look over his shoulder from time to time until things got back to normal, that was not okay. The man might have been a self proclaimed enemy of Sherlocks, and that meant that he was inadvertently at fault for hurting John. That was not okay.
None of this was oka-
"Sherlock."
Sherlock turned his attention to John.
"It's not your fault." He said quietly.
Sherlock mumbled something and then pulled John close. He was warm and smelled like freshly washed wool and dust. He nuzzled his face into John's jumper and let his rapid fire thoughts come to a halt. This was okay.
It felt like an invisible weight lifted off of Sherlocks chest.
John was okay.
John was sitting in the living room in his favorite chair watching a bit of crap Telly right after work when he heard a strangled cry of triumph and pain.
He rushed into the kitchen only to find Sherlock grinning happily- which he only did when talking to John, figuring out a murder, or completing an experiment- at his very noticeably broken wrist. Sherlock became aware of Johns presence and turn his pale eyes to him.
"John." He said a bit breathlessly.
"Sherlock, what the bloody hell are you doing?" He said exasperated to no end by the genius of a man and his crazy experiments.
Sherlock gave one of his are-you-seriously-too-dull-to -see-the -answer looks before launching into an excited recap of his experiment. " I was trying to figure the best way to incapacitate an assailant with minimal effort and came to the conclusion that wrists are tender places, I tried several times with the hamate, trapezium and capitate bones of the lower hand region but none worked. I then pulled my trapezoid and lunate both in opposite directions sharply up and it fractured my scaphoid. Conclusion: a sharp grab of a certain lower region of the wrist and snapping of the bone will cause excruciating pain and incapacitate an assailant for at most three minutes.'
John smiled warmly, he loved seeing Sherlock this animated and excited, " Congrats mate, now let me see your hand."
Sherlock looked at John with narrow eyes and eventually sat at the battered table while the other man fished around the messy kitchen for his emergency first-aid kit. Once it was recovered he sat down with a huff and went about tending to Sherlocks injury.
Sherlock cleared his throat after a moments silence.
"Sorry." He said under his breath, hoping John wouldn't hear.
But Sherlock knew that the admission hadn't been missed by the keen doctors ears. "Don't be, it's not your fault Sherlock." He said nonchalantly.
Sherlock's shock must of shown and Johns brows knitted together.
"Sherlock, it's not your fault that you're like this, that you end up hurting yourself in pursuit of a solution. Sherlock, you can't help it." John smiled warmly at Sherlock.
Sherlock felt awe for the man, but would never admit so. He had never felt this way about anyone, no one made him feel warm in the inside as well as the out side. No one but John.
"Other people wouldn't understand." Sherlock said brusquely, a bit defensive.
"I'm not other people." John replied.
Oh.
Sherlock leaned forward and nuzzled into Johns hideous forest green jumper that smelled like must and trees. It was pleasant and the warm tingling spread. This was okay and John was too.
John chuckled at Sherlocks sudden touch and made a note that gentleness was something Sherlock would never admit to craving.
The two men just sat for awhile before going about business. Sherlock resting on the couch resting his hand while watching crap telly after a days work and John in the kitchen cleaning the mess Sherlock had made by some earlier experiment involving half a cantaloupe and a part of an old car battery. He sighed very very heavily.
Sherlock grinned. He could get used to this, begin with the Doctor.
John was okay.
12:3am
1:04am
1:42am
1:58am
Sherlock was getting nervous. John said he would be here no later than 12:30 at the most from his date with his now year and a half girlfriend, Leah Dotty. She seemed nice enough, decent looking with long copper hair, green eyes and straight teeth, by all appearances she looked like a great snag.
But Sherlock knew better. John was just a port, somewhere to dock while she looked for her a place to permanently lay anchor. She was constantly going to meet other men and he knew that, John had an inkling that she was running around as well. His poor sweet John just couldn't leave, not when she pleaded him to stay by her side.
It was at 2:30am when John could be hear stumbling up the stairs and clumsily trying to open the door with his flat key. It took time and a bit of effort but he managed.
Sherlock had to stifle a gasp when John walked in. He had a black eye and a bruised rib from the way he was holding himself. John just crossed the room and slumping into a spot next to Sherlock on the couch, the faint scent of alcohol wafting about the room.
"John what happened." Sherlock said, trying to sound dead panned and uninterested but failing miserably and letting some worry seep into his words.
Bleary eyed, John turned,"You already know."
Of course Sherlock knew, he knew from the moment he had heard John set foot in the complex.
"Even so..." Sherlock trailed. John sighed and leaned forward.
"Seems that Leah found a better guy than me. The two have been going on for about three weeks. Three weeks, Sherlock." John's voice cracked and Sherlock shivered. "He came to the bar I was waiting at for her and flipped shit, said I was coming onto his girlfriend and assaulting her or something and then he punched he. Ten seconds later he was on the ground in a pool of his own blood."
Sherlock felt a twinge of pride.
"What about the rib?" Sherlock questioned.
John looked at Sherlock and grinned faintly," Seems she has more than one perfect guy."
They were solemn for a moment. Then giggles threatening to break free slipped through and evolved soon into great howls of laughter that ended in mirthful tears. They breathed heavily next to one another and then Sherlock looked at John more seriously and less playfully.
"She was unfortunate to lose you." He said, very seriously.
John sighed, " Nah, I'm a dime a dozen. Plain looks, ok demeanor, decent personality. Only I come with a lot more baggage than most." He said sadly, but quickly piped back to normal," Honestly Sherlock, why do you even deal with me?" He smiled and patted Sherlock on the knee in a friendly manor.
Sherlock was in a mental hailstorm.
Did John really thing so little about himself? Why was the extraordinarily brave, courageous, patient, kind, loving and caring doctor thinking so little of his worth? Surely he could be one of the most unique people in the world. Someone compatible with him as a partner was once in a lifetime kind occurrence...
Sherlocks thoughts rambled on and on as John leaned closer and closer to him, drifting to a hazy sleep and finally resting on the tall mans shoulder.
"You know, you are extraordinary ..." Sherlock murmured.
John and replied in a slightly slurred manner, hot breath against the other mans exposed neck," Thanks Sherlock... but..you don't...need to say... unnecessary..thing..." But by then John had left into a pleasant sleep.
He smelled of alcohol of course, but under that were the lingering whisps of antiseptics and gauze clinging to his poorly patterned vest and garnet undershirt. His hands, full of calluses and scars twitched in sleep, it brought a faint upwards of lips from Sherlock.
"You really are one of a kind."
John was okay and Sherlock was glad. He couldn't stand to see those sea deep eyes clouded over in regret, he liked them sparking with interest. Yes, he would make sure John got through this all in one piece.
Make sure he was okay.
John was okay.
The rain tatted against the window at a constant rate, andante and relentless. The skies had been rolling over London thick and dark for the past week and the rain never stopped.
Sherlock sat alone in his bed, wrapped in his dark navy bed spread tissue box laying in his lap and incidentally at the time, and pretty much all of before that, worrying about John.
While Sherlock had a slight cold, John had caught a severe case of pneumonia and didn't want to endanger Sherlock with the chance of catching it since his immune system was already struggling with just a cold.
John had been fatigued the past few days but it got worse.
Sherlock had felt sick to his stomach when he saw John two days ago, shaking with fever and chills, coughing with an abundance of liquid in the lungs and barely able to get out of bed. An ambulance had been called and John had been admitted, but had refused to let Sherlock visit until his cold was cleared up. John, careful as ever for Sherlocks safety. He limply threw the tissue box over the side of the bed in feeble retaliation.
Damned body, heal faster, Sherlock willed.
He decided to pad down to the living room swaddled in blankets and flip on the Telly. the news reported that almost 200 cases of severe pneumonia had cropped up, but shockingly (the reporter had emphasized this part) no one had died yet. Reassuring.
The rest of the day was spent meandering around the house before Sherlock retreated back to the bed and went to sleep.
In the morning Sherlock was clear headed and nearly jitterd with excitement all the way to Bart's. He hustled through the lobby and made it to room 32a and burst through the door, startling a very relaxed John Watson.
"John!" He exclaimed, "John, are you alright?" He looked over Johns entire body before bringing his eyes back to Johns.
"Yes Sherlock, I'm perfectly fine stop getting all wound up." John said chastising but affectionate. Sherlock took in the drab hospital room and the dark circles under Johns eyes. John wasn't okay, but he would be soon enough.
Sherlock visited everyday after that and discussed cases, his contempt for Anderson -which made John giggle- curious findings and day to day occurrences. John listened raptly and Sherlock was goaded by the attention, he reveled in it. Those deep blue eyes peering at him in earnest sent heat through his body.
It was strange to Sherlock, but he had never had a friend before so this might be why people want to have friends around them. The warmth they give.
Two weeks later John was completely recovered and sent back to 221B Baker Street along with one Sherlock Holmes who had practically lived in his hospital room.
"It's good to be home." John sighed, walking brought the door and sitting down in his chair.
Home sweet home.
Sherlock was glad too, buzzing with happy, which was strange. Why was he so excited John was in the flat? No matter, he was ok.
John was okay.
The flat had been busy the past few weeks, Lestrade stopping by and checking on cases, Mycroft stopping by to leave a file on a rising scandal (that Sherlock had scoffed at after Mycroft tapped away), Mrs. Hudson stopping by for a quick chat and tea with the additional private clients cycling in and out. The endless barrage of people kept the two quick on their feet.
Things had settled down, finally, and the two sat together on the couch watching a documentary on mold growth (Sherlock appreciated that John thought about him when he made the choice, it sent a tingly sensation up his spine) , the quiet was interrupted when Sherlocks phone chirped.
Sherlock lazily grabbed his phone and flipped oven the black casing.
(1) message: Mycroft
Sherlock sighed, usually he would ignore the text until there were close to fifty, but tonight he had a motivation to tell his brother off for robbing him of his alone time with John.
He angrily mashed the open key, then stilled.
He dropped the phone and turned to John eyes wide and confused.
John paused the program and looked at Sherlock,"What's wrong?"
A tense silence.
"Mummy's dead."
John instantly gathered Sherlock up in his arms and whispered in his ears, " Shhh, it'll be alright. I'll help you." He could feel Johns tears on his neck and his own down his cheeks.
"It's not your fault Sherlock."
Mummy.
"We'll get through this."
Mummy was dead and gone but a flicker passed through his thoughts as her pushed his face into Johns vest and cried for the first time in a long while. Mummy would have been upset that Sherlock was so vulnerable, that he wanted her alive. There was only one other person Sherlock could truly depend on now and that was a short blond doctor.
"Together." He whispered.
John was okay.
Sherlock was at the leaned over the toilet trying to stop the shaking and spasms in his limbs. John held his dark curls back from Sherlocks face but didn't say anything, John understood, but it didn't mean that he accepted it.
Gooseflesh rippled along his sweat slicked skin as he again retched, John tensed but it was a false alarm.
Sherlock had relapsed.
He hadn't needed to go and buy the substance, it was his emergency stash that he had never planned on using. It was just to show himself that he could beat the drug. He did.
But he couldn't now.
John was looking at him with concerned eyes and Sherlock felt all the more guilty. John, caring John couldn't leave his friend like this, puking all over himself and unable to get out of bed properly. Sherlock knew the other man didn't even have to remotely put up with him if he wanted to leave at anytime. But he stayed, and this confused Sherlock.
His body betraying him, but John stayed. It might have been out of debt, John conscious reminding him of the time spend emotionally healing with Sherlock. His gentle nature and stern carrying of himself all called to Sherlock in a peculiar way. He wanted John to stay with him even if John hated him. Despised his nature.
His sociopathic whims, his narcissistic remarks, the disgusting things that excited him and the books that teetered on edge everywhere. His habits to never clean up after himself, yelling at the telly, throwing items in anger. His quiet days when all he could do was sit and think, his cluttered days when all he could do was talk. The times when he left John alone, out of forgetfulness of manners, when he screamed at John, when he lost sleep because of John.
Sherlock couldn't believe that John stayed by choice, a constant companion at his side and he was so grateful.
He had lied to John, told him he wouldn't do anything stupid. He had thought John would leave after endless days he spent curled next to his chest, grieving his mums death and whispering derailed thoughts.
One night when John hadn't come back from work, Sherlock panicked, the thoughts of his friend leaving were so strong he tipped over the edge and shot up. It was only later when John rushed in talking about an emergency surgery that John saw Sherlock high as a kite and lounging on the couch.
He had been mad yes, but more so was sad. Sad that Sherlock had to go through the death of his mother this way. Sherlock felt ashamed at his action, felt filthy as he sweated on the floor now. John only looked at him with solemn patience.
Sherlock wiped at his mouth limply before collapsing onto John. " I'm- I'm sorry John." He stuttered through shivers. The doctor gently hugged Sherlock back and whispered," Sherlock you may have made a bad decision, but this isn't your fault. Come on, let's get to bed."
They hobbled awkwardly down the hallway, Sherlock draped over John, until they reached Johns bedroom. He took them inside and shrugged Sherlock on the bed, it made his stomach flutter. "Is it alright if I stay in here? To watch over you?" John asked.
Oh.
"Yes." Came his slightly strained answer.
They both slept, well John did, and it was interesting to Sherlock, that human companionship was this fulfilling. He turned to look at Johns slack sleeping face. It calmed him.
John was okay.
Running through the slick streets of London was invigorating.
The shouting at one another and chasing a killer across town was just what Sherlock needed after his slip up. John was close at his heels grunting and huffing the entire time. Rounding up a flight of stairs and into the library of the university they had rushed into.
It was eerily quiet, no students in sight.
A quick succession of bullets flew through the air and John let out a noise of surprise before following Sherlock behind one of the large bookshelfs standing in the room, breathing heavily.
This is where the killer Fernst Marr, had picked his victims. None ever stood a chance from the university librarian and Fernst had made sure of that. Each had an over due slip stuffed down their throats as well as a knife in their chest, some kind of proof that they deserved what they each got.
Sherlock motioned for John to sneak up behind the man, taking him into a headlock while Sherlock would incapacitate him.
John stealthily paced across the room, and positioning himself, behind the unsuspecting man and took him firmly, waiting for Sherlock. Sherlock quickly jogged over and slid a needle into the mans neck, the chemicals would have him out in no time. The man slumped to the ground with a thump.
Sherlock grinned at John, but John was looking elsewhere.
A red stain bloomed over his abdomen, snaking its way over his shirt.
He had been shot.
John swayed and was caught by Sherlock who wrapped his long arms around him, cradling him.
Sherlock ran his hand over the wound his mind at rapid fire. The blood was coming too fast to stop, flowing at a steady pulse. Nothing could stop it at this point and he could tell John knew this as well.
"John if we just apply the precise amount if pressure..."
The look in his eyes was desperate, pleading.
"Sherlock."
"We could take you to the hospital, get you an ambulance." Sherlock managed through a tight chest.
John chuckled and coughed a few watery sounding breaths. "You know as well as I do that they won't arrive in time."
The matter of factness in his voice terrified Sherlock.
"John,-"
Agony was etched into his voice.
"Don't forget to look after yourself..."
A reminder that John was still looking after Sherlock, even though he was dying.
"John, don-"
"I really did enjoy our time."
John placed his hand over Sherlocks and lowered it away from the gunshot wound.
"Please John, this is al-"
Sherlocks voice was wavering as he tried to speak.
"Sherlock, none of this was your fault."
Then he exhaled and didn't inhale again. The already shallow pulse at his wrist faded and his chest stopped rising.
At first it was only an empty hollowness, but was soon overridden.
The tycoon of emotions that washed over Sherlock made him shake, the agony the crushing pain in his chest and the regret of ever meeting a Watson.
The chills he got when knowing that the last person he was truly close to, had gone.
He clung to John even when Lestrade arrived.
He made them pry John from his firm grasp.
He watched as they pronounced him dead.
He saw them cover Johns face with a thin sheet.
He watched as they took him out of the library.
Sherlock just sat and watched.
John was not okay.
The funeral was a bit too much for Sherlock,it wasn't one he had ever intended on going to in his entire life, not to mention the dreary atmosphere did nothing to celebrate the upbeat captain.
He walked into his flat, and noticed glass strewn about the floor.
He strode over to the kitchen and his heart almost stopped.
John was lying faced away.
His chest obviously moving under his jumper.
Sherlock stared.
Thoughts slowing to a halt.
A grin played on his lips.
John was okay.
(The drugs had kicked in.)