Happy birthday Sherlockiannightmare! I hope you enjoy your day...
Big thanks to MapleleafCameo for reading this through and rounding it out for me :)
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original story line, but think of the fun I could have if I did...
It wasn't until they reached home that either of them realised something was wrong.
John was in the kitchen hunting for take-away menus while waiting for the kettle to boil, when he heard above the sound of bubbling water a sharp hiss of breath.
"What's up?" He looked through to the living room to see Sherlock poking about at the waistband of his trousers, pulling at the material of his shirt. His eyes, following the movement of those hands, noticed they were stained red.
"Shit, is that…?"
"Blood, yes very astute John." Sherlock snapped as his legs buckled under him and dropped him unceremoniously on his arse on the couch.
Flinging aside the handful of menus he had been holding, John swiftly crossed to Sherlock's side, brushing blood-stained fingers aside and getting a close look at the wound.
"He must have slashed me as I disarmed him." Sherlock's voice was a pained whisper as he leaned back slightly, looking down to see what John could see.
The cut was about four inches long, and although it was fairly deep as it crossed Sherlock's hip bone, it had caused no major damage.
"Need's stitching." John looked up at his friend. "Come on, let's get you to…"
"You do it."
"What? No Sherlock."
"Yes John," Sherlock was insistent. "You have everything you need in your first aid kit." He moved to stretch himself out on the couch, wincing as he did so, all the while conscious of the blood now sluggishly oozing from the wound.
With a grimace John rose and sprinted up the stairs to his old bedroom, returning with his army issue back pack. Dropping it on the floor, he glanced at his friend.
"I haven't got any anaesthetic spray; I used the last on you last week and haven't been able to replace it yet, so I'm going to improvise. While I sort that out, I want you to pull your shirt out of the way, and ease your trousers down." He glared at the smirk on the younger man's face. "Leave your pants on."
Sherlock watched as John walked to the cupboard and pulled out the roll of sandwich bags he kept for his lunches. Then, after a brief dig around the freezer he was back.
"You didn't need to take them off." He indicated Sherlock's now discarded trousers flung over the back of the couch, and trying not to stare at his injured friend.
It wasn't easy though as part of John's brain wanted to revel in the sight of the other man, lying on the couch in just his purple shirt (unbuttoned and draped artistically from one shoulder) and tight black pants pulled down slightly on one hip to expose the knife wound.
The smirk on Sherlock's face grew as he saw the effect he was having on the doctor, but it soon changed to a gasp of surprise as the older man leant down and pressed a bag of ice cubes to the damaged flesh.
"John!" he yelped, frantically scrabbling to get away from the cold.
"No Sherlock, hold that on there. The cold will not only numb your skin and make it less painful when I stitch it, it'll stop the bleeding." Now it was John's turn to smirk at the other man's discomfort. "Should have kept your trousers on."
"Where are you going?" Sherlock was torn between doing as he was told and getting up to follow John through to the kitchen.
"Making tea before I scrub to stitch you up." John grinned to himself as he made the drinks, and then carried them into the living room. "You can hold that to warm your hands up in a minute."
Quickly he returned to the kitchen and thoroughly cleaned his hands and forearms, snapping on a pair of latex gloves as he reached for a vacuum packed sterile needle and thread.
"Dissolvable stitches," he explained as he gently wiped the now cold and numb wound with antiseptic. "Try not to move too much."
With steady hands John worked quickly and neatly – and after the first suture was set Sherlock lay still, his hands cupped around his tea, his eyes following the smooth movements.
With the last suture set, John taped a gauze pad over the wound to protect it, then pulled off his gloves and tossed them down on the coffee table. He picked up his now cool tea, and rested his free hand on Sherlock's hip, his thumb gently rubbing across the adhesive strip.
"Sorry, I meant to replace that anaesthetic. That can't have been comfortable." He took a sip, his gaze moving to Sherlock's face.
A warm slender hand moved down to rest on top of John's and a small smile curved full, cupids bow lips.
"After the first I hardly felt it," he quirked an eyebrow. "Neat trick with the ice-cubes. Where did you learn it?"
John chuckled. "From my Grandma. She always had us holding ice to an injury before she tried to clean it; said she learned it when she had her ears pierced." His smile slowly faded. "I wonder what she'd say if she knew I used her trick to sew up my mad lover."
"Would she approve of me?" Although he said it in neutral, nonchalant tone Sherlock was almost afraid to hear the answer. They had never really discussed John's family in terms of their relationship.
He watched as a myriad of expressions passed over the older man's, remembered joy and sadness, childhood memories and more recent pleasures.
"Gran was a cantankerous old stick, always spoke her mind no matter who she upset." His smile returned, brighter than before. "And for the last few years of her life she was one of the few people who supported Harry's lifestyle choices – not the drinking, but everything else. She'd be happy for me."
He leaned forward and captured Sherlock's lips in a soft teasing kiss, his teeth nibbling along the full lower lip before sucking it into his mouth and gently tugging.
Careful not to aggravate the wound they deepened the kiss, hands clutching and holding each other as if nothing else in the world mattered but this room, at this moment in time.
Remembering his love's state of undress, John slipped a hand down to palm the ridge of Sherlock's hardened cock, smiling into the other man's mouth as a gasp escaped him.
"Sorry," he pulled away, a look of mock sorrow on his face. "I forgot you're injured, you shouldn't…"
Sherlock snarled and reached up to grab the back of John's neck, pulling him back down while thrusting his hips upwards in an attempt connect again with that questing hand.
"Maybe we should take it slowly." John whispered, letting his fingernails tickle and scratch along Sherlock's length from the glans that was straining to get into his hand, all the way down until he could slip his hand between muscular thighs to gently cup and squeeze.
The younger man let out a whimper and threw his head back.
"John…"
"Bed, I think."
Sherlock's eye snapped open as John pulled away.
"Off you go. Let me dispose of this stuff," John gesture to the used needle and gloves, "and I'll be right with you."
John helped steady his friend as he wobbled to his feet, and watched as the long pale limbs carried him towards the bedroom.
As he reached the door John called to him. Sherlock paused and looked over his shoulder.
"She believed that no-one needed the approval of others. She would have loved you because you make me happy, and that's all the recommendation she would need."
John smiled, and suddenly the weak feeling in Sherlock's knees had nothing to do with blood loss or injury. He turned back towards the bedroom, tucking those words away in their own little room inside his mind palace, ready for the next time he doubted himself or their love.