Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
"Gmnph," John moaned and pressed a pillow over his face. It was too bloody early for this, whatever this was.
Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
He pulled the comforter up over his head for good measure. He was comfortably burrowed in a nest of blankets and cushions and sleep. He did not want to move, he didn't want to open his eyes. He had been in such a lovely deep sleep. He tried to go back to that place, forcibly, but…
Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
…he was being pulled inexorably towards consciousness by a mysterious and persistent noise. John grumbled and held the pillow more firmly to muffle the sound, but…
Tap.
Fine bloody fine, John groaned, It is apparently time to get up at…he briefly looked at his watch and decided that whoever was responsible for waking him at seven in the bleeding morning on a Saturday would be punished. Harshly. Of course, there was only one person that could possibly be responsible for doing such a thing.
He threw back the comforter to find Sherlock sitting not four meters away, furiously typing on John's laptop.
"Good morning, John," he said without looking up. The relentless tapping continued as the consulting detective pounded on the keys as if it were his mission to destroy yet another piece of technology, specifically, one that belonged to John.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?" he mumbled as he rubbed his hands over his face, trying to wake up a bit. He needed a shave. And tea, tea would be nice.
"Typing. Clearly," Sherlock was apparently deeply engrossed.
John rolled his eyes, "I can see that. Hear it too. What are you typing?"
He waited for a response that was clearly not forthcoming and sighed.
John had slept on the sofa, as he was wont to do since he had come home from the hospital. He desperately wanted to move into the bedroom, but, Sherlock, when he wasn't annoyingly obsessed with writing clandestine missives at the crack of dawn, was committed to acting as John's tyrannical nursemaid and jail keeper, forcing him to remain in a state of convalescence in the sitting room.
The bright side was the Sherlock spent the night with him on the sofa. They were often curled up together, draped across one another, and John was becoming accustomed to waking with his face pressed against Sherlock's collarbone. The bad side was the Sherlock spent the night with him in the sitting room. They both woke with cricks in their necks and Sherlock's sleeping schedule was not that of a normal person, which meant that John was often woken at odd hours by his dulcet tones elucidating the finer points of some case to the skull, various loud bangs of dubious origins for the kitchen, and, of course, the violin music (although, usually John's favorite tunes). To be fair, Sherlock seemed to be trying to be quiet, but he was not consistently quiet by nature, and when he went to his mind palace, all bets were off.
This whole thing could have been resolved if Sherlock allowed John to move his recuperation to the bedroom because then, at least, when Sherlock got a random thought into his head, he could go to the sitting room and the resulting noise would be muffled by doors and pillows and a thick wall of sleep. Well, John conceded as he ran his hand through his hair, hopefully it would be toned down a bit.
For someone who so deeply valued rational analysis, Sherlock had been displaying a remarkable lack of logic and a great deal of stubborn eccentricity. This, paired with his intense dedication to John's continued health, was becoming a bit overwhelming after a week.
John looked at Sherlock and wondered how long he had been awake. He must have been very careful about getting up; John hadn't been woken and the former army doctor was still quite sensitive around his torso (a fact which he was trying to hide, lest Sherlock fall into paroxysms of cossetting). He was getting to be worse than Mrs. Hudson. John wasn't quite sure why that brought a strange sort of smile to his face.
"Sherlock?"
Still no answer, the attack on the key board continued with feverish intensity. John rolled his eyes. Idiot. Well he leaves me no choice then…He threw the Union Jack pillow. Unfortunately the movement sent a piercing pain down his side and he gasped sharply. The pillow grazed Sherlock's head at the exact same moment that John made his exclamation. He was therefore not sure which had caused the detective to come out of his reverie, but suddenly the intense fixation that Sherlock had hitherto been focusing on the screen came to rest on John.
"John, are you all right?" there was a remarkable amount of concern in the voice.
"Fine." Here we go, John thought as he rolled his eyes, trying to play nonchalant.
"Are you quite sure, John?" Sherlock was apparently not taken in. He continued examining John over steepled fingers, "There is sweat on your forehead, your left hand is grasping your torso in a protective gesture, and you are biting your lip in an attit-"
"Can you just maybe not do that as soon as I wake up?" He crinkled his nose; it was too early to be deduced, "Really, just, you know, just, just give me a few minutes."
Sherlock stared at John impassively for a moment, then got up and walked over to the blogger, offering John his pillow. When he didn't take it, Sherlock forced John to lie down, readjusted the comforter, and examined his face closely for a moment. No doubt noticing, in addition to the previous observations, the dilated pupils and flushed cheeks. After making his deductions, he smirked slightly and pressed his mouth to John's. John faintly hummed in his throat; this was a far better good morning than he had thus far received today. He was inclined to forgive the keyboard attack.
Sherlock pulled back, looked into John's eyes, and then said, "I'll just make us some tea."
He bustled off to the kitchen leaving John sofa ridden, sore, flushed, and reflective. This was all new to them. The situation was tentative and being negotiated on a daily basis. There were moments when John wasn't quite sure what they were doing.
Sherlock had "died" and left him alone before returning. Just a few weeks ago John had nearly died from gunshot wounds. These events had served as an impetus for the two of them to finally admit how they felt, and make peace with their emotions…in some ways. But that didn't mean that things were completely settled. John frowned slightly. They had not quite gotten past all of their issues, either, which in certain aspects had intensified.
No matter what Sherlock said, no matter that he hadn't left John's side for a second since he had been shot, no matter that the sociopathic consulting detective had completely laid his soul bare for him, the blogger still had trouble believing that Sherlock would be there when he woke up. He sometimes thought that the consulting detective would get into one of his moods and just wander off never to return. On some level John knew he was being ridiculous, but still…
Sherlock's behavior had gone to an extreme. He seemed to have received a serious shock. He was jumpy, overly-attentive; he was very focused on John most of the time, as if he were afraid that the blogger was on the verge of dropping dead at any minute. Not the best way to treat someone who literally almost died, John thought. He was hoping that it would settle down a bit now that he was on the mend, but based on the past week, that didn't seem likely.
John spent a lot of his time (and he had a lot of it these days), wondering what was keeping Sherlock from becoming bored with him, especially now. Taking care of your sick…blogger wasn't the most scintillating task. And there was the great question at this moment, the one with which John had become increasingly preoccupied, as he lay about reading medical texts, being force fed scones with jam, and soup (Mycroft provided the former, Mrs. Hudson the latter, Sherlock was mostly responsible for nearly drowning John in tea every day). He and Sherlock had made declarations, but they had not otherwise acknowledged what any of this meant for them individually or together.
Sherlock had come back into the room, bearing two steaming cups. John frequently wondered (with a mix of curiosity, horror, and fascination) what the hell went on in that consulting detective's head (he also wondered who taught Sherlock that the proper response to physical or emotional turmoil was to make tea. Probably Lestrade).
"Thank you," John said, still a bit amazed that Sherlock would serve him tea without any added substances.
Sherlock carefully sipped his own brew, surveying John slowly.
"What were you writing?" John was making small talk in the sitting room, over tea, lovely, they could join Mrs. Hudson and her friends for bridge soon.
Sherlock considered this for a moment, "Notes."
"Notes?"
"Yes," more tea was sipped, no additional explanation was offered.
"About…" John trailed off, waiting. Where was the show-off Sherlock who couldn't shut up for five seconds?
"A case," Sherlock answered briefly. Far too briefly for John's liking.
"I didn't know Lestrade had given you a case," John started.
"He hasn't," Sherlock continued surveying his blogger with an intensity that simultaneously made John want to bask in its glow, blush furiously, and hide his face in some way, lest he unintentionally reveal something he's rather not.
"Why—" John began.
"I told him to wait until you are well," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, but if he had said that he was becoming a Buddhist monk he couldn't have shocked John more. His surprise must have shown on his face because Sherlock smirked and rolled his eyes.
"I'm lost without my blogger, John," He said. John still wasn't quite sure what to make of such pronouncements delivered in the same tone of voice that denounced murders but with a look of such intensity that it fairly drew the air out of the room.
"So then what were you-?"
Sherlock stood suddenly and said, "You should get some rest, John."
John was completely bewildered by the sudden change of topic. What the bloody hell?
"I just woke u—"
"Yes, but someone recovering from your type of wounds requires approximately—"
"Sherlock, I'm a doctor I know how many hours of rest I'm meant to get, and how many calories I'm meant to consume and every bloody recovery statistic. I went to medical school," he sighed resignedly, "and whatever I didn't know, you've informed me in the last two weeks. So-"
Sherlock nodded, "Good, I'm going to get milk."
Jesus, it must be desperate if he's willingly going to Tescos, John thought.
"Rest, John." And the detective was out the door with a dramatic flourish before John could say another word. He lay back down on his pillows with some choice words about stupid, bloody, stubborn, evasive, geniuses. He wondered vaguely as he drowsed (damned idiot is right about the sleep) how they could ever work as partners if they couldn't even talk about what was really bothering them.
AN:
Welcome everyone! Finding ourselves is the sequel to You Were My Life, so if you have checked out that story I suggest you do so.
What do you think so far? I honestly hadn't planned on writing/posting this until at least tomorrow (I was focusing on the prequel, Where You Find It), but Sherlock and John wouldn't shut up. They clearly thought it was time to come back.
In the next chapter (should be up on Friday): Sherlock gets all introspective while he buys the milk…
Thank you for reading. Comments and feedback are always welcome so, please, if you get the chance, leave a review. They make my day and I will respond. :D
