Author's Note: This is set after "The Great Game," but will contain lengthy flashbacks going back to the moments during the end of the episode. This is meant to be read as a story of friendship, with no intentional slash. If you want to look at it as pre-slash, I can't stop you, but that is not my intent as an author.
There will be several chapters (at least 10), but they will all be quite short.
I like to do something fun with my readers... If you leave a review, (please do!) it's a lot of fun to pick your favorite line or quote from the chapter and tell me why you liked it. It's a way for me to see what works, and it's a lot more fun than "great story," or "that was cute." If you want to leave any kind of review (negative reviews are fine... They tell me what I need to work on!), I'll be extremely grateful! So... Here we are.
Disclaimer: I am not making a profit off of this... I'm just playing with the wonderful characters/Plot that BBC, Steven Moffat, and Arthur Conan Doyle have created.
Understanding
Chapter 1
"Sherlock, you're hovering."
"I am not."
John Watson sighed, staring up at the man in front of him. "I'm fine," he said warily.
"Of course you are. Why would you say that?" Sherlock pursed his lips in a way that John knew meant he was feeling guilty.
"Because from the way you seem to refuse to leave the flat, you'd think I was about to drop dead at any second."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but it was a feeble attempt at nonchalance. John shifted slightly in his cocoon of blankets and tried a different tactic. "What about the case Lestrade called about?"
Sherlock was standing in the doorway of John's bedroom. He didn't look the least bit uncomfortable, nor did he look like he had plans to move. "Boring," he said simply, his lips turning down in that cultured, disdainful way of his.
"Boring?" John said. He shifted upward to a sitting position. He winced involuntarily as he felt his bruised rips jostle at the movement, and Sherlock tensed as if about to take a step forward. He reconsidered and leaned against the door frame, his fists clenched at his sides. John brushed the moment aside with a wave of his hand. "I'm fine. But how can you think that case sounds boring? Among the possible suspects are a woman who refuses to change out of a clown costume, two sets of identical twins who swear they're part of the occult, and an ex-soldier who got shot in the head and now sincerely believes he's the archangel Gabriel."
Sherlock smiled at John's summary. "I think you're overstating things a bit." But he glanced behind him and toward the door almost longingly.
John sighed, ignoring the way it hurt his ribs. "Sherlock, get out of the flat. I'm fine, honestly. You're going insane with boredom."
"I'm not insane," Sherlock snapped reflexively, and then seemed to realize what John had said. "I can't leave, John. You're on bed rest."
"Yes. As a precaution. I've got everything I need within reach and Mrs. Hudson is right downstairs. I'm fine."
"Yes, you keep saying that."
"And you don't believe me?"
Sherlock's face tightened slightly in memory. "As I seem to recall it, your previous definitions of 'fine' have left something to be desired."
"What do you mean by that?"
"You were 'fine' when you had just shot a civilian to save my life. You were fine' after a gang of Chinese gangsters tied you and your date up in a dark alley and threatened you. And now you're 'fine' after having been strapped to a bomb, and then subsequently had a building fall on top of you when I exploded said bomb."
"Jesus, you talk a lot," John said, grinning. "Go." Sherlock hesitated. "I'll call you if anything happens.
Sherlock glared. "Fine. I'll be back soon. Don't… do anything stupid."
"I thought I was supposed to be the doctor."
Sherlock gave a half-smile, which John returned. Then he was gone, hurrying out of the flat. Finally.
In an extraordinarily irritating way, Sherlock's attention over the past few days had been endearing. He clearly felt deep concern and guilt over the fact that John had been injured because of him, and was attempting to make it up to his friend in the uniquely Holmesian method of attentive obsession over every detail of his recovery. It was actually unnerving to be the sole focus of Sherlock's attentions. And it was a relief to be alone for a moment. Although…
Sherlock's incessant chatter and constant hovering may have been annoying, but it did keep the memories away. John closed his eyes and a blue, watery light filled his eyelids. He could still taste the chlorine and smell burning plaster. He could still hear Sherlock, yelling his name…
Author's Note: Again, I hope you review with a favorite quote/moment from the chapter! More to follow. Thank you so much for reading!
