Chapter 1

Tender Care

The detective slipped through the black door to the Baker Street flat, hung his great coat on its peg, and silently ascended the stairs two at a time. Pausing on the landing, Sherlock listened for signs of activity. A brief silence greeted him before he discerned the faint clink of a teacup against its saucer. The sound drew him to enter via the kitchen where he encountered Mrs. Hudson sipping her early evening tea, with soother, and reading the daily newspaper.

Not at all surprised by his sudden appearance, his elderly landlady smiled up at him while attempting to hide some of her reading material. "Hello, dear. How was your day?"

He grimaced, more at the other scandalous newspaper she tucked beneath her skirt rather than the question she posed, but he made no comment regarding the former. "Abominably dull without John."

Mrs. Hudson nodded her head at his complaint, a warm smile tilting her lips. "Well, it's good you're home."

"Is he all right?"

Folding her reading against her chest, she sighed. "Irritable, the poor dear. He finally fell asleep on the sofa."

Toeing out of his shoes, Sherlock padded across the sitting room floor to where John lay at the end of the sofa, nearly buried beneath the duvet from their bedroom.

Dropping to his knees, he pressed the back of his hand to the doctor's cheek. "He's a bit warm and flushed. When?-"

"About six," she said, responding to his aborted query.

His attention so focused on John, he hadn't noticed that she'd followed until she appeared beside him.

"He'll probably sleep a while longer then. Has he eaten? Kept it down?" he whispered after John stirred, then settled, to encourage Mrs. Hudson to do the same. She followed his lead.

"I made porridge for him. He seemed to like that. He's managed a toast and tea. I didn't think a Jammie Dodger was a good idea, but he insisted. He wanted to feel a bit normal, I think. He kept it down, but didn't take his usual second."

Sherlock imagined the frown that must have adorned John's lips.

Mrs. Hudson's gentle hand upon his arm drew his gaze to her soft smile. His landlady was much more observant that given credit.

"I'll leave you to it, then," she said as they walked back to the kitchen. "I've put some vegetable stew in your fridge. It should suit him when he's hungry. And there is still some porridge from this morning that you can warm up if he'd rather. Have you eaten?"

Sherlock patted her hand. "The stew will be just fine, Mrs. Hudson, thank you. I'm more tired than hungry. I appreciate that you stayed with John while I was out for a longer time than I expected."

Mrs. Hudson squeezed his arm, then returned to the table to retrieve her cup and place it into the sink. He followed so any further conversation wouldn't disturb John.

"It was no trouble at all," she whispered over her shoulder. "He's a dear. Will you be going out again tomorrow?"

"No, the case is solved, and unless an emergency arises, I don't expect Lestrade will need my assistance for some time."

"I'll be going to the shops with Mrs. Turner tomorrow. If you need anything, Sherlock, just give a shout."

Sherlock kissed her cheek. "Thank you."

"He missed you, you know. He stood at the window for a bit, watching for you."

Sherlock offered his warmest smile to the elderly woman, but he really wanted her to leave. "Yes, thank you again, Mrs. Hudson, for taking such good care of John today, and me, well, both of us, every day, really."

"Oh, Sherlock, you know I would do anything for my boys."

He smiled again. Impatiently. "I know."

With that, Mrs. Hudson retreated. Sherlock listened for her soft, hesitant footsteps on the stairs and the gentle click of her flat door before returning his full attention to his slumbering doctor.

Twitching the duvet away from John's face, Sherlock lowered it to his waist to peer beneath the t-shirt he wore. The detective recognised it as one of his own. Whenever John was feeling out of sorts, whether physically or emotionally, he invariably appropriated a shirt. He claimed it made him feel closer to Sherlock. Having worn John's t-shirts on occasions too numerous to count, the detective understood the need and the sentiment.

Pressing his fingertips along the edges of the bandage to check for any warmth or redness that might mean infection, he found none, which relieved his concern. Later, when John was awake, he'd change both the dressing and bandage as the emergency doctor had instructed him.

For long moments, Sherlock gazed at his partner, the man he loved with all his battered heart, and as had been the case over the past few days, his eyes brimmed as he remembered how one slash of a knife very nearly took John's life.

"No. Stop. Just stop."

The detective started at John's soft, slurred voice. "John. You're awake...obviously as you're speaking to me." He shook his head at his own absurd response. "How are you feeling?"

With a wavering finger, John swiped away the tears from Sherlock's cheek, and tapped his lower lip in an admonishment that Sherlock understood. "Yes, John, no regrets."

John's gaze was unfocused, but warm and steady, reminding Sherlock again how much he loved this man.

"Help me to sit up?"

"Is that wise?"

John frowned. "I'm the doctor here, you're just a consulting detective." He looked up suddenly, his blue eyes reflecting his sorrow at the outburst.

Taking no offence, Sherlock chuckled as he slid his arm behind his doctor and eased him to a sitting position, then steadied him when he groaned and leaned his head against Sherlock's shoulder. Wedging himself between John's knees and resting his hands on each of John's hips, he leaned forward to properly support John's weight.

"I need to kiss you now, Dr. Watson," Sherlock whispered as he moved away just enough to see John's beautiful face.

"I would like that very much."

John's eyes closed and he sighed when Sherlock took his mouth. A moment later, when John suddenly stiffened, crying out against the detective's lips, Sherlock stopped, palming John's face.

"John, what is it? Did I hurt you? Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I didn't think..."

"Stop," John demanded past gritted teeth. Pulling in deep breaths and shaking his head, John reached for Sherlock's wrists.

"It's okay. It's easing off now. Help me up, please?"

"John? Are you sure?"

"I don't think I have the strength to walk too far yet, but I've slept most of the day, didn't want to ask Mrs. Hudson to help, and if I don't get to the loo right now..."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Sherlock still held John's face in his hands. "How should I help you? Tell me what to do."

"I think I need to move to the edge of the sofa."

"Okay. If I put my hands under your bum to slide you forward, would that work?"

"Let's try it, just don't grope."

Sherlock snorted. When his plan worked and John didn't groan, he wanted to cheer, but held back because it felt wrong.

"Stand?"

"Yes," John said, his speech clipped and pain-filled.

"I'll bend so you can put your hands on my shoulders. Then I can lift you up."

John shook his head, his lips pressed together in a thin line. "I don't think I can stand straight, so I'll hold your belt, but I have to get up now. I can't wait any longer."

On his feet and slightly bent at the waist, John dragged in several deep breaths before leaning his head against Sherlock's chest. With an arm round him just enough to support, the detective guided John across the sitting room and down the hall to the loo.

"John?"

"I think I can do this alone."

"Are you sure?"

"No, but I don't want to embarrass either of us."

Sherlock waggled his eyebrows, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"Not embarrassed in the least, John."

John looked up at him with a shy smile. "Right, well.."

Sherlock waited at the door until he heard handwashing, then stepped inside to offer his help. John accepted with obvious relief, letting Sherlock guide him into the hall.

"Would you be more comfortable in bed?"

John looked up at him, indecision clear in the way he bit his lower lip. "My chair? Would you mind? I'll be quiet if you want to work, probably just fall asleep again anyway."

After pressing a kiss to the top of John's head, Sherlock walked him to his chair, easing him down into it. "No work tonight. I'm here just for you."

"I'll be fine here, if you'd like to shower and change into something more comfortable."

Sherlock leered at him. "John Watson, are you trying to seduce me?"

John squinted up at him. "God, no, couldn't. Maybe kissing?"

"I'm flattered, my dear doctor, and yes, I would like to shower, but only if you promise not to move from this chair. I won't be but ten minutes. We'll have dinner in front of the fire."

"Yes, all right, I promise not to move."

Sherlock returned to the sitting room within the promised ten minutes to find John slumped in his chair, chin dropped to his chest. A kiss to his temple was just enough to rouse him.

John lifted his head. "I'm awake...I'm...awake."

"Are you sure, John?"

"No..yes, really. Oh." John said, his blue eyes wide and his mouth tilted up on one side. "You're teasing."

Sherlock presented his most innocent smile and, of course, his doctor reciprocated with his John smile, the one reserved just for him. The smile that always did delicious things to his, well, best not to think of such things at the moment, he decided.

"Ah, John Watson, you are a balm to my heart."

"Yes, so you've told me."

Wrapping his long fingers round John's smaller ones, Sherlock drew gentle circles over the backs of John's hands. He leaned forward, nuzzling their noses together until John raised his head for a another kiss.

"I amend that statement, my dear Dr. Watson, you are my heart."

John dropped his head to Sherlock's shoulder, rolling it from side to side. He sighed.

"John?"

"I'm fine. Just weary."

"You need to eat. Mrs. Hudson left us some vegetable stew, easily digested, she said."

"Yes, that would be good."

When John tried to lean forward as though to stand, Sherlock pressed him back into the chair. "Please, John, let me take care of you. Just rest."

"I want to help."

"I know, that's what you do best, just not this time. Please?"

John's blue eyes seemed to penetrate deep into Sherlock's soul, if one could be found lurking about somewhere inside him, but John wasn't deducing, he was...loving him with his eyes, which set off electrical impulses along his spine.

Sherlock cleared his throat, certain that John had once again cast over him a delightful, magical spell. If John were capable of such a thing, he welcomed it.

Pulling back slowly, he released John's hands, and rose to his feet. "I'll feed the fire, then heat our dinner."

John looked up at him, resting his head against the back of the chair. "Okay."

Sherlock padded away toward the kitchen, pausing in the doorway to look at the back of John's sandy head. Two short strides brought him behind the chair. He kissed the top of that head and tousled the fine, short hair. John reached up with his right hand to pat Sherlock's cheek.

"I love you, too."

Sherlock couldn't remember a dinner he'd enjoyed quite as much as this one. Well, if he were honest, he did remember another, but this was a very close second to dinner at Angelo's that first night now so long ago. Unlike that night, this time, food actually entered his digestive system.

He'd pushed the chairs together to face the fireplace, placing the table that usually sat beside John's chair between them. He'd served their dinner from there, then their tea, and finally, chocolate fairy cakes with raspberry icing.

John ate sparingly and slowly, sipping his tea as he nibbled a fairy cake. Nodding now and then while Sherlock talked about the case with Lestrade and the Yarders, the doctor soon grew quiet. Sherlock ceased his attempts to amuse John to simply observe him.

Jaw tight. Pain. Shallow breathing, also pain related. Smudges beneath unfocused, shiny eyes. The most telling of all: fisted hands that he tried to hide, but Sherlock saw. Time for bed and painkillers.

"John?"

John groaned pitifully. "Sherlock, I need to lie down. I don't feel well."

"Emesis?"

"No, oh, thank Christ, no." John grimaced, then shivered.

"Right, painful."

"Yes, very. No, I'm lightheaded. If I just lie down, I think it would be better." John reached for Sherlock's hand.

"All right. We should change your dressing as well to see how things are going."

"It's been only two days home, Sherlock, there won't be any noticeable change."

"Nevertheless, your doctor stressed that the wound needs to be cleaned and the dressing changed at least once daily for the first five days at home."

"Yes, Dr. Holmes."

Sherlock pressed his palm to John's cheek. "Yes, John, for the time being, that's just what I am. I'm pleased to do this for you."

Once again Sherlock helped John slide to the edge of the chair, and with his hands at his hips, lifted the doctor to his feet. John's pain-filled groan struck him, inverting his gut.

Once upright, John reached for the dishes, but Sherlock stopped him. "No, John. Once you're safely in bed, I'll come back for this."

Twining their fingers, Sherlock walked close beside his doctor toward the loo, all the while observing John's stiff-legged, definitely pained gait. With each step, his heart ached.

"Stay with me? In our bed. Sherlock, I need to have you with me tonight."

"John, whinging is a pointless exercise. I'm very adept at ignoring whinging when it's for your own good."

"I hate being bullied," John mumbled irritably from his place on the toilet seat while Sherlock prepared his toothbrush.

Using his drama queen face to make John laugh, Sherlock pouted. "I don't bully," he said with his best whinge.

John snapped the brush from his hand, nearly dropping it. "Yeah, you do."

Sherlock searched his thoughts for something to sidetrack him, make him laugh again, or both. He smiled when it came to him. "John, am I, or am I not your commanding officer?"

A brief grin creeped along John's lips. "No," he insisted, pulling himself up to stand in front of the sink.

"Well, maybe not. Am I, or am I not the current King of England?"

John snuffled, holding a hand to his chest. "No."

"Your caregiver, then?"

"Maybe, but I don't want a caregiver. Look, I just brushed my teeth all by myself."

Sherlock frowned, slowly shaking his head while looking at John's reflection looking back at him from the mirror.

John sighed. "Oh, all right, yes you are."

"Then you will acquiesce to my request to care for you?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I said yes just a moment ago."

"No need to be irritable, John."

"I'm not-"

Sherlock issued a half-hearted warning. "John?"

"Sherlock."

"Point taken." When Sherlock smiled at him, John pursed his lips in huffing annoyance, but only for a moment. Framing John's beloved face with his elegant hands, the detective covered the doctor's mouth with his own.

When they finally arrived in the bedroom, Sherlock settled John onto the bed before leaving to gather what they needed. When he returned to the bedside with the first aid kit, John's medical bag, a basin of water and several flannels, John lay still, but pain etched deep lines round his mouth and across his brow. Without a word, the detective strode with purpose to the kitchen to retrieve John's pills and a glass of water.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Sherlock rested his hand on John's arm to gain his attention.

"Mmm?"

"Are you in pain? Truth."

For a long moment John didn't answer. Pulling in a breath, he finally opened his eyes. "Sorry, Sherlock, I don't like to whinge, but it really hurts. Is it time for more?"

"I don't suppose ten minutes makes much of a difference?"

A wisp of a smile touched John's lips. "I think I'll be okay to take it ten minutes early."

Reading the label carefully, as he never failed to do, Sherlock tapped two tablets into his palm, held them out to John with one hand, offering a glass of water with the other.

The speed with which John swallowed the pills confirmed what Sherlock already knew. His doctor had been hiding his pain until it became unbearable.

"You're perspiring, John, your face is as flushed as it was when I first arrived home. Is your pain more than the effectiveness of the painkillers?"

"No."

Sherlock shook his head. "John, it isn't complaining if you tell me that the pills are not relieving your pain."

The surprise he failed to hide indicated that John realized he'd been found out. "You're a terrible liar. You know you can't hide anything from me. I don't understand why you still try."

"I'm a terrible patient. I don't want to be a burden or an insufferable idiot!" John threw up his hands in anger, then quickly held his left arm against his body, pain evident in the straight line of his mouth, and the cry he couldn't swallow.

Sherlock crawled onto the bed to sit cross-legged next to John's hip. He stared at John's hand in his for a long moment while gathering his thoughts. When he finally spoke, he used his gentlest voice.

"You are a terrible patient-"

John looked away. "I think we've already established that."

"But you are my terrible patient, I love you. You are not, nor will you ever be a burden to me." Pulling the duvet up round John's shoulders gave him the opportunity to be close. "I'm going to kiss you now."

"Okay," John said, as tears overflowed and streaked down his cheeks.

"Sometimes, you are an idiot when you forget that there is nothing you could do or say that would make me un-love you."

"I know...I'm sorry, wait, what? Un-love?"

"Do you?"

"What?"

"John, you know I detest repeating myself, so just this one time. Do you know that there is nothing-"

"Yes! I know...I think I'm confused? Unlove? Is that like unfriending someone on social media?"

"Shut up, John."

With great care not to brush against John's injury, Sherlock straddled John on hands and knees to plunder the doctor's mouth. John lay still with eyes closed.

"Better?"

"Mmm."

"Good. Shall we tend to your injury now?"

"Please, Sherlock, then I need to sleep, if I can. It's the only relief I have, well, except for kissing, but we can't kiss all the time."

"We could try?"

John giggled, then gasped. "Oh, don't make me laugh. It hurts."

"Sorry."

Once John settled and his pain ebbed, Sherlock returned to the edge of the bed to tend to his doctor's wound.

"Thank you for taking care of me, Sherlock. It means a lot to me."

"I've never wanted to be a caretaker for anyone before, not even myself, but you, taking care of you makes me feel more human, not just useful because of my brain."

John raised a hand to feather his fingers along the detective's cheek. "You are very human, Sherlock. More human than you think, but I've told you that more than once, it's an old story now. You just need to believe it." John tapped his finger against Sherlock's chest, where his heart lay beneath. "Right in here."

Under other circumstances, Sherlock could have, would have preened under John's praise. The warmth inside him was more, somehow, deeper, more substantial. Something beyond himself.

"Shall we get on with this so you can get some rest?"

"All right."

"I need to refresh this water, it's gone cold."

John nodded. "Okay."

Sherlock tipped his head to the side. "I love you."

John sighed, deep, shaky, but he seemed a bit more comfortable.

Sherlock thought perhaps the pills were at last offering some relief.

Sherlock stood, and turned away, basin in hand.

"I love you, too, you giant git."

The detective shot a grin over his shoulder. "I won't be but a minute."

"Am I hurting you?" Sherlock asked as he peeled back the edge of adhesive covering the wound.

"Pinches a bit, but it's fine."

"I'm afraid that if I pull it quickly, which is proven to be less painful, it's so large it might tear the stitches if any bodily fluid is stuck to it."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

With caring, gentle fingers, Sherlock eased the rest of the adhesive bandage from John's skin. The dressing came away easily, no dried blood clung to the gauze.

"Oh."

"Sherlock, what is it? Is something wrong?"

"I-"

"What Sherlock? You've gone pale. Are you going to faint?"

"John?"

John struggled to sit up. "Sherlock, you're scaring me, what is it?"

Sherlock blinked, breathed heavily. "No, John, it's all right. I didn't...realize. I never saw-"

John gripped his wrist. "Tell me, Sherlock."

Sherlock coughed suddenly. When he finally found his voice, he gazed at his doctor with a renewed sense of how precious John was to him.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, his words catching in his throat.

"Oh, no, don't. I was stupid to do what I did. It's my own fault."

"No! No, John. Just...No." Sherlock's eyes filled without warning. Again. What was wrong with him? Sentiment?

Tears blurring his vision, the detective leaned down to press a kiss to the skin above the angry slice that began at John's sternum and continued at an angle to the hollow between his lowest rib and his hip. Sturdy fingers tangled in Sherlock's curls over the curve of his skull.

"It's okay, love. We're okay," John whispered.

Sherlock struggled for control, his chest hurting when his wayward thoughts turned in a direction he didn't want to examine. Pulling back suddenly, he swiped both palms across his eyes to deny any more tears.

Sherlock snapped on surgical gloves to disinfect the area as John directed him, taking care not to disturb the stitches. The doctor inspected his wound for himself from the detailed photos Sherlock produced with his phone.

John shook his head grinning at Sherlock. "A mirror would do. Only you would think of that. You are such a git."

Sherlock grinned, his eyes still watery and threatening to spill over again.

"...but lovely. Thank you."

Sherlock gazed at John with an intensity that often frightened their clients, but not his doctor-soldier. John always knew, never shrinking from it.

"I just need to put the new dressing on now. Then you can sleep."

"Sherlock? You're doing it again."

"I'm sorry?"

"You're blaming yourself because I got hurt and you weren't there in time to protect me."

Sherlock lowered his head. John knew him so well. "Don't be an idiot, John."

"If our roles were reversed, I would be the one feeling guilty. It's what we do, it's who we are. So, just stop it. It's over, we're okay, Sherlock. I don't want to talk about it anymore. Please?"

Sherlock didn't respond or try to deny his feelings of guilt, he simply couldn't find the words, so he nodded his assent, and continued tending to John's wound.

Well aware that John watched him when he returned a second time with refreshed water, he kept his eyes averted as he bathed John, carefully drying as he finished each area. Drawing the duvet up to John's chin, he sighed.

"A clean T-shirt?"

"Please."

"Pyjama bottoms as well?"

"Yes, please."

He sensed rather than saw the tiny smile on John's lips. Struggling to control a smile of his own, the detective returned all the necessities to their proper places.

Rummaging through his own and John's nightclothes, he brought suitable items to the bedside.

"Your pyjama bottoms, flannel for warmth."

"I'm sure you'll keep me warm, love."

The detective smirked. "Oh, I intend to. One of my T-shirts again?"

"Yes."

Sherlock bit his lower lip. "How-"

"Help me up."

"John."

"You're a temporary doctor, Sherlock, I'm the doctor this time."

"You are a stubborn man."

"Still the only doctor here."

"Very well."

"Thank you."

Just a silent grimace as John rolled to the edge of the bed was all the confirmation Sherlock needed to know the medication had begun its task.

In comfortable silence, Sherlock freed John's right arm from the soiled T-shirt, slipped it over his head and down his left arm. With a bit of help, John stood briefly to pull the pyjama bottoms to his waist, but dropped suddenly to the edge of the bed when his legs wobbled, refusing to bear his weight.

Raising his eyes to lock with John's became Sherlock's biggest and best mistake. John leaned forward to claim his lips in a prolonged, needy kiss. When John shivered several minutes later, Sherlock pulled back to gaze at his flushed face. Steadying him when he swayed forward, the detective used the opportunity to feather a kiss to each collarbone and the hollow of his throat.

"Sherlock?"

"You're cold?"

"No."

In reverse order, he soon had the T-shirt on with no groan from John. Kissing him again seemed the best thing to do.

"You need to lie down and get some sleep."

The doctor didn't protest when Sherlock helped him back into bed. Once prone, head cradled by one pillow and another under his knees, John sighed in what Sherlock believed was relief. Pressing a kiss to the top of John's disheveled hair, and twitching the duvet round him, the detective turned off the bedside lamp.

John was asleep before Sherlock left the room.

In the kitchen Sherlock tended to the washing up. He surveyed the fridge contents, making a mental list of the needed foods. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson could watch over John during the next afternoon instead of asking her to shop for them.

Domesticity was not and never would be within his realm of important things, but for John he performed it willingly, binning his experiments as well as anything else non-edible.

Securing the screen on the hearth to contain any wayward embers from the dying fire, he paused for a moment to stare at the skull and trace a finger over its frontal bone.

"Sorry I haven't visited very much lately. I haven't forgotten you. It's just that John is a better conversationalist than you are even when he's injured. He helps me. I'm better with him. And he loves me back."

Sighing deeply, Sherlock turned from the mantle, moving quickly to close the flat doors for the night. The light over the cooker supplied the only illumination to navigate his way to the loo.

His personal needs took only brief moments to complete. Scrubbing his fingers through his hair calmed him as he thought about John's chiding him for feeling guilty about his injury. Huffing out a frustrated breath, he returned to the bedside to gaze down at the man he loved, the man he'd never imagined would love him back, but did, wholeheartedly, and with every molecule of himself. Sherlock was humbled in the face of that knowledge.

Sometime later, still warm with the thoughts of John's love for him, he slipped into bed to curl round his doctor as best he could given the nature of the injury, and pressing his lips to John's nape, allowed the guilt to dissipate. He knew it would return because there was always a next time with them, but at least for this moment, he could do that for the man he loved. Always for John.

Thoughts settled, finally, Sherlock slipped his arm between John's neck and the pillow and closed his eyes.

Stirring a bit, John drew in a slow breath. "Sherlock?"

"No one else in the world is allowed this close to you and not suffer the consequences, John."

John snorted a tiny laugh. "Love you."

"As I love you."

Sherlock interlocked their fingers, raising the back of John's hand to his lips to bestow a kiss. "Sleep well, my love," he whispered against John's ear.

John squeezed his hand, pulled it across his chest and secured it beneath his chin with his other hand. With John's head pillowed just above his elbow, Sherlock curled his arm to lay his hand on the crown of his doctor's fair head.

"I will love you forever."

Moments later, his mind for a rare time blissfully silent, and with John safely in his arms, Sherlock allowed sleep to claim him.