A short little fic about John and Sherlock
There was a draft snaking through the flat. It was biting at Sherlock's ankles as he sat on the side of his bed, covers thrown back, raking a hand through his hair. It was January, so the draft was understandable. It was late morning, coming up for midday, and after a tiring case that only finished late the previous night Sherlock had immediately headed for his bedroom upon his return back home. He was vaguely aware of John telling him he would stay the night at Baker Street too, not seeing the need to disturb Mary by returning to their flat so late.
Sherlock sat for awhile on the edge of his bed, feeling the cold of the flat seeping into him, chilling him to the bone. The rain was heavy against the windowpane, pattering against Sherlock's eardrums in the otherwise silent room. A deep ache was filling him, starting from his gun wound to the whole of his right side. It had been well over a year since his shooting, but like his own personal poltergeist the wound would flare up with new pain when the weather turned, making him feel uncomfortable and tense for the whole day. It was just like what John's old battle wound did, he presumed; he hadn't talked to his best friend about it. Not yet.
He brought his hand under his t-shirt, shivering instinctively at the touch of his cool hand, to the scar that had mottled his otherwise smooth skin. He didn't like to look at it, didn't feel proud that he had survived to have this impressive scar on his chest to show off. He didn't resent Mary for shooting, and almost killing, him, understanding why she had done it. Understanding other human beings' slow minds for once. He just hated how it had affected John. He knew John didn't like to see him in pain, being reminded of his wife's actions and the fall out that had occurred. A man like John didn't deserve to be reminded of that dark time, so Sherlock never complained in front of him.
As he massaged his wound slowly the thrumming pain was interrupted by the pangs of hunger in his stomach, his body demanding nourishment after three days without. He sighed, removing himself from the nest of warmth that was his bed and making his way to the kitchen, snagging his dressing gown off the back of the door as he went.
He put a hand to his wound, trying to ease the pain there as he padded to the kitchen. He headed straight for the coffee machine, spotting John lying on the couch, still asleep, out of the corner of his eye. As soon as the coffee was brewing he went to reach for some bread from the side, and suddenly his side screamed in protest from the action and the pain flared up like a match that had been struck. He gasped involuntarily, hunching in on himself and holding his breath through the worst of the pain, dressing gown falling to the floor from where it had been draped across his shoulders. He leant against the counter, fingers tightening on the fabric of his t-shirt, scrunching it up as he waited for the pain to go away. It didn't, but eventually it dimmed down to a dull thudding.
Sherlock could hear John moving in the lounge, the couch creaking as he sat up. Sherlock straightened himself before John saw him, and this time reached over for the bread more carefully. Behind him John groaned, cursing quietly. He glanced over to see John massaging his shoulder, obviously suffering from the same ailment as Sherlock. Sherlock straightened further: he didn't want John to see him like that, not when John complained when his own shoulder ached, he didn't want to upset John. He knew that's what his wound did.
"It's freezing in here…" John muttered, raising himself from the couch, clothes rumpled. Sherlock could feel his gaze on the back of his neck, and he turned to give John a small smile in greeting.
"Morning," John greeted back, heading to the fireplace to give the flat some warmth. Sherlock watched as he groaned with each movement of his arm, shoulder protesting. Sherlock's side was flaring up too, agonisingly so, but he didn't say anything, he never would in front of John, he didn't want to remind him of what his wife had done, didn't want him to see him hurting. John should think he was fine.
Sherlock went to the cupboard, gritting his teeth against the twinge of pain as he reached up and pulled out some painkillers, putting them on the table before pouring the coffee and putting a steaming mug next to them.
He was spreading butter onto his toast when John came into the kitchen, spotting the painkillers and coffee and frowning. He looked to Sherlock, who just stared back and indicated the painkillers with a nod of his head. John stared at him with an odd look on his face, eyes only momentarily flicking to where Sherlock's wound was. Sherlock didn't say anything, just turned back to his toast, meaning he completely missed the fondness in John's eyes as the frown melted from his face. Sherlock wondered if John would say anything, which seemed like something annoying that John would do, but his best friend just reached for the coffee and painkillers, seeming less tense than before.
Sherlock annoyed any further twinges of pain that his wound caused while they breakfasted; he would be fine for John. John didn't need to see him hurting. A man like John didn't deserve that.
Edited 16/07/15 for spelling mistakes etc.
Thank you for reading!
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