Hopefully a sweet, fluffy one-shot for blanketforyourshock, who wanted, "forehead kisses." Happy birthday, lovely.
Also, this kinda wasn't supposed to be this long... by even half... I cannot just write a short story, it seems... -_-
In retrospect, John can admit that perhaps he shouldn't have been singing in the shower.
This fact in no way makes Sherlock's actions excusable, of course. But John can admit that maybe, maybe, he's not entirely blameless in this.
"John Watson?"
He looks up with a grimace at the nurse smiling at him. "Just this way, please."
He nods and gingerly tries to force himself out of the chair, careful not to use his right hand or arm or, hell, his entire right side if he can help it. Sherlock's there - of course Sherlock's there, Sherlock can't ever be somewhere else right when John wants him to be gone.
"Can I..."
"No." John angles himself awkwardly but doesn't fall and doesn't need help. He shoots a glare at Sherlock as he steps around him to follow the nurse.
He doesn't look back. There's no need. Sherlock is two steps behind him and about three seconds from a swift kick to the shins if he doesn't just back off.
"Space would be nice right now, Sherlock."
Sherlock says nothing, and John rolls his eyes. The nurse turns to him and smiles again, ushering them both into a small exam room.
"Do you want your partner to stay here with you?"
John closes his eyes. "It's fine." His teeth are clenched so hard his jaw hurts. The nurse will of course chalk this up to the pain. They always do.
"I just need to get a few vitals, and the doctor will be in to see you in a moment." John nods and keeps his eyes closed as she takes his pulse, his blood pressure, temperature, and asks all the usual questions about medications, interactions, etc. John answers mechanically - after so many years in the profession, he could answer before she even asks.
"Alright dear. Doctor Thomas will be here in a few minutes. You just sit tight."
John nods and opens his eyes as the nurse leaves, closing the door behind her. Then he waits.
It takes less time than he'd expected for Sherlock to speak. "I thought you were in trouble." His tone is petulant, childish. Lestrade's words float back through John's mind, Well I'm dealing with a child.
"Yes. I was in desperate trouble. In the shower."
Sherlock huffed. "I had no idea that sound you were making was... singing."
John lets out a mirthless laugh. "And rather than knock on the door-"
"Element of surprise, John."
"Well I was definitely surprised." John smiles. Sherlock flinches.
"I... I'm..." Sherlock takes a deep breath in through his nose. "I'm sorry."
"What was that? Couldn't hear you, mate."
Sherlock's mouth twisted in a truly fantastic scowl. "I said... I'm sorry."
John nods. "I know."
Sherlock stares at him. "You're not going to forgive me?"
John shakes his head. "Nope. Not yet."
"Why?"
John gives Sherlock a half-frown. "Maybe because my shoulder is still dislocated, Sherlock. Maybe because there isn't nearly enough dopamine in my system to take the edge off the worst of the pain right now. Maybe because I didn't realize singing in the shower was cause for alarm. Take your pick."
Sherlock looks away, hands going behind his back as he studies one of the oh-so-informative posters on the wall that seem to come standard with a doctorate and a lab coat. John concentrates on breathing in and out without jostling his shoulder too much.
A very long three minutes pass in relative quiet.
"I could-"
"No." John doesn't care what Sherlock's about to suggest - he's almost entirely certain it's a bad idea, and not the kind of bad idea that gets rid of a psychosomatic limp.
Sherlock turns and gives John a very flat look. "If you would just-"
"No."
Sherlock huffs but turns around again. Less than a minute passes this time before he turns back and strides over to stand in front of John, who looks up at him.
"What are you-"
John is shocked into silence when Sherlock's lips meet his forehead. He closes his eyes and takes a long, slow breath. Sherlock's lips are still attached to his forehead.
Knock knock. Sherlock straightens and steps back from John, who opens his eyes and watches him, surprised, just as the door opens and a young man who looks like he's fresh from Uni steps into the room.
"Hello, I'm Dr. Thomas. The nurse tells me we've got a dislocated shoulder?" John's eyes glance over to Dr. Thomas, and he nods slowly. The doctor looks between John and Sherlock, his expression going a bit uncomfortable. "Oh, I... I'm sorry if I interrupted-"
"It's fine." John lifts his left hand and waves the apology off. "Nothing to... interrupt." His gaze shifts back to Sherlock, who watches him blandly, as though there were nothing at all interesting about the moment.
Dr. Thomas nods and sets to work, checking John over for any breaks before telling him to brace himself and instructing Sherlock to help hold John in place. His shoulder cracks and pops and he grunts a lot louder than he would like to admit as it is forcefully put back into place. John clenches his teeth and hisses in a breath.
"Christ."
"Lucky it was only dislocated, you know." Dr. Thomas produces a sling from one of his pockets and a small cup with two pills in it from somewhere else entirely. He helps fit John's arm into the sling and watches as he takes the pills without water. "Two weeks, minimum." He gestures at the sling. "Here." A piece of paper with a prescription is handed to Sherlock, who takes it with a surprised glance at John. "Make sure he takes these with meals. Three times a day." Sherlock nods slowly, and Dr. Thomas smiles before excusing himself to tend to other patients. John eases off the exam table and takes a deep breath.
"How are you?"
John stares incredulously at Sherlock. "Were you somewhere else just now?"
Sherlock shrugs and looks unabashed. "I am more than capable of bracing a grown man whilst allowing my mind to focus on more important matters."
John growls - actually growls - and stalks towards the door. He checks himself out of the A&E, walking as quickly as he can out the doors to the curb, raising his left hand awkwardly. "Taxi!"
A black cab pulls up and John reaches for the door handle, only to find his hand grasping Sherlock's gloved one, his eyes going up to stare into Sherlock's eyes.
"I'll get the door, shall I?" Sherlock's face is impassive, and John just rolls his eyes and doesn't argue.
The cab ride home is quiet, and long, and John cannot stop thinking and wondering about that kiss. It was innocent enough. A soft press of lips to his forehead. That was it. There had been no hand holding and no declarations. Sherlock had been his usual, annoying self after that again.
So why had John's pulse sped and his pain lessened when those lips that often flung abuse had suddenly shown love?
They arrived at Baker Street, and Sherlock insisted on opening the doors to the cab and the flat, though John had threatened The Skull when Sherlock had made a move to try and help him up the stairs.
"I'm still perfectly capable of walking, Sherlock!" John had walked up the stairs carefully but purposefully, trying to show with every step that he was fine, dammit.
John sat down on the couch, leaning back, top of his head pressed to the wall. Sherlock was fumbling about in the kitchen, attempting to make tea no doubt, but John just couldn't be arsed to care right then.
A few minutes later, the couch on John's left dipped.
"Yes, Sherlock?" John's voice was more tired than he wanted to admit.
"I just wanted you to know. It meant nothing."
John pried his eyes open and looked over at Sherlock. "Okay."
"I mean it. The kiss. It was... an experiment."
"You're talking awful fast, Sherlock."
"Can't keep up?"
John smirked. "Did you know-"
"Probably."
John closed his eyes and started over. "Did you know that when people are nervous, and often when they are untruthful, they speak faster than they normally would?"
Sherlock hesitated only a beat. "The implication being that I am either nervous or being untruthful."
"Or both. Your voice is a bit higher than normal. Another sign that you're-"
"Shut-up." The couch righted itself and John chuckled. A moment later there was a cup of tea being placed in his hands. He straightened and sipped it. It was good. He shouldn't be surprised by the fact that Sherlock had remembered how he took his tea, but he was. Sherlock never cared about these things.
"I should..." Sherlock frowned and sipped his tea before continuing. "I should probably stay in your room tonight."
"Should you?" John gave him a pleasant, blank expression. "Why's that, exactly?"
Sherlock scoffed. "You may have a concussion."
"I don't remember hitting my head, Sherlock, just my shoulder."
"Endorphins, John. You may not have noticed, and with the pain in your shoulder it's entirely possible you have other injuries you are not yet aware of." Sherlock puts his tea down on the table next to his chair.
John hides his smile by taking another sip of his tea. "Fine." Sherlock looks at him, fingers steepled in front of his mouth, and nods once.
They finish their tea in silence, and John asks for a moment to go get changed, which Sherlock seems ready to object to before John simply walks out of the room and up the stairs, ignoring him.
To his eternal shock and awe, John had a solid five minutes before Sherlock came to his room, opening the door a crack before cursing quietly and closing the door, rapping his knuckles against it thrice, and opening it again before waiting for John to answer.
"I see you're learning the concept of knocking." John had slid into bed, the blankets pulled up to his waist. He had managed to change his pants easily enough, but he still had on his button-up shirt.
"Tedious."
"Yeah, well... it's appreciated."
Sherlock looked over at John, his eyes widening slightly. They narrowed again when he saw John's shirt. "Why didn't you change out of that?"
John looked down, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. "I... can't. Not without help, at least." He looked over at his arm then back at Sherlock, who nodded and strode over swiftly. Together they managed to get John's arm out of the sling and the shirt with minimal pain, and John repositioned his sling a bit. "Thank-you, Sherlock."
Sherlock paused as he folded John's shirt, facing away from him. "You're welcome, John."
John laid back, settling himself as comfortably as he could, taking a deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth, in, out, in, until he could feel sleep pulling at him. "You don't have to stand there all night, Sherlock."
"I'm fine."
John cracked one eye open and frowned. "Just get comfortable, or I won't be able to sleep." He closed his eye again and waited. A moment later, the bed next to him shifted and dipped as Sherlock climbed onto it, sitting with his back to the wall.
"Sherloooock... 'm sorry." John was exhausted, and the pills were starting to hit him a bit harder as he began slurring his words. "Ssssoorry I got mad."
"Sleep, John."
"Mmm, okay..." John yawned, and the last thing he felt before sleep claimed him was a familiar press of lips on his forehead.