Written for cuddlejohn for the Johnlock Valentine's Exchange! Happy Reading!

Blood Red

Cursing under his breath, John darted around the corner after the suspect. Well, seeing as the man had fled after Sherlock flashed the badge he had nicked from Greg, he was probably guilty. John really regretted not insisting they call for backup, but, per usual he had followed after Sherlock and ignored his instincts.

Lestrade had phoned three days ago with a double murder and Sherlock had immediately accepted it. Claiming it slowed his mind down, the stubborn detective had barely eaten anything for days; John was lucky if he could cajole him into drinking a cuppa and had even resorted into sneaking biscuits into his hands when he was too preoccupied to notice. All of this had left Sherlock practically running on empty, and he had fallen a few steps behind John.

The dark, dimly lit street provided little visibility, leaving John to rely solely on the sound of the murderer's footsteps pounding down the pavement. Though the heavy downpour had slowly stopped, a light rain continued to fall and puddles of water lined the empty streets.

Wishing for the comforting presence of the Sig tucked in the back of his jeans, John picked up his pace. As he turned the corner after the suspect, John grinned in victory at seeing a dead end; he had the other man cornered. The man reached into his jacket pocket and, anticipating a gun, John swiftly tackled him to the ground. John landed heavily on the suspect and, acting on instinct, he roughly twisted the assailant's arm behind his back. Then he felt a piercing, fiery pain in his abdomen.

John exhaled sharply in shock and inadvertently loosened his hold, allowing the other man to thoughtlessly drop the weapon onto the ground and escape. Catching sight of the pocketknife lying in a shallow puddle, John narrowed his eyes in frustration. He had been careless, not noticing the weapon, and now was lying in an alley in the rain. Catching sight of dark crimson color slowly spreading across his t-shirt, John fumbled in his jacket pocket for his mobile phone. He wasn't sure if Sherlock even realized that John had been wounded in his pursuit of the criminal, but he wasn't going to wait around to find out.

As John fumbled with cold, numb fingers trying to get a grip on his mobile, a new set of footsteps splashed around the corner. Sherlock.

"John?"

"Sherl'ck." John managed to call for his flat mate, feeling slightly guilty that he had even entertained the thought of Sherlock running off after the criminal and dismissing him.

Then a pair of bright blue-green eyes was above him, almost glowing in the darkness.

"John. John, I can smell blood. How badly are you injured? I didn't hear a gun fire, so a knife would is the most probable alternative." Sherlock rattled off, shakily tearing the navy scarf from around his neck and pressing it to John's bleeding abdomen.

Hissing in pain, John tried to re-assure the frantic detective that he was okay. "It's fine. It's all fine. S'my own fault. I didn't know he had a knife."

Catching sight of the abandoned weapon lying on the ground, Sherlock growled under his breath as he pulled out his mobile and barked instructions into it before dropping it onto the ground uncaringly.

"I should have been there, I would have noticed the weapon." He said finally, his brilliant eyes piercing as they met John's.

John rolled his eyes affectionately. A year ago he would have assumed Sherlock's only protestation was that he would have caught something John had missed. But now he knew better than that. They had been through so much together and John felt that he was just getting the hang of understanding the complex thought process behind Sherlock's actions. Sherlock wasn't a sociopath, no matter how often he claimed to be one; he just was completely unaware and out of his depth when it came to emotions.

"The suspect got away!" John exclaimed suddenly, disappointment clear on his features.

"Of course he did, John. I wasn't going to chase after him while you lay here bleeding out in the street." Sherlock said, staring at John as if he were spectacularly stupid.

John blinked in surprise before smiling slightly. "Ta, for that."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock reapplied pressure to the wound and estimated that the paramedics would arrive in in less than five minutes. Sometimes it was useful to have a brother who held a minor position in the British government, but he would never tell Mycroft that.

John shifted and then grimaced in discomfort. The burning pain had faded to an uncomfortable numbness, and he shivered at the cold spreading across his limbs. It was probably, in part, due to the fact that he was currently lying in a cold puddle in the dead of winter.

Seeing the emotions play across his flat mate's face, Sherlock frowned and his fists clenched around the dark material that was still pressed to John's chest. "I will find him, John. He will regret ever daring to cause you pain."

"S'fine." John placated soothingly, attempting to calm the irate consulting detective. It would be a bit not good to have Sherlock chasing off after a murderer alone. One stabbing was good enough for one day, thank you very much.

"It is not fine." Sherlock said the word scathingly, his brow furrowed in concern and anger. "We are currently on the ground in a very unsanitary alleyway, waiting for the paramedics to arrive while you lose blood and get closer to hypovolemic shock each second."

Despite the severity of the situation, John felt the urge to grin. Yes okay, so a suspect in a murder case had stabbed him. But he was happy. After he had initially returned to London on a medical discharge John had felt lost, unable to assimilate to civilian life. For christssake his life was so meaningless he had nothing to post on a damn blog his therapist suggested he write. Then Sherlock was there and everything was different. The dull, grey bits of life suddenly erupted in vibrant color, and he was swept up in a whirlwind of excitement; John was finally doing something that mattered. And he was damn good at it, too.

John briefly contemplated the fact that this thought, this contented feeling, was not quite normal. Then again, that adjective had never really applied to them.

Sirens echoed in the distance.

Sherlock's head snapped up and he growled insults about the pitiful excuse for emergency services in London. Sherlock failed to notice that he clutched John's hand in his, their fingers interlocked tightly against the blood-soaked scarf.

John smiled.

Sherlock burst through the hospital doors, his coat almost cape-like as he strode into the chaotic facility. Ignoring the people and festive decorations around him, the detective made his way to the area he knew John would have been taken. He had been here enough to know the layout of the entire building, even the supply closets.

A short, stern woman stepped in front of him pointedly. "I'm sorry sir, but only family can enter past this point."

"I'm his husband." Sherlock snapped impatiently. "Also, you should call your boyfriend; he is undoubtedly finding out about your string of affairs right now. Really, you should know that the smell of cologne lingers for hours."

The woman gaped in shock and indignation as he continued past her disinterestedly, already forgetting their encounter. John. He had to get to John.

Sherlock finally entered the correct room just in time to see John being bandaged up by a physician. He was a male doctor in his mid-thirties. Recently divorced. His wife had left him because his job was too demanding. His watch was inexpensive and ill kept, so he was reluctant to spend money, which was undoubtedly the main reason for the divorce.

John looked up and caught sight of him in the doorway. "There you are. I was starting to wonder if you'd gotten kicked out of here you deducing everyone to shreds."

Ignoring John's attempt at a joke, Sherlock moved to stand directly in front of where the army doctor was sitting on the cheap hospital bed. He placed his hands lightly on John's knees and stared at his face as if attempting to deduce the amount of pain he was in. Hell, he probably could just with a single look.

John patiently held still for Sherlock, but was unable to resist the instinctual urge to lean closer to the looming detective.

The young doctor quietly left the room, sensing he was intruding on a intimate scene.

Sherlock lightly traced the tired shadows under John's eyes with a long finger, his expression completely unreadable. He exhaled shakily, and let his hands come to rest on John's shoulders.

"Sherlock?"

"This wasn't how it was supposed to go."

"What do you mean?" John questioned in confusion, watching the conflicting emotions on the other man's face.

"This. Tonight." Sherlock answered quietly, tightening his grip on John slightly.

"You couldn't have known he had a concealed weapon." John said adamantly, reaching up and grabbing Sherlock's hand in one of his. "Even the great Sherlock Holmes makes mistakes sometimes."

"Unacceptable."

"Sherl-"

"Not when it comes to you. I-I can't, John. I hate, hate that the work puts you at risk like this." Sherlock murmured darkly, his eyes intense as they bore into John's.

"How do you think I feel when you run off chasing criminals while I'm at work? I bloody hate it. But I know you love it. It's what makes you you. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world."

Sherlock stared at him in puzzled amazement, as if he couldn't believe his luck at finding John. "You, John Watson, are a marvel."

Despite himself, John flushed with pleasure and rolled his eyes good naturedly. "You, Sherlock, are a flatterer and a romantic and no one will convince me otherwise!"

"Romantic? Did you suffer a head injury as well?" Sherlock asked in bewilderment. "John, it's February 14th and we are currently sitting at the A&E because you were stabbed in the abdomen. Our evening activities consisted of chasing a murder suspect down a dark alley in the rain."

Sherlock looked so genuinely confused and concerned that he had misinterpreted the meaning of Valentine's Day that John couldn't help but huff in laughter. His sore body protested the movement, but the painkillers did their job and kept the pain at bay.

"To be honest, I'm surprised you even realized that it was today." John admitted, shrugging. "I never expected us to do typical things that couples do, anyways. You hardly eat, so dinner was out. The idea of buying you cliché gifts like flowers or chocolate made me cringe, so that was definitely out."

"I don't want you to have to give up normal romantic social practices because of me."

"What if I believe it's worth it? I wouldn't have married you if I was unsure." John argued, pulling him to stand between his parted knees. "You are the most frustrating, maddening, and remarkable human being I know. And I wouldn't give up knowing you, being with you, for anything."

Sherlock smiled that smile. The one he dared only reveal in front of John. A warm feeling spread through John's chest at the familiar sight of it.

Sherlock leaned forward and rested his forehead against John's, his brilliant eyes closed as he held onto the precious words. People often noticed or sometimes valued his vastly superior intelligence, but no one ever appreciated him. Not until John.

"I love you." Sherlock breathed, his breath warm on John's neck.

John lit up, elation and unadulterated joy coursing through him. Even though it wasn't the first time Sherlock had said those words they still weren't a common part of his daily vocabulary, and John cherished every time he heard them. The fact that Sherlock used the words so earnestly made them mean even more.

John brushed barely there kisses against Sherlock's forehead, eyelids, impossible cheekbones, and finally his Cupid's bow lips. "And I love you, husband."

John hands gripped Sherlock's hips, preventing his escape even though that was the last thing on the detective's mind. The two were pressed closely together, but were mindful of John's healing injury.

Sherlock smiled, leaning down and touching his mouth to John's in a familiar kiss that never failed to make him shiver with pleasure and a feeling of finally. It had been a year since he and John had signed the necessary documents and were legally bound to each other. Early on it was clear they had formed an emotional attachment; yet it had taken years for one of them to take the leap that would escalate their friendship into a relationship. It had been the single most terrifying moment of Sherlock's life. Besides the pool incident, of course. But he tried to erase the image of his John strapped down with explosives from his memory.

As they embraced in the small, brightly lit hospital room, the couple forgot about the outside world and all else faded to black.

It was just the two of them against the rest of the world.