~Thank You~
Hey guys! Another story! Ugh, I really should just be focusing on Breaking Your Own Heart. But I have writers block on the story momentarily. So I'm going to take a break and write some Johnlock feels. :3 This is just a short fic with a couple of chapters or so. Fluffy and cute. Like me. JK. I'm not cute. I'm sexy. ;)
Anyway, enough about my goregous looks *flips hair to the side* let's get on with the story. Hope you like it!
Summary: Sherlock get's injured at a crime scene and John fixes him up and helps him heal. He tries to find the words inside of him to thank John. Johnlock. Fluff. Short-Fic.
A breeze settled over London as the sun disappeared over the horizon. Lights came on, brightening the city. People and cars bustled about in the city. Everyone was enjoying the nice break in the weather. It had been raining constantly for a week now, and everyone was grabbing at the chance to take a nice even walk, where they'd actually be able to see the moon. Everyone was enjoying themselves.
Well, almost everyone. Two certain people were in a row. Where, you ask?
221B Baker Street.
"I can't believe you ran off," John Watson said angry as he stomped into his shared flat.
Sherlock Holmes looked up from the table, a microscope in front of him. "What do you-"But he didn't have a chance to finish his sentence because John started talking again.
"I can't believe you just ran away from the crime scene. You almost got killed, barely missed the bullet, and you just walk off; like it was nothing," John hung up his coat on the hanger.
Sherlock had now made his way into the sitting area, sitting down on the couch. "It was nothing," Sherlock said, picking up a newspaper from the coffee table.
John looked at Sherlock. Sometimes he just didn't know what went on inside that consulting detectives head. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know. "You almost got killed, Sherlock. How is that nothing?"
"Because, if the killer really wanted me dead, he would've killed me right away. He was displaying signs of nervousness the whole time I was his 'hostage'. Constant shifting of the leg, the hand on the gun was shaking, he even had a twitch in his eye. So when I ran away and tried to escape, he acted out of panic and shot me. With terrible aim by the way," Sherlock said.
John sighed. Even now, it had been a while since he moved in, he still hadn't gotten used to Sherlock's amazing skills. He just didn't see how anyone could be that clever.
"Then why is there blood seeping through your shirt?" John asked. Sherlock looked at his shoulder, and indeed there was a splash of bright red. A sharp contrast against his white button up.
Sherlock shrugged. "Well I'm not dead am I?" And he went back to reading his magazine.
John sighed and grabbed a cloth from a drawer; he ran it under cold water. He made his way to Sherlock on the couch. "Unbutton your shirt," He told Sherlock.
Sherlock sighed and lowered the paper down. "John, again, I am flattered, but I am married to my work and I don't have-"
John let out an exasperated sigh. "Idiot, your wound. Let me see your wound,"
"Oh," Sherlock said. John rolled his eyes. Sherlock's long graceful fingers slowly unbuttoned his shirt, he shook it off of his shoulders and threw it to the side.
John suppressed making a sound, he had never seen Sherlock topless before. Well, there was a first for everything.
He started cleaning the blood around the wound, it wasn't deep but it was still bleeding. He gently dabbed the wound directly and heard Sherlock hiss in pain.
"Sorry," John said.
"No, you're not," Sherlock retorted.
John chuckled and shook his head. "No, I'm not. It's what you get for not being careful with killers,"
Sherlock didn't say anything. John was right. His mind had been drifting (a rare thing) when they got to the crime scene he had only been focusing 99.99%. And for Sherlock, that was a big difference.
John applied antiseptic to the wound with a cotton swab, bandaging it up after. "You're very lucky you turned at the right moment. Or else you would've been seriously injured," He said, still concentrated on his wound.
Meanwhile Sherlock was concentrated on John. John took on a particular look when treating a patient or examining a dead body. He looked like he was in another world. And he was; the army world. He would look so determined, and a small crease would form in between his brow. Sherlock wanted to smooth it out with his thumb, but he held back from doing so.
What was wrong with Sherlock? Why was he thinking thoughts like this? He must be seriously ill. Sherlock thought to himself.
After a while, Sherlock realized that he no longer felt painful pressure on his wound. He blink a couple of times to realize that he had been staring at John.
John had a strange look on his face. "Sherlock? Are you okay?" He asked.
Sherlock took a deep breath. "I do not know John,"
John sighed and stood up. "Come one then, let's get you to bed. I'm advising a week of bed rest. Doctor's orders."
"But the case-"Sherlock started.
John gave him a look. "They can catch a serial killer on their own. You need rest," He held out a hand for Sherlock to take.
Sherlock ignored it and painful stood up on his own, trying not to make a sound of distress. "I do not need rest John. I am perfectly capable of walking and standing and finishing that case," He said.
He started to walk towards his bedroom, but had to stop and lean against the wall because of the dizziness in his head and the blur in his visions.
He heard John chuckle and come up next to him. "Sure, you're capable," He said sarcastically. He wrapped one of Sherlock's arms around his shoulder and helped him stagger to his bedroom. It was a little difficult considering the height difference. But John managed to set him on his bed.
Sherlock started to lay down but John stopped him. "No, you need to get out of that shirt. It's a mess,"
Sherlock contained an eye roll. John always over-did things. Not that he always mind.
Sherlock let John strip him of his shirt, watching him toss in the trash. It was ruined anyway. He took off Sherlock's shoes and helped him get under the covers.
He stood there for a moment, looking at Sherlock. Sherlock didn't know what to do? Was he supposed to thank him?
John sighed, his face falling. "Well, then. Sleep well," He turned around shoulders slumped with defeat. He turned around and turned off the light, closing the door around him.
Sherlock sighed.
"Thank you, John," he whispered into the dark room.
*Peaks out from under my writing table*
So what did you think? Was it okay? Or was it crappy? Please tell me. Because this is my first time writing Johnlock, or any Sherlock fanfics for that matter. And sorry about Sherlock's deductions. I know they're crappy. I'm working on it.
Please review! I'm working on chapter right now!
*Waves goodbye while riding on a horse with Benedict Cumberbatch*
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