The entire night had been a blur, even for Sherlock who usually had every detail committed to memory in a matter of seconds. Certain main points stuck out vividly in mind though, as he sat waiting for the doctor and nurse to finish with John so they could go home.
- - Lestrade had text him, he had a case. Needed help….
Sherlock and John arriving by taxi to the crime scene, seeing the detectives shouting at someone who was running….
Finding Lestrade, who said the guy had a gun and had threatened to shoot everybody in range if they didn't let him go… He'd run for the car park next to where they were….
A car, barrelling towards them, actively aiming for anyone in its path….
Seeing John standing near Donovan…
They both see the car at the same time and lunge out of the way, Donavon was clear but the corner of the car clipped John in the chest…..- -
Sherlock physically winced as his mind recalled that part. He opened his eyes and saw Lestrade sitting next to him, flipping through a magazine. If he'd seen Sherlock react, he wasn't letting on. Sherlock closed his eyes again and thought back.
- - He ran to John who was unconscious….
Yelling for medics…
Riding in the ambulance, holding Johns hand….
Arriving at the hospital, the nurse prying his hand away from Johns…
He couldn't go in the room he wasn't family..
Calling them all idiots, telling them they were sure to do something wrong if he wasn't there to oversee them…
Lestrade telling him to shut up and holding him back…
Falling to the ground and not sure why but his legs wouldn't hold him anymore and being glad Lestrade was there even though he felt stupid…
Lestrade dragging him to a chair and telling him John would be okay if he would just let the doctors do their job…
Sitting with him when he couldn't stop shaking but refusing medical attention…- -
Sherlock glanced at Lestrade again. He had been right of course. The doctor's took care of John and after a couple of hours had said he'd be fine, albeit in pain. There was severe bruising covering the right half of his body, but nothing broken or punctured. He was, as the doctor said, lucky.
"You're creepy enough without the staring," Lestrade said without looking up from his magazine.
Sherlock opened his mouth a bit but found that at the moment he couldn't seem to access any sarcastic comebacks. He looked away quickly.
"Relax," Lestrade added. "He's going to be fine, you heard the doctor."
Sherlock nodded but didn't respond.
"What about you? How are you feeling now?"
"Don't patronize me, Lestrade. I wasn't hit by a car," Sherlock spat with more anger than he had intended.
"No, but you saw your best friend hit by one, and you were very obviously in shock. And since you refused to get checked out by a doctor, the least you could do is answer my question." Lestrade was watching Sherlock and clearly not giving up until he got an answer.
"Fine. I'm fine now."
"Good," Lestrade said with a smile, and returned to his magazine.
Sherlock debated what to do next, he knew what he wanted to say, what he should say. But it wasn't what he normally did. After a moment of thought he looked back at Lestrade and cleared his throat. Lestrade looked up but gave him a weird look for it.
"Thank you," Sherlock said quietly, looking the other man in the eye. "For helping me."
As surprised as Lestrade must have been, he covered it well and just said "You're welcome."
"Detective?" a nurse said as she walked up to them.
"Yes," Lestrade replied as he stood up.
"Dr. Watson is ready to go home now, he's just getting dressed."
The second she had finished her sentence, Sherlock practically ran to the room he knew John was in. John was standing next to the bed, attempting to pull a t-shirt over his head, but failing miserably.
"John.." Sherlock said quietly. John stopped his struggling and, wincing, lowered his arm. The shirt hung loosely around his neck.
"Hey," he replied. "Some night, eh?"
Sherlock let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Yeah," he replied.
"Um, couldn't get some help, could I?" John asked gesturing to the shirt.
"Of course," Sherlock stepped forward but froze next to John as the sight of the bruises was unobstructed for the first time.
"Jesus…" he whispered. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah, I mean, hurts like hell, but I'll live," he tried to give a reassuring smile but it probably came out like more of a grimace.
Sherlock looked away and noticed Johns jumper on the bed. "You really want to attempt putting two articles of clothing on? Why don't we just settle for the jumper?"
John shrugged and then cried out a little. "Have to remember not to do that," he said.
Sherlock nodded but said nothing. He gently pulled the t-shirt off of Johns head and replaced it with the jumper.
"Ready?" he asked when he had it in place.
"Yep," John replied. Sherlock manoeuvred the arm on Johns uninjured side into the sleeve relatively easily. Then moved to the other side. It took much longer that it ever should to put on a jumper, and caused John a lot of pain for the trouble, but finally it was on.
John sighed as they both stood there facing each other. When the pain had somewhat subsided he said, "Let's go home."
Lestrade had been nice enough to give them a ride home from the hospital. Sherlock, as usual, wanted to take a taxi but John had refused because Lestrade was already there and he didn't want to wait. Sherlock had grumbled and made a show about how put out he felt at having to get into the back of a police car, but John wasn't in the mood to care.
The ride to Baker St. was unpleasant to say the least. The slightest bumps had Johns severely bruised ribs protesting and John couldn't help but groan every time he was jostled. Sherlock watched him nervously, as though he were a bomb about to go off. He shifted in his seat until his side was pressed up against Johns. Admittedly, this whole comfort thing, was one area where Sherlock's intelligence was poorly lacking. He cleared his throat and said, "We'll be home soon." Normally, he hated when people stated the obvious, but he was at a loss for anything else. John began to nod but than inhaled sharply as they hit a particularly bad bump and John felt the pain radiate from his ribs throughout his body.
Lestrade glanced back concerned, "Sorry."
John nodded again. "S'okay," he replied quietly, then let his head fall back against the car seat. With Sherlock sitting so close, John could feel the roughness of the other mans jacket brushing against the side of his cheek. Exhaustion finally catching up with him, John leaned into the fabric. Sherlock suddenly felt a weight pressing on the side of his upper arm and looked over to see the top of Johns head at his shoulder.
"Okay?" he asked, thinking possibly the other man had passed out.
"Mmm," was the only reply he got.
A couple minutes later, Lestrade pulled up in front of 221B Baker St.
"Wake up, we're home," Sherlock whispered.
"Not sleeping," John mumbled. Sherlock wasn't sure he believed it.
"Stay sitting for a second, I'll go unlock the doors and tell Mrs. Hudson it's us." Sherlock bounded out of the car and up to the door as Lestrade came around and opened Johns door for him. John eased his legs out so he was facing out of the car, but remained sitting as Sherlock had said.
"Crazy seeing him like this isn't it?" Lestrade said conversationally.
John smiled. "He doesn't know what to do with himself. Its kind of endearing."
Lestrade laughed. "You probably don't remember much from earlier, but after you got hit, he lost it. He wouldn't let go of you. Once we got to the hospital he was yelling at the doctors. He went nuts. But he was definitely in shock, shaking and not thinking clearly."
"I vaguely remember him holding my hand in the ambulance and telling off the medics for being too slow," John laughed. "I know this sounds awful because I know he was genuinely scared, but it was kind of nice to see. I mean, that he cared enough to be scared. You know, sometimes I wonder."
Lestrade nodded like he understood completely, but John felt a little guilty for saying it. He certainly wasn't glad he was hit, and he didn't want his friend to panic, but all the same….
Sherlock popped out of the doorway and over to Johns side.
"Ready?" he asked as he placed his hand under Johns arm on the uninjured side.
"Yeah, just, go slow," John gritted out between clenched teeth as the pain already flared from the small movement.
After a tense moment, John was standing and slightly out of breath.
"Listen," Lestrade said, "I've got to go back and see what's been going on when we were at the hospital. You two alright to get upstairs?"
"Yes," Sherlock replied shortly.
Lestrade rolled his eyes at John. "Okay, I'll come back when I'm done let you know what's up. If you need anything, just call me."
"Thanks," John answered weakly.
Sherlock helped him walk slowly to the door and then up the stairs to their flat. By the time they reached the top John was panting and sweating, so Sherlock led him to the sofa where he tried to do most of the work lowering John into a sitting position. John groaned once he was settled.
"Did they give you medication for the pain?" Sherlock asked. "Should you take some more?"
"They gave me some yeah, but I'm not due to take more for another hour." John reached into his pocket and pulled out the small amber bottle filled with pills, and placed it on the cushion next to him.
Sherlock scoffed as if the pills did something stupid.
"I'm okay," John added in response. "I can last the hour now that I'm sitting."
"Right, well. What do you need? Anything? Food? Tea?" Sherlock fidgeted nervously as he stood in front of John.
"No, thanks. I really just want to sit here and not move." He smiled after that to try and assure Sherlock that he was indeed okay.
"Okay then," Sherlock turned quickly and left the room.
John realized his eyelids felt really heavy. He knew it was the medication he was on, so he didn't try to fight it. A few minutes later he felt a tugging near his waist. He ignored it, he was too tired to open his eyes. After a couple seconds, curiosity got the better of him and he cracked one eye open.
What he saw was Sherlock on his knees on the floor in front of John. John looked down and saw that Sherlock had unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his button and zipper. John cleared his throat and Sherlock's head snapped up.
"Sorry," he said quickly. "I was trying not to wake you."
"What were you doing?"
"Well, you were sleeping. But your trousers are filthy. And probably uncomfortable since your all bruised. I thought pyjama bottoms would be softer and more comfortable for you." To illustrate his point, he grabbed the plaid flannel bottoms from the floor next to Johns feet and held them up.
John smiled. "I'm not sure how you thought you could change my trousers without waking me." Sherlock shrugged. "Besides, I'm not sure I want you seeing me with them off."
Sherlock looked up and in complete seriousness said, "But, your injured. Surely, I can help."
John didn't have the heart to laugh at him, because he was clearly dead set on helping in any way he could. He sighed.
"All right. But I do have to draw a line somewhere. No changing my underpants next time I fall asleep, yes?"
Sherlock finally smiled and nodded eagerly. He pulled the trousers down the little bit that he could without moving John.
"Can you lift your hips a little?"
John sighed and tried but the pain was to much and he stopped before he had really moved at all.
"That's okay, I have an idea," Sherlock stated. He stood up and leaned over John. "Wrap your arm around my neck." John lifted the arm that wasn't bruised and draped it over Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock leaned in even closer, sliding his arm under Johns and around his back. "Let me do most of the work," he added as he slipped his free hand into Johns waistband and got ready to pull. He slowly lifted John and pulled on the trousers simultaneously. He felt John hold his breath and tighten his grip on Sherlock's neck. When the trousers were successfully resting around Johns thighs, Sherlock lowered him back onto the sofa. John let out the breath he was holding but hadn't yet let go of Sherlock, who was in an odd standing/leaning position over John, but he didn't complain. He still had his arm around John as well.
"All right?" Sherlock said finally.
John nodded his head against Sherlock's shoulder and slowly slid his arm off him. Sherlock leaned back went back to his position on the floor. He took off Johns shoes and then slowly slid the trousers the rest of the way off. He quickly took the pyjamas and got his feet through the legs and pulled up as far as he could go.
He stood up again and leaned over. "One more time," Sherlock said soothingly. John put his arm around Sherlock and they did the same thing again.
The pain was immense but he was slightly more comfortable with his pyjamas on.
"Thanks for that," he said to Sherlock. "Maybe I will take another pill now though, a little early won't hurt."
"I'll get some water." Sherlock came back with a glass and handed it to John, but left the room as he was taking his meds.
He came back with a pillow and a blanket. Sherlock propped the pillow against the arm of the sofa to work as a cushion between John and sofa, then draped the blanket over him. He took the glass John was still holding and placed it on the coffee table then sat next to John, grabbed the remote and flipped on the TV.
"Do you want to watch something?" he inquired politely.
"Whatever you want is fine, I'm not really paying attention to it."
Sherlock nodded. "If you need anything just tell me."
"Mmm, thanks," John said sleepily.
"Promise." Sherlock stated.
"Promise what?" John didn't understand, he thought he missed something.
"Promise if you need something you'll tell me." Sherlock was staring at him.
"Um, yeah. I will. Promise," John answered, still confused.
Seemingly satisfied with this he turned back to the TV and started flipping through channels.
The doorbell rang at around 7 pm, about an hour after they had arrived home from the hospital. They could hear Mrs. Hudson greeting the newcomer warmly. Then the footsteps ascending their staircase. By the time there was a small knock at their inner door, Sherlock had already figured out who it was.
"Come in," he called out.
Lestrade opened the door slowly, peeking his head in. "Sure that's a good idea? Really, you should lock your door."
"I knew it was you," Sherlock replied as if that were obvious. "And the door downstairs was locked."
"Right," Lestrade sighed. He then turned his attention to John. "How are you, then? This bloke taking care of you?" he said with a laugh.
"Actually yes," John replied with a smirk.
"Good. That's good." he smiled and then remembered the box in his hand. "Oh, I stopped and got these. Wasn't exactly gonna buy you flowers, was I? So I settled for biscuits." He handed the box over to John, and John noticed the logo from the bakery down the street on top.
"Cheers. That's perfect, thanks," John replied.
Sherlock, meanwhile, was very quiet, which wasn't entirely out of the ordinary for him. Suddenly, having come to a decision, he jumped up off the sofa he'd been crouched on.
"Tea, Lestrade?" he asked, smiling in a way that was slightly unnerving.
"Uh…yeah. Yes, please," he stammered. Sherlock nodded then looked at John. "You're going to have some too John it'll be good for you. You haven't had anything all day."
John didn't even get a chance to reply, as Sherlock was already in the kitchen, bustling around in his quest to make the perfect tea.
"I can't count how many times I've been here," Lestrade said quietly, "and he's never offered me tea."
"He is acting a bit odd tonight. And by odd I mean like a completely normal person, but for him that's different."
Lestrade laughed. "Well, you gave him a scare, I'm sure it'll wear off by morning."
He came back with the teapot and cups on a tray and even served Lestrade and John before taking his own. John opened the box of biscuits and took a couple then passed the box around.
"Good?" Sherlock asked as he sat down next to John.
"Very good, yeah," John said with a smirk. Sherlock smiled
They sat for a little while talking. Lestrade filled them in on what happened while they were at the hospital. His team had found the guy down the road after he lost control of the car and crashed into a tree. They arrested him and he was now in custody. When Sherlock was assured that the guy who hurt John was behind bars, he resumed his hovering.
"How are you feeling now? Did the medication work?"
"A bit, yeah. Still sore, but that's going to take time."
Sherlock studied him for a minute, then jumped up and went to the kitchen. Lestrade still found this terribly amusing and tried to cover his laughing with a sip of tea because Sherlock had come back.
"I got you some ice, the doctors said you should use ice to keep the swelling down, yes?" He had a rather large pile of ice wrapped in a dish towel in his hands.
"Uh, yeah, but-" John started, but Sherlock was already beside him placing the bundle against the right side of his chest.
"Ah - oh, god," he said partly from the cold and partly from the pain. "Sherlock, stop," John tried to say kindly.
"I know it's uncomfortable but you're a doctor, you know you need to do this," Sherlock replied insistently. "I'll get you another towel to put another layer between you and the ice, maybe that'll help." He was already on his feet.
"No, you don't have to get anything else," John said calmly. "Seriously, I'm fine. Just sit."
"No, it's fine," he said not making eye contact but stepping away from the sofa.
"Sherlock, don't. You don't have to keep waiting on me."
Sherlock, not unlike a child testing their boundaries, looked at John then. And decided to completely ignore him and continued on his way to the kitchen.
"Sherlock, stop!" John raised his voice a bit. Sherlock continued on his path, ignoring Johns plea.
John managed to stand painfully, anger getting the better of him, and crossed the small space between Sherlock and himself, grabbing his arm. "Stop walking away from me," John said, voice low and serious. Sherlock stopped mid-step, not that he had much choice. John knew he wouldn't pull away and risk hurting him more. However, he refused to make eye contact.
It was definitely the wrong decision to jump off the sofa, every part of his body was screaming at him right now, but it was already done. He took a deep breath then looked at Sherlock, who was looking at the floor.
"What is going on with you?"
"I could ask you the same. I'm just being helpful," Sherlock replied petulantly.
"And I appreciate that. Really. But you're not being yourself and I just wish you would, for once in your life, tell me what's wrong. Be honest with me!" His voice had risen by the end. Lestrade stepped up then.
"Okay, boys, lets calm down. Its been a rough night, come on." He tried to guide John back to the sofa, but he wasn't letting go of Sherlock's arm.
"Say something. Answer me!"
Sherlock felt backed in to a corner. If John wanted the truth, fine. He shook his arm out of Johns grip causing the other man to stumble a bit, but Lestrade was till next to him and steadied him.
He turned to face John, and Lestrade for that matter, and paused for a second wondering if he should even bother. Then he thought to hell with it and continued, not quite controlling his emotions like we would've liked.
"You want to know what's going on?" he said angrily.
"Yeah. Yes I do," John stood his ground.
Sherlock sighed. "I heard what you said."
"What?" John asked confused.
"I heard what you said to Lestrade before! Outside at the car!" he yelled angrily.
It took John a minute to understand, but he heard Lestrade groan next to him.
John was just staring at him.
"Let me spell it out for you, shall I?" Sherlock asked. "You were happy to see me so upset. Well? What else was I supposed to be? My best friend could have died tonight!"
"I wasn't happy, Sherlock. That's not what I meant at all," he said softly.
Sherlock laughed angrily, giving John a disbelieving look.
"No, Sherlock, I'm serious. I don't want to see you scared or upset or whatever, I just.." he sighed, his hand coming up to rest on his chest because the pain was almost unbearable now. Sherlock saw this and instantly felt guilty for letting the situation escalate to this.
"You should sit," he said quietly to John. John just looked at him.
"I won't leave, I promise," Sherlock added. With that, John let Lestrade help him back to the sofa. Sherlock sat on the chair across from John and waited. John had his eyes closed but he was anything but sleeping. After a minute he opened his eyes to look at Sherlock again.
"I just meant that you're hard to read. You don't show emotions the way most people do so sometimes I wonder if you're feeling anything. And if you are, what. Tonight was a nightmare. And I never want to go through it again. But, tonight I got to see you feel something." John shrugged as he finished his sentence.
"You got to see that I cared about you?" Sherlock asked.
John nodded, "Yeah."
There was silence for a minute until Lestrade's mobile beeped, indicating a text. He grabbed it out of his pocket. "It's Donovan, they need me." He looked at John. "You okay for now?"
John nodded. "Yeah, it'll be okay. Thanks for the biscuits."
Lestrade smiled, "No problem, Take care of yourself." Then he looked at Sherlock. "Behave."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Lestrade let himself out and the door closed behind him with a soft click. John was still looking at Sherlock.
"I want you to know that everything you've done here for me tonight, is….good." He smiled. "I don't want you to think you did anything wrong because you definitely didn't. I really am grateful for you helping me through tonight, okay?"
Sherlock nodded.
"I'm sorry I made you stand to stop me, I didn't think you would. I didn't want you to get hurt." He said this quietly, looking down at his lap as his fingers twisted the corners of his shirt.
"That's my own fault, don't worry about that," John grinned.
"I do, you know," Sherlock said suddenly.
"What? Worry?"
"No, care. I care about you."
"Ah, okay. Thank you. I mean, I could see that tonight obviously. And so, while were at it…I care about you too."
Sherlock smirked. "I know. You're not so difficult to read."
"Not for the great Sherlock Holmes, eh?" He laughed.
Sherlock got up and sat back in his spot next to John. "TV?" he asked John.
"Sleep, I think. But I can't make it up to my bed so I'll just stay here, you watch TV."
"Okay," Sherlock said quietly, clicking the remote a few times, trying to find something that wasn't boring.
John was on the verge of sound sleep when he felt the same feeling from the taxi earlier, the brush of fabric against his cheek. He didn't think about it and he was beyond caring at the moment, so he leaned into Sherlock completely, head resting on his shoulder, and fell asleep.
Sherlock smiled. "Night, John."