I awakened to Sherlock shaking my shoulder gently. I looked around to see that I had been unhooked form the machinery and my IV was out. I tossed a quizzical look towards Sherlock before sitting up and rubbing my sore wrist.
I could feel the scabs pull against my tender skin as I sat up and I sighed out through the pain. Sherlock moved closer, and I knew he wanted to help, but he could not touch many places because of the wounds.
"They are sending you home today," Sherlock informed me, taking up to stroking a long, pale hand through my sandy colored hair again. I nodded dumbly and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. "They want me to help you in the shower here first so they can re-bandage you," he concluded. I once again nodded and reach my arms out towards him.
Chuckling, Sherlock braced his hands under my armpits and I placed mine on his shoulders. We maneuvered enough so I could swing my legs out of the bed and then Sherlock helped me to stand. Through the motions I could feel a few of the scabs tear and I blinked away the tears and pain.
"Can you walk?" Sherlock asked me, still bracing his hands under my arms. I waited out the pain before speaking. In that time I noticed Sherlock had his own dressing gown on the bed, the blue one. It was my favorite one, so I assumed he brought it for me to wear. There was also a pair of thick cotton pants and a long sleeve black shirt. My slippers lay next to the pile of clothing.
"Yeah, but I just need your help," I told Sherlock, starting to take tiny steps towards the bathroom. Sherlock supported me the whole way until we were in there. Once in, Sherlock spun me to be facing away from him to he could take the hospital gown off.
Once the ties were undone he let it drop to the floor. I heard the small breath he took as he absorbed everything he was seeing on my back. Glancing at the full size mirror that was nearly perfectly behind me, I could see the extent for myself.
Plasters and bandages covered most of my back, little rectangular shapes showing where all the different wounds were. I did not even want to look down at my front, arms, or legs. I already knew that scrapes, cuts, burns, and gashes were everywhere.
"Oh John," Sherlock sighed out and dropped a kiss onto my shoulder, just above the scar I received during the war. I whimpered, fighting my anxiety of Sherlock seeing the wounds. "I'm going to start removing all the bandaging now," Sherlock told me before setting to work.
I refused to look anymore as the wounds were uncovered little by little. Sherlock was careful not to hurt me or disturb the injuries even further. It was kind of him. I stayed standing there until I heard the water of the shower turn on.
"Come on in," Sherlock called, and I finally opened my eyes. Sherlock had taken the time to strip himself of his own clothing and was under the spray of the warm water. I smiled at him and shuffled in, taking a seat on the shower bench.
Sherlock washed my hair first, cleaning away bits of dried blood and filth. Lathering the soap onto my scalp he proceeded to massage it all in. I nearly moaned in content as his fingers dug in and scraped along my head. He was a god when it came to this.
"Tilt your head back and keep your eyes closed," Sherlock ordered me and I did as was told. I heard him take the nozzle off the hook and felt the water wash out all of the soap and bubbles. Trickles of the water rolled down my back and I bit my lip as some of my cuts stung. He soothed away the pain by kissing each of my eyelids and hanging the nozzle back up.
Soaping up a sponge, Sherlock began to wipe around my injuries. He used delicate pressure over the scabs and blisters and spent a long time cleaning my back. Through the burning and stinging pain, Sherlock was humming a melody of some sort. I could not place it.
Sherlock, after cleaning me up, set to quickly cleaning himself off. I sat in perfect patience, inhaling the steam wafting off the hot water and letting it sooth my throat. I opened my eyes slowly as the tap was turned off.
Sherlock's dark brown, nearly black hair lay in waved strands across his face. None of its usual volume stayed as the curls were weighed down by the water. His bright eyes gazed at me and I smiled up at him.
"Feel better?" He asked, stepping over to wrap a fluffy towel around his waist. I watched him pick up another and walk towards me, intent on helping my get dry.
"Much," I answered as Sherlock dried me off. I changed into boxers and was dry by the time a nurse came in to replace my bandages. Once all of that was said and done, Sherlock helped me get the rest of the way dressed and wrapped me up in his dressing gown.
Sherlock had already had me sign the paperwork and now all that was left to do was go back to Baker Street.
"Mycroft has a car waiting for us," Sherlock spoke while wheeling me down the hallway in a wheelchair. We passed by dozens more rooms, nurses, and doctors. "He says that taxi would be not that comfortable. I, for once, completely agree," Sherlock continued to ramble on about this and that.
In my hands I held the prescription for painkillers and burn creams. I knew that Mycroft would handle these affairs, seeing as Sherlock would probably forget. I decided to cut in and interrupt Sherlock's rant.
"What happened to Moriarty?" I questioned him, genuinely curious. I remembered blacking out and waking up to Sherlock's shouting however long later. Sherlock went silent and did not answer me. "Sherlock?" I pressed him for the information.
"He's gone again," Sherlock said with a slight malice. I sighed and slumped in the wheelchair. I already assumed that he had gotten away. Sherlock remained unusually quiet after that until we got back to Baker Street.
Sherlock practically carried me up the stairs to our flat and set me on the couch. I looked around to see that the place was not a total mess. The kitchen and the living room looked remarkably clean. Either Mrs. Hudson cleaned up the place or Sherlock did.
I stretched out on the couch and eased myself into a lying position. I felt little discomfort and pulled a blanket around myself from where it lay draped on the back on the couch. Sherlock paced around in front of me before stopping and noticing I was lying down.
"Are you tired?" he asked me, sitting on the edge of the couch near my feet. I nodded my head. "I can carry you to bed if you'd like," Sherlock offered me and I once again nodded my head. Curling up next to him and being able to hear his heartbeat was one of my guilty pleasures, and I would be damned to pass up the offer of doing so. Sherlock craft fully lifted me into his arms and carried my back to our bedroom, which was originally his. I left the blanket wrapped around myself and lay myself back into the pillows. Sherlock laid himself next to me and wrapped his arms around me, one resting under my body and the other around my chest.
"I like hearing your heartbeat," I admitted to him as I pressed my ear to his chest. The resounding 'thump, thump' calmed me and let me relax further. The morphine was doing its job of stopping most of my pain. Sherlock chuckled and I could feel the vibrations through him.
"My heartbeat? Honestly John?" Sherlock asked incredulously, a little smirk playing across his lips.
"Yeah," I answered with a grin. "It reminds me that you are right here with me," I murmured, feeling the rise and fall of his ribcage. His hands were large and warm against my back and his body radiated body heat. I was immersed in the scent of him and whatever cologne he wore.
"Are you going to fall asleep?" Sherlock asked me, knowing that I had slept most of the time I was in the hospital.
"No," I answered truthfully, "I just wanted to cuddle for a while," I informed him and brought my own arm up around his shoulders. He chuckled again and I gave a small smile in his direction before resting my head back against his chest.
"Do you want to hear a story?" Sherlock questioned me out the blue. I lifted my head and rested my chin on his sternum.
"About what?" I asked back, watching his facial features.
"My childhood," Sherlock answered simply. I nodded my head and rested it back onto his chest to listen. "When I was just a kid, about nine or so years old, I wanted to raise bees," Sherlock spoke in and earnest tone.
"Seriously? Bees?" I giggled at the hilarity of the idea.
"Yes John," Sherlock smiled, "I have always found them so fascinating and I have always wanted to study them in greater detail. Nevertheless, that seems like the thing I would do when I have retired from being a consulting detective. That, I must say, is a long ways off." Sherlock continued to talk about the bee keeping.
"I will raise them with you," I told him and I could see his face light up just the slightest bit, "if you'll let me that is."
"Of course I would John," Sherlock exclaimed with a happy tone. I laughed and moved my legs to entwine with his. The morphine was not going to wear off for a while so I was content to lay pressed against Sherlock until then.
Soon enough, Sherlock pulled another blanket up around the two of us and kissed the top of my head softly. He held his lips there for over a second until he pulled away and smoothed down the ruffled spot he caused.
"Liar," he murmured to me when he saw my eyes shut and my breathing evening out.
"I'm not asleep," I mumbled, "Not yet at least." That earned a chuckled from Sherlock and another kiss. In this moment, everything felt so right and I could do nothing but fall into my dream world. Little did I know of was the plan formulating in Sherlock's brain at the same time dreams were clouding mine.