This chapter's a little slow, but the pace should quicken soon. Please review! A word or two would mean the world to me, thanks!
John woke up, feeling warmer than he had done in a long while. His senses returned one by one. First, he was aware of faint breathing next to him, and then that he was leaning on something soft. Or someone. He forced his eyes open at last and the cabin blurred momentarily.
Then, in sharp focus, he took in his surroundings. The fire was still blazing, the cabin still unchanged. He was lying horizontally. Sherlock had his arms around him, cradling him gently, also on the floor. He was asleep. His face looked peaceful, but somehow different – in his confused state of mind, John couldn't work out what it was.
Drowsily, the blonde man attempted to sit up. And then yelped in pain as feeling returned to his ankle. He bit his tongue quickly, but it was too late. Sherlock was alert at once, sitting up sharply and grasping his blogger tightly.
"What is it?" He cast his eyes around in apprehension, clearly expecting to be attacked.
John calmed him quickly.
"Nothing. Sorry. Just my bloody ankle."
Sherlock frowned at him for a moment, before realising their position. He groaned softly and lay back down, wiping at his face.
But not before John had noticed.
"Sherlock?" He asked in disbelief, concerned.
"What?" Sherlock rolled over to his side, facing away from John. He sounded faintly annoyed.
"Are… are you alright?"
"Of course I'm alright… well, I'm bored."
John finally managed to sit up, suppressing a sob of pain. After a couple of moments he could speak again.
"If… there's anything… you know, that you want to tell me –"
"I said already, I'm fine. What's wrong with you?"
The curly haired detective sat up as well, facing John properly for the first time. They shared a look.
"N-Nothing's wrong with me." John stammered at last, embarrassed.
"Good." Sherlock responded drily. Pause. "I am fine, alright?"
"Okay, okay." Sherlock stood up and began pacing up and down the room, ignoring John completely.
The army medic furrowed his eyebrows slightly. He was sure of what he had seen. Sherlock's cheeks had been wet. From tears. Slowly, he allowed his mind to convince him that he had just imagined it. Sherlock of all people would never ever cry. Not over anything. John must have made up the haunting image.
"I've been thinking…" Sherlock started, his voice slicing through John's thoughts like a knife. John looked up at him, half amused, despite the situation. Thinking? Sherlock did little else. "Yes, I've been thinking, unlike some people." The taller man retaliated. John knew better than to start an argument and held his tongue patiently, waiting for the master plan. "And I've come to the conclusion that we're going to have to wait for help."
"W-What?" John exclaimed, taken aback. "Wait here? But they won't find us… and who would be looking?"
"Mycroft will start a search within the next six hours, I reckon. We have to rely on him." His tone was unemotional.
John stared at him, shocked. "Rely on your brother? Since when did you ever do that?"
Sherlock's response was icy.
"There's nothing else we can do. Unless we want those dogs to tear us up." It wasn't a pretty thought. "Mycroft is the only one right now who can help us."
"But… what if they don't find us in time? We could be anywhere on the mountain. There's an awful lot to search out there."
"Then we'll starve. Go back to sleep, John."
John realised that his mouth had opened in shock. He swallowed.
"So we're likely… we might die?"
A nod was all he received.
"Sher –"
"I said go to sleep. Conserve your energy. We have a long wait."
Hurt to the core, John obeyed. He pulled the coat back over himself and lay down gently, careful not to move his injured ankle. Sherlock was still pacing up and down the wooden floor.
He really couldn't care less, could he? John thought, staring at the ceiling. I may call him a friend, but he doesn't view me in the same light. He doesn't care about me. I'm an idiot to think that he would have done.
He kept his eyes fixed on the timber ceiling, mulling things over in his head. All he could hear were Sherlock's footsteps rhythmically pacing up and down, up and down.
And at last, disregarding his swollen foot, he drifted off, dreaming of wild dogs, and himself, and Sherlock, and snow…
