Real quick, I want to address the reviews I've gotten thusfar. Thank you so much, I'm thrilled that you're enjoying the story. Yes, I decided to play with your feels a little and allude to Sherlock's final words from Reichenbach. To everyone else, thank you again for reading! I love you all!
A slender figure was slumped over the side of the tub, their bare torso glaringly white in the harsh fluorescent lighting. A pair of black slacks hung low on the person's sharp hips, and a black button-down was flung carelessly over the sink.
"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, staggering forward. He fell to his knees at Sherlock's side and shook his shoulder. "Sherlock!"
Sherlock was listless, shifting limply at John's attempt to rouse him. His dark hair threw his eyes into shadow, and his face was pale—even his lips were colorless. John looked around wildly, and his eyes found the only color in the white bathroom. His stomach twisted painfully.
Despite being an experienced doctor, one that had been in Afghanistan, the bright crimson blood, diluted by about an inch of water, made him feel suddenly ill. There was so much blood that the water scarcely faded the color at all. It was still dripping with consecutive, sickening noises into the tub too, trailing down Sherlock's flaccid hand to hang, momentarily suspended, from the tip of a single long finger. A razor, the blade painted red, sat innocently on the side of the tub, gleaming in the harsh overhead light.
Once the initial shock had passed, John's medical side began to take over. Objectivity was left down some deep, dark hole, but that was not the most pressing part of his training in this scenario. John rose to his feet and went to the cupboard under the sink, taking a washcloth and quickly drenching it in fresh water from the tap, and returning to Sherlock's side. Carefully, he pulled Sherlock around, propping his back against the wall so that he could reach the cuts. They seemed too deep; the rag was quickly soaked in scarlet from washing the blood off of Sherlock's already fair skin. By the time John had wiped away the vicious color, the cloth could have started out as any color.
After he'd finished washing off the excess blood, John sat the cloth on the side of the tub and retrieved the small first aid kit from the medicine cabinet in the wall. He quickly dug the hydrogen peroxide out, unscrewed the cap, and poured a good measure over the fresh cuts, using a clean washcloth to keep any excess from dripping onto Sherlock's pants or the floor, and watched it foam up. Setting the bottle aside, he then dabbed at the wounds with the same rag, carefully but firmly.
Satisfied that the cuts were as clean as they were going to be, John then took the bandages from the first aid kit and began wrapping Sherlock's wrists, cutting the long strip in two so that he didn't have to search for another one for the second arm. Once both bandages were tied off securely, John put away the first aid kit, movements inexplicably slow due to the sudden heavy feeling of his limbs.
Finished treating him, John sat beside his best friend and just looked at his pale face, feeling a dull ache in his chest and throat. This had been his fault, all his fault. Hadn't John sworn to himself that he would never let Sherlock feel alone again? That he would ensure Sherlock had a friend, someone who would keep urges like this out of his mind? And yet he'd been avoiding the man like the plague since that scene in the hallway, never allowing himself to be in the same room alone with him, letting him go alone to deal with Anderson and Donovan and the rest of Scotland Yard. Dimly, John recalled the time Sherlock had explained how he knew the relationship between John and his sibling—though he'd had the gender wrong.
Amazing, John had said.
That's not what people usually say. Sherlock had only sounded vaguely amused, but only now did John realize just what it might have meant to the man to have heard that one solitary word.
What do people usually say?
Piss off.
John had left him all alone. This bloody scene was all his fault. He hung his head in shame and reached out to touch Sherlock's long-fingered hand. It was cold, but not much more so than normal. Looking around, John realized he had yet to drain the tub of its gruesome contents and rose to do so. He had to rinse it out to completely rid it of the rusty stain, but soon enough it looked like it had before: old, but no longer bloody.
Left with no further reason to occupy the bathroom, John carefully pulled Sherlock's arm around his shoulders and hoisted him up. As he did so, he remembered doing the same for many a soldier in Afghanistan. Those men had been shot or stabbed, and many wouldn't make it through the night, but John hadn't felt overly stricken by their states, dire as they were. Did it make him a bad person, feeling so terrified for a man who, once he overcame this fragile emotional state, would be as good as new, when he could see another man die without flinching? He didn't think so. It was a mark of the strength of their friendship that the arsehole could scare him so much.
They got out of the bathroom without incident, but John accidentally hit Sherlock's other shoulder into the doorframe on their way into his bedroom, causing the other man to jerk and grunt. John glanced over, and caught his blue-green eyes open just a crack. They blinked and opened a little more as the doctor laid him on his bed with an uncharacteristic gentleness. Avoiding the gaze he knew to be following him, John pulled the tangled blankets back over Sherlock's slender body. Despite the fact that Sherlock dwarfed John in size, to the doctor he looked inexplicably small just then. He turned to leave.
"John."
He paused in the doorway.
"I'm sorry."
John stiffened and turned around. Sherlock was still laying down, and his eyes were closed, but his voice had been clear.
"Sorry?" John repeated.
Sherlock nodded without opening his eyes.
"Sorry," he confirmed. He sounded like he was speaking a different language—unsure how to pronounce the word appropriately.
"What for?" John said tiredly. "This was my fault."
"Idiot," Sherlock scoffed.
"I'm not an idiot," John said at once. "There's nothing for you to be sorry for."
"I broke my promise." His voice was unnervingly small. "I did it again, after I told you I wouldn't. I'm sorry."
Heaving a heavy sigh, John returned to Sherlock's bedside and sat down on the edge, leaning his elbows on his knees.
"No Sherlock," he said roughly. "Even after I knew about all this, I still left you alone. I let you down. There's no one to blame but me."
A large hand reached out and grasped John's firmly. The doctor, instead of complaining, twined their fingers together and sat them on Sherlock's hard chest.
"John?" he said again after a moment of surprisingly comfortable silence.
"Yeah?"
"I'm sorry."
John rolled his eyes, and just barely bit back a sigh. Sherlock had a way with not letting anything go, and it wasn't because he was wanting someone to forgive him, like most people that continued to apologize, but because he honestly felt that he had done some horrible wrong. After all, for him to apologize at all was nothing sort of a miracle, considering his massive pride. Also, he had the habit of always needing to have the last word, so it wasn't likely that he would stop any time soon. Still, it was annoying.
"Sherlock, didn't we just go—"
"About before," Sherlock interrupted. "With Mycroft. The kiss. I'm sorry."
"Oh—er…" John mumbled, suddenly shy. "I—well, that was—I mean, I didn't—"
"Good God, man," Sherlock snorted. "You're as articulate as ever."
"Shut up," John snapped, glowering at the consultant.
The other man smiled and tightened his fingers around John's. That smile caught John off guard, because it was so authentic, so sincere. It made Sherlock look like a much younger man, one who had not gone through a lonely life of being mocked and scorned by those who acknowledged him at all.
"John?" he said, and John would have sworn that the second man sounded shy, except that Sherlock wasn't shy.
"Y—yeah?" John answered, cursing himself inwardly when he stuttered.
"Will you stay with me tonight?"
The doctor blinked, and an intense heat rushed up his neck, into his face and even his ears. He started to pull away, but Sherlock held him firmly, those bright, multi-colored eyes locked on John with an almost pleading stare. John swallowed thickly, and his heartbeat accelerated. Sherlock's lips twitched, likely noticing John's response.
"Oh, sod it all," John sighed, exasperated. "You're not letting me leave anyway, are you?"
Sherlock was silent, but there was the mischievous glint in his eyes hinting that his inner child would love to play a game of strength. Not liking his odds in such a scenario, John slumped.
"Alright," he grumbled. "Budge up, ya great lump."
