John slept in. When he finally woke, rubbing the sleepy crust from his eyes, his first thought was of Sherlock. John sat up quickly. The room was empty. Quiet. Bright light shone in from the windows; it was late morning, perhaps early afternoon.
"Sherlock?" John called.
He stood and let the duvet crumple to the floor. Did Sherlock lay it over him...? He never did things like that. Sentimental things.
"Sherlock?" John repeated. His chest tightened from anxiety.
The room was empty. He strode to the door and poked his head out, thinking maybe Sherlock succumbed to a cigarette craving. There was no one outside. John went back into the room and checked his phone – nothing.
The bathroom door was closed. John let out his breath. Thank God.
He knocked on the door. "Sherlock? You going to be long in there? I've really got to piss."
The other side of the door was quiet. John tried the doorknob and it was locked.
"Hey, Sherlock. Are you okay?"
The shower wasn't running. What was he doing?
John knocked again. His heart began to race.
He knocked harder. Pushed the doorknob, crashed against the wood with his shoulder, ignoring the pain from his old bullet wound.
"Sherlock," John called. "Are you in there? Answer me."
Still nothing. John stepped back and rubbed his hands over his face. If Sherlock was just doing an experiment…
John kicked the door so hard the pain in his knee almost made him collapse. He did it again. The force of his kick made the paintings on the wall rattle.
Just one more…
The door crashed open and John did collapse.
"Sherlock," John whispered. "No no no…."
Sherlock was curled into a ball, head cradled in his hands. His fingers were stained with white dust and a rolled dollar bill lay beside him.
John had seen plenty of overdoses in the army (not something you hear about on the news). He knew what to check for. He crawled to Sherlock's side and took his pulse. Slow, but strong. Breathing steady.
John laid Sherlock's head in his lap and pulled his eyelids back, testing the pupils. They were responsive. Didn't seem to be an overdose, then… Sherlock was just passed out.
"Oh thank God," John muttered. He smoothed Sherlock's bangs back; they were damp with sweat. Sherlock began to shiver. His eyes cracked open.
"J—" Sherlock started to say, but his teeth were rattling too hard to speak.
"Hush," John said. He reached back to turn on the shower and made sure the water was lukewarm, not too hot or cold.
John stripped Sherlock's shirt off and unbelted the man's slacks. His skin was covered in goosebumps. John tried very hard not stare - he was agood doctor; he'd seen his share of naked bodies and now was not the time to be anything but a good doctor with nothing but another naked body. But this was Sherlock. And John would be lying if he said he never imagined what was under those tailored suits…
John ignored himself. Tried to concentrate on Sherlock's physiology rather than anatomy as he pulled off the man's slacks. His breathing, pulse, responsiveness.
"Come on, then," John said. "Help me stand you up."
Sherlock was trying, John could tell Sherlock was trying, but he was too weak. Probably still high. John braced a hand on the edge of the bathtub for leverage. He tried to ignore the gritty coating on it.
Somehow, he managed to get Sherlock over the ledge and into the shower, but as soon as the water hit his skin, he shivered harder.
"J-John—" Sherlock choked out.
"It's okay," John said. "I'm here."
John pulled off his jumper and stepped over the bathtub's edge. He turned the hot water faucet a bit more and then positioned himself behind Sherlock. John wrapped his arms around him. If Sherlock was crying, he ignored it.
John rocked him slowly back and forth, rubbing his hands up and down Sherlock's arms. John started humming an old lullaby of his gran's, because it seemed to fit. Sherlock's shivering began to slow, but John didn't leave. It seemed very important to him not to leave. To just be there, holding Sherlock and humming his gran's old lullaby.
Was this something normal that best mates did? Or colleagues, or flatmates, or whatever they were to each other?
No, of course it wasn't. He knew that. Nothing with Sherlock was ever normal. John kept humming.
When the water began to grow cold, John turned the faucet off and reached behind them to grab a towel off the rack. He draped it around Sherlock's shoulders, noticing how flushed his skin was.
"Thank you," Sherlock whispered.
"It's fine."
"It's not."
"All right," John said. "It's not fine."
Sherlock cleared his throat. "I'm sorry."
"Sherlock, I—"
Sherlock stood, legs shaking a little. John was ready to catch him.
"You seeing me like that was unacceptable, John. I apologize."
John swallowed hard. Sherlock hadn't left the bathtub. He had the towel draped over his shoulders, but water was running down his legs, and his boxers were plastered to his skin…
John Watson, he told himself. You are a good doctor. Be a good doctor for Sherlock. Not a dirty fucking creep.
John dragged his eyes up to Sherlock's face and found the man watching him.
Of course.
"I'm fine now," Sherlock announced. "It's out of my system and I'm fine."
John would wait and see. Sherlock wasn't leaving his sight until they got out of bloody California, even if that meant he got little to no sleep. He couldn't wait to leave this godforsaken place.
"Okay," John said. He stood up and took Sherlock's arm to guide him out of the bathroom. "Dry off," John said. "Wouldn't want you to catch pneumonia on top of everything."
Sherlock nodded absently. John could practically hear his mind waking and catching up to his body. Sherlock started sorting through his notes, not even bothering to dress himself.
John sighed and went to towel off.
"John," Sherlock called. John poked his head around the corner.
"Yeah?"
"You have a lovely singing voice."
"Err. Thank you?"
Sherlock nodded as if that decided something.
John hoped he'd packed another pair of pants.
