After the abuse his body had gone through, and the adrenaline crash that had followed, it wasn't a surprise that he managed to nod off in the warm, now familiar pocket during the long ride back to the flat. And so it came as a bit of a surprise when he felt the pocket being opened, and realized that they were back at 221b.
After everything that had happened, John thought it prudent to walk home instead of hailing a cab. Though it took a while they made it home without incident, and he made his way gratefully up the stairs to the flat he now called home.
As gently as he could John set the bruised form of Sherlock down on the kitchen table. Reaching for the all-too-familiar first aid kit he began examining the condition his flatmate was in. Dark, nasty bruises were blooming on practically every inch of his body and one arm from the elbow down was covered in the cabbie's blood. The bandages on his injured leg had mostly fallen off, exposing the still raw skin underneath. Overall, Sherlock was in pretty bad shape.
For once Sherlock didn't complain when John set about attending to his injuries. He simply let the doctor do his work. At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to sleep on a real bed, or cushion, or something that wasn't the hard wooden table, and actually recover. The idea of eating crossed his mind, but he knew he'd be hard pressed to keep anything down.
John applied salves and bandages as needed in a thoughtful, tired silence. It had been a very long day after all, full of near-death experiences, and he still didn't know how Sherlock felt about him. Earlier he had been ready to up and leave, but after all this surely something had changed. He had trusted John to get him home and take care of him, let him pick him up even after such a harrowing experience with the cabbie. That had to mean something, didn't it?
Those same thoughts had tried to cross Sherlock's mind as well, but he decided that no matter what decision he made in the long run, there was no point in trying to leave tonight. After nearly an hour of silence, Sherlock finally spoke up.
"I don't suppose I could have the use of a pillow?"
"Of course," John said quietly. He had just the one on his bed but he'd be damned if Sherlock wasn't deserving of it. With a sigh he began putting all the medical supplies back where they belonged.
He didn't watch, completely absorbed in his own thoughts. Mostly about his alleged fan.
He'd kept the website up as a diversion. There wasn't a lot to occupy his mind while living in a deserted flat with no one but Mrs. Hudson around to borrow from. She did not provide him with much of a challenge, seeing as even if he did carelessly allow himself to be glimpsed, she'd unfailingly dismiss him as a mouse, or even a figment of her imagination.
The website had allowed him some small amount of interaction with others, though most of those who did stumble across his page seemed horribly dull.
He'd assumed outright that keeping a webpage would possibly put him in danger, though he took pains to stay completely anonymous. He hadn't considered the possibility that his musings would directly lead to the deaths of four people.
After a moment John piped up again. "So who's Moriarty?" he asked in a solemn voice. The name didn't sound familiar to him at all, though he was wondering if it was another "friend" of Sherlock's, like the tiny man that had abducted him the night before.
Sherlock shook his head distractedly. "No idea." he admitted, grudgingly. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "But I think I'd like to find out."
John rubbed his face tiredly; he, for one, had no inclination at the moment to go chasing after a serial killer's sponsor. "I'm exhausted," he announced, standing up with a yawn. He held out a hand towards Sherlock. "Need a lift?
Sherlock looked up, surprised. "A lift where?" He thought John was going to fetch a pillow for him.
"The bed," John replied casually. "You need a pillow and that's where it is."
He blinked, surprised. "Then bring it here. I can still sleep on the table, I don't need a full sized /bed./"
"Sherlock, you need a decent night's sleep," John argued. "If you stay out here, pillow or no pillow, the sun is going to wake you up early regardless. Just… let me actually help you for once."
"John," Sherlock sighed, "I am letting you help. You've helped me more than you seem to realize. But I don't need to be babied. A pillow will suffice."
"I'm only giving it to you if you agree to at least sleep in the room with me," John countered. Sherlock did need the rest, and honestly John wanted to be able to keep an eye on him.
Sherlock thought about arguing further, but honestly, this was probably the best offer he was going to get. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright, fine. But if I find out you snore, I'll make the trip back to my own flat." he grumbled.
John sighed and smiled with relief. "Fair enough," replied the doctor. He didn't snore, and he highly doubted that Sherlock could physically make his way anywhere (though the man's determination had proven to be formidable).
When John laid his hand flat on the table, Sherlock climbed to his feet, more than a little unstable as he trudged over to it. When he sat down he nearly collapsed, but managed to stay sitting up, if just barely.
The larger man winced as Sherlock almost fell over; any human would certainly have been hospitalized by now, though John was sure that even if human sized Sherlock would refuse to be carried off in an ambulance. Walking deliberately towards the bedroom John set Sherlock down on the pillow at the head of the bed.
Sherlock waited somewhat impatiently for John to move the pillow. He took a moment to look around the room, spotted something, and smiled ruefully. "I never did ask by the way, how is your leg feeling? You've done a lot of running around in the last two days."
"Hm?" John hummed, a bit surprised by the question. It was quite honestly the first time in days that he had thought about it. "…fine, actually." He hadn't used his cane since he found Sherlock behind the heater. Seems the limp had been psychosomatic after all.
Careful not to jostle Sherlock, he picked up the pillow and placed it on the nightstand next to the bed. It just didn't seem right to put it on the floor, and this way he could see Sherlock more easily (not to mention it would dissuade the small man from any ridiculous notions like walking back to his own flat, wherever that was).
Sherlock tried to keep his mind alert, tried to keep pondering the existence of his fan, but when the pillow had been situated, John prepared to sleep (looking rather uncomfortable without a pillow), and the light had been turned out, it was a lost battle.
He was asleep in minutes. Though that was not to say the thought of Moriarty left his mind.
He coasted in and out of several intense dreams, usually centered around his confrontation with the Cabbie. None of them were particularly pleasant.
Most involved him being wrong, making a mistake in his deductions, and being forced to watch John suffer the consequences.
Sometimes, John took the place of the killer, which was very disconcerting. But those dreams always seemed to fall apart, as if even his roiling subconscious couldn't countenance the idea of John being a criminal mastermind.
There would always be someone else, an indistinct figure, and somehow, though when awake he couldn't have explained how, he'd /known/ that John was innocent, and the shadow figure was to blame for whatever imagined cruelty Sherlock had been forced to suffer.
It was a very long, /very/ upsetting night.
After making sure Sherlock was situated John turned out the light, too tired to do anything but kick off his shoes before climbing gratefully into bed. It was a bit more uncomfortable without a pillow, but he had slept under much worse conditions during his time in the army and had no trouble falling asleep. He slept fitfully, plagued by nightmares not of the war but of the day. In them Sherlock was dying at the hands of a sneering figure, and John was powerless to stop them. Needless to say, he didn't get much true rest either.
A/N
Alternate chapter title: The one where we accidentally Johnlock ammunition. :U
