A/N: I hope you like this chapter. I might have taken a bit of the dream from The Boy In the Striped Pajamas (OK, a lot of it), but I tried to keep it original. I own nothing, absolutely nothing.
The memory of being carried up the stairs like a child by none other than Mycroft Holmes still made John blush just thinking of the man himself.
The doctor winced as he shifted on the couch. His strained back hurt horribly, but he was lucky, considering he had fallen down half a flight of stairs. The only other things that were injured was his head (which hurt the most; it pounded like a drum and John couldn't shut his eyes for a moment after he had banged it quite hard on the first step) and his ankle was sprained, but since he was paralyzed, he didn't feel a thing. John was sure that he had a mild concussion, and tried to see if it was mild or something a bit more severe, but the room continued to spin and his head continued to pound, and the doctor couldn't think straight.
"Do you need more ice packs?" came Sherlock's voice. John lied,"No, Sherlock. I'm as fine as I was two minutes ago when you asked." The good thing was that his pupils weren't dilated, so John could rest and be fine, which he was.
But he hissed in pain and clenched his teeth at the beating his skull was receiving, and Sherlock went to the fridge and replaced the ice pack that was on his friend's head with a colder one.
His pale hand lingered on John's skin just a bit longer than necessary.
"Thanks, Sherlock..." the detective heard his friend murmur. His lips twitched upwards but he said nothing. He went back to the kitchen, pretending to make tea until he heard the doctor snoring softly.
Slowly, the tall man walked back out to the couch where John slept. Perfect, loyal John. Sherlock trusted John Watson with his life. He was the detective's best and only friend. He was honest, smart, fair, and Sherlock respected him, and...something else. Something he...he just didn't understand.
For once, Sherlock Holmes was confused.
He looked at John's peaceful face, taking in every aspect of it, at how young the doctor looked when he was sleeping, how many streaks of dark brown littered his short, blond hair, how long his eyelashes were, how his pink lips moved as if forming words, or kissing an invisible person.
A sudden thought popped into Sherlock's brilliant head. He would like to be that one person. No one else. Just him. Him and John. He brushed back a bit of the slumbering man's hair with a most gentle touch.
But John would never want that. John was straight. And Sherlock was supposed to be married to his work. So the detective could only take the hand of the one he wanted most and daydream about how he, Sherlock Holmes, was in love with John Watson.
Gunfire. Enemy soldiers. That was what he woke up to.
John was being pushed along a muddy path, having no idea as to where he was going. He was in the center of a long line of sickly men, all with sunken eyes and stomachs, all hope lost.
There were soldiers following on the sides, making sure no one lagged behind or tried to escape the thick, long line. There were several gunshots and yells. John looked down as it started to rain, and he carefully stepped over the body of a fallen elderly man, lying face-down in the mud.
John, are you alright?
They were ushered into a small room, crowded together so tightly that John barely noticed that everyone's clothing had disappeared, including his own.
'Dear Lord, what is this place?'
John could barely breathe. Why were they in here? Everything was so confusing.
There was a loud roar in the room when the metal door shut tight and the lock clicked. John swiveled his head back and forth, looking for and exit or something that would tell him what was going on.
John?
Gunfire. Enemy soldiers. That was what he woke up to.
John was being pushed along a muddy path, having no idea as to where he was going. He was in the center of a long line of sickly men, all with sunken eyes and stomachs, all hope lost.
There were soldiers following on the sides, making sure no one lagged behind or tried to escape the thick, long line. There were several gunshots and yells. John looked down as it started to rain, and he carefully stepped over the body of a fallen elderly man, lying face-down in the mud.
John, are you alright?
They were ushered into a small room, crowded together so tightly that John barely noticed that everyone's clothing had disappeared, including his own.
'Dear Lord, what is this place?'
John could barely breathe. Why were they in here? Everything was so confusing.
There was a loud roar in the room when the metal door shut tight and the lock clicked. John swiveled his head back and forth, looking for and exit or something that would tell him what was going on.
John?
"It's alright, it's just a shower," a man called over the screams of terror. "It's only a shower."
"It's a lie," a voice next to John said before he could breathe a sigh of relief. He looked up to see Sherlock, just as naked as everyone else yet, unlike John and the others, was just as healthy as he always was, his piercing eyes the same beautiful gray as they always were, just as bright, his body as graceful and as porcelain as ever, his voice just as wonderful to hear. John couldn't keep his eyes off of this wondrous being, but was too afraid not to ask anything.
"What's going on, Sherlock?" John heard himself ask in a ragged voice.
"It's not a shower, John, that's all."
"Ready for the Zyklon B. Insert into the chamber." The voice was booming and was all around them. John turned his puzzled around and around, searching for the source of it in vain. It came from nowhere, yet everywhere. Unknowingly, John clasped hands with Sherlock. With no information, he was terribly frightened, too afraid to move.
"What is it, Sherlock?"
"It's not a shower, John, that's all."
John looked up at the man. "Yes, I know it's not a shower! Don't leave me in the dark, tell me so I know how to protect you!"
Those gray eyes were looking into his soul. "Don't you need to protect yourself as well? Because if you don't, I will. And this is how I intend to."
"What's going on? Tell me."
But suddenly all of the air left the cramped room and Sherlock's eyes closed and the detective crumpled to the ground like a marionette. Every person in the room did the same, until it was only John left, on his knees and somehow still alive after everyone else died.
John!
"Sherlock?" John shook his dead friend. "Sherlock! No, don't die! You can't be dead!" He jerked his friend back and forth, harder, harder. "Wake up, wake up!"
Wake up, John.
He started to cry over the beautiful man. He loved how his dark mop of curls tangled on his head so evenly, how his hands were so pale yet so warm and gentle. John's fingers were still wrapped in Sherlock's, but the detective's body was limp and had no warmth or feeling now. Immediately, John emptied until he was a shell, and the only thing he felt was longing for one thing.
John wanted to die and be with Sherlock.
There was a gun in his hand. Would you do it? a voice from nowhere inquired. Would you really kill yourself just to be with Sherlock?
John looked from the gun to the dead Sherlock. His dark eyes hardened and he pressed the gun against his temple.
Yes.
John, wake up!
John pulled the trigger.
"Wake up!"
John did so with a gasp. He sat up, regretting it instantly as a bolt of lightning shot up his spine, the part that wasn't paralyzed. The doctor let out a cry of pain and breathed in and out harshly. He looked around. He was still alone. He didn't want to be alone. He wanted Sherlock.
Still panting and still in intense pain, John breathed,"Sh-Sherlock?"
A voice behind him answered,"Yes, John, I'm right here."
"You- you died." John was covered in sweat and tears, and his breathing remained erratic.
"That was simply a nightmare," Sherlock's voice assured,"but I'm glad you're able to sleep. Lie down and relax. I'll wake you up later."
Rather than admit that he had a nightmare like a child had and that he was in pain, John tried to do as Sherlock said, but the new injury in his back was too much for him, and he cried out again. The disturbance spread to his bad shoulder, which had only been aching at first. Now it seemed to throb and convulse in time with his head and back.
"John, why do you have to be so stubborn? Sit up, you nitwit." The doctor knew the insult was in good means. John leaned against the couch, legs as useless as ever, and almost gasped when a pair of thin, graceful hands rested on his shoulders and rubbed circles in the disturbed muscles.
"Just relax, you'll feel much better soon."
"Thank you," John was able to get out. He could hear the smile in Sherlock's reply. "You're welcome, John."
The massage felt heavenly at that very moment. John knew that whenever Sherlock so much as lay a finger on him he would feel this: A luxurious, beautiful feeling that melted him from the inside out and then send a tingle through his bones that made John putty in this man's hands.
John had to remind himself: Sherlock will never feel the same way. He's married to his work and nothing will ever happen between the two of you. You're friends. Be glad that he even tolerates you.
John couldn't help it, though. Sherlock Holmes was his one true friend. He cared for him more than anything he had ever cared about before.
I love you, John thought, staring straight at the ceiling in front of him and admitting it all to himself.
And somehow those three words slipped out of John's mouth.
The massage ceased but the fingers were too shocked at the words to leave John's back. Upon realizing that he had said it out loud, John opened his mouth again but nothing would come out.
At long last: "...John...were you talking to...me?"
John didn't hesitate to try to cover up his poorly thought-out words. "No, just- it was just a stupid thought, it just came out. I'm sorry, I'm all messed up from the fall. I just meant thank you for helping me." To John's immense gratefulness, Sherlock said nothing more about it, and even continued rubbing and kneading his friend's sore muscles.
"You had a nightmare," Sherlock said. It wasn't really a question, but it wasn't really a statement. John swallowed, images of multiple scenarios of a dead Sherlock flooding his mind. Nevertheless, he mustered up the solidity to respond,"Yes."
"And I was dead."
"Yes." This time, John's response shook. He didn't want to think about Sherlock dying. It frightened him to no end.
"What did you do?" Had John heard correctly? Sherlock wanted to listen to something as boringly human as a nightmare? John reasoned with himself that this would never happen again, because Sherlock didn't love him, so he told him.
"I...I tried to wake you up," he admitted. "You didn't, of course. And...that's when I woke up, actually." Alright, that part was a lie, but John knew he could never share the ending of this particular nightmare with anyone.
Sherlock, as blunt as ever, inquired,"Were you afraid?"
"I-" John started to say, turning his head to the side to address his friend, who took his hands from his back. Sherlock wanted to know? Or was this something to tease John about?
Sherlock stood and knelt in front of the couch and looked his friend in the eye. "Were you?"
John looked right back at the sparkling gray and said,"Yes, I was, Sherlock. Because I didn't know it was a dream, and I really thought you were dead."
Sherlock's eyes suddenly narrowed and he stood, walking around the room. "Why would you be afraid if I had died? Because you thought it was real? Because you couldn't do anything to stop it?"
"Yes!" John was incredulous. "Of course, because you're my friend!"
"But I shouldn't be," the detective snapped. "If we had never met, you wouldn't be in a wheelchair. If I hadn't taken you along- if I hadn't been so stupid-"
"Sherlock, there are no 'what if's. It's done now, and I'm paralyzed. That's all." Sherlock grabbed fistfuls of his wonderful hair and looked- if John dare say it- baffled. Like he just couldn't figure something out.
"But- but why are you still here? You're paralyzed, your life will never be the same, and you're still here with me!" Sherlock turned back to the man on the couch, his expression one of true inner torment because he could not grasp John's motives. "Why?"
John would have smiled at how utterly flummoxed his friend was if this wasn't such a deep conversation. "Because you're my friend. And I trust you more than anything. Do you...do you want me to leave?" His eyes traveled to his unmoving legs.
"Of course not!" Sherlock cried. "Why on Earth-" He stopped himself and his eyes returned to a larger size. "You think I'm going to get rid of you because you're in a wheelchair," he deduced. "You think that you're useless to me now, you think that I'll get bored and tired with you because you're handicapped and stop talking to you, stop negotiating with you, stop...stop being your friend."
There was a very thick pause as both of them waited, for what, only they knew.
"Well?" John wouldn't look at him. "Why haven't you done it already? Why haven't you replaced me yet?"
"Replace you?" Sherlock hissed, voice instantly venomous. "You thought that I would replace you?"
John looked up at the furious man, whose emotions he challenged, and snapped,"Yes! Of course I thought you would replace me, Sherlock! Of course I thought you would get rid of me if I could no longer climb stairs or jump across buildings or be fast enough in any situation to save you or myself or anyone who needed to be saved! Now that I am basically good for nothing in whatever you are doing because I cannot move my legs! Yes, I thought you would replace me and I'm still waiting for you to!" He eyes were back on his damn legs, too embarrassed to maintain eye contact after such a long confession.
Silence now. Sherlock stared at the floor, still so confused. Had he made John feel that way? Hadn't he basically just explained that he wanted John as his assistant, that he would never get rid of him? And why couldn't John tell that he wanted this man in front of him as something more?
"Jesus, Sherlock, why haven't you gotten rid of me yet?" John whispered, tears in his eyes, turning to his friend for an answer.
Sherlock moved so quickly that, at first, John couldn't register the fact that his friend had stolen a kiss from his lips.
The kiss came quickly, yet it lasted what seemed to be years and was so very tender in the most loving way. It was the most extraordinary thing in the world. The doctor thought that perhaps he had died after falling down the stairs and this was some blissful afterlife. Sherlock Holmes was kissing him, and John Watson was kissing back, not daring to miss out on this opportunity.
Sherlock brought his long fingers and entangled them in John's hair, and John wrapped his arms around the detective's neck. Sparks flew. John was floating on air and Sherlock was with him. The moment seemed to last forever. John had always fantasized about what it would be like, what it would taste like.
The real thing was undoubtedly better than any fantasy.
Sherlock's mouth was moving against John's but never leaving it for a moment, as if they had been melted together, and John truly hoped that they had been. The detective's lips were soft and languid, compressing against the doctor's. John had always thought of it as sentimental and useless, but Sherlock tasted like coffee and sugar and John wanted more, he wanted it all, because he loved Sherlock so much.
The two broke away at last to breathe. Their noses were centimeters apart and they gazed at each other with passion in their eyes. "John," Sherlock whispered,"when you said before, that you love me- did you mean it?"
"Yes," John whispered back. "I love you. I'm assuming you feel the same?"
Sherlock answered by kissing John again.
Wrapped up in the wondrous moment of such pure love, John forgot entirely about his suspicions with the camera on the fridge, which zoomed in to admire them.
"So...look what we have here. Young love! This is even better than before. They're so adorable...it will be all the more fun watching that love extinguish."
A/N: Who was the voice? I don't even know who it was. Really, it's true. I'm so glad I'm back, and I hope you're all glad I'm back as well.
Fun Fact: When Sir Arthur Conan Doyle tried to kill Sherlock off to end the series, there was such an outcry he was persuaded to continue writing about Sherlock Holmes. That's like J.K. Rowling trying to kill off Harry Potter in the third book!
Special Fun Fact No. 2 (just this once): Originally, Arthur Conan Doyle was going to have Watson be the detective, but he decided otherwise.
If everyone who reads this reviews (or if I get a massive amount of lengthy reviews) I just might have two Fun Facts next chapter. Or maybe the rest of the story. This is me begging and blackmailing my fans. Thank you for reading and please review!
