Chapter 8: If it can't be cured, it must be endured
18 days 17 hours and 7 minutes
John closed the door behind him and put his bag of groceries on the kitchen table: milk, tea, noodles, bread and a jar of marmite, that oh so English condiment. Not for himself, he absolutely abhorred marmite with all the zealousness and passion he could muster but Sherlock for some reason loved it.
Focused on his task, take groceries out of bag, put groceries in correct places, avoid looking at suspect experiment in the fridge, he was startled when he heard a sudden sneeze from the sitting room.
Putting the kettle on and turning around he found Sherlock on the sofa, hair plastered to his scalp, a puddle of wet carpet on the floor next to him where water was dripping from his hand hanging over the edge.
"You are wet," he said.
"So it seems," Sherlock answered through slightly blue lips, not moving. "Surely that is quite obvious and it is raining outside," He continued when John didn't answer.
"Yes but normally people tend to use their umbrellas, or just stay indoors," John said gesturing at the black umbrella Sherlock was still holding.
"I am quite sure that you are right, but this is not my umbrella," Sherlock answered and John could have sworn he was teasing him with that almost smile on his lips and was on the verge of simply walking away and leaving Sherlock in his mess when he sneezed again.
John sighed, "You should get out of those clothes before you catch a cold."
"I suppose that is something normal people would do," Sherlock answered letting his gaze fall on the grey miserable rain falling outside the window.
"Well abnormal people I am quite sure also does this," John answered shaking his head as he left to find a towel which he threw at Sherlock.
Sherlock let go of the umbrella, which once discarded rolled onto the floor where it lay abandoned, and just turned the towel over in his hands, "Am I abnormal then?"
John stopped the sharp retort that instinctively formed on the tip of his tongue; there was something fragile in Sherlock's voice. Instead he walked over and picked the towel from Sherlock's cold fingers and towelled his hair until it stopped dripping.
"Let me help you get out of this coat Sherlock," John said, pulling at the wet garment.
Sherlock obeyed, sitting up and letting John peel the coat of him. As John's fingers brushed over his shoulders he could feel that he was drenched to the bone, his body shivering from the cold.
"You should take better care of yourself Sherlock."
"Why?"
Why? Well there was the obvious answer, just because. And not so obvious answers, people do because it is expected of them. Moreover, Lestrade is depending on you. People in general, even though they don't know you exist are depending on you to keep them safe. Me, I am depending on you not to say the least. Somehow John didn't think any of these answers would work on Sherlock.
"Just try to keep focused; Lestrade needs you for the case Sherlock. What good would you do, out with a cold?"
He could almost feel Sherlock's body stiffen under his touch, "Lestrade, the case, off course that is what it should all be about."
John could feel his himself stiffen, what did he mean?
"Isn't that what you live for?"
"I am not sure right now," Sherlock answered a sort of distant look in his eyes. He seemed to gaze all the way through John into some place where he could not follow.
Like this, soaked to the bone and brooding, he looked almost vulnerable, how someone so brilliant at the same time could seem so clueless about other things, like keeping dry when it was raining, was a mystery to John.
John dropped the towel on the floor and for a second lost in thought, his fingers did what they wanted to on their own accord. They reached out and carefully stroked away that stubborn lock of wet hair plastered to Sherlock's forehead.
Sherlock looked so cold, lips a sort or blue, grey shade, slim shoulders shaking involuntary from the cold. But as John's fingers made contact with his forehead, for John, he seemed to be hotter than a furnace.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock's hand shoot out grabbing John's in a vice like grip.
John froze, what was he doing?
"Nothing, eh can I get you a cup of tea?" He pulled himself up to his feet, faster than was probably necessary ripping his hand from Sherlock's grip as he rose. He could still feel Sherlock's fingers, cold and hard around his wrist and he had to stop himself looking for marks. He took a shallow breath and smiled; he hadn't done anything after all, he ignored the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.
"Try to get out of those wet clothes, you need to get warm."
Sherlock just nodded in acquiescent as John went into the kitchen. John was not at all aware of the slight sucking noise produced as Sherlock made good of his request and shrugged his shirt off.
He took his time and when he came back, balancing a tray with two cups and the blue and white china pot his sister had bought for him as a sort of 'forgive me' present three years ago for breaking his old one, Sherlock had moved into a proper sitting position and even unfolded the towel and made a half hearted attempt at wrapping it around his own shoulders.
John set the tray down on the table and poured them a cup of steaming Darjeeling each, noticing that the latest scar on Sherlock's chest was pale and healed now, before sitting down in his usual chair.
They drank their tea in silence, John even picked up a paper which he tried to read, something about a record breaking Christmas tree being put up.
Sherlock seemed to be reading his fortune in the tea leaves in the bottom of his cup. When the silence became unbearable John put down his paper and got up thinking he should go to bed.
"You never answered my question John," When Sherlock broke the silence it was with his normal tone, indifferent, blasé. He was leaning back, damp curls pointing in all directions, pale chest still naked and John found it hard to look away let alone remember what he was supposed to be answering.
Sherlock had an unusual amount of small scars for a man his age, criss-crossing his upper body in thin lines. As his chest rose and fell they created a spread out web that seemed to move and shift, John had to fight the urge to go over there and let his fingers follow all the lines. It made him sick at heart to think of all the times Sherlock had been hurt and no one had been there.
"You lost the ability to talk suddenly?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow questioning at him. John wondered if the earlier break in his countenance had been an illusion on his part.
"God night Sherlock," John turned around and walked slowly up the stairs even though his head was telling him to run away, and run away fast.
