John was tired, dog tired actually to be honest to the English vocabulary. And he was particularly in no mood to visit a reluctant patient with a similarly foul mood.
John pressed his aching shoulders and grimaced as the car progressed towards Holmes manor.
He would crash at Harry's tonight if it's okay with them. Maybe a change of surrounding would let him sleep for a night. John thought resignedly as he walked through the corridor which led to Sherlock's room. Unconsciously rubbing his neck John entered his patient's room and looked up to observe Sherlock standing, in all his tall glory with his back towards the doorway. He was fondling something in his hands which John couldn't make out.
After a moment his ministrations stopped and he slightly turned his head, not looking at John but acknowledging his presence.
John wanted to avoid any confrontations at all cost today, so taking this as an invitation he walked in and sat down on the comfortable big couch beside the bed. He slumped on it and let out a tired sigh not looking at Sherlock. And then he was startled by a note of violin.
John had no idea that Sherlock could be musically inclined. But then exactly how much did he know about the man? He kept looking as Sherlock played on a soothing tune. John was not a connoisseur of classical music, neither was he into instruments. But right now, the known figure of a man playing an unknown sweet tune seemed not a bit out of place. Was he waiting for me? Is he showing off?
John couldn't help but smile at the thought before his brain discarded it as utter rubbish. All the while Sherlock played as if no one else was in the room as John kept looking at the pale arm moving the bow, a slender figure slightly swaying with the music and long lashes casting dim shadows on white skin. Both completely devoted, totally lost. No one else to see.
The last memory John had was the slight turning of a curly head and the widening of a pair of mysteriously coloured eyes, as the music played on.
When Sherlock first felt John standing in the door way he knew that the day had taken a toll on him. When he came towards the couch with heavy steps it only conformed his mood.
Sherlock had taken out his violin for a reason. He wanted to avoid all confrontation and even any conversation with John at present. They both wanted to be alone and at peace. Since Mycroft had managed to refrain them from getting either, it was up to them to find peace in this limited time of coexistence and not to make matters worse for each other.
John from the first day had respected Sherlock's personal space. He had by all means maintained the much needed distances and silences. Sherlock on the other hand whenever spoke, spoke to offend or confront. This was his way of making it up for that.
The thought had first astonished Sherlock and then frightened. Why was he trying to be kind to doctor? To make him stay longer? Wasn't it the whole idea of the bad behaviour to drive him out as soon as it was possible?
But the fact is, that idea was going nowhere. John was adamant on getting Sherlock well. It hurt Sherlock to see John fighting for him so hard, getting devastated and returning again. He decided his doctor needed a break and he needed a new approach. Silence would do well for both at the same time. Silence filled with music.
But never had Sherlock contemplated that he would be able to sooth a devastated soul so well that John will not only become composed but will eventually fall into a deep, comforting slumber right there.
Sherlock sat watching him sleep. He couldn't believe it. An army man, a man who hasn't slept for a long time, a man he had only caused agitation to was asleep in front of him, in his house, in his room. Completely unguarded, vulnerable, at peace.
But this didn't bring him any peace. Mycroft's words kept playing and replaying in his mind as he got accustomed to the slow rise and fall of John's chest.
"Don't be a fool."
"I certainly can."
Sherlock shivered lightly as he remembered how nonchalantly Mycroft spoke of presenting John to him.
This John, with this golden hair, kind big eyes, warm chest, steady hands. This honesty, integrity, love and kindness bundled into one person. A person who had never had a Moriarty in his life, a person who cannot seduce a man like Irene, a man who hasn't lost faith in love like Sherlock.
This John Watson could be his.
Sherlock could play for his John and John could sleep. Without nightmares, without agitation…without Greg.
Sherlock had unconsciously reached out a hand to touch John's hair. His head was resting on the back of the couch, John was snoring softly. To his utter amazement, Sherlock noticed John had entered REM sleep.
Sherlock's fingers were millimetres away, they could already feel the warmth radiating from John when the sleeping figure suddenly snuffled and wrapped his arms around himself in a protective manner.
Startled, Sherlock withdrew and looked away.
John woke up to the illegible sounds of two people speaking in some other room. He tried to ignore it and snuggled closely into the duvet that was covering him. But his brain refused to shut down again. John felt he was still wearing shoes and his jumper. He felt the texture of his bed linen had also changed and finally he realised that the cushion under his head was not his property.
His eyes snapped open.
Shit.
Struggling to grapple with a fully awakened consciousness and a half awaken body he sat up to find himself still on the couch he had sat on last evening, with the addition of a cushion and a duvet.
In Holmes manor, next to Sherlock's bed, which was thankfully empty.
After a few moment of self-retribution a very rosy cheeked John set about to finding his patient. His voice could be heard from the next room along with a woman's.
"But sir what if you faint in the bath tub?"
"Do I seem that fragile to you Mrs. Parker?"
John walked in to behold a white bathrobe clad Sherlock standing holding the doorknob of what seemed to be the bathroom along with a middle aged woman who John thought was a nurse. Sherlock didn't seem to have slept at all. Feeling a fresh burst of guilt, John spoke.
"Good morning."
They both looked at him standing in the doorway. Relief washed over the woman's features and Sherlock stood quietly with an air of nonchalance which suited him so well.
"Dr Watson! Thank god you're here."
"What might be the problem mam?"
"Sir, I have strict orders to not to let Mr Holmes take a bath alone. I have been giving him sponge baths for the last two weeks and there is high probability that he might faint or fall asleep in the tub and catch hyperthermia if left unattended. " The woman explained fervently.
"It's okay Mrs Parker. I'll stand guard."
"Oh, thank you doctor. Do call me if anything is needed."
As the woman went away gratefully John found Sherlock staring at him with a very smug look.
"What?"
"Exactly how do you plan to not leave me unattended while I bathe?"
"By standing by the door and talking to you." John said unflinchingly.
"As you wish doctor." Sherlock said while getting in and closing the door. "And what would be the topic of our conversation?"
Hmm. Good question. Thought John, his brain was not quiet resorted to full faculty yet. "Just keep talking."
"Fine then. I just disrobed and now I'm stepping into the tub…"
Oops.
The direction of the conversation was not a very good one for a very sleep hangover-ed John.
"Let's talk about something else." John said in an unnecessarily high pitched voice. Finally his brain was restored to full faculty.
Sherlock smirked knowingly and said with mock grudge, "Oh what now?"
"What kind of plants do you have in your garden?" John asked looking out the window trying to get rid of the vision of a naked, pale, lean body in bath tub. He stood with his back to the bathroom door.
"There are over 378 varieties of plants, both flowering and non-flowering." Sherlock started after settling in the tub. "There are 47 types of trees and over one hundred types of herbs…"
"Which is your favorite part of the garden?" John asked trying to avoid a botany class before breakfast.
Slightly taken aback by the question Sherlock remained silent for a while.
"Sherlock? You okay?"
John's concerned voice rang from behind the door.
Sherlock's mouth was prepared to throw a defensive reply. But his mind refused to be agitated.
The water was so warm and Sherlock felt strangely comforted by the fact that John was standing guard for him. He was there. He felt comfortable after a very long time.
"There's an old spurs tree."
John gave a relieved sigh.
"There are seating arrangements around it. I spent much of my time there as a child."
"Sounds nice."
"There's also a mausoleum." Sherlock added after a few beats of silence.
Without his telling John knew it was his parents'. John looked at the bathroom door as if looking at Sherlock. Inside, Sherlock looked at the closed door the same way.
