A/N: This is rough, not a whole lot of editing done yet but I needed to upload earlier than usual; I have to go to a meeting and unfortunately work comes first guys ;P
Sorry for the feels, I'll have a nice fluffy thing tomorrow. Cheers!
Alive
When he came back to the land of the living, there were three things he was immediately aware of. The first was that his head bloody hurt, like someone had kicked him repeatedly without mercy. The second was that his chest felt inflamed, like someone had lit magnesium inside and just let it sit there burning, no air-holes to release the chocking smoke.
The third thing John Watson noticed as he regained consciousness was the weight of a head on his upper thigh.
He opened his eyes slowly, blinking fast as the brightness of the room invaded the unaccustomed irises, and stared for a moment out the window. It was raining, small pitter-patters on the glass like the tapping of fingers on a table. Eventually, he looked down to the figure next to him.
Sherlock was wearing a black shirt and his suit-coat was thrown precariously behind him, like he had taken it off in a rush. John could see the small remnants of dried blood and wondered briefly why Sherlock had been injured. Then he remembered it wasn't his friend who had been the injured one.
John remembered then the searing pain in his chest, the worried call, the damp ground hugging him as he fell to it and finally, as he heard the sirens, just before a deep blackness took him, long fingers with a honey deep voice wrapping around him like a cocoon.
He realized suddenly Sherlock had stayed with him. Waited for the ambulance, at least, holding him and saying soft, unintelligible things. Even though there was a killer on the loose, one which had almost made John himself the next victim, even while the case was still unsolved and the game still on, Sherlock had stayed with him. The incredible contradiction to all that he was in response to John's injury was… almost unbelievable.
As he looked at the head lying on his thigh, John stroked those dark curls. He took one of those pale, dexterous hands in his own and looked down, watching as he weaved his fingers between his friends.
He felt the hand in his own tighten and the head lifted suddenly. Sherlock's eyes were wide and John was nearly taken aback as he saw the fear and panic in them, then nearly melted as he saw those replaced with joy and relief.
John tried to smile assuredly but before he had a chance, Sherlock brought his head down to rest it in the nook between John's shoulder and neck. The bed-ridden man felt those fingers unweave themselves from his own and he felt momentarily disappointed at the break in contact. He then felt them on his pulse point and realized with a tremble in his heart what Sherlock was doing.
With a sigh and a small smile, John wrapped his free arm hesitantly around Sherlock's shoulders.
"I'm alive,' he whispered, hoping in somehow to solidify the fact. He felt the warm breath on his neck as his friend inhaled deeply then exhaled in what felt like a shudder.
The deep baritone vibrated on his skin. He would have thought he'd heard it wrong if he hadn't felt it as well.
"Don't ever die, John Watson."
Sherlock lifted his head and in those fascinating multi-colored eyes, John could see everything. Usually they were a wall, a Plexiglas barricade made to only be seen through on one side.
Now they were full to the brim with everything John had never expected to see.