Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. Thank you to the anonymous guest who gave me a chance because they liked a completely different Destiel fake relationship story! I am so glad you're enjoying this one, too!
Sherlock almost jolted when John's fingers sought his own. True, there had been a lot of public handholding these days, to keep up their married persona. Also, part and parcel of the good doctor's instincts was the compulsion to soothe and comfort, as much as patch up and heal. But his appeasing routine usually entailed telegraphing one's moves. As much as they had no respect for each other's personal space if the situation required it – or could be fabricated to require it, by rooting in one's pockets for something, for example – this kind of casual touch, almost as if John himself was unaware he was doing it, sent a thrill through the detective's spine.
His blogger squeezed, and then kept holding his hand, saying softly, "Breathe. You don't need to tell me, but – if there's any way I can help, please ask."
"The need for a surgeon is long past. They did everything they could. And you – helped already, back then. More than you could by being there," the sleuth replied, just as sotto voce.
John's stomach churned at the other's word choice. Need for a surgeon, not a doctor or a backup or a reminder of meals. "Allow me to doubt that. Or you have a very poor opinion of me, if you think your mind palace version is more useful than I can be."
"No, no, again – you don't understand. You say I don't listen to you, but did you, earlier? It's not that you wouldn't have made a brilliant partner, with your ample skillset – that's part of what made me ask you to come along on cases, in the first place. But statistically speaking, even if we pooled our talents together, it's unlikely that we could have destroyed a web as widespread as Moriarty's without a few…complications along the way. As it was, I could retire inside my mind palace, visit you, and ignore my transport until the opportunity to escape presented itself. If one of my errors had led to us both being captured…no. Just no. Don't make me go there," Sherlock murmured. He turned partially away from the other, body curling on itself…but he didn't let go of John's hand, even if the resulting position was awkward.
"It's okay," the doctor whispered back, squeezing his hand again, "you're safe now. You don't have to remember." If he understood one thing, it was trauma and not wanting to poke at it any more than one's subconscious forced you to.
Sherlock snorted. When would John figure out that what made him nauseous now was the mere prospect of his…of John being hurt as he'd been, more than the actual memories? "I know I'm safe. There's a distinct lack of chains, leaking pipes, and concrete walls. I'm not completely out of touch with reality yet."
It was probably a very bad idea on all accounts, but John was working on autopilot then. He mumbled, "Get in touch with this," and manoeuvred them so they were – once again – cuddling, his stomach against the sleuth's back, their still joined hands resting on Sherlock's middle. He managed to stop himself before kissing the other's nape, no matter how tempting it was. That'd be way more than a bit not good to spring on someone.
The detective uttered an odd sound – a mix between a sigh and a yelp, but not angry or scared, just stunned. One his blogger really shouldn't find so charming, because there was no way he'd hear it again.
"Sorry, I just – I am not going to let you go. Well, not literally, of course, but…you get me, don't you? And yeah, I'll – of course I'll disappear if you kick me out of your life. But please, don't." John was pretty sure he was raving, but he was unable to force himself to make sense.
"Honestly, John. I. Came. Back. For. You," Sherlock syllabled. It was easier when he didn't have to look at him.
"Oh." That was…that couldn't be right, surely? His career, his family, Mrs. Hudson, London – someone who knew every back alley and roadwork as deeply as the Tomtom-doubling detective had to love the city, surely – there were plenty of reasons for his friend to come back. Besides, what else could he do?
As usual, the other read his mind. He sighed and said, "You are aware that people move and change names sometimes, aren't you? Frankly, just the chance to be miles away from Mycroft's meddling would have been sufficient motivation to snatch the perfect opportunity I was given…if I hadn't hoped that you would welcome me back." Instinctively, he pressed more against his friend.
"And I was a right arsehole instead." The blogger wanted to facepalm, but not enough to move.
"You had every right." Sherlock shrugged minutely.
"No…yes…I mean, I could be angry, but I shouldn't have. Taken it out on you like that. And you should have bloody stopped me. You've subdued enough suspects that I know you're capable of that – or at least of putting up enough of a resistance that would make me stop for the second needed to think about what the fuck I was doing." Oh my God, he was ranting again. Might as well press on. "Will you promise me? That you will – that if someday I try to – to get physical again, no matter the reason, no matter what, you'll slap some sense into me instead of playing martyr? Because I need that. Just like you need someone yelling at you to keep the samples in proper containers before you accidentally contaminate the food and send everyone to the hospital. Same principle."
"That's…I hadn't thought of it like that. I thought…you needed the release," the sleuth mumbled. And when had their conversation started to sound like a continuous badly scripted double entendre?
"Nope. Christ, you needed a surgeon sometime during that…and I…well, maybe you were right. You're always fucking right. I was better for you when I wasn't there, at least I couldn't hurt you. That's something. If you won't stop me if I…mess up again, I'll have to go, for everyone's sanity – and safety – and I don't want to fucking go, so –"
That made Sherlock turn around in his embrace, and glare daggers at him. "Don't you dare! I promise, I will, whatever, I'll stop you, I'll beat you right back, but you're not allowed to leave Baker Street, do you hear me?"
John giggled because he felt dangerously close to sobbing instead. This therapy was going to do him in, unless they managed to solve the case…oh, about three days ago. "England would fall?" he asked.
The detective shook his head. "At the very least, all of Europe." Because he would break apart, which meant Mycroft would need to keep a much closer eye on him, so he would have to stop supervising politicians as closely…and let's be honest, you couldn't slacken the reins on these people for a week before they somehow caused some disaster or another. With as long as Mycroft would have to prioritise him – another war could easily start…God, he was exhausted. How could he be exhausted? It's not like he'd fought a murderer, or trekked miles while shadowing a suspect. "What do you say about getting under the covers and sleeping? Or do you want to go in search of food?"
"Nope, a nap sounds delightful. I blame the heat – leaves you dazed. It might not be Afghanistan, but it's still more than I'd like," John said. True, they would have to move and change (and let go of each other, damn) – couldn't exactly sleep in their normal clothes – but a rest would distract him from his confusing, maddening feelings. He suspected Sherlock's reasoning was the same – and any rest he got during a case was a win anyway. Far be from him to dissuade his friend!
He disentangled himself from the other, and started shucking his clothes, throwing them on the floor by the side of their bed. He winced, training insisting that this was not how it was done, but the earlier he could go back to curling up with Sherlock, the better.
The detective was doing the same anyway – and that's how John saw them. The scars. He sucked in a loud breath. It was a thing to know that he'd been captured, and entirely another to see.
"Sorry, I'm an idiot. Usually I'm much more careful, but…I thought you would be busy yourself, and I could sneak under the covers before you turned around," the sleuth mumbled, looking intently at the sheets.
"Look at me. Sherlock, look at me." John considered taking his arm to nudge him to turn, but he decided against it. Not now. "Please," he said instead.
Sherlock did…and there was no disappointment, spite, or anger, in his blogger's eyes. Surprised, he let his gaze trail, inevitably landing on the other man's mangled shoulder.
His friend smiled at him. "Exactly," he said, shrugging his wounded shoulder. "I know…well, not torture, but I know war. I'm like this because Murray was there to evac me when I went down, bless him. You went to war alone, and seriously, if I wasn't an option, I'll need to have words with Mycroft, I bet he had a couple of operatives he could spare. Because you don't go to war on your own, you madman. At the very least another man for back up and a med officer…or a doctor with a good aim. He's supposed to be the sensible one!"
"There wasn't much sense to spare in anyone back then, it seems," the consulting detective admitted. Mycroft had tried to force a squad on him, but he wouldn't – he couldn't trust strangers with John's life. But he couldn't confess it…not yet. Especially if it made John annoyed with his maddening sibling.
"Well, you know I'm itching to check that they've at least worked properly on you, exactly like you probably want to examine and/or experiment on me, but I get it – you would probably hate it. If we're still up for that nap…what about skin to skin cuddling? Or are you sensitive still? It's supposed to heighten serotonin production, which is never a bad idea," John said.
"I…" Sherlock wanted to ask 'are you sure you don't mind?' but his blogger never offered what he didn't feel up to. So instead, he just replied, "Yes." How bad could it be after all?