The sensation of fire danced across every pore of flesh. Hands blindly reached out to one another, fingers finally managing to grab hold. Lungs that were on the verge of suffocation blissfully drank their fill as two heads broke the surface. With ragged breathing the two men struggled towards their salvation, the cargo ship now an imprint along the horizon.
With earth now beneath their feet, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes collapsed, their breath rising to the darkened sky. The sound of seagulls shrieked from above as they observed the waterlogged pair.
"I truly and undeniably despise you."
John coughed, the water clinging to his form. He was trembling. He was soaked to the bone, cold, exhausted and in a rage. He had just swam to save his skin, his shoulder cursing his existence. The doctor fumed, waiting for a smart retort, but the other man was silent. John rolled to his good side, peering down at Sherlock.
"What in- why did you not say anything!" John roared his pain half forgotten. Sherlock managed a small grin, almond eyes still focused on the heavy clouds.
"Didn't want you to worry, mother hen."
Blood had dyed the mans sleeve. John cursed. It must have been a stray bullet that had been fired down at them.
"I am fine Watson, just grazed. Don't look so distraught; causes your moustache to be far too droopy. Almost like a sad puppy."
John's jaw slackened, eyes bright with anger and disbelief. With a silent huff the doctor pushed himself up, his legs refusing to cooperate properly. He wouldn't utter another word to that…that insufferable man! John forced himself to ignore Sherlock while hearing the consulting detective's own sloshy pace match his own.
A couple passing by quickly stepped out of the way, their stares fixated upon the two men. Sherlock offered a grin to which seemed to make the matter worse, for the young man steered his lady back in the direction that they had come.
"Society has taken a turn for the worst, just see that not one person has asked-"
"And why would they? We look like a pair of criminals!" John hissed.
"Nonsense." Sherlock huffed, turning to walk backwards, eyes fixated on the vanishing couple. "Watson, I-"
"Will you just shut it, Holmes? You've done enough damage for the day."
Sherlock blinked hazily towards his companion; observed his bristled moustache, icy stare and tense mouth. That mouth. It had felt so warm, so welcoming. A blush crept across the detectives face as he continued to stare. The image of John's face so close to his kept running through his mind; the detail in his face, the way his emotions fluctuated from fear to disbelief and if he dared, lust? Could John Watson possibly have such feelings? Or had he just destroyed the very fabric of friendship that they both held dear? Sherlock allowed his mind a course of its own, his lips forming a manic grin.
"Holmes- Sherlock! Are you alright?"
The doctor caught hold of the man's chin, forcing his head slowly to examine for injury. He could see the stubble growing across the darkened cheek, the faint scars of old. John's thumb unconsciously ran across the jaw bone. The man looked overly exhausted and that worried him.
"Watson, I assure you I am quite al-"
"What did I saw about no talking?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow but did not speak.
"Good. When we get back I will have a proper look at you." John forced himself to release his hold, his fingers steadily growing hotter as they lay upon bare flesh. The look in his friends' eyes was filled with some akin to erotism. Was it possible that the great Sherlock Holmes had the desire for - no. It must be that the man was wounded and delirious.
John cleared his throat as they began their long walk home.
*O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O*
"Oh dear, is he alright?"
"I will get him up to his room and examine him, no need to worry Mrs. Hudson. Please go back to bed."
No need to worry? John thought What a conciliated lie. Sherlock was not alright; his breathing was laboured and sweat had begun to appear on his brow. He had discovered when he had been forced to carry Sherlock half way across the street, that his friend had been shot not only in the arm but in one of his thighs.
John, Sherlock's weight heavy against his side, forced open the entrance way to the man's bedroom. Swearing loudly at the mess and clutter, the doctor managed to manoeuvre the detective onto the bed, swatting at the various flies and the one harmless spider.
"Sherlock!"
John felt his teeth grind. He did not need this man here. Not now, not ever.
Paul Jefferson stood in the door frame, a flood of warm lantern light illuminating his handsome features. With a snarl that appeared most feral, the man grabbed hold of John, eyes ablaze with fury.
"What happened to him, doctor?"
"He needs medical attention now." John growled, pushing the man back towards the door.
"Then I will be of assistance."
John forced himself to breath. As hateful as this man seemed, he did require the offered help.
"His breathing is laboured, I have checked his airway, nothing seems to be obstructing his flow of oxygen. I need these clothes removed; check to see if there are exit wounds present."
The sound of scissors filled the room as the Lieutenant stripped the detective of clothing. John inhaled sharply as he examined the wounds. The shot to the shoulder was just a graze, but the thigh was a different matter. The bullet has still lodged inside.
"Mr. Jefferson I need you to hold him down."
Paul nodded, his eyes locked on Sherlock. John could feel fresh anger mixing in with his fear. But that was not relevant now. He needed to focus on Sherlock. The doctor rushed over to a corner, flipping over old books and papers to access an old tattered chest. Riffling through various objects, he was able to find Sherlock's (well one of Sherlock's) stocks of morphine.
"I need you to make a tourniquet between his heart and the wound - 2 inches with padding." John found himself saying, the needle ice between his fingers. The tip pierced through Sherlock's abdomen, the drug sweeping through his bloodstream. Sherlock hissed, eyes glaring across his naked chest. Even covered with blood the man was beautiful.
"I hope you know what you are doing, mother hen." Sherlock whispered, words slurred.
John coughed out a thin smile. With his hands steady, John began the task at hand.
*o.O.o.O.o.O.o*
Sherlock felt the sun on his face. The fly on his nose. With a weak wave of his hand he drove the fly towards the sunlight infiltrating through the heavy curtains. His entire body ached, his thigh screaming various profanities. He rotated his vision to take in the two men lying near the bedside, heads resting in their arms. John lay next to Paul, hands covered with traces of blood. Unused bandages still lay in their laps, with medical supplies scattered across the bedroom floor. Sherlock licked his lips. He was thirsty. Very thirsty. With his uninjured arm, he reached over to brush stray golden hair from Watson's features.
With a start the doctor grabbed hold, eyes blurry with sleep. With a sob, which almost became a growl the doctor enveloped Sherlock in a crushing embrace.
"You are the cruelest most villainous human creature ever to walk this earth!" John muttered heartily, "If you ever do this to me I will personally shoot you myself."
"I require something to quench my thirst, Watson." Sherlock coughed. He could feel John's breath on his neck. Such heat, such-
"Thank all the Gods you are all right."
Sherlock peeked out from Watson's shoulder to see the lieutenant. His green eyes where serious yet filled with light. Sherlock felt a shudder pass through him.
"A drink."
"Water only," John stated as he withdrew from his embrace. Sherlock's face fell.
"I desire something stronger."
"I am a doctor, your doctor, and you will obey my orders." John exclaimed, passing the man a glass. Sherlock sighed, grimacing as he drained the glass.
"Now will someone explain to what the Devil happened?" Paul questioned, his lips parsed thin. Sherlock frowned, brown eyes glancing around the room.
"Watson, where is my bag? And why am I naked with nothing but a thin sheet?"
"What?"
"I had an ample bag with documents from the ship."
"What ship?" Paul cut in, eyebrows narrowed.
"The bag is in the corner; we had to remove your clothing in order to-" John began but Sherlock shushed him once again.
"I believe you have invaded my privacy doctor." Sherlock quipped pulling the sheet further over his exposed chest. He meant it in jest, but his loins had began to awaken. He could feel the stares and he felt utterly exposed. Something he did not understand.
"Then we leave you to your rest," John muttered, his face flushing slightly. The kiss jumped his thoughts and the realization of just how naked the man was shook him to his very bones. The way the thin sheet hugged his body, the contour of muscle. It was best the leave the room before such outrageous thoughts corrupted his mind.