In Care Of

by consoul

Five noteworthy times John took care of Sherlock, and one time Sherlock stepped up to take care of John.

In Care Of

(1. bone)

John Watson learned early on that Sherlock Holmes had no clue how to take care of himself.

It was a miracle that the man was even alive, what with the way he carried on. John had never seen such a complete lack of care for the fundamentals of survival, and it set off every alarm medical schooling had instilled in him when he came to the realization that Sherlock only did the bare minimum to keep his body going, and anything beyond that was for "regular people."

The worst problem was undoubtedly food. Sherlock treated it as something to be put up with and ingested like an especially deplorable tonic on a schedule John couldn't make heads or tails of. Some days Sherlock would eat meals alongside him, albeit never fully finishing them, and other days he'd discover Sherlock had been subsisting off of tea and biscuits for a whole weekend.

Granted, the more extreme situations regarding the lack of eating occurred when Sherlock was especially high energy and putting his all into the task at hand, whether it be some scientific discovery or a tough case, but that didn't mean John could fall lax in his vigilance. A grown man needed more than tea and biscuits to sustain him, contrary to what Sherlock came up with as "justifiable reasoning" and he'd be damned if he let that sort of diet slide.

He'd grown accustomed to sitting Sherlock down and watching to make sure he ate or giving in to Sherlock's desire for some specific take out meal and getting it himself because getting anything into Sherlock was better than nothing. John carried around crisps, granola bars, and other snacks in his pockets for Sherlock on the off chance he could slip one into the man's hand while he was distracted poring over insane amounts of information reports or files (in that state, he was easily persuadable to eat what John gave him). He started cooking more often and storing meals away when there was room in the fridge amongst the various body parts and suspicious liquids when he learned that Sherlock would sometimes sneak out and eat it in some odd respect for John's efforts.

Eating was hard with Sherlock, but not impossible. John had a vast capacity for patience to go along with his various methods of feeding his capricious flatmate, and the wherewithal to not be discouraged when Sherlock wanted to be obstinate. As long as he was around, he was sure that Sherlock would be quite alright.

Sleep was another thing Sherlock held contempt for. The hours he kept were irregular to the highest degree, and John had long given up on trying to get him to sleep a regular 8 hours each night. So, John took a different approach and asked him to keep it down at night and threw a blanket over Sherlock when he finally fell asleep in some odd place in the flat. John learned quickly that Sherlock wasn't a deep sleeper, and he didn't want to rob the man of the precious time he needed to rest. On extremely rare occasions, Sherlock would fall asleep on his shoulder, and John would hold out as long as he could (as if he was dealing with a cat) before he was forced to move.

The only area Sherlock appeared even remotely competent in was personal hygiene, but John suspected this was a combination of natural need and an attempt to keep Mycroft from completely losing it and installing some sort of weird caregiver figure to infantilize Sherlock. Sherlock may have been absolutely horrible about taking care of himself and the area around him (the poor flat went through periods of decimation if John left him alone in it for too long), but it wasn't because he lacked the knowledge. It was just him being him, entrenched in the belief that he was far too superior to indulge in mere mortal needs. Why did he need food or sleep when he could spend that precious time working and cleaning up the human scum of London?

Never mind the fact that people only pushed him into acting like a robot every time they said he was one. That always irked John, because couldn't they see he was human; flesh and blood and bone-too much bone-just like the rest of them? They made his job so much harder, and more than once John had to refrain himself from snapping at someone when they said something tactless along those lines.

At least John was sure that he could rely on Sherlock to have a tidy enough appearance when he had to go out. Sure, his hair would always be messy, and his coat always left open to flap in the wind no matter how cold, but he managed to look presentable. Sherlock even strove to look decent, which John was grateful for. He drew the line at ironing Sherlock's fancy dress shirts; Lord knew he could barely iron the few he owned that needed it.

(John suspected that Sherlock tried so hard to look put together because he'd looked anything but in his days as an addict, but he wouldn't say so out loud. He was ultimately a man of tact, and he knew it would only earn him a long stretch of sullen, brooding silence from Sherlock and screeching violin noises that could barely constitute as music.)

Either way, Sherlock's deceptively normal outer appearance masked the fact that underneath the clothes, the man was barely keeping it together physically. It was a solid fact, but one that John approached as objectively as possible, both due to his occupation and because he and Sherlock were still feeling the other out in the new partnership they'd formed. Everything John had done so far was under the reasoning of medical and professional reasons; he'd have been spitting on the Hippocratic Oath if he hadn't done anything to mitigate Sherlock's more destructive personal habits.

However, staying objective when it came to Sherlock Holmes was harder than he anticipated, and soon became impossible when he realized the true gravity of the situation.

The morning was proving to be a mad one, as they'd received a frantic missive from Lestrade calling them out to a crime scene post-haste. Nothing abnormal about that save for the fact that for once, both of them had been asleep, and Sherlock had woken to see that the text had come over an hour beforehand.

"Stupid, stupid of me!" Sherlock yelled, berating himself as he scrambled to find shoes, yanking a brush through his unruly curls.

"It can't be helped-ow, son of a-Sherlock, why is your violin case open?" John asked, keeping down the screech of pain he wanted to let out as he jammed his toes against the leather case and nearly fell face-first onto the coffee table.

"Sorry, can't be helped."

John growled at his blasé reply and straightened up with a retort ready on his tongue that died as soon as he caught sight of Sherlock.

Sherlock was painfully lean. Too many of his ribs stood prominent beneath his milky skin, and his spine was a visible set of knobs that made John think of the skeletons he'd become intimately familiar with in medical school. A few scars littered his skin, most old and silver, but a couple were a more fresh pink, stretching this way and that as Sherlock's skin pulled taut over sinew and bone.

It was as if someone had given him the shadow of flesh and sent him along his way, and John hated it.

"Come along, John. I know you want to give a witty retort. Don't let the- blasted shirt-morning hour slow your already average brain," Sherlock said, arms tangled in his shirt and head stuck within it. John was glad for it because it gave him time to school his face into something less horrified.

How is he this thin?

"You're slower than me this morning," John managed to reply, straightening out his jumper and hopping over the empty violin case. It took all he had not to sound as aghast as his inner thoughts.

"Whatever you say, John."

John snatched another glance at his flatmate and had the wild thought that Sherlock was almost translucent as the man passed across one of the windows. His concave stomach and bony shoulders were too much for him to handle, and John looked away quickly before his tongue could get ahead of him.

(Why don't you eat? Why don't you sleep? What haunts you so badly that you've been reduced to shadow and bone?)

"Why are you even looking for your shoes when you don't even have socks on?" he chose instead to ask when he caught sight of Sherlock's bare, pale feet.

"When one is required post-haste somewhere, socks can be foregone," Sherlock replied, tossing the brush carelessly over his shoulder before stooping to look under the furniture for his elusive shoes.

"Are you mad?" John asked, and was glad he had a fairly tame, safe topic to channel his swirling feelings at the true state of Sherlock's health. "You can't walk around with shoes and no socks. Ludicrous, insufferable, idiotic man…"

He continued to mutter as he spotted a pair of socks and threw them at Sherlock, nailing him firmly across one haughty cheekbone and drawing an indignant sound.

"Put those on, you man-child," John snapped, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to see Sherlock properly clothed and fed; anything to lessen the bony figure. No wonder he always wore that coat of his. It gave him the shield of illusion, filling in what flesh should've. "Shoes with no socks-that's why you can't find your shoes! That's the universe trying to tell you something!"

"The universe is unable to communicate with me since it cannot be personified," Sherlock retorted, grabbing the socks and shooting him a confused look, no doubt wondering what had gotten John so riled up out of nowhere.

He doesn't even know anything's wrong! John thought incredulously as they finished getting ready and raced out the door. Unbelievable!

He was still getting to know Sherlock and the helter-skelter life he'd suddenly found himself in, but that didn't matter to John. He was a doctor for God's sake, and while the war may have given him some rough edges, he still held an unwieldy amount of compassion and care.

Sherlock was wasting away below all that high-strung energy he devoted to cases, and no one except him was doing anything about it.

It was then that John tossed aside the lens of objectivity and took the care of Sherlock Holmes into his own hands.

(2. glass)

Sherlock always went above and beyond when it came to solving a case, pushing every boundary and overcoming any obstacle in his way to get the work done. After witnessing it on the very first case they worked, John immediately made a note to be a louder voice of reason in the future, because he just knew that one day Sherlock would go too far and get himself hurt, or worse, killed. The man was reckless to a fault; a wildfire that John could barely keep contained on the best of days.

(He didn't think about Sherlock dying. The thought was unthinkable, like trying to imagine the moon falling out of the sky or the sun ceasing to burn. In this one instance, John didn't consider Sherlock to be mortal, because thinking of his mortality made his chest ache in a strange way.)

Today, Sherlock was hurt because of his recklessness, something that happened every so often. However, John was more than capable of tending to these particular flesh wounds. It was easy, being clinical when one was faced with a patient, even if the patient was of a more personal variety.

"You won't be able to hold anything delicate for the rest of the week," he said as he pulled shard after shard of glass from Sherlock's large palms. "That means no vials or violin."

"Pity," Sherlock said with a barely-there wince as John fished out a particularly deep, but small piece.

They were sitting in the station, tucked away in the breakroom to keep Sherlock from spewing vitriol at the meaner officers that would no doubt poke fun at his moment of physical weakness. The pervasive smell of coffee and tea was expected considering the place, but still surprisingly strong considering no one had a pot brewing. Lestrade had supplied a first aid kit, which supplemented the supplies John made a point to carry (his bag contained more than his laptop, a fact that seemed to shock people about as much as people forgot he was a doctor) enough that Sherlock didn't need a hospital.

Not that Sherlock would let anyone take him there anyway. If he wasn't "gushing blood or clutching his intestines," he strived to avoid it at all costs. Better to work than to be cooped up in a bed he believed he didn't need, something that aggravated John to no end.

"I'm surprised you didn't get any on your face," John remarked, dabbing at one of the wounds with a bit of gauze. His work was methodical, hands steady as he worked on Sherlock's bloody, scraped ones.

"I calculated that I could avoid such injury if I twisted through the window a certain way," Sherlock explained, shifting in his seat as John began to study his now glass-free hands. "But it would come at the cost of my hands."

"Interested in keeping your pretty boy features intact?" John asked absentmindedly as he turned Sherlock's hands this way and that. None of the cuts were deep enough to require stitches; some had even already stopped bleeding, which was good. He had the materials necessary except for a sufficient amount of pain medicine, and he didn't want to subject Sherlock to all of that.

The long moment of silence confused John for a moment (Sherlock was hardly ever quiet when it was just the two of them) before what he said hit him.

Oh, dear.

John made it a point to never call Sherlock handsome or other such related compliments for a variety of reasons. For one, Sherlock knew he was since many people told him so (usually before they realized how much of an utter berk he was), and besides, it wasn't something you said to your flatmate unless they asked you if they looked good in an outfit they'd been agonizing over. Just because John wasn't blind and could see that Sherlock was handsome didn't mean he had to voice it like everyone else and stroke his ego.

There was also the inconvenient little fact that every time a compliment popped into John's head (which happened more and more frequently these days), John grew ridiculously embarrassed even thinking about it. How he'd let those words slip out today was a mystery.

Pulling the glass got me distracted, dammit.

He looked up in time to see a pensive look on Sherlock's face slowly morph into a giant smirk that, for some strange reason, brought color to John's cheeks.

"It's easier for you to patch up my hands than my face, and less chance of me being hospitalized," Sherlock said, providing a sensible answer that only made John more embarrassed (he should've watched what he said). "However, it would...pain me slightly if my features were marred in some way. After all, you seem quite fond of my face the way it is."

"Shut up," John said mildly, averting his eyes to focus on wrapping Sherlock's hands. He could hear the teasing tone in his voice, which settled his nerves about the slip-up. Sherlock clearly hadn't read anything in it and was playing it off for his sake.

Was there something to be read in it?

"I don't trust any other doctor as much."

The statement was said as if Sherlock was discussing some hard-textbook fact; words clipped and to the point.

That didn't keep John's expert hands from nearly dropping the bandages he was carefully folding around Sherlock's fingers.

He was aware that his more than normal efforts to care for Sherlock's health were starting to be noticed. Sherlock was ever observant, and John didn't hide his efforts much unless he was trying to trick Sherlock into eating or sleeping. His care naturally extended to medical patch-ups thanks to their line of work; sometimes, it was more practical for John to do it instead of going to a hospital, not to mention the fact that he appeared to be the only medical professional Sherlock didn't immediately dislike upon sight for trying to help him. But full trust?

"You'll have to trust other doctors someday," he said because that was the only thing his mind could focus on beyond the fact that Sherlock trusted him the most with his care.

(Trust was so much better than simply being put up with for convenience's sake.)

John was good at earning trust, but Sherlock's trust was a precious thing to hold; given out grudgingly and taken back quicker than a whip. Having it in the area of expertise that had been his first passion before his life had gone pleasantly sideways into case-solving was even more gratifying and filled his chest with warmth.

"Most likely considering the dangers I do so enjoy chasing. But if it's not absolutely necessary, I'd rather have you treat me," Sherlock said before giving him a rare smile.

He showed no teeth (not even John could tug those sorts of grins from him yet with any sort of consistency), but it was strong enough to make his eyes crinkle at the edges, which is what mattered the most.

John's own smile was small and satisfied, even if his ears continued to burn. In this small, coffee smelling breakroom with their knees knocking together and Sherlock's blood staining a variety of materials scattered across the table, John was suddenly inexplicably and indescribably happy.

"It smells foul in here. Like a coffee graveyard," Sherlock said after he'd been bandaged up, nose wrinkling after he sniffed the air delicately.

"It's a police breakroom. If it smelled like anything else, I'd be suspicious."

Sherlock snorted before gently wiggling his fingers, frowning down at the bandaged digits.

"How will I be able to use utensils like this?" he mused, eyebrows furrowing momentarily as he tried, and partially succeeded, in picking up a pair of tweezers.

"Hungry?" John asked, remaining as casual as he could while he cleaned up, plucking the tweezers gently from his loose grip.

On the inside, he was just about breathless with anticipation at the idea that Sherlock might actually be thinking about food for once without any prompting or social niceties influencing him. John had been resigned to forcing down some liquids into him to compensate for the blood loss, but things would be far easier if Sherlock simply ate.

"I am a bit peckish," Sherlock said slowly, testing the words out before tilting his head in a way that sent his dark curls tumbling into his eyes. "How do you feel about breakfast at our usual place?"

The usual place, a hole in the wall diner with atrocious retro tile walls and fabulous cardiac arrest inducing waffles, was about the furthest one could get from the police station. It also wasn't actually one of their usual places. The title was given out of irony, as upon stumbling across it, Sherlock declared that a rare sense of déjà vu meant that it'd earned the title. Due to the distance, they'd only been back twice since.

However, that didn't matter a single bit to John, who was only happy that Sherlock was hungry and wanted to eat. A small goal, minuscule and perhaps more than a little strange to some, but when it came to encouraging better eating habits, John would take whatever progress he could.

"I'll help cut up your waffles if your fingers are too stiff," John said in response, shouldering his bag. "Let's get going before the morning rush peaks."

Sherlock's smile still held no teeth, but his eyes sparkled and danced as he stood and shoved his hands in his pockets, still managing to look regal despite the messiness the night had brought to his appearance as he walked out of the breakroom.

"As long as you don't cut them into too small pieces," he threw over his shoulder.

John harrumphed but took the opportunity to smile at his back before following. He already knew just how big Sherlock would want the pieces, but he didn't think he'd caught on to that yet.

(3. words)

The number of verbal spats Sherlock engaged in was measured by daily metrics, and John had long grown used to their frequency. It was an art Sherlock giddily indulged in, wielding words like knives and twisting conversations into knots so convoluted they left people reeling. He always had a retort ready, his tongue poised to speak in whatever manner whenever necessary. Speaking with Sherlock was more than just a conversation. There was always something left unsaid that John had to read between the lines to pick up on, even in the instances where Sherlock was word vomiting as fast as he could to explain his brain's output.

Sherlock's harsher or more tactless moments was something John was also used to dealing with now. He'd learned all he could do was smooth things over as best he could with the injured party before scampering off after Sherlock because there was usually no time for anything more.

However, John wasn't nearly as used to the instances where people spewed vitriol at Sherlock. It was one thing to snap at the man when he'd been rude, and yet another to pick and prod at him when he hadn't instigated anything at all. It infuriated him, many times to the point of intervention if only so actual work could get done. In his opinion, it said a lot about the officers if they were the ones instigating things with Sherlock.

(Those were the only times when John felt as if he could go to war again. He didn't ruminate on why that was so, because to do so would open up a Pandora's box he wasn't quite ready for.)

Tonight was one of those instances of verbal battles edging towards the line of too far. It was late; far too late for unnecessary conflict in John's opinion. They were all sequestered in a conference room for a briefing on an especially heinous serial killer in the making, and half of the room was either catnapping or well on their way to falling asleep in their files and paper coffee cups. The drone of the air vents only made for enticing white noise to doze to along with the warmth of the room.

Lestrade was part of the growing members of the catnapping group, no doubt giving Sally a false sense of security that she could do what she wanted. She snuck more and more jibes in at Sherlock, who stood at the board, detracting talk of the case further and further of the important points just to be petty for pettiness' sake.

John was not a fan of the developing situation. He was currently on hour 29 of no sleep and he'd developed an annoying headache no amount of caffeine could rectify; the sludge they served up at the station certainly wasn't helping. He was exhausted, in desperate need of a shower, and irritated that he could've been home half an hour ago if these supposedly mature members of law enforcement would quit baiting Sherlock.

Can't they see he's trying so hard to help them?

He hated seeing that conflicted look on Sherlock's face. It was the one where he was genuinely trying to help and was aware he was being made a joke out of and knew he shouldn't retaliate but did so anyway. Sherlock just couldn't help himself. It was both his greatest strength and strongest character flaw; the double-edged sword he wielded with a heavy hand and heart: his inability to let things lie.

A great skill for a consulting detective, but horrible in a heated conversation. John had evolved his already notable conflict resolution skills to be the Mediator and Soother as a result, but now and then, some situations reminded him that he too hated to let things lie. It was what had driven him to the battlefield instead of staying in the tangled administrative workings of a standard hospital and ultimately what made him put his foot firmly down when he'd had enough of something.

John drained his cup of shitty police workroom coffee, crumpled it up, and lobbed it to the wastebasket across the conference room by the boards they'd set up.

It soared above the table, drawing people's attention and halting the escalating argument between Sally and Sherlock. There was a bit of a spin on it that made it just graze the edge as it landed in the wastebasket with a quiet thump and the acknowledgment of a now much more awake and quiet room.

Eyes then turned to look his way, but John expected that. There was a reason he'd thrown it that way instead of dumping it into the wastebasket by his side.

"Was that really necessary?" Sally asked condescendingly.

John could see Sherlock's face shift to true anger for the first time that night. Before, he'd just been irritated and more than a bit tense, but now he looked as if he truly wanted to rip Sally's head off.

Because she's being rude to me?

It was an odd thought, as John was perfectly capable of defending himself and everyone knew it. One did not become a doctor and promptly head off to the battlefield without having a backbone, but perhaps he'd let his appearance grow too soft. Too many cozy jumpers and perhaps one too many biscuits might've lulled people into complacency and underestimating him.

John didn't care what people thought of him, but it wouldn't do to let them believe their misconceptions to be the truth when he hadn't let them see his methodical side. Sherlock wasn't the only one that could be calculating.

"Yes," he drawled, catching her off guard (what answer had she been expecting?) as well as a few others with his flat, no-nonsense tone, "If I have to get another shitty cup of coffee to stay awake in this stuffy room because I have to be stuck here for another hour listening to London's supposed finest whine at a man trying to help like a bunch of toddlers, I'll throw the next one at someone's face."

There was a beat of silence broken only by a cough that came from a now awake Lestrade who looked to be hiding a smile behind his hand. Sherlock looked blindsided, and John relished the expression. It wasn't every day that happened.

"You're just a civilian!" Sally sputtered.

"And yet here I am," John replied without missing a beat.

A few more hastily covered up laughs. Sally's mouth twitched, and John forged on before she could say anything else.

"I think I made myself very clear. While it's true that I'm a civilian, it's also a fact that the only reason you have any of the information you do is that I persuaded Sherlock to adjourn a meeting like this instead of simply informing Lestrade. I know how peeved you lot get when Sherlock swoops in and out. The only reason this meeting even exists is because of me."

A questioning murmur ran through the table, and Sherlock yawned dramatically, calling attention back to himself.

"I'm afraid John's right," he said, making a great show of looking bored and discontent with his surroundings. However, John could see in his eyes that he was highly amused by his little speech. "I had every intention of speaking to Lestrade and leaving, but John persuaded me otherwise. However, not even his alluring charms can keep me here for much longer-"

"We're listening," someone said hurriedly, triggering a rush of dark mutterings as people began to glare at Sally and the couple others who'd picked on Sherlock the most.

John leaned back and crossed his arms, nodding at Lestrade when he gave him an impressed look. Sherlock was back on track, motions fluid and dynamic as he spoke to the now largely attentive and compliant room.

"You're a complex man, John."

Sherlock said this at the end of the meeting as everyone was dismissed back to the bullpen, invigorated with new insight thanks to the consulting detective. They lingered for reasons unknown to John until Sherlock slumped down to sit by his side on the floor, displaying a rare show of exhaustion. The hours had snuck up on him as it had on John.

"How so?" John asked, casual and collected even as he scrutinized Sherlock's appearance. Dark circles and a surprisingly prominent five-o clock shadow: he'd need to get to bed immediately once they returned.

And me as well.

"You come off as so mild-mannered, but in reality, you're a vicious little thing. 'Thou callest me a dog before thou hast cause. But since I am a dog, beware my fangs,'" Sherlock said, head lolling as he looked up at him through mussed curls. He sounded almost affectionate, and John's ears burned at the thought.

He's just tired. You're hearing tones that aren't there.

"I have my moments. And I'm not little."

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. Like this, hidden from sight due to his direct seat beneath the window and shielded from the door by John, he was remarkably loose, content to relax in the almost solid illusion of privacy.

"I will concede you're not that little. But you make yourself appear smaller than you are," Sherlock mused, blinking long and slow as if trying to snatch a bit of sleep before he refocused on him. "In reality, you might be just as calculating as me. It's in a different way, one driven by some unknown force instead of the scientific pursuits I chase, but nonetheless remarkable."

John opened his mouth to dissuade Sherlock of his perceptions out of sheer habit before he paused.

On the very first case they'd worked, he'd killed the man that tried to hurt Sherlock. It had been a desperate situation, and John had had very little time to spare, but the decision had been easy when he'd been faced with it. He'd chosen to save Sherlock, damn the rest of the world and the consequences, and it'd been that way ever since.

(Damn the rest of the world. When the fires grew hot around them and everything else burned and boiled away, it would just be the two of them. Would always be them against the world.)

John knew what force motivated him to step away from the mild-mannered persona and into somebody that followed up a bark with an agonizing bite. It was why he'd become a doctor, and why he followed Sherlock to strange and unforgiving places and situations.

I care.

"Perhaps you're right," John said, voice sounding far off as he realized that his care for Sherlock must extend far deeper than even he could tell. "But you give me too much credit. I'm not nearly as remarkable as you."

Sherlock's scowl was immediate, dark brows furrowing over his striking eyes.

"You are remarkable, John," he repeated. "Because you are constant. Unerring. You...ground me."

His eyes narrowed slightly as if he was trying to grasp an elusive thought before they softened.

"I am renowned for my genius, but my erratic nature would've long been the death of me if it weren't for you."

Somewhere in the room, a fluorescent light hummed. The noise was strangely quieter than the beating of his heart.

Like this, he looks different, John thought, dazed by the relaxed mouth and fluffy curls. He was softened forcefully by exhaustion, but John couldn't bring himself to care for the reasons why as his hand moved of its own accord.

Sherlock's gaze grew confused, but he remained pliant as John brushed a few errant strands of hair out of his eyes before skimming down his face. His hand landed on his shoulder, fingers burning with the whisper of touch he'd stolen from Sherlock's cheek, palm absorbing the bony shoulder that radiated a sturdy heat.

Just one touch would be all that allowed himself tonight. John couldn't say how much he cared; not like this.

Maybe not ever.

"Let's go home," he said softly, suddenly wanting to be away and wrapped up in 221B, pretending life only consisted of him and Sherlock. Wishful, useless thinking, but tonight, John knew he could let himself pretend. Sherlock would sleep, and for tonight he would be John's to keep safe.

(One night. Only if for a night.)

Sherlock gazed at him for a long moment, and John wondered if he could see what lay dangerously close beneath the calm surface he projected. Sherlock was adept at peeling away his layers, and perhaps-

"Okay," he said, voice husky with sleep and eyes revealing nothing. "Let's go."

Nobody said anything to them from the bullpen as they left; both chastised by what had occurred in the conference room and also too busy to bother addressing them. The vile and cruel words had dried up for the night thanks to John's intervention. John smiled in satisfaction, which only grew when Sherlock linked their arms together in the elevator.

John wasn't a man of intricately linked words like Sherlock. But he knew how to speak up for Sherlock and make it count, and believed his quiet companionship counted more than keeping up with Sherlock's verbiage did.

So, he said nothing as their arms remained linked all the way home. John simply relished the warmth of Sherlock's presence and breathed in the wet smell of London left from the earlier drizzles, content to be the unobtrusive man in the deceivingly soft jumper.

(4. blood)

John didn't like the sight of blood. He was of the medical opinion shared by just about everyone logical that it was better in the body than out, but he'd never been scared by the sight of it. Others swooned and groaned at the merest hint of blood, but even as a child John had never had qualms about injuries. His stomach was iron and his nerves steel, mind stronger than the gristle and gore he'd chosen to face as an adult.

That is, until he had to handle Sherlock's blood.

Sherlock's blood was hot and slippery between his fingers, and John never wanted to see so much of it outside his body ever again. Not like this, in some dank warehouse corner, with scarce light and teeming bacteria hot spots and-

"John."

"Don't speak," John said stiffly, fingers pressed tight on the makeshift bandage fashioned from his shirt. He'd draped his jacket over Sherlock to help abate shock, leaving his torso bare and vulnerable to the chill nip of the air. Not that he gave two flying fucks about that when Sherlock had been stabbed.

Logically, John knew it would be alright. Sherlock hadn't been cut deep or in a highly vulnerable spot; the assailant had gotten a lucky jab in the soft flesh about two inches above his hip bone, so close to the edge of his side that if Sherlock had moved to the right a little faster he wouldn't have been hit at all.

But he hadn't; couldn't with the dim lighting that hindered more than helped. The faint flash of a blade registered too late, and Sherlock took the blow with a surprised yelp before stumbling back and toppling out of sight over some boxes.

John had seen red after that; a consuming red that shut his brain down to a level just above primal and ended only when the stabber had been left lying knocked out on the floor. Everything in between was just a blur of mashed knuckles and motion that he could barely recall.

I should've been faster.

Now he saw more red as his fingers grew slick with blood. It appeared never-ending. This red was too dark, too hot, too-

"John."

Sherlock's voice was remarkably steady if a bit on the weak side. John glared up at him regardless.

"I thought I told you not to speak."

"But you're bleeding too."

Only then did John realize that something warm coated his cheek and trickled down the side of his neck to stain his collar. An accompanying razor sting high on the side of his cheekbone confirmed the presence of a cut, but it registered as a mere nuisance of pain compared to the fierce ache in his hands.

John looked less closely at Sherlock's wound (which wasn't hard since he'd more than had his fill of it) and more at his hands. It wasn't just Sherlock's blood covering his palms. Some of it was his too, trickling from his bruised and battered knuckles.

"I'm alright," he replied slowly, and for the moment at least, he really was.

John was familiar with the concept of adrenaline and had mastered prioritizing things in the way they had to be tackled most effectively when in the field. First Sherlock, then him, both because of logical reasoning and to satiate the intense emotional thing sitting in his chest that screamed at him to pay attention to Sherlock and forget his hurts for the moment.

"John."

A pale hand curled over the fingers he had pressed to the wound, forcing him to look up.

"I'm fine. It's you I'm concerned about," he admitted uncharacteristically, his other hand moving to ghost across his face.

Sherlock's fingertips barely brushed his cut cheek, but John shivered anyway.

"You fought him too hard," Sherlock murmured with hardly a glance spared at the suspect lying prone somewhere behind them (John hadn't paid much attention to him after he'd pummeled him into the pavement). "This could scar."

"Are you fond of my face the way it is?"

The question slipped out-as many seemed to when John was around Sherlock-and hung in the dusty air. Now that the blood was slowing beneath his expert hands and a bit of the frenetic energy was calming beneath his skin, John could allow his eyes to look at Sherlock, whose mouth was now twitching into a smile.

"Perhaps," he replied, face still too pale for his liking, but expression remarkably serene as he continued with, "I quite like your face. A scar wouldn't diminish you, but I'm afraid it'd ruin the innocent appearance you oh so love to utilize to your benefit."

I quite like your face.

John's stomach twisted, fluttering and soaring like a bird had gotten caught inside him. He shoved the feeling down before it could meet the weight in his chest, focusing on the blood and duty before him and not Sherlock's unbelievable words.

"You cheeky bastard," John managed to say above the ringing in his ears. He couldn't tell if that was from a knock he'd take to the head whole fighting the perp, or if it was tied to the bird thrashing around inside him. "Don't move-"

Sherlock began to twist upright, something that John didn't want him doing at all. He meant to berate him more for doing so until Sherlock's hand dropped into his hair, gripping just tight enough to get his attention.

"I'm well aware of just how much of a bastard I am," Sherlock smiled, fingers drifting downward to clasp the side of his neck; the bloody side where his carotid was suddenly leaping to life at the warm touch.

John swallowed once, then twice when the first didn't suffice in moving the bird that had once been in his stomach and was now lodged in his throat (and when had it ever gotten past his chest?).

Sherlock was a bastard in many ways that John could list meticulously if given the opportunity, but right now, he was specifically a bastard for moving and for bleeding and for smiling like that-

"But my observations are hardly ever wrong. You should take care of this soon," Sherlock said, thumb moving to skim just above the cut on his face, grazing the soft skin under his eye long darkened by their erratic schedules and leftover nightmares of war.

"Maybe I'll let it scar just to spite you," John said before he could think of any other way to regain control over himself and his winged feelings trying to take flight.

Sherlock blinked before tipping his head back and barking out a laugh that John could feel from where his hands held his side and through the pale hand that still clasped his face.

"Oh John," he said fondly, the tone sparking a sudden ache in John's chest. "You really are something else. Do you reserve your bedside manner for the hospital only?"

"Bastards don't get my bedside manners," John retorted, watching the sparkle brighten Sherlock's eyes. Only he could be so amused at being insulted while being treated for a stab wound.

"I suppose that's fair," Sherlock sighed before taking a dramatic, nearly whimsical turn in tone. "At least I'm a bastard worth knowing."

John made a teasing, doubtful noise that earned him a narrow glare from Sherlock.

"Am I not just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing?"

If only he knew just how much he's worth knowing.

"You are," John chuckled, shaking his head. He couldn't verbalize any of what he felt for Sherlock; the birds and the blood and everything else, but he could say some things without giving it all away. "Better a bastard worth knowing than a worthless friend."

"How marvelously callous!" Sherlock stated gleefully, his hand drifting to rest on his shoulder. "You should write that in your blog. It's one of your better one-liners."

Sirens began to wail from far off, and John let out a breath of relief. Sherlock had said he'd texted Lestrade but following up to make sure he actually had managed to slip from John's mind through those first few heated minutes when he'd been scrambling to pull Sherlock free from the boxes.

"Looks like we'll be out of here soon," John said, letting his hands move away from Sherlock's side for the first time. The blood flowed sluggishly now, but his hands still felt strangely empty with loss.

"I don't know if I'd rather the medics fuss over me or have you continue to do so," Sherlock mused as John sat down in front of him hard enough to jar his tailbone. "On one hand, they won't call me a bastard unless I kick up a big fuss, but on the other, none of them will be shirtless like you."

John flushed, crossing his arms over his bare chest. His fingers smeared blood on his arms, but that was minuscule in comparison to the intent look in Sherlock's luminous eyes.

Is he really looking at me like-like that?

"Focus on not bleeding out," he said brusquely.

"If I bleed out from this little poke, I'd die in shame from an undiagnosed and incredibly unlikely case of hemophilia," Sherlock quipped, content to watch John squirm under the weight of his still intense gaze.

Luckily, the medics arrived at that point, and John was tossed into a whirlwind of activity that drove all nonessential thoughts from his head as he spun from one set of hands to the next. By the end of it, John came to rest against a squad car outside the warehouse, a shock blanket over his shoulders to ward off the London chill and his wounds treated by nameless hands that weren't quite as good as his.

He sought Sherlock out instinctively. It was only natural, given that what remained of his blood was drying on his hands and that this was all once again his fault. John wanted to give Sherlock a piece of his mind for leading them into yet another hare-brained scenario.

(It had nothing to do with making sure he was alright, or with wanting to go back to 221B to share the cozy space if not by his side, then in the same vicinity. Not at all.)

Sherlock was arguing with the medics some distance away, and while John couldn't see him, his voice carried. Judging by the tone, he was a half-step away from convincing the poor medics that no, he didn't need to go to the hospital and that yes, their on-site work was fine.

"...my partner is a doctor for Christ's sake! Best one in the city, so don't worry about me doing anything stupid with the bandage…"

Partner.

John's breath hitched of its own traitorous accord. He knew Sherlock hadn't meant it in the way his now tired and sluggish brain had seized onto it, but he couldn't bring himself to break the paper-thin illusion that he could've. If John was brave enough to voice the feelings that crammed his heart against his ribcage, if the timing was better, if, if, if-

But if didn't get John Watson anywhere in life. As a man of action, if was a useless word in his vocabulary. Things either happened to him, got done by him, or didn't go anywhere at all.

His tape wrapped fingers tightened reflexively around the shock blanket, sending little jabs of pain up his forearm. John hadn't broken any of them, but he wished he had for a fleeting moment so he could focus on the pain and not on the way Sherlock's deep voice rose and fell with the blustery wind.

He'd sworn he wouldn't say anything to Sherlock, but that was back when John had naively believed the depth of this thing he had for Sherlock was manageable. But, like the unexpected levels of dedication John had put into caring for Sherlock's health, so too had the infatuation grown.

Infatuation sounds so serious, but that's what it is, isn't it? A permanent dedication more meaningful than just friendship.

If only it was just friendship. Then John wouldn't have to suffer like this, trying desperately to keep his bleeding-heart stoic in the face of the man he couldn't ever tell how much John had come to care for.

"I'm in John's care, John Watson, see? Over there, by the- John!"

John's head snapped up at Sherlock's words and tone, which was now intentionally raised and directed at him.

I'm in John's care.

Sherlock waved at him, and he raised a hand back at the skeptical medics. They were made of stronger stuff than the usual personnel if they'd held out against Sherlock's wheedling and whining this long, and he respected them for it.

However, his respect was short-lived when just a few minutes later, Sherlock strode over, coat folded over his arm and button-down askew. It was wrinkled and bloodstained at the side (yet another shirt that couldn't be salvaged) but it would be serviceable until they got home. In the gray, but strong light of the day, John was a bit embarrassed to see that the stab wound he'd been so concerned over was barely more than a notch in his side.

"That took approximately 8 minutes longer than I anticipated," Sherlock remarked, stopping before him with a disgruntled look on his still slightly too pale face. "I think dispatch is starting to get savvier with who they send out when my name is involved. Mycroft might also have something to do with this."

John couldn't help but smile at Sherlock's never-ending feud against his older brother. The two were annoying with the levels they took it too, but Sherlock needed someone that he could go toe to toe with in between all the insane savants and criminal masterminds they dealt with.

"Ah yes, your archnemesis," he said, drawing out the, quite frankly, ridiculous term. Mycroft was a powerful man with more connections than Sherlock had superpowered neurons, but they were brothers at the end of the day, and it showed at times like this.

"This is serious business, John! Don't make light of the potential conspiracy we have on our hands," Sherlock admonished, but John could see he was jesting by the way the corner of his bow mouth twitched.

"You need to rest up from the conspiracy we just solved," John said firmly, ignoring the way the wind tugged and flipped Sherlock's dark curls into a pleasantly tangled mess.

"Psh! Boring!" Sherlock declared; chin tilted up with indignation. "But very well, if you insist. This shirt is ruined anyway, and you have none at all."

John flushed a bit. He hadn't had a problem being bare-chested until Sherlock had strode up with the cleanest bill of health he could obtain, and now he was hyperaware of the fact that he had no shirt in front of Sherlock.

Why do I always get myself into these sorts of situations?

"Things could be worse," he murmured, shifting slightly and tugging the blanket tighter around him.

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise before briskly shaking out his coat and doing the one thing John never expected him to do with it.

John accepted the coat out of sheer reflex, only realizing just what had happened when Sherlock spoke.

"There, now you won't get cold on the way back. Take care not to let it drag on the ground. I know you're significantly shorter than me."

"Shut up," John grumbled, but internally he was less than stoic (is this really his coat?) as he shrugged on the coat.

The fabric was heavy and warm, with a distinct scent that John could place if he was blindfolded and standing in the middle of a stadium. Sherlock's scent stuck to everything; a strange mixture of spicy cologne and the underlying sharp, but surprisingly bearable scent of the chemicals Sherlock so enjoyed toying with. John knew he was crazy for enjoying that side of the scent, but he was in too deep to care.

At that moment, wearing Sherlock's coat, John could feel his heart crack just the slightest. Sherlock would never give his coat to just anyone, but John couldn't let himself believe it meant anything beyond friendship. Sherlock was married to his work after all, and it was highly doubtful that John Watson could ever catch his attention like that. Perhaps he offered fleeting moments of amusement that his friend enjoyed, but John wasn't half as clever or handsome as the person Sherlock ultimately deserved.

Love hurts.

"John?"

"I'm quite alright," John replied instantly, keeping his voice as level as possible. It helped to keep his gaze fixed on his feet. "Let's go home before someone starts questioning us again."

Their feet remained rooted to the ground in uninterrupted silence, just as disparate in size as they were as a whole before a hand suddenly gripped his shoulder and icy fingers forced his chin upward.

"Sherlock-" John started, startled and more than a little panicked as he met that blue, scrutinizing gaze. He knew that look.

This is it. My silence will all be for nothing, because how can he not know?

"You've started bleeding again," Sherlock murmured, fingers brushing up against the gauze that had been hastily taped to the cut on his cheek. They came back stained red.

Bleeding?

"Oh," John said dumbly. The relief that he hadn't been caught out-that Sherlock was still blind to his useless affections-nearly took him off his feet, but ironically, Sherlock kept him grounded with a hand on his shoulder.

"Stupid medics," he hissed, dabbing the cuff of his shirt at John's cheek as he used the other hand to slowly peel the gauze back. "Honestly, you think they'd be able to handle one little cut at minimum."

Sherlock was close enough that John could count his eyelashes and see the shine in his curls. John held his breath and bit his tongue, clenching his hands to keep from reaching out to touch so hard that more than a few stabs of pain ran up his forearm.

(What would be worse in the evening: the ache in his hands, or the agony in his chest?)

"Perhaps it's because they're Mycroft's medics," he suggested on an exhale that he imagined ghosted across Sherlock's long, pale neck and tickled his Adam's apple. Controlled, small imaginings were what was necessary here to keep himself from burning up like a firework's lit wick.

"That's the spirit, John! We should swear off of all medics until we rectify the situation with him." Sherlock exclaimed, tugging the gauze back over his cheek with a firm, but gentle tug.

John couldn't bring himself to care that he'd enabled the Holmes brotherly rivalry when Sherlock draped an arm around his shoulders and tugged him in, already rambling a mile a minute about "calling Mycroft out on his excessive surveillance scheme" and "telling him what he can do with his unnecessary assets." After the near miss John had, he was feeling incredibly selfish and tired. He'd guiltily accept this balm to the soul and make his peace with it in his dreams.

He leaned into Sherlock's warmth and buttoned up his coat, heart both comforted and tormented by his scent and his voice. It was pain, caring so much for an unwitting person, but John would endure it for however long Sherlock would accept his care.

(5. drunk)

The smell of alcohol alerted John that something was wrong before he saw Sherlock slumped beneath one of the windows morosely playing his violin with a vodka bottle by his side.

"Sherlock?" he asked warily, dropping the groceries he'd run out to get. He'd only been gone about an hour-much of that time spent in the produce section picking the fruits and vegetables that Sherlock wouldn't take immediate offense to-and Sherlock had been fine when he'd left. Had something happened while he was gone?

Mycroft couldn't have died while I was out. He's too wily to die anyway.

"Oh. John," Sherlock slurred just a tad, raising his head from the chin rest and offering a sloppy smile that skewed his face in a way that told John his facial muscles were laxer than he'd ever seen them. "John! My partner…come, partake in this wonderful potato-based beverage with me."

"I think the fuck not," John replied mildly, already stooping to take the bottle away. It wasn't one that John recognized, leading him to wonder where Sherlock had squirreled it away, and why he'd decided now of all times would be the night for hard liquor.

It's 6 o'clock on a Thursday for God's sake.

"But…you have to be drunk. Otherwise, we can't talk," Sherlock said plaintively, rosin dust trialing from his bow in sticky clouds as he swished it this way and that, rapping John's bent leg.

"Who says I have to be drunk to have a discussion with you?"

"I did."

John couldn't help his snort at the firm, indignant response. The alcohol had deepened Sherlock's voice, if that was even possible, but also loosened his tongue in a way that brought more emotion to his tone than he dared show while sober. His inflections were harder and more liberal, and his voice rose and fell with the notes he'd now taken to plucking from his violin.

"I cannot speak like you John," Sherlock bemoaned, eyes squeezed shut as he shook his head. "I am not soft, or gentle with my words. Oh, what a skill it would be, to have half the care you exert so effortlessly!"

"I just said fuck approximately two minutes ago," John interjected, growing more and more amused by the second with Sherlock's antics. The melancholy air that had surrounded him when he'd walked in must've been brought about by drinking alone, and now that John had arrived, Sherlock was perking up like a flower.

"The word sounds like a syllable of exquisite beauty when you utter it."

John barked out a laugh before taking the bow from Sherlock, ignoring his whine (an actual whine) of displeasure.

"Your vocabulary is still the same, but you've somehow only grown complimentary in your drunk state," he mused, loosening the bow hair in the manner he'd seen Sherlock do. A tense bow never went back into the case.

Sherlock's eyes watched him twist the screw, something soft behind the shiny glint the vodka had given his icy gaze.

"Since when do you know how to do that?" he asked, watching as John dragged the violin case (open, just about always open and left on the floor nowadays) over so he could put the bow inside.

"You're not the only one that can observe," John remarked, sliding the bow in and taking the violin from him.

"I know," Sherlock said, resting his face in his now free hands as John shut the case. "It's why I'm still alive."

John looked up sharply, and Sherlock smiled; a crooked thing of white teeth that knocked the breath out of him almost undid him right there on the fucking floor.

"Come now, John," he said lightly, head cocked as he let one hand drop to dangle in his lap. "It took me a while because I am fairly boneheaded when it comes to taking care of myself, but I know you've cared for me far more than you should've. I think I would've wasted away if I'd gone on the way I was going before I met you."

"Don't say that," John admonished, his heart lurching inside his chest as they finally-finally-approached a subject he wasn't even sure he wanted to speak about. How could he put into words what he did for Sherlock beyond the obvious?

"No, I would've. Maybe Mycroft would've swooped in like he did when I was on the streets, but…whoever he would've gotten to tend to me wouldn't have cared for me as you did."

Sherlock's voice was low now; soft and almost unsure in the latter half of his statement, and the vulnerability pulled at John in a way that made him want to drag his thumb across Sherlock's bottom lip and tangle his fingers in those damnable curls.

"I'm such a burden of a person, and yet here you are. Listening to me ramble on about something that hurts you so," he continued, and his eyes turned plaintive as his voice pitched upward, not in volume, but emotion. This was the morose Sherlock he'd walked in on, the one that had turned to the liquor.

"This task you've taken on hurts you John, but you keep caring for me. Why? I don't deserve it. I don't deserve any of it."

"You're not a burden," John said quietly, but with a steely ferociousness that he hoped would banish that particular sentiment of Sherlock's. His hands smoothed over the battered old case still sitting in his lap. "The only reason it hurts is that…"

(Is that I love you so much that I can't keep it all inside, but I must if I want to preserve the friendship we have, this strange give and take and push and pull we live by. I hate seeing you hurt but I love putting you back together; I hate seeing you hurt by others but can't help but feel proud when I protect you just long enough for you to regain your balance. I hate and I love, and I care, I care so much-)

It was not John's thumb put into action, but Sherlock's. John's eyes shut, heart seizing like an animal caught in a trap as it swept across his cheek and caught the single tear that had slipped loose; the only thing that had escaped him instead of the jumble of words that were caught in his throat.

Figures I can't speak my mind and heart when I'm given the one opportunity to do so.

"I don't want to hurt you, John."

"You don't," John croaked, voice filled with the trapped words and sounding tearier than he expected. "You don't. I just-I can't-it's not…"

The bottle was right there, and in an uncharacteristic motion that he knew he would regret in the morning, John picked it up and guzzled down the fire for liquid courage.

"Fuck," he gasped, setting the bottle down with a thunk heavier than he'd anticipated. Sherlock hadn't drunk as much as he'd assumed-or at least, not much from this particular bottle. "Fuck."

"Am I such a miserable person to hold feelings of friendship for that you can't even voice them as you do with everyone else?"

John tore his eyes away from the bottle and looked at Sherlock, who was still close and morose, blue eyes saddened and mouth pulled downward in a manner that tugged on that ache in John's chest he carried around these days. It was so hard to keep from being too tactile with Sherlock; to keep his touches from lingering and his fingers from reaching out to offer comfort that wouldn't be accepted.

But the fire he'd swallowed had cleared his throat and heightened the ache in his chest, filling his (belatedly realized; he'd only had breakfast and skipped lunch because he was so busy) just about empty stomach with a warmth that emboldened him.

"No, you're not," John said, and his firmness was accentuated by the hand he extended to grip Sherlock's chin and keep him there. Now or never, and John knew it would be now.

(Things either happened to him, got done by him, or didn't go anywhere at all.)

"You're the best fucking friend I've ever had. But you're also someone I love, and I cannot love, because to love you is something I have to keep secret so I can keep caring for you the way I've had and that you need. But I've come to care so much, and…and I know that I'm wrong and selfish for it, but that's the way I feel. And you wanted to know how I feel, didn't you?"

His breath sounded too harsh in his ears, and he wanted another long sip from that bottle Sherlock had absolutely no right to have pulled out on a Thursday evening. John could feel himself coming undone; everything outside of him in a jumble that made no sense and only continued to pour out.

"Caring for you may seem like rotten work, but to me, it isn't. Never to me. So-so don't try to imply I don't care, because I do. I do."

The violin case slid out of his lap, and then a hand curled around the side of his throat, but gently, thumb running up the underside of his jaw to tug him away from the alcohol.

"John, look at me."

But John suddenly couldn't bear to do so. He cast his eyes to the side, fixed on the case he'd tripped over so many times that he'd put a few of those scuffs in the leather himself. The physical remnants of all those stubbed toes in the dark and on hectic mornings were easier to look at than the mess he'd created between them.

What will he say now? Is this where he tells me to stop caring so much?

"John. John, look at me."

A shiver ran down John's spine, his reaction so visceral at the unexpected depth and fierceness in Sherlock's tone that he couldn't help but comply.

"There," Sherlock murmured, his face so close that John could smell the vodka on his breath and feel the warmth radiating from his skin. His thumb stroked a line beneath his jaw, slow and steady. "Please don't fret John. Your pulse is racing."

"I'll fret if I want to," John rasped for the sake of being contrary, but his hands reached out to settle gently across the broad, but bony stretches of Sherlock's shoulders. Tentative, but eager when Sherlock didn't shrug them off.

"I know, you foolish man," Sherlock said, his words close to being murmured into his throat. His face was so close to being pressed into the crook of his neck, but not quite. "But you don't have to fret about this. This isn't me rejecting you, John."

This is acceptance.

The words were said as their lips met, closing the scant few centimeters between them and a much larger gulf in John's chest. It was said in the way Sherlock pressed his fingers against John's pulse point, seeking out the rapid thump beneath his almost feverish skin. It was said in the way John's fingers uncurled from the bottle's neck and moved to tangle through Sherlock's hair, so soft and smooth beneath his touch. It was said in the way John sighed and shuddered into the kiss, and Sherlock held him gently, but firmly, and didn't say a word when they parted for a gasp of air.

"Did you drink on purpose to get me like this?" John asked, letting his hands roam, not frantically, but thoroughly, not wanting to miss a single bit of Sherlock's form beneath his fingers. Firm, but fragile all at once, this person he'd poured so much care and heart into to keep intact when the world battered him.

"I do many things on purpose," Sherlock said huskily, pale eyes steady and open in a way that made John extend his touch up to his flushed cheeks. "This, however, was a leap of faith. I think I only have faith in you, John."

"Not even in your precious science?" John blustered, trying to hide the fact that Sherlock's words made his already jackhammering heart skip a beat.

"Oh no, science is cemented in fact, and so are my thoughts on it. Faith is a tricky, guileless thing that you have in spades, and I struggle to scrounge up on the best of days. Except when it comes to you," Sherlock said, mouth descending to speak his next words against the shadow of stubble that evening brought on the edge of John's jaw.

"I put as much faith in you as the care you've bestowed upon me."

"It's unfair that you're this-this fucking eloquent when you've had vodka of all things," John hissed, hand tightening in Sherlock's hair as he began to drag his mouth down his throat, replacing the hand he'd deftly moved down to his collar.

John was going to explode, or maybe implode; so much need and want were warring inside of him. Drink had loosened his tongue, but it hadn't made him light-headed with happiness and rosy with a heat different from the fire that had filled his stomach.

"I can handle my drink," Sherlock said smugly, unbuttoning one, two, three buttons (and how did he do that with one hand, because John could feel the other on the back of his neck). "You do sound so lovely when you swear."

"Is that a fucking challenge?"

Sherlock laughed, the sound vibrating right down to John's bones and settling in them like it was meant to be there the whole time.

"Let's make it one," he replied, pulling back with a gleam in his eyes that John knew, even if he'd never seen it directed his way.

John let himself be yanked up and pushed backward, back and back over the violin case, and stumbling past the armchairs as Sherlock's hands and mouth roamed, teasing and taunting as much as his words could when he was being witty and clever. But John gave as good as he got, and when they reached the dark hall, he was the one to press Sherlock up against the wall and pin him there, simply breathing for a moment and taking in Sherlock's form in the dark.

His shirt-a typical Holmes button-down that was now probably missing one or two buttons-was open, revealing a luminous swatch of skin. John frowned a bit as he moved a hand from Sherlock's hip up to his sternum before ghosting down to where he could just see the ridge of his ribs, cloaked by shadow and wrinkled fabric.

They weren't as prominent as they were that dreadful morning. Sherlock wasn't a wraith anymore; his bones were reduced to nothing but the vague impressions they were supposed to be in the places that John had been most concerned for.

Pressed up like this, everything from their chests right down to their calves aligned, John had confirmation for what he felt. Sherlock had a wholeness he'd been lacking when John had met the man in hastily taped together pieces; a bloom of health that drew him back from dangerous edges with every bit of time and care John had put into him.

"Why do you look at me like that?"

Sherlock sounded confused, caught off guard by what John could only suspect was a fierce intensity in his eyes. He'd always had an open face and heart with lovers, and after all the quiet, pent up pining, John could do little to stem the tidal wave that poured out to make his muscles tremble and skin burn hot with want.

John couldn't say he loved Sherlock; not so soon and not like this, but for the first time, he left himself express a bit of that love through more than just making sure Sherlock had more than one meal and a cup of tea a day and shielding him from the meaner gossip that dogged him.

The heady kiss made Sherlock pliant in a way he hadn't been before. Maybe he could sense all the ardor John was trying to pour into it, or maybe he could simply sense that this had been a long time coming.

Either way, he only moaned when John threaded their fingers together and pinned Sherlock's hands above his shoulders, and when they pulled apart in tandem to gasp for breath, it appeared he understood.

"You'll always take care of me, won't you?" he asked, words a whisper against his ear, throat jumping as he swallowed.

"Always," John replied, and dove back in to do just that.

(+1 illness)

It seemed inconceivable to catch some illness during the summer, but as a physician, John knew it was possible. Germs didn't care for the seasons, even if they preferred certain ones over others for spreading.

That didn't mean he had to like it when he woke up with sick.

He made an incomprehensible sound, shutting his eyes and pressing his face against Sherlock's shoulder blade in an attempt to ignore the pounding of his head. Sherlock's breathing was slow and even with deep sleep; much more even than the nasal wheeze he was currently emanating.

"Dammit," he mumbled more audibly through a dry mouth, trying to focus more on Sherlock's warmth instead of the aches that tormented him, but to no avail. He couldn't ignore the fact that he'd woken in a shivering cold sweat in the wee hours of the morning.

John sighed before carefully extricating himself from Sherlock. He didn't have high hopes he'd do so without waking him; Sherlock always woke when he left the bed, but John knew it was better to nip this sort of thing in the bud before it got worse. Besides, he didn't want to spread it to Sherlock, who always complained furiously whenever he was under the weather.

"John?"

Just as he'd feared. John opened his mouth to reassure Sherlock that all was well-it was probably just a head cold-but upon standing was hit with such a fierce and sudden rush of lightheadedness that he couldn't get what he wanted to say out before he tipped over.

He swayed straight into the nightstand, taking a tumble that involved bringing down what sounded like half of the nightstand contents with him to the floor.

"John?" Sherlock repeated, this time less husky with sleep and sharp with a surprised hiss.

For a moment, all John could do was gaze into the impenetrable darkness of the room with a useless deer in the headlights gaze(had he really fallen?) before a hot flush of mortification flooded him; so hot that he could feel his face burn with it.

"I'm fine," he managed to mumble as he heard Sherlock fly out of bed and fumble for the light. "Sherlock-"

He cut himself off with a hissed wince when the light came on, squeezing his sensitive eyes shut against the sudden change. The throb in his head worsened as sparks danced across the backs of his eyelids, and he heard Sherlock murmur an apology, his hands settling across his bare back as he knelt beside him.

"You're not fine. Don't lie to me," Sherlock said, gently getting him turned onto his side before shuffling so that he blocked the light, something that John could only discern by instinct and the way the vague concept of light and shadow he could make out with his closed eyes changed.

"I'm mostly fine then," John amended, leaning into Sherlock's cool touch with a shiver as he cracked his eyes open again.

Sherlock's concerned face looked down at him, curls messy and tangled from sleep and his mouth pressed in a firm line that wavered when John turned his face fully to look at him.

"You've got a fever," he said, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead before his eyes zipped this way and that over him. "Hit your hip on the nightstand too. At least you didn't crack your head open on the way down."

"Small mercies," John sighed, shutting his eyes. "I don't feel like getting up."

"You can't stay here," Sherlock said firmly, arms already working their way under him. "We'll get you settled on the couch. Whatever you have is more serious than a head cold-don't look at me like that. Just because you're the physician doesn't mean you always know what's good for you."

John tried to fix his best glare at Sherlock, but it quickly died off when he rose with a rush of vertigo, pressed into a warm, sturdy chest and a steady heartbeat that thrummed right through his stuffed-up head.

"Your expression is priceless," Sherlock remarked, glancing down at him fondly as he carried him out of his room-their room now really, but John hadn't quite gotten around to moving many of his things over when Sherlock had the space so neat and tidy in his machinations.

"Didn't know you could do this," John murmured, gripping Sherlock's bicep and feeling the new strength in the curve of muscle; firmer than it had been mere months ago.

"Consider it a pleasant surprise. Watch your feet."

John huffed out a weak laugh as his feet brushed the wall when they turned the corner into the living room. Strong Sherlock may have become, but coordination when carrying someone was still something to be developed. Perhaps John would have to switch things up and let him do the carrying off to bed and the pinning to walls so he could get the practice.

Sherlock chuckled, and John blushed when he realized that he'd said all that aloud.

Some stretch of time later (John couldn't say how much time for sure; things were growing progressively hazy), he was situated on the couch in a comfortable arrangement of blankets and pillows, a cup of steaming tea placed in his hands along with some paracetamol.

"I can't believe you actually made this," he murmured, sipping at the surprisingly pleasant tea.

"I'm capable of it in dire situations," Sherlock replied, sitting alongside him with a book and his laptop. At this point, John was resigned to the fact that it was shared property and would never be free of Sherlock's strangely specific search history.

"This isn't a dire situation."

Sherlock gave him the look that he reserved for those that had said something particular inept or remarkably tone-deaf. John absently noted that he looked nice with his robe open over his bare chest, even more so when a bit of it slipped off his shoulders as he leaned back from him.

"On the contrary," he drawled, holding a thermometer that John-much to his disconcertion- couldn't recall having ever felt in his mouth. "You're running a notable fever, and you're shivering hard enough to make your tea fear for its existence."

John looked down at his tea and was taken aback to find that Sherlock was right; his cup was rattling hard enough that it was a miracle he hadn't spilled any yet.

"How…?"

"Doctors always make the worst sort of patients," Sherlock sighed, taking the cup from him before planting a kiss on his brow that John felt like a brand through his hypersensitive skin. "Even worse than me, and that's saying something."

"Hmm," John grunted, a wave of exhaustion halting the thought process that would've formed some sort of witty response.

That day, and the day after, passed in a blur of sleep and sweat. John fell in and out of waking like it was an obstacle course, voices coming and going in distant volumes. Sometimes he heard Mrs. Hudson but the rest he could only assume were figments of his imagination or perhaps overhead calls, like Lestrade and Molly and once even Mycroft.

Sherlock's voice was always there, following him in waking and dreaming with a consistency John relied on. Sherlock was the one who propped him up and made him drink water and tea; the one that helped him get to the bathroom without flopping bonelessly onto the floor. He ran his hands through his hair and sat with him, stayed with him even though John was sure he'd mumbled more than once that Sherlock didn't have to go stir crazy and stay home on his behalf.

"Think nothing of it, love," Sherlock said in one such instance, and John clung to the word and carried it with him as he slid back into half-formed fever dreams.

Love.

He didn't think Sherlock knew he'd heard him. Pet names were something that John bequeathed to Sherlock and he generally accepted with a neutral hum. They weren't something John got besides a mumbled "darling" during a round of sex or waking from a good sleep. He didn't mind; he knew that such casual affections were hard for Sherlock, and perhaps not in his repertoire at all.

But wasn't that what this was? John's thoughts were like silt through a sieve as he languished on the couch and simply existed, but even while sick he knew that Sherlock being here was more than kindness and that Sherlock knew too. This was love; care reciprocated on a level that John hadn't known he'd needed until now.

There were more words along those lines, always said when he was drifting off to sleep. Sherlock's voice became a low murmur that John sometimes caught and sometimes didn't, but the tone was always the same. It became gentler; so soft that it was always lost in the end to the sleep that swallowed it up.

"John…John?"

Hands, shaking him awake. John didn't have the energy to bat them away or to formulate the words to say he wanted to go back to sleep, so he cracked his eyes open and squinted up.

"Finally. You gave me quite the fright," Sherlock huffed out, looming over him. By the way the couch and coffee table rose to frame his face, John concluded that he had somehow ended up on the floor by the couch.

"Sorry," he said automatically, letting himself be sat up with the loose-limbed ease of a sleep heavy mind.

"I go out to get one box of tea and come back to see you sprawled on the floor!" Sherlock said indignantly, already probing the back of his head for any signs of injury.

"M'fine," John mumbled through a jaw cracking yawn, tucking his face into Sherlock's neck.

"I highly doubt that," Sherlock replied stiffly, fingers combing through his scalp, "Are you dizzy? I don't see where you could've hit your head, but perhaps you hit something else. I'll have to pull out the heating pad then. Where are you sore? Are you-"

"Slow down Sherlock," John laughed, his voice not as raspy as it once had been. He felt notably better; not all the way back to normal, but well enough to laugh without descending into a coughing fit.

Sherlock fell silent, muscles taut beneath John's hands in a way that made him frown in concern and pull back to look him in the eye.

"I…I've been-worried, the past few days," he started haltingly, fingers tightening reflexively in the back of John's shirt.

John's face softened. Sherlock had been remarkable steadfast throughout his illness, never voicing any complaints, but he could see the signs of sleeplessness and strain under his eyes.

"I know. But really, I'm fine. It wasn't too far to fall, and I didn't hit my head. I must've just rolled over in my sleep."

"Still," Sherlock insisted, hands holding him tighter.

John let him cling with the expectation that he'd continue speaking, but they instead lapsed into an odd silence. On the living room floor, with late afternoon sun gracing his face, Sherlock simply stared, mouth opening once before shutting with a soft click. His hand came up to touch his face, but aborted the movement, fingers clenching in a fist that he let fall between them.

If John hadn't known better, he would've said he was in his mind palace, but he knew signs of a struggle when he saw one. Sherlock wanted to say something but couldn't find the right words.

"It's easier to speak to you when you're sleeping," Sherlock began slowly, eyes downcast. "I say the words you deserve to hear when you're awake then. All the sweet nothings and the…other things."

He trailed off, lips pinched tight at his fumbled words, but John already knew. He'd grown good at reading Sherlock and seeing past the cultured and capricious airs he hid parts of himself behind.

I am not soft, or gentle with my words. Oh, what a skill it would be, to have half the care you exert so effortlessly!

All the whispered words and constant bedside care made sense now. Before John had confessed, he'd kept the true depths of his feelings bound up as tight as he could but had poured all his care into Sherlock, tending to him with an attention he didn't think anyone had shown the man in a long time. It was something he did with even more ease and freedom now, prodding Sherlock with the right that being his partner in every way that mattered granted him.

Sherlock, however, was still trying to figure out how to show what he wanted to say and say what he thought he should show. He didn't have experience exposing himself because to be loved, one had to be known, and Sherlock was so used to knowing everything about everyone and no one knowing anything besides the pertinent information about him that he struggled opening up. All the convoluted languages that love came in were foreign to him, and Sherlock was trying to learn, but he wasn't quite there yet.

John didn't mind. He was just happy that Sherlock was trying and hadn't given up on something he could've so easily dismissed as useless human emotions.

Besides, John secretly thought that Sherlock might've cared for him just a bit from the start, at least as a friend. He just hadn't known it yet.

"That's alright. Just carry me to bed and say whatever you want to say when I fall asleep," John said, looping his arms around his shoulders and shutting his eyes.

Sherlock relaxed beneath him, letting out the nervous tension with a sigh. John held on tighter, satisfied that, at least for the moment, the matter had been settled.

Drowsiness tugged him back under about halfway down the hall, but the good sort that promised a clearer head when he woke up. John only partially registered the cool sheets beneath his skin and the press of a pillow against his cheek. He noticed the loss of Sherlock's heat more, but not for long.

John blinked in pleasant surprise as Sherlock lay with him, tugging him into a warm embrace. Sherlock was remarkably tactile in his sleep, but rarely did he ever initiate cuddling. He let John do it and accepted the affections with genuine want-John would've kept back if he thought Sherlock didn't like it-but it had always been him doing it.

"This is nice," he whispered, curling into Sherlock, who laid a hand on the back of his neck and kept it there in response.

Sleep came easily with Sherlock there, but right on the edge of it, John caught his voice. Same tone, same softness, but he could swear he heard different words that he seized with a tight grip to remember later when he woke up.

And wake he did. His first lungful of air came easily, and John stared up at the dimly lit ceiling with a clear gaze, head only throbbing the slightest at his temples.

Finally.

Sherlock's arm was a welcome weight across his chest that he followed with his eyes up to his torso, where a book rested. John couldn't help but smile when he pictured the scenario: a restless Sherlock, unwilling to leave him, had picked up a book to read and fallen asleep in the process.

John debated turning off the light before deciding to leave it. Sherlock would wake when he got out of bed, as he always did, and he wouldn't want to go back to sleep when he figured out that he was back on the mend.

He slipped out from beneath Sherlock's arm and stretched while facing him, waiting patiently for the tell-tale…

"John?"

"Right here," John replied, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His stomach was hollow with hunger and his head still a bit stuffed up, but for the first time in a few days, he was upright on his own.

Sherlock scrabbled at the mattress; eyes still shut. His brow crinkled as he realized John wasn't there before they flew open, the book toppling into his lap with a small thud as he sat up.

"Thought I'd fallen again?" John teased.

"Get over here," Sherlock said after taking a moment to take him in, ascertaining for himself that John was well.

John's grin matched Sherlock's growing one as he tumbled back into bed, laughing when he got pinned to the mattress by Sherlock and his eager mouth.

"Missed me?"

"Like you wouldn't believe," Sherlock growled, hands greedily slipping up his shirt. "You get quiet when you're sick. And you slept a lot."

"That's what sick people tend to do," John remarked, trailing off with a gasp when Sherlock sucked at a particularly sensitive spot on his neck.

"Well, it was still very dull. A sleeping John is a not-talking John, and to top it all off, you kept wanting to roll off of wherever I put you. The bed, the couch…"

John hummed, looping his arms around his shoulders and soaking up all of the affection, content in a simple way.

"I love you too."

Sherlock paused in his ministrations before pulling back, curls falling to frame his face and tickle John's cheeks as his eyes studied him intently.

John waited, gazing back steadily with a small smile. Sometimes, silence was necessary for Sherlock to think and come to his uncanny conclusions.

"Bastard," Sherlock said finally, swooping back in for a toe-curling kiss that gave John half a mind to flip them and take over the edge into proper passion.

"Just enough of a bastard worth knowing?" John asked breathlessly when he pulled back.

"Bastard!" Sherlock grinned, tugging him up with such a delighted look that John couldn't help but follow.

"I don't know if that's good or bad!" he exclaimed, laughing as Sherlock dragged his shirt off of him.

"Good, because you heard me and you didn't say anything until now! Very wily of you, dear John."

"Only being respectful of your boundaries," John said graciously, running his hands through his hopelessly messed up hair as Sherlock tossed the shirt over his shoulder.

"You're always mindful of those," Sherlock said, sitting cross-legged before reaching to clasp his hands. "Close your eyes for me?"

John shut them without another word. Trust was something he'd developed a long time ago with Sherlock, and this request was downright mild compared to some of the wackier ones he'd been asked.

Sherlock cleared his throat before squeezing his hands once as if to reassure himself that John was still there before he spoke.

"I…care about you, very much John. I think I have in some measure before I realized your attempts at bettering and preserving my health came from love deeper than that of friendship. Forgive me for being slow on the uptake."

"Your forgiveness request will be processed within 3-5 business days."

"Cheeky, impertinent bastard," Sherlock muttered, but the affection was so clear in his voice that the humor John had used to alleviate the swoop in his stomach was rendered useless.

"I know I'm a very difficult man, and that I don't care for myself the way I should; the way you insist I should. I…am working on that. I will always be working on that, perhaps. But taking care of you these past few days has shown me how much work it is to care for someone. And I understand much more what you do for me; what you did for me in the beginning when I was particularly obstinate and obtuse.

"I doubted you when you said it wasn't rotten work taking care of me, but if you love me even half as much as I love you, I can believe it. It's not hard at all, to take care of someone you love."

There was a beat of silence where John processed what he'd heard behind closed eyelids and Sherlock took a breath.

"That is all I wanted to say. I just couldn't say it with you looking at me," Sherlock confessed in a rushed exhale. "Your eyes are very distracting sometimes."

John laughed shakily before opening them. Across from him, the lamplight turned Sherlock into a hazy vision, bringing out all the tousled bits of his hair and clothes and the nervousness that hunched his shoulders.

"I'll take that as a compliment," he said, grinning with what he knew could only be an extremely sappy expression. "But maybe one day we'll remedy that. Practice makes perfect, and all that other stuff."

"Very eloquent. You definitely need another day of rest," Sherlock said, already analyzing him in a way that John knew meant he was calculating just how much herbal tea and paracetamol he'd need.

"Rude! Carry me into the kitchen?"

"Am I your mule now?" Sherlock asked, already getting out of bed, and John shrugged, kissing his cheek when he did as he asked.

"Well, you're mine, so that bit's right. But you're much more handsome than a mule."

Sherlock barked out a laugh, and John relaxed into him as he began to go on a tangent about mules and the tea he'd bought that he thought might be worth a shot.

They were getting the hang of it; this give and take of love. Sherlock may have been in John's care in the beginning, but in the end, it would feel as if they'd been like this all along: in the care of each other.

---

In part 2, Sherlock quotes Shakespeare, specifically from The Merchant of Venice. All of the "just enough of a bastard worth knowing" dialogue is inspired by Aziraphale and Crowley from Good Omens, a duo just as iconic as Holmes and Watson in personality dynamics. The "caring for you isn't rotten work…" in parts 5 and the +1 is loosely taken from Euripides, from "Orestes" apparently? It's that quote that's dogged me and no doubt many others on the internet in the past couple years.

In a now established pattern, I started this fic on another sleepless night, specifically on 4/20 according to the document details. I've never written a 5+1 fic before, but I always found them interesting, so I gave it a shot. I think my format is a little wonky, but fics are experimental in my household!