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Sherlock lay asleep on John's bed, which was now half drenched in the man's blood. John could see the wounded man's chest heave in the dim light from the windows through the half drawn curtains. It had taken two hours of inhuman struggle to get the man steady, sleeping, out of danger.
John stood leaning on the door frame of his bed room watching his patient. He had a bullet wound on his side. Thank fully Sherlock had taken effective measures so the blood loss wasn't threatening. Yet it was enough to make the man weak and dizzy for a few days. But he was not going to die. At least not here. Not now. Not around John. Not on his door step.
John heaved a melancholy sigh.
This is exactly the reason Sherlock had come to him. John hated himself for this. Being Sherlock's private doctor, his useful little man waiting for him to come and pat when he could and leave as soon as he got what he wanted.
John wouldn't fool himself this time. He knew Sherlock's intentions only too well. As soon as he's able to walk he'll leave again until next time when he needs his pet doctor.
John's eyes burned at the sleeping man. He would shake him up and throw him out the door in the snow if he could. But he couldn't. What irony life had become since he met this fiend. What living hell.
John slumped on the ground exhausted. He wouldn't leave. Just in case the man wakes up, just in case he tries to escape in this condition just to avoid any confrontation with John. No, he wouldn't let him leave just like that. He was at his mercy this time. He would use it, even if he turns out defeated he would try.
Before John knew he had dozed off. For the first time in a year he slept profoundly without any nightmares.
Sherlock was home.
A faint noise made him stir after a while. He was sleeping so deeply that he had forgotten the recent incidents. Opening his eyes blearily he found himself sitting at his bedroom door with his back to the door frame, which was hurting now that he had sense and a mildly writhing figure on his bed.
Sherlock!
John woke up with a start and went to him. He wished to god that he didn't have fever. That would mean infection, that would lead to further difficulties.
Placing his palm on the lying man's forehead John let out a relaxed breath. The temperature was normal. The pain must have begun to resurface causing the man unease.
"John…John…"
John stopped breathing. The man was moaning his name. He was still not fully conscious to call him but he knew he needed him. Maybe he was just faking it.
Being a doctor John knew full well that it was not possible. The man was truly uttering his name subconsciously.
He remembers me.
Of course he does that's why he is here.
Again to use me.
God knows from where he has come, how long he has travelled to come here.
Don't be ridiculous. He's here for a cause not for you.
Yet he is here.
John tried to push his emotions away as he went to the kitchen to wet a towel in warm water. He came back and sat by Sherlock's side on the bed. The man had a frown on his face. He was swaying his head as if in a dream.
John softly pressed the towel to his forehead. The man's eyes flew open and he grabbed John's wrist fiercely, startling John. His eyes were vicious.
It took only a moment before John realized that Sherlock had forgotten where he was and thought of John as an enemy. Observing John he relaxed again and let go of his wrist. John continued to press the towel on his cheeks, neck, bare chest.
"John." The man moaned again.
"Does it pain?" John asked halting his ministrations.
"Yes…" breathed the man beneath.
John took the medicines and water from the side table. He would have to feed the man soon. He was taking pain killers on empty stomach. After helping Sherlock gulp down the medicines John went to the kitchen to make soup.
He couldn't believe this. He couldn't believe this situation. Something inside him told him precisely not to. This could all be a dream. This could all be the result of his sleepless nights. This could just be another health hazard.
But that blood that drenched his bed was true.
The wound that he stitched and bandaged last night was true.
The heartbeat that he felt wiping that chest was true.
His name coming out as a moan from that mouth was true.
He longed so much for Sherlock and now he was here.
It was true. It was all so true.
He took the warm bowl to Sherlock who was still faintly aware and propped him up a bit with pillows. The bowl was soon emptied.
Now he could go back to sleep again. He needed rest. He needed caring. He needed John. And as if to confirm this he held John's hand feebly when he tried to get up. John put the bowl on the floor and sat back down. Those grey-blue eyes pleading, wanting, needing his presence was all the persuasion he wanted. He didn't remove his hand and sat watching as the pain killers took effect and the heavy lidded eyes fluttered close after some vain efforts of keeping them open.
John smiled sadly.
What was Sherlock thinking? John would vanish when he wakes up?