«Sherlock» John said with a hoarse voice.
Sherlock immediately turned around from a chemistry project he had going on, and looked at his flat mate.
"Sherlock," John said again, his voice slightly louder this time, though it was just as hoarse as last time. He tried to sit up in his bed. Sherlock had insisted that the teachers should let him move it to the living room "as natural sunlight improves health", and though the teachers weren't too happy with Sherlock's ideas, he knew just how to twist them around his little fingers. In the end he always got what he wanted, and Sherlock knew it.
Sherlock wanted to keep John close, as he was more or less apprehensive about leaving him alone in the room. He didn't know a lot about John's parents, but one thing was for sure. It was more to them than what he could see.
"I have to go," John said. His voice was a bit more determined, but still weak. After all, he had been sleeping for nearly three days now.
"You're not going anywhere," Sherlock replied with a stern voice.
"He won't stop, Sherlock." John tried to get up, but pain struck him in his ribs and he gasped for air in an intense moment of stinging pain.
Sherlock pushed him gently down on the bed again.
"You're not going anywhere in that state."
John took a deep breath, but remained silent.
"If you leave, I will follow you" Sherlock murmured as he saw John's eyes close as he fell asleep.
Somehow Sherlock was grateful for it. He didn't want this conversation with John. He knew things would get difficult, and he feared for both his and John's safety. He had never cared much about his own or most people before in his life, but this time he felt a deep concern, and he didn't like the feeling of it.
Days passed, and John slowly recovered from the damages inflicted by his father. His face was blue and bruised. Sherlock wouldn't even let him look in the mirror. John took it pretty easy, though he didn't like the fact that Sherlock wouldn't let him be alone anymore.
When John recovered enough to get out of bed a slight amount of time in the day, he spent it listening to his new Beatles LP record.
John listened put on a record, and beautiful Beatles tunes streamed from the turntable as he limped across the room to get some more painkillers. The headache was more than he could handle for now. As he filled a white, cracked cup with water, he could hear the door open. He could easily hear it was Sherlock, due to the way he walked: with long determined strides.
"John!" he heard Sherlock's surprised voice from the living room. He hurried to the kitchen, not even bothering to take off his muddy boots.
"The floor" John commented, pretending like he didn't notice how Sherlock clearly didn't want him to walk around the flat in his state.
"Forget about the bloody floor," Sherlock replied, raising his voice more than intended.
"Oh, for fucks sake, Sherlock!" John said as he raised the glass to his mouth. He hadn't realized just how thirsty he was. He then swallowed the pills before putting the glass in the sink, not bothering to wash it.
As he took the first step towards his bed, his balance failed him, and the dizziness got to him. In what felt like minutes, he swayed before the floor got closer and closer. He closed his eyes, waiting for what was to happen. But he felt nothing but silence surrounding him. He felt no pain, and the floor felt neither hard nor cold. John opened his eyes. He could feel the room spinning around him and he blinked rapidly.
"I told you so" a profound, yet husky voice murmured in his ear. Sherlock had caught him in his fall, and he was now sitting on the cold wooden floor with his flat mate resting in his lap. John was too tired to push his friend away, if he even wanted so.
"Don't" John said, trying to sound dismissive, though his voice barely came out a whisper.
Sherlock's long, slender fingers carefully brushed over john's swollen cheek.
"What he did to you" Sherlock whispered.
"Stop it." John said. Louder this time
"I can't… I couldn't stop it" Sherlock's voice was trembling now. Either with rage or despair, but John couldn't make out which was the correct one.
He took a deep, painful breath. "Don't blame yourself. I've seen worse"
Sherlock just shook his head and looked at his friend. His first companion and the first person he had cared about to the point where he had completely forgotten how it felt like to be alone, and he didn't feel like being reminded.
"It's my fault" John said, his voice was low and his dark eyes were fixed on Sherlock's pale blue ones. "I saw him coming towards me, and I couldn't move"
"Whenever he approaches me… I feel so weak." John felt a tear drip down his cheek. He reacted by letting tan hand reach for his face to wipe away the tear, as he felt a sudden shame. It wasn't like him to cry. In fact, he hadn't cried for more years than he could remember. As he lifted his arm, Sherlock's cold, pale hand grabbed it and held it firmly around the wrist.
He bent down, his face getting closer to John's as he breathed slowly, but with deep breaths. John could feel his heart beating faster, and he tried breathing as calmly as the man in front of him. He could feel his breath which smelled vaguely of coffee. John closed his eyes and Sherlock tilted his head slightly to the side before leaning in and pressing his lips gently against John's.