Chapter Fifteen

As soon as he had cut the thread, his hands started shaking. The shock was finally giving way to complete exhaustion. Trying to keep himself upright, he put away the instruments. The urge to just lie down next to Sherlock was overpowering, and he had to smile at that thought, but he knew that he would just drop down where he was standing if he did not sit immediately.

He staggered to the only chair that was next to the door. "I'm ready to see a doctor now," he said, already half asleep.

John couldn't quite remember what happened after, it was all a blur of noises and faces, closing in and moving away again. He felt another injection but was too out of it to even express his discomfort. Eventually he was pushed down to sit on the side of a bed, a nurse taking off his shoes. Somehow he managed to take off his jumper and shirt, not bothering with his blood stained pants and just lay down. He barely registered the gun which was pressing into his back as he lay on it. After that, everything was calm and dark and comfortable.

With a shock he woke. His heart was racing and he was soaked in cold sweat. The darkness around him did nothing to calm him down. Where was he? What had happened? His hand clung to the sheets, desperately holding on to his sanity.

"John." He nearly jumped off the bed, and then suddenly it all came back. "John, it's alright."

The voice came from the left and he felt a hand on his arm, trying to calm him down.

Within a second his panic shifted to the dark outline next to him. "Sherlock, what are you doing up?" he couldn't see him properly. Why couldn't he see him? It was never really dark in London, but the blinds seemed thick enough to filter out any light.

Sherlock sighed, and John couldn't tell whether it was from pain, exhaustion or annoyance. "John, you were having a bad dream." He explained, but it wasn't with his usual matter of fact voice. He sounded honestly concerned.

John tried to calm down, forcing his breathing to slow down, as he had almost been hyperventilating. It was wrong, the picture was wrong. He was supposed to sit by Sherlock's bed and hold his hand. Wait, what? Sherlock was holding his hand?

John noticed that Sherlock had indeed moved his hand from his arm down to his hand, holding it with gentle pressure. He was making sure that John had something to concentrate on. "It's alright," he said again. "I'm here."

That was when John realised that he must have called out Sherlock's name in his sleep and he was suddenly very glad that Sherlock couldn't see him. He was sure the blush would have spoken volumes.

"Where are we?" John dared to ask, still very aware of the warm hand on his.

"You operated on me," Sherlock said, pointedly pronouncing 'operated,' "and then your body just shut down. I was worried for a while because there was so much blood on you." His voice still did not sound the way it usually did. Maybe the darkness made him say things that he usually wouldn't.

John chuckled. "I did not operate on you. I merely put some stitches in your side. Does it hurt?"

Sherlock took his time before he answered. "Not as much."

"Not as much as what?" John had the feeling that Sherlock did not say what he wanted to, again. He wondered if they should talk about it now, in the safety of almost complete darkness, being able to blame shock and exhaustion in case they said something that would sound strange or embarrassing for either of them.

Sherlock removed his hand, and John felt cold immediately. "Don't go!"

He could hear the smile in his voice. "Didn't you just order me back to bed?"

And he was right. It was silly to want to keep him there, in his seat by the bed, just because it gave him comfort and kept him from freaking out again. "You're right. I'm sorry. Go back to bed, you need to rest, you lost quite a lot of blood."

Sherlock was still smiling, he could hear it. "No thanks to you."

"Sherlock, I had no…"

"Hush, John, I'm sorry. I know. What you did was incredibly brave. No one has ever…" he trailed off. John could sense him getting up. A pained hiss as he straightened. "Get some sleep." Then John felt him lean down, feeling for his shoulders in the darkness, pulling him into an awkward hug. John pushed himself up with his hands, leaning into him, being careful not to touch the wound. He felt his cheek press against his own. "Thank you," he whispered, and then he was gone, letting him fall back onto the bed.

After a few seconds he could hear Sherlock slip into bed. Only then did it register that he wore no shirt, and neither did Sherlock. The blush was back, he could feel his face burn. This was not good. "I'm right here, okay?" He sounded tired.

"Okay."

"Good night, John."

"Good night, Sherlock."

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Never mind."

John couldn't keep the smile from creeping into his face as he pulled up the cover and closed his eyes. For the first time he consciously relaxed. Sleep came quickly.

He was woken up by a nurse, checking in on them. She was at Sherlock's bed when John opened his eyes against the light. Sherlock was lying on his side, head propped up on his hand, looking at him while the nurse checked the wound. John couldn't help but smile, and Sherlock smiled back. Neither of them looked away, and only when the nurse had attached a new dressing and ordered him to lie on his back, did he shifted his focus. "Can I leave today?" he asked, sounding as if he was confident that he would. The nurse looked at him, checking his pulse, then his heart and his eye reflexes and nodded. "I believe so, but we will have to wait for the result of your blood tests."

John frowned. How could they do that in a single day? Blood tests always took much longer and even if they had a good reason, a week was the quickest they had ever gotten any results back.

"Mycroft," was all Sherlock said, leaving the nurse puzzled but John satisfied with that answer.

"Can I take a shower?" John was suddenly painfully aware of the state his body was in.

The nurse walked over to him. "I'm checking on you first, but I think you'll be fine. You can leave as soon as the doctor signs you out."

He sat up, letting her listen to his heart beat and then his breathing. "The fever is down," she told him, "but you should definitely take a few days off. A shock mixed in with a flue is not something to take lightly."

"You have the flue?" Sherlock seemed genuinely surprised and John remembered his statement that his health was supposedly perfect. Instead of teasing him about being wrong, he just smiled apologetically and shrugged. Sherlock couldn't quite keep the smirk from his face.

"Okay," the nurse said, "take a shower if you want to. Do you have anyone to bring around some clothes?"

"Sarah," Sherlock piped up, but John gave him a look that made it clear that it was a bad idea. Sherlock's right eyebrow arched up so high it disappeared entirely under his hair.

"Lestrade." John was sure that he would want to ask questions anyway, and Mrs Hudson had let him in often enough to search for drugs when he needed an excuse to check on them or he was too proud to just ask him for help directly, and he probably knew where their clothes were.

"Good point," Sherlock said, and it sounded as if his thoughts had taken the exact same road.

"Will you call him?"

"I can't. Moriarty destroyed my phone."

Sherlock looked almost physically hurt for a second and then reached over to the nightstand with visible discomfort and took the hospital phone. He looked at John as he dialled and John wondered if Sherlock was actually as sad about the loss of the phone as he was. Well, technically speaking, Sherlock had used that phone more often than his own, so it was understandable. However, it was unusual for him to have any sort of emotional attachment to any object.

"Lestrade? It's Sherlock Holmes. Yes, yes, oh, not now. We need some clothes, preferably our own. Could you pick something up for us, yes, for me and John. Yes. No. Thank you."

John was amused. He wondered what Lestrade had asked him, apart from inquiring about their health.

The nurse was a bit at a loss as to what to do now, so she turned back to John. "I think you should go ahead, I'll fetch you a towel."

"Thanks." She was gone.

"Are you okay?" John asked Sherlock, realising he had not really asked since waking up.

Sherlock regarded him with a strange and unreadable look and then nodded. "I think so, but I want to go home."

"Yeah, me, too."

He pushed the cover aside and stood next to the bed, looking down on himself. Then he suddenly froze. "Sherlock, the gun," he said quietly, furiously looking around.

"John, calm down. I took it from you last night after you fell asleep. Didn't want you to shoot yourself in the state you were in. And before you ask, it's in your coat in the wardrobe." He nodded towards the wardrobe across the room. "You're not hurt." Again, what should have been a question was a statement. "Where did all the blood come from?"

John looked at Sherlock, noticing him looking him up and down with interest. It was incredibly distracting, and he prayed that the nurse would be back soon, because Sherlock would clearly notice that something was the matter.

"John, are you quite alright?"

He felt the blush creep up his neck and into his face again. He knew he couldn't hide it, but he couldn't mention it either, and diverting from it would be even more obvious. "Sorry," he said, hoping that it would be the safest way of getting out of the situation.

"John?"

"Sherlock, what?" He did not mean to sound so irritated, but he was and he did not want to think about what was happening to him and why Sherlock's eyes made him so self conscious.

"It's okay."

John stared at him, his mind refusing to even interpret the meaning of what he had just said. Thankfully, the door opened and the nurse returned with two large white towels in her hand.

"The results are in, you're all clear," she announced. "So as soon as your clothes are here, you're good to go."

"Thank you," Sherlock said and then looked back at John who was standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

"I'll be in the shower," he announced, grabbing one of the towels and disappearing behind the bathroom door. Inside, he leaned against the door. What was wrong with him? Inhaling deeply, he stepped in front of the mirror and jumped. His face was pretty much covered in dried blood and dirt. Of course, he had only washed his hands before he had fixed Sherlock, and he suddenly understood the strange looks he had received since leaving the library. His hair was also pretty messed up and the stains of blood and dirt went even below collar level.

He breathed a sigh of relief. Sherlock might not have noticed him blushing after all. He touched his own cheeks, tracing the streaks that his tears had left on his face. If he had hoped nobody had seen him cry last night, he now knew that everyone could tell with a single glance. He needed to get over being embarrassed by his human reactions and start functioning again. He peeled himself out of his jeans and underwear and stepped into the shower.

With a content sigh he noticed that the last shower had seemed like bliss, but this one was pure heaven. He took his time scrubbing away at the dirt, washing his hair out again and again, trying to get rid of the invisible stains the horror that last night had left on his skin.

Closing his eyes against the water, he let it hit him face first. Somewhere in his mind he realised that he wouldn't have to pay a bill for the water he was using now, so he turned it even hotter and just stood there a little longer, slowly turning back into the man he had been a week ago. Well, not quite, but he did feel much more like his old self.

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