Chapter Eighteen

"John?" He felt a hand on his arm. "John, wake up."

For one second John was disoriented, but then he opened his eyes to find Sherlock right in front of him, so close that he could feel his breath on his skin.

"Ah, finally." He moved away again, leaving John confused. He did not want him to go away again, not now that he finally had him back. He rubbed his face and the sleep out of his eyes. This was not what he was supposed to think.

"John, could you look at the wound? I know you said to be careful." He looked almost embarrassed, and John couldn't help but smile. "I forgot about it for one second and then the dressing came off and now it's bleeding and…"

He turned his side to him and lifted his arm as to show him that he was now trying to be a good patient. John pretended not to notice that he only wore his pyjama bottoms. He sat up, looking up at him. Sherlock was looking back at him past his arm, waiting for something to happen. The wound hadn't opened again, but it was bleeding slightly.

"It's not bad, you just have to stop fidgeting around."

"I'm not fidgeting, I'm merely walking."

"Yes, and running up the stairs and dropping down on the sofa and doing God knows what in the shower..."

He didn't know why he had said that, probably because he wanted to see Sherlock's reaction.

He was rewarded with a scrutinising look which he chose to ignore.

"I'm going to get you a dinosaur patch," he said grinning, moving to get up. He was stopped by a hand on his chest. "Wait, John."

Sherlock seemed to be unsure why he had reacted like this, certainly not because he would protest overly much over being plastered up with children's patches. He didn't care for such things, as long as they served their purpose. John could see him think. It was extraordinary. Had it been a different situation, he would have told him that he could actually see his mind work from the look in his eyes, but this was not the time to let him know.

"Could you look at my back? I know he meant to hurt me, and it did hurt, but I want to make sure that it won't be a problem."

John smiled down on the hand that was still splayed across his chest as if Sherlock had forgotten about it when he was immersed in thinking. He hastily pulled it back.

"Turn," John ordered.

Sherlock did as he was told. It was dark by now, and John didn't know how long he had slept but judging by how wet Sherlock's hair still was, it couldn't have been very long. In the dim light that the single lamp on the desk shed, he could see the outline of a bruise forming on his back. It was not too bad, but it was a sensitive part of the body and it looked strange against his light skin, and yet, against the angry wound on his side, it seemed almost invisible. He reached out and gently pressed against the skin next to the bruise. "Does that hurt?"

"No."

He moved closer, pressing his other hand against his right hip, stabilising him before he carefully tested the skin closer to the dark mark. A gasp.

"Sorry."

For a second he allowed himself to not only see the wound and the bruise, but let his eyes roam over Sherlock's body, decidedly avoiding to look anywhere below his waistline. With a grin he noticed that the two dimples in the small of his back seemed very odd somehow, and yet they fit so well to the private version of Sherlock that probably only he knew. "You should eat more, you know? I can count your ribs and you're not even leaning over."

"John, the bruise?"

He grinned and traced the dark outline with his finger, very gently now, feeling the texture of the warm skin under his fingers. Then he put his palm against the bruise, feeling if he could feel a hardening or anything else that he might have to worry about. Sherlock moved, obviously uncomfortable, but unwilling to voice his pain. John's hand on Sherlock's hip tightened automatically as to hold him in place and a small sound came from above, a sound that sounded strangely erotic in John's ears and he blushed, thankful that Sherlock did not see him.

"It should be okay. It will hurt for a while, but it should heal soon."

"Are you sure?" What was he playing at? It was only a bruise. Sherlock had been hurt much worse than this, and he had had plenty of bruises, black eyes and smaller cuts and he had never been too worried.

"It will heal perfectly, yes."

"Good." A relieved sigh. "Your hands are warm, it feels good."

John pulled his hands away as if he had just burned his fingers. Even as he did it he cursed himself for betraying his thoughts so clearly.

To avoid any questions from Sherlock, he stood up and went to get the first aid kit. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on his back. He felt uncomfortably reminded of the day when Sherlock had leaned close to him to grab the kettle and his heart had just started to hammer away. This was way out of his comfort zone, and yet, it was still Sherlock there, still his friend, still the man he trusted more than anyone else, who had risked his life to save his. Well, that plan had backfired, but it was more about the fact that he had even gone there and that John was apparently the only weakness in Sherlock's life. He frowned, trying to make sense of his train of thought and the strange flutter of his heart.

He grabbed the kit and made his way back to the living room, finding Sherlock still standing in the same spot, his hand on his right hip - just where his own hand had touched him only a minute ago. When he saw John he let his hand fall down. For a second John considered to test him, just like Sherlock had apparently tested him in the kitchen, but then again this was not the right time to play any games. This was serious, and they still had quite a lot of things to talk about without getting weird about something that just happened to float in the air between the two of them.

John coughed nervously and sat back down, this time on the coffee table so that his face was level with Sherlock's wound. He carefully probed the skin around the wound and found that he hadn't done too bad a job considering the state he had been in.

He carefully wiped away the blood with a disinfected cloth and then dabbed at the wound. This time, Sherlock could not keep quiet. "John!"

"Sorry."

"Your hand, it helped?"

"What do you mean?"

"In the hospital, you put your hand on my stomach. It distracted from the pain." He said it as if it was a completely neutral observation. Well, to him it probably was.

Well, if he insisted. John carefully pressed his hand to the spot where his hand had held onto him last night. Sherlock gently placed his own hand above his, holding it there. "Okay, keep going."

John decided to not even think about what they did there and started taking care of the wound again. Now and then Sherlock's hand would press down harder on his, but he was quiet now.

"Why don't you want to take any painkillers?" He knew Sherlock was annoyed by the question, but it caused him discomfort and he did not like to see Sherlock in pain when something could easily be done about it.

"It reminds me of what you did for me." John had not expected an answer, especially not this one. "And I know, you're right, I'm an idiot, but I can't help it. I'm not ready to let it go yet."

"But Sherlock, I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock looked down on him, gently stoking his thumb over John's hand on his stomach. "I know, and I'm glad. But you almost died. He almost killed you just so he could see me suffer. I mean, he did kill you. For a few minutes I thought you were indeed dead. Moriarty believed you were and he was going on and on about it." He stopped, and John wondered if he would cry. The experience had obviously left him shaken, and he had a hard time to come to terms with it. John wondered how Sherlock usually dealt with traumas such as this; how he had when he had not been there to talk it through with him. "I didn't know what to do. I wouldn't know what to do without you."

The silence that followed was unbearable. It reminded John of bad movies when the girl confesses her love and her lover stays silent, unable to say anything, worried to say the wrong thing.

Instead of an answer, he gently stroked his thumb over Sherlock's stomach only to realise that it might not be the best idea to stroke a man's stomach like this to comfort him. But he tried to focus on the wound again, finally finishing what he had started. When he had made sure that the wound was clean he leaned back slightly and smiled up at Sherlock. "I need my hand back."

"Of course."

Sherlock squeezed his hand again and then let go. John's hand was tingling. "You're lucky. We still have plaster without dinosaurs." Sherlock snorted and refused to comment.

John covered the wound with a large cotton padded plaster and gently traced the outline, but really, more of Sherlock's skin. He had decided to not think about it. If Sherlock managed to act on impulse, he could allow himself some impulsive behavior as well.

Sherlock turned around to him. "Thank you, Doctor Watson." The smile was genuine and warm. John smiled back, sitting down on the couch again. "Do you think we should catch some sleep?"

"You might want to take a glass of milk with you to your room, so it saves you the way downstairs at night," Sherlock suggested.

With a chuckle, John patted the spot on the couch next to him. "It's not just the milk, you know. It's the act of getting up in the middle of the night when you can't sleep, sneak into the kitchen and open the fridge. Be blinded by the light for a second and then take the drink of milk. And then, if you don't happen to die of a heart attack because you are being surprised in the middle of your secret enterprise, you allow yourself the silent triumph that you managed to do it without getting caught. Revisited childhood memories, really."

Sherlock was incredibly amused, and John saw that he was dying to take the piss, but he stayed silent.

"What I mean is, it would not work with a glass of milk. It's the entire thing; you have to include all aspects to come to a satisfactory conclusion."

"And that would be sleep?"

"Yes."

"You dreamt last night." He did it again, picking up on something John said just to change to topic and talk about something that he might not have touched upon otherwise. "And you talked."

"I'm sorry you couldn't sleep."

Sherlock shook his head dismissively. "I wouldn't have slept anyway. There was still too much to think about."

"Did I say anything in particular?" John was curious, but he was also sure that Sherlock's name had been among the things that he had made out.

"Well, judging from what I understood you thought you were still at the British Library and that I was shot."

John felt himself blush. Not solely because Sherlock had heard him call for him in his sleep, but mostly because he must have sounded desperate, judging by the state he was in when he woke up, and maybe because Sherlock was really very close now, his eyes fluttering over his face.

"I'm sorry I put you through this. I know you think differently, but I really am. In the past, I kept to myself, mostly, and it really wouldn't matter if something happened to me. Certainly, the police would have an incredibly hard time coping, but on a very basic level, I don't matter. And then one day, this man shows up. And he stays, which in itself is a small miracle, and I don't even believe in miracles. And he comes along and turns out to be as involved in cases as I am. Well, differently, but passionately. He might have written some offending notes about me on the internet, but overall, he's become so much a part of this," he waved his hand around, but obviously meaning more than just the living room, which made John smile and forget his blush. "And then I am suddenly confronted with the possibility that it would all end. I've never been so scared. I am never scared. And there you have it. I was scared out of my mind that he would do something to you and take you away from me. And he did. He had you shot, only, luckily, it wasn't you. And I couldn't do anything to stop him." He broke off, finding it hard to talk.

"It's not your fault," John tried to reassure him. Sherlock had never spoken about himself so freely and honestly. Emotions were not things he talked about. Facts, yes, observations, certainly, but not his feelings.

"It's not about whose fault it is, it's about…" He shrugged, seemingly unable to say what he wanted to say.

"It's okay. We're both here, and we're both alive."

Sherlock looked at him for a long time, and John didn't know what it meant, but he did not want him to look away. Then suddenly, he felt the urge to hug him again just like he had earlier, when he felt that words could not console him.

"Sherlock, can I…?" He opened his arms, at a loss for words, silently asking for his permission.

And Sherlock moved closer, leaning into him. At first it was awkward, they were still too far away and it was strange to do it, sitting down. But then John wrapped his arms around him more tightly, leaning against him and pulling him closer at the same time. John could feel his heart beat, and a whimper from Sherlock almost brought tears to his eyes.

"I'm glad you're alive. I don't know what I would do without you" To hear his voice so close made the hair at the back of his neck stand up.

"I'm glad you're alive, too. I was so worried when you didn't answer my texts and Lestrade told me about the threats…" Sherlock's hand moved up to his neck, pulling him even closer.

"We're okay, though, right?"

John smiled against his neck. "Yeah," he breathed, noticing a slight tremor that ran through Sherlock's body. He didn't know whether it was because he had the same effect on Sherlock that his friend had on him or whether he was just cold because he was still not wearing anything except for his pyjama bottoms.

"Sherlock, we should go and get some sleep." He did not want to move away, but with every second they spent like this, holding onto each other, more doubts and questions started crawling into his mind and he didn't want to think about anything right now, really.

"Okay." Sherlock slowly moved away, locking eyes with him. "Thank you, that was nice." A small smile before he got up, running his hand through his hair as he left the living room.

"Good night, John."

"Night."

For a few minutes, John just sat there, staring into nothing. He felt strangely happy, no, not happy, contented. When he went to bed he looked at his room, wondering why he kept it so neat. He took the gun out of his coat and put it away in the drawer, wondering why he had not woken up when Sherlock had come in to bring it back after keeping it with him for the night.

With a smile he dropped the coat to the ground next to his bed. A little disorder couldn't hurt, could it?

A.N. You guys are amazing! Thank you! I'm so very glad you like my little story!