I decided to update early since school starts next week, and Chapter 1 was really just an introductory chapter. Once school starts, I'm still planning on updating every Saturday night.
Chapter 2 – Breathe
As I write this, I've decided to leave out the dull days, the ones where nothing pertinent to this story occur. There are far too many of them to count, and considering you all have busy lives, I'll just cut to the chase.
Things go about normally for the following week. Sherlock still pouts over his skull while waiting for a case, and I work regular shifts at the hospital. I come home every evening, get us some food, try to get Sherlock to eat, and complain when he refuses. Sometimes he'll eat a bite or two, but usually he just huddles on the couch sipping tea or reading one of his dull books.
(This thought runs through my mind and I realize how much Sherlock has truly rubbed off on me.)
Tonight when I get home, he has an experiment going. I have absolutely no idea what it is, nor do I care to know. Something boils on the stove while he studies a slide on the microscope, so I decide the kitchen will be out of commission for the evening.
"Shall we eat at Angelo's, then?"
Sherlock hums a response that could mean anything from absolutely not to if we must.
I'm tired and it's been a long day and I am in no mood for Sherlock's half-baked responses. Marching to the coatrack, I put on my own jacket before pulling down Sherlock's coat and scarf. Returning to the detective, I pull the scarf around his neck and throw the coat over his head.
"John!" he shouts, shoving the Belstaff off his mop of curls. "I was studying something!"
"I'm fully aware!" I say as I head back towards the front door. "We're going out, Sherlock. I'm not taking no for an answer this time!"
"Go by yourself. I'm busy." He turns back to his experiment.
"No, I'm not cooking and I'm not eating by myself. You're coming, Sherlock!"
He turns and we stare each other down for ten full seconds, his piercing eyes boring into mine. At first, this method worked on me and I'd back off, but after knowing Sherlock Holmes for several years, one builds up a certain immunity to such tactics.
We both know there are alternatives to my argument, but we're also both aware that Sherlock will eventually give in.
At last, he gets up and pulls on his coat, fixing his scarf the way he likes it as well. I flip off the stove and he glares at me, but I don't let it scare me off. Sherlock Holmes is just a thirty-something-year-old bully.
By the time we're ready to go and are in a cab, my stomach is growling loudly.
"Do try to control your stomach, John. The noise is intolerable."
"I can't—!" I groan in frustration and let it go. He'll pout the entire time we're out. I really should let him stay home when he's in one of these moods, but the sad truth is, I enjoy the git's company.
Angelo's is quiet when we arrive, as we've preceded the evening rush. Angelo comes out smiling and places a candle on our table (as usual), something I've given up protesting. Without asking, he brings what we always order, and Sherlock barely eats a bite of his own food (as usual) and picks the tomatoes off my side salad instead (as usual).
Neither of us says more than five words while we're there, and once we have left, I'm more than ready to go home and go to bed. Sherlock stares pointlessly out the window and my wishes change to hoping Lestrade calls with a difficult case so Sherlock pulls himself out of this mood.
The cold air hitting my bare skin wakes me up abruptly the next morning. Popping open my eyes, I glare up at Sherlock who still holds the covers he's pulled off of me.
"Sherlock, what the hell?" I grumble, looking at the clock. Four AM. Bloody...
"We have a case, John. Get up." He tosses the covers onto the floor and walks out before I can pull my gun on him.
By the time I've dressed myself and am ready to go, Sherlock has taken to pacing with his hands behind his back. At least he waited for me.
This is when I notice his lack of enthusiasm. Normally, a case brings the light to Sherlock's eyes and he becomes the animated version of himself. Delighted Sherlock, if you will.
"Something wrong?" I ask, pulling on my heavier jacket as the sun has yet to warm the streets of London.
He doesn't answer and I begin to wonder if he's even aware that I've entered the room.
"Sherlock," I say, a bit louder this time.
Still no response.
"Sherlock!" I yell, and he finally turns his head toward me.
He has the nerve to look inconvenienced. "There's no need to yell, John. I can hear you just fine."
I roll my eyes. "Are you going to answer my question, then?"
"No." While I was talking, he had started in the direction of the door.
Following him, I ask, "Why not?"
"Nothing's wrong, John." He uses his dismissive tone and I know I won't get anywhere with him for a while.
Punching him sounded like a good option. The daft wanker had gotten himself into a shit load of trouble with this case. Not only had he run off without me again, but he'd gone and gotten three of his ribs broken. He sounds awful, his breathing wheezing slightly, but he had refused to go to the hospital. He insisted I knew how to do it well enough and I could take care of it myself.
So now, I sit on the edge of the coffee table across from Sherlock as I wrap his ribcage. Sherlock is mumbling gibberish about how long it takes ribs to heal and isn't it fascinating John that a person can drown in their own blood given the proper injury.
"You're a bloody idiot, Sherlock," I state ironically as I finish the wrapping and grab some ointment for Sherlock's busted lip and cheekbone.
"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock says, then gasps as he feels a twinge in his chest.
My brow furrows at Sherlock's obvious pain and I dab gently at the busted lower lip. "You should be lying on a bed, not the couch."
The detective doesn't reply, telling me without words that that is best.
"Okay, this isn't going to be fun. For you." I can't help the slightly wicked tone that creeps into my voice as I set aside the supplies and stand up.
Sherlock glares daggers at me as I lean down to help him ease into a standing position so he can walk to his room. I had been right; the walk to his room isn't fun at all. I can tell every step makes him want to crumple in on himself, and the poor man can barely breathe through the pain. With collaborative efforts, we manage to get Sherlock into a tolerable position, lying on his broken ribs to ease the breathing discomforts.
About a half hour before, I had loaded him up on painkillers I had on hand and they were starting to take their effect on Sherlock. He actually chuckles a couple of times as I adjust pillows around him.
I straighten and flip the lamp off, the only light in the room being the silvery pathway coming from the crack of the door. "Okay. Call if you need anything."
Pulling the door behind me, I barely have it shut before I hear a muffled call of my name.
"What is it, Sherlock?"
"John."
"Yeah, I heard you. What is it?" I can see Sherlock, pale in the dim lighting, peeking up at me with big eyes.
"Would you stay, John?"
I raise an eyebrow, but open the door wider and step back in. "Painkillers really did a number on you, did they?"
Sherlock ignores me. "It hurts, John. Everything hurts."
Not sure whether the detective really is in that much pain or if he's being his typical childish self, I don't reply as I slip in on the other side of the bed.
The next morning is cold. Sherlock's room is always a few degrees cooler than the rest of the flat, and today is no different. I open my eyes slowly, still exhausted from the previous day. The room is dim and it takes me a moment to recall the events of the night before. I also become well aware of something warm, curly haired, and heavy lying on my chest. Sherlock.
I'll take the time later to deal with the erratic swirl of emotions coursing through me (I have Sherlock Holmes sleeping on my chest), and switch into Doctor John Watson mode.
The position the detective had taken up during the night can't be comfortable. It had heightened the wheezing of his lungs and I know I need to get him into a better position.
"Sherlock." My hand strays to the curly mass in front of my face. "Sherlock, wake up. I need you to breathe for me."
The detective stirs and rolls off of me. I hear the hitch in his breath and the small groan that slips out. Turning so I'm facing the detective, I slowly ease him onto his broken ribs. Sherlock hisses in a breath, but allows me to continue.
"Take a deep breath, Sherlock. You don't want to catch pneumonia on top of this."
The detective pulls in air slowly and painfully and my heart sinks at the pained expression on my flatmate's face.
"It still hurts, John." The statement is quiet.
I breathe in myself. "Yes, I know. And it's going to be a while before it's better. You need to stay home and rest those bones."
No argument comes. I know it's just a brief victory and as soon as Sherlock feels the slightest bit better and/or bored, he'll be flouncing about London again, but I'm glad that he's agreed for now.
The day passes slowly and quietly for us inhabitants of 221B. I make Sherlock eat, and have him take a few deep breaths every hour to prevent a collapsed lung or pneumonia. Sherlock sleeps more than he has in months, barely waking long enough for me to do what is required and give him painkillers.
When I force the detective to sit up later in the day so I can unwrap his ribs, Sherlock actually lets out a little cry of pain, simultaneously gripping my wrist and halting my movements. It is so out of character and takes me so by surprise that I pause what I'm doing long enough to turn away and breathe deeply, tapping down emotions and pulling myself back into doctor mode once more.
"I have to do this, Sherlock. Believe it or not, you'll breathe easier, which is what you need right now." I'd really left the wrappings on too long already. He lets go of my wrist and I pull the last bit away, sucking in air as I see the deep bruising and discoloration dotting the detective's chest. "Jesus, it wasn't this bad last night," I say dumbly.
"Obviously, John," Sherlock forces out, still a condescending prat when injured.
I let out an unimpressed chuckle and begin slowly putting pressure on each of his ribs, noting Sherlock's reaction to each.
"I was stupid."
I glance up. Sherlock Holmes admitting he's stupid? Now I know something is really wrong, I think, but don't say. Instead, "Always. To which time were you referring?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I shouldn't have run off without letting you know where I was going."
I shake my head firmly. "No, you shouldn't have run off without me. We've done this before, Sherlock. It almost always ends badly for you."
"You could have been injured, too."
"Well, then we'd both be where you are and we'd have Mrs. Hudson doting on us like an overprotective mother." I smile gently.
Sherlock actually chuckles, then quickly stops at the miserable pain that jolts his system.
My face shifts to a concerned frown. "I don't like it when you run off without at least letting me know what's going on."
"Since the Fall, you mean," Sherlock says, with such easy detachment that I want to throttle him.
"Yes, since the bloody Fall, you bastard." I inwardly cringe at my own use of "bloody."
Sherlock's lips lift in a typical half-smile for a brief moment before disappearing. "I never apologized."
Finished with my examination, I motion for him to button his shirt back up. "What? Of course you did." How could he forget something like that?
The day a little over two months ago is forever burned inside my brain. I had punched him, screamed at him, called him every name in the book, then collapsed in a heap on the couch, wondering if I truly had gone mad. If it was all a horribly taunting nightmare. But it hadn't been, and Sherlock had apologized briefly but with feeling for leaving me for so long.
We rarely bring up the Fall.
"Not for what mattered." Sherlock's deep baritone breaks into my thoughts.
I stop in the process of wadding up the wrappings to throw away. "What do you mean?"
Sherlock clears his throat and takes a deep, painful breath before continuing. "I never apologized for leaving you the way I did. I let you think I didn't care, that I was so selfish I couldn't live with being seen as a fake. That it meant more to me than any person."
"We both know that wasn't true," I say in Sherlock's defense.
"Do you, John? I don't think you do." Sherlock's face is the most serious I have ever seen it. The gravity of what he is saying strikes me with such force I feel as if I'm the one with the broken ribs.
Sherlock continues. "Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson—I would have done it for them. I would have jumped if it were just the two of them. But you..." The great detective looks away. "You were the one that made me panic. Moriarty threatened you once again and I lost it. You were what made that goodbye painful."
I stare, unblinking, at the man in front of me. What does he mean by this? "What are you saying?" I ask quietly.
Sherlock turns so he can lie down on his side, facing away from me. "You just needed to know that."
Taking that as a sign that I'd been dismissed, I stand and leave the room. Do I dare hope that Sherlock's confession is his way of saying he cares for me more than just a partner, a flatmate...a friend?
Feelings I've been dancing around for months, even years, threaten to choke me as I drop heavily onto the sofa. I care deeply for Sherlock, maybe even love him. But I'm not gay. And yet, even women have started to come up lacking in my eyes. Nothing compares to the quick-witted, curly haired detective with the pale skin and piercing eyes. There is no one else.
There is only Sherlock Holmes.
I'm relying on the internet for any medical information, and we all know how reliable that is, so please excuse any glaring problems OR let me know how to improve them.
Reviews appreciated! :) -C