John stared at Sherlock for a long time; or rather it felt like a long time, though it was only a few minutes. Sherlock was patient, not moving from where he sat on the bed, his breathing becoming more raged as the pain slowly worsened, but he was beginning to get agitated at how long it was taking his, friend? Were they more than friends now?, was taking. Slowly john began to talk, Sherlock knew he was thinking through each and every word thoroughly before saying it.
"You… You said you saw and heard everything…?" John looked into his eyes then quickly down again
"And felt." Sherlock added, causing John to worry
"Felt? Felt how?" Sherlock saw all of John's muscles tighten. Nervous. Scared. Worried.
"I could feel the pain. The pain from my wounds, John, I can feel it now. I-" Sherlock stopped short as John ran from the room, returning with a glass of water and some tablets
"I'm so sorry, Sherlock, I didn't think-"
"You thought me dead. Don't apologize for not giving a dead man pain relief." Sherlock quickly took the medication then continued with what he was saying "I could feel you, feel that I was in your arms and that my body was not moving. More than that, I felt scared. Scared that you thought I was dead. Scared that I wasn't breathing." Sherlock stopped then and took a deep breath, as though making sure that yes, he could breathe now. When he continued a slight blush covered his cheeks "when you bathed me, I felt… embarrassment, nerves, joy… but still that fear. When you said I wouldn't know that you had washed me, that you didn't want to leave me.." Sherlock suddenly felt a new wave of fear wash over him and he scrambled out of bed towards John "Don't leave me! Don't leave me here..!"
"Whoa, Sherlock!" John placed his hands on the younger man's hips only because of the wounds on his sides he told himself. "Sherlock, it's okay, I'm not going to leave. I'm staying right here." Sherlock nodded and leaned heavily against john for support, the pain too much for him to handle standing up.
"Okay.."
John carefully sat Sherlock back on the bed, watching wide eyed as he began to process what was going on. Sherlock was dead, only he wasn't. Not really. And he had heard, felt and seen everything that happened last night. He heard me. Oh god her even repeated those words just now. John looked up and blushed softly as he spoke
"you heard me... heard me say that-"
"that you love me." Sherlock interrupted him and John remembered to be angry with him later for it
"yes.. well-" he started, but Sherlock interrupted again
"But you didn't hear me. I love you too, John." Sherlock smiled sheepishly and john wanted to smile back, but his face went blank. This was too much. In less than twenty-four hours his best friend had died, he had confessed his feeling to said friend only to have him come back to life and not only accept John's feelings but to replicate them. John could not handle it. He stood up and went to leave the room, but he stopped and turned to Sherlock.
"I need you to just… shut up for a moment. I'm going to stitch you back up, put some antiseptic on your wounds, and then we are going to figure out what the fuck is actually going on here."
John went to the bathroom and grabbed the cabin's first-aid kit. He would have much rather gone to the hospital, but they were forty minutes out of town, with both men unable to drive and no one would believe Sherlock had been attacked by a werewolf. Werewolf John thought. It wasn't a werewolf. Werewolves aren't real. He got back to the bedroom with everything he needed and helped to remove Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock didn't care, he was use to walking around the flat with little on, and usually John wouldn't give it a second thought, well that's not true. He would give it many thoughts, later when he was alone. But after their mutual confessions and John having washed Sherlock the night before, he felt oddly uncomfortable to be doing it again. Sherlock stayed silent, which John was grateful for, as the older man began to remove the sodden bandages, starting with the shoulder bite. Turned through a bite. John shook his head quickly to get rid of the thoughts and gasped softly when he saw the shoulder, causing Sherlock to look at it quickly. It was healed, almost completely. No longer an open wound as it had been that night. John frowned, eyes still wide as he ran a gloved finger lightly over it, Sherlock flinched and winced, but stayed relatively still. John looked at his finger to find an almost clear, slightly pinkish, liquid on it from Sherlock's body. He looked to Sherlock, who was paler than usual. He looked absolutely petrified. John petted his knee "I'm sure its fine…" he was lying, and he knew Sherlock could tell, but it helped both men calm down just a little bit. John took the small bottle of antiseptic and squeezed a drop over each puncture mark, where that thing's teeth must have entered Sherlock's body. Sherlock grit his teeth to stop from crying out at the pain and John gently rubbed his leg before re-wrapping his shoulder in a new, clean, bandage. Next he checked the wounds on Sherlock's abdomen. They were the same, almost completely healed.
"What the hell…" John murmured, as he wrapped Sherlock back up. He went to hand his shirt back but Sherlock shook his head
"I'd like to keep it off, I'm really hot." He carefully lay back down on the bed and sighed heavily from the pain. John frowned
"you don't have a temperature. In fact your skin is ice cold..!"
"Well I don't feel ice cold." Sherlock closed his eyes and went back to not speaking. John went to the small sitting room and fired up his laptop. As he waited for it to warm up and actually turn on, it hadn't worked properly since Sherlock had spilt whatever it was on it a few months back, he called the only person he could think of. Mycroft Holmes.
