Sherlock sat on the chair next to John's bed. Doctors came and went, mumbling nonsense that didn't register in Sherlock's mind. Everything was a blur to him. Everything except for the golden-haired saviour lying in front of him. Sherlock hadn't seen the wound, not properly. There was too much blood when he held the torn cloth to John's shoulder. He was bandaged now, and sleeping peacefully. His hair was slightly ruffled from their escape and his mouth opened slightly as he breathed deeply in his sleep. When Sherlock looked at him, he no longer saw him as the companion he once had. Although both Johns were kind and caring, when he looked at this John he saw a warrior. A soldier. A survivor. Sherlock was now drawn to him, drawn to the strength of the teenager that had saved him from the spiralling path of chaotic dependency. An addiction fuelled by the desire to see what wasn't there. His old John. The one that never made it.
Maybe Sherlock could start again.
Maybe this John won't leave him.
John roused several hours later, feeling an ache in his wounded shoulder and his head. Sherlock's dark coat shuffled in his peripheral vision and John slowly turned his head to focus on the boy.
"John," he whispered softly, sending a light shiver down John's spine. He didn't know he could have such a warm feeling just from hearing his name in that rumbling, baritone voice. It was... beautiful. John suddenly joined the real world and sat up in his bed swiftly, ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder and flicking his eyes over Sherlock's body.
"Sherlock! Are you alright?" he asked, voice dripping with concern. Sherlock smiled, making John jump. It was an amazing smile, showing a little of his teeth and crinkling his eyes ever so slightly. This smile, this genuine one-of-a-kind smile was like telling John he'd just won a hundred thousand pounds. It lit him up inside, the warmth that grew from this usually blank and cold face. John wanted to reach out and trace the beautiful lines of the pale boy's angular face, keeping the feel of the porcelain skin under his fingertips mapped out in his mind.
"I'm not the one who was shot," Sherlock teased. John's conscious snapped back once again, and he remembered the bullet wound on his left shoulder. He clasped his shoulder gently and bowed his head away from Sherlock. He could feel the stitches underneath the bandages, coupled with the dark crimson speckles of dried blood hat had soaked into the bandage. He looked back up at Sherlock, who had abandoned his gentle smile and replaced it with a soft, mournful face, "do you mind if I...?" he gestured towards the bandage with his head. John looked between Sherlock and his shoulder before unwrapping it gently. The black stitches that held the inflamed wound together stuck out against his light skin. Suddenly, Sherlock's pale, dexterous fingers hovered over his wound. John flinched when they sprang into his vision, but he then watched with intent as they came onto contact with the skin around the stitches. It was a little tender, but Sherlock was touching so gently that John shivered when they ghosted around his wound. He felt a sensation of sparking electricity jumping from Sherlock's fingers to his skin, and John flushed a deep crimson. When his index finger brushed across a stitch, John's breath hitched and his eyes widened. Sherlock drew his fingers away slightly and John swiftly grabbed Sherlock's hand with his.
"It's alright. It's all fine," he smiled, absently rubbing his thumb across Sherlock's palm.
A/N
Sorry for the short update.
Hope you can forgive me :3
SH