"Bloody hell, Sherlock!"
"Don't be dramatic, John, it's not that bad," Sherlock scoffed. Then he ruined the effect by adding uncertainly, "Is it?" as he craned this way and that, trying to get a better view.
"Stay still, you git!" John placed one hand solidly on Sherlock's shoulder and another on his hip, pressing him down on the bed. "Let me take a look."
Sherlock subsided with an indignant huff. John ignored his petulant expression, focusing instead on his injuries. His pale torso was mottled with bruises, in vivid shades ranging from yellow to purple. John's eyes skimmed over them, parsing the injuries into two likely assaults, one several weeks ago and one just a few days ago.
John's stomach roiled to see the darkening smudges from his own fingers around Sherlock's neck, a macabre decoration on that pale, endless throat. He gently pressed against Sherlock's ribs, testing for fractures, before finally focusing on the gash. It had to have been fairly deep, starting below his ribs on his left side and curving around almost to his hip in the back. John realized Sherlock must have been twisting away from the knife as it cut.
John's gloved fingers gently probed at the wound. The stitches were small and neat at the start of the gash, but quickly grew sloppier before tapering out altogether at Sherlock's side. John shook his head as he realized what he was looking at. "Bloody hell," he repeated. "You sewed this yourself, didn't you? Using...dental floss, was it?"
Sherlock only pursed his mouth peevishly.
"And just how many times did you pass out in the process?" John asked.
Sherlock's eyes flicked down to John's guiltily before he tipped his chin up, staring back up at the ceiling in a sulk. "That's what I thought," John said heavily.
Sherlock hissed in a sharp breath as John touched a spot near the back, where the wound was red and puffy.
"A bit infected, but still localized, luckily," John concluded. "This happened a few days ago, I presume?" Sherlock produced a noncommittal hum that John chose to interpret as agreement. "I'll clean it, and I'll have to pull these stitches and redo them properly. Try to minimize the scarring."
Sherlock made a noise of dismissal, apparently unconcerned with the idea of a scar, but John anchored him firmly to the bed with his hand on one of the few areas of pale, unmarked skin. "It has to be done, Sherlock. The floss did in a pinch, but it's going to adhere, and likely make a mess when it comes out anyway. Best to do it right."
He didn't even wait for a response, turning away to prepare an injection of intravenous antibiotic. Local anaesthetic was next, and he ignored Sherlock's impatient shifting, laying out his implements carefully and bringing the wastebasket closer, making sure the anaesthetic had time to kick in before he got started.
"This is no time for stoicism. Let me know if you feel it, and let me know if you get nauseous," he warned sternly, tapping a foot meaningfully against the wastebasket and waiting for Sherlock's curt nod before getting started.
He felt the clear steadiness of the procedure settle over him, the effects of his shock and hangover disappearing as his hands worked deftly, mending Sherlock's torn flesh with small neat sutures. It wasn't the first time he had patched up Sherlock by a longshot, but it was the first time he had his hands on him since he realized how he truly felt about the man. As his hands worked on autopilot, his brain was unfortunately free to struggle with exactly what that meant.
John hadn't been completely oblivious to his feelings for Sherlock before...well, before. As dense as Sherlock might think him, he had not been fool enough to believe that what he felt for Sherlock could be categorized under anything as simple as flatmate, or even best friend. And yet he hadn't fully acknowledged it, maybe even to himself, and certainly not to Sherlock.
The reasons, stacked up at the time, had seemed so compelling. John had examined them all, ruminated over them endlessly, in the time after the Fall, when every thought had been some version of if only I had... and why didn't I?
John's own uncertainties about himself were first on the list. He had never been in a relationship with a man, had never considered his occasional admiration for a stubbled jaw or bare chest to be anything more than a fleeting thought. Through Harry's emotional coming-out, John was certainly aware of the many shades of sexuality, and he thought he would have owned up to bisexuality if he honestly thought it applied. Rather, John had always liked women. He knew that about himself. Even in the Army, where homoerotic horseplay and furtive handjobs abounded, John had kept himself distant, his role as doctor a good enough reason to avoid sexual entanglements. It was hard enough to push aside emotion when a friend and comrade lay bleeding in the sand, the idea of muddling those relationships with sexual intimacy bothered John on several levels.
He hadn't felt more than a fleeting attraction to men before he met Sherlock, and he didn't feel it after Sherlock was gone. No, what he felt for Sherlock was so different from simple, easy, sexual attraction. In the welter of regrets after Sherlock was gone, he had told himself that perhaps it was because it was so unique, so unprecedented, that he hadn't recognized it for what it had been until it was too late. That immediate affinity, passing for friendship, binding John to Sherlock with tendrils of admiration, and adrenaline, and ultimately affection.
["You're very loyal, very quickly," Mycroft had said.]
And then came the cases, and the camaraderie, tightening the bonds so completely, so thoroughly, that the sexual attraction had snuck up on him unawares. Even in retrospect, he had trouble pinning down when it had started. When exactly the straining buttons on Sherlock's dress shirts had no longer made him look like an overgrown child, and had instead made John's heart lurch. And by then, John was too worried about jeopardizing everything, too uncertain of where Sherlock stood. Too cowardly.
[Remembering how Sherlock's gaze had flicked over him during their first meal at Angelo's. "While I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any..."]
And so John had hidden his feelings, counting on Sherlock's biggest blind spot, his understanding of others' emotions. Tried to pass it off even to himself as a simple crush, an inconvenient attraction to a brilliant man, that would fade with time. Only in the last few days, in the madness of Moriarty's final game, had it seemed like it could possibly be more.
["Take my hand," Sherlock had said, and John had twined their fingers together without hesitation, the press of Sherlock's sweaty palm against his sending a jolt through his heart despite the circumstances.]
In the madness of those final days he had almost been grateful for the distraction keeping Sherlock's mind fixed on Moriarty. Helping to obscure from the greatest mind he had ever known the simple truth — that John Watson had fallen hopelessly, helplessly in love with Sherlock Holmes.
["My hostage," Sherlock had said, aiming a pistol at John's head. "That works," John had replied.]
And now Sherlock was back, Sherlock was alive, and John was paralyzed again. All those reasons he had dismissed, thinking Sherlock dead, wishing fervently that he could have the chance to do it differently. And now that chance was here, and he was struck dumb again, immobilized by confusion and fear.
["There's stuff you wanted to say...but didn't say it," Ella had said, afterwards. "Say it now." "No. I'm sorry, I can't," John had said even then.]
His eyes flicked suddenly to Sherlock's, worried that his damnably expressive face might have been broadcasting his thoughts. Fortunately Sherlock had his eyes closed, his head still tilted back, taking in steady breaths through his nose.
John cleared the raspiness from his throat. "Turn over — gently now. Try not to pull on the sutures," he instructed. He helped Sherlock settle again on his front so that he could stitch where the wound curled around his back.
His hands began their work again, only a few more sutures needed on this side before John tied a careful knot and cut the thread. Sherlock's back was pale and lean, less mottled with bruising than his front, his shoulderblades stark and elegant flanking the graceful sweep of his spine.
Christ, he's lovely, John thought, before immediately chastising himself for the thought.
"John?" Sherlock asked uncertainly.
With a start, John realized that while he had been lost in thought the hand bracing Sherlock's right hip had been absent-mindedly tracing slow circles with his thumb, caressing him. Sherlock's body was tense beneath his hands.
Goddammit, John thought, frustrated beyond belief with his traitorous body as he felt a warm flush color his face. "Er...just a minute." He scrambled desperately for a reason to keep Sherlock from seeing his face, certain that it would reveal everything. "I'll just put a dressing on this side, and wrap it around to the front."
He took an exceptionally long time preparing and affixing the dressing, wrestling his errant thoughts under control, until he felt that he could face Sherlock with some degree of composure.
"Over now," he said, and Sherlock obediently flipped, letting John smooth the dressing over the stitches in front.
John pulled off the nitrile gloves, tossing them in the wastebasket. "Best to wrap those ribs too, just in case," he said, reaching for the elastic bandage.
"Stop it, John." Sherlock's voice was sharp as his hand whipped out to still John's wrist. "Are you...are you trying to be cruel?"
"What?" John's mind felt cloudy and dull, his mouth gaping open before he managed to shut it.
Sherlock's eyes were fierce, his fingers digging painfully into John's wrist. "You must want to know...I've been preparing for your questions, for almost a year I've been preparing...why won't you ask? Don't you — " The sharp eyes suddenly shifted away, Sherlock's grip loosening on John's wrist. "Don't you even care what happened?"
Oh.
John took in a deep breath, letting it out again in a sigh.
"Budge up," he said. Sherlock just looked at him dumbly, until John gave him a gentle shove on the shoulder. "I said budge up, Sherlock." Sherlock finally moved over, eyeing John suspiciously.
John lay down beside him in the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling. He felt somehow that this might go better if he didn't have to look at Sherlock.
"Of course I care," he said to the cracked ceiling. "Christ, Sherlock, I threw up and then almost strangled you to death." He huffed a bitter laugh. "If that doesn't show I care then I don't know what would."
He could feel Sherlock shifting restlessly next to him. "Then why won't you let me explain..."
"I will. You can tell me anything you want, Sherlock, but I'm not as dumb as you think." He carried on past Sherlock's token protest. "Give me some credit at least, for knowing that this wasn't about me. That you didn't do all this just to fuck with my mind. If you did it you felt you had to, and I want to know why — I do — but not as much as I want to know if you're all right."
There was only silence from the bed next to him. Even the restless shifting had stopped.
John squeezed his eyes tight, forcing words past the lump in his throat. "Are you all right, Sherlock? Because you don't — you don't seem all right."
He waited for endless minutes before Sherlock finally answered, his voice slow and halting, so different from his usual confident tones. "I don't know, John. I think — I think that perhaps I haven't been." John could hear just how much it cost Sherlock to admit that. He turned toward him just as one shaking, nicotine-stained hand crept over the bedclothes, insinuating itself into John's grasp. Sherlock stared at the ceiling, while John stared down at their clasped hands. "But I think it's better now."
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