AN: Really sorry! For lots of things! I hate authors notes in stories but I felt I owed you an apololgy, real life got in the way of writing and then I struggled with this chapter, so its really short, but I promise the next one will be longer, and there will be more regular updates! Thank you to anyone still reading it!
Sherlock was interrupted from his thoughts suddenly by a flare of light and he automatically cringed into John as Lestrade eased into the room and shut the door again. John's arms cam up and around him with a towel as he shielded his patient and friend from view.
"Erm, I'll be in the car, to take you to the hospital, and I just thought you should know that Mycroft's taking -er care of him."
"Thanks Greg"
"Okay, well, I'm going to go and get the team away, we can finish later, erm, Sherlock, we'll need a statement soon"
Sherlock just nodded, his face still pressing into John's shoulder, arms at his sides.
"Yeah, we'll let you know okay?" John said as the silence threatened to become uncomfortable.
Lestrade took the hint and nodding mutely left again leaving a carrier bag with some clothes in.
"You need to dry off so you can put some clothes back on before we can go to hospital." John asked as pulled slightly away, trying to give Sherlock some space.
Sherlock just nodded, still reeling mentally from his revelation that John, amazing, caring, John cared about him. John, who was so intensely good on such a basic level that it could almost made him pure. John cared about Sherlock, who was regularly insanely stupid, arrogant, selfish, noisy, dangerous, inconsiderate, Sherlock who didn't understand or care to use social etiquette, who played the violin at three in the morning. Even he had someone who cared because they could, not because they had too- Mycroft doesn't count.
He wondered why. He is all of those things, and after recent events, he thinks because even in his palace he can't bring himself to name those 'recent events', he is no longer a virgin so he can't even give that to John. All he seems to bring to anyone is misery, danger and violence.
Sherlock trusts John implicitly, but when John starts to pat him dry his muscles tense and his fists clench as his eyes squeeze shut. He stops immediately and waits for Sherlock to open his eyes.
When he does all he can see is the oddest mixture of pain, happiness, shock, fear, and wonderment.
John almost huffs a laugh at the sight of Sherlock, the apparent sociopath so wrapped up by his emotions he had failed to observe before he catches himself and reminds himself that this probably isn't appropriate. But when confusion clouds Sherlock's eyes, he can't help it. He lets out a manly little giggle. And Sherlock does too. For a minute its like things were before the kidnapping.
And then it stops altogether. They both look rather shocked at their own audacity. Sherlock looks away with his cheeks burning in shame as Moriarty's word rang through his mind 'you're not allowed to be happy. You're a worthless freak who can't even play the game properly!' .
John, dear old John pulled the huge towel around his shoulders, to give him a modicum of privacy before morphing back into his friend and companion rather than doctor to tentatively wrap his arms around the taller man.
Sherlock just stays there, unmoving as his previous revelation and John's proximity make him feel warm for the first time since he woke up from an unnatural sleep. After a few moments John pulls away again, worried that Sherlock is trying to tell him something by remaining so still.
"Right, I think your dry enough for some clothes now Mr Holmes!" John says with a cheer that is slightly too bright, too forced, although Sherlock doubts anyone but him could hear that. He nods and then looks around for the bag Lestrade had left. John picked it up and handed it to Sherlock, who glanced at John as he recognised the purple silk shirt lying on top of his tailored trousers, with a pair of boxer briefs and some leather dress shoes tucked underneath.
"I'm going to turn around now, and let you dress yourself. Don't worry if you need help, I don't think your weak- probably never will" John said trying to cover the awkwardness between them. It was almost never awkward between them after that horrible first 'date' in Angelo's. It really always had been fine, even when Sherlock had bits of bodies in the kettle, or invaded his personal space, John did have to draw the line at being drugged though, shivering slightly as he always did when he thought of the fear and adrenaline that had coursed through him that night. He mentally shook himself thinking of the fear and desolation that must be gripping Sherlock now.
John came out of his reverie with a light touch at his elbow and Sherlock looked questioningly at him for a short moment and then down at his shoes. John silently drops to his knees and gently lifts Sherlock's foot up and slips it into the shoe, smiling in encouragement as Sherlock places a hand on John's shoulder to balance himself. He ties the laces and moves to the other foot, repeating the action and then standing up.
As he does, he sees the now pink water and his heart hurts, really hurts to see the man he loves standing there so bravely after being treated so brutally, to be in so much pain. Sherlock, sensing his distraction turns to look at him with wide eyes.
Sherlock turned away, disgusted by his earlier conclusion, John couldn't care about him, nobody could. He was broken, disgusting, and used. John must feel sickened by what he saw in the once strong, once proud man.