Chapter 2

It was most definitely the weirdest thing ever to have happened to John. Since the hug in the kitchen, his and Sherlock's relationship had taken a strange turn. Sherlock had become overly affectionate. When they were on a case, everything was as it had always been, but in the lulls between, instead of becoming agitated and impatient, he became solicitous and playful. Like a kitten, really, though that was a very strange concept to attach to Sherlock. He would hug constantly, tickle when he got the chance, snuggle up to John on the sofa and even occasionally hold hands.

But nothing more than that.

It was as if the brief moment of intimacy had awoken something in Sherlock, some long forgotten need for closeness and affection. And now he couldn't get enough.

At this moment, though, the case might have been solved, but there was no question of cuddling. They were running after the murderer as fast as they could, crossing alley after dark alley.

John saw the knife only just in time. "Sherlock!" He pushed his companion out of the path of the knife and felt a burning pain in his left upper arm, leaving him breathless. His knees buckled and he sank to the ground.

Seeing John collapse, Sherlock's fist flew, and the man crumpled, knife clattering on the ground. Sherlock's entire focus, however, was on his friend, wanting to touch, protect, but afraid to make matters worse, Sherlock's hand fumbled, weak and uncertain over John's frame. His voice was strained with panic. "John? John? Are you alright?"

John grunted and pressed his hand over the wound to stop the bleeding. "It's fine, Sherlock. You'd better call Lestrade for our friend over there." He was grimacing. It was only a minor wound, but it stung like hell.

Sherlock dug his phone out of this pocket but fumbled and nearly lost it. His fingers didn't seem to be working quite right. With a desperate grunt of frustration, he found Greg's number and dialled. Phone pressed between shoulder and ear, he settled himself on the ground and gently eased John's upper body into his lap.

"Calm down a bit, Sherlock," John said gently, looking up at the distress in his friend's face. He laid a calming hand on one of his.

Sherlock looked down at John's hand. He knew, intellectually, that he was overreacting, but when John had put himself between Sherlock and the knife, something inside him had cracked, and he had had a glimpse of Life Without John. The sight had filled him with terror, and his reasoning was drowning in one overwhelming thought: I cannot lose him!

"Sherlock?" John could hear Lestrade's voice over Sherlock's phone, but the detective didn't seem to register it, still staring down at his hand. "Sherlock!"

For a second Sherlock felt lost, then he caught up. "Lestrade? John is hurt, you have to send an ambulance right now! Huh? Where to?" He looked around, bewildered.

John rolled his eyes, took over the phone and told Lestrade where they were. "We don't need an ambulance, though, just come to pick up our criminal. No, it's only a small cut, I can manage it myself. Yes, I'm sure, Greg. Now get that police car here before he wakes up."

The panic inside Sherlock was still there, but the sound of John's calm voice was alleviating it somewhat. "Are you sure you are alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine, Sherlock, I just told you," John answered with a half smile, giving Sherlock's hand a small squeeze before he let it go and stood up.

Sherlock held on to John's hand as he got up. He looked over at the unconscious man on the ground. "At least we got him." Then he turned to John to examine his arm.

"Yes, it would have been worse if he had gotten away," John said, realizing that he half expected Sherlock to hug him. "Careful, it does hurt."

Sherlock put his hand gingerly on John's shoulder above the wound, examining it. "I think you should have this looked at. It may need stitches."

"Probably, but I'm really not up to all the fuss of going to the hospital. I could do it myself, if you help me. I just want to be home and sleep for a week or so." The case had been difficult and complex, and none of them had slept much these past days.

"Of course I'll help you." Sherlock turned at the sound of cars approaching. "Looks like the cavalry is here."

"Good." John kept close to Sherlock as the police arrived, leaning on him for support.

After they had given their statements, Sherlock went to hail them a cab, but he kept looking back over his shoulder.

"I'm sure they'll manage to get the murderer in jail without your help, don't worry," John smiled, looking how Sherlock kept looking back as the detective walked a little in front of him. Lestrade had given him a packet of tissues and he was trying to clean away most of the blood on his arm and hand, so the cabbie wouldn't be too freaked out as he got in. He pressed a fresh tissue on the wound, which was still bleeding

Sherlock quickly got them a cab, and when it stopped in front of them he opened the door and held it open for John, who gave him a grateful nod as he got in, steadying his wounded arm against his body.

Sherlock went around, to get in on the other side. Once seated, he gave the address, and then tentatively reached out, to take John's hand in his. John didn't even really think of it, used as he was to Sherlock's small touches now. They just sat in silence and it wasn't long before they arrived in Baker Street. Sherlock only let go for as long as it took them to get out of the cab. Then he reached for John again, enfolding him in his arms.

They stood like this for a moment. Then John winced. "You know, it would be more efficient if you opened the door instead of hugging me on our doorstep," he remarked with a rather painful smile.

Sherlock looked abashed, but only let go reluctantly. He tried to keep a respectful distance, as they made their way up the stairs, though his fingers where aching with the need to touch, to confirm that John was still there

John sagged down on the sofa. "Will you get me the first aid kit, please?" The natural anaesthetic of shock was wearing off, and the wound had been growing increasingly painful since they got in the cab. "And bring some painkillers?"

Sherlock rushed to comply. Then he eyed John's torn jacket apprehensively. "Can you get that off, without making it worse?"

John smiled to himself. "I'll try," he answered, getting his good arm out easily, but hissing as the fabric brushed over the cut. Halfway he stopped, catching his breath, before he continued taking it off. "Antiseptic, first," he said in a strangled voice.

Sherlock tried to be as gentle as possible cleaning the cut. It wasn't deep, but quite long, and to him it looked pretty bad. "Let me know if I'm hurting you?"

"It stings, but nothing unbearable," John said between clenched teeth. "I don't think I really need to stitch it, just have to make sure that it's clean."

When he had finished cleaning the cut, Sherlock's fingers lingered a moment on John's skin. Then he withdrew his hand and got up. "Can I get you anything?"

"You can help to put the bandage around it to keep it clean?" John proposed. "Oh, and now you're in such a helpful mood, a cup of tea would also be wonderful." He gave Sherlock a grateful smile.

So Sherlock sat down again, and with trembling hands put on the bandage, carefully avoiding to look anywhere but at the work at hand.

John's attention was fixed on Sherlock's fingers as they worked on the bandage, doing a quite professional-looking job. When he was finished, John looked up at his face, but Sherlock kept his eyes down as he got up and went to the kitchen.

Why was he in such a state? They had both been hurt before, much worse than this. Why did he fret so? He just couldn't shake the feeling of John slipping through his fingers, lost forever. Was he having some sort of episode? A panic attack perhaps?

When the detective seemed to stay away a little too long, John got up, feeling a bit dizzy, and went to the kitchen. "You okay? You do know where I keep the tea, right?"

As John spoke, Sherlock looked up, and his stomach dropped. John looked pale and unsteady on his feet. Sherlock rushed to him, taking hold of his good arm. "You shouldn't get up. You need to rest."

John rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder. "Yeah, that doesn't feel like my best idea ever. But I wanted to check on you, you don't quite look yourself this evening."

Sherlock helped John to a chair. "I'm fine. You are the one who is hurt. Let me take care of you... Please," he added

John nodded. "Thank you. I'll just go to sleep after I've had my tea." He couldn't help leaning into Sherlock's warmth as the tall man stood next to his chair.

Sherlock was reluctant to tear himself away. John was so close and it felt so good knowing he was there and real and solid. But he had to get the tea. He brought it back and pulled a chair up right next to John's, sitting close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body.

John smiled faintly as he accepted the tea and leaned a bit back to Sherlock again. He sipped his tea, feeling it warm his body. "It's good," he observed, trying to reassure Sherlock.

Sherlock put his arm around John's shoulders, carefully avoiding the bandaged arm, pulling at him gently to get him to rest against Sherlock's chest. "You really scared me tonight."

"You scared me, too. The knife was aimed at you, it could have punctured your chest if it had hit you," John said softly, unconsciously nuzzling Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock sighed deeply. It felt so good, just sitting here close. He could feel his body relaxing, growing heavy and tired, now that the adrenalin was finally receding. He yawned.

John quickly finished his tea. "You should go to bed, too."

Sherlock thought about it and then said: "John, you shouldn't have to climb the stairs in your condition. You'll sleep in my bed tonight."

John slowly looked at him, too tired to argue. "Okay." He actually looked forward to sleeping in Sherlock's scent. Then he thought of something: "There aren't any smelling experiments going on there, are there?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Not unless you count some old socks under the bed."

"I can live with that," John smiled, taking a deep breath in Sherlock's chest before he sat up. "Can I lean on you to get there?"

"Of course," Sherlock got up and carefully helped John to his feet. He considered putting John's arm across his shoulder but then he'd have to stoop quite low. Instead, he draped John's good arm around his waist. "This okay?"

"Yeah." John went a bit pale again now he had to stand and walk, but it wasn't for long and he gratefully let himself sag on Sherlock's mattress as they got there.

As Sherlock went to tuck him in, he unconsciously bent over and gently kissed John's forehead. "Sleep tight. I'll be just on the other side of the door should you need me."

John sleepily reached out and took his hand. "Can't you stay?" he mumbled, already half asleep. "'s your bed."

Sherlock eyed the bed. It really was too small for two people to lie comfortably in with any reasonable distance between them. "I'm not sure it's such a good idea. You need to rest..." A second after he'd said it, he sensed a potential double meaning and blushed spectacularly. "I mean..." he stammered. "There's not enough room. You'd be uncomfortable. I'll be fine on the sofa."

John half opened his eyes, too sleepy to be aware of anything that could sound wrong. "We cuddle all the time. I just like the idea of having you close tonight, and you'll sleep better than on the sofa. Please?"

Though he knew it was a bad idea, considering John's condition, Sherlock wanted so desperately to be close to John, and he gave in. "I'll be right back," he assured John, picking up his pyjamas and heading for the bathroom to get changed.

John smiled faintly and fell asleep, reassured now he knew that Sherlock would soon be joining him.

Sherlock hurriedly changed clothes and brushed his teeth. Then he almost ran back to his bedroom, only slowing down when he could see John lying there, in Sherlock's bed, already snoring gently. He quietly made his way to the bed and climbed in behind John. He cuddled against his back, arm around his chest, and face buried in the short soft hair. Sherlock had no intention of sleeping tonight, and if the morning never came, it would be too soon.

John mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep and pushed a bit back against Sherlock's chest to be closer. He soundly slept through the night and a good bit of the morning, and when he woke up he felt warm and protected.

As he had predicted, Sherlock hadn't slept a wink. But for the first time in his life he had been inactive for a prolonged period, without feeling the least bit bored. Rather he felt content and fulfilled.

John finally fully realized that he was lying in Sherlock's arms and he smiled before he turned around and saw that his friend's eyes were open. "Good morning."

Sherlock smiled warmly. "Good morning. You've slept well."

"Yeah, I needed it. I hope you did, too?"

"Oh, yes. Fine," Sherlock lied, not wanting to make John feel awkward or guilty.

John studied Sherlock's face for a long moment but decided to believe him. He rolled on his back and stretched, wincing as his left arm brushed against the sheets.

Seeing the grimace, Sherlock was instantly overwhelmed with concern. "John, are you alright?"

"Hm? Yeah, it just hurts if it touches something. Don't worry." He tentatively touched Sherlock's shoulder to reassure him. Actually he wanted to cuddle up against him again, but now he was awake he felt self-conscious and refrained from it.

Still warm and cosy, Sherlock reached out and put his hand on John's cheek. "You have to be more careful."

"Hmm?" John was too distracted by Sherlock's hand on his cheek to really pay attention to his words - a good kind of distracted, at that. Carefully rolling on to his side, he mirrored Sherlock's position by cupping the detective's jaw with his hand.

Sherlock smiled, wishing they could just stay like this forever. The warmth, the touch. He had never felt so safe in all his life.

"You know, people would really talk if they saw us like this," John said, smiling.

"So?" Sherlock couldn't care less.

John shrugged. He shifted so their noses were touching lightly. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"Hmm?" Sherlock couldn't resist rubbing the tip of his nose against John's. What an exquisite feeling, he thought.

"For taking care of me, I mean," John blushed. Sherlock was so close and if only he would be sure that the other man would like it too, he would press their lips together and kiss him into oblivion.

"No need to thank me," Sherlock whispered, enjoying the feeling of John's breath on his face. "I will always take care of you. That's what I'm here for." Contentedly he closed his eyes. If they could just stay like this, maybe he could indulge in a little nap.

John bit his lip and kept silent as he saw Sherlock close his eyes. He knew what he wanted to say, but he couldn't risk it.

With a comfortable sigh, Sherlock leant even closer, revelling in John's scent. It wasn't until he felt something touch his lips that he realised just what he had done.

John gasped softly at the touch before he leant forward to give Sherlock a soft but firm, chaste kiss on his lips.

Sherlock had not intended this, but feeling John' response he melted. He sighed again, stroking John's cheek softly with his thumb. Experimentally he tried moving his lips against John's. This felt even better.

John smiled against his lips and carefully placed his hand on the curls of the back of Sherlock's head. After a moment, he pulled back. "I've really wanted to do this forever," he said, before closing the distance between their lips again.

Having never considered it, Sherlock couldn't really say the same. He just knew that at this moment, this was what he wanted. This was right.

(Once again, thanks to the brilliant The Lady of Purpletown for being such a perfect John)