A/N: I just want to throw out a big, huge thank you to everyone who has reviewed recently with an attached apology - for whatever reason it isn't letting me to reply to a lot of your reviews. I'm not sure why, but I'll be sure to respond to each of them personally whenever I get the chance. Thank you for everything, guys! I have no idea what I'm doing to make all of you so happy but I hope I continue to do so!

Word Count: 1,000+

Pairing(s): John/Sherlock

Warning(s): vague mentions of violence, light injuries, brief references to TRF, casual prods at suicidal probabilities, and an emotionally backwards Sherlock (or, rather, a Sherlock Sherlock). Enjoy!

Of Husbands and Heart Monitors

The heart monitor was driving John crazy. It was a shrill, irritating reminder that he'd screwed up and nearly gotten himself killed. Again. And, more importantly, he'd almost gotten Sherlock killed. Again. The bomb threat/kidnapping combo case had ended in a horrible cliché of John cutting a wire. The wrong wire. Despite it having been a fifty/fifty guess-chance John cursed himself for it – if it had been Sherlock, they would have gotten out of there unscathed, but instead Sherlock was busy whipping a gun at the two men who put the bomb there in the first place and the whole thing went to shit.

John sighed and screwed his eyes shut. He had a strong, incessant urge to complain (about the monitor, about the pain, about the damn florescent lighting) but he was determined to be a good patient. After all, he was a doctor – he knew how exasperating the job could be.

Speaking of exasperating.

"John, you have outdone yourself with idiocy."

John opened his eyes in time to get a face full of Sherlock Holmes. The kiss was chaste and quick, more of a greeting than anything, before the detective's skinny hands were sliding and groping over John's body, physically cataloguing every bruise, injury, bandage, and vital sign, choosing to check every pulse point rather than trust the heart monitor still bleeping on the opposite side of the bed. "People will talk," John mumbled, but he doesn't swat him away – this frantic life-check is routine by now and it's comforting, somehow, feeling Sherlock's hands trace life over his skin.

After a moment of rest on John's neck, fingertips pressed into his pulse, Sherlock's hands pulled away. "People always talk, John. What they neglect to draw appropriate conclusions about is how absolutely stupid you are," Sherlock said, and he meant: You scared me.

"Oh, sod off," John said as he pulled Sherlock closer. Sherlock had gotten out of the explosion in relatively good shape, left only with a cut above his right eye and minor burns across the back of his legs; he'll heal up fast and while it does heal it won't hinder him. John is far worse off (broken ankle, concussion, scattered burns, a few broken ribs – he'll have a few scars) but still he sucked in a breath at the sight of the head-wound. My fault. When John tackled Sherlock out of the way of the explosion, intending to bodily shield him from harm, the detective hit his head across a pillar on their way down.

And then, of course, the building collapsed on them. It certainly could have been worse.

"That was incredibly reckless," Sherlock said. "And brilliant, I suppose." He closed his eyes and allowed John to trace his thumb over the gash on his forehead, causing an almost pleasant sting and a nameless warmth to gather in his chest. Well, not nameless – love's the word for it, and even if Sherlock can't quite comprehend it himself John knew it and reflected it back double. John sat up against the pain to brush his lips against the injury, smile tugging over his mouth.

"Never do it again," Sherlock whispered. "If you die I may never forgive you."

John chuckled and laid back against his pillow again, slightly pale from strain, both from the broken ribs making movement/breathing/everything painful and the struggle against sleep. Morphine is a wonder-drug. "Bit of a nil point there, don't you think, Mr. Holmes?"

"Would you want to leave me widowed, Doctor Watson?" Sherlock's smiled at him despite himself, blue eyes (yes, they were definitely blue today) dancing impishly. John subconsciously pawed at his ring finger, sliding a knuckle over the cool metal. Yes; his husband didn't need to tell him he loved him, John had proof on his finger, every day. John flushed a bit at the thought, then rolled his eyes.

"No, suppose I wouldn't, would I? You'd probably forget to eat."

Not forget. Just wouldn't, Sherlock thought, but wouldn't say, because he knew the thoughts were a Bit Not Good and if John did actually die Sherlock would prefer he go believing that Sherlock won't be right behind him as soon as possible, one way or another. After all, John didn't give up, didn't off himself during those three dark years that they never talk about, don't ever want to talk about again; it was a nice notion to keep alive, that Sherlock would return the favor, even if it was a false one.

"Well, either way, fuck you. We caught the guy, didn't we?"

Sherlock chuckled lightly and, with a small nod of confirmation, turned to slide into the hospital bed. John scooted to accommodate him, although Sherlock ended up more-or-less on top of him anyways, long limbs wrapped around John's short frame. It's a comfortable position, although it shouldn't be; they both ignore the blushing, scuttling nurse in the doorway out of habit now until she walks away.

Careful doctor fingers traced random patterns up and down Sherlock's neck, an absentminded little affection that quickly pools in Sherlock's chest. "You should sleep," Sherlock said, catching John's other hand and drawing it to his lips.

John smiled, eyes drooping hopefully at the thought. "Will you stay here?" he asked. Fingers laced through Sherlock's hair and pulled ever-so-gently. Sherlock nodded – he hates to admit it, but he's tired too, and he can't fight the sedatives forever even if he does have a remarkable tolerance level for the stuff. "Good," said John. "I don't think I can stand to be alone with that fucking heart monitor any longer."

And that was that. John pressed his lips into Sherlock's hair and fell asleep that way, chest swelling with rumbling content. Sherlock didn't ask about the monitor, but he took John's word on it and shot the machine a dirty look before settling into his husband's warmth.

They were both fast asleep when the doctor came back and remain that way through several nurses, a janitor, and Lestrade; no one has the heart to wake them.

Reviews?

Fun Fact: I can't spell the word "monitor" to save my life; I have to spell-check every time.