The sound of newspaper pages rustling. I wake. Open my eye—the other still tightly swollen shut—and roll over. John has pulled a chair into my room and is sitting plainly by my bed, one leg crossed over the other. He hears me move, lowers the newspaper and says, "There you are." Sets the newspaper down, gets up and sits on the edge of my bed, touches my face and checks me over.
My drapes are closed, the room is dim. Through the open bedroom door I see light pouring into the flat from a certain direction. It is late in the afternoon. "You let me sleep this long?"
He moves back and I sit up too fast, my head throbs. I feel nauseous and dizzy. He offers me a hand and helps me up. "You needed the rest."
I realize I am still fully dressed and begin to undo the buttons on my shirt. "You didn't go to work."
He puts a hand on his hip. "Not with you in this condition."
"Hm." I toss the shirt on the floor and continue to undress. He leaves, shuts my bedroom door. Why doesn't he stay to watch me? Why do I wish he would?
After I wash up and cast my robe about me I sit down in his chair, to make a statement. Pick up my violin and pluck it absently. The sun is so bright but I can't move to shut the drapes. John is fixing me a meal. The only sounds that occupy the flat are raindrops of violin notes and the scrape of spoon against a pan.
As he hands me a loaded plate he says, "I'm not that important, Sherlock."
The food is hot and flavorful and difficult to eat, but I do it. For him. I echo, "Not that important?"
"Not important enough for you to risk your life over. You could have—" he grimaces and doesn't say anything for a moment. He sits down across from me, in my chair, leans forward. "It frightened me last night, to see you hurt."
With my mouth half full an answer rushes out. "You're more than important enough to risk my life for, John. If the opportunity presented itself I would die to protect you. I wouldn't think twice about it, wouldn't even blink."
He looks at me, an expression I haven't seen before. Soft, maybe a bit confused. As if he can't accept the truth before him. What truth? He opens his mouth to speak, falls silent.
I furrow my brow as I look at him. Waiting. After eating half of what's on the plate I set it down. "Maybe I wasn't clear."
"What? No, it makes sense… I feel… I feel the same way about protecting you. I just never thought to tell you that. Didn't know how you'd take it."
"How is one supposed to take it, John?"
"Well, being protective, willing to risk your life for someone else, it's a sign of love."
"Love." The word falls out of my mouth as if I'm practicing pronouncing the first word in a foreign language.
"That," he points to me, to my reaction, "is why I never wanted to have this conversation."
"What conversation?"
"This one. The one about how we care for each other."
"We care for each other?"
"Yes, we do."
"And you think that caring means love?"
"Caring is a form of loving, yes."
Our eyes meet. "You love me."
He smiles ruefully. In too deep. "Yes."
"Oh."
Silence fills the flat until I get up and kneel before him. I take his hands in mine and I say, "Thank you. For loving me."
I don't know if it is the right thing to say or if it means anything to him. I don't know how to make him happy or how to show him that I care about—that I love him. This is all I can offer.
He looks down at me, seemingly shocked by my advances. I try to look unafraid, but inside my pulse pounds against my thin veins. Then he pulls my hands towards him and kisses them, gently. "You're welcome."