Two: I Choose You (Sara Bareilles)

Tell the world that we finally got it all right

I choose you

I will become yours and you will become mine

I choose you

I choose you.

The sun was beginning to set over London, painting the vibrant city with differing shades of rosy pinks, dusty purples, hearty indigos, and a kiss of mellow gold. The sight really was quite spectacular. The city of London…a humbling mix of old and new, tradition and progress, antique and modern… and the setting sun, a gentle reminder of the sheer magnitude of the universe.

Yes, the grand sight would have caused just about anyone to stop for a moment and spend a quiet minute in introspection and reflection. But as the dusky colors of twilight began to paint the inside of 221 B Baker Street, a certain army doctor that lived within couldn't be bothered to savor the peaceful moment.

No, John Watson's mind was anything but calm at the moment. I should say that he was doing his damnedest to keep his worry at bay, but he wasn't really succeeding. The doctor had invaded Afghanistan after all…surely his feathers were not easily ruffled. But alas, when it came to Sherlock Holmes, the good doctor's flat mate and companion, feathers got ruffled more easily than you might think.

John sighed as he checked his phone for the fifteenth time in the span of two minutes. He had worked an extra-long shift at the surgery today since Sherlock was case-less and so had spent the past two days alternately hunched over his microscope and serenading the neighborhood with Bach and Paganini. John had come home from the clinic fully expecting to see the man engaged in his activities, but he was instead in absentia.

This of course was not all that unusual. Sherlock was often missing for hours on end doing Sherlock-y things around London. This was the man that took pleasure in spending hours in the morgue beating corpses with riding crops and came home spattered with blood holding a deadly harpoon without an explanation.

John had sent Sherlock several text messages over the course of the afternoon to gauge his mental status (the man did not do well without the stimulation provided by either a case or John himself). He hadn't received any replies, which told John that he was most likely working with his lab equipment and was ignoring his phone.

But John had been home for four hours now and Sherlock was nowhere to be found. He wasn't answering his mobile and Mrs. Hudson hadn't seen him all day. Was he being paranoid and a little clingy? Absolutely. But John had spent years working alongside this mad, brilliant man, and he'd developed a sort of sixth sense when it came to his partner. Sherlock would often disappear on his own little missions for hours, but he would usually tell John where he was going or what he was doing if he planned on being away for an exceptional amount of time. It was just sort of an unspoken thing he'd agreed to ever since he came back to the land of the living after the fall.

At the moment, John's Sherlock-sense was buzzing. Something was up.

John wandered around the flat, doing his best to bide his time until he heard something from anyone. He had left messages with Sherlock's mobile and Lestrade's and Molly's…just in case. Molly had confirmed that he hadn't been around the morgue, but there had been nothing from Lestrade. John was beginning to get a little stir-crazy. He was well aware that he was probably just being ridiculous, but then he got a text that justified all his worries.

Get your medical bag and prepare yourself. GL

John swallowed hard and did his best to remain cool and objective. He walked to his old bedroom and gathered his leather doctor's kit, pausing by the loo to grab a few things from the cabinet there as well. He set the bag on the coffee table and perched himself on the edge of the couch, waiting.

Not five minutes later, the sound of two men's feet echoed in the hallway. John heard Mrs. Hudson's soft "Oh Sherlock…" and steeled himself, launching directly into Dr. Watson mode. It still wasn't enough to prepare him for the sight of Lestrade dragging his companion into their flat. Sherlock had an arm thrown around Lestrade's shoulders. Lestrade had one hand clasping that arm and the other wrapped snugly around Sherlock's waist, holding him upright.

"Lay him down here," John said coolly, indicating the couch. Lestrade dragged the man over and John took up Sherlock's other side, helping him. Together they managed to get the detective's impossibly long body stretched out on the couch. "What happened?" John asked.

"Gang fight," Lestrade muttered. "Sherlock was helping us track the guys down. They jumped him and he got pretty banged up."

John nodded and kneeled down next to the detective, rolling up his sleeves and preparing to get to work. He felt Lestrade's hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, John." John stilled under the man's touch but nodded at his words. Lestrade headed out the door after first gaining John's word that he'd call and let him know how he was doing.

ZzZzZzZzZzZzZzZzZz

Forty minutes later, John had patched up Sherlock to the best of his abilities. The man had bruises and small cuts on his face as well as one ragged scrape that ran from his earlobe to his chin. His ribs had been bruised, but thankfully none had been broken. John had wrapped them anyway, in case they had been sprained. There were several knife wounds on his arms that he'd wrapped in thick bandages and one long, thin laceration that ran from his left shoulder to his right hip. It didn't warrant stitching…it hadn't even bled that much. But it was going to sting something fierce. Finally, Sherlock had managed to sprain his ankle, and it was taped and propped up on a pillow.

Sherlock had begun to stir just as John had come back into the living room with two steaming cups of tea. Sherlock opened his eyes and blinked up at his partner.

"Mmmm John," Sherlock whispered. "Whadappened?" His tongue felt thick and slimy, effectively slurring his words together.

"You got into a gang fight, Sherlock," John replied. His eyes were hard, glittering with some kind of emotion that didn't quite register with Sherlock. He blinked a few more times and tried to sit up. John's restraining hand on his shoulder stopped him. That's when he felt all the little nicks and bruises. Ouch.

"Is that all?" he asked, taking a sip of the tea that he found on the table beside him. John suddenly appeared in his peripheral vision, kneeling next to his head. Sherlock looked at him and was once again treated to the unreadable emotion that lingered there. It was…angry, but not outwardly. It was also fearful, but again…not outwardly.

"Is that all?" John mimicked. He barked a laugh and shook his head. "Sherlock, you can't just take off like that. You could have gotten really hurt. You're lucky you came away with just some lacerations and bruised ribs. It could have been worse."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "It was a case, John. Lestrade needed me as soon as possible. They gang-raped a young woman. It was urgent."

"I appreciate that, Sherlock. But why didn't you let me know? I would have come with you."

Sherlock frowned. "You aren't my mother, John. I don't need you watching me like I was a child."

John pressed his lips together in a thin line and blinked back the hot tears that had risen unbidden in his eyes. "Is that all I am, Sherlock? Just a…babysitter?"

Sherlock blinked. Oops. "John, no, I…" That's all the further he got before John rose and stalked off back to their bedroom, slamming the door shut.

Sherlock huffed and leaned back into the couch. Well done, Sherlock. He looked around and spied a staff that he'd used as a prop for a disguise during his last case. He sat up and then stood up, mindful of his taped ankle. He hopped over to the staff, grabbed it, and used it as an improvised crutch to lead him back to the bedroom. He opened the door and found John sitting on their bed, his face held in his hands.

"John," Sherlock started. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Yes you did," John huffed. He looked up at Sherlock and Sherlock was dismayed to find the streaks of tears cutting a path down his cheeks. "After all this time, Sherlock, don't I mean anything to you? You don't understand…you're my best friend, my partner, my…everything. You are my world, Sherlock. And I… I come in second place behind your work. I don't if I can compete with that."

Sherlock's breath hitched in his chest as he stared at his companion. He hobbled over and collapsed next to John, who automatically put a hand out to steady him. Sherlock caught his breath and then put one thin hand under John's chin and raised his doctor's eyes to meet his.

"John Hamish Watson," Sherlock intoned, staring into the deep cobalt eyes, "you are more important to me than anything I've ever known. If I had to choose between having the work and having you for the rest of my life, I would choose you. Every time."

John blinked and a small tear escaped down his cheek. "What?" he whispered.

"I mean it, John. The work drives me and stimulates me. It fulfills me to an extent, but not as much as you do. If I didn't have you, the work would be meaningless. When I left today, it was to track down a gang of filthy criminals who had gang-raped a woman. Before you, I wouldn't have felt the…sentiment appropriate to that situation. I know that I still don't understand a lot of it, and some of it I never will. But I have not for one moment regretted you. And I stand by my statement that I would choose you before the work. Every time, John." Sherlock took a deep breath. Admitting these…feelings…was not easy.

John smiled tearfully and took Sherlock's hand, lacing their fingers together. They didn't say any more, but instead chose to just look at each other, memorizing features and savoring feelings.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes?"

"I think I'm going to need you to re-tape my ankle."