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Chapter 22: Caring (1)

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Hilton Cubitt is an idiot, Sherlock thought as he ran through the house towards the couple's bedroom. He felt slightly responsible for having mentioned the wife earlier in the evening. Perhaps if he hadn't, and had ordered Hilton to stay in the parlour until midnight no matter what, none of this would have happened.

Whatever "this" was. At this point, he had a number of possible scenarios in mind and could only be sure of which was correct once he'd joined the two lovers and the discarded husband in the room. It didn't take him long, and not once did he think of looking behind him to check if John was still on his heels: it didn't matter. Something more urgent was propelling him forward. He burst in alone on the three.

The moment he entered the room, several pieces of information flashed across his mind all at once.
The first shot they'd heard in their room had come from the bullet that had gone from Hilton Cubitt's rifle into Abby Slaney's chest. Elsie's lover was either dead or badly injured.
Hilton must have gone up to the room early and seen his wife with her mistress, which had driven him mad: he'd taken the gun he used for hunting that lay in the corner of the room and had fired before either of the two women realized what was happening.
Elsie, knowing that her husband wouldn't shoot her, had most likely taken care of Miss Slaney, hoping to save her. Now however she had lost consciousness, so it was likely that she didn't stand much chance.

Hence Elsie's fury: she was pointing her own handgun (the exact same model as John's, Sherlock noticed) straight at her husband.

Seeing that specific handgun, Sherlock remembered that indeed, John was in the house, and in that one second, he did something very stupid that he would come to regret: he closed the door behind him. The thought that triggered him to do something so idiotic wasn't very clear in his mind at the time, but he would recognize later that it had been the following: that there were two very mad and well-armed people in the room, and that a lost bullet could do great harm to someone who hadn't asked for it. John had told Sherlock they should just inform Hilton and go away, but the detective had been the one to insist that they stay and convince the doting husband that his wife intended to kill him. It wouldn't be fair if John was injured in the process, just because Sherlock hadn't been very tactful in the way he'd enjoined Hilton to stay in the room until midnight. He was the one who'd messed up, and John shouldn't pay for it.

Sherlock, however, did not have time to formulate all these thoughts as he came into the room. He simply closed the door, calculated that Elsie would shoot in less than two seconds, and ran. The bullet pierced his upper arm before he could think twice about what he was doing, but he did not cry out. Elsie, on the other hand, did – a terrible howl of rage and hatred for the man who had fired at the one she loved. As he fell into the foolish man's arms, the consulting detective simultaneously saw Elsie point her gun at Hilton again, and John burst into the room, a look of panic on his face. Everything went black for a moment and the sharp pain in his arm overwhelmed Sherlock's mind. Distantly, he felt a pair of clumsy arms try to catch him – it hurt even more, and he groaned weakly.

"SHERLOCK!"

Good. John was really here, then. Why hadn't he been there before? Right... The door. Why did I close the door? Slowly, the black faded away, but everything was still rather blurry. One second Elsie was crying out and cursing at her husband with abhorrence, about to shoot him and not miss this time; the next second she was screaming in pain, having received a bullet in the hand herself, and dropping her gun.

"Hilton! Take her gun, now!" John's voice shouted. Sherlock couldn't repress a small smile – or what he intended to be a smile, anyway. Probably came out more as a rictus of pain.

"But... Your friend..."

Then in a flash Hilton's body was replaced by John's, and Sherlock tried to focus on John's touch on his wrist (most likely checking his pulse, he told himself) so as not to pass out.

"Sherlock, can you hear me? Hilton, call 999 right now!"

"B... But... I... I..."

Hilton looked around confusedly, in shock. He was trembling, trying to look for a phone as if there would be one in this room. John growled, annoyed, and muttered:

"Damn this, I'll have to do everything. Sherlock, please talk to me."

Sherlock could feel one of John's hands searching him, and he murmured:

"Left inner pocket."

In the semi-darkness, he caught John's tender and proud smile.

"God, even wounded you're brilliant," he whispered back, grabbing Sherlock's phone and dialling 999 himself.

"Hello. I have a man here who took a bullet in the arm just now – I haven't checked if the injury is penetrative or not. We are at Ridling Thorpe Manor..."

Sherlock listened as John gave all necessary indications. His arm hurt. Hilton Cubitt had run to his wife and was about to look at her hand, but she just turned and cried and hugged Abby's still body.

"Hold her at gunpoint, Hilton!" John commanded after he'd hung up ("Please call the police" had been his last words on the phone, Sherlock believed). "Just do it! An ambulance and paramedics will be here shortly, they'll take care of her hand. She's trying to kill you, for God's sake!"

Hilton mumbled something incomprehensible, his eyes filled with fear; but his hand wasn't shaking as he followed John's orders. All the while, the doctor had been forcefully pressing Sherlock's wound with his own jumper, which he'd taken off. He stood, went to take pillows from the bed, opened the wardrobe quite violently, and grabbed towels before kneeling down by Sherlock's side again.

"Don't move. Here, rest your head and upper back on the pillows. I'm here, everything is going to be all right."

"I'll lose my arm..."

"No, you won't."

"You can't know that for sure."

"If you're still talking, then you're not in bad shape," John commented, a little too feverishly perhaps to be convincing. But Sherlock was quite admiring of his friend's calmness. Through the pain, the detective could still see how collected John was – very effective, too. A real army doctor, he smiled drowsily.

"No, Sherlock, keep your eyes open. Look at me. Can you see me?"

"I see only you," Sherlock replied truthfully, not even trying to be romantic.

John sent him a pointed look, but continued his nursing in quick, nimble movements. Sherlock could feel the pressure he was applying with determination and professionalism.

"Do you have to press so hard?" he protested in a whimper.

"Yes," John deadpanned. "Unless you want to die from blood loss?"

"I don't want to die," Sherlock whispered.

"You won't."

John's tone was unflinching. Warm and round, Sherlock thought, and at the time it didn't even occur to him that those were peculiar adjectives to qualify a tone. It was warm and round to him, full of certainty, and if it didn't mean that his friend was necessarily right, somehow it still made him feel better. Much better. Suddenly, he realized John had put a blanket on him, and he was stunned not to have been aware of it sooner.

"Not in shock..." he mumbled.

"This is no time to be childish, Sherlock," John retorted curtly before kissing his brow. Sherlock blinked, lost at the contradictory tone and gesture.

"Does it hurt anywhere else?" the doctor inquired. "I don't want to strip you for other injuries if you don't have any, keeping the pressure on that arm of yours is what matters most right now. But tell me, do you feel pain in any other part of your body?"

"Body?" Sherlock repeated incoherently. He did feel the pain – only the pain, and the pressure John was applying. But what did he mean 'where'? It was everywhere. "It hurts," he let out in a whisper.

"Sherlock, keep talking to me. You must remain conscious until the paramedics get here." He tried to hang on to John's soothing, stable voice. The firmness of his tone was incredibly reassuring: it gave him a sense of safety.

"Not Anderson..." he muttered in distress. John's free hand came to caress his brow and stroke the curls away, assuaging and loving.

"No, not Anderson," he assured him. Sherlock smiled groggily.

"Too bad it wasn't in the shoulder, we could've had matching scars; but I would never get a psychosomatic limp." He gave a silly giggle, and John had to hold him back onto the pillow so he wouldn't roll down to the floor.

"A shot to the arm is much better, actually. Not as serious," the ex-soldier commented simply, apparently intent on not losing his composure and snapping at the idiotic detective. "But please stop giggling. You'll lose more blood if you wriggle. Doesn't it hurt more when you do?"

"It does," Sherlock answered sloppily, letting his head roll back. John's hand came to hold it in place.

"Then calm down. You're lucky you didn't get a sucking chest wound, so try to keep your breathing regular, all right?"

"Hmm."

John's hand was still holding his head, but also fondling the base of his scalp in a tranquilizing, motherly manner.

"Don't close your eyes," came the compelling voice that didn't fit with the gentle touch. "Keep them open. Keep them on me, if you like. Do you feel cold?"

"It hurts."

"I know it hurts, but do you feel anything other than the pain? Cold, nausea? You're not sweating, that's good, but–"

"I'm fine. Arm hurts, though."

"I know," John replied softly, kissing his brow again while he stacked a new towel onto the wound and pressed. "The ambulance will be here shortly. Hang on in there, I'm with you."

"I know."

Sherlock tried to keep his eyes on John, but he was feeling more and more lethargic. And his arm hurt. Sherlock concentrated on the pain and the pressure, on John's touch on the nape of his neck, on his light kisses over his face.

"John. I'm feeling groggy. I'll close my eyes, but I'm not unconscious."

"No, Sherlock! Please don't close them. Look at me. You won't remain conscious if you close them. Please."

"I can't. Surprisingly, I'm feeling rather weak..."

A kiss on his nose made his eyes snap open again. John reiterated the gesture on the mouth.

"If you're still being sarcastic, then you can keep your eyes open. Look at me."

"That's all I do," Sherlock growled with annoyance, very much pining for blissful unconsciousness right now. "John, I really want to look at you, but... I'm really dizzy... Think I'm going to pass out..."

"No! Please keep your eyes on me. Think of something."

"Of what?"

"Anything! Strawberries."

"Strawberries?" Sherlock snorted in disbelief. But he was too weak to mock John any further.

"Yes. Do you like strawberries?"

"Don't know... not important..."

"Yes, it is very important."

"Why?"

"Do you like jam?"

"John..." Sherlock moaned, trying to convey in his groan the whole thought: 'Are you taking me for an idiot?'

"Do you like strawberry jam?"

This time, Sherlock glared. His glowering pupils met John's fond, concerned, encouraging ones, and he tried to send all the more daggers as he felt himself melt under the stare already. John smiled, then stripped off his shirt as well, and with it made a cushion he put under the detective's feet.

"That's not necessary," Sherlock muttered with discontent, hating to be treated like... well, a wounded man.

"What? Not enjoying the view?" John teased, and Sherlock never felt like kissing him more.

"Kiss me before I pass out," he ordered.

"You must not pass out."

"I am. Less than a minute... Kiss me," he whined very, very quietly.

Sherlock just had time to feel John's lips on his, John's hand on his neck, before everything went black. He could, however, still feel the pain and the pressure, John's hand on his back, John's mouth on his face. He smiled - or felt like he was smiling, anyway. His eyes had probably closed, he mused, but he could still feel John all around him, and his presence through the pain was... good. He hadn't passed out yet, right? Since he could still feel John.

Sherlock thought he heard the ambulance's siren in the distance before he effectively lost consciousness.

xXx

"No, please no! JOHN!"

John awoke with a jolt and automatically searched for his gun before he took in his surroundings and remembered he'd been in hospital with Sherlock for the night. Sherlock had woken up intermittently, always falling straight back to sleep. He'd had nightmares, though, during which he sweated and shivered and begged. Every time he'd heard his partner struggle in his sleep, John's hatred for Moriarty had grown a little more. He was glad however that surgery hadn't been necessary, as the bullet was found in the wall and hadn't been retained in the detective's body. It hadn't hit any major artery either. All in all, Sherlock had been extremely lucky.

Two hours after they'd checked in the hospital, Mycroft had arrived, very angry at John for not having thought of calling him. To be fair, the ex-soldier had been quite busy and distracted at the time, and calling Big Brother certainly hadn't been one of his priorities. Thanks to the British Government, however, he hadn't been questioned by the police for too long. Although he knew they'd probably be called as witnesses during the trial, for now he could concentrate on Sherlock, and Sherlock alone.

"I arranged a bed for you to be put in his room," the elder Holmes had told him before departing. "I must say I am quite disappointed in you, Dr. Watson. I thought you'd be more... efficient in ensuring his safety." At this point, John had been ready to snap, but Mycroft had added quickly, in a darker voice: "But considering how efficient I was for that matter, I can hardly blame you."

And with those words, he had gone back to London. John was sure Elsie Cubitt would bitterly regret having ever shot Mycroft Holmes's baby brother.

John had been plagued with nightmares for the rest of the night – that is, when he wasn't racking his brain thinking about the situation. Even though Mycroft did not seem to hold him responsible for Sherlock's state, John was not as lenient with himself. Naturally, he was quite mad at Sherlock for having run off as usual, getting himself shot in the process. He could not fathom why the detective had closed the door of the bedroom behind him, either. For hours John had been thinking about what had happened, and most of all, about them. Their situation, whether it was working or not; what should be changed.

As he softly caressed the pale skin of his sleeping lover, John wondered what Sherlock's reaction would have been if the injury had happened the other way around: if he had been shot, and not the detective. Would Sherlock have panicked? Would he have been collected enough to do what needed be done? Most likely. But John wasn't so sure, now: before Moriarty's meddling and the trauma from the dreadful hours they'd spent in that basement, Sherlock would certainly have been quite capable of handling the situation. But now? Something about him closing the door behind him told John his friend's mind and thought process had been altered by the experience. Altered by what they had now, too: their 'relationship'.

"Stop making that face."

John started and his eyes widened in surprise at the cherished voice.

"Sherlock! You're awake."

"And I don't like strawberry jam," he grumbled. John stared, wondering to what extent his partner was truly awake.

"Very awake," Sherlock continued to mumble sullenly. "But you were so caught up in your stupid thoughts that you didn't even notice."

John pouted, slightly offended. He'd been staying by Sherlock's side all this time, thinking things over and over, and the remark was a little too cutting.

"How can you know they were stupid?"

"You didn't look happy."

Not having expected such an answer, John calmed down instantly, leaning in to kiss his lover's brow.

"I'm happy to see you awake."

"How is my arm?"

"You tell me."

Sherlock fixed his gaze on him insistently. John got the message.

"You'll be fine. You're not going to lose the use of it."

A small sigh of relief escaped Sherlock's lips, one he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. John looked tired; very tired.

"Have you slept at all? I mean, actually slept, without the nightmares?"

"How do you–"

"You rested your head on my thighs, John. I could feel it when you were dreaming."

A faint blush crept up John's cheeks, and he averted his gaze.

"You're still holding my hand, too," Sherlock pointed out. Then he added haughtily: "I don't need anyone to hold my hand."

The moment he'd uttered the words, he saw the hurt in John's look, and instantly felt the biting remorse gnawing in his chest.

"But I want it," he added quickly as John removed his hand. He tried to catch it back, but didn't dare move too much. "I really want your hand." Then, in a smaller, sheepish voice: "Give me your hand, John."

Their eyes locked and John gave in, lacing his fingers with Sherlock's again.

"How do you feel?"

"The arm hurts."

John nodded. "It will hurt for a while."

"How long will I have to stay here?"

"They should release you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?! But I'm fine! I won't wait another day in a hospital room, John! Not when I'm conscious!"

"Then I'll just have to knock you unconscious. Oh, don't give me that look; you know I will if you're being difficult."

"But John–" he began in a whiny voice.

"I know: you'll be bored. We'll try to find something. But we're not leaving before the doctors say you can."

"But you're a doctor," Sherlock complained.

"Yes," John concurred. "And I'm saying you can't."

Sherlock scoffed and sunk in his pillow a bit more, giving John the most adorable brooding pout in days. John smiled and leant in for a kiss, but Sherlock bit his tender lips and he let out a small cry of pain and surprise.

"Sherlock!"

"I'm not kissing you as long as I'm stuck in this room," Sherlock announced childishly. John shook his head in surrender.

"Fine. But we need to talk. Do you feel too tired for that?"

"Always," Sherlock groaned.

"You didn't ask me if I was fine," John remarked, more to himself than to his partner. Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"You've been staying with me all this time; I could feel your presence. If you hadn't been fine, they wouldn't have let you. Moreover, even though you have a bed, you've been sitting in that chair most of the time, resting your head on me, holding my hand. Surely if you had been injured–"

"Fine, fine! It wasn't a reproach, Sherlock."

"Sure sounded like one," he sulked.

"I wouldn't be mad at you for that."

Sherlock heard the tone, and knew something was wrong.

"But you're mad. Why are you mad?"

John looked him in the eye and gave his hand a little squeeze. Sherlock could not tell whether it was out of affection, or more like a warning.

"You ran off and left me behind. I arrived to see you'd been shot."

"Well, I'm sorry!" Sherlock snapped, wincing in pain at his own outburst because he'd moved his arm unwittingly. "But as you must have noticed, Hilton Cubitt would have been dead if we hadn't hurried. How is he, by the way?"

"In custody. He killed a woman, after all."

Sherlock nodded grimly. He fell silent.

"You're not responsible," John said.

"It is still a failure. I underestimated that man's stupidity."

"Sherlock, it's not your fault! You couldn't have possibly known–"

"Yes, I could have. I just didn't."

John frowned, this time anger burning clearly in his darkened pupils.

"Now listen to me: what happened between those three is not your fault. At all. You said it yourself, Hilton would've never believed us if we'd told him his wife wanted him dead. It is tragic that Abby lost her life in the process, but in the end, she was still going to murder a man herself. And it was premeditated. You can't blame yourself for people's stupidity, Sherlock. It would be endless."

They exchanged an intimate, knowing smile. Unconsciously, Sherlock squeezed John's hand in return.

"Can't they give me more morphine for the pain?" he asked.

John shook his head.

"Try to sleep again?"

"I'm not tired."

"Then let's talk, to distract you from your arm, shall we? Won't you explain the case to me?"

"The little Dancing Smileys?"

"Yes. What was that all about? And why was Abby Slaney in Elsie's room last night?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"I sent a message to her from Elsie's email address – and deleted the email in the Sent Messages folder, of course. Then I did the same from Abby Slaney's mailbox to Elsie's."

"What? But... What did you say?"

"That they should meet around eleven that night in Elsie's room, have some time together maybe. Then go and get rid of Hilton once and for all, while we were still in the house."

"How were they tricked by that?"

Sherlock scoffed, puzzled at John's lack of admiration.

"I wrote it in their code, of course. The dancing smileys."

"That's brilliant!"

Sherlock smiled contentedly. Not that he was fishing for compliments, of course... but still. It was always good to have John praising him.

"I sent both emails, knowing that Hilton always stayed up until midnight in the little parlour, reading. I also knew this was a time at which Abby and Elsie liked to meet, probably because they found the risk of being found out thrilling."

"How could you possibly have known that?"

Sherlock stared. "I read their emails, John. I deciphered the code, remember?"

John gave him a lovely pout, though he was probably unaware of how cute it made him look. Sherlock smirked.

"John, can you come closer?"

"What?"

"Come closer. I want to tell you something."

John complied, perplexed, but did not lean in enough, so Sherlock grabbed him with his uninjured arm and brought his face down to his, crushing their lips in a hungry, domineering kiss. John moaned and squirmed, but he was too scared of hurting Sherlock to truly wriggle his way out of the embrace.

"Sherlock!" he protested once the detective finally let go of him, red in the face and panting. His cheeks were glowing and his frown only made him more endearing. Sherlock smiled wolfishly. "I thought you said no kiss today!"

"I changed my mind. But I'll still bite you if you try to kiss me while you're being annoying."

They looked at each other, and a second later were breaking into fits of giggles.

"Don't make me laugh, John! It hurts!"

"Your fault for being so silly," John retorted.

"Well, look who's talking."

They calmed down slowly and John ran a hand through Sherlock's curls.

"Do I have stitches?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. They should be removed within two weeks, though."

"Two weeks?!"

"Stop whining," John said as he kissed his cheek lightly. Sherlock did not bite him, but suddenly pecked him back. John blinked.

"In a better mood, are we?" he said with a smile, resting his brow on Sherlock's softly.

"John. I feel dirty. Can I shower?"

John frowned a little at the choice of words, not liking Sherlock calling himself 'dirty' in any way, even though his meaning was surely just physical in this instance.

"Not alone. But with help, yes. I asked the nurse yesterday, just to be sure."

Pursing his lips imperceptibly, Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"I knew you'd ask," John explained, pressing a taunting kiss to his nose. The detective frowned.

"With help? Are you saying I'll have to be assisted?"

Fairly amused by the word, John couldn't help smirking.

"Oh yes."

xXx

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tbc