John woke up to Lestrade and Sherlock arguing in the kitchen.
"I have nothing," Greg growled, throwing up his hands. Sherlock scoffed, dismissing the problem.
"Give me anything," he hissed.
John groaned. This was an inevitability he should have foreseen. Sherlock was the least patient man he knew. The man would get bored with an armed gunman after his life; nothing but changed bandages and cluedo and warmed up meals would be unconscionable. The genius was trapped trying to play nursemaid, of course he'd insist on taking on cases again. John frowned, his mind catching up to him. When was the last time he'd changed his bandages? Time ran together badly, but he definitely hadn't had it done since he'd left the hospital. And he was bloody well tired of lying down.
John pushed himself up. He felt nothing from his back or shoulders. At least Sherlock kept him on schedule with his pain medication. But he felt disgusting.
A bath. Then bandages. John pulled his arms from their slings. He'd keep his bandaged hand out of the water and replace its gauze after. He pushed himself up from the couch, ignoring the ache in his arms that couldn't bode well for the action. He needed to be clean and he wasn't going to ask for a bloody escort. He forced himself to walk through the kitchen, ignoring the conversation that stopped halfway through a word as he walked into the room.
"Hey, Greg," he grunted, keeping moving as his vision started to narrow. The last thing he wanted was to collapse now and make a bigger spectacle of himself.
"John," Greg returned cautiously. John kept walking, ignoring how Sherlock followed him. "You look like shite, mate."
"You're likely to fall," Sherlock commented behind him.
"I'm fine," John replied, pushing open the bathroom door and sitting on the toilet like it was commonplace for him to rest while he plugged the drain and turned on the water. He pulled off his shirt on his own, glad for the opiates that kept his shoulders from screaming at the action. He paused for a moment, thinking about getting up again to close the door, before deciding he had limited energy and privacy was a lost cause.
"Sponge baths are safer for your wounds," Sherlock replied, appearing in the doorway.
"Thank you. I'll log that away," John snarked, unwrapping his bandages and listening to the tub fill.
"You should let me help you," Sherlock ordered. John sighed and shook his head, trying to keep his eyes away from the florescent light on the ceiling without looking at Sherlock.
"Doctors and soldiers, the worst patients," he commented, knowing he didn't need to point out that he was both. He threw his shirt and torso bandages aside and started on unwrapping his hand. Sherlock didn't move to help, as he never really did unless told to, and John thought, oddly enough, he might have found the perfect nurse in the selfish man.
"Why them?" Greg asked, appearing beside Sherlock and blocking the door. Greg glanced away from the toilet immediately and his eyes locked on the mirror. The detective swallowed, looking ill, and John realized that with the way he was angled toward the tub, Greg could see his burns.
"Pride and grit," John answered, but he could see no one was listening. Sherlock was watching Greg's reaction, looking puzzled.
"You already knew that was there. You've seen all this before," he said, pointing at John's back. John turned away from the tub to hide his back, too conscious of his pale skin and jutting ribs, the friendly fire wound in his shoulder and the new red scars beside it. His back had been torn up and ugly before he'd been wire tied to a chair in a parking garage.
"It's different in person. Jesus, John," Greg replied, swallowing and looking away from the mirror. John half-smiled, trying to look casual. Sherlock snorted, not buying it, and gestured at John's back again.
"So it's harder when he's not missing?" Sherlock asked, sounding dumbfounded. Greg growled.
"It's easier when I can't smell it, yeah. Sorry, John," he tossed out. John nodded. Wounds smelled. He knew that.
"You smell the anti-septic. The pus was gone weeks ago," Sherlock replied, stepping closer into the room. To smell him, presumably. Right. Enough of that. John turned back toward the tub to turn it off. He leaned over, smelling the hard water, only then realizing that the tub likely hadn't been cleaned in a year or more and god knew what experiment Sherlock had last done before he'd jumped.
He heard Sherlock take another step closer to him over the sound of the rushing water and felt his heartbeat start to rise, his breath come too quickly. Right.
Stop passing out.
Right. Enough water sounds. He reached over to turn the water off, the tub water churning below him, and a droplet hit his cheek.
He jerked back before he'd ever planned to, pulling back and up and onto his feet, the sound of the water roaring in his ears.
"Woah, there!" he heard Greg call out and he slammed back into someone's chest. His burns flared beneath the drugs keeping him groggy, keeping him slow - and he spun, ignoring the pain as he threw the first punch.
He dropped to his knees with his assailant and threw his fist across the man's nose. Sherlock's head swung with the blow and his nose crunched beneath his knuckles.
Sherlock.
John inhaled sharply, the smell of blood flooding his senses and pulled his hands up in surrender. Blood was trickling down his scuffed knuckles. Greg was in the doorway, crouched like he was ready to fight. John forced himself to exhale, pushing himself from Sherlock's knees and sliding onto the floor beside him. He pushed his hands into his hair, shame overwhelming him.
"Check him for signs of a concussion or whiplash," John croaked out, forcing himself to breathe slowly when he wanted to gasp at air. Another dose of PTSD, another round of useless therapy. And he was not in control of his violence, now. John glanced at Sherlock, still lying on the bathroom tile, and rubbed at his hair. He would have to limit who he was around, until he was in control again.
"Neither," Sherlock announced, pulling a rag from beneath the sink without sitting up, just in time for the blood to start flowing toward his mouth.
John ran his hands over his face. Steady hands, finally, for maybe the first time since he'd woken up in hospital.
"The fuck did you do in the army?" Greg asked. John pulled his hands away from his eyes to see Greg checking Sherlock's face.
"Punched people," John answered evasively. Greg snorted.
"You managed to turn off the tub before you rearranged his face, is all," Greg replied, glancing at the bathtub and grabbing Sherlock's chin to inspect it. Sherlock batted him away. John turned his head to see that the tub faucet wasn't even dripping.
Right. So he was never showering with a woman again. That was fine.
"Don't waste water," he replied, unsure what else to say. Sherlock coughed out into his bloody rag. It sounded like he was laughing.
"I'll get you an icepack," Greg said, heading toward the kitchen. John nodded, unsure what to think about Greg and Sherlock causally treating the violence like any other benign routine.
"Er.. Sherlock?" Greg asked, coming back into sight with an icepack in either hand. They had little notes pinned to them - one labeled 'For when John punches you. You deserved it, dear' and one labeled 'He didn't deserve this one, dear'. Sherlock held out his hand for the punching one without question and Greg chuckled.
"Got you two pegged, doesn't she?" he laughed.
"Well, put the other back," Sherlock ordered, holding the ice to his cheek.
"I'm not your bloody housekeeper," Greg joked, moving to obey. John watched the two of them, his adrenaline starting to drain. He tipped his head back on the tile wall, frustrated with himself. Sherlock moved to sit beside him.
"Sorry," John said, gesturing to the bloody rag wrapping the ice.
Sherlock held up Mrs. Hudson's note, apparently agreeing with the sentiment.
"Yeah, well, I'd have rathered punch you on purpose," John replied and Sherlock laughed again.
"I'm heading out!" Greg shouted and the front door slammed shut before they had a chance to answer.
Good man, John thought, glancing at the full tub. Sherlock stretched his legs out under the sink, apparently concluding they'd be there for awhile.
Fuck that.
"Sponge bath?" John suggested, deciding to deal with the fact that he couldn't face down a flooded bathtub later - preferably when he was alone and not currently pumped with adrenaline.
Sherlock jerked his head around to stare at him, visibly startled. John smirked, warm with pride. He'd forgotten what it felt like to have the arrogant Sherlock Holmes meet his eyes, completely flummoxed, and utter 'you just killed a man' like he'd forgotten about it.
I'm a dangerous man. An active man. John drew himself up enough to grab a hand towel from the hook above him. Sherlock pushed himself up and stepped over him to drain the bath. John listened to the water glug down the drain, hoping they'd have enough hot water. Sherlock hovered by the toilet, periodically blotting the blood from his face. His left cheek and nose were red where they were going to swell and bruise.
"Erm.." Sherlock started and John handed him the rag, swallowing his pride. There were too many places he couldn't clean. The last of the water was sucked down the drain and John pushed himself up on his arms, noting how they were shaking again. This bit of idiocy was going to hurt when the drugs wore off. He stripped off his trousers and pants as quickly as he could, trying to make it as clinical as he could. Surely, after Mike's photography sessions, he had nothing that hadn't been projected onto New Scotland Yard's station wall in full color.
"Wet it in the sink," John suggested, pulling himself into the bath and slowly sinking down to sit on his ass as the exhaustion caught up to him. The porcelain was warm from the water but too hard against his bones. He needed to get fatter.
Sherlock handed him a wet soapy wag and John started on his legs, avoiding the long square patch of pink skin where he'd been surgically skinned to help his back. He leaned forward to get his toes clean, trying to ignore how Sherlock sat on the closed toilet, carefully avoiding looking at him or the mirrors.
"You've seen all of this before," John commented, washing his genitals quickly before Sherlock could look back. Sherlock turned and John pushed the rag up his chest, feeling like the rag was heavier in his hand every time he pushed it over his chest. He couldn't lift his arms high enough to touch his shoulders or his neck. Physical therapy could improve that, some day, but it'd take awhile. He didn't want to think about it.
"I'll wash your hair, if you'll turn around," Sherlock offered. John turned in the tub silently, trying to pretend this was normal, but glad to have his countenance hidden from the man. Sherlock scooped water over his short hair and the droplets ran down his back, tickling at his healing skin.
Sherlock ran a hand over his hair, spreading the shampoo and John leaned back against the cool tub wall. It felt good to have those long fingers pushing through his hair. John closed his eyes, grateful to find he could have a man sit behind him without an anxiety response. Sherlock scratched his scalp gently and John fought an impulse to lean into it like a cat. Just a medical wash, he reminded himself, but with that thought his mind turned in another direction and he was naked with the genius Sherlock Holmes massaging his hair and his penis was hardening without his consent. Sherlock's fingers felt strong and sure over his scalp, pressing into his hair and rubbing down his neck. Such a captivating man. Surely he couldn't have gone so much time, believing himself straight and wrong about it?
John tensed, only to realize that that would tell Sherlock everything he was trying to hide, and sure enough Sherlock's fingers stilled and a hand snuck down his neck to subtly check his pulse.
"Sherlock -" John started, wanting to lie, to say it wasn't about him. He wished he could see Sherlock's face. He had no clue what Sherlock would think of this. He'd asked Mrs. Hudson once if Sherlock had every had any girlfriends, any..anyone, and she didn't know. Was he disgusted by it? Interested?
Did you ever want him to touch you more?
His arousal died and John exhaled, grateful for a moment for Mike's more disturbingly personal questions. It didn't matter what Sherlock thought of this, John told himself. He would be leaving regardless.
"We'll need a bucket," Sherlock announced loudly and got up from behind him. "Bucket shower," he muttered on his way out of the bathroom.
John stared at the grimy tile in front of him, humiliation pounding at him. He'd punched the man and been aroused by him in less than ten minutes. No doubt what all of Scotland Yard would have expected from him at Sherlock's return. He wanted to finish the damn bath and end it already, but he didn't dare turn on the faucet.
Sherlock returned, a cooking pot in his hand, and John scooted himself sideways in the bath. He tipped backward and Sherlock's hand settled under his scalp, supporting his head.
"John-" Sherlock warned, and poured the water over the back of John's hair.
"Yeah, sorry about that," John replied, trying to sound as gruff and normal as possible He wasn't sure if he was referring to the punch or the erection and decided to let Sherlock wonder.
"You don't want to talk about it," Sherlock announced, like he'd just come to a great realization.
"At the moment? No," John replied as Sherlock poured another potful of water over his hair.
"It happens to everyone, John," Sherlock protested. They were talking about the erection then, John thought, closing his eyes.
That wasn't a random erection, he thought, and sat up.
"Yeah, I'm clean," he ordered, dragging his legs beneath him.
"Your back?" Sherlock asked and John shook his head.
"Next time," he said and Sherlock pulled a towel from the shelf above the toilet. John wrapped himself in it as best he could, letting the edges get soaked in the water beneath him. He struggled to his feet. "Couch", he said, knowing he needed to lie down, and Sherlock helped him there.
Shite, John thought as Sherlock left for the kitchen, his face still steadily bleeding. John sighed, wanting to fall asleep and think about the whole afternoon later, not caring that he was only wrapped in a towel and the front door was unlocked. But a moment later Sherlock walked back in, his arms full of bandages from the hospital. John groaned and rolled over, seeing that Sherlock carried the sticky kind that he wouldn't need to wrap around himself. His back prickled in the cold air but Sherlock worked rapidly, pasting the sterile pads to his back and sitting down in the chair across from him.
"Reverend Green, in the ballroom, with the dagger," he said and checked the abandoned cards in front of him. John blinked, baffled, as Sherlock moved his figurine. Sherlock glowered at him. "Well you didn't want to talk about erections," he accused. John lifted his head to stare at the ceiling for a moment, gathering his patience.
"Right. Cluedo, of course," he agreed and Sherlock returned to the wretched game.
Mrs. Hudson walked in hours later, during their third horrid game with John too tired to do anything but watch Sherlock play his turn, to stop short at the sight of them. John was wrapped in nothing but a towel and bandages, his hair dried in an uncombed mess, still looking far better than Sherlock whose nose had stopped bleeding in favor of swelling up and reddening to a faint purple. There was blood on his shirt, John realized belatedly, recognizing Sherlock's favorite purple button-up. She pursed her lips, glancing at John's scuffed up hand.
"Cluedo, boys, really?" she scolded, coming inside with another casserole.
"We still have five eighths of the last one," Sherlock commented, glancing at the dish in her hand.
"John won't want to eat the same thing every day," she replied and walked into the kitchen. "My, but it's a strong relief, placing food in a refrigerator full of tupperware and eggs, instead of takeaway and body parts," she commented.
John frowned, surprised to hear that Sherlock had put away the previous night's dinner.
"We have eggs?" he asked instead and Sherlock smirked. Mrs. Hudson huffed and walked back into the room to start clearing up their plates.
"Well, you do now," Mrs. Hudson answered, smiling at him fondly and starting back toward the kitchen. "Oh, and there's a letter for you, dear," she added glancing at Sherlock. Sherlock frowned and stood up, abandoning the game.
"Fetch a paper and a glass of water?" John asked Mrs. Hudson, when she set a meal before him.
"No mysteries in it today, I'm afraid," Mrs. Hudson commented, handing him a newspaper and starting back toward the stairs.
The day ended slowly and John watched the sun set beyond the living room window, trying to prepare himself for another night of dreaming. His adrenaline spiked if he thought about what his trauma might bring to mind and he spent an hour on the couch, staring at his reflection in the dark window, feeling his heartbeat quicken and slow depending on the control he had over his thoughts.
He'd much rather sleep on the couch, but he didn't know what he'd say, if he muttered in his sleep or cried out. He tried not to think too hard about the questions he'd be answering. He heard Sherlock take another gulp of wine straight from the bottle.
The break wasn't working, John reflected. He couldn't simply sigh and put the last year behind him, just because he was tired of grief and fear and anger. And now, to feel Sherlock staring at him, like he was planning to leap up from the couch and try to seduce him? The tangled emotions stretched in the air between them. John sighed, his eyelids too heavy to open again.
"How did you know Mike asked probing questions?" John muttered, shattering the illusion that Sherlock knew nothing of the tension between them. He heard Sherlock finish off the wine and toss the bottle into the bin beside his desk. John opened his eyes to see Sherlock sweeping his hand over the surface of his desk, brushing off the years of dust into a thick film on his hand.
"At the hospital. You spoke in your sleep, begging as you answered," Sherlock replied finally, turning to face him.
Why do you scream for Sherlock Holmes?
John swallowed. That explained why he'd woken up to Sherlock's probing gaze, so many times.
Did you like it when he touched you?
Did you ever want him to touch you more?
Yes. Yes. Sherlock heard him answer that?
It was irrelevant, John thought, not wanting to deal with any other questions about the matter. Anything he and Sherlock had shared had long since dissipated. They couldn't even pretend to be the same two men anymore. What they could have been, had Sherlock wanted him in return, was certainly irrelevant.
Sherlock didn't move, his gaze burning and John stared back into his eyes. He'd have felt so much from that gaze, once, when it felt like Sherlock could see straight through him and he'd reveled in it.
"Inconsequential," Sherlock muttered and turned away. He strode into the kitchen as if nothing was amiss, leaving John in the dark room.
Bullshit.
John pushed himself up from the couch, ignoring the pain, and followed him. Sherlock was buried in his microscope, fiddling with the dials as if he'd left the slide entirely out of focus. John sighed and settled into the chair across from him, only too aware that he wouldn't be able to stand through the whole conversation.
"Right. Sherlock, if it makes you uncomfortable, I have to know," he started awkwardly. "I cannot raise my hands above my shoulders. That will not be the only bath…"
Sherlock flicked off the microscope light with a dramatic sweep of his hand and looked up, his blue eyes glaring.
"I recognize that I must resign myself to the idea that Molly Hooper was correct on a subject," he snarled.
"She's good at her job," John corrected automatically before processing Sherlock's full sentence.
That's very off-topic.
"Also, what?" he added, blinking rapidly. Sherlock sneered.
"Molly told me before I jumped that you'd never forgive me," he replied. John straightened in his chair, annoyed.
"And what did she mean by that?" he asked, annoyed. He could just imagine Molly stammering out such a pathetic truth, while actively strapping Sherlock into his harness or whatever it was that'd saved him from that fall.
"I didn't ask," Sherlock replied, adjusting the slide again. Actually putting it into focus this time, John recognized, knowing Sherlock was slowly disappearing into his concentration. "You're maintaining minimal, maximally uncomfortable contact with me and planning to leave as soon as you can lift your arms over your waist enough to return to work. Ergo, you've not forgiven me under all but the most senseless definitions," Sherlock replied without looking up.
"How…" John started.
"You have not unpacked, you keep the key to your minuscule ugly bedsit in your wallet, and you get frustrated with your lack of shoulder mobility faster than any other current physical shortcoming. Why? Because the ability to lift paperwork is still a concern for being even minimally competent at your clinic. I did not lose my brain with everything else when I jumped," Sherlock replied, snapping a new slide in place and jerking his eyes back against the microscope lenses. John watched him, unsettled.
"Why is that relevant? We were talking about erections," he said finally, pointing senselessly at his crotch. Sherlock sneered again.
"It is relevant because it renders your obvious revelation of attraction towards me inconsequential. You are leaving, ergo it does not matter what state your penis is in when I touch your hair," Sherlock answered before snapping the microscope light back on. "And because you are wondering, yes, I will still aid in your recovery."
John swallowed. That was everything he hadn't asked for. Physical care and no further association. The understanding that the past was dead and not returning.
"Thank you," he said, unsure what else to say. His voice came out too deep. He cleared his throat and his vocal cords protested. He'd damaged them, screaming. Sherlock ignored him.
~~/~~