Here's another chapter for you all! Sorry my updates have been a bit erratic. School's just getting a bit crazy. :P
Thanks to HakuHunterNatural for the prompt! (Hopefully this is close to what you had in mind.)
Enjoy!
John lay on his back, trying to catch his breath.
God, that son of a bitch had kneed him hard.
"John!" he heard Sherlock call.
"Right here," he wheezed out, trying to sit himself up.
"He's getting away, John! Get up!"
John rolled his eyes and clumsily placed his feet on the ground and stood up.
"You keep on..."
Sherlock had already turned the corner.
"...going."
John sighed and sat himself against the wall, wincing as he did so.
Jesus, that hurts.
How hard had he been hit?
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to block out the alarming amount of pain.
I'm probably fine.
He felt a hand roughly shaking him.
"John, mate, are you okay?"
John opened his eyes and saw Lestrade hovering over him with a concerned look on his face.
"John?"
John nodded and pushed himself up from the ground, leaning on the wall for support.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm alright. He just kneed me pretty hard in the gut. I'll be okay."
Lestrade raised a disbelieving eyebrow.
"You're paler than my mother was at her funeral."
John smiled and brushed himself off.
"Really, I'll be fine."
Before Lestrade could protest, there was a loud yell of frustration that echoed down the alleyway.
"We had him!" Sherlock yelled as he stormed over towards Lestrade and John. "Just a few moments quicker, and we would have caught him!"
John's cheeks had turned a deep shade of red, immediately giving away his shame.
"Sorry," he said, his voice quiet.
Sherlock simply growled and pushed through the two men before him.
John sighed and crossed his arms, clutching his biceps to keep the cold from biting at him.
"Sounds like I'm walking home," John said with a half-hearted chuckle.
Lestrade gave the doctor a pitiful smile.
"I can give you a ride."
"Nah, it's okay. You've got to focus on apprehending that bastard."
"At least take some change for a cab. I don't want you walking in this weather, looking the way you do."
The D.I. held out a hand full of coins.
"Greg, I'm seriously okay. I can walk home."
"No way, mate. It's getting dark outside, it's freezing, and you look like death. You're an easy target for muggers. And I sure as hell don't want to be filling out even more paperwork."
Reluctantly, John took the change from Lestrade and pocketed it.
"I'll pay you back tomorrow, yeah?"
"I won't hold you to it."
"Sir!" Donovan called, jogging over.
She looked at John and scowled.
"Did the Freak forget to escort his boyfriend home?"
John just rolled his eyes and shrugged off the comment.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Greg."
"Get some rest, okay mate?"
John nodded.
"Sure."
John shuffled down the stairs into the kitchen, trying to rub away the tired feeling in his eyes.
I know I have some pain meds somewhere.
He rustled through the cabinets, trying to avoid making any noise, but found it hard, considering the amount of glassware hidden about.
"Hey, Sherlock?" he called, knowing the detective would be awake at this hour.
No answer.
John hobbled into the sitting room and found Sherlock sitting at the desk, typing away on his laptop.
"Sherlock?" John asked again.
Still no answer.
"Did you do something with the Ibuprofen?" John asked.
"Yes."
"Mind telling me where you put it?"
"It's all gone. I used it for an experiment."
John sighed and rubbed his side.
"Has all the medication in the flat been used for your experiments?"
"Yes."
John groaned and sat himself down in the chair.
"Do stop moaning, John; it's quite distracting."
"Well, it's not my fault that the guy kneed me in the stomach."
"Hm."
John leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
"God, it really does hurt, though."
"Then go to bed, John. Sleep it off. Besides, it's getting harder for me to focus on this case when you're complaining about a painful bruise."
"Sorry to be such a distraction," John muttered as he eased himself up. "Good night."
"Fine."
John sighed and made his way over to the stairs.
Hopefully I'll feel a bit better tomorrow.
"Won't you hurry up, John?!"
"Give me five minutes, won't you?!"
John hissed as he stroked the unsightly bruise on his stomach.
This can't be just a bruise.
He knew it wasn't. He just refused to admit it.
As quickly as he could, John slipped on his jumper and jacket and raced down the stairs.
"I'm ready!" he called.
"I've got a cab waiting. Let's go," Sherlock said as he placed his phone in his pocket.
The cab ride was rough for John. Every bump that they hit meant excruciating pain.
But he was strong. He gritted his teeth and pretended not to feel a thing.
Finally, they arrived at the Yard. John carefully wandered into the station, the pain seemingly intensifying each time he took a step. He ignored the worried stares from passing officers and continued to limp after his friend.
"Sherlock, slow down," he said, tiredly.
He doubted the detective had heard him.
After what seemed like ages, John finally made his way to the interrogation chamber.
Interrogation? Why in the hell...?
"Okay, Sherlock, make this quick," Lestrade said.
When did Lestrade get here?
"John!"
"Hm? What?"
"I need you to take notes," Sherlock said, sliding off his gloves.
"Oh. Right. Sorry, why are we here?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"I explained this to you in the cab, John. Lestrade's captured the man we were chasing last night."
John furrowed his brow as he tried to remember.
"What's his name?"
"I told you, John, his name is McCoy. Joseph McCoy. We've been over this. Now do hurry up."
As John went to step into the room, he felt someone grab his arm.
"John, if you don't feel up to it, don't do it."
It was Lestrade.
"I'm alright, Greg. Really," John said with a fake smile.
Lestrade raised an eyebrow.
"You look worse than you did yesterday. I don't think you should be doing this."
"He said he's fine, Lestrade. Now, may we proceed?" Sherlock said with an air of annoyance.
"Yeah. Coming in." John wiggled his way out of the D.I.'s tight grip.
Lestrade watched skeptically through the window as John took a seat next to Sherlock.
John squinted at his watch, trying to make out the numbers.
3:30. Fuck. We've been sitting here for three hours.
He gave his half a page of notes a disapproving stare.
"I may be a master of deduction, Mr. McCoy," Sherlock said, "but that does not mean I can read one's mind. Tell me: Who is behind this whole drug operation?"
The criminal laughed.
"I ain't telling you nothin', Mr. Holmes. Or your friend, neither."
John groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Sherlock..."
"Quiet, John." Sherlock removed his coat, carefully draping it over the back of the chair and sat down.
"I don't like long interrogation sessions, especially ones where the subject in question is a complete imbecile. Now, I can tell you're just as ready to get out of here as I am. And you will soon as long as you answer my questions."
McCoy twisted his cuffed wrists a bit. He was obviously uncomfortable.
"I don't need to tell you nothin'."
"Then we'll just sit here longer."
John sighed and crossed his arms.
Sherlock quickly looked the criminal over, and John saw a twinkle of light in the detective's eye, and knew immediately that he had something.
"Does your wife know what you've been up to? Or, should I say 'ex-wife'?" Sherlock said with a smirk.
McCoy shifted in his seat.
"She left you, from the looks of it. The ring on your finger; it's not been polished, but there is no evidence of fingerprints. You tend to forget it's there, as if it's a part of you. However, if you were still with your wife, she'd be there to remind you to polish it every now and then."
The criminal began to turn a deep shade of red. Whether it was out of anger or embarrassment, John wasn't sure.
"Heroin, cocaine, meth; quite the junkie, weren't you? But you stopped doing drugs as soon as you met your wife. Why? Perhaps you really were in love. Perhaps you met because of your drug habits. She was your therapist, hm?"
"Shut up," McCoy growled.
"She helped you get better; to get back on your feet. Then why did she leave you?"
McCoy shook his head.
"Shut the fuck up."
"Of that reason I am not sure. But I can tell you relied on her pay-check. As soon as she left, you knew you needed to start making money for yourself. You already had connections in the drug ring of London, so you began work there, selling. I can tell you've been clean for a while, however, because the punctures in your right forearm have faded. The only reason you didn't pick up your habits again was because you still love your ex-wife. So she obviously didn't cheat on you..."
Sherlock stopped.
"Ohhhhh. I see now. She didn't leave you. She died."
The short fuse which Sherlock had lit finally ran out.
"Stop it! I've had enough!" McCoy shouted.
Suddenly, the man lunged from across the table at Sherlock.
John was immediately alert, his military instinct kicking in before he could even think; he went to tackle the McCoy.
McCoy, surprised by the unexpected reinforcements, wasted no time in ramming the doctor, stomach first, into the metal table.
John let out a sharp gasp and collapsed to the floor, clutching his side.
All noises surrounding him became muffled, and all he could make out were the worried cries of his flatmate.
Sherlock? Worried? That can't be right.
There was a thump not too far off, which John assumed to be the sound of Lestrade pinning McCoy down to the ground.
The last thing he saw before blacking out was the blurred figure of Sherlock frantically calling to him.
He could have sworn he felt a hand cupping his cheek.
John slowly opened his eyes, hissing as they were exposed to the harsh light above him.
"John?" a voice called to him.
"Fuck," was all John could mutter.
He felt a hand on his back guide him to a cup in front of his lips.
"Drink," the voice said, commanding but soothing.
John obeyed and allowed the cool water flow past his lips. It hurt to swallow, but damn the water felt so good.
"John, are you able to speak?"
John wet his lips a bit.
"Sort of."
"Can you open your eyes?"
Had he closed them?
"Lemme try."
John opened his eyes again, and found that the light had been dimmed, making it a bit easier on his stomach and head.
"John?"
The doctor nodded a bit and blinked.
"Yeah. M'awake."
A mop of black curls came swinging into John's field of vision.
"Sherlock?"
Said detective gazed at him guiltily and nodded.
"John, I'm so very sorry."
"Hm? What are you on about?"
"When McCoy attacked you the other day, in the alleyway, he managed to rupture your spleen. It was beginning to heal on its own until he rammed you into the table during the interrogation."
John nodded slowly.
"Right. Why are you sorry?"
"The signs were so obvious. I should have known you needed to take it easy."
"S'not your fault."
Sherlock perched himself on the side of the bed, drumming his fingers nervously on the mattress.
"If I had simply paid attention, you wouldn't be here."
John chuckled.
"Yeah, well, you've never really been that great at paying attention, now, have you?"
"How are you feeling?"
"Drowsy and a bit uncomfortable."
"Hot?"
"Quite."
Much to John's surprise, Sherlock placed his hand on his forehead. The coolness of the detective's skin felt nice against his own, feverish skin, and he leaned into the touch.
"You are incredibly feverish. Though you aren't as bad off as you were yesterday," Sherlock said, removing his hand.
"Yesterday? Jesus, how long have I been here?"
"Not long, I suppose. Three days. You were delirious throughout most of the day yesterday due to a dangerously high fever."
"Oh."
"Well, I suppose I ought to get the nurse," Sherlock said, sliding off the bed towards the door.
"Wait, Sherlock?"
The detective looked over his shoulder.
"Yes?"
"How long have you been here with me?"
There was a brief moment of silence before Sherlock answered.
"I haven't left since you arrived."
John blushed.
"You... you stayed?"
Sherlock turned back around to face the doctor.
"Why wouldn't I?"
"It's just... the case. You were so involved in it and it meant so much to you. Why did you drop everything to watch over me?"
"I wanted to make sure you'd live after my failure to keep you safe. And it seems that you pulled through," he said, gesturing to the machines hooked up to the doctor. "Besides, Lestrade has the case handled for the time being. By the way, he told me to tell you 'get well'."
"It was only a little internal bleeding, Sherlock."
Sherlock's eyes spoke of something more than guilt. Was it... worry?
"John, they told me that you flatlined. It took them approximately two minutes to revive you."
"What?"
"You died, John."
"I'm still alive."
"Your heart stopped beating for a full two minutes. You were dead, John."
"I'm okay now."
Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair.
"I just... I wanted to make sure you stayed alive. I could hardly bear it if I were to be the one responsible for your more permanent death."
John smiled.
"Well, I'll promise you this: When I do die, it won't be your fault."
Sherlock frowned.
"That's hardly comforting. All you've done is remind me that you're mortal."
"So are you."
"Yes, but I don't go running around Afghanistan and London trying to get myself injured."
John's lips tightened.
"I'm not the one who goes looking for trouble."
"Are you saying I do?"
"Yes. As a matter of fact, you crave it."
"Says the man in the hospital bed."
John crossed his arms and leaned back.
"Who ended up here chasing after you."
"I thought you said it wasn't my fault!"
"Never said it was. All I'm saying is, you go looking for danger and I follow you."
"Well, you are an adrenaline junkie."
"Yeah, but you are too, aren't you? I mean, when adventure calls, you don't hesitate to pick up the phone."
"Yes, well... I suppose you're right."
"This is why we're flatmates," John said, smiling.
Sherlock smirked.
"Indeed."
"Right, well, now that you know I'm alive, I think I'm going to get some sleep. You can go ahead and grab the nurse so she can hook me up with some more morphine."
Sherlock nodded.
"Go ahead and get back to the case while you're at it. I can tell the hospital's been quite boring for you."
"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked, uncertain.
"Yeah. I'll be alright."
"Alright. Sleep, then."
John nodded.
"Yeah. See you in a bit."
"John?"
"Hm?"
"Don't do that to me again."
John chuckled.
"I'll try not to."
I tried to add a bit more plot to this one. Hopefully I didn't completely fail.
Keep the prompts coming! :D