A/N: Let it be noted that I am not a doctor. So…. Yeah. Also, I live in the States. I have never been to London. I have Google Maps. Don't hurt me Londoners and English-people; I am but a simple fic-writer. Though I have recently discovered that I can get time estimates for locations. Yes! My only regret is that I discovered this at the end of this chapter. Also, yes, John called off work. I think that's it.
12 Days of Christmas
Chapter 5
16 December, 2014
16 December, 7:15 a.m.
John must have searched the entirety of London before he allowed himself to return to Baker Street in the hopes that maybe, maybe, Sherlock would be there. John almost ran up the seventeen steps in his haste, only to meet disappointment. His friend was still nowhere to be found.
He begins pacing the floor, thoughts racing, gut wrenching. His brain manages to get through three different scenarios of varying horror when a door closes quietly from below. John stops. Heavy footsteps are making their way upstairs. After an agonizing minute, a familiar form appears from around the corner.
"Sherlock, Jesus, where the hell have you been?" he exclaims, crossing the distance between them in three long steps. There's dried blood on Sherlock's cheek, in his hair, the side of his head. He looks pale, shaken, and tired. "What the hell happened?"
A shake of the head is Sherlock's only response.
"Sherlock."
A pause. "Got mugged," he finally mumbles.
John's brow furrows intensely at that. "Why the hell didn't you call me – text – anything? I could have come and gotten you- just look at you! You probably have a concussion. Are you nauseous?"
He is, but for an entirely different reason. He tells John that no, he is not.
Sherlock watches in mild amazement as John's whole body goes from bristling and angry, to soft and gentle. "Still," John says, making careful eye contact, "you should have called."
Sherlock can only nod in response. John holds his gaze for a moment before sighing.
"Come on. Sit down, I'll patch you up." He places the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead. "Jesus, you look like you've run all over London." A corner of Sherlock's lip quirks. He won't tell John why. Not tonight.
Obediently, Sherlock walks over to the couch and sits down.
"Sherlock," John murmurs, carefully dabbing an alcohol-soaked cotton ball against Sherlock's cheek (they didn't have any clean cloths).
"Mm?" Sherlock hums, eyes closed as John's right hand holds his jaw steady. It's warm. Feels good. Comforting.
"About the other day. When I shouted at you." John feels Sherlock tense, sees the other man's left eye open slightly. "I'm not good at this sort of stuff… but I'm sorry. That was wrong of me."
Sherlock shrugs, subconsciously leans into John's hand. John's thumb runs across his cheek.
"I mean it, Sherlock. I don't care what kind of excuses are there. That was not okay. Alright? I'm sorry."
"It's fine, John," mumbles, completely content with the current situation. John's knee is pressed against his outer thigh, thumb still caressing Sherlock's face. John opens his mouth to protest, but is silenced by a quick look from Sherlock.
John lets out a small huff through his nose. "Here, let me see your head," he murmurs after a moment. Sherlock obliges, but winces as John feels around the sizeable gash in his scalp. "Sorry," John immediately apologises, then mumbles under his breath. "Damn, you'll need stitches for this. Up you get – you okay? I need better lighting."
Yes, he is okay, if not a little dizzy. Sherlock attributes that to the possible concussion he received. He holds an arm out briefly to steady himself, but before he can let it drop back to his side, John grabs his wrist.
"Come on," John says, leading Sherlock to the kitchen. He leaves Sherlock there momentarily in order to clear off the kitchen table, making sure any and all potentially dangerous substances are well out of the way. After wiping the table down with alcohol (using a recently disinfected dish towel), he gestures Sherlock to come over and sit down.
The feel of needle and thread pulling through his skin is as uncomfortable as it is familiar.
16 December, 8:02 p.m.
Sherlock is warm. Very warm, and only vaguely uncomfortable. He seems to be sitting up, but also leaning against something soft, and very familiar-smelling. He must have fallen asleep.
In an instant, it all comes rushing back to him. Getting hit, waking up near water, coming home, John tending to him, being sat down on the couch, tugging John down to sit next to him, resting his head on John's shoulder and finally falling asleep.
Sherlock opens his eyes to see John looking fondly at him.
"Greg called," he says, and Sherlock squints. "Says he's going to find whoever did this to you. Also, he has another case. Has the whole Yard stumped. I told him he'd have to wait for you."
All tiredness floods out of Sherlock's body. "Where?" He's suddenly buzzing, and the throbbing in his head dulls. He can barely feel his pulse against the stitches in his scalp.
John smirks. "Wandsworth Common Station. Something about a train."
Sherlock's face contorts into a frown. "A train?"
"Apparently a man appeared out of nowhere and walked onto the tracks in front of an oncoming train. No one knows who he is, no ID, nothing of value at all on him. Just his mobile."
Sherlock doesn't want to form any conclusions as of yet, but so far the biggest mystery is a matter of identity. The motive seems perfectly clear. But, perhaps he'll be surprised. It happens on occasion. He rises to his feet, intending to leave as soon as possible.
"Sherlock." John's voice has a way of stopping him in his tracks. "I'm coming with you this time."
Sherlock grins. "Wouldn't do to have you stay here."