This is a non-canon work in progress. Honestly it's to cure my writers block and i'm really enjoying writing it, so if something changes i'll do my best to make that clear. Characters will be added as i go and the rating is likely to creep up as well...
The tension in the room was palpable as Mrs Hudson rushed away, a few moments later and her door could be heard slamming in the distance. "Go after her and apologise." John said, putting his newspaper down; giving up having reread the same article 3 times having not taken it in. The noise seemed to get Sherlock's attention as his eyes focused on him. He seemed to do that a lot, he'd be looking in John's direction but he wasn't confident he was actually present or looking at him. It was somewhat inevitable it was going to end with Sherlock taking his withdrawal and boredom out on someone close to him.
"Apologise?" Sherlock asked, sitting forward in his chair, cocking his head to one side like the word was a foreign concept to him. He looked at John contemplatively, leaving one of his awkwardly long pauses before taking another breath and steepling his fingers in front of him. The trademark move of his was becoming more and more frustrating.
"Mm-hm. I'm sure you can deduce the meaning." John responded, holding eye contact with him despite wanting nothing more than to look away. Sherlock had said on multiple occasions that people often didn't take him too seriously as he didn't hold their eyeline and looked away. It was a sign of submission or self consciousness apparently. He'd often chastised his own physiology for playing right into Sherlock's knowing gaze.
"Oh, John, I envy you so much."
This response wasn't what he had expected so he hesitated momentarily. He weighed up his options as to whether it was worth ignoring Sherlock and playing dumb. One way or another he knew Sherlock would enlighten him so he decided to choose the faster route. May as well ask on his own terms.
"You envy me?" He said eventually, sounding as exasperated as he felt.
"Your mind: it's so placid, straightforward, barely used. Mine's like an engine, racing out of control; a rocket tearing itself to pieces trapped on the launch pad. I need a case!" He waved his arms with a dramatic flourish and hit the arm rests to emphasise his point. It was clear that the lack of nicotine and mental stimuli were affecting him more than John had anticipated they might.
"I'm glad you think so, Sherlock. I was beginning to wonder whether you could go more than 5 minutes without insulting me. You've said yourself before that you require my services on occasion; though it must be difficult to be the most poignant human being to ever grace the planet." The doctor gave a wry smile to let him know that though most people would be extremely affronted by the previous statement, he was used to it. He'd never admit it to him (he probably already knew anyway) but as soon as he'd announced he was abstaining from cigarettes he'd booked a break from work to coincide with the worst of the symptoms.
Sherlock stood up from his chair in a quick, jittery motion. "My apologies John, I didn't realise that PTSD, alcoholism and sexual addiction were prerequisites in solving cases."
The words felt like a stab to the heart. He'd never really been too hurt by words before. He'd understood their importance but he was a product of the army and had all but blocked out any form of pain that wasn't physical. Well, so he liked to think, anyway. This was something different entirely. Sherlock was the first man he'd actually gotten on with in a long time. He had mates that he went to the pub with or watched football with, but this was different. The relationship he had with Sherlock was the closest he'd ever felt to having a best friend, and suddenly he understood what it might feel like to be a cuckolded spouse. It sounded ridiculous in his head, but the betrayal stung and he was mortified for a moment when his eyes stung; threatening tears.
The sound of shattering glass caught him off guard and was followed by a sharp pain in his right hand. He had completely forgotten that he'd been holding a pint glass and had gripped it so tightly it had exploded in his hand. "God. Damnit. Sherlock." John spat, rising from his chair quickly, blood dripping from his hand. It was clear it had cut deep into the muscle and would require stitches at the very least. To his surprise the look on the other man's face had changed to one of deep concern. He wasn't sure he'd really seen that look from him before, not when it related to him anyway.
The warm viscous liquid ran down his arm and the metallic scent burnt his nostrils. The smell of blood always took him back to Afghanistan no matter how hard he tried. He'd worked hard with his various therapists and doctors to get his physical reactions under control, but he knew it would likely be something he'd have to deal with for the rest of his life. He cupped his hand with his left to try and catch some of the blood before it soaked too deeply into the carpet.
"Let me help you, John." The other man said, suddenly much closer. Usually in such matters he would have told Sherlock where to stick his help but the blood loss was starting to make the room spin unpleasantly. He blinked his eyes closed for a moment but was frustrated when opening them again was more difficult than he remembered it to be. He staggered when his balance betrayed him and Sherlock's hand appeared on the small of his back, the other under his arm.
"I've got it Sherlock. I'm sure my trauma-addled brain can handle it." He responded once he was able to open his eyes again and the walls were back to where they were supposed to be. Sherlock rolled his eyes and let go of his arm and back, disappearing from the room. He reappeared with his GP bag and he took a deep breath, trying his hardest to stay alert.
Sherlock removed the necessary medical paraphernalia from the bag with all of the deftness of a trained medical professional, and he wasn't entirely sure why it surprised him. He was probably better at this than he was. "I didn't mean what I said. Well I did, but there was no use pointing it out. We both know you have those things under control. It was pure impulsive belligerence that led me to say it, and it wasn't fair." He began, holding the gauze to the wound until the bleeding had stopped enough to administer the anaesthetic injection.
The sharp scratch as the metal penetrated his hand was uncomfortable and as much as he'd been an army doctor and GP, he'd never been a good patient himself. Something about being injured himself meant he struggled to compartmentalise the way he did with other patients. He let his eyes fall closed as he fought lightheadedness and was secretly pleased when Sherlock suggested he take a seat. The numbness slowly spread throughout his hand and the other man relinquished his pressure on the gauze slowly.
"Shall I begin?" came the voice from slightly below him. It was likely that the detective was knelt on the floor to perform the stitches and as much as he wanted to see it, the warmth of unconsciousness was dragging him further under; his eyelids getting heavier.
"Mhm." He managed.
The world he had previously known was now sideways and he racked his brain trying to recall when he'd gotten into bed. His senses came back slowly and the pain came back in his hand quicker than he would have liked. He remembered the argument, the broken glass, Sherlock stitching his hand. The blood loss alone was pretty significant, coupled with the fact he'd been drinking and had been feeling dizzy left him mortified. He'd lost consciousness. He'd fainted; liked a damsel in distress. His breath hitched slightly as he realised there was a depression of weight beside him in his usually empty bed.
The realisation that Sherlock Holmes wasn't just sitting in his bed beside him, but had clearly carried him there and was checking on him was difficult to process. Usually he wouldn't care too much about these things, he'd call Sherlock a hurtful term and make fun of him. Somehow this felt different. That Sherlock had cared enough to stay by his side, and wasn't just doing his own thing unconcerned suggested he felt even slightly responsible for what had happened.
Any and all feedback is welcomed. I'm working a chapter ahead but writing and reviewing as I go so i am happy to change anything on the fly!
