Fic: Bizarre Tales of a Teenage Genius (9/?)
Title: Bizarre Tales of a Teenage Genius
Pairing: Sherlock/John (teenage boarding school AU)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, mentions of violence.
Summary: The aftermath of Anderson's attack is rather different than either of them ever expected.
Word Count: This chapter, 2600ish.
Author's Notes: So hopefully this chapter makes up a bit for the horrors of the last one. Enjoy. :)
“What? No!” Practically bristling in indignation, John pushes himself up onto his elbows and glares defiantly up at Sherlock. “I’m not going to cut myself off from my best mate just because some flaming asshole like Anderson wants me to!”
“While your loyalty is commendable, John, I think you had best consider your own safety,” Sherlock says stiffly, his eyes sliding downwards to rest on his own knees.
“Damn my safety!” John snaps, managing to push himself all the way into a sitting position, albeit leaning against the cool tiled wall.
“Oh, for god’s sake, John, lie down-”
“I’m not leaving you, Sherlock!”
“Anderson will find you again. I cannot allow that to happen-”
“I don’t care. Next time I’ll be prepared.”
“Is there nothing I can say to make you see reason?” Sherlock demands, throwing his hands up in exasperation. Mutely, John shakes his head, jaw set in determination. So maybe he’s being stubborn, but this is just ridiculous. They’d be playing right into Anderson’s hands, letting that stupid bloody prat win. Besides, John knows for a fact that he’d be absolutely miserable without Sherlock, and he has a feeling that the older boy feels the same-
“I care for you, John,” Sherlock announces suddenly, body tensed as if he expects John to hit him. Blinking at him, John nods.
“I care for you too, Sherlock,” he says slowly, the phrasing tasting odd in his mouth. “I told you, you’re my best mate.”
But Sherlock shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut as if the very motion pains him. Letting a long breath, he says, “Not like that. I care for you, in…in the way…” He pauses, swallows hard, and tries again. “In the way that…that Anderson thinks I do.”
For a few long seconds, John just stares at him. He can feel his brain grinding and sparking like an overloaded computer as it tries to process what Sherlock just said. He cares for him, he said. In…in that way. In a-John hardly dares to think the word-romantic way. He’s almost not sure whether he’s more surprised that Sherlock has these feelings for him or that it’s possible for Sherlock to have these feelings at all. The former, however, is probably what’s making his heart pound so loudly.
“Is that not sufficient?” Sherlock snaps, eyes avoiding John’s dumbfounded face. “Will that finally convince you to abandon our friendship?”
Without quite meaning to, John shakes his head, and Sherlock’s eyes narrow. A faint flush has crept into his cheeks, tiny spots of embarrassment burning high on his fine cheekbones. John’s not sure that he’s ever seen anything so lovely.
“For god’s sake, what is the matter with you?” Sherlock cries, running frustrated hands through his hair. “A declaration of this nature would suffice to send any normal teenage boy running for the hills! Why are you still here?”
“Well, I-” John begins before he realizes that he has absolutely no idea how to finish that sentence. As usual, Sherlock has reduced him to a slack-jawed, speechless moron, and to make matters worse, his heart is pounding so loudly that he can barely hear himself think.
“It’s like…I…” he stammers uselessly, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes as he mutters, “Fuck. I’m not good at this.” Dropping his hands uselessly into his lap, he looks up into Sherlock’s face, and there he sees a reflection of his own terror and nerves and oh god what the actual fuck is going on how did I get here what am I doing, and he feels his heart swell because Sherlock’s expression is so beautifully human and he’s really sort of in love.
“I care for you, too,” he blurts out without even thinking. “I-in that way,” he adds quickly, and wait a second, when did Sherlock’s eyes get so big?
“I think,” John goes on, and oh, god, why can’t he just stop talking? “I mean, I’m pretty sure…I don’t really know, it’s sort of new, you know, liking a bloke and all that but…I think…” He trails off, twisting his lower lip anxiously between his teeth. There’s a silence, during which he watches Sherlock fiddle fretfully with one of the bloody paper towels in his hands.
Finally, without looking up, the older boy says, “This is not…you’re not joking?”
Nonplussed, John cocks his head to one side, momentarily jolted out of his painful awkwardness. “Why would I be joking?”
“You must forgive me, but previous experience has taught me to be wary.” Sherlock looks up at John with a grim smile, and there it is again: that tightness in John’s chest, like his heart is expanding-or maybe his ribs are contracting. Whichever it is, he has to fight the urge to wrap his arms around himself to make sure he doesn’t explode in a giant shower of rainbows and sparkles and cupcake frosting and warm fuzzies. Because the longer Sherlock looks at him with those wide, vulnerable eyes, the more likely that becomes.
“Christ, Sherlock,” John breathes, and that came out way more tender than he expected it to. Embarrassed, he rushes on, “No, I’m not joking. I’m not…I wouldn’t do that. To you. Well, to anyone, really, but especially…especially not you.”
One corner of Sherlock’s mouth has started to quirk irresistibly upwards, and John feels a sudden heat spread across his cheekbones.
“Shit, I’m rambling, aren’t I?” he groans, dropping his face into one hand. “Sorry, I don’t…this is all making me kind of nervous.”
“Well,” Sherlock says briskly, and the firmness of his tone makes John look up, “It seems to me that, as we appear to have agreed upon mutual affection and-” he coughs quietly and doesn’t meet John’s eyes, “-attraction, the next logical step is establishing a relationship.”
“A relationship,” John repeats faintly, and things are getting way too crowded in his ribcage because now his stomach has leapt up there to join his swelling heart.
“A relationship,” Sherlock nods, but then the businesslike tone slips slightly from his voice as he adds, “Though I will admit that you are far more experienced than I in matters of this nature, so I suppose I could be wrong…”
Faintly, it occurs to John that he ought to be utterly flabbergasted; Sherlock just admitted that he might be wrong. But somehow he can’t quite dredge up the energy required for adequate rejoicing; all his attention is focused on his next sentence, which he turns over several times in his mind before he finally manages to spit it out.
“Well, I’ll be your boyfriend if you’ll be mine.”
He sort of meant it to be nonchalant and matter-of-fact, but it comes out sort of timid and dreadfully earnest, which is sort of annoying but not terribly important because Sherlock’s nodding, nodding slowly and thoughtfully but very much affirmatively.
“That sounds like a deal to me,” he says quietly, and there’s a smile hidden in there somewhere.
John can’t quite conceal his own as he says, “Right, then.” Ducking his head slightly to hide the impossible grin creeping onto his face, he glances up and sees Sherlock fighting the same sort of awed smile. And really, who could blame him because Christ, this is actually happening. He actually said something, actually spat it out, actually told Sherlock how he feels instead of trying to show him in obscure ways like force-feeding him peas or saving him from drowning. A contented sort of silence falls as they each grin quietly to themselves, reveling in the beauty of shared understanding.
And then Sherlock clears his throat and announces, “I’m taking you to the infirmary.”
“What?” John straightens up, his satisfied smile dropping off his face like a stone.
Sherlock’s face twists just a fraction as he says, “You have just suffered a rather brutal beating, John. You need proper medical care.”
“I feel fine,” John mumbles, and he doesn’t really intend for it to come out so sulky but it does. “What’ll I tell the nurse, anyway? I fell down some really pointy stair-”
“John.” Sherlock cuts him off, and a faint shiver rolls down John’s spine because when those pale eyes meet his they’re dead, dead serious. “I insist. I could never forgive myself if I allowed you to walk away with a serious injury. We are going to the infirmary.”
The concern evident in Sherlock’s voice stirs up something warm and fuzzy in John’s stomach, and he’s vaguely aware of that heart-swelling feeling yet again. At this rate, he’ll be nothing but a puddle of rainbows before long. I could never forgive myself…well, shit, what is he supposed to say to that?
Slumping in defeat, he sighs, “Fine. Though,” he adds exasperatedly, shaking his head, “I don’t understand where this sudden concern for my safety is coming from. Just last week you had me jumping into freezing water after you because you wanted to look at tide pools.”
“That was more out of a lack of concern for my own safety than for yours,” Sherlock points out, his smirk returning as he gets to his feet and leans down to help John up. “I didn’t ask you to come in after me.”
Heat rises in John’s cheeks as he takes Sherlock’s hand and lets him pull him gently to his feet (and there’s a bit of a spark there, because he’s touching Sherlock and that’s okay because they’re boyfriends now and he has half a mind to hold on but Sherlock lets go almost instantly). Honestly, now that he looks back on it, he’s sort of surprised that Sherlock was so convinced that he was straight. He practically drowned himself to save him, not to mention the fact that he’s fallen asleep in Sherlock’s bed twice and fusses at him almost constantly about eating, his injured ankle, doing his schoolwork, and all the other things that concern your average mother.
“So explain to me why, exactly, you thought my feelings for you were strictly platonic?” John asks with a dry smile. Shrugging, Sherlock bends down to scoop up the little pile of paper towels and gauze lying abandoned on the floor. “I suppose I willfully ignored the evidence,” he admits, faintly embarrassed. “I deduced pretty quickly that you were fiercely loyal and sought a more adventurous life than your average prep school boy, which sort of explained the underwater heroics as well as the fact that you leapt into a closet with me after about forty minutes of conversation…”
“Hang on,” John interrupts indignantly as Sherlock dumps the bloodstained towels into the garbage bin. “If I recall correctly, you were the one who pushed me into that closet.”
“And you let me,” Sherlock points out with a sly smile, pushing open the bathroom door.
-
When they arrive at the infirmary, the nurse takes one look at them (John looking like a member of a particularly violent underground boxing ring, Sherlock gone suddenly pale and trying his hardest to hide his limp) and pushes them into adjoining cots, muttering something under her breath that sounds distinctly like what is it with you two. While she bustles off to, John hopes, procure copious amounts of painkillers, he glances anxiously over at Sherlock because what the hell are they going to tell her? The tall boy just pushes himself up onto his elbows and gives John a look that distinctly says, Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered. And then John realizes that they’re communicating without speaking a single word and oh god that’s just so brilliant that he can’t help but grin like a maniac.
That grin, of course, promptly disappears from his face when the nurse returns with her arms full of peroxide and bandages (he remembers the initial sting of the disinfectant and immediately thinks, oh god, not again), sits down on the edge of his bed, and demands to know what happened.
Before John can even open his mouth, Sherlock sits all the way up in his cot and says, “Well, I probably should have known better than to dare him to walk down a flight of stairs with his eyes closed and a glass of water balanced on his head…”
The nurse is so busy screaming at them (too right you should have known better Holmes I thought you were supposed to be a genius and Watson everyone says you’re so levelheaded what on earth were you thinking you could have been killed) that it doesn’t even occur to her to ask how a flight of stairs managed to black both John’s eyes.
-
They spend the night in the infirmary, which John would ordinarily object to except Sherlock keeps him up half the night whispering to him from his bed. And that should be annoying, but instead it’s just kind of sweet and comforting and above all distracting from the pain he’s in and the despair that threatens to overwhelm him whenever he remembers what the nurse told him.
(“Cracked ribs,” she tuts when she nearly reduces him to tears by pressing down on them. “And God only knows why you’ve no internal bleeding from the fall you took. No physical activity for at least three weeks, Watson.”
“But-” he starts to protest, but she silences him with a stern look.
“Be grateful that your ribs are the only bones you broke, Mr. Watson,” she snaps.
“But,” he tries again, “What about football?”
“They’ll just have to manage without you,” she informs him coldly, getting up and making her way back towards her desk. “And don’t think you can wiggle your way out of this,” she adds over her shoulder. “I’m writing a note to your coach right now.”
He flops down onto his cot as violently as his throbbing torso will allow, because three weeks without football. The season will nearly be over by the time he’s healed, and what the hell is supposed to do with himself until then?)
Half of him (three quarters, if he’s being honest with himself) wants desperately to climb into Sherlock’s bed-not even to do anything, just to lie there close to him and brush up against those bony limbs and feel the other boy’s body heat. But the other quarter of his brain is full of objections: what if the nurse comes in to check on them, what if they fall asleep that way and she finds them in the morning, and anyway what on earth would Sherlock say? Besides, despite the ice pack he’s got pressed against them, his ribs ache like hell and movement is kind of unfathomable at the moment.
And so he wakes up alone in bed, but when he looks over at Sherlock the pale boy smiles at him so warmly that he can almost forget that he’s so sore that it practically hurts to breathe.
After the nurse discharges them, when they’re alone in the dim, early morning hallway, Sherlock reaches over and squeezes John’s hand, very gently and far too briefly for his taste. Once he lets go, they walk to breakfast without saying a word. Still, the very memory of it is enough to keep a faint smile on John’s face throughout the whole day.
---------
So there's something quite odd going on with Livejournal, so do excuse any odd line breaks and things. M'not entirely sure what's happening, but hopefully it's still readable. :)
Pairing: Sherlock/John (teenage boarding school AU)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, mentions of violence.
Summary: The aftermath of Anderson's attack is rather different than either of them ever expected.
Word Count: This chapter, 2600ish.
Author's Notes: So hopefully this chapter makes up a bit for the horrors of the last one. Enjoy. :)
“What? No!” Practically bristling in indignation, John pushes himself up onto his elbows and glares defiantly up at Sherlock. “I’m not going to cut myself off from my best mate just because some flaming asshole like Anderson wants me to!”
“While your loyalty is commendable, John, I think you had best consider your own safety,” Sherlock says stiffly, his eyes sliding downwards to rest on his own knees.
“Damn my safety!” John snaps, managing to push himself all the way into a sitting position, albeit leaning against the cool tiled wall.
“Oh, for god’s sake, John, lie down-”
“I’m not leaving you, Sherlock!”
“Anderson will find you again. I cannot allow that to happen-”
“I don’t care. Next time I’ll be prepared.”
“Is there nothing I can say to make you see reason?” Sherlock demands, throwing his hands up in exasperation. Mutely, John shakes his head, jaw set in determination. So maybe he’s being stubborn, but this is just ridiculous. They’d be playing right into Anderson’s hands, letting that stupid bloody prat win. Besides, John knows for a fact that he’d be absolutely miserable without Sherlock, and he has a feeling that the older boy feels the same-
“I care for you, John,” Sherlock announces suddenly, body tensed as if he expects John to hit him. Blinking at him, John nods.
“I care for you too, Sherlock,” he says slowly, the phrasing tasting odd in his mouth. “I told you, you’re my best mate.”
But Sherlock shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut as if the very motion pains him. Letting a long breath, he says, “Not like that. I care for you, in…in the way…” He pauses, swallows hard, and tries again. “In the way that…that Anderson thinks I do.”
For a few long seconds, John just stares at him. He can feel his brain grinding and sparking like an overloaded computer as it tries to process what Sherlock just said. He cares for him, he said. In…in that way. In a-John hardly dares to think the word-romantic way. He’s almost not sure whether he’s more surprised that Sherlock has these feelings for him or that it’s possible for Sherlock to have these feelings at all. The former, however, is probably what’s making his heart pound so loudly.
“Is that not sufficient?” Sherlock snaps, eyes avoiding John’s dumbfounded face. “Will that finally convince you to abandon our friendship?”
Without quite meaning to, John shakes his head, and Sherlock’s eyes narrow. A faint flush has crept into his cheeks, tiny spots of embarrassment burning high on his fine cheekbones. John’s not sure that he’s ever seen anything so lovely.
“For god’s sake, what is the matter with you?” Sherlock cries, running frustrated hands through his hair. “A declaration of this nature would suffice to send any normal teenage boy running for the hills! Why are you still here?”
“Well, I-” John begins before he realizes that he has absolutely no idea how to finish that sentence. As usual, Sherlock has reduced him to a slack-jawed, speechless moron, and to make matters worse, his heart is pounding so loudly that he can barely hear himself think.
“It’s like…I…” he stammers uselessly, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes as he mutters, “Fuck. I’m not good at this.” Dropping his hands uselessly into his lap, he looks up into Sherlock’s face, and there he sees a reflection of his own terror and nerves and oh god what the actual fuck is going on how did I get here what am I doing, and he feels his heart swell because Sherlock’s expression is so beautifully human and he’s really sort of in love.
“I care for you, too,” he blurts out without even thinking. “I-in that way,” he adds quickly, and wait a second, when did Sherlock’s eyes get so big?
“I think,” John goes on, and oh, god, why can’t he just stop talking? “I mean, I’m pretty sure…I don’t really know, it’s sort of new, you know, liking a bloke and all that but…I think…” He trails off, twisting his lower lip anxiously between his teeth. There’s a silence, during which he watches Sherlock fiddle fretfully with one of the bloody paper towels in his hands.
Finally, without looking up, the older boy says, “This is not…you’re not joking?”
Nonplussed, John cocks his head to one side, momentarily jolted out of his painful awkwardness. “Why would I be joking?”
“You must forgive me, but previous experience has taught me to be wary.” Sherlock looks up at John with a grim smile, and there it is again: that tightness in John’s chest, like his heart is expanding-or maybe his ribs are contracting. Whichever it is, he has to fight the urge to wrap his arms around himself to make sure he doesn’t explode in a giant shower of rainbows and sparkles and cupcake frosting and warm fuzzies. Because the longer Sherlock looks at him with those wide, vulnerable eyes, the more likely that becomes.
“Christ, Sherlock,” John breathes, and that came out way more tender than he expected it to. Embarrassed, he rushes on, “No, I’m not joking. I’m not…I wouldn’t do that. To you. Well, to anyone, really, but especially…especially not you.”
One corner of Sherlock’s mouth has started to quirk irresistibly upwards, and John feels a sudden heat spread across his cheekbones.
“Shit, I’m rambling, aren’t I?” he groans, dropping his face into one hand. “Sorry, I don’t…this is all making me kind of nervous.”
“Well,” Sherlock says briskly, and the firmness of his tone makes John look up, “It seems to me that, as we appear to have agreed upon mutual affection and-” he coughs quietly and doesn’t meet John’s eyes, “-attraction, the next logical step is establishing a relationship.”
“A relationship,” John repeats faintly, and things are getting way too crowded in his ribcage because now his stomach has leapt up there to join his swelling heart.
“A relationship,” Sherlock nods, but then the businesslike tone slips slightly from his voice as he adds, “Though I will admit that you are far more experienced than I in matters of this nature, so I suppose I could be wrong…”
Faintly, it occurs to John that he ought to be utterly flabbergasted; Sherlock just admitted that he might be wrong. But somehow he can’t quite dredge up the energy required for adequate rejoicing; all his attention is focused on his next sentence, which he turns over several times in his mind before he finally manages to spit it out.
“Well, I’ll be your boyfriend if you’ll be mine.”
He sort of meant it to be nonchalant and matter-of-fact, but it comes out sort of timid and dreadfully earnest, which is sort of annoying but not terribly important because Sherlock’s nodding, nodding slowly and thoughtfully but very much affirmatively.
“That sounds like a deal to me,” he says quietly, and there’s a smile hidden in there somewhere.
John can’t quite conceal his own as he says, “Right, then.” Ducking his head slightly to hide the impossible grin creeping onto his face, he glances up and sees Sherlock fighting the same sort of awed smile. And really, who could blame him because Christ, this is actually happening. He actually said something, actually spat it out, actually told Sherlock how he feels instead of trying to show him in obscure ways like force-feeding him peas or saving him from drowning. A contented sort of silence falls as they each grin quietly to themselves, reveling in the beauty of shared understanding.
And then Sherlock clears his throat and announces, “I’m taking you to the infirmary.”
“What?” John straightens up, his satisfied smile dropping off his face like a stone.
Sherlock’s face twists just a fraction as he says, “You have just suffered a rather brutal beating, John. You need proper medical care.”
“I feel fine,” John mumbles, and he doesn’t really intend for it to come out so sulky but it does. “What’ll I tell the nurse, anyway? I fell down some really pointy stair-”
“John.” Sherlock cuts him off, and a faint shiver rolls down John’s spine because when those pale eyes meet his they’re dead, dead serious. “I insist. I could never forgive myself if I allowed you to walk away with a serious injury. We are going to the infirmary.”
The concern evident in Sherlock’s voice stirs up something warm and fuzzy in John’s stomach, and he’s vaguely aware of that heart-swelling feeling yet again. At this rate, he’ll be nothing but a puddle of rainbows before long. I could never forgive myself…well, shit, what is he supposed to say to that?
Slumping in defeat, he sighs, “Fine. Though,” he adds exasperatedly, shaking his head, “I don’t understand where this sudden concern for my safety is coming from. Just last week you had me jumping into freezing water after you because you wanted to look at tide pools.”
“That was more out of a lack of concern for my own safety than for yours,” Sherlock points out, his smirk returning as he gets to his feet and leans down to help John up. “I didn’t ask you to come in after me.”
Heat rises in John’s cheeks as he takes Sherlock’s hand and lets him pull him gently to his feet (and there’s a bit of a spark there, because he’s touching Sherlock and that’s okay because they’re boyfriends now and he has half a mind to hold on but Sherlock lets go almost instantly). Honestly, now that he looks back on it, he’s sort of surprised that Sherlock was so convinced that he was straight. He practically drowned himself to save him, not to mention the fact that he’s fallen asleep in Sherlock’s bed twice and fusses at him almost constantly about eating, his injured ankle, doing his schoolwork, and all the other things that concern your average mother.
“So explain to me why, exactly, you thought my feelings for you were strictly platonic?” John asks with a dry smile. Shrugging, Sherlock bends down to scoop up the little pile of paper towels and gauze lying abandoned on the floor. “I suppose I willfully ignored the evidence,” he admits, faintly embarrassed. “I deduced pretty quickly that you were fiercely loyal and sought a more adventurous life than your average prep school boy, which sort of explained the underwater heroics as well as the fact that you leapt into a closet with me after about forty minutes of conversation…”
“Hang on,” John interrupts indignantly as Sherlock dumps the bloodstained towels into the garbage bin. “If I recall correctly, you were the one who pushed me into that closet.”
“And you let me,” Sherlock points out with a sly smile, pushing open the bathroom door.
-
When they arrive at the infirmary, the nurse takes one look at them (John looking like a member of a particularly violent underground boxing ring, Sherlock gone suddenly pale and trying his hardest to hide his limp) and pushes them into adjoining cots, muttering something under her breath that sounds distinctly like what is it with you two. While she bustles off to, John hopes, procure copious amounts of painkillers, he glances anxiously over at Sherlock because what the hell are they going to tell her? The tall boy just pushes himself up onto his elbows and gives John a look that distinctly says, Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered. And then John realizes that they’re communicating without speaking a single word and oh god that’s just so brilliant that he can’t help but grin like a maniac.
That grin, of course, promptly disappears from his face when the nurse returns with her arms full of peroxide and bandages (he remembers the initial sting of the disinfectant and immediately thinks, oh god, not again), sits down on the edge of his bed, and demands to know what happened.
Before John can even open his mouth, Sherlock sits all the way up in his cot and says, “Well, I probably should have known better than to dare him to walk down a flight of stairs with his eyes closed and a glass of water balanced on his head…”
The nurse is so busy screaming at them (too right you should have known better Holmes I thought you were supposed to be a genius and Watson everyone says you’re so levelheaded what on earth were you thinking you could have been killed) that it doesn’t even occur to her to ask how a flight of stairs managed to black both John’s eyes.
-
They spend the night in the infirmary, which John would ordinarily object to except Sherlock keeps him up half the night whispering to him from his bed. And that should be annoying, but instead it’s just kind of sweet and comforting and above all distracting from the pain he’s in and the despair that threatens to overwhelm him whenever he remembers what the nurse told him.
(“Cracked ribs,” she tuts when she nearly reduces him to tears by pressing down on them. “And God only knows why you’ve no internal bleeding from the fall you took. No physical activity for at least three weeks, Watson.”
“But-” he starts to protest, but she silences him with a stern look.
“Be grateful that your ribs are the only bones you broke, Mr. Watson,” she snaps.
“But,” he tries again, “What about football?”
“They’ll just have to manage without you,” she informs him coldly, getting up and making her way back towards her desk. “And don’t think you can wiggle your way out of this,” she adds over her shoulder. “I’m writing a note to your coach right now.”
He flops down onto his cot as violently as his throbbing torso will allow, because three weeks without football. The season will nearly be over by the time he’s healed, and what the hell is supposed to do with himself until then?)
Half of him (three quarters, if he’s being honest with himself) wants desperately to climb into Sherlock’s bed-not even to do anything, just to lie there close to him and brush up against those bony limbs and feel the other boy’s body heat. But the other quarter of his brain is full of objections: what if the nurse comes in to check on them, what if they fall asleep that way and she finds them in the morning, and anyway what on earth would Sherlock say? Besides, despite the ice pack he’s got pressed against them, his ribs ache like hell and movement is kind of unfathomable at the moment.
And so he wakes up alone in bed, but when he looks over at Sherlock the pale boy smiles at him so warmly that he can almost forget that he’s so sore that it practically hurts to breathe.
After the nurse discharges them, when they’re alone in the dim, early morning hallway, Sherlock reaches over and squeezes John’s hand, very gently and far too briefly for his taste. Once he lets go, they walk to breakfast without saying a word. Still, the very memory of it is enough to keep a faint smile on John’s face throughout the whole day.
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So there's something quite odd going on with Livejournal, so do excuse any odd line breaks and things. M'not entirely sure what's happening, but hopefully it's still readable. :)