Wounded With His Wounded Heart, Ch. 5
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Sherlock; it all belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended.
Author’s Note: I must, once again, thank WickedforGood13, who has read countless PMs about my headcanon and characterization for this story and soothed my worried nerves. She is an endless help and a very good friend. I also want to thank all of you who have read and reviewed! I appreciate it so much.
I have no personal experience whatsoever of the armed forces, so I do not in any way claim that John’s impressions and/or experiences are accurate, just my own attempt to understand how he functions. However, it is true that LGBTQ individuals have been able to serve openly in all branches of the British armed forces since 2000 - a good ten years before John meets Sherlock.
Wounded With His Wounded Heart - Chapter Five
John woke slowly the next morning, feeling soft sunlight touching his eyelids and warmth surrounding him. He felt more rested than he’d been in ages, and he was acutely conscious of the body next to his in the bed. Sherlock’s long limbs were stretched out beside him, and John’s nostrils were full of his scent again, the earthy spiciness that was all his overlaid with a faint trace of chemicals and an inexplicable hint of nutmeg.
John opened his eyes and turned carefully onto his side, wanting to see Sherlock but not wake him. The detective was on his back and apparently sound asleep, but John could tell he wasn’t comfortable - his muscles were too tense, his posture too stiff. He was still in pain, even while unconscious, and he wouldn’t feel particularly energized when he woke up. Ibuprofen helped enough during the day that Sherlock could ignore most of his discomfort, but he needed to sleep well in order to heal. John decided he would try to think of a sedative that Sherlock could take for a few days - once he’d had some tea.
Right now, though, he wouldn’t leave the bed or his spot in it for the world. The sunlight trickling in around the curtains illuminated Sherlock’s pale skin as though it were white marble and picked up the highlights in his dark curls. He looked younger, softer, and still devastatingly handsome. John reached out a hand and gently combed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, marveling again at the softness of it.
The remainder of the evening before had been pleasant and congenial, much like their quiet evenings in 221B - though any readers of John’s blog might believe that they had never had any quiet evenings, they had managed them quite often when there weren’t any cases, and they had been some of John’s favorite times. Sherlock had generally been absorbed in an experiment or playing his violin to stave off his boredom, while John caught up on the latest medical research. Thankfully, being in Mycroft’s guest suite had made very little difference at all in their dynamic, though John knew they were both hyper-aware of each other.
Once they had fetched their plates from the kitchen, they settled on the couch and flipped through the television channels until they found some ridiculous game show - John wasn’t sure he even followed the premise of it, but it had been entertaining all the same to watch Sherlock pick apart the foibles and personal lives of the contestants, to the extent that he could do so through a television screen.
When they were both done eating, they had shifted positions - although Sherlock could not sprawl on the couch as was his habit, not with his injuries, he still seemed to be more comfortable lying down, and he had maneuvered himself until his head was in John’s lap. He was hesitant to do so, John could tell, even though he was projecting an air of unstudied casualness, and John had run his hand over Sherlock’s hair in silent confirmation that yes, this was fine, and they were completely fine. The tension had drained out of Sherlock’s muscles at the touch, and from then on they both simply enjoyed the closeness. When they ran out of game shows, they settled on reruns of Poirot, and watching Agatha Christie with Sherlock was as amusing, if not more so, than watching him tear apart game show contestants - his continuous mutterings about illogical events in the storyline, red herrings, unrealistic behavior by the criminals and the innocent parties alike, all tickled John immensely.
It wasn’t until they were both almost nodding off that John had reached over and switched off the telly, then nudged Sherlock until he sat up, yawning blearily and wincing.
“Come on,” John had said, quietly insistent. “You don’t want to sleep like that; your body will hate you for it tomorrow. Take the bathroom first. I’ll change the dressing on your arm when you’re done.”
Sherlock had gone to perform his ablutions and change, and John had gathered their dishes and quickly cleaned them in the kitchen before digging out his own pajamas and toiletries from his duffel. He had also gathered up the small medical kit he carried everywhere, set everything on the large queen bed in one of the bedrooms, then gone and rapped on the door of the en suite.
“I’ll fix your arm whenever you’re ready, Sherlock,” he had called.
This morning, Sherlock’s arms were covered with the luxurious, sleep-rumpled sheets of the bed, but John winced as he remembered the slice that lay underneath the bandage on Sherlock’s forearm. The gash had been nasty and deep; the only fortunate thing was that it had been made by a very sharp knife, and so the cut had been clean, with sharp, defined edges instead of ragged tearing of the tissue. Someone had done a good job of stitching it up - Sherlock himself? Mycroft’s doctor? A stranger? John would have to ask; he had no idea where Sherlock had been when he confronted Moran - and while Sherlock would definitely have a scar, the wound would hopefully heal cleanly, into a single white line. It was also fortunate that it had been his right arm and not his left; his violin playing would not be impeded in his fingering hand. John had made Sherlock flex his fingers and rotate his forearm, and he not seen any obvious nerve damage, but it would be easier (and less frustrating for his best friend) to rehabilitate Sherlock’s bow hand if necessary.
The hand that wasn’t stroking Sherlock’s curls clenched into a fist as John thought about the injuries covering Sherlock’s body. Sherlock had borne the cleaning and re-dressing of the wound with silent stoicism and a clenched jaw, though it must have been painful. Because he had been without his shirt, John had gotten a fresh look at not only the bruises, but the myriad cuts, scrapes, and other injuries that were all in various stages of healing, as well as a few that had long since healed but had left scars here and there.
Moran was lucky he was already dead. John would have taken pleasure in making his death as painful as possible, along with the death of every other person who had dared to injure Sherlock. John could still barely process that Sherlock had done what he had - not that he had accomplished it; John knew exactly how single-minded the detective could be, but that he had done it for John’s sake, for Mrs. Hudson’s sake, for Lestrade’s sake, for the handful of people he loved with fierce devotion, though he was often terrible at showing it. John might want to shake him and shout at him for going off into so much danger on his own, but his friend’s actions also only made him love Sherlock more.
After John had finished wrapping up Sherlock’s arm, there had been a small moment of awkwardness when they both looked at each other, knowing that this next part was new and crossing lines that neither of them had expected to ever cross. John, however, had raised his chin in determination and taken Sherlock’s hand, leading them both to the bedroom. He had never been one to shy away from danger, certainly not with this man by his side, and he wasn’t about to start.
He had lain down, stretching out on his side, and gestured for Sherlock to take the other side of the wide expanse of bed. Sherlock had settled himself carefully, on his back, and John had leaned over and brushed his lips over Sherlock’s forehead.
“I don’t want to put any weight on you; that’s not going to feel good with your ribs and all of those bruises,” he had said quietly. He wanted Sherlock to understand that it wasn’t that he didn’t crave physical closeness; he simply didn’t want to make Sherlock any more uncomfortable than he already was. “Otherwise I’d happily have my arms around you, or yours around me. But I’m right here if you need anything, yeah? Wake me up if anything feels wrong.”
Sherlock had looked up at him, his eyes tired but bright, and nodded with a little smile before propping himself up long enough to give John a soft kiss. “I will. Good night, John.”
“Good night, Sherlock,” John had whispered back, and he had fallen asleep with one hand carefully resting on the detective’s arm, needing the reassurance and comfort of touch even in sleep.
He was doing it again, John realized - one hand was still in Sherlock’s hair, and the other was resting on his bicep. He couldn’t get enough of touching Sherlock, it seemed - and while part of it was certainly shock, still, that his best friend was alive and physically real, John knew the rest of it was simple yearning. He had spent a year thinking that his chance to have this was gone forever, that the possibility of loving and being with Sherlock had been snatched from him almost before he realized it existed, and now it was almost impossible to stop himself from affirming his feelings, affirming what they both felt, in as many ways as possible. Touch was one of the easiest and most profound, and every touch they shared made everything a little more certain. Part of John still couldn’t believe that in the space of twenty-four hours, he had gone from feeling as though he would never be whole again to being given both of his deepest desires, glowing with promise.
“How is it,” he whispered, “that someone as extraordinary as you, Sherlock Holmes, could love an ordinary army doctor like me?”
“That adjective is patently untrue,” Sherlock murmured sleepily, shifting a bit and arching into John’s touch.
“Which, ‘army’?’” John said facetiously. “I was an army doctor, Sherlock; I can show you the file.”
“No need; Mycroft already did,” Sherlock replied, his eyes still closed.
John chuckled, leaning over and kissing Sherlock’s temple. “Of course he did. You prat. How long were you laying there while I was watching you?”
“I actually was mostly asleep,” Sherlock confessed, finally blinking his eyes open. They were soft as he looked at John. “I must admit that being woken by your voice and your hands in my hair is a vast improvement.”
“Over what?” John questioned, not sure he wanted to know just where or in what conditions Sherlock had had to sleep in the last year.
“Over everything, over any other form of waking I’ve experienced,” Sherlock said, his voice still rough with sleep and his speech slowed. He smiled that same happy, vibrant, slightly shy smile John had seen the day before, and John couldn’t resist leaning down again to kiss him tenderly, on the lips this time, his own smile making his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“So it was ‘ordinary’ you were taking issue with?” John teased him when he pulled away. “I think it is true, Sherlock; I’m quite a typical person in most respects.”
“Rubbish,” Sherlock retorted brusquely, sounding more awake by the second as he worked his way into an argument. “Anyone who can tolerate me as a flatmate, much less love me as you seem to, is far from ordinary, John. Donovan would tell you that you are certifiably insane.”
“Oh, and Sally Donovan’s word is to be taken as gospel. She was so right about you,” John snapped. The words came out harsh, harsher than he meant them to, as he remembered not only Donovan’s accusations before Sherlock’s fall, but also several very vicious and quite possibly slanderous things she had said to reporters afterward, until someone had put a ban on all Scotland Yard employees giving interviews about Sherlock.
He tried to pull away, upset with himself for getting angry and breaking the lovely cocoon they had created, but Sherlock was having none of it, bringing his arms around John’s upper back so that he couldn’t move without pulling at Sherlock as well.
“What did she say to you?” Sherlock demanded, and his voice was determined, his keen eyes taking in John’s face and expression, and John knew that once Sherlock and Sally saw each other again, the detective would be having words with her.
“Nothing. Everything. Everything she has said before and more besides. And not to me, but to the papers. I didn’t want to see her face after you died, and it’s a good thing I didn’t. It would have taken all of my self-control not to lose my temper in front of half the Yard, or hit her, or do something equally reprehensible,” John said bitterly. “She deserved it.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Sherlock said tightly. “She never has liked me, and I’ve made no secret of the fact that I neither like nor respect her. She saw her chance to get back at me and took it. All the better for her that I was supposedly dead and unable to defend myself. She must have been delighted.”
“Oh, she was,” John agreed. “Why is it that she dislikes you so much anyway? Apart from the obvious ‘piss off’ factor? I know why you dislike her; she’s downright cruel to you.”
“She doesn’t like that I’m an ‘amateur,’” Sherlock said, the air quotes clear in his voice. “She doesn’t like that the Yard needs a consultant because there are cases they can’t solve. She doesn’t like that I’m a ‘freak’ with reasoning powers far beyond her own. She’s like many of the people I attended school and uni with; she doesn’t like people who are smarter than she is or who she can’t understand. I am both.” His voice was simultaneously cutting and brittle, and it hurt John to hear it.
“You’re not a freak,” John said heatedly. “Don’t ever say that again, and don’t you dare believe it. I want to give her a piece of my mind every time she calls you that.”
“She’s hardly the first,” Sherlock replied, old pain still visible in his eyes, and it amazed John all over again that there were people who thought this man did not feel. “You, my dear John, are one of the very few people who has only unreserved admiration for my skills, and I still fail to understand how it is possible.”
Sherlock’s eyes warmed as he finished, looking at John, and John smiled.
“It’s possible,” he said, “because you are brilliant and deserve to be recognized for it. You’re also beautiful, and compassionate, and temperamental, and arrogant, and a tiny bit mad, and I wouldn’t have you any other way.”
Sherlock kissed him then, softly and gratefully, and they grew lost in each other for a few minutes before John spoke again.
“Lestrade was demoted after everything happened, did you know that? It was Donovan and Anderson who made him go to his superiors in the first place; their suspicions were the reason the Yard tried to arrest you, and then Greg was their sacrificial lamb. They did a thorough reprimand for everyone you ever worked with, but they made Greg the poster boy for what happens to those who bend the rules - and then they all looked like fools when it turned out you were innocent and he was right.”
“They gave him his position back, I hope?” Sherlock asked sharply, and John nodded.
“They did. It hasn’t been easy going for him, though - there were a few people who stood by him and you, but there was a lot of resentment stirred up over your supposed guilt, and even more surfaced when those who had been glad to see Greg go down had to watch him go back to his former position. You know that there are some people who will use anything to their own advantage.”
“If Lestrade was demoted, they could try to use the power vacuum to advance themselves,” Sherlock reasoned quickly, and John nodded.
“There were several people who did exactly that, and then it was all undone when Greg got his rank and credit back. Some of the Yarders haven’t really forgiven him for that.” John paused, shamefaced, and sighed. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have lost my temper before. It’s just - this year has been horrible, Sherlock. Greg’s had a terrible time, and people have said awful things about you, and it was all I could do to just keep myself going. I avoided all of the media after the funeral, but it was hard to ignore all of the time. Donovan and everything she said about you is a sore spot.”
Sherlock pressed lightly on John’s shoulder blades, easing him down so that his head was resting on Sherlock’s sternum, and John felt Sherlock’s hands card through his hair. He waited for any sign of discomfort in Sherlock’s body language, worried that his weight would be too much, but it didn’t come, and he slowly relaxed, listening to the familiar deep voice in his ear. “That was the one advantage of being gone - I didn’t see any of the media fallout, and Mycroft was wise enough not to tell me any details. I asked if everyone was fine, occasionally, and he knew that ‘fine’ meant alive and breathing and minimally functional and responded accordingly. Otherwise, I focused everything I had on finding and eliminating Moriarty’s associates. It was the only way I could bear it, most of the time,” Sherlock said quietly.
“Sherlock,” John said gently, “are you okay? And I don’t mean physically, though we’ll take care of that,” he added as Sherlock opened his mouth. John rested a hand against Sherlock’s cheek, lifting his head to look the detective in the eyes. “I mean, are you all right? From the sounds of it, you killed quite a few people in the last year, and despite what you do for a living, actually killing people is not your area - or wasn’t, a year ago.”
To John’s surprise, Sherlock’s lips turned up. “Well, to be fair, they weren’t very nice people.”
Caught off guard, John laughed as his own words from the night he shot Jefferson Hope were parroted back at him, and he felt Sherlock shaking under his fingers as well, the detective’s low chuckle sending another rush of happiness through him. God, he had missed this.
“There’s something wrong with us, you know that,” John said, once he had managed to get his giggles under control. “Laughing about crime scenes and murders and assassinations.”
“Normal is always boring , John,” Sherlock said, still smiling. “And the fact that you can laugh with me at crime scenes and assassinations, among many other things, makes you the most extraordinary person I have ever known.”
John could tell that the bought of laughter had been painful for Sherlock, and he moved off Sherlock’s chest and lay back on his side, his head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock took John’s hand that had been on his face and slipped it between both of his own, speaking earnestly.
“There are a number of things I regret about the last year, John, but killing those people is not one of them. It was not enjoyable; it was meticulous, exhausting, dangerous work - but it meant that you were still alive. It meant that Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were still alive. More importantly to the larger world, it meant that Moriarty’s web could not reconstruct itself, and that you and I would not be dealing with some terrifying disciple of his a year, or two years, or five years from now. I did not want that for myself, or you, or us, on the very rare occasions I dared to hope that there could be an ‘us.’”
“I should have been with you,” John murmured, guilt heavy in his voice. “I was trained to do that sort of thing; I could have helped you.”
“You could have,” Sherlock agreed, one of his hands still running soothingly through John’s hair. “But even if I had told you, if you were prepared to leave everything and go with me, would you have sacrificed Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade in order to do so? For that is more than likely what would have happened, John. Even if you had still been there to see the fall, once you disappeared after my death, all the rules would have been off. Someone in Moriarty’s organization would have made sure of it, probably Moran. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson would have been dead in a few weeks, or a few months, once they realized where you had gone - and we would have been looking over our shoulders at every turn. They would have followed us, and possibly alerted everyone we were trying to catch unawares.”
John nodded. “I understand, Sherlock, I really do. Sometimes a lone operative is the only way to get a job done, and you created the perfect illusion, so that no one would be looking for you or see you coming. That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he said, with a pained smile that was closer to a grimace.
“I didn’t like it either,” Sherlock confessed, his eyes dark and haunted as he looked at John. “I hated thinking about what I had done to you, and I hated being without you and away from you. It was harder to think, harder to breathe. Everything was more difficult.”
“I thought breathing was boring,” John teased softly, but he knew Sherlock heard the catch in his voice.
“It is,” Sherlock declared emphatically, his arms tightening around John again. “Even more so when one’s chest feels like nothing so much as an aching void.”
John blinked as tears burned behind his eyelids, and he raised himself up on his elbows to kiss Sherlock, softly and slowly, losing himself in the aching tenderness of it, the sweet friction of their mouths moving together, and cataloging every small noise they both made, until he pulled away with a sigh, framing Sherlock’s face in his hands and keeping their eyes locked.
“I had that feeling every day you were gone, and for all I knew I would feel that way for the rest of my life,” he whispered. “All of this,” and he waved a hand to indicate them, the bed, their proximity, “should feel strange, but it doesn’t, and even if it did I wouldn’t care, because I love you, and for the first time in a year that void is gone. And for the record, I don’t ‘seem to’ love you, as you said before that unfortunate segue into Sally Donovan’s highly unprofessional behavior. I love you. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, but I need you to believe that.”
“I do,” Sherlock affirmed, his mouth curling up as he brushed a hand over John’s cheek. “More data on several points would be appreciated, however.”
“Gladly, as long as I’m allowed questions, too,” John said, stretching to try and get the blood flowing to his muscles. “But after we’ve had some tea and breakfast, please.”
“Heaven help the force that tries to get between John Watson and his tea,” Sherlock said irreverently. “Willoughby will be delighted that you’re force feeding me.”
John twisted around to glare at Sherlock as he sat up. “I’m not yet, but I will if I have to. You need to eat, Sherlock. Do you have any idea how bad you look?”
“I looked a good deal worse before you saw me yesterday, but I am aware,” Sherlock said sardonically. “And you’re hardly one to talk, Dr. Watson. You’ve lost a stone and a half in the last year; you’ve been working long hours at the surgery, which helps with your limp and tremor but has repeatedly aggravated your shoulder; you sleep little and when you do it is frequently interrupted. Need I go on?”
John’s mouth fell open, but he promptly shut it again as resignation covered his features. “I’d forgotten what it’s like to be on the receiving end of that. I’d say it was amazing, and it was, but it’s also rather embarrassing,” he admitted, looking down. “I . . . haven’t really bothered to take care of myself either.”
Sherlock reached out and touched his forearm, both in apology and in silent supplication. “Willoughby makes incredible omelets. Shall we?”
John smiled, understanding the gesture, and reached for his robe. “God, yes. Oh - wait there just a minute,” he said hastily, remembering something. He placed a quick kiss on Sherlock’s forehead before darting out of the room, leaving a mystified Sherlock for approximately thirty seconds before he reappeared. In his hands was Sherlock’s blue dressing gown.
“Something else I kept,” John said, his words muffled against Sherlock’s lips. “I thought you might be wanting it.”
“As always, I underestimated your brilliance,” Sherlock answered, kissing John back softly, between words. “My dressing gown does make everything so much more delightfully dramatic.”
Chapter 6
Author’s Note: I must, once again, thank WickedforGood13, who has read countless PMs about my headcanon and characterization for this story and soothed my worried nerves. She is an endless help and a very good friend. I also want to thank all of you who have read and reviewed! I appreciate it so much.
I have no personal experience whatsoever of the armed forces, so I do not in any way claim that John’s impressions and/or experiences are accurate, just my own attempt to understand how he functions. However, it is true that LGBTQ individuals have been able to serve openly in all branches of the British armed forces since 2000 - a good ten years before John meets Sherlock.
Wounded With His Wounded Heart - Chapter Five
John woke slowly the next morning, feeling soft sunlight touching his eyelids and warmth surrounding him. He felt more rested than he’d been in ages, and he was acutely conscious of the body next to his in the bed. Sherlock’s long limbs were stretched out beside him, and John’s nostrils were full of his scent again, the earthy spiciness that was all his overlaid with a faint trace of chemicals and an inexplicable hint of nutmeg.
John opened his eyes and turned carefully onto his side, wanting to see Sherlock but not wake him. The detective was on his back and apparently sound asleep, but John could tell he wasn’t comfortable - his muscles were too tense, his posture too stiff. He was still in pain, even while unconscious, and he wouldn’t feel particularly energized when he woke up. Ibuprofen helped enough during the day that Sherlock could ignore most of his discomfort, but he needed to sleep well in order to heal. John decided he would try to think of a sedative that Sherlock could take for a few days - once he’d had some tea.
Right now, though, he wouldn’t leave the bed or his spot in it for the world. The sunlight trickling in around the curtains illuminated Sherlock’s pale skin as though it were white marble and picked up the highlights in his dark curls. He looked younger, softer, and still devastatingly handsome. John reached out a hand and gently combed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, marveling again at the softness of it.
The remainder of the evening before had been pleasant and congenial, much like their quiet evenings in 221B - though any readers of John’s blog might believe that they had never had any quiet evenings, they had managed them quite often when there weren’t any cases, and they had been some of John’s favorite times. Sherlock had generally been absorbed in an experiment or playing his violin to stave off his boredom, while John caught up on the latest medical research. Thankfully, being in Mycroft’s guest suite had made very little difference at all in their dynamic, though John knew they were both hyper-aware of each other.
Once they had fetched their plates from the kitchen, they settled on the couch and flipped through the television channels until they found some ridiculous game show - John wasn’t sure he even followed the premise of it, but it had been entertaining all the same to watch Sherlock pick apart the foibles and personal lives of the contestants, to the extent that he could do so through a television screen.
When they were both done eating, they had shifted positions - although Sherlock could not sprawl on the couch as was his habit, not with his injuries, he still seemed to be more comfortable lying down, and he had maneuvered himself until his head was in John’s lap. He was hesitant to do so, John could tell, even though he was projecting an air of unstudied casualness, and John had run his hand over Sherlock’s hair in silent confirmation that yes, this was fine, and they were completely fine. The tension had drained out of Sherlock’s muscles at the touch, and from then on they both simply enjoyed the closeness. When they ran out of game shows, they settled on reruns of Poirot, and watching Agatha Christie with Sherlock was as amusing, if not more so, than watching him tear apart game show contestants - his continuous mutterings about illogical events in the storyline, red herrings, unrealistic behavior by the criminals and the innocent parties alike, all tickled John immensely.
It wasn’t until they were both almost nodding off that John had reached over and switched off the telly, then nudged Sherlock until he sat up, yawning blearily and wincing.
“Come on,” John had said, quietly insistent. “You don’t want to sleep like that; your body will hate you for it tomorrow. Take the bathroom first. I’ll change the dressing on your arm when you’re done.”
Sherlock had gone to perform his ablutions and change, and John had gathered their dishes and quickly cleaned them in the kitchen before digging out his own pajamas and toiletries from his duffel. He had also gathered up the small medical kit he carried everywhere, set everything on the large queen bed in one of the bedrooms, then gone and rapped on the door of the en suite.
“I’ll fix your arm whenever you’re ready, Sherlock,” he had called.
This morning, Sherlock’s arms were covered with the luxurious, sleep-rumpled sheets of the bed, but John winced as he remembered the slice that lay underneath the bandage on Sherlock’s forearm. The gash had been nasty and deep; the only fortunate thing was that it had been made by a very sharp knife, and so the cut had been clean, with sharp, defined edges instead of ragged tearing of the tissue. Someone had done a good job of stitching it up - Sherlock himself? Mycroft’s doctor? A stranger? John would have to ask; he had no idea where Sherlock had been when he confronted Moran - and while Sherlock would definitely have a scar, the wound would hopefully heal cleanly, into a single white line. It was also fortunate that it had been his right arm and not his left; his violin playing would not be impeded in his fingering hand. John had made Sherlock flex his fingers and rotate his forearm, and he not seen any obvious nerve damage, but it would be easier (and less frustrating for his best friend) to rehabilitate Sherlock’s bow hand if necessary.
The hand that wasn’t stroking Sherlock’s curls clenched into a fist as John thought about the injuries covering Sherlock’s body. Sherlock had borne the cleaning and re-dressing of the wound with silent stoicism and a clenched jaw, though it must have been painful. Because he had been without his shirt, John had gotten a fresh look at not only the bruises, but the myriad cuts, scrapes, and other injuries that were all in various stages of healing, as well as a few that had long since healed but had left scars here and there.
Moran was lucky he was already dead. John would have taken pleasure in making his death as painful as possible, along with the death of every other person who had dared to injure Sherlock. John could still barely process that Sherlock had done what he had - not that he had accomplished it; John knew exactly how single-minded the detective could be, but that he had done it for John’s sake, for Mrs. Hudson’s sake, for Lestrade’s sake, for the handful of people he loved with fierce devotion, though he was often terrible at showing it. John might want to shake him and shout at him for going off into so much danger on his own, but his friend’s actions also only made him love Sherlock more.
After John had finished wrapping up Sherlock’s arm, there had been a small moment of awkwardness when they both looked at each other, knowing that this next part was new and crossing lines that neither of them had expected to ever cross. John, however, had raised his chin in determination and taken Sherlock’s hand, leading them both to the bedroom. He had never been one to shy away from danger, certainly not with this man by his side, and he wasn’t about to start.
He had lain down, stretching out on his side, and gestured for Sherlock to take the other side of the wide expanse of bed. Sherlock had settled himself carefully, on his back, and John had leaned over and brushed his lips over Sherlock’s forehead.
“I don’t want to put any weight on you; that’s not going to feel good with your ribs and all of those bruises,” he had said quietly. He wanted Sherlock to understand that it wasn’t that he didn’t crave physical closeness; he simply didn’t want to make Sherlock any more uncomfortable than he already was. “Otherwise I’d happily have my arms around you, or yours around me. But I’m right here if you need anything, yeah? Wake me up if anything feels wrong.”
Sherlock had looked up at him, his eyes tired but bright, and nodded with a little smile before propping himself up long enough to give John a soft kiss. “I will. Good night, John.”
“Good night, Sherlock,” John had whispered back, and he had fallen asleep with one hand carefully resting on the detective’s arm, needing the reassurance and comfort of touch even in sleep.
He was doing it again, John realized - one hand was still in Sherlock’s hair, and the other was resting on his bicep. He couldn’t get enough of touching Sherlock, it seemed - and while part of it was certainly shock, still, that his best friend was alive and physically real, John knew the rest of it was simple yearning. He had spent a year thinking that his chance to have this was gone forever, that the possibility of loving and being with Sherlock had been snatched from him almost before he realized it existed, and now it was almost impossible to stop himself from affirming his feelings, affirming what they both felt, in as many ways as possible. Touch was one of the easiest and most profound, and every touch they shared made everything a little more certain. Part of John still couldn’t believe that in the space of twenty-four hours, he had gone from feeling as though he would never be whole again to being given both of his deepest desires, glowing with promise.
“How is it,” he whispered, “that someone as extraordinary as you, Sherlock Holmes, could love an ordinary army doctor like me?”
“That adjective is patently untrue,” Sherlock murmured sleepily, shifting a bit and arching into John’s touch.
“Which, ‘army’?’” John said facetiously. “I was an army doctor, Sherlock; I can show you the file.”
“No need; Mycroft already did,” Sherlock replied, his eyes still closed.
John chuckled, leaning over and kissing Sherlock’s temple. “Of course he did. You prat. How long were you laying there while I was watching you?”
“I actually was mostly asleep,” Sherlock confessed, finally blinking his eyes open. They were soft as he looked at John. “I must admit that being woken by your voice and your hands in my hair is a vast improvement.”
“Over what?” John questioned, not sure he wanted to know just where or in what conditions Sherlock had had to sleep in the last year.
“Over everything, over any other form of waking I’ve experienced,” Sherlock said, his voice still rough with sleep and his speech slowed. He smiled that same happy, vibrant, slightly shy smile John had seen the day before, and John couldn’t resist leaning down again to kiss him tenderly, on the lips this time, his own smile making his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“So it was ‘ordinary’ you were taking issue with?” John teased him when he pulled away. “I think it is true, Sherlock; I’m quite a typical person in most respects.”
“Rubbish,” Sherlock retorted brusquely, sounding more awake by the second as he worked his way into an argument. “Anyone who can tolerate me as a flatmate, much less love me as you seem to, is far from ordinary, John. Donovan would tell you that you are certifiably insane.”
“Oh, and Sally Donovan’s word is to be taken as gospel. She was so right about you,” John snapped. The words came out harsh, harsher than he meant them to, as he remembered not only Donovan’s accusations before Sherlock’s fall, but also several very vicious and quite possibly slanderous things she had said to reporters afterward, until someone had put a ban on all Scotland Yard employees giving interviews about Sherlock.
He tried to pull away, upset with himself for getting angry and breaking the lovely cocoon they had created, but Sherlock was having none of it, bringing his arms around John’s upper back so that he couldn’t move without pulling at Sherlock as well.
“What did she say to you?” Sherlock demanded, and his voice was determined, his keen eyes taking in John’s face and expression, and John knew that once Sherlock and Sally saw each other again, the detective would be having words with her.
“Nothing. Everything. Everything she has said before and more besides. And not to me, but to the papers. I didn’t want to see her face after you died, and it’s a good thing I didn’t. It would have taken all of my self-control not to lose my temper in front of half the Yard, or hit her, or do something equally reprehensible,” John said bitterly. “She deserved it.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Sherlock said tightly. “She never has liked me, and I’ve made no secret of the fact that I neither like nor respect her. She saw her chance to get back at me and took it. All the better for her that I was supposedly dead and unable to defend myself. She must have been delighted.”
“Oh, she was,” John agreed. “Why is it that she dislikes you so much anyway? Apart from the obvious ‘piss off’ factor? I know why you dislike her; she’s downright cruel to you.”
“She doesn’t like that I’m an ‘amateur,’” Sherlock said, the air quotes clear in his voice. “She doesn’t like that the Yard needs a consultant because there are cases they can’t solve. She doesn’t like that I’m a ‘freak’ with reasoning powers far beyond her own. She’s like many of the people I attended school and uni with; she doesn’t like people who are smarter than she is or who she can’t understand. I am both.” His voice was simultaneously cutting and brittle, and it hurt John to hear it.
“You’re not a freak,” John said heatedly. “Don’t ever say that again, and don’t you dare believe it. I want to give her a piece of my mind every time she calls you that.”
“She’s hardly the first,” Sherlock replied, old pain still visible in his eyes, and it amazed John all over again that there were people who thought this man did not feel. “You, my dear John, are one of the very few people who has only unreserved admiration for my skills, and I still fail to understand how it is possible.”
Sherlock’s eyes warmed as he finished, looking at John, and John smiled.
“It’s possible,” he said, “because you are brilliant and deserve to be recognized for it. You’re also beautiful, and compassionate, and temperamental, and arrogant, and a tiny bit mad, and I wouldn’t have you any other way.”
Sherlock kissed him then, softly and gratefully, and they grew lost in each other for a few minutes before John spoke again.
“Lestrade was demoted after everything happened, did you know that? It was Donovan and Anderson who made him go to his superiors in the first place; their suspicions were the reason the Yard tried to arrest you, and then Greg was their sacrificial lamb. They did a thorough reprimand for everyone you ever worked with, but they made Greg the poster boy for what happens to those who bend the rules - and then they all looked like fools when it turned out you were innocent and he was right.”
“They gave him his position back, I hope?” Sherlock asked sharply, and John nodded.
“They did. It hasn’t been easy going for him, though - there were a few people who stood by him and you, but there was a lot of resentment stirred up over your supposed guilt, and even more surfaced when those who had been glad to see Greg go down had to watch him go back to his former position. You know that there are some people who will use anything to their own advantage.”
“If Lestrade was demoted, they could try to use the power vacuum to advance themselves,” Sherlock reasoned quickly, and John nodded.
“There were several people who did exactly that, and then it was all undone when Greg got his rank and credit back. Some of the Yarders haven’t really forgiven him for that.” John paused, shamefaced, and sighed. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have lost my temper before. It’s just - this year has been horrible, Sherlock. Greg’s had a terrible time, and people have said awful things about you, and it was all I could do to just keep myself going. I avoided all of the media after the funeral, but it was hard to ignore all of the time. Donovan and everything she said about you is a sore spot.”
Sherlock pressed lightly on John’s shoulder blades, easing him down so that his head was resting on Sherlock’s sternum, and John felt Sherlock’s hands card through his hair. He waited for any sign of discomfort in Sherlock’s body language, worried that his weight would be too much, but it didn’t come, and he slowly relaxed, listening to the familiar deep voice in his ear. “That was the one advantage of being gone - I didn’t see any of the media fallout, and Mycroft was wise enough not to tell me any details. I asked if everyone was fine, occasionally, and he knew that ‘fine’ meant alive and breathing and minimally functional and responded accordingly. Otherwise, I focused everything I had on finding and eliminating Moriarty’s associates. It was the only way I could bear it, most of the time,” Sherlock said quietly.
“Sherlock,” John said gently, “are you okay? And I don’t mean physically, though we’ll take care of that,” he added as Sherlock opened his mouth. John rested a hand against Sherlock’s cheek, lifting his head to look the detective in the eyes. “I mean, are you all right? From the sounds of it, you killed quite a few people in the last year, and despite what you do for a living, actually killing people is not your area - or wasn’t, a year ago.”
To John’s surprise, Sherlock’s lips turned up. “Well, to be fair, they weren’t very nice people.”
Caught off guard, John laughed as his own words from the night he shot Jefferson Hope were parroted back at him, and he felt Sherlock shaking under his fingers as well, the detective’s low chuckle sending another rush of happiness through him. God, he had missed this.
“There’s something wrong with us, you know that,” John said, once he had managed to get his giggles under control. “Laughing about crime scenes and murders and assassinations.”
“Normal is always boring , John,” Sherlock said, still smiling. “And the fact that you can laugh with me at crime scenes and assassinations, among many other things, makes you the most extraordinary person I have ever known.”
John could tell that the bought of laughter had been painful for Sherlock, and he moved off Sherlock’s chest and lay back on his side, his head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock took John’s hand that had been on his face and slipped it between both of his own, speaking earnestly.
“There are a number of things I regret about the last year, John, but killing those people is not one of them. It was not enjoyable; it was meticulous, exhausting, dangerous work - but it meant that you were still alive. It meant that Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were still alive. More importantly to the larger world, it meant that Moriarty’s web could not reconstruct itself, and that you and I would not be dealing with some terrifying disciple of his a year, or two years, or five years from now. I did not want that for myself, or you, or us, on the very rare occasions I dared to hope that there could be an ‘us.’”
“I should have been with you,” John murmured, guilt heavy in his voice. “I was trained to do that sort of thing; I could have helped you.”
“You could have,” Sherlock agreed, one of his hands still running soothingly through John’s hair. “But even if I had told you, if you were prepared to leave everything and go with me, would you have sacrificed Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade in order to do so? For that is more than likely what would have happened, John. Even if you had still been there to see the fall, once you disappeared after my death, all the rules would have been off. Someone in Moriarty’s organization would have made sure of it, probably Moran. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson would have been dead in a few weeks, or a few months, once they realized where you had gone - and we would have been looking over our shoulders at every turn. They would have followed us, and possibly alerted everyone we were trying to catch unawares.”
John nodded. “I understand, Sherlock, I really do. Sometimes a lone operative is the only way to get a job done, and you created the perfect illusion, so that no one would be looking for you or see you coming. That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he said, with a pained smile that was closer to a grimace.
“I didn’t like it either,” Sherlock confessed, his eyes dark and haunted as he looked at John. “I hated thinking about what I had done to you, and I hated being without you and away from you. It was harder to think, harder to breathe. Everything was more difficult.”
“I thought breathing was boring,” John teased softly, but he knew Sherlock heard the catch in his voice.
“It is,” Sherlock declared emphatically, his arms tightening around John again. “Even more so when one’s chest feels like nothing so much as an aching void.”
John blinked as tears burned behind his eyelids, and he raised himself up on his elbows to kiss Sherlock, softly and slowly, losing himself in the aching tenderness of it, the sweet friction of their mouths moving together, and cataloging every small noise they both made, until he pulled away with a sigh, framing Sherlock’s face in his hands and keeping their eyes locked.
“I had that feeling every day you were gone, and for all I knew I would feel that way for the rest of my life,” he whispered. “All of this,” and he waved a hand to indicate them, the bed, their proximity, “should feel strange, but it doesn’t, and even if it did I wouldn’t care, because I love you, and for the first time in a year that void is gone. And for the record, I don’t ‘seem to’ love you, as you said before that unfortunate segue into Sally Donovan’s highly unprofessional behavior. I love you. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, but I need you to believe that.”
“I do,” Sherlock affirmed, his mouth curling up as he brushed a hand over John’s cheek. “More data on several points would be appreciated, however.”
“Gladly, as long as I’m allowed questions, too,” John said, stretching to try and get the blood flowing to his muscles. “But after we’ve had some tea and breakfast, please.”
“Heaven help the force that tries to get between John Watson and his tea,” Sherlock said irreverently. “Willoughby will be delighted that you’re force feeding me.”
John twisted around to glare at Sherlock as he sat up. “I’m not yet, but I will if I have to. You need to eat, Sherlock. Do you have any idea how bad you look?”
“I looked a good deal worse before you saw me yesterday, but I am aware,” Sherlock said sardonically. “And you’re hardly one to talk, Dr. Watson. You’ve lost a stone and a half in the last year; you’ve been working long hours at the surgery, which helps with your limp and tremor but has repeatedly aggravated your shoulder; you sleep little and when you do it is frequently interrupted. Need I go on?”
John’s mouth fell open, but he promptly shut it again as resignation covered his features. “I’d forgotten what it’s like to be on the receiving end of that. I’d say it was amazing, and it was, but it’s also rather embarrassing,” he admitted, looking down. “I . . . haven’t really bothered to take care of myself either.”
Sherlock reached out and touched his forearm, both in apology and in silent supplication. “Willoughby makes incredible omelets. Shall we?”
John smiled, understanding the gesture, and reached for his robe. “God, yes. Oh - wait there just a minute,” he said hastily, remembering something. He placed a quick kiss on Sherlock’s forehead before darting out of the room, leaving a mystified Sherlock for approximately thirty seconds before he reappeared. In his hands was Sherlock’s blue dressing gown.
“Something else I kept,” John said, his words muffled against Sherlock’s lips. “I thought you might be wanting it.”
“As always, I underestimated your brilliance,” Sherlock answered, kissing John back softly, between words. “My dressing gown does make everything so much more delightfully dramatic.”
Chapter 6