Fic: I Appreciate the Sentiment
"Sherlock!"
"What? I mean it. I do. When I get my hands on him...”
"Come here." John scooted over in the narrow bed to allow room for Sherlock to lie next to him.
Sherlock seemed to debate the wisdom of it but eventually slid his shoes off and gingerly crawled up into the bed. He lay his head next to John's on the pillow and rested his hand on the man's hip, one of the few places that wasn't sporting a bruise or a cut.
John lifted his hand, index finger in a metal splint, and brushed Sherlock's face and hair with his good fingers. "I’m going to be fine, I promise." He continued petting him and murmuring soft words of reassurance until Sherlock's eyelids began to lower and the taut string of his body started to relax into a more relaxed curve. "Okay now?"
Sherlock huffed out what passed for a laugh and opened his eyes to pin the doctor with a look that indicated the absurdity of a beaten and battered John fretting over whether or not Sherlock was feeling better.
John smiled, acknowledging Sherlock's point, but scooted closer anyway, trying to maneuver him further into the lee of his small body. The protectiveness of the movement made Sherlock's throat hurt, it made him grit his teeth with the effort of holding in the angry shout that was trying to tear its way out. He fisted the hand not touching John until his fingernails dug into his palm and tried to even out the breath that was coming in uneven, stuttering gasps.
"Jesus, I've never seen you like this. I’ve been hurt worse than this, and it didn’t put you in this state."
"I know, I know. It’s just… you didn’t see him, John. The glee on his face while he, while he kicked you. He liked hurting you, he was getting off on it. And then the little prick bolted like lightning, and I couldn’t even go after him. I have never been so fucking furious in my life. I've never been so, so... John, I'm not helping you, I'm worrying you, and I don't want to worry you." Sherlock buried his face in the curve of John's neck and choked on the warm, moist air trapped between John and the bed. “It’s not getting easier. It’s getting worse. Every time something happens to you, it’s worse, and I don’t understand it. I’m so fucking useless at this.”
John lay there stunned to his core. He knew he should probably be focused on stopping this, on reeling Sherlock in and doing whatever else he could to calm this crisis, but he couldn't. He was weak and exhausted… and soaking this up like a greedy little sponge. This, all of this, was for him. He knew Sherlock loved him; they'd exchanged the words. They were together, always together. He knew that the basis of what they had was rooted deep in their loyalty to each other, but he'd never known how deep it ran, the love or the loyalty. He hadn’t realized how every hurt, every spat, every chase just pushed that root down a little deeper.
He'd known from day one that he'd be willing to kill for Sherlock, but he’d never thought to wonder if Sherlock would do the same for him. Not that he wanted his friend swooping around London like some avenging angel in coat and scarf, but he couldn't deny the kernel of satisfaction and joy that was swelling inside him at the realization that he would. He didn't want Sherlock to be in pain, but oh to see this frustration, see this anger, see this writhing fury on his behalf. He knew it was wrong to be so pleased when Sherlock was in the middle of some hyper-emotional epiphany, but... well, none of the drugs they'd pumped into him over the past day had made him feel this warm or this weightless.
So they rested in a hard, narrow bed, rails digging into their backs, heads resting on the flattest pillow in all of existence, and struggled with the savage, ugly, beautiful, wonderful things each of them were feeling. The concern that said love, the fear that said adoration, the fury that said everything. He had no idea how long they lay there like that, but neither of them moved until the nurse came in to take his vitals for the millionth time. Sherlock rose from the bed and moved to stare out of the window while the nurse worked, keeping his face hid, too embarrassed to let a stranger see how ravaged he must look.
When she left, he didn't move, somehow embarrassed now to let John see him either. John rolled onto his other side and stared at the long line of his back.
"God, Sherlock, I think we might be the two most fucked-up people I've ever met."
He was probably right, Sherlock thought. He knew he’d been good for John when they met; the disappearing limp was evidence enough of that. But what about now? How long until something happened that gave him a real limp? They’d both been drawn to the danger; that’d always been half the fun. Maybe it was time to stop that, though. Maybe it was time to grow up a little and start taking cases that were a little less risky. Mycroft still showed up at least once a month trying to get him to… What the hell? He swung around at the high pitched sound he suddenly heard behind him and gave John a look that was half outrage and half pure incredulity. "Are you laughing? You are. You're laughing. You're fucking giggling. For Christ's sake, John.”
"I know, I know. It's crazy, right? We're crazy. It's not news, but damned if I knew how bad we really are. It's a good thing we found each other because nobody else would put up with us. You’d be running around the city like Batman, and I’d be working at a surgery in Surrey trying to figure out if I could hang myself with my own jumper.”
“You probably could with the oatmeal one. I don’t think the striped one would hold your weight, though.”
“Well, Harry bought that striped one. She’s never been very practical.”
Sherlock found his mouth responding with a grin, felt the laughter in his chest shoving some of the anger out of the way. He was utterly out of control and had not one fucking idea what he was doing or what exactly he was feeling. "Why are we laughing? This isn't funny."
"No, it's not. But it doesn't matter, we’ve laughed at worse times than this. We can do whatever the hell we want, and I want to laugh. I love you, you unstable bastard."
"I love you, too, you masochistic little shit."
"Come lie back down, then. We're both in this boat, and I refuse to be the only one who's seasick."
Sherlock lay back down again, spooned behind him, still chuckling sporadically.
"John, I'm still angry. I still want to kill that man for what he's done."
"I know, I know," he said sleepily, patting the large hand that was resting on his stomach. "You can't though, Sherlock."
"I know."
"You’re a rubbish shot. You just find him, and I'll kill him myself, thank you. But I appreciate the sentiment.”
"What? I mean it. I do. When I get my hands on him...”
"Come here." John scooted over in the narrow bed to allow room for Sherlock to lie next to him.
Sherlock seemed to debate the wisdom of it but eventually slid his shoes off and gingerly crawled up into the bed. He lay his head next to John's on the pillow and rested his hand on the man's hip, one of the few places that wasn't sporting a bruise or a cut.
John lifted his hand, index finger in a metal splint, and brushed Sherlock's face and hair with his good fingers. "I’m going to be fine, I promise." He continued petting him and murmuring soft words of reassurance until Sherlock's eyelids began to lower and the taut string of his body started to relax into a more relaxed curve. "Okay now?"
Sherlock huffed out what passed for a laugh and opened his eyes to pin the doctor with a look that indicated the absurdity of a beaten and battered John fretting over whether or not Sherlock was feeling better.
John smiled, acknowledging Sherlock's point, but scooted closer anyway, trying to maneuver him further into the lee of his small body. The protectiveness of the movement made Sherlock's throat hurt, it made him grit his teeth with the effort of holding in the angry shout that was trying to tear its way out. He fisted the hand not touching John until his fingernails dug into his palm and tried to even out the breath that was coming in uneven, stuttering gasps.
"Jesus, I've never seen you like this. I’ve been hurt worse than this, and it didn’t put you in this state."
"I know, I know. It’s just… you didn’t see him, John. The glee on his face while he, while he kicked you. He liked hurting you, he was getting off on it. And then the little prick bolted like lightning, and I couldn’t even go after him. I have never been so fucking furious in my life. I've never been so, so... John, I'm not helping you, I'm worrying you, and I don't want to worry you." Sherlock buried his face in the curve of John's neck and choked on the warm, moist air trapped between John and the bed. “It’s not getting easier. It’s getting worse. Every time something happens to you, it’s worse, and I don’t understand it. I’m so fucking useless at this.”
John lay there stunned to his core. He knew he should probably be focused on stopping this, on reeling Sherlock in and doing whatever else he could to calm this crisis, but he couldn't. He was weak and exhausted… and soaking this up like a greedy little sponge. This, all of this, was for him. He knew Sherlock loved him; they'd exchanged the words. They were together, always together. He knew that the basis of what they had was rooted deep in their loyalty to each other, but he'd never known how deep it ran, the love or the loyalty. He hadn’t realized how every hurt, every spat, every chase just pushed that root down a little deeper.
He'd known from day one that he'd be willing to kill for Sherlock, but he’d never thought to wonder if Sherlock would do the same for him. Not that he wanted his friend swooping around London like some avenging angel in coat and scarf, but he couldn't deny the kernel of satisfaction and joy that was swelling inside him at the realization that he would. He didn't want Sherlock to be in pain, but oh to see this frustration, see this anger, see this writhing fury on his behalf. He knew it was wrong to be so pleased when Sherlock was in the middle of some hyper-emotional epiphany, but... well, none of the drugs they'd pumped into him over the past day had made him feel this warm or this weightless.
So they rested in a hard, narrow bed, rails digging into their backs, heads resting on the flattest pillow in all of existence, and struggled with the savage, ugly, beautiful, wonderful things each of them were feeling. The concern that said love, the fear that said adoration, the fury that said everything. He had no idea how long they lay there like that, but neither of them moved until the nurse came in to take his vitals for the millionth time. Sherlock rose from the bed and moved to stare out of the window while the nurse worked, keeping his face hid, too embarrassed to let a stranger see how ravaged he must look.
When she left, he didn't move, somehow embarrassed now to let John see him either. John rolled onto his other side and stared at the long line of his back.
"God, Sherlock, I think we might be the two most fucked-up people I've ever met."
He was probably right, Sherlock thought. He knew he’d been good for John when they met; the disappearing limp was evidence enough of that. But what about now? How long until something happened that gave him a real limp? They’d both been drawn to the danger; that’d always been half the fun. Maybe it was time to stop that, though. Maybe it was time to grow up a little and start taking cases that were a little less risky. Mycroft still showed up at least once a month trying to get him to… What the hell? He swung around at the high pitched sound he suddenly heard behind him and gave John a look that was half outrage and half pure incredulity. "Are you laughing? You are. You're laughing. You're fucking giggling. For Christ's sake, John.”
"I know, I know. It's crazy, right? We're crazy. It's not news, but damned if I knew how bad we really are. It's a good thing we found each other because nobody else would put up with us. You’d be running around the city like Batman, and I’d be working at a surgery in Surrey trying to figure out if I could hang myself with my own jumper.”
“You probably could with the oatmeal one. I don’t think the striped one would hold your weight, though.”
“Well, Harry bought that striped one. She’s never been very practical.”
Sherlock found his mouth responding with a grin, felt the laughter in his chest shoving some of the anger out of the way. He was utterly out of control and had not one fucking idea what he was doing or what exactly he was feeling. "Why are we laughing? This isn't funny."
"No, it's not. But it doesn't matter, we’ve laughed at worse times than this. We can do whatever the hell we want, and I want to laugh. I love you, you unstable bastard."
"I love you, too, you masochistic little shit."
"Come lie back down, then. We're both in this boat, and I refuse to be the only one who's seasick."
Sherlock lay back down again, spooned behind him, still chuckling sporadically.
"John, I'm still angry. I still want to kill that man for what he's done."
"I know, I know," he said sleepily, patting the large hand that was resting on his stomach. "You can't though, Sherlock."
"I know."
"You’re a rubbish shot. You just find him, and I'll kill him myself, thank you. But I appreciate the sentiment.”