[Sherlock] Circo de Pastel - 10/13
Title: Circo de Pastel
Author: Mesita
Words: 2953/39603/50,000+
Pairings: Sherlock/John (Eventual) Lestrade/Mycroft (Implied)
Warnings: Slight torture, kidnapping, violence, death
Summary: John Watson runs away to join a circus where he is forced to live with the resident consulting psychic. After one of the circus members is murdered, it's up to John and Sherlock to solve the case.
First Chapter
CHAPTER TEN
IT'S NOT OVER YET
John settled himself on the luxury sofa that sat in the middle of Mycroft’s London flat. The soft cushions were a welcome change to the horror both he had Sherlock had just witnessed.
It had already been just a few hours after John had been drinking tea and discussing some of the broader points of the case with Mrs. Hudson. Just a few hours before, Sherlock ran out on him. For a few minutes, he hadn’t thought it odd. Surely Sherlock needed to discuss something with his brother.
What bothered John at first was Sherlock’s noticeable absence. He was used to watching the taller boy pace back and forth, rubbing his hands together. John rather enjoyed seeing Sherlock run his fingers through his hair. It looked so smooth despite being so curly. John wondered what it felt like. His own hair was felt coarse to him, and was mostly just boring.
John missed Sherlock’s voice most of all. Mrs. Hudson was kind and her voice had a lovely quality to it, but nothing compared to the soft baritone of Sherlock’s cello-like voice. John had grown accustomed to Sherlock thinking out loud and he found that he missed it, already.
John’s worries were not set at ease even after Mrs. Hudson made him some tea. He thought about taking out his phone to text Sherlock just to see if he made it to Mycroft, but thought the better of it. He couldn’t quite explain why but he had the feeling that if he texted Sherlock, Sherlock would not be truthful about his whereabouts. John, instead, asked Mrs. Hudson for Mycroft’s number.
John felt as though he had just hit the send button when Mycroft’s response came back stating that he had no idea where his brother was and nor did he care at that moment.
Panic flooded John’s system. Before even he realized what was happening, he found himself dashing out the front door without so much as a goodbye to Mrs. Hudson.
He had no idea where to start looking for Sherlock. He could go back to the trailer, or possibly to any of the other trailers they had visited already: Moriarty’s, Molly’s or even Carl’s. Before he could bring himself to find Sherlock, he had the sudden desire to arm himself. If Sherlock found himself in a sticky situation, John didn’t want to just stand there and let him take it.
John quickly scanned his brain for what could be used as a weapon in a circus. It was the fact that Moran was a strong man that gave John the idea for the mallet-and it wasn’t hard to steal the device.
Finding Sherlock turned out not to be hard, either. Moriarty was loud and John happened to be rushing past the circus tent. He could hardly believe his good fortune.
The fear that had seized John gave him a surge of adrenaline, and he proceeded to ride that rush until the very end. Even he was surprised at his prowess over the vastly overpowered Moran. In the end, he had received a few lucky breaks. Moran probably underestimated John’s ability with a hammer-especially when he was fueled by rage and an unbelievable sense of protection. John had pulled the hammer back, not realizing Moran was trying to take John over from behind, and in doing so, inadvertently hit him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of the larger man.
John still could not believe it. The swirl of emotions that had happened next still baffled him. He remembered being afraid for Sherlock, but he could not remember many of the broader details. All he knew was that he needed to get to Sherlock-and fast.
The memories stirred around in John’s head as Mycroft’s assistant (she couldn’t have been a housekeeper, she was dressed far too sharply for that) brought them some tea. Sherlock had been tended to by the paramedics, but at his own request had not been admitted to the hospital. John looked at Sherlock, now, perched precariously at one end of the couch.
Sherlock’s wrists had been bandaged. John absolutely hated looking at them-knowing exactly how they got that way. He had a few bruises and discoloration on his neck from Moriarty’s hands, and still had bits of sand in his hair and on his clothing, and he was dirty, but otherwise quite healthy. John’s own hands and knees were covered in sand from when he knelt down to help Sherlock, and he had a bloody lip from Moran plus a few bruises scattered throughout his body. He would be sore and ache for days, but he was alive-and Sherlock was alive, and for that John was thankful.
Mycroft studied the two of them, and John could feel himself shrinking under that watchful gaze. Lestrade had arranged for both Sherlock and John to be escorted to Mycroft’s flat in a police car which caused John to wonder just how many contacts Lestrade had in law enforcement. Lestrade himself leaned against the wall, his arms folded. He looked at ease in Mycroft’s home.
“I’m not sure if I should be pissed off or pleased with the two of you,” Mycroft said as the corners of his mouth tugged downward. “On the one hand, you’ve managed to capture the man responsible for the deaths of two of my employees, but at such a foolish cost.”
He turned toward his brother and John followed his gaze. “And you, Sherlock. Thinking you could take care of the situation by yourself. Didn’t I tell you to be careful?”
“And didn’t I tell you I don’t care?” Sherlock spat. He looked more than ever like a pouting child.
Mycroft wasn’t affected by Sherlock’s outburst. He casually aimed his lecture toward John, instead. “And you…,” he sighed. “My circus falls apart the day you arrive. If you hadn’t gotten along so well with my brother, you would have been out on your arse yesterday.” John caught every bit of threat in those words.
“If it weren’t for John, you would no longer have a little brother,” Sherlock said, staring at his brother, as if to dare him to counter the statement.
“And that is precisely why John is staying,” Mycroft said with an air that suggested Sherlock should have let him finish. John kept his mouth shut.
“I take it I’m keeping my job, too?” Sherlock asked.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his brother. “Of course you are…”
Sherlock set his mug down, the tea untouched. “Then why the hell do I have to stay on as a psychic when my skills are obviously needed elsewhere?”
“What as a detective?” Mycroft said the occupation like it was something horrible to think about, like collecting garbage.
“I enjoy working on cases,” Sherlock began to idly brush some of the leftover sand from his clothing. John watched the grains fall onto Mycroft’s beautiful furniture. Sherlock was most likely ruining the fabric on purpose. He gave John a sort of hopeful look, and John took it that Sherlock wanted him to say something.
“And, I do, too. Enjoy working on cases, I mean.” John stumbled through the words. He really meant what he said, too. Despite the danger, the adrenaline rush was worth it-and he found he wanted to stay by Sherlock’s side. It felt natural and right.
“You’re both too young to be playing detectives.” Mycroft said with a finality that tried to extinguish the spark.
“Then let me go to University at least. I’ll get a degree in criminal justice, chemistry, anything.” Sherlock almost had a pleading tone to his voice. Almost. If John could hear it, Mycroft most definitely could.
The tiny plead seemed to work in Sherlock’s favor. Mycroft exhaled long and slow. “I’ll think about it.”
John smiled into his mug. He was glad that Sherlock would be able to continue his education at a University. John could see Sherlock more at home in a place like that-far from the confines of the circus.
And yet, at the same time, John felt a pang of remorse. If Sherlock left the circus to go to a University, where would that leave John? There was no way he could afford to go anywhere at all, and a scholarship was out of the question. He would have to stay at the circus and probably move on to becoming a clown by himself.
If the world was a perfect place, and John could do as he desired, he would have taken that detective option in an instant. He wanted to be able to do a bit more to help others out, though, and thought perhaps a career in medicine would be a good choice. The idea had plagued him for some time, but he couldn’t allow it to come to anything. He couldn’t pay for normal classes at a University! How could he ever expect to pay for medical school?
John decided it was best for him not to bring the subject up with Sherlock.
After a bit more chastising on Mycroft’s part, Sherlock and John were sent home in a private cab. John’s stomach was growling something fierce. He hadn’t realized that they had had nothing to eat that entire day. All he had to snack on were a few biscuits with Mrs. Hudson and a lot of tea. Sherlock had mentioned not wanting to eat earlier, but John knew he would have to find a way to get Sherlock to eat, somehow.
Sherlock was quiet when they first stepped into the trailer. He made a quick line for the bathroom and shut the door. John did not blame him. The poor guy had gone through so much trouble in the past few hours. John himself felt like he smelled so horrible that he wanted to jump into the shower with Sherlock.
John felt the heat creep up to his face before he even realized the reason for his blush.
He liked Sherlock. He cared for Sherlock. He didn’t think that the mutual affection they held for each other had crossed any lines, yet, and he wasn’t exactly keen on finding out. Sherlock was his friend. His very good looking friend-and now that the water was running, John’s very naked friend.
Wow, John thought to himself, he was really messed up. A week hadn’t even gone by since his mother’s death and he already seemed to be moving on. He had left his home of nineteen years to join a circus. He lived with a consulting psychic and just helped said psychic solve a murder mystery in which both of them had nearly lost their lives. And throughout all of this, John could only think about how nice his newfound friend would look naked?
John rubbed his eyes and decided it would be a good idea to get his priorities in order. Teenage hormones be damned. He went into the kitchenette to grab himself a bit of something to eat. There was a little leftover takeaway in the fridge from earlier and John was suddenly very thankful for Sherlock’s low propensity for eating.
He warmed up a few leftovers and despite his fatigue, leaned against the counter to eat. He did not want to sully Sherlock’s nice furniture with sand and dirt and blood. He was certain Mycroft would be sending his sofa to the Cleaner’s that was for certain.
Sherlock sure took a long time in the shower. John had long since finished eating before Sherlock finally emerged from a steaming bathroom wearing a dark blue housecoat. Once more, he did not say a word to John and instead turned to go immediately into his bedroom.
John figured he would talk to Sherlock when he was ready and took the opportunity to take a shower for himself. The water was lukewarm at first and only gave him a few minutes of heat before it turned cold.
But that was alright. After seeing Sherlock in nothing but a bathrobe, John needed the cold shower.
He cursed himself slightly, knowing full well that his brain and his heart were on a one-way track he could not come back from. He would have to pine for Sherlock quietly in his head until the feelings wore off. If they wore off.
John sighed and exited the shower, using one of the now-clean towels to dry his hair. He wrapped a towel around his waist and tiptoed into the spare room to change into some shorts and another tee shirt.
When John mustered up the courage to talk to Sherlock, he found the taller boy in his bedroom, still in his bathrobe and sitting on the edge of his bed. John knocked lightly on the open door to signify his presence, although he was sure Sherlock would not need it.
“Sherlock? Are you all right?” John hated how small and sheepish his voice sounded.
Sherlock would have been staring out the window if his blinds were open, but instead he was staring at the window. “I’m fine, John.”
“Then why do you look as though you have a thousand and one thoughts going through your mind?”
Sherlock gave the smallest of sarcastic smirks and John’s heart leapt to his chest. “I always have a thousand and one thoughts, John.”
“Never this distressing, I’m sure.” John slowly stepped forward to sit next to Sherlock on the bed. “If you won’t talk about it I will.”
“John…”
“No.” John did not know where the sudden bout of bravery came from, but he was happy it had arrived. “Sherlock you scared me. I wish you would have trusted me enough to tell me where you were going. I would have helped.”
“You did help.”
“Yes, I did.” John stared long and hard at Sherlock. “Promise me you’ll include me in your little escapades, next time?”
Sherlock frowned.
“What is it? Why can’t you trust me?”
“I trust you implicitly, John.” Sherlock said, finally pulling his eyes away from the window and looking directly into John’s own eyes. The effect was paralyzing. “I only fear for your safety.”
“And I can’t fear for yours?” John’s voice was rising, and he did not care. “We’re either in this together, or we’re not. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I enjoy working with you like this. You are the closest thing to a best friend I’ve ever had, and I’m not losing you, now.”
John could not tell if Sherlock was touched by his words or not, but he found he didn’t much care. He needed Sherlock to hear them. Perhaps his words would influence him to keep John in his life, or at least John hoped.
Sherlock sighed and stood up. John knew the consulting psychic’s brain had to be moving a mile a second and he wished he could read his mind. Especially since Sherlock said something completely unrelated, next. “I hope you left me a bit of food, John. I’d like to eat.”
John took that as Sherlock’s way of saying everything was okay-especially since Sherlock agreed to eat, now. John swelled with happiness and didn’t mind if it was written all over his face. “There’s still some soup we can warm up!”
He gladly rushed ahead of Sherlock into the kitchen so that he could warm up the food. While the food spun around in the microwave, John went into the sitting room to find Sherlock perched on his usual chair.
“While we wait, can I take a look at your wrists?” John asked, moving around to the front of Sherlock’s chair.
Sherlock hesitated for a second, must have thought the better of it, and held his wrists forward.
John knelt between Sherlock’s knees and examined both wrists closely. The wounds had healed a bit from the antiseptic the paramedics placed on it, and the shower. John scrutinized over the still-raw wounds. “I’m going to put some ointment on them and wrap them up, if that’s all right. I don’t want you to get an infection.”
He stood up and disappeared into the bathroom for a second just to check the medicine cabinet for anything he could use. He found some gauze and a triple antibiotic and went back to tend to Sherlock’s wrists.
As he worked, he could feel Sherlock’s well-trained gaze on him, but it didn’t feel as scrutinizing has it had, before. He didn’t feel the same as when he first entered the trailer and Sherlock gave him a good look-over to find information on him. This time, Sherlock’s gaze felt softer and more relaxed.
“There,” John said, making sure the gauze fit securely around the wrists but not tight enough to restrict blood flow. “All finished.”
Sherlock held his hands up and flexed his fingers. He then reached his hand forward and John suddenly had his chin held in Sherlock’s astonishingly strong grasp. Sherlock moved John’s head from side to side.
“Does your lip hurt?” he inquired after a while.
John shrugged. “A little. I can’t properly smile, though. It pulls at the scab.”
“Then I will try my hardest not to make you smile.” Sherlock said.
John shook his head. “It’s hard to control what makes me smile or not, Sherlock.” He stood up quickly and moved to head back into the kitchenette to get Sherlock’s soup, but Sherlock reached a hand out to grab his wrist before John could go any further. John looked down at his friend.
“Thank you, John.” Sherlock said. John did not know how he knew, but he could tell that verbal utterances of gratitude would be few and far between for Sherlock.
He couldn’t help it. He smiled. “Ow! …. Sherlock!”
Next Chapter
Author: Mesita
Words: 2953/39603/50,000+
Pairings: Sherlock/John (Eventual) Lestrade/Mycroft (Implied)
Warnings: Slight torture, kidnapping, violence, death
Summary: John Watson runs away to join a circus where he is forced to live with the resident consulting psychic. After one of the circus members is murdered, it's up to John and Sherlock to solve the case.
First Chapter
CHAPTER TEN
IT'S NOT OVER YET
John settled himself on the luxury sofa that sat in the middle of Mycroft’s London flat. The soft cushions were a welcome change to the horror both he had Sherlock had just witnessed.
It had already been just a few hours after John had been drinking tea and discussing some of the broader points of the case with Mrs. Hudson. Just a few hours before, Sherlock ran out on him. For a few minutes, he hadn’t thought it odd. Surely Sherlock needed to discuss something with his brother.
What bothered John at first was Sherlock’s noticeable absence. He was used to watching the taller boy pace back and forth, rubbing his hands together. John rather enjoyed seeing Sherlock run his fingers through his hair. It looked so smooth despite being so curly. John wondered what it felt like. His own hair was felt coarse to him, and was mostly just boring.
John missed Sherlock’s voice most of all. Mrs. Hudson was kind and her voice had a lovely quality to it, but nothing compared to the soft baritone of Sherlock’s cello-like voice. John had grown accustomed to Sherlock thinking out loud and he found that he missed it, already.
John’s worries were not set at ease even after Mrs. Hudson made him some tea. He thought about taking out his phone to text Sherlock just to see if he made it to Mycroft, but thought the better of it. He couldn’t quite explain why but he had the feeling that if he texted Sherlock, Sherlock would not be truthful about his whereabouts. John, instead, asked Mrs. Hudson for Mycroft’s number.
John felt as though he had just hit the send button when Mycroft’s response came back stating that he had no idea where his brother was and nor did he care at that moment.
Panic flooded John’s system. Before even he realized what was happening, he found himself dashing out the front door without so much as a goodbye to Mrs. Hudson.
He had no idea where to start looking for Sherlock. He could go back to the trailer, or possibly to any of the other trailers they had visited already: Moriarty’s, Molly’s or even Carl’s. Before he could bring himself to find Sherlock, he had the sudden desire to arm himself. If Sherlock found himself in a sticky situation, John didn’t want to just stand there and let him take it.
John quickly scanned his brain for what could be used as a weapon in a circus. It was the fact that Moran was a strong man that gave John the idea for the mallet-and it wasn’t hard to steal the device.
Finding Sherlock turned out not to be hard, either. Moriarty was loud and John happened to be rushing past the circus tent. He could hardly believe his good fortune.
The fear that had seized John gave him a surge of adrenaline, and he proceeded to ride that rush until the very end. Even he was surprised at his prowess over the vastly overpowered Moran. In the end, he had received a few lucky breaks. Moran probably underestimated John’s ability with a hammer-especially when he was fueled by rage and an unbelievable sense of protection. John had pulled the hammer back, not realizing Moran was trying to take John over from behind, and in doing so, inadvertently hit him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of the larger man.
John still could not believe it. The swirl of emotions that had happened next still baffled him. He remembered being afraid for Sherlock, but he could not remember many of the broader details. All he knew was that he needed to get to Sherlock-and fast.
The memories stirred around in John’s head as Mycroft’s assistant (she couldn’t have been a housekeeper, she was dressed far too sharply for that) brought them some tea. Sherlock had been tended to by the paramedics, but at his own request had not been admitted to the hospital. John looked at Sherlock, now, perched precariously at one end of the couch.
Sherlock’s wrists had been bandaged. John absolutely hated looking at them-knowing exactly how they got that way. He had a few bruises and discoloration on his neck from Moriarty’s hands, and still had bits of sand in his hair and on his clothing, and he was dirty, but otherwise quite healthy. John’s own hands and knees were covered in sand from when he knelt down to help Sherlock, and he had a bloody lip from Moran plus a few bruises scattered throughout his body. He would be sore and ache for days, but he was alive-and Sherlock was alive, and for that John was thankful.
Mycroft studied the two of them, and John could feel himself shrinking under that watchful gaze. Lestrade had arranged for both Sherlock and John to be escorted to Mycroft’s flat in a police car which caused John to wonder just how many contacts Lestrade had in law enforcement. Lestrade himself leaned against the wall, his arms folded. He looked at ease in Mycroft’s home.
“I’m not sure if I should be pissed off or pleased with the two of you,” Mycroft said as the corners of his mouth tugged downward. “On the one hand, you’ve managed to capture the man responsible for the deaths of two of my employees, but at such a foolish cost.”
He turned toward his brother and John followed his gaze. “And you, Sherlock. Thinking you could take care of the situation by yourself. Didn’t I tell you to be careful?”
“And didn’t I tell you I don’t care?” Sherlock spat. He looked more than ever like a pouting child.
Mycroft wasn’t affected by Sherlock’s outburst. He casually aimed his lecture toward John, instead. “And you…,” he sighed. “My circus falls apart the day you arrive. If you hadn’t gotten along so well with my brother, you would have been out on your arse yesterday.” John caught every bit of threat in those words.
“If it weren’t for John, you would no longer have a little brother,” Sherlock said, staring at his brother, as if to dare him to counter the statement.
“And that is precisely why John is staying,” Mycroft said with an air that suggested Sherlock should have let him finish. John kept his mouth shut.
“I take it I’m keeping my job, too?” Sherlock asked.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his brother. “Of course you are…”
Sherlock set his mug down, the tea untouched. “Then why the hell do I have to stay on as a psychic when my skills are obviously needed elsewhere?”
“What as a detective?” Mycroft said the occupation like it was something horrible to think about, like collecting garbage.
“I enjoy working on cases,” Sherlock began to idly brush some of the leftover sand from his clothing. John watched the grains fall onto Mycroft’s beautiful furniture. Sherlock was most likely ruining the fabric on purpose. He gave John a sort of hopeful look, and John took it that Sherlock wanted him to say something.
“And, I do, too. Enjoy working on cases, I mean.” John stumbled through the words. He really meant what he said, too. Despite the danger, the adrenaline rush was worth it-and he found he wanted to stay by Sherlock’s side. It felt natural and right.
“You’re both too young to be playing detectives.” Mycroft said with a finality that tried to extinguish the spark.
“Then let me go to University at least. I’ll get a degree in criminal justice, chemistry, anything.” Sherlock almost had a pleading tone to his voice. Almost. If John could hear it, Mycroft most definitely could.
The tiny plead seemed to work in Sherlock’s favor. Mycroft exhaled long and slow. “I’ll think about it.”
John smiled into his mug. He was glad that Sherlock would be able to continue his education at a University. John could see Sherlock more at home in a place like that-far from the confines of the circus.
And yet, at the same time, John felt a pang of remorse. If Sherlock left the circus to go to a University, where would that leave John? There was no way he could afford to go anywhere at all, and a scholarship was out of the question. He would have to stay at the circus and probably move on to becoming a clown by himself.
If the world was a perfect place, and John could do as he desired, he would have taken that detective option in an instant. He wanted to be able to do a bit more to help others out, though, and thought perhaps a career in medicine would be a good choice. The idea had plagued him for some time, but he couldn’t allow it to come to anything. He couldn’t pay for normal classes at a University! How could he ever expect to pay for medical school?
John decided it was best for him not to bring the subject up with Sherlock.
After a bit more chastising on Mycroft’s part, Sherlock and John were sent home in a private cab. John’s stomach was growling something fierce. He hadn’t realized that they had had nothing to eat that entire day. All he had to snack on were a few biscuits with Mrs. Hudson and a lot of tea. Sherlock had mentioned not wanting to eat earlier, but John knew he would have to find a way to get Sherlock to eat, somehow.
Sherlock was quiet when they first stepped into the trailer. He made a quick line for the bathroom and shut the door. John did not blame him. The poor guy had gone through so much trouble in the past few hours. John himself felt like he smelled so horrible that he wanted to jump into the shower with Sherlock.
John felt the heat creep up to his face before he even realized the reason for his blush.
He liked Sherlock. He cared for Sherlock. He didn’t think that the mutual affection they held for each other had crossed any lines, yet, and he wasn’t exactly keen on finding out. Sherlock was his friend. His very good looking friend-and now that the water was running, John’s very naked friend.
Wow, John thought to himself, he was really messed up. A week hadn’t even gone by since his mother’s death and he already seemed to be moving on. He had left his home of nineteen years to join a circus. He lived with a consulting psychic and just helped said psychic solve a murder mystery in which both of them had nearly lost their lives. And throughout all of this, John could only think about how nice his newfound friend would look naked?
John rubbed his eyes and decided it would be a good idea to get his priorities in order. Teenage hormones be damned. He went into the kitchenette to grab himself a bit of something to eat. There was a little leftover takeaway in the fridge from earlier and John was suddenly very thankful for Sherlock’s low propensity for eating.
He warmed up a few leftovers and despite his fatigue, leaned against the counter to eat. He did not want to sully Sherlock’s nice furniture with sand and dirt and blood. He was certain Mycroft would be sending his sofa to the Cleaner’s that was for certain.
Sherlock sure took a long time in the shower. John had long since finished eating before Sherlock finally emerged from a steaming bathroom wearing a dark blue housecoat. Once more, he did not say a word to John and instead turned to go immediately into his bedroom.
John figured he would talk to Sherlock when he was ready and took the opportunity to take a shower for himself. The water was lukewarm at first and only gave him a few minutes of heat before it turned cold.
But that was alright. After seeing Sherlock in nothing but a bathrobe, John needed the cold shower.
He cursed himself slightly, knowing full well that his brain and his heart were on a one-way track he could not come back from. He would have to pine for Sherlock quietly in his head until the feelings wore off. If they wore off.
John sighed and exited the shower, using one of the now-clean towels to dry his hair. He wrapped a towel around his waist and tiptoed into the spare room to change into some shorts and another tee shirt.
When John mustered up the courage to talk to Sherlock, he found the taller boy in his bedroom, still in his bathrobe and sitting on the edge of his bed. John knocked lightly on the open door to signify his presence, although he was sure Sherlock would not need it.
“Sherlock? Are you all right?” John hated how small and sheepish his voice sounded.
Sherlock would have been staring out the window if his blinds were open, but instead he was staring at the window. “I’m fine, John.”
“Then why do you look as though you have a thousand and one thoughts going through your mind?”
Sherlock gave the smallest of sarcastic smirks and John’s heart leapt to his chest. “I always have a thousand and one thoughts, John.”
“Never this distressing, I’m sure.” John slowly stepped forward to sit next to Sherlock on the bed. “If you won’t talk about it I will.”
“John…”
“No.” John did not know where the sudden bout of bravery came from, but he was happy it had arrived. “Sherlock you scared me. I wish you would have trusted me enough to tell me where you were going. I would have helped.”
“You did help.”
“Yes, I did.” John stared long and hard at Sherlock. “Promise me you’ll include me in your little escapades, next time?”
Sherlock frowned.
“What is it? Why can’t you trust me?”
“I trust you implicitly, John.” Sherlock said, finally pulling his eyes away from the window and looking directly into John’s own eyes. The effect was paralyzing. “I only fear for your safety.”
“And I can’t fear for yours?” John’s voice was rising, and he did not care. “We’re either in this together, or we’re not. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I enjoy working with you like this. You are the closest thing to a best friend I’ve ever had, and I’m not losing you, now.”
John could not tell if Sherlock was touched by his words or not, but he found he didn’t much care. He needed Sherlock to hear them. Perhaps his words would influence him to keep John in his life, or at least John hoped.
Sherlock sighed and stood up. John knew the consulting psychic’s brain had to be moving a mile a second and he wished he could read his mind. Especially since Sherlock said something completely unrelated, next. “I hope you left me a bit of food, John. I’d like to eat.”
John took that as Sherlock’s way of saying everything was okay-especially since Sherlock agreed to eat, now. John swelled with happiness and didn’t mind if it was written all over his face. “There’s still some soup we can warm up!”
He gladly rushed ahead of Sherlock into the kitchen so that he could warm up the food. While the food spun around in the microwave, John went into the sitting room to find Sherlock perched on his usual chair.
“While we wait, can I take a look at your wrists?” John asked, moving around to the front of Sherlock’s chair.
Sherlock hesitated for a second, must have thought the better of it, and held his wrists forward.
John knelt between Sherlock’s knees and examined both wrists closely. The wounds had healed a bit from the antiseptic the paramedics placed on it, and the shower. John scrutinized over the still-raw wounds. “I’m going to put some ointment on them and wrap them up, if that’s all right. I don’t want you to get an infection.”
He stood up and disappeared into the bathroom for a second just to check the medicine cabinet for anything he could use. He found some gauze and a triple antibiotic and went back to tend to Sherlock’s wrists.
As he worked, he could feel Sherlock’s well-trained gaze on him, but it didn’t feel as scrutinizing has it had, before. He didn’t feel the same as when he first entered the trailer and Sherlock gave him a good look-over to find information on him. This time, Sherlock’s gaze felt softer and more relaxed.
“There,” John said, making sure the gauze fit securely around the wrists but not tight enough to restrict blood flow. “All finished.”
Sherlock held his hands up and flexed his fingers. He then reached his hand forward and John suddenly had his chin held in Sherlock’s astonishingly strong grasp. Sherlock moved John’s head from side to side.
“Does your lip hurt?” he inquired after a while.
John shrugged. “A little. I can’t properly smile, though. It pulls at the scab.”
“Then I will try my hardest not to make you smile.” Sherlock said.
John shook his head. “It’s hard to control what makes me smile or not, Sherlock.” He stood up quickly and moved to head back into the kitchenette to get Sherlock’s soup, but Sherlock reached a hand out to grab his wrist before John could go any further. John looked down at his friend.
“Thank you, John.” Sherlock said. John did not know how he knew, but he could tell that verbal utterances of gratitude would be few and far between for Sherlock.
He couldn’t help it. He smiled. “Ow! …. Sherlock!”
Next Chapter