The wound.
John woke up and pain was the first thing that beat him. He was lying on his right side on a bed that was not his.
He felt the mattress shift underneath his body. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock lying at his side, looking at him.
“How are you feeling?” Sherlock’s deep voice asked.
“How are you feeling?” John retaliated with a smile that widened when he noticed Sherlock’s cheeks turned a light shade of pink.
“Shut up, John”. But John was still smiling and then Sherlock was on his back, face to the ceiling, also smiling. “Shut up, John. If I read one word in your stupid blog I’ll murder you myself in your sleep” he managed to say in between the involuntary spasms of supressed laughter in his chest, the shade of pink turning red and taking over his face.
“You could have just said I love you, you know?” John said after a minute of comfortable silence. “I mean, God knows the man deserved the beat up but… I mean… well….” He trailed off. The joke was hilarious in his head. He moved his hand to where the cut was, right below his ribs, on his left, and ran his fingertips over the bandage, where the stitches that closed it were.
For a split second he also had thought the stab was serious. No wonder Sherlock didn’t even check before lounging himself on the suspect…no, the murderer, and started beating him to a pulp. Had John been seriously injured and unable to break Sherlock’s hold on the man, Sherlock would have hit him to death.
He thought that the moment had come to try and process what he saw in Sherlock’s eyes while the detective went from thinking John was probably dead, to seeing he was not, but was still bleeding profusely.
John knew Sherlock valued him. He'd never doubted it. But he had never hoped he would ever witness a display of those feelings he was sure Sherlock was capable of having. A sting of jealousy and guilt made him grimace at the memory of Sherlock mourning Irene Adler last Christmas. Back then he had not given much importance to that slight discomfort. The utter sorrow he felt in sympathy with his friend’s feelings washed those negative feelings away and allowed him to feel protective of Sherlock. He wasn’t sure he had come to terms with the feelings of jealousy. He surely didn’t want to deal with that now. He let his thoughts travel back to Sherlock and his own injury.
“I can’t believe I let you stitch it, for God’s sake. What was I thinking?”
Sherlock turned his head to face John again, but John was staring at his own hand, at Sherlock’s shirt, Sherlock’s shoulder, anywhere but Sherlock’s eyes. I’m not the only one who is uncomfortable here, then, Sherlock though that that should have amused him but it only reminded him that John could have been in serious trouble right now if the murderer hadn’t let the knife slip from his hand so stupidly, failing to stab John but giving him a long cut along his lower ribs.
John had fallen on his side, both hands on the wound, his shirt soaked in blood. And he had only seen the blood on John’s shirt and leaking to the floor. He didn’t remember grabbing the murderer from behind and spinning him around. He didn’t remember beating him once, twice, until the man was with his back on the floor. He didn’t remember pulling him to his feet again and continue beating him. He only remembered John’s hands on his shoulders, and John’s voice telling him to stop. He also remembered relief washing all over him, a sense of protectiveness taking over him, a need to protect John.
The realization had taken a whole minute to hit him. He had felt utterly self-conscious when he saw understanding and tenderness in John’s eyes, when he came back to himself again and stopped babbling God knows what. He immediately let go of John’s clothes, face, body and turned to look at the bleeding man behind him, who was not a threat anymore he was so damaged.
He had called Lestrade and he had told him John needed an ambulance before telling him where they were or anything about them having caught the suspect and confirmed he was the murderer. The paramedics attended to the murderer first and Sherlock had managed to convince Lestrade that he would throw a massive tantrum if anyone tried to touch John. Then he had demanded that Lestrade let him take John home as soon as possible so he could see to his wound and Lestrade let him go after making John promise he would go to the A&E if his good judgement as a medical man deemed it necessary. Sherlock was not sure he had managed to conceal the surprise and the proud joy he felt when John had told Lestrade that he trusted Sherlock with his life and he knew the detective could see to the injury and look after him.
“You could have just said I love you too, you know?” Sherlock said with a grin.
“Touché.” said John with a smile, but it faded quickly. Sherlock turned the rest of his body to mirror John’s position and John lifts his gaze to meet his friend’s eyes.
“Did you think I was dead? Did it look that bad?” John decided to spare Sherlock the part when he admits he cares for John.
“I didn’t think anything” Sherlock snapped, and John feared he would just deny having acted under a fit of rage. “I just saw you bleeding and in danger. I don’t even remember beating the man until you ripped me from him” Sherlock said that naturally, no shyness conveyed in these words.
“It’s a good thing he hadn’t actually killed me. You would be in jail for murder now.” John wondered why he was still beating about the bush and not taking this more seriously.
Sherlock pulled a fake offended face and squeaked. “I would certainly be not in jail. I would be busy getting rid of the corpse and thinking what to do with yours.” He was becoming good at this talking around a subject.
But John was not buying it.
“Sherlock” John steeled himself and put his left hand on Sherlock’s right, on the bed between their chests. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Sherlock. I know you fancy yourself above feelings and attachments but you are only human.” After a short pause he continues “We’ve been living together for over a year already. And we work together.” John didn’t know how to match this to what he already was admitting was like an elephant in the room “If only for the fact that I run the blog that brings you most of your cases, it’s only to be expected that you grant me some importance in your life.”
Almost.
“Don’t you dare write one word about this in that horrid blog of yours” Sherlock said still looking John in the eye, the last traces of awkwardness lost to amusement.
“I might, though. It was an interesting case” John felt relieved to have dodged the moment that had been threatening to happen since he had woken up. Why am I on your bed and Why are you still lying next to me remained silenced. He felt grateful.
“I can make it look like death from natural causes, John”
John laughed and the stitches tinged a bit. Sherlock grabbed John’s hand minutely but John gestured he was fine and Sherlock relaxed again.
“Go to sleep, John. Angelo will send Billy with dinner in an hour. We can rest in the meantime”, Sherlock said while closing his eyes, his fingers still tangled with John’s.
John stared at their hands clasped lightly together and smiled. It was worth the wound, he thought.
He still had to see the scar it would leave to make the same statement about his own good judgement. He closed his eyes, too; pain long forgotten.
He felt the mattress shift underneath his body. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock lying at his side, looking at him.
“How are you feeling?” Sherlock’s deep voice asked.
“How are you feeling?” John retaliated with a smile that widened when he noticed Sherlock’s cheeks turned a light shade of pink.
“Shut up, John”. But John was still smiling and then Sherlock was on his back, face to the ceiling, also smiling. “Shut up, John. If I read one word in your stupid blog I’ll murder you myself in your sleep” he managed to say in between the involuntary spasms of supressed laughter in his chest, the shade of pink turning red and taking over his face.
“You could have just said I love you, you know?” John said after a minute of comfortable silence. “I mean, God knows the man deserved the beat up but… I mean… well….” He trailed off. The joke was hilarious in his head. He moved his hand to where the cut was, right below his ribs, on his left, and ran his fingertips over the bandage, where the stitches that closed it were.
For a split second he also had thought the stab was serious. No wonder Sherlock didn’t even check before lounging himself on the suspect…no, the murderer, and started beating him to a pulp. Had John been seriously injured and unable to break Sherlock’s hold on the man, Sherlock would have hit him to death.
He thought that the moment had come to try and process what he saw in Sherlock’s eyes while the detective went from thinking John was probably dead, to seeing he was not, but was still bleeding profusely.
John knew Sherlock valued him. He'd never doubted it. But he had never hoped he would ever witness a display of those feelings he was sure Sherlock was capable of having. A sting of jealousy and guilt made him grimace at the memory of Sherlock mourning Irene Adler last Christmas. Back then he had not given much importance to that slight discomfort. The utter sorrow he felt in sympathy with his friend’s feelings washed those negative feelings away and allowed him to feel protective of Sherlock. He wasn’t sure he had come to terms with the feelings of jealousy. He surely didn’t want to deal with that now. He let his thoughts travel back to Sherlock and his own injury.
“I can’t believe I let you stitch it, for God’s sake. What was I thinking?”
Sherlock turned his head to face John again, but John was staring at his own hand, at Sherlock’s shirt, Sherlock’s shoulder, anywhere but Sherlock’s eyes. I’m not the only one who is uncomfortable here, then, Sherlock though that that should have amused him but it only reminded him that John could have been in serious trouble right now if the murderer hadn’t let the knife slip from his hand so stupidly, failing to stab John but giving him a long cut along his lower ribs.
John had fallen on his side, both hands on the wound, his shirt soaked in blood. And he had only seen the blood on John’s shirt and leaking to the floor. He didn’t remember grabbing the murderer from behind and spinning him around. He didn’t remember beating him once, twice, until the man was with his back on the floor. He didn’t remember pulling him to his feet again and continue beating him. He only remembered John’s hands on his shoulders, and John’s voice telling him to stop. He also remembered relief washing all over him, a sense of protectiveness taking over him, a need to protect John.
The realization had taken a whole minute to hit him. He had felt utterly self-conscious when he saw understanding and tenderness in John’s eyes, when he came back to himself again and stopped babbling God knows what. He immediately let go of John’s clothes, face, body and turned to look at the bleeding man behind him, who was not a threat anymore he was so damaged.
He had called Lestrade and he had told him John needed an ambulance before telling him where they were or anything about them having caught the suspect and confirmed he was the murderer. The paramedics attended to the murderer first and Sherlock had managed to convince Lestrade that he would throw a massive tantrum if anyone tried to touch John. Then he had demanded that Lestrade let him take John home as soon as possible so he could see to his wound and Lestrade let him go after making John promise he would go to the A&E if his good judgement as a medical man deemed it necessary. Sherlock was not sure he had managed to conceal the surprise and the proud joy he felt when John had told Lestrade that he trusted Sherlock with his life and he knew the detective could see to the injury and look after him.
“You could have just said I love you too, you know?” Sherlock said with a grin.
“Touché.” said John with a smile, but it faded quickly. Sherlock turned the rest of his body to mirror John’s position and John lifts his gaze to meet his friend’s eyes.
“Did you think I was dead? Did it look that bad?” John decided to spare Sherlock the part when he admits he cares for John.
“I didn’t think anything” Sherlock snapped, and John feared he would just deny having acted under a fit of rage. “I just saw you bleeding and in danger. I don’t even remember beating the man until you ripped me from him” Sherlock said that naturally, no shyness conveyed in these words.
“It’s a good thing he hadn’t actually killed me. You would be in jail for murder now.” John wondered why he was still beating about the bush and not taking this more seriously.
Sherlock pulled a fake offended face and squeaked. “I would certainly be not in jail. I would be busy getting rid of the corpse and thinking what to do with yours.” He was becoming good at this talking around a subject.
But John was not buying it.
“Sherlock” John steeled himself and put his left hand on Sherlock’s right, on the bed between their chests. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Sherlock. I know you fancy yourself above feelings and attachments but you are only human.” After a short pause he continues “We’ve been living together for over a year already. And we work together.” John didn’t know how to match this to what he already was admitting was like an elephant in the room “If only for the fact that I run the blog that brings you most of your cases, it’s only to be expected that you grant me some importance in your life.”
Almost.
“Don’t you dare write one word about this in that horrid blog of yours” Sherlock said still looking John in the eye, the last traces of awkwardness lost to amusement.
“I might, though. It was an interesting case” John felt relieved to have dodged the moment that had been threatening to happen since he had woken up. Why am I on your bed and Why are you still lying next to me remained silenced. He felt grateful.
“I can make it look like death from natural causes, John”
John laughed and the stitches tinged a bit. Sherlock grabbed John’s hand minutely but John gestured he was fine and Sherlock relaxed again.
“Go to sleep, John. Angelo will send Billy with dinner in an hour. We can rest in the meantime”, Sherlock said while closing his eyes, his fingers still tangled with John’s.
John stared at their hands clasped lightly together and smiled. It was worth the wound, he thought.
He still had to see the scar it would leave to make the same statement about his own good judgement. He closed his eyes, too; pain long forgotten.