On the twelfth day of Sherlockmas ... "When the Night is Long," a gift for sherlockmas
Author: Katemacetak
Title: When the Night is Long
A gift for: sherlockmas
Characters/Pairing: John/Sherlock
Category: Gen, mild slash
Rating: pg
Warnings: A character is shot.
Summary: After John stops an assassination attempt on Mycroft, his limp returns worse than ever.
Author's Notes: Thank you to my friend Prissy for reading it over for me. Title borrowed from "Armistice" by Patrick Wolf: http://youtu.be/tIg8VQLPEYk
When the Night is Long
If I am weak
Won’t you be strong
When the night is long
It was pouring rain when they stepped out of the theatre. Sherlock was already complaining about the awful musical Mycroft and John had just dragged him to, and his scowl deepened when he saw how the weather had turned. He pulled his collar up, glaring at Mycroft. His brother smiled as he unfurled his umbrella.
“As you see, one should always be prepared when going out on the town in London,” Mycroft said, holding the black umbrella over his head. John inched a little closer so he could receive some of the umbrella’s shelter as well-shooting an apologetic look at Sherlock, who was too tall.
“You should’ve brought your hat,” John said, as they moved out from under the theater’s awning and onto the busy street. The West End was bustling with theatergoers and tourists, most of them on their way home or out to the nearby restaurants as the evening shows let out.
Lingering a few steps behind Mycroft and John, Sherlock had fallen silent. John glanced back, surprised that Sherlock didn’t have a witty retort about the hat comment. Sherlock’s gaze was trained on something in the distance, his eyes narrowed in concentration. John knew that look
“What-“ Before John could even finish the question, Sherlock had grabbed his arm, pointing wordlessly at a pale skinned, dark haired man with his hand stuffed into the pocket of his torn flannel jacket. In the next instant, his hand flipped up, and there was a flash of metal…he knew he had time, if he moved just so…
Sherlock was the one to notice what was about to happen, but John was the one who knew what to do with that knowledge. He leaped, throwing himself at Mycroft (“John, no!” Sherlock was shouting, but John ignored it), pushing the larger man down with surprising ease. More screams overpowered Sherlock’s pleas, and then John was on the wet ground, absurdly aware of the wet cobblestones soaking his nice new coat, something that Sherlock had picked out for him. It didn’t suit him; it was too “cool,” but it was a pity that it would be ruined by the damp.
He remembered this from last time. The pain wouldn’t hit until later. He was just in shock now. Where had he been hit? Everything was dim, but he managed to focus on Mycroft’s umbrella landing nearby, spinning on its end like a big black top. Why had he dropped it? John was annoyed, and worried, and he tried to sit up to see if Mycroft had made it out all right.
A hand pressed down on his chest, forcing him to lie down. “John. John, you idiot…” Sherlock’s face floated above him. His nose was wrinkled up like it did when he was upset, and John tried to reassure him, but it was a little hard to speak when he couldn’t breathe.
The pain was starting to creep up now. Maybe it would be better if he went to sleep.
“Stay with me, John. Listen to me…you brilliant idiot, don’t you dare…John!”
***
“He’ll be all right, Sherlock.”
Sherlock had been staring at John’s sleeping form, and Mycroft’s voice startled him. He felt ragged from exhaustion. He often ran for days on only hours of sleep, but this was different.
“You should take a break. I’ll watch him, and make sure to call you if anything changes,” Mycroft said. Sherlock continued to sit there until he couldn’t take Mycroft’s glares any longer. With a huff, he strode out of the room. There was a guard standing outside the door, and Sherlock ignored him as he walked past.
The hall was quiet and empty. He paused in front of a snack machine, vaguely aware of the fact that he was hungry. Sherlock was a light eater. He usually just watched as John devoured platefuls of food, only nibbling on his own meal. What he really craved was a cigarette, but that wasn’t about to happen with Mycroft hanging around. Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out a few coins and inserted them into the slot. He punched the buttons for a packet of crisps and a box of fruit gums at random. The crisps dropped down into the opening, but the candy did not. The release seemed to be jammed. Sherlock kicked the machine, and a nurse poked her head out of the nearby office.
“Sir, please quiet down…oh, is the machine broken again? I’ll call maintenance.” Her voice was sweet, too light for the setting of a hospital. Sherlock glanced at her, assessing her marriage status-recently divorced; the pets she owned at home-a cat and a cockatiel; and what she ate for breakfast-a bowl of crunchy nut cereal. Ignoring the information as well as her polite warning, he turned and walked back down the hall. He wasn’t hungry anymore. Back in the room, he dropped the crisps into Mycroft’s lap.
The only sound was the steady crunching of Mycroft breaking his diet. Sherlock slumped back into his chair, his gaze intent on John once more. He was the first to notice John stirring, and he had to restrain himself from jumping to his feet.
John’s eyes flickered open, and he looked around, his eyes going from Mycroft to Sherlock. “What…what happened?”
“You only saved my life, John,” Mycroft said. “You were very brave…”
Sherlock inched his chair closer to the bed, the rest of Mycroft’s words going unheard. He felt an odd tightening in his throat, and his heart was pounding with worry and relief. “Mycroft, you’ve said thank you, now leave,” he told his brother, cutting off his little speech. He wanted nothing more than to be alone with John.
“Well, I’ll just go get the nurse,” Mycroft said, leaving the two of them to their reunion.
“That wasn’t brave, it was stupid,” Sherlock said, once Mycroft was gone. He didn’t mean to be so harsh, but he couldn’t think of any words that could convey to John how he felt right now.
“Hmm. Just doing what I was trained for.” John’s voice was cracked and tired, and his eyes were still a little confused, but he smiled.
“You were trained to be a doctor, not take bullets for people.”
“And yet I seem to keep doing just that.” John winced as he tried to move his leg. “So, how bad is it?” He knew Sherlock, at least, wouldn’t water down the diagnosis.
“A bullet grazed your side, and another landed in your leg, shattering bones. You might need more surgery, and it will take a while before you can walk properly again. But you’ll get through it, of course.”
“I suppose I will.” John almost felt the need to reassure Sherlock, even though he was the one lying in bed with a ruined leg. He could tell how nervous his friend was, even if he was doing his best to hide it. “It’s all right. I’m alive.” He patted Sherlock’s hand, awkwardly.
Before Sherlock could reply, a doctor and nurse swept in to check on the awakened patient. Sherlock moved back, reluctantly letting them get to work.
***
John embarked on a slow recovery process as the weeks passed. It was worse than the shot to his shoulder. This injury required surgery, a cast, pins, bed rest…it drove him insane to be forced to lie inactive, doing nothing while his leg healed. Sherlock did his best to entertain them both, but John could tell that the detective was growing bored as well. John urged him to take on more cases, but Sherlock seemed intent on devoting himself to aiding his recovery.
Initially, it had seemed that he might have to move out of 221B as the stairs provided an insurmountable challenge in a cast. However, Sherlock had persuaded Mrs. Hudson to clear out a room on the ground floor for John. The flat upstairs was used less and less. Sherlock had practically moved into the ground floor room as well, occasionally even falling asleep on the sofa. Both John and Mrs. Hudson were relieved when John had recovered enough to move back into the flat. Sherlock’s attentiveness was surprising enough, and it was becoming downright smothering in the small space.
Once the cast was off, Sherlock also became John’s physical therapy coach, accompanying him to all the appointments. Sherlock sitting in a chair, watching impassively as he struggled through various exercise, had made him uncomfortable at first. Now, he was used to it, just like he had grown accustomed to all the other oddities his flatmate displayed.
With his rehabilitation taking up most of his life, John barely noticed that the holidays were approaching until his physical therapist began playing Christmas carols on the radio while they worked. The cheerful tunes made for a jarring background to the pain and difficulty of the stretch he was working on.
John groaned as he tried to extend his leg further. Sherlock glanced up from the magazine he had been pretending to read. “All right, John?”
He longed to tell Cecilia, the therapist, that he couldn’t go on any longer, but he hated to fail his exercises in front of Sherlock. Shaking his head, he kept at it. Cecilia shot Sherlock a disapproving look. “John, you shouldn’t push yourself to the point of injury…”
“He won’t,” Sherlock said. “He finished the exact same exercise last week, and he wasn’t hurt. I’d be able to tell if he was pushing himself too hard. Look, he seems frustrated, but you can clearly tell…”
Cecilia cut him off. “With all due respect, I’m the doctor here.”
But while they argued, John had gone through the required repetitions. He sat up, his face red from exertion. “There, you see,” Sherlock said calmly.
Cecilia rolled her eyes. “Well done, John. I think we’re done for today, but before you go, there’s something else I want to show you. In addition to working the your muscles, you also want to make sure you massage the scar tissue. That’s something your partner could help you with…”
John’s face reddened. “We’re not…”
“Yes, go on,” Sherlock said, leaning forward and listening intently, ignoring John’s exasperated look.
“It’s fairly simple. First rub a small bit of lubrication on your hands, like baby oil or lotion.” She rubbed some lotion onto her own hands, then rolled up John’s trouser leg to demonstrate. Between the scars from the bullet wound and the surgery, it wasn’t pretty. “Using a finger or two, massage perpendicular to the scar.” She glanced up at John’s face, making sure that he wasn’t in pain. “You can do it yourself, too,” she added, to cover for her earlier mistake.
“Thank you, that’s very helpful.” John moved his leg away, pushing his trousers back down. He was achy and tired, and he just wanted to go home. Sensing John’s frustration, Sherlock stood.
“Yes, thank you very much Cecilia. We’ll see you again on…Thursday, is it?”
“That’s right, Sherlock. You take care.” She handed John his cane. Watching as the two men left the room, she shook her head. It was difficult to believe that they weren’t a couple.
***
“I suppose you’ll be wanting to go to Molly’s Christmas party?”
It was Christmas Eve. Sherlock was tuning his violin, and John was drinking a cup of tea and staring blankly at the television.
“No, I don’t think so,” John said, turning to Sherlock and flicking the telly off. He couldn’t pay attention to anything.
“Why? You always seem to enjoy her little get-together. I’ll go with you.”
“I’m just not feeling up to it.”
“It’s just in your head.” Sherlock lowered the violin, frowning.
“No, actually it’s not.” John’s voice was petulant, and his hands tightened around the mug. “My leg hurts. I don’t feel like walking across the room, let alone standing for hours chatting with people, pretending to be cheerful, answering their questions about my recovery, hearing again how brave I was…I’m not brave, Sherlock. How can I be, when it takes effort to even leave the house?”
“You’ve been working so hard. You’ll get better soon,” Sherlock said, as confidently as if he were deducing something obvious.
John shook his head. “You don’t understand. This isn’t like last time. The doctor said I may never walk the same again…” He looked down, blinking hard. He heard Sherlock footsteps leaving the room. Typical, Sherlock still refusing to believe that he wasn’t getting better.
He waited for his friend to return, but he never did. After a while he heard the front door open and close. John remained where he was, a mug of cold tea in his hands, until it grew dark. The party would have started by now. Rising to his feet, he picked up his cane and hobbled into the bedroom, where he collapsed into bed. He stared at the ceiling until sleep came.
He wasn’t sure what time it was when he woke screaming, the images from yet another nightmare quickly fading but the rush of adrenaline lingering, making his heart pound and his stomach churn.
“John?” Sherlock was perched on the edge of the bed, his form illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the blinds.
“What’re you doing here?” John mumbled, sitting up against the pillows and rubbing his eyes.
“You were yelling in your sleep again. I wanted to wake you up.”
“Oh.” So Sherlock had been the one to pull him out of the nightmare.
“They missed you at the party.”
“You went?”
“I conveyed your regrets. And there’s a slice of toffee pudding in the fridge. For the morning. Go back to sleep now. Unless you’d like me to massage your leg?”
“Sleep would be nice.” John pulled the blanket up to his chin, feeling his face growing hot. He couldn’t tell how serious Sherlock was. “Good night.”
After Sherlock had left the room, he lay awake for a long time, feeling guilty. He didn’t deserve this kindness, especially from a man who typically showed so little sympathy.
He eventually dozed off again, but this time, there were no nightmares.
***
Christmas came and went. John kept at his rehabilitation. Some days were better than others. At times he was sure he was improving, but the next day he could lose all hope, wondering if he would always have to rely heavily on a cane. Cecilia, however, seemed optimistic-"and your friend is doing so much to help,” she informed him happily, as she was sending him off after a particularly grueling session. “I’ll see you in the New Year, then.”
Sherlock seemed ridiculously pleased at the comment. “Maybe next time you won’t complain when I’m trying to give you advice,” he said, grinning at John. He was almost bouncing on his feet, full of nervous energy as he lingered alongside John, who was limping along slow and steady.
“I’m not trying any more of your concoctions,” John muttered darkly. Lately Sherlock had been putting together all sorts of health drinks, experimenting to see which ones had the most affect. One potion had contained turmeric, which John was allergic to, and he’d spent the day locked in the bathroom, throwing up. After that, he had refused to try any more of the smoothies.
All in all, Sherlock was becoming entirely too invested in John’s recovery process. John could tell that he needed a case. Fortunately, he had been corresponding by email with someone who had found the blog, and he had something all lined up for the New Year.
By New Year’s Eve, John had a file put together with preliminary information. He had told the client that Sherlock would meet with him the following week. He could barely contain his excitement, and after a fancy dinner-which John cooked and ate and Sherlock mostly picked at despite complimenting John’s cooking over and over-he presented the folder to Sherlock.
John was devastated to see something like anger on Sherlock’s face after he read the copy of the email he had printed out. “I can’t take this case.”
“Why? Is it too simple? We can find another…”
Sherlock shook his head. “No.”
“Then what’s wrong with it?” John shook the folder, and papers flew out over the table.
Sherlock just stared at him for a moment. “John…I don’t want to take a case without you. And you’re clearly…you need to rest. I can’t drag you into the kinds of situations that cases lead to.”
John leaned back, the wind knocked out of his sails. What Sherlock said hurt. “Is this why you’ve been trying to hard to help me recover?” He pulled himself to his feet, leaning on the chair and then grabbing his cane. Turning, he began stalking out of the room in as dignified a manner as he could manage.
“John, please.” Sherlock called after him. John paused waiting, but there was nothing else. He limped to the bedroom, shutting the door loudly.
He remained there until late, thinking. Still in the kitchen, Sherlock was doing much the same. Finally, shortly before midnight, he rose and went to knock on John’s bedroom door.
It swung open immediately; John was already standing in front of it, about to go find Sherlock.
“John, I’m sorry. I only want you to feel better. I want you to be happy.”
“I want you to be happy too, Sherlock. And you need a case. I’ll still work with you, just not in the same way. We just need to adjust to the changes.”
Even as he spoke, the clock started to chime twelve.
“We’ll get through it. Together.” Sherlock reached out, touching John’s cheek. He seemed unsure of what to do next, and John found himself closing the distance between them, pulling Sherlock’s face down to his.
“Together,” John repeated, once they pulled back for breath. He leaned against Sherlock, for balance and comfort. This was not the change he had been talking about, but it was a new year.
“Come on…why don’t you give me that massage now.” Taking Sherlock’s hand, he pulled the taller man into the bedroom after him. They had some resolutions to make.