Re: Fill: Freedom, part 9/?jg5799March 31 2012, 22:25:14 UTC
~~~~
John was woken an indeterminate amount of time later by Sherlock shuddering beside him. He barely had time to wonder blearily where they were before the cold hit him. The temperature of the room had dropped noticeably - perhaps it was night outside. The tiles were icy around them, sending fingers of frigid pain into John’s exposed skin.
“Sherlock?” he whispered tentatively.
“You’re awake.”
“How long have I been asleep?”
“I’m not sure - I drifted off too. It feels like an hour or two - but with no sensory cues it could be anything from fifteen minutes to fifteen hours.” Sherlock sounded supremely disgruntled, hating the lack of data. Before he could add any more, another shiver rolled down his spine, rattling his teeth. John, fully awake now, stretched out an arm to feel Sherlock next to him, reassurance in the dark. He found his friend’s chest, smoothed his hand downwards over the soft lines of his abdominal muscles. Sherlock made a small hum that sounded appreciative, but John turned towards him, concern deepening, as further shivers racked him. The skin under his fingers had felt incredibly chill to the touch, and John realised how little body fat Sherlock possessed to insulate him.
“How do you feel?” John tried to keep the question light, casual, but of course there was no fooling Sherlock Holmes, even in his freezing state.
“Don’t fuss, John. Everything will be f-f-fine.”
“When you pronounce ‘fine’ with three ‘f’s, things are emphatically not fine.”
“There’s nothing you can do.”
“Yes there is.” John shifted even closer to him, intent on warming him, his stockier build having stood him in better stead for this situation.
“No!” Sherlock tried to pull away, but his arm was still trapped under John’s head. “I won’t have you getting colder any faster than you need to.”
“Don’t be stupid, Sherlock.” John cursed his inability visually examine the man. Judging by touch alone, he was fairly certain that Sherlock’s lips would have taken on a bluish tinge. He was shaking violently constantly now, and John realised that he’d previously been attempting to hold still so as not to wake him. He rubbed his hands firmly over Sherlock’s shoulders, trying to ignore his own discomfort as cold air seemed to dig pointed teeth into his exposed back.
After several minutes, much against his will, Sherlock made a small, comforted noise. “Bit better?” queried John.
“Feel a bit warmer. Thank you.”
“Is the world ending?”
“John?”
“Thanks, from the great Sherlock Holmes? It must be,” quipped John, trying to keep the mood light despite his increasing worry. His own muscles were starting to twitch and contract in an attempt to warm him. Sherlock felt it instantly.
“Come here, then.” Sherlock pulled John towards him, wrapping their legs together and clutching him tight to his chest. It was a bit like snuggling into a statue, thought John, very little warmth radiating from the detective and his hipbones jutting into John’s side. They shivered together, attempting to rub each other’s backs.
Re: Fill: Freedom, part 10/?jg5799March 31 2012, 22:28:49 UTC
“Sh-Should we put our clothes back on?”
Sherlock considered. “I don’t think it’s wise to remove them from the nozzle.”
John nodded, teeth chattering. He was cold down to his bones, now, aching as his body shook against Sherlock’s. He couldn’t imagine how cold his partner must feel if he felt this awful. Trying to let go a held breath, he whimpered unintentionally, causing Sherlock to hug him convulsively closer.
“John...” Now concern was evident in Sherlock’s tone.
“’M fine.”
“You’re in pain.”
“So’re you.”
“Yes, but it’s my fault. I sh-shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”
“Since when did you ever have to drag me anywhere?” John was bemused. Sherlock thanking him - then apologising? What was happening? “Carry on, and I’ll diagnose you with delirium. You never apologise.” Sherlock was silent beside him. “Hey.” John nudged his cheek, causing Sherlock to flinch away from the cold touch. “Sorry. Trying to be nice. D-difficult with chilly extremities.”
Sherlock breathed a shivery chuckle. “You never stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Trying to make people b-better.”
In answer, John pressed cold lips to Sherlock’s cheek, feeling Sherlock’s back rubbing soften momentarily into a caress in response. They lapsed into silence for a long, long while.
~~~~~
John was daydreaming. He thought of warm things - hot chocolate, a roaring fireside, snuggling under blankets on a winter morning, the sun beating down on a beach... Nothing was working. His muscles ached from their fruitless, constant expansion and contraction. Gradually, though, he realised he was shivering alone. Sherlock had stopped. Terror filled John’s mind, his thoughts feeling foggy and slow. “Sherlock? You OK?”
“Mm.” Sherlock sounded asleep, his breathing shallow. John wondered how long he’d been drowsy for.
“Sherlock! You have to stay awake!” John shook him with stiff fingers, feeling Sherlock flop uselessly against him.
“I’m trying, promise...” Sherlock sounded barely conscious.
John came the closest to panicking he ever had. If Sherlock went to sleep, there was a good chance he wouldn’t be waking up. He hauled at Sherlock’s limbs, simultaneously rolling on to his back. He gasped and cried out as his skin met the icy tiles, but resisted the urge to recoil. He had to get Sherlock off the cold floor. Yanking indelicately, he positioned the other man on top of him, so they were stomach to stomach.
“John... t-try not to let lust overcome you...” Sherlock teased, weakly.
“Keep telling jokes.” John was mildly, momentarily encouraged.
“Humour... doesn’t work well... for me.” John heard Sherlock yawn widely.
“Don’t sleep.” His back was agony. A distracted part of John’s brain idly wondered how it was possible for numbing cold to simultaneously be so cruelly painful. Everything in him felt heavy, exhausted. Time had lost any meaning, and minutes spiralled away into the darkness.
Re: Fill: Freedom, part 11/?jg5799March 31 2012, 22:46:47 UTC
Suddenly, Sherlock struggled against him, finding inhuman strength from somewhere. “Get off - too hot -“
“No!” John, startled out of his stupor, grabbed at him and pinioned his arms with all the power he could muster. Sherlock wriggled, kicking out. “You’re not hot - your mind’s playing tricks on you -“
“No - no -“ Sherlock’s grappling was weakening, muscles reverting to floppiness. He whined, like a fractious child.
“Shh.” John gentled him, reaching his head forward, pressing kisses to Sherlock’s forehead, soothing him.
“My fault...” murmured Sherlock.
“S’not. We have... have to stay awake...” John felt an incredible lassitude overtaking him. He didn’t feel cold anymore. A distant, academic part of his brain was struggling weakly against the lethargy - but nothing about the situation seemed to make sense any more. He relaxed, feeling Sherlock lie his head against his neck, curls tickling lightly against his skin. He wanted to hold him... his arms fought the tiredness for a few minutes longer, but as his brain gave up the struggle his fingers slipped apart, gravity pulling his arms down. Sleep wrapped around him, closer than his lover, and he gave himself up to its embrace.
~~~~~
“John?... John?” Shouted words. A long way away. Down a tunnel. “John?” Echoing.
“Sh’lock...” he slurred. A great weight was yanked off him, giving him the odd sensation that he was floating upwards, as though in deep water. Vaguely, he perceived voices around him, the sounds peculiar, making no sense.
“...blankets... need help!” Someone was so frantic about something. He should help. He couldn’t move. A groan escaped him in the form of a sighed-out breath. Sleep lapped at him again, tempting, beckoning.
SMACK. A harsh pain slapped into John as a palm was sharply brought down against his shoulder. He tried to flinch, but couldn’t find it in himself to care enough to react. His muscles refused. SMACK. Again. His head rolled. The man was still shouting.
“... still alive... only barely...” Distant, muffled voice. John wondered why he was under the water. If he was underwater. Nothing made sense.
“John!” Hands grabbed at him, pushed and pulled. Something wrapped round him, he thought. But he couldn’t feel it properly against his skin. There was the vague sensation of movement, and then unconsciousness once again manhandled him down, down, down. He fell, tumbling into insensibility, feeling faintly the flutter of busy hands above and around him as he dropped.
Re: Fill: Freedom, part 12/?jg5799April 1 2012, 01:35:51 UTC
~~~~~
“Dr Watson?” A female voice. Where was it? John tried to open his eyes, struggling to remember how. “Dr Watson? Can you hear me?”
“Where’m I?” he slurred out. “S’happened?’
A soft hand took his. “You’re in the hospital, Dr Watson. You got very cold and we’ve been warming you up. My name is Dr Jalal. How are you feeling?”
“I don’t... don’t know... don’t remember...” John’s mental processes refused to coalesce. All he could remember was blackness... panic... feeling Sherlock wrapped round him... Sherlock. “Sher...lock,” he half-gasped, half-moaned.
“Don’t worry,” the voice reassured. “You saved him.”
“Saved... Sherlock?”
“Yes.”
The crease that had furrowed John’s brow smoothed out, and he fell back to sleep. Dr Jalal finished swapping over the empty bag of saline for a full, warmed packet, switching the drip back on so that the fluid flowed smoothly into her patient’s veins. She turned to the man sitting nervously by the side of the bed, his eyes fixed on John’s face.
“He’s going to be alright, you know,” she reassured. “We’re giving him the best possible care.”
“Oh, I know,” replied Lestrade, rubbing his brow, wearily. “Just gave me the scare of my life, finding them like that.”
“You’re with the police?”
“DI Lestrade.” He shook her proffered hand. “Is it right - what you said? About John saving Sherlock?”
“Well, if what my consultant told me is correct. That you found Mr Holmes on top of Dr Watson, held away from the floor?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, it’s only my best guess, but given Mr Holmes’ body temperature when you found them - if he’d been lying on the floor, I don’t think we’d necessarily have got him back.”
Lestrade was surprised to find that just considering the prospect of losing Sherlock hit him like a punch to the gut all over again. He spent so much of his working life alternating between cursing and pandering to Sherlock he’d often thought in the past how much he’d prefer a quieter life without him. Now the thought of not hearing those infuriating tones ever again made him want to track down and kill anyone responsible. Good job Wilson and his two accomplices were languishing safely in cells in central London, where they’d been ever since his team (acting on a tip-off from Mycroft) had picked them up 72 hours ago.
Dr Jalal continued, seeing the distress on Lestrade’s face. “I’m sure Dr Watson here knew what he was doing, pulling his friend off the floor like that. Putting his medical knowledge to use - even at the possible expense of his own survival.”
Lestrade gave a strained smile. “Yes, well - that’s John all over.”
“Better get on. Try not to worry, detective. They really will be OK - just need time.” She pulled back the curtain to leave. “Can I get you a cup of tea, or something? You look all in.”
“Running after them’s a full time job... Tea would be great, thanks.”
Dr Jalal gave an understanding smile, and went to put the kettle on. Lestrade returned his gaze to John’s face. A shadow seemed to have been lifted from it, and instead of the agonised expression John had worn for the first eight hours, he looked... peaceful. As if he were just resting - no longer being tortured. Without thinking, Lestrade leaned forward and patted John’s hand.
“Get better, John. You saved him. Get better.” He paused, slightly embarrassed - relieved none of his team had been there to see him do that. Clearing his throat, he settled back into the uncomfortable chair, waiting... hoping.
Fill: Freedom, part 13/?jg5799May 5 2012, 11:39:33 UTC
John’s recovery was slow, delayed by a bout of pneumonia that returned him to intensive care for a further three days, extending his stay at St George’s by more than a week. He was never short of visitors; Lestrade was in almost every day, though stubbornly refused to enlighten him more than necessary about the progress of the case. “Just focus on getting well,” he maintained, despite John’s attempts to insist that he’d recover faster with the assurance that Wilson and his accomplices were giving detailed answers to Lestrade’s questions. Mycroft appeared once or twice, a silent Anthea in tow; even Harry stopped by, to tell John off for getting himself into the situation and to ask if he knew that she and Clara were trying living together again.
John couldn’t relax until he’d seen Sherlock, though. Lestrade told him that Sherlock had been wheeled to his bedside, once - but since the visit was while he was knocked out from pneumonia in the intensive care ward, of course he couldn’t remember. Sherlock’s recovery was free from complications and he was discharged five days before John - rather than going home, he came straight to Ward 19, finding John fast asleep. The pneumonia was abating, but four days of a high fever in addition to their experiences in the cell had left the doctor utterly exhausted.
Sherlock tried to sit down quietly, but wasn’t at peak strength himself; his knees wobbled as he tried to lower himself lightly into the cheap plastic chair, and the legs made a metallic clatter against the linoleum. He held his breath, hoping he hadn’t woken John. The doctor stirred against the pillows, blond hair ruffling as he turned over. He opened his eyes blearily, before an expression of vague disbelief crossed his face. “Sherlock?” he queried, uncertainly, squinting at the detective as though he didn’t trust the evidence of his sight.
“Afternoon, John,” Sherlock greeted him, gruffly, succeeding in concealing the strong emotion that gripped him at the sight of his friend looking so drawn and grey.
“Did they let you out?”
“About time too. I’ve been telling them for days to let me go.”
John snorted a laugh. “I bet you have. I’m amazed you haven’t been given an ASBO to prevent you making life difficult for any more medical staff.”
“Lestrade’s been talking to you...”
“He dropped in specially to tell me how he’d had to talk that one doctor out of sedating you so that you’d -“ John broke off to cough, deep, hacking choking wracking him temporarily.
Sherlock tried to hide his alarm at the noise emanating from deep within John’s chest, passing him a glass of water to sip. “So that I’d stop telling all the nurses how he’d been a shoplifter all through his teenage years?”
John’s coughs died away with the water and he grinned. “Something like that.”
A silence fell between them as each man wondered awkwardly how to continue. John broke it by yawning widely.
Fill: Freedom, part 14/?jg5799May 5 2012, 11:41:45 UTC
“Sorry.” Sherlock began to lever himself to his feet. “I shouldn’t have woken you.”
“No, stay - if you want. I feel so much better.”
Another fit of coughs threatened to contradict John’s claim.
“You do look less like the Pompidou Centre than the last time I saw you.”
“Hmm?”
“I saw you when you were - upstairs.” Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to say the words ‘intensive care’. He’d never felt so frightened as the afternoon he’d spent by John’s bed there, not even when they’d been hunting the Hound. He had always despised and feared the feeling of helplessness, but it had been made even worse that day because his vast brain was devoting all its energy to shouting at him that it was his fault, that without his headstrong desperation to waylay Wilson John would not be lying there, battling for his life.
“The Pompidou Centre?” John prodded, weariness again showing on his features.
Sherlock gave himself a mental shake and pushed away the tide of guilt rising again, forcing his thoughts back to the present. “Oh. The tubes. You were festooned with tubes.”
“Never been to Paris.” John’s eyes were sliding shut again. Sherlock waited till he was sure John was asleep before creeping out, glad that Mycroft wasn’t around to witness his ham-fisted attempts at being considerate. Thoughtfulness towards his fellow human beings was not his strong suit and he really didn’t want this feeling of having to muddle through societal expectations to become the norm.
He left the hospital as fast as he could, expecting to relish the feeling of being able to bark ‘221B Baker Street’ at the cabbie as he usually did. But once the cab was moving, he found his thoughts were still with John. His brain did not want to leave the hospital, for all the efforts he was making to haul himself home, and fruitless mental pictures crowded through his mind, so forcefully that he began digging his fingernails into his arms, sending distracting sparks of pain through him. Anything to stop thinking of John. Anything not to feel anymore. Anything to stop the guilt.
....
A/N: Sorry for the hiatus - uni work caught up with me in the last month. And now the boys are talking lots and stubbornly refusing to get back to the smut. But I will make them. Also, I have shamelessly stolen the Pompidou Centre simile from the comedian Andy Hamilton, but really, it's too good not to use. More soon, once I can get them back into bed at last ;)
Re: Fill: Freedom, part 14/?auburn_whelanMay 8 2012, 01:03:20 UTC
It's no problem - I've been busy with uni. myself. I'm just glad you're still writing this! The smut is lovely, but talking is also good. I enjoy it. :)
John was woken an indeterminate amount of time later by Sherlock shuddering beside him. He barely had time to wonder blearily where they were before the cold hit him. The temperature of the room had dropped noticeably - perhaps it was night outside. The tiles were icy around them, sending fingers of frigid pain into John’s exposed skin.
“Sherlock?” he whispered tentatively.
“You’re awake.”
“How long have I been asleep?”
“I’m not sure - I drifted off too. It feels like an hour or two - but with no sensory cues it could be anything from fifteen minutes to fifteen hours.” Sherlock sounded supremely disgruntled, hating the lack of data. Before he could add any more, another shiver rolled down his spine, rattling his teeth.
John, fully awake now, stretched out an arm to feel Sherlock next to him, reassurance in the dark. He found his friend’s chest, smoothed his hand downwards over the soft lines of his abdominal muscles. Sherlock made a small hum that sounded appreciative, but John turned towards him, concern deepening, as further shivers racked him. The skin under his fingers had felt incredibly chill to the touch, and John realised how little body fat Sherlock possessed to insulate him.
“How do you feel?” John tried to keep the question light, casual, but of course there was no fooling Sherlock Holmes, even in his freezing state.
“Don’t fuss, John. Everything will be f-f-fine.”
“When you pronounce ‘fine’ with three ‘f’s, things are emphatically not fine.”
“There’s nothing you can do.”
“Yes there is.” John shifted even closer to him, intent on warming him, his stockier build having stood him in better stead for this situation.
“No!” Sherlock tried to pull away, but his arm was still trapped under John’s head. “I won’t have you getting colder any faster than you need to.”
“Don’t be stupid, Sherlock.” John cursed his inability visually examine the man. Judging by touch alone, he was fairly certain that Sherlock’s lips would have taken on a bluish tinge. He was shaking violently constantly now, and John realised that he’d previously been attempting to hold still so as not to wake him. He rubbed his hands firmly over Sherlock’s shoulders, trying to ignore his own discomfort as cold air seemed to dig pointed teeth into his exposed back.
After several minutes, much against his will, Sherlock made a small, comforted noise. “Bit better?” queried John.
“Feel a bit warmer. Thank you.”
“Is the world ending?”
“John?”
“Thanks, from the great Sherlock Holmes? It must be,” quipped John, trying to keep the mood light despite his increasing worry. His own muscles were starting to twitch and contract in an attempt to warm him. Sherlock felt it instantly.
“Come here, then.” Sherlock pulled John towards him, wrapping their legs together and clutching him tight to his chest. It was a bit like snuggling into a statue, thought John, very little warmth radiating from the detective and his hipbones jutting into John’s side. They shivered together, attempting to rub each other’s backs.
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Sherlock considered. “I don’t think it’s wise to remove them from the nozzle.”
John nodded, teeth chattering. He was cold down to his bones, now, aching as his body shook against Sherlock’s. He couldn’t imagine how cold his partner must feel if he felt this awful. Trying to let go a held breath, he whimpered unintentionally, causing Sherlock to hug him convulsively closer.
“John...” Now concern was evident in Sherlock’s tone.
“’M fine.”
“You’re in pain.”
“So’re you.”
“Yes, but it’s my fault. I sh-shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”
“Since when did you ever have to drag me anywhere?” John was bemused. Sherlock thanking him - then apologising? What was happening? “Carry on, and I’ll diagnose you with delirium. You never apologise.” Sherlock was silent beside him. “Hey.” John nudged his cheek, causing Sherlock to flinch away from the cold touch. “Sorry. Trying to be nice. D-difficult with chilly extremities.”
Sherlock breathed a shivery chuckle. “You never stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Trying to make people b-better.”
In answer, John pressed cold lips to Sherlock’s cheek, feeling Sherlock’s back rubbing soften momentarily into a caress in response. They lapsed into silence for a long, long while.
~~~~~
John was daydreaming. He thought of warm things - hot chocolate, a roaring fireside, snuggling under blankets on a winter morning, the sun beating down on a beach... Nothing was working. His muscles ached from their fruitless, constant expansion and contraction. Gradually, though, he realised he was shivering alone. Sherlock had stopped. Terror filled John’s mind, his thoughts feeling foggy and slow. “Sherlock? You OK?”
“Mm.” Sherlock sounded asleep, his breathing shallow. John wondered how long he’d been drowsy for.
“Sherlock! You have to stay awake!” John shook him with stiff fingers, feeling Sherlock flop uselessly against him.
“I’m trying, promise...” Sherlock sounded barely conscious.
John came the closest to panicking he ever had. If Sherlock went to sleep, there was a good chance he wouldn’t be waking up. He hauled at Sherlock’s limbs, simultaneously rolling on to his back. He gasped and cried out as his skin met the icy tiles, but resisted the urge to recoil. He had to get Sherlock off the cold floor. Yanking indelicately, he positioned the other man on top of him, so they were stomach to stomach.
“John... t-try not to let lust overcome you...” Sherlock teased, weakly.
“Keep telling jokes.” John was mildly, momentarily encouraged.
“Humour... doesn’t work well... for me.” John heard Sherlock yawn widely.
“Don’t sleep.” His back was agony. A distracted part of John’s brain idly wondered how it was possible for numbing cold to simultaneously be so cruelly painful. Everything in him felt heavy, exhausted. Time had lost any meaning, and minutes spiralled away into the darkness.
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“No!” John, startled out of his stupor, grabbed at him and pinioned his arms with all the power he could muster. Sherlock wriggled, kicking out. “You’re not hot - your mind’s playing tricks on you -“
“No - no -“ Sherlock’s grappling was weakening, muscles reverting to floppiness. He whined, like a fractious child.
“Shh.” John gentled him, reaching his head forward, pressing kisses to Sherlock’s forehead, soothing him.
“My fault...” murmured Sherlock.
“S’not. We have... have to stay awake...” John felt an incredible lassitude overtaking him. He didn’t feel cold anymore. A distant, academic part of his brain was struggling weakly against the lethargy - but nothing about the situation seemed to make sense any more. He relaxed, feeling Sherlock lie his head against his neck, curls tickling lightly against his skin. He wanted to hold him... his arms fought the tiredness for a few minutes longer, but as his brain gave up the struggle his fingers slipped apart, gravity pulling his arms down. Sleep wrapped around him, closer than his lover, and he gave himself up to its embrace.
~~~~~
“John?... John?” Shouted words. A long way away. Down a tunnel. “John?” Echoing.
“Sh’lock...” he slurred. A great weight was yanked off him, giving him the odd sensation that he was floating upwards, as though in deep water. Vaguely, he perceived voices around him, the sounds peculiar, making no sense.
“...blankets... need help!” Someone was so frantic about something. He should help. He couldn’t move. A groan escaped him in the form of a sighed-out breath. Sleep lapped at him again, tempting, beckoning.
SMACK. A harsh pain slapped into John as a palm was sharply brought down against his shoulder. He tried to flinch, but couldn’t find it in himself to care enough to react. His muscles refused. SMACK. Again. His head rolled. The man was still shouting.
“... still alive... only barely...” Distant, muffled voice. John wondered why he was under the water. If he was underwater. Nothing made sense.
“John!” Hands grabbed at him, pushed and pulled. Something wrapped round him, he thought. But he couldn’t feel it properly against his skin. There was the vague sensation of movement, and then unconsciousness once again manhandled him down, down, down. He fell, tumbling into insensibility, feeling faintly the flutter of busy hands above and around him as he dropped.
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“Dr Watson?” A female voice. Where was it? John tried to open his eyes, struggling to remember how. “Dr Watson? Can you hear me?”
“Where’m I?” he slurred out. “S’happened?’
A soft hand took his. “You’re in the hospital, Dr Watson. You got very cold and we’ve been warming you up. My name is Dr Jalal. How are you feeling?”
“I don’t... don’t know... don’t remember...” John’s mental processes refused to coalesce. All he could remember was blackness... panic... feeling Sherlock wrapped round him... Sherlock. “Sher...lock,” he half-gasped, half-moaned.
“Don’t worry,” the voice reassured. “You saved him.”
“Saved... Sherlock?”
“Yes.”
The crease that had furrowed John’s brow smoothed out, and he fell back to sleep. Dr Jalal finished swapping over the empty bag of saline for a full, warmed packet, switching the drip back on so that the fluid flowed smoothly into her patient’s veins. She turned to the man sitting nervously by the side of the bed, his eyes fixed on John’s face.
“He’s going to be alright, you know,” she reassured. “We’re giving him the best possible care.”
“Oh, I know,” replied Lestrade, rubbing his brow, wearily. “Just gave me the scare of my life, finding them like that.”
“You’re with the police?”
“DI Lestrade.” He shook her proffered hand. “Is it right - what you said? About John saving Sherlock?”
“Well, if what my consultant told me is correct. That you found Mr Holmes on top of Dr Watson, held away from the floor?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, it’s only my best guess, but given Mr Holmes’ body temperature when you found them - if he’d been lying on the floor, I don’t think we’d necessarily have got him back.”
Lestrade was surprised to find that just considering the prospect of losing Sherlock hit him like a punch to the gut all over again. He spent so much of his working life alternating between cursing and pandering to Sherlock he’d often thought in the past how much he’d prefer a quieter life without him. Now the thought of not hearing those infuriating tones ever again made him want to track down and kill anyone responsible. Good job Wilson and his two accomplices were languishing safely in cells in central London, where they’d been ever since his team (acting on a tip-off from Mycroft) had picked them up 72 hours ago.
Dr Jalal continued, seeing the distress on Lestrade’s face. “I’m sure Dr Watson here knew what he was doing, pulling his friend off the floor like that. Putting his medical knowledge to use - even at the possible expense of his own survival.”
Lestrade gave a strained smile. “Yes, well - that’s John all over.”
“Better get on. Try not to worry, detective. They really will be OK - just need time.” She pulled back the curtain to leave. “Can I get you a cup of tea, or something? You look all in.”
“Running after them’s a full time job... Tea would be great, thanks.”
Dr Jalal gave an understanding smile, and went to put the kettle on. Lestrade returned his gaze to John’s face. A shadow seemed to have been lifted from it, and instead of the agonised expression John had worn for the first eight hours, he looked... peaceful. As if he were just resting - no longer being tortured. Without thinking, Lestrade leaned forward and patted John’s hand.
“Get better, John. You saved him. Get better.” He paused, slightly embarrassed - relieved none of his team had been there to see him do that. Clearing his throat, he settled back into the uncomfortable chair, waiting... hoping.
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John couldn’t relax until he’d seen Sherlock, though. Lestrade told him that Sherlock had been wheeled to his bedside, once - but since the visit was while he was knocked out from pneumonia in the intensive care ward, of course he couldn’t remember. Sherlock’s recovery was free from complications and he was discharged five days before John - rather than going home, he came straight to Ward 19, finding John fast asleep. The pneumonia was abating, but four days of a high fever in addition to their experiences in the cell had left the doctor utterly exhausted.
Sherlock tried to sit down quietly, but wasn’t at peak strength himself; his knees wobbled as he tried to lower himself lightly into the cheap plastic chair, and the legs made a metallic clatter against the linoleum. He held his breath, hoping he hadn’t woken John. The doctor stirred against the pillows, blond hair ruffling as he turned over. He opened his eyes blearily, before an expression of vague disbelief crossed his face. “Sherlock?” he queried, uncertainly, squinting at the detective as though he didn’t trust the evidence of his sight.
“Afternoon, John,” Sherlock greeted him, gruffly, succeeding in concealing the strong emotion that gripped him at the sight of his friend looking so drawn and grey.
“Did they let you out?”
“About time too. I’ve been telling them for days to let me go.”
John snorted a laugh. “I bet you have. I’m amazed you haven’t been given an ASBO to prevent you making life difficult for any more medical staff.”
“Lestrade’s been talking to you...”
“He dropped in specially to tell me how he’d had to talk that one doctor out of sedating you so that you’d -“ John broke off to cough, deep, hacking choking wracking him temporarily.
Sherlock tried to hide his alarm at the noise emanating from deep within John’s chest, passing him a glass of water to sip. “So that I’d stop telling all the nurses how he’d been a shoplifter all through his teenage years?”
John’s coughs died away with the water and he grinned. “Something like that.”
A silence fell between them as each man wondered awkwardly how to continue. John broke it by yawning widely.
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“No, stay - if you want. I feel so much better.”
Another fit of coughs threatened to contradict John’s claim.
“You do look less like the Pompidou Centre than the last time I saw you.”
“Hmm?”
“I saw you when you were - upstairs.” Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to say the words ‘intensive care’. He’d never felt so frightened as the afternoon he’d spent by John’s bed there, not even when they’d been hunting the Hound. He had always despised and feared the feeling of helplessness, but it had been made even worse that day because his vast brain was devoting all its energy to shouting at him that it was his fault, that without his headstrong desperation to waylay Wilson John would not be lying there, battling for his life.
“The Pompidou Centre?” John prodded, weariness again showing on his features.
Sherlock gave himself a mental shake and pushed away the tide of guilt rising again, forcing his thoughts back to the present. “Oh. The tubes. You were festooned with tubes.”
“Never been to Paris.” John’s eyes were sliding shut again. Sherlock waited till he was sure John was asleep before creeping out, glad that Mycroft wasn’t around to witness his ham-fisted attempts at being considerate. Thoughtfulness towards his fellow human beings was not his strong suit and he really didn’t want this feeling of having to muddle through societal expectations to become the norm.
He left the hospital as fast as he could, expecting to relish the feeling of being able to bark ‘221B Baker Street’ at the cabbie as he usually did. But once the cab was moving, he found his thoughts were still with John. His brain did not want to leave the hospital, for all the efforts he was making to haul himself home, and fruitless mental pictures crowded through his mind, so forcefully that he began digging his fingernails into his arms, sending distracting sparks of pain through him. Anything to stop thinking of John. Anything not to feel anymore. Anything to stop the guilt.
....
A/N: Sorry for the hiatus - uni work caught up with me in the last month. And now the boys are talking lots and stubbornly refusing to get back to the smut. But I will make them. Also, I have shamelessly stolen the Pompidou Centre simile from the comedian Andy Hamilton, but really, it's too good not to use. More soon, once I can get them back into bed at last ;)
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