Chapter Text
“Swallow these.”
Although he’d wanted something stronger, Sherlock silently took the two white tablets and the glass of water John handed him.
“Sliding on your side two stories down the face of a rough stucco building wasn’t one of your smartest moves,” John said.
“These gloves are ruined,” Sherlock said.
A shame, John thought. He’d rather liked those leather gloves.
After most chases, Sherlock would remove his coat and scarf in a flourish and pace the room. Not the case today. Sherlock unwound his scarf inch by inch, then removed his coat with agonizing effort. Even hanging it up made Sherlock wince.
Sherlock stripped down in the kitchen where he binned the gloves along with his trousers and deep-blue Dolce shirt. Just bits of bloody shreds. Still John doubted that will teach Sherlock to button up his Belstaff. Not that John really wanted him to. He rather liked the way it billowed out behind him like a cape as he ran.
John shook his head at the sight. He was a bloody mess—bruised and skinned raw down his right side, from his ribs to his ankle. He stood shivering in the middle of the kitchen. John quickly grabbed Mrs. Hudson’s hand-stitched quilt and carefully wrapped it around Sherlock’s shoulders.
“Need some help to the couch?” John asked.
Since Sherlock didn’t give him the usual brush-off, John knew he must be in real pain.
Each step was guarded as they moved into the living room. John finally eased Sherlock in his usual spot on the couch, then Sherlock lowered himself down on shaking legs. After, he sat panting from the exertion.
John helped Sherlock stretch out onto his good side, then knelt down in front of him to more closely inspect the damage.
Part of the dichotomy represented by his friend was Sherlock’s willingness to let John tend to him but only after the bastard unnecessarily risked life and limb. He’s all hard corners but his insides were soft. The tender spots Sherlock wanted kept hidden—at least to all those but John. While John was happy to be the chosen one, he feared for his friend. Sherlock sacrificed himself all too often and freely, much to John’s perpetual dismay. That same reasoning got Sherlock shot. The wanker even threw himself off a bloody building to save John. Tonight he slid down another to keep John safe.
The inner shame John felt regarding his own role in this still weighed heavy on John’s heart. John hated his part in making Sherlock believe that offering himself up like a human punching bag was the solution. That’s something John is not okay with.understood why Sherlock let him. It came down to Sherlock’s sometimes-flawed powers of deduction in regard to emotions. Sherlock had reasoned that John needed a physical outlet to cope with life and losses.
John got up to get his med kit, then came back and knelt back down next to Sherlock. With a surgeon’s skilled hand, John took tweezers and plucked away from the inside of Sherlock’s right side all of the bits of broken stucco and fibers from his shirt embedded deep in the epidermis. It was tedious but necessary. No need to invite infection.
Usually Sherlock was impossible. Usually he complained about nothing important and argued over even less. Tonight was different. John had to chuckle to himself since this should be the time he’d expect Sherlock to complain. But he didn’t. He’s didn’t tense: Instead as John touched him, it soothed him.
For John, what made Sherlock the worst also made him the best. He was infuriating, egotistical, maniac. In the past there had been times John had walked away. John regretted every time one of those times. He had told himself he would never again turn his back on the madman. John was here for the long haul—even digging out bits with tweezers. He’s admitted things to himself he thought he never would. It was so difficult to keep what he felt inside, but John had done it so long, it had become habit. There was nothing more he’d love to do in this moment than to tell Sherlock how much he cared, but now was not the time.
“These pants need to come off. It’s best if I just cut them.”
Sherlock silently nodded as John got the scissors out of his med bag, then began to cut and slowly peel back black silk pants from his scraped right hip.
“It was wet,” Sherlock finally said. “I never would have fallen under normal circumstances.”
He was lying now as he often did. But not in all things. John accepted that part of Sherlock. “Well, flesh and bone don’t recognize the difference,” John said, carefully pulling back the remainder of his pants.
“It was also the fastest way down,” Sherlock flinched as he bit back a laugh.
“That’s what I thought.” Now that was truth, John thought. He also thought about guilt. Not Sherlock’s but John’s. That guilt rested in Sherlock’s incentive for sliding down the side of the building to save John Watson from a bullet to the brain. Guilt that John got himself in that very predicament. Guilt that Sherlock didn’t fall, he let go. Guilt that Sherlock believed—always believed—his own flesh held less worth than John’s.
“Besides, it’s only a flesh wound.” Sherlock said. Something else Sherlock did with John more than anyone else. Even when it pained him.
“This time,” John looked up. Sherlock chuckled silently, but looked decidedly pale.
Despite the situation and the bloody mess, John choked out a laugh. It took him back to memories of watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail with Sherlock one night a few months ago. Unforgettable . John’s favorite moment was Sherlock throwing popcorn at his head declaring: “I fart in your general direction.” This wasn’t the Sherlock, who claimed John’s interest in popular culture was banal and boring. This Sherlock laughed so hard and so long that tears rolled down his cheeks.
As he smiled down at his friend, John shook his head and continued his ministrations. Sherlock flinched, but didn’t complain. Their earlier laughter relaxed him enough to let down the wall he so often built when it came to expressing feelings. The dam broke and Sherlock began to speak.
For the most part he griped about the upcoming holidays: John’s wish to buy a Christmas tree (“Why even buy a tree? The needles stick to my socks.”), hanging twinkle lights (“Honestly, John, I may have a seizure from the flashing lights.”), and Mrs. Hudson’s addition to her frosted biscuits (“Why ruin perfection with sugar sprinkles as appealing as eating a gemstone?”).
It was a fine distraction from the pain.
Sherlock completely ignored all mention of his upcoming birthday, or their agreed-upon gift. Not even the pain broke Sherlock’s resolve.
John set the tweezers aside and got up to get a basin of warm water and mild soap to gently cleanse the wounds. He then bent himself back to his task. Some of the wounds were still bleeding a bit and oozing. John listened to Sherlock rant as he cleansed the seeping, raw mess of abrasions and dabbed antiseptic lovingly on his side and hip.
In between Sherlock’s comments, John sighed, set the antiseptic aside, picked up the tweezers, and to begin work on his right thigh.
“On a scale to one to ten, how much does it still hurt?” John looked Sherlock directly in the eyes. He wanted honestly. He got it.
“Five.”
John wondered whether maybe instead of paracetamol, he should have given Sherlock what he asked for and pumped him full of morphine. Maybe he hasn’t chopped off his arm or leg like The Black Knight, but ‘tis much more than merely a flesh wound. At least with morphine, he would have allowed Sherlock some relief and rest. It would also shut him up.
He finished cleaning up side of his leg, which wasn’t nearly as bad. The worst of it Sherlock took on his right side and hip. His hands would have been much worse, had it not been for the gloves.
He carefully applied gauze, but didn’t tape it down. He’d keep them on until the oozing stopped. He noticed how Sherlock tensed and relaxed, yet he didn’t complain about John’s doctoring. Instead he continued talking to distract himself.
“One plus two plus three plus four equal ten,” Sherlock said. “It’s the perfect triangle: a tetraktys .”
John sat up and checked Sherlock’s pupils. “Did you take something and not let on?” John asked.
Sherlock shook his head. “My head is fine. I think Mrs. Hudson is at the door.”
With that there was a knock. John shook his head. He could never figure out how Sherlock did that.
She opened the door and peeked her head through the doorway.
“Come in, Mrs. Hudson,” John said.
“I knew there was trouble by the way you both stumbled up the stairs,” she said, stepping into the room. In her hands, she carried a cake. “Oi! You young men should be a bit more careful! I knew you both could use something sweet. Sherlock loves my holiday Tunis cake!” She placed her cake the table. “He once ate the whole cake in one go.” She stopped short in shock as she walked into the living room and turned her head away. “Sherlock! What have you done to yourself now!” she exclaimed.
“He had a fight with a stucco wall and he lost,” John said, carefully covering Sherlock up.
“The Pythagoreans,” Sherlock explained, “they used the tetraktys when swearing an oath. They’d align small stones in a triangle.”
“What’s he on about? Did he hit his head as well?” she asked John, bending down and brushing the curls from his forehead.
“I’m not sure,” John said in return, looking at Sherlock’s eyes again. “He’s always on about something or another.”
“This is not something,” Sherlock said, voice laced in irritation. “This is a tetraktys. It is an oath.”
“My!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, eyes brightening. “Is this part of your birthday gift?! Oh, I’m so sorry! I forgot not to mention it! It’s so hard to keep things straight with you boys. Well, I’ll play along then.” She smiled at them both, then bent down theatrically. “It must be getting serious with you two taking oaths with this tetra thing-a-ma-jig. About time, I say. I always said you two should be together.”
“Not that again, Mrs. Hudson,” John said just as dramatically, standing up.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said. “Your talents are many, including that of master baker. I think I’ll take a slice if I could just have some help. John?”
John just stared back at Sherlock.
“My arms, John. They hurt,” he says with a look of innocence that he’s turned up several notches.
“You want me to feed you cake? With a fork?”
“I believe that’s how it’s done.”
Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands together. “I do think it’s time for me to leave. It’s getting a bit too intimate for me at my time of life.” Mrs. Hudson turned and stepped toward the door. “You boys have fun, but not too much.”
“How much fun could I possibly have?” Sherlock said under his breath as Mrs. Hudson shut the door behind her. “I feel like a seal that’s been skinned alive.”
“No cake after all then?”
“I didn’t say that.”
John cut Sherlock a larger than usual slice, deciding he’d like a taste of Mrs. Hudson’ cake himself. He sat at the end of the couch with Sherlock’s head in his lap. The first forkful half slipped off the tines and down into his mouth, smearing some of the chocolate ganache frosting across Sherlock’s lips. The next bite crumbled as John tipped it down, the largest crumb landing on his chin. John picked it up then popped it between Sherlock’s waiting lips, all the while staring at his chocolate-coated mouth. John licked his finger as Sherlock watched intently.
“Delicious as usual,” Sherlock hummed. John took a forkful as well as Sherlock chewed.
As they ate the cake, Sherlock relaxed his head into John’s lap. Its soft, heavy warmth as Sherlock lolled around like a kitten getting comfortable ultimately led to John’s body betraying him. Sherlock must have felt the change from a soft cushiony lap pillowing his head to a firmer form of support, but he made no comment on it. Instead he continued to eagerly take each bite of the cake.
When done, John put the plate in the sink, then returned to the living room, this time taking a seat in his chair instead of the couch.
Sherlock continued his rambling for another two hours before fading off into a fitful sleep. Which didn’t last. He woke and moaned in pain. The abrasions likely throbbed, and Sherlock couldn’t seem to get comfortable on his left side. Surely his muscles were aching by now. No matter how he twisted, he found no relief.
“You don’t need to do this,” Sherlock said, and bit his lip as John began changing the blood-tinged gauze from the worst of Sherlock’s abrasions. This time John carefully taped them in place to insure that a restless Sherlock didn’t aggravate the wounds.
“Yes. I do. You need someone to look after you.”
“Believe it or not John, there were many years during which I got along without you,” he said. His brow knotted together and he pursed his lips. “Although I do think you being here has had many advantages.
“Like putting on plasters. Picking up takeout. Fetching your mobile from your pocket.”
Sherlock smiled sadly. “Although those are all helpful, there are other reasons as well.” His smile turned soft. “I admit, I’ve grown very fond of you.”
“Fond of me.” John blinked while he digested the thought. “As in pals. Mates. Fond of me,” John stated slowly.
“Very fond,” Sherlock offered.
“Right.” John studied the man’s face. Sherlock was clearly distressed. The sun was coming up; they’d not had a good kip in days, leaving both of them deeply tired. This made John’s decision all the easier. “I’m going to give you something so you can sleep. It will help take the edge off the pain too. We both need for you to get some rest.”
It wasn’t morphine, but a good sedative. Since Sherlock refused to move even as far as his room, John left Sherlock to the couch, but John retired to the bedroom upstairs. As John had predicted, they both finally got some rest.
It was much later by the time John woke, and he yawned as he came down the stairs. Wrapped up in his flannel robe, he listened from the bottom step. Sherlock was still resting. The windows magnified the setting sun, radiating a warm red glow over the living room. With the same quilt John had wrapped snug around him still in place, Sherlock softly snored from the couch. John admired his handsome profile as he rubbed the back of his own neck. What was he to do with these feelings? It was all so much.
Later. He pushed those feelings to the back of his mind. For now, he turned to the kitchen and started a kettle. His shoulder ached from where he’d slept on it wrong—he found this wear and tear happening more these last few months. He supposed it was the price to pay for chasing Sherlock.
He silently moved the chair out from the table, then retrieved his laptop from the coffee table. He’d update his blog with last night’s caper while Sherlock rested.
John reflected before he began to write. While Sherlock might have been sore, the criminal Sherlock landed on top of was much sorer. Instrumental in breaking Sherlock’s fall, it cost the man a broken arm and a cracked rib. John shuddered to think what might have happened to Sherlock had he not landed on top of the assailant. But then, Sherlock never would have let go of the ledge if it hadn’t been for the knife the man held to John’s neck. That he’d threatened to slice John’s neck open hadn’t helped his case either.
John recalled Greg’s reaction. He hadn’t been too happy as he watched the criminal hauled away on a stretcher. “More paperwork,” he muttered to John. “Not that I’m not happy you lucky blokes both managed to live through this. I know this a waste of effort repeating this, but give me more of a heads up next time? A call? A text? Anything.”
As John continued to flesh out the story in his head, he leaned back in his chair and stared at the screen. He needed an opening for his post. He generally began by addressing his audience. Maybe some tea would help turn his thoughts into actual words.
Sherlock had told Lestrade that the man should have known better than to embezzle from a brother-in-law who was close friends with Mike Stamford. Maybe that’s a start for a blog post: don’t mess with Sherlock’s friends. Or friends of friends. Second thought, better not write that. Especially since the only reason why Sherlock took the case was because he owed Mike for getting Sherlock into St. Bart’s archives to get information for a fascinating cold case. No, best not start with that, especially since friends of friends cases are what Sherlock calls “the most boring of the lot.”
Which this case was. Boring. At least until John had the knife to this throat. The only thing that had made Sherlock bearable the last few days was the anticipation of Sherlock’s birthday gift. Mike’s case was barely a distraction. John had heard Sherlock tell Mike on more than one occasion that the case was only a four and that MIke was lucky Sherlock even took it. Sherlock told Greg the same at the scene, only seconds before he passed out. The stupid git, letting go. Why did he always take chances like that?
John has almost got the story solid in his head, and Sherlock was still snoring from the couch. That sedative had done wonders settling him down. John set his tea down on the table and wrote. He had the opening. Simple. So he pecked it out two-fingered on the keyboard: We don’t generally take cases from friends, for many reasons. But when Mike Stamford came to us...
As he finished up his blog, John wistfully ran through Sherlock’s words from earlier that morning. Fond of you , he’d said. John always had wanted a bit more than fondness but accepted what Sherlock had to offer, however little or much. He had made that decision after Mary died. He had hated the world for a time, then. But hating Sherlock had never been the answer. He’d blamed him for too much, but sometime strong emotions get jumbled and mixed up—or that’s how Ella had explained it all to him. It’s something he never quite finishing working out with her but probably should have done.
He sipped his tea. It was cold. He decided to make more. He felt a bit cold himself.
When Sherlock woke up, he was a bit blurry-minded from the sedative but happy for the Earl Grey with extra sugar.
The next few days prove uneventful. No cases. Sherlock recovered slowly. No more gauze. Scabs formed and the ungodly itching began in the healing process. Sherlock was a mess and even more impossible since there was nothing to occupy his mind except Christmas. It came, went. Deck the Halls. Fa la la la la, la la la BLAH!
Only the birthday gift staved off his boredom. That, and the rants that Mrs. Hudson tried her best to ignore in between.