Technically speaking, Sherlock should be asleep.
After being dragged back from the pearly gates – or whichever hell he got a glimpse of-, hanging from a hook through the shoulder like a bloody fish and being shot at, his body begged for rest. The adrenaline had worn out, he could finally lay down, breathe and assess the situation, and he felt wrecked. He was fairly sure Mycroft attempted to lace his tea with some laudanum in the hopes of knocking him out, but he’d either –most unlikely- miscalculated the dosage or Stanley had accidentally switched the cups, because his brain would not. Shut. Up.
Irritated, he threw the book he’d been trying to read to the floor and ran his good hand through his hair, the other one resting uselessly over his stomach. Even the smallest movement aggravated the pain, the stitches pulling uncomfortably on his skin.
Now, truth to be told, the doctor his brother called had done a good job, cleaning the wound off debris and piecing together the raggedy edges as best as he could. He’d given him a tincture to calm the pain on his bruised ribs and shoulder and some pills to avoid infection. The best at his job¸ Mycroft had praised.
And yet.
The feeling of foreign, clinical hands on his skin had left a sour aftertaste on his mouth. He yearned for a bath, but getting the bandages wet was not an option. Worst of all, the tincture had done nothing to ease the pain; his ribs protested with each breath. The blankets were trapped under his foot in such a way he could not kick them off, and his pillow was hot and way too soft, and his shirt was stuffy, and the bedsheets were-
―I knew you’d be up, ― a quiet voice stopped the train of mental complaints on its tracks. ―Almost died on me and still can’t sleep without putting up a fight.
―For the life of me, Watson, there’s never been a moment I’ve wanted to switch my brain off more than now, ― grumbled Holmes, wiggling to sit up straight. Gentle hands supported his back and neck in the dark, helping sit up on the side of the bed while checking for fever or sweat, unknowingly making Sherlock’s heart skip a beat.
John Watson was a sight to behold. Even exhausted and bruised, his eyes shone with the dedication of his office, looking for pain or obvious signs of displeasure in his patient. Kneeling in front of him, his night shirt flowed loose, his trousers dark enough to blend with the darkness of the room and his hair, wild after having run his hands through it several times during dinner, fed up with Mycroft riddles, stood in different directions.
―No more switching your brain off for the foreseeable future, I hope, ― grimaced the doctor, looking pained at the memory. ― I nearly broke your damn ribs.
―What’s some resuscitation between friends, dear Watson, ―smiled Holmes, hoping his words covered his discomfort at remembering how close he’d been to dying.
Watson eyed him silently, then nodded, stood up and moved back to the door.
―Leaving already, doctor? ― murmured Sherlock, closing his eyes, his head lolling to one side. He knew that Watson needed to rest, that he would rather be with his wife celebrating his honeymoon, than running for his life; hell, Sherlock knew he was being selfish, for the doctor was not his to keep; and yet he wished. He craved for another hour, a minute, a second with him, for his hands to hold his shoulders, his face, his wrists. For that stern voice to bathe him with the calmness he only felt in the other’s presence.
―Let me see your shoulder, ― replied Watson, going back to the bed, a leather bag in his hand. He started rolling up his sleeves and sat next to him.
―And just where did you get that from? ― wondered Holmes fascinated, allowing Watson to maneuver him so that they were face to face. Using his good arm, he started undoing the buttons holding his shirt closed while biting back a groan, the fabric rubbing uncomfortably against his shoulder ―Stealing from Doctor-what’s-his name inside a government official’s house? You’ve grown bold, doctor.
―Your brother got it for me, ―answered the other dryly, rummaging through the bag. ―Doctor-what’s-his-name said you didn’t let him clean your other wounds, only patch up your shoulder.
―He tried to lecture me on substance abuse, and we can’t have that, can we now?
―Oh, so you decided to become an infection playground and try your luck at dying a second time? ― asked Watson, a disapproving frown on his face.
―I took the pills, if that makes you any happy.
― “Pills”? As in a bunch of them at the same time? ― Watson raised an unimpressed eyebrow in his direction. ―And you wonder why you got the talk.
―His instructions were unclear; we both know I need a higher dose anyways.
―What part of “two pills every twelve hours” was unclear?
―I don’t know why you’d agree with him anyways, Watson, it’s not like you trust his judgement.
―I never said that, ― answered Watson matter-of-factly, the pungent smell of phenol drifting from the cotton pads in his hands. ―What gave the impression?
―Oh, dear, where should I start? Maybe your annoyance when he explained –rather unnecessarily- how to care for my shoulder, or how you refused to let him check your own injuries, and please, you can’t bother remembering his name though he greeted you by using yours, doctor Watson― answered Holmes, doing his best not to roll his eyes. ―It’s blatantly obvious.
―You know, for someone who just lost a third of their blood volume, you sure seem set on pissing your doctors off, ―Watson moved the cotton pad closer, coating the cuts and bruises over his ribs and chest with the cold liquid.
―He is not my doctor, I’m not interested in keeping him, ―Sherlock closed his eyes, doing his best not to shiver; from pain or something else, he could not tell. ― He’d try to hook me on drinking water, talking walks or, god forbid, eating greens.
―Not going to lie, Holmes, ―John finally raised his eyes, a playful smile tugging at his lips, ― as much as I’d be happy for you to live a healthier lifestyle, I’ll feel quite offended if a simpleton did in one night what I’ve tried to do for years.
―You and Mrs. Hudson, I fear, ― Sherlock returned the smile with a wink of his own. ― Oh, I do hope she’s feeding my snake.
Shaking his head, Watson continued to clean his wounds in companionable silence. The horrors of the day kept at bay, Sherlock closed his eyes again and felt himself drifting, not quite to sleep, but to a not-wakefulness. In the sanctity of his borrowed room, Watson by his side and his dexterous hands dressing the wounds he himself didn’t even bother to clean before going to bed, the outside world seemed so distant. He felt cared for, safe and finally at ease.
Yet, they needed to talk; make a plan, have an exit route, a signal in case things went awry. Moriarty was a cold-blooded sad*st, and an extremely intelligent one. His lack of remorse or empathy were fascinating, but his hunger for power was that of a petty, vulgar criminal. He would not stop at anything, and he would burn down the world with him if that got him what he wanted.
―John, ―he started, trying to find words that were neither too dramatic nor too shallow, ― if worse comes to worst tomorrow, I need you to-
―No, ―Watson cut him off, putting the bottles and pads away, closing the bag before meeting his eyes. ―We are not having this conversation.
―We better be prepared, Watson.
―If you think I’m discussing any kind of arrangement with you, Holmes, you are severely mistaken.
―It’s either you or Mycroft, and we both know how it would go with him, ―Sherlock knew Mycroft cared for him but, would he put anyone’s safety over that of the country? He very much doubted so. Even if that person was Sherlock himself.
―I am not watching you die a second time, Holmes, let’s make that very clear, ― Watson’s eyes were fixed on him, a plea for something he didn’t quite understood shining brightly on them. ―I’ll kill Moriarty with my own hands if I need to before he puts his hands on you again.
―Keep that bloodlust on check, Watson, it’s not a good look for a doctor, ―Sherlock tried to turn and lay back down before those hands, still gentle but unshakeable, grabbed him by the forearm.
―I’m being f*cking serious, Holmes. ― Watson tightened his grip, edging closer to Holmes. ―I had to see you die, I had to bring you back.
―John-
―I had to use your wedding gift to restart your heart and had absolutely nothing else at hand in case that failed.
―Now hold on, we tried that on-
―On my f*cking dog, I know, and you did, not we. My point is, you may not care if you live or die, but I do, Holmes. I do. So, please, ― Sherlock turned his head and found Watson already looking at him, unshed tears on his eyes, ― do not make me watch my best friend die again.
Warmth bloomed in his chest as he marveled at the sight in front of him. How did he manage to befriend such a good man? So unafraid of showing weakness, of opening his heart. Would that he could claim him for himself, wrap him in his arms and lay that weary head against his neck. He’d let his own heart be pierced ten times over if only to get the chance to protect him from harm.
All of a sudden, there was movement outside the room. Mycroft, though Sherlock, suddenly very aware of his undressed state and John’s hand on his arm. His brother most likely wanted to discuss their next move, but was sensible enough not to burst into the room.
―You should go back to your room and rest, John. ―Sherlock’s eyes moved from the man in front of him to the door and back. ―We can finish this conversation in the morning.
―Promise me, Holmes ―Watson ignored him, his hand still holding him, a firm lifeline for a drowning man, ―promise you won’t be reckless; not this time. Promise me you will wait if things get out of hand.
―Such a demand from someone known to be reckless ― chuckled Holmes, shaking his head in amused fondness. ― But rest assured, dear doctor, I am not jumping head first into the abyss. Not if you are not there to catch me.
―You better not, or I swear to God I’ll drag you back only to beat the living daylights out of you― Watson said, his hand releasing Holmes. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, before sighing, resigned. ― What do you want me to do?
―Mmm?
―If something happened, I mean. What do you want me to do?
Several seconds passed before Sherlock found his voice again. Clearing his throat, he lowered his eyes, feeling unexpectedly tired and so, so terribly small. Vulnerable.
―As I said, later, my friend. Let us rest a few hours, we deserve as much, after all.
After a beat, the bed moved next to him as Watson stood up. Without saying a word, he helped Sherlock close his shirt again and guided him back onto his back. He moved the affronting blankets to the side, and oh, for that alone Sherlock might have kissed him; then, he took a pillow and put it under his arm for support. At last, Watson turned his back and walked to the door.
―No good night kiss, doctor? Doctors these days and their terrible bedside manners, let me tell you, ―Sherlock joked, trying to hide the hurt in his voice. He didn’t want to be alone, but he would not keep his friend from his rest a second longer.
To his surprise, Watson didn’t leave; instead, he took the boudoir chair closest to the tea table and dragged it back to the bed, next to his head. Then, in a blatant display of casualness, Watson took his shoes off, sat down and propped his feet on the bed, next to his good arm.
―My bedside manners are reserved for my patients, ―he answered, lighting a candlestick on the bedside table and taking from the floor the book Sherlock had discarded earlier. ― Right now, I’m merely a visitor.
Turning to look at the man in the bed, Watson smiled gently. ―Your brother can wait until the morning, Holmes. Now sleep, we have a long day tomorrow.
Edging closer to the bed, Watson carefully carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, his thumb softly caressing his forehead each time he dived deep into the curls at the top of his head.
Under that tender hand, his consciousness slipping away by the second, Sherlock closed his eyes.
Run, he had been unable to say, if I die and he lives, run and don’t look back. Take Mary and Gladstone with you. Take Mrs. Hudson as well, she’s next in his list if you both disappear. Hide and forget I ever existed. Burn all of our memories, erase me from your life. Keep yourself alive, for both of us.
He hadn’t dared to say it. He couldn’t bring himself to. And it was easy, so easy to blame the drugs cursing through his veins for the pain at the idea of being forgotten. For the way his good hand moved out of its own volition to cradle the one resting over his forehead. For the tears that sprung to his eyes when he felt the other’s responding squeeze.
And at last, he let himself be engulfed by the night.
