Pulsating pain ran through Sherlock's head as he opened his eyes. He groaned, and quickly shut them once more. He pulled the blanket over his head, and wearily opened his eyes again. The pain wasn't as bad, but his head was still in awful pain. His entire body was in awful pain. For a moment, he wondered what he did, but then it clicked back to him. He had gotten to the latest crime scene. A woman, badly butchered as a religious sacrifice. There were only four gangs active in London who still did religious offerings, but most of them stuck with cattle in the modern days. There was one who was considered inactive by the police, but Sherlock had worked on a case nearly five years ago of the exact same manner, and it was traced back to the same gang Sherlock investigated last night.
Sherlock had made two fatal mistakes: he didn't bring a weapon, and he didn't have John. John would had been his sense of reason to not go, to wait until he had better evidence, or at least warn Lestrade despite Sherlock's refusal. The last thought made Sherlock smile. John.
Speaking of which. He remembered following a member of the gang for nearly seventeen blocks when he got ambushed. It happened quickly, and quite painfully. He had been trailed by another gang member. Sherlock wasn't sure why his brain wasn't functioning that night, but it really wasn't. On any other night, he would of noticed. He wouldn't have been beaten to a pulp. He laid silently and stilly after the first fourty-five seconds, and after two minutes they gave up and split up into the night. Sherlock waited another two minutes before he stumbled to his feet, and began to make his way back home to Baker Street. He remembered praying that John was awake, at home, or in a light sleep. He collapsed onto the door. The pain was too much. John opened the door, and he fell into John's arms. John cleaned him up, stitched him up, and even tucked him into bed. Sherlock felt a warm sensation spread through his body. He was so grateful for that man and everything he did for Sherlock.
Sherlock heard the door open, and the sound of John's feet against the floor made him smile under the blanket. A gentle sound of glass against wood suggested tea, and the thump of something else... Sherlock's head hurt too much to guess. He heard John walk to the other side of his bed, and shut the curtains. Sherlock lowered the blanket from his head, and managed to keep his eyes open. The room was much darker than it was, but still light enough to see everything.
"How are you feeling?" John asked as he moved back to the dresser. Sherlock eyed his plaid pajama pants and bare torso.
"Like hell," Sherlock's voice was gravelly to his own ears.
"Mint tea," John held up the mug. Sherlock eyed John's black medical kit beside the tea. "I'm going to check your injuries, see if I do need to take you to a hospital."
"Why didn't you last night?"
"I don't think that they're that serious, so I didn't think a hospital was needed," John set the tea on Sherlock's bedside table, and sat down on the edge of the bed. "This is just to see if any of the bruising is anything more serious. It probably isn't, but I want to be sure."
"Alright," Sherlock slowly sat up, and rested his back on the cool wooden headboard behind him. He reached over for the hot mug of tea, and took in a sharp breath as John pulled the gauze off his ribs. He looked down at the mess on his chest before he took a refreshing sip of tea. The cut on his chest was dark red, and radiated pain. The area around the cut was a sharp pink colour, and after a second the cut started to bleed again. John mumbled a curse, and dabbed some clean gauze over the cut. Sherlock slowly drank tea and watched as John looked into the cut, investigated it, looking at it with such intensity that made Sherlock shiver. John looked up, and Sherlock felt momentarily speechless. "A bit cold, sorry," Sherlock lied.
"S'alright," John went back down to staring at the cut. Why had Sherlock shivered? He watched John look at the cut the same way Sherlock looked at a crime scene. It was fascinating to watch, and Sherlock wasn't sure why. All he knew was that the look in John's eye was marvellous.
Sherlock remembered feeling the scar on John's shoulder last night. The feeling was something that Sherlock had never really experienced before. He had felt peoples' scars before, mostly because they were dead, but this was different. This time the scar belonged to John and he could feel blood pumping under the rippled skin. Sherlock winced again as John put more antiseptic on the cut.
"Sorry," John apologized. "I probably should have warned you. This stuff stings," He held up a white bottle and a bloodied cotton ball that Sherlock never noticed he grabbed.
"No, no, it's fine," Sherlock took another drink of tea. He watched John dap more antiseptic on his cut. He was so focussed. Sherlock sometimes forgot that polite, well-mannered John was a doctor that was used to seeing limbs falling off men, and stitching them back together by a dim lamp in the middle of the desert. Perhaps not all the time, but it must have had to fascinate John for him to decide he wanted to be a doctor.
Sherlock eyed John's scar again. The skin was a shockingly dark pink colour that was smooth, yet puckered. His eyes wandered along John's exposed torso as John taped more gauze to Sherlock's chest. His torso was less firm as it used to be. Sherlock had seen bare strips of John's stomach as he raised his arms and such things, and John looked softer than he did back then. Light blonde hair started at his bellybutton and travelled down to the waistband of his pants. Sherlock momentarily wondered how the hair looked under the waistband.
"How's your head?" John asked, taking his warm hands off Sherlock's ribs. It broke Sherlock out of his trance.
"Sore," Sherlock looked up at John. "The stitches hurt."
John smirked, and walked over to the other side of the bed. "I figured you could handle it like a big boy. It was only four."
"Alright, next time you get a head wound, I'll give you four stitches without warning," Sherlock said bitterly, then took another sip of his tea. John made amazing tea, it was ridiculous. Sherlock could never make tea that tasted half as good as John's. That was why he always made John make the tea.
John sat on the edge of the bed, and set his kit beside him. "I've been through worse than four stitches to the head," He said distantly. "And I took it like a big boy," He smirked at Sherlock. "I'll give you a 'I made it out the Doctor's office' sticker I got in my bag. Or a balloon. Or a sucker. I have some more stickers, actually, for all ages."
"Shut it," Sherlock shut his eyes. He didn't have to have them open to hear John's triumphant smile. He felt John push his hair back, and then the faint warmth of his breath on his forehead. Sherlock opened his eyes, and was face to face with John's scar. Sherlock saw that no hair follicles were left, only scar tissue. His eyes drifted along John's collarbone, and saw different scars lower down. Two inch blade entry scar, some different circular scars that could of been numerous things. An inch graze scar on the side of his chest, which looked like another bullet. Sherlock wanted to know how John got them all. He knew about the shoulder injury as soon as he met John, but these... these new ones were all different stories that Sherlock didn't know the back-story behind. He could have figured it out if his head wasn't in pounding pain.
"Just ask," John said, dabbing some tissue on the stitches. Sherlock's eyes drifted upwards to see John's face. He was focussed on the stitches. He taped a new piece of gauze over the stitches, and then looked at Sherlock. "You've been staring at my scars. What do you want to know about them?" John asked Sherlock.
"How you got them," Sherlock said. John sat back, and set the old, bloodied gauze on the sheets.
He first pointed to the scar on his side, the graze mark. "This one was a bullet. Just a graze, nothing truly horrible. I was out on the field stitching up someone and I got shot at. Didn't really notice until I got back to the medical tent and I was trailing blood behind me that belonged to me," Next was the blade entry. "This one was a stab from a knife. We were in a small Afghanistan town, and we weren't doing anything bad. I was getting into one of our cars, and someone came up to me and stabbed me. They tend to go after doctors," John scrunched his face at the memory. "If they wound the doctors, then the soldiers have nobody to stitch them up. The rest are just minor injuries from before. Fell off a swing-set and landed on a nail when I was six, scratched myself, was cooking bacon drunk in uni and the grease burnt me," John smirked, and patted Sherlock's thigh. "Now let's see the damage on your legs, yeah?"
Sherlock drank more tea as John moved Sherlock's blanket off him with a sigh Sherlock didn't understand. He nearly jumped as John put his hands on his leg. He watched as John moved his hands thoroughly around Sherlock's legs, mumbling various things to himself as he did so. Sherlock could see bruising on his legs, and he wondered how bad it would feel to walk. At that moment he didn't want to get off of the bed. He shut his eyes, and enjoyed the feeling of John's hands on his legs. His hands were steady, sure of themselves, and warm. Really warm.
"Well, nothing serious. Just some bruising, some bad bruising mind you. It's going to be a pain to walk for a couple days, which means you may have to hold off on catching your murderous killers for a bit."
"But-" Sherlock was about to protest, but the stern face Jon had made him stop.
"Sherlock, no. You can wait for a few days unless you want to hurt yourself even more," John said strictly. Sherlock blinked at him. "Doctor's orders, if you will," John said with a slight grin.
"Can I at least call Lestrade?" Sherlock asked.
Sherlock blinked again. He wasn't sure why John didn't want him taking to Lestrade now. "Did you order me food last night?"
John laughed, and Sherlock didn't know why. "Yeah, I'll go get it."
"Can you get me some more tea?" Sherlock asked, holding out his mug.
"You'll get only this morning of getting this kind of shit out of me," John sighed, taking the mug from Sherlock's hand. Sherlock watched as John walked out of his room. Sherlock felt another wave of appreciation for John, and felt warmth spread through him as he pulled his blankets back up over his body. Sherlock hadn't had someone take care of him with such care since he was a child and he caught chickenpox. His nanny never let him out of her sight for more than ten minutes.
John arrived back in the room with a mug of tea and a container of Chinese food in one hand, and a separate mug of tea in the other. He set his mug down on the counter, and then set the tea and the food down on Sherlock's bedside table. "What are you so happy about?" John asked.
"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked.
John took a long drink of his own tea. "You have a stupid grin on your face. Most people are usually upset when they're beat up. Apparently you enjoyed it," John smirked.
"Let's not talk of kinks now, John. Hardly the appropriate time, although the place is presumably appropriate. Just reminiscing old memories," Sherlock waved his hand, taking hold of his Chinese food.
"Yeah?" John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock bit back a smirk at the flush on John's cheeks. He liked seeing how he could make John feel flustered.
"My nanny. Wonderful woman, last person to take good care of me until today," Sherlock wound a forkful of noodles into his mouth. Sherlock chewed thoroughly, enjoying how good Chinese food always tasted better the next day.
"Of course you had a nanny," John laughed, sitting on the edge of Sherlock's bed.
"Wonderful woman," Sherlock sighed. "I miss her," Sherlock admitted. "She died when I was fourteen. She was an old woman, it was natural causes. She was like a mother to me. She would sit through hours of me playing violin and actually point out errors I made. Mother was always far to busy, and Father..." Sherlock shut his eyes. "Father liked to listen to me play. Still does."
"How come you never talk about your family?" John asked. "Besides Mycroft, I mean."
Sherlock shrugged. "Both lead busy lives. Not much to talk about them. I am sort of the disappointment in the family," Sherlock blurted, and had no reason why he said such things. He felt his face flush red, and he took another bite of food to silence anymore things he was about to blurt out to John.
John looked at Sherlock with a befuddled expression. "Disappointment? How could your parents be disappointed with you?"
Sherlock swallowed his food, and rolled his head side to side. "Can we forget that I said anything?"
"No, certainly not," John took a sip of tea.
Sherlock sighed. "Mother and Father wanted me to be a violinist, hence the violin," He waved to the corner of his bedroom where his violin was propped against the wall. "They knew I was smart, but they figured since Mycroft was already the brains of the family that they wanted me to focus more on violin than my mind. I... I did enjoy it, I was never pressured to get the same sort of grades as Mycroft was, although I was expected to do exceptionally well in school. The pressure was shifted to my violin. They would have me in lessons for hours a day and they expected me to be practicing when I was home. I grew to detest it, and I didn't go to a music university like they wanted. That almost got the trust fund cut off, and I know a portion of the estate in the will went back to Mycroft because of it. They eventually got used to it, but now and again they make the remark of how I could be world-famous for my violin."
"You are remarkable at it," John said.
"I know," Sherlock said which earned a smile from John. "I enjoy it more now. It soothes me. I play it because I want to, not because I'm expected to."
John nodded slowly. "It's a bit sad, innit? I would never do something like that to a child."
"Do something like what?" Sherlock asked.
"Force them so hard to do something that they love that they end up hating it and resenting it," John shook his head. "It's a bit sad you had to deal with that."
Sherlock blinked. "I suppose so," He never thought of it like that. "Are you pitying me?" Sherlock asked. It was the one thing he absolutely hated was being pitied by other people, especially other people he respected as much as John. For a second he wondered if he respected anybody was much as he did John.
"I feel bad that you had to go through that as a child," John shrugged.
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his bed. "I've never told anybody that before," Sherlock admitted. He really hadn't. He found it too embarrassing to tell anybody else, and most people he knew would feel either give him such a sad expression and say how awful his parents were, when they were certainly good parents despite their quirks, or take a sick pleasure out of knowing Sherlock wasn't the light of his parents' eyes. "Can we keep it between you and I?"
John smiled. "Of course." John patted Sherlock's thigh, and stood up. "I should probably go get dressed." Sherlock frowned. He didn't want John to leave. He wasn't sure why, but he wanted John to stay with him. He wanted John to remain seated on his bed, and talk to him about whatever John wanted to talk about. Sherlock didn't want him to go away. "I'll be back in a couple minutes," He yawned.
Sherlock felt a smile begin to grow on his face, so he took a sip of tea. "Alright."
Next chapter, guys... next chapter. It'll be up within a few days because this is more like a continuation of the last chapter. The next chapter... we may be getting somewhere...