Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The ride to the hospital was a blur. All John remembered was lying in the ambulance, staring at the ceiling, listening to the EMTs talk around him, and the pain in his hand as Sherlock clutched it tightly. He vaguely recalled the EMTs trying to get Sherlock to stay behind. That hadn’t worked. 

He also remembered turning his head to look at his friend, who was staring at him with an intense worry that made John’s chest ache more than it already was. Though by that point the painkillers had kicked in, reducing the pain in his chest to a dull throb. 

Sherlock had his ear defenders on. He looked horribly pale.

The visit to the hospital was a blur. It was quick, and John was discharged that same day. He had been expecting that, and part of him had wanted to argue with the EMTs when they were loading him onto the stretcher, but his medical training told him that it was probably a good idea to get checked out by a doctor, just in case. The bulletproof vest had stopped the round from piercing his skin, but it would leave a nasty bruise, and the impact could have forced the vest itself into John’s body, potentially injuring internal organs. He had seen such cases during his time in the army, and shuddered to think about the consequences of going home before confirming that he was alright.

Sherlock had texted Stammo to get them a lift home. Neither of them wanted to take the tube. 

By the time they returned to 221B, John was exhausted. Sherlock was holding his hand again, supporting him as they walked slowly up the stairs towards the flat. 

Mariana had evidently heard the door open, and she poked her head through the door to 221A, her eyes growing wide when she saw the state John was in. 

“John!” She said, her voice still hoarse from her illness. “Sherlock, what- I heard about the- are you okay?” 

When Sherlock didn’t respond, John said: “Uh- yeah. Yeah we- we solved the case, we-” he flinched as he shifted his feet on the stairs. Sherlock gripped his arm tighter. “I mean- it’s over. It- it’s done. They got him.”

Mariana blinked at him. “Well yes, I heard that on the news,” she said, pausing to dab her nose with a tissue. “John, what happened to you?”

“Oh me?” John asked somewhat weakly. He glanced down at his torso, which was beginning to ache again. He reminded himself to take some of those good painkillers the hospital had given him when he got back to his room. “I got shot.”

“What?” 

Sherlock tugged at John’s arm, though he remained silent.

“I- I should go to bed-” John said nervously, glancing at Sherlock. 

“No- no you-” Mariana was distraught. She gripped the doorframe tightly. “I’m coming upstairs with you,” she looked at Sherlock then. “Sherlock are you- are you hurt at all?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. 

Now that John really thought about it, he hadn’t spoken since Abe had died. The man had sat there on top of him, clutching Abe’s shirt collar, his soft singing tapering off into a whisper and then silence. And then his hands relaxed their grip on Abe’s shirt as John reached out to touch him. Sherlock had slumped sideways slightly against John, only steadying himself when John cried out in pain. Then, once Sherlock made sure he wasn’t putting too much weight on his friend, the two men sat together shoulder to shoulder, waiting for the police to arrive.

And Sherlock had held his hand. 

But from that point on, he didn’t speak.

In the end, Mariana followed them up to 221B and helped Sherlock get John into bed. Then she brought a chair into the room for Sherlock to sit on, and once she was done fussing over John she went back down to 221A to sleep again, the brief excitement having worn her out entirely. She was still quite sick, John could tell, although she was on the upswing. 

Sherlock sat by John’s bed. 

He held John’s hand. 

“‘M gonna go to sleep now, ‘kay Sherls?” John murmured, his eyelids feeling heavy. “You go to bed too.”

Sherlock didn’t move. He continued to look down at John with that expression of pained worry that made John’s chest ache. And John realized that his friend wouldn’t be moving from his bedside any time soon. 

So he sighed, then closed his eyes, and tried to sleep.

John hadn’t heard that much gunfire at once since Ukraine. After Thor Bridge, he was fairly pleased with himself. He thought that perhaps Sherlock’s diagnosis of PTSD had been inaccurate and that he wasn’t as affected as he thought by the war. After all, seeing that body on the morgue table hadn’t really affected him very much and he had seen a few other bodies in much worse shape since then. 

But bodies were different than gunfire. 

Though he would deny it to anyone who asked, John still woke in the night from dreams about that horrible day, the day his military career ended. The sound of the bomb would ring in his ears, the look of terror on that poor boy’s face, the pain radiating up his leg, his side, his arm. Staring up at the ceiling of the vehicle that transported him to safety, thinking about how strange it was to be the one on the stretcher. Wondering how much damage the blast had done, not wanting to look down and see.

Being shot by Abe was traumatic for its own reasons, but the gunfire that followed had sent spikes of adrenaline through John’s system, and as he felt Sherlock’s body cover his to shelter him from the shower of bullets, it was like he was back in Ukraine. Sherlock’s voice, his words uttered in an urgent, worried tone that John had never heard him use before, had dragged him back to the present, but only just. That feeling in the back of his stomach remained long after the bullets stopped raining down into the hotel room. 

Each bullet made a different sound as it impacted. The wood and brick of the walls, the fabric of the sofa, the metal of the tea trolley, the flesh of Abe. He remembered Sherlock’s breathing somewhere near his ear, low and panicked and shallow. How Sherlock’s hands had gripped John’s jacket as if he worried that if he let go, John would slip away. 

The gunfire had seemed indiscriminate. It had occurred to John that there was a fair chance that the people in the helicopter weren’t specifically aiming at Abe. Perhaps they were just shooting and hoping, unconcerned if they happened to hit Sherlock and John as well. After all, they weren’t really supposed to be there. 

When the shower of bullets stopped, John had opened his eyes and found himself looking into Sherlock’s. The man was mere centimetres from him, their noses nearly touching.

“John-” Sherlock had said, his voice low and afraid. “John, are you okay? John.” 

John’s head had been pounding, the sounds of bullets still filling his mind. Sherlock’s hands on his collar had done little to pull him out of the haze he had been plunged into by the gunfire.

But he had opened his mouth to speak, to reassure Sherlock that he was alright, that he was-

John’s eyes flew open and he sucked in a painful gasp of air before wincing and curling in on himself in bed. 

Sherlock’s hand was on his arm. 

“John,” Sherlock repeated. “Are you alright?” 

“Christ-” John managed, reaching out to hold Sherlock’s arm in turn. “Yeah- yeah I’m- God I just moved wrong- bruise is still tender-”

“You were shouting,” Sherlock said. His voice was quiet, almost weak. As if every word required considerable effort. 

“Just a- a nightmare,” John mumbled, squeezing Sherlock’s arm gently. “‘M fine. What time is it?” It had suddenly occurred to John that Sherlock still hadn’t moved from his bedside since he fell asleep. 

Sherlock motioned to the alarm clock on John’s bedside table. Three in the morning. 

John didn’t want to think about how long Sherlock had been sitting beside him, wide awake. 

“Go to bed,” he said, looking up at his friend. “I’m alright, mate.” 

Sherlock shook his head. “You-” he inhaled, gathering himself. “No,” he settled on. Then squeezed John’s arm. “No.” 

In the dim of the room, Sherlock’s face finally came into focus. His eyes were wide, worried. 

John sighed. He knew how stubborn Sherlock was. 

It was a twin bed, and John knew that Sherlock didn’t like sleeping in the same room as other people, but he couldn’t stand the thought of Sherlock sitting on that chair for hours on end waiting for John to wake up again.

So he shuffled over closer to the wall, making room for Sherlock. He pat the mattress beside him. 

“C’mon, then,” he mumbled, still a bit fuzzy with sleep.

Sherlock looked at him, brow furrowed, not quite understanding. He didn’t move, he didn’t speak.

“Sherls,” John insisted. “Bed. Lay down, at least.”

It was several further moments until Sherlock moved, carefully climbing into bed beside John and laying down. He looked up at the ceiling for a few moments before turning his head to look at John. 

“I know you won’t sleep,” John mumbled, getting comfortable again. “’S not the point of this, I just- can’t be comfortable to- ow-” he moved wrong again, sending a spike of pain through his abdomen. 

Sherlock’s hand was clutching his nearly instantly. 

“Mate,” John said quietly, his heart melting slightly as he realized how truly afraid his friend was. “‘M not gonna die, okay? ’S just a bruise. I’ve been injured worse, trust me.”

Sherlock’s lips parted as if he was about to speak, but no words came out. Instead he exhaled softly, a faint sigh. Exhausted, defeated. Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line then, and nodded. He held John’s hand tightly, then turned his head back to the ceiling and closed his eyes. 

John smiled, looking over at his friend in the dark. The soft darkness of the room cast gentle shadows on the contours of the detective’s face, emphasizing the bags under his eyes, the curve of his nose, the gentle slope of his lips. He didn’t look relaxed, but he looked far more peaceful than he had all day. John couldn’t stop looking at him. 

Finally, after god knows how many minutes, John rolled onto his side slightly, risking agitating his bruise so he could nuzzle his head against the crook of Sherlock’s neck, sighing contently as he closed his eyes.

Bullets still rang in his ears. 

He tried to ignore them.

Pretend he didn’t just cheat death and fall asleep, just like he used to in the army. Tune out the fear and the adrenaline and the pain and the fact that he was nearly reunited with his father and go back to sleep.

The funny thing about sleep, thought John as he lay there, is that you never really know if you’re going to wake up. He could die in the night and would never know it until he woke up in the afterlife, if there was one. 

But he must have fallen back asleep because before he knew it he was being woken by a frantic banging on the door. There were voices echoing outside in the hallway, and Sherlock was sitting up in bed, looking as if he had just woken up. 

The man put a hand on John’s shoulder, preventing him from sitting up as well.

“He’s sleeping, Mrs. Watson, he’s-” John identified that voice as Mariana, still stuffed up and sounding utterly exhausted.

“I don’t care!” Snapped the other voice. John’s heart sank. “John got shot and nobody cared to tell me? Get out of the-”

Before Mariana could stop her, Carol Watson swung open the door to John’s bedroom.

“John!” She cried as she stepped in. “Why didn’t you-” she froze in her tracks, a flash of confusion crossing her face. “Sherlock, dear!” There were so many conflicting emotions in her tone that they cancelled each other out and compromised for what could only be described as utter bemusement. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Watson,” Sherlock said in a slightly stilted tone, still sitting beside John in the twin bed and clutching John’s hand tightly. “I expect you should be wanting some coffee.”

Chapter Text

When John had been sent home after the bomb, Carol had been beside herself. She held John tightly and for much longer than John thought was strictly necessary, but there was little he could do about that at the time.

He knew how stressful it was for her.

Still, she never stopped smiling at him, bringing him cups of tea and insisting he didn’t get up, that she would do whatever needed to be done and he needed to rest. He was alive, that’s what mattered. She never said it out loud, but John knew that’s what was in her mind. She lost his father. She nearly lost her son to that bomb, but she hadn’t, and John was home and she could hold him knowing that while he was beside her, while she was taking care of him, he was safe.

And now she was in the living room of 221B being served coffee by Sherlock. She was pale. Sherlock, at least, looked less shaken than he had last night and was talking again. John sat on the armchair in the living room and let Sherlock pour him coffee. His old cane, from when he was recovering from the explosion, was propped against the wall beside him. He wouldn’t need it for long, but with the bruise so fresh and his ribs aching, it was easier to move with the support.

“Just wish you would’ve told me,” Carol said, staring into her coffee. She had calmed down a bit and now had an air of exhaustion about her. “I wake up in the morning to the news that this Abe fellow has been killed- all good and dandy but imagine how I felt, John! Watching the broadcast and seeing you being helped into the ambulance! And the look on poor Sherlock’s face! You can’t blame me for worrying, darling!”

“I only went to the hospital as a precaution, mum,” John protests, though only halfheartedly. He understands Carol’s side of things. But he feels he has to make his case, at least a bit. “I was planning on phoning when I got up.”

“Well then why didn’t Mariana call me?” Carol demanded. “I can see why you would’ve forgotten, having been shot and all, but-”

“Mariana is ill,” Sherlock said, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch from Carol. “Some sort of respiratory virus.”

“Right then, what about you?” Carol asked, turning to Sherlock. “Why couldn’t you call?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. He glanced at John as if asking for backup.

John looked back at him, attempting to convey that he had no idea what the hell the man wanted.

Sherlock inhaled deeply. “I was helping John,” he said simply. “I am sorry. The next time John gets shot, I will-”

“No!”

Both Sherlock and John jumped slightly in their seats. It had been years since John heard his mum speak that sharply. And although Carol wasn’t Sherlock’s mum, John could tell that her tone had the same effect on him that it did on John. Suddenly, Carol was in charge of this conversation.

“There will be no next time!” Carol says. The emotion is back in her voice again, and her coffee cup trembles on its coaster. “Do you hear me? Sherlock Holmes, I have-”

“Mum,” John interrupted quickly. “Mum don’t- it wasn’t his fault.”

“Don’t you interrupt me, John!” Carol snapped. She put her coffee down quickly, before she spilled it, and then turned her attention back to Sherlock. “John is my only son!” She said, voice wavering with emotion. “If this happens again, If I have to-”

“Mum!” John said again, this time louder. He looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock was frozen in place, the coffee pot still clutched tightly in his hands. He was staring at the ground, lips pressed into a thin, tight line.

Carol followed John’s gaze, her gaze remaining hard as she looked at Sherlock, though she fell silent for a few moments before speaking again. This time she was addressing John.

“You don’t know what it was like for me,” Carol said, trying to keep her voice level. “After losing your father, I-”

“I know, mum,” John said quietly. Almost defeated. “I don’t know what you expect me to say. I didn’t- I didn’t set out to get shot or anything-”

“You were wearing a bulletproof vest,” Carol points out, a bit sharper now. “And thank god for that, but the fact that you felt the need to put one on tells me that- that you expected something like this to happen! It was difficult enough for me when you joined the army, and then you got caught in that explosion and I- Look, I want to support you, John, and I did my best when you joined up but I really thought that this whole podcast thing would put an end to-” she sighed, breath shaky, trying to compose herself, to find the right words. “I thought I was done worrying about your life! Burying Harry-” she sucked in another shaky mouthful of air, no longer looking John in the eyes as a wave of emotion swept over her. “No one- no one, John- should have to bury their son.”

“Investigative work can be dangerous, Mrs.Watson,” Sherlock said, speaking up for the first time since Carol interrupted him. He set the coffee pot gingerly down on the coffee table and clutched his hands in front of him in a nervous sort of way. “Your son knew that going in. But I-” his voice wavered slightly with emotion. “I brought him into a situation that I should not have. I put his life at risk, and for that I am sorry.”

“Sherlock- stop,” John commanded, staring at his friend in disbelief. “I went into that hotel room knowing full well there was an Ameri- there was a man with a gun in there. For christ sake, I was wearing a bulletproof vest! I used to be a solider, Sherlock! I knew what I was doing! I-” he winced as he shifted in his seat, his bruise aching uncomfortably. “Damn-”

Sherlock was by his side quickly, his hand on his shoulder and a look of deep concern in his eyes. “John,” he said quickly. “Are you-”

“It’s a bruise!” John snapped, pushing Sherlock away from him with a bit more force than he intended to. “I don’t need you to coddle me! That goes for both of you! Mum, it was lovely of you to drop by, but I’m fine! Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve had a very busy day followed by a very uncomfortable sleep, and being shouted at by my mum and fussed over incessantly by my friend isn’t exactly helping my stress levels!” He grabbed his cane from against the wall and hoisted himself to his feet with another wince.

Sherlock seemed stunned. He stood back, his hands now wringing together nervously, his eyes wide and staring at John.

“I am- I am sorry,” he mumbled.

Something wasn’t right. John could tell that something wasn’t right, but he didn’t know exactly what. The past few moments replayed rapidly in his mind as he leaned against his cane. He had shoved Sherlock. The man was already shaken. But John was shaken too, and-

“Fine then,” Carol said, putting her coffee down and standing up, seemingly unaware of whatever tension had appeared between Sherlock and John. “I’ll leave, if I’m such a nuisance. But you give me a call every day, you hear? Every day! I want to know how my boy is doing! I want to know the moment you don’t have to use that cane anymore.”

“Yeah,” John said, still focused on Sherlock. “Yeah, I’ll- I’ll do that, mum.”

And then Carol left down the stairs. John heard her talk to Mariana briefly before leaving 221 altogether.

Sherlock was still frozen in place. His lips were pressed into a thin line again, and his hands were restless. John felt a deep pit of worry in his stomach.

“You okay, mate?” He asked carefully. “I know mum can be a lot but she won’t be mad at you forever.”

Sherlock sucked in a great breath of air before speaking. “Do not worry about me, John,” his voice sounded unsteady. It was quiet, not as strong as usual. As if he was holding back tears. Now that John took the time to get a good look at his face, there were indeed tears in the corners of his eyes.

“Well, too late,” John said with a nervous chuckle. “Cause I’m worrying. Is this- is this because I yelled? I’m sorry, mate, it’s- it’s been a long day. A long few days. Didn’t get much sleep, really. Don’t expect either of us did. ’S not an excuse for shoving you but mum can get intense and- hey. Hey, I- Sherls, what’s up?”

The man had begun to cry. John wasn’t sure if he had ever seen Sherlock cry like this. He looked as if he was trying to hold it back with every fibre of his being, but the tears rolled down his cheeks anyway, and Sherlock bowed his head, sitting heavily on the armchair and began to rock back and forth.

John was at a loss for what to do. He had seen Sherlock rock in calm, even contented situations. Somehow it was more alarming, with Sherlock trying to hold back sobs, curled in on himself. John gingerly moved forward to put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Hey, mate, talk to me, I-”

A small, strangled noise escaped Sherlock’s throat, and he hit John’s hand away before bringing his arms close to his body again and beginning to rub his knuckles against his forearms.

John stood back. He looked at his friend helplessly, his mind running in circles trying to find a solution to this and failing. It was very rare that Sherlock didn’t allow John to touch him. It was terrifying to see his friend like this, vulnerable and distraught and it was even worse knowing that there was little to be done about it.

“John, what’s-” Mariana had come up the stairs and was now looking at Sherlock, stunned. “What’s wrong with him?” She asked John, voice now with an edge of panic. “What’s-“

“Meltdown,” John said weakly. “I- I think. I dunno. Never seen him like this before but- but he won’t let me touch him. Won’t let me-”

Sherlock pressed his hands to his ears and John abruptly stopped talking. He turned to Mariana. “Get his- get his- his thingies. His-” he motioned towards his ears, hoping Mariana would understand.

She nodded, rushing out of the room towards Sherlock’s bedroom.

John crouched beside his friend. Sherlock was still sobbing. Still rocking. His hands remained pressed over his ears as if he wanted to fully block out the outside world, to drown it out entirley. John knew that talking wouldn’t do anything. He knew that touching wasn’t welcomed. So he knelt there, hoping that his presence was enough until Mariana returned with the ear defenders.

“Sherlock?” Mariana asked, slightly out of breath from jogging across the flat and searching his bedroom. “I’m going to put these onto you, okay? John, lower his hands, please.”

John then realized what a terrible idea that was. “I-” he looked at Mariana, feeling stupid for requesting the ear defenders in the first place. “I don’t know if-”

“It’s worth a try!” Mariana said desperately. “Come on, John!”

Sherlock’s sobs filled the room as John tried to think of a way out of this. Soon, he hoisted himself to his feet with a wince, shaking his head.

He didn’t want to give up on his friend. But he was sleep-deprived, and in pain, and developing a pounding headache. He couldn’t think of a solution other than to let Sherlock be.

“I think we should just let him ride this out,” John muttered, the exhaustion from his poor night’s sleep showing through in his voice. “He doesn’t want to be touched. Just- could you close the blinds? And turn off the light maybe. He has his eyes closed. I know- I know light bothers him sometimes. Let’s- let’s have some tea in the kitchen or something. Leave him be.”

They left him to be. After around ten minutes, the crying died down and John gingerly limped back into the living room. Sherlock was curled up on the armchair, completely still. He didn’t even look up as John came in.

“Hey, Sherls,” John said quietly, standing a distance from the sofa. “Gave us a bit of a scare there, eh? You feeling better?”

Sherlock took several moments to move. He turned his head ever so slightly to look at John. Lips parted as if to speak, but no words came out. Instead, he sighed softly. He didn’t move when John approached him. Didn’t move as John took a careful seat on the arm rest of the chair. Didn’t move as John put a hand on his shoulder. Didn’t move as John quickly moved his hand away.

“Sorry,” John muttered apologetically. “Can I- is it okay if I-”

“Mm,” Sherlock managed.

John took it as consent. He put his hand back on Sherlock’s shoulder. He sighed.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. His voice broke ever so slightly.

If asked, he would be unable to articulate what he was apologizing for exactly. For getting shot, maybe. For worrying Sherlock. For worrying Sherlock so much that he got very little sleep last night. For not kicking Carol out sooner, before things escalated. For snapping at him. For shoving him. For not knowing what to do once it pressurized in Sherlock’s head and released all at once.

“I always had this fear,” said John in a quiet, tired voice. He squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder ever so slightly. “That I’d go out like my dad did. Blown up. Been there, made it out. Guess I thought that- I dunno. Guess that made me feel better about some things. Not- not fearless, but. Something. Don’t think I feel that way anymore. You spend so much time in the army worrying you’re gonna die. Then you come home and think you’re safe. Chose the wrong profession for that, I suppose but y’know, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Cause I’ve got you. I’d get shot every day if it meant I got to keep knowing you. Cause you’re my best mate, Sherls. And- and since knowing you, I- it’s weird. I deleted all my dating apps,” he chuckled nervously. “Isn’t that funny? Can’t really see myself doing any of that stuff anymore. Much too busy with you. I don’t think- I don’t think I’d have it any other way.”

The words formed and left John’s mouth before his brain could properly vet them. And then he found himself glad of the darkness of the room, so Sherlock couldn’t see his blush. Because Sherlock was moving now, turning his head and looking up at John, his eyes wide in the soft, dim light.

His expression was unreadable.

All John knew was that he had just, if only very slightly, opened a door that he couldn’t close again. On the other side was everything he had ever felt for Sherlock from the moment they met until now. And every complicated addendum that came with that.

“That’s…” Sherlock said quietly. His voice was hoarse from crying and incredibly soft, though it seemed to fill the whole room. “That complicates things,” he whispered. “Doesn’t it, John?”

And it did.

Chapter Text

The cause of death in the case of Abe Stanley had not yet been made public, but John had a horrible feeling that it was strangulation. He had been shot more than a few times, of course, but none of those impacts had killed him instantly. In the end, he died with Sherlock’s hands around his throat.

I meant what I said, John. I’m going to kill him.

The words cycled through John’s head like an echo.

He didn’t know why it bothered him that much. Maybe because he had never imagined someone taking a life on his behalf. That was a powerful thing, wasn’t it? An awful, powerful display of dedication that one could never take back. That and, of course, the idea that Sherlock had taken a life so easily, without hesitation. He knew his friend could be intense, but the thought frightened him.

Sherlock took a long bath. He sat in there for an hour and a half in the hot water, silent as the dead. John sat in the living room, waiting for him to emerge. The man had been exhausted after the meltdown, and John knew that now was not the time to talk about- well about everything. About everything that had hung between them since Sherlock wrapped his fingers around Abe Stanley’s neck and squeezed the life out of him. Since he held John’s hand in the ambulance and slept beside him and served coffee to his worried mother.

It was 1:00pm by the time Sherlock left the bath. He went to his room in his housecoat and didn’t emerge until 10 minutes later. He was still moving as if held down by weights, but John breathed a sigh of relief as the man headed to the kitchen for hot chocolate.

John considered getting up and joining him. What excuse would have to do that? After what he had said to Sherlock? Well- he hadn’t said anything explicitly. It’s not like he had looked the man in the eyes and professed his feelings. But just as Sherlock’s attack on Abe Stanley meant more than just an attack, John’s statement to Sherlock had held a deeper meaning.

Or at least John assumed that Sherlock’s attack on Abe Stanley had meant more than just an attack. Because one had to assume, didn’t they? The moment John was shot, Sherlock’s eyes were on him. It was as if he was no longer concerned with the man pointing a gun at him. He just needed to know that John was alright.

John swallowed his pride and got to his feet, joining Sherlock in the kitchen. He sat down at the table, watching as the man poured a sachet of powder into a mug, then put the kettle on to boil.

“Do it with milk,” John said, breaking the silence. “The- the hot chocolate. Boil some milk on the stove or something. Tastes better.”

Sherlock turned, looking at him in a tired sort of way. He then opened the fridge, pulling out the carton of milk and tipping it over the sink. A small dribble of liquid hit the basin of the sink before the carton ran dry.

“Ah,” John said, nodding and giving Sherlock a tight, guilty smile. “That’s- I mean that’s my fault. Had some in my tea the other day. Thought- well I thought I’d use up the rest but- I mean- can’t now can I? Or you. You can’t either.” He paled slightly. “Not that I’m mad. That you poured it out I mean. Probably what, 1p worth of milk in there? ’S fine. Genuinely,” He shut up before he dug himself into a deeper hole. Then he quickly added: “Sorry.”

Thankfully, Sherlock seemed too tired to care.

The kettle boiled. Sherlock poured the hot water over the brown powder at the bottom of his mug and stirred it with a metal spoon. He brought the drink over to the table, sitting across from John.

Silence draped over them. John couldn’t quite decide if it was comfortable silence or not. In any case, he didn’t have much time to decide before Sherlock spoke, his voice hushed.

“I killed that man,” Sherlock said. His tone had that deep, slightly strained quality that it picked up whenever he felt strongly about what he was saying. “Didn’t I?”

John sucked in some air. “Yeah- I-” he backpedalled. Tried again. “I dunno, mate. Won’t know until cause of death is established. Either way, I mean- it wasn’t your fault was it? Self defence or- he had a gun. He had a gun.”

It wasn’t a very solid excuse, and John knew that. But he didn’t know what else he was supposed to say.

A deep, gaping silence filled the room.

Then: “You must think me selfish, John. For dragging you into all of this despite knowing you suffer from combat PTSD.”

“No!” John said quickly. “No, I- Sherls! This isn’t anything like the war, alright? This is- I mean- look, this is the first time I’ve been shot so far, right? Most of the time it’s not like that! This case was just- it was just hard. For both of us. But it’s over now, and- and I’m gonna get better and it’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.” He said it more to reassure Sherlock than anything else. In the back of his mind, he still dreaded the thought of going to sleep that night, of entering a space where those nightmares could reach him.

He had reached across the table and was now gripping Sherlock’s forearm in what he hoped was a comforting way. Sherlock hadn’t pulled back, so John assumed it was working somewhat. At the very least Sherlock wasn’t avoiding touch anymore. That had really rattled John. It was so unlike him.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you left,” said Sherlock quietly. “At any point. Your mother was right. You could have died in Ukraine. And now-”

“Stop,” John interrupted. “Stop. Please, Sherlock. I’ve gone over this a thousand times in my head, you think I haven’t? I don’t like that I was shot any more than you do. You know, when I left the army I hoped I’d never be shot at again, but then I met you and that changed because I want to follow you, Sherlock! Anywhere you want to go, any case you want to take. If I hadn’t been in that room, Abe would have shot you. And you weren’t wearing a vest. So I’m glad I was shot. Cause it means you’re here to feel guilty about it.”

Sherlock stared into his hot chocolate. He hadn’t touched it yet.

“Go to therapy, then,” he said.

“What?”

The detective raised his gaze from his mug, not quite locking eyes with John. “Therapy,” he repeated. “For your PTSD, which you are clearly underplaying. You had a nightmare last night, John. I was there, remember? It was quite intense, from the sounds of it. Now, I don’t have PTSD myself, but it isn’t much of a logical stretch to assume that being shot at by a shower of bullets from a helicopter would have brought back some rather painful memories. You were having difficulty sleeping already-”

“Yeah because you’re a bloody insomn-”

“AND-” Sherlock continued, raising his voice slightly to talk over John. “I cannot have my partner putting his mind at risk to work with me,” Sherlock drew a breath. “You seem to be able to handle the sight of dead bodies just fine. This is good. But I cannot promise that we won’t be shot at again. Now, I will do everything in my power to prevent it from happening, but I am only one man. I need to know that this sort of thing won’t keep you up at night. I can only protect you physically, John. I need to know that you are protected mentally. I am certain that Mariana will be able to file it as a company expense.”

John stared at his friend, dumbfounded. It took several moments for Sherlock to notice.

“What?” Asked Sherlock. “Is it really such a surprising request? Many people go to therapy, John.”

“No,” John said, a bit weakly. “You said I’m your partner. You’ve- you’ve called me a friend before. A companion. I dunno. Partner sounds… different.”

“Are we not partners?” Asked Sherlock.

“Yeah but-” John faltered. “I mean we’re business partners, but-” his voice cracked slightly. From emotion or anxiety, he had no idea. He wondered if Sherlock could feel the pounding of his heart through his hand. “I- I’ll go to therapy, mate,” he relented. “I’ll go to therapy. But please- please don’t worry about me so much. I’m fine, Sherls.”

“You can’t keep saying that when it’s not true.”

John blinked a few times. Sherlock had never confronted him so directly before. “It’s true,” he protested, though without very much conviction. “It’s true. Listen I’m- I’m fine. I’ll be walking fine again in no time. I’ll just-” he would just what? He couldn’t have predicted that Abe would shoot him. In fact, he wore the bulletproof vest for the express reason of preventing any shots from being fatal. He had known what he was getting into going into the situation.

“You are fine physically,” Sherlock said, his voice soft and emotional once more. “You will heal. But mental afflictions are far more easy to ignore. I don’t want this work to get too much for you, John. I want you by my side for as long as you will have me. I wanted a flatmate to keep me steady during my home life but you have done far, far more than just that. You have made me a whole person. I owe you everything, John. I don’t know if I want to do this alone anymore. I don’t even know that I can.”

How did Sherlock expect John to respond to that? It felt like he had been punched in the gut. Sherlock was, of course, wrong, thought John. How could he think he wasn’t?

“Yeah, you could,” he said, voice strained with emotion. “You can’t say that. You’re Sherlock Holmes! World-renowned detective! I’m just- I’m just some bloke with a mic who decided to follow you around. Just John Watson, you know? I- I was so rubbish at med school they decided I’d make more of an impact in a warzone. At least there someone might shoot me, at least-” he faltered, the words catching in his throat.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, voice pained. “You were wasted in the military,” he shifted his arm under John’s grasp so he could hold his hand. “And I am glad that you survived that bomb. I am glad that it was so poorly built, that you did not die the same way that your father did. I enjoyed my work before you, John. But I would never go back to the way things were. Do you understand?”

John looked down at his hand in Sherlock’s. He opened his mouth, trying to form a coherent thought. He failed. Closed his mouth. Then, finally: “I’m really not worth it, Sherls.”

A small sigh escaped Sherlock’s lips. John felt bad instantly. He knew how tired Sherlock was. He really didn’t want to be any more of an inconvenience and here he was talking poorly of himself as if begging Sherlock to shower him with praise, to comfort him. Stupid, selfish John Watson. He was always doing things like this. Sherlock must hate him. He was irritating and fragile and couldn’t even admit it without sounding like a petulant child.

“I cannot force you to stay,” Sherlock said softly. “But I can ask you to. I don’t care what you think of yourself. You hold me together, and I could not do this without you. Besides, I would miss your… your waffling.”

When John looked up from the table, there was a small, weary smile on Sherlock’s lips. John couldn’t help but smile back.

“Waffling?” He asked. “You’d miss my waffling?”

“I am afraid so,” Sherlock said, chuckling quietly. “As I said, you ground me. Waking up to an empty flat is miserable. Knowing that you will be there in the morning makes the hard days tolerable and the good days even better. I had my work before you. Now, I have my life. The rest of it, I hope.”

John hadn’t really considered the long-term implications of his friendship with Sherlock. Only that he had resolved to stay by Sherlock’s side until Sherlock inevitably left. But here the man was talking about the rest of his life…

“Yeah,” John said, voice strained. “Yeah, I’d like that. Rest of our lives.”

He felt Sherlock squeezing his hand. His mind spun and he looked at his friend and wondered what Sherlock felt when he looked at him. Because when John looked at Sherlock, he felt like he was drowning. But he couldn’t look away. If he was honest, he didn’t really want to come up for air.

“Sherls, I-” John’s voice cracked and gave out. He cleared his throat. “I mean- ah- Christ I mean-” his voice was wavering now. He cursed himself inwardly. “‘Bout what I said earlier, I-”

“That you would get shot every day if it meant you could keep knowing me?” Asked Sherlock softly. His other hand, the one that wasn’t holding John’s, was tapping the kitchen table in an even, rhythmic pattern. John wondered if it meant Sherlock was nervous. He hoped it did.

“Yeah, that,” John mumbled. “About that, I mean, I think- I mean-”

“You’re quite rubbish at this,” Sherlock pointed out. Then he paused and added: “I suppose I am as well. I am unsure what to say if I’m honest,” he huffed nervously, then looked down at where he and John were holding hands. “This sort of thing… it always feels so strange. There is no clear line between when it is approaching and when it starts. I think we have been climbing that gradient for quite a while now.”

“Sherls- what-” John sputtered, looking at the detective in disbelief. He was having a hard time processing what exactly was happening. Sherlock was saying a lot of things, none of them directly.

Sherlock, at last, picked up his hot chocolate and took a long sip. His hand was shaking slightly. Then he put down the mug and rubbed the knuckle of his index finger across his lower lip, thinking. Possibly about how to proceed.

“Today was not a good day to do this,” he mused. “I am not in the headspace to articulate.”

John couldn’t help but laugh. It was a weak, strained laugh, saturated with nerves, but he was beyond trying to hide how nervous he was. He had passed that boundary ages ago. “Too late now, mate,” he said. Then he hesitated. “Although- look- I think I should ask, just to be sure, I mean- I mean I’m not fully clear on what you’re really implying-”

He needed to hear Sherlock say it out loud. Just in case he was misinterpreting all of this and would make a fool of himself for responding as if the detective’s intentions were romantic.

“Most people initiate this sort of thing with a date,” Sherlock continued in a tone that suggested he hadn’t really heard John’s response. Still, his statement answered his question. Sherlock stopped rubbing his lower lip and put his hand on top of John’s, now holding the man’s hand with both of his. “I feel as if we can bypass that step at the moment,” he said. “We have formed a strong enough bond that it would be appropriate, I believe, to proceed as if-”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted without much thought. His heart was pounding. No doubt Sherlock could feel it.

Sherlock stopped talking, briefly making eye contact with John before going back to looking at their hands. “What?”

“You’re waffling,” John said. “You’re waffling and- and you don’t waffle. It’s- weird. You- are you- are you serious about this, mate? I mean-” his voice tapered off, wavering just a bit at the end.

Sherlock drew in a breath of air, held it for a moment, and then nodded, exhaling slowly. “Yes. I am.”

It occurred to John that if there wasn’t a table between them it would be socially acceptable to kiss Sherlock right now. The idea of it made him feel like passing out. Sherlock must have picked up on this.

“Are you alright?” He asked, brow furrowed with concern.

“No,” John said without thinking. “I mean-! I mean yeah. Yeah, I’m-” He rested his head against his free hand, his palm pressing into his forehead. “I dunno. There’s been- a lot has been happening all at once, y’know? But-” he looked up from the table, into Sherlock’s eyes.

The detective was smiling at him. Fondly. Imagine that. Someone smiling fondly at John Watson after knowing him for an extended period of time. Someone living with John Watson, working with John Watson, killing for John Watson, holding John Watson’s hand in an ambulance, laying beside him at night, comforting him after a nightmare, then sitting in a kitchen with hot chocolate and looking at him fondly. In the flat they shared. In the flat they would continue to share, together. Despite the fact that this someone knew John Watson and knew what he was like.

Sherlock removed one of his hands from John’s and reached across the table to wipe a tear from John’s cheek. John hadn’t really noticed it was there. He raised a hand to his face and felt that his cheeks were damp. Why was he crying? He was the happiest he had ever been.

“We could watch football,” Sherlock suggested. There was an edge of worry to his voice.

“You want to watch football?” John asked, surprised. “I thought- I thought you only watched football because I made you watch football.”

“I watch football because it makes you happy,” Sherlock said, the hint of a smile on his lips.

“Oh,” John didn’t know how to respond coherently to that. It felt like he was falling off a cliff in the best way possible. “… I dunno if there’s anything on right now, mate, I mean-”

“Reruns,” Sherlock said. “Of games that we haven’t watched.”

“Oh,” John repeated. “Yeah. Yeah, we could do that.”

They re-heated Sherlock’s hot chocolate in the microwave and John made some tea for himself. They got a bag of crisps from the cupboard. They found that there was indeed a football game on right now, so they put it on, turned up the volume, and set up a laptop for Sherlock to keep track of the stats. John sat on the couch. Sherlock leaned against his chest. John tried to pretend like his stomach wasn’t doing summersaults and Sherlock quietly told John that his heart rate was at 125 beats-per-minute.

It somehow felt natural and terrifyingly new at the same time. They had done things like this together for months and months now. The only difference was how Sherlock draped himself across John and held his hand and the way John looked down at his friend. Though friend wasn’t quite the right word anymore, was it? He wasn’t sure exactly what to call this now. That would come in time.

John leaned down and kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. He felt positively giddy about it, and Sherlock looked up at him with raised eyebrows and said: “one-hundred-and-twenty-seven. That’s not healthy, John.”

John laughed. He asked who between them was the doctor here. Then, in a moment of recklessness, he leaned down once more and planted a kiss on Sherlock’s lips. After a moment’s hesitation, the detective reached up to place his hands on John’s cheeks, and John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s back to pull him upright once more.

The football game played in the background. Someone scored. The kiss ended and Sherlock rested his head against John’s chest again, sighing happily. He was holding one of John’s hands, fiddling with his fingers absentmindedly. It occurred to John how right this all felt. It still baffled him as to why exactly Sherlock felt this was right as well, but he wasn’t about to complain.

John would let Sherlock stay as long as he wanted to. And he hoped beyond all reason, beyond all past experiences that played over in his head whenever he dared hope someone would stay, that Sherlock would be by his side for a long, long time.