Chapter Text
John is absolutely furious. He storms up the 17 steps with Sherlock on his heels - following, not leading, for once - his curly head hanging, whether in pain or from guilt, John can’t be arsed to care. He throws open the door to the flat and stomps inside, wheeling on his former flatmate and still best friend (despite his being a complete bastard), all of the words he wants to say bubbling up in his stomach, hot and acrid. There are so many questions, so many things that don’t make sense and he wants to scream, but when he opens his mouth, the only thing that come out is: “Why?”
Sherlock looks at him, eyes flat and pale like the sky just before the dawn. There are bruises under his eyes and his cheeks look sunken, but he’s alive. Thank God, he’s alive.
“You…she had a mission. I didn’t know. I thought you would be safe, but -”
“You were wrong,” John snarls, cutting him off. “It was never about me. It’s always about you!”
“John, I never meant -”
“No. No, Sherlock. No more excuses, no more lies, no more leaving me out so that you can be clever!” John slams his fist down on the desk, sending a stack of papers cascading to the floor like autumn leaves. Sherlock watches them fall, his mouth open in a small ‘o’, his gaze glassy.
“It wasn’t to be clever,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around himself. “I just…”
“Just what? Wanted to finish the job? Take away everything, because jumping from a bloody building and faking your own death wasn’t enough?” John is livid, every hurt, every accusation tumbling from his lips laced with two years worth of venom. Sherlock flinches, turning so that his back is to the wall, protected. John pulls up, his army instincts kicking in, taking in Sherlock’s defensive posture and darting gaze. Something isn’t right.
“Sherlock?”
The detective’s head snaps up, his pupils wide and dark. “It was to protect you,” he hisses, face contorting into something ugly and foreign. “Everything I’ve done was to protect you! Leaving you behind, taking down Moriarty’s network, watching you choose her -” he cuts himself off, running a shaking hand through his curls. “I didn’t know she would try to finish the job, John. I honestly didn’t know how far she was willing to go.”
“Then why? Why did you…”
Sherlock laughs, high and hollow, staring at the skull over the mantle. “I thought it would keep you safe. God, sentiment can be so blinding!”
John inhales sharply, reaching back to steady himself against the desk, the wood digging into his palm. “Sentiment?”
"Honestly, John,” Sherlock whispers, leaning back against the wall with a wince. “You see, but you don’t observe.”
John frowns, head pounding from all the revelations in the past few weeks and he can’t handle any more games.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, sniffing sharply. “Right. Okay. I’m going to think on that when it doesn’t feel like my brain is about to explode.” John shucks his jacket, putting aside his personal crises to check on his patient. Because that’s what he is right now. His wife has become their client and Sherlock has become his patient. The army taught him how to compartmentalise and it’s the only thing that will keep him sane.
Sherlock looks a bit ashen, his brow glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. His doctors at the hospital had warned him not to engage in anything too strenuous and here he is, climbing stairs and yelling at John like old times. Not good.
“Let’s get you settled, yeah? You shouldn’t be up and about. Not when you’ve got a hole in your chest.” John crosses the room and helps Sherlock from his coat, heart giving a lurch at every whimper Sherlock makes during the process. He’s not supposed to sound like that; Sherlock is above the pains and aches of his transport, superhuman in his ability to push beyond it all.
‘No,’ John thinks, bracing his friend as his legs wobble and his face goes pale. ‘Sherlock is very human.’
They make their way to Sherlock’s room slowly, the detective waning a little more with every step. John murmurs to him, keeping him conscious until he can get him propped up and medicated. Sherlock pauses on the threshold of his room, breathing heavily and eying the bed with naked longing. John helps him to the chair near the door for a break while he turns down the sheets. Pillows arranged in a satisfactory manner, John turns back to Sherlock, the last of his anger dissipating at the sight of his friend. He looks utterly miserable, hunched in the chair with his curls damp from sweat and his face contorted in pain. Whatever differences they might have, this is John’s fault. He married the assassin that shot Sherlock in the chest; his suffering is John’s fault.
“Hey,” John calls, kneeling at Sherlock’s feet. “Just a little more, then you can sleep.” Sherlock nods weakly, letting John remove his shoes and socks, setting them aside before hauling the lanky man to his feet. The suit jacket is next, followed by the shirt, Sherlock’s hands stopping him halfway.
"I…there were injuries,” he breathes, barely conscious enough to speak properly, swaying where he stands. “While I was…don’t be mad. Please?” John is floored, staring up at Sherlock in fear. Injuries? The detective looks away, eyes falling shut, the fan of his lashes casting dark shadows against the slopes of his cheekbones, and John finishes unbuttoning the shirt. He can feel them as he pushes the fabric from Sherlock’s shoulders, ropey scars and puckered skin that make bile rise in his throat.
'Later,’ he tells himself, finishing undressing his flatmate until he’s standing in naught but his pants, shivering from the effort of remaining upright, skin as pale as the dressing on his chest. John helps him to sit on the mattress, fetching his pyjama trousers and ratty grey shirt and helping him dress.
Sherlock lies down willingly, eyes falling shut as soon as his head hits the pillows. He appears to wilt, all of the strength leaving his body in a great exhale that echoes through the room. John fetches his medication, dolling out the tablets and helping him drink from a glass of water. It’s a slow process, helping him settle, shifting and lifting and fluffing pillows until Sherlock can recline without looking as though he’s about to vomit.
“Get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning,” John orders, making to leave, but a hand on his wrist stops him.
"It was all for you,” Sherlock rasps, eyes vacant as the drugs start to work through his system. “And I would do it again. Keep you safe.”
“I know,” John replies, loosening Sherlock’s grip. “I know.” Sherlock’s hand falls back on the blankets and he stares at it for a while, his mouth twisting at the corners as though he might cry, but his eyes flutter shut and his breathing deepens, the small pinch staying between his brows.
John stares at Sherlock, his heart doing something complicated, reminding him of those forbidden feelings from before the fall. He leaves, closing the door behind him and slumping to the floor. His wedding ring feels heavy on his left hand.
It’s all his fault.