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Who: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes
Where: Second floor
When: Late afternoon
Rating: PG to PG-13, maybe more
Summary: John is still recovering from the confrontation with the Jabberwock, when Sherlock walks in after high tea with a certain deadly spider...
The Story:

When he'd woken up a couple of hours ago, the room was unfamiliar and he was alone.

This wasn't his bed. Nor was he spread on the couch in Sherlock's room, the one inspired by the sitting area in their flat back home. John blinked, wondering mildly at the fuzz in his head and sluggish thoughts, taking far too long to remember the fight against the Jabberwock, his head smashing back against the wall...

Sherlock finding him in the hall, Sherlock dragging him to the nearest free room. Sherlock opening it to reveal his room from their shared flat. Sherlock... checking him over, cleaning the blood off the back of his neck, keeping him awake, checking his pupils every few hours, finally allowing him to nod off...

How long had he been asleep?

The doctor sat up, pressing his fingers carefully along the back of his skull, wincing as they finally fell across the fine stitches that Sherlock had used to sew his poor head back together yesterday. They didn't have the finesse of a skilled doctor's needlework, but the detective had taken the time to make sure his headwound was well cared for.

...Where had Sherlock run off to?

Eventually, John convinced himself to move, if just to fumble to the closet and find clothes; a baggy shirt and comfortable jeans. It was odd, shuffling about this room as if it were his own, like staying in a hotel room long after he was due to check out. But since this place technically didn't belong to anyone, John allowed himself the chance to linger, mentally note the damange that radiated from his aching limbs. He still felt nauseous, but there was a kettle and painkillers waiting for him, so he set about making himself a cuppa.

The cure all at this point.

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Sherlock did not make for the direct route back to the room he'd left John in. The likelihood of being followed was very low but he still felt better about taking the long way back, letting his thoughts brew and his mind work out the many possible threads from the center of the web he knew he was certainly now woven into--that they were.

Moriarty was in Wonderland. The same Moriarty who had blown his brains out in front of him on the roof of Saint Barts was now living in the mansion. And things were going to go back to normal though normal for them which was anything but for ordinary people. For Sherlock and Jim, though...

He took his time. He stopped by John's real room just to see if he hadn't felt the need to return. Seeing he had not, Sherlock wandered down to the first floor room he'd chosen at random, entering the without a knock. Hiding his nervous, excited energy was not going to be easy but the dread helped. He stood near the door, hands crossed behind his back as he looked at a clearly awake though far from recovered John.

"Are you alright?"

John fumbled with his mug, surprised, before jerking about to find Sherlock standing in the doorway. The solider heaved, pressing a hand to his chest, feeling the bandages still wrapped there. His heart thundered under his bruised ribs, spooked due to slow senses.

"Yes, I'm fine." He breathed, having been thoroughly invested in trying to recall yesterday's events properly when the detective had walked in. John gestured to his head once his pulse stopped racing. "Just a bit... muddled, that's all. Be right as rain in no time." Not exactly; the side of his nose was now properly bruised, the split in his lip obvious and he was likely spotted black and blue under his shirt and bandages. But as it was said about doctors as patients... And John didn't want Sherlock worrying.

"Where did you run off to?" He asked casually, cupping the fresh mug of tea between his hands and raising an eyebrow at the detective. Normally, John would have been able to tell at the very least that something was off; the way Sherlock's gaze moved, excited, or the slight shift in his weight in that way that was only truly obvious when his lean pant legs swayed over his shiny, expensive shoes. But he's not exactly up to par right now.

Sherlock remained standing, quite certain things were not going to continue on amiably and standing close to the door would offer the advantage.

"I had a chat with a new resident. Someone from our world."

He waited for John to make the deduction, rather sure his demeanor would make it clear.

Despite the concussion, it didn't take long for John to figure it out. No one could bring that mix of nervous energy and fascination and dread to Sherlock more potently then one man.

He slowly put down his cup of tea.

It was quite a good strategical move on Sherlock's part to stay planted by the door. Immediately, the doctor's expression went dark and icy, all soldier in the matter of a split second. No matter the irrationality--he had a recent blow to the head and a couple months of sorrow under his belt to justify it, after all--John strode forward, grabbing his gun off the bedside table, shoved it into the back of his jeans without hesitation and made to move past the other man and out the door.

Sherlock was in front of the door in an instant, hand keeping the handle guarded and height and health taking care of any further resistance.

"John, I think you should sit down. You're not exactly in any shape to do the very foolish things you want to do and furthermore it's pointless."

He still tries to get his own grasp around the door handle, battling Sherlocks arms and fingers.

"I'm well enough!"

He doesn't respond to the comments about the foolishness and pointlessness of his actions and desires, because he really doesn't have an argument against them. He's just choosing to ignore them.

John tries to use his leg and hip to move the lengthy detective aside. "Sherlock, move! Let me through!"

Edited 2012-04-17 01:27 (UTC)

Few men are more stubborn than Sherlock. He holds his ground, taking the brunt of John's attempts.

"I know you're angry with him but all you will accomplish is your own death and a feud mentality. You can't make him pay for what he did, John. Now sit down."

"No! I don't care! I said; let me through!"

He steps back slightly to glare at the detective.

Sherlock is talking sense. He's talking rationally. He's making points John himself would make if their roles were reversed.

And it infuriates John.

Because he was there. He saw what that man did to Sherlock. How he dragged his reputation through the mud and lead them on a merry chase, the bloody game he and Sherlock had. The game that ended up with Sherlock leaping from St. Bart's and smashedbleedingdead on the pavement below for the sake of his friends. 1/3 of them being John.

Jim Moriarty did that.

His vision narrows, grey on the edges. That could caused either be his barely contained rage... or concussion.

Sherlock lets go of the door to grab John by the shoulders instead, trying to keep his grip soft on the wounded one to steer rather than wrangle. He puts on a softer face, a manipulating frown. 'Make Sherlock happy and do as he says' is the general translation of this particular face. John is hurt and Sherlock has very little doubt he will hurt himself further if he does not heed the face and not go for the door he's no longer holding shut.

"John, we need to coordinate, alright? Will you help me?"

Play up vulnerability, play to John's protective nature; pacify rage and hate with a direct request for his kinder virtues. John is always harder to manipulate being a good reader of his intent in most cases. A normal man might feel these things in his position, though. Sherlock is only playing up these feelings, not inventing them. He hopes it is enough to calm him towards reason.

Edited 2012-04-17 02:06 (UTC)

John still struggles as Sherlock's hands press him a half step back away from the door. However, now that the detective isn't actively fighting him, John subconsciously stops any real attempts to shove him away, for the moment at least. He doesn't want to hurt Sherlock after all.

Eventually, the active struggling settles and John grows still under Sherlock's hands, breathing heavily through his nose. His body--arms, shoulders, lips-- trembles with barely contained emotions; rage, frustration... And he can't look Sherlock in the face, gaze locked with severe focus on the door, as of Moriarty himself was hovering just on the other side.

Sherlock holds him by the shoulders, still not quite trusting him not to make a quick dash for freedom.

"Will you sit and let me speak?"

He glances up at Sherlock, lips pressed tight, bloodless and thin, before leveling his gaze with the door once more. He doesn't make a move forward again, but his hands flex at his sides anxiously.

Edited 2012-04-17 02:40 (UTC)

Sherlock sighs. This is probably as good as he's going to get.

"I've spoken with Moriarty. He knows where I live and we have settled on the fact that things are more or less going to run here as they did back home. The games will continue, John. So I need you to keep a level head."

That snaps him right out of his brooding silence. His gaze snaps up to Sherlock, and this time it sears.

"You went to speak with him?"

He shouldn't be surprised. It's move both Sherlock and Moriarty would engage in; a resetting of the chessboard, as it were. It's still a game. But, selfishly and aware of that fact, John can't help but feel a bubble of betrayal swell under his ribs, pressed in by the bandages Sherlock had wrapped just a few hours ago.

John raises his hands and knocks Sherlock's hands away from his shoulders, stepping away from the other man, pressing his fingers into his hair.

"Right, of course. Now something 'interesting' is here so you go have a... bloody business-like cuppa with the man who murdered you and what the hell, Sherlock...!"

Then, John stops. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he ducks his head slightly and breathes--just focuses on breathing for a couple of seconds as his head stop spinningachningtipping and his heart stops hurting.

Okay, so apparently that was a bit not good. He watches him, frowning just slightly.

"I had to know when he was from. Wonderland being what it is, he could have been a Moriarty from before we met or anytime between our meeting and our demise. How much he knew was vital in interpreting the next course of action. As it happens, he is postmortem and knows everything. He knows exactly how to get to me and while I will give him points for originality, that still leaves you very much in the line of fire. We'll need you to move your room to another location--away from mine."

John drops his hand, looking incredulously at Sherlock.

"What? No." He answers his own question with the shake of his head. "I'm not moving. If he wants to get at me he can damn well try, but we're far more vulnerable separated."

"John, do you want to be used against me a third time or will you listen to me and keep your distance?"

John flinches back as if struck.

"... Sherlock, I can help you." He insists after taking a minute to recover, jaw set. "I'm not afraid of him. You're in as much danger as I am and I'm not going to abandon you to facing him alone again."

"I know you're not afraid of him. That's the stupidest mistake you've made so far. He will kill you, John. At least one of your four deaths will be my fault through my involvement with him. At least. And that is even with a fair bit of distance in place."

Sherlock leans down so as not to stand so high over him, wanting to make himself very clear. "I cannot pretend to Moriarty that I do not care about you. He'd only try harder to prove me wrong. Now, we know he has a thing for large performances and flashy attacks. Bombs in my vicinity will likely take you out as well as me and then what? If we're both dead there isn't much we can do and against a bomb you're just a meat shield with limited cover. Keeping your sleeping quarters further from mine does not limit the time you spend with me, John, it merely puts that much more space between us during the nighttime hours to limit the chances of both of us meeting the same end in our sleep." He puts his hand out to rest it on John's shoulder again. "You're not abandoning me. I'm not alone anymore. You're helping me, John. Protecting you will always be of great assistance."

Sherlock has leaned down close enough that John's eyes have to dart from one of Sherlock's to the other to keep their locked gaze steady. John licks his lips, remembering the bombs blowing out 221B's windows and the seconds of panic as he skipped steps calling his flatmate's name... He also remembers semtex vests and coats unzipping and "Gottle 'o gear" followed by "Sherlock, run!" And the doctor begrudgingly understands why Sherlock is so adamant about this.

The hand is a pleasant weight on his shoulder.

"As long as you don't ask me to leave." 'Leave your side, leave the fight, leave my commitments and unsaid dedication to protecting you as best as my 5'7" soldier stature can manage...' He relents eventually. "...Though I doubt my new room location will remain a secret for long."

Edited 2012-04-17 04:16 (UTC)

Sherlock smiles. He can't help but smile when he gets his way.

"Don't tell anyone where it is. Not even me. No reason why I should know anyway and you can always use a random room such as this if you happen to need to meet someone alone."

He walks away from John, pacing as he continues. "As for Moriarty, we can't live in fear, obviously. We have work to do. We will continue as we have been save for a few minor changes. Communication over the network will need to be limited only to information which we would not mind giving to him ourselves and we shall retain a healthy amount of paranoia when out in the open. We will not be warning the populace that Moriarty is here and that he could be considered a wide spread threat."

John lets out a long suffering breath through his nose, watching Sherlock pace about. The rush of anger and resentment leaving him, however, makes the doctor wobble and he fumbles an arm back to catch the edge of the bed, sitting on it slowly.

"Sounds like an awful lot of precautions." John mutters, frowning. He knows they're necessary, but he's not pleased with the impact that short Irish madman is having on his life only after having just arrived. "We won't warn them? Moriarty isn't afraid of getting other's involved, Sherlock, next thing you know, he'll be covering some of them in semtex and making us run all over Wonderland."

"Exactly, John. And if he can't, he may move on to less predictable measures. If we could call anything he does predictable."

In other words, he is okay with the other residents of Wonderland being pawns for his and Moriarty's amusement.

"Wouldn't that just be a right treat." John says, face and tone expressing exactly how he feels about the placement of the chessboard and abusive regard towards the pieces.

"Do you think he can make a similar impression without his web? Hard to find a handful of snipers willing to listen to your beck and call around here, I'd imagine."

"He didn't need a single sniper to get me onto that roof, John. Moriarty may not like to get his hands dirty but he has proven he is capable of it. It won't be hard for him to arm himself here and I have... perhaps made a few people here feel like tits." The blood/cell incident comes to mind anyway. He scratches his head. "Whatever he plans, it will be with the use of what he has and right now the ordinary folk are what is in supply. He can only obviously use them once, though, before his colors are shown. So his movements will be subtle."

"Right..." John pressed a hand to his mouth thoughtfully. "Yeah, and unfortunately for us you haven't been exactly encouraging towards any sort of friendships or alliances. We'll just have to hope that in the end people take our word over his this time if it comes down to that."

He gets up to go fetch his long forgotten tea, cool next to the kettle. The doctor trades it for the gun he still had tucked into the back of his pants, taking a long swig of tea before taking another dose of painkillers.

"...It's not hard for me to arm myself here either, you know. If it comes down to it, let me shoot him, even if it means you lose the game or what have you with your... weird rules and obsession with one another."

Sherlock watches him, contemplating. "Will it make you feel better to murder him? He feels no regret, he knows full well what he's done, and he has already died for his victory. How much do you need his blood, John?"

John doesn't look at Sherlock. "I'm not an idiot. Despite my... desperation before, I'm a doctor and a former soldier. I know killing him won't bring you back nor give me much more then momentary satisfaction... which I will probably be disgusted at myself for later. Even if he doesn't deserve it."

He's a moral man, after all. He remembers exactly how many men he's killed after holding them at the end of his pistol or scalpel.

"I'm talking about if he's going to do something drastic. Something that will hurt a lot of people. I'm willing to stop him."

"I'm not willing to stop you." Sherlock smiles a little. "Just don't do anything stupid. If he's taught me anything it is that sometimes you must lose to win. Just be aware of that."

John's mouth quirks, ever so slightly, in response to Sherlock's smile. "I am." He says simply, trying to not let it say any more or less then what that answer means.

It's easy to see what you've lost in an empty flat.

"...Should I be moving out of my make shift recovery room soon, then?" He asks quickly with a sharp inhale, looking to distract with a new subject matter.

"There's no need to hurry. No one knows we're here. I met with him on the third floor which is where he is currently living."

Though Sherlock does not offer him the room number.

Of course not.

"Good. Suppose it wouldn't make sense to move about unnecessarily at the moment." Nevermind that he'd been flailing about in a semi-murderous rage not too long ago. With the way the tip of his ears flush, he remembers that fact and is just pointedly ignoring it, praying Sherlock does as well.

"You would know, doctor." He eyes him and gestures towards the bed with his head. Rage is gone. Go back to resting.

John has the gall to look put off by the idea, still feeling sleep mussed and achy as if his muscles were yelling at him to move about.

"I just got up Sherlock." Nevermind that his rage and yelling has made his head feel consistent with scrambled eggs.

"I can see that you have. It's a bedroom, though. Exactly how much activity did you intend to engage in? Sit or lay down either but you need to rest even if you don't sleep."

Sherlock goes to the closet and pulls out a chair for himself. Not going to ask, just going to sit. He doesn't intend to make much sound anyway. He's still mulling over the conflicted feelings from having Moriarty back.

Mycroft was right: caring was not an advantage. Moriarty's games were much more fun before he learned to care. Now the part that thrills makes other parts ache with the willingness in which he chooses to sacrifice the things that now matter. He sets the chair by the window and grabs some cigarettes and a lighter from the closet as well, not bothering to be sneaky about it as he intends to light up right there anyway.

John was there in a few short strides, plucking the box of cigarettes from Sherlock's fingers, looking at it then back at Sherlock pointedly.

"Since when did you start smoking again? Remember how hard it was to quit last time?" As if anyone involved could forget the detective sticking his face into Henry Knight's second-hand smoke and inhaling deeply. The doctor shifted his weight, tucking the medical journal he'd pulled from the closet to occupy himself with moments before noticing the detective's manifested habit under his arm.

Sherlock scowls at him.

"Don't be stupid. Give me them. It's not going to hurt anything to light up. Look: window!" He pushes it open to let in the nice spring air and breathes in deep to point out that it's all fine.

He waits with his hand out.

"Of course, not hurt anything... Except your lungs, tongue, throat, teeth, nose... Do I need to pull some motivational posters from the closet and deck our sitting room in them? There's a lovely one in the clinic depicting throat cancer that I think will look just dandy next to the skull."

John's sarcasm is his only defense against that expectant, hovering hand. Just like with Irene Adler's empty phone, he does eventually give in after all, and hands the box back, making sure his disapproval is clear on his face.

Once Sherlock lights up, John moves back to the bed, sitting against the headboard and spreading the medical journals out around him, squinting at the fine print.

"Wonderland, John. I'll die from much more pressing concerns than cancer or disease. Well, unless it's a particularly menacing virus or bacterial infection. Speaking of which, are you on antibiotics? Of course you are--you know what you're doing."

He sits at the chair, enjoying a good smoke to calm him. He tried to think of his potion which will be done soon. Many more uses for that now, certainly.

"I nag for the long term, Sherlock, you know me."

After a few minutes of fruitless attempts to read, John leans his head back against the headboard and sighs, rubbing his head. Reluctantly, for he had been getting rather comfortable, he goes over to the closet and procures a pair of wire frame reading glasses.

They help, though only for a bit, because of course the issue is with his brain running a little muddled more so then his eyes not focusing properly. His eyes don't hurt as much any more, but his head aches.

He lets out a grunt of frustration and folds his legs, pressing his hands to his hair, along the edge of the stitches behind his ear, then together near his mouth in a pose very similar to what he's seen Sherlock take on multiple occasions. If only there were a way to speed up the recovery process--it really seemed like he could do little else besides talk and sleep.

Sherlock watches him, smiling very faintly when he sees that John has gone for the nerdy specs. Sherlock likes those. He can imagine the overall stress of reading is hardly doing him favors, though. He flicks his cigarette out the window--want to nag about fire hazards?--and gets up, picking up John's communication device. Where's his? Pocket probably. Can't be bothered.

"There's a girl on here says she can heal. Might be a potion in that book you uncovered that could help you. And if I kill you, you will come back to life fully restored. Those are the three non-traditional options I can recommend if you're in too great a discomfort."

John leans his head in his hand, watching the detective with bemused mild annoyance as the other grabs John's communication device without a second thought. He sighs, taking the glasses off to rub his face before placing them back on again, setting about picking up some of the documents he knows now he likely won't get around to reading.

"I can deal with the discomfort well enough, I'd just be bored out of my skull if it wasn't already half broken as is. In any case, I'd hate to ask someone to heal me if it wasn't life threatening." He suddenly remembers his bruised ribs, having grown used to the aches and shortness of breath. He runs his hands along the side of them gently, still wrapped in the bandage from yesterday. "I should probably take this off, now that I think about it..."

He puts the device down with a roll of his eyes.

"Well, next time don't bother putting a shirt on," Sherlock says as he sits down on the bed and reaches out to pull it off him again.

John was in the middle of fumbling for his shirt when suddenly a pair of cold, pale hands start assisting him. He balks in surprise, hissing when the jerks twist his injured side.

"Sherlock, you don't-- I'm perfectly capable of taking off these bandages on my own, you know..."

"You assist me in crime, why shouldn't I assist you in medicine?" He puts his hand against his ribs, knowing that hiss. "Now, will you stop acting like the paparazzi are watching and just let me?"

John puckers his mouth, the same way he does when he wasn't quite sure if Sherlock was insulting him or complimenting him.

"I'm not--"

The hand against his side is careful and steady. John sighs and finally raises his hands over his head to allow Sherlock to pull off his shirt and properly expose the wrappings around his ribs and shoulder.

"Alright then. Go ahead."

Sherlock rolls his eyes in exasperation and pulls the shirt up but not off, pushing it back and trapping it behind his head so his arms are stuck. Ha!

"Just a sec," he says quickly, knowing this is not going to be met with anything short of indignation as he untucks the bandages' end.

Oh, well, that's just not fair. John gives a disgruntled sputter, staring at Sherlock from under his shirt in shock and nearly losing his balance in the process of it all. The doctor wiggles in frustration as Sherlock works on the bandages.

"You nutter! I have half a mind to kick you off the bed." He threatens, expression flat but eyes utterly bemused.

Edited 2012-04-17 22:09 (UTC)

"Kick me off the bed and I promise I will not let go of this bandage. Though the laws of physics will prove me wrong, I like to imagine that would send you spinning off like a top."

He unwraps his ribs, trying not to make faces at the bruising. He untraps his arms after he's got it all pulled off and leaves it to John to decide if he wants it on still or not.

After all is said and done, John playfully kicks at the other man for good measure as he scoots off the bed, leaving his shirt off for now as he finally wanders over to the full length mirror in the corner of the room. He hadn't yet made a point to look at the wounds, having had Sherlock to take care of him last night and the argument earlier having been distraction enough.

John hisses as he finally settles before his reflection. He leans in, lightly touching the side of his nose where it's splotched green. The split in his lip as light bruising, but he's more inclined to examine what he can see of the stitches on the side of his head. Finally, he looks down at his chest and stomach, littered with dark red, purple and green patches concentrating on one side of his ribs.

"Christ." He finally mutters, sounding more disappointed and frustrated in himself then concerned. The doctor turns his focus to the shirt in his hands, turning it rightside out and tugging it back over his head. "Did a proper job letting myself get kicked around, didn't I?"

Edited 2012-04-17 22:25 (UTC)

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