(no subject)

[was_a_soldier]

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.

Comments

[not_a_hero]

"I'm sure you now understand why I went with the first available room instead of waiting to get back to yours. Add a splash of blood for color and some black where you're green and you've got the lovely image I received last night while looking for you."

Sherlock leans against a wall, looking at him. None of that is going to heal fast.

"Proud of yourself all the same?"

[not_a_hero]

"You mean cancel my date for this evening just to sit around while you sleep?" He pulls a face so John knows he's joking. "Well, I wasn't really hungry anyway."

[not_a_hero]

Sherlock considers for only a moment drawing on him with permanent marker. It's more a lack of anything worth while to write than any nagging voice telling him not to that stops him.

Instead Sherlock returns to the chair, sitting down with his knees hugged against his chest and his cheek resting on his bent knee. He stays absolutely still and quiet, listening to the world outside while his mind tallies and weighs all his lies and expectations.

He's afraid. It's not the first time.

And it certainly won't be the last.