(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 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."

[was_a_soldier]

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."