»»──────　JW　──────««

Luckily, in her own interest, the blonde nurse didn’t show up in the room again, but that didn’t mean they would leave the detective unsupervised. Every half hour, a nurse or a paramedic would come by, check if their patient had everything he needed, and go about their business again.

One was just here a few minutes ago; he hovered around Sherlock’s bed for a while, then asked John a few questions. When he decided Sherlock was in good hands, he left.

Once the room fell into silence again, John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand in his. Although it was natural for a body's temperature to drop after anaesthesia, John was surprised by how cold Sherlock's skin felt to the touch. In order to warm him up a bit, he hid the long, cold fingers between his palms and rubbed them lightly to give them some of his heat.

John found comfort in counting every inhale and exhale Sherlock took, each interval in which his chest expanded and shrank. He ran his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hands as he watched his relaxed features—motionless, smooth lids; pale, soft cheeks; parted lips that quivered every time a faint gust of breath escaped in a hint of a quiet snore.

He wished he had at least a bit of Sherlock’s peace. At least for a moment, he wanted to lie down, close his eyes, and take a nap to lose track of the world and forget all his worries. The staff offered him an empty room next door to get some sleep, with the promise they would inform him once Sherlock woke up.

John refused their kind offer. There was no chance he would leave Sherlock for longer than ten minutes. His place was at Sherlock’s side.

But that darn nurse!

How could she think he would beat Sherlock? That he would even consider raising his hand against him? Not only would Mycroft most likely break it if he ever found out that he had caused any physical or mental harm to his little brother. His own shame would not even allow him to hurt someone so unique, smart, and gorgeous! How could he look him in the eye if he did?

He didn’t even have an idea that Sherlock was hiding something like that at all!

However, that last statement wasn’t entirely true when John gave it some thought...

Things were slowly starting to make sense to him—and he didn’t come to a pleasant conclusion. Come to think of it, has Sherlock worn a short sleeve since his resurrection? He knew the answer to that; Sherlock didn’t make an extra effort to hide his intentions.

Covering himself, though, was no problem for Sherlock at all.

Although the detective became famous for his tight-fitting shirts, black jacket, and black coat, at home, when there was no case to solve, he used to walk around the flat in sweatpants and a plain T-shirt, often turned inside out. John had once asked him why he wore them like that; Sherlock told him it was because of the seams that distracted him with "the insanely annoying scratching".

And sometimes, even the t-shirt itself seemed to bother him—John had lost count of the number of times he’d seen his friend without it. The number slipped out of his head easily; the plains of his alabaster-pale skin, though...

Unfortunately, John hasn't seen Sherlock's shirtless torso or his favourite button-ups in a while. Most of the time, Sherlock wore oversized hoodies, which, it should be noted, added to his size rather than concealed it—not that he would ever have the heart to tell him that…

Initially, he attributed this to the fact that Sherlock hadn’t quite come to terms with his new proportions yet, or that maybe he was even ashamed of them. But that didn’t explain Sherlock’s recent jumpiness. An image of the detective’s genuine dismay that night when he raised his voice at him flashed before John’s eyes.

And what was even worse, his superhumanly intelligent brain had labelled John as a potential danger, someone who wanted to hurt him, punch him, beat him up...

The imaginary nail in the coffin was the memory of Sherlock’s half-bare chest in the Abbey Rodgers’ office.

Back then, he was too busy giving Sherlock first aid, so all his details of that evening blended into a chaotic mess. Now, without the paralysing curtain of panic, he clearly remembered seeing something on the white skin that definitely shouldn’t have been there.

John was glad he had skipped the breakfast that the staff tried so hard to force on him—if he had a full stomach, he would probably throw up on the spot.

Sherlock had shown some signs that something wasn’t quite right with him. John only hadn’t seen them.

He suddenly felt like the worst companion in the world.

How come he didn’t notice anything? A man with a medical degree? A qualified doctor?!

Sherlock would surely be ashamed of him if his ignorance didn’t play into his hands. And John wouldn’t blame him; how did he differ from other unobservant "idiots"? What made him different? God, if only Sherlock knew how long it took John to realise something so obvious, he would be rolling his eyes right now!

He should have done something to help him! True, Sherlock didn’t want John poking his nose into his problems, and John wanted (and tried!) to fulfil his promise. But what if he tried to keep his promise so much that he subconsciously ignored the individual signs?

Sherlock’s hand twitched. John, who'd been holding it the whole time with their fingers intertwined, gave it a light squeeze.

His eyes wandered back to Sherlock’s face. To his mild surprise, they met a sleepy, confused gaze.

"J-John?"

Sherlock was squinting at him with bleary eyes, unaccustomed to the sharp light. Apparently, even such a brilliant and extraordinary head as Sherlock’s wasn’t immune to the echoes of narcosis.

And speaking of the head, John has never seen his friend this untidy. Sherlock's ever-well-groomed and disciplined locks seemed to have their own life, jutting into different directions and angles, demanding the usual (and fairly lengthy) shower routine with hot water and luxurious shampoo.

But the greasy, untamed mane was the least of John’s worries right now.

He breathed out, releasing the air from his lungs that he didn’t know he’d been holding. "Hey…"

The realisation that Sherlock was awake has taken a load off John’s mind! Sherlock was alright! He was conscious and responsive, even though a single, common name could hardly stand in for a conversation. He recognised John immediately, which meant that his long-term memory had suffered little or no damage.

Of course, several tests would need to be done to safely and reliably rule out brain damage, but this was enough for him for now.

"N-no, not you! You’re not supposed to be here!"

And the load was back. All his worries and doubts returned like a faithful boomerang, delivering a blow to John’s chest.

Not you…

That hurt. John only couldn’t decide what touched him more: the fact that Sherlock didn’t want him here or the horrified expression on his face once he acknowledged John’s presence.

As it seemed, things wouldn’t go as smoothly as he had hoped.

"Sherlock?" John whispered. Sherlock's eyes were large and terrified, resembling two blue-green saucers. What the hell was going on here?

Why shouldn’t he be here? He is his friend. Of course, he has stayed here with him, sick with worry! And why did Sherlock look like he’d rather crawl under the bed? Maybe if he wasn’t restricted by all the tubes in his body (and if he somehow squeezed his bulky frame under the metal construction), he’d be there by now.

"Mycroft promised! He promised he wouldn’t tell you about Appledore!" he jabbered rapidly. Since he couldn’t think of any other evasive manoeuvre, he resorted to a temporary solution and brought his thighs to his torso.

John took a breath to warn him he shouldn’t do that, but it was too late. Sherlock’s mouth twisted in a pained grimace, and he pressed his lips together, but a sharp hiss made its way through them, anyway.

The doctor caught hold of Sherlock’s shoulders and pressed him back into the duvet. Sherlock let him, not that he would be strong enough to resist...

"No, Sherlock. Try to keep still…" John suggested, his mind elsewhere.

What did Sherlock say? Appledore? What’s Appledore?

"I already understood as much…" Sherlock remarked and looked around the room. A small wrinkle wedged between his eyebrows, as it always did when there was something Sherlock didn’t particularly like.

"Where am I? "This isn't Bart's," he said, but it sounded more like an accusation.

John opened his mouth to remind him of what had happened. True, he didn’t rush in. Who would want to relive the moment of a friend’s injury? But Sherlock obviously had no idea what was going on (he would never have believed that day would come) and needed someone to refresh his memory.

But before John could utter a single sound, Sherlock spoke again, the agitation in his voice almost palpable this time.

"What a traitor! He promised Molly would see me. That nobody else would know! How could he do that—" he paused in the middle of the sentence, and John’s uncertainty grew.

This didn’t bode well.

Sherlock rarely left a sentence unfinished—it annoyed him when someone couldn’t hold a thought. When they began the sentence and didn’t finish it, swallowed it; threw it away, all forgotten and unused. Sherlock just didn’t do this, and when he did, it usually meant trouble...

And judging by the bluish shade the brunette’s skin was turning, John knew that the moment had just arrived. "W-what have they done to me?" Sherlock cried out.

"Just calm down. Everything is fine…" John assured him, although he wasn’t sure of that anymore.

But John’s words couldn’t reach him. "N-no! What’s th-that thing on my face?" He stuttered, fear written all over his features, and his hands fumbled around to get rid of whatever it was that was preventing him from moving his head.

"That’s a feeding tube. It’s a common procedure after abdominal surgeries... They needed to restart your metabolism after the anaesthesia. That’s why they put it in," John explained in a soft voice, leaned forward, and trapped his hands in his, preventing him from his hysterical attempts to tear off the rubber tube in his nostrils.

Unfortunately, neither his words nor his touches had the desired effect; instead of relaxing, Sherlock clenched his hands into fists and began to thrash around, trying to get out of John’s grip. If he looked scared a moment ago, now he was almost shaking in terror.

"Calm down, Sherlock... Come on, it’s okay," John said, soothing him, but he was getting worried as well. Did he say something wrong?

John didn’t understand why Sherlock was freaking out so much all of a sudden.

"Hey, what’s going on?" John whispered, but Sherlock didn’t listen.

And he couldn’t. A panic attack was attempting to take him, judging by his wide eyes and gradually accelerating breathing. Still, he continued to struggle, trying to free his wrist from the grip of John’s fingers.



Actually, “ struggle” was still an overstatement, With a cocktail of painkillers coursing through his veins, the distracted and weakened detective was no rival to him. The drugs significantly dampened his physical activity and reflexes, so John didn’t have to make any extra effort to overpower him.

And he didn’t even want to—the last thing he wanted to do was play tug of war with him. Especially after noticing that the longer their wrestling lasted, the more nervous the detective became.

Sherlock must have realised that he stood no chance against his friend, albeit a much smaller one. That may have been the reason he was panting and shaking his head frantically, his curls flying in all directions in an overgrown black halo. He desperately tried to hold him back as much as possible.

As if he was afraid that John would hurt him...

Jesus, who did this to him?!

"Sherlock, relax. It’s me, John! I’m not gonna hurt you…" John tried to soothe him and caressed his wrists, which he still held in his hands, with his thumbs.

Sherlock's breathing became increasingly ragged and irregular, his forehead sparkled with pearls of sweat, and—

A terrified sob found its way out of Sherlock’s throat.

"Pull it out…"

John stared at his panicking, furiously blinking friend, absolutely speechless. He wanted to say something to help him, to comfort him somehow, but he couldn’t. A huge knot seemed to be tied to his vocal cords.

John wanted to comply with Sherlock’s request. He wanted to pull out the tube that was causing him such distress that it drove him to a panic attack right now! He wanted to put him out of his misery.

If he could, he would hold him in his arms and whisper in his ear that everything was going to be okay, that he would protect him, and that he wouldn’t let anyone lay a finger on him.

But he knew he had no right to do that, at least not before he spoke to the doctors. They had a reason to insert the nasogastric tube, and it was up to them to decide whether Sherlock needed it.

Also, given his fidgety state, he dared not estimate Sherlock’s reaction. He’d been through a few panic attacks himself, and a simple hug could sometimes do more harm than good.

Sherlock made the decision easy for him as he lost his patience, and his frustration spilt from his lips.

"Pull it out, NOW!" he shrieked, ruddy and on the edge of sanity.

To John’s horror, a lone tear rolled out from under his eyelashes and trickled down the right corner of his mouth.

And at that very moment, he made up his mind. He immediately let go of Sherlock, jumped out of his chair, and rushed over to the bedside table.

"Of course I will, but I won’t be able to do so if you’re going to freak out like that. I’ll call the nurse to tell her that the tube might not be necessary anymore, okay? Just calm down; I’m not going anywhere," he assured Sherlock as soon as he noticed an unmistakable hint of panic crossing his already frightened features.

He reached for the bell to call the medical staff and pressed the button.

A nurse came running in a few minutes. She eyed her panicking patient with concern, then turned to John with apparent disapproval, demanding an explanation.

John explained what had happened, and the nurse listened, nodding her head patiently. Then she smiled at Sherlock, took a step towards him, and promised to remove the tube.

Instead of bringing relief, her words only seemed to cause Sherlock more distress. As soon as she got even a little closer, the twitching started again, with more determination and intensity. Nothing seemed to console him—kind words, physical contact, not even a forewarning of sedatives...

Her idle threat had failed, so she decided it might be a good idea to realise it right away.

She headed towards the door to prepare the dose of the drugs when John came up with the last option.

"Wait a moment, please," John stopped the nurse from leaving, then turned to his friend, contemplating what to say and how to say it, before asking, "Sherlock, would you let me do that?"

Sherlock looked at him with a cornered expression on his face and nodded weakly.

John turned to her with a clear, non-verbal question.

The nurse wasn’t exactly jumping for joy at this suggestion, but she had to admit that it would be better to proceed according to Sherlock’s will than to stuff him with more unnecessary sedatives. She took a pair of wrapped rubber gloves out of her pocket and handed them to him.

John unwrapped them from the plastic bag, quickly pulled them on, and knelt on the bed without further ado. Using his thumb and index finger, he grasped the tube inserted into Sherlock’s nose, and after a slight warning that it wouldn’t be pleasant, he slowly began to slide it out.

Sherlock’s eyes glistened as more tears welled up in them, but otherwise, he held firm, never budging an inch. John felt honoured by the extent of Sherlock’s trust; yes, maybe he'd been keeping secrets from him, but John considered this ample proof.

It seemed endless to both of them, but after a while, it was over.

"Look, it’s out now, okay?" John waved the empty tube in front of Sherlock’s eyes and put it away.

Only after it vanished from his sight did Sherlock have the nurse check his vitals and needs. She made sure that he wasn’t missing anything, reminded them to ring the bell if necessary, and disappeared through the door.

"John... I apologise for the fit…." Sherlock broke the heavy silence, which held so many unspoken questions and thoughts, and his cheeks blushed. When he spoke again, his voice quivered faintly. "But I couldn’t help myself... I was afraid... I was afraid he had found me again... that he wanted to —"

"No, no, no..." John interrupted him once he understood what was coming.

It occurred to John how easily he could make Sherlock spill the beans. Thanks to the drugs, Sherlock's tongue was untying faster than the shoelaces on his favourite posh shoes. The man probably had no idea he was about to bring up the subject he'd been trying so hard to avoid all along.

Sherlock was basically offering him an explanation on a silver platter.

But being an honest and loyal friend, John would never stoop to questioning his friend, especially when he was under the influence of drugs. He reached out, sliding his palm over the blanket in a predictable manner to touch Sherlock’s thigh.

"Shhh, say nothing... You're not in your right mind; this is anaesthesia speaking... You don’t know what you’re saying. As soon as the painkillers wear off, you'll regret telling me. You’ll tell me once you’re ready, okay?"

His speech was met with a grateful nod of agreement, followed by a yawn, hearty and so very unexpected that Sherlock didn’t even have time to cover his mouth.

John didn't have to inspect him for long to notice that Sherlock was weary and struggling to stay awake. His dense lashes fluttered as he fought a rather uneven battle with his closing eyes. Dark circles formed beneath them, further accentuating the detective’s exhaustion.

"You should rest," John proposed.

Sherlock frowned. "What about you?"

"Don’t worry about me, hm? I’m not tired…"

Sherlock scrutinised him from head to toe, and his frowning lips pouted. "I’m stupefied by the medicaments, but I’m not an idiot, John. You sat in the hallway all night. I don’t know what time it is now, but you haven’t left since they brought you to see me. That is if I don’t count the visit to the machine in the kiosk, where you take the disgusting, cheap wish-wash, which they dare to call coffee, in order to get any energy at all. Otherwise, you didn’t move from this chair. You’re not the youngest anymore, and if you think your back and left shoulder will thank you for this choice of seat, I’m probably going to disappoint you... Are you still trying to tell me you’re not tired?" he asked, almost challenging John to say the opposite.

John laughed. The detective simply never ceased to amaze him. How could he act like a total jerk and yet be the most humane being in the world? It seemed impossible to mix these traits together. But, after all, Sherlock’s methods exceeded the boundaries of what was possible—a suicidal jump from several tens of metres confirmed it...

"You need to sleep…" Sherlock pressed his point a bit more gently, then trailed off.

John was about to tease him that he was the one to talk about regular sleeping habits, but Sherlock’s tone suggested he had something more to say. Something that cost him a lot of nerve, judging by the slight blush on his cheeks.

Finally, he gathered the courage and quietly, but with a hint of hope in his voice, offered: "You could sleep... here..."

John nearly choked on his saliva, and his stomach did a stunt-like somersault. Was Sherlock implying that he should lie down next to him? Like... on the bed? Was he asking him to huddle up next to him? To share the body heat as they would rest side by side, with their shoulders, hips, and legs touching?

John dismissed those thoughts before the blood could rush elsewhere than into his cheeks.

Sherlock would surely notice his... interest, even if he was still affected by the pain medications. John didn’t want to cause any trouble between them, especially since he wasn’t sure if Sherlock even accepted romantic relationships. He really wouldn’t like to put their friendship at stake.

"Or not..." the anticipation dimmed, and Sherlock lowered his eyelashes. "You don’t have to be here if you’re uncomfortable, you know," he muttered sheepishly, gesturing his head to the spot remaining next to him.

John’s heart hurt at the sight of his best friend. Sherlock looked so… vulnerable, out of his comfort zone. It didn’t feel right; this expression didn’t belong on his face. Sherlock shouldn’t be this timid, uncertain, and miserable...

Determined to do whatever it took to wipe the ugly emotion from the detective’s features, John sat down on the edge of the hospital bed, and even though he knew it was a bit inappropriate, he swung his legs up onto the mattress.

Lying down next to Sherlock, with his back against the headboard, he wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders with the crystal-clear intention of pulling him close, never feeling a pinch of hesitation or embarrassment. Sherlock deserved to know that John knew what he wanted. That John didn’t give a damn what people would think.

He would not waste his happiness (and hopefully Sherlock’s as well) because of their stupid opinions.

John left the next step up to Sherlock, giving him room to pull away if he changed his mind.

Sherlock hesitated, probably considering whether to keep the last shred of his decorum. He eventually succumbed, realising he didn't want to be miserable for the rest of the day, and curled up timidly next to John. His body still emanated powerful waves of tension and alertness, as if he expected John to jump up from the bed and run away at any second.

The doctor’s hand slid down Sherlock’s arm and came to rest at his back, stiff and…

His stomach lurched. The nurse was right. Even through the fabric of the hospital gown, he could feel the unnaturally bumpy skin where it should have been smooth and untouched.

Luckily, Sherlock’s fatigue clouded his attention to some extent, so he didn’t even notice John’s hand had just brushed against a few protrusions of particularly raised scars he’d been hiding from him, among other things.

"Sleep… I’ll be here when you wake up," John promised, whispering in Sherlock’s hair and caressing his back.

John’s touch finally seemed to calm Sherlock down, convincing him he didn’t mind being this close to him. Rather the opposite, but it would probably shock Sherlock to the core if he ever found out how much this moment meant to John...

"Thank you, John," Sherlock murmured and closed his eyes.

John watched in silence as the detective drifted off to sleep, mesmerised by the intimacy and trust of one of the most reclusive people he had ever met. As he fell into the realm of dreams, his facial muscles smoothed out, and the corners of his mouth lifted slightly, which could be compared to a faint smile with a drop of optimism.

The doctor wished he could capture this moment and return to it once Sherlock’s post-anaesthetic numbness and sensitivity wore off. He doubted Sherlock would remember anything from this moment, which, on the other hand, would have been the better option.

Sherlock despised emotions, especially those that revealed his vulnerabilities; he certainly wouldn’t like to be seen in this state.

John wasn’t one to take advantage of that, and he hoped Sherlock knew that, but he understood and fully respected Sherlock’s reasons. He didn’t intend to cause him any more stress, especially when he needed the rest to heal.

But who says Sherlock Holmes was the only one to use memory techniques? John didn’t need to build Mind Palaces to memorise every detail the slumbering man unconsciously provided.

His unique scent, detectable even in the hospital's sterile and disinfected environment... The comforting softness of Sherlock’s body, with which it pressed against his side, warm and pliant… Every millimetre of his carefree face that gave him the appearance of being no older than twenty...

His head rested on John’s good shoulder. Messy curls of such a dark shade of brown they could easily pass for black, rustled against John’s neck, along with the warm breath.

Unable to resist, John bowed his head and pressed a fleeting, innocent kiss on the crown of his skull.

He forgot to consider a tiny detail—how difficult it would be to peel off the lips. It didn’t occur to him that once he did this, he would like to stay that way forever, to experience it every day...

The flow of his fantasies was interrupted by Sherlock’s deep sigh.

John froze.

Did he wake him up? He really wouldn’t like that. Sherlock needed rest, not for John to wake him up because he couldn’t control his wild desires!

No, it looked like Sherlock had fallen into a deep sleep, as he merely stirred and pressed himself a little closer to him, as close as his size and the cannula running into his wrist would allow. Without an ounce of guilt, he snuggled to John’s side, placed his hand on John’s chest, and clutched his black-and-white striped sweater in his fingers.

The warmth that spread around John’s heart had little to do with Sherlock’s palm.

AN:
Hello, my dear readers.
Sherlock is finally awake! Are you happy? Please tell me your thoughts about this chapter 😊

Yours,
PaulineHolmes02