Work Text:
*ding*
that must’ve been sherlock; he hadn’t texted all day. john set down his grocery basket and rustled around his pocket for his phone.
Sherlock • one new message:
John.
what the hell? sure, sherlock was known to send random texts at times but this was on the leaderboard for the most ominous one john had ever received.
Sherlock? What’s going on? Do you need me to come home?
no response.
john’s heart started to beat faster. he knew whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
sherlock? i’ll be home in 10 minutes
just breathe, john. whatever it is, it’s nothing. he probably just needs something.
picking up his basket, john quickly paid for his items and hailed a cab.
“221 B Baker Street please, i’m in a hurry.”
john was anxious the whole ride, the butterflies in his stomach turning into snakes as he felt his skin go three shades paler.
the feeling continued through the rest of the ride when, after what seemed like decades, the familiar door to the flat came into view.
when john burst through the door, he found that the flat was oddly empty. usually sherlock would be laying on the couch, dramatically explaining why or why not the case was so difficult while twirling a gun around his finger. but tonight the couch lay empty, no gun in sight (thank god, john thought).
but the quietness that john originally craved was now replaced with an unsettling anxiety. the clock on the mantle ticked every second away and added another worry to john’s head.
where is sherlock?
the text implied that the man was in the flat somewhere, but it was too quiet to tell. john looked at the clock, the second hand mimicking every scenario that could be wrong. knowing sherlock, everything and anything could be wrong. he was the kind of man to either be fatally shot or stumbling home from a pub. it was all up in the air, and that increased the twisted feeling in john’s stomach even more.
a few more minutes passed before john sprung up from his chair to see mrs. hudson. if anyone would know where sherlock is, at least in relation to the flat, it would be her. 1:30 a.m. she’d better be up.
she opened the door before john could knock, his hand hanging idly in front of her. the landlady mirrored his worried look, and in the dim hall light he thought he could see tear stains.
“ahem… mrs. hudson, would you have any clue where sherlock-“
“the bathroom, dear.”
with that, she closed the door. john was left alone.
the journey up the stairs was a tumultuous one, skipping steps and leaning on the brittle railing for support. john was wheezing by the time he got back to his flat, but that didn’t stop him from darting straight to the bathroom.
the door was closed. it was almost as if it was creating a brick wall to protect a fortress. john tried the handle, and sighed relief when it turned with a click.
the door slowly revealed sherlock holmes, bent over his bloody hand, staring at himself in a shattered mirror. his eyes held something more than pain; it was pure and utter devastation.
sherlock met john’s eyes for barely a moment.
“oh… john…“
john walked into the barely-lit room, scanning for anything dangerous. god, he looked so small like this. like a child. big, tough, clever sherlock, a mere child in this room. that’s when he saw the blood.
john inched closer to the man, who continued hugging his bloody hand to his chest. he got in between sherlock and the mirror and stooped down so he was at eye level.
sherlock wouldn’t look john in the eyes.
john looked sherlock up and down. his hair was somehow more disheveled than usual, eyes looking anywhere other than in his, arms seeming to hold his chest in for dear life. almost as if they were protecting something…
john reached for sherlock’s arm. “let me see-“
chaos. utter chaos. arms flailing, glass scraping along the tile, one arm being used as a barrier between the two men while the other stayed put. john barely had time to react before a shard of glass flew directly into his cheek, right below his eye. he could feel blood start trickling toward his jaw.
sherlock wasn’t just scared. no, he was terrified. and john didn’t know how to help. he looked into those piercing blue eyes, now red from crying, and watched defense turn into grief.
“john… i’m so sorry.” his voice cracked and a tear escaped down his face.
john ignored the stinging pain in his face and inched closer to sherlock. he reached towards the bloody arm.
“sherlock, let me take a look.”
“no-“
“sherlock-“
john could now feel his own tears threatening to fall. he sighed and looked away, knowing that if their eyes met once more, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from sobbing.
“i can’t help you if you don’t let me.”
one thing that always hurt john the most was when a patient would refuse help. someone would by dying, hanging on to life by a thread turn him away. john felt the familiar sting now as sherlock continued to shake his head, mumbling dismissals.
they sat in silence for a moment, the only sound being sherlock’s occasional choked sob, accompanied by john’s sigh.
silent minutes passed before sherlock shakily said, “i tried to fix it.”
john looked up from the spot on the ground he had been staring at.
“what-“
sherlock didn’t even try to stop sobs from coming through in his next words.
“i tried to stop it. i tried to fix it all but it hurts. it hurts, john.”
Sherlock dropped his head into his unhurt palm, shaking, the arm he had clutched over his chest falling to his side. after the barrier was gone, john could see everything.
“jesus. how long have you had that on?”
“time is a construct, john.” usually this would be said jokingly, and john would laugh. but as sherlock sat there, suffocated by ace bandages, john understood this with grave intensity. it’d been days.
“we need to get this off of you. and help that hand.”
sherlock scooted further from the wall.
“no, john i can’t. i don’t want to see it. i don’t even know how to take it off.”
“sherlock, it’s hurting you.”
john came closer, cornering sherlock against the wall. sherlock began to sob again.
“john, no, don’t. i don’t want to. i don’t want to-“
“come here. just look at me. you’re okay.”
sherlock pursed his lips and tightened every muscle in his body, almost as if trying to become a wall himself.
john put his hands on sherlock’s shoulders, which were covered in a cold sweat.
“i’m only going to do it when you tell me you’re ready.”
a silent moment passed before sherlock relaxed and gave a subtle affirmation.
john carefully unwrapped the bandages binding sherlock’s chest. there was a small gasp of pain when john made the first tear. dear god, they really had been on for days.
sherlock stared anywhere other than where john was working. their eyes met for a moment.
“thank you,” sherlock whispered.
john, didn’t reply. he kept working, revealing more bruised skin with each tear.
one piece remained, and john was about to take it off before sherlock grabbed his arm.
“don’t-“ he whispered.
john put the bloody, shaking hand down slowly. he looked at sherlock, hoping deep down he could understand why he was doing this.
“i have to.”
sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, tilting his head toward the ceiling. john took the final bandage off of the man’s chest. sherlock let out a small cry and curved into himself.
“i’m sorry. i’m so, so sorry.”
john threw the bandage aside and looked at sherlock, who crossed his arms over his chest. he looked up at john, who carefully hugged him. at this, sherlock began to sob.
john held the shaking, wailing man as close and as tight as possible. he needed sherlock to know that he was there. that he wouldn’t let go. that everything would be ok.
minutes passed before the shaking stopped. the only sound echoing along the walls now were shaking, emotion-ridden breaths. john backed away from sherlock.
“i’m going to get up now. i need to get you a towel.”
sherlock nodded slightly, remaining in his curved, defensive position. john stood up, knees cracking, and rifled through the nearby linen closet for a towel and some bandages.
when he returned, sherlock hadn’t moved. his head remained buried in his hands, dried blood caking on his face. john knelt in front of him again, wrapping him in the towel and holding him close.
“it’s ok. you’re ok. this is ok.”
once he felt sherlock relax in his arms, john reached for the bandages and held a bloody hand in his own. he was gentle, holding the hand as far away from sherlock’s chest as possible.
sherlock’s eyes met his.
“i’m tired, john.”
john looked out the door at sherlock’s dark bedroom. seeing this, sherlock mumbled.
“i don’t want to move. please. i don’t want to see this.”
john held sherlock close, resituating himself so that his lap became a makeshift pillow. sherlock followed suit and laid his head down on john’s thigh. it wasn’t comfortable, not in the least, but it was the closest thing to comfort sherlock could feel in the moment.
john laid his hand on sherlock’s head.
“it’s okay. just rest. everything is okay.”
and in that moment, it was.