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He would’ve protested the blankets, but the truth was he was cold and wet, no doubt considerably bedraggled, and the warmth felt lovely. And then there was the fact that if he shrugged himself free of his cocoon, John quite possibly might shoot him.
There was a crack from the kitchen of ceramic hitting the tea tray, and Sherlock flinched minutely. Thankfully, they had no prized mugs or they would be at risk of an ex-soldier’s wrath.
Really, he didn’t see why John was so angry. Their fleeing suspect fell into the Thames. He clearly couldn’t swim. Of course Sherlock had to jump in to fish the man out; John would’ve done the same if he hadn’t been a dozen meters back. Usually, Watson approved of saving people’s lives, even people of questionable morals.
John strode out of the kitchen and thumped the tea tray onto the coffee table with enough force to send everything rattling. Really, it was a miracle nothing had broken yet. Sherlock raised a silent eyebrow.
His companion ignored it and, glaring about midway up Sherlock’s chest, said flatly, “Give me your hand.”
Sherlock dug his way out of the blankets without daring to protest. Although the hand really wasn’t that— Oh, it was still bleeding. He wasn’t sure what he’d cut it on as he’d vaulted the railing, but the ragged slice across his palm leaked watery blood even as Sherlock looked at it. Probably would be smart to get that seen to. Good thing he had a doctor in the house.
And a very good one at that: even though John was still clearly fuming—he hadn’t met Sherlock’s eyes since they’d returned home—his touch was careful, even gentle, as he held Sherlock’s hand in one of his own while cleaning it with the other. The antiseptic stung but Sherlock ignored that, studying his flatmate instead.
There were nine obvious clues John was furious, but Sherlock still didn’t see why, and it bothered him. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Silent watchfulness only got one so far; sometimes one had to speak. Even with someone they knew so well.
“I’m…sorry your coat got wet,” Sherlock tried. John had stripped it off and bundled it around Sherlock as soon as he’d started shivering.
John’s face contorted. “I don’t care about the sodding coat, Sherlock,” he growled. He began delicately applying butterfly bandages.
Sherlock struck that off his mental list. “Torvald couldn’t swim,” he cautiously offered next.
“Which you bloody well knew before you chased him into the river.” It sounded as if perhaps John were grinding his teeth.
Well, that wasn’t it. Sherlock watched his doctor expertly wind the injured hand in a clean bandage and tie it off. He considered. “You could probably still meet Mary at the—”
John shot to his feet. “I’m not leaving on a date, Sherlock!” He was finally meeting Sherlock’s eyes, but John’s were full of fire. Decidedly not an improvement.
Sherlock cast around helplessly for another hypothesis.
John snorted and stripped off his gloves with sharp motions. “You don’t even know why I’m angry, do you? I would’ve thought you’d have an idea after the last few months. Do you even understand…? Mm.” John looked away, mouth doing that thing where he was biting back strong emotion, perhaps even tears.
Sherlock stilled. This was more than simple anger, he just realized.
John looked back at him, almost smiling, but it wasn’t a happy look. “No, of course you don’t, or you never would have put me through it. I—” He almost laughed, tense enough to snap. His eyes latched back on Sherlock. “I care about you, you utter prat. A lot. And when you’re careless like that with your life, just…casually jumping into rivers and in front of bullets and off bloody buildings, you’re risking something that is extremely important to me. Do you understand that? You’re jeopardizing me, my feelings, my grief, again, and I can’t…” Jaw working, John turned away.
Sherlock stared at his back, stunned. For once, his mind was silent, grinding to a halt in face of such emotion.
He’d known, of course. Not right away, not when he’d stupidly revealed himself to John in the middle of a crowded restaurant like it was some clever trick. But Sherlock had repented at leisure over those next few days as he saw his John’s struggle with his return, and the apparent weight of two years of bereavement. Of anguish. From missing him.
Sherlock sat shivering and mute, trying to find something to say and failing. He’d never expected to be missed like that, to be…loved. No one had ever really cared before.
He had no idea what to do with that.
John had turned back at some point, studying him. He suddenly muttered something, then, more loudly, “Oh, for God’s sake.” And then he plonked down on the sofa beside Sherlock and pulled him into a hard embrace.
Sherlock stiffened, shocked and shivering. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had hugged him. His mother, perhaps, after he graduated university?
And then the warmth penetrated, and the raw emotions of his…friend. And Sherlock found his eyes unexpectedly burning as he sagged into John’s arms and let himself absorb the comfort. Just to be held.
John was not the only one on whom those two years had taken a heavy toll.
Sherlock closed his eyes and just felt: the soft brush of John’s jumper against his cheek, the steadiness of the hand at the nape of his neck, the occasional tremor of emotion that would go through one of them and be absorbed by the other. He did not keep track of the passage of time, just felt John’s heart, thumping hard at first, slow, as did his own. Breaths deepening. Calm settling.
Sherlock sighed. “I do, you know.”
A pause. “Do what?” John sounded as lulled as Sherlock felt.
“Understand.”
Another pause. Then John nodded, once, not speaking.
He finally drew back, eyes sliding away awkwardly.
Sherlock missed the warmth immediately and shivered.
John’s brows drew together, a doctor once more. “You’re still cold.” He got up and grabbed another blanket from the chair and snapped it out over Sherlock. Then he gave the tea set a rueful glance. “I’d best reheat that.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock said a little hoarsely. He cleared his throat as John’s eyes swung back to him, and the corner of his mouth twitched up. “For the tea.”
John shook his head. But he was smiling—his first real smile in a long time—as he went and made a fresh pot.