Science and Faith

We’re just trying to find some meaning

In the things that we believe in…

You can break everything down to chemicals

But you can’t explain a love like ours¹

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“Has he sat down at all?” Mrs. Hudson, whispering to Lestrade, but she may as well be shouting. Something about this waiting room is wrong, the silence making every noise seem unbearably loud. Sherlock paces back and forth, hands in his hair, on his hips, fluttering about him like restless birds, and this place is going to drive him insane.

 

“No. I shouldn’t bother. You know how he is, and…well, I’ve never seen him quite like this, actually.”

 

And there’s the walls. Blue, like a new spring sky, like veins under skin. Meant to be soothing, calming, but then colour psychology is such a dubious field of study, hardly worth calling science at all.

 

“But it’s been hours. He at least ought to let me bring him a clean shirt—all that blood; it isn’t decent.”

 

In any case, this blue is all wrong. Sherlock wants deep blue, like salt water and storm clouds, like impure corundum crystals, like—well, yes, like John’s eyes, a blue that is sometimes brown and sometimes black, and damn this room, it will be the end of him.

 

“Yeah well, you can try. To be honest, I’m not sure it’s wise, trying to take away anything connected to…” Lestrade trails off, and Sherlock hears Mrs. Hudson sniffle quietly. “I mean,” the DI hurries on, “Molly offered him a coffee an hour ago and he nearly took her head off. Poor sod isn’t—oh, sorry.”

 

“It’s fine, dear.”

 

“In any case, best leave him.” Lestrade covers both of her hands with one of his and pats them gently, if somewhat awkwardly.

 

How can the man be so calm? If he is really John’s friend, shouldn’t he be coming apart? Why is it only Sherlock who seems to feel it, the way the world is suddenly off-balance?

 

John’s weight in his lap, John’s blood on his hands—God, so much of John’s blood. A half-litre? More? His coat, still wrapped around the doctor’s shoulders, is soaking up the spreading warmth, making it difficult to judge—and he needs to judge, needs to know how much time John has left.

 

“Sorry,” says John, and the word is a red splatter on his lips, and of course he’s sorry, the idiot, he damn well ought to be sorry, because what has he done? What has he done and how can Sherlock fix it? He needs to fix it before John leaves, goes away again, goes away forever.

 

Sherlock blinks, coming back from the memory, and finds his fingers resting over the bloodstain on his shirt, still for the first time in hours. He stares at the knuckles of his right hand, raw and split because some fool tried to tell him he couldn’t ride in the ambulance and Sherlock didn’t have time to explain. Maybe he’s taking after John a bit, hauling off and punching things to get his way, but he has to admit it’s terribly effective.

No amount of threatening, however, could get him into the surgery, and now he’s stuck here, in this hateful room with its hideous walls and its total, utter lack of—

 

“Watson?”

 

Sherlock’s head whips around to find a surgeon standing there. The detective knows his heart does not actually freeze in his chest, but the sensation is so sudden that he sucks in a gasp of air just to assure himself that he still can. Lestrade is up, moving toward him, but Sherlock is there first, descending on the doctor like a pale, rumpled whirlwind.

 

“Is he—?” The detective stops short, unable to say the words.

 

The doctor raises his hands in a gesture that is probably meant to be calming, but—like the blue walls—is merely infuriating. Sherlock balls his hands into fists to prevent himself from shaking the man.

 

“You’re his family?” the doctor asks.

 

“He hasn’t any,” says Sherlock, as Lestrade says, “They couldn’t make it.” The detective snorts. Lestrade’s the one who called Harriet, who refused to come. As far as Sherlock’s concerned, she doesn’t deserve her surname.

 

The doctor looks back and forth between the two of them, but Sherlock is losing his patience.

 

“What is it?” the detective prods. “Tell me.”

 

“He’s out of surgery,” says the doctor. “The bullet punctured a lung and lodged in the muscle, near his spine. He was lucky; a few centimetres to the right, and he’d be paralysed. A little higher, and he’d be dead.”

 

“But he’s not.” Sherlock takes a step forward, crowding into the doctor’s personal space. “He’s…he’ll be alright?”

 

Again, the doctor’s hands go up, one hand hovering near Sherlock’s chest as if to hold him back, his gaze lingering on the bloodstained shirt. He hesitates. “We’ve removed the bullet, and he’s stable for now. But his body…the trauma from the electrocution may have lasting results. We can’t tell, not while he’s under sedation. There is nerve damage to his hands, his arms, his legs—it may be temporary, or it may not. It’s too soon to tell.”

 

A thousand feelings in response to that. Sherlock’s brain works furiously to sort them, pushing aside for now thoughts of nerve damage and too soon to tell and clinging instead to stable. Alive.

 

“Where is he?”

 

“Sherlock—” Lestrade lays a hand on his arm, but Sherlock shakes him off.

 

“He’s sleeping now. It’ll be hours yet before he’s awake, and a few hours after that before he’s ready to see anyone. Tomorrow, maybe, the family—”

 

“I’ll wait with him,” the detective interrupts.

 

“That isn’t—”

 

“I’ll wait with him.” Sherlock repeats, still standing far too close to the doctor and looking down at him imperiously.

 

The man looks to Lestrade for support, and the DI glances at Sherlock, who meets his gaze, unblinking. The way his lips part, that’s only because he’s overwhelmed, his heart rate racing, his lungs demanding more oxygen. It’s certainly not begging.

 

After a moment, Lestrade shrugs, turning to the doctor. “Well?” he says, throwing up his eyebrows. “You heard him.” Sherlock can’t quite prevent his lips from quirking into a half smile. He’ll owe Lestrade, after this—a pint? A free consultation on a case? Some sort of card? That seems terribly formal. He’ll have to ask John what’s appropriate.

 

“Sir, really.” The doctor is growing flustered. “The critical care ward is closed to anyone who isn’t family. I understand your concern, but he will have to wait.”

 

“He is family.”

 

“But he just said—”

 

Lestrade produces his badge and ID, flashing them briefly before the doctor. “Yeah, well, I think we can make an exception.”

 

The doctor purses his lips like he tastes something rotten, but after a long pause, he sighs. He nods once, and Lestrade turns away, going to tell Mrs. Hudson the news.

 

John’s face in Sherlock’s mind, and for a moment his friend is so present that Sherlock can actually feel the sharp, subtle elbow to his side, can see the eyebrows raised toward Lestrade. He steps forward, fingers just barely catching the DI’s sleeve, retreating immediately as he turns back.

 

“Thank you,” the detective says, and the words are strange on his tongue.

 

Lestrade looks momentarily surprised, burying his hands in his pockets. A smile ghosts across his lips, but it’s gone almost before it appears, and he nods solemnly in return.

 

“Don’t mention it,” he says. 

 

***

 

The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor fills the small room. Sherlock has folded himself into the chair beside John’s bed, watching the doctor but not touching him. He is counting the seconds between John’s breaths, tracking the pattern of his sleep, waiting for the shift that will mean he’s awake.

 

The doctor’s eyes twitch under closed eyelids as he enters a REM cycle—dreaming. Sherlock wonders what he’s seeing. A nightmare, maybe; Sherlock’s certainly given him enough inspiration for those. He remembers the way John cried out in his sleep, the way he started up, gasping for air, and it was necessary, everything Sherlock did was absolutely necessary, but no, it wasn’t kind.

 

And now—John’s eyes bright in the firelight, John’s hands against his ribs, John’s lips, oh god, everywhere—is that kindness? Or just another moment that will haunt John’s dreams? The thought makes him ache in a way that he can’t explain—there’s no physiological reason, no combination of chemicals that should produce that tearing sensation deep in his chest.

 

At least he can do this, he can be here. Until John wakes, he can be here. After that—well, he doesn’t know what comes after that. Sherlock Holmes, who sees everything and understands everything and knows everything, he has no idea what to make of John, with his touching and his apologies and his leaving. And the not knowing, that is almost as terrifying as the thought of losing him. Almost as terrifying as that needy, gnawing tug at his heart.

 

“How is he?”

 

Sherlock looks up to find Mycroft in the doorway. He sighs through his nose and turns back to John. “You have access to the largest information network outside of the Central Intelligence Agency. I’m sure you know his condition better than I do, so I can only assume this is your attempt at small talk.”

 

“Just trying to be supportive.”

 

“I’d really rather you didn’t.”

 

Ignoring him, Mycroft comes to stand at the foot of John’s bed. “Moran is dead,” he says.

 

“Are you asking me or telling me?” Sherlock doesn’t bother to hide the edge in his voice. It’s not like Mycroft to make pointless conversation.

 

“You left in such a hurry, I wasn’t sure you knew.”

 

“I saw the corpse. Lestrade confirmed the kill. Look, if you came here for a reason, best be out with it. I’m busy.”

 

His brother is quiet for several long moments, and the detective is keenly aware of his scrutiny. “Are you alright?” he asks at length. His voice is soft and—not gentle, no. Mycroft is never gentle.

 

“Of course I’m alright. I’m not the one who’s been shot.”

 

“That’s not what I mean. We’re all upset about John—”

 

“Are we?” Sherlock sneers.

 

“—but I’ve never seen you quite so attentive. What’s different?”

 

“Different?” That draws Sherlock’s attention, and he regards his brother from beneath lowered brows. “Different how?”

 

“If I didn’t know better…” Mycroft glances from Sherlock to John and back again, his eyes narrowing. Sherlock carefully avoids looking at John—as if it will matter. Mycroft sees everything; it’s one of the reasons Sherlock can’t help but hate him.

 

But whatever he sees, Mycroft remains silent. Finally, Sherlock shrugs, uncomfortable.

 

“I’m sure you have more important things to do,” the detective says, the dismissal clear as he turns his attention back to studying John’s breathing.

 

When Mycroft moves, however, it’s to place his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. The detective stiffens, but his brother does not retreat. He doesn’t say anything either, and for a moment, Sherlock remembers a time when this man was not an enemy, was not powerful or mysterious or dangerous, was just meddlesome and overly protective and occasionally even admirable.

 

Then Mycroft squeezes slightly and lets go, and the moment is gone. By the time he reaches the door, he is himself again, distant, immovable, the British government embodied.

 

Sherlock stares after him for a long time after he leaves, his fingers brushing against his shoulder, still feeling the weight of his brother’s hand.

 

***  

 

Pain, white and fire-hot, sharp and sudden and familiar. The aluminium tang of blood in his mouth is unnerving, but not entirely unwanted. He couldn’t say it out loud, but this is a dream, after all, and if he can’t say it here, where can he? The fact is, John Watson has never minded pain so much. And no, he doesn’t want to die, but the way his body slows down in this moment, shutting down unnecessary functions and focusing all its energy on breathing and clotting and mending, it’s sort of fascinating, really. Nothing else has ever made him so aware of himself, of the duality of body and soul.

 

Nothing feels closer to living than shaking heads with death.

Above him, Sherlock’s face is sad and angry and afraid, and John wants to tell him it’s all right, it’s not so bad—Christ, it’s even interesting. But mostly he just wants to tell him he needs him, because shaking hands with death might be the most alive he’s felt, but doing anything at all with Sherlock Holmes is a close second.

 

John comes back to consciousness slowly. His chest is on fire and something near his head will not stop beeping. He draws a deep, experimental breath, but he’s hardly begun before something under his ribs wrenches miserably and the breath becomes an agonised groan instead.

 

“John!” A breathless whisper beside him, and his eyes flutter open reluctantly. It takes several seconds for his vision to focus, his gaze drawn by a shivering movement to his right: Sherlock, seated beside him, his hands gripping the seat of his chair, his whole body nearly shaking. It takes him another moment to realise why—the detective is holding himself back, keeping himself from touching John, from sweeping over him with the tidal wave of his intensity.

 

“You’re awake,” he says, and the words seem to relax him a bit, some of his nervous energy draining away.

 

John can only blink at him blearily. “Wish—I wasn’t,” he rasps, and it dissolves into a moan. Speaking is a terrible idea, it seems. Whatever demon is raging in his chest—That’ll be your lungs, Watson, bullet’s had some fun there—is clearly angered by the attempt. 

 

“Don’t try to talk,” Sherlock commands.

 

The doctor is pleased to find that rolling his eyes only hurts a little, though it wreaks havoc on his still hazy vision. Figured that out for myself, thanks.

 

Sherlock reaches across him, and John is confused until he follows the line of his arm and finds the call button for the nurse. “Get you something for pain,” the detective explains, and all John’s irritation fades, because oh yes, please. He closes his eyes again, concentrating on keeping his breathing shallow. Dimly, he hears the nurse arrive, hears the rustle of IV bags shifting about, and then—

 

His eyes fly open, and the moan that escapes him this time is nearly obscene in its pleasure. The nurse flushes a bit, hiding a smile, and Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at him.

 

“God, that’s nice,” he says, and the words still hurt, still sound like gravel in his throat, but the bliss spreading from his arm is warm and weightless, the pain not disappearing but shrinking, like it is rooted to the ground and John is floating, higher and higher…

 

Somewhere through the cloud of painkillers, he sees Sherlock slinking toward the door. He grunts, finding that now he has the power of speech, he’s quite lost the will to use it. It seems to be enough, however, because the detective stops, glancing back at him.

 

John pushes away the comfort of beckoning oblivion, shoving it aside long enough to look Sherlock in the eye. “Stay?” he asks, and his finger twitches toward the chair. The detective hesitates, and John giggles a little. It isn’t funny, but it is a bit, the way Sherlock’s face goes all sideways and confused.

 

“Shit,” he says breathily. He’s certain that’s not what he meant to say, but Sherlock is moving, Sherlock is coming back, so that’s all right, then. He turns his hand over, palm up—it’s trembling a little, which seems odd. He doesn’t feel at all cold. With a colossal effort, he shifts his hand closer to the edge of the bed, toward Sherlock’s chair.

 

The detective sits down, glancing from his face to his hand and back again, and God, the man is stupid, and so slow. John’s eyes are closing in spite of himself. “Deduce,” he tells Sherlock firmly, and his eyelids slide shut.

 

From far away, he feels long fingers move over his palm, trace the length of his quivering hand and then lace through his own clumsy digits, and finally, Sherlock has understood. Then the warmth overwhelms him, and he lets himself drift away.

 

***

 

Stay, John said, and so Sherlock does. It’s a bit boring, yes, watching him sleep, but the detective passes the time by measuring the frequency of the tremors in the doctor’s arms and legs, memorising the way John’s fingers feel entwined with his, weighing the meaning of the gesture; he can read intention in every movement of the body, but the dialect of gestures has always been a bit lost on him, a language he can read but isn’t quite sure how to speak.

 

The way their hands are knit together, it pulses in him, his fingertips pressed against the back of John’s hand, phalanges mirrored, distal to proximal, and he knows the name of every tendon, every muscle and bone, but he doesn’t know what to call this—affection? Comfort? It is definitely sentiment, and definitely dangerous…but then dangerous has its own appeal, sometimes.

 

His hand cramps, the muscles in his back knot from the awkward position, but Sherlock does not let go. His brain tells him this is impractical, illogical. John is unconscious; he won’t miss the contact. But body and brain combined are not so powerful as to overcome this third thing, this thing with claws and teeth and dark blue eyes, this thing that kissed him without claiming him, that tried to die for him, this thing that is so dull and pedestrian and beneath him, surely—yet there it sits, perched in his chest, all warmth and feathers and fear.

 

He thinks of John, his sobs through the wall on the day Sherlock realised that no matter how much he was saving his friend, he was also killing him. And now, it seems, John has worked out how to return the favour, killing him piece by piece, taking him apart, dragging him into this realm of mundane emotion and appetite that is foreign and tedious and a bit extraordinary. But maybe—his hand grips John’s a little tighter, the hard press of metacarpals through flesh as another tremor shivers through the doctor—maybe, if he lets him, John can save him as well.

 

***

 

Two days pass like this, John in and out of consciousness. At first, Sherlock simply ignores the doctors and nurses who come and go. As time goes on, however, he becomes increasingly bored, his brain demanding input the way an engine demands oil, wearing away at itself until his agitation cannot be held at bay any longer and he abandons his chair in favour of pacing the small room.

 

His manic energy is further fuelled by his craving for a cigarette, and while he cares not at all for the hospital’s anti-smoking policy, he can’t risk it around John, with his weakened lungs. He tries sneaking a cigarette in the toilets, but only manages half a decent smoke before hospital security finds him, and it takes some rather exceptional misdirection to prevent his immediate ejection from the building.

 

Robbed of his coping mechanism, he begins to question the doctors, demanding detailed explanations of every procedure, every piece of equipment, every change in John’s breathing or the severity of his tremors. On the second afternoon, he corners an unsuspecting nurse who’s come to change John’s IV; he kindly informs her that he changed it twenty minutes earlier, and if she’s determined to be so woefully incompetent in her chosen profession, she can at least make herself useful and bring him a coffee, black, two sugars.

 

She goes haring off into the corridor with her eyes wide as saucers, and John wakes again after she leaves. The painkillers make normal conversation somewhat elusive, but as normal conversation is hardly one of Sherlock’s strengths, he doesn’t really mind. In any case, it’s an opportunity to study the effects of the drug on the average mind.

 

“It’s very boring here,” the detective complains as soon as John opens his eyes.

 

“Not going to ask me how I’m feeling, then.” The drug has had no effect whatsoever on John’s sarcasm.

 

“No need,” Sherlock sniffs. “You usually wake when the painkillers are beginning to lose effect. Your breathing’s not markedly shallow, but it catches every third or fourth breath—the pain is manageable but present. Intermittent tremors of varying severity, but those shouldn’t have an impact on how you’re feeling.”

 

John sighs. “Course not—only nerve damage.”

 

“I was referring to your physical anguish, John, not your emotional state. Don’t be obtuse.” But Sherlock ceases pacing and comes to sit beside him.

 

“What do they say?” John has the soft, slack face of an invalid, showing little expression, and he’s careful to keep his tone even, but there is fear behind his eyes.

 

“Nothing much of use.” The disdain is clear in Sherlock’s voice. “The shaking will stop or it won’t.”

 

“And you?” Shorter sentences now—his pain level is rising. Sherlock reaches across him and adjusts his IV to increase his dosage.

 

The detective rattles off his observations as he works. “The tremors are bilateral, but they’re more frequent on your right side, and more frequent in your hand and arm than in your leg. Worse when you’re awake, especially if you over-exert yourself.” As if to emphasise this, John’s right arm twitches, then lies still.

 

“See?” John closes his eyes, his lips curling with just a hint of a wry smile. “Nothing…to worry about…’t all.”

 

Sherlock notes the way his facial muscles relax as the increased drug takes effect. “You’re feeling better already. Honestly, this medical lark isn’t so difficult. Don’t know what you’re bragging about all the time.”

 

“Cheeky…bastard.”

 

“John…”

 

The doctor’s eyes flicker open, but Sherlock isn’t sure what he wants to say. He has questions, so many questions, but John’s in no state to answer them. He flounders in silence for several seconds. John huffs a laugh, then immediately winces.

 

“C’mere,” he says, beckoning him with a clumsy hand.

 

Sherlock steps closer, somewhat wary. John grabs at his arm, fumbling a bit until Sherlock moves, raising his hand to thread their fingers together. Such a silly gesture, really, it’s so rarely practical to give up use of one’s hand—but John seems to like it.

 

A throat clears, and Sherlock starts, pivoting toward the door. Lestrade is there, a vase of flowers in his arms, his eyebrows journeying slowly toward his hairline as he takes in their joined hands.

 

“Not interrupting, I hope?” he asks dryly.

 

 Sherlock’s cheeks heat—embarrassed not by the body language, which seems such an arbitrary idea of affection, but by how much emotion may be showing on his face. He fights the blush, painting cold indifference over his features instead.

 

The detective opens his mouth: “John is—”

 

“Greg!” John interrupts joyously, throwing out his left arm as if he can embrace Lestrade from across the room.

 

“—on a lot of drugs, actually,” Sherlock finishes.

 

Lestrade tactfully hides a grin and makes his way to John’s bedside.

 

“Good to see you awake, mate.”

 

“He won’t be for long. The painkillers make him tired as well as insufferable.”

 

Lestrade looks Sherlock up and down. “Insufferable? That’s rich.” The DI turns back to John before the detective can reply. He raises the flowers. “Lads at the Met got you these. Even Anderson and Donovan chipped in.”

 

“Bugger Donovan,” John says decisively. “Horse-faced.”

 

Lestrade barks a laugh, looking at Sherlock. “I warned you,” the detective states, shrugging. He can’t hide the smile tugging at the corner of his own mouth.

 

“Right,” says the DI. “I suppose it’s stupid to ask how you’re feeling.”

 

“Don’t much like…getting shot.”

 

“Yeah, Christ. You wouldn’t know it, all the bullet holes in you. I have to say, you had me worried.”

 

John raises the hand still intertwined with Sherlock’s. “Him too,” he mumbles, his eyes drifting closed again.

 

Lestrade’s face softens, more serious. “Yeah.” He continues talking to John, but he’s looking at Sherlock reprovingly. “Heard this one hasn’t slept or eaten for two days. He’s making a menace of himself to the hospital staff.”

 

“Starting to…stink a bit…as well.” Sherlock glares at him, but John is fading now, drifting back to sleep.

 

“He’s right,” Lestrade says. “I can smell you from here. You ought to go home, grab a shower. Sleep.”

 

Sherlock hesitates, watching John.

 

“I can stay for a while,” Lestrade presses. “He won’t be alone.”

 

The detective is still quiet, now studying his hand, still wrapped around John’s. Lestrade’s eyes follow his, but the DI says nothing, merely reaches under his arm, pulling out a package that was hidden behind the flowers. He tosses it to Sherlock, who catches it with his free hand and reads the label—nicotine patches.

 

“Takes one to know one. I can tell you’re gasping.”

 

Sherlock releases John’s hand to tear at the package, working two patches out of their wrapping and slapping them onto his forearm, flexing his fingers to increase the nicotine’s circulation through his system.

 

“God,” is all he says.

 

Lestrade smiles. “Just don’t use ‘em all in one night, yeah?”

 

***

 

After four weeks, John is conscious for whole hours at a time, able to shuffle along the hospital corridor without pausing to catch his breath every other step—he used the walker at first out of necessity, but flatly refused the cane when it was offered.

 

The tremors are another matter, but they come less frequently, and hardly ever in his legs now, which seems to please the doctors but only makes John’s mouth go flat and angry, as if sheer stubbornness will overcome the nerve damage—scientifically impossible, of course, and Sherlock wants to tell him it’s foolish, but that rigid determination is a bit endearing. He decides John’s disillusionment can be postponed, and opts instead to conduct his own study on the impact of a patient’s state of mind on neurological disorders.

 

On the first day of the fifth week, Sherlock sits in his customary spot by John’s bed, garbed in his customary coat and scarf, waiting for John to return from physical therapy. A nurse wheels him into the room in a wheelchair, but John struggles out of it as soon as they’re through the door and walks himself—shakily—to the bed. Sherlock helps him clamber in.

 

“Your coat,” John says, eyeing him.

 

“Present from Mycroft.”

 

“New?”

 

“Of course not. He managed to retrieve it from the hospital staff and have it cleaned and repaired. Buying a new one wouldn’t have been nearly as impressive, and Mycroft can’t waste an opportunity to show off.”

 

“He missed a spot.” John’s fingers brush across a small hole in the grey wool, just below Sherlock’s heart.

 

“I asked him to leave it.”

 

The doctor looks up at him, his hand still poised over Sherlock’s chest, and the detective’s pulse quickens just a touch. John hasn’t asked to hold his hand since his first week in hospital, and they still haven’t spoken about anything that happened before…well, before.

 

Sherlock pretends it’s not interesting, the way John is almost touching him. “The doctor says you’ll be able to go home soon,” he says.

 

John’s hand falls back to his side, his lips pursing. His right hand begins to tremble a bit, and he balls it into a fist in his lap. “Home,” he repeats. He opens and closes his mouth several times, deciding how to phrase the next bit. When he speaks, his voice is straining for indifference, but his hand shakes a little harder than before. “And where is that, exactly?”

 

“That’s up to you, I suppose.” John nods and studies the blanket. “Of course,” Sherlock adds, “Mrs. Hudson would probably appreciate if there was someone in 221B who didn’t mind doing the washing up. I’m sure you aware, she is not—”

 

“A housekeeper, yes, I think she mentioned.” John smiles faintly, and his eyes find Sherlock’s. “I’d like that,” he says softly. Then, clearing his throat a bit: “I mean, not the washing up bit. You’re an absolute nightmare to clean up after, you know that? Chemical burns in the carpet, the whole kitchen turned into a biohazard zone, and God knows it’d kill you to do the hoovering once in a while, lazy posh bastard. Christ, there’s probably still Chinese food on the sitting room—”

 

Sherlock’s heart wrenches to a stop as John cuts himself off. For a long while, neither one of them say anything.

 

“John…”

 

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“I mean, we don’t have to talk about—”

 

“No,” Sherlock agrees, too quickly, giving away the lie. If it was just sex, this would be easy. We slept together, John. Get over it. It doesn’t change anything.  But that isn’t even the half of it, and this other bit, the thing with his heart and the feathers, that bit is next to impossible to say out loud.

 

“He told me,” John says, breaking the silence, and Sherlock blinks as he tries to follow the shift in subject. “Moran,” John explains. “He told me why you did it.”

 

“Oh.” The detective can’t pretend like that’s not disappointing—it was his to tell, after all—but he’s more concerned with watching John’s face.

 

“I didn’t—Sherlock, Christ, I’m sorry.”

 

Irritation wins out over awkwardness, and Sherlock blurts, “For what, John? You’re really terribly imprecise sometimes. It’s confusing.”

 

The doctor laughs, a bit incredulously. “It’s just… after...” A flush is rising from his neck, spreading to his cheeks, and he can’t seem to meet Sherlock’s gaze, settling for addressing the bullet hole in the detective’s coat. His words are a jumble, dancing around what he wants to say in fine English form, and Sherlock has to sort them carefully to parse out his meaning. “Not about…well, yeah, no, about that too. But I just…when you left, Sherlock…when I thought it was just part of the game…” Finally, he drags his eyes up to Sherlock’s face. “It wasn’t though,” he says.

 

“You thought I might do it again.” The detective’s eyes are flicking back and forth as he reviews John’s words in his mind, turning them over, looking for what he isn’t saying.

 

John’s gesture is half-nod, half-shrug.

 

“John, I wouldn’t—”

 

“No, I know now. But God, even with good reason—the best reason, Sherlock, really—even then, you <i>might</i> do it again. If you thought it was necessary.”

 

The detective thinks this over. Nods, conceding the point.

 

“I don’t know how…” John begins, but can’t finish, his hands flapping in front of him as if he can pull the words out of the air.

 

Sherlock makes his spine straight, clamping down on the feathery thing in his chest. “It’s fine, John. I won’t pretend like I’m a good investment. Not in this area, at least.”

 

The doctor’s head swivels back to him, his brows pinching a wrinkle in his forehead. “No,” he agrees. “A terrible investment.” The feathery thing shivers, curling in on itself.

 

Then John laughs. “Then again, as you’re so fond of pointing out, I am an idiot.”

 

Sherlock studies him, wary. “Often, yes,” he says, mostly just to say something.

 

“If I asked you to kiss me,” John says abruptly, “would you do it?”

 

The detective balks, searching his face for signs that this is a trap, a test. The fluttering in his chest is worrisome, distracting, like a thousand palpitations happening simultaneously in his heart. “I…Yes, I…I mean, if you asked.”

 

“Good,” says John, and his fingers are back, trailing over the bullet hole before fisting in his coat. He pulls, and Sherlock has no choice but to lean into him. “Kiss me,” he commands.

 

“That’s not asking, John, that’s tell—mmmf!” John interrupts in the best possible way, his lips stealing Sherlock’s words and turning them into shapeless little hums of appreciation, of disbelief. The rush chemicals is immediate, and the detective can’t deny the physiology of that, at least—but his heart is pounding louder than it has any right to do, pounding as if they are half-dressed and pawing at each other in the dark instead of fully clothed and exchanging mostly chaste kisses in a hospital room.

 

Mostly chaste, because John is not as bold without the alcohol to bolster him, but he’s full of cautious curiosity, his tongue occasionally darting out to explore Sherlock’s mouth, lips curling against him when the detective moans just a little, deep in his throat.

Sherlock’s hands are moving of their own accord, his body, so often ignored in favour of his brain, insisting that it can handle this entirely on its own. His hand finds the back of John’s head and holds him still, his thumb stroking idly through the doctor’s hair.

 

It’s only seconds. Ten and a half seconds, precisely. But when they pull away, they are something different, something they’ve maybe been for a while, or are maybe just becoming: like a solute dissolving in a solvent, Sherlock can’t point to the exact moment where they ceased being one thing and became another, he can only say that once they were separate and now they are unified, sharing the same space, still themselves, but part of something new together.

 

He smiles a bit and kisses him again.

 

***

 

1. The Script. Science & Faith. Sony Music Entertainment UK, 2011.

 

A/N I still have one chapter to go and I plan on making it mostly PWP. Don't worry, I've no intention of leaving you with just kissing. John just needs a bit of time to heal :)