don’t worry, i’ll make sure
your heart keeps beating
———————————————————-
[x]
White sheets, unused, but sterilized. The smell of soap, disinfectant, a trace of John… but only a trace. The halls smell of bleach and more disinfectant – with a current of blood in the air; that detection of iron, sharp, distinguishable. The IV delicately pierced through his skin. The sound of that infernal, beeping heart monitor which was soothing and distracting all at the same time. The desire to disable it - but the fear that John’s heartbeat would cease as well - was immature and present. New pillows, not enough, might need one or two more. John’s frame looks smaller in a hospital bed. Bandage around his head; tarnished by a bit of his blood, but the wounds weren’t bleeding anymore, they simply hadn’t been changed. Pronounced swelling beneath John’s left eye, discoloured, black-eye forming to a deep purple. Another bruise across his nose. A smudge of dried blood beneath his nostrils, also not currently bleeding but missed initially when he’d been cleaned up. Similar bruising, scrapes or new scars could potentially be hidden beneath his hospital gown; no way to tell now. Noted for later inspection. John looks sore, his eyes are tired, but that familiar spark remains hidden behind his pain. Florescent lights are a hazard for the eyes; a hate for hospitals, and an urge to-
“Sherlock…”
The detective blinked, coming out of his thoughts to realize he was standing near the foot of John’s bed in a bit of a daze. He brought his icy coloured orbs up to finally look his blogger in the eye. He felt stiff, uncomfortable…
“…Where’s your coat?”John enquired gently.
Sherlock opened his mouth a bit, but no sound, nor barely a breath escaped.
“Idon’tknow,” he finally managed in one breathy, quick response.
John nodded, keeping his eyes carefully trained on his partner.
The silence was agonizing, and Sherlock knew he should be speaking. He should be giving John a rundown on what had happened, those criminals (who had been caught, thanks to their efforts), his current condition, and of course, the incompetence of Scotland Yard. But something was wrong. For once, Sherlock didn’t want to talk about any of that. He was too transfixed by the sight of John in that hospital bed; slightly broken, damaged, but recovering.
He didn’t want to hear John’s responses. He didn’t want to hear how amazing he was, or how brilliant. Because he wasn’t;
Amazing wasn’t putting the only person you’ve come to truly cherish in a hospital bed because of your ‘adventures’ and your excessive need to ‘prove’ you were right all along without the help of police. Brilliant wasn’t splitting off from John to go after the lead-ringer, only to double back after bragging to Lestrade to find his companion alone, frightened, and bleeding out in a dingy alley because he’d tried to fight off the others.
He closed his eyes, and replayed the look of pure relief that had flooded John’s features when Sherlock found him in that alley…
As if he’d doubted Sherlock would find him… come back for him…
“Why are you standing so far away from me?…”
John voice, once more, brought him out of his thoughts. Sherlock was dismayed to find his vision had been compromised slightly by a swell of liquid in his eyes. He’d teared up, and it was embarrassing, but he didn’t have the energy to feign an excuse. Not at the moment.
Sherlock swallowed (his throat felt tighter, swollen, it was difficult to hold back for some reason), and took a few tentative steps toward the side of John’s bed. His best friend was still gazing up at him with sedate, kind eyes. He didn’t blame Sherlock, and in many ways, that made it worse. For John, it was just ‘all part of the case’. But the lanky detective didn’t want /this/ to be any part of the ‘case’ whatsoever. He only had a few scratches, and looked a bit dishevelled… but John…
He took a seat in the small, bedside chair.
“Stitches?” John asked, though clearly wasn’t expecting an answer, as he focused on the plasters on the side of Sherlock’s cheekbone.
The genius nodded slowly again, and tensed a bit when John lifted one of his arms to graze his fingers along the plasters; as if he wanted to make sure Sherlock had been properly looked after.
And the consulting detective broke.
He snatched John’s wrist in his hand. It startled the bedridden doctor – but he relaxed, and remained calm as Sherlock focused a glare at his partner’s chest. John could feel Sherlock’s hand tighten around his wrist, but not too tightly; his fingers immediately locating, and settling, on John’s pulse.
Without warning, Sherlock crushed his face and shoulders down, burying himself against John’s chest – turning his head so he could press his ear to listen to his partner’s heartbeat. Fingers on the pulse, steady, and added reassurance by listening to the soothing, repetitive thump of John’s heart.
John was stunned at first, but gradually, a fond smile passed his lips and his eyes softened in understanding. He rested one hand atop Sherlock’s head, allowing his fingers to thread through the unruly dark curls of his companion. The detective closed his eyes, and kept one hand by his face, flat against John’s chest - while the other still held a light grip on the doctor’s wrist.
Sherlock soon fell asleep, exhausted and drained from the day’s events, but more so, John believed, from the sensation of such overwhelming (and undoubtedly new) emotions.
John continued to card his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, keeping him relaxed and asleep with the simple, repetitive act. He let his head to fall back onto the propped pillow, and his own eyes soon drifted shut.
He could remember the exact moment when he realized that he loved Sherlock. And it had been difficult… being the only one of the two to come to such a realization. He’d carried these affections, these feelings, this devotion on his own – alone and hidden – for the past two years.
But he felt privileged. Relieved… to witness the manifestation of Sherlock’s feelings for him.
The blue streak of recognition.
They would keep each other safe from now on.
