Living
A/N: John likes his life. Fortunately, Sherlock likes it even more. This is immediately following The Great Game. It's also quite awful.
John nods, Sherlock watches him closely, communicates with him between their eyes, just to make sure it was understood what was going to happen. John's eyes told him to do it, that it'd be okay if he did it. Sherlock trusted him then.
Sherlock didn't trust him as much now. He was holding his breath underwater as long as he could, eyes stinging with chlorine as he watched the last of the explosion above. He resurfaced barely to check, making sure no one was there, and he was right. They were gone, walls were gone, rubble was everywhere.
Where was John?
Sherlock remembered John tackling him into the water, John crying out in pain, John's weight disappearing. He got too distracted, where is John?
Sherlock climbed out of the pool, soaking wet, dripping water all over the space he was standing in. He scanned the area quickly, the rubble, no sign of John. He turned to the water, half-hopeful there'd be nothing there.
Of course there was something there.
*******
John acted on instinct, covering Sherlock's body with his own, getting him into the sanctuary of the water, protecting him to the best of his ability.
Searing pain shooting through his head, into his stomach, into his chest, through his leg, so much pain. There was a splash, there was a strangled noise -- was that from his own mouth? -- and then there was darkness. Silence.
John forced himself to think of Sherlock.
When he opened his eyes, it was just white. He wondered for a moment whether or not he was dead. Then he heard the beeping, and started feeling the dull throbs of pain, and he was almost disappointed to be alive.
Almost. If it hadn't been for Sherlock, he definitely would've been disappointed.
"John? Are you awake?" Sherlock's low voice asks from somewhere on his left, voice uncharacteristically trembling. John turns his head and regrets that decision immediately. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth at the pain that shoots through his head like lightning.
"Yes." John answers, his voice scratching quietly out of his throat. He tried clearing it, but it just hurt his throat worse.
"How do you feel?" Sherlock sounded worried, so worried, and John shut his eyes again.
"Horrible." John replies, and makes an attempt at a chuckle. No good. "You?"
"Scared." Sherlock admits quietly. John opens his eyes again.
"Oh, Sherlock. Are you okay? What's wrong, what are you scared of?" John ignored the pain in his throat as terror rose in his chest, threatening to clog his throat up.
"I wasn't hurt at all. Couple bruises from hitting the bottom of the pool diving in after you. Nothing important." Sherlock waved his hand and stared into John's eyes. "I was scared for you. You've been asleep for six days."
"Have you been eating?" John asked immediately; he knew of Sherlock's habit of forgetting of eat when other things absorbed his interest.
"Wha--yes, I've been eating, Molly's been making me eat three meals a day." Sherlock seemed puzzled by the question. "Why do you ask that?"
"Just making sure. You tend to forget." John forced the words out. "Is there water?"
"Ye--yes, give me a moment." Sherlock poured water from a water bottle into a little paper cup and held it to John's lips, tilting it. "Drink."
John did as he was told, enjoying the cool relief in his throat. "Injuries?"
"The explosion only caused minimal damage, blowing away a bit of your right thigh." Sherlock's voice was steady, the voice he used when he had to explain or describe things. "Unfortunately, it caused bits of wall and floor and lockers and such to also explode. A few pieces got lodged in your torso, especially in your chest, but a couple in your stomach. Some got in your head, and--"
John furrows his brows in concern when Sherlock stopped talking and covered his face. "Sherlock?"
"There was so much blood. The water was all red, you weren't moving, weren't opening your eyes, you were barely even breathing, I thought I lost you." Sherlock told him from behind his hand, his voice breaking oddly.
John understood quickly. "I'm okay. You saved me, quite obviously, so you don't even need to--"
*******
"--I think I love you." Sherlock interrupted him. John stared at him blankly, his eyes still cloudy. He looked so fragile, so frail. His head was wrapped completely in bandages, as was his entire torso, and his entire right leg was completely encased in a cast. His skin was so pale and so thin it was almost translucent, his eyes clouded, his cheeks and lips waxen and drained of color, both of his hands connected to machines or IV drips.
"You what?" John whispered, his hand twitching towards his throat but unable to move, attached to the tubes and wires as it was.
"I think I love you." Sherlock hesitated, thinking quickly. "No, I know I love you, John."
John's white cheeks flushed with a little bit of delicate pink, and Sherlock cursed the color, obviously John knew it would make Sherlock love him more.
"Do you really?" were the first soft words out of John's mouth. He looked afraid. Definitely not what Sherlock expected. "Is this just because I saved you? Because you're my best friend, and I--"
"No, I've been falling in love with you since I met you. But I tried to ignore it. Love is worse than digestion, slows me down." Sherlock attempted a smile. John just stared. "I believe the proper thing to do now is answer me."
"I love you." John whispered, and Sherlock's tension immediately shot through his veins in relief and joy. He had never felt that way before.
"Oh, John." Sherlock seemed to be, at once, at a loss for words. He couldn't remember ever having felt that way before.
"Why is this my life?" John groaned, closing his eyes again and scrunching his face up. "Why did I find you for a flatmate, why did I have to be the one you decided to show actual emotion for, why did I have to fall in love with you?"
"I...don't understand your reaction." Sherlock cocked his head, confused, looking at John with his eyes narrowed, trying to comprehend.
"My life is so fucked up." John growled to himself. "I almost died and I feel fantastic because I love you."
Sherlock continued staring at John like he had grown another head. "I don't understand."
"It's hard to explain. I'm just confused that I almost died, I chase people around London for you, I killed for you, but all I feel for you is love. That's confusing." John tried his best to explain, and Sherlock nodded.
"Okay." he nodded again, and bent down slightly towards John. He hesitated. "Okay."
"Okay?" John whispered, his clouded eyes scanning Sherlock's face.
"Okay." Sherlock finished bending his head down and pressed his lips to John's gently as he could, his fingertips softly playing with the soft, thin hairs at the nape of John's neck.
*******
*******
John had been a lot happier since his return from the hospital three months ago. He and Sherlock began dating, but neither of them were huge fans of public displays of affection, so they refrained from touching each other obviously in public.
Still, they couldn't completely control themselves. Sometimes, when Sherlock got frustrated with not being able to put the pieces together, John would rub the back of his head or his back soothingly. While Sherlock examined a scene and John knelt over a body, Sherlock would brush his hand over John's back every time he passed. Enough for people to pick up on.
John limped slightly now all the time from the chunk missing in his right leg, which limited the amount of dashing around London he could do. It frustrated him greatly to not be able to protect Sherlock constantly, so he usually just ignored the pain and uneven running and took off after Sherlock anyways.
DI Lestrade told Sherlock and John when he noticed and told them to remember their work when they were on the job. Anderson just stared at them blankly, dumbly, as he usually did. Sally stopped calling Sherlock "freak" after Sherlock told John that he felt kind of bad for being called a freak when he was being himself, and John flipped on Sally the next time that she called Sherlock a freak. Sherlock and Sally were on better terms now; John and Sally, not so much. Molly was disappointed, of course, and so was Sarah; both were to be expected, especially Sarah. Mycroft gave his blessing in his own way; he took Sherlock out to the best shop in London to help him buy a ring for John. Sherlock refused adamantly until Mycroft convinced him he'd need it eventually.
Now, though, John and Sherlock were curled together in John's bed. Sherlock was wrapped around John, his long limbs tightly holding on, John's face buried in Sherlock's neck. John's breathing was steady in his chest, save for the occasional mutter or yawn in his sleep. Sherlock enjoyed the noise, treasured each movement, because he still remembered far too vividly a time when it was gone.
John whispered Sherlock's name in his sleep, and Sherlock looked down at him. The long scar that was exceptionally visible from the crown of his head, diagonal down to his jaw, moved when he spoke. Sherlock kissed the scar where it appeared on his cheek.
"Sleep, love." Sherlock whispered, and John did.
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