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“Sit.”
“John, you’re being—”
“Shut up and sit , Sherlock.”
Sherlock sighs, but he does as he’s told, pulling out the kitchen chair to which John is adamantly pointing and lowering himself into it with ease. He’s not about to tell John that it’s possible his whole body is bruised, not when John’s already as tense as he is about the neck injuries.
“Stay,” John says, pointing one short finger for emphasis.
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’m not a dog, you know,” he says hoarsely.
John doesn’t reply, already moving past Sherlock toward the loo down the hall where he keeps his medical supplies. Sherlock lifts one hand, his elbow stinging as torn flesh rubs against the harsh wool of his coat, and rubs the soft material of his scarf between two fingers and examines flat around him. The yellow paint on the windows is bright in the dimness of the living room. The sight of it still makes something in Sherlock’s throat tight, which in turn makes him wince, and he looks away.
It doesn’t matter now , he thinks. John is safe.
He has just decided to spend tomorrow scrubbing the windows free of paint when John returns. He unceremoniously sweeps Sherlock’s experiments to the side, and when Sherlock tries to protest it comes out as a pained squeak instead.
“Quit trying to talk until I’ve checked you out,” John snaps.
Despite the palpable tension till thrumming through John’s body and lacing his voice with anger, his hands are steady and gentle as they reach for the scarf around Sherlock’s neck. His fingers brush Sherlock’s where they’re still pressed into the cloth until he lowers his hand and allows John to do what he needs to do. Sherlock stares up into John’s face, observing the faint lines and creases that make up a fascinating expression somewhere between fury and doctorly concern. John stares resolutely at his own hands as he unwraps the scarf with slow movements.
“Tell me if anything hurts,” he says. His voice is soft, but it leaves absolutely no room for argument. Sherlock, of course, has to argue anyway.
“I thought I wasn’t meant to talk,” he whispers.
John’s jaw tightens, the muscles jumping.
“This isn’t funny, Sherlock,” John says. “You should have told the paramedics. Neck injuries can be serious.”
“It’s just bruised, John. I would know if—”
“You aren’t a doctor.”
“That’s why I have you.”
John doesn’t reply, but the corner of his mouth twitches slightly. Sherlock takes this as a win. The scarf slides from his neck with one final whisper of cloth against skin, and John places it on the table beside his medical bag.
“Take this thing off,” John says, tugging at the collar of Sherlock’s coat.
Sherlock shrugs out of the heavy wool, trying and failing not to wince in the process. Luckily, John is distracted, rummaging through his bag. When he pulls out a pair of thin white gloves Sherlock grasps his wrist before he can put them on.
“Don’t wear those,” he says. John frowns, opens his mouth to argue, so Sherlock adds, “Please. It’s...I don’t like the way they feel against my skin, and it’s unnecessary anyway. It’s just Baker Street, we’re not in a hospital. It’s hardly a sterile environment.”
John watches him for another long moment, and then he finally nods. Sherlock releases his wrist, and John drops the gloves back into the bag.
“Thank you,” Sherlock says, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes. “Let’s get this over with. I’m tired.”
An angry scraping makes him open his eyes again, and he finds that John has dragged the other chair over until it’s directly in front of Sherlock’s. He sits down and leans in, his elbows on his knees, and then beckons with one hand.
“Lean forward a bit,” he says, and Sherlock obliges, sitting up straight again.
John’s touch is so light Sherlock hardly feels it at first, just the barest hint of fingertips fluttering against his throat. There’s a crease between John’s eyes as he concentrates, and Sherlock longs to smooth it away with his thumb.
“Is it all right if I undo a couple of these buttons?” John asks, thumbing over the top button of Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nods. This time John doesn’t miss the wince that twists his face, but he doesn’t respond except with the tightening of his lips.
John undoes the top two buttons and gently eases the folds of Sherlock’s shirt back, smoothing the material out as best he can. His touch is practical, medical, but the slight flush in his cheeks wasn’t there a moment ago, and there’s a thickness to the way he swallows that’s new.
“Tilt your head back. Just a little bit, that’s it,” John says softly.
The movement pulls at the bruises that snake around Sherlock’s neck, and he huffs out a pained breath through his nose. John probes at the purplish skin, and Sherlock is thankful for the lack of gloves. He hadn’t been lying. He really does hate the way they feel, like something pretending to be human skin. He wears them out of necessity when Lestrade makes him, but he avoids them whenever he can.
Besides, John’s hands have a roughness to them that the gloves would have hidden, a specific texture that Sherlock has long wished to study.
“Does it hurt here?” John’s fingers push gently against the place where Sherlock’s neck meets his shoulder.
“Just a little.”
“Here?” Another press, this time with his thumbs, right at the base of Sherlock’s throat.
Sherlock’s eyes close. “No.”
“Head forward,” John says. “Not all the way, just lift it up again.”
One of John’s hands leaves his neck to squeeze his shoulder. When Sherlock opens his eyes, John’s dark blue ones are right there and John’s hands are on his skin and John’s knees are touching his. It’s intoxicating to the point of dizziness, and Sherlock reaches up to grasp John’s wrist again, steadying himself in the moment.
“Are you in pain?” John asks, his other hand hovering uncertainly at the side of Sherlock’s neck.
“No, I’m fine,” Sherlock says. The fine bones of John’s wrist are distracting against his palm, and he can’t help letting his thumb slide over the ulnar process. John’s fingers tighten on his shoulder, and for a moment they’re frozen this way, neither of them speaking. Then John moves both hands to cup Sherlock’s face and slides them down the sides of his neck in a long, slow sweep.
It’s strange, Sherlock thinks, how quickly he’s fallen for John Watson. They’ve known each other for a meager three months and already Sherlock is ready to ask him to stay here forever. Any romantic notions he’s had in the past (note: one romantic notion) have built up over years , not months. This is...unexpected and altogether terrifying.
“I think you’re all right,” John says at last.
This means that he’s finished, but he’s still touching Sherlock, working at the buttons of his shirt, doing them back up. Sherlock shifts, and John’s fingers slip, dipping beneath the fabric, skimming over his collarbone. John’s sharply indrawn breath is the only indication that he’s affected by this, but it’s enough. Enough for Sherlock to do something incredibly stupid.
He covers John’s hand with his own, holding it there against his chest, and all it takes is a tip of his head to cover John’s mouth with his own as well. That sharp breath that John took comes rushing back out in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away, and Sherlock presses closer, cupping the nape of his neck, not to hold him there, just to feel the short hairs there as they slip between his fingers. It’s longer, shaggier than when John first moved in, just right for running your fingers through.
“Wait.”
The word is barely a breath on John’s lips, but Sherlock immediately pulls back, dread and anxiety rushing through him. He doesn’t get far, however, before John’s hand is tight in his collar, dragging him back in until they’re so close that when John shakes his head their noses brush.
“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—christ,” he says breathlessly. “God, you have really shit timing, did you know that?”
Sherlock swallows. Licks his lips. Bites the bottom one. He can’t think because John’s other hand is on his thigh, warm even through his trousers.
“Not good?” he finally manages.
John laughs, a short, almost hysterical burst of sound. “Yes and no,” he says. “The kiss? That was good. Very good. Thanks for that, really. Actually, let me just—”
He tugs at Sherlock’s collar again, and this time their lips part in a slow, sweet glide that makes Sherlock feel hot and flushed and as if his lungs have suddenly run out of oxygen. He presses closer, but when he tilts his head to further deepen the kiss a spike of pain rockets through his neck, and he pulls back with a curse.
“And that’s why it’s not good,” John says, sounding both amused and resigned all at once. He squeezes Sherlock’s thigh, his grip higher up than it was a few moments ago. “Couldn’t you have at least waited to make a move until your throat healed?”
Sherlock swallows and licks his lips again. “In my defense, you looked very kissable at that moment.”
“Yeah, well, you look very kissable pretty much every moment, but I at least have some modicum of self control.”
Sherlock’s cheeks flush with pleasure. “I look kissable?”
John rolls his eyes and ignores this. “Not to mention, I was on a date not two hours ago.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me.” Sherlock scoffs and slumps back in his seat, crossing his arms moodily. “What’s that got to do with anything anyway?”
“Just emphasizing how bad your timing is.”
“She was boring.”
“She was perfectly nice.”
“Perfectly nice is boring. There’s nothing attractive about ‘perfectly nice.’”
John tilts his head, a small smile pulling at his lips. “I suppose that’s why I’m so attracted to you then.”
There’s something soft in his eyes, something that makes Sherlock’s heart pound. He sits up straight again, scooting forward in the chair so that John’s hand rides up even higher on his thigh.
“Does this mean you aren’t angry with me anymore?” he asks.
“Oh, no, I’m still furious with you,” John assures him. “I’m just...too preoccupied to care at the moment.”
Sherlock leans in further until he can feel John’s breath on his lips. “Kiss me again?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as a question, but this is all very unfamiliar territory.
John reaches up, rubs his thumb along Sherlock’s bottom lip, and then replaces it with his mouth, but before Sherlock can fall into the sensation, he’s pulling away again with a sigh.
“How am I supposed to kiss you when you’re bruised all over? It’s just going to hurt,” he says, gesturing helplessly at Sherlock’s neck.
“Maybe it won’t hurt as much if I’m lying down,” Sherlock says without thinking and then snaps his mouth shut, heat flooding his face.
John’s eyebrows rise so high on his head they’re in danger of disappearing beneath his fringe. “Oh, you think so, huh?”
“I didn’t mean—I wasn’t trying to—stop laughing!”
This just makes John’s giggle harder, and Sherlock makes a disgusted sound and stands up, fully intending to storm out of the room. He’s only made it three steps, however, when there’s hand on his wrist, pulling him around, and John crowds him back against the refrigerator, his hands warm on Sherlock’s waist and his chest rising and falling against Sherlock’s own.
“No, no, I’m sorry, don’t go,” he says. His voice is still laced with amusement, but he’s doing his best to suppress his giddy grin. He presses up onto his toes and puts his mouth to Sherlock’s ear. “Your bed or mine?”
Sherlock’s breath catches, all traces of his irritation evaporating.
“Before you answer,” John says, “I want to make it clear that this is just about sleep. You need to rest, and anything... strenuous is just going to hurt you. No matter what...position you’re in.”
Sherlock’s throat feels thick like he’s just swallowed a jar of molasses. “My bed’s bigger,” he manages.
The kiss to his throat is so soft that it doesn’t even make the bruises there tingle. “Lead the way then. And remember,” he adds sternly, pulling back to look up into Sherlock’s face, “we’re just going to sleep.”
And that’s what they do.
Mostly.