Chapter Text
The days that followed John finding Sherlock alive in his childhood bed were a rollercoaster. Just being in the same room with his ex-flatmate caused a maelstrom of emotions with which John struggled to cope. At times swamped with grief, then overwhelmed with anger, he’d leave, to “get some fresh air,” and hopefully, a fresh perspective.
Sherlock had taken it all in with somber eyes, not questioning John. Why would he? John mused. No doubt Sherlock had all the answers he needed by just looking at him.
Mycroft had provided so much information John felt like his brain was going to melt. He’d outlined how once Sherlock’s wound was better they’d both be moved to the Holmes Estate. Apparently there were still five minor members of Moriarity’s merry band of criminals that Mycroft and NSY were ferreting out. Hopefully as they spoke.
He and Mycroft had long, sometimes angry discussions regarding the private security firm Mycroft had vetted and subsequently engaged to protect them. John had flinched at the “Private security.” He knew the type. He’d run into them several times in Afghanistan. They were basically mercenaries: hired killers. No better than Moriarty or Moran really, in John’s book.
When he’d said as much, Mycroft had smiled his ‘aren’t-you-an-idiot-smile’ and then lectured John about making sweeping generalizations and how, in this case, John should be thankful as they are now working for us.
In an effort to change the subject, John had asked if the Holmes Estate was currently occupied. Mycroft had run through the four members of staff onsite.
“Mummy’s in New York,” Sherlock had chimed in.
“Oh,” John said disappointed. Frankly it was hard to believe the brothers had ever been children, let alone babies to be carried to term in the normal fashion, born the regular old fashioned way. Had they really worn nappies, had their annual jabs, learned to walk, and ride bikes, like any child had?
“She keeps a flat in the City, overlooking Central Park,” Sherlock added.
John was taken aback. “Really? You never said.”
Sherlock’s face took on a look of disgust. “New York is Dull. It’s like London with insufferable manners. I was there a few weeks last year.”
John gaped, mercilessly crushed the hurt blossoming in his heart. Logically it made sense that Sherlock’s family had known he was alive, but still. He forced a smile. “I wouldn’t’ve have minded a visit to New York.”
Sherlock’s mouth twisted in distaste. “I'm sure Mummy would be glad to put you up.
John looked down into his tea, biting his tongue.
They’d walked through Mycroft’s plan to keep the elder Watsons safe, which John was embarrassed to admit he hadn’t even thought about. They would be taking a two week holiday to the French Riviera while some ‘work’ on the house was being completed. His parents’ had been amazed to have won a trip from his mum’s work and his father’s school was conveniently accommodating, given it was middle of the term, to allow him the time off.
To the Watsons' neighbors it would look like they’d just had their gutters done, in reality, their house would have had scramblers installed on their phone lines. A small room would be retrofitted behind the back of the closet in the master bedroom, secreting a small stairway up into the attic where a ‘safe haven’ would have been created, including secure phone lines and supplies to last 24-48 hours.
John had goggled. “Seriously? Is that all necessary?”
“Sherlock has a tendency to involve himself with dangerous people. In the past you’ve chosen to associate with him,” Mycroft said. “It seems best to take these precautions with your family.”
“But not with my sister?” John asked.
"Harriet is getting some attention,” Mycroft said.
“Christ, it’s like living in a James Bond movie.”
“Yes,” Mycroft said a tight smile on his face. “But in this case, the technology actually works.”
As John’s parents’ return from Bath grew imminent he reluctantly agreed that Sherlock was fit enough to travel. He changed the dressing twice a day, gently probing the perimeter of the wound, ensuring the infection was spreading no further. He was still doubtful about the entrance wound itself. After hooking up the line into the port in Sherlock’s arm – thank god his phlebotomy skills were exemplary – he sat down heavily on the chair beside the bed.
“Problem?” Sherlock asked, voice neutral.
Grimacing, John nodded toward the newly bandaged wound. “I’m a bit concerned, to be honest.” He sighed. “I’m afraid that wound needs to be reopened and a drain inserted.”
“How tedious,” Sherlock said.
“Yes,” John agreed. “And I’m worried about exposure to additional infection.”
“Doubtful,” Sherlock said. He jerked his chin to the pole holding the drip. “I’m familiar with the antibiotic you’ve chosen and the dosage. It is strong enough to cure a horse of a rampant systemic infection.”
“Well, yes,” John admitted. “You might be exaggerating a bit regarding the dosage but I am very concerned about systemic infection.” John tried for a bit of levity: “It would be a shame if you died in my bed after -- ” He’d broken off, realizing what he’d said.
“I agree.” Sherlock’s eyes darkened. “If I’m going to ‘die in your bed’ I’d prefer it to be under different circumstances.”
John’s mouth dropped, but quickly snapped shut. “Right. Yes. I mean – ” he shook head, trying to clear it, desire pooling in his belly. He stood. “I’m going to go speak to Mycroft about additional medical supplies. Just in case we have to, you know, operate.”
“Right,” Sherlock said, pressing those perfect bow lips together. “You know where to find me,” he stated, his voice dark, thick with promise.
Or was that just John’s overactive imagination? Either way he beat a hasty retreat. Sherlock was his patient. He was wounded. What kind of perv did it make John that just the sound of that honeyed tone set his hormones into overdrive like a 15-year-old?
~ooOoo~
Sherlock stared at the door through which John had hastily exited. He didn’t understand. He frowned. Hadn’t John admitted that he had feelings for him? Didn’t those feelings seem to indicate there was a physical attraction as well?
Or did they? Furiously, he thumbed thought the memories of the last few days: John’s hands, carefully touching him, but only at the wound. And a chaste kiss on the forehead. He’d had more lascivious kisses with cousins before he decided kissing was messy and dull.
In fact: John had said he was ‘in love with him.’ He’d never said anything about wanting him, physically.
What if he didn’t?
Sherlock felt his breath catch somewhere between his chest and his throat. He didn’t really care if John wasn’t physically attracted to him.
Did he?
~ooOoo~
Mycroft gave John a knowing look when he’d arrived downstairs, shifting from foot to foot, brow furrowed. Finally to break the silence John asked, “Er, cup of tea?”
“Of course,” Mycroft said, rising from the chair where he’d camped out with his laptop. “Allow me.”
Dumbly, John followed him into the kitchen.
“Everything quite alright?” Mycroft asked after filling and flipping on the kettle.
“I –” John began. Then stopped. “Honestly?” he asked.
“Of course,” Mycroft said. “And confidentially I might add.” He cocked his head. “After all: we are in the kitchen and there are biscuits about to be consumed.”
John laughed, and felt some of the tension easing from his shoulders, particularly his bad shoulder. “I don’t know what to do, Mycroft,” he admitted. “I don’t know what I feel. I don’t know if he feels.” He took a deep steadying breath. “Just now I would have sworn he was flirting with me, and I just – panicked.”
“Any particular reason for the panic?” Mycroft asked, opening the cupboard and pulling down two mugs and the loose tea.
“That’s just it,” John said. “I don’t know. I mean. Is Sherlock really capable of flirting?”
Mycroft gave him a look.
“I mean I’m sure he is very adept at it. I’ve seen him charm women and men into anything he wanted for a case.” John broke off, biting his lip. “But does he really mean it? With me, I mean? Or is it because he thinks I want it?”
“Do you?” Mycroft asked. “Is that what you want?”
“Oh God yes,” John said, his voice a little too hungry a little too loud. He blushed to the roots of his hair. “At least it is when I’m not wanting to kill him.” John took another steadying breath. “Sounds a bit odd, but part of me is still furious.”
“I believe that is understandable, John,” Mycroft said.
“Understandable?” John repeated. “Understandable that as happy as I am that your brother is alive I am so furious with him I’d love to punch him in the face.” He ran a hand across his forehead. “And yet, I see the toll it took on his body. That bloody infection still concerns me. I don’t know what to feel: it’s like I love and hate him at the same time.”
Mycroft remained impassive.
“God this must be awkward for you. To hear me talk about your brother this way.”
“On the contrary,” Mycroft said. “It pleases me that someone could care for Sherlock.” The kettle clicked off, and he busied himself with warming the pot: swishing the hot water, discarding it, measuring out the tea and filling the pot with hot water. “I don’t know how to answer your concerns about what Sherlock feels or does not feel. However, I do know my brother. I doubt he’d do anything he didn’t want to, regardless of the perceived benefit in doing so.”
He positioned the much used, slightly tea stained cozy and pulled it down over the brown betty. He turned back to face John squarely. “On the other hand, it has been my experience, as a male, that it is far harder to determine a woman’s true desire, as opposed to the male of the species. We have handy ‘indicators,’ if you will.”
John laughed, then blushed. “That’s good,” he said. “Ta for that.”
They lapsed into companionable silence for a moment as John moved to the fridge to pull out the milk and they waited for the tea to brew.