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It had been a normal enough case, one which John hadn’t even planned on releasing, except for one very exceptional moment at its climax.
John got a little bit stabbed.
He wasn’t going to die or anything! Actually, he was extremely lucky they hadn’t managed to hit anything important. But the entire event had quite an intense effect on Sherlock, who had screamed louder than John had ever heard him. He’d probably remember that sound for the rest of his life.
When John’s stabber was apprehended, Sherlock rushed him straight to the hospital, in a panicked haze, no matter how many times John reassured him that he was alright. After he left the hospital, it became Sherlock’s full time job to care for John’s every little need. At first he figured this was some odd manifestation of anxiety for Sherlock. After a couple of days, he realized there was a good bit of guilt involved too.
It was day three, when John noticed the wound was feeling worse, rather than better, and it was day four when he developed a fever. It was day five when he started to get really, really, worried about Sherlock Holmes.
~~~
“I’ll be okay, I have antibiotics, and they’ll kick in once I’ve taken them a couple of times,” John reassured Sherlock again, from his place lying on the couch in 221B. He’d stayed in his room the first couple of days, but became so bored that he’d started lying on the couch.
“And until then, I am going to stay here with you, and do everything I can to ensure a fast and complete recovery,” Sherlock said, “Now, would you like more tea?”
“I’d like you to take a nap, actually.” John said, staring at his friend who had not slept in the last two days. John had been sleeping a lot, so he couldn’t say whether his friend had been eating or not, but based solely on the way Sherlock’s hands shook and he’d rub his temples whenever he thought John wasn’t looking, he could be pretty sure Sherlock was running on fumes.
He had a plan to find out, but it would take a certain amount of willpower on his part.
“I’ll stay here if you need anything,” Sherlock said, sitting himself down on the other end of the couch. John could’ve punched him, or screamed. please you idiot, i’m giving you an excuse to go and take care of yourself, so go!
“Thanks, Sherls,” was all John managed to say as he lay his head down on the pillow he’d brought from his room. Lying down made the room spin as he tightly closed his eyes. He just had to focus on staying awake to hear if Sherlock would get up.
Although to be fair, he’d been spending quite a bit of time either asleep, or too out of it to pay close attention, he was almost certain Sherlock was doing absolutely nothing to take care of himself. It was a usual habit that John despised, although he couldn’t find it in himself to blame Sherlock.
He felt Sherlock leaning against him a bit, as if he was struggling to stay upright, which he must’ve been, given he hadn’t slept in two days, and likely not well before that. Then he heard a soft grunt, and felt a jolt. Sherlock was keeping himself awake. Why on Earth was he keeping himself up? If he felt half as awful as he looked, even to John in his own pathetic state, doing nothing about it must’ve been unbearable.
Then again, Sherlock was a mystery.
He tried to stay perfectly still, listening for Sherlock to make any more sounds, but he was very quiet and still. Mr. Boredom must be pretty exhausted to be able to sit still without mental stimulation.
He felt Sherlock drifitng off again a few minutes later.
Yes, Sherlock. Please sleep, please!
But he jerked up again almost immediately, and John very carefully opened his eyes to watch Sherlock on the other end of the couch, where he was sitting up, his face buried in one hand, while the other hand was pressed against his lower back.
He hadn’t noticed John was awake yet, and John would use that to his advantage to observe Sherlock’s condition when no one was around to notice.
He was trembling slightly, as if an immense weight lay on all of his muscles. His hands were dry and cracked, and from what John could see, his lips were quite chapped as well. His forehead was creased as if he were in pain, and as John strained to see better without moving too much, he heard Sherlock let out a sudden hiss of pain.
“Sh’lock?” John asked, pretending to wake up at the sound, raising himself onto one elbow.
“You’re ill, don’t concern yourself with me,” Sherlock said, attmepting to straighten his posture, grimacing hard and gritting his teeth.
“You’re in pain,” John said, sitting up now and trying to ignore the spinning in his head as he did.
“And you have a fever, and need to rest.” Sherlock said, teeth still gritted in pain.
“It’s going down,” John said, “I’m feeling better than yesterday already–”
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Sherlock said, holding out his arms as if he’d need to steady John. John’s side hurt where he’d been stabbed, but that was not enough to prevent him from helping his friend.
“Just tell me, where does it hurt?” He asked.
“My…my back,” Sherlock admitted, and it came out like a groan.
“Upper or lower?” John asked, looking at the hand planted firmly where he suspected the pain was.
“Lower,” Sherlock confirmed.
“Muscular?” John asked, hoping it was an ache from lack of movement, or sitting in odd positions.
“Don’t think so, I’m afraid–” Sherlock answered, grimacing.
“Oh shit,” John said, “When was the last time you had water?”
Sherlock shook his head.
“This is important, Sherlock.” John said, feeling his heart rate speed with anxiety through the malaise of the fever.
“I’m…I am unsure,” Sherlock answered.
“Shit, okay okay,” John said, reaching over to feel Sherlock’s pulse on his wrist. Sherlock didn’t protest but seemed extremely confused. His pulse was very fast, as if he’d been running, but he was just sitting on the couch and had been there for over an hour. “Oh, fuck.” he whispered, moving to stand.
“John! What the hell are you doing?” Sherlock asked, “Sit down, you’re sick,”
“No,” John sighed, “I’m getting my phone to call Mariana,”
“Please don’t.”
“Why?” John asked, finding his phone on the coffee table and sitting back down on the sofa.
“It’s embarrassing…” He groaned.
“Should’ve thought of that first.” John said.
He called Mariana, who answered on the second ring.
“John! How are you feeling?” She asked brightly.
“I’m doing a bit better, yeah.” John answered, “Uh, Mari–”
“Great, I just finished up the police report, sorry it took so long,” She said with a laugh, “But they will be trying him for attempted murder, so don’t worry about any of that.”
“Great, great,” John said, “I’m actually calling you for, uh, help?”
“What happened?” She asked, and he heard her footsteps on the other end as she bustled around her flat, likely looking for her shoes. “John, what did you do?”
“It’s not me, it’s Sherlock!” John said, “He’s…”
“Mariana, John is concerning himself with me rather than recovering,” Sherlock said, “Don’t worry about anything.”
“I think he might have a kidney infection,” John said urgently, and heard Mariana’s small gasp on the other end, “I know what to do, but I’m not in much of a state to ensure it actually gets done.”
“Does he need to see a doctor?” She asked.
“Most likely,” John said, “But first I’d like to get him hydrated and fed, and eliminate any other possabilities.”
“Of course,” Mariana said, and as she hung up, John could hear their door clicking open.
“You were fast,” Sherlock observed, as Mariana rushed into their flat.
“Good deduction mate,” John joked, “Keep em’ coming.” Sherlock glared at him.
“Alright, what do I need to do?” Mariana asked.
“Bring him a glass of water, kidney pain can be caused by dehydration, which I’m guessing is at the root of the issue. Sherlock, what color was your most recent pee?”
“I’m no longer cooperating with this,” Sherlock replied.
“Darker than normal?” John asked, already knowing the answer.
“Here,” Mariana said, handing Sherlock the glass of water.
“Drink it, we need to get a start on rehydration, Mari you might need to go out and get something with electrolytes,”
Sherlock drank the water as instructed, gulping it down quickly, which was relief to see considering it had potentially been hours since the last time he drank anything.
“Thanks,” Sherlock said.
“Now, I'll ask again,” John said, “Was it darker than normal?”
“I can’t remember,” Sherlock said.
“Well, when was it?” John asked, praying Sherlock would say sometime in the last 6 hours, although Sherlock had been within his line of sight most of the day.
“Yesterday?” Sherlock said questioningly.
“Wait, what?” John asked, ignoring the awful pain in his side as he straightened. Mariana’s eyes widened in shock.
“But that’s…” She said, “That’s nearly 15 hours, Sherlock!”
“It was early yesterday,” He said, “So closer to 20 hours.” He grimaced, and suddenly went extremely pale.
Mariana had incredibly quick instincts, and had the kitchen trash can in front of Sherlock the exact moment he regugitated all of the water he’d just drunk. John winced in sympathy as Sherlock let out a shriek of pain, holding the spot on his back. God, what he done to himself?
“Okay, change of plans,” John said, “You’re showing dangerous levels of dehydration, and I need you to go to the clinic before you cause permenent dammage.”
“Will you be alright on your own if I go with him?” Mariana asked, anxious eyeing Sherlock, who was now crying from the pain, between dry heaves.
“Please go, I’ll be okay,” John said.
“Come on,” Mariana said, helping Sherlock up.
“And take the puke with you!”
~~~
It was nearly four hours later when Sherlock and Mariana returned. Some of the color had returned to Sherlock’s face, and he looked quite exhausted, and had a bandage on his left arm, but seemed capable of standing by himself.
“Why don’t you explain yourself to John?” Mariana asked, helping him to the sofa, although he shook off her arm in defiance.
“I do not have a kidney infection, you’ll be pleased to know.” He said, “I do, however, have a mild UTI, which I likely wouldn’t have discovered myself for a while, had they not rehydrated me.”
“The doctor said he was lucky not to have anything worse!” Mariana said. “They gave him IV fluids, and he’s not in any danger now.”
“Was it all due to dehydration?” John asked, readjusting himself on the pillows to look at Sherlock better.
“That, and the lack of sleep left me vulnerable to infections.” He answered, “The kidney pain was due to watse buildup, also caused by lack of fluids.”
“Jesus Christ, why the hell didn’t you drink water?” John asked, expecting Sherlock to become defensive, fight back, and maybe even insult him.
He didn’t expect Sherlock to break down into sobs.
Which showed he had enough water in him now for tears to form at least.
Mariana brought in another glass of water, placing it next to Sherlock. Then, she moved to grab a box of tissues which might be useful.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Mariana said, putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. This time, he made no attempt to brush it away. His face was covered, but John could see how flushed he was as he sobbed.
“I-i’m so so sorry, John,” Sherlock finally managed to say, “I don’t even know how to show you how much I wish I could change what happened.”
“Hey,” John said, “It’s okay, I promise, I just want to understand why–”
“Because I’m sorry! I’m so sorry I don’t even know what to do!” He cried. John and Mariana exchanged a glance, somewhere between confusion and ‘are you sure they rehydrated him and didn’t just pump him full of drugs?’
“Woah, buddy.” John said, “Why don’t you take some deep breaths, okay?”
“I knew he was dangerous, but I didn’t think– I didn’t know he’d–” Sherlock stammed, gasping for air now, as if his lungs were contracting without his permission, and it was all he could do to get the words out, “I should’ve protected you John, and I’m so–”
Before he could get out the word ‘sorry’ his voice broke again, and he collapsed again into fresh sobs, doubling over on himself, and flinching away from John’s attempt to pull him close.
“Sherlock.” John said, gently but firmly, “Sherlock, I already told you that it is okay, I do not blame you for everything that happened, and I am going to be alright.”
“No, no nonono-” The words ran together as Sherlock looked at John, eyes wide and bloodshot.
“Yes. Yes I am.” John continued, “Please take some deep breaths,”
“Why don’t I start making some food for everyone?” Mariana suggested, clearly noticing that Sherlock and John needed to talk.
“That sounds wonderful Mari.” John replied, giving her what he hoped was an encouraging smile.
“There’s nothing I can do to make it right.” Sherlock sobbed, “You could’ve died!”
“And I didn’t die. It is alright.” John said.
“But I can’t make it alright!” Sherlock said, “I can’t make it alright for me! I watched you get stabbed, okay? I watched as you lay on the ground, bleeding, gasping for air, and–and I can’t shake the image! There’s nothing I can do to make myself even again.”
“Even?” John asked, feeling more confused than ever.
“Do I have to spell it out? I have to punish myself!” Sherlock said, “You came home, and you kept saying everything was okay, but I wasn’t! I couldn’t be okay, because I still blame myself and I don’t know how to make it go away! My mind is screaming all the time! If I consider eating, or sleeping, or drinking water or anything else it hurts!”
“Shit,” John whispered, “Hey, hey, can I touch you?”
“Doesn’t matter what I want,” Sherlock answered, head buried in his lap.
“It does, and you know it.” John said, “Now, do you want me to touch you, or would that be uncomfortable right now? And tell me what you actually want, not what you think you should want.”
Sherlock had ceased the sobbing, but was still hunched over, defesnively as he sniffed. He considered his options for a few moments, blinking tears from his lashes and shivering.
“I’m…I’d like to be touched.” He said, cringing at the words as they came out, “I mean, I’m giving you consent to touch me.”
John slid down the couch so their shoulders touched, and he pulled Sherlock close on his good side.
“Sherlock, you couldn’t have stopped me from going on that case, especially if I knew it was dangerous.” John said, “Getting hurt happens, no matter what job you have, and maybe the risk is slightly higher when one investigates crime, but everything turned out okay, you can’t torture yourself over hypotheticals.”
“I can, quite extensively.” Sherlock replied. John smiled, and pulled him closer so that Sherlock’s head rested on his shoulder. Maybe it was the fever talking, but John was sure this was the most comfortable he’d been in days.
“Sherls, you need to take care of yourself. I know it’s hard for…a lot of reasons…but you know the way you felt scared for me? When I was first stabbed? That’s how I felt for you this afternoon. I was so frightened you’d really hurt yourself.”
“I’m sorry!” Sherlock said suddenly stiffening, “I didn’t want to scare you, I just wanted–”
“Shh, I know, I know.” John said, “I just…I want you to understand that taking care of yourself affects more than just you. This has been a real pattern with you as long as we’ve known each other. It was always the thing about you that scared me the most. That it wouldn’t be a bad guy or a dangerous fall that took you away from me. But that it’d be you.”
“I never meant to–”
“I know.”
“Alright.” Sherlock whispered, defeated.
“Have you eaten anything in the past few days?” John asked.
“The hunger was unbearable yesterday. I had a few pieces of bread, the blandest I could find, and an apple.”
“That’s not enough,” John sighed.
“Enough wasn’t the goal.” Sherlock answered. John’s stomach sank with that comment.
“And what about sleep?” He asked.
“The second night you were home I slept for a few hours, and after that I couldn’t. I mostly didn’t try, but after a while, I was desperate for any rest at all, and that’s when the thoughts got bad. I imagined you vanishing so vividly that I had to check you were still alive, just sleeping on the couch.”
“Sherlock,” John said, taking in friend’s hand. “I am alive. Aside from a low grade fever, which is already breaking, and a sore side, I am alright. You are also alright, although it’ll burn like hell when you piss for a while,” He added with a smile.
“I don’t know what else to say, when all I've done is apologize in my mind for days,” Sherlock admitted, “I feel like I can never make my mind and my body normal again after this. Like I won’t be able to eat and sleep when I try.”
“Well, we’ll eat together, and you can take things slow, okay?” John said.
“Okay,” Sherlock repeated, his gaze unfocussed.
“And you are more than welcome to spend the night in my room,” John added, “If you wake up and need to check on me, I’ll be right there, and if I feel ill and need something, I’ll have you right there too.”
“That sounds alright.” Sherlock whispered.
“Then it’s a plan.” John smiled, squeezing Sherlock’s hand tightly.
~~~
After a light, but nutritious dinner, of which Sherlock ate over half, Mariana said goodnight and went back to her flat. John was sure they’d be debriefing the next day, but for now his concern was for Sherlock.
The man looked so completely exhausted, with eyes sagging and zoning ourt every few minutes. He seemed shaky and unsteady on his feet, and every time a light flickered or a plate scraped against the sink, he cringed even more than usual.
“You still want me to stay with you?” Sherlock asked.
“Of course, get ready for bed.” John said, walking towards his room.
When they’d both prepared themselves for bed, John got under the covers, leaving space for Sherlock to slide in next to him. Sherlock did so gingerly, carefully not to jostle John’s wound.
“No promises this will work. I feel a bit wired.” Sherlock said.
“Your body needs this,” John replied, closing his eyes already as he lay close to his friend, “Your emotions are intense, your eyes look exhausted, and you could barely stay standing. You need sleep.”
So Sherlock flicked off the lamp, and as the room became dark, John could feel the detective snuggling up against him. Getting stabbed really wasn’t really that bad after all.