Hands

Bad enough was it that he'd been shot by his best friend's new wife, it was made worse when Charles Magnussen just walked into his hospital room.

To be fair, Sherlock should have seen it coming. If Irene Adler knew of his hospital stay, then Charles would, too. But he wasn't on the top of his game, high to Heaven with drugs and sedatives, but even that didn't help to soothe the irritation on his nerves. Mostly because it wasn't irritation; for a long moment there, for a long, hazy moment, Sherlock had felt fear.

It was muted by the drugs and the pain that he somehow felt in the barest of his consciousness, but it was there as Charles caressed his hand, his fingers. Something, in the base, primal part of his mind was repeating not good, not good, not good. And - it took a minute - it wasn't good because his touch was making Sherlock's skin crawl. It wasn't the same as with Irene, or Janine, two females of which he had become very well acquainted with for the work's sake. He could stand their touch and smile in the face of it. But, Charles's smooth fingers swirling around the pads of his thumb and the life line on his palm made Sherlock's stomach churn.

He wasn't someone who gave into the fancy of emotion often, but if he hadn't been so out of it, if he had been able to move his eyelids let alone his hands, he might have sucker punched Charles then and there.

The ghost of Charles's breath was still on his face even after he had walked out. Sherlock could smell his cologne, something strong enough to make him fight off the urge to gag and retch in the absence. He blinked his eyes shut again, tried to flick away the imprint of Charles not three inches away, invading every ounce of personal space that Sherlock had so carefully built, brick by painstaking brick, over the years.

Sherlock let out a breath. It shook. He squeezed his eyelids together, and tried to breathe. He felt disconnected with his own body, but yet inexplicably still frightened. Charles had gone, but there was the lingering ghost of him all around. Sherlock could still feel his fingers. He wondered if it counted as sexual harassment if nothing overtly sexual had happened. He wasn't well up on it, but he somehow still felt sullied by the whole conversation.

The door opened. Sherlock didn't open his eyes immediately, battling back a swell of irrational panic that Magnussen had returned. He wouldn't have come back right away, but it took Sherlock another long moment to remember that. Only then did he open his eyes.

John had taken the seat that Magnussen had just vacated and now looked surprised as Sherlock wearily met his gaze. "Oh, you're awake," he said quickly, abandoning his hospital-bought cup of tea to lean over the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"... Violated..." The word took forever to form and came out scratchy and rough. Sherlock tried to clear his throat, but his eyelids fluttered shut instead. He was so worn down.

"Huh, I bet." John reached over to pull up the blanket. His fingers brushed Sherlock's; Sherlock couldn't help but flinch, even in his half awake state. "Sorry, sorry," John said hastily. "Your hands are cold."

"... Magnussen," Sherlock forced out, curling his fingers around the blanket loosely.

"What?" John leaned closer.

Sherlock tried to shift, only slightly uncomfortable now. John's closeness was a deterrent to Magnussen's. John's presence was calming. "... was here..."

"What?" John lowered his voice when Sherlock flinched. "When?"

"... Jus' now..." Sherlock tried to keep his eyes open, but it was a losing battle. Some irrational part of his mind was telling him to just make sure that it was John, and not Magnussen playing a trick on him. But no... His nerves wouldn't be settling if this weren't the real John.

"Shit. What did he say?"

Sherlock tried to make a noncommental noise. He hoped it came out as such. He wasn't up for having the conversation.

"Alright, we can talk about it later," John said immediately. "That's fine. You should go back to sleep."

Sherlock wanted to say don't tell me what to do, John, in his usual, flippant way, but moving his lips was impossible. The best he managed was twitching a finger, in lieu of waving his hand dismissively.

"'s alright. I'm not going anywhere." John's hand closed over the top of Sherlock's.

Sherlock didn't flinch this time. John's hands were superiorly differently to Magnussen's. John's were warm, a little rough, and calloused from war and work. They were familiar; they felt like home.

He sighed heavily, giving up the battle on trying to open his eyes again. He was fine; John was there. He would always be fine, given that circumstance.

I had to write something after that horrible deleted scene from HLV (amazing acting, yes, but the chills). Charles is a creep, but John can combat that. I miss these boys. Episode Ten can't be here soon enough.

I do not own Sherlock. Thanks for reading!