Notice

Because I am a lazy arse when it comes to writing the actual comfort part, I have loaded this job onto irish-hailsy. Below is an extract from it, please follow the link if interested in reading the rest. She will be highly appreciative of it.

www . fanfiction . net/s/6525708/1/Bound_and_Gagged_Epilogue

Thank you to all who've managed to reach this far in it :D

Life has quickly changed for John and even more so for Sherlock.

The hours after the discovery of Sherlock had been something from a nightmare for the doctor. He doubted he would ever forget the flames that threatened to consume the detective, never mind the other injuries.

The rest however, he seemed to have forgotten, and that was probably for the best in John's view. He remembered Lestrade barking orders, Sally trying to persuade him to let go of Sherlock's wrist (the hands were far too damaged for John to even consider touching them), Anderson passing John a blanket.

The paramedics arrived quickly, or so Lestrade had claimed. John almost thought it was a blessing that Sherlock had passed out, no matter how laboured his breathing was.

Mycroft took over things from there on in, as far as John could tell anyways. 'Anthea 'had been waiting at the nearest hospital, where Sherlock had been, rather admirably proficiently, transported to an air ambulance and from there to Queen Victoria Hospital where they were met by Mycroft. For all the Holmes' indifference, John didn't need the intellect or intuitive skills of Sherlock to see how worried Mycroft was. He had even forgotten his umbrella.

And that was were John found himself three weeks later, asleep in the standard uncomfortable plastic chair of QVH Burn's Unit, East Grinstead, Sussex .

It had been touch and go for a long while and the detective had been in so many surgeries that even John had lost count. After stabilising him on arrival it appeared that Mycroft's 'hunch' (for all that Mycroft argued he never acted on 'hunches', but rather on facts, it was still a hunch in John's opinion) had been correct and it was the burns that required immediate attention (that, and his eyes, but that had thankfully been remedied quickly and Sherlock was back to vision, if somewhat blurred, perhaps for the long-term). Sherlock had gone into shock in the air ambulance, the type that a brightly coloured orange blanket wouldn't help.

For the first time in years John prayed to a God he hadn't truly believed in since Afghanistan. He very dearly hoped Sherlock would not find out.

Closer inspection at the hospital had shown John that the burns were fourth-degree on the thighs, cooling off to third-degree on the groin and second-degree on the lower abdomen. This was not good news for Sherlock, despite John's relief that he would not require amputation, as second-degree burns were generally more painful than third- and fourth-. And the third and fourth ones were, naturally, surrounded by the painful more ones. Lucky man. John didn't envy him in the slightest.

Sherlock had stayed in a private ICU unit, courtesy of Mycroft, for almost 3 weeks, before being transferred to another private room for recovery.

'John?' came the somewhat disgruntled voice from the bed.

John started awake, his shoulder throbbing from the awkward position.

Sherlock was looking up at him, the bruising on his face almost completely faded. His hair was scruffier than usual, grown to his chin and flicking out wildly at the end, John couldn't help but note, and he was no longer clean shaven, courtesy of John's hands not being as steady as they used to.

'You okay?' the words had fallen from his lips before he could even attempt to stop them. Of course his friend was not okay, he was bored (as he liked to remind John so. Hourly. It was almost like the Greenwich Pips. But let's not linger on that topic), high on opiates (although in Sherlock's opinion, this wasn't necessarily a bad thing) and probably extremely uncomfortable( despite the pillows the nurses had kindly kept bringing until John had to turn down such offers for fear he would soon lose Sherlock amidst them).

'I'd be much better if that nurse would finally up the dosage.'

John laughed the tiniest bit, because after all one can't laugh at a crime scene, but no one said anything about laughing at the bedside of your very injured friend-with-complications.

'You're already max'ed out on the morphine. Mycroft is already trying to get them to knock it back down.'

'Exactly. Nothing better than annoying the fat, pompous arse. Which reminds me, why have you yet to go sleep with him?'

John choked, on what, he wasn't quite sure. Perhaps he had inhaled his tongue. 'What?'

'Oh for Christ's sake John, do grow up. You know what I mean. Mummy would be delighted to get to know the infamous Doctor John Watson better. I know Mycroft has offered you a room.'

Ah. He was talking about his sleeping arrangements, of which currently didn't exist for John. He slept when Sherlock slept or was at therapy or in surgery or anything that didn't allow John direct contact. It reassured the pair. The nurses also appreciated John to be on hand to calm Sherlock after the nightmares that they both chose to ignore during daylight, but were terrifying and anxiety-ridden for both parties during the night fall.

'You know, London is actually nearer to East Grinstead than it is to Chichester.'

'You have yet to go back, overnight, to either.' John noted the emphasis on 'overnight.'

He was right, of course. He had returned briefly on a handful of occasions, to organise leave for work (bless Sarah. For all the crap he had put the poor woman through lately she still had a heart of gold), pick up some cash and some changes of clothing. Mycroft and taken care of all of Sherlock's requirements and the private room, which was now inhabited by the moody brunette which was getting almost cluttered due to the detective being unexpectedly inundated with gifts and cards. Molly had sent several bunches of flowers, before John had to remind her that flower's weren't allowed in Burn Units due to infection risk. Mrs. Hudson had sent down baskets of food with Mycroft (with small notes included every time. It seemed the dear woman feared Sherlock would starve if he had to eat hospital food. Both Mycroft and John were grateful for the never ending supply of 'good, English food'). Lestrade had sent his own version of a gift, case files that were easy enough as to not to tax Sherlock but complex enough to hold his interest (if Sherlock had noticed this, he had yet to bring it up). Anderson had sent, most confusingly, a large helium dinosaur balloon, to which Sherlock had merely raised an eyebrow to. The rest of Scotland Yard had sent their own tokens of appreciation, and there dedication of catching Moriarty was the token most appreciated.

Mummy Holmes had come down to visit on numerous occasions, always accompanied by Mycroft. John has surprised to meet her at first, expecting a tall, haughty woman, only to be greeted by a short, kind if not worried looking lady. She was most obviously rich, hair tidily pinned by in a silver grey bun, make-up impeccable and donned in a well-kept long, black coat (so that's where Sherlock got the flair of dramatic coat). John couldn't help but notice with slight distaste that the collar of aforementioned coat was made up of a fox.