The Personal Blog of

Dr. John H. Watson

7 August

To Sherlock Holmes Personal Post (Unpublished)

You terrify me sometimes.

Where would I be without you?

John undressed him outside the door to the ground floor flat, working as quickly as he could while being careful not to jostle or jar the detective. Sherlock huddled in on himself, hunched and cold – and in enough pain that it showed in his grey eyes.

Tending to his case-related injuries usually came with some ribbing and wry humour, but not this time. Sherlock looked abashed and miserable, and had that familiar defensive set to his muscles that braced him against teasing he couldn't tolerate.

John made sure to keep his touch tender without being patronizing – a very delicate line with Sherlock – and tried to keep his expression professional. He was sure some of the dismay shone through; it was hard, after all, to look at an injured person without feeling something, harder still when it was someone he loved.

Even more so when it was Sherlock, who treated himself with such casual disregard.

He looked like he was regretting it now – but John knew that wouldn't last much past tonight.

"Come on, let's get you in the tub," he said, ignoring the trail of crimson droplets Sherlock was leaving on the floor. He pressed a wadded handful of toilet paper – it would do for now – against Sherlock's head, determined not to be bothered by the fact that it soaked through immediately. It was a minor laceration, but the bleeding did need to be stopped.

"Press here," he said, and Sherlock winced as he raised his arm. John did his best not to wince in sympathetic response.

"I'm going up to get my kit. I'll be right back."

Sherlock was where he'd left him when John clattered back down the stairs, still pressing the soaked tissue into his matted hair.

"Here," John said, switching it out for gauze. Grey eyes flickered his way, a mute thanks, but there was something else there, something he understood. Until the bleeding stopped, he wouldn't be able to assess what kind of care the wound needed.

"Can you sit?" he asked, and Sherlock sank stiffly onto the closed lid of the toilet. John kicked the bathroom door shut, trapping the steam from the water spilling into the tub, making it a bit warmer for his naked partner.

"I need to get you cleaned up." Plush lips pursed then released immediately, and Sherlock gave a small, pained sigh that bordered on a whimper. The bruise on his upper lip was already turning a violent purple, stained with blood from the accompanying cut and dried blood from his nose. John kept his own expression as neutral possible as he dabbed the blood away with a warm flannel.

"Don't tilt your head back," he warned as Sherlock tried to accommodate him. The detective settled, blinking his good eye; John wet another flannel, with cold water this time, and pressed it carefully against Sherlock's left eye. It was already swollen, and would probably be useless for a day or two come morning. The bruise had blossomed out to reach the faint mark left on his cheek from where Lestrade had punched him months ago.

Combined with the marks and bruises on his torso, he looked like a bad patchwork quilt.

It certainly wasn't the worst John had ever tended to when it came to his reckless partner, but he also knew Sherlock had been lucky. He'd been surprised by the attack, and had been badly out-numbered. He'd put up a good fight – he always did – but he'd had his arse handed to him, and if it hadn't been for Sally Donovan intervening with what had apparently been a few well-placed blows, it would have been a lot worse.

He probably should have gone to the A&E, but he would have fought that, too, and a careful examination – accompanied by hisses and winces – satisfied John that ribs were bruised but not broken.

"Let's get you in," John said. Sherlock stood, teetered, and John steadied him hurriedly, passing fingertips over bare skin to check for a fever. There were no protests or immediate reassurances, which sat poorly with the doctor.

It probably hurt Sherlock to talk, but that wasn't the only thing stopping him.

"Let me have a look," John said once the detective had submerged his long body into the steaming water as much as he could. He eased the gauze away from Sherlock's skin, loosening it with water to avoid restarting the bleeding, and cleaned the wound gently.

Sherlock was holding himself still, fingers wrapped around the porcelain edges of the tub, white knuckles contrasting starkly with the reddened marks and scratches on the backs of his hands.

"Okay," John said, and Sherlock let out a long, slow breath, good eye dropping closed. "I need to give it a few stitches to keep it closed, and I'll need you to hold your hair down. Can you do that?"

A brief nod, and Sherlock's hands came up, but John covered them gently, giving a light squeeze.

"Give me a minute." Waiting for the topical analgesic to take effect gave him time to get the needled threaded, but even with the area around the cut numbed, Sherlock flinched lightly at each stitch. John did as little as possible, and didn't miss the sigh of relief when he finished.

"I'm going to get you some clothing. And towels," he added, realizing there were none down here. Sherlock gave a vague nod; John dropped a light kiss into short, dishevelled curls, relieved – for both their sakes – that he hadn't had to shave any of them off again.

When he came back down, Sherlock was completely submerged, bent knees sticking out, wet hair floating around his head like a short halo. He shifted slightly when John ran his fingers carefully through his hair, moving just enough to expose his face to breathe. John didn't bother with shampoo – Sherlock was too picky to use what remained down here, and John didn't want to get soap in the fresh cut anyway.

When he'd cleaned the blood out, Sherlock sat up again, unable to stifle a groan. He swallowed ibuprofen obediently, and let John help him out of the tub to be patted dry.

Cotton pyjamas and the blue dressing gown were light enough to avoid anything more serious than a faint grimace, which John thought came more from moving than from fabric on damaged skin. He didn't help Sherlock up the stairs, but stayed close behind, alert for any unsteadiness. Sherlock slouched onto the couch, petulant and sulking, but John could have earned a whole degree in reading his strops – he was angry and embarrassed, but only with himself.

Sherlock took a cup of tea but didn't drink it, holding the mug close to his face to let steam waft over the bruises and cuts. John bent to press a kiss on a relatively unscathed forehead, feeling the tensing of muscles beneath his lips, although Sherlock didn't protest or pull away.

His expertise extended to Sherlock's physical moods as well – when he wanted contact, when he could be convinced, when he wasn't remotely interested. And when physical connection was too much and he craved space the way he disdained it so completely in others.

John certainly understood that right now. Along with the embarrassment, there was a lot of pain. He changed and took himself up to his old bedroom, which had become something of a catch-all space – more so than the rest of the flat – and crawled into bed. Sherlock would do better sleeping on his own, and would feel more comfortable sleeping in the bed that had been his before it had been theirs. He needed rest more than reassurance, and John was happy to succumb to sleep, letting it rob him of the images of Sherlock's battered body.

He awoke in the middle of the night, half aware that he'd heard a distant creak at some point, an older noise, like a fading echo. There was an unexpected warmth in the hollow he'd created under the duvet, and a mild constriction. Sherlock's breath against his chest and neck, Sherlock's fingers entwined into his t-shirt. A leg hooked carefully between his, short curls just brushing his chin.

John lay still for a few moments, gauging whether or not he'd woken his partner, but Sherlock's breathing and body were relaxed, betraying no hint of altered awareness. With a slight smile in the darkness, John slid an arm carefully around the detective's waist, avoiding injured areas from memory, slipping his hand beneath the thin cotton of Sherlock's shirt. He closed his eyes again and let the familiar presence lull him back to sleep.

The bed was still warm the next morning, but uncomfortably so, and the fever John had checked for yesterday had materialized some time during the night. There was a sheen to the detective's pale skin, a faint wheezing in the breath that slipped in and out of swollen lips. John roused his partner, unable to suppress a wince at Sherlock's groan.

"Come on," he murmured, helping the detective out of bed and down the stairs, where he could tuck him on the sofa in the living room. Sherlock watched him, glassy-eyed and miserable, left eye swollen shut, face a brighter patchwork than the day before.

"Not bad," John said, reading the thermometer. A mild fever – not unexpected, but he'd have to keep a sharp eye on it. With a repressed sigh, he rung Sarah and begged out of work, guiltily aware of how lucky he was he could rely on her understanding. Half wondering how long it would last.

But there were other things to worry about, and he helped Sherlock sit up enough to drink some water. The glass against his lips was obviously uncomfortable, but John didn't think a straw – if they had any that weren't toxic from experiments – would be any easier.

"You owe Sally a thanks," he said. Sherlock sighed, the sound tinged with pain reflected on his features when he slouched down again.

"She might have been quicker," he muttered, closing his good eye.

"Yeah, right," John said, not quite under his breath. There wasn't much in the way of love lost between Sherlock and Donovan, but she was still a cop, and not the type to watch an innocent man be beaten.

A relatively innocent man.

Innocent of whatever crime they'd been investigating anyway.

John nipped down to the shops and got what he'd need to nurse Sherlock through the worst of it. It was easier to keep himself occupied, and there was enough to do to hold the doctor part of himself at the forefront. Sherlock consented to being fed warm chicken soup, to downing ibuprofen with flat ginger ale. John kept him in cool flannels, one on his forehead, another over his swollen eye. Got him into their bath for a better wash than the day before, and a very careful shave. Even with the straight razor Sherlock preferred, there were spots John had to avoid, or else risk opening sealing cuts. When the fever abated, it would drive Sherlock mad, but for now, the mostly smooth feeling would be enough.

He wrapped Sherlock in fresh pyjamas, thicker and heavier than the thin cotton he'd been wearing, and snuggled socks onto his feet. He didn't let Sherlock's lack of protest at that bother him, but tucked the detective under their duvet on the sofa, dimming the living room lights so Sherlock could sleep.

He tidied and cleaned to keep himself moving, to occupy a mind that threatened to distract him with a dozen what if… scenarios, each more vivid than the last. He sent Donovan a heartfelt thank you text, mildly surprised when he received a short, polite you're welcome in return. No sarcasm, no 'I told you so'.

He hoped she hadn't been injured, or at least not too badly.

He made a list of things that could be moved to the ground floor flat, cleaned the kitchen, changed their bedding, showered, tidied his portion of the desk without disturbing any of Sherlock's incomprehensible organizational system.

"John."

The faint sound from across the room made him stop, eyes flickering up, assessing rapidly. Sherlock hadn't moved, except for the hand that had snaked out from under the duvet, fingers limp but almost beckoning.

"What do you need?" John asked, closing the space quickly, dipping into an easy crouch.

"Stop." It was little more than a sigh as Sherlock opened his good eye.

"Stop what?" John asked.

"Worrying."

For a moment, John could only stare, eyes widening, stunned.

"You get yourself beaten half to death and you want me to stop worrying?" he asked.

"Not half," Sherlock murmured. "Maybe an eighth."

John rolled his eyes, rocking back onto his heels, and Sherlock's lips twitched into a slight smile despite the bruises and cuts on his lips.

"The stress will weaken your immune system, leaving you susceptible to infection, not to mention that the tension will aggravate your shoulder."

"Sorry, you're lecturing me on taking care of my health?"

"One of us needs to be in good working order," Sherlock replied. John sighed, lacing his fingers with Sherlock's, pressing scraped knuckles against his lips.

"Better if we both are," he pointed out.

"I'll be fine," Sherlock said, then winced when he shifted slightly. "In a day or two."

And when it takes longer than that? John asked himself, lips pursed. When you don't bounce back so fast or so well or you end up in hospital?

"Don't write me off so quickly," Sherlock said, voice a little breathless, but not lacking the wry confidence John associated so thoroughly with him.

"Not a chance," John replied.

"Besides, I'm in good hands. At least, I want to be." Sherlock lifted the duvet and John raised his eyebrows.

"We don't fit well on the sofa at the best of times," he pointed out.

"We fit very well," Sherlock countered. "But perhaps not right now. Bed, John."

With a sigh, John helped his partner to unsteady feet, bundling the duvet in his free arm. Sherlock padded into their bedroom with John right behind him, not quite able to restrain the relieved groan when he settled onto the mattress. John checked his temperature again, satisfied that the fever was on its way down, and covered him carefully with the duvet.

"The point was for both of us to be here," Sherlock sighed, and John couldn't quite repress the grin.

"You'd think the fever would dampen that impatient-arse tendency just a bit," he commented, shucking his jeans and jumper, exchanging them for a t-shirt and sweatpants. "And you can stop that."

"No harm in looking," Sherlock murmured, tilting his head back to track John's movements when the doctor slid in next to him. John leaned down for a light kiss, mindful of the discomfort, then bundled Sherlock carefully to him.

"Sleep," he said, dropping a kiss into short, dark curls.

"What about you?" Sherlock asked, voice already drowsing.

John snorted, a smile spreading over his lips.

"Fine time to start worrying about someone else," he commented. "I'll be fine. Just sleep."

He'd left his laptop where Sherlock would see it, trusting in the detective's inherent inability to understand the term 'privacy'.

There were some things he couldn't say, no matter how hard he tried to find the words. They would fill his lungs until he was unable to breathe around them, but get stuck on his lips, never voiced – then Sherlock would give him a look that read it all, and the feeling would evaporate, leaving him reeling in oxygen and relief.

Still, there were some things that needed to be said, even if they weren't spoken out loud.

When John got home from work, Sherlock was immersed in an experiment in the ground floor flat, but John's computer was on the desk upstairs, the unpublished blog post open on the screen.

There is nowhere for me that is without you. SH.