Summary: John Watson / Sherlock Holmes. Inspired by the following AU prompt: "tried to get the candy bar that didn't drop out of the vending machine and now my hand is stuck can u help me out" au

Chapter Text

"Problem?" The voice was a pleasant tenor, dryly amused.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, resting his head momentarily against the front of the vending machine.

"Not. At. All," he growled, emphasising each word with a sharp tug downwards of his forearm, trying unsuccessfully to extract his right hand from the vending machine's mechanism. "Please carry on about your business. I'm fine."

He pulled down with even greater force, rocking the machine forward, but his hand remained stubbornly stuck.

"Hang on, now. You'll sprain something." The voice had gentled, concerned now. Sherlock stubbornly refused to look around, and so he was startled when a soft warmth settled behind him.

"What —" Sherlock stuttered out as the man straddled Sherlock's calves without compunction, fitting his body neatly against Sherlock's back from hips to shoulders so that he could reach both arms around him.

"Trust me," the man said, his voice a soft rasp right behind Sherlock's ear, ruffling the curls there. "I'm practically an expert by now." A hand was lifted into Sherlock's view, compact and neat and competent with an intriguing hint of a gun callus, fingers wiggling slightly in emphasis. "Plus, small hands," the man added wryly.

"A surgeon's hands," Sherlock said without thinking, automatically cataloging the callus, the neatly scrubbed fingernails, the fading tan line. "But not just a surgeon — an army doctor."

The man's slow, sure movements stopped for just a moment — the slightest hitch before he was reaching forward again, leaning the firm weight of his body into Sherlock's as his right hand lifted the vending machine's flap. "Used to be," he said, his voice carefully scrubbed of emotion even as his left hand trembled almost imperceptibly.

"Afghanistan or…uh —"

Sherlock's voice suddenly gave out on him as the fingers of the man's left hand slid up the tendons of Sherlock's right arm, firm and sure. The action was competent, impersonal, and Sherlock was almost certain it shouldn't make him shiver like this. It must just be the late hour — too much caffeine and too little sleep, and the fading adrenaline from the case. Certainly not the fact that this man was touching him so gently and firmly, body pressed close against Sherlock's, his breath a gentle huff against the shell of Sherlock's ear.

"Easy now," the man coaxed, his grip tight on Sherlock's wrist as he rotated it gently. Sherlock flailed a little with his left hand, trying to keep it out of the way, and somehow managed to settle it on the man's thigh, firm and warm under thin cotton scrubs.

"It's no wonder — just look at the size of your hands," the man marveled almost absently. "Just a bit more…"

Sherlock hissed in pain as his wrist was overextended uncomfortably, and then suddenly his hand slithered free, the vending machine flap clanging shut as the man pulled both of their arms clear.

"There we go," the man said, a warm curl of satisfaction and reassurance in his voice. Sherlock was practically sitting in the man's lap now, and the man's arms were still solidly around him, his right hand bracing Sherlock's forearm while the fingers of his left hand tapped and nudged over the tendons of Sherlock's wrist in tender exploration.

"A bit sprained," the man decided, his chin now notched into the curve of Sherlock's neck and shoulder. "Come with me and I'll wrap it for you."

Suddenly the warmth was gone and Sherlock felt strangely cold, even in his suit jacket. He clambered around on his knees, watching the man lever himself upwards somewhat awkwardly, weight heavier on his left leg than his right, just as Sherlock had suspected from the tilt of his hips. Hips that were now at eye-level, narrow and lean in the drawstring-waisted scrubs. Hips that had nestled firmly against Sherlock's arse as the man had spooned up against Sherlock's body as if he belonged there…

"All right there?" Sherlock realized he had been staring at the man's groin for quite a long time now, and jerked his head up. The man's eyes were crinkled with amusement, blue so deep it almost appeared brown. Eyebrows raised toward a blond-grey hairline briefly before the man was reaching down, helping Sherlock to his feet.

"You're a tall one, aren't you?" the man said, brushing dust off Sherlock's jacket with swift, efficient movements of his hands — and was this flirting? Sherlock wasn't very good at detecting flirting when it was directed towards himself, but surely there was no need for the man to stand quite so close, and to put his hands on Sherlock quite so often?

"There we are," the man said, with a brief nod to himself as if confirming a job well done. "Follow me and we'll get you the rest of the way sorted."

"I — uh — Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock found himself blurting out.

"Hmmm?" The eyebrows raised again. "That's right, you started to ask that before. Um, Afghanistan. But how did you know?"

"Simple, really. You're obviously familiar with this hospital, but not so wrapped up in your own grief as to be unwilling to offer assistance to a stranger, so you are staff here rather than a friend or relation of a chronically ill patient — no, you have the authority and mannerisms of a doctor, and the scrubbing of your hands, together with their natural form and economy, indicate surgeon. The fading tan line at your wrist speaks to prolonged sun exposure, but nothing above the wrist, so not from holiday." Oh god, what was he saying? The flood of words was a nervous reaction, instinctive showing off that was guaranteed to alienate the man instantly, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. "The tilt of your hips as you sat behind me indicated that you favor your right leg, and therefore you've sustained an injury. Combine that with a slight gun callus and arrive at not just doctor but Army doctor, recently invalided home from a warm climate with active combat. Therefore, Afghanistan or Iraq. Obvious."

"That's —"

Sherlock turned his attention to straightening the cuffs of his jacket, looking away so that he didn't have to watch the man's kind face twist with antagonism.

"— brilliant." The man finished.

"Pardon?" Sherlock's eyes snapped back to the man's face. Instead of the disgust he expected to find there the man was grinning, open and easy.

"Absolutely amazing. Extraordinary."

"I — that's not what people usually say."

The man's smile widened. "What do they usually say?"

"'Piss off,'" Sherlock admitted.

The man giggled — giggled — and Sherlock found himself laughing too.

"John Watson," the man said, extending his right hand automatically before pulling it back almost as quickly. "Wait, no shaking hands for you until we get that wrist wrapped." He cast a glance sideways at the vending machine, where a packet of Jammie Dodgers still dangled mournfully. "And those biscuits have been there for at least two weeks now, you're better off without them. Let me take you to the cafeteria instead. Get something solid in you while I wrap that wrist up."

"That sounds…good," Sherlock managed, feeling a bit like he'd been caught up in a whirlwind by this small, fascinating, and entirely unexpected man.

The man — John — beamed. "Right. Off we go then." He immediately set off, a quick stride with an only slightly noticeable limp, and Sherlock couldn't help but fall into step beside him. His left hand patted his pocket, absently checking on the evidence he had brought to give to Lestrade as soon as the detective inspector had been cleared from his concussion. Oh well. That could wait. Sherlock was on the scent of something even more intriguing now.