Title: Aegis

Rating: T

Spoilers: Series 1 of Sherlock

Summary: After a particularly exhausting case, two facts come to light: John does indeed have limits, Sherlock does indeed have a heart, and the mixture of the two places the boys from Baker Street in uncharted territory. No slash, but heavy bromance!

Setting: A few weeks before the events of A Scandal in Belgravia

Disclaimers: This is purely to express my enjoyment of the show and the brilliant writing, characterization, and acting we've come to adore. ACD, Moffat and Gatiss own everything except the idea for this fic. Also, y'all know how it is when you've stared at the same document for hours-apologies for any mistakes grammar or otherwise.

AN: I know, the hurt/comfort angle has been done. Many times. (So many delicious times). I hope you enjoy my take on it!

# # # #

It is only when he turned around to remark that John's keen eyesight first put him on the trail of their killer that Sherlock realized the good doctor was not trailing along behind him, looking put-out and shouldering his jacket in grumpy jerks. He pulled up short just in front of the door to their flat, stilled, and listened for his blogger. The flighty nerves that characterized their night of pursuit return to the detective instantly. He can just barely hear low, shaky breaths over the obnoxious whine of the traffic outside. Brow furrowed now in something approaching concern, Sherlock took the steps back down two at a time, craning his neck around the bend in the stairs until John's knobby green jumper came into view.

He released an irritated huff in confirmation, the dratted knot in his stomach smoothing and disappearing. He and Mycroft could agree on one thing, it seemed; emotions were hardly the boon John claimed them to be. They clouded his judgement and eroded his mental armor. Useless. A liability. His unease, however, didn't dissipate as he approached John, noting his hunched posture on their stoop, head resting against the wrought-iron railing even though it's 2 degrees centigrade outside and dropping. And of course John forgot his coat at the restaurant earlier that night, before bedlam had descended.

Lestrade had told him to watch John tonight, but surely it was just a precaution...The DI was forever harping on Sherlock to be careful not to run the doctor off "by sheer force of his personality."

"John?" He asked impatiently, dropping to a crouch behind his friend.

No response.

Sherlock glanced skyward. It was faintly drizzling now, the cold northerly predicted earlier that week now sweeping through Baker Street in fitful gusts. He watched the wind tear at John's hair and clothes, eliciting nothing but silence. John's chest heaved, each exhalation on the edge of becoming a sob. His hands covered his face, knuckles raw from his fall onto the asphalt.

A choleric comment was on his lips before images of their evening suddenly filled Sherlock's head: tearing down alleys and dashing haphazardly from footpath to crosswalk, through carparks, avoiding people and motorists alike as they chased down Edmund Bontrager, a kleptomaniac serial killer who had butchered ten people in as many days before John had spotted him, quite by happenstance, outside their favorite curry takeaway. Lestrade's admonishment echoed annoyingly in his head as he replayed the scenario. John had been at the front of the pack chasing Bontrager, running full-tilt with all the patience and endurance of a man accustomed to a long chase. He stepped into the next cross-street, so focused on their quarry that he barely registered the oncoming taxi. He managed to spin out of the way, but the taxi clipped him as it sped past, horn blaring, throwing John against the kerb. Before Sherlock could react, John had rocketed to his feet and continued the pursuit, seemingly uninjured.

He was clearly feeling the aftereffects of the near-miss, but it shouldn't provoke such an...emotional response. John was often affected by their more grisly cases, especially when they involved children. Nothing about the spate of murders was extraordinary, though. The deaths were rather dull and uniform in their execution-Sherlock had been much, much more intrigued by their executioner. And John had been curiously reticent after Bontrager was apprehended. Instead of correcting Sherlock's broken social etiquette as Lestrade debriefed the pair, the ex-soldier stared fixedly at the ground, only looking up to dismiss the medics with a weary, yet kind, smile.

Sherlock frowned and reached a hand out, placing it gingerly on John's left shoulder, mindful that it was his bad one. He snatched his hand back as John bit back a strangled moan in the same instant, a shudder coursing through his frame.

"Ah, John," he remarked aloud, staring at the pattern of blood that had seeped onto his hand in the same pattern as John's jumper. He now noticed the ragged, stained hole in the fabric. Real worry clenched his stomach. All the evening's inconsistencies swirled together in a vivid tableau of John's wrongness, and Sherlock berated himself silently. Why did it take John's blood on his palm to shift his perspective? It was unforgivable. Inexcusable. After Moriarty's snide repartee, Sherlock had realized he'd developed a blind spot where the good doctor was concerned, and it was disconcerting how wide that blind spot ran.

He rested his hand on John's forearm, pressing gently to get the other man's attention. "Why didn't you say anything to the medics?" Sherlock asked, genuinely puzzled.

John had his pride, but it was often trumped by his common sense. The way he managed to bribe poetry from the dull trappings of life was what had initially piqued Sherlock's interest during that first meeting in the morgue. John kept him more honest (or guilty?) than he liked, but it was small pittance for so solid a sounding board.

"Didn't occur to me," came the clipped reply from behind the chapped hands.

"But you're bleeding. And your jumper is ruined."

"Well fancy that."

Sarcasm. Sherlock tried a different tack. "How serious?"

"No A&E," John warned, and Sherlock was relieved to hear a tinge of frustration in his friend's voice. His blogger wasn't entirely out of character. Sherlock arched an eyebrow in reply as he contemplated his next step, sensing that perhaps the strident approach would not be helpful.

"I know you're doing that eyebrow thing," John added sullenly, still turned away from the detective. "I just wanted to go home. Have a cuppa after this fucking awful night."

"The kettle's still cold," Sherlock said sardonically, stretching to his feet and proffering a hand.

John turned glassy eyes up to his friend, his expression clearly conveying that he didn't much share or trust Sherlock's optimism, but he grasped the offered hand all the same. Sherlock hoisted him up, steadying him absently as he catalogued the doctor's symptoms.

Tachycardia. Perspiration. Slight mydriasis. Detachment.

Sherlock pressed two fingers to John's neck, which was far too cold, only to have his hand batted away with an irritated grunt.

" 'M alive, alright? Bugger off."

"Acute stress response or Post-Traumatic?" Sherlock asked.

"It's bloody well not shock," John snarled.

Agitation. Possible flashbacks.

Despite the gravity of John's possible injuries, his curiosity stirred at the abnormal behavior. Ignoring medical evidence was modus operandi for him, but John...

"I apologize, John, that was insensitive," Sherlock murmured.

John snorted, but the tense set of his shoulders did not ease. "You never apologize without a motive. So if you're trying to sound sincere, you may need to work on your tone," he drawled, turning about on the spot and taking a step over the threshold. Despite John's hostility, Sherlock didn't miss the way that he listed backwards slightly, seeking the stability of Sherlock's hand on his elbow-another sign that his blogger was not as he should be. John ascended the first staircase doggedly. He caught the toe of his shoe on the landing and stumbled forward with a surprised grunt, dragging Sherlock forward. He jerked John back by the shoulder in an attempt to steady them both. The older man cried out and slumped against the bannister.

Sherlock swore vehemently as he gathered the stout man into his arms, maneuvering the lolling head against his shoulder as best he could before hauling him the rest of the way up the stairs. Better to get John to the couch before he came about; the manner in which he stammered and blustered whenever he and Sherlock were in "unusual" physical proximity would do nothing for his condition. He elbowed the light switch on in the hallway as he passed it, since his arms were full of John, and settled the doctor as gently as he could on the couch.

Sherlock immediately made good on his promise and put the kettle on, then busied himself with finding two mugs. He resorted to washing the ones from the night before when he realized that every other cup and bowl of their mismatched dinnerware was occupied with one of his experiments. Understanding now, faintly, why the constant disarray in the kitchen bent John out of sorts, he plunked the freshly washed mugs onto the countertop with a huff, and went about filling the little diffuser balls with some of the loose leaf Earl Grey they had picked up at the Cambridge market last week. The kettle only trilled for a second before Sherlock slid it off the burner and filled the mugs.

He watched the tea steep for several seconds before getting down on his knees by the fridge and gently tugging the loose baseboard until it came away in his hand. Several pill bottles crowded the small recess, in varying states of empty. He scanned the tiny print before selecting what he wanted, twisting the cap off and dumping half a tablet into his palm. He replaced the baseboard carefully, and went back to the tea. He waffled for a moment about the drug's efficacy if not taken whole, then dropped the half tab into one mug followed by three spoonfuls of sugar, and stirred quickly. After the tablet had dissolved, he tossed the spoon in the sink and went back out to the living room, tarrying at the light switch near John's chair, before deciding against it. John would doubtless want to regain consciousness without a flood of light in his eyes.

Placing their mugs carefully on the coffee table, Sherlock cleared the haphazard pile of files, notes, and autopsy photos off the desk and dragged the desk lamp to the edge and clicked it on, angling the weak beam onto John's unmoving form. Sherlock frowned as he took a sip of tea, mentally cataloguing what items he needed to retrieve from John's kit under the bed. It was a bit worrisome that John hadn't come 'round yet-a testament to his diminished state if anything, because he normally regained consciousness (violently) within a few minutes. Sherlock strode upstairs and gathered the medical locker, noting the absence of dust, and stopped into the washroom for a flannel before making his way back to his blogger.

Just in time, it seemed, for John had roused and was lurching his way into a sitting position. Wide, darting eyes. A quick lick of the lips. Possibly in the grip of a flashback.

"John, you've been unconscious. You are now in our flat at Baker Street," Sherlock began, edging towards the sofa. "Do you remember what happened tonight?"

The doctor cuffed at his nose with the sleeve of his jumper as he took stock of their darkened living room. His eyes settled on the Stradivarius leaning against Sherlock's armchair, his mouth working soundlessly. He planted both hands on the cushions and attempted to stand.

"No," Sherlock said quietly, dropping the kit at the foot of the sofa and blocking John's attempt to stand.

"Right, sorry. God, it hurts," John said, apparently now back in the present. He lowered himself clumsily back to the cushions, a tight grimace stretching his laugh lines into sharp angles. He shifted several times, attempting to rest his weight in a way that didn't aggravate his injuries. He settled into his previous position, most of his weight on the right hip as he twisted forward to take the pressure off his shoulder. His tan skin was ashen, even in the yellow glow of the lamp, and his tawny eyes were dull and drawn.

"That doesn't look comfortable," Sherlock commented from across the room, having decided that it was safe to leave his friend's side so he could fetch John's medical briefcase from under the pile of bills next to the Doctor's tattered excuse for an armchair.

"It's fine."

Sherlock shot his friend a glance. "You're twisted up like a fortune cookie."

"Ha. Ha," John ground out.

"Drink your tea." Sherlock directed.

"Not interested."

"Now who's being intractable?"

"Throwing my words at me won't work, Sherlock. And besides," John cast him an under-eyed glare, "I've earned a moment or two of recalcitrant behavior, dealing with you."

Sherlock threw a hand across his forehead and frowned dramatically. "Oh, John, you wound me."

John rolled his eyes, but his heart wasn't in it. Sherlock picked his way across the littered floor, all of his considerable energy focused on the doctor, now that he was properly conscious. The faint wrinkles around his eyes were more pronounced, and even the scowl John produced when he realized what Sherlock was doing was half-hearted at best. Time enough for banter later, once he had the man sorted. He firmly pressed the cooling mug of tea into John's tremulous hands, and began laying out the various equipment he would need.

"What should I do first?"

John nearly slopped tea onto himself, startled by the sudden question. He took another sip and handed the mug off with a sour expression, resigned to enduring Sherlock's ministrations, but clearly unhappy.

"What is this attitude?" Sherlock demanded, suddenly piqued and gesturing at all of John with the flannel.

"I'm just not up for it, alright?"

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Not up for what? Another physician's opinion? Shall I call a cab to cart you off to A&E? Best hope you don't pass out en route."

"I don't need one goddamn thing," came the stubborn reply.

The appearance of John's least used curse was the cherry on top of the dysfunctional sundae. Rather than switch up his approach, or give John's aggression time to wane-both of them clearly sensible, and thus, not attractive to Sherlock-he opted to snarl at his friend in kind.
"Forgive me, John, if I find your inability to lie triflesome. You are clearly wounded. And I did just carry you up a flight of stairs, so an ounce of consideration wouldn't go amiss."

"Well thank you for not leaving me down on the landing," John bellowed, shattering the tension in the flat. "Though I suppose it would have been more useful if you had just left me there in a heap. Or are you planning on studying the 'psychological trauma' of nearly being squashed by a taxi? Wouldn't be the first time you've used my misfortune to fuel whatever hairbrained experiment you're obsessed with at the moment."

He rocketed upright on the couch, heedless of his aching body, forcing Sherlock back a step. "And the next time I fancy kicking the door open to a flat stuffed to the brim with ex-militia, I'll endeavor to turn up with a weapon from the right bloody century!"

Sherlock gaped, now entirely wrong-footed. They were back to a case, but not Bontrager. The one they had solved previously: Terrorists. Abduction. Swords.

It was the second-most perilous situation Sherlock had encountered in the Work (the five pips and the pool showdown with Moriarty unarguably taking the top position). When John had unexpectedly arrived at the mercenaries' flat mere hours after Sherlock had been kidnapped, the door flying inward with an almighty bang, John dressed all in black and framed by the light scattering from the twin cavalry sabres he was holding, looking a deranged, parallel version of himself, Sherlock could only stare along with his captors. He had been at least sixty percent sure that both he and John wouldn't even have dental remains by the time the terrorists finished with them.

John had surprised him yet again-this thought occurring as the first sword sailed through the fabric binding his feet, John arcing the motion around into an upward slicing cut, eviscerating the nearest assailant in a blinding flash. The terrorists gazed at the swords, transfixed, their weapons in the other room totally forgotten. Sherlock scrambled out of John's range and worked at the bonds on his hands, forced to observe his friend, all grim countenance and hollow eyes, make short work of the remaining men. The entire episode had been absurd, anachronistic, and over in only fifteen minutes. He had always wondered if he would ever see more than a glimpse of Captain Watson, the man John used to be. Now, as another man fell to the polished wood floor next to Sherlock clutching the slithering mess of his own bowels, he appreciated that this killer, all the more terrifying in his poise and efficacy, had been lurking in the skin of his dear John from the beginning. When he approached John after the last terrorist stopped gurgling his lifeblood against the wooden floor, Sherlock found himself staring into the eyes of a man he did not know. Afghanistan hadn't been just casevac, it seemed, but John had refused to discuss his swordsmanship afterwards, even after his relative popularity amongst the Yarders had skyrocketed once the story circulated. That fact stayed on the hard drive.

"I apologized for that." Sherlock's tone was acerbic. "I didn't think you would actually follow through with their ridiculous ultimatum."

"Well we can't all be bloody brilliant consulting detectives, can we?" John's tone oozed sarcasm. "If a terrorist cell threatens to pull your teeth out and drive them into your skull with a hammer unless I engage them in 18th century combat, I'm going to show up with a sword. Especially after our last entanglement with a psycho, I'd have thought you'd understand that."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "If you remember the clues we pursued at the library, they were actually referencing Copley's painting-The Death of Major Peirson-the soldiers depicted were carrying muskets equipped with bayonets, so, really, if you followed it literally-it wasn't intended as such-you would have brought-" The words died in his mouth. John was staring at him sadly.

"You really don't give a shit, do you? That I was scared. I thought after the pool, after-him-" John sighed and looked away, refusing to speak the criminal's name.

"I-it does matter-I'm-" The words seemed wrenched from Sherlock's lips. "I apologized," he repeated. Pale fingers combed through dark locks. He was uncharacteristically desperate to say more, to say the right thing. Why was it so damnably hard with John? "I'm sorry," he bit out, tone tight, guarded.

John recognized it as guilt-an emotion Sherlock did not often entertain, let alone express. "I know, I know," he mumbled, somewhat mollified. He patted the detective's sleeve, the movement ponderous.

"And that's beside the point, John." Sherlock was eager to move on. While the consulting criminal was deliciously interesting to him, dwelling on the encounter would only make John more agitated. "Focus on tonight, not 12 days ago. We survived it."

John exhaled gustily, suddenly at the end of his tirade, and reached out for his tea, quaffing the rest in a few gulps. He pulled a face and handed the mug back. "Tastes worse than your usual," he grumbled, slumping back onto the cushions.

"And you wonder why I prefer that you make the tea," Sherlock replied. "May I proceed?" He gestured to the supplies gathered at his feet.

"I'm knackered." John's voice had an edge of pleading to it, a subtext Sherlock could read very well, if only because he was usually the one giving it. Sherlock marveled at this rare display of vulnerability, that John continued to entrust his weakest moments to the detective for safekeeping. Sherlock did not feel up to the job in the slightest.

"I will ensure you sleep for days, John, after this. If you won't let-professionals-" his voice caressed the word with more than a hint of scorn, "attend to you, then it must be dealt with now. You're a doctor. You know I'm right."

John sucked in a deep breath, and reflexively clutched his side, gaze fixed on the rug. A few seconds of his gravelly breathing filled the space between them.

"Shoulder is a puncture wound, I think. Feels like it," John said, his tone indicating the switch into doctor mode. He leaned forward, and rotated his shoulder gingerly. "Right in the scar tissue, the tosser, but it's not deep."

Sherlock winced internally. "How can you tell?"

"Shallow wounds sting-minimal bleeding means no blood clot or scab to protect the exposed nerves. Deeper wounds throb internally."

"Can you manage the jumper?"

John regarded him wearily. "Not bloody likely."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, considering, before rooting around in the medical kit. He withdrew a pocket knife and some shears, gauged John's nonplussed reaction, and stowed the knife. He tapped the hem of the jumper with the shears, suddenly thoughtful. "I'm sorry for this," he said, fixing John with a meaningful look. "But if you won't go to A&E..."

" 's ruined anyway," John panted, glancing away. The pain was truly reaching unmanageable proportions if he was short of breath. Sherlock wondered how much longer it would take the Oxycodone to take effect.

It only took seconds for the heavy shears to cleave through the thick wool. Sherlock stuck them between his knees and peeled the fabric back, revealing a rumpled undershirt heavily spotted with dried blood. His fingers ghosted over the stains, an unspoken question behind his pale eyes.

"It's not that bad."

"Really?" Sherlock deadpanned, his budding concern expanding with every second of John's apathy.

"Jumper just slid up a bit when I hit the kerb. It could have been-Oi!" John exclaimed, jumping from the chill of the shears as Sherlock divested him of the undershirt. The detective pressed a hand to John's collarbone, willing him to lay still.

John heaved a very put-upon sigh. "Second-degree abrasions," he commented, angling his chin awkwardly to view the wounds.

Abrasions striped the left side of his abdomen in angry swathes. Most of them appeared superficial, with several glistening wells that promised deeper lacerations. The abused flesh started under the arm and ran the length of his torso, curving around his hip and disappearing into the shadow of the ruined jumper.

Sherlock hooked a finger into the waistband of the jeans and peered underneath. The lamp briefly revealed a bruise the size of a salad plate on his hip, all dark purples and reds on the fringe, blackish in the middle, before John wrenched away from Sherlock's touch.

"No, no, no. Nope," he stuttered, a flush high on his cheeks as he jerked back on the cushions, grinding his teeth at the flare of pain that sparked in his shoulder. "People talk enough as it is. Even bloody Lestrade thinks we're domestic." He scooted back further and rammed his bad shoulder into the arm of the couch. A sharp bark of agony reverberated through the flat.

"One would think," Sherlock began, placing the shears on the coffee table with fastidious care, "that the trivial nattering of strangers would be a lesser priority than your physical health. You being a physician and all."

"Oh, sod off, Sherlock. You know how it-"

"Bothers you? We can hardly go anywhere without your vehement proclamation that we're not a couple. You're violently heterosexual." The detective's eyes narrowed in appraisal. "Is that what this is about?"

"No. It's not what you think."

"John, this is juvenile. And tedious. You are clearly in pain, and that-" he pointed to John's hip-"looks ghastly, even for a solider." He leaned forward and fixed John with what he hoped was an earnest expression. "What is wrong? Something with the case?"

"No, no."

Sherlock wet the flannel in the bowl of lukewarm water he had brought from the kitchen and gingerly dabbed the edge of the abrasions. John was tense beneath his hands but aloof, staring pointedly away from Sherlock.

He worked in silence, disinfecting the area once the road grit had been cleared from the wounds. Sherlock grasped John's forearm, intent upon lifting the elbow to give him enough clearance to start bandaging, but John jerked his arm free with a glare and haltingly sat upright, shrugging out of the jumper ineffectually until Sherlock helped remove it, careful not to disturb his shoulder overmuch, but John was clammy and shaking by the time Sherlock tossed the offending garment onto the floor. He guided John's arm across his chest and over the other shoulder, and turned to the packet of gauze when John broke the silence.

"I can't say it," he whispered, more to himself, his injured arm shaking from the effort of holding it out of the way.

Sherlock ignored him but worked in efficient movements, pressing sterile gauze pads to the skin and taping them in place, making sure to fit the fabric loosely over the gashes sealed with butterfly closures. If their positions were reversed, John would have insisted upon winding an elastic wrap around the gauze to secure it, but Sherlock wanted to be finished with this awkward task.

"Why would your trust issues be triggered by the case? You don't trust me?" Sherlock asked calmly.

"Stop saying it like that. Of course I trust you. Look, never mind-"

"John," Sherlock warned, "Why don't you want my help?"

"I don't know," John admitted, crinkling his face up before dropping his eyes to the collar of Sherlock's suit jacket.

# # # #

TBC-Part II coming in a few days