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He was in the kitchen making a cuppa when he heard it: a muffled curse of pain.
John frowned in sympathy. “You alright?”
“I’m fine.”
Sherlock laid rigidly on the sofa, arm tossed carelessly over his eyes; as though that would hide his painfully-torqued grimace from John. He’d been concerned about him since the mid-afternoon, when he’d begun grasping his side and hissing, glaring at John whenever they’d made eye contact.
Rolling his eyes, John made his way through to the sitting room, edging himself between the sofa and the coffee table. “You’re not fine, when was the last time you ate?” John leaned in, pressed the back of his hand to Sherlock’s brow, fringe tickling the center of his palm. Sherlock promptly batted it away as though it’d burned him.
Sherlock took a quick little breath, holding it in his lungs before letting it free with an audible burst. “I ate the toast and eggs you all but forced upon me this morning!”
“That was over eight hours ago!” He wasn’t shocked, not really, but if he didn’t react accordingly, Sherlock would absolutely cite that as the reason for abstaining from food the next time he was prompted.
Sherlock waved him off. “I’ve gone longer.”
“Too true,” John grumbled, hands bracketing his hips in concern. “You’re running a low fever, Sherlock. Can I…” His right hand fluttered in the direction of Sherlock’s stomach.
The detective rolled his eyes but threw up his own hands in defeat. “Fine.”
John bent down, rucking Sherlock’s tee shirt up his ribs and began applying pressure around the man’s belly button, studiously ignoring the texture of his skin or the pleasant hardness of the muscles beneath; he was a doctor and he could compartmentalize. Besides, he was rapidly confirming his own suspicions that Sherlock was seriously ill.
Sherlock attempted to remain quiet but when John pressed hard, low and to the left, Sherlock gave an uncomfortable grunt and winced.
After a moment, Sherlock grabbed the hem of his shirt, tugging it down so quickly John barely had time to get his hands out of the way. “John, John, please move.”
“What, why?”
Sherlock managed to pull a face that insinuated that what he was about to say was beyond tedious. “I’m going to vomit.”
John followed Sherlock down the hall and waited on the other side of a hastily slammed door, listening to the sounds of painful retching. Dry heaving more likely, as he truly hadn’t eaten anything since the morning. Serves him right, John mused and felt immediately guilty for even having thought such a thing when the man was in such obvious pain.
A few moments later he heard the tap run and a brief time after that, the door opened on a swaying Sherlock, long spindly fingers reaching out to grab hold of the doorway. “John I’m feeling… quite faint, I think I might do with some tea.”
“Hmmm, yeah, no.”
Sherlock was incredulous, gripping his side in pain. When he noticed John noticing he quickly tore his hand away, attempting nonchalance. “No?”
John shook his head and gave his flatmate a pitying little smile. “No, we’re going to hospital.”
“What, why?”
“I’m rather certain you have appendicitis.”
---
Sherlock kept his head against the headrest in the cab, eyes squeezed shut. John had to continually pull his hands away from pressing into his stomach. “More harm than good,” John kept intoning.
After a few blocks they got hampered by traffic and John cursed himself for not insisting they call an ambulance. When he sat up, Sherlock’s eyes went wide glancing the gridlock and began to panic. It was another overt sign that something was indeed terribly wrong with him. John, not wishing to have a frantic Sherlock on his hands, shifted over on the bench seat and gently urged Sherlock’s head onto his shoulder.
“It’s appendicitis, nothing to freak out about,” John soothed. Sherlock breathed through his nose, trying to regain his composure just as another wave of pain overtook him. John immediately brought his hand to Sherlock’s stomach and began stroking very slowly and gently, allowing the warmth of his hand to seep through his shirt.
It was a gesture of comfort he’d both bestowed and received and knew first-hand how calming it was to have someone sympathize with your pain. He trailed his palm up to the center of Sherlock’s chest and back down, holding him to his side all the while, reassuring him with plain words. It spoke volumes that Sherlock was allowing himself to be comforted in such a tactile manner and that too worried John.
“Almost there, almost there,” John whispered into his hair, pressing a ghost of a kiss into his curls as a reassurance to himself.
“I know,” Sherlock said, his voice breaking on a grunt. He turned himself bodily into John, nestling his face into John’s neck whilst breathing very quickly and deeply.
John rubbed his cheek against the top of Sherlock’s head and tried for a bit of levity. “Who knew your tolerance for pain was so low?”
Forehead pressing into John’s skin, he could feel Sherlock’s breath when he gritted, “Oh shut up.”
Ten minutes later John was assisting Sherlock into a seat at the A&E as he checked Sherlock in and provided the nurses with the information that was needed. He returned to Sherlock and once more pulled his head to rest in the crook of his neck. “Just a little while longer, alright?”
“What other option is there,” Sherlock spat derisively but continued to press his forehead against John’s carotid.
When a nurse came and ushered Sherlock into an examination bay, John reminded the medical staff that he was indeed Sherlock’s doctor and therefore had the right to be on hand. Even as the personnel glanced down at their entwined hands and made their assumptions, they allowed John to stay.
There was a flutter of activity after that, the admitting doctor confirming John’s original diagnosis through an ultrasound and urine test and urging the nurses to make the necessary arrangements to send Sherlock to surgery immediately.
“Quick, painless, routine,” John assured patting Sherlock’s hand with his free one even as his nerves buzzed with apprehension. “You’ll be right as rain in a few hours.”
“Mmm,” Sherlock nodded, pressed his lips together and squeezed John’s hand even harder. “They won’t let you perform the surgery, so bollocks to the NHS.”
John laughed and carded his fingers briefly through his hair. “Too right.”
---
It was two hours before they informed John that Sherlock was being brought up and another forty-five minutes before he was allowed into the recovery room. “Now the anesthesia seems to have fogged up his memory a bit, but it’ll come back in the next hour or so, just make sure he eats those ice chips and then we can see about some crackers, yeah?”
‘I know, I know,’ John wanted to say to the nurse, but he just nodded and allowed himself to be led back to a bay towards the back. The lights were dimmed and the curtain was drawn and when John stepped in he was shocked by how very pale and small Sherlock looked.
“Just wait for him to come to, he’s been drifting in and out.” She left him to it and John walked up to the side of Sherlock’s bed and drew a cautious finger across his brow. He felt the skin beneath shift and pull and held his breath while Sherlock strove to open his eyes.
He ran his tongue along along his top teeth, in and out of his mouth and smacked his lips; it took him a minute or so to retain enough moisture to make speech possible. “Did the doctor send you?” His voice was slurred, just a touch impatient, and very confused.
“Shh, no, no, it’s John.” He took a seat in the chair next to his bed and peeled back the cover of the ice chip bucket he’d been instructed to feed him. He handed a small cupful over with the directive to eat it slowly and then shimmied his chair forward. John settled his hands on the bed, close enough to feel Sherlock’s warmth radiating through the sheets.
It had been a standard surgery but that hadn’t assuaged the tight ball of panic that had settled itself into his stomach after A&E had admitted him in a hurry.
Sherlock blinked up at him blearily, blew a considering breath through his nose and seemed to be sussing out what he wanted to say. “Are you my doctor?” And then, after a moment. ”This is… oh, it hurts, this isn’t… I don’t like this.”
John considered his answer before intoning in a low voice, “Yes, in a… manner of speaking. Eat your ice.”
The detective nibbled at a tiny corner and frowned at the taste. “Whuh… whuh…what’s that mean?”
“We live together,” John hid his amused smile at the fact that the world’s most observant man was temporarily bereft of his observational skill. It was quite something, really to have the upper hand over Sherlock for a change and while he didn’t relish it, there was no harm in finding it funny.
Sherlock nodded pleasantly, eyes still a bit unfocused until he’d collected the threads of his thought and suddenly realized he had something more to say. “Are you my partner?”
“In a manner of speaking,” John continued, a lone giggle managing to wriggle loose. “Keep eating your ice, the anesthesia should wear off soon.”
The corner of his mouth curling into a thoughtful little indent, he managed to focus himself long enough to give John a shaky, cursory once over. “I don’t… I’ve never gone for blonds but you’re very handsome,” Sherlock decided, eyes closing as he smacked his lips.
The doctor blanched at that, sitting back in the hard plastic chair and allowing his hand to slide off from the side of the bed. Sherlock pursed his lips, scrunched his nose and pressed on. “How long have we been together? Do we have children?”
Sherlock’s words kicked John in the stomach, the amused tilt to his lips disappearing immediately. In the moment he felt sad, alone and very small. Sherlock’s voice held such delight, such unabashed wonder at the notion that they were together that it harshly reinforced the fact that they weren’t romantically involved.
John strove to make his leaden tongue form words to that effect, but he only managed a weak, “Sherlock, we’re not-”
“Are we married?” he squeaked, a bit of the ice breaking off to land in the hollow of his throat; Sherlock shivered. His motor skills were still recovering and as he held up his left hand to his face, the fingers of his left hand slipped into his mouth, the frozen morsel disappearing between lips.
“Hey now, hey,” he leaned forward and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, pulling his fingers out lest he choke himself. “Easy now.”
“We’re not married, that’s… how long did you say we’ve been… we’ve been,” he passed his tongue over dry, cracked lips and tried again. “How’sit we’ve been together?”
John sat back, held his tongue, tried to will the tight feeling in his chest to dissipate. “We’ve known each other for some time now, a few years.”
“Mm, you’re quite fit. Very fit; I’m very lucky.” Sherlock declared and winced, brought his knuckles to his temple and pressed before his entire arm went slack against the bed. He seemed to be content to loll his head back and forth on the thin pillow, every so often glancing over at John with a surprised little smile.
“Hey!” Sherlock asked after a moment, “have we kissed yet?”
John swallowed and hung his head, “Keep eating your ice.”
“It’s hard, ah, ahhh,” Sherlock complained and frowned again, placing his tongue against the side and licking it a few times before letting it fall to his chest. “Are we the type of couple that, do you feed me things? You could feed me my ice!” He looked very pleased that he’d thought to suggest that.
“I’m not… Sherlock, I’m not going to feed you.”
“Okay,” he agreed and fussed about trying to pick the chip back up off of his gown. John assisted him. “I am Sherlock and you are John and we’re happy.”
“Sure.”
“Are we happy?” Sherlock asked on second thought, holding the cup of ice chips out to John as though he should take it from him.
“Eat your ice.”
Sherlock groaned and closed his eyes, smacking his lips a few more times. No doubt he was parched after the surgery and John hoped that would be enough to keep him from speculating about the nature of their relationship any further. “Alright. It’s hard.”
There was thoughtful, loud chewing for a few minutes; Sherlock was examining the amount of chips left in his cup when he again asked, “Have we?”
When John made no answer, Sherlock tried to sit up a bit in the bed, cringing as he did. John pressed a hand to his bicep and eased him back down. “John? John?”
John bit his bottom lip and watched Sherlock’s bleary eyes search his face. “Have we kissed yet?”
“Sherlock, we’re not together,” John said heavily, sitting back in his chair and watching as the other man processed what he’d said.
Working his lips, Sherlock thought and thought and thought; he groaned through a wave of pain and took another small morsel into his mouth and thought some more. Just when John thought he’d let it go, Sherlock gave a heaving, judicious nod and said emphatically, “Yes we are. We have to be. You’re beautiful. And… I must be, a bit, at least, if you’re with me. Must be. We’re happy.”
“Fine,” John sighed sadly and slumped down in his chair. “Fine.”
He’d failed to remove his hand from the bed and he didn’t have the heart to untangle their fingers when Sherlock grabbed him and held on so tight.
---
It was six days before things came to a rather boisterous head. Sherlock sat twitching on the sofa, becoming so heated with the lack of interesting emails coming into the website that he’d threatened to toss John’s laptop across the room. Tension was palpable in the air, having begun building the second they’d returned to the flat and Sherlock had fallen asleep with his head on John’s shoulder.
They hadn’t discussed it, but John could tell that Sherlock was taken aback by his body’s response, embarrassed even. Since that day the snipes had ramped up in scale; Sherlock snarled at him and John did his best to ignore it, but after so long together and battling such negativity, John snapped. Six days of being the doctor to Sherlock’s increasingly nasty patient and John’s resolve had worn thin.
“You could use your own damned computer, you arse,” John called from the kitchen, teeth gritting against one another in barely-veiled anger.
Sherlock’s eyeroll could nearly be felt from the sitting room. “Oh yes, I could, but it’s in my room you see and I’m supposed to be,” Sherlock brought his hands up beside his cheeks and gave the most over-enthusiastic airquotes he could manage. “Taking it easy,” he finished, huffing back against the sofa and spreading his legs, he leveled John with a scathing glare.
“You know what? Do whatever you please. You do already! Tear your stitches, get an infection, I don’t care a bit; you tell me I’m your doctor, wanted me to perform the surgery for chrissakes, but no. Do what you like, what do I know?”
“What do you know?” Sherlock hissed.
John slammed a plate down into the sink. “A lot more than you’d care to admit, I think.”
There was blessed silence for a few lingering moments before Sherlock tossed the computer and stood, hands on his hips. “You are without a doubt the most tedious human being on the planet, I can barely stand to look at you at present,” Sherlock shouted.
“Not what you were insisting last week,” John shouted immediately back, shoving his hands deep into the basin of soapy water, attacking a plate with a soapy sponge with far too much vehemence.
There was an indignant splutter and a few stomps and Sherlock was in the room with him, just past the threshold. “I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing, nevermind,” he stacked the dish atop a set of others waiting to be rinsed. “Nothing.”
His voice held notes of curiosity even as it retained a simmering anger. “What are you on about, John?”
“It’s not…” John trailed, hanging his head, chin to chest and sucking in a deep, sad breath. “Nothing.”
“Stop being purposefully evasive. What did I say last week that’s somehow invalidated the truth of your complete lack of intelligence.”
“Why are you being such a collossal arsehole, Sherlock?” John asked, surprisingly quiet as he wiped his hands on a towel and turned to face his flatmate. “Can you just… fucking leave it? If you’re so… keyed up and need a change, go round to Mrs. Hudson’s or… I’ll go for a walk for a bit. I’ll take the weekend away, just calm the hell down. Please.”
“No,” Sherlock barked quickly, eyes softening slightly before he caught himself, straightened his spine and slid his indifferent facade back in place. “That won’t… be necessary.”
They stood in front of one another, chests heaving as they calmed from the exertion of their argument. “No more shouting, please,” John said, folding the towel in two and hanging it over a cupboard door.
Sherlock jutted his chin out just as he tugged on the hem of his shirt, straightening himself out. “Fine.”
“Thank you,” John sighed, visibly deflating and turning to begin rinsing the dishes.
“Now what was it about last week?”
After a long, deep sigh John shook his head, allowed his chin to sink to his chest. “The anesthesia had some effects on you, it’s… common. It was nothing.”
“Clearly not nothing.”
“Double negative?”
“Shut up,” Sherlock demanded and then, “tell me.”
Resigned, John composed himself and as ambivalently as possible, began speaking. “Oh, you just went on about how positively fit I am-”
“I did not!”
“Mmm, handsome too. And how lucky you were to have me. How very fucking happy we are together.” John tipped his head from side to side with the tick of each word, turning another dish over to rinse it off.
“...what?” John relished the confusion he heard in Sherlock’s voice.
“Oh yeah, you were under the impression that we were a happy couple. Married, even. You were, yeah, you were out of it. Didn’t feel like enough of a tit until you insisted that we must be happy, aren’t we?”
The rushing water of the tap was the only sound for a time, John’s mocking words ringing in his own ears. His lips curled into a sad, disappointed smile.
The floorboards creaked faintly as Sherlock took a step forward. John could feel Sherlock’s gaze on him, the hairs on the back of his neck pricking with the knowledge of how close he was. There was a sigh, a sharp inhale and then, “You are.”
John’s head snapped up and he turned back, gaze instantly on Sherlock. Cinderblock grey, dear god, the color slammed into his awareness; he’d finally figured it out, the color of Sherlock’s eyes. John needed a moment to recover from that revelation. “What?”
“Fit…” Sherlock admitted, looking taken aback and bashful, his eyes focused on John. “And handsome.”
John’s mouth curved into a disbelieving, embarrassed smile. “Christ, stop. I know it was stupid and it’s fine… it’s all fine. Anesthesia; it happens.” He rolled his shoulders, squirmed where he stood, tried very hard not to look away. He didn’t want to concede to Sherlock that the detective’s poking fun was hitting a little too close to home.
But Sherlock just frowned and his eyes darted away, gaze lingering over John’s left shoulder before they ticked back, appraising him from the tips of his socked toes to the top of his head and back. Sherlock looked him over through narrow eyes, considering. “And we are happy? Aren’t we? Or reasonably so?”
John felt very much like his head was spinning off of his shoulders, threw up his hands and asked rather shrilly, “What?”
Sherlock scowled and stomped past John to his room and slammed the door.
---
It was sometime later that Sherlock’s door opened and he heard the detective shuffling about in the kitchen. John remained in his armchair, sparing a bit of his attention to listen; he heard the kettle click on, the clink of one porcelain teacup against another in the cabinet.
A sniffle, a rustle of fabric and then silence. John waited a moment and then returned to his reading, willing his body to relax, to allow none of the tension he’d felt early settle itself in his muscles. He’d made it through three pages by the time the kettle clicked itself off and he heard Sherlock go about preparing tea.
He heard another faint shuffle and attempted to sink himself further into his chair and into his book but was pleasantly shocked when a steaming mug was placed down on the table beside him.Sherlock rounded the chair to stand by the window, his own mug clutched tightly in his hand.
John watched as Sherlock drew his tongue across his upper teeth, back and forth, back and forth. When he’d had quite enough of that he turned towards the window, placed a palm against the glass at eye level and sighed.
Not peculiar behavior as far as Sherlock was concerned; John allowed himself another minute or so of appreciating the man’s face in profile before turning his attention back to the words of the page before him.
He took a sip of tea; perfectly prepared. It was a treaty of reconciliation, that cup of tea, and John resolved to enjoy it the best he could.
Sherlock sipped from his, and then hastily placed it down on the table, taking a few brisk steps towards John’s chair. “I suppose I never thanked you for… everything. The initial diagnosis, the… waiting with me as I came out of it.”
John turned the page of his book and flicked his gaze to Sherlock briefly. “No, you didn’t. But then,” John heaved a breath and closed his novel, set it gently down beside him. The words shivered in his throat, the connotations of the confession he was about to speak terrifying him to his core. There was no turning back with Sherlock Holmes; there was no urging him to forget what he’d heard. “You don’t have to.”
The words sank in, between them, heavy. Sherlock moved to sit gingerly in his own armchair, palms cupping his knees. “Ah.”
John brought two fingers to his mouth and tipped his head, considering for a time what he was going to say. It was a bit all or nothing at that point, and John decided and resigned himself to airing his more intimate thoughts. “You have to know that I’d do just about anything for you.”
Across from him, Sherlock’s eyes flashed in the dim light, his fingers tightening their grip on his patellas.
“Just about anything,” John continued, quieter, shakier. “Like sit there and listen to you speak about us like you wanted us to be that way. Listen to the foolish hope in your voice. Sherlock…” Pursing his lips he settled back against his chair, eyes falling closed momentarily. “Is that something you-”
“Yes,” Sherlock blurted before John could finish his sentence. He looked away quickly, cheeks heating with his admission.
The space between them was pregnant with possibility; John had his eyes trained on Sherlock while Sherlock diverted his gaze fastidiously to the sofa. John swallowed and swallowed but found that his mouth remained parched even as his heart kicked to double-time staccato beats. “This is something you want to try with me?”
“Not try, you’re not exotic cuisine or a programme on ITV,” he intoned derisively and dragged his gaze back to John, stalling for time and lingering on the floorboards and the coffee table before he looked up.
“Right,” John said and then because he didn’t know what further to say, “yes.”
“Yes?”
“...yes?” John swallowed hard and then stated firmly, with all of the determination he had, “yes.”
The detective nodded blankly and sat there stunned for a moment before the corner of his mouth jumped. “You’re fit and you’re handsome and I suppose I’m… I don’t quite know what or where I’d be without you,” Sherlock heaved out very quickly, his words running together a bit.
John nodded once, touched his chin to his chest.
“And I am... rather happy.”
“Hmmm?” Sherlock hummed, sucking his lips in to prevent a smile.
“Yes,” John replied, mock-serious.
Sherlock reply was a low, beyond relieved, “good.”
“I think so,” John smiled softly at Sherlock and resisted the urge to stand and skim a hand through his hair. Baby steps. “Now, finish your tea.”
Satisfied, Sherlock gave John a pleased smile with half of his mouth and stood to retrieve his mug.