The Pianist

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She laid on the soft, plump cushions of the royal blue couch, her eyes fixed on the crackling fire in the hearth. The warmth enveloped her like a comforting embrace, chasing away the chill that had seeped into her bones. She winced as a sharp twinge shot through her shoulder, a reminder of the gunshot wound that still throbbed with dull pain.

Sherlock moved around the cozy cottage with purposeful efficiency, his tall frame a silhouette against the flickering flames. He seemed to glide effortlessly, his movements graceful yet precise, as he tended to the makeshift medical supplies scattered on the small wooden table nearby.

"Try to relax, darling," Sherlock's voice, calm and reassuring, broke through the hazy fog of pain clouding her mind. She turned her head to look at him, taking in the sharp angles of his face illuminated by the soft glow of the fire. His piercing eyes held a depth of concern that stirred something within her, a sense of safety she hadn't felt in what seemed like an eternity.

"I'll take care of you," he continued, his voice a soothing balm to her frayed nerves. "You're safe here."

Safe. The word echoed in her mind, a fleeting promise of respite from the relentless pursuit of danger that had become her reality. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to sink deeper into the warmth of the cottage, into the safety of Sherlock's presence.

The minutes ticked by in a hazy blur as Sherlock worked methodically, his hands gentle yet sure as he tended to her wound. She could feel the sting of antiseptic on her skin, the firm pressure of bandages being wrapped around her shoulder, anchoring her to the present moment.

As Sherlock finished his ministrations, he stepped back to survey his handiwork, a small furrow of concentration marring his brow. She watched him through half-lidded eyes, the lines of tension easing from her face as she allowed herself to surrender to the tranquility of the moment.

"You should rest," Sherlock said softly, his voice a gentle reminder of the fragility of their sanctuary. "I'll keep watch."

She nodded wordlessly, her eyelids growing heavy with fatigue. She tried to let herself drift off into sleep, but she failed to. The pain in her shoulder was too prominently present, and she turned her head to look at Sherlock. He was reading a book, his prominent saphire like eyes scanning over the pages in front of him. "Go to sleep, Lauraine." Sherlock said, without looking up from his book.

"I can''t. I'm hurting."

She looked over at Sherlock and he looked over at her, closing his book but keeping his finger in it to keep track of where he was. He sighed as she looked at him with puppy eyes. "You want to go to bed already?" He asked. She looked over to the grandfather clock up on the wall, 7 o'clock, almos five hours early of their normal bedtime. she took a moment to consider, and then turned to Sherlock again. "Yeah." She sighed, trying to sit up but falling back because of the pain that shot through her shoulder. 

Sherlock lifted from his royal blue chair and placed down his book on the coffee table that stood between the two of them. "Hold on, keep seated." he said as he came over to her. When he reached her he towered over her and shoved one of his hands under her popliteals, and the other behind her back. Just then she realised what he was about to do.

"Sherlock, don't you dare!"

Sherlock just smirked. "What are you going to do? Hit me in the shoulder?" He scoffed, supressing a chuckle. And then he pulled up.

"Sherlock!" She was already off the sofa. 

"Put me down!"

He did not pay attention to her yelling the kicking of her legs, he just effortlessly carried her over to the bedroom. "Sherlock William Scott Holmes, Put. Me. Down." He just smiled down at her, and then carefully put her down on the bed covered in dark green sheets. "If it weren't for your injury, I'd have dropped you." He stated, a smirk on his lips.