Damaged

Chapter 6

John pulled down Sherlock’s head to kiss him on the forehead. Seeing that Sherlock looked exhausted, he put his arm around the waist of his consulting detective. He led Sherlock up the stairs and into John’s bedroom. There, he lay him down on the bed. “Do you want a change of clothes?” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock fell onto the bed in a heap with John following. “Are you?” he whispered taking John’s soft hand.

“Probably,” John replied quietly. “But, I can wait a little longer if you want.” He took a piece of Sherlock’s hair and started playing with it.

“I might fall asleep though,” he replied, yawning. “Could you get me a pair of clothes?” he asked, curling up onto John’s lap.

“Sure,” John said with a small grin. He slowly got up and went into Sherlock’s room. He stood and stared at the battleground that had remained untouched since Sherlock went into the hospital. He glanced over all of the destruction. How could Sherlock bring himself to do this? John’s insides cried, but he moved swiftly over to the bed and pulled out a new shirt and pair of pants out of the pile that had been haphazardly thrown about the room. He quickly got out and closed the door, hoping to make it help him forget about what was behind it. He entered his bedroom quietly to find Sherlock half-asleep. He smiled and put the clothes on the end of the bed. He then walked over to his dresser, pulled out a new pair of boxers and then opened another drawer and pulled out some sweatpants. He went into the bathroom to get changed and cleaned up a little. He pulled off his sweaty shirt and threw it into the laundry basket. He then proceeded to take off his trousers and boxers. As he took off his boxers, he looked at the mess he made. He smirked and whispered to himself, “Damn you, Sherlock.” He threw them into the laundry basket, took a towel and wiped up around his member, pulled on his clean pair of boxers, and then his sweatpants. He didn’t bother to put on a shirt, because he just didn’t want to. He walked back over to his bedroom, and climbed into bed next to Sherlock. He practically fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Sherlock heard John’s rustling and as he opened his eye not more than a centimeter to see John stark naked in the middle of the room. He blushed as he watched John so elegantly clean himself and couldn't help but whimpered softly at the sight. He quickly shut his eye when John turned around and flopped on the bed carelessly. As soon as he did, Sherlock proceed to get up to change as well wincing as his wounds pulled on his healing flesh. He grabbed the clothes John so kindly picked out for him and sneaked out into the hall to change. He closed the door gently behind him so that he would not wake his John. Once in the hall he got changed quickly, closing his eyes tightly so that he would not have to see his words of truth. He was a coward he knew, for not even being able to see his own fault, for leaving John when he needed them most, for not being able to tell John he loved him back. After getting his new fresh set of clothing on, he stealth fully waltzed back into the room and slide into his side of the bed, sighing in content as the warmth of both the cotton and John encased him.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock when he laid back down on the bed. His consulting detective, so torn and tired. John hummed a soft lullaby into Sherlock's curls. He slowly closed his eyes and kissed Sherlock's forehead. Then he whispered, "My sweet Sherlock." He sighed and circled one of his fingers on the nape of Sherlock's neck. "My precious Sherlock."

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Sherlock once settled in comfortably, which was almost instantaneous, as John cradled him in into the land of the sleeping. He dreamed of John and himself around the flat, laughing and giggling high after a good case, or them together in one another's arms curled up on the couch watching crap telly. He felt himself sigh out of content as they were very pleasant dreams indeed.