The nurse left him slightly speechless as she took back her clipboard. She gave him a wry grin and said, "Go get him, tiger."
John blushed just slightly, but the nurse did not see, as she was already halfway down the hall.
Taking a deep breath, John walked back in, finding Sherlock's inquisitive state glued onto his every move. "What was that about?"
"Surprised you haven't figured it out yourself," John mumbled, for some reason feeling slightly peeved. Damn it, how could he have not figured this out before?
"Still drowsy from the morphine," he replied, rubbing mindlessly at his closed stab wound and letting out a small grunt of discomfort.
"I thought it was minor," John said, suddenly flash backing to that night. He remembered thinking how everything was going to be okay, how it hadn't gotten to anything major.
When he'd finally been clear minded enough, after Sherlock's surgery, he'd had time to inspect the wound. It was right in between his ribs, and the criminal had slanted his blade just so that it would almost surely reach his heart.
You took some of the pain away, the nurse had said.
"John-"
"I suppose you want to see what's on my wrist," John said quietly, voice nearly cracking.
Sherlock blinked. "Yes," he responded, and it seemed like he was almost breathless.
Wordlessly, John uncuffed the buttons on his sleeves and drew it back, letting Sherlock stare.
The look on Sherlock's face was unreadable. John had never seen such an emotion displayed so proudly on his flat mate's face. It was something like relief, but maybe even more...
"You can't blame me for not wanting to tell you," John said. "I was scared."
Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again. "I never told you my full name?" he asked, and John swore he could see something swimming in the his friend's (more than a friend?) eyes.
"Never."
"Never," Sherlock repeated, but it wasn't a question.
John was closer now, as he said it again and again, "Never, never, never."
Sherlock looked dumbfounded, and his cheeks were just slightly flushed, like pink roses just blooming in the beginning of spring. "You saved my life," he whispered. "John, you-"
John cut him off with a kiss, just a brushing against his lips at first, as if making sure Sherlock would be okay with it. Sherlock answered this question by pressing his lips into John's, letting out a sigh.
John wrapped his arms carefully around Sherlock's slender frame, almost gathering him up like he was a small child. He ran his hands through Sherlock's soft black curls, breaking off their kiss so he could run feverish kisses down Sherlock's cheeks and his neck.
"Idiot," Sherlock murmured. John blearily glanced at him.
"What?"
"Me. I've been a blind idiot." There was something new in Sherlock's eyes, something John thought brightened them exponentially.
"You have," John said, nodding. "But I have, too."
Sherlock seemed to struggle for words, so John planted a gentle kiss on his forehead instead.