The Jumper

In which John's jumper gets ruined, and Sherlock's apology somehow fails to make anything better. Sherlock whump. John Angst.

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"I'm bleeding on you."

"Yes. Yes, you are." Agreed John.

"This was your second favourite jumper."

"Yes."

"I've ruined it. With my blood. Even that drycleaner that Mycroft uses, the one that also caters to several members of the royal family, can't save it now. It is beyond salvaging."

"Right." Said John. He couldn't give a toss about his jumper. His eyes were blurring something dreadful at the thought of losing something that was most certainly not his jumper. He couldn't rub at them though, not with Sherlock hanging off him like an overgrown child. He had his arm slung over John's shoulders, and they were staggering along the street like two drunkards.

"You don't seem to mind." Sherlock's voice was starting to slur now, and John tried to quicken the pace but the detective's longer legs weren't cooperating. He was starting to resemble a limp piece of pale spaghetti. Covered in tomato sauce.

"No," said John, and his voice was tight as they stumbled along. "I don't mind."

Sherlock's head suddenly swung to look at him then, nearly toppling them both over as he squinted blearily up into John's face with his pale eyes. They were so close that their noses could have touched. Sherlock looked as though he were trying to dissect him, a small frown of confusion quirked at his pale brow as he failed to work out the emotions harrowing John's face.

"No." The detective noted, calmly. Defiantly. "You do mind." And they resumed their pace.

"I mind that you're bleeding in the first place, you idiot."

Sherlock was almost bent double, leaning on John completely now. They must look ridiculous, a tall spindly man being basically dragged along by someone a good head shorter than him. For once, John was glad of Sherlock's aversion to all things food related; it meant that he wasn't all that heavy despite his height.

Though, he was fast becoming a dead weight. They were miles away from civilisation. He'd given Mycroft the details in a garbled phone call.

The insufferable man had promised he would be there, hadn't even chastised his brother in his haste. They had royally fucked up, this whole case had been... and now Sherlock… John screwed his eyes up, clenching his teeth together and letting out a hissing sigh of unnameable emotion.

Where the bloody hell was Mycroft? He wouldn't put it past the man to have injected some sort of tracking device into the pair of them, or even just on John, as Sherlock would have realised what his brother had done immediately and gouged the device out without a second thought.

"Think," said Sherlock, his words smearing together, clumsy and inelegant, "think, 'm going to fall 'ver. Little bit. On the ground."

"No, no you're okay. I've got you. We just need to make it a few more steps…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mycroft". He managed. "He'll find us, John. You w'rry too much. You're chipped, he knows where we are."

John bloody knew it, he was starting to think that everyone viewed him as Sherlock's sodding pet. Maybe it was the truth after all, and he was the one in denial.

"You're not a pet John." Came the low murmured baritone, as the detective's head settled on his shoulder. "Though you are loyal… and you like sitting by the fire and fetching me my papers… and you're… rather soft..."

The ramblings might have been endearing at another time, but John knew them for what they were.

"You've lost too much blood." John deduced, trying not to panic and failing spectacularly. He didn't want to look at his beige jumper, afraid of the evidence he would find. The gore of his best friend's life blood forever stained on the wool, a drying sticky claret. Sherlock's shirt was black, and was oddly sodden and dark in the half light, sticking to his chest like a wetsuit. He tried to stop the bleeding, had ripped up his undershirt into makeshift bandages. But they had soaked through in matter of minutes, the wound was much too severe and nothing short of stitches would hold the bloody man together. John might even have risked cauterising the gaping hole in his friend's side if they had had anything at hand. "We have to keep moving until we find someone. I won't leave you either, and I can't carry you because you're too bloody tall, so don't even think about it. Mycroft isn't here and we can't wait around, Sherlock… you don't have time."

He had debated leaving him, for all of three guilt-ridden seconds, because they needed help and he was faster on his own. But for all John knew, by the time he managed to find someone and make his way back the detective might have already… and he'd be alone, and… Shit, they just needed to get to a town, a village, a house in the middle of nowhere – anywhere.

"I'd be annoyed," mumbled Sherlock, absently, "if you were bleeding on my second favourite jumper."

John took a moment to emerge from his turbulent worries to realise what the delirious detective was waffling on about. "Well," Join pointed out, after a moment, "I'm not the one bleeding, am I? And you don't have a second favourite jumper."

"Mmm." Sherlock contemplated. "That is true. But the point still stands. I'll buy you a new one. Or Mycroffft will, f'I don't survive. And while a new jumper won't entirely make up for the loss of myself in your sad little life -"

"You're not going to die, Sherlock. Shut up."

"Is a jumper enough of a parting gift? I've never been very good at this sentimental nonsense."

"No, Sherlock. I don't want a new jumper."

"I've never liked your jumper anyway. I'm glad I've spilled -" he furrowed his brow, staring intently at the growing stain there, and then at himself, hand flapping about idly, bloodied and pale as the moon above them, "- at least two pints, possibly three judging from the stain and my increasing light-headedness. But if there was a jumper I would rather bleed on, it would be yours, John… Your jumper. Only."

"You're awfully talkative for someone so lightheaded." The words were almost strangled.

"My tongue feels funny. And my ear. I think I'm going to sit down now."

"What? Sherlock -!"

A thump. Sherlock's knees collapsed and he took down the doctor with him. They fell in a tumble of heavy limbs.

"Sherlock – you all right? Are you -"

"I gave you ample warning, John. Your jumper is even more hideous at his angle. Do get it out of my face."

"It's your face that's in my jumper, actually." John managed to say, trying to lift Sherlock from where he had planted his head straight in John's chest. He had him by the shoulders, but the man's damn curly hair was getting in the way of his vision.

"Oh, is it?" Sherlock's voice was muffled as he murmured into the damp wool of John's chest.

When he finally managed to lift his head, with John's help, his cheek and nose were smeared with red. John's eyes started to water again, and he rubbed them this time, angrily. It was all so stupid.

"Okay, fine. Great. Let's just sit here shall we? Bloody brilliant idea."

"That was my idea," Sherlock pointed out sulkily. "Mine."

"Yes and it's a sodding awful one."

"Well, why did you steal it then? Oh, I see. You're… annoyed with me. I told you, I'm sorry about your jumper."

"I don't care about the fucking jumper Sherlock! I care about you!"

"Don't worry, John," said Sherlock softly, "I'll buy you a new one."

The man was impossible.

"I might lean on you. You're jumper's already… beyond hope… so it shouldn't be too much of an inconvenience."

John didn't find it an inconvenience at all. His jumper was drying now but his face was wet and he didn't have the heart to stop himself from crying anymore. The detective was becoming increasingly heavier.

"… John."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I'm glad it's your jumper."

A soft humourless laugh. "You've said that."

"I mean… I'm glad it's your jumper… I'm bleeding on, and not someone else's… not someone else… Mycroft's… suit for instance… though his face would be priceless, he would be annoyed with me for being so messy… in the end..."

And John thought he knew what his friend was trying to say, and it broke his heart.

"John…?"

And despite everything, he was glad it was his jumper too. He said as much, through a half-sob half-chuckle, and a rare genuine smile graced the detective's lips and lit up those pale eyes before they closed.

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