Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

Author´s notes: If you don´t like to read about homosexual love, this might not be the right thing for you. There´s no smut nor anything graphic.

Furthermore I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes.

More notes at the end.

Enjoy!

o o o

A Reassessment of Sorts

o o o

Part 1: Afghanistan or Iraq

o o o

Later on, John can´t recall how exactly it has happened. He and Sherlock were running; Sherlock, pursuing a lead, had suddenly taken off and John inevitably followed him, despite not knowing where they were headed or why it had to be so fast.

The ground was slippery for it was December, and John vaguely remembers that it was difficult to keep his footing while rounding corners. And then he somehow had lost control, and there was pain, made even worse by the cold. He seemed to be lying and his head hurt. He couldn´t move because the world was spinning too much, and he felt nauseous.

Blindly, he groped around for something, anything to hold on to. He was close to panicking because he seemed alone in the freezing, revolving gloom of the alley, but then his hand met resistance: someone was there with him. John could feel woollen cloth and also hands, hands which were frantically touching- caressing his face with trembling fingers. And then there was a voice: "John!"

He knew that deep baritone, and it sent a pleasant shiver down his spine. The hands wouldn´t leave his skin and the voice kept talking to him, but it was entirely too much effort to keep concentrating on them, so John let go, allowing himself to slip into darkness.

o

Sherlock sits in the waiting room, staring down on his shoes. He shouldn´t have been so rash. If he hadn´t let his ego take over like that, John would be fine now.

He always does this, doesn´t he? It´s what his job requires, and he usually is right about his hunches. But tonight was different, if he is honest with himself. He has been extremely bored the last few days, didn´t know what to do with his time until Lestrade called in the late afternoon, and John and he have been investigating all night. The case admittedly was a little disappointing, yet better than nothing.

So Sherlock tried to get the most fun out of it- running through dark side streets, negotiating his way through London by the map in his head instead of riding in a cab, just like on the first case John and he had together.

In hindsight, it´s been stupid of him. Unlike the case with the pink lady, tonight there hadn´t even been a chase which would have justified the sprint. Sherlock just felt like doing it, hadn´t particularly considered John´s safety, or his own for that matter, despite the slippery ground.

Stupid. John is his friend, and for reasons Sherlock can´t quite comprehend himself, his safety is becoming increasingly important to the detective. He sometimes forgets, though. John is after all capable of looking after himself, much better so than Sherlock, who tends to neglect his needs. But John is also more vulnerable because he feels, and he has susceptibilities.

Sherlock has noticed that recently, the limp has been back. Only a little and probably nothing to worry about, but it means that John is concerned about something, something which affects his subconscious enough to bring back this psychosomatic expression of stress. Sherlock doesn´t know whether John himself has noticed it; he hasn´t said anything about it, and he seems his usual self.

Yet there were hints, if ever so subtle, which have Sherlock wondering: for example, whenever his sister called lately, John casually wandered out of the room so as not to be overheard. He broke a mug while drying the dishes on the previous day, a mug which had long been dry but which John kept rubbing with the tea towel so forcefully that it finally gave in.

And he´s repeatedly been up in the night, which is also unusual.

Something is bothering him, and Sherlock, knowing about the limp, should probably have considered that John might be a little too unsteady on his feet to have him running around in this weather.

He sighs inaudibly, unaware that he has been mulling the issue over for as long as he has been sitting here instead of thinking about the case. He has only barely remembered to call Lestrade and inform him of the latest development and where to look for more proof, then he has switched off his phone.

He can still feel the panic when, upon realizing that John was no longer behind him, he had run back and found his friend on the ground, face full of blood and obviously disoriented. He hadn´t recognized Sherlock, hadn´t responded to his questions, and had soon lost consciousness. He must have slipped and hit his head hard, Sherlock thinks, and shudders. He has seen John with a head injury before, but that had been minor in comparison to this one.

This one looked bad, a gash right underneath the hairline above his forehead, and even though Sherlock knew that wounds on the head bled rather heavily, he had been appalled to see John like that. It had however scared him most that John hadn´t been responsive.

Sherlock´s stomach drops unpleasantly at the prospect that John might have sustained any damage to the brain, or fractured his skull. The rational part of his mind tells him not to be ridiculous, that it most likely is a concussion, but the other part, the one which he can´t name because it can´t possibly be influenced by emotions, insists that it might be much worse and that he, Sherlock, is to blame.

Sherlock hugs himself and bends forward, feeling cold of a sudden. Seeing John like that, lying helplessly on the cold ground, all his strength invisible behind the blood and the drama of his still figure, has made Sherlock realize that he doesn´t think he can live without the doctor. That he has come to relying on John being there in his life, not only to buy milk and keep Sherlock grounded to some extent, but also because he is a steady and reassuring presence in an otherwise unpredictable and changing world.

Sherlock needs constancy to be able to cope with what is thrown at him. And there is something else, something which has to do with that undefined part of him which seem to bring out his soft side (the one he previously denied that existed at all): John is amazing. The world seems a better place when he smiles, and Sherlock, for some incomprehensible reason, feels proud when John smiles because of him. Which of course is completely irrational, but Sherlock can´t deny that it is of increasing importance to him what John thinks about him.

o

He jumps when he feels a hand on his shoulder: it´s a nurse, coming to tell him that Mr Watson has been treated, is awake and has asked for him. It´s a mere concussion but he is being kept overnight for observation. Another rush of adrenaline runs through Sherlock, this time out of relief. On shaky legs he follows the nurse to John´s room.

He´s alone in it, a considerable blessing. The nurse nods at Sherlock, encouraging him to go in; he looks at her irritably, then enters.

John lies nearly flat on his back, a large white bandage on his head. Sherlock approaches the bed with two large strides: "John."

The doctor opens his eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth even before that: "Sherlock," he murmurs, sounding tired. "You all right?"

Sherlock ignores the question because he needs a moment to take him in: all traces of blood have been vanished. John looks very pale and his eyes are a little unfocused. He still looks lovely. Sherlock tentatively searches for his hand and wraps his long fingers around it. They are cold, he only now realizes that he´s lost his gloves. Which is not important, because John´s going to be all right and there are things Sherlock needs to say.

"I´m sorry."

John raises one eyebrow, then winces a little: "Ow... What for?"

"For not thinking."

"Maybe it´s the drugs they´ve given me," John mutters, "but it´s not possible that you´re not thinking. So I must have misheard."

Sherlock runs his free hand through his curls in agitation: "No, no! I mean, I didn´t think! I put you in unnecessary danger!"

"No news there."

"You don´t understand. I put you in danger by letting you come along even though I knew about your leg."

"My leg. Wait- letting me come along?"

"And now you´re injured because I didn´t manage to... to keep you safe."

"Making me sound like a damsel in distress." Despite being drugged, John does his best to follow. "Letting me come along?"

Sherlock however has run out of words and now visibly deflates: "I´m so sorry."

"Can we talk about this tomorrow?" John asks, "after I´ve slept some."

"Yes, of course." Sherlock gently squeezes his hand and John thinks it feels good.

"You sleep too," he instructs, a little slurred, while his eyes are already closing.

Sherlock has no intention of leaving, however, despite his own exhaustion which is bearing down on him now that the adrenaline has worn off. He stays exactly where he is until he is sure that John is asleep, then settles down in the chair next to the bed.

When the night nurse comes in a while later to check on her patient, Sherlock has dozed off as well.

On the following morning, John looks less pale. He´s allowed to go home, provided that he immediately lies down again and has someone looking after him. Sherlock can tell that the responsible doctor is lenient towards John because he´s a colleague. He´s also curious about the nature of their relationship, judging from the way he looks from John to Sherlock and back, stressing that John is going to need monitoring all around the clock during the next few days, to which Sherlock nods and gives him his most imperious look: "I´ll take care of him, don´t you worry," he says, and John feels another rather pleasant shiver running down his spine.

During the night, the nurse has roused him a few times in order to check whether he was still lucid and didn´t suffer any complications. He has also been woken a few times by Sherlock, who didn´t seem to trust the nurse´s competence and preferred to do his own checking.

Apart from that, he has slept well; in the morning, it took him a moment to recall where he was and why, but after it had come back to him, he wasn´t really surprised to see that Sherlock had stayed with him and apparently even slept a little. He looks tousled now, his eyes are bloodshot.

John slowly sits up on the bed; despite the painkillers, he can feel the wound throbbing dully at this, and a fleeting sense of dizziness assails him. But Sherlock is there, providing bodily support.

"Are you sure you are ready to leave?" he asks, and John, taking a deep breath, can only just keep himself from nodding: "Yes," he breathes, leaning against his friend for a moment,"I am. I want to go home."

Sherlock, sensing that John needs a minute, stays perfectly still. He is not used to the feeling of another warm body against his own, but the solid weight is not uncomfortable, so he accepts it.

Afterwards, he fetches John´s clothes from the wardrobe; there´s blood on the pullover and the jacket, but it will do for the ride back to Baker Street. John´s movements are slow and he´s grateful that Sherlock is there to help; it feels much less awkward to have him assisting John to dress than expected, and he´s surprisingly patient, guiding John´s arms into his shirt when he fumbles around for the sleeves, and making sure that his pullover doesn´t touch the bandage as John pulls it over his head. He also helps him with his socks and boots, as John can´t bend down.

When he´s fully dressed, John puts a shaky hand on Sherlock´s arm: "Thank you," he says, a little out of breath, "that´s better."

o

A black limousine is waiting outside. Sherlock looks at John and raises one eyebrow: "I didn´t tell him."

"No, ´s okay." John actually doesn´t mind Mycroft´s interfering for once; he wants to get home as quickly as possible, and a private car is admittedly much more comfortable than a cab and possibly putting up with the cabby´s questions about his bandage.

Sherlock is relieved to find that the car is empty; no sibling or personal assistant to contend with.

After fastening his seatbelt, John leans back and closes his eyes; the act of getting dressed and into the car, in combination with being woken up in regular intervals, has tired him considerably.

"You can have my room," Sherlock says unexpectedly. "It´s warmer and there are no stairs between you and the bathroom."

John opens one eye and peers over at him: "Stop doing that."

Sherlock looks nonplussed: "I´m not doing anything. I´m just being practical."

John hums: "No, you are feeling guilty. I do recall that you were apologizing. Which, by the way, needs some working over."

"Why? I did say I was sorry."

"Duly noted. And I´m sure it hurt. But your reasoning lacked a certain je-ne-sais-quoi."

Sherlock huffs: "I meant it."

"I know." John closes his eye again, looking suspiciously as though he is struggling to hide a grin.

Indignantly, Sherlock further turns up his collar, managing not to say idiot.

o

"You know, I think I am going to take you up on your offer," John says ten minutes later when they are climbing the stairs up to their flat. "One flight of stairs is enough."

Right then, the door downstairs opens and Mrs Hudson appears: "My poor dear," she exclaims when she sees John, "are you feeling better?"

Sherlock has called her and told her what has transpired.

"I will be, Mrs Hudson," the doctor replies, "thanks."

She follows them up the stairs and into the flat: "I´ll go make some tea."

While Mrs Hudson is busying herself in the kitchen, Sherlock leads John, who feels a little shaky again, to his bedroom.

"I can quickly get new sheets," he offers, but John waves it off: "No need. I think I´ll drop where I stand. You never sleep here anyway."

"Funny. Anyway, shoes off first. And you need pyjamas."

"Yes, sir."

"Whatever they gave you, it´s apparently brought out your more hilarious side." Sherlock remarks as he helps John remove his shoes and his bloody clothes.

"You´d think so, wouldn´t you," John shoots back, but Sherlock can see that he´s really depleted now.

"I´ll go get your pyjamas."

John eases himself onto the quilt, glad to get off his feet. Sherlock´s room, as opposed to the rest of the flat, is always tidy, just like his appearance. The doctor runs his fingers over the sheet, savouring the fine cotton. He wonders why Sherlock so rarely sleeps in here, for the room is cosy and the bed seems inviting.

Looking around with measured movements, he thinks of Sherlock lying in this very place and feels how his throat suddenly constricts. A vague sense of something he can´t label crosses his mind- loss? Regret? Want? He can´t say, and it startles him. In the state he is in, desirous thoughts about your flatmate aka friend are even less easy to deal with, and apparently, harder to subpress.

He ponders the word desire because it doesn´t nearly express what he feels on the rare occasions that he can´t avoid thinking about the topic of Sherlock. Or what he feels in Sherlock´s presence if he can´t prevent being honest with himself any longer, for example when being drunk. Which is why he has been extremely careful during pub crawls with Mike Stamford lately. He may not be able to hide the nature of his feelings when he´s too sloshed, or even try to make a move. Any move however could be fatal, as he is very much aware.

- Don´t be stupid, he thus tells his tired, aching self and not for the first time, Sherlock is not interested, and you better not be either. You´ll be best off if it´s left at that.

- Right. That´s why you´re lying in his bed now instead of refusing the offer.

He sighs: Goes to show how messed up you are, Watson. Pathetic, really.

- Can you really call it pathetic if you listen to your heart?

- Depends on how much you´re putting at risk.

o

Half an hour later, John is comfortably settled in, had a cup of tea and some cake specially made for the occasion by Mrs Hudson and is about to doze off.

Sherlock sits on the edge of the mattress: "You´re looking better."

"I´m feeling better," John mumbles. "Being at home and all..." He opens his eyes once more, looking at Sherlock drowsily: "Sherlock- how many times do I have to tell you that I´m not running after you," he murmurs, "but that I´m running with you?"

Sherlock´s heart is beating faster again. "So long as you are with me," he says quietly. And John, with an exquisite little jolt of his stomach, thinks that the risk might not be quite as high as he has thought.

John sleeps for most of the day. Sherlock has been sitting with him for a while until he got bored. He´s tired, but he doesn´t want to risk falling asleep yet. He needs to check on John, who grumpily answers Sherlock´s test questions every time he is being woken: "Which year is it?"

"2012."

"What´s your middle name?"

"Hamish."

"Who´s the Prime Minister?"

"Mycroft."

"Really?"

"No. Go look it up. Now lemme sleep."

o

Mrs Hudson comes by again in the early evening; Sherlock is sitting with John, looking considerably knackered.

"Why don´t you go and rest for a bit, dear?" their landlady asks. "I can look in on him for a while."

Sherlock complies, for he feels like he´s going to keel over any moment now. When Mrs Hudson, after checking on John, sneaks into the living room an hour later, she finds Sherlock curled up on the sofa, apparently oblivious to the world. Tutting, the old lady takes the blanket from John´s armchair: "Going to catch cold like that," she mutters and spreads it over him.

"Won´t."

She´s startled for only a second: "Oh, I´m sorry, I didn´t mean to wake you up-"

"You didn´t," he mutters, pulling the blanket tight around his thin frame, "thank you."

Mrs Hudson pats his shoulder: "Not at all, dear."

Sherlock has been drifting in and out sleep, too agitated to fully relax, yet too tired to stay awake. He´s grateful for Mrs Hudson´s help and he knows John won´t mind; he does like to spend time with their landlady, after all, and they share a love of certain TV shows. He can hear her moving about in the living room, trying not to make any noise.

The detective burrows deeper into his nest; John´s scent is lingering in the blanket, which is strangely comforting. He shouldn´t allow himself the luxury of such thoughts, for it is too distracting from other things. But if he is completely honest with himself he has to admit that other things don´t seem more important than John any longer, not even the work.

Sherlock thinks he should be disturbed by this, and he still needs to keep his brain occupied at all times, yet for some reason, the fact remains that he´s content with occupying it with John and John-related issues. Such as what to get the doctor for Christmas, or how really appealing John looks when he is concentrating on something and doesn´t notice that he´s being watched. Sherlock closes his eyes again, recalling the day he and John have met. That was how it all began, Afghanistan or Iraq...

o

Mrs Hudson lights a fire in the fireplace and kindles it so the room warms up quickly, then she sits down in one of the armchairs. Just like today her hip plays up from time to time, usually when the weather is about to change, and it seems as though they might get a white Christmas.

Sherlock wakes from another nap around midnight; Mrs Hudson has fallen asleep in the armchair, a small bird of a woman. Even her light snoring sounds like chirping. He hesitates, then decides to wake her, gently shaking her arm: "Mrs Hudson."

She blinks, clearly disorientated at first: "Wha- oh. Sherlock..."

"It´s late," he says, "you should go to bed."

"Oh dear, did I fall asleep? Must have been my herbal soother," she mutters, taking Sherlock´s offered hand to get up. "Good night, dear."

"Good night."

Sherlock watches her leave, then pads to his bedroom.

"John. John."

"Hrmph."

"John."

"Wassup."

"When´s my birthday?"

John groans:"God, when will this end?"

"When´s my birthday?" Sherlock asks again, more insistently.

"January 6th."

"When´s your birthday?"

"Really, Sherlock? Don´t you have any better ideas?"

"Fine."

"That´s exactly what I am, and I want to sleep. Don´t wake me again."

"It´s for your own good."

"No, sleep´s for my own good. Uninterrupted sleep!"

"But I have to make sure-"

"No, you don´t. It´s fine. I am not suffering from any side effects, as you can deduce by my ability to talk to you lucidly despite being woken from sweet slumber all the time, and I feel neither nauseous nor dizzy, am not having any problems with my motor coordination nor any seizures. Which would be clear indicators if my condition had deteriorated. Happy?"

"No." Sherlock crosses his arms. "That doesn´t prove anything."

"What? Why not? And since when are you the doctor?"

I´m not. But I´ve seen you lying there in the alley and it was terrible. I´ve seen you lying there and felt like someone had ripped out my heart because for an awful moment I thought you were dead. I know it´s irrational, but when it comes to you, I can´t seem to think rational any longer. And if keeping you safe means getting on your nerves, well- get used to it.

Sherlock doesn´t say all this, however. He just looks at John in the semi-dark while those words are echoing around in his head, and he is rather confused.

"Oh, I finally seem to have found the Sherlock Holmes mute button." John yawns and gingerly turns on his side: "Go lie down, Sherlock. I´ll be fine."

"Yes," Sherlock says, in a daze. "Okay."

He doesn´t lie down though, but begins pacing around the living room. He stares longingly at his violin but manages to refrain from playing on it; he can feel the music in his body. In the end, he contents himself with holding it, cradling it close to his body, listening to melodies which aren´t really there, but which he can hear nevertheless.

It´s already getting light outside when he sinks onto the sofa and wraps himself in the blanket which is still lying on it, with the lingering scent of John in it. John who is currently recuperating in Sherlock´s bed, sleeping.

For some reason, the thought has an immensely calming effect on Sherlock, and he finally closes his eyes.

o o o

TBC

o o o

Thank you for reading! I began this story as a chapter of All the Songs Make Sense, but it quickly got rather long, so I decided to post it in its own right. The second part is finished and will be up before Christmas, a little treat for the Advent season.

For the Cabin Pressure fans among you: you might have recognized one thing or other- despite not having been drawn in the ticket lottery for the recordings (still in denial about it), I included some borrowed lines. They originally do belong to John Finnemore...

Feedback is appreciated!