In which healing takes place. The five times Sherlock needs John, and the one where John needs him.

I do like a good 5+1 - this one is a little soppy though...

1.

The first time is was essential.

Sherlock was bleeding and needed medical attention. John was a doctor. His doctor.

"This really warrants a trip to the hospital, Sherlock."

"Nonsense. What is the point of living with a medical professional if he can't make himself useful once in a while?"

John's hands were gentle as he examined the split skin of his forehead. His swab caught the trickle of blood just as it threatened to breach the dark line of hair and drip over the icy blue depth beneath.

"Might get away with butterflies." John mumbled to himself, the breath of his fingers stroking the side of the wound together.

Sherlock was in another place entirely, his thoughts tumbling through darkness. John's words penetrated dully, sounding poetic to Sherlock's internal chaos.

The pain was constant as the cut was sealed, but Sherlock swept it aside, shielding himself inside memories, flicking through images; the case, the chase, the conclusion, all finally culminating in the metal stairs rising to meet his face.

"I got him, John, I know where he is. Pass me my phone, I need to tell Lestrade." He had surfaced in order to communicate and the pain was startlingly sharp. "Ow!"

John smothered his chuckle, "I'm not finished yet. Keep still. We'll sort that out after."

"My rib feels a little broken too," he mumbled, fighting to remain stationary as the emerging discomfort begged him to writhe.

"Christ." The word was singular, yet spoke volumes. John revealed everything about himself when he spoke. It was his silence that Sherlock loathed.

2.

The second time it was needed, but not quite essential. Sherlock could quite easily have sorted it out himself. But he wanted John. His tender touches and healing hands.

"John!" He called, masking his desperation with frustration.

"Busy."

No he wasn't. He was reading a medical journal. Tedious at the least, deathly boring at most.

"I've set myself on fire."

"Fuck!" And he was there in a second, smothering flames with a tea-towel and yanking Sherlock over to the kitchen sink, "You could have at least put it out!"

"It was most interesting. The pale flames licking across skin, tasting without consuming. Quite... fascinating."

John clearly did not agree. The cold water was relieving to his hand, the pain firing up at first, but slowly cooling his fingers and bringing numbness. John did not even enquire as to the purpose of the experiment, whether the original intention was to burn himself (which, of course, it was not). He did not scold, or lecture; he just cared. That was what he did.

3.

The third time was just whimsy. They both knew he was and would be fine. But when Sherlock asked for help, John gave. As he always did.

He had trodden barefoot on a fragment of glass. A forgotten shard from a broken experiment. It could have been test tube, bottle, beaker, slide; who cared, it was in the sole of his left foot. He could probably deal with it using only a tissue and a plaster; he doubted gauze and tape would be required. But he didn't want to deal with it at all.

His friend was tired, so his tone was gentle and enquiring, "John."

"Sherlock." Frustrated sigh. "It's been a long day, I've worked hard. I might even skip supper and go straight to bed. I'm not in the mood. I hear the 'help me do something you don't want to do' tone in your voice. You have a five word allowance to convince me, and then I'm tuning you out."

"Glass. Blood. Pain. Doctor... Please?"

John sighed. They were the right words. He plodded into the kitchen, took in the scene, pulled the first aid kit from the cupboard to his right and gave in. "Sit down."

Sherlock sat. He stretched his pyjama-clad leg across the empty chair beside him and watched John.

"What was in the glass? Anything I should be concerned about?"

"Nope." Well, the truth was he wasn't sure, but he didn't recall boiling up any toxic substances in the last couple of days.

John's capable fingers dealt easily with the injury; it was slight. He tweezed out the glass, cleaned the gash, joined the sides lightly together and pressed a generously large plaster over it. All entirely as expected. Until he leant forward and pressed his lips lightly over the sterile fabric. That was completely unexpected.

"You could have done that yourself. Quite easily."

"Not like you."

John smiled. It was tired and small. But it was there."Goodnight Sherlock." And then he was gone.

"Thank you." They weren't words that came to him easily for anyone other than John.

4.

The fourth time was just annoying. A case file handed to him that morning by Lestrade. The contents were innocuous enough – missing husband, suspicious note. The paper on the other hand; a freshly printed sheet of white 80gsm, barely fingered egdes, sliced through a soft tip on Sherlock's bowing hand. If it had been the other it would not have penetrated the calloused fingertip, but his right hand was more tender, especially the side of his middle digit, and the fresh edge sheared through effortlessly, not even causing enough friction to sting.

"Oh." He only noticed because of the drip of blood on the virgin white margin. That annoyed him; he liked to notice. His life's work depended on noticing, he spent all his time doing it. Only to be foiled by a paper cut.

John was watching the rugby, a manly sport, of course. John only watched manly things (unless you counted the odd episode of Buffy). He took Sherlock's outstretched hand wordlessly, his gaze never leaving the screen.

The hot tongue was a surprise and Sherlock's head jerked round at the wet touch. He had expected a tissue compress and an insincere 'there there'. Something equally hot unfurled in his abdomen as John licked the drop of fluid welling at the cut, tasting the iron on his tongue and then fastened his lips around the end of the long finger. His attention apparently still riveted to the television, he sucked lightly, soothing and exciting at the same time.

Sherlock bit back a groan, he had no intention of letting John see how affected he was. It was meant innocently enough, after all. He missed the curious look John flashed at him through his eyelashes as he leant forward for his beer.

5.

The fifth time. A mad dash down to the street, with a momentary distraction of John tripping over a carelessly abandoned shoe behind him in the doorway resulted in Sherlock himself plummeting headfirst down two flights of stairs, with a spectacular somersault somewhere in the middle.

More embarrassed than injured, Sherlock had hesitated before opening his eyes. For anybody falling down the stairs was bad enough, but someone falling down the stairs with a brain fast enough to recognise, process and recall every bump, scrape, flip and ungainly squeak on the way down the experience was just excruciating. And humiliating.

Between his guffaws, John had the grace to enquire after his wellbeing, and was concerned by the answering silence.

"Sherlock?" John's doctor voice appeared, with his capable hands, feeling a cheek, a pulse, peeling back an eyelid.

"Piss off."

"Are you ok? Can you feel everything? Don't move."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, John," he spat, sitting up. "There is nothing wrong with me except, apparently, the ability to descend stairs gracefully."

"You could be at risk of serious spinal injury," John persisted, as he stood up and shook himself off, "Sherlock, really!"

An imaginary speck of lint was flicked from his sleeve and he adjusted his collar. "Really, John, let's just delete this from our memories and get on with our day. I already am, in fact."

John huffed, rolling his eyes, mumbling to himself. "Just let me know if anything hurts, or goes numb."

"I will be sure to," he was already out the door.

Twelve hours later, back in the flat, Sherlock was kneading a stiff shoulder muscle whilst researching on John's commandeered laptop. He could tell the specific muscle, if he cared to – somewhere around the layered trapezius, deltoid, supraspinatus area. But he did not; that would imply there was a real injury, which of course there wasn't...

He froze for a second as a firm hand halted his ministrations, pushing him away, strong fingers resuming the massage in a more professional manner. It only took seconds for the tightened muscles to relax and he leaned back into John's hands. He dropped his head forwards to allow greater access. There was no biting back this groan and it rumbled through his chest for them both to hear. No one said anything. And if John's fingers crept up to the fluffed curls at the bottom of Sherlock's skull with a lazy lingering caress, it wasn't mentioned. Neither was the feather of a kiss against his hair before John departed to make them both a cup of tea.

+1.

The sixth time was the most serious of them all. The case had taken them into the depths of depravity, thrilling Sherlock in ways he wished not to examine, but traumatising John in ways neither of them was quite prepared for. He hid it well, stoic and stern, but barely anything escaped Sherlock, especially not when it involved John.

It was the dead of night. A good time for thinking. Not the best, but not far off. John had gone to bed long ago, his mind needed to repair itself. Sherlock's needed to dwell. On the finer ins and outs of the mystery they had just solved, on his triumph, on his unexplainable sense of incompletion. John had been subdued, moreso than usual, this evening. And Sherlock worried. He worried a lot, about a lot of things, but it did not make him as comfortable as this worry.

The sounds from upstairs were less than reassuring. John had been thrashing around in his sleep for at least a quarter of an hour. Sherlock had assumed he would have stopped by now. His nightmares usually only lasted for a handful of minutes, ending with him waking, maybe calling out once to drag himself from the dream. But he was still being tormented. And that in turn tormented Sherlock.

The stairs creaked a little as he ascended, but John's fevered panting and groaning covered it effortlessly. Through the open door Sherlock could see him, tangled in his duvet, his bare chest glistening with sweat. John's hand shot up, contorted fingers grasping at air, reaching for some salvation that simply was not there.

Except, Sherlock realised, perhaps it was...

In his sleep, John turned immediately to his friend slipping into his bed, desperate hands grabbing his shirt, weaving into the fabric and a heated body pressed against the cool, long, lithe limbs beside it.

"Sherlock..." It was a tortured gasp, still deep in sleep and Sherlock could not help wondering what he was dreaming of.

"Yes, I'm here." His arms wrapped around him, pulling him into his chest. He pressed a chaste kiss to the sweat-slick forehead.

It took only a minute of embrace for John's nightmare to fade. Sherlock's long fingers kneading into damp fair hair, his lips caressing pounding temples, his murmured nothings. And John relaxed, sinking into nothingness.

The next morning should have been awkward. John awoke with a leg wrapped over a decidedly masculine thigh, his fingers on a flat hip, dipped below a dark waistband. Sherlock sensed his change in breathing and felt the jerk of his consciousness, but neither moved. Somehow there was no embarrassment. It was a pleasant surprise. Sherlock could almost hear him thinking, working out what had happened.

"Thank you," John whispered, delicately extricating himself.

Sherlock simply smiled, his full lips quirking at the corner, one eye crinkling slightly more than the other. It was a genuine smile, and he knew John had learned to tell the difference.

Nothing needed to be said. Healing each other, that was what they did.

I do love a good ol' review. Polite critique always welcome... Go on, you know you want to...