Data Doesn't Lie (Johnlock)

Chapter 8

SHERLOCK

I stared blankly up at my blogger, who loomed over my bedside with a face full of jumbled emotions. Hurt, anger, fear, relief. Many emotions that I didn't understand quite yet. Hurt...I got that one. For instance, my head hurt like hell. The dull throb in the back of my cranium made me want to roll over and go back to sleep until it died down. Thankfully, John didn't notice the pain. He just stared at me, unspeaking. Perhaps, unwilling to speak. Not wanting to, because of me. I wasn't thinking about John when I had done what I did, only of myself and my pain. It was true what they said about me, I was one selfish arse. Whether he loved me or not, how had I not realized he'd be hurt by this? Stupid, stupid, the voice in my head scolded. I know, I know, I assured it.

  John at some point found his voice, but the weary bitterness of it nearly broke my disturbingly softened heart.

  "What were you thinking, Sherlock?" He asked me, his usually strong voice reduced to a sad whine. I positioned my head downward, so as not to catch his gaze. I didn't want to tell him what I was thinking at the time of my incident, it was too painful a subject. Unknowingly, as well, it was stupid. Instead I answered his question with one of my own. "Why didn't you take me to a hospital?" John averted his gaze as well, so we were looking in opposite directions. The awkwardness of the moment was unbearable, but he answered stiffly.

  "The cuts you made weren't that deep, I could fix them myself. Besides...I know you don't like hospitals, so...," he trailed off.

  I admit I was surprised John would remember a detail like that, and take time to consider how I felt before his own anger. It was sappy and sentimental, but it warmed the chilly atmosphere of the room and made me feel a little less like an imbecile.

  John sighed to himself. "Thank you," I spoke up quietly, the words foreign in my mouth. He raised his eyebrows, focusing back on me. "Did Sherlock Holmes just thank me?" He said with mock surprise. I laughed humorlessly. "Of course, you saved my life...again. I'm not completely heartless." I said this last line with more defense than meant, and of course John noticed. "I never said you were," he told me softly, averting his gaze again.

  I wished he would stop looking away so that I could deduce him. His posture and tone told me little, but his refusal to look at me was just flat-out hurtful. Of course if I were John and I had been told what I told him last night, I doubt I could stand the sight of me either.

  "Need anything?" John mumbled. I shook my head. There we sat in torturous silence for moments on end. I felt boredom and anticipation and regret growing heavy on my tired body, but made fast to ignore them as much as I could. My mind palace called, but I could not think. Eventually, John let out another sigh followed by a very drowsy yawn. I wondered how long he'd been up, tending to and watching over me.

  I picked at the bandages on my wrists, not quite proud of nor very ashamed of what I'd done. Something in the middle, really. "Don't do that!" John scolded like I was a child and he my worried mother. Alas, it was a common feeling whilst around John.

  John yawned again, this time nodding slightly to keep himself awake. I felt another impulse similar to that of when I'd kissed John; one that urged me to pull him into my own bed and let him sleep. I convinced my head that it was the long-thought-of experiment I'd been planning, but something else told me otherwise. Either way, I did what I was ordered and grabbed John by the arms. Before he could protest I'd pulled him into my bed and set him next to me. He tried to sit up but collapsed once more as he realized how incrediby tired he was. From this, I could deduce he'd woken up earlier than usual. A good thing he did, as I'd have been dead had he not found me in time. Though part of me wondered if, had that occurred, it would be a good thing.

  "Sleep," I ordered John. "In your bed, Sherlock," John said skeptically. "Obviously," I carooned, drawing out the vowels. I could tell he was unsure, but he nodded anyhow, once again looking away from me. Dissatisfaction with his constantly shifting gaze got the best of me, and I blurted; "Why won't you look at me." I put on my best puppy dog face, because my voice had already come out as a whine that I couldn't shift back to nonchalant.
 
John just shook his head, falling over on his side. He didn't respond, and instead was asleep within minutes. It was odd, watching him sleep. I sat up to get a better look.

  He laid peacefully, looking as though he hadn't a care in the world. Trauma from Afghanistan was nonexistent, troubles from our fights were forgotten. He looked years younger and more content in sleep, and I found that I couldn't tear my eyes from him. I sat at watched him, trying to render the events of his dreams as he slept. At one point, his brows furrowed and his mouth stretched into a frown. I was questionable, but silent. A small noise came from the army doctor's nose, a cross between a distressed groan and an uncomfortable whine. Nightmares, I concluded, wondering if he would wake screaming and thrashing with me there as opposed to nights he spent alone. Honestly I would rather him not, as my head hurt far too much to listen to such a shrill noise at a close range. John's hand spread out from beneath the pillow it rested under, searching for some kind.of leverage to pull him from his terrors. Naturally, he gripped the first thing he found, which of course just had to be me.

  His hand tightened around my wrist over the wounds from my cuts and my breath hitched. His hold loosened on the wound, sliding up to grab my arm instead. Using my arm as an anchor, the sleeping doctor dragged himself up to me so that his head was level with my shoulder. I wasn't usually one for contact, but I resisted pulling away for John's sake. Apparently he'd found comfort in his discovery, nuzzling his way into my shoulder. It was almost cute. I'd let my feelings run rampant for the past few days, perhaps the next hour or two wouldn't affect my status either.

  Going against my own strict "no sentiment" rule, I leaned my head on John's as an odd sort of pillow, my nose in his hair. John continued to shift beneath me, almost trying to burrow into my body as he slept; but at least there were no nightmares. Not quite sure why I was doing so, I kissed his forehead softly. Perhaps it was a trick of the mind, perhaps I was still woozy from loss of blood or the nasty migraine; but as I pulled my kiss from my dear blogger's head I could've sworn he had smiled, mumbling something. It sounded suspiciously like, "I love you too, Sherlock."