Methods Beyond Magic

His Head Cracked, But Mine Exploded

           

Sherlock had fallen asleep apparently, the classic fall asleep on the hospital bed move that only seemed to happen in romance movies. Well, movies did tend to over exaggerate love life, but then again, even love sick dreamy men with twelve pack abs needed to sleep. And so did Sherlock, although he was neither dreamy nor shredded. His hand was still intertwined with John's, and that was what must have woken him, those cold, stiff fingers starting to twitch. Sherlock's head jolted up, and John's fingers moved a bit more, as if he were in some sort of dream world, crawling his way up to reality. Sherlock clung onto his hand, holding it in both of his own, trying to bring John back, trying to help him wake up. Finally John took a quick breath and his beautiful eyes opened, and Sherlock was so overcome with relief that tears of joy started slipping from his eyes.
"John, thank God, thank God!" he exclaimed, pressing desperate kisses to John's hand, princess style, just to show his relief. John blinked a while, a small smile on his lips as he looked down at Sherlock for the first time.
"Sherlock, what...what are you doing?" John muttered with a little bit of a laugh, a laugh more beautiful than any song. Sherlock just realized how odd his signs of affection were, with John's hand pressed up against his lips. He gave a guilty smile and returned John's hand to the bed, where it sat there looking very lonely.
"Sorry." He muttered, his cheeks glowing.
"No, it's...it's fine." John assured. Sherlock smiled a little bit guiltily, looking up at John apologetically.
"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked. John sighed, letting his head fall back on his pillows and wincing a little bit.
"I have no idea." John admitted. "I'm alive."
"Well, that's a step in the right direction." Sherlock laughed, looking throughout the dark hospital wing. "Do you want some water; is there anything I can do?" Sherlock asked rather reluctantly, looking to the bedside table for a glass or something.
"No, I'm fine." John assured, clearing his throat and trying to reposition his neck so that he could see Sherlock better. The bandages around his head, Sherlock now noticed, were still stained with blood, although it didn't look very fresh. Madam Pomfrey was probably asleep, not going to wake up until morning, and no one was going to come visiting at this time of night. Should this be the time that Sherlock told John what was going on? He needed to know what he was up against; he needed to know just what type of danger he was in. Victor will strike again, and next time John might not wake up. Sherlock took a deep breath, fiddling with the pocket on his robes and trying to figure out just how to say it. How did you deliver such a painful emotional blow?
"John, I...I need to ask. Who pushed you?" Sherlock asked, looking at John with a rather determined look in his eye. He expected John's eyes to go all misty, he expected him to turn white with the realization that someone was after him. The last thing Sherlock expected was that brilliant smile once again.
"What do you mean? I tripped, no one pushed me." he laughed. Sherlock's face fell.
"No, you couldn't have tripped, you're not an idiot." Sherlock pointed out.
"I had set my mop up on the wall to clean the banister with a cloth, it fell, I walked backwards, and boom; now I'm here." John shrugged. Sherlock shook his head in confusion, no; Victor has most certainly taken credit for this.
"Did your legs feel locked, did they feel glued together? Did your mop move itself, was it in the wrong place, did you voluntarily step..."
"Sherlock! I tripped! Why are you so keen on finding a culprit for my clumsiness?" John asked with a laugh.
"No, I just...I thought I knew." Sherlock admitted shyly.
"Who would bother attacking me?" John asked jokingly, but as he said it, he sort of came to the realization.
"Victor would." Sherlock muttered. "We both know he would." John was silent, staring into the darkness for a little bit, as if absorbing the information.
"But, he wouldn't do that, he couldn't have done that." John decided.
"He's a tricky, evil boy; he can do whatever he likes." Sherlock admitted.
"It wasn't Victor, besides; I don't want to think of him right now. It's a happy moment, right? I'm alive, we're all thrilled, you've been kissing my hand, it's all good." John decided with a nod. Sherlock sighed, there goes the bomb drop. John wouldn't find out tonight after all.
"I didn't mean it in a creepy way...you know, I just..." Sherlock muttered, letting his sentence drift off.
"You just what?" John asked.
"I was worried about you." Sherlock admitted. "I was the one that found you." 
"Really?" John asked, looking impressed.
"Well, no, I mean, students were screaming, I was the first to approach you." Sherlock admitted.
"Did you cry?" John teased.
"I thought you were dead, of course I cried." Sherlock insisted, hitting him lightly on the arm. John just laughed, rolling his eyes as if Sherlock were pathetic.
"What would I do without my caretaker?" Sherlock added.
"Well, the castle will be a lot messier, that's for sure." John laughed.
"Don't be modest, it would be chaos." Sherlock insisted.
"And you'd be pretty lonely, that's for sure." John decided.
"Yes, well, I guess it's a good thing you didn't die." Sherlock muttered.
"I think it's a plus, certainly." John agreed. Sherlock nodded, feeling rather awkward. He felt like he should say something, he felt like his heart was just bursting to say everything he felt for John, all of his fear of his death, all of his guilt for being with Victor, all of his love that he had masked for so long.
"I feel like this is all my fault." Sherlock decided.
"How can this possibly be your fault? I told you before, it was a mop." John insisted.
"If it really was Victor, if he's suddenly some sort of mop whisperer, then it would be my fault." Sherlock decided. "He's threatened by you, he's jealous of how much time we spend together, he wants to have me all to himself."
"He fancies you Sherlock; you can't deny it any longer. Only a boy with a crush would go to murderous lengths." John insisted. Sherlock just shrugged, this was so ironic it almost hurt.
"Yes, I suppose, I suppose he likes me a little bit." Sherlock shrugged.
"Well, knowing who you are, I'd say you have two options." John decided.
"What's that?" Sherlock asked with a smile.
"Either kiss him, or leave him behind." John decided. 
"If I leave him behind, who am I running to?" Sherlock asked.
"It's only who you're running from that counts." John insisted. Sherlock sighed, looking down at the floor.
"He's a student; I would never, ever voluntarily kiss a student." He said, very firmly, so that John knew that this was never his intention.
"Of course I know that, you've said that from day one." John agreed.
"So, I chose to leave him, if I could." Sherlock decided.
"Why can't you?" John asked with a smile. Sherlock didn't want to see that smile fade, not yet. He felt like if he told John what was going on, he'd never see that smile again.
"I just...I don't want to hurt him." Sherlock decided.
"You're so convinced he physically hurt me, why can't you emotionally hurt him?" John asked.
"Isn't that sinking to his level?" Sherlock asked, desperately skirting around the only answer there was. It felt like getting this information out was like a pressurized can, once he opened the lid the entire thing exploded.
"Violence is only the answer when violence is the problem." John insisted.
"Embroider that onto a pillow." Sherlock decided with a laugh. "I just feel like he's been through enough. I feel like, if I do something to possibly hurt him, he'll take his inner rage out on us. On you."
"Don't worry about me Sherlock, I can handle myself." John assured.
"Says the man lying in a hospital bed." Sherlock pointed out.
"You got me there." John sighed, leaning back on his pillows and staring up at the ceiling. Sherlock couldn't see his face, but he was sure he was very thoughtful, as if his own string of words just couldn't fit itself together in his mind.
"I should let you rest; you've had a long night." Sherlock decided.
"You're not leaving?" John asked, sitting up so fast that he clutched his head in pain.
"Where am I supposed to go?" Sherlock asked with a laugh.
"This is a hospital wing; there are plenty of beds around." John pointed out, waving his hand around the empty hall.
"And get on Madam Pomfrey's bad side? No thank you." Sherlock laughed.
"Well, you were doing fine in that chair." John shrugged. Sherlock just groaned, but nodded.
"Only because you're injured, don't go thinking I actually care about you." Sherlock warned.
"No, never." John assured, laying back on the pillows and pulling his blankets over top of him. Sherlock sighed, leaning over to let his head fall on the side of the bed, not the most comfortable of sleeping positions, but for John he was sure he could fall asleep on a bed of nails.
"Goodnight John." Sherlock muttered. There was silence, and Sherlock felt a hand slide into his own, interlocking their fingers once more. Sherlock just smiled, not bothering to look up because he knew John wasn't going to look up either. They just knew that it was how they belonged.
"Goodnight Sherlock." John agreed with a sleepy sigh.