Promise to the Living

Chapter Sixteen

John was off the sofa in an instant. He smacked the knife out of Sherlock's hand, sending it clattering across the floor. Then he grasped the other man's wrist above the injury, clamping down to minimize the bleeding, and wrestled him to the ground.

"You fucking stupid wanker!" he seethed, heart hammering in panic and horror.

Sherlock was struggling too much for him to get a good look at the damage, so when Mycroft's men ran up, John yelled, "Hold him, goddamn it!"

They complied. John could practically smell the fear oozing from their pores: when Mycroft came back and found his younger brother with a cut wrist, Armageddon was a distinct possibility.

The cut was ugly, but not as serious as the blood loss implied. By miracle or intention, no veins had been injured. "My medical bag is in my room, next to the bed," John said, keeping his voice military-sharp. "Someone bring it."

One of the men disappeared. Sherlock stopping battling the hands on his body, but his distress remained evident. "Do you believe me now, John?" he demanded between pained gasps.

"Believe what? That you're an idiot child? Sure- you've convinced me just now."

Mycroft and Lestrade appeared in the doorway. The DI already looked shaken, and when he saw Sherlock's injury, he paled further. "Fuck! What's happened?"

"I deserved it," the detective said, normally deep voice barely a whisper.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft groaned. He tossed his umbrella onto the sofa and knelt beside his brother. "I warned you this could happen."

The younger man's breath came out in shallow gasps; he seemed stunned and exhausted by the sudden and uncharacteristic outburst. Concerned that he might hyperventilate, John said in gentler tones, "Sherlock, I need you to calm down so I can treat your wrist."

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't want you to. I want it to hurt, since I can't feel sorry like you want me to."

John felt a resurgence of the old frustration and yes, affection that used to be his daily lot when they were flatmates. Sherlock was brilliant, in many ways a computer chip made of flesh and blood. His uncanny ability to deduce and predict motives came from keen evidence analysis, not innate understanding of the passions and emotions involved. He wasn't a complete robot: he did care about John, and deeply. But he was incapable of understanding why John continued to hurt now that he was back.

Was punishing him fair?

No. But had letting John think he was dead, the victim of a bloody suicide, all these months been fair either?

Mycroft was watching him, knowing what he was thinking. "There were reasons, John," he said gently. "This wasn't just a frivolous jaunt in search of adventure."

John didn't answer. He just took the medical kit when the minder appeared with it and said, "No more of that, Sherlock. I haven't the patience. Hold still, and count yourself lucky you don't need stitches."

Sherlock stilled, pale eyes gleaming with tears that he held back. John grasped the very wrist that he had checked for a pulse that terrible day, and wrapped pristine white gauze around it. This time a pulse was very much in evidence. His fingers paused over the softly throbbing beat, absorbing its warmth, relishing its vitality.

Lestrade let out the breath he'd been holding. "Fuck, Sherlock. I don't even think I want to know."

"Good. Because I'm not inclined to talk about it."

That comeback was so quintessentially Sherlock that everyone smiled a little despite the situation's gravity. Lestrade cleared his throat and continued, "Those charges against you are no longer-"

"I know. Mycroft told me." Then Sherlock paused, as if self-conscious about his snappy delivery. "It's good to see you again, Lestrade."

"You too, mate." The DI bent down and touched his shoulder. Then he glanced at John. "Is he going to be okay?"

"Physically, yes. Emotionally, I think he's like the rest of us tonight: severely fucked up." John secured the bandage with a clip and sat back on his heels. Performing a medical procedure that he had undertaken thousands of times in his career had a curiously calming effect. "Get up slowly, Sherlock, and sit on the sofa. The floor's too filthy."

Mycroft took his brother's arm, helped him rise, and guided him to the sofa. Sherlock sat down heavily, wincing as the movement sent pain shooting through his wrist. John and Mycroft sat on either side of him while Lestrade took John's usual chair.

"Well," the DI said, voicing the thought swirling through everyone's mind at the moment, "what now, eh?"

"What now indeed." Sherlock turned to John, his expression quietly beseeching. "Please… will you forgive me?"

"You know I will," John said quietly. "But you have to understand that I need time."

"You do? But we've been apart for a year already. And I already let you hit me."

"Just trust me on that one. All right? And no more stunts like the one you just pulled. Please- it doesn't help."

The younger man nodded, but his eyes still signaled confusion and apprehension. John appreciated the magnitude of his anxiety: Sherlock could easily tell what he'd had for breakfast and dinner and whether he'd spoken to Harry in the last six months, but had no way of predicting when their relationship would go back to what it had been.

If ever.

"I took the liberty of ringing the Lanesborough this morning and requesting that they reserve my usual suite," Mycroft said as he took out his pocket watch and glanced at it. "I think it's best that we all remove ourselves to more neutral surroundings and get some rest. This night has been trying for everyone. Mr. Lestrade, there are three bedrooms: Sherlock can share mine and you're welcome to come along and use the third. This has been somewhat of an ordeal for you too."

The DI whistled. "Thanks, Mr. Holmes. The Lanesborough? Wow."

John was grateful. Baker Street was no place for him to process his feelings right now, even though the flat bore little resemblance to its old, chaotic self. He also wanted –no, make that needed- Mycroft's calming presence. John had long since started thinking of the elder Holmes as his anchor, his shelter in the storm. "That's fine by me," he said. Then, smiling wryly, he added, "Do I have the day off work tomorrow?"

Mycroft stood and gestured for his younger brother to follow suit. "I think that can be arranged, as long as you make up the time," he said, a twinkle in his eye belying his semi-severe expression.

Sherlock frowned. "Do you have to work him that hard? You-" Then, seeing John's answering smirk, he relaxed. "Oh. You're joking with each other."

"Yes, Sherlock," Mycroft answered mildly.

"Good. Because John will be coming back to work on cases with me, and he won't have time to run your errands any more. Nothing personal."

Lestrade bit his lip. "Actually, Sherlock, we have to talk on that one." He hesitated before coming out with it. "I'm afraid that Scotland Yard won't be engaging you on any more cases."