Nicotine

Expected Between Yesterday and Tomorrow

Three weeks later, John was sitting on the couch with a tub of chinese takeaway in hand, and crappy telly on. The room was dark apart from the dull glow of the streetlights outside and the flickering screen of the television. The fire was a pile of glowing embers.

John hadn't heard from Sherlock in two days. He had tried to forget about it and had firmly told himself not to worry.

He was worrying anyway.

His phone rested on his thigh, volume as loud as it could go. The telly was on quietly, and the window was cracked so he could hear any oncoming traffic.

A car rolled down the street. John straighted up and peered out the window. A cab! He watched eagerly as it came towards the door....and drove past. John leaned back again. 

He knew he was being stupid- but Sherlock was due back at some point between yesterday and tomorrow. That was as specific as the timing got. He'd texted Sherlock twice but John thought three times would be too many.

He poked his noodles with his fork moodily. He was so bored. Without Sherlock around, he didn't really have anything to do, including  working. He'd resigned as a doctor after Mary's death, he couldn't face the office every day. Furthermore, a  private detective's assistant was more exciting than a GP, and now he'd been given the renewed opportunity to do just that. Well, he would have if Sherlock wasn't off gallivanting in Madrid.

John sighed and put the plastic tub on the coffee table. He flicked through the channels and put an ancient movie on. It was halfway through but he didn't really care.

Hours later, another cab drove down the street. It pulled up at the entrance to 221b, and, after a moment, a tall dark haired man stepped out onto the pavement carrying a large leather briefcase. He unlocked the door and ducked into the hall.

John lay asleep on the sofa, telly still flickering.

Sherlock made his way up the stairs slowly, his posture limp, tired.

The landing creaked, and the door squeaked loudly. John groaned, rubbing his neck as he opened his bleary eyes. A dark figure towered over him. John blinked and the man came into focus.

"Not the most comfortable of resting places." Sherlock's deep voice jerked John fully awake.

"Yes, well, it was unintentional." John said, stretching.

"Clearly." Said Sherlock, eyeing the unfinished takeaway and the tv remote.

John yawned.

Sherlock walked over to the hearth and propped his briefcase against his chair. He bent down to the fireplace, wincing as he did so. He continued without a word, re-kindling the dying flames. John raised his eyebrows. Sherlock sat down in his chair, exhaling almost too sharply as he sat down.

"You okay?" John asked, leaning forwards on the couch.

"Exemplary." Sherlock replied.

"Hmmm."

John got up and moved to sit down opposite Sherlock.

"How did it go?" John asked tentatively.

"He's dead." Sherlock said absently.

"Who?"

"The assassin responsible for Mary's death." Sherlock said, softly.

John's gut twisted.

"You can't just shoot people. It is against the law you know." He said.

"You did." Sherlock said simply.

John was stumped. During their first case together, John had shot the cabbie. A serial killer cabbie, to be fair.

"It was in self defence. So it was fairly easy for Mycroft's lot to sort out. He was a wanted criminal. I did Spain a favour."

"When was this?" John said.

"Two days ago." Sherlock replied. He made to stand up, winced, and sat back down again.

"Sherlock."

"Yes?" Sherlock said.

"You're injured."

"Insignificant."

"Let me see." John demanded.

"I'm fine." Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock."

The detective sighed. He got up slowly and glared at John as he made his way into the kitchen.

John already had his head in the cupboard looking for the first aid kit.

Sherlock removed his jacket, his face contorted in pain as he pulled his arms out the sleeves. He moved some experiments to one side and sat down on the kitchen table. John came over.

"Right." John said. " Shirt off."

Sherlock obliged and slowly began to unbutton his shirt. He slipped it off and placed it on the chair in front of him.

John frowned as he looked at Sherlock's torso. His  ribcage was severely bruised on the right side.

John leaned forwards and stared to gently prod Sherlock's ribcage.

Sherlock hissed through his teeth.

"Here?" John bent down to look closer. "Yep, that's a bruised rib sure enough. But it's friend here-"

Sherlock swore colourfully in a multitude of languages as John touched the offending rib. John half-grinned.

"Sorry. It's friend here is broken I think..."

Sherlock swore again as John pushed it  softly with his thumb

"Yeah, it is. Hang on."

John pulled some adhesive tape from the kit.

"Can't put it all the way around- pneumonia risk. Sorry. I'll tape it from the broken section around to your spine, okay?"

Sherlock just lifted his arm out the way as an answer.

John proceed to tape Sherlock's ribs, his calloused fingers brushing his pale skin. Sherlock groaned as John stuck the tape down.

"Ow." He said pointedly.

John raised his eyebrows and pushed a glass of water and two painkillers at him.

"Every four hours. Even if it's not sore." John prescribed.

"I know." Sherlock replied, taking the pills.

"Right, you're done. I'm going to bed. It's..." He checked. "Four AM, jesus. Goodnight, Sherlock."

John left the room, leaving Sherlock drinking the water, still perched on the table.

Sherlock closed his eyes with a sigh. Why must it be so difficult? He found it so simple to isolate himself from his emotions, but.... John's careful fingers smoothing tape over his back raised goosebumps. What had John thought of him, his body? He found himself replaying that moment over and over.

Sherlock frowned in annoyance with himself. He knew what he felt- he just chose not to feel it. He would continue to do so.

Sherlock downed the water and eased himself off the table. He flicked off the lights and padded through to his darkened bedroom.