Chapter Text
Evenings on Baker Street occasionally found both men fatigued, shift work for the physician and odd sleeping hours for the other, with the cases occasionally occupying them both, mostly just Sherlock. One such regular Tuesday night found them both nearly ready to turn in when John's phone sounded an alert. There had been an incident at the hospital. A bomb threat had been phoned in and the disaster chain has been activated. John dressed quickly in scrubs, shouldered his bag, and told Sherlock he was heading to work. Sherlock had already flipped the news on, and rose too. “I'm going with you.”
“Actually, no you're not.” John spoke clearly and carefully, anxious to leave.
“I can help.”
“Not by adding to the chaos of non-employees in an unsecured scene.” He sighed, knowing Sherlock was never happy about feeling unnecessary. “Look I'll call if we can work something out. Or, more likely, Lestrade will need your help.” Lestrade had fully recovered from his shoulder injury, and took the Baker Street residents out for drinks one evening to say thank you. That was far from anyone's mind, however, with this potentially dangerous situation. Sherlock was already firing off a text, and John was glad. He would be of far more use on that realm of assistance.
John felt compelled to issue a cautionary, “Take care, be safe. Stay in touch?”
"You too." John paused at the door as the news coverage seemed to indicate the situation was already escalating, and there were sirens outside, presumably a few blocks away. His phone alarmed again, the safety emergency alert blast pushed out to mobile phones. Shelter in place was the message, and, ironically, as people were remanded to stay in their current locations, John headed down the steps, feeling already protective of the patients and staff who were already terribly vulnerable. He jogged the few blocks to work, carrying only the necessities (and wearing his Kevlar and Browning, army training would never let him head into known volatility unprepared), and called the ICU charge nurse on the way. The stress in her wavering voice was evident, but she informed him they were okay and will be glad to see him.
The ICU in lockdown was a terrible thing, as was any unit of any hospital with forced confinement, and particularly in an unstable environment, tensions could run hot at times. All of London was probably a mess, however, John knew. John picked up a mobile radio for best contact in case evacuation would be needed or if things became more volatile, and helped move patients as much as possible away from exterior windows. Curtains were drawn. The few visitors who were present at the time that the Shelter in place order came through, understandably, were edgy, nervous, restless. Every room had some news station on the telly.
Some time later, the director of security appeared at the desk, requested John’s attention, and they spoke in hushed tones in the hall. “There’s been an explosion across town, and reason to believe that there may be more. Free up a few nurses and yourself, if possible, and head to the A&E. Leave someone in charge with the radio in case you need to hustle back.” The guard left the room, speaking calmly into the radio, exited out the back door.
John turned to the staff, calmly, matter-of-fact, and spoke evenly. A few of them reported off, the problem solving skills of a critical care team prioritising well, and several of them accompanied John down the stairwell. The Trauma Chief of the A&E saw them arrive, and delegated them immediately to the triage area, where there was a cluster of patients, some bloody, a few with obvious fractures, and more being ushered in. The nurses went one direction as they were summoned to help one of the docs, and John surveyed the scene. He would be most useful, he knew, at initial staging. Army experience in a field hospital had prepared him to identify patients by their likelihood to survive and tagging appropriately.
Mass trauma patients were typically tagged in three groups: those likely to survive even without treatment (tagged in green, known as the walking wounded), those likely to die even with treatment (tagged in black), and those who needed treatment to survive (tagged in red). The system worked well in battle when triaging many injured with limited resources. John was pleased to at least see colored triage tags at the large bay doors.
The doctor already handling it was doing too much for patients instead of sorting them out for others. John joined him, and they assessed a few of the more serious patients together, John assuming more of the leader role and explaining how this process best worked without being arrogant. The more serious patients were taken directly to the surgical suite, a few waited for xrays, and others were filtered into the treatment bays for sutures and wound care. Of the volume of patients brought in, there were a few DOA and one who was brought in just in time to turn from dusky to cyanotic to bloodless pale. A brief abdominal assessment of rigid distention indicated to John that the patient had lacerated either liver or aorta and exsanguinated.
Another ambulance pulled in, and a stretcher wheeled over, one of the EMT’s mid-CPR while another gave John the briefest of reports. “Crush injury, femurs on down, lost a pulse en route, no IV.” Tourniquets had already been applied to minimize blood loss.
John helped pull the stretcher into the trauma bay, asked for an IO, and the other MD said, “John, his legs...” The IO line, intraosseous and placed directly into bone, was used in the event no peripheral IV line could be placed. Typical site for the IO line being the top of the tibial plateau, below the patella. This patient had no usable legs for IO placement.
“Sternal,” John said, vividly remembering sand storms and turbans and young soldiers with limbs blown off. Protocol in combat included several IO lines in the sternum, infusing several liters of crystalloid, and if the patient still had a pulse, they would be taken to surgery.
The other doc on duty approached, looking at the body and the airway, compressions in progress, the color. “We haven’t ever done that here, John.”
“I have, it’s that or he dies. Get me the drill.” John was matter of fact in his tone, and supplies were brought to him and opened. Compressions continued, and John alerted the medic on the chest how they will coordinate their care so John could work with minimal interruption.
In quick motions, he prepped the chest, fired the drill, both feeling and hearing the needle meet hollow space. Once the IO line was in, he ordered both fluids and O negative blood stat as he secured the angled needle. One of the trauma staff handed him IV tubing, which he connected and then deftly inserted another IO on the opposite side of the sternum. It was a timing miracle, really, interrupting CPR only briefly enough to cannulate bone and get out of the way.
IV fluids via pressure bag seemed to make a difference, and next break in compressions, one of the nurses felt a faint but palpable pulse. The general surgeon was already present at the bedside, and over the next few minutes, labs were drawn, the unit of blood was hung, vital signs stabilized somewhat, and plans were underway to proceed to emergency surgery for life-saving, bilateral amputations. John thanked those who had helped, stripped off his gloves, his eyes already in search of the next most urgent scenario. His eyes paused as they landed on a bystander.
Sherlock, his clothing dusty, was leaning against the wall in the A&E, watching, from just down the hallway. Bloody scratches covered much of his hands and wrists. Their eyes met, John’s questioning and Sherlock’s steady, and then Sherlock shrugged and looked away.
“Dr. Watson?” One of the triage RNs called him, requesting assistance. Over the next chaotic chunk of time, John treated more crush injuries, sent a few to the surgery and two to the morgue; those already dead should never have been brought through the A&E doors, but John knew these were things that will be evaluated post disaster. He coordinated with the other Trauma Chief and as the injured were filtered into respective departments and holding areas, John excused himself. The last wave of injured had been placed and, for the moment, no additional were arriving. Deciding to head into the A&E bays, John located Sherlock, where he waited for one of the Met officers. The shallow wounds on his hands were mostly crusted over and scabbed.
“You all right?” he asked in low tones, lifting his hands to examine for injuries that needed treatment.
“Fine.” They both looked up as a commotion down the hallway was punctuated by yelling and a staccato burst of thundering gunshots that echoed in the hallway.
One of the security guards was down, taken out with a shot to the chest, dark red blood stain spreading through his jacket. John and Sherlock both watched the gunman scurry down a corridor and exit into a stairwell. Another man lay moaning on the floor, a gunshot wound to the leg.
“Men down,” John spoke toward those in the intake/triage area, a few of them already moving toward them to help. The injured guard spoke into his radio, his voice stressed, “Intruder on campus, stairwell eight, Main Wing by A&E, destination unknown.”
The radio immediately chirped, “Roger that.”
John reached the down guard, squatting to assess for the pulse he already knew wasn't present. The guard was already gone, his eyes open and unseeing, color pale as the puddle of blood underneath him spread into a crimson wave across the floor. Sherlock and two others approached the body, as John moved to the injured man, placing a hand on his shoulder as his eyes assessed injuries. From across the patient, he met Sherlock’s eyes and watched as Sherlock stood. He made eye contact with the other guard, who nodded. They eased to the door, and slid into the stairwell.
John helped place the injured on a backboard, not wanting to waste precious minutes to obtain a stretcher, and they proceeded back to the staging area of the A&E. More wounded and injured had been brought in, and for a space of time John was too busy in the thick of unstable patients to pay much attention to whether another explosion occurred or if the gunman's whereabouts had been determined.
An ambulance arrived, and John was summoned to the rear doors, but the victim was conscious, talking, so triage was appropriately relegated to the holding area. John took that moment to scan the area with hyper alert eyes and happened to note movement across the courtyard, as the gunman exited one end of a connecting passageway. His mind already engaging, John took the arm of one of the nurses, tersely directing her to send security right bloody now to the exit he pointed at, and she nodded. His feet were moving, stealthy, approaching from out of line of sight of the gunman. Weapon in hand, the gunman poised by the door, as if awaiting the exit of someone in pursuit. A sinking feeling knotted in John’s gut, he suppressed it, feeling for, and comforted by, the presence of his own weapon in his waistband.
Still in motion, John watched as the door slowly opened again, and Sherlock emerged, only to be immediately grabbed from behind. John stopped, drew his weapon. They were close enough that John could see the veins standing out on Sherlock’s temple as he tried to wrench free.
“Stop right there,” John demanded. Sherlock struggled briefly and the arm around his neck tightened further. “Let him go.”
There was a standoff, the gunman holding Sherlock in a tight chokehold and aiming his weapon at John. The man was shouting, and John noted the bloody handprints on the arm from Sherlock attempting to free himself. The arm around Sherlock’s throat tightened, and John noted that Sherlock’s color was turning dusky. He stopped struggling, but his eyes were fixed on John.
Many things happened simultaneously. John would later be unable to recall if it happened lightning fast or in slow motion.
From the gunman behind his human shield: “Drop it or I'll shoot.”
John had a split second decision to make, take the shot or not, lose his flatmate and probably his own life as well as the lives of many others. John had been quite a marksman, but firing a gun was something he didn't do regularly any more. Many thoughts burst like fireworks behind his eyes as his brain weighed simultaneously the appropriate course of action. He would be aiming mere centimeters from Sherlock's head if he chose to shoot.
Two guns are fired and three bodies hit the grassy ground there outside the tunnel at the edge of the building.
++
Later, Lestrade got conflicting stories from all parties, from John, from Sherlock, and from the security officers, one of whom, at the direction of the nurse John had mobilised, arrived just before the shots were fired. The guard behind Sherlock arrived apparently just afterward. The sniper would be telling no tales from inside the body bag, dead of a fatal head shot that John claimed he didn’t precisely remember and Sherlock recalled feeling the bullet whizz by his ear. The blood and gray matter that were spattered on Sherlock’s person and in his hair would corroborate that it was indeed at very close range. There was an abrasion on his cheek that all suspected was from bone fragment, but no one dared speak it out loud. According to Sherlock, John barely inclined his head to the left as he fired, and Sherlock obeyed immediately, pitching left. It saved him, was his story, that John had issued instructions to him before firing.
John insisted that there was no time for any of that, and that they were too close for any cues or evasiveness to have been remotely possible.
The security guard reported that he saw the stand-off and that the shot fired in the heat of the moment was incredibly accurate. The four men - John, Sherlock, Lestrade, and the guard - were in an A&E bay awaiting further care for John. Sherlock’s temple, hand, wrist, and arm wounds were cleaned, bandaged. He had been given a towel with which to clean off the bits of blood and gore.
John was also rather lucky, injury wise. The shot that the sniper ended up getting off missed the mark only due to the fact that John also pitched left after he fired at the man holding Sherlock. The Kevlar vest would have saved him a penetrating chest wound, but the trajectory of the bullet grazed over the top of his right arm and shoulder outside the vest, leaving a groove through the muscle. One of the other providers in the A&E had promised to come clean and suture it when time allowed. John was holding pressure but the bleeding was continuing.
The ICU charge nurse who had accompanied John hours previous to lend assistance poked her head in to the room. There was mostly a silent exchange as she took in the injuries. “Need anything?” was all she asked quietly; her expression relayed that she was relieved that he was indeed awake and ostensibly going to be all right.
"Sutures," he muttered, shaking his head, and then he puzzled at how the motion affected his equilibrium, made him a bit queasy. “I’ll be upstairs in a couple minutes, when things are better down here,” he assured her, but the words were slow, fuzzy and a bit slurred. All eyes turned toward him. He laughed, slightly inappropriately. “Or not.” He closed his eyes, fighting dizziness and feeling further oozing from the burning shoulder wound.
“John?” Lestrade went to the doorway to see if any medical help was nearby as Sherlock rose, reaching his own bandaged arms out toward the saturated dressing over John’s shoulder. John's own hands were rather ineffective at holding dressings in place at the moment.
“’m ‘k. Jes’ dizzy.” Despite being rather symptomatic, John realised at precisely that moment he would be getting no sympathy from his flatmate, who was presently laughing as he tried to hold pressure on the oozing shoulder wound. “Shh.”
“Don't be ridiculous. You’re not ok. Tipsy, perhaps.” The inappropriate laughter, everyone knew, was typical Sherlock, who could find humour where there was none.
“’m fine, gimme a minute, lemme get sorted here...” Something in his slightly addled state of mind seemed to be driving him beyond reason, and he swung one leg over the side of the stretcher as if getting up would somehow, miraculously, help to clear his head.
One of the other medics arrived at Lestrade's request, and without fuss, picked up John's escaping limb, placed it back with the other. “Back in bed with you,” the medic said, cycling a blood pressure reading and finding it low, heart rate elevated, and agreeing that the shoulder wound needed a few stitches to control the bleeding. While they waited for a physician to be available - to Sherlock’s frustration, who didn't appreciate the fact that John’s suturing needs were not exactly life-threatening - the medic started an IV, infused some fluids to alleviate the orthostasis. He lowered the head elevation of the stretcher, put the siderail up before leaving, and instructed Sherlock to make sure that John stayed put.
“I want to help. I’ll be there soon as they’re done here,” John muttered.
The medic snorted, nodded, and, before leaving, said to them, “You’re not much good to anyone if you pass out on the floor. Don’t make me bring out the restraints.”
John looked over at Sherlock, whose expression was pricelessly smug. John glared then, his eyes flicking to Lestrade in warning. To Sherlock, who was vividly recalling when John had threatened him with restraints, he said, “Shut it. Not. One. Word.”
++
The Med Exec board director was at his bedside, a notepad in hand and a puzzled look on his face. “And you were wearing a bullet proof vest and armed with a weapon, why?”
John’s jaw clenched as he pulled the scrub top down over the shoulder dressing, and while he sorted out what words would suit, he shot another warning glare at Sherlock.
“You realize you’ve put us in a terrible position, the press has been awful. One of our physicians, the new Intensivist, for God’s sake, carrying a weapon and killing a man?” His voice carried a high pitched, tremble to it, clearly afraid. “The headline on the telly called you a vigilante.”
Sherlock had had about enough. “You realize there was an intruder on campus, threatening lives, hundreds of people at stake, many witnesses, many dead already in his wake. Dr. Watson acted entirely appropriately. You should be thanking him rather than interrogating him.”
John cleared his throat hoping Sherlock would stop there. No such luck.
“You realize had he not acted this way, your hospital would be mostly in rubble, lives ruined, the city would never be the same. You wanted a leader, you hired a leader, well,” he said, pausing in the scathing comment, “you bloody got one!” Sherlock leaned back, arrogantly dismissing the complaints just through body language alone. “And John is ex-army. Him going into a potentially hostile situation without gear would be like you going to a board meeting without your mobile. Puh-lease.” And Sherlock angled in the chair, closed his mouth, dismissing any remaining dissension.
The crisis had petered out, arrival of further wounded abated, and John’s Intensivist partner had come to check on him. In part, it was to make sure he stayed put, and he assured him the critical units were fine and that he was to go home. The wound had been sutured, and the IV removed. Mycroft arrived, appeared stealthily in the doorway, his PA alongside, sans umbrella probably due to the necessity of immediate and continuous mobile usage. It ended up being, John realised, at Sherlock’s request, and primarily to provide transport back to the flat. The brothers shared conversation, mostly non-verbal as per their usual, except for what included John.
“Dr. Watson.”
“Mycroft.”
“How are you?” It was an odd question, even for Mycroft Holmes.
John considered multiple responses, all snarky, chose instead, “I will survive.”
“Impressive marksmanship.” John realised that it was as close as Mycroft would come to expressing appreciation or saying thanks.
“Clever evasive maneuvers, too.” John acknowledged Sherlock’s part in fleshing out the intruder while avoiding injury.
“Indeed.” Mycroft's glance was stoic as he looked from one to the other. “The video footage was rather remarkable.” He stood to full height then, continued. “The man you had worked on with the crush injuries to his legs was the brother of one of my employees. I hear he owes his life to the both of you.”
John looked over at Sherlock, who explained briefly, “Lestrade and I found him at the blast site, trapped. Moved some pilings off to get him out.” John knew beyond a doubt that Sherlock was downplaying his role, that the rescue had been far more dangerous than that. “He will also recover?”
Mycroft nodded. “The family is most grateful.” He responded to his mobile then, stating quickly, “Your ride, whenever it suits.” His driver, then, held the door as they left. While John did desperately want to check on his units, he was quickly reminded, by his own aching and weak muscles that home was his only viable option.
The car ride back was silent as they fought congested streets and impatient drivers, and John fought to stay focused. Sherlock reached over, placed a warm hand on John's knee, said, “Close your eyes, it's ok.” The hand stayed, centering.
They entered the flat, as usual, and Sherlock muttered something about needing a shower. John agreed, making a face and knowing what was still in his hair and on his collar and clothing. The door to the bathroom was open, and he followed eventually, tentatively standing in the doorway, wanting to assess his own damages before the mirror steamed over. Shirt removed, he peeled back a corner of the dressing, his wound was angry looking, a groove across the muscle of his right upper arm. The aching was beginning, and John knew as the local anesthetic wore off that it would likely be burning for a few days.
The shower snapped off, curtain whisked back, and the men made eye contact, oddly silent and reflective. Sherlock pulled a towel around him and asked, “You jumping in?”
John declined, saying only, “No. Need to keep this dry a few days.”
“Well, here, then.” John watched Sherlock apply the drain, begin to fill the tub, and indicate for John to get in. When John balked - both at the activity and the caring gesture - Sherlock muttered imperatively, “Get in.”
“Your hands?” John looked at his wounds, across his hands, wrists.
“Are fine.”
When John still paused, Sherlock cocked an indulgent smile at him. “Without looking at your mobile for time or date, do you have any idea how long it’s been since you were here last?”
Rather than answer, John quickly removed the rest of his clothing, obediently. He wondered, distantly, if he was still in shock, as he allowed Sherlock to wet, lather, and rinse his hair, then matter-of-factly help him wash while keeping the shoulder dressing dry. John found his voice again after the tub was draining and there was a towel thrown at his head. He was slightly relieved to see Sherlock's feisty-ness returning.
“How many people have ever seen this side of you?”
Smirk. “Two. And they are both in this room.”
“Thanks, then.” John worked the towel over his hair.
“If you tell Mycroft I will hurt you.”
John was fairly certain Sherlock was jesting, but assured him he had no such intentions.
Before long, they were seated on their bed, reclining against pillows, reheated Indian tandoori chicken takeaway between them. Neither was particularly hungry. John leaned back, his eyes closed, and he became aware of slight ringing in his ears. Previously there hadn’t been enough quietness to notice.
“Your ears ringing too?” he asked Sherlock quietly.
“Of course.”
“How are you really?” John let the question hang. “Pretty close call. You seem pretty damn calm about it.”
“Wasn’t the first close call. Won’t be the last.” He reached out a long leg, warm toes touching John’s leg until John looked over at him. “I didn’t have a split-second decision to make though.”
“Army training reflexes. I don’t think anyone fully regains civilian status.”
Sherlock nodded at his shoulder. “Doing ok? Need pain meds?” John shook his head.
John bit a lip, nervous, his thoughts whirling, then spoke. “You know, I'm really grateful...”
Sherlock listened quietly, nodding, and when the interval lingered, Sherlock continued for him. “...that the guys are neutralised. They will be hurting no one else.”
John snickered just slightly, shook his head. “No. Not that at all. Grateful that... we’re both...” he paused again, gesturing between them and Sherlock's eyes widened in comprehension. “When those guns were fired, I really had no idea if that was going to be it or not.”
“I know, me neither," he said slowly. They both were contemplative. "It was a nice shot, you know. I feel like I should say thanks.”
“Thanks to you, as well. Probably your last minute movement threw off his aim at me, too.”
Sherlock removed the plates, clearly neither was eating, and he returned to bed. Finally, he spoke again, asking, “How likely are you to have nightmares tonight?” The question was posed gently.
“Good question. The last time I saw something resembling combat, after my injury, I... yeah, struggled with them."
"I know. Or, I kind of guessed,” Sherlock told him. “I knew you had a few after moving in here, and suspected they were worse right after being sent home. And the night you had such bad insomnia, remember I came to check on you.” It had been the first night they’d slept together.
“Of course you did.”
“I knew you pulled it together rather well, after the war. So,” he let the sentence trail off. “Tell me what I need to know. Are you likely to strangle me in my sleep?”
“Why, did you leave the kitchen a mess again?”
"Probably.”
John sighed. “No, no instructions. I don’t think I’m prone to committing violence in my sleep.” Sherlock turned out the light, plunging the room into darkness. John felt each thrum of his heart pounding in his ears, and deliberately slowed and deepened his breathing, feeling already his mind shifting into overdrive. A warm hand reached out for his, a gesture of comfort and solidarity.
“You ok?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I can feel the lie, just so you know.” One of Sherlock’s fingers was over his ulnar artery. “You’re breathing faster, heart rate up, mildly sweaty.”
“Maybe it’s arousal?” John said into the darkness, his voice low. Inhale, exhale.
“Not exactly an appropriate time, John.”
“Because that would stop us.” John stretched out a leg, his toes feeling cool on Sherlock’s calf.
"John." A quietness ensued, there in the black room, Sherlock's warm hand a steady, comforting presence. John lay there, still feeling his pulse pounding, his eyes wide even knowing there was nothing to see. His ears still ringing, he felt Sherlock turn onto his side in order to slide his other hand into John's hair, still slightly damp. "Sleep, it's ok. I'm not going anywhere. And you did all the right things today. No question about it."
Releasing a shaky breath, John forced his eyes to close as he wished, again, that he'd been equipped with a power-down on his mind. "I guess. Thanks. This may be a long night, I'm thinking." Inhale, exhale. John let his toes slide along Sherlock's calf, let his leg rest flush with Sherlock's.
"No sex." Sherlock said quickly, emphatically. "You need to rest."
"If I were taking lessons from you, I would be whinging already. And trying to tell you that sex helps people sleep. Especially after stressful or dangerous situations."
"Oh, stop bitching. For pity's sake. You're injured. You sleep a few hours, and then I'm willing to negotiate for sexual favours." When John opened his mouth to speak, Sherlock immediately cut him off. "Stop. Just for tonight, I am in charge here."
I am in charge here. John let the words echo in his head, perhaps he would seize that as his mantra for the night. He felt his breathing ease and his heart rate begin to settle. His words triggered a sentimental chord in John's chest, and the fingers in John's hand tightened slightly, a reminder of their close proximity and availability. Warm lips brushed and lingered on the side of John's head, and he heard Sherlock inhale deeply. It was rather centering until John realized that he was probably appreciating the scent of his own shampoo in John's hair.
John reached his hand over, aiming for the bedside table and hoping to find his mobile there. Sherlock cleared his throat in a warning tone. "I have your pager. I also have both mobiles. They are behind me, and everything is turned off. You are in recovery mode here, and the hospital - and London - will survive a few hours without either of us being electronically available." Sherlock's finger was still over John's ulnar pulse, and he chuckled quietly, deep in his chest. Arms tightened then, bidirectionally, and their heads came closer again, breathing deep, relaxation still elusively in the wings, but imminent. "And yes, I like the smell of my shampoo in your hair."
Over the next few days, the news circulated stories about an unstable pair of brothers with a personal vendetta who plotted against London in general. John had neutralized one brother; the other had taken his own life when confronted by police. The death count rose but all agreed it could have been catastrophically worse. John and Sherlock finally gave up on watching regurgitated news reports while John’s shoulder healed quickly. By the time he returned to work, bullet holes were filled, crime scene tape had been removed, blood stains cleaned, and things had almost gotten back to normal. For as much as John appreciated the wild unpredictability of medicine, he was grateful for a few weeks of routine-ness.
++
The tuxedo-clad pair arrived fashionably on-time. Sherlock had been lobbying for a late arrival, but John insisted that the medical realm typically does not wait for latecomers, as scheduling can be enough of a nightmare obtaining appropriate coverage and on-call responsibilities. The medical staff dinner at the Stafford Estate promised to be rather boring, with presentations, a few speeches about the state of healthcare in the UK, and the obligatory fundraising. But the success of the intensivist program was being touted, and the organisers had asked John, as the new director, to share a few minutes of observations and thoughts on the state of the program.
Sherlock was only in attendance because he’d fallen victim to yet another failed gamble on his sexual prowess and lost. And, as John knew yet again that the win had been sheer eleventh hour luck on his own part, he’d negotiated not only his partner’s attendance tonight at the dinner, but on the skimpy, tight, black satin pants Sherlock was wearing beneath the resplendent, well-tailored trousers. Purchased exclusively for the evening, much to Sherlock’s chagrin and John’s amusement. Now, as they both engaged in a few conversations around the bar, he glanced over and saw Sherlock noticing him - because he bloody well noticed everything - and slid his own arm casually down his side, drawing back the jacket and sliding his own hand, slowly, deliberately, seductively into his trouser pocket, tilting his slim hip as he did. Ah, dinner and a show. John’s gaze flicked to Sherlock’s face, caught the sparkling eye and the smirk without missing a beat of the conversation at hand. John grinned into his drink, wondering, yet again, who was being further tortured at the thought. Sometimes, he recalled yet again, there was only a thin line between winning and losing.
John was introduced to a few spouses of some of the board members, worked his way a step closer to Sherlock in order to reciprocate the requisite introductions. Sherlock had just received his gin and tonic from the barmaid, pushed the lime in with his finger and drew said finger between bowed lips as he turned to John. Their eyes met, heat exchanged, the slow slide of Sherlock's actions going straight to John's gut. Sherlock, setting his drink back on the bar, reached out with non-salivary hand and exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes. The evening passed in expected social niceties, appetisers, a few raunchy jokes and self-directed barbs at the medical profession in general. And the also expected dark medical humour.
John’s portion of the evening was very early, and he opened with his favorite Descartes one-liner, and then spent the next three minutes explaining where the intensivist program was now, where it was headed, and what his expectations were. He thanked the Med Exec board for their support, the physicians for their interest, and the community for their backing. The accompanying slide presentation was simple and to the point.
Sherlock leaned in when he was seated again, complimented him on his humour and his brevity, and complained that the pants were making him hard. John leaned back into his chair, a smug grin on his face, and prepared to enjoy the rest of the evening out in public. And to savour the great anticipation that was building between the two of them.
The end of the evening found John very grateful that he was paying attention to more than what was beneath his - and his flatmate’s - zipper. One of the staunch hospital financiers took the microphone to close out the evening, but asked for everyone’s attention for an unusual award that would be presented tonight, the first of it’s kind. He said, “This has been a noteworthy year for London, the hospital, as our community has been tested, risen above adversity, and we would like to recognise Dr. John Watson for his service in the recent attacks...” and John rose carefully to his feet as directed and acknowledged the applause. The speaker continued after a brief, factual recap of the events. “Presenting the award to Dr. Watson tonight is Mr. Holmes, member of the Med Exec board, who was perhaps most directly affected by Dr. Watson’s involvement that afternoon.”
On the front screen flashed a photo, obtained somehow, of them in the A&E. John was pointing at something out of the photo perhaps, his eyes bright. He had obvious dressings over his injury, held in place by DI Lestrade, and Sherlock was visible in the image, brushing a towel over his face or hair and looking rather bedraggled. It was not a glamorous photo, but neither was it distasteful. John had never seen it before.
Sherlock avoided the typical humorous opening, saying instead after a smooth entrance and receiving of the microphone, “I certainly never expected to have blood and gray matter sprayed all over me that day at the hospital, and definitely never expected that our Lead Intensivist would have been the one to put them there.” He paused, allowed the brief moment of chatter, applause, and the feigned-shocked reactions twitter about the room. “Oh well,” he continued, catching John’s eye meaningfully as he said, “Good thing I wasn’t wearing my black satin formalwear, that day, I guess.” He nodded at the person overseeing the projector, and the photo faded. When he paused again, John was grateful for the dim lighting as he blushed to the tips of his ears. “Dr. Watson doesn’t recall the directions he was able to communicate prior to removing the threat to our community that day, but I remember very clearly the way he tipped his head, indicating that I needed to get out of his way. And, his skilled communication, whether verbal or otherwise, is exactly what this hospital program needs.” He spoke a few more words, then gestured at the envelope that had been passed along. “This represents a small token of the gratitude of the community for service that day, and is the first ever Beacon award. Thank you, Dr. Watson.” The mic was re-commandeered and an explanation was given of the small financial gift along with a descriptory plaque that would be mounted in the administration wing of the hospital.
John nodded to the applauding gathering once more, and gratefully reclaimed his seat.
Sherlock joined him, leaned in as John muttered, grinning, “Shameless PR stunt?”
The smile reached Sherlock's eyes as he nodded, “Of course. Takes the focus off the negative press.”
The evening ended shortly after that, and the crowd thinned rather quickly as physicians returned to their duties and the rest made quick work of saying goodbye and left. John had many well-wishes and thanks expressed to him, some of it nostalgic but all appreciative. Everyone had a story that day, John knew, and listened to the few who shared them. It was humbling, he realized, that he was singled out for his efforts when there were abundant examples of bravery, heroics, and selflessness everywhere, from every corner.
Sherlock stood off to the side as John spoke with the few lingering souls.
“So,” John said, when he’d finally shaken off the last of the people, “how’s that black satin treating you?” As expected, Sherlock’s breath hitched and his pupils grew dark and round. John pressed. “You ready to model them for me?”
“Say the word.” He looked mischievously around the room. “Crowd’s mostly gone, and those still here, well, who cares if they mind.” His hand came up behind John’s elbow, warmly surrounding, his grasp heated and gentle. “Do me a favour?” His voice, lowered and quiet, went straight to John’s crotch. The last word was drawn out, sexy and husky and full of promise.
‘How long have you known about this?” He glanced at the envelope and plaque he’d been given.
His lopsided smile revealed that he knew exactly where John was headed with his commentary. “Couple weeks.”
“Wait," his eyes narrowed. "So, you're telling me that you lost the bet on purpose?”
He let his eyes linger on John’s, and his expression was humming with energy. He waited much longer than necessary, their eyes meeting, holding. Finally, he spoke, “Which time?” He let that sink in, watched John’s shocked expression change to merriment.
“God help the lot of us. Let’s go home. I might have a little wager to discuss with you.”
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fin
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