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“I’m glad no one saw that.”
Sherlock’s mind, which had been racing, slowed at the sound of John’s voice, which still had a breathless quality about it, as if he had just run a marathon. Sherlock felt to be in a similar state—though the bomb hadn’t been strapped to him, his anxiety was as strong as if it had been. Perhaps even worse, if he was being entirely honest.
“Hmm?”
“You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.”
“People do little else,” Sherlock said distractedly. He caught John’s eye and they both smiled, but whereas John seemed only to be relieved, Sherlock was still eyeing John up and down entirely, making sure every trace of the explosives were gone from his person. Sherlock was replaying the moment over and over again in his mind, recalling exactly where his fingers had been, where they had unzipped and unbuckled and pulled, where they had discarded the pyrotechnics. They were all gone, weren’t they…?
Sherlock looked again, unable to help himself, and saw—again—that John was clean. He was still leaning up against the wall, clothed only in his button-down and sweater; nothing dangerous in the least.
You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool…
Sherlock looked away. It was bad enough that while he had been taking off John’s coat, he had thought about simply not stopping—he didn’t need to keep undressing him with his eyes, too.
But it was all about safety, Sherlock reasoned. If he had kept going, pulling off John’s cardigan and button-down and all, it would have only been to ensure that John was completely out of danger. If he had kept going, it was only for peace of mind. Sherlock hadn’t realized until tonight how fragile John really was, how precarious his existence could be, and therefore he hadn’t realized until tonight just how much John’s existence meant in the first place.
Now that he had realized, he couldn’t seem to stop realizing. He couldn’t seem to stop worrying. He couldn’t seem to stop himself from looking over at John and wondering if he was okay, if he was whole, if he was out of the line of fire. It took every ounce of Sherlock’s self control to keep him from physically checking, to drop to his knees beside John and run his fingers under the fabric of his shirt, over the skin of his chest, to make absolutely sure that there was nothing left.
Sherlock looked away again.
Be reasonable, he told himself.
But as the night dragged on, he seemed to be beyond reason. Especially because of all those little red dots that had lit up across John’s torso, the promises of target practice, just moments after Moriarty had left them. So changeable, Moriarty said. It was giving Sherlock whiplash.
Somehow, the two of them made it back to 221B after the trying swimming pool ordeal. John only cast him a mildly suspicious look when Sherlock insisted on weaving an arm around John’s back to help him out, but other than that, all was well.
During the cab ride back, Sherlock kept watch over John from the corner of his eye, paranoid that another army of red pointers would march across John’s sitting figure, that one forgotten bomb in John’s pocket was about to blow him to pieces. He jumped at every red glare of tailights in the rearview mirror and flinched at loud noises.
“Well, that was…” John trailed off once they were back in the flat. “That was…”
“Indeed.” Sherlock smiled thinly.
“I’m off to bed, then.”
“Wait,” Sherlock said before he could think things through. It was on instinct, a need to keep John in his line of sight. John, who had been about to go upstairs, paused.
“What?”
“Do you… want a cup of tea?” Sherlock asked, hoping to cover his tracks in the face of feeling so oddly self-conscious. John looked baffled.
“Since when do you make tea?”
“Since you’ve been strapped to a bomb.”
“Well, in that case,” John snorted. “I don’t take sugar.”
“Just this once,” Sherlock warned, side-stepping into the kitchen.
In the short time it took for Sherlock to make the tea, he became almost rigid from self-doubting fear. John was out of sight, and Sherlock was becoming increasingly sure that he had missed something, or that he had been naive to think the snipers would let them go, just like that. John was probably dead right now, and Sherlock was standing around with the kettle on.
He had never felt this way before. This kind of thinking wasn’t based in logic, and yet it was undeniable how it made Sherlock’s hands shake and his pulse spike. He finished the tea as fast as humanly possible and hurried up the stairs, splashing some of the hot water over the rim of the mug.
“John,” Sherlock said at his door, barely able to restrain his panic.
But John was fine, coming to the door as he pulled a soft cotton T-shirt over his head. Silently, Sherlock handed him the mug.
“Thanks.” John sounded wary. “I’ll see you in the morning, Sherlock.”
“Goodnight,” Sherlock said shortly, trying to quell his unwarranted concern. John closed the door.
Sherlock didn’t move. He couldn’t move. He stood there for a long time, telling himself to go to bed but failing to follow through, his thoughts too consumed with John and his livelihood.
Eventually, Sherlock gave up, sat down in the hallway, and nodded off a while later listening to the sound of John’s even breathing through the thin walls.
***
There was something about John Watson… Something about him that was driving Sherlock mad.
He couldn’t explain this effect, no matter how many hours he spent theorizing or collecting data or clinically observing. There was no logic to it—none at all—which was a nearly unfathomable concept for Sherlock. Surely there had to be some explanation as to why he had suddenly become such an anxious, overbearing presence to John, constantly seeking out affirmation that the other man was safe.
Safety—or the lack thereof—was a consistent problem, what with all of the cases that Sherlock took on and all of the scrapes that he and John got themselves into as a result. Only now Sherlock spent his nights lying awake, wondering if John was alright, picturing John’s beautiful flushed-pink skin and how one small mistake could drain him cold and dry.
Sherlock made a habit of taking John’s pulse.
When they got separated on a case, the killer still at large, the first thing Sherlock did upon reuniting with John was press two fingers to the pulsing veins in John’s wrist, his flat expression masking the worry underneath.
Are you in danger? Are you hurt? Are you dead?
It was a repeating mantra in Sherlock’s mind, words that he daren’t say out loud but couldn’t seem to ban entirely from his conscious mind. So he took John’s pulse, and felt as the rhythmic beat seemed to flood through his system as well, a sensation of perfect synchronization. Sherlock let out a breath.
Are you safe, are you okay, are you still alive?
All this must not have seemed too strange (Sherlock could be a good actor when he needed to be), because John let it pass without comment, only a brief, confused furrowing of his brows.
When John took a nasty tumble down a flight of stairs, Sherlock had to fight the urge to fling himself down, too, if only to close the distance between them.
Are you in danger? Are you hurt? Are you dead?
Sherlock insisted that John stay up with him all night—to make sure that he wasn’t concussed, obviously. They sat on either side of their desk, and Sherlock watched John over the top of his computer, thinking to himself:
Are you safe, are you okay, are you still alive?
He had to confirm the factuality of this statement about every ten minutes. John was okay. John was safe. John was definitely alive. Sherlock could tell from the pinkness in the other man’s cheeks, the occasional twitch beside his lip that looked more like an endearing dimple, the way his eyes would flit from one thing to another and the light would make it so Sherlock would notice the curious color of John’s gaze; a gradient of blue to brown to gray.
When John was kidnapped (not for the first time, unfortunately), Sherlock nearly went out of his mind with worry.
Are you in danger?
Obviously John was in danger. Sherlock just didn’t know how much of it. Was he locked in a basement, chained up by his ankles, or was he slowly being walked off a cliff?
Are you hurt?
Who knew what they were doing to John while Sherlock wasn’t there to watch after him. He could be missing limbs—anything from a pinkie finger to a right arm. He could be facing all manner of injuries.
Are you dead?
Sherlock didn’t like to think about that one too in-depth.
Even when John was returned safely to Sherlock’s hands, the two of them back home at the flat with the case successfully solved, Sherlock couldn’t rest.
“John, I think you ought to lie down in my room tonight,” Sherlock said, his voice as offhandedly monotone as he could manage.
“Your room? No, I’m not doing that.”
“You’ve been through quite the ordeal tonight,” Sherlock argued. “I think it would be better if someone kept an eye on you.”
“Someone,” John repeated. “You?”
“Obviously.”
“Sherlock, I’m fine . I don’t need to stay under observation.”
Sherlock sniffed. “I disagree. I don’t think you should walk up any more stairs.”
John scoffed, his eyes rolled up to the sky in disbelief. “I was in the army, for god's sake! I think I can manage a few bloody stairs by myself.”
But Sherlock hmphed in victory when John’s uneven footsteps swerved on the way to his bedroom, and, despite John’s vehement protestations, Sherlock steered him towards the downstairs bedroom. Sherlock’s bedroom. If Sherlock didn't know any better, he would have said that John looked… nervous.
“Here we are,” Sherlock said, not-so-gently pushing John towards the king-size mattress. “You should get some rest.”
Before John could get a word in edgewise, Sherlock backed out of the room, closing the door behind him, and then—he waited.
He waited until he was sure John would be asleep, and then he eased the door to his bedroom back open, letting himself sidle through. Though John seemed comfortably asleep underneath Sherlock’s blankets, the noise of the door must have woken him up to some extent, because he began to mumble.
“You should… come to bed, too…”
Sherlock didn’t say anything, only inched closer to the bedside, inspecting John’s figure to make sure he seemed whole and healthy after his ordeal.
“Need sleep, Sherlock…”
Sherlock ignored this advice, only leaned over John as he rolled onto his back, his eyes still closed.
“You’re safe,” Sherlock whispered to himself, his hand hovering over John’s chest, itching to feel for his heartbeat there. John’s eyes opened a crack, seemed to register that Sherlock was hesitating to do something, and took his hands, pressing them against his chest. Warmth seeped into Sherlock’s palms, a steady beat of ba-bump, ba-bump , echoing through his veins.
“Mmm,” John agreed.
“You’re… okay,” Sherlock tried to assure himself, but it was more of a question.
“I’m fine, Sherlock.” John was still holding his hand, keeping it in place over his heart, but now he moved it up so that two of Sherlock’s fingers were pressed hard against the spot between John’s ear and the underside of his jaw, searching for another proof of pulse. It wasn’t long before Sherlock could feel the steady thrum of blood lacing underneath John’s skin, a tantalizing show of life.
“You’re alive,” Sherlock reminded himself, breathless with relief. He figured it was okay to sound so honest, given that John couldn’t even be considered half -awake at this point—he probably wouldn’t remember this at all in the morning.
It would have been safer to call it a night right then, but Sherlock was weak and John was tugging on his arm, insisting that he lie down, given that it was his bed and all… yes, really… just go to sleep…
Sherlock wanted to. He was weak, and he wanted—desperately—to lie down next to the man in his bed, to hold him close, to be able to touch him…
Oh.
Oh.
Maybe this was why Sherlock had not a shred of logic to speak of when it came to John Watson. Maybe this was why he cared so much, cared so violently, for his well-being. Maybe it was as simple as loving him. In the dark of the night, the deep quiet, it somehow didn’t seem like such a terrifying prospect—loving John. Maybe it just made sense.
Sherlock was weak, and the two of them woke up face-to-face, their legs in a tangle beneath the bedclothes and their arms wrapped tightly around each other.
It had been the best sleep of his life, what with John’s heartbeat pressed against his ear and all, a constant reminder of not only the presence, but the proximity of the other man.
Sherlock woke to the comforting knowledge of: John is safe, John is okay, John is alive.
***
Sherlock had been dead for two years—two of the longest, most awful years of his life. Two years of lying, two years of lonesomeness, two years of not knowing if John Watson was alright. (He wasn’t.)
Fully intending to check John’s pulse the moment they saw each other again, Sherlock was stunned when John beat him to it, urgently feeling under his jaw for signs of life. John’s fingers were warm, calloused, professional: Soldier hands. Doctor hands. They clearly knew what they were doing as they felt both of Sherlock’s pulse-points, drew his eyes open wide so John could inspect the whites, and twisted his neck this way and that to inspect every angle of his face, checking for injuries.
“You’re alive,” John said simply.
Sherlock softened. “So are you.”
Of course, then John was angry. Sherlock, around his disappointment, figured he had a right to be. Sherlock had already spent two years away from him—what was a little bit longer?
Surprisingly, a little bit longer was just that—a little bit. It was only a few nights later that John showed up at the flat, looking determined.
“Are you… okay, Sherlock?” John asked once inside, squinting up at him.
“I’m fine,” he said stiffly.
“Because you look…” Instead of finishing the sentence, John was checking him again, inspecting his welfare, his practiced hands fluttering over his skin.
Sherlock was shocked. Hadn’t this been his problem? Hadn’t he always been the one to stifle John with his worry, his need to keep John safe and sound? Why would John ever have the urge or inclination to return the sentiment?
John pressed on Sherlock's abdomen, and Sherlock couldn’t help but wince—some of his bruises were still painfully fresh.
“Sherlock,” John said, voice low with a warning. His breath was coming in shorter gasps as he undid the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, revealing swaths of his pale skin inch by painstaking inch.
John’s nostrils were flared by the time he pulled the button-down off Sherlock’s shoulders completely, revealing mottled purple skin and the swollen area of his fractured rib cage. Nearly frantic, John spun Sherlock around, inspecting his back (covered in raised lashes, pink and raw, nearly healed), his hands traveling up and down the expanse in desperation.
“Sherlock, you—This is—”
“John.”
“You shouldn’t—shouldn’t be—”
“ John. ”
Sherlock caught his hands, stopping the other man’s panicked exploration of his skin.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not —”
“I am. Look.” Ever so gently, Sherlock positioned John’s fingers at his pulse once more, holding the press of skin against skin long enough for John to exhale slowly, inhale deeply.
“I’m alive,” Sherlock murmured, doing his best to be comforting despite his confusion over all of John’s fuss. “I’m okay. I’m safe.”
Calmer now, John looked at his fingers feeling Sherlock’s heartbeat with a small smirk.
“You used to do this to me all the time,” he said. “Check my pulse, I mean. I… it was nice.”
“It was nice?”
John rolled his eyes. “It was nice to know you cared. I could never—never really tell.”
“I cared,” Sherlock said, so low that he wasn’t even sure if John could hear him. “I cared more than I could understand.” He placed his fingers on John’s pulse, then, the two of them standing in perfect reflection of each other, both marveling at the others’ spike in heart rate, the sharp intake of breath stuck in their throats.
“Sherlock,” John said warily, his expression pained.
“So sorry John, but I think I’m—”
Before Sherlock had a chance to say it, John had surged forward to capture Sherlock in a kiss. He stumbled backwards from the force of the embrace, mind deliriously blank, his hand losing its position at John’s pulse-point. Turns out there were other, better ways to tell if someone was alive.
A long time later, when they were both lying wrapped in Sherlock’s sheets, hands pressed to each other's hearts as if feeling the beat of a lullaby, John whispered in the dark.
“I wanted you to be alive. At your grave, I asked you to be alive.”
“I heard you.”
He fell asleep comforted by the truth of John’s warm body and the knowledge that somehow, miraculously, he was able to comfort John in turn. They were both there, they were both whole. They were both safe, they were both okay, they were both alive .