Omegle RP

• Stranger: John stumbled into the flat, bruised and bleeding.
• You: "J-John!" Sherlock stammered, eyes widening in shock as he rushed for John's side. It was awful. There was a lot of blood -too much blood. Blood - like corpses- didn't affect him. But this was John's blood and John being bruised and it made everything different.
• Stranger: "I-I'm okay," John said, automatically, flashing Sherlock a strained smile, though he did intend it to be reassuring. "First aid kit?" he asked, faintly. The world didn't seem to want to stand straight, and it looked like two detectives were in front of him, though he knew that wasn't true. He felt sick.
• You: "No. Hospital." Sherlock said firmly, wrapping an arm around John so that the doctor wouldn't collapse. There were several things the detective wanted to ask, but now was not the time.
• Stranger: "No - no hospital," John protested, making a - somewhat feeble, much to his own annoyance - attempt at batting away Sherlock's hands, even as the other part of him relaxed against the man, accepting the support gratefully.
• You: "I am not a doctor, John. I can't take care of you properly. Just think about it." Sherlock hissed, ignoring John's attempt at batting his hands away. "J-Just sit down, for now and we'll just... Sit down."
• Stranger: "I'm a doctor," John muttered, but he started moving in the direction of the sofa, before pausing. Blood. On the sofa. Which he'd have to clean. No. The nausea rose again, and he staggered back against Sherlock. "Hospitals take ages, long lists and waiting rooms while I bleed out...no thanks...first aid kit?" he asked again, just letting himself drop onto the floor to sit there instead.
• You: Sherlock grabbed John's shirt in time and said: "Oh no, /doctor/ you are going to sit on the sofa, whether you like it or not. I can buy another one if the idea of cleaning it afterwards doesn't appeal you." He rolled his eyes as he realised that John's stubbornness would never ever fade away and laid him down the sofa. "I'll get the Aid kit."
• Stranger: John blinked when he didn't find the floor, promptly on the sofa instead, staring up at the ceiling, pretty sure he'd be keeling over if he wasn't already lying flat. He watched as Sherlock swept away again, presumably in search of the first aid kit, before closing his eyes, hoping that would make everything stop swimming.
• You: "Aren't you supposed to stay awake?" Sherlock asked, his voice a little higher than usual as he got back to John's side, holding the first aid kit. "What do you want me to do?" He asked, opening the kit and giving a quick glance inside it.
• Stranger: "Am awake...just, resting," he replied, forcing his heavily lids to open again, blearily, as he struggled to sit up. "Bleeding...needs to stop. Not just for the sofa's sake," he said, trying to focus. "Pressure, bandages, ice for sprain, but the blood's the...main priority."
• You: Sherlock nodded and gritted his teeth, trying to remain rational and composed. "You should probably talk to me while I try to stop the bleeding." He stated, pulling out several compresses out of the kit. He took some scissors and cut up John's jumper carefully. "Who did this?" He could feel anger hit him like a truck, and his hands were shaking. Just stay calm, he thought.
• Stranger: "Talking's probably a good idea," John murmured, keeping his eyes carefully fixed on Sherlock's face. "Okay, talking...how was your day? You look angry, I don't think I've seen you this angry since Mrs Hudson..." He ignored the question however, just rambling about whatever unrelated thing came into his head.
• You: "Terrible. My only friend got injured and I'm supposed to heal him as best as I can even though I feel quite useless at healing people. Moreover, this friend of mine is actually ignoring the main question. Who. did. this. to. you?" It was right, he had never been that angry. Even when the American idiots had tried to hurt his landlady. Taking several deep breaths, Sherlock applied some pressure to the main wound. His hands were now covered with John's blood and it wouldn't take his deducing skills to realize that John had been bleeding a lot.
• Stranger: "Maybe the friend has reasons for keeping it quiet, considering the last time he saw you this angry you threw an american idiot out of a window," John replied, aiming for another smile. "And you're doing fine, you just need to clean it out...stitch it," he winced, "and then bandage it. I can do it if you want?" His vision had black dots in now, but his hands were completely still, without tremor. It made him snort. "Christ, it would be a nightmare if my hands started to shake when things got interesting, wouldn't it?" he mumbled.
• You: "You are absolutely right, I would actually kill the one who did this to you, but who cares?" He replied with a sarcastic tone, starting to clean out the wound. "And I am not letting you stitch yourself. I don't need you to pass out while doing so and letting me doing it on my own. I'm sure I can manage if you tell me what to do."
• Stranger: John's eyes flicked to Sherlock at that statement, before away again.
• "Just...stitch it," he said. "You know, take the skin and close the gap." He reeled off an explanation, eyes closing again. "And I care," he added, after a moment, eyes opening once more as his fists clenched into the material of the sofa, his teeth gritted against the pain.
• You: "Well, I don't. Just hear me carefully this time because I won't take time to repeat myself. No one has the right to harm you in any way. And I mean it, /no one/. You said it yourself before. Friends protect people. I don't give a damn whether you consider me as your friend or not, John, but I swore years ago that I would always do my best to protect you." He didn't make eye-contact with his friend as he talked, keeping his eyes locked on the kit as he searched for a needle.
• Stranger: John's brow furrowed, though he felt touched through the haze of his injuries.
• "Of course I consider you as my friend," he said, "you're my best friend. Have I given you the impression you're not? Needles are under the plasters," he added, making some sort of gesture to point, though his limbs felt sluggish.
• You: Sherlock simply nodded and grabbed one of the needles under the plaster. "I need to know who did this, John." He hesitated for a moment, debating before adding "Please." He didn't want to say anything about the 'best friend' bit, always reluctant to talk about their friendship.
• Stranger: John swallowed at the please. It was rare, and if the situation was reversed, he /knew/ he would have wanted to know who harmed Sherlock, it was just...he didn't want the man to feel guilty, not that he should, but...
• "It's really not that big a deal," he replied, a bit desperately. "I handled them, believe it or not, I did actually win the fight."
• You: "What's wrong with you?" He asked, considering the problem of sterilizing the needle. "And you don't look like someone who won a fight, John. You've been stabbed, bruised, you're bleeding and making me beg you to tell me who did this. This is not how things are supposed to be."
• Stranger: "Alcohol," John muttered. "You can use alcohol. And well, I did, if I didn't, I'd be dead." His voice went even quieter at the last part. "And I'm not /making/ you beg," he said, uncomfortable with the thought. "And what do you mean what's wrong with ne? I've been stabbed, that's what's wrong."
• You: "You're acting like if being stabbed didn't matter." Sherlock muttered, glaring at the other man. "I was thinking about heating it up with a lighter." He said, pointing at the needle. "You can't ask me to ignore this and act like if it was all normal. Because it is not."
• Stranger: "Lighter works too," John agreed. "And of course it /matters/," he said, feeling even more uncomfortable. "It just doesn't matter enough that you should be thrown into jail for murder or something - I mean," he tried to ease the tension slightly, "think of what Donovan would say? Her 'told you so' would be unbearable...and I'm not asking you to /ignore/ it, I just...okay, so maybe I am, but it's fine, it won't happen again," he stated adamantly.
• You: Sherlock frowned, his heart suddenly pounding against his chest. "Thrown into jail?" He asked, locking his eyes on John's. He didn't even hissed at the mention of Donovan, being way too much confused to actually bother. "What do you mean?" He shook his head, pulling out a lighter from his pocket and heating up the needle, still looking at John.
• Stranger: "What do you mean what do I mean?" John returned, finding he was now the one avoiding the other's gaze, eyes intent on the needle instead. "If you murder someone, you get thrown into jail, well, if you're caught, but either way, it's a stupid thing to risk and I-how did we get on this topic?" he questioned, bewildered.
• You: "You mean I did this to you?" Sherlock said, realising that his throat was completely dry. It didn't make sense. He would never hurt John, would never harm him would never-- "I don't remember doing this to you. This doesn't make sense. Why would I go to jail?"
• Stranger: "What? No! Where the hell did you get that idea?" John demanded, completely confused now. "I meant - you were saying how you were going to murder whoever did this, so I was saying I didn't want you to murder anyone and then...I think we got lost somewhere?"
• You: Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and let out a soft sigh. This was silly. All this caring bit was making him weaker and stupid. "Sorry." He mumbled, before removing the compresses on John's wound and brought the needle to the skin surface. "Ready?" He asked, focusing his mind on the stitching.
• Stranger: "You have nothing to be sorry for...just get it over with," John mumbled, in response, teeth gritting again, fists clenching into the sofa again as he tried not to tense too much, knowing that would only make it worse. He watched the process of the needle, rather evenly.
• You: It was actually easier than he expected. He was actually aware that John was tensing each time he put or withdrew the needle to the skin so Sherlock did his best to be as gentle and quick as possible. He neither spoke or made any sound, finding some comfort in this awkward and tensed silence.
• Stranger: Finally, it was over, and John sagged slightly in relief.
• "Good, very good," he said, quietly, with a small, marginally pale smile. "Just like a professional. Thanks."
• You: Sherlock didn't smile back and simply focused on bandaging the wound. He remember John's words exactly 'Pressure, bandage, ice for sprain'. The wound wasn't bleeding as much as it used to, but it still needed to be patched up. "I'll get you some ice once I've patched this up." He simply said, taking some surgical tape.
• Stranger: "Thanks," he said again, perhaps a bit unnecessarily, more because he was aware he did need to make sure he wasn't falling unconcious, though he reckoned he was out the immediate danger zone by now. He sat, much more relaxed now that he was no longer bleeding everywhere...though a soft groan did slip past his lips as he eyed the state of the sofa.
• You: Once he was done with the bandages, Sherlock got up and wrapped a towel around several ice cubes before handing them to John. What he was feeling by now was beyond anger and bitterness. He remained blank and didn't let his face betray his feelings right now - because he didn't need John to know and because he didn't /want/ him to know what effects he had on him. It was stupid. This stupid brain getting increasingly human since he had met his friend. Denying emotions was so much easier and most of all, it didn't hurt. No matter what happened, what people thought or said, it didn't hurt.
• Stranger: "Alright?" John asked, softly, accepting the make-shift icepack gratefully, taking the time to study Sherlock now. "I didn't mean to...worry you," he murmured. Sherlock looked utterly cold, unreadable, and it made him feel slightly chilled too, though he was knew this was Sherlock being Sherlock.
• You: "Fine. I'm always fine." He snapped, his eyes wandering over John's body to check for other wounds. It seemed like he had treated most of the wounds, but there were still bruises and probably other things that a doctor would certainly notice right away. "You?" He finally asked, ignoring John's last sentence.
• Stranger: "You don't sound fine," John muttered, concerned. "And I'm...better, thank you...world's stopped spinning too...tea?"
• He moved to stand, wanting to test out of his balance, and because, well, he felt helpless and invalided doing nothing.
• You: "It would be better if you remained sit in the sofa." He replied, getting up before the doctor and heading towards the kitchen. "I'll make you some tea." Sherlock poured some water in the kettle and put it on. John had no intention to tell him who had done this, so he was not going to act like if everything was okay.
• Stranger: John sighed, heavily. Sherlock was annoyed with him, he recognised the signs - no doubt because he wasn't telling who'd done this to him. The silence seemed to be suffocating.
• "You really want to know?" he asked, finally, a tad reluctantly, as Sherlock returned with tea.
• You: Sherlock felt almost hurt by the question. Of course he wanted to know, it was driving him mad and he couldn't even think rational. "I think the answer is quite obvious." He snapped, finally meeting John's eyes. It was all about his concern, his worry, his pain, his irrational affection for the other man.
• Stranger: John swallowed, his throat a bit tight.
• "You know that case we solved a while back...the one about the big underground mob gang? We ended up catching their leader?" he began, unable to look away now, even if he wanted to.
• You: The detective nodded, still keeping his eyes locked on the doctor, not even daring to blink. "I do." There was something still wrong about this. Being stabbed was a thing. Of course, there was the shock, the part where you would be scared to actually talk about it. But this, this was beyond shock and denial. John was genuinely scared to tell /him/. Not anyone. /Him/.
• Stranger: "Yeah...they weren't exactly happy with that," John finished, sincerely hoping he did not have to spell it out. He did not want Sherlock feeling bad about this, when it couldn't be helped, and he was wary of the other trying to dissinvolve him due to the dangerous nature of their cases or something equally ridiculous...maybe it was irrational, but he didn't want this to change things. And he didn't want Sherlock getting in trouble if he got the idea of retaliating.
• You: "Why did they hurt /you/?" Sherlock asked, finding it harder to remain blank. "I'm the one who bring you to cases, I'm the one who solved that case. They should try to kill me, not /you/." John kept swallowing hard, which meant that he feared Sherlock's reaction. He had made clear that he didn't want the man to retaliate but this was a stupid though. Because of course he would retaliate. "The thing is. I am not happy with this either." He said, pointing at the wound. "Also, I tend to be quite dangerous at times. After all, I also have bad days."
• Stranger: "They hurt me because they thought it would get to you," John bit out, even more reluctantly. "Which means, no, you're not retaliating, because that's what they're expecting and therefore, it is a bloody stupid thing to do especially as we now know that most the criminal empire, if not all of it, is run by Moriarty, therefore, it could just as easily be a trap! Therefore, /leave it/. It's fine. It's dealt with."
• You: Sherlock listened carefully to John's word, repeating them in his head several times before replying: "Then, it means I'm dangerous. If I can't actually retaliate, if people keep hurting you to get to me, then I-I" His voice caught in his throat and he head to cleared it to finish his sentence. "I should probably leave you." He whispered, his heart tearing itself apart at the thought.
• Stranger: "No," John hissed, furious. "This is /exactly/ why I didn't tell you! I was always fully aware of the danger, how do you think the damn limp went away? This is my choice, you don't get to - just no." He glared at Sherlock for the thought, his fears and doubts confirmed.
• You: "I don't want this either." Sherlock whispered, leaning his head against the sofa. John was in fact all he cared about. Every little thing was about that man. His work, his life, his mind were all filled with the small man and the detective did wonder once - for one second before pushing the thought away - how he had managed before John. People who assumed that Sherlock Holmes didn't have a heart on his own were actually right. John Watson was his heart and Moriarty did know this too well. But the doctor needed to understand. He needed to understand that Sherlock couldn't lose him - especially not like this.
• Stranger: "Me neither," John said, too calmly, "but it can't be helped, and I can look after myself - I was a soldier, and, as I said, I did actually beat them in the fight. You do /not/ get to push me away because of this...it's what /he/ wants." His insides twisted, his throat feeling choked again. Everything was just going...wrong, and Sherlock didn't seem to understand that he would accept this happening a million times over before he abandoned the detective. He certainly wasn't alive without him, everything just turned grey.
• You: "Can't you just see what's going on, John?" Sherlock finally snapped, losing his blank expression. "He knows. /HE/ knows you're my weakness. He knows I would simply die without..." Without you. "I-I can't do this any more. I know you want this, you would be ready to do anything just to keep investigating but this is too much. He's been trying to kill you three times. I could have lost you /three times/ and there is no chance I'll let it happen a fourth."
• Stranger: "Of course I can see what's going on!" John growled, losing his own temper. "And what, you think he's just going to leave it alone if you kick me out the flat and refuse to have anything to do with me?! No. It doesn't. He'll do what he wants regardless because the method seems to be working! As for me? I'm staying, you can't get rid of me that easily. I'm not losing you either." He forced his tone to soften, aware he was almost shouting by the end. "Afghanistan didn't kill me, Jim bloody Moriarty certainly won't," he muttered.
• You: "And what if he does, John? What if he does kill you?" Sherlock didn't feel like adding anything else. He hadn't shouted or whispered. It was just his usual low tone, but his eyes were almost piercing, looking into John's. He couldn't expect him to just sit there and do nothing about it. If he stayed away from John, maybe Moriarty would thought that Sherlock had gone bored. Maybe he would let him and only focus on the detective.
• Stranger: "Then he kills me," John said flatly. "People die everyday, remember? Isn't that what you said? Christ, I could just get accidently hit by a bus tomorrow, you can't live your life in fear like that, Sherlock, trust me, I /know./ Because that's...not living. Your actions wouldn't make the blindest bit of difference to Moriarty, they might actually confirm it, so the best we can do is just...roll with punches."
• You: Sherlock stared at John speechless, watching that man, his flatmate, his /heart/ acting like it didn't matter. Acting like if he thought it didn't matter to Sherlock. His throat shouldn't feel that tight, and yet it did. After all this time, all these years, living together, sharing the same flat, John didn't know. It hit him right in the face and it made things go worse.
• Stranger: Sherlock wasn't responding. Sherlock always responded.
• "...did I say something wrong?" he asked, warily.
• You: Yes, John. Yes, you did, Sherlock thought, taking the now empty mug from John's hand and getting up to put it in the sink. Usually, he would never had done something so mundane. John always complained about him not doing things like putting the mugs in the sink or other dull things like this. Except this time, it was just an excuse, an escape from this. Because it did hurt. A lot more than it was supposed to.
• Stranger: John struggled to stand up. This wasn't good. Sherlock wasn't acting like Sherlock. He stumbled carefully after the other.
• "Sherlock? I'm sorry, whatever it is, I didn't mean to upset you," he said, quietly. "Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?"
• Sherlock wasn't a soldier. He wasn't as used to losing people, of death, as John was, no matter what could be said otherwise.
• You: "You shouldn't be standing up, John." He walked back, holding John's shoulders filmy and pulled him down the couch. "You need to rest for tonight, doctor. And as a doctor, you are aware of this. You can take my room if you want, it'll keep you from climbing up the stairs and I won't be sleeping tonight."
• Stranger: "You're avoiding the question," John noted, trying to think how to approach this. He was starting to wonder if Sherlock had felt this frustrated upon questioning him earlier.
• You: Obviously" There was no point in lying to John. He was actually avoiding the question, like John had done earlier, except that his motives were completely different that John's.
• Stranger: "Will you /please/ answer the question," John replied, softly.
• You: "Yes, you did say something wrong." Sherlock finally replied, feeling the urge to simply leave the flat for the night, only to return several hours after. But he wouldn't because he wanted to make sure John was all right - which didn't make sense since he wanted to escape from him.
• Stranger: It was like drawing blood from a stone.
• "Can you please tell me what I said wrong and why?" he asked, patiently.
• You: "I-I just need you to stay alive." This wasn't the answer John was expecting and yet, it actually made sense, if you thought carefully about it. This was not the time for long boring speeches, explanations that would make everything worse.
• Stranger: John bit his lip. Stay alive...Sherlock was worried about him, of course he was, John already knew that.
• "Sherlock," he began, "I'm not saying that I'm going to recklessly try and die or anything, it's not exactly high on my list right now either, and I get that you're...scared by this, but you've got to understand I feel the...same. I'm not just going to abandon you because of something like this, friends don't do that. "
• You: "You don't understand." Sherlock muttered, shaking his head slightly. "I cannot lose you. I cannot stand the thought of losing you. I am not /scared/ by this. This goes beyond any fear... I mean it hurts. It hurts too much, especially when you do... this. When..." He cleared his throat, shaking his head mentally this time. "You can't just say that your death doesn't matter. You CAN'T say I wouldn't care about it... you're all I have." He didn't intend to say the last bit. John would probably mock him - or worse, but he couldn't delete this - except from his own mind.
• Stranger: John's eyes widened, his mouth dry.
• "When did I ever say you wouldn't care? Or that my death didn't matter? I," he paused, taking a deep breath. "I do know we're you're coming from, you know," he continued, quietly. "I can't bear the thought of...losing you either, that's why you can't push me away over this...bloody hell, I'm no good at this," he muttered, clearing his throat awkwardly, trying to think of the right phrasing. "I'm fully aware you /care/, and that's why you're...doing this, but I care too, about you."
• You: "I don't think you are, otherwise you wouldn't have used my own words against me when I ask you 'What if he does kill you?'. If I was to force you to leave, it would... it would hurt. As for you, I'm now certain of this. But you've got your friend, you girlfriend, pretty much everything you need to survive from this. And you would be very much alive." Sherlock didn't say that /he/ wouldn't have all of this. He knew living without this bloody man would actually kill him, but it didn't matter at the moment.
• Stranger: "Alive?" John whispered, pretty sure his voice is starting to sound choked. "No, Sherlock, I'd be surviving, that's something very different. I'm not - christ - I'm not saying my death wouldn't matter to you! Of course it does, this whole night's pointed that out quite clearly let alone the motivations of the mob and Moriarty...I just meant, you can't possibly need /me/ as much as I need you," he stated, bewildered.
• You: Sherlock shook his head again, for like the hundredth time this night. "There are so much things you still ignore about me, John." He said, watching him with a sad look. "One of these things is how much I care. I hate to admit it. I am not supposed to talk about it, because caring is not an advantage and I'm pretty much aware of that now. But as I told you, you're all I have, and you should probably focus on that last bit."
• Stranger: John swallowed, thickly, once more, looking at Sherlock. He did. Sherlock did need him as much, who knew why, but apparently he did.
• He wonders if the detective can read the understand in on his face, and hopes he can, because John has no idea how to express it.
• "He's aware of that too," he said, voice barely audible. "He's not going to leave it alone."
• You: "He knew from the very beginning," Sherlock confirmed, letting out a soft sigh as he closed his eyes. "It took me some time to realise what he meant, that night, at the pool. 'I'll burn the heart out of you.' He meant you." His eyes snapped open and he tried to erase those memories from his mind. He didn't need them. Not now.
• Stranger: John studied Sherlock for a moment, before lowering his gaze. He honestly doesn't know how to fix this, he has no bloody clue, and he hates Moriarty more than ever before.
• "What happens now then?" he questioned softly.
• You: Sherlock didn't know. For the first time ever, he didn't know how to fix this. "We keep you alive." This was one thing he was sure of. "No matter how much it takes. We need to find a way to protect you from him."
• Stranger: "And you," John reminded, firmly. "We just....we take Moriarty down, and we /both/ get through...this, okay?"
• Stranger: ((Crap. I just thought Reichenbach.))
• You: (FEELS ;_;)
• Stranger: ((So many!!)
• You: He almost pointed out that Moriarty wouldn't probably reach for him - unless he really got bored of him but Sherlock actually thought that it might upset John and resorted into nodding. "Together." He confirmed, taking John's hand and squeezing it, as to show he really meant it.
• Stranger: John nodded once, sharply, squeezing the hand back, exhaling a deep breath. He feels...internally shaky almost, but also strangely calm at the same time.
• "Together," he repeated.
• You: Sherlock managed to smile a little, for the first time this night. He didn't let go of John's hand, like if the thought of doing so would result in losing the army doctor. However, he noticed how the man looked exhausted and remembered that initially, they were talking about resting. "You still didn't reply. Will you be taking my bedroom or yours?"
• Stranger: "Uh..." John doesn't quite know how to respond to that either. It's not exactly normal for him to sleep in Sherlock's bed, but he ached all over, and he realised now that he still hadn't taken a bloody painkiller, not that he can - empty stomach. "Dinner?" he asked, instead. "What do you want?"
• You: "Not hungry." Sherlock replied, shrugging slightly. "And you also need to take some painkillers." He added, reluctantly letting go of John's hand to find some painkillers. "We've got some beans, if you're interested." He looked disgusted by the thought of beans.
• Stranger: "I'm interested," John chuckled, moving to the kitchen again to make himself some. "You really should eat though, seeing as we're not on a case." He couldn't help but notice how...empty his hand felt now, as if something - ridiculously - was missing.
• You: Sherlock gave a quick glare at the beans and looked even more disgusted. "I'll be fine. I ate yesterday." He actually shocked himself when he realised he was about to hold John's hand again and slapped himself mentally. Bit not good. Stupid brain. "You should sit. I'll make an effort and cook it myself. Consider it as a grateful gesture towards the fact that you are still alive."
• Stranger: John smiled, genuinely touched. Without thinking about it he grabbed Sherlock hand again, quickly, as he said thanks, before lowering himself to sit again. The world stopped twirling nauseatingly a while ago, but everything is still fractionally off. Like he has a temperature.
• "Want me to talk you through it?" he asked, amused.
• You: "It would be very kind of you, doctor." Sherlock teased, feeling an odd feeling in his stomach. Had he been eating butterflies or what? He frowned slightly and found himself smiling at the fact that John was holding his hand. Weak. Yet, he held it tighter and started cooking with one hand.
• Stranger: "Okay, you pour the beans into a clean saucepan, put it to boil, and stir. I'll tell you when it's ready," John said, grinning, keeping eye on the food as, however touched he was, he was still going to be the one eating it. His hand felt right again. He was /not/ going to analyse that. Not today, at least.
• You: "You sound like I might put fire in the kitchen." Sherlock noted with a slight amusement in his voice. He did like he was told to, poured the beans into a saucepan and put it to boil. He stirred it a little and put the spoon next to the saucepan before sitting down next to John, looking a little bit lost in thoughts.
• Stranger: John kept his attention torn between the beans and Sherlock, wondering what he was thinking about, and whether he should asked. He decided to just squeeze the detective's hand, instead.
• "Wouldn't be the first time you put a fire in the kitchen, would it?" he teased.
• You: Sherlock rolled his eyes and got up to stir the the beans again. "Cooking beans doesn't count as an experiment, which means the chances of putting the fire in the kitchen are minimals. And actually, I think I'm doing fine." He added, pouting slightly.
• Stranger: "You're doing great," John assured, with a smile, before asking, curiously: "have you ever cooked before?"
• You: "Rarely." He admitted, shrugging a little. "I mean, some easy stuffs, like pastas... /beans/" He gave another glare to the beans. "But I always found the idea of cooking unappealing and extremely tedious. Besides, you're not a bad cook, so I'm quite fine with that."
• Stranger: "But isn't cooking like experimenting?" John replied, not to be pushy, and he made sure to reflect this in tone, just genuinely interested. "You try different things, see how they go together to make different things with difference tastes to find out which one works best."
• You: "A bit, yes. But the results are actually more complicated. Chemical results are usually the same, and they make sense. When you cook, you can only /taste/ your result and can't simply tell by the look if it will be good or not. Besides, it can't blow up or solve a case. Boring."
• Sherlock noted the slight interest in John's tone and smiled at that. He wondered at some point if the doctor would have thought this way before meeting him or if this was actually Sherlock's effect on him that had changed him a little. After all, John's effect on Sherlock was clear and even more visible day after day.
• Stranger: "The day we have a case involving a murderer killing via food-poisoning I will laugh and say I told you so," he stated matter of factly, though he's grinning anyway. "And cooking's the same too if you don't change the variables. It makes sense if you go into the science of it." He taps Sherlock, lightly, to signify the beans are ready.
• You: "The day we have a case involving a murderer killing via food-poisoning, I'll have my doctor working on this." Sherlock teased as he got up and poured the beans in a plate. He grabbed a fork and a knife and put everything on the table, in front of John, only using his left hand. "Cooking still doesn't blow up, by the way."
• Stranger: "I've blown cooking up before," John smirked, picking up the fork, using it more like a spoon to eat, not letting go of Sherlock either, even if it was more convenient. And he's still not analysing that.
• You: "Have you?" Sherlock asked, raising a brow, looking interested. "I think I must have underestimated you, John." There was something magical about John's hand. No, not magical. Magic doesn't exist. Powerful, maybe. It was peaceful and soothing, even though he still felt this strange feeling in his stomach. Butterflies. Why butterflies?
• Stranger: John laughed.
• "Most people do," he said. He finished his beans, before automatically standing up to get some painkillers.
• You: "You need to show me once." Sherlock said seriously before rolling his eyes and pushing John down his seat again. He grabbed the box of painkillers and handed it to John, with a glass full of water.
• Stranger: John smiled, taking the painkiller, hoping it kicks in soon.
• "I'll make sure to do so sometime," he replied, before indicating in the general direction of glasses and water. "Drink, you're going to get dehydrated."
• You: "Not thirsty either." Sherlock muttered, putting the dish in the sink. "You need to rest." He said for the third time this day, with a sigh.
• Stranger: "I'll rest if you drink," John returned, raising his brows.
• You: Exactly like he had expected John to react. Not breaking eye contact, he got up - and loosen his grip on John's hand for a minute - took his own glass and poured some water. He sat back, took John's hand again and drank the water defiantly.
• Stranger: John paused for a moment, before sighing. Damn it. He had to /rest/ now.
• "It's barely seven O clock at night," he muttered, though he realised he couldn't actually break the deal.
• You: "And you've been stabbed. For God's sake, John, who is the doctor in this flat? You can't actually rest on the couch. It's not comfortable. Besides, you look exhausted." There was no doubt he had had some influence on John, now. "It's not like you planned on partying, is it?"
• Stranger: "What, have you never heard that Doctor's make terrible patients before?" he said. "And I gathered that, considering it's got my blood all over it...looks a bit like a crime scene actually, sorry about that...mind if I...mind if I kip on your bed then?" he finished a bit awkward again. He just /really/ doesn't fancy the stairs tonight.
• You: "Stupid question, I already told you could sleep in my bed." Sherlock replied with his 'so obvious' tone. "And we'll buy another couch. I would have run an experiment on it, anyway. The detective helped John to make his way to his room, walking carefully next to him and keep a firm grip on his hand. "all right?"
• Stranger: "Yeah," John murmured, he paused in the threshold of Sherlock's room. "Um...my, er clothes, could you maybe get them for me?" he asked. They've cleaned the blood of him, but it would still be nice to change into something more fresh and comfortable...and to brush his teeth for that matter.
• You: "Sure." Sherlock left the room and climbed up the stairs before stepping inside John's room. He rarely got inside the other man's room, except when he needed to wake him up for some crazy reasons - like cases or experiments. He gave a quick glance over the room before opening the wardrobe and pulling out some clothes and pyjamas. "I hope this will do," he said, back in his own room as he pointed to the clothes.
• Stranger: "Yeah, great, thanks."
• A few minutes later, he's changed, and crawled under Sherlock's covers, pointedly thinking about /that/ either. Sherlock's right, he is exhausted. It's the blood loss.
• You: "Need anything before I leave the room?" Sherlock asked awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. It was the first time he had been actually helping someone like this. It was not unpleasant - if not extremely stressful and quite tiring.
• Stranger: God, he wanted Sherlock to stay.
• "Promise me you're not going to anything stupid tonight, and that you'll kick me out of your bed or whatever if you want to sleep. I'm a doctor, I know it's damn well tiring."
• You: "Don't be silly, I won't kick you out of your bed." Sherlock muttered, frowning and giving him a severe look. "And I promised you we would do this together. I always try to keep my promises and again, John. Together." He looked deeply into the doctor's eyes, trying to convince him that this time - just this time - he hadn't planned on doing anything stupid.
• Stranger: "Well," John smiled, reassured, "technically it's /your/ bed, so you have all the rights to it."
• And it is. It smells of Sherlock, and he doesn't even know what that scent is, but it's Sherlock. Expensive shampoo maybe? A slight tinge of chemicals? It's comforting though.
• You: "Touché. But still, I'll just collapse onto the floor and pass out if I really need to sleep." It wasn't possible to tell whether Sherlock was joking or not. "And you'd better call me if anything's wrong or trust me, I will be even more insufferable than usual. And don't tell me it's impossible because it is not."
• Stranger: "You could just sleep here too," John replied, again, not really thinking about it and, frankly, right now he was too tired to care how it could sound either. "And are you sure that's possible?" he added, teasingly.
• You: Sherlock considered the question. At first, he felt his heart beat a little faster and then slapped himself mentally for it. This was wrong. John would feel awkward about it the next day and he wasn't even tired. "Right." He heard himself say before widening his eyes. Oh, For God's sake, they were adults. Cursing his brain like he had been since John had come home, he changed into his pyjamas and lay down next to John. "And yes, I am positive, John. It is possible." He mumbled, the fabric of the pillowcase rubbing against his hair and cheek.
• Stranger: John can feel his own heart beat racing, not having expected Sherlock to accept, as much as he'd wanted to...and he was basically sharing a bed with Sherlock Holmes...
• "Right," he repeated, a bit stupidly perhaps. He can feel the heat radiating off the detective and instinctively turned to it because his own part of the bed still seemed cold. Then he froze, realising what he was doing, wondering if it was acceptable...he looked at Sherlock, as if asking for permission, or something, he didn't know!
• You: He couldn't help but smile when he realised that John had turned to him and instinctively, Sherlock took John's hand in his. He suddenly pictured the shorter man telling him "people might talk" and couldn't help but smirk at the thought. They were basically sharing a bed, and none of them were feeling the slightest scared about this. Strangely, Sherlock didn't mind. He tried to convince himself that they were just overwhelmed by the latest events and got closer to John.
• Stranger: John smiled too, before curling up, relaxing, finally letting his eyes shut, at ease. He gripped Sherlock's hand comfortably, not too tightly, just - well, casually, as if they'd always done this.
• "Goodnight Sherlock," he murmured.
• You: "Night." As he tried to relax, Sherlock brought their joined hands against his chest and watched John's face carefully. Their closeness was actually betraying of much the pair of them cared for each other and this, this was exactly what Moriarty was expecting. But he didn't care. Because he wouldn't let the spider catch his doctor, even if it meant giving his life for it - something he hadn't told John because he knew he wouldn't like it.
• Stranger: John found himself nestled up to the detective, and in part of his brain he wondered if Sherlock had ever actually shared a bed with anyone before, but he was too alseep for the thought to flitter past as anything more than a fragment, half formed. He felt himself drifting off.
• You: Sherlock could feel the heat radiating from John's skin and found himself wrapping his arms around the man avoiding the wounds and bruises. Just by looking at it, one would see that not only the detective was pulling the doctor against him, but it was also looking like he wanted to protect him from something. And it's actually from that moment on that something terrible - at least for Sherlock Holmes - hit him. Increased heartbeat, that feeling of peacefulness and this need to hold John's hand: He didn't just care about him. It was so much more. And it was confusing.
• Stranger: John felt Sherlock's arms come around, pulling him closer, protective, and felt a soft smile come across his lips. Ironic that he, the doctor and the soldier, should be the protected one when his entire revolved around making sure others were safe and cared for. He promised himself he wouldn't let anything happen to the detective he...cared about. Deeply. His best friend. Who he was sharing a bed with. And holding hands with. Damn it, he was too tired to continue down that road...he was asleep within minutes.
• You: He couldn't manage to sleep. Not when his mind was making sure that it wouldn't quiet right away. And yet he felt awfully exhausted and his eyelids had never felt that heavier - except maybe when Irene Adler had drugged him. So for now, he just focused on John's soft and slow breathing. The doctor had fallen asleep quickly and as a matter of fact, Sherlock was glad about it. He still didn't know what had happened during his encounter with the band but had decided that the doctor would talk about this once he'd feel ready to.
• Stranger: He was...dreaming, flashes of sand, heat, blood, a gleaming pool and guns, /Sherlock/ and a criminal mastermind dressed in Westwood so sharp that it could cut like glass, attacks in Afghanistan...being forced into a bomb vest...men suddenly surrounding in from all sides with knives and crow bars, dragging him off the main street...but then...then Sherlock was there, and there was a knife...and so much blood...and he was working frantically, but nothing was working properly...
• You: Sherlock's eyes snapped open when he felt John tensing up in his arms. He realised that he had fallen asleep at some point and that John was certainly having a nightmare. "John, it's okay, calm down." He whispered quietly in a failed attempt to calm the doctor down. The detective bit his lip and remembered how his mother used to sooth him as a child. He ran his fingers into John's short hair and kept whispering to him with a soothing tone, actually unaware of what he was actually saying.
• Stranger: John found himself settling again, the lines on his face smoothing out again, body starting to untense, head tilting into the soothing fingers subconciously, before his eyes opened, and he blinked, groggily. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was, and what happened. His stomach was aching again, the painkillers clearly having worn of sometime as he slept. It must have been early morning sometime, four maybe...and Sherlock was still there. Warmth flooded his insides.
• You: John opened his eyes and Sherlock froze instantly. He stopped his movement and let his hand fall flat against his own hip, clearing his throat quietly. "I-I noticed you... You were having a nightmare." He said, pressing his lips together and looking away to take a look at the clock. 3.45 am.
• Stranger: "Yeah," he drew in a shaky breath. "Thanks." He missed the touch already, and didn't make any effort whatsoever to move away, even if he was...oh god, he couldn't stop trembling. He swore under his breath, shutting his eyes again, almost as if he was trying to hide against Sherlock.
• You: "Are you all right, John?" Sherlock asked, raising his head to take a better look at the blonde man. John was shuddering against him so he brought the blanket over him. "Are you cold, or is it something else?" There was a small tremor in his voice that he had been trying to suppress.
• Stranger: "Just...ghosts," he murmured. "It's fine, it'll pass, it always does." He shot the other a reassuring smile at the tremor in his voice. "I'm used to it, today just probably, you know, triggered," he mumbled.
• You: Despite himself, Sherlock let out a sigh of relief. He had thought for a second that John might have a sort of seizure - due to his wounds and bruises but still felt annoyed with the nightmare bit. " Can I do something about this?"
• Stranger: "You already are," John admitted, softly. He kept his eyes closed, keeping still. "I-just...i'm a soldier, shouldn't I have been able to see them coming? It's not like I'm oblivious." Confessions were somehow easier in the darkness of the night.
• You: So that was it. "You're an idiot." Sherlock said with a soft tone, running his fingers into John's hair again, doing what he would actually consider as the most courageous thing he had ever done - especially if John rejected him. "You're a soldier, not a clairvoyant."
• Stranger: John's head tilted into Sherlock's fingers again, eyes clouded with tiredness still, and a hint of pain.
• "I know it's irrational," he laughed, weakly. "I just-" it could have just as easily been worse, it could have been Moriarty strapping him to a bomb vest again, threatening to detonate on them all.
• You: "People always assumed that fear is irrational. I used to as well. I still do. But fearing James Moriarty isn't irrational at all, John. However, it is actually really stupid to believe that being a soldier means that you should be able to avoid troubles. You can't avoid troubles as long as you know me," Sherlock admitted, with a darkened look.
• Stranger: "I ran into a war the first opportunity I got," John snorted. "I don't really think you're the problem...I don't think I'm scared of /him/ so much as the idea of him, what he could do, what he could make me do..." he shrugged, somewhat helplessly, before trying to shake himself out of it. "Did I wake you?"
• Stranger: ((I have to go :( It's past 3am, and I have an exam on Tuesday I need to sync my sleeping times too, sadly. Do you have tumblr?))
• You: ((I do! And well, I have to go too, actually. Though my exam is next week XD My tumblr is utopia-in-atlantis))
• You: ((Your John was amazing!))
• Stranger: ((stranger-thoughts))
• Stranger: ((Thanks - I adore your Sherlock! He's perfect, caring without all of a sudden being pathetic or completely Unsherlocky.))
• You: ((Well, I already follow you!!))
• You: ((Oh, thank you! <3))
• Stranger: ((I shall follow back if I dont' already :D))
• You: ((I was so scared about my Sherlock))
• You: ((This has been quite brilliant, btw :3))
• Stranger: ((It has indeed, I've loved it! Thank you so much))
• You: ((Thank YOU!! I've loved it too!))
• You: ((And good luck for you exam!!))
• Stranger: ((you too! Bye!))
• You: ((Thx! Byye))