A Righteous Return - AU - Locked to seaweed_writes

[ihadabadday]

Once Upon a Time in a kingdom far away and filled with magic and dragons, there was a King and his Wizard. Together they did great things, bringing peace to the world and to its people. They were the best of friends, as close as any two men could be. Until one day the King was gravely injured defending his Wizard...

He gasped as the arrow struck his shoulder. Just between the gap in his armor. Too low to be anything but fatal. He knew that. But he was the King of England. He wielded Excalibur. He would not go down with out a fight. Of course /he/ would call him foolish for this. For defending him in this way. He was a sorcerer, a wizard, after all.

His knees gave out as the blood loss started to affect him. He barely noticed as strong arms came around him.

"It's okay." He assured the man, "You'll be okay. If... I'll return." He coughed a bit, feeling the pain. But it was all okay. His friend. His Wizard was alive. He pressed Excalibur into the man's hands.

"Return this to the Lady of the Lake. Please. It needs to be safe." He knew what would happen if it was in the wrong hands.

He didn't have much time. He knew that. He reached up and touched his Wizard's face. "Find me again." He managed before he closed his eyes, arm falling limply to his side.

The King of the Brits, of England, was gone.

---

John shot up in bed, gasping for breath. He pressed a hand to his face and took a deep breath. Another nightmare. So many had piled up over the years. Loosing Arthur, the two Great Wars. Even recent events were enough to make him frightened. He got out of bed and walked over to the window. After opening the blinds, he stared out at the blinking lights. Albion had changed so much in recent time. Just the past hundred years alone. He let out a sigh.

There had been one time in all these years the had started to feel Arthur return. During the second Great War... The need for him was great then than it had been years earlier during the first. He pressed a fist to the window and sighed. "Arthur, we need you..." There was the unspoken, I need you. It was always unspoken. He had never dared tell the King. He couldn't, not when he had a Queen that adored him so and who he adored in return.

He let out a long held breath and looked back out to the night sky. He didn't need this flatshare, but it was convenient to be around people again.

---

He had been living with Sherlock Holmes for three months now. Just long enough to know he could stand the man, but not long enough to really know how he felt about the man. Other than... Okay.

John had left Sherlock lying on the couch when he went off to work. The A&E. He loved working in emergency medicine. He could help people and keep an eye out for Arthur and the Knights.

Of course, this was the day when a psych patient broke out and started to wave a scalpel at everyone. John stepped in front of a nurse only to get stabbed in the neck. He put his hand up to press against the wound, trembling. Oh, shock. He slowly sunk to the ground as he heard his coworkers starting to swarm.

And it was about fifteen minutes later that Sherlock's mobile started going off.

Comments

[seaweed_writes]

Sherlock, of course, had not been asleep when John left. He heard the man clomp around the flat (really, could he make ANY more noise? He sounded like an elephant herd), and listened with his eyes closed at the jingle of John's keys moving to his pocket, then the tromping down the stairs, and finally the slam of the front door.

Finally, Sherlock thought to himself. He never slept much anyways, but last night had been particularly bad. He'd been having odd dreams of late, of castles and knights and a gleaming sword, and a man in a pointed hat. They weren't bad dreams, per say, at first, but then there was war, and battle, and death.

Always death.

Now that John was gone, he could start his experiments on the rat livers in the fridge. John had almost found them, but since Sherlock had put them in a container marked sour cream, and he knew John hated sour cream, he was fairly certain that he could store them long enough to get at least a few good bits of data from them.

xx

He was elbow deep in rat livers when his phone rang. He had a specific ring for John, one for Lestrade- Graham, Gavin? It didn't matter- and the funeral march for his meddling brother. Everyone else got a generic ring.

It was a generic ring, so he left it alone, buzzing in the pocket of his second best dressing gown.

When it rang only 1 minute and 27 second later, he tried to avoid it again, but a nagging sensation bit at him. He dug into his pocket, his hand still bloody and sticky with rat entrails, and looked at the number. It wasn't one he knew, and he thought about letting it ring through.

But he'd already been interrupted, his concentration gone. He poked hard at the answer button and barked into the phone "What is it?"

[ihadabadday]

"Hello, is this Sherlock Holmes?" Came a female voice on the other end of the line.

There was noise in the background, it sounded like a hospital.

[seaweed_writes]

Sherlock paid little attention to the sounds in the background. His clinic had called before when John was busy or otherwisre not able to come to the phone, so he thought little of it. He didn't recognize the woman's voice, but there was always turnover when it came to secretaries and those lower end jobs.

"Yes. I am. What is it?" He snapped. He didn't have time for this. He was still in a strop from the fight that he had John had had that morning- it was what had led him to fake sleep on the couch when John left hours ago.

[ihadabadday]

"My name is Caroline Percy and I am a nurse here at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. You're listed as John Watson's emergency contact. There's been an incident."

[seaweed_writes]

Sherlock could feel the moment his stomach dropped. An...'incident'? It obviously had to be serious enough that he had to be notified.

A million scenarios ran through his mind, each one worse than the last. he could feel his breathing getting quick and shallow, and he realized after a moment that he hadn't said anything to her.

"I'll be right there." He hung up the phone before she could answer.

With lightening efficiency, he grabbed his coat and scarf as was down the steps and out the front door before he even had them both on.

He grabbed the first cab and yelled "St. Barts, 50 quid if you get me there in less than 15 minutes." It was a normally a 21 minute ride in this traffic, but he had to be there, NOW.

14 minutes later, the cab pulled up, and Sherlock threw plenty enough for the fare and the extra 50 quid. He stormed into the A&E, almost colliding with the front desk in his haste.

"John Watson." He yelled. "I need to see him."

[ihadabadday]

The nurses led Sherlock back to the room John was in.

He was asleep in the hospital bed, a bandage around his neck and IV in his arm.

[seaweed_writes]

The only thing Sherlock could think about was the last thing he had said to John. It was so spiteful and hurtful, and to think that it may have been the last thing that John had ever heard him say.

The thoughts confused Sherlock. He'd only known this man for a few months, and yet John already killed for him. That's a lot to ask of a man you've know for less than 24 hours.

So.. why did he care about him? Caring was a disadvantage, Mycroft had always said it, and Sherlock believed it. It would only slow him down.

Like it is now.

He hesitated when the nurse stopped at the door to let him to in alone. He took a deep breath, then opened the door.

John was pale, so pale, almost translucent. How much blood had he lost? If the scalpel had hit the carotid artery, John would have been downstairs in the morgue. It couldn't have missed by much.

God.

Sherlock took a seat, not trusting his legs right at the moment. He reached out to take John's hand, then hesitated halfway there and just sat with his hands awkwardly in his lap, sitting ramrod straight, waiting and watching for John to awaken.

[ihadabadday]

John was out of it, not realizing Sherlock was here. Painkillers had knocked him right out. He was breathing evenly though.

After probably an hour, he started to come around, making a noise. Much sooner than most people would wake due to painkillers. But his magic didn't trust most people. He gave a weak cough as he opened his eyes and slowly turned his head.

Sherlock...

He smiled softly.

He cared about the man. It was odd. He hadn't cared about anyone in so long. But here he was, caring about a mortal.

[seaweed_writes]

Sherlock had been in his mind palace when he heard the slight cough. Immediately he was back in the real world, his eyes fixed on the now awake John Watson.

"John." He said softly, not really sure what the hell else to say when your flatmate that you care more about than you should just woke up from almost getting sliced to death.

"Do... you need anything?" He finally asked, awkwardly, after a few moments of dead silence between the two of them. Then he realized.

"Oh, you may not be able to speak well. You can use Morse." He put the back of his hand next to John's so he could tap out a message if he needed to.

[ihadabadday]

He shook his head. He was alright. He would heal quickly.

John just put his hand over Sherlock's and let it rest there.

He was okay. He wasn't mad. He was fine.

[seaweed_writes]

The touch of John's hand startled Sherlock, but he didn't pull away. After the initial stiffening at the the unexpected touch, he relax, his shoulder finally slumping silently after sitting stiff and rigid for so long, tensely waiting for John to awaken.

"Alright." He said softly, letting the slightest smile come to his face.

John was alive, and that was all that mattered. No more needed to be said.

[ihadabadday]

John was released two days later once they were certain there was no lasting damage. He was given a week off from work.

He stepped into the flat after Sherlock.

"Thank you."

[seaweed_writes]

It was a long two days. Sherlock got little sleep and less food. He slept in a chair in the hospital room the entire time, despite both the nurses and Mycroft (through texts) told him that he needed to go home. He did no such thing.

It was quite a relief when they exited the taxi and stepped back into 221B Baker Street. Of course Mrs. Hudson had to fawn over him for a while, but Sherlock eventually shooed her away. He made tea for them both and settled John into his chair, handing him the tea.

"You are welcome, John." He said, unsure of what he should add to that. Of course he was glad that John was okay, with only a small scar to show for his troubles. And a week off and a hell of a story to tell.

[ihadabadday]

John gave a breathless laugh as he settled down. His eyes followed Sherlock and he let out a breath.

He was glad that Sherlock had been by his side the entire time. He didn't expect it. Now after the row they had.

He took the tea with a grateful smile. There had been a pressure at the back of his mind. A knight. He suspected. Close.

But he had other things to worry about. Healing. Damn knife. It must have been mostly iron. He wasn't fae, but still magic.

[seaweed_writes]

Sherlock sipped at his tea with his right hand while his left was covered by John's. He didn't want to let go. There was something... familiar about John, something that he couldn't put his finger on.

And that bothered him.

He liked knowing things, and not knowing, it irked him. Why was there a need to be close to John, and why did he seem so.. familiar?

"When do you need to take your next dose of painkillers?" Sherlock asked, not really sure what to say. The silence was relaxing but it was also a bit awkward. Even at the best of time Sherlock's was not good at holding a conversation, and now he had no idea what he should talk about.

[ihadabadday]

He was quiet a moment. "I won't. I've had worse pain."

John was healing quickly. The pain was fading. He wasn't too worried about it. But for the pretense of pretending to be human...

[seaweed_writes]

Immediately, Sherlock's eyes went over to John's shoulder when he said that. He had seen John's scar before, from when he was shot in Afghanistan. The former solider had tried to hide it at first, but it became hard to do since they shared a shower on the main floor and John's bedroom was upstairs.

So after a while he dropped the pretense and just stopped putting on a shirt in the loo. The first time Sherlock saw it, he was fascinated. He asked questions about when did it hurt him- when it was hot or cold, and did it ache- enough questions for John to put the kibosh on it and go up to his room to get away from John's incessant questions.
Sherlock had wanted to touch it, but John hadn't ever let him, and he had no idea why.

Sherlock hovered over John all day. Mrs Hudson came up a couple of times, but Sherlock, like an overprotective dog, quickly shooed her away. He refilled tea and fluffed pillows and helped John when he needed it, even if the man was perfectly capable of doing it himself.

[ihadabadday]

He had been in Afghanistan. But he wasn't shot. No. The wound was old, is very old. He got it defending his King so many years ago. He didn't like anyone touching it. He didn't even allow his King.

John let Sherlock fuss. He let him fawn. But he batted his hands away if he tried to touch.

Finally he eased himself up and made his way to the stairs. He was tired, exhausted. His magic was going on overdrive to heal. He just wanted to fall into bed.

"I'm going upstairs Sherlock."

[seaweed_writes]

Sherlock tried not to let the disappointment show on his face.

He almost succeeded.

"Goodnight, John."

Sherlock turned away and headed towards the window. He picked up his violin case and took out the instrument. Still not facing John, he took a moment to tune it before he started playing. It was a slow tune, not mournful, but soft and slightly melancholy, a song that he hoped would help soothe his friend to sleep.

[ihadabadday]

John was out the moment his head hit the pillow. He was sprawled across the bed in only his pants, the scar almost shiny against the rest of his skin.

He slept peacefully. Maybe it was the music. Maybe it was the exhaustion. He didn't know. But he was grateful for it.

In the morning, John didn't even bother putting on clothes, he must head downstairs in just his pants. Half asleep still, he started to make the coffee.

Yes. That would help. And some food.

[seaweed_writes]

Sherlock was already up and about when he heard John start to move around upstairs. He'd played the violin until he was sure that John was not going to have any nightmares that night. Music often seemed to calk his mind, even if it was subconsciously.

He was in the kitchen at his microscope, studying the remains of the rat livers that he had started days ago, the day of the argument.

The day he almost lost John.

At first he paid no attention to the man when he came into the kitchen and started coffee, mumbling a "Good morning, John."

That was, until he had to look up to readjust his slide.

And he saw that John was wearing nothing but his pants.

That was very strange for John, usually he was fully kitted in a sleep shirt and pajama bottoms, but he had forgone both of them this morning it seemed.

It took too many heartbeats for Sherlock to remind himself not to stare, and he quickly went back to his microscope, almost jamming his eyes into the lens in his haste.

[ihadabadday]

"Morning Sherlock..." he answered in reply.

John took down two cups and prepared Sherlock a cup of coffee. He set it next to him.

"Do you want some eggs?" He asked with a yawn.

John wasn't sure why he could feel several points of light pressing in his head. They had to be the Knights. But why? What danger was there?

[seaweed_writes]

Sherlock had never been shy about what he wore (or didn't wear) around the house, but John had always been totally dressed.

Until this morning.

And either he was too tired to realize that he only had his pants on, or he just didn't care, the latter of which only confused Sherlock more.

"Yes, please." He finally stammered out, trying as hard as he could to keep looking at his microscope and not his almost unclothed flatmate.

Of course Sherlock noticed the tiny grimace. "John, are you feeling alright? Did you take your medications this morning?"

[ihadabadday]

Were they responding to his injury? Which would be odd. John rubbed the back of his head, right at the base of his neck. God damn it. He was going to slap the Knight that was close to awakening.

"Oh I'm fine. Just a minor headache. Should go away here soon." He answered as he got the eggs and toast. Oh! Bacon. He got that out too.

He began to prepare the breakfast for the two of them, humming softly.

[seaweed_writes]

Sherlock's face scrunched into a worried look for a moment, then he went back to his normal bored look. He wasn't John's keeper, the man could take care of himself.

He shouldn't care.

Then, why did he?

While John was working on breakfast, Sherlock went into the bathroom and got a couple of paracetamol. He brought them into the kitchen, poured a drink a water, and brought them both over to John.

He was facing away, looking at the stove, so Sherlock gently put his hand on John's shoulder to get his attention, not even paying attention that it was his left shoulder, close to his scar.

Suddenly, everything went white. Sherlock didn't even hear the water fall to the ground and the glass break, his entire world went blank.