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]

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.

[ihadabadday]

John felt the spark and was very glad he wasn't holding anything.

When his brain caught up with who touched him, he spun around quickly, grabbing Sherlock's shoulders to steady him.

What was that?

He didn't know if he could support Sherlock all the way to the couch without... John swallowed and then used a bit of magic to take them to the couch. He settled Sherlock down on it and bit his lip.

"Sherlock?"

[seaweed_writes]

Sherlock had no idea how long he was out. By the time the room started to come into focus and stopped spinning, he was looking up at the ceiling. It took him a second to realize that he was on the couch.

How had he got to the couch?

John was a former solider, but there was no way he could have carried him from the kitchen.

John..

Merlin?

"J-john?" His voice was low and a bit harsh.

What had he seen while he was out? Quick flashed of knights and swords, a wizard and a giant battle, like the dream he'd had, but so much more real. He'd been there. He rubbed at his shoulder. Why did his shoulder hurt? It felt like he'd been pierced by an arrow...

What was going on?

[ihadabadday]

"Hey..." John had pulled a dressing gown on. He sat on the edge of the couch. "I'm here..."

He place a cool cloth over Sherlock's forehead. He used to do it for the King. Usually after a night of drinking. A few times when he had been ill. He had started as the King's manservant... But when his secret came out, their relationship had changed. He became his friend and confidant.

"Just rest, looks like you had a nasty dizzy spell. I caught you before you hit the ground."

[seaweed_writes]

"I thought I was supposed to be taking care of you." He deadpanned, before groaning when John put the cloth over his head. He closed his eyes, then a moment later he opened them wide and sat up, which meant that the cloth fell into his lap, unheeded by Sherlock.

'You... you've done that for me... before." He said, his voice low and unsure. In the short time they had been flatmate, he hadn't been sick, so John had never had to do it, but there was sometime... before..

Sherlock shook his head. Maybe he'd hit his head on the linoleum floor. He must be going crazy.

[ihadabadday]

John pulled back a bit. "I've never done this for you before Sherlock. We've only been flatmates for a few months..." He bit his lip.

Was Sherlock someone from Camelot. From then? Was he a Knight or someone he had encountered?

"Just lay back down. Vertigo is nothing to laugh at." He urged Sherlock to lay back. Once the man had settled, he put the cloth back over his forehead.

[seaweed_writes]

"Of course. How silly of me" Sherlock shook it off. Of course John had never done that for him.What was he thinking? John must think him a fool. Or hopefully he just thought Sherlock had knocked his head a bit.

Sherlock settled back and closed his eyes, relaxing when the cloth was back on his forehead. He needed to be careful. The last thing he wanted John to think was that he was crazy or not in full control of his faculties. He needed to calm down and breathe and get this whole stupid idea out of his head.

[ihadabadday]

He got up and went to go finish breakfast for the two of them.

Memories flashed through his mind. Meeting Arthur, him finding out the truth, when he became king, the quest for Excalibur....

He put their breakfast on two plates and brought it back out to the living room.

[seaweed_writes]

Sherlock's mind wandered. He was in what looked like an ancient time. There was man, with a long white beard and a tall pointy hat, but those eyes... they were so familiar.

They looked like John's eyes.

Why did they look like John's eyes?

He didn't get to ponder it any more. He opened his eyes when he heard John coming back in. He sat up, slowly this time as to not dislodge the cloth, and gave a small smile of thanks. He wasn't really hungry though, so he mostly just moved his food around his plate.

"When we are done, I will clean up the mess in the kitchen. I apologize. I'm not sure what came over me.

[ihadabadday]

John patted his thigh, a move that was familiar a Arthur, but not Sherlock. And he wasn't even sure why he did it. Just comfort? Maybe.

"It happens Sherlock. Vertigo can attack anyone at any point."

[seaweed_writes]

Sherlock's breath caught when John patted his thigh, his whole body went tense- and not because he didn't want the touch. Sure, he hadn't expected it, but that wasn't it at all.

His eyes went wide, and he stared at John, really looked at him. There was a flash of.. something in his mind, and then it was gone again. He shook his head. He really needed to sleep, he thought.

"Yes. I suppose so." Sherlock answered, quietly. He poked at his food for a few more minutes, then put it on the table beside him. His stomach was lurching and his mind was racing a million miles a minute, he didn't have the stomach to eat right now.

He had a mystery and it was locked inside his own mind.

Even brave, loyal John couldn't help him with this one.

[ihadabadday]

"It's fine. You sit here. I'll clean it up." He smiled patiently at Sherlock. It was okay. All of it. God he wanted to tell the genius everything. But magic... That went against all sciences. It wasn't logical.

He got up, taking his own half eaten plate with him. John went into the kitchen, putting the plate into the sink, he got to work. The glass and water from the floorml. Dishes from breakfast.

He winced when he felt that light get stronger, get closer. Seriously was going to punch whoever it was.

And in strolled Greg Lestrade.

He had only been living with Sherlock for a few months and felt like he knew Greg better than Sherlock.

[seaweed_writes]

Sherlock watched John work. He felt awful, the man had just almost died, and here he was, being feeble and infirm, laying down on the couch when all he'd done was..

Well... what? fainted? Seen visions in his head? He still wasn't really sure what had happened, actually. And that was what both vexed and frustrated him. He was Sherlock Bloody Holmes, he could figure anything out.

And yet, he was stumped by what had happened to him when he simply laid a hand on his flatmate.

Once again this thoughts were interrupted, this time by Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"Graham." Sherlock said with a frown. Normally he would be happy to see the man, he was itching for a case, but John needed to rest, and he needed to figure out what the hell was going on.

"We can't help you, John is convalescing." It looked less convincing considering he was the one laying down with a cloth on his hed and John was in the kitchen, but it was essentially true.