Sherlock Fic: I Wanna Hold Your Hand
current mood: lethargic
current song: Epilogue - The Antlers
Title: I Wanna Hold Your Hand
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, Lestrade
Wound Count: 850
Genres: Hurt/comfort (except mostly comfort), fluff, slight angst
Warnings: Mentionings of non-voluntary drug use and kidnapping.
Disclaimer: Don’t own Sherlock
Summary: John is drugged and loves Sherlock, Sherlock is worried and loves John, and Lestrade feels awkward.
They found John strapped down in a miniscule room. Sherlock was the first to burst in, finding John tied to a table and his breathing shallow. He was also the first to rush to John’s side, to take his pulse, and to breathe a sigh of relief when he discovered that John was not only alive, but awake.
John looked up blearily. “Sherlock,” he sighed with a dopey sort of smile.
"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked, breaking his habit of not asking unnecessary questions. He could draw his own conclusions from John's sweat stained tee shirt and the bags under his eyes. John had not been treated well here.
John grimaced. “Sherlock, he gave me drugs. I’m a doctor…but I don’t like drugs,” he said slowly. Then he giggled. “You do though.”
“Did,” Sherlock corrected, examining John's forearm. Sure enough, there they were, a few small track marks on John's skin. Sherlock didn't snarl, but it was a close thing. John was his, and they had done this to him. John was far too precious for his mind to be altered by whatever the hell he’d been injected with. Sherlock’s hand trembled with rage.
“Sherlock,” John said again, making the effort to focus on him. “I don’t feel good.”
He didn’t look good either. His face was flushed and his breathing was heavy. His eyes kept unfocusing, like he was having trouble keeping to the present.
“John," Sherlock said, trying to get his attention. "John, the police are here and the man who did this to you is going to jail." He squeezed John’s hand.
John looked at him for a moment, then looked past him and finally noticed the crowds of officers clogging the room and the hallway outside of it. Lestrade glanced at the pair, clearly concerned, and Sherlock gestured him over.
“When will the ambulance be here?” he demanded.
“Just called them, it won’t be much longer. Is he all right?” Lestrade asked, looking worriedly at John.
Sherlock opened his mouth to answer with something along the lines of, obviously not, you imbecile, but before he could, John grinned.
“’Course I am. Sherlock’s here,” he said, as if that was that. “He loves me, you know,” John confided in Lestrade. “He told me so.”
“Umm,” Lestrade said eloquently, unable to stop himself from glancing at Sherlock, who blushed slightly, but didn’t let go of John's hand.
“He does,” John protested. “Right, Sherlock? You said you loved me.” The questioning John felt was clearly starting to unnerve him a bit, and he looked nervous as he waited for Sherlock's answer.
Sherlock squirmed, but he nodded. “I did.”
“And you meant it, right? Sometimes you don’t mean things…” John was becoming slightly frantic, and both Sherlock and Lestrade shot a slightly awkward glance at each other. The drug had already agitated John, and this conversation was only making it worse.
Lestrade started to take a step back to give the two some privacy, but John shook his head. “No, stop, I don’t want to be alone again. I don’t want anyone to leave,” he said, clearly frightened. “Please don’t leave?”
The plainly desperate look on John’s face was enough to make Lestrade clench his jaw. “Sherlock, what did they do to him?” he asked.
“Drugged him. I don’t know with what yet, some kind of homemade mixture. I intend to ask them though,” he responded darkly. Before Lestrade could even begin to scold Sherlock, John shook his head rapidly.
“Don’t go near them, Sherlock,” John said, his voice still holding some command even in his current state. “They’re bad. They’re not good.”
“I know, John,” Sherlock said, nostrils flared. “They took you from me.”
John’s face lit up relief as his eyes mapped out the emotion on Sherlock’s face. “Oh thank God. You did mean it. You were worried for me.”
Sherlock shot a meaningful look at Lestrade, who looked from him to John and nodded. “I need to go see the ambulance in. I’ll be back, John,” he promised. He looked a bit relieved as he excused himself from the pair.
John didn’t even watch Lestrade as he walked away, eyes locked to Sherlock’s. Sherlock inhaled and pressed his forehead against John’s. “I still am worried,” he confessed. “They had you for over a day. They hurt you.”
John closed his eyes and breathed in. Sherlock’s presence seemed to have calmed him, and he smiled, slightly more lucid. “I knew you’d find me,” he said sleepily.
Sherlock leaned back and placed a soft kiss at John’s forehead, murmuring something which might have been I love you. John’s resulting smile was dazzling.
Tiny room that it was, Sherlock knew that everyone had witnessed the small declaration. But John was smiling at him and allowed Sherlock to run his hand through his hair until the paramedics came, so that information was deemed irrelevant.