The Doctor And The Patient

Marring the perfect pale skin on Sherlock's thigh was now an angry red wound, proclaiming John's failure to save him from the bullet that was meant for him.

Life-threatening it was not, but the sight of it made John's stomach turn, even when it was one of the more pretty sights in his years as an army doctor. It all came down to the fact that this was Sherlock, and despite it being only a flesh wound, it carved John's heart more than he'd thought possible.

It had been meant for him.

The guilt combined with the nausea made it hard for him to look into Sherlock's keen eyes, eyes penetrating not only John's heart, but making his hands tremble, loaded with the shame, building and coiling in John's mind like a rope tightening around his neck. It didn't help that he swore it would never happen again. He would not allow it.

Gently cleaning and dressing the wound, John dared to look up, his heart skipping a beat as Sherlock's stoic face had turned into a caring smile.

"It was my turn," he said, smiling still, landing his hand on John's shoulder. "This one was meant for me. Albeit my lack of believing it fate or coincidence, it was my turn."

Baffled, John rose from his stance, peering at Sherlock keenly, inquisitively. This wasn't something Sherlock would usually utter.

There was a certain flair of tenderness in his voice as he continued explaining his thought pattern; "Your shoulder. Your scars from battle. I never knew anything about them, couldn't even imagine. Listening to you talking about war…" Sherlock gathered John closer, speaking softly; "This is my catharsis, my purification, my forgiveness for all those times I haven't been able to understand… And when it heals, by your hand, it brings us closer."

For a moment John stood still, wondering if the amount of painkillers had done something to the unique brain, but Sherlock's eyes were clear, expecting…

"You're saying it had to happen?" John felt unsure, the guilt still looming over his soul like a black cloud promising storm and lightning, the contradiction between the clear skies in Sherlock's countenance banishing the worst of it.

"Sooner or later. You can always be there for me, but you're not God.".

And godlike he didn't feel. Not now, though all the times he's help someone's life in his hands, there was no denying it. For a moment John felt irritated by Sherlock's observational skills. The man could see right through him, even when there were skeletons he'd rather left uncovered. His most secreted feelings, his pride, had always been out there in the open.

"And that's why I love you," Sherlock completed John's thought pattern like so many times before. And that's why he loved Sherlock.

To think, that there was a person, in his hands, wounded and in pain, who accepted John as he was, with his flaws, his successes, his anger and mellowness, and when it all opened to him here, right here, there was a sense of liberation. Sherlock's catharsis, if it could be called that, was contaminating, and if ever, John could've sworn they'd never break apart.

Not even if Sherlock was shot again. John's hands would heal, and heal again, and by the time the scars had grown white, only faint reminders of the times when things hadn't gone according to plan, they'd still caress them, worship them, for they were parts of their lives that they would take as it came.

Together.

Knowing that his closets would be wide open, John leaned on one knee.