Fix Me.

helpless and lifeless

John's POV

I've been in the kitchen now for what seems like hours. Trying to make tea has never been so difficult, when all you can think about is your friend lying ill in bed. He's trying to get some rest but I don't think he's sleeping very well. I slowly put down the kettle, sighing as I walk over to his bedroom. I stand in the doorway, just staring at him, so helpless, so lifeless. I turn my head to leave but I hear his small voice cry out. "John, don't go, I.. um.. I don't think I want to be alone. I walk over to his bedside as he turned to face me. "Of course, whatever you need Sherlock". He reached out to put his hand on my mine as I climbed into bed without hesitation. He was vulnerable, I don't think I have ever seen Sherlock need somebody. I lay next to him, his leg touching mine, his breathing once rapid and harsh, now calm and relaxed. His chest fell up and down as I watched gratefully. There was nothing strange about lying in bed with a man. Although - despite the judgement of many others - I am not gay, this feels right. It feels natural. There's nothing more to it then simply holding him while he slept. Nothing more then wandering thoughts and long empathetic gazes. He felt safe, and safety is what he needs right now.

After many hours, I can feel him moving, shuffling around in his deep sleep. He turned over onto his side, now face to face with mine. I lifted my had over to his face to move a piece of wandering hair but lingering to long, concluding a smile arose on his pale face. I sat up a small bit, enough to be able to see his face entirely. My thoughts leading me astray. I wonder, does Sherlock have the capability to love? He has the ability to care, I've seen it for myself. Or maybe that was how Sherlock expressed his love.

Look at him, defenceless and tried, I just want to hold him and protect him from the world. All the critics and the bullies, from all the insufferable police officers who hated him, from Mycroft and from the hospitals and doctors.For he was mine, my patient. But my patient of what? For all of these thoughts took merely a few seconds for me to build up the courage to slowly, softly, platonically, lay a gentle and caring kiss upon his forehead. Nothing more, nothing less. It doesn't make me gay. It makes me... well that's the thing really. what does it make me? Once again, a smile arose on the consulting detectives face. As his hand unintentionally fell over my waist, like an unintentional hug. Something Sherlock would never do while awake. But maybe, something his awake and subconscious mind longs for.