Sherlock & Sebastian (violent)

"Yeah, and playing sports in school, just as well as being a doctor, right? You can't really stop to feel embarrassed when you need to help someone," he commented and looked at Sherlock's back briefly. "I even saw you naked a couple of times..." he pointed out with a grin.

He slid in his trousers, almost falling back on the bed, but managed it. "That would be good, I don't trust you remembered about eating on your own, did you?" he teased him, finally walking closer, oblivious of the fact Sherlock had been watching him.

Sherlock blushed. John had seen him naked?

"You've seen me in my sheet," he replied. "Not quite naked...have you?" He turned and glanced over his shoulder questioningly. "Have you been watching me in the shower?" he accused with a small smirk.

Sherlock turned round fully and readjusted his coat, ready to head off. "No, I...I haven't eaten," he bit his bottom lip. Sometimes he wondered whether John could read his mind. Or maybe he just knew him too well.

John laughed a bit at Sherlock's embarrassment, it was rather cute. "In your sheet yes, but also naked, that time I had to take care of you after you fell in the pool, I had to take everything off... Also that time you were drugged, you took your clothes off and started asking me things about your penis," he teased him, as he walked closer.

"You need to eat Sherlock, especially now that I am not going to be around much... I worry, you know," he muttered, squeezing his arm slightly.

Sherlock frowned as John was speaking. His cheeks were getting rather hot and he realised his blush must have deepend considerably, the thought of which made him want to blush even more.

"I...I asked you about my penis?" He stammered, feeling a little flustered. "I apologise. I'm afraid I don't remember."

Sherlock smiled as John squeezed his arm. It was adorable the way he cared so much. "I'll be fine," he insisted. "You know I don't have much of an appetite."

John couldn't help laughing at the memory. "You said you had never really seen anyone else's penis, so you wondered whether the dimensions were quite correct, and then you asked whether I would measure it for you," he said, trying not to sound too amused. "I assured you your cock was healthy and big, and then you fell asleep, naked on my bed..."

"You need food Sherlock, even if you aren't hungry... So please take care of yourself, do it for me," he insisted, his fingers moving down his arm, as if trying to convince him.

Sherlock coughed and looked at the floor as John filled him in on the penis incident. Jesus Christ. John thinks my cock is big. He frowned at his own thoughts and hurriedly moved away from John's touch, a vision of something rather dirty and inappropriate flashing through his mind. John was his friend. Nothing more. John wasn't interested in him. Why would he be? And I'm not interested in John, he insisted to himself, all the while unable to take his eyes away from his friend's face. Stop this.

Sherlock suddenly realised he'd been holding his breath and let it go with a huge sigh before breathing rather heavily to catch up, pulling his coat collar as high as it would go. "Dinner," he choked. "Let's go..." He grabbed John's arm and headed towards the door.

John saw Sherlock's shocked face and felt a bit guilty for telling him this after so long. Sometimes he really couldn't shut up, he realized, looking up to see the detective was staring back at him. He blushed slightly, hoping Sherlock would not deduce off of him that that particular memory had been very difficult to suppress.

Sherlock was the first to stir though and he grabbed John's arm, dragging him towards the door. He followed suit, even though his shaky legs and coughed slightly. "It's okay, Sherlock, I have never told any one, nor I wish to do so in the future," he reassured him. "I am a doctor, I have seen plenty of cocks," he exclaimed, and frowned only when he realized that sounded incredibly gay.

Sherlock chuckled at John's sentence. I have seen plenty of cocks. He couldn't help but wonder exactly how many he had seen, and whether he'd ever gone further. Sherlock frowned at himself. He'd never thought about his friend's sex life before. Why was he suddenly interested now?

"Come on," he smirked, taking John's hand in his. He could see his friend was a little unsteady on his feet still. It was the least he could do to help him reach the canteen with a little dignity. "Just lean on me if you like, it's not far. Just down this corridor to the left."

John noticed the chuckle, but luckily Sherlock did not ask what clearly passed through his head, and he was grateful of that, it surely wasn't a subject they should discuss in a hospital corridor.

He smiled when Sherlock took his hand, "I can do it," he said, but he squeezed the other's anyway, the touch comforting and warm. "You know, people say you are cold... They are crazy..." He muttered, leaning closer as if to prove his point.

They walked down the corridor together hand in hand, Sherlock keeping his eye on John to make sure he was OK.

"Not really," he shrugged. "It's just that you're different. I don't care about anyone else."

Pretty soon they arrived at the canteen. Sherlock led his friend to a seat and helped him into it. "I'll go and look at what they've got on offer," he suggested. "You just sit here and rest."

"Caring about everyone is stupid, not everyone deserves it," he muttered, and squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Caring for one person still makes you human, and warm," he muttered, his smile filled with feelings he could not place as he looked up at Sherlock.

He was happy the detective cared, and admitted to it, extremely so, but at the same time he knew that this was hurting him and what would happen to Sherlock if he couldn't make it?
Somehow the idea of leaving Sherlock alone was unbearable, even more horrifying than his own death.

"Okay, thank you," he said, not feeling like protesting. He could use some rest.

After making sure John was settled at the table, Sherlock wandered off to inspect the food. There was some weird chicken pasta dish, some fish, a vegetable curry and a lasagne. The sight of it all made Sherlock feel a little sick but he knew John would insist he had something. He spotted some sandwiches in the fridge section and picked out a simple cheese roll for himself. He plonked it on a tray and headed back towards John.

"They've got chicken pasta, fish, vegetable curry and lasagne," he explained. "And sandwiches." And he waved his sandwich in the air. "That's what I'm having. What do you want? I'll get you anything you like. I'm paying." He smiled.

John looked up at Sherlock's words, if he had to be honest, he wasn't hungry at all, but he knew the detective would worry if he didn't eat anything, so he decided to go for it anyway.
"Wow, Sherlock, really? A meal in the hospital canteen, is this a date?" he joked with a laugh, thinking about his options.

"I'll go with chicken pasta, thank you," he said, and leaned back on his seat.

"Hmm, it's hardly Angelo's is it?" Sherlock grinned.

He nodded at John's choice and went off to get it, remembering with a smile their first case together all those years ago, and how Angelo just assumed John was Sherlock's date. He glanced over at him from the queue chuckling.

Once he got near the front he grabbed a tea for John and a black coffee for himself, paid for the meal, then carried the tray back over to the table, setting it down gently before shuffling to get in his seat.

"Well, can't remember the last time we had a meal together," Sherlock reflected, peeling back the plastic wrapper on his sandwich.

"No, definetely not Angelo," he muttered, looking uninterestedly at the pasta Sherlock brought to the table. "Thank you though," he said politely, forcing himself to grab the fork and start eating.

"True, you have been neglecting me lately," he said with a pout, "Are you bringing someone else to Angelo, is that it?" He joked, taking a sip of his hot tea and sighing.

Sherlock took a bite out of his sandwich, silently reflecting that the meal was just as plastic as the wrapping it came in, tasteless and rather awful. Never the less he forced it down, knowing John would be pleased to see him eat something. His stomach rumbled hungrily and rather loudly as it accepted the food.

"I'd never take anyone else," Sherlock replied in mock horror at John's suggestion. "You are my date after all," he teased, nudging John's knee with his under the table.

John's cheeks unexplicably burned red when Sherlock's knee nudged him, but he pointedly ignored it. "True, Angelo wouldn't be impressed if you brought someone else as well..." He said, watching Sherlock eat and smiling approvingly.

He paused, thoughtful for a moment, "Sherlock, I..." he swallowed hard. "It's not that I don't appreciate you thinking so highly of me, I do, I love it, and I would probably get insanely jealous if anyone else got close to you, but now... Well... If... If things don't go well... Well, I really wouldn't want to leave you alone, Sherlock..." He muttered, forgetting about food and rubbing his wrist nervously. "My point is.. I... I would like for you to give a chance to someone else as well... Who knows... Maybe you could find... Another friend..." He muttered, his voice laced with concern.

Sherlock was eating away quite happily until John started speaking. Then suddenly the plastic tasting sandwich seemed to just stick in the back of his throat in a big stodgy lump of bread and cheese, and it was all he could do not to choke and spit it out. He swallowed a chunk of it down and took a large sip of coffee.

"There is no one else John," he replied, a little sadly. "It's taken me all my life to make one friend, what chance do you think I have in making another? Besides, I don't want anyone else. You're my friend John. I'd rather be alone than live with some....some...pretend John. An imposter."

John felt his heart get stuck in his throat, touched by Sherlock's words, but also crushed by the responsibility they brought with them.
"Well, now, now you know how to make one though," he said, reaching out his hand to cover Sherlock's. "I just... I don't want you to get cold and close yourself up just because of me..."

He looked at him, trying hard not to let his eyes fill with tears. "I don't want to leave you, Sherlock, but if I have to... I don't want you to be alone... I want to know someone will take care of you, will remind you to sleep, will prepare your meals and will hide the drugs, Sherlock, I-" he choked on his own words and looked at the side, taking in a shaky breath, "I just want the best for you."

Sherlock's fist clenched up around the sandwich in his hand and it collapsed into pieces as John spoke, a sickly feeling quickly piling at the back of his throat.

"Don't," he said urgently, pleadingly. "Don't talk like that John. You're not going anywhere."

He turned over John's hand so it was clasped in his and looked up into his eyes squeezing it gently. "No one else can take care of me the way you can..."

John looked at him sadly, his heart in a tight grip that made it difficult for him to breathe. "Sherlock, I am not giving up, but we have to talk about it, it's the mature things to do," he muttered, squeezing his hand, quite a bit too desperately.

"It's not going to be the same as having me, but it'll help you nonetheless... no man is an island, Sherlock... And I really want you to be happy, or the closest thing you can be to that..."

Sherlock stood up, shaking his head angrily and wrapping his coat around himself protectively pulling up his collar.

"No," he snapped. "We don't have to talk about this. I don't have to listen to it if I don't want. You can talk to yourself."

And he turned sharply, brusquely walking away, hurriedly brushing away a single tear that dribbled from his eye and cursing under his breath. He told himself he was walking out, going straight back to Baker Street, but in reality he found himself lingering by the doorway of the canteen, waiting for John.

"Sherlock!" he called after him, his hands fisting on the table, unable to react fast enough. His body was betraying him. And he hated it, for the first time since he had been given the news of his condition, he felt the heavy anger of facing something utterly unfair.

He took in a deep breath, he felt he was on the edge of a pitfall, a breakdown, but once again, he pulled himself through.

It wasn't that he wanted to leave Sherlock.
And he knew even just talking about this upset his friend, but he needed to be ready for everything.
And really, Sherlock was the only thing he cared about, he needed to know that he wasn't going to leave him alone and hurt.
Regret.
He knew the regret would be unbearable.

He pushed the plate aside, now surely not ready to eat and made to stand up.

His legs wobbled and he fell back on the chair.
"Damn it," he snapped loudly to himself and tried again.
This time he managed to stand up and he took in another deep breath before moving towards the exit.

When he saw Sherlock there he nodded slightly, but said nothing, his own fragility quite clear on his stricken expression.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, watching his friend struggling, feeling the enormity of the sitatuion begin to overwhelm him. He had never seen John this way before. His John had quick reactions, he was fast, agile, he could chase criminals, he could fight.

Sherlock felt the tears prickling in his eyes as John neared the exit. He returned the small nod silently, briefly turning his head away to rub away the tears before his friend could see him being weak.

"Take my hand," he said simply, offering it out towards John.

John wanted nothing more than to refuse that hand and walk on his own, proud and dignified, but the truth was that he couldn't afford to do that. He was tired, and he wasn't sure he was going to be able to get to his room at all.

He could tell Sherlock was upset, and he felt himself grow weary, the breakdown still only a few words away. He took his hand, he shakily pulled himself closer, resting his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder and taking in his scent as their fingers entangled.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice broken.