John pushed open the door, stopping short when he realized there was someone else in the room with Sherlock. He felt the surge of adrenaline even as he recognized the figure of Greg Lestrade standing next to the window, watching as dusk descended over London.
"Wondered where you'd got to," Greg said in whispered greeting, pointing to a cup of coffee on the side table. "Knew you wouldn't be far."
"Ta," John replied with a tired smile. He glanced at Sherlock's sleeping form as he picked up the cup, checking the screens monitoring his vitals before nodding to himself and moving to join Greg at the window.
"Tried calling ahead to see if you needed anything else, but it went straight to voicemail."
"Turned it off hours ago," John replied, sipping the coffee. "Hospital policy."
"Never known you to be so bound by the rules."
"No idea what you're on about. I'm a bloody boy scout."
Greg snorted softly.
"How is he?"
"He'll be fine, so long as we manage to avoid infections," John answered, eyes flicking briefly over to the still figure in the bed. He shook his head, returning his attention to Greg. "Tore his stitches during his little excursion. Internal bleeding into his abdomen. Wasn't quite enough to send him into cardiac arrest, but it was close."
"Shit," Greg breathed.
"Yeah," John agreed, dropping his eyes to the coffee in his hand.
"Bloody idiot. Did he say how he did it? He didn't really go out the window, did he?"
"Didn't think to ask. Was rather fixated on the why, rather than the how. Again," John replied. He shook his head and smiled a bit ruefully.
"And do you know, then? Why he did it?" Greg asked.
John glanced up and met the DI's gaze. The other man was studying him keenly. John cleared his throat and took a long pull from his coffee. He glanced around the room uncomfortably for a moment before looking back at Greg. He gave a slight smile and a sharp nod.
"He explained it, yeah," John agreed.
He met the DI's eyes, then ducked away from the other man's continued scrutiny.
"That's good, then," Greg said after a long minute.
"Yeah."
John glanced up, catching Greg's frown as the other man's eyes flicked over to Sherlock, sleeping in the hospital bed with the faint hum of the monitors a constant background noise.
"Do you think she'll try again?"
John went still, then forced himself to breathe, hoping that Greg hadn't noticed his reaction.
"She?"
Greg snorted, turning back to face John. "I'm not quite the idiot he thinks, you know."
"He doesn't think you're an idiot, Greg. Not really," John replied.
"I'm not fishing for compliments, John," Greg answered.
"It's true, though. He doesn't think you're an idiot. He knows you're not. We both do."
"And yet, here we are," Greg answered. "He knows who shot him. I'll wager my pension that Mycroft knows, too. His disappearing act … That was about showing you something he couldn't tell you, yeah?" he paused, eyes searching John's face. He gave a small nod at whatever he saw there. "Somehow, though, none of you are breathing down Gregson's neck to make an arrest. He's still protecting the shooter, and you are, too."
John stared at the coffee in his hand, working to keep his breathing steady.
"I get it, John," Greg said, his voice low. "You all wouldn't be keeping quiet without a damned good reason. I'm not asking what it is. Not my case, so it's not my business unless you want it to be. Just … tell me if she's still a danger to him."
John swallowed hard. He forced his eyes up to meet Greg's concerned gaze.
"No," John said finally. "No. He's in no danger from her."
"Well, that's good, then."
"Right."
"Wasn't an accident, though." It wasn't quite a question.
"No."
"Damn," Greg muttered. "What are you going to do now?"
"No idea, actually," John admitted with a humorless laugh. "How did you ..."
"John, the list of people you'd protect after doing that to him is only one person deep. Anyone else and you'd have their head on a pike already."
"I haven't got a pike," John replied with the hint of a smile.
"Sherlock has a harpoon, hasn't he?"
"Oh, God," John said with a huffed breath that was almost a laugh.
"Right, then," Greg said, clapping a hand on John's shoulder. "He doesn't need a guard, but I know you'll rest easier if someone keeps an eye on him. Get out of here. I'll stay with him for a while. Make sure he doesn't give the nurses too much trouble."
John shook his head.
"Don't argue, John. Go. Get some rest. I won't let him climb out any more windows."
"I can't ..."
"You can," a gravelly baritone said behind them. "Grant will stay," he coughed, then continued, "and tell me all about his new case."
"It's Greg, you berk," Greg said, rolling his eyes at John.
John returned a tired smirk, moving to set his coffee on the side table. He poured a cup of water for Sherlock while the consulting detective fumbled with the bed controls until he was in a semi-upright position. John dropped a straw into the cup, wincing sympathetically as Sherlock grimaced in pain while he repositioned himself. Greg moved to stand at the foot of the bed as Sherlock extended a trembling hand to accept the cup from John.
"I'm not going anywhere, John," Sherlock said, pausing to take a swallow of water. "There's no need, any longer. It's all out in the open, now," Sherlock said, then flashed a look at Greg. "A bit more open than I'd imagined, in fact."
"John assures me that she's not a threat. Can't say I'm not curious what this is all about. Seems unlikely that she went to the trouble to break into Magnussen's office to shoot you – she could have done that anywhere if that's what she wanted. Still, taking advantage of an opportunity to remove a rival ..."
"Rival?" John asked.
"'Not a threat' might be overstating things just a bit," Sherlock replied over John's question. "But John is instrumental to maintaining her identity," he paused for a pained breath, "She's unlikely to do anything to jeopardize his good will."
"Bit late for that," John muttered.
"Is that what she was doing in Magnussen's office? Trying to 'maintain her identity'?" Greg asked.
"That's probably part of it," Sherlock agreed.
"And the rest?" Greg asked.
"Too many theories to mention. Need more data," Sherlock replied. "Bring my laptop when you come back tomorrow, John."
"Not leaving, so that might be difficult."
"Really, John, you're starting to look worse than I do. You already smell worse," Sherlock said with a frown of distaste. "Go home. Shower and sleep. I'm in no danger, and I've got a babysitter. I'm not going anywhere."
"Go on, John. I'll entertain his highness," Greg agreed.
"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "You can tell me about your case."
"Ah, no. I'm afraid there'll be no cases for you for a bit. You're cut off."
"I'm perfectly capable of solving your cases from here," Sherlock retorted, shoving the cup back into John's hands and gasping slightly at the pain brought on by his vehemence. "So long as you've got someone competent taking the photos."
"I don't doubt it," Greg agreed. "That's not the problem."
"Then what is?" Sherlock demanded.
"Drugs," John guessed. "It's the drugs, isn't it? Didn't think that one through, did you, Sherlock? You wanted it to get into the newspapers for the Magnussen case, but that means the Met thinks you've relapsed, too."
"Ah," Sherlock said, pulling his hand back from where he'd stretched to reach the PCA controls.
"I take it the newspapers have got it wrong?" Greg asked, crossing his arms across his chest.
"Yes," John answered, turning to look at Sherlock. He ignored the other man's scowl as he peered at his eyes before flicking a glance to the monitors at the head of the bed. Picking up Sherlock's hand, John slid his fingers up to take the other man's pulse. "Elevated heart rate, increased blood pressure, dilated eyes, cold, clammy hands. You forget, Sherlock – I know how much being shot hurts. Even if I didn't, I know how to read the signs of pain in a patient. Don't be a martyr. There is no judgment," he shot a glance at Greg, "in responsibly managing your pain."
"Of course not," Greg agreed quickly, dropping his hands to grip the railing at the foot of the bed.
"But?" Sherlock asked as he reached to tap the PCA control twice.
John kept his eyes on the monitors as Sherlock's eyes sagged closed, visibly relaxing as the medication took hold. He nodded slightly, gently laying Sherlock's hand back on the bed before turning to retrieve his coffee.
"But," Greg said apologetically, "I'm going to need something more than your say-so about the drug use. The higher-ups are watching. I need proof, if you've got it."
"John can get it for you."
"John's word isn't good enough, I'm afraid."
"I didn't say he'd vouch for me, Lestrade," Sherlock replied with a huff. "I said he'd get it for you. Lab results from blood work done on my admission to hospital the night I was shot. Clean drug screen. He can tell the doctors to release a copy of the appropriate medical files, if that will satisfy your superiors?"
"Should do nicely, yeah."
"Good. John, do tell the doctors to provide Lestrade with the test results on your way out. And don't forget the laptop tomorrow."
John sighed.
"You're okay to stay?" he asked Greg.
"I'm good," Greg agreed. "Is the chair comfortable?" he asked, indicating the recliner.
"As a bag of rocks," John replied.
"Well, if you could sleep on it, so can I. Go on. He'll be fine."
John nodded, shrugging on his coat. He picked up his coffee and shot a look at Sherlock, holding the other man's gaze for a long moment before nodding his good nights and slipping out the door.
John was unsurprised to find a black car at the kerb when he exited the hospital. He'd known that the doctors were reporting to Mycroft. Clearly some of the nursing staff was as well. He wondered idly which of the nurses was on the elder Holmes' payroll. His money was on the ginger. Anyone who merely muttered, 'Charming,' with a roll of the eyes when subjected to Sherlock's blistering deductions had to be part of the elder Holmes brother's staff.
"Doctor Watson," the driver said as he held the door open. "Baker Street, sir?"
John paused in the act of climbing into the car, taken aback at the sudden conscious realization that he had, in fact, been heading to Baker Street. He grimaced slightly. It would have to be Baker Street, if Mrs Hudson would let him stay. His flat was not an option. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
John nodded a reply as he slid into the seat, pulling his phone from his pocket and turning it on.
The driver closed the door behind him and moved around the car. A moment later the car slid away from the kerb and into evening rush hour traffic. John sank into the plush leather seat and closed his eyes, visions of Chinese take away and tea and collapsing into bed dancing through his mind.
His phone beeped.
Sighing, John opened his eyes and checked the message.
Had to make excuses for you at the clinic today.
His skin prickled with a flush of emotion. He took a deep breath, wrestling with anger and gratitude, resentment and guilt. After a moment he managed to loosen his white-knuckled grip on the phone to key in the briefest of acknowledgments.
Ta – JW
He'd been so wrapped up in the aftermath of Sherlock's return to hospital, dealing with Mycroft's interference and Molly's visit, that he'd not even thought about work. Even while Sherlock had been sleeping – which had been the majority of the day after he'd eaten half of the breakfast Molly had brought – his shift at the clinic hadn't even occurred to him. John was annoyed with himself for the lapse, and irritated with the way he was both grateful to Mary for having taken care of it, and angry with her for assuming she had any right to speak for him. His guilt over his justifiable anger with her only fueled his resentment.
His text alert chime sounded seconds later.
Nine hours later I get a one word answer, and half your things are gone from the flat. Trying to tell me something?
John pressed his lips together in a firm line. He was not ready to deal with Mary. He needed time to let his anger cool and reign in his temper.
He drew in a deep breath to steady himself, not wanting to take his irritation out on Mycroft's driver. Leaning forward he tapped on the privacy window.
"Sir?" the driver asked as the window came down.
"I don't suppose you know anything about my belongings migrating out of my flat?" John asked curtly.
"Your bags are in the boot, sir."
"Of course they are. Did you remember my phone charger?"
"Yes, Doctor Watson. Your laptop as well."
"Perfect. Just lovely. Thanks," John sighed, texting in a quick response as the window went back up.
Not my doing. And when I figure out exactly what I want to say, you won't have to wonder what I'm trying to tell you. - JW
He hit the send button, then typed out a second message for Mycroft.
While I do appreciate your gesture, I'd appreciate it more if you asked me first. -JW
His phone chimed again a moment later.
Apologies for the assumption. -MH
John snorted in disbelief. He knew damned well that Mycroft was not the least bit regretful for having taken action before obtaining John's agreement. His phone beeped with another message from Mycroft. The man might not like texting, but he was quick at it.
I should probably also tell you that I've made arrangements for a leave of absence from you place of employment. -MH
"Of course you did," John muttered under his breath as he keyed in his response.
Lovely. When and for how long? -JW
Appropriate forms were on your supervisor's desk 20 minutes after you left last evening. You insisted that I leave my brother's care in the hands of professionals before returning to his side. Perhaps I misread your intention of being part of the team caring for him during his recovery. -MH
You know you didn't. -JW
I'm pleased to hear it. You have been put on retainer as an adviser, in order to prevent any questions of ethics regarding your involvement my brother's treatment. Naturally, this means that you have complete control. Your supervisor has approved an indefinite leave. A replacement has been secured to cover your shifts for the duration. -MH
John closed his eyes and rested his head against the window. He couldn't help but admit that, this time, at least, he was grateful for Mycroft's manipulations. The man really did think of everything. He opened his eyes and sent a quick, heartfelt reply.
Thank you. -JW
He dropped the phone in his lap, bringing his hands up to press the heels of his palms against his eyes. When he pulled them away a moment later the car was pulling up in front of the familiar black door.
John climbed from the car while the driver unloaded bags from the boot. He had a key, but knocked on the door rather than pull it out. John hardly had time to rock back on his heels before the door opened, Mrs Hudson in the entryway wearing a small, bright smile.
"John," she said, reaching out to wrap him in a hug.
"Mrs Hudson," he replied, giving her an affectionate squeeze. "I hope you don't mind if I stay here a day or two? Closer to the hospital ..."
"Of course I don't mind!" she tutted. "You're welcome to stay for as long as you need. This is your home, still, John."
The thought made John's chest ache with warmth. It was comforting and painful and confusing in ways he couldn't put into words.
"Thank you, Mrs Hudson. I really appreciate it."
"Yes, dear. Now, I've got your bed made up, and there's fresh milk in the fridge, next to the toes," she said, giving him a gentle push up the stairs.
"Next to the toes. Right. Of course it is," John said with a huff of laughter before turning to give Mrs Hudson a curious look. "You knew I'd be coming, then?"
"Well, after the conversation I overheard the other night, I wasn't sure you'd be ready to go back to yours just yet. And then Mycroft called ..."
"Nosy git. Arranged for all this, as well," John said, indicating the suitcase and duffel bag the driver was bringing in.
John caught the amused look Mrs Hudson shot him as she turned to the driver in the doorway.
"Those go all the way to the top, young man, if you'd be so kind," she said, stepping aside to let the driver pass. "John, you just go on upstairs and get settled in. When you're ready to go to hospital tomorrow, stop by before you leave, won't you? I've made some of Sherlock's favorite ginger biscuits."
"You're too good to us, Mrs H. Thank you," John replied, ducking in to drop a kiss on her cheek before following the driver up the stairs.