NOTES:
This is a sequel to "The Road of Bones". It probably won't be too confusing to enjoy on its own, but you'll get a lot more out of it if you go through "Bones" first.
This is for all the wonderful readers who journeyed through "The Road of Bones" with me.
Thank-yous:
M, my pining co-conspirator with an academic degree in frug elaboration.
Mr B for being a man of awesome.
JK, author extraordinaire and an endless source of excellent writing advice.
A, for outstanding peer support in writing wondrous things.
H, my consulting conductor, who was a great help with the classical music research I did for this story.
And first and foremost I must thank J. He's the Sherlock to my John, the Mulder to my Scully and practically a saint, because he's put up with this crazy woman that I am for almost twelve years now.
Stress fractures are tiny fracture lines caused by repetitive application of force that normally wouldn't break a bone - the constant mechanical stress overwhelms the bone's impact strenght.
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Stress Fractures
by J Baillier
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CHAPTER 1/11 - Almost back to normal
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Chapter summary: A night at the opera with an unexpected ending.
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We almost made it
But making it is overrated
- Placebo
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It's been two weeks since Sherlock was discharged from the neurosurgical ward at King's College Hospital. Surprisingly enough, the flat is still standing and Sherlock hasn't spontaneously combusted from tedium.
He's been playing the violin a lot. He told me he thinks there's some sort of a residual effect from surgery, a slight deficit in his fine motor skills. I can't tell the difference but I take his word for it. He's gone through a good portion of his repertoire from some very aggressive-sounding Bach to the gentleness of romantic-era sonatas. The sound of the violin accompanies me while I do the dishes, sort out the laundry, pick up his books from the sitting room floor and reply to comments on my blog. It often lulls me to sleep at night. Surgery has not altered Sherlock's nocturnal habits one bit - he mostly stays up way past my capabilities.
He doesn't like to leave the flat. Not yet, anyway. Solving cases by email turned out to be a bust - he tried it after I brought his laptop to the hospital. He stubbornly claims it didn't work because the cases on offer were too boring, but I had a nagging suspicion that he was too tired and too hazy from having his brain poked to properly focus.
I know he still worries about potential long-term effects. The aneurysm surgery went perfectly but he'll have to wait six months before an angiogram will confirm that the aneurysm is as good as gone. Before that his driver's licence will remain on hold, which he has complained loudly about, even though he rarely actually drives. Any hindrance to his independence is understandably a personal insult.
He seems to rely more on me now than he used to. He looks to me to tell me what he should or shouldn't do, which is new. He doesn't actually ask anything out loud, but I can guess what's going through his mind when he's about to do something physically demanding or borderline hazardous and he suddenly stops and looks at me inquisitively. Is it okay to not take the elevator? Is it okay if I do this experiment? I usually just nod or shake my head and he actually heeds this advice.
I caught him making an online search for hair growth tips one evening. He tried to pretend it was for a case. I didn't say anything. I know he hates how his hair still looks - they had to shave off a good portion of his curls for the surgery. He doesn't listen when I try to console him by saying that it'll grow back sooner than he thinks.
He refuses visitors. I think it's at least partly because of how he looks. Before the surgery he regularly preened in front of the mirror but now it seems that he really wants to avoid seeing the Z-shaped scar that runs from the back of his ear across his scalp to the other side, framed by a strip of short hair amidst his usually thick mop of dark hair.
All in all, life is gradually returning to normal. At least as normal as life with Sherlock Holmes can possiby be.
"It's time, John!" Sherlock exclaims giddily six weeks after the surgery. He wants to go back to work. He had decided on a two-month moratorium on Yard cases, which he has assured me he wants to stick to, but he's decided that plucking a smaller case off the website might be a good idea. I think he's sticking to the two-month hiatus with the Yard because he wants to be able to hide all signs of the surgery without having to wear the 'ear hat', as he calls it. I understand his predicament - he's subject to enough ridicule my Lestrade's minions even without parading his illness for all to see.
I'm almost disappointed he's decided to start taking on cases earlier than anticipated. I've enjoyed these four weeks together, just lounging around the flat, watching crap telly, listening to Sherlock's monologues about mud swirl patterns and the sort, having decent food at regular intervals instead of sandwiches eaten while walking to a crime scene. I've even enjoyed the Cluedo. There's also been chess in which I always lose, Sherlock mocking my crime novels, biscuits at Mrs Hudson's, Sherlock mocking the games on my phone, typing up my backlog of case blog posts, Sherlock mocking said posts.
To sum it all up, I've enjoyed just being able to spend time with Sherlock without the rest of the world interfering all the time.
When Sherlock was discharged, I was determined to use this quiet time to sort out what I had begun to realize during his diagnosis and hospitalization - that I may have been hasty in my declaration that we weren't a couple. What we went through contained some moments which were well and truly beyond what simple flatmates and friends usually do and are to each other. I'm still coming to terms with that, and I haven't even breached the subject with Sherlock yet. I will, though. This much I've decided even though that is a conversation that scares me as much as Moriarty does. Maybe even more.
It seems that when times are difficult, some things are surprisingly easy. At the hospital, touching him, holding him had seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Now, back at home, without illness and fear stripping us of our roles, I find it hard to try and bridge the last gaps between us. I am now convinced that I want to, but there are so many unknown factors. I don't know how much he remembers of the first days post-surgery, while I remember everything. Late at night, when I lie awake in my bed upstairs, alone, listening to his footsteps downstairs, I really miss some aspects of those days. Seeing a side of him noone else gets to experience - just Sherlock, without his carefully constructed, flamboyant rockstar act to draw attention away from the real person underneath.
What does Sherlock want? What am I prepared for? When push comes to shove, am I as attracted to him as I suspect I am? Is he attracted to me in that way? What am I to him?
I thought I had so much time before cases and Mycroft and London and The Game would distract him again. Six weeks have gone by so fast, and all I've done is procrastinate.