Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock.
Author's notes: The first part of the story's been sitting on my hard drive for quite a while, it was written back when I was still using the wrong kind of apostrophes. I've since learned to use the right ones during typing (using a qwertz keyboard, which is different from the qwerty one) and hopefully managed to replace all the wrong ones in this one, but if there's the odd one I've overlooked, please bear with me.
And now, enjoy.
o
Never That Easy
o
To Anna Madrigal,
with love
o
The first thing John notices when he comes back from Harry's is how tidy it is. Nothing unusual is lying around, no bodies are hanging from the ceiling and the kitchen is void of chemistry accessories, the worktops blank and uncluttered. It is in fact as tidy has John has left it, even his used mug still sits next to the sink.
For a moment he wonders whether Sherlock has moved out without bothering to tell him. But his things are still there, the violin, the skull. Sherlock however is not present, probably off after a call from Lestrade. If he's still living here. John checks his mobile: no new messages. He hasn't heard from Sherlock in days, has not even had an answer on New Year's, but it is the time of year which puts the detective through all kinds of funny moods, so it hadn't particularly bothered John. After all, they had both been quite worn out when Christmas arrived, having worked non-stop.
To a lot of people, the Advent season apparently wasn't a time for contemplative happiness, subsequently making it non-contemplative and rather stressfull for the police and any consulting detective as well, which included the partner in his wake. Who also happened to be a doctor, therefore John had had to deal not only with his daily workload at the surgery but Sherlock's cases on top of it. He had barely found the time to do his Christmas shopping.
He puts his phone away, decides not to be silly and uses the time alone to put his laundry in the washer, then starts a fire and makes himself a nice cup of tea. He didn't have tea on the train, as it usually is awful, and he feels quite frozen now. The flat's not particularly warm either. He sits down in his armchair by the fireplace and relaxes, glad to have escaped. Harry and he have been remarkably civil around each other, but nothing more. Well, he's managed to relax nevertheless; living together with Sherlock is a good training for not letting things get too close to you.
He dozes off at one point, book on his lap; when he awakes, it's already dark and he doesn't know what exactly has startled him out of sleep until he hears it again: someone is coughing. John strains his ears, listening intently: well, definitely not Mrs. Hudson. Slowly, he gets up, switching on a few lights, and follows the sound towards Sherlock's bedroom. When has Sherlock come home?
John knocks and opens the door; the room is dark. "Sherlock?" he asks. The answer is another cough, sounding severe enough to explain why Sherlock's voice sounds hoarse and wheezy when he speaks: "John..." The relief in his tone is unmistakable. An awful suspicion dawns on John, and it is confirmed when he turns on the light: Sherlock is lying in bed, barely visible underneath a heap of blankets; from what John can see, he looks ghastly, white-faced and with dark smudges under his eyes, which are glassy and feverish.
"Have you been here all afternoon?" John asks, appalled, almost rushing over to the bed.
Sherlock nods, coughing again: "Yes, w-why?"
"Because I thought you're out when I came home. I didn't hear you."
"I was asleep," Sherlock croaks.
John sits down on the bed, feeling his friend's forehead: Sherlock's too tired to protest, and he's actually glad about the contact, of John's hand on his skin. It tells him he is not hallucinating.
John doesn't like what he feels though, because Sherlock's burning up.
"Sherlock- for how long have you been this ill?" he asks, worriedly.
"Few days."
"Sherlock-"
"Really, lost count. Which day's this?" He sounds exhausted and genuinely interested.
Christ. Mrs. Hudson, who's visiting a friend in Florida, left before New Year´s Eve, and John is certain she'd have called him if she'd known. So it's been at least five days. He looks around; there's a nearly empty box of tissues on the nightstand, and a half-full glass of water. A packet of pills, probably paracetamol. The air in the room is cold and stale and attesting of illness; Sherlock is sweating due to the fever, and John is certain he hasn't had the energy to change the bedding. Where the hell is Mycroft, he wonders; always popping up at inconvenient times, why not now?
"Okay, first things first," he says, getting up again.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock´s voice is thin, and the subtext is clear: don't leave again.
"Just opening the window," John says. "And turning up the heating."
"But that's-"
"I know it's a waste of energy. But the window won't be open for long, and it´s an emergency." It's also the least thing which should concern you right now, he adds in his mind. Loudly, he says: "I'm going to make you some tea. I´ll be back in a moment."
Half an hour later, Sherlock is tucked in with fresh bedding and, after a quick wash, fresh clothes. John had to help him to the bathroom, as he's too weakened to stand on his own for more than a few seconds and began to sway immediately after he had gotten to his feet.
The temperature in the room is getting more comfortable now that the window's closed again, and John has brought some tea, biscuits and apple slices along with proper medication. Sherlock feels too nauseous to eat, but John insists. Sherlock hasn't eaten anything for who knows how long, and he won't keep any medicine down if he doesn't start now. Apart from the obvious fact that he's dreadfully thin and possibly starving.
Sherlock tries to sit up but fails; the trip to the bathroom has bereft him of his remaining energy, and he has no reserves. John's worry only increases; he wonders whether he should take Sherlock to the hospital. Very gently, he winds his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and helps him to sit up, propping him up on several pillows so that he's leaning against the headboard. His hands are shaking too much to hold the mug, so John sits down next to him and helps him, curling his fingers around Sherlock's long ones, which are very cold. It's humiliating, really, to be so helpless, but Sherlock is in fact even having trouble staying upright; the infection which has spread throughout his sinuses is affecting his auditory nerves, subsequently making him dizzy. John can feel the unnatural heat radiating from him, and how he's trembling. His breathing sounds wet and entirely too laboured.
"Sherlock," the doctor says, trying to be casual about it, "I think we should get you to the hospital. You're too ill to stay here." He expects protest, indignant assurances that really it's not as bad as it looks and there's no need to go to a hospital since there's a doctor in the house now, but when Sherlock, after a moment of silence, simply nods and says okay, John is getting really worried. He doesn't want to imagine what Sherlock's been through while he was on his own. Outwardly calm, he gets up and finds his phone.
The taxi is stopping right in front of the A&E entrance half an hour later. John has phoned ahead; it's a big advantage if you know people who can pull strings, and therefore, Sherlock's being admitted at once.
John stays with him as long as he's allowed; he then sits in a largely abandoned waiting area, too agitated to do anything else but rant silently. Why is Sherlock always neglecting himself when it comes to nourishment and personal health? He doesn't have an answer to that. Sherlock simply isn't like other people, and even John is left in the dark about his motives most of the time.
When his anger abates somewhat, he takes out his phone and texts Mycroft: Sherlock's in hospital with suspected pneumonia. JW
He waits for an answer, but none comes in. Maybe he's busy.
It turns out that John's been right about the pneumonia, as the doctor who comes talking to him confirms. He's young, tired after a long shift and rather irritable with John at first, until the latter explains why Sherlock's so obviously undernourished and neglected. John explicitely stresses that he's only his flatmate and has been away recently, just to be clear. The doctor seems to believe him and explains that they are going to keep Sherlock in for at least two days because the illness is severe enough not to be managed at home. John refrains from telling the other doctor that they are colleagues and knows about the criteria which are being used to determine whether someone can be treated as an outpatient or not; he'll have a look at Sherlock´s papers later anyway.
Sherlock's alone in a narrow room; it's not in the ICU, but certainly gives a similar impression. Sherlock's on two different IV drips to provide his body with the necessary fluids, and a heart monitor is beeping in the background. He's wearing an oxygen mask and appears to be asleep, yet when he hears John's silent steps, he struggles to open his eyes.
John forces a smile on his face, even though it's far too difficult to witness his friend like this. Despite the fact that he's a doctor and has had his fair share of similar situations, there's nothing which would have prepared him for something so close to home, not even during his time in Afghanistan. Distancing oneself is impossible if the patient is taking up such a large part of one's heart. He is however slightly surprised at just how much this distresses him, since it's pneumonia, for heaven's sake, not something which can't be cured. Probably it's rather the circumstances which are getting to him: finding Sherlock like that, and the very fact that Sherlock isn't as indestructable as he likes to pretend.
"Hey," John says in a low voice. "Are you okay?"
Sherlock nods, though he manages to immediately look agitated. He didn't like being subject to prodding and poking and being x-rayed; too many different people touched him during the process. He managed to undress and put on the infernal hospital gown himself, but then the nurses fussed about him, inserting cannulas and applying electrodes and putting the mask over his face. At least they didn't talk any more than necessary, and breathing admittedly feels a little less laborious like this.
"Are you staying?" he now asks; his voice, which is muffled by the mask, is only a shade of its usual tone and far too feeble altogether.
"Of course I am," John says, because he wouldn't dream of leaving now. "Try to sleep, Sherlock."
He reaches over the safety railing and takes Sherlock's hand in his, squeezing it in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. And Sherlock, visibly calming down because John's touch is not only bearable but strangely calming, closes his eyes. He coughs a few times, but still falls asleep at one point, exhaustion and medication taking over.
John has also dozed off when, in the middle of the night, his phone buzzes. It's Mycroft's answer:
Heading back to England. Please keep me updated. MH
Tiredly, John rubs his eyes and types his reply: Pneumonia confirmed. He's stable, sleeping now. JW
He wonders where Mycroft has been, and why he hasn't noticed that something was off. Well, it hardly matters now.
Mycroft arrives on the late morning, looking as pristine as ever. He enters the room quietly, approaching the bed with his eyes glued to his sleeping brother. Mycroft nods at John, but doesn't stop to greet him otherwise; clearly, Sherlock is his utmost priority, and for reasons John can't quite name, he is glad about that.
Mycroft stands next to the bed and takes in Sherlock's pale face, the tubes and wires, the machinery. It's not that he hasn´t seen Sherlock like this before, and he very likely won't die this time, but that doesn't make it easier. He stays motionless for a while, not daring to touch his brother, because he doesn´t want to wake him unnecessarily. Sherlock looks frail and certainly needs the rest. Mycroft's gaze lingers on him, finding it impossible to turn away. But he must; he needs to talk to John, find out how this has happened and what is going to be done.
Arrange your face, he tells himself.
When he turns around to John, nothing betrays his inner turmoil.
They step outside to talk, and John tells Mycroft how he has found Sherlock, and that he is now being treated with antibiotics and antipyretics and will have to start an additional breathing therapy once he's a little stronger and can sit up.
"For how long will he have to stay here?" Mycroft asks, but John doesn't have an answer to that yet; it is going to depend on the rate of Sherlock´s recovery.
"Only a few days," John estimates. "He will hate it."
Mycroft gives him a feeble smile: "Definitely." He involuntarily glances at the door to Sherlock´s room, and the smile fades.
John has an inkling how he feels; worrying about an estranged sibling is something he can relate to, after all.
While Mycroft goes to find a nurse in order to make sure Sherlock receives the best possible care, John slips back into his friend's room. He hasn't gotten much sleep and can feel his own fatigue creeping up on him, but he wouldn't dream of leaving now; something in Sherlock's still slightly tense frame and the way his veins are showing through his skin goes straight into John's heart. This vulnerability isn't usually so visible, although John has probably witnessed more of it than any other person in Sherlock's life; he's seen the detective in all kinds of situations, after all.
Sherlock has to stay for five more days. The medication only slowly takes effect due to the severity of the illness; contrary to John's expectation however, the detective doesn't complain much. He is very tired and sleeps or at least dozes for most of the time.
"I can walk," Sherlock all but snaps once they have arrived in Baker Street on the day of his release. Unfazed, John keeps his rather firm grip on Sherlock's arm in order to steady him: "Good for you."
"John-"
"Save your breath and concentrate."
Sherlock actually snarls at that, but the very fact that he's not saying anything else tells John that the simple task of climbing up the stairs is indeed requiring all of his energy. Once they have arrived in the flat and entered the living room, Sherlock pulls towards the sofa, but John stops him, and it's a clear indicator of how weakened his friend is that the doctor only needs to hold him firmly by his arm to do so: "Bedroom."
"I don't want to go to bed. I've been in bed for ages. I need a change."
"Then you'll find yourself bang out of luck, I'm afraid, because your bed is where you're headed right now."
Sherlock glares at him, to no avail: John isn't about to argue, and his point is emphasized by a rather violent bout of coughing on Sherlock's part.
Getting off his feet and lying down again is such a relief that Sherlock almost forgets to mind about the sofa. Which he'd still have preferred simply to not feel ill any longer. Of course he knows that his bed is the more sensible choice, but it feels like admitting to being ill. He's had enough of that before John came back from Nottingham. This is entirely different, though: John has seen to it that Sherlock's bedroom is clean and warm, there's a bottle of mineral water on the nightstand along with a glass and fresh tissues as well as a heap of books on the floor next to it. On their way in Sherlock's noticed a basket of fresh laundry: his night clothes and sheets, among other things.
"Fancy some tea?" John asks once Sherlock is settled in comfortably. He obviously doesn't expect his friend to acknowledge his careful preparations or all the other things he's done for him, such as staying with him for the better part of the past few days and running errands in between. Sherlock feels vaguely ashamed now, because John looks rather tired.
"Thank you," he therefore says. "For everything."
For a moment, John only stares at him disbelievingly, his eyes widening ever so slightly, then he nods and turns to go into the kitchen. Sherlock can hear him whistle while he's rummaging around.
A few minutes later, John comes in with a tray holding two steaming mugs and a small cake, which has a burning candle on it. Carefully, he sits down on the edge of the bed and gently sets the tray on his friend's lap: "Happy belated birthday, Sherlock."
The detective blinks: he's completely forgotten that is was his birthday a few days ago.
For a moment, he can't seem to find his voice, and he needs to clear his throat twice before he can say anything: "Thank you. I didn't... I forgot."
"I know. You were out of it most of the time anyway on the actual day," John replies, and there's a certain glee in his tone: "One of the nurses saw the date on your chart, but I managed to keep her from saying something. I had an inkling you wouldn't have wanted that." He knows that Sherlock loathes birthday parties, his own in particular.
Blinking again, Sherlock looks at the candle in order to avoid John's gaze; he is far too touched by this level of consideration for his own sake, especially in a matter such as this: most people wouldn't understand why he'd not want the attention. John however cares about him enough to not only understand but also make sure his wishes were respected.
"I didn't want to let it go by entirely unheeded, though," John now says, smiling. "Hence the cake."
"You don't expect me to make a wish, I hope," Sherlock manages to get out, his voice audibly constricted. He clears his throat once more and coughs; for once, he's glad about having the excuse of being ill.
"God,no, you'd only cough at the candle anyway." John regards him fondly: "And I won't sing Happy Birthday for you either. But I do have a present for you."
Sherlock narrows his eyes: "What is it? You're grinning. Why are you grinning?"
John motions for Sherlock to take hold of the tray, then bends over and pulls something out from under the bed.
"You hid it in here?"
"'Course. You weren't home anyway."
Sherlock can't but acknowledge the logic in that. Still frowning a little, he takes the proffered present and turns it over in his hands while John takes the tray again: "It's a book."
"Obviously," John nods towards it: "Open it."
Sherlock unwraps it carefully; he's never understood the urge to just tear the paper apart. "London's Strangest Tales," he reads, "Extraordinary But True Stories." He immediately begins to read the table of contents: "This does seem interesting. Thank you, John."
The doctor is rather pleased with himself, as finding presents for Sherlock is not exactly easy.
"You're welcome," he replies. "Don't forget your tea about it, though."
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock takes the mug, but keeps one finger in the book to mark the page. They are silent for a while, each sipping their tea.
"Why didn't you call me?" John eventually asks. He's been wondering about that ever since he took Sherlock to the hospital.
The detective looks uncomfortable: "You'd have come back."
"Of course I'd have come back."
"I didn't want to interrupt your visit."
"Why ever not? It's not that Harry and I can't very well live without each other."
"And yet you were looking forward to seeing her."
John can only just stop himself from gaping at Sherlock, because he didn't think his friend had noticed, busy as they were. He should have known better, of course.
"Well. She sounded... better, on the phone. Elated. She's got a new partner and had managed to stay off the booze for real this time."
"She's the only close family member you've got left." Sherlock sound almost sad.
"Still- our relationship is anything but." John smirks: "At least we managed not to argue this time, which can be counted as a first. We're too good at riling each other up."
Sherlock nods; he can relate to that.
John feels guilty as he regards his friend now: the other reason why he had travelled to Nottingham was the need for a change of scenery. He wanted to get away from it all; Sherlock had been rather irritable and testy the closer Christmas had come, and John had been too worn out to deal with it with his usual patience.
Maybe he'd already felt ill back then, John thinks with a pang of regret; Sherlock does after all tend to lash out when he feels cornered. It was probably his way to deal with feeling the onslaught of a cold whilst he was in the middle of a case.
John shakes his head, unaware that he's even doing so; he can't change what's happened.
"Okay," he says, resuming the initial topic, "but what about somebody else? I know Mycroft wasn't an option, but what about another friend? Lestrade? Or Molly? It couldn't have been your pride that prevented you from doing so, could it?"
Sherlock looks downright embarrassed, and it takes John a few seconds to understand.
"You didn't think they'd come," he murmurs, feeling his stomach drop uncomfortably at the notion. How lonely Sherlock must have felt.
The detective looks away, fiddling with his new book: "I... it was Christmas, after all. They were busy."
"They'd have come," John objected. "They like you."
"Lestrade needs me. Molly... she's just having a crush. She likes the idea of me. That's a difference."
"No, Sherlock." John shakes his head. "That's not true. Here, let me show you." He gets up and leaves the room; when he comes back in, he's holding Sherlock's mobile, which he had wisely kept at home during Sherlock's stay at the hospital.
"Look at your inbox." he says now, handing the device to Sherlock. "I bet there are a few birthday messages for you."
Sherlock is sceptical, but John is right. Molly, Lestrade and even Mike Stamford have sent him congratulations. There also are two missed calls from Mrs Hudson, and one from his parents. Apart from that, there's another, earlier message from Lestrade, wishing him a Happy New Year and asking how he was.
Damn it; there's that annoying urge to clear his throat again. "When is Mrs Hudson coming back at all?" he asks in order to distract John.
"The day after tomorrow."
"I'll never hear the end of it," Sherlock mutters.
John smiles: "See? You're not as unpopular as you seem to think." He picks up the plate with the cake: "Come on. Make a wish."
The glare he receives could have killed an elephant.
After they had some of the cake, John went to lie down for a bit as well. Sherlock has been reading for a while, now he just stares ahead unseeingly, feeling himself getting drowsy. John is probably right about the matter, though Sherlock doesn't understand why. He's done nothing at all to endear himself to those people, and yet they seem determined to like him.
He can't deny that he likes them as well, though he would have hesitated to call them "friends". A friend was someone like John, who was uncomplicated. Someone whose presence was desirable at all times, and whom one could relate to. He couldn't relate much to Molly, seeing how she seemed too shy for her own good, and he could only sometimes relate to Lestrade; most of the time, he wondered why that man had become a police officer at all. He'd have a made a good teacher, probably, or an airline pilot.
Slowly, Sherlock turns onto his side and closes his eyes; he is glad to be home.
Two days later, Mycroft drops by in the morning. He lets himself in, as usual, and finds John in the kitchen, doing the dishes.
He sighs: "We do have a doorbell, you know," he mutters instead of a greeting, which Mycroft ignores. He looks around: "What a difference the absence of Sherlock's chemistry clutter is making," he comments, smiling vaguely at the doctor. "And how is my brother doing today?"
"Coughed through the night. He insisted on getting up for breakfast and had a shower afterwards, all of which pretty much drained him, so he's taking a nap now." John dries his hands. "It'll take a while until he's back on his feet."
"He seems to indeed have outdone himself this time."
John puts the kettle on: "Have a seat."
Mycroft silently watches the doctor as he measures tea into the pot and pours the boiling water over it, then puts two cups, the sugar bowl and some milk onto the table before sitting down as well.
"I was wondering what might have compelled Sherlock to let it come that far," Mycroft says without further preamble. "He's not stupid, he must have realized he needed medical attention at one point. And food, for that matter. He's dreadfully thin."
"From what I gather, he's done similar things before," John replies calmly. Mycroft stares at him for a moment: he keeps underestimating this man.
"I don't think you can compare this to his history of taking drugs," he replies after a moment.
"Maybe not, but the pattern's the same. He didn't have anyone he'd bear to witness him in such a state."
Mycroft's face takes on a pained expression: "I already have. He could have called me."
"You weren't even in the country."
"He didn't know that."
John considers this for a moment: "I have no idea what exactly it is between the two of you," he eventually says. "But I wouldn't think it wise to berate him for not calling."
Mycroft is surprised that the doctor seems to have read his mind, since berating Sherlock was exactly what he had in mind when he came here.
"So we'll just let him get away with it?"
"No." John smiles. "I already talked to him about it."
Mycroft raises his eyebrows: "And did you manage to knock some sense into him?"
"That," says John, "is between him and me."
Mycroft insists to at least have a look at Sherlock before leaving. Very carefully, he opens the door to his brother's bedroom and peeks in: Sherlock is lying on his side, with his back to the door, and seems fast asleep. The older Holmes waits for two minutes, listening intently, then goes in and sits down on the bed: "I know you're awake," he says quietly, eliciting a frustrated sigh from the younger man: "What gave me away?" Sherlock asks, slowly turning onto his back.
"You were never able to fool me the way you fooled Mummy and Daddy," Mycroft replies, unable to keep a smile off his face which might almost count as affectionate.
"What do you want?" Sherlock asks tiredly and promptly begins to cough.
"See how you are." His brother seems unfazed by his brusque tone.
"Have you come to remonstrate with me? Tell me that I'm irresponsible? Infantilize me as usual?"
"No," Mycroft lies. "Nothing of the sort. I was just going to listen to your insults, wish you a happy belated birthday and leave again."
"Oh." Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Why is everyone making such a fuss?"
"I really couldn't say," Mycroft replies smoothly, "but it's tradition, after all." He gets to his feet: "Well. Now that I've seen for myself that you are still alive and looking marginally better, I'll get back to work. Many happy returns, Sherlock."
Mutely, Sherlock watches him go. He woke up from the sound of voices and quickly deduced that it were John and Mycroft talking in the kitchen. Though he couldn't make out individual words, it was more than likely that they were talking about him. He considers that now, because he is still puzzled that Mycroft didn't reproach him in any way. Maybe John has said something to prevent it; he can be very adamant. Whatever the reason, Sherlock is glad about it; he really didn't feel up to an argument with his brother. Sighing, he turns back onto his side; it doesn't take long for him to doze off again.
Mrs Hudson comes home in the early afternoon. Since she doesn't yet know what has transpired, John uses the pretence of helping her with her luggage to fill her in. She pales under her newly acquired tan as soon as she hears the word hospital: "Oh no, is he all right?"
"He is getting there. He came home the day before yesterday."
"And how's he doing?"
"He's rather worn out and still coughing a lot at night, but on the whole, he's much better already."
Mrs Hudson shakes her head: "The poor dear, having to spend his birthday in hospital. Now that explains why he didn't answer my calls."
"I had the phone confiscated," John explains, "who knows what he'd done with it otherwise."
He only now takes the time to look at her properly: "How was Florida?"
"Wonderful. I'd forgotten just how nice it is. All that sun did wonders for my complexion, don't you think?" She winks at him archly. "Now, I'll be terribly jet-lagged for a while, but I'll come up in a few minutes and get you your gifts."
"You didn't have to-"
"Nonsense. Travelling is only half the fun if you can't bring home some presents."
Sherlock seems genuinely pleased to see their landlady, who, contrary to expectations, enters his bedroom without any fussing but simply bends down, kisses him on both cheeks and says: "Happy New Year and a Happy belated Birthday, my dear." Then she sits down and looks him over: "If this is much better already, I'm glad I didn't see you last week," she exclaims after a few seconds. Sherlock, who endured her scrutiny with unusual patience, rolls his eyes and earns himself a slap against his arm; apparently, her holiday has brought out Mrs Hudson's bold side.
"Francine sends her love," she then says.
"Francine?" John looks from her to Sherlock questioningly.
"My friend."
"Her fellow dancer." Sherlock says pointedly. John makes a mental note to ask him to elaborate on that, if maybe later, because Mrs Hudson is decidedly blushing.
"Hush, you," she accordingly scolds Sherlock, but she isn't anywhere near angry. She pulls two small packages out of her handbag instead, one of which she hands him: "I brought this for you." She turns to John: "And John, dear, this one's for you."
"It wasn't John's birthday, of course," Sherlock mutters while he opens the present: it's a pocket watch, and Sherlock actually gasps as he takes it out of the small box. It's a Cortébert jump-hour, one of the first digital watches there were, and it's more than a hundred years old. That in itself doesn't seem to be the reason for Sherlock's strong reaction, though; he looks at it for a long time, examining it closely, opening it and smoothing his thumb over the face repeatedly, before looking at Mrs Hudson: "Where did you find it?"
Her smile, which had already been there, deepens: "Francine. She knows people who know people. She's been on to it for some time now. I've taken it to a jewellers and had it polished up a bit, but apart from that, it's undamaged."
"Thank you!" Sherlock beams at her, a rare sight to behold, and allows himself to be hugged.
John has already figured out that it's got something to do with their mutual past and the still mysterious happenings in Florida while her husband was being tried; it's another thing he'll ask Sherlock about.
"It belonged to my grandfather," Sherlock explains when he sees John's puzzled look. "I... lost it." As he doesn't seem willing to elaborate for the time being, John decides not to ask further questions. He opens his own present instead: it's a Doctor Who TARDIS key chain. Mrs Hudson giggles with delight as she sees John's pleasantly surprised face: "It's also got a flashlight if you press it."
He begins to laugh: "Thank you, that's brilliant." Mrs Hudson knows that he loves Doctor Who, as they've actually began to watch it together whenever their time allowed it. One night, John told her that he'd always wanted a TARDIS of his own when he was a boy.
"You didn't get it in Florida though, did you?" he asks, at which the old lady nods fervently: "Yes, I did! At the airport, as a matter of fact!"
"So you had to travel to America in order to get something essentially British." John grins: "I love this."
Sherlock, who very probably has no idea what a TARDIS is because he very probably didn't bother to pay attention while John was watching Doctor Who, is still so engrossed by his watch that John wonders whether he's gone to his Mind Palace.
He does look up when Mrs Hudson makes to leave, however, distractedly saying good-bye.
In the hall, Mrs Hudson and John stop for a moment. "He still looks dreadful," she says under her breath. "I really should have noticed something before I left, but I just popped in ever so briefly after coming home from my sister's, I didn't get a good look at him."
"Don't worry about that," John seeks to appease her, "you know how he is. He is very good at hiding things."
"Yes, well." She considers his words, then sighs:"I'll take a nap, then I'll pop out to the store. We have to feed him up a little, don't you think?"
John refrains from telling her that he's already begun doing so and had stocked up their fridge with food before Sherlock had been released from hospital. She enjoys caring for them, despite her frequent reminders that she's neither their housekeeper nor their mother.
"Listen," he says instead, "I'll have to get back to work tomorrow. I've extended my leave for this, but I can't stretch it any further, I'm afraid. Can you have an eye on him in the morning?"
"Of course, my dear," Mrs Hudson pats his arms, "don't you worry. I'll look in on him and make him a nice breakfast."
"Thank you." John looks down at the key chain he is still holding: "And thank you for this. I love it."
"Anytime, dear." With that, Mrs Hudson turns to go.
When John pokes his head through Sherlock's door an hour later, the detective has lain down again, the watch still in his hand, his mobile phone in the other; he is deeply lost in thought.
"Sherlock," John says gently, hoping not to startle his friend. Sherlock looks up at that, non-startled.
"Tea?" John asks. Sherlock hums agreeingly.
Just as John is putting the tea bags into their respective mugs, Sherlock appears in the door. He leans against the frame, still being rather unsteady on his legs, and watches John, unaware that his brother did the same earlier.
"Are you all right?" John asks, pausing in his movement.
"Yes." Sherlock wraps his dressing gown tighter around himself, folding his arms in front of his chest in the process before padding over to the table and sitting down. A little colour is beginning to return to his face, John notes with satisfaction as he puts the mug down in front of his friend. In another incidental imitation of that morning, John takes a seat opposite Sherlock with his own mug. They are quiet, but it's a companionable silence; neither of them feels compelled to resort to small-talk in order to stop it.
Sherlock doesn't tell John that Mycroft once has been someone he could relate to, who was uncomplicated and whose presence was desirable most of the time. He played with Sherlock and taught him things, and he was actually very good at being a pirate. He was in fact someone Sherlock looked up to.
Those times are long gone, their loss beginning on the day on which Mycroft in all seriousness told his younger brother that he regrettably wasn't half as bright as was necessary in order to keep up with his own brilliant mind. Mycroft grew distant, and Sherlock missed him.
He still loves his brother somehow, but they aren't close anymore. Not like John and him. He knows that Mycroft is looking out for him and isn't lying when he says he's worrying about Sherlock; his concern usually is suffocating, however, and he delivers it with an air of superiority whereas John is nothing but honest. John is like the brother Sherlock had when he was little, the one who crawled under Sherlock's bed once in order to strangle the monster underneath it. John, the detective is certain, will go to any required length to protect his friend. Sherlock will have to make sure that it doesn't become too much for him at one point, because his heart might break more easily than Mycroft's.
"Doctor Who," he says abruptly, startling John out of his thoughts.
"What about it?"
"I can't remember whether I've ever seen it."
"Yes, you have, but you probably deleted it."
"Hm. It seems I should remedy that. It might be useful one day."
John can't subdue a grin: "It's a show about a time-travelling time lord. Do you really think you're up for it?"
"We'll see, won't we?"
"Sure, if you insist- Harry gave me a collector's box for Christmas, incidentally."
"A box? How many episodes are there?"
John shakes his head, amused by this utmost expression of ignorance. "There were plenty of doctors already."
"I thought it's one doctor."
"He changes," John explains, "it's called regeneration. He chooses a new personality every now and then."
"Ah." Sherlock ponders this. "Well, that can be useful. The art of diguise."
John folds his arms in front of his chest: "Why are you suddenly interested in Doctor Who?"
Sherlock's reply is slightly evasive: "No particular reason," he says. "I'm just... curious."
"Hm." John smirks good-naturedly; he knows the detective well enough to be aware that he hardly ever does anything without a reason. Maybe he just saw an opportunity to get out of bed, or maybe he actually wants to spend time with him, John. Sherlock in his roundabout ways would never directly admit to that, certainly.
"Well, Doctor Who it is, then," John says. "Tonight at seven sharp."
It's rather peaceful, each of them on one end of the sofa. Sherlock, huddled into a blanket, does his best not to comment too much and to hide that he's quickly losing interest. He dozes off during the second episode, but John doesn't mind. He's glad that Sherlock's on the mend; he will probably start to complain that he's bored any time soon, a sure sign he's getting better.
John watches one more episode, then switches off the DVD player and the TV. He's repeatedly woken up in the night, startled out of his sleep by Sherlock's coughing, therefore he's tired. He reaches over to his friend and gently shakes his shoulder: "Sherlock."
"Hm."
"Wake up. You should go to bed."
"No's fine, 'll stay here."
"Sherlock."
"Go'way."
"Sherlock, come on."
"No."
John sticks to it, however, and eventually manages to coax Sherlock into getting up. Blinking bemusedly and obviously only half awake, Sherlock staggers towards the bathroom while John puts the kettle on. When he takes a mug of honeyed tea into Sherlock's room a few minutes later, the detective eyes him blearily: "I'm not sure I want to watch it again," he mutters.
John chuckles softly, handing him the mug and a fresh packet of lozenges: "Here, this will help with your throat."
Sherlock pulls a face at the unmistakable scent of honey, but he doesn't protest. "Thank you."
"Call me if you need anything." With that, John turns to go, but when Sherlock looks up, he hesitates, sensing that his friend wants to say something but is hesitating as well.
The moment passes, and Sherlock's voice is very low when he speaks: "Maybe one more episode."
Both of them know it's not what he actually means to say, but he can't seem to find the right words, and because it's John, he doesn't have to. John understands that Sherlock wants to thank him once more: not like the trivial, commonplace expression one hears so often, quickly said and rarely beyond superficial, but the deeply profound version of it which is about loyalty and trust and actual gratitude. It means that Sherlock acknowledges what John is and has been doing for him, and he wants John to know that he appreciates it.
The doctor pulls up the corners of his mouth: "Okay," he says softly, leaving the door ajar ever so slightly as he walks out of the room.
o
The End
o
Thank you for reading. Please be so kind to leave some feedback.
o
I'm no native English speaker, therefore I apologize for any mistakes.
o