A/N: This is a sequel to my fic "One Way Out" which I will summarize thusly: Sherlock returns, John is pissed but forgives him, they go on the run because Moran is after John, John kills Moran, but not before Moran shoots him in the leg. There are many angsty feels along the way. Thank you to everyone who liked "One Way Out" and motivated me to write a sequel!
(Then I wrote a couple more. And in a fit of anal-retentiveness, I made an index of all my fics so you can see how they all fit chronologically, if you care. It's in my profile.)
This here fic was inspired by 3 things:
1. I felt pretty bad for shooting John in the leg once I realized he wouldn't be able to keep up with Sherlock (I hope his limp is temporary but it's too soon to tell);
2. The canon quote, "I am here to be used, Holmes" from The Illustrious Client (I know, it's so slashy, and ok I admit I am planning to write a slash inspired by that quote too, but this is my platonic version - John figuring out how to be useful when he can't run around like before);
3. The Adventure of the Cardboard Box, which I thought was perfect for BBC Sherlock in its gruesomness and adapted for the casefic here.
Chapter 1
Sherlock: Homecoming
Sherlock pays the cabbie. Then he holds the door. It's all so slow. Terribly, painfully slow.
Sherlock knew this limp would not be like the one John had when they met. But he didn't anticipate how different it would be. It's consistent, oppressive, and crushingly slow.
It's also very fresh.
Technically John shouldn't even be discharged yet, but Sherlock has become very bored with him being in hospital. Not that Sherlock himself has been spending any time there. God, is there a duller place on the planet? He was there for the first 11 hours – there when John woke up and for a little while longer. Then Mycroft whisked him away and there were hours and hours of tedious negotiations and lectures and underhanded bribes and blackmailing and by the end of it all Sherlock's charges were suspended and he was allowed to go. He returned to John's room, then, but after a couple hours of his pacing and poking at the equipment and terrorizing the staff, John sternly sent him home.
So he went home. 221B Baker Street had a couple more bullet holes in the wall and the kitchen door needed to be replaced, but other than that, it was perfect. Except for the lack of John.
DI Dimmock started calling him immediately. Unsurprisingly, the Yard's close rate had plummeted when Sherlock did, so they had a stack of cold and lukewarm cases just whimpering for Sherlock's attention. He was more than happy to oblige.
He'd text John occasionally throughout the day. Often just little snippets that came to mind in the cab ride from point A to B or while pacing on a street corner waiting for Dimmock. (Dimmock was always late. Lestrade never made him wait.)
They couldn't all 3 have been killed at the same time, look which way the shoes were pointing.
SH
Wrinkle in rug says she was aiming for someone else, out the window.
SH
Tetanospasmin.
SH
John would answer about 23% of the time, which was unsatisfying but better than nothing. It was just good to know someone was at the other end.
Then the case was over, and the next case and the next and the next, and eventually he noticed that the flat was empty and no one had made tea.
Come home. I'm bored.
SH
Me too. But they don't think I'm ready.
JW
What do you think?
SH
That I may as well lie around on my arse there.
JW
Agreed.
SH
Strings were pulled and honestly, John's care team didn't put up much of a fight, probably because it turns out Dr. Watson is a right pain in the arse as a patient. Whatever the reason, they discharged him early.
And Sherlock is simply appalled at how long it's taking him to climb the stairs.
Finally in the living room, John eases into his armchair and gazes at the sofa. It's obvious he's thinking of the last time he sat there, bleeding profusely from his left shoulder and right thigh, the body of Sebastian Moran just outside the door.
"You didn't have Mrs. Hudson clean up for me, did you?"
"Don't be ridiculous. I picked the flat up myself," Sherlock snaps. "Don't look at me like that, I do know how. Can't have you getting infected. I'm not your nurse, though. I won't be taking care of you, you know."
"Oh, thank god for small blessings." John leans his head back onto the armchair and smiles. "Make us some tea though?"
Sherlock grumbles in his throat but is happy to have something to do. He bounces off to the kitchen and turns the kettle on. Then, even though it's really not cold, he lights a fire.
It's been a long time since they drank tea together in this room, and Sherlock has never been one for nostalgia, but this is what he thought about on certain cold, damp nights when he felt more alone than he has ever felt before. So he indulges in a little sentiment right now, sitting in his chair across from John's, both of them sipping their tea and wiggling their toes before the fire.
"Tell me about the cases," John says, and Sherlock does, and John tells him he's brilliant and fantastic, and Sherlock agrees, and John also tells him he's an egotistical prick and a heartless wanker, and Sherlock makes certain remarks about John's stature and ancestry, and then he plays his violin for a little while. It's a typical gray afternoon as he stands at the window playing a lazy concerto, looking through a light rain at the empty house across the street where for a moment he thought he'd really done it this time, gone and got John killed.
He calls House of Hong for takeaway. John used to always go pick it up, but since that's not practical, Sherlock has it delivered.
After they eat, Sherlock sees it. John thinks he's hiding it, but it's a laughable effort.
"You're in pain, John."
"No, I'm not."
"You are. Take your medication."
"Leave off. I'm fine, really."
"You are not fine. Stop being stubborn, or manly, or..." It's clear as day, then. "Idiot!" He springs out of his chair and begins pacing. "You didn't bring them, did you? You didn't want to bring them in the flat, you didn't want to bring them around me, so you decided you would just suffer through the pain of a hole in your bloody leg without any painkillers, is that it?"
John presses his lips together, sucks his teeth. "Yeah, that's it."
"Do you think you're being noble? Do you think you're a martyr? Because that would make you pathetic as well as stupid. Call the hospital right now and tell them you forgot your meds."
"No."
Sherlock grabs his hair and groans in frustration, then takes a deep breath and speaks as calmly as he can. "John. You think, apparently, that I have no self-control, but I assure you I can always access any drugs I want at any time of night or day. Having some pills on the premises will make no difference. Your medications are safe here. I will not touch them. I promise."
John looks up and says in a steely voice, "I know all about the promises of addicts."
Sherlock's face freezes. "You said you trusted me."
"I do. I do, about anything except this."
Sherlock spins around, grabs his coat, and is gone.
When he returns, it's late and the fireplace cradles just a few final embers, so the living room is almost completely dark. John has moved from the armchair to the sofa and is lying so that he's facing the door. His eyes are closed, but Sherlock can hear him breathing before he comes in, so he knows John is awake.
"Here."
He sets the black metal box on the coffee table next to the sofa.
"What's this, then?" John sits up slowly. It takes him so long to sit up. He's wincing and pale. Stupid stupid man.
"As soon as I leave, Mycroft will call you with the combination. If there are two incorrect attempts to unlock it, the interior will immediately heat up, destroying the active ingredients of the pills contained therein. Don't bother hiding it; obviously I can find it if I want to. But I can't get in."
And with a whirl of his coat, he's gone again.
When he comes back a couple hours later, John is still on the sofa, but asleep. Sherlock turns his armchair to face the sofa, curls up in it like a cat, and watches John, breathing deeply, peacefully, for seven and a half minutes.
Then he leaps up and goes to the kitchen to resume his experiment with potato alkaloids. A little while later he thinks to cover John with a duvet.
The next morning he coaxes John into making pancakes. He even does the shopping and picks up bananas, because John likes bananas on his pancakes. Sherlock hates them, but he buys them anyway.
John spends the day with his sister, which is not entirely unreasonable (Sherlock doesn't understand what John feels about Harry, but he accepts that most people don't feel the same animosity towards their siblings that he does). That doesn't mean he has to like it though, so he paces about the flat and begins, and then abandons, two additional experiments as well as an exhaustive database of shoe soles while he waits for John to return.
As soon as he hears the door, he dashes downstairs. Harry's there, apparently thinking that she can help John climb up the stairs, but it's not necessary so Sherlock waves her away. She snorts, mumbles something unflattering under her breath, kisses John on the cheek and is gone. Finally. And John's already walking up the stairs – slowly, so very slowly – because of course he doesn't need anyone's help, but Sherlock is right behind him, just in case.
Sherlock suggests a Bond night. They watch "Goldfinger" (John's favorite) and "From Russia With Love" (the one Sherlock has grudgingly admitted he finds least insulting). Sherlock systematically decimates every plot point and each transgression against the laws of physics, as John grumbles and complains and argues and laughs in spite of himself. He tries to throw popcorn at Sherlock when he thinks the other man's not looking, but Sherlock catches it every time.
Before the second movie ends, Sherlock gets up to check on his ester hydrolysis. He gets a little distracted by it and when he finally returns, finds John asleep on the sofa. He covers him with the duvet again before going to bed himself.
The next afternoon, Sherlock is in the kitchen, wrapping up the alkaloid experiment and thinking he'll tell Dimmock he's ready for another cold case. John is on the sofa, staring blankly at his laptop. Sherlock knows he's trying to write in his preposterous blog and doesn't know how to begin. Or perhaps his mind is clouded with the drugs. Or with pain. Sherlock frowns, walks over to the sofa, and leans over to examine John's face at very close range. Yes, that's it. He narrows his eyes and glowers.
"Take your drugs, John," he commands, and stomps off to his room. He can hear John protesting, I'll take them when I'm ready blah blah blah, but he also hears the black metal box sliding across the floor.
A few minutes later, Sherlock receives a text that sends him bounding back to the living room.
"A case, John! Dimmock's got something for us at the Yard! Get up!"
John opens his eyes and smiles weakly. "Go on without me, Sherlock. I'm not fit for much right now. Not… not in good shape for solving crimes. Sorry."
Sherlock, frowns, shoves his hands in his pockets and bounces from foot to foot. "It's just the Yard," he offers plaintively. "We won't be running about in the street."
John chuckles, though it sounds more like breathing. "With you, I never know." His eyelids are drooping. "Sorry. I can't."
Sherlock curses under his breath and turns to grab his coat. Then he pauses, takes his phone from his pocket, and sends Dimmock a text.
When John wakes up, Sherlock is hovering over him with a glass of cold water, a cup of hot tea, some slightly burnt toast, and a change of clothes all lined up on the coffee table.
"Brilliant," he smiles. "Dimmock is waiting. Let's go." He gestures at the coffee table with a dramatic flourish of his long fingers and turns to leave. Then he pauses, hearing John's sleepy groan of confusion. "Take your time," he adds, and walks away. "But do hurry," he calls from the kitchen.
It takes forever. Surely purgatory will feel like a commercial break compared to this. No less than 14 times, Sherlock almost jumps up and heads to the Yard himself, and that's not counting the 33 times he resisted while John was asleep. But he really doesn't want to go to the Yard by himself. He has been, and it's awful. It's illogical because of course, before John, he only went to the Yard by himself and was perfectly content. And while John was in hospital, he had no choice, so it was tolerable. But now, John's here. If you don't have a John Watson, you make do. But if you do have a John Watson, why would you go without him, no matter how slow he is? You wouldn't.
He's ready. Finally. He's wearing his favorite oatmeal jumper, which Sherlock specially picked out even though he detests it. He's showered and shaved and looks altogether like someone who feels very poorly but is nonetheless a functioning member of society. That's more than adequate.
Sherlock leaps out of the kitchen chair, throws on his coat and scarf, and bounds down the stairs to hail a cab.
John settles into the cab. "Lestrade?," he asks.
"Dimmock," Sherlock replies.
"But what about Lestrade?"
"Still suspended."
"What are we going to do about that?"
"Do? We?"
"Aren't you helping him get reinstated?"
"I've established my legitimacy. Once Mycroft proved to me he wasn't compromised, I gave him all the evidence. Moran's death gave me the final pieces I needed. It's all being leaked to the press, so Lestrade will be reinstated in due course."
John works at the inside of his cheek, thinking this over. "You'll help him if due course doesn't work."
"Help him? Why?"
"He stood by you. He sacrificed his career for you."
"Not for me. He knew the truth and he can't stand a lie. He wouldn't have capitulated to any other lie either."
"Irrelevant, Sherlock. The truth in question was you. He had your back."
"And I saved his life."
"Oh. Do you think you're done, then?"
A silence hangs in the cab. Sherlock grits his teeth.
"Fine. If due course doesn't work, you find out what I can do."
John beams.
They both gaze out the window at the rain, the familiar streets. Sherlock looks at John out of the corner of his eye and knows he's enjoying the novelty of driving through the city without caring who might see him. It's mildly intoxicating. Sherlock himself was a little drunk on that feeling not that long ago, but at the time he wished John was there to share it.
John turns to meet his eyes and Sherlock gives him a little half-smile. "It's good to be free," he says softly.
"It is," John agrees. "It is." Then he frowns. "Sherlock, will Donovan be there?"
"Possibly. Why?"
"How has she… You've seen her since you've been back, haven't you? How has she acted?"
"As stupid as ever."
"Has she apologized?"
"Apologized?" Sherlock snorts. "No, not that I've noticed. Why would she?"
"Mmm, I don't know… for ruining your reputation, destroying your life, accusing you of horrible crimes, driving you to your suicide."
"Sergeant Sally Donovan is not capable of driving me to suicide," Sherlock laughs.
"But she didn't know that, did she? What has she been thinking all this time? Does she feel any remorse? When I think what she…" John's jaw is clenched, his hands are tight fists on his knees, and his voice is dropping dangerously low. "Sherlock. I'm not sure what I'll do when I see her."
Sherlock's eyes widen in surprise and delight. "You're not?"
"I'm really not."
"Are you going to hit her?" Sherlock isn't even trying to contain the glee in his voice. "You're definitely stronger than her. She doesn't stand a chance unless she pulls her gun. You did bring your gun?"
"The Sig is seriously illegal, Sherlock. I am not bringing to the Yard."
The joy in Sherlock's face subsides a bit. "Then you shouldn't. She's certain to pull her gun. Do you really want to though? You care that much about her accusations of me?"
"It had some effect on me too, you know."
"Yes," Sherlock demurs, "foreseeable, but quite unintended by her."
"Are you actually sticking up for Donovan?"
"Absolutely not. She's still as dim and irritating as ever. But she did what she was meant to do. She looked at the facts set out before her, saw what fit what she already believed, and reached the conclusion that any cop of average intelligence would reach. She did her job, exactly the way that Moriarty intended. She played the role he wrote for her; you can't expect a normal person to do any differently."
"I did."
"Did you? Your role was to back me into a corner. You played it brilliantly. You should win awards."
"Well, I wasn't duped."
"If he'd wanted you to be duped, you'd have been duped."
"Bollocks." John covers his face with both hands. "I can't believe this, now you're defending Donovan and Moriarty?"
"I'm not defending anyone. I'm just pointing out the facts which you would see for yourself if your simple mind wasn't hindered by emotion." Sherlock looks out the window. "Also, as much as I enjoy watching you hit people, it's not the best time for you to get arrested. We're still dealing with your charges, you know."
"And now you're counseling me on self-restraint. I should've recorded this conversation."
Sherlock smirks. "You can ask Mycroft for the tape, I'm sure."