FOREWORD:

I am very, very fond of one of Sevenpercent's "Periodic Tales" called "Calcium". In fact, so fond that my Muse decided it needed a continuation. With Seven's blessing, here we go! It might, of course, make sense to read the original story before having a look at this.

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-

Balanced atop a knee John has slightly raised from the ground in order to free his other hand, Rosie Watson emits a gurgle of delight at the sight of the bottle John recovers from the microwave. The fact that she can now support her torso and actually sit up makes life easier - she can now be manoeuvred a little more easily while seeing to the novel chores a baby introduces to a household.

John upends the bottle and lets a drop of it fall onto his other forearm to check for temperature - acceptable.

Rosie sticks half a fist in her mouth and frowns. She is teething, her first bottom front tooth had broken through her gum ten days ago, and she is still surprised to find it there. She is more expressive than a professional mime, and, at times, more difficult to decipher than the Dead Sea Scrolls, but she makes John understand what it is so fantastic about mysteries.

Rosie has had half her meal when the doorbell rings. She does not appreciate delays or not getting her way. John isn't sure at which age the concept of 'waiting' ought to be introduced. When communications between him and his daughter fail, he misses Mary's ability to defuse the situation. Alone, it's hard for John to withstand the apprehension of spending the whole day with a strange creature that looks half like him.

It's Mycroft at the door. John tries to pretend he isn't surprised. He trudges up the stairs to let the man in. As soon as he opens the door, he turns on his heels, heads back down the stairs to the lounge and then into kitchen, leaving the door open. The older Holmes is a clever man; he'll know what that means.

Mycroft has not visited here before, so doesn't know that it would be easier to come in down the stairs from the pavement. What reason would he have? What reason is there, now? For the tenth time this morning, John asks himself why he is still living in a flat that has so many awkward stairs. Negotiating a toddler around Baker Street would be easier. The landings are wide enough to get a push chair and infant on a hip down without a disaster. Of course, Mary had not anticipated a child being part of her life when she started renting the flat – she hadn't even met John then.

As Mycroft finds his way into the kitchen, John asks, "what's he done now?", and plants Rosie in her dining high chair. She shoves a sock and a soft toy to the floor. She'll demand them back soon.

Mycroft ignores his ominous insinuation, and frowns at Rosie instead. "This is the infant, then?"

"That's Uncle Mycroft," John tells Rosie, crosses his arms and leans on the kitchen sink. Rosie is watching him with wary eyes. She's at an age when she doesn't yet understand her separateness from others. New people intrigue, yet confuse her.

"He looks well," Mycroft suggests.

"She's a girl," John corrects, but he isn't really offended. The last thing he'd assume is for Sherlock's poncey git of a brother to care about a child's gender.

"My apologies."

"What. Has. He. Done. Now," John reiterates.

"Your workload tomorrow, which is Friday, will be handled by a Dr Alan Cheng, who works for a reputable locum agency."

"I can't leave for the weekend; Rosie's got a check-up scheduled after an ear infection on Saturday, since I can't take her on a weekday. We're not traveling for a case. We agreed never to bring Rosie along for them."

"This is not one of Sherlock's absurd cases. Your company is required for the duty of an accompanying responsible adult."

Rosie joins her soft palms together and looks serious. John swears that sometimes she's already imitating Sherlock.

"I'm not accompanying anybody anywhere without an explanation. One that would, preferably, come straight from whoever actually needs a responsible adult around. Now who could that be-" John muses, lets his brows drop in a frown and then raises his gaze towards the ceiling in sarcasm.

Mycroft lifts a pile of old newspapers off a chair, places them on the dining table, digs out a handkerchief, wipes the chair which makes John annoyed , and takes a seat.

John mirrors him, but makes a point of not removing a dried-milk regurgitation-stained flannel from his own seat before parking his bottom on it.

"You may recall Sherlock's difficulties in addressing certain health issues. Namely, his dislike of dentistry."

"I may recall, yes, how you drugged and kidnapped us both because I refused to do that to him at your behest."

"There is an issue – an injury, to be precise – incurred during his time abroad: an unfused mandibular hairline fracture that had healed, but since then, someone delivered a blow to his face which re-opened the fracture – my guess is that it happened about six weeks ago, and it has now abscessed through a split tooth."

John winces, both at the thought of the initial injury and what it has turned into, but mostly because he is the one to have been responsible for hitting Sherlock in the face six weeks ago. Guilt collides with concern, and he wonders how Mycroft knows about his role in the incident in the hospital mortuary with Milverton. He must know. The oozing disapproval in his tone had been obvious.

If he does know, Mycroft is playing with a straight bat, as he continues: "you may be surprised to hear that he has agreed to be sensible and have it fixed, since the proceedings will invariably require general anaesthesia. I offered to make all the arrangements and accompany him, but it seems that he has deduced what happened the last time he was in need of such treatment, and he doesn't trust me to be present," Mycroft says, sounding surprised at his last statement. John rolls his eyes. Rosie makes a noncommittal grunt and even that may be a bit too charitable to Mycroft.

"It's fine. I'll go. I just hope you see how doing those sorts of things to him without his consent might have consequences. He was too embarrassed to ask for a favour?" John wants to bite his tongue after the words have left his mouth: of course Sherlock wouldn't ask this of him, because he has not mentioned the incident once. All seems to have been forgiven without a second thought, which isn't helping John's guilt. Sherlock thinks it's somehow fair and deserved that John did what he did. It's not. It can't be. They haven't talked about what happened to Sherlock when he was supposed to be dead, because John has not felt like being able to face all that yet, to face what Sherlock went through for him and for his reward, got to watch John drift away from his life into the arms of disaster.

He needs to do this. A whole other question is, whether Sherlock will allow him there. "Are you sure about this? I mean, he might not want-"

Mycroft regards him sternly. "I would not be here, if he had not requested this himself. I am merely rendering assistance as a messenger."

It's like a punch to the gut. After everything, Sherlock trusts him still. Guilt gnaws even harder, now – he doesn't deserve this, now, but he'll do everything he can to change that. This is how it has been from the start of their strange relationship – once John walked into his life, he has not let anyone else meddle in matters of his health. Many an argument has been had at A&Es when he has insisted that John and John only be in charge of his care, GMC regulations about treating friends and relatives be damned.

He definitely needs to do this. It should be apt punishment to have to watch Sherlock suffer the consequences of his actions, though he very much doubts that is Sherlock's motivation here.

"He's currently not in a stage to carry out long conversations," Mycroft offers as a further explanation as to why he's delivering the request.

John sits up without even realising he's done so, worry enclosing an iron fist around his heart. Sherlock hardly needed to talk to him about this – he could have texted John, like he always does anyway since he hates using his phone to actually call people. "What did you do?" John demands. Mycroft's wording had been ominous enough. Who knows what he'd do to make sure Sherlock stuck to the appointment booked, considering his past antics.

"I have done little besides stopping by at a local pharmacy. He is febrile and in pain, but currently managing. As I left Baker Street an hour ago he was comfortably asleep; analgesics and antibiotics have been administered . I told him that his leaving the flat would be inadvisable. So, I've told Lestrade to not bring him any cases until he gets his jaw seen to."

"You haven't left him alone, have you?" John is already trying to remember where he'd put Rosie's hat and his car keys.

Mycroft raises his palm to reassure John. "Mrs Hudson is kindly keeping an eye on him until tomorrow. Dr Hooper has also been by with her prescription pad. Sherlock was adamant not to engage your services at this point. It's only during the procedure itself that he will be grateful for your presence."

"How did you get him to talk about it?" John asks, vividly remembering his own attempts years ago at trying to get Sherlock to have a popped crown fixed. It would have been easier to convince the man the sky isn't blue.

"During the past few years, he has become surprisingly sensible about some things. His sensory issues have not been resolved and they never will, and I suspect events which transpired during his long absence may make certain things related to pain and control over his person even more difficult for him to bear, but in some ways he elects to be more responsible for his health than he has ever been before. Perhaps he has finally embraced his own mortality."

Mycroft's tone betrays his amazement at such a thing.

"Tell him I'll be there. Anything that prevents you messing with his life again is fine by me," John announces. This is a little unfair, as John is well aware – had it not been for Mycroft, Sherlock's life would have been both different and likely much shorter. Still, he can't help the lingering second-hand fury at how condescendingly Mycroft had assumed Sherlock could never withstand the truth about their sister. When that cat had finally escaped the bag, Sherlock had dealt with the shock better than John would ever have assumed him capable of.

"The appointment is at ten in the morning. I took the liberty or not selecting the earlier available times, since you might wish to enjoy a late morning without child-rearing duty. Dr Hooped has been released from clinical duties tomorrow as well and shall report to oversee the child."

"Is that what your parents did, oversee?" John jokes.

Rosie drags off a sock from her foot, drops it and then launches into a wail.

"Since the matter is now settled, I shall thank you and be on my way," Mycroft says, and stands up to leave. Trust the man to turn even a chunk of politeness into a way of promptly changing of subject.

"Look at Uncle Mycroft go," John whispers to Rosie when he picks her up. Her nose is scrunched up, pearl-sized tears glistening on her thick eyelashes. It's the most endearing and sad sight on earth at the same time. He wonders if another tooth is giving her grief.

At the top of the stairs, Mycroft calls down: "you'll be expected at Baker Street twenty past nine. I'll send a car."

"No. If Sherlock wants to do this on his own terms, we're going to take a cab." He picks up Rosie out of the high chair and sits her down on a blanket on the floor; he's learned the value of distractions when someone is being particularly cranky.

Rosie points at Mycroft's umbrella, leaning on the doorframe to the kitchen. She's very perceptive, very observant in a way that's a little frightening. She knows what belongs in this house and what doesn't, and when Sherlock comes around she looks at him like he's always been there. It seems that Sherlock has found his match in looking at people with such scrutiny that they feel like they're being interrogated.

The thought of Mycroft leaving his umbrella behind in his haste to flee a crying baby makes John smile. He collects it and trots up the stairs to hand it over. "He'll be fine until tomorrow, though, won't he?" Guilt seeps in, making him second-guess whether it's the best friend thing to do to know Sherlock is in bed with what sounds like an infection that may have spread into the bone. He should be there, he really should, but Sherlock is not the only person he's responsible for.

"Yes, of course." And then Mycroft leaves.

John wanders back down into the sitting room. He kneels to idly hold a rattle so that Rosie can move the brightly coloured plastic rings around as his thoughts keep circling the conversation he has just had.

Is he responsible for Sherlock as well?

Yes, he decides. He always has been. Sherlock trusted him with his life right after they met, the way he was back then. He knows John is all-too-human, and yet persists with the conviction that he's worth the dedication and the trust. Sherlock would be the first to announce he's most certainly not a saint himself, but in John's books he's certainly closer to one than himself.

An hour later, a text message comes. Since Rosie is now settled back in the high chair ready to finish her interrupted meal, John knows he should probably ignore his phone, but he knows who's just texted him, knows as though the phone is burning a hole in his pocket even though he can't be sure, now can he, but he is. He grabs his mobile and reads the text while hurrying to Rosie.

Thank you, the text message says, the familiar SH at the end. Another thing Sherlock would never tell to his face.

Let me know if you need anything, John texts back after Rosie has settled into gnawing on a piece of carrot. He gets no reply, and Rosie throws the carrot to the floor and begins complaining again. She's been changed, she's been fed, so company is what she must be after judging by the tone of her protestations.

Smiling and shaking his head, John goes to rescue his daughter from the clutches of boredom. It's the most terrifying human condition, it must be, but he seems to be particularly fated to deal with two people who suffer from it more than most.

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-

By the time John makes his way from the Underground station to number 221, Sherlock is already waiting for him outside, hands shoved into his coat pockets. His hair is even worse a mess than usual and looks as though he's spent most of the night twisting in sweaty sheets. His lower cheek and the left side of his jaw are slightly swollen. He hasn't shaved – probably too sore to stand the pressure of a razor. He raises his brows briefly in acknowledgement of John, and then wastes no time in stepping to the edge of the street to hail a cab.

John wonders if it's too painful for him to speak.

Once they're settled into the back seat, Sherlock gives the driver a piece of paper with an address John does not recognise. It turns out to belong to a private hospital, the dental unit of which Sherlock makes his way to, John trailing behind.

They are directed to a waiting room furnished with comfortable armchairs and incomprehensible modern art that looks way fancier than the three-for-a-pound framed flower posters decorating the surgery he works at.

After a few minutes of skimming a Men's Health article on botched penis enlargement operations, John is beginning to get irritated at Sherlock's silence. He quietly puts the magazine away, and surveys the scene.

Sherlock hasn't removed his coat, but at least his scarf hangs untied from his neck. He's drumming his fingers nervously on his knee and practically staring through the door behind which they're due in ten minutes.

John realises what this is. Over the past six years, he has built a formidable lexicon of Sherlockian moods and sulks, and this particular version is the embarrassed one.

John decides to break the ice. "So, what happened, then?" John asks.

Sherlock's heads whips around to fix him with his gaze. "What?"

"What happened to your jaw?" John realises only after he has posed the question that this is what they don't talk about – Sherlock's time away from London.

"Chair leg."

"Chair leg?"

"The blow came from the front, split the tooth and fractured the mandible."

John almost chides him for not getting it fixed promptly, but then he recalls the whole debacle with the lost crown and how impossible Sherlock had been about it, and the fact that Sherlock had been effectively on the run when this must've happened. He decides not to pry any further. Reminding Sherlock of what must've been two years of hell is hardly going to calm his nerves.

"You're not the only one who hates going to the dentist," John tells him in what he hopes is a reassuring tone; "nobody likes being in pain."

The sound of water running and two people discussing something sounds through the closed door. Sherlock straightens his back. "Pain doesn't bother me, since it's logical. It's supposed to feel unsettling, since its purpose is to warn about danger."

"Right," John says hesitantly, slightly confused. Isn't that why people fear the dentist? Because they've had bad experiences with inadequate pain control? He remembers his conversations with Mycroft on the subject; certainly Sherlock's… peculiarities must make the experience even more agonising, but if he doesn't care about the pain, John isn't entirely sure he understands why this is so difficult. He doesn't really know how to ask about it, either.

"So, how does this work? Are they going to have a look first, and then put you under, or…?" John wonders why he's been summoned here this early – surely a private clinic of this calibre has a post-anaesthesia recovery area where patients can wait until they are ready to go; there's no way to know how long this will take, so he might have a long, pointless wait ahead of him.

"No, that's what they'll start with," Sherlock says dismissively.

"Well, in that case I can wait here, can't I?" Not that it would bother John, joining Sherlock in the appointment room, but there's hardly a point to doing that, is there?

Sherlock slowly turns to face him again, his expression a strange mixture of anger and exasperation. "God, I sometimes wish you weren't so thick. Do I really need to spell it out? I have enemies. You are to keep an eye on things, make sure nothing untoward happens. I also assume you have at least moderate skill in starting peripheral IVs. Nurses have occasionally had difficulties with that in the past, and dentists hardly get a lot of practice with it, so you might be asked to step in."

"I don't work here, Sherlock, they wouldn't let me do procedures."

Sherlock now looks mildly amused. "Why do you think Mycroft picked this particular facility?"

John's reply is a silent O. Of course. Money buys both discretion and loopholes in rules.

He's a doctor-slash-bodyguard, then. Fair enough. He's still curious, though, about-

"I suppose since you are being inconvenienced in this manner, I owe you an explanation," Sherlock says suddenly.

John looks up and finds he is being scrutinised. Sherlock must've read something in his expression and made one of his bloody deductions.

"It's alright," John hastens to tell him, "I get it," he offers to let Sherlock off the hook. He doesn't have to understand, he just needs to be here.

"People rarely do," Sherlock says, stands up and divests his coat, carefully arranging it onto the empty seat between them. He runs his fingers along his jaw and grimaces before sitting back down.

"We don't have to talk about it," John tells him and hates how nervous he sounds. Lately, they have talked about things in a way that's unprecedented – it hasn't been easy, but if the past few years have taught John something, it's that not talking about things gets some people killed and some people married to the wrong person.

Mostly, they've talked about Eurus. That has brought forth lots of things about Sherlock's childhood which he has recounted to John to help him understand why his memories of it are so different to Mycroft's and why some of them may have disappeared into the haze of amnesia. Many of those things have skirted the reasons why Sherlock is… different. No specific diagnoses have been mentioned – that would be unnecessary. It has been John's profession and certain things Mycroft has said that had helped him put two and two together long ago.

"The pain doesn't matter; it's everything else that does. Especially the taste of disposable gloves…the feeling of someone's fingers in my mouth. Makes me gag. Even the check-up you think is so unproblematic, is effectively impossible. Even the water tastes wrong coming out of the instruments. How does it not feel like drowning to you?" Sherlock asks John incredulously. The longer he talks, the paler he gets, and John appreciates that he's willing to do so even though it's obviously causing him pain.

No part of going to the dentist is pleasant, John would readily admit, but just having a checkup is hardly bad enough that he couldn't easily put it with it.

"The whole physical position is… difficult. Feet elevated, head down. There's an uncontrollable impulse to close my mouth, to get up and get out. Fight or flight."

Most of what Sherlock has just described must have always been problematic, but a sudden thought intrudes on John: could something that happened during Sherlock's time away made this worse? His decision not to drag those days into the light right now still stands.

"You're a biter, then?" John says, wanting to lighten the mood. That's what Mycroft had said about Sherlock as a child, when it came to going to the dentist.

Sherlock raises his brows sardonically. "On occasion."

John's lip quirks up. "I bet you hate the drill, too."

"Don't…. It's a tie between that and the suction device with its high-pitched whine or that loud blast when it sticks to the inside of your lip – the worst kind of auditory torture. And the lights just might be even worse. Why do they always have to be blinking halogens and that ghastly spotlight positioned in the worst possible place?"

"They give you those sunglass-type things, don't they?" John reminds him.

Sherlock scoffs. "Yet another odd thing on my face? I'd prefer an eye mask but then, I would have even less chance of anticipating what's going to happen." He is not looking at John – in fact, he has been studiously avoiding eye contact throughout the conversation.

John's amusement dissipates, when he also realises that going to the dentist can't be the only medical thing fraught with difficulty. Actually, this explains a lot. He has spent many nights at various A&Es trying desperately to cushion the interactions between Sherlock and the medical establishment. What in the early days of their relationship had looked like childish stubbornness, could just be a desperate attempt at preservation of dignity and self-restraint in the face of overwhelming sensory distress. John should know this – he has watched Sherlock go through a great deal of difficulties, yet he keeps being surprised at how differently he experiences things. Sherlock's particular neuropsychiatric makeup gives him much of the edge over others when it comes to The Work, but the price he pays for it must be… devastating.

"I mean it, Sherlock, you don't have to explain. You wanted me here, so here I am." John elects not to mention the text. He isn't going to fish for gratitude, especially since he may be partly to blame here. Sherlock had been there for him after Mary, with Rosie, had saved him and kept him together and stuck by him no matter how dreadfully John treated him because he was lost and confused and wrecked. This is the least he could do after not asking the right question and not realising what those two years away had cost Sherlock, the least he could do after making matters worse. This may not be the only health issue related to those days Sherlock carries due to the years after taking down Moriarty's network. John realises he can't push Sherlock about this, especially not today, but he's going to have to learn how to pay more attention to these things.

There is one thing that needs to be said. "Sherlock, I'm sorry," John says, and it's not just the punches and the kicks he's referring to, although they're a big part to why this particular statement is now so very acute. "It doesn't change anything, but I am. And I don't want you to say it's alright, because it isn't."

"I was under the impression that's how apologies work – that regret is expressed, and then absolved," Sherlock comments quietly and then lets out a long breath, closing his eyes momentarily.

"Did you take a painkiller this morning?"

"They're useless, since Mycroft has deemed to pertinent to only allow me the over-the-counter stuff."

"If you request, they'll probably throw in a nerve block on top of the general anaesthetic. That would give you some pain-free time, at least until later tonight."

Sherlock smiles, but only slightly. "See. You have your uses," he comments dryly and John grins.

The door opens, and Sherlock's name is called. John rises from his seat as well, and trails behind into the appointment room.

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-

Seven hours later, John fetches a duvet from the downstairs bedroom at 221B to spread onto Sherlock, who has collapsed into a heap on the sofa. He had demanded to be discharged the very moment he could pronounce the word without it sounding like he's speaking with a hot potato in his mouth, and John had nearly sprained an ankle heaving his still quite unco-ordinated form out of a cab. Even so, supporting him up the stairs at Baker Street is still easier than carrying Rosie, a push-chair and a bag of groceries up to the flat where he lives now.

John drops into an armchair – the very chair Sherlock has now moved back to its old spot blocking the all-important view into the kitchen after Mary had died. John had realised that the gesture must have meant something even before Sherlock raised the subject of him and Rosie moving back to 221B. After the damage had been repaired, Sherlock had restored the place to exactly how it had looked before – right down to the bullet holes and the smiley face. It seems that John is not the only one yearning for the old days.

For a moment, everything feels like the past three years never even happened. The only reminder of how things have changed is a stuffed blue rabbit Rosie had thrown under the coffee table – a gift from Sherlock at the Christening, and one of her favourites.

He hasn't given Sherlock an answer about moving back. It has felt wrong, bringing a child into Sherlock's everyday life – this is John's burden to bear, and no one in their right mind would think Sherlock Holmes and a baby are a good fit.

It's just that… they actually are. Sherlock deals with Rosie like he deals with any adult he likes – with appreciation and respect. Sometimes John half-suspects Sherlock thinks Rosie's cleverer than her father. Not a bad start to building up someone's confidence.

Does he have the right to ask this of Sherlock, to allow the distraction and the hassle of an infant in the house, and what are Sherlock's reasons for wanting them here? The events of the past two days have made him wonder if it's not just him and Rosie who need a bit of help – after all, this is what he always did for Sherlock, before. They needed one another, and now they're both lonely, that much is obvious.

Eurus' re-emergence has proven that Sherlock is exceptionally good at letting bygones be bygones. If he can do that, maybe John could at least try to follow suit. He can't forgive himself for certain things, and Sherlock certainly shouldn't, but it doesn't mean that they couldn't… try?

They still don't talk all that much about important things, though they are trying to learn. Sometimes, actions still speak more. Such as going through two years of hell to save your friends. Such as saving them again when they're trying to drown themselves into a bottle and abandon their infant daughters in the process. Such as forgiving a punch-up in a mortuary. Such as keeping them together, when their psychopath sister is trying to break them into pieces.

Such as moving back to Baker Street?

He shifts in his chair, twists his neck to survey the scene over on the sofa. Sherlock looks serene, although the left lower half of his face is swollen and the jawline mottled with a developing bruise. The scene isn't all that different from the average aftermath of a salient case back when life hadn't gone to hell: either of both of them sleeping off the exhaustion, sporting a few bumps and bruises.

Sherlock is right. He belongs here. They belong here.

John had put his phone on silent at the hospital, and he only remembers it now. As usual, he'd been so completely focused on Sherlock that everything else had blurred into the background. Molly had messaged, assuring him everything is fine. Rosie had spent a lot of time with her after Mary's death, and she has never protested being left with her Godmother. There's another message from Mycroft inquiring as to the state of things. John fires off a quick message back, assuring him all has been taken care of.

He places Sherlock's mobile on the coffee table which he draws next to the sofa. Next to it, he places a packet of ibuprofen and a glass of water. There will be no tea tonight – only cold foods for a couple of days.

Feeling almost guilty for indulging, John walks up the steps to his old bedroom. He hasn't been up there since Mary's death. Sherlock had offered to store her things in the attic until John decided what to do with them. Maybe he should start going through them, to keep the things that he will need to tell Rosie about the woman who was her mother. Maybe he's ready for that.

He walks to the window, glances out, then takes in the sight of the room. Everything is the way they had been the day he'd left 221B after Sherlock's death; the bomb damage had not reached this far. He'd never come back to collect his things, and now he's glad for it. It's reassuring, seeing that some things stay the same even when everything else gets uprooted and destroyed.

All he'd have to do to move in is to bring in his clothes and Rosie's things. He can leave behind what he'd bought with Mary for the new flat. Those things are newer, fancier, more expensive, more modern, but he doesn't want that. He wants this, what he had when he still had a life with Sherlock.

He wants this, because it looks as though he'd never left. In some ways, he never did.

- The End -