John shut the front door and breathed a sigh of relief as the quiet warmth enveloped him. It wouldn't last, he knew – it was only a few seconds before the sounds of the street outside began to filter back in, but they were muted, removed. He closed his eyes briefly, savouring the feeling of home before the creak of the ground floor flat's door opening drew him back to reality. Mrs. Hudson bustled out, and John couldn't fight back a smile. After a long day at the surgery, it was nice to see a familiar face, and judging by her expression, it had been a good day at Baker Street.
"Four clients," she said, and John's grin grew. "Including that DI Lestrade."
"They didn't take him anywhere?" John asked.
"Heavens, no, but not for Sherlock's lack of trying," Mrs. Hudson replied. John withheld a small sigh. He wasn't in the least bit surprised, and he was grateful Greg had stood his ground.
Getting in and out of the flat was still a bit of a production for Sherlock; on crutches, the stairs wore him out more than he wanted to admit. A simple broken leg would have made them difficult enough. With the other injuries, Sherlock got winded easily, and John didn't like where that could lead with broken ribs.
Still, it heartened him that Sherlock was pushing to leave the flat now. He'd been unwilling to for cases so far – not exactly reluctant, but disconcertingly aware of his limits. John wasn't used to that, and didn't want to be. He could admit – to himself, because it would only give Sherlock the wrong idea if he said it out loud – that he didn't want his husband to slow down.
That he missed the whirlwind of a madman who got him up at all hours, who dragged him across rooftops and through narrow alleys, who hit the ground running and took whatever was thrown at him.
Except a car, part of his mind chimed. John ignored it; he was home and Sherlock had done more work today than he had since before the crash. He didn't need the fear and doubt to creep back in, not when Mrs. Hudson look so pleased.
"He awake?" John asked, although the lack of shouting for him down the stairs was probably a response.
"I checked on him not ten minutes ago," Mrs. Hudson replied. "Out like a light."
"Four cases and he's worn out?" John asked with a grin. "I might not let him forget that."
"It's good to see you smiling again, John, it really is," she said, pressing a swift kiss against his cheek. He returned it, thanking her for keeping an eye on his husband.
"I'll be up soon with something for tea," she replied.
"You really don't have to," John said, but she shooed him up the stairs, silencing his attempts at a protest with a quiet tut that told him he'd lost completely. He gave up, trailing his hand along the bannister as he climbed toward the quiet flat.
In the beginning, the silence had been almost suffocating, so numbingly different than what he was used to. Too similar to the silence he'd endured after being shot, when time had been lost of a haze of semi-consciousness, and days had shuttered past with only brief snapshots of alertness. Sherlock had suffered the same, prone to falling asleep abruptly, sometime mid-sentence, or to struggling to stay awake, the effort only wearing him out further.
It was better now – not back to normal, but it didn't feel oppressive. Sherlock was still sleeping more than he otherwise would, but bits and pieces of their life had begun to make a reappearance. Short experiments were run. Clients came with cases Sherlock could solve sat in his chair, broken leg propped up, crutches resting within easy reach. His violin had been cleaned and tuned; he couldn't stand up to play, but he could do so sitting down, if he did it carefully.
He'd begun texting John more, too, messages hinting at boredom that made John at once relieved and nervous. Sherlock needed time – but waiting wasn't something he did well.
The flat was silent when John eased the door shut behind him; Sherlock's habit of leaving it open was useful for Mrs. Hudson to keep an eye on him. John toed off his shoes and hung his jacket before padding toward the bedroom.
Sherlock was asleep in the semi-darkness, covered up to his shoulders with the warm duvet, dark hair splashed across his pillow. The image made John smile; Mrs. Hudson had obviously come to tuck him up. Sherlock didn't usually sleep so neatly – he was either cocooned in any available blankets or half uncovered.
John slipped into the room and pressed a light kiss against his husband's temple. In his sleep, Sherlock sighed but didn't stir, even when John carded his fingers gently through dishevelled curls.
He took himself into the kitchen, fetching a beer just as Mrs. Hudson appeared with a hot meal that smelled divine. John thanked her with a kiss on the cheek, smiling at her fussing. Alone again, he settled into the sofa with a contented sigh and flicked the television on, thumbing the volume down enough so that it wouldn't wake Sherlock but he could still make sense of the story.
The sounds of voices in the flat filtered into Sherlock's consciousness, odd harmonics and patterns making them a momentary puzzle until they resolved into a television programme. He listened, the shifts and creaks he was expecting somehow absent, and a faint frown pulled, unnoticed, at his lips.
John must be home; he wasn't prone to leaving the television on when he left the flat, and Sherlock certainly hadn't kept it on when he'd surrendered to exhaustion. He was tired of the damned thing, of the way it mocked his enforced immobility with mind-numbing vapidity.
He eased himself to sitting, balancing on crutches with now-familiar movements. With his strength returning (John insisted it was, Sherlock was less confident of that), he'd trained himself to move quietly about the flat.
The effort he'd put into that paid off now – John was asleep on the sofa, a half finished can of beer resting on the coffee table next to his feet, stacked neatly on an empty plate. If the lingering smell was any indication, Mrs. Hudson had cooked for them again, and John had eaten before dozing off in front of the television.
The reversal of roles made Sherlock pause for a moment before the ache in his good leg warned against standing for too long. He shuffled carefully to the sofa, easing himself down, and dispensed with the blasted crutches. John shifted slightly at the change in weight but didn't awaken, slouching down into the cushions.
It was a relief just to watch John for a long moment, to memorize his face again, to catalogue and file every minute shift in expression, each line and crease, the flutter of his eyelashes, the way his lips parted slightly when he exhaled. His sight had never wavered since it had come back, but Sherlock couldn't let go of the greed, the need to see John whenever he could, as much of John has he could. The limits of his injured body frustrated him – he wanted to follow John everywhere, into the shower, into bed, around the flat, to work, just to watch him. To map every millimetre with his eyes, over and over and over again.
John sighed in his sleep, stirring slightly, and Sherlock held himself still, waiting for the moment to pass. When it did, he shifted himself across the cushions, moving carefully to avoid waking John or jostling his bad leg.
It was awkward with his leg propped on a cushion on the coffee table, but Sherlock scarcely cared; he'd suffered much worse, and the discomfort was background noise right now, making him more aware of his body's needs than he was accustomed but not demanding immediate attention. Careful, deliberate movements let him wrap one arm around John's back, under his shoulders, without straining his ribs. John murmured something; Sherlock hushed him with a hum.
Adjusting them took time, and he couldn't curl John's body up against his as much as he'd like without putting pressure on mending ribs and bruises. Still, it was comforting to have John's head resting against his shoulder, warm breath brushing his neck.
The faint flutter of eyelashes tickled his jaw as John opened his eyes, humming with tired satisfaction. An arm wound carefully around Sherlock's waist, hand resting comfortably on his hip, thumb tracing small circles through the fabric of his pyjamas pants. He loved the sensation of fine cotton against skin, and was glad now Mrs. Hudson had insisted he not sleep in his clothes.
"You're awake," John murmured, voice thick and drowsy with sleep.
"How very observant of you," Sherlock replied, and felt the quirk of John's lips against his skin. John moved to sit up, but a hand resting against his head prevented it, and he settled again, the smile growing as he tipped his head back to meet Sherlock's gaze.
"Who knows, maybe you'll make a consulting detective of me yet."
"I've already made an honest man of you," Sherlock replied. "Be happy for what you have."
"I am," John said. "Believe me." His eyes fell shut briefly as Sherlock pressed a kiss against his forehead.
"Besides, then I wouldn't be the only one in the world."
"Mm," John hummed. "We couldn't have that."
"It would be unthinkable," Sherlock agreed, resting his head against the top of John's, short hair brushing his cheek. "And I need my blogger."
"I heard you had some cases today," John commented, trailing his fingertips down the outside of Sherlock's thigh, the touch warm but not enough to do anything – they'd both learned quickly what Sherlock's body still couldn't handle. He felt a flash of regret immediately smothered; some things were worth the wait.
"Anything for me to write up?"
"They were all boring," Sherlock murmured, feeling another smile split John's lips.
"I'll just bet they were."
"You weren't here. They're always boring when you're not here."
"Mm-hmm," John agreed, but Sherlock strongly suspected he was being humoured. He nosed the top of John's head.
"Nothing your readers would be interested in anyway."
"You're kidding, right? They've been clamouring for new cases, Sherlock."
"Well, then," Sherlock replied, letting himself slouch down a little more, snuggling closer to John, listening to the warning pangs and twinges that kept him from positions that would be painful, "they'll just have to wait a little longer, won't they?"
John's hand wrapped around Sherlock's waist again as warm lips pressed a lingering kiss into his neck. Sherlock smiled, letting his eyes drop closed, content and comfortable.
"Mm," John sighed, "yeah, I think they will."