A/N Part twoooo! Not much to say here, really. Please revieeeew!
Thanks to Natalie Nallareet, SylviaGriffin3, iliveinatardis, and HopeCoppice
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
[2/10]
"Good news today, Dr. Watson!"
He looked up dully, wondering if any news could really be good. Nothing seemed all that good right now, unless perhaps Harry had come early, or Sherlock had thought to pay a visit. But the likeliness of either of these seemed less than zero. He considered asking just what this oh-so-great news was, then deemed such an action pointless. This particular woman- was she a doctor? A nurse? He couldn't remember her name, anyhow- would tell him anyways.
"After consulting your improvement rate, we've decided that you can be let out a few days early!"
John's eyes widened. Now, there was something that he hadn't expected. "Great," he found himself saying, straightening his posture slightly. His shoulder throbbed, but not nearly as painfully as it had before. He was recovering, he supposed. That was good.
"Isn't it?" she practically crowed in delight. She surely must have been faking some of it; no one was naturally this enthusiastic. She was practically worse than Daisy. Was everyone so peppy at this hospital? Perhaps it was some sort of job requirement. And remember, don't let your patients know how much you hate your job! "We just have some paperwork to finish up, and then you'll be able to head home! Is there someone you want to call to come and assist you, or will you be able to manage a taxi yourself?"
The notion of asking Mrs. Hudson to come flickered briefly in his mind. She'd certainly be all too willing to do so, yet... he wasn't sure that he wanted her fawning over him. Not yet. Not before he saw Sherlock again. "I'll be fine myself, thanks."
"Excellent. I'll be right with you, then, dear."
Dear? he thought, slightly alarmed by this rather over-the-top maternal endearment. He watched her bustle out of the room, then exhaled heavily, his gaze shifting back to the light green-painted ceiling, where it typically rested. Coughing sounded from a few rooms down, and a creak of wheels as a cart was pushed along through the hallway. Otherwise, it was absolutely silent. He did feel well enough to go back, he supposed.
And you'll get to see Sherlock.
That was probably the happiest thing he could imagine right now, but it was more complicated than that, layered with uncertainty. He'd get to see Sherlock, yes, but would Sherlock be happy to see him? It was hard to imagine that he would. After all, he hadn't come to the hospital more than that once in the whole stay. A slight sickness rocked in John's stomach as he imagined Sherlock avoiding him for a reason he wouldn't mention. Was it that stupid thing again, with Sarah- did the detective think that John didn't want him along? That he wanted... privacy or something so that he could mourn her? That wasn't at all what he needed. But, of course, leave it to Sherlock to shy off at the prospect of facing emotion.
A few minutes later, the gray-haired nurse returned, still smiling. "All right, we're all ready to go! You're completely discharged, but we'd like to recommend..." She went on about the various medicines and treatments that he should keep administering, and he only half-listened. Typically, he'd want to hear as much as she'd tell him, but his mind had been odd lately, loose, making it difficult to pay any attention to her at all.
"...You got all that?"
He nodded silently, and she proceeded to help him out of the bed, though they probably both knew that he didn't need it. He didn't look back as the door shut behind him, knowing that the little room hardly contained memories worth keeping. Neither did the hallway that he must have walked down a hundred times in the few weeks-long stay, with all of its stupid abstract paintings. The reception area, too, seemed to be full of bad air, and he was glad to reach the glass doors that opened onto the busy street. Only a few more minutes now, he told himself. Only a few more minutes and you'll get to see Sherlock.
"Good luck, Dr. Watson!" the nurse called to him cheerfully as she waved him out the doors.
He nodded, clutching the plastic folder of paperwork that she'd given to him. The whole thing had been done rather hastily, but she'd made sure to let him know that all contact information and medical records were contained in it, to "avoid any confusion." John already knew that he wouldn't be looking in the folder once. His shoulder felt fine, and he remembered enough of the medicines he'd been instructed to take that he wouldn't have to consult the list. It would sit somewhere in the flat, gathering dust, simply because he wouldn't feel confident enough to throw it away. There seemed to be a lot of things lately that he didn't have the confidence for, really.
He hailed a taxi cab and climbed in, muttering the address that he knew all too well and leaning back against the seat. Soon, he repeated to himself, soon, soon, soon.
Would Sherlock even be there? He might be at the Yard. Surely he wouldn't be waiting for John, so there was no reason why he should be home. Stress began to seep into John's mind at the thought of resuming his old life. There was so much to be done- he'd have to get his job back, for one. Sherlock would probably want help on whatever cases he might currently be pursuing. That was for sure- John wouldn't be excused from anything Sherlock expected him to do just because of Sarah.
It might actually be good, though, to get out and start doing things again. Perhaps it would take his mind off of things. Off of... her.
Get over it.
The cab drew to a halt, and his stomach lurched. Nothing to worry about, he insisted steadily to himself as he handed payment to the driver and pulled himself out, into the sunlight. There it was- the green painted door with the shining brass number on it: 221B. Such a familiar sight... now, it seemed like something out of a different life entirely. The growl of an engine sounded behind him as the cab pulled away, and then there was nowhere to go but forward.
Opening the door was difficult, as was stepping inside, pulling his coat off, ascending the stairs. But he didn't stop, didn't hesitate, just moved forward, fingers tight around the folder of papers. There was the door, the black-and-white bamboo wallpaper around it... he twisted the knob and glanced in.
There he was.
Sherlock was sitting in his chair by the fireplace, disinterestedly scanning a newspaper, his pale eyes seemingly intent on the lines of text and his fingers running along the handle of an empty coffee mug. He looked, well, relaxed. At home. Not like he was thinking hard about anything, almost... normal. John wished for a half-instant that he could preserve that moment, just watch his flat mate, but, of course, that couldn't happen. Already, Sherlock was looking up, dark eyebrows rising in surprise, letting the top of the paper droop. He didn't make any motion towards rising, but instead observed from his seat.
"John- I thought you weren't getting out of the hospital for another few days?"
His voice. It was... John hadn't realized just how much he'd missed it. Deep, even, self-assured... something twisted inside of him, and an entirely foreign thought floated to the surface of his mind. At least he wasn't the one to die. What was that supposed to mean? Of course- why would he even... compare them...
"Yeah," John found himself saying. "I got discharged early. Apparently they thought it was some sort of treat."
They watched each other for a few seconds, tension humming in the air between them. He took the opportunity to set the folder down on the couch, busying himself with the motion and straightening it out a little more than necessary before turning back to face Sherlock.
"Why didn't you ever come?" he asked simply.
"What?"
That expression... like such an expectation was ridiculous somehow. "I was in the hospital for weeks, Sherlock, weeks, and you stopped by to see me exactly once. Mike and Bill visited, even Lestrade at one point. Mrs. Hudson would have if she could have, I'm sure. But you- you didn't even... once you knew I was alive... was that enough? As long as your... assistant wasn't dead, nothing else mattered. Did you never once stop to think just how much I've been going through? I mean- for God's sake, you're my... my... flat mate." He stumbled over the last few words, then hesitated, confused. What had he been about to say? Something stupid, like 'best friend' or 'partner in crime.' It was true, though, that their relationship was anything but normal. The two of them had been through a lot more together than the average duo who happened to share housing.
"It didn't seem necessary," Sherlock muttered in his usual short manner. Oddly, though, he didn't seem to want to meet John's eyes all of a sudden, instead glancing over at the mantelpiece. Guilty? Less than likely. He probably just wanted to be somewhere else.
"...Of course it didn't." Exhaling slowly, the doctor looked around the flat, noting that it seemed to be several degrees messier than before, and that a bad smell was coming from the direction of the microwave, around which a pale smoke seemed to linger. "See that you didn't bother cleaning up after yourself..." He halfheartedly picked up a random book from the table, looked around the room for a better place to put it, then set it back down with a sigh. He felt too tired to do anything. Well, not tired, exactly, just exhausted. Weary. Yes, weary. That was a good way to describe how he felt at the moment.
"I told you. Didn't expect you to be back so soon."
John raised his eyebrows, not even looking in Sherlock's direction. "Yeah, like I should believe that it would've been any different if you had."
"Maybe it would have."
"Yeah, maybe. I somehow doubt it, though."
"Believe, doubt... whatever suits you." Sherlock directed his attention towards the newspaper once more, his speech capacity clearly exhausted for a moment. Shaking his head at nothing, John made his way to his own armchair, carelessly swept a stack of papers off of it, and sat down. The sheets of paper swirled around in the still air before coasting silently to the ground.
"Nothing on, I presume?"
"Moriarty has chosen to remain irritatingly silent, and the rest of the criminal world is following his example."
"Glad you haven't taken to shooting the walls again."
"Oh, it's only a matter of time..."
John hesitated. They both knew the question that they were avoiding, that seemed to be taboo for no discernible reason. What happened? What happened in the freezer? For the obvious reasons, he himself couldn't remember anything beyond finding Sarah's body and being shot. He knew, of course, that Sherlock had dragged him out somehow, and that Donovan and an assortment of other policemen were there, too. But that bullet hadn't been fired from nothing. Moriarty had been there as well, which meant that he and Sherlock must have had some sort of confrontation. And he was itching so badly to know what that confrontation involved that it hurt.
"Well... so, what exactly... happened? You know... that night."
"You got shot. Moriarty fooled around long enough for me to get us out alive." He shook nonexistent wrinkles out of the newspaper, pulling it farther up to hide more of his face. This struck John as odd, but he ignored it for the time being.
"Details?"
"Incidentally, I don't much care to revisit that memory at the moment. Why don't you make yourself useful and see if Lestrade's emailed you? I know that thing he does, where he tries to get you to subtly mention something, like I can't tell he's just trying to look like he isn't begging for help..."
Well, that was that, John supposed. If Sherlock didn't feel like explaining things any more thoroughly than that, he couldn't do anything about it. The man was stubborn. Still, that didn't mean he was just going to immediately return to the old routine of doing everything he was asked- no, instructed to. Sherlock wasn't the type to expect a 'mourning period' from, but still. He had the right to refuse.
"Check it yourself. You know my password," he replied tiredly, sinking onto the couch with a long sigh. Suddenly, it struck him how... well... happy, almost, he was to be home. He hadn't realized just how much he'd missed Baker Street until now.
Even Sherlock's annoyed grumble at his refusal was welcome. John felt vaguely overwhelmed by an emotion that was... well... undeniably positive. It felt odd, like he didn't know what do to with it. It had been so may hours, days, weeks since he'd had reason to feel happy that now it was... foreign. Of course, he couldn't remain elated for very long before she came back to him- her face, her voice, the way she laughed...
She's dead now. Dead. She's dead. So much of her life was left... and now she'll never be able to experience it. Never. Because of you.
Get over it.
He blinked, bringing himself back to the present, and sighed again, this one longer and deeper, before turning his gaze back on Sherlock. The sight of the dark-haired detective soothed him somehow. Made him feel like, someday, things could be all right. It was probably a long, long ways to that day, of course, but... that was all right. He'd pull through somehow. He had to.
That wasn't to say, though, that it wouldn't take a while.
