Climbing into the cab beside Sherlock felt like coming home.
The gradual creep of warmth that seeped through John's chilled limbs that came from that journey was even more potent than the subterranean pleasure that came with stepping back into the flat with Sherlock hot on his heels. If he thought about it enough, he probably would have said that that particular crossing of the threshold—the departure of the public sphere and entry into their private world—was so much more exhilarating than any that they'd experienced after a case… or would experience in the future. There was no feeling in the world that could replace being given everything you'd ever dreamt of back again in one piece.
As much as John would have liked to keep Sherlock in his sight, once they charged back up the stairs and into their sitting room (their, how John preferred saying their) he forced himself not to hover. After all, they were both in their thirties, and Sherlock didn't need someone to follow him around all the time. No matter how much John felt like someone needed to take care of Sherlock—and that he was probably the best one to do it—the man had managed to survive and survive well for thirty-odd years before John arrived. And, probably, before anyone cared.
John cared, though, and he forced himself into the kitchen as Sherlock wandered around. He knew, somewhere deep inside his brain, that Sherlock needed time on his own. No matter how much he'd love to be able to say that he thought Sherlock could throw himself off a building and disappear with little to no thought about his own life, he reckoned that Sherlock loved home more than most. He needed his own time to say hello. John wasn't about to go anywhere, after all. He could let 221B have him while the kettle boiled.
It didn't stop his mind racing, though. Though, it might not necessarily have been racing, seeing as his mind had slowed to such a sluggish state recently that thinking at any normal idiot's pace would have seemed dangerous. Every creak and groan of hundred-year-old floors screamed out to John's ears, even as he busied himself with the fridge. The temptation just to stand and listen was great, but John didn't want to have to explain to Sherlock why he'd just left the tea to stew in favor of standing and staring into space. He'd become a lot more observant of noises and other meddlings in the flat since the detective's death—or, well, the lack of them. John had thought he'd heard that gait many a time.
There was a loud crash as he poured the boiling water into the teapot. John ignored it. He could deal with loud bangs and sudden breakages. It was the silence that he didn't want to have to deal with. Sherlock's galumphing around seemed to put that idea to rest, though, as he heard the detective stalk through the kitchen somewhere behind him and disappear in the direction of the bathroom. No matter how hard he tried, John couldn't prevent his thoughts from following him. Was the flat even prepared for two inhabitants? Why wouldn't it be, though? His toothpaste was still in the mug he'd appropriated that first week. It might have been out of date, but… could toothpaste go off in eight months? Could toothpaste even go off? He didn't know. He'd never had to check before.
He'd managed to pour one and a half cups of tea before he realized that the footsteps on the stairs were definitely not Sherlock's. The rhythm was all wrong; there was no silent overconfidence in the pressure on the creaking steps. John glanced at his watch, and his stomach dropped; Monday. It was fucking Monday. Mrs Hudson went to the shops on Monday—and they'd adopted some sort of strange pseudo-ritual. She'd bring him a pack of chocolate Hobnobs and they'd have a cuppa and they'd both end up close to tears on either side of a doorway. It was a really shitty way of spending a Monday evening, actually, but they'd done it close to every week once they'd settled into what they'd thought was reality.
John scalded his fingers as he hastily put down the teapot, and he wiped his dry hands absentmindedly on a tea towel as he desperately tried to think of the best course of action. Of course she'd have to find out—she was their landlady, after all, and there was another tenant, now—and there was no way that she wouldn't find out. Even Sherlock couldn't hide from her, not if she really wanted to find out what was going on. John doubted that he wanted to stay hiding either, otherwise he wouldn't have come back to the flat, but still… was it really his place to tell her? Was it his responsibility? It probably wasn't, but if he left it to Sherlock, poor Mrs Hudson would probably end up in A&E with an acute myocardial infarction. Gentleness wasn't necessarily his strong point, even with her.
Don't snivel, Mrs Hudson. It'll do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet.
There was a knock on the door, one that John recognized as their perfunctory recognition of politeness. She would just open the door in a matter of seconds. He left the cups of tea to their own devices as he made a beeline for the door. If he could just get her alone and explain, before…
'Do come in, Mrs Hudson!'
Motherfucker.
He really wasn't wasting any time in getting back to being a pain in the arse, was he?
John paused, his arm outstretched and his palm resting on the door handle. Yet there wasn't anything he could do, and he had definitely just heard the unfortunate crunch of the day's shopping against the landing's hardwood floors. He took a deep breath as he heard Sherlock begin the short journey back to the living room, and he hauled the door open.
Mrs Hudson stood in the doorway, her face slack with shock and disbelief. The Waitrose bags around her feet had survived the fall rather well, although John doubted that his Hobnobs would be in one piece.
'You're pulling my leg,' she said, as a bottle of sparkling water rolled past her feet. 'That's not him.'
John didn't really know what to do with his face or the words that swirled around in his mind. How did you tell someone that the person who was as good as her son, who they'd thought had thrown themselves off the roof of a building in Smithfield, was actually standing in the flat that she still let to his ex-flatmate? There were no words for that. There were no words for any of it. Well, Sherlock could probably find some (the eloquent bastard) but he didn't seem to be in the mood for being moderately helpful.
'No,' John croaked. 'It really is.'
And why wouldn't the look of disbelief remain on her face? The dead didn't just walk back home when they wanted to. But there was no other way that he could recreate Sherlock's voice without having Sherlock there to produce it, and the pure joy that made its way across her face when Sherlock appeared from the kitchen behind him rendered words useless.
He was glad to duck out of the way as she rushed towards Sherlock and flung her arms around his neck. John smiled, again, to himself as Sherlock let her—apart from himself, Mrs Hudson was probably the only other person who he'd let hug him. Well, even then, he probably wouldn't even stand for John if there weren't extenuating circumstances. Nevertheless, he squeezed Mrs Hudson's shoulders reassuringly, although John did notice that Sherlock winced.
Oh. His ribs.
Damn.
He made a mental note to not fling himself at people who have just returned from the dead. They could have injuries that render even loving hugs painful. Still, he hadn't pushed either of them away, so John didn't really feel a need to be too regretful.
'What've you done to yourself?' she said on the exhale as she extricated herself from the embrace, eyes raking over the multitude of injuries that were obvious enough not to ignore.
Sherlock half-smiled and cocked an eyebrow. 'I can't believe you'd think I'd attack myself, Mrs Hudson.'
'Cheeky sod,' said Mrs Hudson with a strangled laugh.
John could see her hands struggling with the same conundrum that his had when he'd first been faced with Sherlock's return. One remained resting on Sherlock's shoulder, while the other oscillated between hovering in front of her mouth incredulously and trying to gently wipe away the scrapes and bruises. What he didn't expect to notice, however, was how white Sherlock's skin had gone since John had last had a good look at him. All the blood had drained from his face, and if John suspended his disbelief for a moment he would have said that there was an element of panic hiding in the detective's eyes.
'Sherlock?' he asked as he pushed away from the side of the kitchen table.
Sherlock didn't reply, although his shift in expression was answer enough. He looked as close to being sick as John had ever seen him.
'Mrs Hudson, if you could just…' he started, but the older woman hadn't missed the signs either. She stepped back and let John square himself in front of Sherlock, and he grabbed the sides of the taller man's shoulders to steady him.
'Come on then,' he started as he pulled Sherlock towards the sofa. 'If you're going to be sick on anyone, aim at me. God knows you've shocked Mrs Hudson enough for today.'
Once he'd managed to get the detective to sit down, he rested on his knees in front of him as he listened to Sherlock's shallow breathing. Mrs Hudson lingered behind them, although she did have the presence of mind to shut the door. John had to smile; even she handled it a bit better than he did. But that was irrelevant, for Sherlock—Sherlock!—had almost keeled over and fainted.
John turned to Mrs. Hudson, his hands still flat on either side of Sherlock's chest, underneath the dreadful jacket but on top of the shirt. He may have been facing her, looking at her even, but his mind was busy mapping any inconsistencies in Sherlock's laboured rhythm of inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. 'Can you get a glass of water, please, Mrs. Hudson?'
Sherlock grunted, clearly unhappy with this progression of events. 'Tea,' he said, defiantly.
But Mrs Hudson already had a glass under the kitchen tap, and John wasn't listening to anything apart from his breathing, and so Sherlock got water—much to his distaste. He even glared at poor Mrs Hudson as she handed it to him. John considered telling him off, but he didn't bother. When had Sherlock ever listened to his scoldings? Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to mind… just like he didn't mind. Sherlock glaring at them and launching into one of his massive, legendary sulks was better than their reality of the past eight months. It was better than him being dead.
The fact that John could easily feel the rise and fall of his chest against his hands helped, too. He couldn't be dead if he was breathing, even if he felt a bit sick if he looked at the bruising for too long. He really shouldn't feel that way—he was a doctor, after all—but this was Sherlock. Sherlock had seemed invincible, seemed as if nothing could conquer him. Yet here he was, at the mercy of an ex-army doctor, sat on his own settee in his own flat with his flatmate's trained hands trying to see if his breathing was asymmetrical.
It wasn't. But John kept his hands there anyway. At least, until Mrs Hudson silently handed him a cup of tea—but even then, he only removed one.
Sherlock eyed him warily through slightly squinted eyes, but he didn't say anything. No doubt he was plotting something, but that wasn't John's concern. What was his concern was whether or not Sherlock had the common sense to keep himself from getting some secondary condition as a result of his rib injury. Oh, of course, he'd know the risks and he'd know the theory of what he'd have to do to keep himself healthy, but the real question was would he bother? He'd never bothered before, not as far as John knew. He never bothered about anything other than the puzzle, the interesting problem, the case.
Had he had cases, then, while he was away? John almost laughed out loud at considering what Sherlock had done to be equivalent of an extended holiday. How quaint. But he must have had something like a case, or something that fulfilled the place of one. Otherwise why on earth would he have stayed away from home so long? Why would he have everyone who loved him think that he was dead?
'Are we done yet, John?' said Sherlock dryly, and John snapped back into the world that lay in front of him. Of course, Sherlock had commandeered his tea, but he didn't mind. At least the man didn't look as if he was about to keel over anymore.
'Almost,' he said, removing his remaining hand from Sherlock's torso but not moving as to let the detective get up. 'Take a couple of deep breaths for me, then—or cough. Either or.'
'John, don't make a fuss.'
'I'm already making one. Breathe in, deeply. Do it.'
Sherlock still looked dubious, but Mrs Hudson came to John's aid. 'Sherlock,' she said slowly, with a vein of underlying threat that only a woman of her importance could impart to the arrogant Sherlock. Even John couldn't muster that much implication in one uttering of the man's name.
And, with a gratuitous eye-roll, Sherlock took a deep breath. Then another. 'Enough?' he asked.
'Barely, but it'll do for the moment,' said John, plucking his mug of tea out of Sherlock's hands. He heaved himself back to his feet (and Christ he was feeling his age, as his knees cracked audibly). 'Go on, put something else on. You won't want to move much once I've taken the bandages off, so you might as well be comfortable.'
Sherlock looked up at him from where he sat, and glared. That seemed to be his last weapon, now, the glare. John knew it was because he knew that Dr Watson was correct, and that he was in pain, and for once, he couldn't really ignore it because damn, this was pain with every breath and no relief. John also knew that there were other symptoms, other signs that Sherlock would never admit to. Headaches, for one. Although the way that Sherlock slowly tore his gaze away from John's in order to close his eyes seemed to be enough of an admission.
Mrs Hudson stepped towards him then, and took John's place. She leant down and brushed her hand over the curls that had fallen over Sherlock's closed eyes, and pressed a kiss to his temple. 'You know,' she said, lingering closely like a mother would to her son, 'you do look funny dressed like that, Sherlock.'
He smiled at that. Ever so slightly, but enough for them to know. And then he was up on his feet, striding quickly towards the door that led to what had been his room for the eighteen months that he'd lived there… and the eight months he'd been away. It had never been anything but Sherlock's room in John's mind, and if Sherlock was inside it, all was right in the world.
Or… well. Right enough, anyway.
He and Mrs Hudson simply stared at the doorway through which the detective had disappeared, then caught each other's eye. Their thoughts were identical: where they dreaming? Was that really Sherlock? Where they both in some sort of mad alternate universe where even the most fantastical wishes came true? Or was this just what they should have come to expect from the genius that was Sherlock Holmes? And, perhaps most importantly, did it matter? Did any of their questions matter if Sherlock wasn't dead, the funeral wasn't real, and life as they knew it wasn't over?
Neither of them knew the answers, of course, but that probably didn't matter either. Sherlock would tell them, eventually, and complain that they never really saw what was right in front of their noses.
'Will he be all right?' asked Mrs Hudson as she gathered her Waitrose bags from the kitchen table.
John shrugged and sipped his tea. 'I think so. It looks a lot worse than it is, really,' he said, trailing off as he thought back to the mottled chest that their landlady had not seen. 'The most pressing thing is the cracked ribs. They're preventing him from taking deep breaths, so he's either going to end up not getting enough oxygen and passing out or getting some sort of secondary infection. Pneumonia, probably, with this weather.'
Mrs Hudson looked worried. 'Oh, dear, John… will you be all right? I know this must be… well, I don't know… difficult.'
'I'll be fine. Eventually, I suppose. I can't come out of this too badly. After all, he's not dead. That's got to count for something,' said John with a smile playing on his lips. That was probably the most optimistic he'd been in months. Mrs Hudson smiled back at him, and patted his forearm. He chuckled, and turned back towards the doorway through which Sherlock had disappeared. 'The worst thing is going to be getting him to sit still. It's the only way to treat these things, and he's going to go mental.'
'You're not kidding,' said Mrs Hudson, laughing gently with him. 'If you need anything, just call.'
'I am not about to go mental, John,' came a familiar voice from the adjoining room, virtually dripping with condescension.
Mrs Hudson shook her head, smothering a grin that was undoubtedly going to cover her entire face once she stepped out of the apartment, and took her leave. John watched her go, and turned back to his tea when she'd slipped out of sight.
'And so it begins,' he murmured, wondering whether or not it was worth opening a new packet of biscuits.
John had munched his way through three chocolate digestives by the time Sherlock reappeared. In fact, he was pretty sure there were enough remnants of over-soaked biscuit in the bottom of his tea to make up another one, waiting to be uncovered in due course. Though he'd probably never have a chance, judging by how Sherlock was prowling about the flat. It was much more natural to see him now, in his grey tee shirt and pyjamas. He'd even put on the blue dressing gown that John had draped over the foot of the empty bed when he'd tried to clean out the flat.
It was as if the whole of Baker Street had been waiting for him to come back. (It had.)
'John,' called Sherlock from somewhere on the landing. Why he had wandered out there, John didn't know, but there was a degree of shock that came with hearing his disembodied voice. After all, he'd been hearing snippets of that voice for months, always a bit too far away and a bit too separated from John's eardrums to be real. For a moment, he wondered if everything that had happened was just some sort of terrible, wonderful dream, and that he was due to wake up at any moment—but the scalding heat of the newly-poured mug of tea in his hands quickly reminded him that although the events of the day may have been extraordinary, pain was definitely a part of the real world. The absence of pain was one of the dream world's few mercies; John's problem had always been the pain when he woke up.
John was running his hand under some cold water when Sherlock appeared in between the sliding doors of the kitchen. 'John?'
God, he'd almost forgotten what it was like for Sherlock to say his name. 'Yes?'
'My laptop's still here, isn't it?'
John yanked his hand away from the water and grabbed the closest tea towel, leaving water droplets over the majority of the draining board. 'No, oh no, Sherlock,' he muttered as he walked towards his flatmate. 'Priorities! I know yours are completely skewed, but mine aren't. Sit down.'
Sherlock had the cheek to look scandalized, but he obeyed without too much fuss. John did have to bribe him with the other untouched mug of tea that he'd abandoned on the kitchen table, but that was supposed to be for Sherlock anyway, so it wasn't much of a loss. The fact that Sherlock could empty the cup over John's head if he got too annoyed was a risk, but then again, John had followed Sherlock into riskier situations before, so a little peril was worth it if it meant that he was going to be able to give the detective some sort of medical treatment.
'I'll have to take the bandage off,' John said as he settled onto his knees in front of Sherlock. 'It'll be more painful, but it's better in the long run.'
Sherlock huffed, and sipped at his tea. John smirked, and shook his head. He smiled, though, and tugged at the hem of Sherlock's top. 'Off,' he said simply as he got to his feet. 'And stay.'
'What am I now, a lapdog?'
'I'd be carrying you around under my arm if you were,' John called from the kitchen as he crouched down so that his chest was level with the cabinets. 'You'd get into less trouble that way.'
John made to pull out the first aid kit, and had to maneuver his way around a few of the pots and pans that had recently made the area their home. He'd have to remember to reorganize all the cupboards; there were some things that hadn't moved, but there were others that he'd squirreled away in the expectation that they were the last remnants of Sherlock that he'd ever have. He'd probably have to heave that permanently borrowed St Barts' microscope out from under the sink before long, though the scolding he'd get for keeping it there would be preferable to the hell he'd go through when Sherlock decided life at 221B could get just a little too monotonous.
When he had managed to pull the overstuffed box out of the kitchen cabinets, the sheer weight of it made something swell in his chest; even this, a bloody first aid kit, had become something that he and Sherlock had made entirely their own. It had quickly become a bit more extensive than bog standard first aid. They'd passed the Savlon and plasters stage long ago—although, there had always been some occasions when they were still needed… namely when Sherlock had ideas above his station and his scientific equipment had been feeling particularly vindictive.
He smiled, and wondered when he'd started to associate chemical-induced injuries with happiness.
'Right then,' he said, trying to wipe the wide smile off his face as he returned to the sitting room. He perched on the side of the coffee table, placing the heavy box at his feet and glancing up at Sherlock's lacerated face. 'You're going to hate this.'
Sherlock winced as John reached out and pressed lightly on each of the ribs, trying to gauge which was worse. 'I did say that my body betrays me.'
John smiled, dolefully. 'Not emotions, though, this time.'
'No.'
No, of course not. Not Sherlock. Not even now.
John sat back, vaguely aware that he was sat on the remote and several old issues of the Guardian. The livid bruises peeked out from behind the temporary bandages, and John cringed. He'd seen Sherlock battered and bruised six ways to Sunday; he had played doctor to a badly bleeding detective too many times to count. This time, though… he wanted to count Sherlock's bones, label and match each one with its illustration in the texts he'd referred to at school. But then he realized he was being far too much like Sherlock, and set about pulling off the bandages. It was difficult to know whether or not to whip them off quickly or tease them away from the damaged skin slowly; either way, Sherlock tensed and stared ahead of him, looking somewhere past the top of John's head.
Once the makeshift bandage was completely removed, John pressed his stethoscope to the left side of Sherlock's chest, just above the second rib. The muscle jumped, protesting against the cold metal, but Sherlock didn't. That was the thing about Sherlock: his body may have been him, but he wasn't his body. The heartbeat distracted him for a moment-but only a moment. Even then, the steady pounding seemed too much to bear. It was as if its presence was as much of a violation of the natural order of things as its previous conspicuous absence.
2245. Rate, type, rhythm. Left of the sternum, second rib, aortic. Right of the sternum, second rib, pulmonic. Left of the sternum, fourth rib, tricuspid. Left nipple line, fifth rib, mitral. All Patients Take Meds. Apartment M2245. APT M2245. Maybe if he could distract himself with acronyms and blind repetitions of training, he'd be able to ignore his own pounding heart. He wasn't even sure his ribs could take that much repeated strain.
When he was sure that Sherlock wasn't about to drop dead in front of him, he switched to listening to Sherlock's lungs. 'Breathe in,' he asked as he pressed the stethoscope to the skin above Sherlock's clavicle. He knew that he couldn't trick Sherlock; judging by the silent look the detective had given him, he hadn't missed the fact that John had just gone through the motions of listening to his heartbeat no more than three times.
Still, no one could blame him.
'And out,' he murmured, thankful that Sherlock was (for once) not arguing. Perhaps even he could see that John needed this. Proof, proof that even Sherlock would agree to be definitive. After all, he knew which bits to take away without removing the whole.
Identify the rate, rhythm, quantity. Obstructions. Six paired areas on the chest, seven on the back. Six anterior, seven posterior. 6AM — 7PM. John placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and pulled him forward—the triangle of auscultation. He took his time in this endeavour, as well, for even though he knew that he had to listen to the left and right sides before moving down to the next level, he did it several times. Sherlock noticed (obviously) but didn't say anything (why?).
Maybe he did understand.
Then again, maybe he didn't.
When he'd satisfied his own misgivings as much as he possibly could, he pushed his hand against Sherlock's shoulder until the detective sat up straight. 'Right, well, I think we can rule out flail chest,' John started. He ignored Sherlock's sarcastic look; of course, Sherlock had already ruled that out. 'But that's still going to give you trouble. Keep taking deep breaths—'
'—to prevent secondary infection. Yes, John, we've been through this once already.'
John pushed himself to his feet. 'And yet it's not got through that thick skull of yours.'
Sherlock took a dramatic deep breath, and quirked an eyebrow. John shot him a small, stern smile, and disappeared into the kitchen before returning with a bag of frozen peas and a loud tea towel that had undoubtedly been pilfered from Mrs Hudson's flat.
'Put that back on,' said John, gesturing vaguely towards the shirt that Sherlock had abandoned on the arm of the sofa before retaking his seat on the coffee table. 'Unfortunately for you, there's nothing you can do except wait.'
He set about carefully folding the bag of frozen peas into the tea towel, making sure that there were enough layers of fabric between freezing vegetable and Sherlock's bruised skin. If he tried especially hard, he could ignore the small sounds of indignation that were escaping Sherlock's tightened throat as he tried to fold himself into the fabric. The man was positively fuming with indigence by the time he managed to get his arm through the right hole.
John ignored him, and pressed the peas to Sherlock's ribcage once Sherlock had wriggled his way into his clothing. 'Hold that there.'
Once Sherlock took over the management of the makeshift ice pack, John gathered some of the towels that he'd pulled from the washing machine the previous evening and rolled them as neatly as he could. There was a certain element of residual shock pulsing through his system and shaking hands—at least, that's what he told himself. Still, he pushed through and placed each towel in the negative space beside where Sherlock was sat. His gaze hadn't moved from John's work the entire time, but he was careful to be seen to be looking out the window when John rested his hands on his own knees and searched out Sherlock's eyes with his own.
'If you lie on the injured ribs, you should be able to breathe a bit better,' said John as he motioned for Sherlock to ease himself onto his side. 'Keep the ice pack on the bruising for a while, either until it's too cold or until you end up with mushy peas.'
John smiled to himself—look at that, he was even making jokes!—and Sherlock threw an arm above his head looking for a cushion to place under his head. As soon as he settled, John continued: 'Right. Now just stay there until further notice.'
In any other situation, and with any other person on the receiving end, John would have laughed at the pure indignation on Sherlock's face. The only other time that expression had wandered onto his visage was when Irene had pushed herself into their lives.
Before Sherlock could launch into one of his tirades as to why, exactly, he shouldn't be subjected to the same medical expectations as the rest of the boring, ordinary idiots wandering around London, John held up a hand. 'You've spent enough time lying there in the past! Days on end, as I remember, and without one whisper of a word,' barked John.
'I did warn you,' said Sherlock.
'Stop it, you love to feel sorry for yourself—'
'I assure you, I don't.'
John ignored him. '—almost as much as you love to show off.'
Sherlock didn't reply. He couldn't really refute that one.
'At least now you have a proper excuse to boss people about. Not that it's ever stopped you before…'
'Ha ha, John.'
'You're such petulant child.'
John paused, and Sherlock glowered at him. Somehow, it wasn't as intimidating when he was curled up on the sofa.
'Toast?' he good-naturedly as he heaved himself to his feet.
Sherlock pulled a face.
'Takeaway it is, then,' said John, and Sherlock huffed as he fidgeted on the sofa.
John shook his head, but he had to fight back the urge to smile as he strode into the kitchen. It wasn't easy, doing that, as he hadn't had much to smile about recently—even comedy panel shows hadn't seemed the same without Sherlock's denigration. He couldn't help but smile, however, when he remembered that Sherlock was back, and that everything he'd mourned wasn't actually gone for good. It was back—hewas back. He was home.
They both were.
John shuffled the takeaway menus around in the draw that he'd opened; he didn't really need any of them (hell, he'd probably got all of the decent restaurants on his contacts list) but he needed some moments to really consider what had happened. He found it difficult to stop smiling; there really was nothing that could have brought a smile to John's lips other than Sherlock being alive. He was a lucky sod; no one got that chance. No one. Except him. So why was there a niggling feeling at the bottom of his gut that he wasn't entirely happy? Oh, he was happy, all right… but there was an undertone of the anger he'd felt at the funeral, the terrible indignance at Sherlock playing him one time too many.
Did it matter?
He didn't want it to.
He wandered back into the sitting room as he dialled the number of the Chinese restaurant that he hadn't been to since… well. Since then. He hadn't realized how much joy would come from ordering for two. If he hadn't been sat in his armchair being subjected to a very intense scrutiny by his incapacitated (and, frankly, displeased) flatmate, he would have let the tears that pricked at his eyes fall freely.
I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.
His phone buzzed on the table next to the armchair in which he was sat, and John scrambled to silence it before it woke Sherlock. The more uninterrupted sleep he could get, the better.
26-02-2013 21:16
Pub? –GL
John smiled.
26-02-2013 21:18
Not tonight –JW
It had scared him, a bit, the realization of just how much he needed Sherlock. How much he missed him. How much of his life was wrapped up in the convoluted logic of the world's only consulting detective. Of course, the fact that Sherlock had been dead had just made everything twice as hard, twice as terrible, twice as true. It wasn't as if he hadn't known how he'd felt about Sherlock; he reckoned that he'd known that when he shot that cabbie. You didn't just do that for anyone, even if you had been a soldier. It was still a shock, though, because he didn't have years to worry about how he'd cope if his partner died. It had just happened, all in a blur: love, unadulterated pulsating anger, pure white terror, a plain and terrible silence… all ending with a crushing thump.
And blood. Jesus Christ, there had been so much blood…
And yet, there he was. Lying on his side, facing the rest of the living room from his nest on the sofa, sound asleep. John couldn't remember if he'd ever actually seen Sherlock sleep before (if he discounted the times he'd been drugged and uncharacteristically incapacitated). Oh, he knew it must have happened, of course, but a sleeping Sherlock seemed as astounding as a mythical creature. But… there he was.
It seemed incongruous that Sherlock asleep seemed more of an abnormality than the fact that the man had just effectively come back from the dead. He'd staged his own death and buggered off somewhere for eight months—normal people just didn't do that. Not that Sherlock had ever been normal, but still… there were certain things that no one was supposed to be able to do, and that was one of them. Although John thought he really should have known; after all, Irene Adler had done it, and Sherlock had outwitted her, too, in the end.
John rolled his shoulders without getting up from his armchair. It was far too late for him to still be awake. He'd been up and out before half past seven, and it was almost a miracle that he wasn't falling asleep standing up at three in the morning—especially as he still had to go to work the next day. Sherlock, of course, had nodded off hours beforehand; John didn't even think that he'd noticed. One moment he'd been complaining about the uselessness of the trivia on QI, and the next he'd trailed off into a yawn and the land of unconscious sleep.
John had smiled, and got up to drag Sherlock's duvet off his bed. It was only after he'd managed to throw it over Sherlock's sleeping form that he settled back down into his armchair to continue slowly typing out an email. Not that that had lasted long—he hadn't got more than three words down before he'd decided to switch off all the lights in the living room apart from the one under which he was sat. There really was an intense need for Sherlock to get as much rest as possible, and John wasn't about to risk a rogue light or heavy typing ruin the serenity that came with a sleeping Sherlock.
Of course, he knew that once Sherlock was asleep, he slept like a log. But that didn't matter. He did all of it anyway.
And he'd sat there, with a now-empty cup of tea on the side table and a newspaper in his hands, with one eye on the detective. If anyone asked why, he'd just use the excuse that he needed some medical care; after all, he bloody well did. The stupid bastard, not doing anything about those ribs. He must've known that he needed to prevent mucous from building up in his lungs, but he hadn't fucking bothered. All it would have taken was a couple coughs here, a couple deep breaths there, but obviously there was something more important than his health going on in the world. (There probably was, but for once, John didn't care. Someone had to care about Sherlock.) Sometimes John wondered how on earth he managed to get through thirty odd years and a rather dangerous drug habit with apparently little damage.
How the hell he'd managed to survive jumping off the roof of Barts was another question entirely.
John ran a hand over his face, and heaved himself to his feet. Treading lightly, and avoiding that creaky plank of wood that Sherlock had always seemed to purposely find every morning while John was trying to sleep in, he made his way over to the window. He was almost surprised to see the same street that he'd walked down that morning staring back at him. London hadn't changed, not really, even if Sherlock had just walked back into John's life and back into 221B. The same lights that had stared back at the doctor every evening still stared at him now, as he watched the traffic cruise down the roadways. There would probably be tube delays the next day, just like there always where. There'd be murders, too, and robberies. Sherlock being home didn't solve all their problems.
But it solved enough of John's to give him the hope for a good night's sleep, and he hadn't had one of those for years.
He turned to watch Sherlock for a few moments. He didn't need to, really, but it was a luxury that he reckoned he deserved. After all, he probably wouldn't get the chance to watch Sherlock in calm stillness again; that bloody head of his never really gave him much peace. Then again, John knew that the brain could play tricks on anybody while they slept—even someone with a mind like Sherlock's—and you might not be able to tell. He could remember far too many nights when he'd woken up with his heart pounding out of his chest with all the hospital corners still tucked into place.
John sighed and made his way, reluctantly, towards the staircase that would lead to his bedroom. He really should have thought this through more; knowing Sherlock, as soon as John left the room, he'd be up and about and causing more and more damage to his already broken body. But what was he supposed to do? Drag the man to bed and crawl in next to him? Not likely. Somehow, John doubted that Sherlock would appreciate that.
Nevertheless, he took a moment to linger near Sherlock's head. He laid the back of a hand on the detective's forehead—no fever. That was a good sign. John doubted he'd ever be in the mood to try and get Sherlock into a hospital, and he'd have needed to go if he'd developed some sort of infection. But he hadn't, and everything was rosy. Well, apart from that contusion on Sherlock's chest. That was fucking black and blue, and John's mouth went dry every time he thought about it. (He had to stop doing that.)
He had to remove his hand from Sherlock's forehead, too, before the detective woke up spontaneously (unlikely, but did you really ever know with Sherlock Holmes?). But he didn't. At least, not immediately. He turned his hand around, lightly laying the flat of his palm against the curve of Sherlock's skull. He was real, he wasn't just a figment of his imagination anymore. He actually was back in the flat, he actually wasn't dead and… John suppressed an urge to chuckle; idiot. What—an—idiot.
What the hell was going on in his head? He'd been out of his mind for months, barely existing in any meaningful sense of the word, and now he was chuckling because the man he'd thought he'd seen kill himself was actually lying on their sofa with some badly bruised ribs? He must be mad. Mad as a fucking hatter.
He was happy, though. At least, he thought he was happy. Was there any reason not to be, really? He could come up with a few, if he was being honest, but he didn't want to think about them. It seemed ungrateful, and entirely illogical. But Sherlock had been dead. Dead—and now he was most decidedly alive. Battered and wounded, but alive. Wasn't that better than the alternative? Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. John didn't know. There was a lot that had been left unsaid, but their entire relationship seemed to be based on things that were left unsaid. Understood, mind you, but unsaid.
Are you gonna tell me what's going on?
I expect so. Now go.
And, with an almost regretful sigh, John went.
He was aware of the pain before he was aware he was awake.
Fifth and sixth ribs, on the left side. Possibly the seventh, but not as badly as the other two. Pain was sharper, more intense on inhalation. Some relief with exhalation. Breathing was shallow—too shallow. Too quick, as well. He'd not stopped and taken stock of exactly how severely he'd been hurt. It hadn't mattered, really, when John wasn't there to remind him. It had just been a distraction that was easy enough to ignore.
Then again, he'd had worse.
Sherlock's throat and tongue felt thick in his mouth, which was parched. He'd been asleep a while, then; properly, not just a sneaky nap. He shifted, appalled that he hadn't been able to make his mind overrule his body, but his foot brushed against a rough cushion and the blanket that slipped away from his shoulder was John's heavily knitted plaid throw—not a duvet. He was still on the sofa, then, and as he felt the stick of skin against the leather where his face had slipped from the makeshift pillow under his ear, he was rather relieved to know that drowsiness hadn't completely robbed him of the prickly Sherlock Holmes.
He could hear traffic from the street, and the clatter and conversation of the construction crews as they set up across the street. There was a police siren in the distance, too—northeast, by the sound of it—but the sounds were crisp. Too crisp. There was a window open. Why was there a window open?
It didn't matter. Mrs Hudson had Radio 4 on, a bit of wishful thinking on her part as Gardener's Question Time crept its way into Sherlock's ears. She wasn't pottering about—no footsteps, no shift of slipper against carpet—so she must have been having her morning cup of tea. Morning soother, possibly, with the weather as it was. Sherlock's mind turned away from downstairs, and faced upwards. John wasn't up yet, either. No careful footsteps. For some reason, Sherlock felt… disappointed.
He opened his eyes, and 221B lay before him. There was a mysterious swelling in his chest that was quickly punctured by his ribs as he heaved himself into a sitting position. He blinked his way through the pain, clearing the sleep from his eyes and bringing the room into focus. His almost good mood was dampened as his gaze settled on his phone. The screen was alight and angry, as if it had a message to deliver that it couldn't get rid of quickly enough. Sherlock sneered at the device, indulging his capacity for childish feuds as he recognised the constant notifications on his call log.
4 missed calls…
07:43 Mycroft Holmes
08:02 Mycroft Holmes
08:37 Mycroft Holmes
09:05 Mycroft Holmes
Ah. Yes. He'd expected this. Mycroft could be painfully predictable. He'd been under orders (though Mycroft should have known that he wasn't going to pay attention to them.) Of course, the difference between actually being physically alive and being alive according to the government was several days' worth of sensitive and incriminating paperwork. Sherlock had been walking around for eight months, officially dead according to his brother's office. And what had he done the moment that it was safe enough for him to go back home? Wandered down to Lambeth and walked into the surgery where John had been working for the past week. Asked for him specifically, in fact. Plain as day.
Risky—very risky. Could be dangerous. So many chances to be recognized, or for someone to sound the alarm before they'd planned. But this was London, where everyone saw but no one observed—where everyone looked but no one recognized. Sherlock had arrived without anyone giving him as much as a dirty look as he pushed past them on the street, and he'd just walked straight in. John. The first piece—the only piece—of home that he'd been impatient (Sherlock was not able to describe himself as desperate) to get back to. John had been there, real and tangible when he'd been a memory only an hour before and then—
The loud flailing of his vibrating phone against the top of the coffee table brought Sherlock away from the halls of his mind palace. He'd spent far too long in there, anyway, recently.
09:34
Incoming Call…
Mycroft Holmes
Sherlock didn't even consider answering the call. He didn't really want to speak to Mycroft at that particular moment—although he rarely wanted to talk to his brother. He didn't want to be scolded for going back home, for going back to the one place that he'd missed with the few people that he'd actually longed to see, when Mycroft had had the luxury of orchestrating the entire operation from his living room. Not that Sherlock would admit that to anyone. Their association with him had already got guns pointed at their heads once; he wasn't about to make a second attempt on their lives more likely.
Hmph. John would have probably called that heroic.
Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.
He'd thought that a lot, in those eight months: what John would say. He'd had to make himself stop. It… distracted him too much. The day Sherlock realized that was the day he actually considered cocaine again, just to forget, to be able to separate Sherlock from John and John from Sherlock. Even he couldn't do that anymore.
Sherlock let the phone ring out, not even bothering to turn down the volume or to remove it from the noisy surface. He just sat there, limbs folded around his aching torso, and listened until he heard John's feet hit the floorboards. Sherlock felt himself unconsciously recoil back into the leather of the chair; he wanted to see John, to be in the same room with him, but he couldn't bring himself to go to John when John could—for the first time in the past eight months—come to him.
He closed his eyes as John came down the stairs; the doctor was favouring his leg, again, though only when he'd been inactive for a long period of sleep. John hadn't mentioned it, and Sherlock could ascertain no definite sign that the limp was back in full force. Yet there was an irrational twang in Sherlock's throat that jerked his eyes open.
'Morning,' was John's greeting as he stepped across the threshold, yawning and running a hand over his face before he spotted the kettle and made a beeline to the kitchen.
Sherlock watched him go, his head inclined so that his intense interest wasn't obvious. John was wearing that long sleeved shirt again, the one that was striped like some sort of preemptive cartoon robber. He'd had a late night, yet although he'd had difficulty getting to sleep, once he was there, he'd slept deeply. Should really invest in a new pillow, too, but he'd apparently gone a bit sentimental. But… well, from all the yawns and aches for hands to rub, it looked as if John hadn't had a decent night's sleep in a long time. Too long a time. Though, who was he to judge? Sherlock never slept more than two hours at a time. And it was odd for him to be up before John—his two hours were always early mornings, sunrises, when he had the luxury of choosing. Sherlock turned back to the headlines on his phone, wanting but not sure how to take.
'Tea?'
'Mmhm,' said Sherlock, nodding although he knew that John wasn't looking at him. He'd make him a cup anyway. He always did.
It was funny, really, how intimate an act making tea was. So many steps. Water, kettle, boil, teabag, mug… Then you had to watch the solution as to ascertain the exact moment when it was suitable to drink and entirely not stewed (Sherlock couldn't stand stewed tea). Then you had to know exactly how the person took their tea, exactly how much milk or sugar or whatever else there was to stick in. So very... messy. And time-consuming. And yet John did it for him every day. Multiple times. Interesting. Fascinating, in fact.
John appeared at Sherlock's shoulder and handed him his mug of tea in a way that suggested he'd never had to make just one, even though Sherlock knew full well that he had. He thought he felt that John wanted to say something, a word on the tip of his tongue knocking its way out through his teeth, but John didn't. He let Sherlock cradle the mug of warmth in silence, who was reveling in the distraction of hot liquid pooling in his throat, and moved back towards the kitchen where his own tea lay waiting.
Sherlock's phone rang again, and he pointedly sipped his drink as he ignored it.
Still, though. He wasn't the only one anymore. John spoke as he checked that he was slicing the bread into relatively straight pieces. 'No funny business today, Sherlock.'
The pang of pain that shook Sherlock's skeleton as he reached out for a recent edition of The Telegraph reminded him of John's medical anxiety. Still, there was no real reason why he just had to roll over and give in. 'No rest for the wicked, John.'
'Sherlock.' John's speech was punctuated with him dropping two slices of bread into the toaster. 'You can't possibly expect me to let you run around London after some sort of international criminal now, can you?'
'Who said I was asking?'
John just looked at him. Strange, that, how much just a slight crook of his left eyebrow and the minuscule movement of his hairline made him squirm. Not many people could do that. John could, though. Evidently.
'And who said it was an international criminal?' he continued, trying to avoid aggravating John's annoyance. He'd probably done enough of that already. Not that he cared… much.
John pulled away from the open fridge, a pack of butter in one hand while the other rested over the door. He nodded towards Sherlock's now-quiet phone. 'Mycroft?'
Ah, Dr John Watson. He always had been surprisingly astute, even if he didn't believe it himself.
'And why would I be disposed to take a case from my brother?'
'Are we honestly having a conversation made up entirely of questions?' asked John briskly as the toast popped out of the toaster. He picked it out of the appliance with extreme care, though ended up throwing it roughly onto the breadboard. Too hot—obviously.
'Are we not?'
Sherlock's mouth smirked its way into the genuine half-smile that had always seemed foreign to him until he'd met John. He turned away from the phone in his fingers to watch John in the kitchen; the doctor was smiling, and shaking his head to himself, as he smeared far more butter than necessary onto their toast.
John had only been a work an hour when his phone started going—he'd had to shove it in one of his unused desk draws before his next patient had come in. Not that that had helped much, since it clattered around angrily as it vibrated more and more furiously with each incoming message. He could almost feel his blood pressure rising; why couldn't Sherlock just play the patient for once, and shut up? He didn't reply to any of them; not at first, anyway. There really was no need. All Sherlock was doing was bothering him with mundane complaints, none of which took precedence over the (equally mundane, most of the time) complaints that came from his patients.
Sherlock was no different from one of his patients, though, and that was why he hadn't turned his phone off completely. There were a handful of situations where Sherlock might actually need his help… or where Mrs Hudson would have to call him and ask him to come back to Baker Street in order to prevent it from being burnt to the ground.
No, he couldn't be completely offline. It wasn't safe for any of them.
So he kept his phone on, and it kept buzzing.
Eventually, after three of his five patients so far had given his desk funny looks but not said anything, John checked his phone.
27-02-2013 10:03
All the channels you
watch are awful. –SH
How the hell did he know what channels he watched? Then again, even John didn't really know what channels he watched. He hadn't been paying that much attention to the television recently. Could Sherlock have guessed why, too? Probably not. That sort of thing had always seemed to go over his head. Just like social conventions, being polite and genuine human decency on a small scale; they were the sorts of things that were too unimportant not to delete.
But John shook his head, and didn't bother reading any of the other messages that were in his inbox. He'd save them for later, when he wasn't mooching time off of his employer to chat to his half-mad flatmate. He typed as quickly and quietly as possible, as if he was expecting someone to come crashing through his exam room door at any minute.
27-02-2013 11:27
Deep breaths. –JW
He might as well try and make Sherlock do something to take care of himself. Hell, he'd probably not even got up to get anything to eat. Or he might have—after all, he wasn't on a case, so there was no reason that digesting would slow him down. John could only dream that it might slow down his thought process to a level where he could actually get some peace. (Not that he minded, really. He was trying to ignore the fact that it felt like his heart might actually jump straight out of ribcage every time he heard another message arrive, and he knew that it would be Sherlock's name on the screen.)
He'd have to ring Mrs Hudson at lunchtime and get her to make sure Sherlock had eaten something. Preferably something that wasn't tea. She wouldn't mind.
He barely had time to put his phone back in its draw when the reply rushed into his inbox. John read it just as he heard his next patient's footsteps outside the door, and shook his head with a slight smile.
27-02-2013 11:28
Make me. –SH
The first time one of his patients commented, it was a teenage boy who'd come in for a sports physical, and he'd got the completely wrong idea.
'Bit keen, isn't she?' he said, gesturing vaguely towards the desk as John was peering into his ear canal.
John didn't correct him. He didn't say anything, either, and just jotted down the results onto the boy's school form.
'I'd run a mile, mate.'
If only he could. Sherlock would find him in a matter of hours; he wished he could've said the same for Sherlock. No doubt there had been clues, perhaps clues left only for John. But he hadn't thought, he'd just seen and he hadn't observed. He'd just mourned; he'd been blinded with sorrow. Even if he had noticed, he probably wouldn't have been able to handle it. He wouldn't have believed it. He would have listened to Ella and convinced himself that he was imagining it.
But this was Sherlock, and anything could happen with Sherlock. He should have known, really. He should've known.
Did it matter?
When John thought about it, probably not. Either way, Sherlock was alive, and he was going to be in 221B when John got home. The thought alone was enough to tempt John's stomach curling into around itself in nervous glee.
27-02-2013 11:43
Do it, Sherlock, or I'll kill
you properly this time. –JW
(Was he really making jokes about it already? It felt like it was too soon. Was it? It probably was, but it didn't stop him from smiling slyly to himself as he pressed send.)
27-02-2013 11:43
I'd like to see you try. –SH
(Ha. Sherlock overestimated himself. Had he really forgotten that John was a soldier?)
27-02-2013 11:44
You'll kill yourself again at
this rate. Do you want to get
pneumonia? –JW
'D'you need to check that, dear?' asked Mrs Henderson as John's phone buzzed for the umpteenth time. She must have been able to tell that he was cringing every single time the noise reached their ears. His blood pressure was probably higher than hers—and she only made the appointment to renew a prescription for her severe hypertension.
He really had to talk to Sherlock about this—whether or not he'd be able to convince him to stop was a toss-up.
John shook his head as he turned back towards her file. 'No, it's just my flatmate.'
'If they're—what are you young'uns calling it these days?—texting, is it?-texting you that much, surely it's important?' she said, pulling her cardigan back across her shoulders as John returned all the equipment to their rightful places.
He suppressed the urge to smirk; of course, with most people, that would be true. After all, most people felt some sort of respect when it came to disturbing their friends while they were at work. Especially since they were just bored, and wanted someone to pay attention to them.
Appreciation! Applause! At long last, the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, John: it needs an audience.
He turned his chair to face her, and pulled put his prescription pad. 'Nah, not with him. He's a bit...' A bit what, exactly? Needy? He never would have classified Sherlock as needy. But, in a way, he was, and he'd just spent the last eight months working alone when he'd been used to having John by his side. He was probably still lonely, and a bit lost. He'd never admit it though, in the same way that he'd never admit that he was dangerously hurt. John cleared his throat as he tore off the paper; it bothered him, a bit, that even now Sherlock occupied most of his thoughts. 'Well, he's a bit poorly at the moment.'
Her gaze softened. 'Oh, the poor dear! Must be pretty nasty.'
'A couple broken ribs,' he said absentmindedly, although he was well aware that he shouldn't really be mentioning anything about his personal life to patients. 'He's not the sitting down type, as you might be able to tell.'
As if to prove his point, John's phone rattled around on the cheap fibreboard of the desk drawer. He rolled his eyes and she chuckled. Thank goodness his patients at Lambeth tended to be good-natured; at this point, Sherlock was probably more likely to find sympathy from them than he was from John.
John was under orders from Mrs Henderson to tell Sherlock to 'get well soon' when he checked his phone again.
27-02-2013 11:45
If it means I don't have to sit here
on my own all day, yes. –SH
27-02-2013 11:46
I'm bored, John. –SH
Well, what on earth was he supposed to do about that? Sherlock had been on the run for eight months, supposed to be dead and buried, and now that he had doctor's orders to stay in and drink as many cups of tea as he could possibly make… he was bored?
27-02-2013 12:47
Amuse yourself, then.
Do a breathing experiment. –JW
Maybe reverse psychology would work.
(It was a long shot. Obviously.)
27-02-2013 12:49
Your attempts at humour
are futile. I'm still bored. –SH
27-02-2013 13:03
Sherlock, I'm at work! –JW
27-02-2013 13:04
Obviously. –SH
27-02-2013 13:05
Don't be an idiot. –JW
John didn't get a reply from Sherlock. He did, however, get one from Mycroft while he stopped off at Tesco Express.
27-02-2013 15:41
I'd say that congratulations
are in order. –MH
John smirked at his phone while he was stood in the checkout line, and wondered what dental procedure Mycroft had been subjected to this time. He took far too much pleasure in hoping that it was another root canal.
'Good day?' asked John as he put down the shopping bags on the counter.
'No,' said Sherlock dryly, without looking up from his laptop.
John shook his head, both slightly disappointed and mildly amused. There was a used plate rather pointedly placed in the sink—Mrs Hudson had done her job, and it looked like Sherlock actually did have enough practical skills to make beans on toast. There was a cup of tea next to the kettle as well, which was still hot; recently made, obviously, and in the same mug that John always used. He glanced back at Sherlock, who was still determinedly intently gazing at the screen.
Odd, that. Sherlock had never made tea before. All right, maybe he had once or twice, but he'd usually been more concerned with grisly triple murders or multi-million pound thefts.
Still, it was nice of him.
