After three more days of observation, John was released from the hospital. Embarrassingly enough, he needed some help from a nurse on certain things like buttoning up his shirt and tying his shoes. Damn the brain damage was all he could think during the ordeal. He had given his statement to Lestrade two days prior, so everything was settled on that end, and Mycroft promised he'd have his best people track down whoever shot John in the first place. With that, Sherlock also insisted that there be surveillance on Baker Street 24/7 until the assailant was caught (which no doubt included bugging the flat). John was even driven to Baker Street by one of Mycroft's town cars that had bulletproof glass.
Personally, John thought this was a little excessive. He may have been temporarily impaired, but he was pretty sure he could fight off whoever shot him if she showed up again. He was a bloody soldier for Christ's sake, he should have been given a bit of credit for his abilities!
He had a bit of trouble with the key to the front door, but once inside, he was greeted by a very enthusiastic Mrs. Hudson fawning over him. She asked him if he was feeling well, what the doctors said, and told him that if he needed anything at all, he just had to call for her. John then made his way upstairs to the flat, and as soon as he opened the door, was greeted by a high pitch,
"DADA!"
Sherlock was on the couch with Rosie, who was holding a little stuffed bee in her tiny hands whilst lying on her back. Her toothless smile was bright and wondrous. She had gotten so big since the last time John had seen her. It seemed that she had Mary's eyes, and was developing dark brown, curly hair. The smile was also Mary's… god she looked so much like Mary now. John put his keys in his pocket, and immediately approached his amazing daughter.
"Hello darling." John said as he picked her up.
He planted a big noisy kiss on her cheek, which made his baby girl squeal heartily.
He was surprised that she was already saying 'Dada'... but then again, he was in a coma for two months. It was somewhat sad though that he wasn't there for Rosie's first words. Hopefully Sherlock was there for them at least.
"I brought her to the hospital every day so that she would remember your face." Sherlock explained. "Children of her age often confuse different people in their lives if they are not seen regularly - I was afraid she would bond with me too much and start calling me 'dada', it would have been more difficult to reverse than to prevent. She spoke her first 'dada' to you, when she was at the hospital with me."
John felt his throat close up a bit from emotion, but discreetly cleared it.
"Thank you, Sherlock…" He said. "That… that's um…"
"It was prudent, children of her age need constant reinforcement. You would have been upset if we had to retrain her because she'd forgotten who you were to her. She enjoyed playing with you at the hospital-."
"Does this mean you were the one taking care of her all this time?"
Rosie seemed to just be listening excitedly and looked to Sherlock with a bright smile. She also gnawed at a toy bumble bee in her hands. That's when John noticed he never got her the bumble bee, which meant Sherlock probably got it for her. He smiled to himself.
"And you got her this toy bee, didn't you?"
"To your first question: of course. I am her godfather after all, I made an oath. Mrs. Hudson and Molly helped, obviously. Secondly, you know of my love of bees, extraordinary creatures, really. This one was not as anatomically correct as the others I looked at, but Molly convinced me that in baby toys, the ability for them to be washable was most important. Within two days, I fervently agreed with her."
Sherlock made a slightly disgusted face at Rosie's gnawing, and John followed his eye movement to see the problem.
"Well, I'm happy you chose a cartoon bee, because I'm pretty sure a realistic one would have scared her."
The little girl nodded her head… which was unusual. Children didn't start doing that until seven months at least - Rosie was only four months old. Sherlock peered closely at her.
"That's peculiar," He said. "Most babies only learn to hold their heads up at 3 months, she's actually nodding, John. She did seem very advanced from all the baby books I read while I kept you company in the hospital… could she really be capable of nodding at four months when she should only be doing that at 7 months?"
John took another look at Rosie, and seriously considered what Sherlock was saying, but he decided not to think about it too much. Babies did things at different rates, so maybe it was normal? Then he realized Sherlock said 'the baby books I read'. He read baby books?
"I don't know… but you also read baby books?"
"I'd read some before she was born, but when I suddenly became the primary caregiver to a two month old child who had already lost her mother, I did what I knew best, John, I researched. There's a nursery in my Mind Palace now," Sherlock sighed, "those are words I thought I'd never say." Sherlock thought back to the time he called his mother when he was desperately trying to calm Rosie from a crying fit. "I even called my mother for help, she told me to sing the child to sleep… being less than willing to do that, I tried my violin and it worked."
"Which song?"
"A song from a children's movie I found in her things…"
Sherlock looked down with a deep blush starting to crawl up his cheeks while he rapidly searched the nursery in his Mind Palace. He tried lighter classical songs for Rosie, but she just didn't care for them. If anything, it made her cry harder.
"Um… How Far I'll Go, from Moana."
The detective looked up briefly to see John actually smiling at him.
"I've never seen that movie, but Mary said that it was good to watch with kids… so maybe I should watch it with Rosie."
It was extremely hard not to laugh at Sherlock in that moment. It was a no-brainer that Rosie would like a kid's movie song because Rosie was a child. It didn't take a genius to figure that out.
The child in questions started to get fussy, and John could smell poo coming from the diaper. Time for a nappy change.
"Where have you been changing her?"
"There's a pull-down changing station in the bathroom, it's perfectly safe. There's a bottle warmer in the kitchen, a machine to sterilise bottles and dummies, the cabinets have been baby proofed and the counters are still well out of her reach for now. I got them to add gates -"
"Well that's interesting, Sherlock, but she's starting to stink up the flat, so I need to go change her now."
John went to the bathroom, and immediately saw new additions to it: baby towels with hoods, bath toys, Rosie's shampoos and body washes, even puppet looking washcloths. The fold-out changing table was where the towel rack used to be (the towel rack was now by the sink next to the toilet). He folded out the changing table and saw that it also had dispensers for the wipes and nappies there was a DiaperGenie below it, next to the hamper.
"Looks like Uncle Sherlock picked a right good one for you." John said to Rosie.
He laid Rosie down on the folding table, surprised at what a relief it was to be rid of her weight; his arms were tired. He felt like a little nap would be nice, but no - he had to change his daughter's nappy. He undid the buttons on her onesie, which was surprisingly difficult (deficits the neurologist had said), he'd never expected to have trouble with bloody buttons.
Once she was out of it, he pulled on the release straps on the nappy - she'd gone up a size, he realized. He pulled it back and tried his old trick with the wipe in one hand, and the diaper in the other. It was like a magician pulling a tablecloth out under the settings… he reached for the built-in wipe dispenser, and felt the wipe brush against his forearm, and realized his spatial issues were manifesting at the worst possible time. He tried again, slower, he clearly wasn't going to break his old nappy-changing records. He tried his old magician's trick but everything went to hell; there was poop on the table and he already had to use four wipes before he could put a new nappy on. He tried to align the tabs, but it made him feel slightly dizzy. He needed help.
"Sherlock!" He called out. "Can you, um, help me out a bit, please?"
He couldn't believe he was asking Sherlock to help him change his daughter. Sherlock Holmes of all people.
Sherlock walked into the bathroom and observed the mess, which caused him to immediately deduce that John's new neural deficits were to blame. John had been in denial about them and it made Sherlock wonder if this had made him see they were a problem and that the physical therapy the doctors recommended wasn't, as John had so eloquently put it, "bollocks".
"I daresay you're a bit out of practice, John. My first try looked much like this."
Sherlock adjusted the position of the baby on the table, took out a new nappy, and got to work.
"I believe it's all in the alignment the blue tab here connects to the yellow part there and they combine to look green. Then the same on the other side… all done. Was there any faeces on the onesie?" He checked real quick. "No? Good, I tried every brand of nappies at Tesco, my experiments have proven these have the best seal."
He put the onesie back on Rosie then grinned at John, but was entirely unsure as to what John's expression meant.
The soldier was looking at Sherlock, a bit bemused and shaking his head slightly. He couldn't exactly comprehend this new side to his best friend, and he felt his heart warm up. He had no idea where this was all coming from, but it was extraordinary.
"You really put every bit of effort in, didn't you?" John asked. "I mean, I didn't even try and see which nappy had the best seal or whatever else you tried when I knew Rosie was going to be born, meanwhile you have practically everything figured out."
"Not everything, John. Every day I have to look something up on the internet because she changes so fast, it seems to be a consensus on all parenting forums that if you think you know everything, you're most certainly incorrect."
"Yeah, that's pretty much a given." John chuckled. "But seriously, you don't ever hang around kids at all. Even when Donovan invited you to her baby shower you refused and you almost totally refused to be Rosie's godfather because you're a hardcore atheist."
Sally Donovan actually found out she was pregnant a few weeks before the wedding. Because of her affair with Anderson, she ended up having a son named Oliver Andrew Donovan, and decided she needed to take a year off from Scotland Yard to get her life sorted out. Lestrade even convinced the Yard to give her a raise so she could support herself and her son. Anderson hadn't spoken a word to her about it as far as everyone knew, and Sherlock flatly refused to go to her baby shower when she invited him.
"Rosamund was a different case altogether," Sherlock declared. "Though I don't believe in the institution of godparents, I agreed once I had understood my prejudice for what it was. I later, quite unexpectedly, realised it granted me a small measure of parental rights and made me part of 'the emergency parental proxy team' as Molly put it. I've never cared for another child, they often bore me until they can communicate properly, but the moment I saw Rosamund, saw you in her, nothing could tear me away."
John looked morose and didn't meet Sherlock's eyes. He hadn't realized how much Sherlock cared for Rosie, at all. After all, he wouldn't get off his damn phone when she was in the process of being born! John delivered her himself on the side of a road, and it wasn't until Rosie was crying that Sherlock even looked up. To think that Sherlock actually felt like a parental unit for Rosie was a shock to him, and made him feel horrible when he rejected Sherlock's friendship after Mary's death.
"Even after Mary's death when I refused your help and wrote that awful letter?"
"Yes John, even then."
Rosie started waving her arms and babbling, as if to say 'hey, I'm right here, pay attention to me' as Sherlock had finished changing her a few minutes ago. John then picked her up and blew a raspberry into her cheek, which made her squeal with joy. That sound always made John's heart grow a bit more.
"You're all clean now." He said with a yawn, and then Rosie yawned as well. "It looks like we both need a nap."
Sherlock picked up on John's question as to where everything was immediately. The man in front of him looked considerably more tired than he had when he walked in thirty minutes ago. The lack of muscle and brain usage for two months had obviously taken a toll if a ride in Mycroft's car, going up stairs, and interacting with the baby made him this tired already.
"Her cot is in my room. I'd prefer if you slept downstairs as well, I'll take the couch. I'm not planning on sleeping too much tonight, lots of new information to assimilate."
Sherlock had already placed the receiver of the baby monitor in the lounge so he could get Rosie the moment she woke up. He intended on having John sleep as long as he needed to, and was determined that he not take the stairs every morning and night to go to bed.
"Sherlock, it's fine, I'll just go to my old room upstairs." John insisted.
John started to go to the cot, but Sherlock blocked his path with a haughty look of authority, and didn't move out of the way.
"Um… could you move aside please?"
"Not upstairs. Everything is already in my room, I see no reason for you to climb any more stairs tonight. I'll hold her while you brush your teeth."
"But the couch isn't comfortable at all."
"I won't be asleep very long, if at all. You know I'm perfectly capable of making myself comfortable wherever I fall asleep."
John sighed, defeated. He knew Sherlock wouldn't let up no matter how many arguments he made, so there was no point in trying.
"Alright, I'll sleep in your room. Just let me put Rosie down before she starts crying."
John found the crib along the right wall of Sherlock's bedroom, easily visible from the doorway. He deposited an already dozing Rosie in there and smiled at his daughter. He felt distinctly uncomfortable there. He glanced toward the bed, which he'd only seen a few times in all his time living here. Irene Adler had been in there at least once, but to John it had always felt forbidden. He found that his pajamas had already been placed neatly on the bed (by Sherlock?). He remembered how tired he was, decided that 'it's all fine' was a good motto for that night, slipped on the pajama bottoms, and was disconcertingly happy to find the shirt had no buttons - asking Sherlock to button his shirt was a humiliation he was unwilling to go through when he'd already had to ask him for help with the baby. He walked into the bathroom from the adjoining door (another new experience) and brushed his teeth reasonably well, though not with his usual even strokes. He urinated then walked back into The Bedroom, he wandered over to the bed again and was suddenly unsure which SIDE to sleep on. Since the left-hand side was closest to the bathroom, he decides to just go for it. He laid his head on the pillow he is engulfed in the smell of Sherlock, his shampoo and soap and his own natural scent, for a minute it was the most comforting smell in the world…
He suddenly realized that he'd been rubbing his face into the pillow inhaling deeply, and felt some very old urges awakening. 'No,' he thought, 'this is the worst time for those old feelings to resurface.' All he should have felt was gratefulness that his friend had done so much for his child during his… absence'. John settled on his back and fell asleep faster than he thought possible.
Sherlock was on his chair in the lounge, in his thinking pose, deep in the John wing of his Mind Palace, filing away details about John's neural deficits, thinking what else he can buy to help John. Dimly, he heard the toilet flush in the bathroom, he floated back to the real world and realized John had used the en-suite entrance… it gave him a small thrill - he'd have to puzzle out the significance of that later. Through the baby monitor he heard John get into the bed - he'd asked Mrs Hudson to change the sheets when he foresaw this as the most probable outcome. There was a minute of unusually deep breathing then the sheets rustled again. Sherlock wondered idly whether John was smelling his pillow. He wasn't entirely sure of the etiquette for this situation, pillows often retained smell molecules despite their covers being changed, but surely going out of one's way to sniff at a pillow was a bit odd? Less than a minute later, the faint sound of John's snoring could be heard from the baby monitor.
Rosie was quietly snuffling in her sleep, which Sherlock had learned was a sign of contentment. He stood up to make himself some tea (lightly steeped Earl Grey with sugar and milk). This is something he had to learn to do himself in the time John was away. He sipped lightly and retreated back into his Mind Palace; every second since John arrived home had to be saved. Today was important - today, as that trite saying went 'was the first day of the rest of his life' and Sherlock was going to make the best of it.
The next morning John was woken up by Rosie crying. He didn't wake up during the night at all, but that didn't mean Sherlock couldn't have helped her in the night. He was exhausted before he went to sleep after all. John stretched in bed, and got up to take Rosie out of her crib. At first, he over-estimated how far he needed to reach, but the second time he successfully picked her up and rested her on his hip.
"Good morning." He said gently.
Rosie sniffled a bit, but seemed a bit at ease by getting attention from her Daddy. John could feel the diaper was a bit heavy under his arm, which signalled it was time for a change.
"I'd say it's time for a nappy change, wouldn't you?"
The changing went uneventfully. John managed to get it right this time without incident, and tried to not make noise so he wouldn't wake Sherlock. However, the damn brain trauma got him when he was heating up Rosie's formula. The bottles were already sterilized, everything was going swimmingly… until he tried to take the bottle off of the machine. It was so hot that he dropped the bottle and it spilled all over the floor. He cursed loudly and it was sheer luck that he didn't forget to keep holding Rosie. His hand stung something fierce and he honestly felt it was Sherlock's fault for getting such a fancy bottle heater.
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock ran into the kitchen hair askew in his pajamas, looking anxious.
"John! Are you alright?" He surveyed the chaos. "Here, let me put Rosie in her high chair, I'll clean it up and make her a new one. What happened?"
John handed Rosie to Sherlock.
"You bought a damn bottle-heater that didn't have a cool-down… thing so I could pick up the bottle without burning my bloody hand!"
"Sorry, John, there's a switch on the side… I… uh... was planning on showing you. The baby website said this was the premier model, supposedly intuitive to use, but it's clearly not. I'll register a bad review on their website."
He said this last part meekly, embarrassed to have made John angry. He looked at him with pleading eyes, and wondered what he could do to fix the situation without making John feel worse.
"Just… just fix her a bottle. I'm gonna take a shower."
With that, John angrily stomped to the bathroom and slammed the door. Rosie started to cry in Sherlock's arms either from hunger or from the noises, it was a toss-up honestly. Sherlock cringed and they looked remarkably similar in that moment. Obviously John's brain injury caused him to be more irritable than normal.
John didn't know why he was so angry at Sherlock. It wasn't as if he did anything to cause the anger in the first place, so why would he be almost enraged at Sherlock for John burning his own hand? It didn't make any sense, and thankfully when he was done with his shower, his anger had subsided. When he exited the bathroom and went to the bedroom, some clothing was already set out on the bed for him. It was a simple jumper with a pair of jeans and pants. Even if the jumper didn't fit John anymore, he was thankful there were no buttons on them. Soon he was ready for the day even though he felt like he only had half of the energy needed to do anything when he got out to the living room. He found Sherlock sitting on the couch with Rosie in his arms. She had clearly already eaten and was contentedly watching a children's program on the TV. Sherlock was frowning at the telly, looking puzzled.
"Hello John." Sherlock said gently, "Would you like to join us?"
He gestured to the other seat on the couch and began to pass Rosie over to John. John sighed and dropped down in the seat, and allowed his daughter to be passed to him. He smelled the top of her head and felt some comfort.
"Listen, I'm sorry about being a d-." He stopped himself because Rosie was in his arms. "Being… angry. I don't know why I did that when it was my fault to begin with, so let's just forget about it, okay?"
"Already forgotten, deleted from my Mind Palace. It's typical behaviour for anyone who has suffered a brain injury. Mycroft has found a physiotherapist who specialises in neural issues, she'll be here in two days."
"I don't need physiotherapy, Sherlock."
"Not to sound like a 'prat' as you'd say, John, but you really do. Haven't you proven that to yourself twice already?"
"Prat."
Sherlock gave him an indulgent look and shook his head slightly.
"I mean, yeah I have been a bit off, but that could easily be because I was unconscious for two months." John said.
"Unconscious because of a brain injury, John, needing to remind you only furthers my point." Sherlock drawled sarcastically.
John tried to punch him on the arm, but missed and rolled his eyes.
"Just so you know, I missed because I was trying not to jostle the baby."
Sherlock eyed John sideways, scoffed, and reconsidered the symptoms John was likely to present with: spatial impairment - check, irrational anger- check, denial - check (twice, because John is terribly stubborn), increased anxiety - a bit of that, increased frustration - definitely, sequencing abilities - as yet unclear, joint and muscular stiffness due to atrophy - certainly, fatigue - obvious. There were many other minor inconveniences that could appear, but hopefully wouldn't. Sherlock calculated that integrating the physiotherapy with Rosie's play would most likely have the best results and make John more comfortable… as long as he didn't catch on too quickly.
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"You have your deduction face on, don't do that right now."
Sherlock looked unabashed with his most oblivious look.
"I wasn't doing anything, just watching Rosie."
"No you weren't. You were doing that look where you were intensely staring at me but also thinking really quickly or something. I could practically feel your eyes on me."
"I wasn't doing anything of the sort, I really think you need to consider the physio, that's all. Mycroft found a specialist, the best his money could buy - I think he feels guilty for one of his agents getting ahold of that file and going rogue."
John looked down at Rosie, who was running her tiny hands over the stuffed bee and watching the TV. He guessed that could be true, but it wasn't-.
"No flowers, brother mine. My request."
John was back in the room at Sherrinford. Sherlock was pointing the gun to Mycroft's heart and Eurus' hollowed face was on the TV screens around them. John felt entirely helpless, and didn't want to see anyone else die. The fact that it would be Sherlock killing his own brother was the worst thing he could almost imagine.
Things suddenly flashed forward to Sherlock counting down from ten. The only thing that kept going through John's mind in that moment was, 'No! Don't you dare shoot yourself, Sherlock! I can't lose anyone else I care about, not anymore! I can't lose YOU again…'
Sherlock watched John's face go rigid, his teeth clenched. At first he was perfectly still, then he suddenly began to shake. Sherlock immediately removed Rosie from his lap and placed her on John's chair.
"Don't you dare shoot yourself…" John whispered.
"John, come on, wake up, you're having a flashback of some sort."
"I can't lose you again… Not now Sherlock…"
A picture formed quickly in Sherlock's mind, 'he must be in the room where I have to choose between shooting him or Mycroft' Sherlock held John's hand tightly.
"Nobody's getting shot, we're all alive and well, John. You need to come back to me, right now I'm losing you. Please come back to me John. Come back to Rosie, we need you."
John's eyes suddenly focused again and he gained his sense of where he was. He was still shaking uncontrollably, and his breathing was erratic. He felt sick like he did when he used to have bad war flashbacks, and immediately ran to the bathroom where he wretched into the toilet.
Rosie looked concerned as her eyes were on the bathroom door. She looked up to Sherlock and pointed at the bathroom.
"Bamoom!" She said it in a commanding tone, to almost tell Sherlock to go to her father immediately.
Sherlock had been staring after John the second he ran to the bathroom, frozen. He looked down at Rosie when she spoke and immediately followed the four month old girl's command. There was no need to knock on the bathroom door as it had been left wide open in John's stampede. John was resting his head on his hands as he sat by the toilet, silently sobbing. Sherlock stood frozen again at this. He was getting better at it, but emotions were still not his 'area'. He crouched down next to John, and rubbed his back in a soothing circular pattern he had discovered worked well on Rosie. John looked up at him and grabbed the lapels of his dressing gown.
"It's not real, it never happened. Tell me Sherlock!"
"It's not real, John. None of it happened, it was all a dream. I promise."
Without a word, John buried his face in Sherlock's shirt, and tried to will himself not to cry but made sure that this Sherlock, the one right here in front of him, didn't have to go through what he did. Unfortunately, the emotions overtook him and his breath started catching.
"We were there… Mycroft told you to shoot him… but you… you…"
"Shhh, John, I know. You whispered something during your... attack, that helped me deduce the situation. I'm glad you shared so much of your dream with me… otherwise I wouldn't have known what you were experiencing."
Sherlock gave up on the 'soothing' circles, they clearly weren't up to this task. Maybe Rosie would help cheer John, she always seemed to… He was a bit out of his depth here, he'd have to do some research on how to best comfort a PTSD attack… His neatly ordered mind was on the edge of panic. Rosie, that was all he could think to do. Clean John up and fetch Rosie. She couldn't be left alone much longer.
"It's all fine, John. Come let me help you clean up before Rosie learns to walk over here."
John almost chuckled… almost, but it was like everything in his body was devoid of good things. He just kept holding onto Sherlock, hearing his heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, knowing he was alive. It was different than the fall (which actually did happen). His dream in Sherrinford was Sherlock about to really take his own life. He was actually going to pull the trigger instead of pull some elaborate trick that he devised. If it hadn't been for the tranquilizers, he would have definitely lost Sherlock Holmes forever… but it wasn't real. He had to constantly remind himself of that. It. Wasn't. Real.
"John, stand up for me, please." Sherlock urged. "I really wasn't joking about Rosie, she picks things up at a remarkable rate. When you ran out she pointed at the bathroom and said 'bamoom', that kind of comprehension is far above her age level."
John slowly rose, muscles stiff. He groaned a bit, even though it made things considerably more difficult, he clung to Sherlock the entire time. Sherlock could only think practically in this situation, he grabbed a flannel and dipped it in cool water to wipe John's face. The soldier stood there still clinging to Sherlock's arm, one hand on his bicep, the other on his wrist - taking his pulse for some reason. This would be a considerably easier task with the use of both arms, but he wouldn't begrudge John whatever comfort he needed. He'd caused him so much pain already… but now was not the time to dredge up old wounds. He passed John the mouthwash, John took a gulp, swished it around his mouth and spit it into the basin. Better, minty fresh, ready to see Rosie. He began to move toward the door, John still clutching his left arm… this was beginning to stir uncomfortable, no - forbidden feelings, in Sherlock. They made their way slowly to the lounge, where Rosie was still seated in John's chair.
"Not walking yet, maybe next week." he said in an undertone, "Thank goodness."
John chuckled.
"At least your humor works now."
Rosie peered at John with a worried look, and held out her hands in a grabby gesture.
"Dada."
John smiled, and kneeled in front of the chair where Rosie was seated. He dragged Sherlock down with him. John realized he hadn't let go of Sherlock and they landed awkwardly on the floor together, Rosie giggled. She reached out and gently grabbed John's nose, then gently pat it in a surprisingly loving gesture, as if to say 'you're okay'. John almost laughed, but instead went with pretending to eat her hand, which made her laugh heartily.
Sherlock gently removed John's hand from his bicep and put it on Rosie's foot, she giggled again. The vice grip on his pulse proved harder to remove at first, John just clung tighter, then, seeming to realise what he was doing, he removed his hand quickly as if ashamed. Sherlock merely gave him a reassuring smile, stood up and walked out of the room. He had an urgent call to make. Once he had stepped into John's room and shut the door, he took his phone out of his robe pocket and called the intended number.
"Brother, how are you?"
"Fine, Sherlock, what ails you?" He sounded out of breath.
"John needs a therapist, preferably well vetted this time. One with a high government clearance - one he can actually discuss classified material with."
"I do have a country to run, but I'll see about getting someone on it."
Sherlock noticed the fact that Mycroft was out of breath and that there was someone else breathing heavily in the room. It seemed Mycroft was entertaining company.
"It's a bit early for company Brother. I wasn't aware you were pursuing a social life after all these years, seems so sentimental of you. What scared you into this foray into the 'obscene'?"
Mycroft hung up, which made Sherlock chuckle. Obviously Lady Smallwood was getting a bit more than a friendly meeting from Mycroft about politics. He banished the observation from his Mind Palace and went back downstairs.
John had Rosie on her back in his lap while he sat in his chair, and was tickling her. The little baby was kicking and squealing in delight from the assault of tickles she was getting. John was also laughing, but not as energetically as his daughter was. It was more of a highly amused and loving laughter. It was obvious that he looked tired, and Rosie was starting to tamper down her laughing.
"It looks like a nap is in order, for both of you."
"For her, yeah. I'm fine though."
A yawn immediately betrayed him. He cursed his body for getting too tired early in the day. He wasn't an infant or elderly, he was in prime condition for god's sake!
"Let's just watch TV while she falls asleep, yeah?"
"As you wish, John. Go take Rosie to her crib and I'll try to find one of your favourites."
John silently nodded and got up with Rosie cradled against his chest. He spotted the stuffed bee on the floor next to the chair, and just barely managed to pick it up successfully. He fought the urge to fall asleep as much as he could and put his baby in her crib. She fell asleep in two minutes, and once she did, John went back to the living room. Sherlock had put on a rerun of Top Gear so John sat down on the couch next to his friend.
"What's happened so far?"
"The tall baboon-like one doesn't like the blue car, but the hamster does, because it's American, the curly one thinks the yellow one is the best, baboon favours the green, and that's about it so far. They're about to do one of those celebrity things, if I remember correctly."
"You really know nothing about cars, do you? Did they get deleted with the solar system?"
John smirked.
"Oh no, I never bothered to learn a thing about them until I had to acquire a driving licence, couldn't care less about different types and models. I keep the bare minimum of information in a small file should I ever need to drive."
John rolled his eyes and let out a burst of laughter, followed by a yawn he stifled as much as possible.
"Let's just watch, eh? I'm not even going to begin to explain to you why this is still the best car show in the world. Bugger that new lineup, bunch of tossers. Nevermind..."
John watched the trio argue, catalogued the cars and saw this was quite an old episode, 2005 possibly, Clarkson was shamelessly trying to flirt with Billie Piper, who was in a rather transparent black top. He tucked his feet up on the couch. Gradually his eyes shut and he began to slide sideways along the back of the couch until his head was resting on Sherlock's shoulder. His last thought was "bony" before he drifted off into a peaceful slumber.
Sherlock watched John's inexorable slide toward him with mild curiosity, and feared that John's feet would not be warm enough. He managed to extricate the blanket that hung over the back of the couch and flicked it over John mere seconds before John's head hit his shoulder. It was surprisingly comfortable, and after the long hospital stay, comforting, to feel John's presence in this way.
He briefly considered sleeping himself, but there was far too much planning to do for John's recovery. John's reluctance to see the physiotherapist would be nothing compared to the level of convincing it would take for John to see the government-vetted psychologist. He wasn't entirely sure which one should be the priority… he decided the physio would help build John's confidence, which might then convince him to see the psychologist. Considering the impact the rogue agent's whisperings had had on John's unconscious mind, he decided to try the same method.
"Rosie loves you so much, John, and you need to be able to care for her independently. The physiotherapy is the best way to attain that, you have to try, you have to make the most of it, for Rosie."
John made a snuffling noise in his sleep, Sherlock decided to take that as an agreement, mostly because he was feeling quite foolish at this point. He turned his head forwards again, towards the inane TV program. Some celebrity from that alien show John liked was on, 'Billie'...something was laughing about doing a 'lap' around the track, he couldn't bring himself to care. With John's warm weight on his shoulder, he felt strangely at peace for the first time in months. He listened to some music in his Mind Palace - who needed mp3s when you had total recall? The concerto was dying down when John's head moved further down to his chest. Sherlock shuffled to try to minimise the strain on John's neck, which only resulted in John's head ending up in his lap. This felt so… right… somehow, but simultaneously a 'bit not good'.
He retreated into his Mind Palace and tried to seal away those feelings he sometimes had around John. There was a locked cabinet in a locked room of the John wing. The fact that he had allowed himself an entire Wing filled with John was probably 'really not good' but he tried to ignore that as much as possible. He had spent weeks in there after John married Mary. He had been extremely fond of her as a person, and thought that she was the only woman out there who had a skill-set that matched John's need for danger. Her death had been unimaginably tragic, and he still blamed himself for not recognising the signs of impending doom in time to prevent it. He blamed himself for always needing to have the last word. No! This was not helpful, this would not bring her back, it was pointless speculation at best. He finally had John and Rosie back and he considered that a gift he didn't deserve.
Sherlock realised he was wallowing, it was time to ascend back through the levels of his Mind Palace, back to reality. He checked the clock, it had been two hours since John had fallen asleep. He tried to find a nature documentary on the telly, there was something on about penguins but they had always bothered him for some reason. He turned the telly off and decided that John's head in his lap was far more interesting than any penguin. John looked younger in his sleep, there was something childlike and peaceful in his face that took years off his actual age. He catalogued the hollowness in John's cheekbones, with the bottle incident he thought John may have missed breakfast. He would not allow that to happen again. He saw the scar that marked the trajectory of the bullet buried beneath two months of hair growth, they would have to get the rest of it trimmed to the same length. He held in a chuckle at the thought of his Army Doctor with a buzz-cut.
A whimper over the baby monitor signaled that Rosie probably needed a new nappy. He felt somewhat bereft at having to stand up, trying not to jostle the sleeping John, putting a throw pillow under his head to fill the void where his lap had been and making sure his feet were covered. He carried the monitor with him in his robe pocket and walked towards his room. Rosie was indeed fussing increasingly, and a quick feel showed a wet nappy. He changed her quickly and efficiently then occupied her with her bumblebee, making it zoom around and land on her head. She giggled but Sherlock was worried about interrupting John's sleep so he made a shushing gesture with his forefinger in front of his mouth.
"Shh, Dada's sleeping, Rosie. Come play quietly with Uncle Lock."
"John, this is the physiotherapist Mycroft sent over."
John looked her up and down. She was plump and motherly with kind brown eyes and nice teeth, her long brown hair complimented her features well.
"Doctor Watson." She held out her hand with a smile. "I'm Dr. Katherine McIntyre."
The soldier reluctantly shook her hand and noticed that despite the Irish last name, she had a Welsh accent. He forced a smile, but it seemed it wasn't convincing enough, because she just gave a roll of her eyes.
"You don't think you need this, but that's a common symptom of having neural deficits like yours. I've seen it in plenty of patients in the past."
Before John could give a witty retort, a little voice started babbling on the baby monitor. It was obvious Rosie was awake from her nap.
"I'll go get her. John's 4 month old, Rosamund." Sherlock said to Dr. McIntyre. "I'll be back as soon as I get a new nappy on her. Please try to acquaint yourselves."
He gave John the pointed 'be nice' look, that he remembered John giving him on so many occasions. The irony made him smirk as he walked towards Rosie's crib.
John stood quietly for a moment in the sitting room while the Dr. McIntyre got out a patient file and got ready to take notes.
"Now, I'll need to ask you a few starting questions before we begin the actual physiotherapy." She sat down on the couch with her notepad. "That way I can decide what would work for your specific case. People recover from neural deficits at different rates."
"Alright."
John pulled out what would normally be the client chair but sat it on the other side of the coffee table so he could face her. It seemed Dr. McIntyre took a note just from the action. Then she looked up with a kind smile.
"You were able to do that easily, so that's good. Gross motor skills seem fine. She smiled again. "Now, have there been any incidents as of late with depth perception where you unintentionally reach too far or too short?"
"A… a few times, yeah."
"Can you give me some examples?"
John leaned back in his seat and thought for a moment and thought of the instances she needed.
"First day back, I overreached the baby wipes when I was changing Rosie, then there was the next morning when I didn't quite reach her to pick her up out of her crib, then I stupidly grabbed a hot baby bottle out of the bottle heater (but I guess that's just poor judgement), when I tried to do a playful punch I missed, yesterday I tried to eat some food, but I missed the food with the fork a few times, things like that."
Dr. McIntyre wrote down more notes.
"You said you grabbed a baby bottle before it was cooled, that would be a sequencing error, most of those correct themselves with time. The rest seem to be hand-eye coordination deficits, we can work on those quite easily. The muscle atrophy in your chart concerns me more, I understand you have a previous injury in the left shoulder, an old war wound. John nodded and touched the scar absently. "Has that been more stiff than usual, especially in the cold?"
"Yes, it has been worse, but I didn't expect sunshine and roses after a 2 month coma. I remember the old exercises and I've been doing them, stretches mainly." His tone wasn't rude, but it lacked his usual good-natured warmth.
"Good, I'm glad you have that well in hand. Obviously you're familiar with basic drills from the army, pushups and situps and running drills. It would be in your best interest to reacquaint yourself with those as soon as we have improved your balance and hand-eye coordination issues."
"How long will it take?"
"That depends entirely on how much work you put into it, Dr Watson. Everyone heals at their own pace."
Sherlock arrived at the lounge door with a freshly changed and clean Rosie. He tried to let John and Dr. McIntyre have some time to talk to John alone so that they could be more acquainted.
"Is this the little angel you mentioned, Mr. Holmes?" The physiotherapist said with a bright smile. "Oh how precious, I have three of my own, 2, 4 and 7 years old. How about you join us little lady?"
"Rosie, let's sit by Dada." Sherlock said.
Rosie gave a toothless grin in appreciation.
"Sherlock, I'm not sure I want her here for this." John worried.
"Nonsense John, she'll just think you're playing…" He still looked to Dr. McIntyre however. "Will it do her any harm?"
"No, in fact, I think she can help her Daddy, but keep her with you for now. Let's all sit on the carpet right here, you too Mr Holmes, I'm going to begin with rolling a ball. Rosamund is a bit young for this, but I'm sure she'll enjoy it nonetheless."
They all sat in a triangle on the carpet, Sherlock with Rosie on John's right. Dr. McIntyre took out a soft foam ball and sat to John's left. John figured they were about to do a hand-eye coordination exercise.
"I'm going to roll this towards our little girl here, let's see if she'll roll it back for us."
Dr. McIntyre rolled the ball over to Rosie, who only was able to push it halfway. Dr. McIntyre stood up on her knees slightly and reached to roll the ball the rest of the way to herself.
"Good try angel, now let's see how Daddy does, hmm?"
She rolled the ball directly at John, and he fumbled a bit before grabbing it. He looked sheepish and misjudged the force required when he rolled it back, but Dr McIntyre caught it as it nearly rolled past her.
"Ok, John, nothing to worry about, that's what we're all here for. I'll roll it to you, you roll it to Mr. Holmes and your daughter, then they'll roll it back to me, alright?"
John was beginning to tire of the surnames and his irritation at the ball incident made him blurt out.
"It's John, Sherlock and Rosie, please, do you have a prefered name? He said through gritted teeth, making an attempt to be polite. John thought she looked like she wanted to make a note of his not-quite-outburst.
"You may call me Katherine, John.
She rolled the ball to John again. He estimated the direction and distance better this time and rolled it much more gently toward Sherlock (who was poised to grab the ball if John pushed too hard again), it rolled gently to Rosie's outstretched arms and she pushed it back to Katherine, all the way this time. They continued, in the other direction for a few more rounds.
"That's very good, John." Katherine said. "I wonder, do you have a tablet around here? There's an app I'd like to try, it's free but quite effective."
"I'll get my iPad." Sherlock said.
He handed Rosie to John, she settled in his lap with a contented sigh. Sherlock found the iPad in the kitchen, hastily cleaned it and brought it to Katherine, unlocked. He wondered what she wanted to download, but trusted her if Mycroft was the one who vetted her. Katherine searched the App Store for a few seconds and installed an app called 'Balloon Frenzy!'. She opened the the app and handed the tablet to John.
"You begin on level 1, John, bursting the balloons with a touch. I'm sure Rosie will be eager to try in no time."
John reluctantly did as he was told, when he missed a balloon the app gave a buzz, when he hit the balloon it made a popping sound and gave a score. After a few minutes there were more hits than misses and he had reached level 3. Rosie started pawing at the device so John showed her what to do. She immediately stabbed her little fingers into the screen (John hoped she wouldn't damage it) and began popping balloons with glee. Then she said 'Dada' in a serious tone and made him pop some more.
"Next time Rosie will help us learn some stacking and we'll play with that Lego I see there. That was a good start, John. Thank you Sherlock and Rosie for helping," She smiled brightly at Rosie, with great warmth. "I'll see you all next week."
She nodded at Sherlock as he held the door open for her and ushered her down the stairs where she suggested that getting John to use chopsticks would be a good tactic for furthering his therapy outside of the sessions.
John was determined to get over his neural deficits as soon as possible. He couldn't stand people babying him anymore because he was a bit off, so he started to exercise in the flat. It started off easy with push ups and sit ups, then he invested in some weights. That was where he was today, two weeks after he started the physiotherapy sessions. He was on the floor doing crunches in a pair of gym shorts and an undershirt. His routine was that he did thirty crunches, thirty push ups, twenty lunges, and thirty reps on each arm with the weights. He would do these exercises on a yoga mat he purchased in the lounge… in clear view of Sherlock.
Sherlock was sitting in his chair, determined to be interested in playing with Rosie and nothing else, because the sweaty, muscle-straining John was not affecting him in the slightest. Not at all, he told himself. Staring (what he could only describe as lustily) at your flatmate while caring for their 4.5 month old daughter was definitely a lot not good. Building a gym in the John wing of your Mind Palace for him to work out was also decidedly not good, but what John didn't know wouldn't harm him… He snapped his attention back to Rosie. He was trying to teach her colours from a book… they were on red… like John's face when he did a situp. NO, he was not thinking about that. Red was the colour of roses or something insipid like that. He looked at Rosie, she was giving him an expression that clearly told him she would prefer to be the focus of his attention at this time. Even the child knew he was having some filthy thoughts about her father.
"Rosie, this colour is red, R-E-D, like roses, that's where your name comes from, you know." He smiled weakly at her.
"Obvious."
Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and looked at her. She just said obvious… she shouldn't have said a proper word yet. John got up and went over to her with a look of… concern maybe?
"What did you just say?"
Rosie rolled her eyes.
"Obvious!"
Sherlock merely gaped at the child in surprise, he was never very good in moments like this.
"Oh god, she's just like you." John said.
"Me?"
"She rolled her eyes at me and said "obvious", I'd say that's just like you."
John started to wonder how many times Sherlock had either rolled his eyes or said the word around Rosie while he was in a coma. He also was wondering how a little girl who wasn't even five months old could say that word and have that mannerism. It seemed too advanced for her to even think about doing.
"How advanced would you say this is? You read the baby books."
"Expressions are easy to copy, babies' brains are full of mirror neurons, that's how they learn to be… people. The speech is much more advanced. Ob-vi-ous is a tricky word, she shouldn't be able to put the two together until she's at least twice her current age. This is remarkable."
"So… does she need to be assessed? I mean, she could be a super-genius for all we know at the rate she's learning."
Rosie seemed to look bored, so she pointed at the fireplace.
"Fireplace."
She pointed at the skull on the mantle.
"Dead."
She pointed at Sherlock's trousers.
"Black."
She pointed at John's sweat drenched hair.
"Hair."
She pointed at her mouth.
"Mouth."
"Alright Rosebud, I think you've made your point: you can talk." John assured.
"We should start teaching her to speak in full sentences, and since she can clearly understand what we talk about, I'll give you my opinion on 'testing' her in private."
"Good idea."
Once John had finished his exercises, they decided to put on a movie so Rosie would be distracted. They had decided on Moana since she loved one of the songs so much.
"We are not having her poked and prodded and put through psychometric testing like I was. It is something that to this day I cannot think about without my bile rising…"
"But we need to know exactly what's going on with her. She could be extremely smart like you and Mycroft, or she could be a child prodigy in a certain area. Mycroft could pick the psychiatrist or something."
As a Doctor, John needed to know how far ahead Rosie was in development. They needed to know how to raise her depending on how advanced she was and how to teach her certain things for that age range. It was essential to understanding Rosie.
"Only if it's a child-psychologist who will come here to the flat and not make her feel like she's under a microscope."
"Well, I can't guarantee that, but I think Mycroft could." John paused for a moment to look at Rosie, who was in Sherlock's lap watching the movie. "Was it really that bad when you were tested?"
"Worse than you can imagine. Where do you think I got "high-functioning sociopath" from? Though that's turned out to be completely untrue. Apparently I presented that way because of the Eurus trauma, I've since learned I'm capable of empathy, and love..."
Sherlock avoided John's eyes and looked pointedly at Rosie instead.
"But practices have changed since you were tested. I mean, it's probably been over 25 years since you were assessed so it probably isn't that bad anymore."
"I agree, as long as it's not done in an unfamiliar or clinical setting, I think it would barely be traumatic at all. I know much has changed, a child should never be made to feel less than human, not ever."
John nodded in agreement. He couldn't imagine how Sherlock must have felt when he was tested considering how smart he was. The rest of the night passed uneventfully as Rosie went to sleep at her normal time, as did John, once again in Sherlock's bed.
A few days later John and Sherlock went to Tesco while Mrs Hudson watched Rosie for a while. John insisted that he could do it on his own, but Sherlock didn't think that shopping alone was a good idea with the deficits still being a problem. Certain things did happen like John overreaching or being unable to press the buttons for the checkout, but other than that, it went fine.
Things went wrong on the cab ride home. There was a traffic jam which forced them to stop next to a construction site for a while, where the workers were filling cement into a hole… which resembled the well…
"Sherlock… the bones I found…"
"Yes, they're dogs bones, that's Redbeard."
"Mycroft's been lying to you - to both of us."
What John held in his hands weren't the bones of a dog, no far from it… it was a child's skull. The age couldn't have been more than 5 or 6 years old, and it made him realize what was really going on: Redbeard wasn't a dog, he was a child. He heard Sherlock whisper about a boy named Victor Trevor, his best friend. Eurus had killed his best friend when they were only children!
Sherlock saw John go absolutely rigid in his seat, shortly before clamping his hands to his eyes and moaning softly, rocking back and forth, as close to a foetal position as he could manage in the cramped space of the cab. The cabbie looked at him with alarm, Sherlock just shook his head in a dismissive gesture.
"They're children's bones… oh god."
"John, it's just another flashback, come on, come back to me. It's not real, it never was. John!"
"She killed him…"
"She killed a dog, John. It was awful, but not nearly as bad as you think."
Sherlock was holding John close to him at this point, trying his best to comfort his friend, though he was at a bit of a loss. Most of the research he had done on PTSD and flashbacks said to try to wake the person or if that wasn't possible, let the vision play out. He hated seeing John this way, and Sherlock felt helpless not being able to help him.
"The water… I'm gonna drown… and I won't get to tell him…"
John felt himself snap back to reality, and he found himself in Sherlock's arms in the back of a bloody cab. It was mortifying, especially since the cabby was no doubt watching the whole thing. John took a few steadying breaths.
"I'm okay, I'm okay." John said to reassure his friend.
"You were never in any danger, John, I was here, I'll always be here for you."
Another episode, in public this time. John hated to show this kind of 'weakness', he'd feel terribly embarrassed… Sherlock wasn't sure what to do to make it better. He knew he had to convince John to see the psychologist Mycroft had found. Perhaps this would be the best motivator for it, he fervently hoped so, because this problem was not going to go away on its own. The cabbie was still staring as the traffic began to move, Sherlock gave him a vicious look.
"Just because you have marital problems and erectile dysfunction doesn't mean you get to stare at your fares like your own private peep-show."
The cabbie gaped at him for a second then turned around swiftly, as they passed the construction site and the obstacle that had caused all the traffic.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock."
"You have nothing to apologise for. Other people in this cab may have some apologies to make, but not you. Let's just get home, John, then we can talk about it if you want to."
The rest of the cab ride home went without incident, and they got the groceries up just fine. After which, they picked up Rosie, and Mrs. Hudson gushed about how Rosie was naming things in her flat like there was no tomorrow. John just faked the formalities, and went back up to the flat. Sherlock was sitting in his chair in his thinking pose, obviously already having deduced what John had experienced in the cab.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
John sat down in his chair and placed Rosie on his lap.
"You obviously figured it out, so why don't you tell me?"
"You were in the well, discovering the bones, not of a dog, but of a child. The only part that puzzled me was you saying "I won't get to tell him." What was that about?"
John looked away and blushed. Why did he say that!? This was not something he was going to tell Sherlock probably ever because there was nothing indicating that Sherlock felt the same. Dammit, it was like his subconscious was trying to force him to say it. Sure he thought he'd die without telling Sherlock how he felt, but in real life it was unthinkable.
"It's nothing, don't worry about it."
"It's the only anomaly in the whole incident and you expect me to ignore it. John, how long have you known me?"
"I don't want to talk about it, okay? Just let it go."
When had Sherlock ever been able to let go of a puzzle? He wanted to preserve his friend's dignity, but that hopeless whisper in the cab had had a tinge of longing in it that he couldn't ignore. It spoke of the feelings he repressed constantly and Sherlock began to wonder if there was the slightest possibility they could be reciprocated.
John sat back in his chair and Rosie was sucking on a dummy while tugging on the wings of her bumble bee. She had grown very attached to it and even when they washed it, she started crying.
"Do you really think I need the therapist?"
"If you won't talk to me about these things - not that I'm even remotely qualified to deal with them - then yes, you need to see the therapist, John. What would have happened if I hadn't been with you today? What if you had been taking Rosie out for a walk and had a flashback? If you won't do it for yourself, do it for her."
John thought for a moment, and when he looked back down at Rosie, she looked concerned as well. She obviously understood what they were talking about, and seemed to be looking at John as if to say, 'I want you to be better, so please get help.' He looked back to Sherlock, who was giving the same expression.
"Please, John. You know I don't often plead for things, but I think you really need this."
John didn't answer.