Day 34

"You're late," he says.

I know. I spent half the day trying to talk myself out of coming here at all. If it wasn't for Mary I'd be still at home, preparing dinner with a considerably lower heart rate and infinitely less anxiety – calmer and safer and filled with regrets, no doubt.

"One hour and forty-six minutes late, to be exact."

Huh. I must have been pacing just outside 221B for longer than I thought.

Mycroft makes a show of dragging his eyes away from his watch and graces me with a scolding glare, which, okay, no. I'm not the one who spent more than a year pretending to be dead, so if Mycroft thinks he can make me feel guilty over being a little late—

"Are you honestly going to start a fight over who has the right to be more offended just to delay your meeting with my brother for five more minutes?"

God, that condescending arsehole.

"Well," he steps out into the street, gesturing towards the door, "up you go, John."

"No more ' ', eh?" I send him a glare as he marches over to a not even remotely inconspicuous black car, and the fact that I failed to notice that parking at the sideway probably says more about my mental status than I'd care to admit.

Mycroft's superior grin doesn't falter as a brunette steps out of the car and helps him into his coat, but his posture seems to soften as he turns back before disappearing behind the— wait, is that Anthea?

"I didn't tell him you were coming," the tone doesn't hold the same edge as his stare does, but the car is joining the evening traffic at a haste before I can process the real meaning behind the words.

He's giving me an out. If Sherlock doesn't know I'm supposed to be here, then I don't have to be here, because Mycroft – Mycroft of all people, who's been hell-bent on reuniting me with his brother ever since his return to London, that Mycroft – is giving me an out.

I don't know why that thought makes me as angry as it does, but the next thing I know I'm reaching for a painfully familiar handle and I don't remember walking up the flight of steps behind me, much less closing the door downstairs.

The living room hasn't changed much since the last time I was here with Mrs. Hudson and Mary, and if it wasn't for the two figures occupying the sofa, there would be no indication it was lived in at all. The idea of knocking didn't even cross my mind before I barged in, but if the surprised expressions I'm greeted with are any indication, it should have.

"John!"

Sherlock is on his feet before I have a chance to properly take in the sight of him, but a strong hand appears on his chest, pushing him back down onto the sofa, and for a moment I'm blinded with panic because his inhuman noise of protest reverberates in my bones and dear God I don't have my gun.

"Dr. Watson, is it?"

The owner of the hand has a deep voice, warm and melodic, but he wouldn't be the first to steal scrubs from a hospital and play a doctor in order to get close to—

Oh.

"Would you mind taking a seat while I finish up here? We're almost done."

The last sentence is directed at Sherlock, who glares at the man – blond, blue eyes, taller than me but wouldn't stand a chance in a fight – and the viciousness of that stare puts me more at ease than the scattered evidence of the process my arrival interrupted ever could.

I have seen Sherlock face countless criminals during our time together, each with varying amount of contempt, but the sneer he is wearing right now has always been reserved for Anderson, Donovan, and the doctors who were trying to treat his injuries in an ambulance after a chase gone wrong. The tight knot of fright eases up its clutch around my stomach, but I still have to make a conscious effort to relax my shoulders.

"I… sure."

My tone is uneven and barely above a whisper, but it's enough to recapture Sherlock's attention. His eyes are almost comically wide and full of wonder, his childlike amazement unmasked on a level it only gets after solving a 'three nicotine patch case', and God, the intensity of those sea green orbs hasn't diminished one bit and I feel myself starting to collapse under his scrutiny, but just as I'm about to break eye contact Sherlock beats me to it, jerking away from the other man's touch on his neck with unexpected vehemence.

I find myself reaching behind my back for a gun that isn't there for the second time in as many minutes.

"This is the last one," the doctor retracts his hands quickly and holds them up in as if in surrender, and while his face is carefully blank, the trace of exasperation in his voice is impossible to miss. This is not the first time he witnessed this reaction from his patient, and I'm nowhere near prepared to consider the implications of that fact.

Sherlock hesitates only for a moment before giving a decisive nod, scooting back into his original position and within the reach of the medic again, but his eyes don't leave the blond man's hands as they dab a piece of gauze over the joint between his neck and shoulder, tugging the collar of his shirt away. His fingers slowly move into a half-formed, white-knuckled fist around his cast, and his breathing seems to be picking up a little speed on every exhale.

Jesus.

"The dressing on his back needs to be changed every other day," the stranger addresses me as he reaches for a brown bottle on the table, and Sherlock's gaze flickers up to his face just for a second, frowning in obvious confusion.

I swallow a strange mixture of blood tinged saliva and the insistent urge to scream, and make my way deeper into the apartment. I recognize my destination only when the back of my thighs hit one padded arm of a chair – my old chair – and I lower myself onto the armrest in a nauseating daze I haven't experienced since—

No. Not going there.

"So does this one," the man proceeds to pour some clear liquid onto a cotton swab, oblivious, as if the tension in the room couldn't be cut with a knife. Sherlock hisses when the swab touches his skin, and I watch as the familiar sneer washes away his perplexity over the words, as if it never existed in the first place. "His right forearm can probably forego the dressing next time, but the hand already got infected once so I wouldn't risk that just yet."

Sherlock seems to be unable to tear his gaze away from the happenings around his shoulder, but he starts leaning away from the doctor ever so slightly as he speaks.

"John is not here to replace you as my doctor."

His voice is deep, deeper than I remembered, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate on not throwing up on the worn rug under my feet because I know the words are meant to be delivered with an air of detachment, but while there is no resentment (or doubt) hollowing his baritone, there is something raw and open in there, like a bleeding wound, one that makes Sherlock sound like he swallowed gravel. He sounds… wrong.

Broken.

I manage to peel my eyes open after a deep (albeit shaky) breath, and almost wince at the sight of Sherlock's failed attempt at burying his terror at being touched under an indignant expression, all the while trying to subtly put as much distance between himself and the medic as he can without being called out on it.

A second later I find myself on my feet without making the conscious decision to stand, ready to offer to take over treating whatever wounds Sherlock has left to be treated, because surely I can do better than scare him all the way to the other end of the sofa, or reduce his breathing pattern into those shallow little bursts that sound almost painful and panicked and—

A white piece of plaster is pressed onto the skin above Sherlock's shoulder, and the blond man starts to gather his supplies from the coffee table before I can start translating my thoughts into spoken words.

"Yes, he is," he says simply, decisively, and looks me in the eye as he fires off instructions at the speed of light. "Keep an eye out for the pneumonia. He doesn't need medication anymore, but you know how easily that tends to come back," he smiles at me, and I feel like there's a joke in there, built on our shared profession perhaps, but my attempt at copying his expression is half-hearted at best. "He is due for an X-ray in about two months, as I'm sure Mycroft will tell you. There is antibiotic ointment in the bathroom, and there should be some bandages left too, but I trust you have everything to redress his wounds, right?"

I nod quickly but the doctor doesn't acknowledge my response in his apparent haste to leave the flat – something I can't entirely fault him for – and the next moment the door is clicking shut behind his back and all there is left is the stale air and silence and my desperate attempt at looking casual in the midst of unopened boxes and Sherlock.

Clean-cut, unmistakable, flesh and bone Sherlock.

His trademark curls are gone. The bird's nest that used to make him look deceptively young has been replaced with a shorter, close cropped cut barely a fingerbreadth in length, with a distinct lack of styling that gives the impression his hair is just growing back after being shaved off completely. His forehead is too high for this hairstyle to be anything but unflattering on him, and yet…

And yet.

It's easy to tell his face must have been a mess, not too long ago. Split lip, bruised cheeks, a black— no, two black eyes, all faded and nearly healed over, but still visible enough to tell me just how bad it was. The scratch marks on his scalp look quite fresh, above his left ear, but Sherlock turns his head when he notices me noticing them, and I squish my reflexive protest before it could leave my mouth. So what if the marks are just the right angle to possibly be self-inflicted? It hardly matters how he acquired them.

Sherlock clears his throat, makes a valiant effort at straightening his crisp white shirt, but the top three buttons remain undone. Uncharacteristic: he used to unbutton only two. His collarbone is almost offensively defined, but that will be due to the remarkable amount of weight he appears to have lost since his—

Yeah. We're both uncomfortable, alright.

I'm painfully aware of the seconds ticking by as I try to find anything of even minor importance to occupy my eyes with, something other than the man sitting on the sofa, but my pulse doesn't seem to be returning to normal anytime soon and procrastination can only go on for so long before one of us inevitably breaks the stillness. For some reason, it's suddenly important that it's me.

"You haven't unpacked," I offer with what I hope comes across as a measure of indifference, but there's no hiding from Sherlock's stare – he must see the way I keep brushing my palms against my jeans to rid them of sweat.

My thumb catches on a ripple over the left thigh, which gives way to a ridiculous sense of embarrassment over my rumpled appearance. Sherlock's black suit pants of course are ironed and impeccable, and I find myself wondering if he dressed up for the blond man, since he didn't use to change from pajamas unless he was leaving the flat, and I have it on good authority he is not allowed to do that alone yet.

Mary was right, I should have shaved.

"I wasn't sure if I would stay."

His reply makes my eyes snap back to his, and it's all I can do to stave off the panic attack my body insist on having all of a sudden. Stay where, exactly? In the flat? In the building? London? The bloody country?

And what does he mean he wasn't sure? Is he sure now? Is he—

"Did you really accept Mycroft's offer?"

I take a deep breath and hold it for four seconds, like Ella taught, exhale on five, six, seven, eight; hold, ten, eleven, twelve. Inhale on one, two, three, four…

"Wasn't much of an offer, really. 'S not like he threatened to throw money at me."

My heart lurches when I manage to open my eyes again (and when did I even close them again?), because the emotions flickering over Sherlock's face are too fast to follow and not at all veiled, not like they are supposed to be. The surprise is the easiest to discern, but there is something else too – concern, perhaps? Yes. It's the same expression Greg and Mary get when my breathing gets funny, or overly controlled.

"And yet you're here."

Sherlock sounds hopeful, more so than I ever heard him before, and it hurts and angers me at the same time because this is wrong, we are wrong, and this is nothing like how our first face to face conversation should go after eighteen months.

"I'm here because you need a doctor," I force out as my defenses fight to rise again, not wanting to give him the idea this is anything more than a temporary arrangement built on a misplaced feeling of obligation on my part. This is not about reconciliation; I didn't come here to fall back on how we used to be, and God, please, please make Sherlock realize that before he orders me to make tea and I end up sitting across from him in my old chair, ordering takeout and listening to stories about the places he visited since his—

"And as you might have noticed, I have one," he responds with a huff, frustration at having to state the obvious palpable in his voice.

Well, I guess my thoughts must have shown quite clearly on my face because Sherlock is crossing his arms over his chest defensively, the movement made awkward due to his cast, but his eyes haven't lost a bit from their wideness which kind of ruins the petulant look he is going for.

I resist the urge to snort at his words. He has a doctor now, doesn't he? I guess we're not mentioning how said doctor just pushed him into a – for a lack of a better term – contained panic attack, or how Sherlock diffused it quietly, alone and with obviously practiced ease. Alright then.

"And now you have a new one," I say while doing my best to stare him down, but I'm painfully aware what my eyes must be communicating to someone with his abilities at deduction. 'Please Sherlock, don't make me say I have no idea why I'm here. Just this once, don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Let it go, just this once. Please.'

I am so certain he is going to latch onto the reason behind my presence that I find myself gaping when Sherlock's expression crumbles, morphs into a disturbingly unfamiliar picture of sheer relief, and the corners of his mouth lift into a smile so soft and radiant it steals the air from my lungs for a second.

"Okay," he breathes in an awed voice, but he must notice my incredulity because the next moment he clears his throat and steals his features into something closer to what I learnt to associate with him. "That's… good." He rests his arms on his knees and relaxes back into the cushions, but somehow he still fails to capture the aloofness that used to come to him so effortlessly.

There is silence after that, not the comfortable kind, and I dig my fingers into the armrest between my thighs to keep them from twitching. Sherlock notices the movement – of course he does – his eyes finally leaving mine, and I'm not sure I like that but breathing just got a lot less complicated so I don't complain. His head tilts in a way that is usually followed by a rapid stream of deductions and people getting offended left and right, and yet what comes out of his mouth next is too simple and too short to fit that pattern.

"You're not using your cane," he says almost to himself, and I look at the offending item resting against the chair, within easy reach.

"Yes I do," my protest is immediate and might hold a bit more anger than strictly necessary, but it's familiar and better than anything I experienced since entering 221B, so I hold onto it with an iron grip because really, who is Sherlock of all people to suggest that I keep carrying that godawful, rotten thing around without having a good enough reason, a genuine necessity to do so? Who is he to talk – he, who hasn't even seen me in a year and a half – like he knows more about my body than I do, like the pain in my leg is insignificant, negligible, just a figment of my imagination? Who is he to—

Except I haven't used the cane when I run up the stair, wrapped up in a world of righteous indignation, have I? No. I don't think I did. In fact, I'm pretty sure the cane hasn't touched the floor of the apartment until I placed it next to my leg, into its current position.

I feel laughter bubbling up in my chest when I realize my left hand is as steady as it ever was before Afghanistan, but my somewhat crazed amusement is seated too deep to break to the surface.

Oh God, Sherlock.

He wants to disagree with me, I can see it: he wants to tell me I'm wrong, that I didn't use my cane as much as I dragged it along without any real purpose, and I find myself anticipating his words, the return of the challenge he seems to have replaced with I'm sorry-s and Alright-s and a disturbing amount of pliancy that feels so out of place in Sherlock bloody Holmes it makes my stomach turn. I want him to disagree, to fight for his truth, but his frown turns conflicted – he's reluctant, and the quite 'okay' he breathes after some hesitation feels like defeat.

"Stop doing that."

The words slip out without my permission, but I can't find the strength to regret them.

"Doing what?" comes his reply without missing a beat, and God, he seems so genuinely confused I feel like hitting something. Or someone. Maybe Sherlock, even.

"Stop this… walking on glass thing. It's—" I pause to heave a frustrated sigh. "It's unnerving."

Sherlock looks bewildered for all of two seconds before those green eyes widen impossibly more, and I can read the reply on his face before it has a chance to be uttered.

"I'm sor—"

"Don't you— no, Sherlock! Stop!"

Suddenly I'm on my feet and all but run towards the kitchen, but the lack of microscopes, petri dishes or normal kitchenware there pushes my body through another terror-born surge of adrenaline, and I opt for pacing the length of the living room instead, hands tangling in hair I haven't brushed properly in days.

"Stop apologizing. Stop being polite, stop acting like I need to be… sheltered from your personality!" And stop, please, stop sounding so broken every time you speak. "I'm here as your doctor, nothing more! I'm not going to leave if you offend me – I'm going to leave when you're better. Those are the terms."

I stop pacing and attempt to take a calming breath, perfectly aware of the hole Sherlock's stare must be digging into my back. He doesn't say anything though, and for a few long minutes there's only the sound of my ragged breathing filling the silence.

"Are those terms… amendable?"

My knee-jerk reaction is to say no, to deny him the possibility of negotiation, because I know he doesn't want me to leave once he's healthy again but I'm not sure I can give him that. Yet, the resignation in his tone cuts at something inside me, deep and wide, and the wound bleeds faster as he sighs like he already knows the answer to his question but can't help asking nonetheless.

For a moment I'm not sure how I should respond because Sherlock is clearly not alright: words like torture and shellshock are drifting around my mind every time I look at him, and he needs a friend, a real friend to help him through whatever this is, but I'm not sure if I can be what he needs me to be right now – not after he left me grieving my best friend for more than a year. I know why he did it, I know he jumped to save my life, and that feels like something I shouldn't be allowed to hate him for, and yet…

Sherlock's actions make resentment impossible to let go of, but his subdued form makes it harder and harder to hold onto with every passing second I spend in his presence.

"Not for now."

I don't need to turn around to know he's smiling, one of his rare, sincere smiles, and the thought of leaving without witnessing that is unbearable, but my heart might explode if I glance back.

So I don't.

"I need to go," I say as I make my way over to the door, reaching for the handle more by memory than by actual sight. "I'll come around on, uh… Tuesday?"

"Yes."

Sherlock's voice is steady but holds no trace of a smile, and I wonder if that was only wishful thinking on my part. I hope it wasn't.

I open the door but my steps falter, and I hate myself for what I'm about to do but I can't, I can't go without turning back just once more, without making sure he's there and real and breathing, without making sure he's not going to disappear the moment I take a step outside. There go all those promises to myself about keeping things levelheaded and rational. Laughable, that's what I am.

"You're going to be here."

My voice is a tad shaky but still more of a command than a request, and for once I can't help but be grateful for Sherlock's newfound accommodative tendencies.

"Yes."

His eyes are cold but determined, his tone firm enough to be believable. He looks almost like the Sherlock I lost on the pavement in front of Barth, and I suspect the sting in my eyes is as much from grief as it is from relief.

"Good," I avert his gaze and step through the door before he has a chance to respond, not caring if I move with the urgency of a prisoner about to escape. "Bye, Sherlock."

I'm halfway down the stairs when I'm hit by the strong sense of something missing, and my anger reignites when I realize I left something in the flat.

I tear the door to 221B open with zeal I haven't felt in years, which only serves to fuel my rage as I stomp across the room, grab my cane from where it's perched by the chair and march back to the hallway, all the while making a point of not looking at Sherlock still sitting on the sofa.

"Not a word, Sherlock!" I shout when I sense he is about to speak up, and don't start regretting it until my phone chimes when I'm two streets away and still carrying the damned thing only for decoration.

Received at 20:27

Told you. -SH

I stop to laugh for a good five minutes, leaning on a wall and brushing away the tears streaming down my face, and if people wonder what happened to the madman to warrant such a reaction… well, they don't dare comment on it.

My limp doesn't come back until I'm six blocks over.


Day 35

Received at 9:30

I don't know what you said or done to him, but thank You.

M. Holmes

Sent at 9:52

I didn't really say or do anything, Mycroft.

Received at 9:54

In that case, thank You for that.

M. Holmes