John had just begun to doze off when Sherlock had moved and awoken him again. At first, he had watched the dark haired man in a half-awakened trance and then thought about asking him if he needed anything when Sherlock started removing his hospital gown. John had not dared invade Sherlock's privacy to look at his wounds before now and, though he should have said something to let Sherlock know that he was no longer sleeping, he found himself watching speechlessly as his friend removed his clothing and gently ran his fingertips along each wound. It was worse than he had expected.
He had known the entire scenario in theory. The shards of glass from the bank windows had ripped through Sherlock's jacket and shirt and sliced deep into both his back and chest. John also knew, from speaking to the physicians, that a particularly long shard had been lodged deep in his right shoulder, but no permanent damage had been done to the tendons or affected muscle tissue. He had been aware that Sherlock had suffered severe burns which would leave their mark, but he had not as yet seen the actual damage they'd caused. The fact that they remained covered was somewhat a relief to him, the cuts and bruises were shocking enough. He could imagine, however, what those hidden wounds looked like as he'd seen many similar injuries on the battle field. His only relief was knowing that most of the wounds were superficial, still, the sight of Sherlock in that state alarmed him.
Sherlock dropped his arms quickly as if in pain, but John caught a glimpse of a smile – brief and ironic as it was – he wondered what his friend was thinking. John knew Sherlock was on all kinds of pain medications, but his discomfort was still apparent. He considered calling someone to adjust the dosage, but remained still and continued to stare silently as Sherlock sighed and felt around for the sleeves on the flimsy hospital garment. He slipped it on and re-tied the garment with some difficulty – as it caused him pain to lift his arms so high.
After Sherlock slipped back into his gown he turned and felt for the edge of the bedside table. John watched as his friend's long slender fingers felt around the smooth surface for. . .the cup of water? His face showed great concentration, but also discomfort, as he twisted awkwardly to reach it.
"Here, Sherlock, let me," he offered.
Sherlock started at the sound of John's voice, but recovered quickly. "No, John, I can do it," he stated stubbornly and at that moment knocked over the cup so that water poured down the side of the cart and all over the floor. Sherlock cursed under his breath.
John picked up the cup and refilled of with water from the jug. "It's ok to let me help you, you know," he said flatly without even a hint of annoyance; he was very careful to guard his tone against being too gentle was as well, knowing that Sherlock would only associate that tone with pity – an emotion he hated more than most. "At least until your eyesight improves," he added without thinking.
"My eyesight will never return," Sherlock stated evenly as if he was asking John to turn the channel on the tele.
"You don't know that for sure," John said as he tried handing the cup to Sherlock. He knew very well that the chances were slim, still, the idea that Sherlock could be left helpless like that was unacceptable to him. "The doctor mentioned that there is some promising research on the go right now and that you might be a good candidate for an experimental proceedure..."
Sherlock huffed and turned to gaze blindly in John's direction. He did not, however, reach for the cup that John had placed near to his hand. John moved a bit closer and their knuckles brushed.
"Put it back on the table," Sherlock ordered and John complied. Sherlock reached out again, even more slowly this time and gently grasped the cup and raised it to his lips.
"You are a doctor John. You of all people should know better than to give false hope," then as an afterthought he added, "And don't insult my intelligence by pretending that you have any scientific evidence for the ridiculous statement you just made."
"You're right," John said defeated. "I don't. I guess I just want to make you feel better."
"Then be honest with me," Sherlock stated sharply, he was becoming frustrated. "I don't need your pity." He snarled the last word as if it were a filthy curse that left a bad taste on his mouth.
The words stung, but John understood where they were coming from and tried not to take them to heart.
"Permanent. That's what the doctor said," Sherlock barrelled on with his razor-sharp no-nonsense tone, "You know doctors don't go throwing around that verbiage lightly. There will be no more talk of getting better and no surgery - experimental or otherwise. This is how life is now. I will just have to accept it because attempting to do otherwise is only a waste of time."
"Ok," was all John could manage. His throat had gone suddenly dry and he felt a pang of disappointment deep in his stomach. What he hadn't said to Sherlock was that he had spoken so carelessly because he – more than anyone – desperately wanted the possibility of a miraculous full recovery to exist.
Sherlock spent the rest of the day in silent – almost comatose – state of contemplation. John sat with him, silently watching the motionless detective and wondering yet again what was going through that brilliant mind. He left only to get a sandwich from the cafeteria or to occasionally use the men's room. He settled down with a book that he was pretending to read when suddenly Sherlock swung his long legs off of the bed and sat facing John.
"Sherlock? What are you..." John began but stopped when Sherlock stood up. He wobbled slightly – seeming entirely unsteady. John instinctively reached out to him.
The sudden contact of John's hand on his arm made the taller man tense and shove John's arm away violently. "Don't touch me," he snarled in a tone that John had never heard him use before. It was dark and sprang from some hidden well of anger deep within Sherlock.
"Sorry," John fumbled, "I should have realized."
Completely ignoring him, Sherlock took a tentative step forward. The tips of his long fingers brushing the bed as he slowly made his way around it. He was tracing its shape and using it as a point of contact to steady and orient himself in this unfamiliar room. His dull, grey, eyes stared ahead, almost unblinking... as if straining to see in the darkness, and his lips quivered slightly; unconsciously mouthing the words, four...five...six... as Sherlock carefully counted each cautious, measured, step.
"Is there a washroom in this room John?" he asked suddenly.
"Yes," John said quickly.
"Where is it?"
"Straight ahead of you, about five or six paces."
He watched as Sherlock disappeared into the adjoining bathroom and returned a couple of moments later. In silence he returned to his bed, a little more quickly than he had left it, and,after a time, drifted off to sleep.
…
"You can go home now Mr. Holmes," doctor Stevenson announced a few days later after checking Sherlock's vitals one last time and examining his eyes again with a bright light. John felt sick with worry when the focused, piercing, beam of light hit Sherlock's unresponsive pupils.
John knew that no one on earth could possibly understand what Sherlock had lost. His most defining feature was his brilliant mind. His unique career was entirely based upon the science of deduction. Without his eyes, how would he be able to catch those tiny clues that only Sherlock was observant enough to notice? How would he solve cases now? What would he do now that this part of his life was over? John wondered if those were very questions that had been surging through Sherlock's mind during his long hours of silence over the past few days.
The doctor offered him a white cane which Sherlock scornfully refused. John took it, mouthing a silent "Thank you" and offered Sherlock his arm, "Here, let me at least help you navigate out of here." To his surprise Sherlock reached out and took his arm and then slid his hand up to John's shoulder and stood very close to his side.
"Now get me out of this place before I go mad," Sherlock said quietly, but with a sense of real urgency in his voice as if a mental snap was an imminent threat. John slowly escorted the taller man to the elevator.
After navigating their way out to the car park and carefully getting Sherlock into a cab they began the short and silent trip home.
...
The cab stopped right in front of the door of 221B and John paid. For the first time in his memory Sherlock simply sat and waited for him to complete the transaction – drumming his fingers on his leg impatiently. John got out of the cab and Sherlock scooted over into John's seat, reaching his hand up to feel the roof of the cab before ducking his tall frame and meticulously stepping out of the car. John watched every slight movement Sherlock made, biting his tongue to avoid an outburst of warning when Sherlock's head came quite close to hitting the door frame. Sherlock wants to do this himself... John repeated in his head for the fifth time since they'd left Sherlock's hospital room. No, he needs to do this himself... his mind corrected.
"John?" Sherlock said expectantly.
"Yep, here," John said moving closer to the taller man so that their arms brushed. He stood and waited while Sherlock gently laid his hand on John's left shoulder, and John guided his friend to the front door. "There's two steps here, Sherlock," he reminded quietly.
"Yes, I am aware," Sherlock replied without sarcasm.
John fumbled with the keys and unlocked the door. Once across the threshold Sherlock turned and gently swung the door closed behind him and felt around until he encountered the lock. He confidently bolted the door from the inside – something he had always left John to do in the past. Jon couldn't help but do a mental comparison; the old Sherlock could never be bothered with locks, doors, or paying cabby drivers.
They walked slowly down the hall. "Ok we're at the stairs... how do you want to do this?" John asked, eyeing the long staircase that led to their flat. The once familiar and unremarkable object suddenly looked steep and dangerous to him.
"There are 17 stairs and a strong wooden banister... you go first, I will hold onto the banister." Sherlock dictated, but it was almost as if he was talking to himself.
"Alright," John said and took a step forward, but stopped when Sherlock's hand fell from his shoulder.
"Aren't you going to hold onto me as well?" He asked.
"No," Sherlock said simply.
"Maybe you should go first then... just in case – " John began, but stopped before he could say: "Just in case you fall."
"I'll be fine, John," he said with a hint of annoyance. Sherlock hated to seem weak... and he wasn't used to needing help or having anyone worry about him. "Surely muscle memory alone would allow me to make a trip up these stairs without assistance."
John suddenly had an image of Sherlock bounding up the stair case three steps at a time as he usually did when they were rushing in to grab something essential to a case.
"Ok," John said, trying to hide his skepticism. He'd seen cases of blindness before and suspected that this wasn't going to be as easy as Sherlock thought. Nevertheless, he obeyed. He began walking up the steps at a slower-than-normal pace – placing extra emphasis on the creaky parts of the stairs so that Sherlock could hear where he was. He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder until he was almost at the top. When he did look, the scene behind him almost broke his heart. Sherlock reached out and felt for the banister, but he was too far from the stair case. He took a step forward, but his stride was too long and he kicked the bottom step, stumbled and miraculously caught himself with the banister. Then, righting himself, he took a tentative step onto the first stair. He then brought his right foot up to the second stair. Sliding his hand up the banister with a firm grasp he began the long climb. Just as before, John saw his friend's lips move ever-so-slightly as he counted each step. Once he was half-way up the staircase he began to get more confident... too confident. John gulped in a sharp intake of breath as Sherlock – who hadn't raised his foot quite high enough – caught the lip of the stair and tripped, hitting his shin on the next stair and landing on his knee. Still grasping the banister tightly he managed not to fall backwards. He mumbled something under his breath and cursed a couple of times. John resisted the urge to ask if he was ok. Sherlock slowly raised himself up and stood there for a moment looking lost.
"Sherlock?" John asked as if he had missed what had just happened and didn't know why his friend was taking so long.
"I lost count..." he mumbled to himself with another curse.
"What?" John asked.
"I lost count," he growled.
"Oh... well, you're..." John counted the stairs between them... "eight more to the top."
"Thank you," Sherlock replied softly, and his shoulders visibly relaxed.
John's heart ached for this stubborn, independent, maddening man. Sherlock hated asking for help. So John was just going to have to provide it to the best of his ability without waiting for the man to ask for it and without making his efforts obvious. However, he knew that he was also going to have to learn how to stand back and let Sherlock figure some things out for himself. This second realization was going to be the infinitely more difficult for John to accomplish; he hated watching Sherlock struggle.
John unlocked their flat door and waited patiently for Sherlock to climb the last eight stairs before he moved another step. "Well, here we are," he said to the tall man beside him. Is he shaking?
Sherlock was, indeed, visibly trembling. John couldn't tell if it was from fear, pain, or exhaustion – or perhaps a bit of all three – but it unsettled him. He suddenly had the urge to hug Sherlock and tell him it was going to be ok, and then sit him down and make him a hot cup of tea – but that, also, he managed to suppress.
"After you," John offered when Sherlock didn't move.
"This isn't going to be easy, is it John?" Sherlock said then, his baritone voice quiet and uncertain, his question sounded more like a statement of fact.
John shook his head, "It will take time Sherlock."
"Time," he repeated the word solemnly as if it were a death sentence. Then, taking a breath, he stepped back into their flat.