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Before long, Lestrade was visiting once a week, bringing with him photographs and evidence from his crime scenes, running them past Sherlock with John as translator.
John revelled in this, he loved to feel useful and for the time being, he was crucial.
"This is no good, I will need to see the crime scene first hand" Sherlock whispered one day, looking at the photographs with his magnifying glass. Lestrade was standing in the window and turned back to the consulting detective at his quiet words. John looked at Sherlock seriously, Sherlock pinpointed the unanswered question as; 'Are you sure that is wise?'
"It will be fine, John, we need to get out of this house. You are more than able to help me with communication"
John, now looking into his cup as he drained the liquid, glanced at Sherlock with raised eyebrows as he swallowed his tea, a simplified; 'But your walking could be improved'.
"John, I am perfectly able, will it help if I take your crutch?" Sherlock questioned quietly, looking for John's reaction.
John smiled; 'Yes'.
Lestrade watched the conversation in awe. Most of the time, John did not need to signal or annunciate; Sherlock grasped every question, statement and thought that crossed John's mind, whether John wished it or not.
Sherlock and John nodded at each other in confirmation before both looking up at Lestrade with identical smiles. Lestrade couldn't help it, he laughed.
The two men, still smiling, stood up to ready themselves for the outside world, leaving Lestrade to his phone calls; attempting to keep his crime scene untouched until they got there.
John helped Sherlock into his old purple shirt, black trousers and matching suit jacket. Walking into the hallway, John retrieved the outer clothing that had been abandoned these last few months; he stroked his hand over the grey material fondly before returning to Sherlock's bedroom to don the genius with the coat, and purple scarf, which he carefully threaded around the taller mans neck. Sherlock smiled down at his friend who moved delicately around him whilst he pulled his black leather gloves over his hands, protecting his scars from the public eye. With a step back to look at Sherlock, John nodded proudly and handed Sherlock the, extended, aluminium crutch. Without further delay, Sherlock briskly walked back into the living room to face Lestrade, John in tow.
Walking onto the crime scene was not a comfortable experience. John tried not to hear the whispers around him, or notice Donavon's shocked expression, he focussed on his training, the details that Sherlock had taught him about communicating in the field.
Sherlock walked as normally as he could, battering the cane off the ground like his brother would an umbrella. His eyes narrowed as he saw the lifeless body, face down on the cold, wet tarmac of the alleyway. For a moment, he revelled in the thought of completely ignoring everyone in the vicinity now; not even Lestrade's thinking would break the silence. His deduction skills had been greatly enhanced by the loss of sound; he could lock himself in without any unnecessary data entering his brain. He rather liked it.
John stood beside Lestrade and watched Sherlock move around the crime scene. John noticed how light Sherlock's eyes seemed to be in colour when viewing a mystery, identifying the clues that were so obvious to him and invisible to normal people. He watched as that coat followed his every move, swishing around him, dancing with him.
John returned his gaze to Sherlock's face just as Sherlock signalled with his first and third finger; a signal that only John could understand. Obediently, John stood forward, crouching over the sorry sight to give his medical opinion.
After a silent decision; John stood up, facing away from everyone else, he quickly signed his way through his findings. Sherlock nodded after a while and held his right hand out flat, palm down to signal his understanding.
John walked back over to Lestrade, briefly looking around the area as he pulled his coat cuffs further down, over his hands.
"You two are remarkable" Greg said in his Londoners twang as he watched Sherlock.
"How come?" John asked with a confused expression as he followed Lestrade's gaze and watched Sherlock too.
"You understand each other without words. I mean, that is some connection. I can't even get my wife to understand that I don't like mushrooms." Greg moved his shoulders to emphasise his last sentence, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets as he still refused to look at John.
John laughed lightly. "Well, it helps when you can't argue and shout at each other, I dunno, everything just seems calmer without sound" he said still watching Sherlock and his magnifying glass.
"Do you think his hearing will come back?" Lestrade whispered.
"I'm really not sure." John answered truthfully.
"To be honest, I have always preferred the silent duet to the full blown symphony." Lestrade said with a light laugh – although John could tell he had meant every word of his metaphor, the duet being the current Sherlock and John, the symphony being Sherlock's old loud, obnoxious self.
Sherlock then approached them and the two men stayed quiet to receive the verbal overload that they knew was coming.
In his usual whispering tone, Sherlock divulged that; "The deceased was a drug addict, died from strangulation, the murderer was a 5 ft 1" Chinese male drug dealer, most probably motive was money."
Lestrade looked between the two men that stood in front of him.
"How am I going to find a 5 ft 1" Chinaman?" he asked incredulously.
Sherlock looked to John with a frown; John brought his right hand up to his eyebrows, flat, palm down as he looked into the distance as if looking for something in a bright sun.
"Oh, he's the owner of the Bowling Alley on the corner." Sherlock whispered.
Lestrade gawped; "Evidence?" He asked.
John pointed to the crime scene and made a circle with his index fingers and thumbs together.
Sherlock reached into his pocket, and took out a tiny section of material, passing it to Lestrade as he spoke quietly "Chinese silk. Coupled with the size 4 footprints from officer shoes that are in this alleyway, officer shoes are made in China, sold in sets of 500 pairs." Sherlock straightened his collar against his neck as he continued his low rumble of a speech; "Money was involved then, small patch of white powder on the nose of the victim, clear sign, this man was desperate for his addiction. So desperate, in fact, that he managed to get attacked by a small athletic man, how do we know the size of this man? Easy, size 4 feet and suggested hand size by the bruises to the dead mans neck equals 5 ft 1"." Sherlock waved his hands in conjunction with his speech.
"Then, there's this" Sherlock fetched another item from his pocket and pinched it between his first and second fingers for Lestrade to take;
Kum Wah Palace Superbowl
Tenpin bowling, available for parties and corporate events.
Food & bar.
Written across the back of the business card in a neat biro pattern was; "Meet round back, bring 5,000"
Lestrade looked down at it in dismay. "Where was that? I've had my team combing this alley for hours" He said aghast at the discovery.
John signalled the question to Sherlock and Sherlock signalled back, turning on his heel and walking away, a slight limp evident now as he was getting tired.
"Sherlock says; 'you should really get your team re-trained, and the business card was in the wallet'." John smirked as he said this, watching Lestrade's open mouthed shock with a suppressed chuckle before he ran to catch up with his friend.
Within two minutes, John heard Lestrade's shout; "Anderson!" and he laughed. Sherlock glanced at John and a smile cracked his lips as he deduced what had just happened.
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John poured two small tumblers half full with whisky. He walked across the warm, familiar room, placing his own on the table and holding the other out to Sherlock. Sherlock accepted it graciously and instantly cupped it in both hands. John kneeled in front of the fire to stoke up the wood, slowly dwindling in the grate. Once done; he stood to approach his usual armchair.
"Sit beside me" Sherlock whispered, it was almost poised as a question, but it had reached the warm air as a statement. John turned toward him seeing the man staring into the fire, without hesitation, John grabbed his glass from the small table and made for the brown couch where Sherlock was sitting. He sat down with a groan and nursed his night time drink in his right hand.
Sherlock was still staring thoughtfully at the fire before his gaze travelled to the rug. He blinked rapidly and sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. John recognised this as Sherlock experiencing emotion, which did not happen frequently. John lay a hand on Sherlock's arm to question if he was ok. Sherlock nodded and continued his thoughtful stare.
The pair sat in silence. Eventually John drained the last of his whisky and turned to Sherlock to see he had barely touched his own. John made a move to get up when Sherlock grabbed his arm.
"You do realise how much I appreciate you, don't you John?" Sherlock whispered, looking into his face in desperation.
John looked shocked for a minute before he nodded at Sherlock, adding a smile for reassurance.
Sherlock let a tear loose from his right eye and he felt it slide down his cheek, he made no move to hide it or to rub it away, he just stared at his friend.
John's heart ached, his face reflecting the feeling as he looked back at the emotional mess sitting beside him. Sherlock had been through a hell of a lot, and he was probably only just realising what had happened to him, how much he had needed to depend on John.
John made a 'shh' noise as he raised his hand to wipe away Sherlock's tear; he knew full well that Sherlock wouldn't hear him, but he had done it more for his own benefit than for Sherlock's.
Sherlock looked down at John's mouth, his eyes wide and watery.
"I wish I could hear your voice" He whispered, bringing his own hand up to John's lips, running his fingers over them.
John watched, in confusion, as his sociopathic friend sought comfort in him, and even more than was already given in their new way of life.
"Come on, lets get you washed" John said against the fingers as he dropped his hand from Sherlock's face and half signalled 'bath'.
Sherlock nodded, seemingly slipping out of his trance, he downed his drink and got clumsily to his feet, leaning on John for a moment until he had gained his balance. The walk to the bathroom and the bath itself was quiet. Towel drying was a lot easier now than it had been, Sherlock's skin was healing well, and quickly, probably due to his healthier diet and resting, John thought.
John suddenly stopped his attentions to drying Sherlock's hair as a thought slammed into the front of his mind.
'Sherlock is more than capable of washing himself by now'
Sherlock looked through his wet hair and up at John from where he sat on the edge of the bath; a towel round his waist. John was frozen into position with another towel between them in outstretched arms.
"Are you ok?" Sherlock asked, unable to deduce what had sent John into his stupor.
John blinked. "I shouldn't be doing this" He mumbled, still unmoving.
Sherlock looked up at John's mouth in concentration; "I've been able to bathe myself for a while now John" he whispered.
John stared at him; "Why did you let me keep doing it?" John asked questioningly, pointing to help get his point across.
"I thought you were enjoying looking after me" Sherlock said in a small voice, still looking up at John with wide, helpless eyes.
John stared at Sherlock for a long while before he held out the towel for Sherlock to take, Sherlock didn't take it.
"I am enjoying you looking after me" Sherlock continued, a small smile playing on his lips. John felt a blush creep up his neck and he felt a shy smile spread his face, he averted his eyes looking at his bare feet on the tiled floor.
Without any more silent or verbal communication, John returned his attentions to the wet hair in front of him, his smile spreading as he realised he did enjoy looking after Sherlock. He enjoyed being useful. However, as John moved to the back of Sherlock's hair, leaning Sherlock's forehead against his stomach in order to towel rub the still dripping mop of curls, a frown crossed his brow.
He couldn't just continue to do everything for Sherlock, the man was better; he should be independent, having showers even. His skin was healed, there was only faint reminders left in the form of scars. Sure, his leg gave him daily trouble, but it wasn't enough to warrant a full-time bedside nurse.
John realised that Sherlock's hair was almost bone dry now; he had gotten a bit carried away with drying it and threw the towel on the floor in an 'all done' statement.
John frowned further when Sherlock didn't move, still resting against John's stomach. John cupped the back of Sherlock's neck with one warm hand; he ran his fingertips over the skin there and felt Sherlock shiver at the touch. He chuckled lightly and moved his hands to Sherlock's shoulders, pushing him back slightly to see his face. To John's bewilderment, Sherlock was crying again.
John quickly crouched down, every corner of his face reading concern.
"I'm so confused" Sherlock said weakly, his eyes slightly red and watery.
"Confused about what?" John asked slowly, so that Sherlock could lip read.
"I've never had anyone to look after me before. I was brought up, differently to everyone else. I never had physical contact after the age of 4. And, and, and I…don't trust people, I have made that my number 1 rule. But, I just can't stop." Sherlock stammered his way through his speech, his face expressing obvious panic. He clasped his hand to his chest, over his heart and continued; "Something is telling me to give….e-everything to you" Sherlock stopped to inhale an uncontrolled gasp of air as he fought against his sanity to finish this account of his feelings; "But, you'll go away…e-eventually…companions a-always do, but not if I do what my feelings tell me to do, t-then you would go a-away sooner."
John sat back on his heels staring at the man who had once had Scotland Yard in the palm of his hand, now reduced to a gibbering, deaf wreck. He put his hands on Sherlock's bare knees and made eye contact with the beautiful chiselled face. Sherlock stopped gasping and looked, calmly at John, swallowing hard.
"I'm sorry John; I'm not sure what just happened" Sherlock whispered, back to his cool demeanour.
John signalled to Sherlock, somehow it was easier than words; 'I think you are getting over shock'
"John that was almost 4 months ago, why would I still be upset?" Sherlock said in frustration.
John angled his face away from Sherlock's but kept his eyes on him.
"Not good?" Sherlock asked.
John signalled 'A bit'
Sherlock smiled. "I'm sorry for breaking down, John; I guess you can see I'm not a hero after all now."
John smiled weakly, he hesitated before signing in their own way; 'Sherlock, you will always be my hero' and he smiled up at him, so genuinely that Sherlock felt like letting a whimper escape his lips, but he controlled himself and only allowed a curt nod in reply.
John stood and waved to the door, the taller man followed.
They went into Sherlock's bedroom and John was about to carry out the routine, however, were no burns to dress and no mess to tidy, meaning John just stood in the middle of the room looking a little lost. Sherlock chuckled; he then approached the bed and swapped his towel for his pyjamas before walking back to John and grabbing his hand, pulling him towards the bed. Sherlock clambered into the sheets and signalled John to do the same. John quickly rid himself of his brown cardigan and shirt, his jeans and his socks and climbed on top of the mattress, sinking down into the pillows beside the younger man.
The pair silently lay side by side, facing each other until John finally let out an awkward cough, he watched his own hands as he signalled something to Sherlock.
Sherlock lifted his head slightly to look down at John in puzzlement; "Say again?" he asked.
John blushed a little, before he signed the sentence again. Sherlock looked a little taken aback; "What I am feeling is love?" Sherlock repeated in distain.
John nodded before signing; 'It's what normal people feel'
Sherlock let his head fall back to the pillows in disgust. "What, I suppose you feel it too?" he asked bitterly.
John nodded, not looking at Sherlock who was sitting up again to look down at John.
"For whom?" Sherlock demanded, he was so close to John, leaning over him to see his expression through the darkness.
John looked up into Sherlock's face now; he saw the whiteness of his eyes, those brilliant, wonderful eyes, holding his gaze. A thought came to John and he didn't really process it before he was slowly lifting his head from his own pillow and meeting Sherlock's lips with his.
Sherlock froze. His eyes wide, looking, almost cross eyed at the man that was attached to his face. John realised the action was not being reciprocated and he immediately broke apart, letting his head fall back on the pillow with a soft thud.
He signalled 'Sorry' but did not get a reply. He watched cautiously as Sherlock remained in the same position, looking down at John with a look of intense confusion. After a minute or two John shifted uncomfortably and Sherlock seemed to snap out of his thoughts. Without a word he returned to the empty side of the double bed and lay on his back.
John went to roll onto his side, away from Sherlock, when Sherlock rolled back into his previous position, clamping John still. Sherlock's expression one of hesitance, nervousness and shyness. John just watched, helplessly, as Sherlock lowered himself onto John and tentatively pressed his lips to John's once more. They remained still, their lips only just touching for a few moments before Sherlock pulled away to see what reaction John had, however, John had no reaction at all. His breathing was steady and his eyes were closed. He was asleep.
Sherlock laughed lightly and smiled down at his friend, he was right; Sherlock felt more for this man than he had ever felt for anyone in his life, love was a powerful emotion indeed. Sherlock ran his hand over John's sleeping forehead before lying down, tucking his head into the crook of John's neck and wrapping his arm firmly around his soldier.