"I knew it!" Lestrade rubbed his hands together, beaming. "Heard the rumors for days, of course, but I never got in early enough to see for myself."
John sat up, wiping sleep from his eyes, and detangled himself from Sherlock. "Rumors?"
"That you were, you know…" The inspector gestured towards them. "Together."
"Yeah, well, they tried to kick him out, but after the first few days, they sort of gave up," John explained with a yawn.
"Than how do you explain the money you won betting against the rest of the Yard on it? How much was it again?" Sherlock hadn't sat up yet, and still had his eyes closed.
Lestrade cleared his throat awkwardly. "A few hundred pounds, I think."
"Good for you," John remarked, meaning it. He poked Sherlock until he groaned and got out of the bed. "Wake up, dear. The kids want our full attention."
"I hardly think they require that," Sherlock muttered, but he grabbed his coat and threw it on over his pajamas. "Why are you here anyway?"
"Good news," Lestrade told them with a grin. "John, you're being discharged."
"What, really?" John's grin was equal parts shock and delight.
"Yeah, just got the news. You'd have heard it yourself if you hadn't slept in so late."
"It's the morphine," John explained. "Makes you drowsy."
"Yeah? And what about him?" Lestrade asked, grinning and gesturing to Sherlock.
"Making up for lost time." Sherlock glanced at John, then stomped into the bathroom.
"Just like that?" John asked, watching Sherlock go out of the corner of his eye.
"Well, you've got to do some physical therapy stuff, and they want regular check-ins," admitted Lestrade, "but you can go back to Baker Street, at least."
"That's great, really. I won't miss this place, or these things." He tapped the machines ranged around his bed. There were less, it was true, but still more than he wanted.
"Can't blame you." Lestrade grinned. "As soon as you're ready, we can go." He pointed to a nurse who stood in the door, pushing a wheelchair. At the sight of it, John's face fell. Sherlock came out of the bathroom, hair wet, just in time to see it.
"What's wrong?"
"It's just… I'd forgotten for a second," he confessed. "Baker Street. Our flat… I won't be able to get up the stairs."
Sherlock's heart broke - how could he have forgotten? He'd been so eager to have everything perfect, and yet that hadn't once occurred to him. But to his surprise, Lestrade smiled.
"Don't worry about that," he promised. "I've got it taken care of. Well, with a bit of help," he admitted.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Mycroft?"
"Maybe." Lestrade shrugged, but his grin was all the answer either man needed. "Shall we go, then?"
John shrugged, excited but a bit apprehensive. "Might as well."
It took both men and the nurse to get John into the wheelchair, but all were confident that with practice, Sherlock and John would be able to manage it alone. When they came out of the hospital, a sleek black van was waiting for them, specially designed to accommodate the handicapped. In the backseat was a bottle of champagne and a note: My compliments. - MH.
"As brothers go, he's not too bad," John commented, nudging Sherlock lightly. All he received in answer was a smirk, but it was enough.
The ride to Baker Street took both forever and hardly any time at all. As they rounded the last corner, John blinked in surprise. A tall black tower stood adjacent to the building, its top connecting to what used to be one of their windows. John looked at Sherlock in confusion.
"Only guesses," Sherlock said in answer to his unspoken question. "I don't know for certain, but I'm sure we'll find out."
Lestrade turned around from the front seat. "Nice, isn't it? Mycroft set it all up. Paid for it, too. Apparently the British government felt they owed you two some favors." He beamed. "Let's get you unloaded and then you can check it out."
A few minutes later - their driver had obviously been well-trained - Sherlock was pushing John down the bumpy sidewalk towards the tower. Lestrade led them around the side to reveal a door, and at last John understood.
"It's a lift!" John stared up at the shaft, finally appreciating what Mycroft had done.
"Outside because you couldn't risk damaging the structure of the building," Sherlock murmured. "Smart, Mrs. Hudson would murder you, and don't ask me for help on that one. I assume it's secured somehow?"
"Of course." Lestrade grinned. "Did you honestly think we'd let bozos off the street go barging into your bedroom?"
John blushed. "That's not- I mean, we'll have-"
"How is it secured?" Sherlock asked, saving John from stuttering.
"Voice recognition and thumbprint," Lestrade informed them. "I thought we'd better have both. God only knows what enemies you two might still have, and it does attract attention."
"And I'm sure Mycroft was delighted to pay for it," Sherlock added dryly.
"Well, you wouldn't take a knighthood. Here." The police inspector guided them over to a small panel set into the side of the elevator shaft, set low enough that John could reach it easily. "Reinforced glass. Shouldn't have any problems with vandals."
John nodded. "Good to know. So what do we do?"
"Just say your name into the speaker there," Lestrade instructed him, keying in a series of numbers on the screen with the ease of long practice. "It'll recognize it from there."
"Er, alright." Sherlock wheeled him over and he said his name clearly, if somewhat awkwardly, into the speaker. When Sherlock had done the same, Lestrade keyed in another series of numbers.
"If it ever needs recalibrating, just let me know," he told them, showing them how to scan their fingerprints.
"Recalibrating?" John asked, frowning. "Why would it need recalibrating?"
Lestrade shuffled his feet awkwardly, looking anywhere but at John. "Well, if you ever, you know, change your name or something."
"Why would we-"
"Finger here, please." Once both men had entered their fingerprints, the doors slid open.
"One way glass," Sherlock commented as they entered, looking out at the street through the unexpectedly translucent walls. "Very nice."
"Always good to know what's around you," Lestrade said. "And we couldn't remember whether you were claustrophobic," he admitted to John with a shrug. "Figured we'd better not take the chance."
Only moments later, they'd arrived at the second floor. The doors slid silently open to reveal the living room of 221b, exactly as they'd left it. Except for one thing.
"Welcome home, brother dear," Mycroft said, folding up his newspaper and rising from the armchair. "And John. Gregory said you'd be in today, and I just had to drop in."
"Didn't know you cared," Sherlock replied crisply, pushing John into the flat.
"Ah, come now, Sherlock." Mycroft's smile was brittle and forced, but then, it always was. "Don't pretend you aren't at least a bit pleased to see me."
"Thanks for the lift, it's great," John said, hoping to break the tension. But Sherlock was having none of it.
"Yes, it was so kind of you to throw some of England's fortune our way. Very personal."
"Now really, I think at least a bit of gratitude is in order. After all, I did make it possible for you to continue in with your…" He paused. "Companion."
"Sherlock, leave it," John told him sharply, taking his hand. Sherlock looked down at him, ready with a sharp retort, but his face softened and he subsided with a sigh.
"Let him alone, Mike," Lestrade added. "They've had a long week."
Mycroft sniffed. "I'll be off, then," he said crisply, recovering his dignity. "Things to attend to. I'll show myself out," he said with a forced smile as Sherlock moved towards the door.
"I might as well go too," the police inspector said, nodding at the pair. "Let you two… settle in." He winked, then headed down the stairs after Mycroft.
Suddenly left alone, John wasn't sure where to look. The flat was just as he'd left it, but his perspective was wildly different. We're going to have to rearrange some things, he thought. I'm not going to fit through.
He started to wheel himself towards the armchairs. "No, I can do it," he told Sherlock, who had moved to help him. "Got to learn to do it some time." He smiled up at his - yes, his boyfriend, he could say it - and rolled over towards their armchairs. Only then did he realize yet another problem - he wouldn't be able to get in.
But Sherlock was already at his side, ready to help. John was grateful, but hated needing it, hated relying on anyone. Although, he reflected, if he must be leaning on someone, let it be the man beside him. And he loved Sherlock for refusing to give him the chance to ask for help: doing all he could to spare his pride.
Moments later, John was settled in his customary spot, feeling almost normal. Sherlock bustled around the flat in silence, checking in on his experiments and books, making sure nothing was disturbed. "Ah," he said suddenly from the kitchen. "Mrs. Hudson brought tea."
He reappeared from behind John, carrying two teacups, and handed him one before collapsing into his own armchair. "Good to be home, isn't it?"
"Very." John sipped his tea appreciatively. "You could have come back any time, you know."
"Perhaps," Sherlock allowed, "but it's not home when you're away." John blushed and looked down into his tea, still not entirely sure how to deal with this changed dynamic, though he was certain he was enjoying it.
"John."
"Yes?" He glanced up - then sat down his cup at the look on Sherlock's face. "What?" He saw the other man's eyes flick to the empty wheelchair, and his stomach plummeted.
"I- There's something I need to ask you."
John had never seen Sherlock this anxious, this uncomfortable, this out of his depth.
"I probably should have done it sooner, or later, or something, but I wanted it to be perfect. Want it to be perfect," he corrected himself. "But…"
"But what?" asked John, well and truly nervous now.
Sherlock shifted in his chair. "Recent events reminded me that I might not have time to be perfect. And I'm not sure I know what perfect looks like. But that's more realistic, in any case. And I've got close enough to perfect for me."
"Okay, spit it out, my nerves can't take it," John ordered him, only half joking. The detective cracked a smile.
"And you spent time in Afghanistan." He chuckled briefly, then returned to the serious matter at hand - whatever it was.
"John, I haven't got any right to ask it, but…" He cleared his throat. "Will you marry me?"
John blinked in astonishment, all words flying right out of his mind. "Will… what?"
Instantly, Sherlock's heart sank to the bottom of his stomach. "I- Never mind, I just thought-"
"No, no, wait." John reached out a hand as if to pull the words back. "I just… Really?"
Shifting uncomfortably, Sherlock nodded. "If you want."
"If I want." He chuckled wryly. "Sherlock…" He shook his head. "No. I'm sorry, but no."
Sherlock closed his eyes for a long moment. "Okay," he said at last, unaware that his voice had dropped to little more than a whisper. "Okay."
"I mean-" John rubbed his eyes, trying to explain. "I can't do that to you, Sherlock. We both know I can't stay here, not like this." He gestured to his limp legs. "And running around, solving crimes, being Sherlock Holmes…" He shook his head. "Everything has changed, I'm not going to pretend otherwise."
"Neither am I, John." Sherlock's eyes were intent on John's face, giving the army doctor the distinct feeling that Sherlock was referring to other changes entirely.
"It's not that I don't love you, Sherlock," John assured him quickly. "Don't ever think that. It's just…" He sucked in a breath, looking anywhere but at the man across from him. "This last week has honestly been one of the best of my life, and I think we both know why."
Sherlock nodded, his expression unreadable.
"But I've been deluding myself, thinking that this-" He waved a hand around, encompassing the flat, his wheelchair, and Sherlock. "-could go on." With a massive amount of self-control, John kept his speech deliberate. "I am a flawed man, Sherlock, and you need something better than that."
John fell silent, biting his lip, waiting for what his love would say. The flat was quiet for what felt like the longest moment of both of their lives.
"A physically flawed man and an emotionally flawed man," Sherlock said quietly, not quite looking at John. "I'd say you're better than I deserve."
John's eyes widened hopefully as Sherlock's gaze flicked up to meet his.
"John, if you think I'm not fully aware of exactly what this entails, then you are deluding yourself far more than you think." His voice was deceptively calm. "And it doesn't change a thing."
John nodded. He'd known, of course, that Sherlock certainly had thought through what his disability would mean for their lifestyles: God knows we had enough time to worry it over. But he'd felt honour-bound to remind him. He knew he should still refuse.
"You are the one who had saved me, so many more times than you know. Every day, little things and big, sometimes before I know I need saving. Before I met you, I-" He stopped, closing his eyes briefly. "My life wasn't of much worth to me." With a wry smile, he added, "Maybe you've noticed."
Memories rolled in: Sherlock chasing armed criminals across London, Sherlock toying with England's best criminals for sport. Sherlock vaulting blind over a dumpster to confront the gunman who'd put them in this fix. "A bit, yeah."
"You changed all of that for me. You're the best thing that ever could have happened to me, John." He paused, cleared his throat. "A week ago I almost had that taken away. I'm never letting go of you again."
Sherlock reached for his hand, and before John knew it, he was down on one knee. "I'll ask you again, John. One more time. Will you marry me?"
It would be so easy, John knew. He really shouldn't, really should deal with this problem himself. But here was Sherlock, offering to take away some of that burden. John never could resist those eyes. Damn it.
"John?" Sherlock frowned. "John, you're crying. Did I do it wrong?"
"No." John shook his head, laughing through his tears. "No, of course not. Of course I'll marry you." He beamed up at him. "How's that for perfect?"
"Absolutely," Sherlock told him, and kissed his fiance with the knowledge that whatever happened, he had everything he needed.
THE END
A.N: Aww, I love this story. I read it over as I published it and fell in love again. And I wasn't the only one...
There is no more Johnlock in my foreseeable future, unfortunately (although if I get a bunch of wonderful reviews, I might consider it...). For now, I am returning to the Whoniverse with the long-awaited conclusion to my Mystery Girl trilogy. Highly recommended! Until then, dears, thank you all so much, and good luck with Season 4!
-Forever the Optimist
