Damaged Heart

Chapter Six

Baby Steps

Sherlock watches as John vanishes and lays back against the pillows, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, deep in thought. How could he have allowed this to happen? How could he have fallen so far in such a short space of time?

He had fully resigned himself to dying as a result of the curse. He was able to look at himself with an outsider's eye and realised there was nothing about him anybody would ever be able to love. Once he'd accepted that, it was easy to fall into his assigned role as a monster and unfeeling bastard.

Nobody had done a thing to change that, until John Watson arrived. For some reason the man doesn't respond in the way normal people do with him. He'd thrown his cruellest deductions at John, he'd belittled him and even thrown him out of the manor and yet he remains, steadfast and true.

Sherlock couldn't say how he'd known John was in trouble. One moment he'd been absolutely furious, storming around the manor attempting to destroy anything in sight. The rage had consumed him. John had betrayed him, gone against his word deliberately. The next thing he knew there was something tugging hard at his left rib. It felt like almost like a magnetic force, drawing him out of the manor, out of the gates; towards the village.

He'd followed it, knowing that it was important, he'd never felt anything like it before. He wasn't sure he could explain it to anyone who'd asked. And what he'd found when the tugging had finally stopped was John Watson, in fear for his life, being threatened by four thugs who weren't worthy to kneel at John's feet.

He'd recalled immediately the lessons his sensai had taught him, he could remember them with perfect clarity. For the first time he was glad to have a superior intellect. He'd leapt into action, the moves coming easily and without effort. All the time he'd been aware of John, he'd been able to keep them away from the doctor; keep their attention fixed on him.

That was something he wasn't willing to address. Why he'd been so focussed on keeping somebody else from harm. Why he felt like a little part of him might collapse if John was even minorly injured.

Then the world had gone fuzzy and blurred around the edges. Darkness had taken over and he'd been woken in the manor with John somehow still beside him. After the way he'd treated John he would have expected the man to have left him unconscious and bleeding but instead, not only had he taken Sherlock safely back to the manor but is now tending his injuries.

Perhaps Greg is right, Sherlock thinks, keeping his eyes fixed on the door, waiting for the doctor to return. Perhaps he is the one. He is sure nobody else would have stayed around for so long. Perhaps it might be worth... trying.

'I told Mrs Hudson,' John says unneccessarily, looking a little perplexed at Sherlock's continued scrutiny. 'She says it'll be about half an hour.'

'What am I supposed to do until then?' Sherlock asks petulantly. John smiles slightly.

'Well, you could have a wash. Your hair...' he pauses, obviously trying to think of a way to put it delicately, 'well, it's a mess. You've got blood and all sorts in it.'

'Be specific, John. What do you mean by all sorts?'

'Well,' John says, plucking something out and dropping it in Sherlock's lap, 'this.'

'A twig?' Sherlock responds, bemusedly, twirling it in his fingertips.

'Believe me, it's not the only one,' John says, stifling laughter. 'You need to wash your hair. Then get into something more comfortable, eat dinner and rest.'

'Sounds unbearably tedious,' Sherlock mutters, swinging his legs out of bed and standing up. 'How do people cope with being injured?'

'A lot better than you, I'd imagine.'

Sherlock scowls and begins making his way to the bathroom. Halfway there he stops and sways for a moment. John gets up and anxiously starts towards him.

'You alright?'

'Fine,' Sherlock snaps. 'Your constant fussing is getting irritating. Can't you just leave me alone?'

'I thought you wanted me to have dinner with you,' John says evenly.

'That was clearly a momentary lapse in judgement,' Sherlock bites out. 'I can't think of anything worse than having to endure your dull conversation.'

'Right,' John says, a little shakily. 'Fine. I'll... have mine in the dining room then.' He has almost made it to the door when Sherlock calls after him.

'John?'

Taking a deep breath he clenches his hands into fists and turns around, his expression taut. 'What now?'

His eyes widen slightly as he takes in Sherlock. The other man's facial muscles are working spasmodically as though he is fighting hard to say something.

'I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I don't know why I said it.' Sherlock isn't meeting his gaze and John's expression softens.

'You're frustrated, I get it. But taking it out on me isn't fair. I'm only trying to help. God knows why because you're an insufferable git.'

Sherlock's eyes flash but he restrains himself from saying something inflammatory in return. Progress, John thinks, flinging himself into an armchair. He waves a commanding arm in the direction of the bathroom. With a huff, Sherlock disappears and a few moments later there is the sound of the shower water.

'Be careful of the gashes!' John shouts. He isn't too worried though. The wounds are clean and very shallow, not really more than cuts.

He is still sitting in the chair when Sherlock emerges about fifteen minutes later. He has a crisp white towel wrapped around his waist and his curls have been pulled straight so his hair falls to below his shoulders.

'Feel better?' John asks, averting his eyes, although he's not entirely sure why he's doing so. As a doctor he's seen a lot of nudity and at least Sherlock has a towel to preserve his dignity.

Sherlock nods curtly and begins rifling around in a massive oaken chest of drawers for some clothes.

'Are you decent?' John asks after a few minutes, staring steadfastedly at a picture on the wall.

'Why would it bother you if I weren't?' Sherlock asks. John turns to glance at him and is relieved to see he's dressed in some black tracksuit bottoms and a thin grey t-shirt. 'Aren't you a doctor?'

John splutters for a second before coming up with a reply. 'That doesn't mean I want to see naked bodies all the time when I'm off duty, thank you.'

'Hardly naked,' Sherlock responds mildly. 'I had a towel on.'

'Mrs Hudson should be up with dinner any minute,' John says, stopping the conversation from straying into dangerous waters. 'I think she made a lasagne.'

'Sounds delightful,' Sherlock drawls, draping himself elegantly on the bed.

'How are the injuries feeling?'

Sherlock shrugs. 'A little sore. But I've had worse.'

'Really?'

'Yes. There've been a couple of times when I got my ankle caught in a caltrap.'

John raises his eyebrows. 'A caltrap? How on earth...?' His expression suddenly clears with understanding. 'Ah. At the gates.'

'I see Greg's been spouting off again,' Sherlock says wryly.

'That's awful,' John says. 'Why do the villagers hate you so much?'

'I'm rude, abrasive, arrogant and care nothing for the emotions of others,' Sherlock replies blankly. 'What's not to hate?'

John cocks his head to one side. 'You are all those things sometimes but I think there's more to you than meets the eye. I don't think you were always like this.'

'And what would give you that idea?'

John shrugs. 'There's a portrait outside.' He gestures towards the door. 'You look younger and happier but it can't have been painted that long ago.' He waits but there is no answer from Sherlock who merely shifts on the bed and pointedly avoids looking at John. 'Sherlock?'

Just then there's a timid knock on the door, and with a last suspicious glance at Sherlock, John gets up and answers it. Mrs Hudson stands in the threshold with a covered tray in her hands.

'Put it down, then go,' Sherlock snaps.

The housekeeper blinks and then scurries forward to carefully place the tray on a low side table. John spins slowly on the spot and fixes Sherlock with a furious glare.

'Apologise to Mrs Hudson. And then you can thank her for making dinner and bringing it up.'

'That's her job, John. She's the help.'

'Don't worry about it, dear,' Mrs Hudson mutters, moving towards the door again. 'We're all used to it.'

'Well, you shouldn't have to be. Being the owner of this house and the employer of the staff doesn't give him the right to act like little Lord Fauntleroy.' He turns back to Sherlock. 'Apologise. Now. Or I'm leaving and this time I won't be coming back.'

He has no idea whether this bluff will actually work. He's only going on the fact that Sherlock came after him and saved him. Presumably that means that for some reason Sherlock doesn't want him to go anywhere. And besides, he doesn't really want to leave. Not anymore. There is something going on in this house and somehow he will get to the bottom of it. And while he's at it, he has a feeling he wouldn't mind finding out more about Sherlock.

'I'm sorry.' Sherlock startles John out of his reverie. He glances up to find that Sherlock is staring fixedly at the blanket but his words are clearly addressed to Mrs Hudson. 'Thank you for dinner.'

Mrs Hudson flushes with pleasure, squeaks something unintelligible in reply and leaves, closing the door gently behind her.

'See? That wasn't too hard was it?' John asks, handing Sherlock a plate of steaming lasagne. Sherlock balances the lasagne on his lap and takes a bite. He doesn't respond.

Baby steps, John thinks to himself, smiling slightly.

XXXXXXXXXX

For the next few days Sherlock stays in the West Wing recovering from his injuries and John finds himself, if not a welcome, then at least an accepted visitor to the man's inner sanctum. It's as if the gang attack has drawn them closer together in some strange way. John no longer takes offence at Sherlock's rudeness or insults and Sherlock, in his way, seems to manage to go longer and longer without offending John in some way.

About a week after the incident they are in the West Wing trying to decide what to do with the rest of the afternoon. Sherlock is all for completing an apparently vitally important experiment. John, after taking one look at what said experiment involved, refuses point blank and suggests a game of Cluedo after spotting a decrepit and dusty box in the corner of the room.

'I've never actually played it,' Sherlock admits, eyeing the game with deep scepticism as John lays out the board.

'You haven't? I'd have thought it would be right up your street. The aim of it is to solve a murder...'

'What are the parameters?' Sherlock cuts in at once. John blinks.

'Sorry?'

'I mean I presume we know weather conditions, footprints and other evidence like tobacco ash or a lingering perfume scent. I also imagine we'll get cards or some such thing stating the time of death and who the body was found by. What about the victim? I suppose we know all his relationships with the other characters in this game, one of whom I'm presuming is the murderer. Unless it was a suicide? Is there a provision for suicide?'

Very slowly John begins to fold up the board. Sherlock looks bewildered. 'Why are you packing it away? We haven't even started yet.'

'Cluedo was a stupid idea,' John says hastily. 'Why don't we do something else?'

'Like what?' Sherlock asks sceptically.

'I dunno... talk perhaps?'

'Fine,' Sherlock says, settling himself on a chair and waving an arm imperiously in John's direction. 'Talk.'

'You are aware a conversation is supposed to be a reciprocal thing?' John clarifies, raising an eyebrow. When Sherlock doesn't respond he sighs and racks his brain for something to say.

'So, I was born in London...'

'Hang on. Is this going to be your entire life history? I have no time for such drivel.'

John blinks, gets to his feet and heads towards the door, trying to ignore the nagging disappointment in his gut. He'd hoped that Sherlock was beginning to open up, to trust him. He'd hoped that they were beginning to build a tentative friendship. And then the man had to open his mouth.

'John, wait.' Sherlock's tone is imploring but John doesn't look back, although he does pause.

'No, Sherlock. I gave you your chance. I've tried to tolerate your rudeness and the constant insults but if everything that comes out of your mouth is going to be sarcastic or hurtful then I think I am justified in removing myself from your presence. We can ignore each other until my imprisonment in this blasted manor comes to an end.' Feeling that he might have been unnecessarily dramatic in terming it imprisonment, John squares his shoulders and strides out of the room.

Had he glanced back he would have seen Sherlock's face crumple and his fingernails dig into his palms so hard that crimson half-moons appear on the pale skin.