Chapter 7

Lost Time

John fell into a fitful sleep. The latest dose hadn't completely relieved his pain, but moved it into the realm of an annoying ache with occasional sharp jabs. When he startled awake, the nerves firing along the edges of the laceration would not quiet, but for the first time in what seemed like forever, his head wasn't fog-bound, but oddly empty. As his brain came online, his first clear thought was that in three days he'd see the doctor and to begin-with hope-weaning himself off the pills.

Determined not to wake Sherlock, even though he suspected the blue-green-gray eyes were already observing him, John kept his eyes closed and remained as still as his pain would allow. Breathing as Sherlock had taught him, excluding his hand to his belly-Sherlock held that hand captive within his own-he turned his head away as though still asleep, and stared at the sliver of light escaping from the loo where the door stood ajar.

A sudden twitch of his leg because of the sharp jab of a nerve centered in the deepest penetration of the wound apparently alerted Sherlock to his discomfort. The detective shifted closer, pressing a warm hand to his belly, this time applying more pressure than previous times.

Ashamed at the barely constrained moans that escaped his throat, John bit his lip to bury them. He was a doctor, an army doctor, for God's sake, he'd been shot...why was he so pathetic?

"It's okay, John, relax into it. It will pass. It will get better, I promise," Sherlock whispered against his ear, kissing along the edge, behind and below. "Breathe. That's all you have to do. I'll do the rest."

It wasn't long before the relief Sherlock promised rolled over him and allowed him to drift back toward sleep.

"Love you, Sherlock."

"I love you, John. Always."


When he woke the second time, wrapped snuggly in his Sherlock cocoon, and, surprisingly pain free for the first time in six days...was it six days? Although his head was fairly clear, the memories of his drug-induced days were still clouded and disjointed.

John grinned as he remembered the day just past. It had been a quiet day, light eating, reading, sitting together, talking about nothing in particular, neither of them wanting to discuss John's feelings about something not right. And kissing. Lots of kissing that had an immeasurable calming effect. Sherlock had been silly and accommodating, making it an almost perfect day.

When John left his thoughts behind, Sherlock's hand still lay on his belly, a slight pressure that was both welcome and intimate because of Sherlock's long fingers tucked beneath the waistband of his pyjama bottoms.

"How are you feeling this morning?"

John smiled. Sherlock was awake, observing, gathering data, cataloguing. Yes, of course he was, that was what consulting detectives do.

"Better. I think I'll be able to get by on a lower dose. Maybe we could try it?"

Sherlock nodded against his head. "If all goes well when you visit your doctor tomorrow, I think that would be a possibility worth pursuing."

John stared at Sherlock. "Tomorrow? We see the doctor tomorrow?"

Sherlock nibbled at his earlobe. "Mm, delicious."


John awoke with the knowledge of the lost day hovering over his shoulder. The thought, like the slice of a knife, sent a shudder through his not fully awake body. It was as if he were drowning, struggling to break the surface, fighting to breathe when there was no air left.

He slowly became aware of soft breaths against his cheek, long arms curled round his waist, a leg bent across his thighs. Had he fallen back to sleep? Through slitted lids he tried to determine the time by the light from the window, but his traitorous mind refused to obey. In the end, he trusted Sherlock to have the answer, but in the interim, how many days was he missing now?

Contemplating the pain-free moment for however long it lasted, he let his thoughts drift away from the missing hours and his fear until at last they settled on the man he knew so well. The man who surrounded him and loved him more than he deserved, and looked past all his...stuff.

He'd long ago discarded Sherlock's declarative label of sociopath, or any other unkind descriptive thoughtlessly hurled at the detective by those who made no effort to know him. As any other, Sherlock Holmes was just a man, flawed in extraordinary ways, who, despite his statements to the contrary, desperately wanted and needed to be loved.

Even now, years later, he often wondered about all the events that had to line up for him to cross paths with Sherlock. Fate, destiny, coincidence, serendipity, there were any number of words to consider. John remembered again Mycroft's words that "the universe is rarely so lazy." While Sherlock understood his brother's cryptic nonsense, John no longer felt the need to understand. Ignoring it made more sense.

It no longer mattered how it happened, only that it had brought them together. Smiling at the thought, he turned his head slowly and just enough to gaze at Sherlock's face.

Pale blue eyes framed by impossibly long lashes gazed back at him. "What are you thinking, John?"

"You don't know?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, burrowing against John's neck, kissing his jaw.

"You know my methods, Dr. Watson. I extrapolate facts. I am not known to be clairvoyant or that equally abhorrent term, psychic."

John grinned wickedly. "I've always thought of you as more of a...erm...an oracle?"

For a moment Sherlock just stared at him. Slowly, his stunned expression softened into a tiny smile. His deep voice bubbled in his chest, issuing forth like a dragon, were a dragon able to protest the description.

"Excuse me?"

"My own personal oracle."

"What does an oracle do, John?"

"Well," John paused, gazing back at Sherlock while he pondered the question. "I don't know."

"Does an oracle require a conductor of light?"

John smiled brightly. "Haven't the slightest. You're the genius."

"Very well, John. I'm not conversant in oracle, so I will make a mental note to research at a later time, but right now, we need to be up and about, shower, eat, etcetera, etcetera."

"Five more minutes, Sherlock? Please?"

Sherlock glanced at the clock. "Ten, but no more."

A half hour later, Sherlock groaned. "John?"

"Hm?"

"It's time."

John sighed. "Yes, yes, all right."

Sherlock released him, rolled off his side of the bed. "Do you need help?"

"No."

"Any pain?"

"Some."

"Level of pain?"

"Two at the moment, maybe more when I get up."

As Sherlock had, John rolled to the side and sat on the edge of the bed. Minor jabs let him know his wound didn't like being moved about, but he breathed deeply, pleased that for the moment at least, the pain was manageable.

At Sherlock's insistence, they showered together. Once towel dried, Sherlock removed the waterproof cover from John's well-loved chest, replacing the underlying bandage with a fresh one. John allowed it without protest.

"It looks much better, John. Less angry. Definite signs of healing. I think your doctor will be pleased."

"Sherlock, I'd like to reduce the pills whenever you stop putting me off. And when are we going to see Dr. Sloane?"

"All right, but when we get home. A cab ride will be stressful for your body. We should discuss it with your doctor before cutting the dosage. "And, yes, I know you are a doctor and you have the right to change it, but I, Sherlock Holmes, am caring for you and-what?"

John smiled at Sherlock's attention to his care. For today, he was happy to let the detective take charge. He took Sherlock's hand as they walked to the kitchen. "Always your way."

"What?"

"Nothing. You didn't answer my question, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at him, concern prompting that little rumple between his brows. "Today, John, about ninety minutes from now."

John pressed his lips together in a straight line before answering. "Oh. I think I've lost...never mind."

Breakfast tasted like dry paper. He blamed the pills again. Even the jam and toast he looked forward to each morning tasted like...nothing. After struggling through enough to keep Sherlock appeased, he pushed the rest away.

Sent off to brush his teeth, he paused at the door to listen to Sherlock's soft humming as he rinsed the dishes and set them in the sink. This thoughtful, domestic detective was different, disconcerting. John grimaced and shook his head at all the 'd' words he'd just strung together.

He had to admit it was pleasant, but it wouldn't last. As soon as he was healed, Sherlock would default to his former self, but for now, he enjoyed this helpful, attentive, Sherlock. He loved the man no matter which version presented himself, and that was enough.

What to do about the lost time was what he ruminated about as they descended the stairs slowly, side by side, Sherlock's fingers firmly round his arm. Mrs. Hudson popped out of her flat as they reached the last step, her smile chasing away his concern, if only for the moment. It lurked in the shadows no matter what happened to create a temporary diversion.

"John, how are you? Oh, you look so much better. Not so peaky as before."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson."

"Sherlock gave me twice-daily reports so I wouldn't worry."

"He's been a conscientious caregiver this last week. I don't know what I would have done without him."

When John looked up, the detective's barely there smile spoke volumes. He knew that inside, Sherlock displayed like a proud peacock.

At the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock took John's hand and guided him toward the door.

"We're off to the clinic to see John's doctor. A good report is expected, Mrs. Hudson. I'll inform you when we return."

"Thank you, Sherlock. Best of luck to you, John," she said, kissing his cheek.

When Sherlock frowned, she hugged him, patted his cheek and shooed them out the door with a cheeky grin.

On the pavement, John waited just a brief moment while Sherlock hailed a cab. The black cab pulled up to the kerb, John struggled in and they were on their way.

Settled in the seat, Sherlock reached across to fasten John's seatbelt before his own.

John shielded his mouth with his hand just enough so he wouldn't be overheard by the cabbie. "Thanks, darling."

Sherlock stared ahead, but John saw the detective's smile in the reflection of the window.

"You're so good to me, love."

John knew that Sherlock was aware of what he was up to by the smile on his face. When the doctor reached for the hand that rested on the seat between them, Sherlock turned to him.

"You are an incorrigible man when it comes to your affection."

John lifted his chin, pasted a smirk on his face and stared forward. "Damn straight."

"Oh, go on, sweetheart." Sherlock grinned at him and winked.

They were both giggling like little boys when the cabbie pulled up to the private clinic Mycroft had insisted they patronise.

John departed the cab carefully, his pain on the rise as the pills had not been in his system long enough. It was a dull ache, reminiscent of the healing pain of his shoulder, but it still had the potential to explode into excruciating pain when least expected.

Sherlock took his hand as they approached the entrance, stopping mid-stride to glance at him.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, why?"

"You're gripping my hand tightly enough to cut off circulation. Are you in pain?"

"A bit."

"How much is that bit?"

"I'm fine, Sherlock, really."

"John, don't deflect."

"I'm not. Today, at this moment, less than a gunshot to the shoulder?"

Sherlock just stared at him, silent, his frown communicating his displeasure.

"Sorry."

"It's all right, John. I prefer to know when you are in pain so that I don't unintentionally irritate you."

John bit back a retort that would only escalate the tension.

"Let's just go inside, please?"

"Very well, but going forward you will keep me informed. You haven't been very faithful to your previous promises to keep me informed of your level of pain."

"Yes, commander. That's commander with a small 'c.'"

"Idiot," Sherlock whispered, inclining his head to steal a kiss.

"Twit."

"We don't need to see that," came the snide response to their kiss.

John expected Sherlock to ignore it as he usually did. Instead, the detective turned to the unkempt, obviously inebriated man stumbling away from them.

"Fuck off," Sherlock called over his shoulder as they mounted the stairs.

John was still in a state of shock, and suppressing a laugh when they stepped inside the clinic doors. A hand pressed to his belly did little to help, but it felt so good to laugh. Sherlock squeezed his hand, his own smirk assuring John that he understood.


Expecting the waiting room to be crowded, John was pleasantly surprised and relieved to see there were only two very well-dressed patients. He looked round him, then down at himself, and for an instant wished he had chosen his clothing more carefully when he dressed, but, as always, Sherlock burst into his thoughts.

"You are just fine, John. You look like John Watson is supposed to look, not some over-indulged client who frequents a Mycroft-recommended, ridiculously exorbitant, private clinic."

"That was a mouthful, but you forgot pretentious."

"Quite right, John, that, too."

John wondered if Sherlock realized his description of the other two people could very well include himself. As soon as the thought swept through his mind he discarded it. Another glance at them confirmed that although Sherlock was dressed in an impeccable suit and white shirt he was nothing like the two noses tilted high in the air. They were more Mycroft's sort.

John looked down at the strong hand that held his, pressed his hand to his belly and forced himself to relax. Once he was settled in a chair, Sherlock strode to the so-labeled welcome desk.

The doctor heard Sherlock announce his name in a soft voice, followed by the clatter of a clipboard, and the detective's footsteps as he approached and dropped into the chair beside him. "Shall I complete this questionnaire while you hold your belly?"

Under any other circumstances, Sherlock's innocent face and the absurdity of his question would have made John laugh. Already knackered and wanting to be home, John smiled at Sherlock and nodded his agreement. Sherlock knew him well, but John was still shocked when he reviewed the thirty questions and found that the detective had correctly answered all of them.

After John signed the sheet, Sherlock returned it to the desk. He smiled with childlike pride so obvious that John felt it deserved a small reward. He squeezed Sherlock's leg, just above his knee. In response, the detective rested his hand over John's.

"You are so good to me," John whispered, resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder for the expected long wait.

"John Watson?"

"Yes, here," John responded, pushing himself to his feet.

"Follow me, please."

Sherlock fell into step behind him, but at the door, the nurse stopped him. "Are you family?"

At the indignant expression on Sherlock's face, John cleared his throat and twined their fingers together. "He's more than family, he's my whole life. Where I go, he goes, no exceptions."

The woman stared at him for several seconds before she turned a perfect about face and marched down the hallway. In the small examination suite, John sat in the only chair available, while Sherlock stood behind him, silent and brooding.

John hoped that the woman would not be the one to take his blood pressure. The image of the detective verbally eviscerating her was too horrific to consider, so he pushed it to the back of his mind, but not before smiling to himself.

When the door opened, Sherlock firmly gripped his shoulders from behind. John tensed and pressed his belly, until a tiny, blonde nurse bounced into the room.

"Hi! I'm Kate. I'm going to check your blood pressure and your temperature before the doctor sees you."

John bit his lip at the young woman's demeanor. "All right."

"How are you feeling? I saw the photos of your injury. Nasty business. I'm so sorry."

John observed her closely as she attached the blood pressure cuff to his upper arm.

"I'm feeling better today, thanks."

"That's good to hear," she said, recording his blood pressure into the computer.

Kate directed her smile toward Sherlock. "I'm sorry, I don't think we've met?"

Her consideration of Sherlock went far beyond professionalism, which annoyed John on several levels even though he knew better. When Sherlock said nothing, John spoke for him. "This is William. He's my partner."

If she was disappointed, she hid it well. "Oh, that's nice. I'll just take your temp and I'll be off."

John waited impatiently for the thermometer to beep. When it finally did, he watched the tiny blond mark the reading.

"No fever. Blood pressure is fine. I'll tell Dr. Sloane that

you're here. Nice to meet you."

Looking up at Sherlock as the door closed behind the young woman, John caught the smirk on Sherlock's face. The detective frowned, then looked chastened, then shrugged.

"Insufferable-"

"Don't, Sherlock. It's not nice."

"Why did you call me William?"

"You're undercover."

Reminiscent of his brother, Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and pursed his lips, finally nodded, inhaled, placing his finger against his lips. "But-"

In situations of the current type, John wasn't above a little manipulation of his own. "Just no, Sherlock. If you would like to be snogged into the middle of next week when we get home, you will not finish that sentence."

"John?"

"Sherlock? Please? For me?"

The detective's pouty mouth melted into a soft smile. "Very well, John."

"Thank you."

Sherlock patted his shoulders just as the door swung open and Dr. Sloane stepped in.

"Good morning, gentlemen."

John stood, with some difficulty, extending his hand. "Morning."

Sherlock stepped from behind the chair to stand beside him.

Protective stance, John realised with a rush of warmth. When Sherlock didn't offer his hand to the older man, John elbowed him, catching him on the hipbone. Sherlock's hand shot out to greet the older doctor.

John glanced to his left as he sat, just in time to catch the rumple appear between Sherlock's brows and the proof that he realized he'd erred. It was a small matter they'd laugh about later.

"So, Dr. Watson, tell me how you are progressing since I last saw you at A&E?"

"John, please."

"All right, John."

"After the five days in hospital, the first few days at home were difficult. The pain was sometimes as much as when I was shot in the shoulder. Once the pain killers took over, I slept most of the time, and when I was awake, my mind was unclear, I couldn't think properly. I had nightmares, too."

"All very common with opiates, unfortunately. And now?"

"Sherlock considered cutting the dose by a quarter strength to see if was as effective and so allow me to think better, but he was adamant that I speak with you before doing so. With some breathing and applied pressure techniques he taught me, the pain was nearly always manageable provided I kept to the prescribed schedule."

At Dr. Sloane's obvious scrutiny, John hesitated, afraid that Sherlock would deduce the man, but the detective returned to his place behind the chair before speaking.

"I'm a scientist and a chemist. I determined it was feasible, if you agreed, of course, that reducing the dose would help him lessen or perhaps avoid the nightmares."

"I can see John is in good hands, Mr. Holmes."

"With both of us managing his care, I believe he is, Dr. Sloane."

Grateful Sherlock used his most pleasant approach, and that the mild-mannered Dr. Sloane either didn't notice or ignored the 'I'm the smartest man in the room' subtext was the best he could have expected. It was so glaringly obvious to him that he had to smile. And it was doubly clear by the strong squeeze to his shoulders that the omniscient Sherlock Holmes would prevail.

Dr. Sloane looked from one to the other, but neither agreed nor disagreed. If the man disagreed, in the end, John would follow Sherlock's recommendation. No doubt there.

"Yes, well, I'll step out while you undress. Just your shirt, I think, so that I can get a good look at the laceration. There's a bit of a chill in here; there's a gown should you need it."

As soon as the older doctor departed, Sherlock leaned over to whisper in his ear.

"Yes, John, do wear the gown. I won't be responsible for what might happen should I see your-"

"Sherlock!" John giggled. "And you called me incorrigible."

"I can't help myself, John, I love you. Every centimeter of you, to be exact."

"Deflecting again, Sherlock, flattering though it is."

"Yes, John. I'm guilty as charged."

"Fibbing, Sherlock."

Sherlock's laughter went straight to John's heart and other places. Reaching for the buttons of his shirt, he hurried to remove it and slip into the gown before the Dr. Sloane's return.

Gown draped round him, John sat on the examination couch in a very uncomfortable position as Sherlock slid into the chair he'd vacated. He suspected Sherlock was just as impatient for the doctor to return, as once again the need to be at home overwhelmed him.

"John, you're fidgeting. Are you all right?"

"Just little twinges. Sitting here with no way to support my back is hurting my chest."

Sherlock moved to stand beside him. "I have you, just lean against my arm."

A great sigh of relief escaped his throat when the detective lowered him to the table, tucking the pillow beneath his head.

"Better?"

"Yes, thank you."

With a glance at the door, Sherlock dipped his head to place a chaste kiss to John's lips.

"Much better."

Sherlock stood straight as the door opened to admit the doctor, who moved to the opposite side. Immediately protective for the second time, Sherlock remained at John's side, a silent, stalwart companion, his strong hand firm on John's shoulder.

Once the bandage was removed, the examination was quick, but thorough.

"No inflammation, and the stitches are holding just fine. There is one area, here, over the edge of your lowest rib that is a bit problematic, but it should heal without any cause for concern. It's a week now, you can shower without the bandage, however bathing is another week away, when the outer edges are better healed."

John glanced at Sherlock, aware at once by his expression and the bright blue eyes that he took in each word spoken and filed them away. Data was what Sherlock thrived on.

"All in all, John, everything looks fine. Your blood pressure is good, no fever, your heart is strong. I dare say your prognosis is much improved from the our last encounter two weeks ago."

"Thank you, that's good to hear."

"Just be gentle with yourself for another few weeks and you should be all well and good. As for the medication, regulate it as you see fit for your comfort level, but do not stop it abruptly. Decrease it over a period of time. The breathing exercises will certainly help."

Before the doctor could help him, Sherlock slipped an arm behind his back and lifted him to a sitting position. John grunted, nearly crying out from a sharp pain skittering along the ridge of the healing flesh.

"Breath, John, you know the method."

John looked up just as Sherlock wiped the look of concern from his face. "I'm okay Sherlock, it just surprised me. I'm due for more pills when we get home."

"Just breathe."

Feeling the older man's eyes on him, John kept his eyes locked onto the floor while he waited for the pain to pass.

"Dr. Sloane, I would like to take John away on holiday, a week, perhaps two. It's a cottage my brother suggested near Shaftesbury, Dorset, quiet, wooded, with a well-equipped clinic, should the need arise."

"I think that would be fine. There's a good physician there at the clinic, one I'm sure your brother Mycroft would recommend. His name is Sloane, Gerald Sloane, my nephew."

Feeling slightly left out, John looked up at Sherlock, but he was otherwise engaged.

"You're acquainted with my brother?"

"Oh yes, I'm a member-"

"Of the Diogenes club, not surprising at all," Sherlock growled, displeasure written all over his face. "The puzzle has come together. Now I know why he suggested Dorset."

"Sherlock," John said, injecting himself into the conversation, "why would you be surprised? Your brother knows just about everyone living in England and a few dead ones, too."

"I see you've recovered, John. It's time to go home. Thank you, Dr. Sloane. You've been very helpful. I'll keep a close eye on John as he continues his recuperation."

Whatever happened in that moment was unclear to John. He'd missed something, somewhere.

Once Dr. Sloane escaped the room, Sherlock helped him into his shirt and began to button it for him. John placed his hands over the detective's, holding them firmly.

"Sherlock, what just happened? You were fine one moment and when Dr. Sloane mentioned your brother-oh."

The detective slapped away John's hands and continued fastening the buttons. John let him.

"I'm sorry. I must have lost my mind for a moment."

"Unimportant, John."

"No, it is important if it upsets you."

"John, let's go home, now."

John sighed, shaking his head. "Yes, all right."

John slid off the couch without tucking his shirt and pointedly ignored the stab to his side which made him pause before reaching for his coat. Allowing Sherlock to help him into it was easy when he suddenly felt more than a little fatigued. He waited patiently for Sherlock to call for a cab.

Taking Sherlock's hand as they walked from the room and toward the exit, John was grateful he didn't have to stop to check out.

Sherlock released his hand to curl his arm round his shoulders as they pushed through the door. The gesture warmed him to his toes.

Whether on the street or via phone, procuring a cab had become something of an art for Sherlock. The black cab waited for them as they stepped outside. Once settled and belted in, John leaned his head against the cold glass.

"John?"

"Just weary, Sherlock. I wish we were home already."

"Soon, John."

"Not soon enough."

The detective held John's hand in a firm grip. John squeezed back.

"Tea?"

John smiled. "Unless you've got it secreted in your pocket, I think we'll have to wait until we get home."

"Obviously, John. Don't be an idiot."

The sparkle in Sherlock's eyes and the fond smile on his impossibly gorgeous lips cancelled any retort he might have uttered with a harsh word, or maybe a curse or two. Instead he leaned over to kiss his cheek.

Sherlock's reaction was immediate. "Careful, John, I may not be able to control my desire for you. You know how I am."

"Yes, I do. And I love every little quirk and all the 'a bit not good' things, too. You are a dichotomy of vast and unusual facets, Sherlock Holmes, and I wouldn't change a single thing about you."

Sherlock stared at him. "I have no response to that."

"I'm sure you wouldn't have to think very hard to come up with one."

"You actually love all my quirks even though you chastise me for them?"

"Well, I do wish you would help with the washing up every now and then once I am healthy again, but it's not something that would make me leave you."

"Thank you for that dissertation, John. I appreciate it very much."

"Bugger off, Sherlock."

The chuckle, deep, and as smooth as melted chocolate, made John's eyes prickle, but he blinked away the threatening tears. Sherlock's squeeze to his hand signalled his understanding.

"Just wait until I get you home."

"I'm still injured, Sherlock."

"I have my ways, John."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"No need to fear, John."

"So you say."

"Hmm."

A comfortable silence settled round them for the rest of the trip to Baker Street. John held fast to Sherlock's hand, his lifeline to all that he needed in his life. Sometimes the detective's methods of caring and love were a bit unusual, but always from his heart.

"Ah, Baker Street, safe and sound," Sherlock announced as the cab stopped at the kerb.

"Thank the clueing Gods."

Sherlock turned to look at him, a silly grin on his lips. "What was that?"

John glanced at him, shrugging his shoulders. "I don't know. It

just came out. Maybe the pills are messing up my head again."

"Maybe. John, do you have any-?"

Shaking his head, he reached into his pocket. "Of course, don't I always pay the fare?"

Out on the pavement, John reached for Sherlock's hand to steady himself.

"Okay?"

"Just a bit wobbly."

"Right. First a good lunch and then off to bed for a rest."

"I've spent far too much time in bed this last week," John argued as they entered the hallway. "My chair by the fire will be fine."

"Shall I help you with your coat?" Sherlock asked as he removed his own.

"I think I can do that."

Sherlock waited for him to do so, then took his hand and escorted him up the stairs.

A note pinned to the door told them Mrs. Hudson had left another casserole in the fridge.

"She's not just our landlady anymore, Sherlock."

"Yes, I see that."

"More than a housekeeper, too."

"Perhaps a mother?"

"Good deduction, Sherlock."

"No deduction, John. Mrs. Hudson has all the attributes an annoying, meddling mother should have, therefore, even though she has no children of her own, we have unwittingly become her sons."

"It would seem so."

After washing his hands, Sherlock carried the container to the counter. Peering under the lid on the casserole dish as though it might explode, Sherlock looked back at him with an inscrutable expression.

"I think it's just another vegetable casserole, John. Nothing dangerous."

John laughed. "It could have been a thumb and kidney pie."

"John, you know she doesn't much care for thumbs."

"There's that."

"Lunch now?"

"Yes, starving."

"Chinese takeaway for dinner?"

"God, yes."

"Good. Now that we have that decided, let's analyse this casserole for the number of vegetables she's managed to hide this time."

"I'll prepare the tea while you pop some in the microwave."

"But first." Sherlock wrapped his arms round him and held him as close as his battered torso would allow.

John lifted his head to deliver his promise and kissed Sherlock into the middle of next week.