Chapter 7

"Thanks, Jenny. Sorry. I must have left my key at home." John smiled and shook his head at his forgetfulness as their receptionist let him in.

"No problem, Dr. Watson."

"John," he corrected her, as always, but she just smiled.

"You're in early today."

"Well, today is the first day of the rest of my life."

"We'll see if you're still that chipper this afternoon." She giggled as she returned to her desk.

John took a deep breath before opening the door to his office. Sherlock was alive and he had seen him. The proof was in the shirt and sweatshirt that he'd run through the dryer (no time to launder them) and in the sodden, half-empty packet of cigarettes that he'd found in the pocket and discarded. But would Sherlock be here now? What would he do if he wasn't? He swung the door open, and in the light from the hallway he could see a figure lying face down on the floor. John closed the door gently and stood waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Sherlock had stripped off his wet jeans, socks and trainers and fallen asleep. He must be exhausted.

John wasn't sure if bringing a gym bag to the office counted as an unacceptable departure from his routine, but sod it. He had been pretty certain that Sherlock was tired, wet and hungry, and it was his job to remedy those conditions to the extent he was allowed. He unpacked a light blanket and covered Sherlock with it, and he set the dry clothes and snacks next to him. He put the discarded wet clothes into the bag, figuring he could take them to the launderette during his lunch break. Would that generate suspicion? Maybe he could spill something on himself and just pop Sherlock's things in the machine along with his own clothes? Was there anything else he should be doing? Tricky when he had little idea of what they were facing. With a wry smile, he slipped out to the supply cabinet and fetched a starter pack of nicotine patches, which he placed next to the other items.

Sherlock was completely still. John had twenty minutes before meeting his first patient of the day. He took a seat on the floor next to Sherlock, just to look and be near. But without any conscious decision on his part, John's hand was creeping towards the sleeping form. Don't disturb him! he admonished himself. Let him rest! His hand ignored these sensible notions. It slipped under the blanket and grasped Sherlock's wrist just firmly enough to feel the pulse thudding through. John felt more relaxed and content than he had for months, since before that crazy morning when Moriarty had broken into the Tower of London. Sherlock was alive and, for the moment, safe.


Author's Note: I'd love to hear what you think about the story so far.