They put him out. One look at John's face in the civilised London hospital told him they'd thought it a kindness.

"There we are. Back amongst the living!" Lestrade's voice said, that kind of pale imitation of hopeful health that hospital rooms inspired.

Sherlock flinched, John's hand covering his.

"Hullo." John smiled at him. "Lots of people here to see you." I'm sorry said the lines around his eyes.

"Don't—" he croaked, coughed, and tried again. "Nothing better to do?"

"Now, now, dear. We know you just woke up, but we're glad to see you," Mrs. Hudson edged in next to Lestrade who bore the stress on his face. Sally hunched behind him, her face warring between relief and embarrassment. Mycroft had probably just stepped out, his umbrella in the corner indicating his presence.

"Hullo... Mrs. Hudson." The world still lurched strangely as he looked around the room.

She smiled brilliantly. "I've brought some biscuits for when John says you can eat them."

He gave her a weak smile before glaring at the rest of them (save for John). "Go away," he said irritably. "The lot of you."

"See you at home when you're better," their landlady said, unbothered.

Sally edged out after her quickly, her well-wishes never making it past shapes formed with her lips. Lestrade ignored his ill manners ad hesitated by the foot of his bed. "We'll be glad to have you back when you're ready to be on your feet. John approved, you hear me? Full health!"

"Goodbye Lestrade," he forced out, then looked at John. "Stop it. I don't... When Mycroft gets back, send him away."

"Sherlock..." John smiled gently. "There's nothing wrong with being laid up for a few days."

He threw John a look.

"Okay. More than a few days. Don't push everyone away, alright?"

"I want you to stay."

Blinking, as was his fashion when he was confronted by something unexpected Sherlock did, John smiled and sat on the edge of the bed. "I'll always stay. Even if you don't want me to."

That wrung a smile out of Sherlock as he settled back in the bed. "Good. Now entertain me."

John rolled his eyes, huffing a laugh. "What did the doctors say about your fingers? Did they tell you if they'd fully recover? You know. So you can...still play?"

"I... haven't asked too many questions."

John nodded.

"Why are you asking, John?"

"I think it'd be...a shame. You play. Well. You're so good." John focused in on him slowly, then gave him a half-sheepish smile. "It's quiet at home."

"How soon will I be discharged?" Sherlock looked down at his hands, suppressing the twinge of memory pain.

John lifted the chart off the back of his bed. "If I were your doctor, I would say five days. But," he continued over Sherlock's noise of strangled frustration, "being your friend and knowing you as I do, you could get out in only three days. They'll want to keep an eye on your skin—infection and all—and that concussion. How's your shoulder?"

"It's fine. It's mostly—it's fine. What happened between you and Mycroft?"

"Sorry?"

"John, you were with my brother for a month and a half. You had to speak sometime. My brother, when not dealing with myself, can be annoyingly chatty when the mood strikes." He had to wonder how many of his secrets were divulged against his express disapproval.

"Well, yeah. I mean. We chatted. So?"

"So Mycroft's chats usually have some sort of nefarious aim behind them."

John chuckled. "You really ought to be less suspicious. He does care for you, you know."

Sherlock sniffed. "As much as he is able."

Sighing, John put his hand over Sherlock's again, chart hooked back on the end of the bed. "For as smart as you are, Sherlock, you have to know that's not true. I know feelings aren't really your area, but he evidence that he cares is all there."

"This rift goes back much further than you would care to know, and it won't be mended by your efforts."

Tilting his head, John gave him a puzzled look. "You do know when people care for you, don't you Sherlock?"

He rolled his eyes. "This is tedious, John. We don't need to discuss it."

"No. I want you to answer my question."

"Yes. Lestrade cares. Sally cares in her own way. Mrs. Hudson cares."

"And Mycroft."

"And my brother," he grit out, feeling a headache advancing behind his temples.

"And me."

"And you most of all," he said, earnest and low and altogether too honestly. "You care too much."

John grinned. "Someone's got to do it."

His lips quirked without his say-so as he shook his head. "Do it in my stead, then. Just don't let it get in my way."

"Heaven forbid."

He huffed a small laugh and reached across to pat his free hand on top of John's.

"Play for me when you can?"

The amusement died away as he looked at John. This was important. "I'll need to stretch my limbs to play anyway. I'll need you around in case something doesn't move like it should." John's wide smile was worth it.


The first time he saw a Mor—a lookalike at the hospital, he seized up and it took a hour and a half of John talking and two fights with Mycroft to calm him down.

"He's still alive and he's doing it on purpose," Sherlock raged.

"Of course he is!" Mycroft snapped. "And you're more the fool for letting him."

"If your security was worth any—"

"Enough! This isn't helping!" John interrupted, voice thin.

"Get me out of here."

"Sherlock..."

"You'd be an idiot to leave so early," Mycroft said coldly.

"Then make sure your men keep these people away from my room!" he shrieked.

"Sherlock. Calm. Down. Or else I'll tell them to sedate you. Mycroft, stop baiting your brother."

Allowing himself a strangled shout, he fell back into the pillows. "I'm bored."

Things were silent save for John's sigh and the machines monitoring Sherlock.

"Rest one more day, and then I'll bring you something to do," Mycroft said quietly.

"I want to go home," he said again, glaring to cover his unease.

"Soon," his brother and flatmate said quietly.


He saw lookalikes at uneven intervals, but he tried to quiet his panic, digging fingers into his thighs. And he never slept. John didn't notice at first.

But when he had to be prompted for a response five times in a half hour, John waved a hand in front of his face, making him jump. "How much sleep have you gotten? You look like you're falling asleep where you sit."

"I've slept."

"Liar."

He blinked, focusing in on John's disapproving face. "How did you know."

John's expression changed again to that exasperated sort of fondness. "Well you just confirmed it, for one."

He felt his face heat at the rookie mistake.

"And I know you. When something's bothering you, you don't sleep. You're bothered by Moriarty's—"

He flinched. Grit his teeth.

"—games. You get nightmares. So you'd avoid it. And trust me. If there's something I can understand, Sherlock, it's nightmares." John dropped his gaze. "And the shame from them."

"Stop it," he whispered hoarsely.

"You need sleep. Otherwise you'll just go crazier, and I don't need a flatmate who's more nutters than he already is." He offered him a lopsided grin. "I'll stay."

"John..." He trailed off, unsure where his mouth was going in its current state.

"Sleep." John perched on the side of his bed, hip to hip. "Budge over."

Tiredness washing over him, Sherlock moved his weak body towards the opposite rail, John's solid shoulder against his thin one. He nestled his head back in the pillows, sleep rising swiftly to drag him down, John's warmth a tether to sanity.

He still woke shaking, John's hands stroking his hair. John's arm around his waist. John's leg against his leg. John's voice whispering quiet things to soothe him. He fell back asleep quickly to some dream where he was old with John and things were quiet save for the buzzing of bees.


John coerced him into a wheelchair to bring him out of the car, Mycroft watching woodenly while John helped him into the car.

"Finally," he sighed as he shut his eyes and relaxed into the leather. Everyone was blessedly quiet until they arrived at 221 Baker Street. John shared a look with his brother ad then helped Sherlock to his feet, arm around his waist, fingers spread in a way that reminded him vaguely of one of the dreams he'd had.

"You okay?" John asked quietly.

"Your concern is touching, John," he replied acerbically, legs stalling at the sight of the familiar navy door. Now that he was here, he wasn't so sure he wanted to be.

"Would you like some tea?"

Grunting in reply, he forced his feet over the threshold. It was almost like a stone off his chest as he made his way up the stairs with John's help, Mycroft at his back. Would he catch him if he fell? Make the physical commitment of support? How tempting to just...tip, and gravity...

"Whoa! Easy," John said, pulling him tighter.

Unforseen side-effect.

Mrs. Hudson poked her head out. "Oh, Sherlock! You're home! I'm so glad to see you out of that bed!"

Home. Implying belonging and safety. Belonging, yes. Safety? Compromised. "Hullo, Mrs. Hudson," he replied finally. "Good to be back."

John smiled, pulling him up the stairs.

"Sherlock, move your feet," Mycroft said.

He waited until he had been propped against the wall before tipping towards Mycroft.

"Jesus! Sherlock!" John lunged for him from across the room.

But Mycroft's hand flew up and pushed on his shoulder before throwing him a pained look. Not enough pressure if he were really falling. But then again Mycroft knew that. But still. He smiled. "I'm fine." Interesting.

"You're an idiot," Mycroft muttered, finishing John's job of pushing things off the couch.

Swinging an arm under Sherlock's shoulders, John supported him to the sofa, and just as he eased him down, Mrs. Hudson bustled in with tea. "For celebration," she smiled.

"What was that about?" John asked, brow creased again.

"What?"

"Don't play dumb."

"Experiment," he muttered.

John looked at him in wonderment, snorted once, and then burst out laughing.

Sherlock creased his brow, chuckling once then degenerating into soft giggles as well. He slumped into the cushions, laughing through the wheeze of pain as he jarred something.

"Should you need anything," Mycroft interrupted, "don't hesitate to call. That does not, however, entitle you to a carte blanche to call whenever. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, for the tea. I shall be off." He paused at the threshold. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

"Mycroft." John was up and to the door, flushing faintly, murmuring as Sherlock closed his eyes, tiredness sweeping through him.


He screamed silently, in rictus, waiting until consciousness caught up with him so he could slowly unlock his joints and muscles. The flat was dark and the blanket John must have thrown over him had tangled around his limbs. Most likely prompting the nightmare. Not that his mind needed an excuse. He grit his teeth feeling more exhausted than he had when he'd apparently fallen asleep.

John was flopped into one of the big chairs. Reaching around on the coffee table, he found John's mobile and dialled quickly. "Give me something to work on," he demanded with more pleading tones than he would have liked. Not that Lestrade would notice in his current sleep-addled state.

"Jo—"

"Sherlock. Old cases, cold cases, unsolved rabble. I don't care. Give. Me. Something. To set my mind to."

"Sherlock," the other man breathed tiredly. "You bastard. Just because you can't sleep doesn't mean you have to interrupt mine." He paused. "Sorry. That was—I'll send over some files tomorrow morning."

"Thank you," he said lowly, eyes closed.

"Um. Yeah. You're welcome... Um. Get yourself well, okay?"

"Goodnight, Lestrade." He run off and dropped the mobile on the floor.


A great big box of files arrived early the next morning alongside a box of corresponding evidence. John frowned as Sherlock wrestled the box open and collapsed back onto the sofa with a groan.

"Or ask for help. Did you sleep last night?"

"Some." He opened the files, sorting them least to most interesting, the least to be taken care of while he was still on pain relievers.

John sighed. "Tea?"

"Yes. And hand me my laptop."

"You must be the most stubborn man alive. Here."

"I'm sure I've loads of emails to read about people and their cheating spouses." He could almost sense John's frown it was so potent, leaving Sherlock with an unaccustomed feeling of relief when he vanished into the kitchen. Perusing his emails, they were exactly as he thought until he almost dropped the bloody machine as he shouted. John swore from the kitchen and was at his side in seconds.

"What is it?" He grabbed the precariously balanced laptop ad pushed the lid back. "Fuck." His entire body suddenly thrummed with emotion next to his, everything tense. "That unforgiveable—Sherlock."

John's hands on his shoulders, one tipping his chin away from the screen and the photo of himself lying on a metal table, scratched, bruised, and looking like a corpse.

"Sherlock." John cupped his face.

"Fuck," he said lowly, choking the word out as he snatched back his laptop and pressed 'delete' and then emptied the rubbish for the photo to be lost in the cyberspace of never-to-be-seen-again.

John eased himself down next to Sherlock's hips, glancing at him and then dropping his eyes. "I'm loathe to even... I know you won't but I can't help giving my opinion. You should talk to someone."

Sherlock snorted and managed to make his voice sound even. "Did it help you any?"

John's only response was a sigh.

"That's what I thought."

"Don't be petty, Sherlock. I don't... You can talk to me," he said gently. "Of all people, I probably get it the best."

Choosing to roll into the back of the sofa, he winced as that jarred his ribs and scowled as he rolled back.

"Yeah, yeah. You don't want to talk about it. I understand."

"You, of all people, are probably the closest to fully understanding, John, but you will never understand. We react to things differently."

"Not so differently."

Remembering their runs across roof tops and down alleys, he nodded once. "I'm not talking about it."

"Okay. Let me get your tea. Hungry?"

"No."

"You—"

"Need to eat, so I'll have...whatever." He waved his hand and then rested his hands over his stomach.


John went up to his own bed at 11:97 after helping Sherlock into his room. He didn't say anything while pulling the covers up, but hesitated at the door before finally saying, "Text me if you need anything. I mean it. My mobile will be nearby. Yours is on your bedside table. Okay? I mean it. Anything."

"Anything you can give..."

John took it as an affirmative and then switched the light off, leaving the door open.

"Good night, Sherlock."

So he stared at his ceiling, mind whirring away, ricocheting off thoughts of him. The crack that started near the edge of the tub in the bathroom upstairs had grown longer and now forked into a serpentine-like tongue. The lights from the shop next door threw flickering red hues up on the ceiling. Cars passed inconsistently. Taxi. Taxi. Smart car. Taxi. Lorry. All in the period of an hour and fifteen minutes. Also three different dogs barking, a cat fighting with another animal (check for tracks and fur tomorrow—weak on feet. Make John take photos), a couple laughing as they headed home from a (successful) date, and a man having an argument on his mobile. 1:22. John didn't move upstairs.

He grit his teeth against the sudden inpouring of realised information. John hadn't slept well since Sherlock had been...taken. The loss of weight and dark circles evidence to a decrease in self-awareness and self-care. His attention and effort had been focused solely on Sherlock. A high level of attachment eclipsing all other relationships (save for the one of mutual benefit with Mycroft in searching for him) implying a level of emotional attachment previously unrealised. It was more than a need for excitement. John's hand and gait were steady, indicating a constant belief that Sherlock would be retrieved—not a suspense of fact that might lead to dejection and a mental preparation for grief. John didn't see failure as an option. And with Mycroft's help, there was a good chance it wouldn't be. But it was more than that.

John. Confident of recovery. John. Hand -holding John. Worried but hiding it well. Wanting to help. Understanding space. Privacy. John. Giving him time to figure things out. Peace. Patience. John. Petting his hair when he thought Sherlock was asleep.

Sherlock pretending to stay asleep so John would continue petting his hair.

Jaw clenched.

Him doing the exact same until... tearing out chunks, grinning and—John. Staying close—being... comfort. Reliable.

A small choked noise escaped from between his lips as everything flooded to the front of his mind and tears burned his eyes before sliding along his cheeks into his hair and the pillowcase. No matter how much strength of presence John provided, he was upstairs, and Sherlock was here feeling small and damaged and scared like he hadn't since he was four and Mycroft convinced him that reason died in your mind if you used it too much like Sherlock did. There was a quota for everyone. So there was one week of his life where he'd behaved like a normal person until evidence that Mycroft was 'pulling his leg' became overwhelming and he went right back to himself.

He gasped into the darkness and tried to make himself stop thinking, the familiar twitch of his fingers for his Strad made infinitely worse by the fact that he couldn't play it with broken fingers, cracked ribs, shoulder. "Fuck." The sound surprised him as it rasped through his room, barely above a whisper.

2:16.

His mobile was close enough that he could stretch out his good arm and grab it. Text John.

And tell him what.

Morning couldn't come swiftly enough.


John helped him up and to the loo, supporting most of his weight. "Jesus. Did you sleep at all?"

"Couldn't," he muttered flatly.

"Sherlock! You—" John cut himself off, helping him into fresh clothes and then to the sofa. "What do you want for breakfast?"

"Whatever you're making is fine."

John looked at him sharply and then vanished into the kitchen.

By the time he was awake, the toast was cold and his tea no longer even steaming. When he stirred, John looked up from his position at Sherlock's feet. "There you are."

"I fell asleep."

"Well, that tends to happen when you're knackered."

Sherlock frowned. Reached for the toast. John got up and took his tea back into the kitchen to reheat.

So the pattern began. Sleep while John was in the room, work on the cases Lestrade brought all night to avoid the nightmares and keep himself busy.

Until he accidentally fell asleep in his room one night and he woke to a horrid shrieking and John's hands on his biceps.

"Sherlock! Wake up!"

The sound stopped when he gasped and fell, limp, into the tangled sheets. He picked out the signs of concern on John's face.

"Jesus, are you alright."

"Of course I'm not fucking alright!" he snapped and then covered his face with his arms. So he couldn't see... Pity. Irritation.

"Do you want me to stay?"

"Go back to bed, John," he whispered.

"Do you want me to stay? A bed's a bed. I can sleep almost anywhere. You always seem to sleep easier when I'm in the room."

Sherlock frowned at him, hair askew, t-shirt rumbled. It was true that he slept when it was morning. Was John part of that equation? John... "Fine. Stay." This obviously bore a closer looking-at.

John moved the papers and Sherlock's laptop, settling in, like a sentry, against the headboard on top of the duvet. He smiled at Sherlock and patted his hand. "Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night, John."

When he woke the next morning, John was gone, though the bed was still warm.

Interesting.

When John was close, he could sleep, uninterrupted and without nightmares. So John was...safe? This would need more testing. So he called John back for the next for nights in a row, sleeping the night through—until John woke in the morning to make tea and breakfast.

John was safe.

The fifth night, John had an evening shift at the clinic, so he helped Sherlock to his bed, setting him up with the case files, seven down, twenty three to go. Despite his determination to not fall asleep, Sherlock could feel the pull of his eyelids and the warm heaviness of his limbs. So he pushed off the sheets and twisted until his ribs twinged. Only, it seems, to stave off the inevitable.

Warm arms pulled him close as he woke thrashing and whimpering, the steady stream of noise from John's mouth cleaning and solidifying into words. "It's alright, love, I've got you—shh shh, just relax. I've got you. Calm down."

"John," he choked, stiffening.

John's warm hand carded through his hair. "I'm here. I'm sorry I left you—Sherlock?" He pulled his hand away and then touched his cheek, obviously feeling the damness of tears. "Hey! Hey, it's alright! Easy, love, I won't do it again. It's fine."

He sobbed once. "Fuck. That's not...fuck." He let John rock him gently, gathering himself. "That's not... That's only part... Dammit! I'm fucking scared of everything!" He finally blurted, slamming a fist on the sheets.

"Easy! Easy. It's fine. Sherlock, that was a traumatising event! You've no reason to feel ashamed!"

"Is that what your therapist told you?" he muttered bitterly.

John didn't say anything, just rubbed his arm gently.

"You called me 'love,'" he said in a small voice.

"Did I?" John's hand paused and he stopped rocking. "I don't really know what I was sa—"

"I don't... I don't know what love is, John."

Sighing and resuming rocking, he scooted back against the headboard and pulled Sherlock up against his side, head on John's thighs. "You're fine. Just sleep."

Morning found John curled around Sherlock's shoulders and torso, Sherlock blinking into the muted light from the window. He sighed, already regretting the events of the previous night, hating his weakness when John wasn't around. But he didn't move, John's breath warm against the middle of his back. Ridiculous. He was being ridiculous. This weakness was absurd. And he shouldn't rely on John with this sort of consistency.

John shifted. "Good morning..."

"Yes."

Sitting and smoothing his hair, John stretched and yawned. "Raining..."

"Yes."

"Do you feel up to a shower? Sherlock?"

"Do you love me, John?" He tilted his head to see his flat-mate cum security blanket's face.

John sighed. "I...feel more strongly about your health and safety than anyone I have in the past. I enjoy your company for all your inanities, psychoses, and bad and annoying habits. Whether you realise it or not, you sort of gave me my life back."

"So you're confusing gratitude with love."

"I don't know yet."

Sherlock frowned.

John shrugged. "Breakfast?" He swung his feet over the side of the bed.

"This is something that would usually bother you. Why are you not bothered by this, John?"

"So... No breakfast yet?"

"John."

"Sherlock," he returned tiredly. "You don't want to talk about this, and neither do I. I need to think about this. Come on. Let's get you a shower."

After a moment of reading John's self-conscious, tense shoulders, furrowed brow, and flushed cheeks, he sighed. "Fine. Get me up." He did his best to help John get him out of the bed, and then limped alongside him towards the bathroom. To have John help him out of his t-shirt while the water heated. And then tug his flannels off and set the stool in the shower.

"This is awkward in light of our almost conversation..." John muttered.

"How so?" He sat slowly, reaching for the soap.

"Never mind. Want me to soap your hair?"

"You like my hair."

"Beg your pardon?"

"You like petting it." He smiled as John blushed.

"Um. Yes. I suppose I do."

"John. Soap my hair."

"Of course," he laughed.

By the time he was clean and dressed and on the sofa, Sherlock was tired again.

"Here's tea and a muffin."

"Thank you."

John gave him another smile and memories of a dream he'd had flashed through his mind. Did he like making John smile? Was that love? He shuddered at the thought of someone else's expression of 'love.' But John's smiling was good. Smiling was an expression of joy or pleasure. "Get me my laptop." And, as usual, John walked back to Sherlock's room to fetch it. No hesitation, however, where there previously had been, as he walked through Sherlock's door. "Thank you."

"Twice in one day? Is something wrong?" John teased, easing himself into a chair and picking up yesterday's paper.

"You're not taking any more days off because of me, are you, John?"

"What? I was thinking about it."

"Don't."

"You need someone to help you."

"I'm fine. Just don't take any night shifts. I can easily manage."

Looking over the top fold of the newspaper, John frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Don't make me repeat myself..." Email from Mycroft. Inquiring after his health of all things. Though without him able to see for himself on the CCTV cameras, he really had no way of knowing. Unless he was comparing John's answers to his own. Now that John and Mycroft had a rapport that didn't involve kidnappings and mutual irritation. He would undoubtedly report back to Mycroft on Sherlock's health accurately. Considering he was the one common factor that the two had in common in their lives. And, as he'd learned, both cared for him more than he'd been aware.

"Alright," John shrugged. "I'll be out tomorrow then."

Sherlock nodded and then turned his attention back to his computer.