A week passed, and although at any given moment it seemed as if nothing changed, Sherlock knew that wasn't true. John no longer winced at the mention of physio, and he could now usually get himself in and out of the wheelchair without any help. They continued to nap together every afternoon when Sherlock came to visit, but after the first few days Sherlock thought he could probably have skipped the extra sleep if he needed to. He kept the amitriptyline at a half-dose and waited, unsure how he would know if or when it was working. Mycroft stayed with him each night, sleeping on the inflatable airbed while Sherlock took the sofa. Neither one of them mentioned the arrangement or how long it would last, but then one morning Sherlock woke up and Mycroft's bag was gone. Finally. I guess I can be trusted to swallow a pill on my own. Mycroft had left the mattress inflated, spare blanket folded neatly atop it. Sherlock thought he might try it out for himself that night, but when he got back from visiting John that evening, Lestrade was waiting in the stairwell, overnight bag at his side.

"Hey, Sherlock. Mind if I crash here tonight? Had a fight with my girl."

"No, you didn't." Sherlock kicked the door to the street closed behind him and raised his hand in greeting to Mrs Hudson, who was lingering just inside her flat.

"Yeah, I did." Lestrade stood and hoisted his bag over his shoulder.

"You did not. The two of you had a quickie before you came over here. Besides, you're not even living together. You spend the night at hers sometimes but you still have your own place."

Lestrade sighed. "Yeah, all right. I'm staying here for a while, though. I promised your brother."

"I do not need a babysitter."

That assertion had no more effect on Lestrade than it had on Mycroft. "I know. We just don't want you to have to be alone."

"And I don't want to be alone, trust me. But that doesn't mean I want you here." He pushed past Lestrade to head up the stairs, feeling his shoulders tense beneath his coat when he heard Lestrade follow him into the flat.

Lestrade deposited his bag on the coffee table. "Come on, Sherlock. You need help around this place anyway."

"With what? I've spent every morning this week uncluttering the kitchen so it can be renovated."

Lestrade glanced over into the kitchen, which had almost completely clear worktops for the first time since Sherlock had moved in. "Hey, that's not a bad job you did. This room's still a nightmare, though."

Sherlock glared at him and dropped down onto the airbed. Both ends popped up around him. "You get the sofa. I get this. I don't care if you're the guest."

Lestrade shrugged. "Sofa's not going to slowly deflate on me as I sleep, now, is it? I've seen my kids go through enough of those mattresses to know they don't last."

"Please. It held Mycroft. I hardly think it will collapse under my weight."

"Yeah, it's not the weight, though. It's how gently you treat it. I give it one night with you on it."

Sherlock shook his head and rolled onto his stomach, toed off his shoes and let them fall onto the ground. "If you want to help you can make me some tea."

Lestrade snorted. "I will but only if I can find a beer in that bloody fridge of yours."

Lestrade didn't snore, but whereas Mycroft had been gone each day by the time Sherlock woke up, Lestrade hung around and ate breakfast and chatted in the morning. Sherlock was already on edge because the last of the three contractors he had contacted was finally coming out to look at the flat today. Dealing with the first two earlier in the week had been agonising, and he didn't need to add Lestrade's chatter to the mix.

"Don't you need to go to work or something?"

Lestrade drained the last of his coffee. "Yeah, all right, guess I should." He pushed his chair back from the kitchen table and stood. "I'll be back tonight around nine."

"You don't need to come back."

Lestrade hesitated for a moment; Sherlock could feel his eyes on him but did not look up from the toast he was buttering. Finally Lestrade replied, "Sherlock, you're thirty-nine years old and sleeping on a blow-up mattress even though you have a perfectly good bed down the hall. I think you need someone to stay with you still. I'll see you tonight."

Lestrade left and Sherlock shoved his knife so hard into the jar of jam that it slid off the worktop and spilled across the floor, dark red against the dull lino. He cleaned it up and threw the rest of his breakfast in the bin and then tried to figure out what to do with all the piles of magazines in the sitting room while he waited for today's contractor to show up. The first two had been ridiculously late and this one was no better.

He had attempted to be friendly with the first one, and had managed to stay civil with the second, even though he was clearly an idiot who only stayed in business because he lowballed all his estimates, but by now Sherlock was fed up. They should be knocking down walls by now. Or at least pulling out the kitchen cabinets and worktop; that seemed to be more of the type of work everyone was discussing. Sherlock wouldn't mind a good wall demolition, though, as long as they let him help. But they weren't even close to starting yet; everyone was still just talking and writing up proposals and sketches and costs. Boring and not really achieving anything, was it?

By the time today's appointment—Dave? no, Dan—showed up, a half-hour late, Sherlock had moved a dozen large piles of magazines upstairs into the spare bedroom and was even less inclined than usual to make small talk. He'd already had this conversation twice this week, so he skipped the niceties and led Dan into the kitchen, pointing out everything he'd discussed with the others.

"We don't need to keep the pocket doors, but this entrance is already quite wide, so I don't see a reason to get rid of them. But the other door is only 32 inches, the worktops and sink will all need to be lowered, obviously, and when we eat in here we use this little table over here and I usually have my chemistry equipment on the big table but we could switch that around. John hates me doing chemistry in the kitchen but it really is the best place for it."

"John?" Dan paused in his notebook scribbling and looked up at Sherlock.

So that's how it's going to be, is it? Well, he hadn't had a good excuse to punch anyone in a while. "Yes, John," he said. "My partner. Boyfriend. Lover." God, he hated all those terms. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"No, John is my son's name. But I'm thinking you'll want two sinks at different heights since you're a tall bloke and you're not going to want to bend over that far to do the washing up."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say that John always did the washing up but then realised he could have his very own sink reserved for experiments and John couldn't complain or nag him to clean it out. "That's an excellent idea," he said, and forgot all about wanting to punch someone.

Dan the contractor actually had a few other good ideas and as a result his visit took longer than Sherlock expected, but he still managed to make it to the rehab centre precisely at two. John had made a special request the day before and Sherlock was looking forward to fulfilling it.

The receptionist smiled when she saw him. "Oh, hi, Mr Holmes. John's out at the moment but you're welcome to wait in his room if you want. Is that a violin?"

Sherlock shifted the case from his right hand to his left. What else would be in a case of this size and shape? "What do you mean, he's 'out?' Where did he go?"

She shrugged. "Went out with his case manager an hour or so ago. Didn't say where. They don't tell me anything. Is it your violin? Do you play?"

Sherlock sighed and nodded and walked away before she could ask any more questions. He had been trying very hard not to antagonise anyone at the centre while John was staying here, and he thought he was doing remarkably well considering the level of stupidity here was about equal to that of the general population. Sometimes he just had to walk away.

John had specifically asked him to bring his violin and now he wasn't here to hear it, although Sherlock guessed it wasn't his fault. He didn't really have much control over his daily schedule, after all, and he'd doubtless be back soon, so there would be plenty of time to play for him. He helped himself to a couple of biscuits John had left on the table and then got out the violin. He'd only played once in the months since John had been injured, that first night he'd been home, and the lack of practice would probably show. He started with some scales to warm up and had only been playing for a few minutes when a knock at the door interrupted him. He winced; he'd tried to keep the volume down but of course he was still too loud. John had thought it would be okay to play here, but Sherlock should've known there would be someone who would object.

He set the bow down on the table and went to the door, clutching the violin by its neck, surprised at how calming it was just to hold it. Which he needed, because he would not allow himself to be rude to whoever was about to complain about the noise. For John. He has to live here for weeks yet, and I won't make it unpleasant for him. God, he couldn't wait till John was back home and he could go back to being himself.

He fixed an appropriately contrite expression on his face and pulled open the door. "So sorry," he said to the woman standing there. He tipped his head and smiled at her. "I know I'm quite out of practice, and I didn't intend to be so loud."

She looked up at him, surprise evident. Short, overweight, hair dyed too dark for her age: he'd seen her before, but she wasn't an employee. A spouse of one of the other patients, perhaps? Not worth the effort to try to remember. "I'll stop," he told her, and moved to shut the door.

"No, no, no," she said, and put her hand out against the closing door. He pulled it open again so she could speak. Remember: can't be rude.

"It's lovely," she said.

"I was only playing scales."

"Well, they were lovely," she told him.

"Thank you," he said, and nodded and tried to close the door again. Honestly.

This time she stuck her foot out to stop the door. "You could leave it open, if you want. Or—" She looked over her shoulder, though Sherlock didn't think anyone else was out in the hall with her. "You could come and play for us in the lounge."

He blinked at her. Play for us. She wanted him to come play songs for a bunch of strangers. He didn't really mind an audience, truth be told, but he didn't play so he could entertain others. Except John, of course, who wasn't even here. And who would undoubtedly encourage him to do exactly what this woman was asking. He blinked his eyes closed one more time and said, "Let me get my bow."

The lounge was just down the hall from John's room, close enough that when they showed films in the late afternoon it invariably woke John and Sherlock from their shared nap, so it made sense that the people who were in there had heard Sherlock's violin. And there was a small crowd gathered, spread across the sofas and armchairs that were arranged with space for wheelchairs between them. At least a dozen people, split between patients and their families with a couple of staff members lounging about as well. Nearly everyone turned to look at him when he entered; his fingers clenched around the frog of his bow and he had to remind himself to relax. It's just a few people who want to hear music; it's not a recital. He'd deleted the specifics of the last time he'd been forced to perform in a formal setting; he'd been thirteen, and all he remembered was that it had been bad enough that Mummy had never even tried to make him do it again.

He thought maybe he should say something or introduce himself, but instead he just brought the violin to his chin and started in on a scale again. After a moment he sat down on one of the loveseats. He preferred to play standing up, but he felt odd being the only one on his feet and sitting down made it feel more casual and less like he was on display. He paused to tweak one of the tuning pegs that didn't really need it and then said, "Any requests?"

"Do you know any fiddle music?" asked the woman who had fetched him out here.

Of course. He suppressed a sigh. "Of course," he said, and started to play. John would be back soon to rescue him, he hoped. But though more people kept coming into the room to listen, he played for nearly an hour before John finally arrived, a welcome figure hovering at the edge of his vision as he finished the song.

When he was done he lowered the violin to greet John with a grin, the agitation he'd felt at his absence gone at the sight of John's answering smile. John's face was flushed; it was caused by the wind outside, not physical exertion. He gestured at Sherlock's audience and said, "Giving concerts now, are you?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows just a bit. "Needed an audience, and they were willing," he said, as if he ever would've done this if he hadn't been asked. You weren't here.

"Well, don't stop on account of me." John shrugged out of his coat and laid it on the loveseat, across the arm farthest from Sherlock. He seemed relaxed, as if he'd just done something that made him nervous and he was relieved that it was over. Where had he been? The rumpled state of his trousers and jumper said that he'd been out of the wheelchair numerous times, but he wasn't sweaty or dressed for a physical workout, and there'd be no reason for him to leave the building for that anyway. Wherever he'd gone, he certainly would've travelled in one of the centre's vans, not a car, so he wouldn't have needed to get out of the chair for that. The horrible bulky wheelchair he was using didn't even fold up to fit in a car boot. Eventually he'd get his own chair and it would be smaller and collapsible and—oh.

John had gone out to select his new wheelchair. There was a large medical supply store about five miles away. For some reason the thought that he'd gone without Sherlock was a bit vexing, which didn't make much sense, but there it was. Sherlock swallowed down his irritation and started to play one last song, his own composition this time, one he knew John liked.

John came closer as he played, and Sherlock had to focus so as not to be too distracted from the music when John swung himself out of the chair to sit next to him on the loveseat. When he finished playing, he set the violin and bow on the table to his left and John leaned against him, slipping his arm behind Sherlock. "Let's stay and watch the film, all right?"

Sherlock shrugged. He wasn't likely to enjoy whatever film they were showing, but there was always a snack provided and if John wanted to cuddle against him for two hours that would be acceptable. He turned his head to inhale the scent of John's hair and waited for most of the people in the room to stop paying attention to them before saying, "You ordered your new chair today."

"Yeah. I should have it in about a week or so."

"You picked it out without me?"

"Well, yeah. You weren't here."

"I—visiting hours don't start until two. I was following the rules."

John squinted up at him. "You're actually upset."

"No, I'm not." He frowned and tried to explain what he felt, though he didn't really understand it himself. Disappointment, maybe. "I just thought I'd be there to help."

"I had help. You're not an expert on everything, love. There were people there who actually knew about—stuff."

He still doesn't like to even say the word wheelchair. I should've been there with him. Sherlock smiled and tried to make light of it. "I could've offered my opinions. Colour choices. You always need my opinion there."

"Colour was the least of it. I went with black, by the way." John rubbed his hand over his eyes and then rested his head on Sherlock's arm, so he was looking straight ahead. "There were a lot of choices to make. Not fashion but function. Different options. It was a little overwhelming."

"That's the kind of thing I would've helped with."

"No, you would've been impatient and just picked the most expensive options available."

"I would've picked the best options for you. I wouldn't have considered the cost." Did John really think Sherlock had been impatient recently? Because he was pretty sure he'd never been so patient and well-behaved in his life.

"Well, I did pick the best options, I think. I—" He looked up at Sherlock again. "I wasn't trying to exclude you on purpose. I just thought it was something I could do on my own. I didn't even think about you being there. All right?"

Sherlock sighed and lifted his arm to draw John closer. "Well, since I'm reno'ing our whole flat without any input from you, I guess we'll call it even. Now shut up and let me watch this film."

John mock-punched his arm and giggled and two of the women sitting nearby turned around to stare at them and Sherlock stared back and put his chin on top of John's head and spent the next two hours not paying any attention at all to anything that flickered on the screen in front of them.

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