CHAPTER 10 - The Only Way Is Up

"To be honest, I'm in need of your help." John tries not to put too much of an edge on his statement, lest Lestrade later demand a counterfavour. After all, this could be useful for all involved.

John's patience for the odd atmosphere in the flat has run out. Sherlock isn't raising a finger to continue the physical therapy, nor is he doing anything else sensible with his time. Sherlock mostly alternates between being comatose on the sofa, or sitting in his chair with the headphones on, listening to music. Neither option is exactly conducive to conversation. Communication, when it does happen, is stiff, as if both men are purposefully avoiding talking about anything other than the most mundane stuff. There's a brittleness to his demeanour that John finds frustrating.

When Lestrade had returned his call, he had made small talk at first. John had deduced this to be a sign that not much urgent business was at hand at the NSY.

"How is he?" Lestrade asks after lamenting about the cold, damp weather.

"Making progress." This has become John's stock answer. They ask him, because anyone even borderline sensible would not dare to raise such a subject with Sherlock, and no one has really even seen him after he's come home. He doesn't answer messages, either, or take calls.

John prepares to fend off an offer of a visit. He has had to be gentle but determined to put all their friends off dropping by Baker Street, because Sherlock still seems horrified at the thought of even Molly coming to visit. "No visitors. He says he's not ready, but if a case came up, that might be different." John certainly hopes so. He knows dragging Sherlock out of the house might completely wear him out, but the stagnant routine needs to be broken. Of that he's now certain. After Sherlock had tricked him into staying home from work, he'd found himself saying no to the scarce offers from the locum agency. It doesn't take a consulting genius detective to deduce that Sherlock doesn't want him to leave the flat, even though he might not make much use of John's company, either.

"It's been quiet on the western front, thankfully, but I doubt this dry spell will last long. You think he'll be up for some action?" Lestrade asks.

"Action, hell no. A nice, easy but not boring case with no legwork involved, maybe. It might do him some good to get out of the house."

"Cooped up inside with him can't be easy."

"You have no idea," John adds out of habit. From an outsider's perspective Sherlock probably wouldn't have seemed all that much of a handful recently. No shouting at the neighbours, no stomping around bursting with nervous energy and complaining of boredom. He's been... quiet, even. "Please try to make it a quick one, though, something he could deduce at the crime scene and be home for supper. I know it doesn't really work that way, but..."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Something nice and manageable to get back in the saddle."

The DI's choice of words brings back to John's mind the image of Sherlock being led around while sitting on the back of the therapy horse, and his prickly reply to John's offer of help. It still stings. It wouldn't, if things had only changed, at least a little. "Just don't say that when you do contact him, or he'll probably bite your head off."

Lestrade gave a wry laugh. "Don't forget; I've known him longer than you have, and my head's still intact."

Two days pass without any communique from the DI, before Sherlock gets a text message. John finds him standing in the middle of the sitting room, staring at it, frowning.

"What is it?" John prompts, craning his neck so he can see the screen. Sherlock slips the phone in his pocket.

"It's Lestrade. Body dump somewhere near Barking Abbey."

"Where's that?" John asks.

"Ilford."

"Oh. What's so particular about it that he'd contact you?" John asks.

"No idea. NSY does often struggle with even the most elementary of cases, but that doesn't mean it warrants my interest."

"You could call him and ask for details," John prompts, trying not to sound too enthusiastic, lest Sherlock start thinking there's some sort of a conspiracy here. If Sherlock gets wind of him trying to organize something behind his back, he'd invariably consider it condescending.

Sherlock says nothing. This non-reaction reminds John of how Sherlock does not like calling people. He texts, or emails. On the rare occasions when he has phoned John, the discussion has been stilted and strange - Sherlock had kept interrupting him, as though not realizing he'd been about to say something. This mystery had bothered John for a while, until he'd remarked on it to Mycroft. The older Holmes had not looked surprised. "I commend your astuteness. He does prefer to avoid calling people. He has enough trouble deciphering people's behaviour as it is, and being deprived of facial expression cues makes it very difficult for him to participate in a conversation."

John had experienced a minor epiphany at this news - what he had so often just shrugged off as Sherlock's habitual rudeness might actually be a defense mechanism. If he's so oblivious to cues others find easy to interpret, Sherlock might be hiding behind intellectual arrogance more than John has previously understood. Sherlock often seems to realise only after the fact, that he may have gravely insulted someone. On the phone all he has is the tone of the other participant's voice, which could be kept deliberately neutral even when eyes and the lack of a smile might tell a different story. That would probaby limit the use of his deductive skills.

Sherlock takes out his phone, but not to make a call. He fires off a text instead, and then makes for the coat rack.

"We're taking it, then?" John asks, no longer feeling the need to put a damper on his enthusiasm. Maybe they could finally start getting on with their lives, instead of sitting in the flat trying to pretend things haven't changed. Maybe this could get them back into their old routine - the cases, the takeaway afterwards, the stakeouts, the chases - well maybe not the chases just yet - but most importantly, the contented nights at home afterwards, watching telly together while both of them are pretending the polite distance between them on the sofa is necessary. Only now, after what had been said in the hospital conservatory, they might just be able to make a start on erasing that distance. They've made some progress, but not as much as John would have liked or even expected.

"I suppose," Sherlock says, shrugging into his coat. John watches him slowly negotiate the buttons, stifling the impulse to step in. Sherlock does, eventually, get them all done.

John dons his coat, feeling bright-eyed and expectant. The deja vu is liberating - this is what they do, this is how it's supposed to feel, isn't it? John wishes that there had been a modicum of excitement in Sherlock's voice. He tries to remind himself that Sherlock often gets that way only after deciding that a case is above a six on his scale of interest, and that can't happen until he has seen the scene and assessed the facts. The fact that he's decided to go in the first place is a good thing. A huge thing.

Sherlock starts down the stairs well ahead of him - understandable, since he's much slower than John in negotiating them. He's halfway down, when John closes the door to their flat. He doesn't know what to do now in regards to the stairs. Should he make his way down and wait for Sherlock there, or match his pace, making sure he gets down fine? John's first instinct is to hover, even offer an arm, but since they're going to work and Sherlock needs to switch to consulting mode, he might be even more resistant to assistance than usual.

Sherlock's knuckles are white as he seems to be holding on to the bannister for dear life. John's fingers practically twitch at wanting to help, but he forces himself not to. In the end, he waits for Sherlock to reach the last few steps, and then walks down so that they arrive at the front door simultaneously. John turns to steal a glance at Sherlock before opening it and facing the afternoon traffic. Sherlock is pale, a thin film of sweat on his forehead, and he's out of breath as they step outside.

"Do you want to sit down?" John asks quietly, looking at one of the metal chairs outside Speedy's. He grits his teeth as he expects a scathing command to stop the mollycoddling.

"No," Sherlock says and coughs. "Get a cab."

John heads to the kerb while Sherlock slowly negotiates the front steps of the building, chest still heaving.

Thankfully, cabs are plentiful at this hour and soon they're safely deposited in the back seat of one.

"This morning, did you take your meds?" John asks. Today will be hell, if Sherlock has to try and concentrate while in pain.

"Yes," Sherlock dismisses the subject with a flick of his hand, looking out the window onto the rainy streets of Marylebone.

During the first few days, John had suspected Sherlock had been skipping doses of the medications he'd been prescribed, because he had announced that they are making him tired and slow. Judging by what John had been told by the Harwich physician, it's highly recommended to continue at least the pregabalin as long as there are significant issues with the sensory nerves not functioning the way they should. The evidence for their effect in preventing chronic pain isn't waterproof with GBS, but there is no arguing the fact that the current level of pain Sherlock had been in when they had been prescribed posed a risk for long-term issues, if left unchecked.

"Nervous?" John asks.

"Why would I be?" Sherlock replies in a distracted tone. It sounds automatic, a drop down menu response, similar to what Sherlock had remarked to him while drugged up to the gills by Irene Adler: 'why would I need you?'.

"Lestrade knows the enormity of what you've been through. No one expects you to be right as rain yet. If you need help, please say so. Won't it be less embarrassing not to make a song and dance about it, than to wait until something happens that really could look a little silly? I know you. You'd rather die than admit defeat, but it's not defeat to know your limits and work around them."

"Practice that speech in front of the mirror much?" Sherlock asks, and returns to cataloguing passing cars, or whatever he'd been doing.

John finds he has no idea whether it is a good idea to get Sherlock back to work yet. When Sherlock says something dismissive, it's often deflection, which in the past has worked to keep John at a distance. John is beginning to realise that he needs to be more perceptive, and know when Sherlock is in actual need to talk about something, no matter what words might be coming out of his mouth. Of course, knowing how best to fulfil that need is something else. John is yet again struck by how little he really knows about what Sherlock wants from him.

After several wrong turns, and Sherlock arguing with the cabbie over directions, they arrive at a former sawmill on the banks of the River Roding. John has never been to this area of London - there are very few notable sights here. It's mostly a residential area, more stagnant than fashionable. Across the river a Tesco Superstore, and what Sherlock describes as a reasonably priced but bedbug-infested hotel, are visible. John wonders if the latter notion is a deduction or based on actual experience. In the opposite direction, there's a small islet in the middle of the river, connected by small bridges over which John can see cars going.

Sherlock sees the direction he's looking and sniffs. "Downstream the Roding will eventually join the Thames via the Barking Creek."

Once again, John is reminded that Sherlock's mental map of Greater London is better than any sat nav or Google Map.

The surroundings of the sawmill have been cordoned off with police tape. No media present. All in all, nothing in the area would signal that a crime has been committed here, except for the familiar white van the forensic technicians have arrived in. The police officers on the scene must have parked somewhere further away.

John is secretly grateful that the cab had driven them all the way to what looks like the main mill building. The area is clearly large, and with a longer walk he would have had to worry about Sherlock getting tired before even reaching the crime scene. An officer John does not recognize is lounging by the yellow tape. His attention must have waned, once he realized not all that many passers-by cared what was going on.

John knows he shouldn't worry so much beforehand. It probably shows on his face, and its contagious nature will not help them achieve what they're here for - to help get Sherlock back to the Work. John feels like he needs a resfresher course, too, in paying attention to other things besides the dark-haired wraith in a formidable coat that he's currently following towards the cordoned area.

"Holmes and Watson," Sherlock announces to the officer. "We're expected," he adds pointedly.

The officer knits his brows, but steps aside to let them in.

John gives the man a tight-lipped smile. "Where's the body?" he asks, wondering why Sherlock hadn't made that very enquiry.

The officer points his finger towards a crime scene technician in white plastic overalls who is walking into the building. "Just follow him."

Sherlock's already on his way. John hurries to catch up with him, which takes much less effort than it used to.

The main entrance is large - wide enough to accommodate trucks. Inside, the vast hall is mostly empty, since the mill hasn't been in business for decades, as Sherlock had managed to find out via a quick online search in the cab; the firm's bankruptcy had happened during the Thatcher years. The rafters and the wall in one corner looks as though there may have been a fire. There are pieces of dirty clothing near the area. John suspects the homeless may have spent nights here. The floor in the attic level is full of missing planks. A few pigeons take flight from the rafters, sending dust dancing in the light streaming through the windows upstairs.

Lestrade is standing off to the side of the main entrance with DS Sally Donovan and some lower ranking officers. Crime scene techs are arranging gear nearby, and a few firemen are stripping off their security harnesses. John recognizes many of the faces, although he remembers very few names.

Lestrade and Donovan notice them, and so do several others present. Then, as though having heard some imperceptible cue, most of them begin applauding.

Sherlock halts, looking deeply apprehensive. "John, what-"

"It's for you, you dolt," John says affectionately, and almost feels like joining in.

He knows Sherlock hates this sort of thing. He abhors birthdays, surprise parties and congratulatory speeches, pomp and circumstance. To Sherlock, the results of his work are enough of an award, and he seems very easily to interpret gestures such as these as mockery. It's odd, in a way, since mostly he doesn't seem to be very good at spotting sarcasm and derision. Or, he's just very good at hiding his dismay at such things being directed at him. John suspects he's had a lifetime to practice his mask of cold indifference.

Lestrade strides to Sherlock and grabs him into a bear hug that nearly causes him to lose his balance. His eyes go so wide with surprise and dismay that John can't help laughing.

"Come 'ere, you," Lestrade says and squeezes even tighter. "Damn good to have you back." He releases Sherlock, who shrugs his shoulders to straighten his coat, glaring at the DI.

John wonders what Lestrade has told the others about what has happened to Sherlock. They must have started to wonder at some point why the consulting detective had stopped materializing at crime scenes. Lestrade must've told them at least something, since they'd hardly be applauding if they were unaware of the seriousness of what had transpired. Even Donovan had joined into the applause, although it had looked as though her heart wasn't really in it.

Sherlock tugs up his coat collar. "I was merely on a brief sick leave, not outer space," he complains. "What have we got?"

"Multiple gunshot wounds to the head and the back. No bleeding on site, so looks like he's been transported from someplace else. Haven't ID'd him yet."

John starts walking up to Lestrade and Sherlock, letting his gaze wander up the rafters. Due to this, he doesn't spot a crime scene tech until he bumps into the man from behind.

"Watch it, you-" the man begins grumbling and turns.

John instantly recognizes him, and alarm bells go off in his head. This might not be good.

Philip Anderson tugs down the hood of his overalls and regards him with a put-upon look. He looks past John, eyes roving around the area until he finds what he's looking for. Or, more accurately, who he's looking for. "Oh great. He's back. I thought we could wrap this up before dinnertime and actually go home. No we have to wait for him to muck about first. Why would he even want to look at a gang shooting?" he asks rhetorically in that snooty, louder-than-necessary tone of his that John hates, and not just because he tends to be unable to keep from flinging barbs at Sherlock at every opportunity. The dislike is mutual, but right now it would probably be best if Sherlock got to do this without having to fend off the evil eye from those in NSY who really hate his guts.

Sherlock whips his head over to face the man. "Gang shooting? What makes you so convinced? This is hardly Brixton."

"It's not unheard of for gangs to dump bodies away from their own borough," Anderson says with a triumphant smile and crosses his arms. "Sometimes people are cleverer than you give them credit for."

"Maybe there's hope even for you, then," Sherlock replies coldly.

Anderson rolls his eyes and returns to his team.

Sherlock returns his attention to Lestrade. "Do you believe his theory?"

The DI sticks his hands in his pockets. "I wouldn't be surprised."

Sherlock's gaze narrows and he practically looms over Lestrade. "Then what, pray tell, am I doing here? If you're all convinced this is a clear-cut instance of gang rivalry, it hardly carries enough mystery to bring me along. Is this... charity of some sort?" he asks venomously.

Anderson scoffs disbelievingly. "Well it's hardly charity, is it, if someone's dead!"

"Just have a look?" John suggests, "It's still a homicide."

"Et tu, Brute?" Sherlock says snidely, but makes no move to walk out.

"The Fire Brigade has checked the rafters area - it should be safe to walk around, as long as we mind the missing planks," Lestrade says.

"Who found the body?" Sherlock asks.

"Some teens who come here to skateboard - they've built a ramp outside the storage building on the riverside. They sometimes climb around the buildings, find a quiet nook to go to with a girlfriend; you know how teens are."

"I really don't," Sherlock says and clasps his hands behind his back.

A fire department officer gives Lestrade the all-clear, and Donovan leads them to an adjoining hall with a staircase rising up to the rafter level. The distance is at least the equivalent of three storeys, and the steps are narrow and high. The staircase is wider than usual, with several landings - it has probably doubled as the fire escape.

"Shit," John mutters under his breath when the realisation hits. How the hell are they supposed to get Sherlock up there? He'd already been worrying about the steps from their front door to their flat, but in comparison that's a walk up a hill, and this is the equivalent of the Himalayas. If looks could kill, Lestrade would probably turn to cinder. At first he's taken aback by John's expression, but then the problem seems to dawn on him, too.

Sherlock has made his way to the bottom of the staircase, fingers already gently resting on the handrail. His gaze meets John's, who hurries to his side.

"Send me up with a laptop. You've done that before," John suggests urgently.

"I'm already here," Sherlock points out bitterly. "Too late."

"It's too much," John whispers.

"I'll be the judge of that." Sherlock grabs the handrail properly and starts up the first flight of steps.

A group of forensic techs, Anderson included, have crowded the doorway to the hall, waiting to follow them upstairs.

John curses. Just what they need, an even bigger bloody audience.

John decides that the one thing he can do is to give Sherlock some privacy. He hurries back to Lestrade. "Great choice," he says quietly, squeezing as much sarcasm as he can into that phrase. "If he gets half way up that thing and collapses, it will be your fault."

Lestrade looks distraught. "I'm sorry, John. I didn't think of the logistics." The DI turns to the assembled technicians.

"Right, you lot. Clear the area. He wants to see the scene without anyone else, so we're going to give him ten minutes."

Anderson snorts. "God, what a primadonna."

Lestrade cuts him off before he can complain further. "You too, Anderson. All out."

By the time John catches up, Sherlock has only managed one flight. His eyes are focused on the next step, hardly acknowledging John's presence. He's already desperately out of breath, hand shaking on the rail. John knows that Sherlock will not prolong this any more than he absolutely has to, and he'd probably rather faint up there from exhaustion than to rest sitting on the steps, risking the Yard's finest and foulest staring up at them.

"You're going to need to stop and get your breath back. Now." John says this quietly enough not to reach the DI's ears below. He knows he's slipping back into doctor mode, but right now it can't be helped. He grabs hold of a thin wrist and feels the thudding, rapid pulse. "Any tingling in your legs or hands?"

"No," comes the terse reply as Sherlock pulls his hand free from John's grasp. He clearly hesitates to take the next step.

"Right," John says, "no way around it, then." He grits his teeth, and snakes his arm around Sherlock's waist. Hesitantly but eventually, an arm slides across his shoulders.

Sherlock says not a word, nor does he glance down once as they make their way up the staircase. The hall has gone so quiet one could hear a pin drop. John thinks he can practically feel Lestrade's eyes on them. He feels embarrassed, but not for himself - it's mostly a reflection of the pure, distilled mortification he imagines Sherlock is feeling right now. His weakness is at risk of being seen by many who would like nothing better than to witness Sherlock's downfall, to see him knocked down a few pegs.

Once they find themselves standing on the rafters, Sherlock doesn't head off straight away like he usually would. He's heaving and pale, but John knows that suggesting they stop to have a longer rest is not an option. John disentangles his grip and Sherlock staggers slightly, then leans his palms on his knees and closes his eyes momentarily, gasping for breath. John's hand hovers over his shoulder, unable to decide when to intervene, if at all. Finally, Sherlock straightens his back and looks around. He's still short of breath, but the colour has returned to his cheeks.

"Let's get to work."