John sat up in his bed, reading A Separate Peace. It was a shitty book but it was one of the only ones left in the hospital's lending library and he'd already read Winnie the Poo. He hadn't decided what to write to Sherlock, or even how to contact the man. He could contact Mycroft but he didn't want the man striding inside, political power wrapped around him like a particularly obnoxious coat. He just wanted to contact Sherlock in case the man had gotten wind of Moriarty's twisted contingency plan. But if Sherlock needed to stay dead, he couldn't out him. He prayed they were done with that particular fiasco. If not he wasn't sure what more he could do. He was not up for killing any more of Moriarty's men for awhile.
A nurse came in to poke at him, her eyes haunted at checking out his injuries. John put his book back down and smiled at her.
"How do the burns look?" he asked and the nurse returned his smile tightly, looking sick at she checked the monitors. His vitals were fine; a bit high but then, he was healing.
"You're doing fine," she replied meaninglessly and John felt his teeth clench.
He'd figured out what'd gone wrong between Sherlock and him. It'd gone wrong for awhile; the Moriarty case had just made it horribly obvious. They had a problem.
Sherlock didn't respect him. Not for what he could do. On their most intense cases there wasn't time for Sherlock to give needless explanations to everyone and sundry but if he thought it'd be useful for John to know something he'd take the time to inform him. And whenever time was crunched Sherlock never made that call, because he never thought John would really be useful knowing it.
That was a problem. It led to Sherlock jumping off a building over something John would have been able to help prevent, had he known the assassins were targeting them. And it led to a difference in power in their relationship.
That was a problem.
But John didn't know if Sherlock was ever going to come back to let them address it. He would likely have to live his life alone, uselessly waiting for the man to return, until he finally stopped and got married, and lived a boring little life he'd never be content in. With Sherlock H written into his back. Still, he'd live, knowing Sherlock was alive.
If he were alive he'd have found me.
John blinked rapidly and forced himself to concentrate on the horrid book in his lap.
~~/~~
Sherlock strode into St. Barts, feeling panic lick at him. He wanted to scream and tear around the place but he made himself approach the front desk. It was fastest to follow their idiotic policies.
"Unidentified person, age approximately thirty five to forty, signs of possible torture including burns and lacerations, concentrated on his back. We're here to identify," Sherlock ordered. The woman behind the desk gaped at him, like he'd broken some social code. "Quickly," he demanded. She nodded and glanced back at her computer – she was used to such scenes, apparently.
She typed like John, pecking at the keyboard with her index fingers. Sherlock wanted to break her.
"Room 87, down the hall and to the right, visiting hours are until 6:00 PM except for family," the nurse answered and Sherlock felt himself suck breath into his lungs – symptom of relief. John was here. And alive, then.
Sherlock strode for the room, knowing the building plan. Room 87 was one of the smaller ones, further away from the nurse's break room; Mycroft did not know John was here either. Donovan and Lestrade followed him.
Sherlock stopped, irrationally, outside of John's door, before the windows that would let the man see him.
John had mourned him for a year.
Fuck.
He was probably the last man John would want to see. He'd put him through too much pain.
I had no idea you would be so affected, Sherlock wanted to say, but he knew that wasn't quite accurate. He'd known, back then, how he'd feel thinking John dead. He'd lived it for more than a week, now. John had lived that for a year, and he'd known he was going to do it to the man, he'd planned it. John would never forgive him.
"It'll be okay," Donovan said meaninglessly. Incanting – the common attempt to make a situation better by stating that it was. Useless.
"We'll wait out here," Lestrade said, likely thinking that was the reason he'd paused. Sherlock hesitated, thinking to accept, but what did it matter what Lestrade and Donovan saw of John's reaction to him? He had no pride left.
"There's no need," he replied and walked into the room.
~~/~~
John watched Sherlock step into his hospital room, looking for all the world like a man going to his funeral. The man was staring at him, looking lost. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin sallow and wrong – god when was the last time he'd slept? Eaten? John felt his eyebrows furrow at the sight.
Right.
"-Last -time -you -eat, -when?" he asked and Sherlock's eyebrows rose, his eyes widened enormously, and John wanted to start laughing and never stop.
That was the first thing I asked?
God, Sherlock Holmes stood before him, tall and handsome and whole. John forced his body to stay still, when he wanted to run his hands over the man, feel him firm, his skull whole and unaltered.
Fuck, he wanted to cry. He'd known Sherlock was alive, he'd seen the postmortems, but this..This was Sherlock Holmes, alive in front of him. Albeit, barely.
John felt a grin stretch across his face at the look of utter shock on the man's face.
He thought I didn't know.
"-You -think -maybe, -next time, -not -make -plans -without -me -you?" John joked. "-Or, -maybe, -not -make -plans -rely on -idea -me -idiot?"
Sherlock's face slowly brightened, his eyes getting that sparkle back that John loved.
Oh my god, Sherlock Holmes. John felt joy burst in his chest and he forced himself to breathe normally. Still, his monitors were going haywire, beeping faster and faster as John's grin spread across his face.
Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed.
"You knew," he said dumbly.
"-Obvious," John replied, laughing. His laughter sounded wrong, catching in the pneumonia that still had doctors fussing over him. Sherlock's eyes widened at the sound, apparently only then remembering it too. John felt his smile fade. "-I -fucking -furious -with -you," he added.
Sherlock's eyes closed briefly and he looked down, looking horrible. John felt his jaw clench, remembering it now. Anger started to build in him, but he was too tired. He was still sleeping too much every day, his body fighting the bacteria building in his lungs.
"-John," Sherlock started. "I had to-"
"-You -not -tell me -those -assassins -themselves -targeting -us why? -Before, -roof, -you knew," John demanded.
Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed again.
"You know about-" he started.
"-I -figure it out -myself -alone. -Why? -A long time ago -if -you tell me, -I -kill -them -sooner," John replied, feeling anger lick at him again. He was glad he didn't have to talk aloud; his throat felt as if it'd closed. God, emotion was swamping him. He wasn't used to it anymore.
"Sooner?" Sherlock asked, his eyes widening before he got that 'oh!' look of utter realization.
"-Yeah," John replied, annoyed. No one ever read his military file. And this time Sherlock's disrespect had meant he'd been too late, hadn't taken his shot until it was almost nothing but revenge.
No. Sherlock is alive. They'd won, just horribly. Sherlock was alive, was standing right in front of him. John glanced over Sherlock's body, his height, his clothing and felt happiness bloom in him again.
"I should have told you," Sherlock replied and John felt his eyebrows furrow. That felt..a bit too easy. "I think I should read your military file," he added.
John felt his mouth quirk up a bit.
"-I -good -with -what do," John replied.
"How did you escape?" Sherlock asked and John glanced at the two detective inspectors at either side of his lover. Sherlock was looking stronger again, standing more firmly on his feet and John felt himself want to smile again, the anger draining from him. He was too tired.
It'll be back.
"-Important?" John asked, and glanced at the side of his bed. God, he needed to hold the man and he needed to go back to sleep.
He's alive, he's alive, he's alive. He'd pummel the man later; when he'd healed.
Sherlock smiled fully, apparently forgetting about the detective inspectors on either side of him, and walked over to the side of the bed. He stood nervously, looking unsure whether to climb up or sit down on the chair there.
"How do I-" he asked, his hands clenching and unclenching and John grinned again.
I love this man. Who gives a shit if we're not equal. I'm staying, he thought, pulling the blankets out of the way of the man. He heard a pained hiss from someone, and guessed he'd just revealed his very torn up, emaciated leg to Sally Donovan. Hardly his problem.
Sherlock pulled himself up onto the bed, fitting his long body beside John's side though he barely touched him at all. John coughed once to catch his breath and suddenly couldn't stop, filling the air with a horrible rasping hacking. Sherlock froze on the bed like a startled cat, staring at him and John had to grin despite his coughing. The man cared, that at least was abundantly clear. Still, it felt like his energy was being steadily drained from him and John let his eyes start to close, deciding that if Donovan and Lestrade wanted to stay and wake up to his screaming nightmares, they were welcome to do so. He breathed in as deeply as he could without hurting his lungs, doing his best to drag in Sherlock's scent. The scent was warm and familiar and John closed his eyes, feeling a bit more desperate than he liked.
"-My -back, -don't touch," he ordered, barely moving his hands and Sherlock nodded seriously, looking haunted. John rolled over and let the tall man curl around him, barely fitting in the cot. He'd deal with the inspectors later.
~~/~~
Mrs. Hudson was sitting next to Sergeant Donovan by the window, crying into her handkerchief. John blinked sleep away slowly, too tired to deal with it.
"-Fact -you -alive -tell -her -never? -Whole -time -look for -me?" John asked, moving his hands as little as he could. He could feel the bones in his shoulder grind at each other whenever he moved too far, too harsh a reminder of the days before. His whole back stung like it was currently being burned. Still, he did not move from his place leaning against Sherlock's shoulder. John breathed in the tangy scent of burning flesh and swallowed, fighting the insanity back. His next morphine dosage was not scheduled for an hour. It would get far worse before it got better. Talking would help. Sherlock seemed to know that too, for he answered quickly.
"I did not leave the police headquarters but to go to Molly's for new clothing," Sherlock stated, before tilting his head slightly, looking confused and adding "and I ate at a diner with Donovan". John blinked. Donovan looked up from her science magazine and nodded back at him, as if they'd just made some gentleman's agreement. John glanced up at Sherlock, baffled.
"I need a statement," Donovan ordered, matching John's eyes. She looked surprisingly sympathetic, her eyes scanning over his bandages.
"Not now," Sherlock hissed back, sounding furious. John shook his head, too tired to deal with it, and watched as Mrs. Hudson wiped the tears off her face.
"Oh, pardon," she said, her voice rough, "it's just such a thing." She glanced between them fondly and Sherlock smiled down at him, in his strange closed-mouth way, looking oddly smug. John tried to smile back at him, feeling his body start to droop with exhaustion. He did not want to face the nightmares.
"Don't hold me down, if I start to scream," he muttered. Mrs. Hudson sucked in a heavy breath but John was too tired to respond to it.
~~/~~
John woke up to hear Sherlock hissing at the incoming nurse, looking for all the world like a particularly brassed off animal.
"Can you not let the man sleep for six minutes straight?"
The nurse put her hands on her hips, her face drawn in annoyance. She looked tired, John noted blearily.
"He needs his bandage changed," she replied, her voice sharp.
"Change it later," Sherlock ordered, rolling back over so carefully John had to smile. Sherlock's eyes flicked up to his and held his gaze.
Holy hell, you're alive. John felt joy strike through him.
"Be nice to the nursing staff, Sherlock," he ordered and Sherlock slid off the bed to obey without a word. The nurse's eyebrows rose at the exchange, but John ignored her, rolling onto his back to give the nurse access to the painful wounds.
More bandages meant fresh morphine, he reminded himself.
"How is his back?" Sherlock demanded and the nurse's lips pinched with annoyance as she turned on the light. John groaned just to see Sherlock scowl at the woman.
"It's doing well," she replied, still looking at the wall and John watched, waiting for Sherlock to start cursing out hearing people and all the brainless things they did when talking to the deaf.
"What does 'doing well' mean? Doing well healing or doing well 'mindless platitude to suit the sentimental'?" Sherlock demanded. John felt his breath rush into his throat and coughed heavily, his lungs protesting.
"You fucking bastard. Did you fake the deaf thing too?" he asked, getting ready to be furious. The nurse glanced at him, clearly concerned for his mental acuity.
"I healed," Sherlock responded quietly. "Over the last six months. Almost total restoration, now," he added.
John felt his heart sink, though he didn't know why he was sad at the news. It was a good thing. He let his breath out slowly, trying not to react too quickly. But he'd missed it. He'd missed what Sherlock had looked like, the first sound that registered again. He'd missed his frustration. He must have been frustrated. Six months of recovery. They'd lost over a year. Sherlock would be able to hear himself play now, get the violin back from Molly, take care of the cases on his own. Oh.
"We're going to need to talk," John stated aloud, closing his eyes again, too exhausted to keep them open, even if his back was about to be cleaned and taped and hurt again.
Sherlock didn't climb onto the cot again, after. He wandered about the room and sat and stood and generally made too much noise until John fell back asleep, and every time John was woken up by the damn nurses and their lights the man was in the room but never touching him.
John did his best to sleep despite it all, knowing that Mrs. Hudson would be coming in again the next day. He'd want his energy to be properly reassuring for her.
~~/~~
John sat in the living room chair, watching Sherlock putter about the house, putting his belongings back where they were supposed to be. The place was still torn up; science equipment and books long since donated, leaving the bookcases oddly barren.
Mrs. Hudson was singing downstairs, almost overwhelming in her happiness and John wondered why he couldn't quite feel it.
Sherlock Holmes was back, standing by the refrigerator, healthy and whole. He couldn't ask for more. Moriarty was gone, his back was on the way to being healed, albeit scarred, and he was sitting in 221B, the bus outside loudly announcing its route.
Still, something felt off.
Sherlock kept glancing at him, looking up from the boxes of belongings Mrs. Hudson had packed up but had never had the heart to sell. Sherlock threw a pair of oven mitts onto the kitchen table and stalked toward him. John glanced over his face, confused as the man stood in front of his chair, his sharp gaze boring through him.
"What's wrong?" Sherlock demanded and glanced over his body. John blinked, unsure what to answer. "This doesn't feel right," Sherlock clarified, gesturing between them.
John nodded and set aside the newspaper he'd been pretending to read.
I don't remember how to act around you.
"-Don't remember -how -" John started, before stopping and putting his hands in his lap, clearing his throat. Sherlock could hear. That was over, too, now. John didn't know how to say it with words, and cleared his throat again.
"-Don't -remember -how -act -near -you," John signed, before rubbing his face heavily. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed, obviously confused; why would he struggle to sign, if he didn't have to? John tipped his head back into his leather headrest. He didn't know how to talk to Sherlock aloud, not in the same way.
"Just act as you want," Sherlock replied, blinking rapidly.
John smiled grimly. He wanted the past back, the way they were for those few short months when Sherlock needed and wanted him and it felt like the whole world was opening up before them. Sherlock had never fully respected him in their shared work but that had somehow been alright. He was angry now and Sherlock could hear, and somehow that meant they couldn't go back to the way they were before.
Bugger it.
"-What -I -want? -Not -make sense," John answered, letting himself just sign. Sherlock's eyes furrowed again, obviously futilely trying to piece the clues together.
"How could it make sense? It's all sentiment. Emotions rarely follow logic and if they do its at best by happenstance," Sherlock argued.
God, I love you, John thought, but he couldn't just reach out and touch the man. He didn't even fully know why. John shook his head. He did not know what was wrong. Sherlock growled deep in his throat, threw his head back in annoyance, and stalked back to his belongings. John watched him hang the oven mitts back up on the wall in their proper place, joy starting to return to him. For now, he did not much care what was off between them. Sherlock Holmes was alive and he was not hanging by a hook in a parking garage.
The hours passed too slowly. Sherlock kept his back stiff and proper, obviously bothered. He usually flittered between tasks in such a mood, making his violin screech and throwing papers on the floor as he pawed idly through them. Now he stayed on task, tirelessly sifting through the boxes and bags of his belongings and returning them all to their place, as if that could solve the problem that stood cold and uncomfortable between them. He met John's eyes, finally, when he got to the bottom of the last box, as if to see if his efforts had worked.
"-I -want -hit -you," John stated. Sherlock smiled, his pale eyes brightening with hope.
"Would that help?" he asked, striding across the room toward him. John rolled his eyes. Sherlock stopped to squat by his chair, facing him straight on.
"-Have -multiple -back -lacerations, -remember?" John replied, coughing out a laugh.
Sherlock nodded stiffly.
"Later, then," he stated and John smiled slightly. Better, they were getting better. It was just going to take time. John nodded firmly at the man and returned to his newspaper. Sherlock got up and crossed the room to pick up his violin, only to set it down again. John smiled to himself and started in on his article.
~~/~~
Sherlock apparently had two modes of being. He could be his usual horrendous self or he could be overwhelmingly charitable, a caricature of human kindness meant to manipulate people into doing as he wanted. He did not know what to do, apparently, when he truly wanted to be kind. John sat in the cold tub, watching as Sherlock pressed a warm sponge against his chest. Sherlock stared at the sponge in his hand like a surgeon carefully applying a cutting instrument, needing perfect precision. He looked horrendously uncomfortable.
"-I -think," John started nervously and cleared his throat. "I think I'm used to mourning. It's hard to just...stop," he stated aloud.
Sherlock glanced up from the sponge, looking torn.
"Would you really have been able to kill those assassins?" Sherlock asked, settling into his squat before the bathtub. "Even while they were all attempting to watch us?"
John cleared his throat again, uncomfortable. Kills were something that were done and then never discussed again. Sherlock washed the sponge out in the bucket and scrubbed at his chest again.
"They weren't watching us, they were watching you," he stated. Sherlock nodded slowly, agreeing. "This whole time, Moriarty underestimated me. I don't go insane after a week of torture," John growled. He was going to hate unexpected touches and the dark and be afraid to be alone, for awhile. It would pass in time. That was hardly 'insanity'. Moriarty had always had too much a flare for the dramatic and he was already used to nightmares.
"We can use that, next time," Sherlock stated and John felt his eyebrows furrow.
Next time we need to kill three assassins or next time I'm being tortured for a week? John wondered, for once not liking the feeling of his adrenaline kicking up.
I'd need some time first, please.
"Only if you let me know what's going on," John replied, feeling annoyance flicker at him again. Sherlock stared at the sponge again.
"I thought it best-" he started. John grimaced.
"I prefer to have an equal say in subjects that include my listing as a missing person," John stated. "You had the facts I needed to avoid that and you kept them from me because you did not think I could be helpful knowing them."
Sherlock gazed up at him, his eyes worried and John moved to get out of the bathtub. Sherlock moved to help him immediately.
"It won't happen again," he stated, supporting John's arms. John's shoulders screamed but he did not have a choice but to rest some of his weight on Sherlock with them. The man could hardly grab him around his waist. John nodded, hissing out his pain, and Sherlock moved to help him dress.
~~/~~
John made himself tea while Sherlock set up his latest revolting experiment, contentment washing through him again. There was more to fix, between them.
"I would prefer not to sleep alone anymore," John stated, turning around from the stove. Sherlock looked up from his pig ears, uncertainty in his eyes.
"Punch me in the face, heal the rest of the way, then can we sleep together again?" Sherlock asked, his voice quiet. John felt a grin stretch across his face.
"Or we could do that whole routine backward," John replied and Sherlock's face lit up. John nodded slowly and reached out. He could only reach so far before it pulled on the muscles in his back and Sherlock reached out to meet his hand before he had to get that far. John nodded at him gratefully, squeezing the genius' hand, not caring whatever disgusting gunk was on those thin fingertips just then.
My god, he's alive.
They were going to live together, be together. In 221B. Holy hell, but it felt like a dream. Sherlock pulled his hand away and turned back to his small pile of pig flesh, apparently content with the development.
"Would you have come back, if I hadn't been captured?" John asked and Sherlock winced and looked up again.
"Understand, John, that I had no way to know that-" he started, pulling away from the table to clasp his fingers beneath his chin.
John nodded briskly, running a finger over the scabbed cuts around his wrists. That was answer enough.
"Thank god for Moriarty's contingency plans, then," John stated. Sherlock swallowed heavily, apparently not amused, and ran a hand down his pressed shirt, his fingers catching in his own buttons.
"John, I-" he started, and ran his hand down his chest again. John blinked, confused. He hadn't seen that nervous gesture before.
Sherlock glanced around the too-tidy flat, his eyes darting about in the way that John had mostly forgotten.
God I love this man.
"John, I believe I love you," Sherlock stated suddenly, his eyes searching John's face. John blinked rapidly, surprised by the rapid change of subject and watched as Sherlock's gaze studied him intently, catching every nuance.
You can't lie to this man, he remembered, feeling pride rise through him.
"Good," he said, coughing as his pneumonia caught up to him again. Sherlock grinned, apparently thinking that was his answer. "It'd be awkward if you didn't," he stated.
Sherlock laughed, his voice hearty and deep and alive, and god, but John wanted a case to make them feel normal again.
~~/~~
Sherlock pulled back the covers to help him get into his bed and John ignored the twinge of self-consciousness he felt as he crawled onto the tall mattress like a child. Sherlock lay down beside him on the other side and they lay in the darkness side by side.
"This is awkward. Why is this awkward?" Sherlock asked suddenly and John grinned, his expression slowly growing until he started to giggle. Sherlock joined in and it was all John could do to stay on his stomach, away from his wounds as he broke down laughing, unable to stop. It hurt his back and arms and lungs and John did not care. He was out of that damn parking garage and Sherlock was right next to him, alive and whole. He wanted to laugh forever. Sherlock laughed with him, his chuckle hearty and deep, until John was wheezing and coughing, and Sherlock got out of bed to bring him water. John nodded his thanks and took the full glass from the man. Sherlock slipped back under the sheets and ran a hand over John's hair as he drank, his blue eyes scanning him and John lifted his head into the touch, all that he could really do.
~~/~~
Science equipment arrived the next day, and John stood by the door, feeling utterly useless as the boxes were carried up the steps without his help.
Mrs. Hudson stood at the bottom of the stairway, directing the movers up, her voice sing-songy and thrilled and John tried to hide how awkward he felt, not quite knowing where to be.
Sherlock spent the rest of the day putting microscopes and chemical mixes together about the kitchen and John was content to sit in his chair, pretending to read the newspaper as he watched the man.
God, but he's alive.
Even with pneumonia eating at his lungs and strange chemicals in the air, he felt like he could breathe again.
Still, he wasn't going to let the man out of his sight.
"Yoo hoo!" Mrs. Hudson called out, climbing up the stairs with a tray. John started to rise from his chair to help her but pain shot down his back and he settled slowly, trying to hide his wince. He doubted it worked, from the way Sherlock stared at him, his eyes roaming up and down his body quickly before the genius turned back to their landlady.
"Pastries, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked and the woman beamed at him like the genius had just solved their hardest case.
"Fresh from the oven, don't you know," she answered, putting down the tray and kissing Sherlock's head quickly. "Oh, but it's good to see you sitting there again," she said, her smile softening quietly. Sherlock nodded, wincing slightly.
"A thousand apologies, Mrs. Hudson. I hadn't known-" he started and she waved him off.
"Oh tosh. Don't get into that. Though I must say, if you'd only told John, he would have shot them all and none of this would have happened," she complained. Sherlock's eyebrows furrow and he shot John a quick look. John grinned at the expression.
"I truly thought-" Sherlock started but Mrs. Hudson glared at him and he settled. She smiled and leaned down to kiss his cheek.
"I'm just glad you're back, dearie," she said and he nodded at her stiffly before going back to his microscope construction.
So much for the heartwarming declaration of love, John thought, but Mrs. Hudson just beamed at the man. Apparently being ignored, as always, was better.
~~/~~