Sherlock waited in the corner of the bathroom, on edge, bouncing on the balls of his feet and pressing his hands together whilst John ran the bath half-full – not deep enough to cause panic, hopefully – and checked the temperature. If he'd thought Sherlock could have got by in the shower he might have used that instead, but Sherlock wasn't steady on his feet, and if he damaged his ribs or ankle further it would just make the recovery process longer. Using the bath would save a lot of trouble in the long-run.

"Alright," he said when it was half-full, going over to Sherlock and helping him tug off his jumper and t-shirt and step out of his baggy trousers. In the end he decided to leave the boxers on, to protect the old Sherlock's modesty, even if the Sherlock in front of him didn't give a damn, so long as he wasn't being hurt. He felt his face flicker at the thought and had to take a deep breath to keep himself together. "Do you want me to stay, or do you want me to go?"

Sherlock's head turned towards the water and then back to John. "Stay." A pause. "Please."

A 'please' out of Sherlock had been, in the past, practically a cause to bring out champagne. John wished he'd demanded instead, shouted, and acted his old priggish self; shown the flash of anger that had appeared when he'd first shouted that he wasn't stupid. He forced himself to give Sherlock a reassuring smile and helped him limp to the tub and scramble over the side. The water soaked into the gauze on his leg in an instant, turning it grey. Sherlock looked down at it and bit at his lip.

"When?"

"When you were asleep," John replied quickly, kneeling down on the bathmat. "It's nothing big, just a few bandages to make you more comfortable. I put them on," he lied.

"Oh." Sherlock shuffled in the water, shoulder blades threatening to burst through his skin. The sunglasses dangled precariously off his nose, looking thoroughly ridiculous. "This water is warm," he murmured eventually.

"Mm-hm," John said, smiling encouragingly. "Is that good?"

"Yes." Sherlock raised his hand and balanced his fingers on the surface of the water with an air of concentration and curiosity. "It's comfortable."

John rummaged for the shampoo, not that Sherlock really needed it with most of his hair shaved off. It would grow back, he reminded himself. Eventually. "Here." He pushed the bottle into Sherlock's undamaged right hand. Sherlock looked at it with no indication he knew what it was, then turned to John for guidance. Water droplets dappled the bandages and his stick-thin arms. John reached forwards and flicked the top off the bottle for him. "Just put it on your hair," he said.

Sherlock's seemed to have a hard time grasping the bottle, although eventually he managed to get a little shampoo on his fingers, but as he brought his hand up to his head a spasm of pain made his face twist and his grip loosen. The bottle bounced off his knee with a sharp thunk and slid into the bath as John leaned forwards, concerned. Sherlock flinched as soon as he got close.

"What's wrong?"

Sherlock was staring down at the water again. His spine looked like a set of rounded teeth under his skin. "Hurts."

"When you lift your arm up?" A nod. "Where?"

Sherlock pointed to the bruises on his chest with one finger. "I won't do it again." He lifted his arms up and began to resolutely apply the shampoo to his head, despite the grimace that clearly showed it wasn't doing him any good. "Don't hurt John."

"Hey," John said, putting a hand to Sherlock's pushing it away. Shampoo rubbed off on his wrist, a sharp, fruity tang filling his nose. He shouldn't buy the perfumed stuff in the future – it made him feel ill. Or perhaps it was the tone of Sherlock's voice. "John, remember? I'm fine."

Sherlock looked up, seemed to squint, and then his shoulders relaxed and he pushed his shampoo-y head towards John's chest, splashing them both in the process. The sunglasses dug into John's ribcage. "I forgot."

John sighed and put an arm gently around Sherlock's back. "That's alright," he murmured, making a mental note to give Sherlock his second dose of painkillers – it had to be after midday by now. It felt like it. "I'll do your hair today, so you don't have to reach up."

He eased Sherlock back into a sitting position in the bath and retrieved the slippery bottle. Both of them were covered in shampoo already, but most of it had rubbed off onto his shirt, so he put more on his hand and gently began to lather Sherlock's fuzz of hair. Bubbles burst up around his hands immediately, tickling his skin, and Sherlock made a snuffling noise as the suds slipped down his neck and back, and forwards onto his forehead. John carefully wiped them off before it could get under the sunglasses and into his eyes.

When the whole of Sherlock's head was nicely lathered John reached for the jug. "Close your eyes," he murmured, scooping up water and getting the bottom of his sleeves soggy. Sherlock nodded and John slowly began to pour water onto his head, washing the suds away bit by bit until what was left of Sherlock's hair was revealed again.

"Smells of berries," Sherlock mumbled when John put the jug back down. "You used to buy lemon shampoo."

John blinked and got up – his knees creaked uncomfortably, reminding him that he really wasn't young enough to be kneeling on a hard floor for long periods of time – to go to the airing cupboard and find a fresh towel.

"It was cheaper. Besides, I thought it was time for a change," he replied, shrugging and holding the towel out. Sherlock glanced at it, and after a couple of seconds' hesitation got shakily to his feet and clambered awkwardly out of the bath, spattering water onto John's socks.

"You've changed a lot of things," he said as John wrapped the towel around his shoulders and turned to pull the plug out of the bath. "This isn't 221b."

John looked back and, seeing Sherlock was making no effort to dry himself, began to rub at his shoulders through the towel. Sherlock just stood placidly, looking at the floor.

"You'd been gone for a long time." John couldn't bring himself to look Sherlock in the eyes. "I thought it was time to…change things a bit. It was better for me that way, it meant I could start to-" Hastily he stopped, cut himself off.

"Move on." Sherlock's voice came out as barely more than a rasp.

John flushed and brought the towel up to rub the top of Sherlock's head dry, being careful not to press too hard on any of the cuts which still showed starkly on his pale scalp. He didn't reply because he didn't know what to say, didn't know how Sherlock would react.

In the end, Sherlock reacted by turning round and sitting, cross-legged on the floor at John's feet and resting his head against John's knees. John, still holding the towel in both hands, stared at him, concerned, mind running through everything from 'low blood pressure' to 'shutdown'.

"Sherlock?" he said softly, putting the damp towel over the side of the bath and stepping back, pulling his foot away from Sherlock's hand. "Sherlock, what're you doing, what's wrong?"

Sherlock looked up at him, sunglasses slipping down his nose. John could see him blinking uncomfortably as the light filtered into his unprepared eyes; they were glazed again, pained and not-quite-there.

"I'll kiss your feet if you let me stay," he murmured, shuffling forwards on his bum towards John, who couldn't step any further back without tumbling into the bath. He was fairly sure his mouth was hanging open, unable to register much through the thought that the Sherlock he'd once known would never have kissed anyone's feet, even if he'd had a gun to his head. He'd have said something clever and probably got himself shot in the process.

"No," he managed to choke out eventually, swallowing and feeling his Adam's apple bob uncomfortably in his tight throat. He knelt down in front of Sherlock and looked at him intently. "No, god no, I don't want you to kiss my feet."

"Oh." Sherlock was biting his bottom lip, worrying the skin between his teeth and leaving tiny flecks of blood on his incisors. John continued to look at him, trying to get him to understand – as if thinking it over and over again would somehow help. There were a couple of seconds where he thought that he might have got through, and then Sherlock leaned up and began to nuzzle his neck, lips bumping clumsily, awkwardly, along John's throat and up to his jaw.

John froze, twenty different trains of thought running through his head at the same time as he crouched in wet socks and with Sherlock Holmes…it wasn't quite kissing, but it wasn't far off either, and as soon as he realised fear slid into him like a knife. It took an embarrassingly long time for him to engage himself, seize Sherlock's shoulders and push him gently back.

"No. Stop it, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked puzzled, back to biting his lower lip. John reached up and wiped away the small amount of blood and saliva clinging to his neck. His heart was pounding guiltily as he remembered times he might have enjoyed having Sherlock kiss him and making him feel like some sort of creep; he'd got too close, given too much contact under the guise of being reassuring. Shame pressed down on him, even though he was sick of it, so sick and tired of feeling guilty. The words of his Hippocratic Oath hovered in the back of his mind, pulsing in time to his breathing.

He felt unclean. Sherlock was so confused, so scared, and he'd thought…god knew what he'd thought.

"Don't. Please, you don't have to do that. You can't. I don't want you to kiss my feet, or any other part of me." He should have been clearer on that from the outset. Stupid mistake. "Sherlock, why did you do that?"

The hesitation stretched for a few seconds, the bottom lip torn even further during the space of time. "You said not your feet. I want you to let me stay." Sherlock turned to tuck his head into his shoulder, like a bird settling down to roost; only he was too tense to look like he was ready to sleep. His voice, when he spoke, was muffled by his arm. "Don't make me go."

John's forehead crinkled, and he dithered for a few seconds before taking a hold of Sherlock's shoulders, gently making him turn his head, so they were facing each other again. If he'd felt only platonically towards Sherlock he might have rubbed his thumbs over the collarbones in the hope it would soothe and comfort, but as it was he kept his hands as much to himself as possible. He had to be more careful. He couldn't allow Sherlock to get the wrong idea, not in his state; it would confuse him, make him feel obliged…John wanted to vomit at the thought. Everything had to remain bottled up and hidden, growing dusty in the corners of his mind.

"I'm not going to do that," he murmured. "You can stay as long as you like, and I'll look after you no matter what, because I care about you." He swallowed tightly. "You don't have to kiss me. I don't want you to."

Sherlock frowned, eyeing John with the air of someone worried they were walking into a trap, but eventually nodded. John helped him to his feet, hooking an arm around the small of Sherlock's back and lifting. Sherlock's skin was still damp, slightly cold. He helped him to the bed where he sat, cross-legged and uncomfortable, right in the centre of the mattress. The gauze was soggy – John would have to change it. And get Sherlock to eat and drink something, if he could. And he was due his next doses, not to mention a meal…

The list of things to do was growing dauntingly long. John didn't have time to dwell on what he felt, on what had happened, even if it was making his eyes sting. He had to get started.

As he headed for the lounge, scrubbing a hand across his sore eyes – keep it hidden, it was probably just the smell of the shampoo, nothing to get worried about – there was a knock at the door, two sharp raps. John immediately turned back to look at Sherlock, who'd brought his arms up reflexively to wrap around his shoulders, lowering his head again, a line of pain appearing on his forehead as he moved into the defensive position. John sighed, went back to him.

"I'll be back in a second," he murmured. "Promise."

He got no reply.

Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!

To be continued.