Chapter 11
Seven month later
"Hurry, John, we haven't got all day… a case, finally a case!" Sherlock sprinted up the staircase, taking two steps in one. John groaned and slowly followed, one step after another, leaning heavily on his cane. He had a limp again, not a psychosomatic but a real one. The tissue und muscles on his leg had been severely damaged, the leg had become infected while crawling through the sand and dust. It had made everything worse. In the end John had been lucky: He had a limp but still a leg.
"John!" Sherlock had already reached the fourth floor while John slowly stepped unto the first. John could have been annoyed with Sherlock who again simply ignored that his lover could no longer move as fast as before, and clearly not as graceful as a panther like Sherlock always did. But John wasn't. To be honest: John was entirely grateful that Sherlock behaved as he did now. The first weeks had been a nightmare of pain, slow recovery and relapses. But Sherlock had been the worst: he had tried to keep his mask but had failed bitterly. He had looked so lost. And most times when John had woken up from one of his restless sleeps Sherlock had clung to him: Sometimes only one hand on John's chest or on his arm. But ever so often he woke from Sherlock pressing John's palm against his face feeling John's pulse the same time. Crying. It had hurt to see Sherlock like that.
Ignoring John's wound was far better. Especially since no one else did. He often found Lestrade staring at him and then, feeling ashamed of his actions, the detective inspector suddenly became very interested in his own shoes. And Mrs Hudson, poor Mrs Hudson: Every day she asked if John was all right, if he needed anything, anything, he could tell her, she would care… of course she was not his housekeeper, but in such a bad situation and…Yes, Mrs Hudson, thank you, no I am fine… it was nerve-racking.
Sherlock's voice pushed him out of his daydreams. "Bedroom", he called, "second door to the left." John slowly walked into the flat. Klick, klick… the annoying sound of his cane accompanied him. Perhaps after rehab he would be able to walk without it again even though he would never fully recover. He found Donovan staring at him, disgust clearly written all over her face. Yes, he was no longer a good looking man. Sometimes he called himself the phantom of Baker Street and laughed. Sherlock never got the joke. John had an angry red burn mark on his cheek, crisscrossed marks on his neck and on a small part of his head the hair still had not grown back, probably never would. Children stared, even adults did. But most time John recognized pity in their eyes. He had stopped caring. He was alive. Alive. That was all that mattered. That and Sherlock.
John walked into the bedroom, Sherlock's face was already angry red. "Sherlock?"
"Look what those morons did. I told Lestrade not to move the body but this idiot over there", Sherlock pointed at Anderson whose face had gotten a pinkly shade, "this complete fool wanted to check the back of… how could anyone work like that?" John grinned. Sherlock was finally back at his normal self.
"Don't know", John said, "but we could start with examining the cause of death?" John knelt next to Sherlock, he flinched as his knee protested against this forceful move.
Sherlock mumbled something to himself and started to examine the body when something happened to what Lestrade later would always only refer to as "The incident".
"This is police work, for god's sake", Anderson said furiously, "but leave it to the freak and the cripple to mess everything up."
John could not even comprehend what was said when Sherlock was already unto Anderson, his hands closing around Andersons throat. "How dare you", he hissed. "How dare you call him names you… you…"
Anderson choked. Donovan came running into the room. Sherlock pressed his hands even closer around Anderson's neck. John stared dumbstruck. Donovan pulled her gun. Anderson's face became blue. Donovan shouted, threatened to shoot Sherlock.
And that was when the soldier came back. Suddenly John took a stance in the middle of the room. "Stop that at once", he shouted. "All of you. Donovan lower your gun, Sherlock stop strangling Anderson, oh and Anderson: Shut up!"
To John's own astonishment everyone did as he said. Anderson choked and coughed, Sherlock breathed hard as he tried to control his rage and Donovan stared at John. "I am sorry", she said, "sorry for everything." And then she left the room.
John walked over to Sherlock and put his hand on his shoulder. "It is all right, now."
"Nothing is all right", Sherlock whispered as his head sunk on his breast. "It is not all right they are staring at you. It is not all right they are calling you names. It is not all right. It is not."
"I don't care", John said and kissed Sherlock's hand. Anderson still coughed. "You never care what others say about you, so, I don't care what they say about me. They don't know. They don't understand. Morons, remember?"
Sherlock chuckled. "Thank you", he said.
"Always, Sherlock, always."
To be continued
