Two weeks later and 221B Baker Street no longer had a functioning kitchen or shower, which was why Sherlock was now spending his nights sleeping on the airbed downstairs in Mrs Hudson's flat. She said she was grateful for the company. She was also much more likely than either Mycroft or Lestrade had been to serve biscuits for breakfast. Lately she'd taken to making huge batches almost daily and sending them with Sherlock when he went to visit John.

Today she'd made butter biscuits filled with raspberry preserves. Sherlock left the bulk of them at the front desk when he got to the rehab centre; as always there were far more than he and John could eat, even with John's appetite and Sherlock's sweet tooth.

For once John was waiting for him when he got to his room. Sherlock looked him over. He'd been out again; he was wearing chinos and a button-down. Where—ah, he had the new chair. It was one hundred percent different from the old one, but it had still taken Sherlock a moment to notice, because he'd been distracted by John's expression: a shy, uncertain smile Sherlock hadn't seen directed at him in ages.

"So, what do you think?" John's words were casual but Sherlock could hear the apprehension behind them, see the way he had to stop his hands from clenching convulsively on the slim, contoured arms of the wheelchair.

He wasn't even sure what response John hoped to hear. It's perfect. Good choice with the black. It's horrible. I will never not hate to see you unable to stand. What he said was, "It's tiny."

John raised his eyebrows. "Not exactly words I want to hear coming out of your mouth, but fair enough, I suppose."

"I mean—"

"No, no, it's all right." John was smiling, and some of the tension had eased out of his posture, so it probably really was all right. "I know what you mean. I did think the ultra-lightweight would be best, and since my balance is good I don't need a lot of back support . . . ." He trailed off and looked up at Sherlock, his expression hopeful but with just a touch of—was that shame? Something in Sherlock's chest clutched painfully.

He stepped forward and leaned down for a kiss. John exhaled and opened his mouth; he'd eaten something spicy for lunch, and had shaved last night instead of this morning. Sherlock trapped John's head between his hands and John reached up to unbutton Sherlock's coat and slid his hands around his waist, pulling him closer. Sherlock hunched more and then brought his right knee up to rest it between John's legs, sinking down but careful to put his weight on the seat of the chair, not on John. He pulled back from the kiss enough to ask if the position was okay, and John nodded.

"Isn't there a weight limit on this thing?" Sherlock asked, only half in jest.

John pulled him down farther until he was more or less perched in his lap, though with one foot still on the floor. "It's fine. It's under warranty."

Sherlock huffed a laugh and then kissed him again, one hand in John's hair and the other exploring John's back, ranging first over the muscles bunched beneath his shirt and then down lower, until his fingers found the back of the chair, a thin, rigid cushion wrapped in nylon around a metal frame. It really was a small chair, even given John's size; the back extended only a few inches above the site of his injury and the arms seemed mere suggestions of what Sherlock thought of as standard wheelchair features. The wheels were thin, as well, and canted inward just a bit, making the chair wider at the base than the seat, though Sherlock could see that it would still fit easily through the new doorways that were going in back at their flat. He ran his thumb back and forth across the curve of the chair's arm until John reached to still his hand. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's neck and said, "It's the perfect size—we both fit. You didn't need me to help pick it out after all."

"Well, we'll see how well it works out." John leaned back in the chair and Sherlock stood up, shedding his coat. John watched him, one hand going up to rub at the base of his neck in what was becoming a habitual gesture.

"Got some stiffness again?"

"Yeah, but I've got a massage appointment in a little while. You're coming with."

"Oh, do I get a massage, too?"

John gave him a bit of a smile. "Maybe later, if you're good. First you're going to learn a few techniques."

Sherlock shook out the wrinkles from his jacket and trousers. "I think we can agree I already have some experience in massaging you, don't you think?"

"Yes, well this is the sort of massage where at least one of us stays fully dressed, hmm? Just give it a chance, all right? For me? I guarantee you'll learn something new."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine. If you want me to watch some young woman rub her hands all over you, I will."

"How do you know it's a woman?"

"Oh, it's a woman."

John chuckled. "All right. But she's probably close to your age."

"Right. Like I said. A young woman. Lead me to her."

The young woman's name was Jenny—how common—and she was as annoyingly perky as most of the other staff Sherlock had met, but she knew what she was doing and how to explain it as she went along, gently palpating John's legs in what she called myofascial release and then more firmly working the muscles in his torso and arms. It was nothing Sherlock couldn't have learned in a few minutes from YouTube, but it made John happy when he paid attention, so he watched and listened as she over-explained everything she was doing.

"It's not bad yet, but you'll find as time goes by the paralysed muscles will contract and become more rigid, so the goal with massage is to try to keep them as relaxed and pliable as possible for as long as possible."

She handed him a few sheets of paper which Sherlock declined to take. "I'll remember," he said.

"Oh, just take them," John said, lifting his head so he wasn't speaking into the hole in the headrest of the massage table. "I can use some of it on you, too, you know."

Sherlock grunted an acknowledgement—that is not a terrible idea—and folded the instructions in half so they would fit in his pocket.

John laughed and dropped his head back down. "You're trying to work out where we can fit a massage table in the flat, aren't you?"

Sherlock didn't respond, because that was exactly what he was doing. The renovations were making the space more open, but it needed to stay that way for John to be able to manoeuvre around the flat.

"They make portable tables that fold up, you know," Jenny said. She got up off the stool she'd been using and pushed it toward Sherlock. "All right, have a go. Let's see if it's as easy as you think it is."

Sherlock shrugged out of his jacket and settled onto the stool. He'd already been to physical therapy with John a couple of times and learned how to help with his exercises, especially those designed to keep his legs from atrophying too much. They weren't much fun. He wanted to help and would continue to do so, but the feel of the unresponsive muscles beneath his hands was a bit unnerving and he couldn't get past the idea that he would do something wrong and injure John without either of them realising it. The exercises to help improve John's balance and upper body strength were better, but he didn't need much assistance with those.

The massage started out much the same, except that John's skin was bare. Feet, calves, thighs, check for unusual muscle tension, pressure sores, any signs of a blood clot. Don't apply too much pressure and don't forget to move the sheet to keep John covered because he's going to get cold even though it's warm in here.

John kept up a steady conversation, mostly with Jenny, as Sherlock worked his way up his body. It was only when he reached the middle of John's back that the stream of words petered out. At first Sherlock thought he was hurting him; he'd skirted the injury site and line of surgical scars, which meant that John could now feel the pressure of Sherlock's hands.

"Too hard?" he asked. Was I pressing too hard where he couldn't feel it?

"No, it's good. Perfect." John tipped his head to the side to smile back at Sherlock. "Keep going, please."

Sherlock hesitated only a second as he realised that the constant stream of words before now had been because John had been . . . nervous? Why? Embarrassed? About what? Sherlock touching him? Had he suddenly reverted to his old "I'm not gay" position in the presence of a pretty young massage therapist? Unlikely, given the half-lidded look he was giving Sherlock right now, and the way he relaxed under his touch.

No, John was enjoying the feel of Sherlock's hands on him, chaste as it was at the moment, and he wasn't ashamed. But . . . maybe he had been a moment ago? He wasn't embarrassed to let Jenny see Sherlock touching him, though. No, it was worse than that.

Sherlock lifted his hands from the sleek muscles of John's back and slid the stool back down along the table again, so he could reach John's legs.

"What are you doing?" John asked, craning his neck to look back at Sherlock.

An experiment. "Just checking something," he replied, reaching out to glide his fingertips over the side of John's right calf.

Jenny looked up from where she was typing notes in John's file. "Something wrong? I didn't notice anything unusual."

"No, it's nothing," Sherlock said. Nothing physical, at least, but the expression he'd caught on John's face when he'd touched his calf again made it clear what the problem was. John didn't like Sherlock touching his legs. Sherlock slid back up to the top of the table and set his hands to the sides of John's ribs, closing his eyes while he worked on the latissimus dorsi muscles and recalled every detail of John's behaviour while Jenny had been massaging him. It hadn't bothered him when she touched his paralysed limbs; it was just Sherlock that made him uncomfortable.

He made his way up John's back. All of his muscles were quite tense, despite having already been seen to by Jenny, but Sherlock knew it was because John had been using his upper body so much more than he ever had before. It wasn't all negative; he didn't think it was his imagination that John's arm muscles were already more defined than they had been before he was injured. He brushed his hands over his triceps and tried not to get too distracted. The scar on John's shoulder: he knew there was a spot there that had no feeling at all. He pressed his thumb against it while his fingers kneaded John's shoulders. It doesn't bother him when I touch him there; it's just his lower body.

When he was done he ran his fingers through the somewhat shaggy hair on the back of John's head and asked, "Neck and shoulders feeling better?"

"Yeah." John pushed himself up a bit and turned to give Sherlock a quick kiss. "Thank you."

Sherlock put both hands on the table next to John and pushed himself up off the stool. "I was told I was required to attend this training session, so . . . ." He shrugged and raised his eyebrows.

John snorted a laugh and Jenny came over to help him roll over on the narrow table. He put his clothes on, still slow and awkward with the trousers and shoes. When he was done he looked from Sherlock to Jenny, clenched his fist a couple of times and said, "Do you think it'd be okay if Sherlock—?" He tapped the massage table he was still sitting on.

Jenny raised both her hands. "I can't touch him, but my next appointment's not for twenty minutes and I have a lot of paperwork to catch up on, if you want to use the table. I can't leave you in here alone, though. Sorry."

"That's fine," Sherlock said, unbuttoning his shirt. "We aren't to be trusted alone, anyway. Everyone knows that."

He left his trousers on, though if he thought there would be time for a full body massage he would've stripped down without hesitation, whether or not Jenny was watching. The lack of modesty about his body was something he shared with John, although now apparently John was too shy to even let Sherlock touch him without getting uncomfortable.

He watched John swing himself off the table and into his new chair and—oh, of course. Of course he had gotten the smallest, most minimalistic wheelchair he could find, not because it was lightweight or easy to use, but because he was so self-conscious about it. John had always had something of a tendency to not want to be noticed, and he always tried to act normal and blend in. He wasn't normal, obviously—he and Sherlock probably wouldn't even know each other if he were—but he always pretended, at least around other people. But now the wheelchair would make it harder for him to avoid notice, so he had picked the most unobtrusive model he could find. Sherlock couldn't really fault him for that, if it made him more comfortable. He just wished John's self-consciousness didn't extend to him. He should never have any reason to feel awkward around Sherlock in any way.

Conditioning, that's what he needs. John just needed to get used to the idea of Sherlock's hands everywhere on him again, even when he couldn't feel it. He filed the idea away for later; it wasn't going to be something that happened quickly, but there would be time. He sighed and climbed onto the table.

John's hands were cool but strong and sure when he laid them on Sherlock's shoulders. "Jesus, you're too skinny, Sherlock. How much weight have you lost?"

"I've gained two pounds since I started the amitriptyline." Another side effect, one he hadn't even thought to worry about.

"Yeah, but you must've lost at least a stone before that. You need to eat more."

He didn't try to deny John's estimate. "I am eating. Two pounds in three weeks, John. At that rate I'll be back where I was in a few months and then I'll have to start buying new clothes."

"You love buying new clothes. You buy new clothes all the time."

"You have an answer for everything, don't you?"

"I learnt from the best." John dug his fingers into the tight muscles on Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock grunted in surprise. Apparently he was just as tense as John had been, even though he hadn't been using his muscles in any unusual manner. Although sleeping on the airbed for weeks at a time probably wasn't helping. It would be better when John was back home, and they were back in their bedroom where they belonged. Maybe he would get a massage table for the flat; they'd never needed any excuse to touch each other before, but maybe that would help.


If anyone with any medical knowledge is reading this, feel free to let me know if you see any problems. I keep thinking I'm done with most of the medical stuff and then I have more to write. And come visit me on tumblr: MissDavisWrites!