The cab drives Bond through the London rain. On any other arrival in the city after a mission, there would be something strangely comforting about rain, but right now he really wants to be somewhere dry. He makes a mental note to request his next mission somewhere in a desert, he doesn't even care which. It feels as if he hadn't been properly dry in ages, and the dampness of his suit only adds to the discomfort of the dried blood on it.
For once the debriefing is already done. Since it was a CIA mission they had invited Bond and Felix to their headquarters for the post-mission reports. He had declined their hospitality and their medical branch intervention, stating that the wounds were merely superficial. Of course he knows that any doctor would disagree with him on this assessment, but he has enough experience in hiding any pain on moving. He wanted to return to England.
He is no nearer to a solution than he was at his departure, but the uncertainty is even more troubling than any decision could be. At least than he would have something to fret about. Now he is still torn between two possibilities and the only decision he had come to was to decide on the spot what he would do. Lie to his oldest friend, or keep the secret of a new one. If friend was the right word for his relationship with Q. He hasn't spoken to Q the whole time he's been away, and he misses the light banter with the quartermaster. Their handler at the CIA was annoyingly businesslike.
Baker Street is remarkably quiet, but he immediately spots two surveillance teams and a new addition to the CCTV network. Apparently they hadn't had any luck finding the person behind John's abduction. He makes another mental note to request the file; maybe he will find something useful. He also may know a few more tricks about interrogation than Mycroft Holmes, even if he has access to all kind of means. Some things just come with experience. And Bond wouldn't mind making it an unpleasant experience for the thugs they captured.
The cab driver is quickly paid before Bond rings John's bell, his key still in storage at MI6. He knows that the doctor has left the Holmes mansion – the information came via text from an unknown number as well as regular medical bulletins (if you could call one sentence assessments on somebody's health so). There is no sound from behind the door before it is opened and he looks into the cautious eyes of his friend. They widen slightly when he glances over Bond's appearance, certainly picking up the bloodstains.
The door opens completely and he is pulled in before it is closed behind him. A bolt is moved silently.
"Mycroft's precautions", John answers the unvoiced question with a shrug.
"He is a bit of an over-achiever, isn't he."
A strained smile: "The two surveillance teams? Oh yes. At least they aren't stationed in 221C any more. It's annoying to have a nightmare and find three agents running up the stairs because they hear you scream in your sleep."
Bond knows enough about nightmares and unexpected entries to interpret the grim line of John's mouth right.
"Anybody dead?"
"No. Good reflexes though."
John turns and climbs up the stairs. It is obvious that he expects Bond to follow him.
"So you prefer a damaged doctor to the pros in medical branch?"
It is also evident that the doctor is still suffering from his injuries. His movements are stiff and too slow for a man of his age and fitness. The remaining bruises on his neck and his arms disappear under his jumper, already yellow and fading. It will take some more time to heal completely, but in the end, John is going to be fine.
"You are a pro in medical branch."
John snorts at this.
"I guess if I tell you that I'm not cleared fit for duty, it won't change anything." It's not a question but Bond confirms it anyway.
"No, it won't. I still trust you more."
"Right. Okay, sit down, you know the process."
Indeed he does. Medical equipment is gathered, hands are washed. And then he is slowly divested of his clothing, the blood-stained garments simply thrown in the direction of the bathroom.
"I can't believe they let you fly home with this."
John is assessing his wounds, turning the light a bit more towards Bond's torso.
"I told them it was only superficial, I wanted to go home."
John is clearly surprised at this statement, looking up in Bond's face.
"Missing the good weather, I suppose."
"No, left some unfinished business."
"Careful, James. Or I'll think you've become sentimental. After all I convinced myself otherwise. Why else would you have left me to Holmesian care without even a note? Really, that was low."
The complaint is given with a slightly crooked half-smile and James rises to the bait.
"Okay, next time I'll just leave you tied to a chair in abandoned warehouse. Then you can complain about Holmesian care. After all they found you."
"Hey, no reason to be so tetchy. I know that you were there too, Ford told me."
"What else did he tell you?" Bond doesn't even know why he's asking. He knows the answer. Everything about John screams that he doesn't know.
"What should he have told me?"
"Nothing, really. We had a bit of a row, you know. I thought he might be complaining to you."
Rule number one when hiding the truth from someone who knows: Staying as close to the truth as possible.
"You underestimate the Holmesian dedication to care-taking. I was more pampered by them than by anybody else in my life. Including both our mothers."
He finishes disinfecting a rather nasty cut on Bond's left shoulder, turning his attention to the right side.
"So what was your row about? A lover's tiff? Or something else?" His voice sounds a bit too casual, but James' attention is more drawn to the wording.
"What do you mean 'a lover's tiff'?"
"Just a hunch. There is something in Ford's eyes when he talks about you, not to mention that he blushes slightly. Ah yes, and there is the fact that my nurse told me she saw you two kissing. Making up for the row, she said."
This time the forced casualness actually catches Bond's attention. He looks over to his friend, meets blue eyes so different from his, reads the hope and the desperation in there.
"What else did she tell you?"
There is now a tension in the room that wasn't here before. John bites his lip, darting with his tongue above the dent mark, clearly hesitating over something. He takes a steadying breath and his voice sounds much more confident than his body language indicates.
"Is Sherlock all right?"
Bond lets his breath out with a huff. He hadn't even noticed he was holding it.
"Sherlock is dead, you told me so. He killed himself in front of you, making you watch."
A sad smile plays around John's mouth.
"Sherlock Holmes is a genius. His elder brother is the British Government, his younger works for MI6. If anyone could fake his own death by jumping from a roof in front of eyewitnesses, it would be him. So tell me, is he all right?"
It's rare that the agent doesn't know what to say. He still sees the hope and he knows that he could destroy it, that he could lie. But he doesn't want to. It's not a scenario he had considered beforehand, and he thinks it is also unlikely that the Holmes brothers thought it possible that John could figure it out on his own. (Or maybe with a little help from nosy nurses.) It's time to make a decision. His next intake doesn't seem to get enough air in his lungs, but he can answer.
"He was when I saw him last." Another breath, it is easier now. "Maybe a bit on the thin side, but according to Q it is nothing to worry about." James watches the relief appearing on John's face, smoothing out lines that may have not been there for long and adds: "You won't go after him, will you?"
John tenses again. "No, I won't. At least not right now."
Bond supposes that is more than he could expect. From everything he has learnt, John is not good at not following Sherlock Holmes.
"Good. You are not fit enough to chase after a mad genius."
"You may want to be careful here, I'm the one with the scalpel and the medication. Besides, look who is talking. I don't think you've ever listened to medical advice."
"I sometimes do."
The following snort sounds much lighter than anything he has heard recently, but he has spared any further lecture on this topic.
"So will you tell me about him?"
"Who? Sherlock?"
"Of course, unless you want to give me all the details of your illicit affair with the quartermaster." John is definitely sounding better, almost like in their university days, carefree, relieved. It helps with Bond's feeling of guilt, almost outweighing the fact that he hasn't discussed this with Q before. Although not the topic right now.
"I'm not having an affair with the quartermaster."
"Well, you are the one who was kissing him. Now turn around please."
Bond feels John's fingers on his back, prodding a bit. He turns his head as far as John allows so he can watch which instruments John is choosing, seeing the confidence in every movement. He starts to recount the events of John's rescue, it seems the right thing to do. Sherlock's sudden appearance, the talk on the terrace ("You let him smoke!") and the disappearance from the warehouse. John goes very still behind him, a ragged breath, a murmured "idiot", but when James wants to turn around he is stopped.
"I'm not done here."
The hands return to his back. He thinks he feels a slight tremor at first, but he is probably mistaken. They both stay silent, Bond getting lost in thoughts about secrets and friendships, until he feels John insistently probing at a point on his back.
"That's odd."
"What?"
"You have something subcutaneous in your shoulder. Maybe a bone splinter."
That doesn't make any sense.
"A bone splinter? Are you sure?"
"No, I'm not." John's voice is slightly irritated. "I know your medical file and I know your body. There shouldn't be anything. Your new collection of wounds doesn't explain it, and none of your former injuries should have any effect on this part."
"Take it out."
"What do you think I'm doing here?" Definitely irritated now, but the stab of the needle is barely noticeable. They both wait until Bond's back is numb and he can only feel that somebody is moving at his back, but no actual pain. He stays still until he hears the clatter of something in one of the bowls. His attempt at turning is again prevented by John.
"Hold still, I need to stitch you up."
It takes ages until he is allowed to move. John cleans the small object with distilled water, making it clear that they are not looking at bone splinter. It is a tiny metal tube, about the size of a medical pill.
"That's an implant", John finally says. "I've seen them in the medical lab of MI6."
"Why do I have an implant?"