Warnings: Just a bit of psychological stuff.
It took three weeks for Lestrade to contact them- namely John- with the details of Sherlock's attack. They found the place where he had been, but, more importantly... at least one of the people who had done this to Sherlock.
John was immediately ready to jump Scotland Yard, find the bastard, and punch him. However, John knew that he had to approach this topic slowly, carefully, with the consulting detective in question being so vulnerable.
It was only after Sherlock had shared the experience that he managed to sleep through the night without traumatic nightmares or bouts of nocturnal erunesis. It was only one or twice a week that John was forced to wake Sherlock up. Their amount of laundry went down. Sherlock ate. Even tried to take cases that he was in no position to take.
Life was good.
"Come on, John. Come on!"
"Okay, you are on crutches, you need to calm down."
"I have got to get back to my experiment! Hurry up!"
John sighed and unlocked the door. Sherlock pushed past him, taking the stairs with his crutches as though he had been walking about on crutches for three months, not three weeks.
"Be careful!" John stressed.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine!"
John sighed. Yes, life was remotely back to its normality, but how on earth was John going to broach this topic when Sherlock finally seemed like he had accepted it?
"Sherlock..."
"Go away, John, I'm working!"
John slung his coat on the back of the kitchen chair. "Sherlock, we've got to talk."
"Don't want to talk, want to work, leave me- aha!" Sherlock balanced his weight on one crutch, eagerly stretching for a petri dish on the countertop. "I told you that it was time sensitive! Oh, I've finally gotten it!" He laughed shortly, picking up a cotton swab.
John felt like a monster.
"Sherlock, they found the guy that attacked you."
The petri dish slipped from Sherlock's fingers.
John lunged forward to catch it before it could crash and shatter. He managed to catch it right side-up, so he didn't contaminate the experiment. Offering it back to Sherlock, he found the detective staring at him with a blank expression.
John placed the dish quietly onto the countertop, resisting the urge to do something inane like apologise.
"Lestrade called me when we were out... They-" he cleared his throat- "they found where you were attacked and they've traced one of two. They... They need you to do a line-up."
Sherlock seemed to unfreeze while John was talking, although his childish enthusiasm had vanished, the ghost of laughter had vanished from his eyes. His face had taken on its 'bored and uninterested' look.
It was a careful mask, and John could see through it in a heartbeat.
"Whenever you feel up to it," John added.
"Let's go," Sherlock said shortly, reaching for his other crutch.
John looked up. "I didn't say you had to now."
"You said when I felt like; I feel like it, so let's go."
Before John could say anything else, Sherlock was limping for the door again. John swore under his breath, picked up his coat again, and followed.
"Sherlock, you really don't have-"
"Shut up."
John shook his head at Lestrade.
He had been trying to talk Sherlock out of this since they'd gotten in the cab. It wasn't that Sherlock had a choice in the matter, but he could have waited until his mind was a little less... unsettled. Although, knowing Sherlock Holmes, his mind probably had righted itself already.
Except John knew that that wasn't true. Sherlock's reaction to the news was enough to state that his mental state wasn't where it might have been on a normal day.
But Sherlock was adamant. He wanted to do this and, because he was Sherlock Holmes, he was going to.
Lestrade sighed. "Alright. Come on."
John held the door open for Sherlock so he could limp into the room with the one-way glass. Lestrade met John's gaze. John just sighed and gave the smallest of shrugs. No matter what he said, Sherlock wasn't going to change his mind.
Besides, Sherlock was already intently staring down the line-up, his face impassive.
John silently took his place at Sherlock's side.
"Three," Sherlock said shortly, before turning and limping away.
John looked between the third suspect and Sherlock, who had forced the door open on his own volition and limped out. John didn't know which pull was much strong: go grab that third suspect and beat the hell out of him or to go after Sherlock. Sherlock needed the most support, though, and going after Sherlock wasn't illegal, so John gave the suspect a glare that he would never see before turning after Sherlock.
"Sher- Sherlock! Wait up!"
Sherlock didn't stop. "I will join you outside momentarily."
"Where are you going?"
"Evidence to look at. Wait for me outside."
John stopped walking, staring after Sherlock. He knew that he was lying. There was no evidence and Lestrade wouldn't have let him look at it, anyway. So, when Sherlock had turned the corner without looking back, John set off after him again.
He turned the corner just in time to see Sherlock vanish into the bathroom.
Sighing, John sidled up to the bathroom door. He was just about to push it open, demand of Sherlock what was wrong, when he caught the sound of vomiting.
That's what was wrong.
John pushed the door open, walking into the bathroom quietly. "Sherlock..."
Sherlock straightened up slightly at his hunched over position in front of the toilet. He raised his head although he didn't look around to see John. "I thought I told you to wait outside."
"Well, I knew something was wrong," John murmured, leaning against the wall. "It's alright, you know. You're just pushing yourself too fast. You shouldn't have come in to see those guys already."
Sherlock pushed himself to his feet shakily, swallowing. "Yes, I should have, and I'm glad that I did. There is no point to put off the inevitable."
"Says the man who wouldn't have gone to hospital after the attack if I hadn't called the EMTs while you were unconscious."
"Yes..." Sherlock swallowed again, roughly rubbing the back of his hand against his mouth. "I'm okay."
John frowned, reaching up to place his hand against Sherlock's forehead.
"Really, John." Sherlock looked down at him intently. "I'm okay."
He wasn't saying that he was fine, John realised, he was just saying that he was okay. And that was perfectly alright with John.
"Yes..." John murmured. "You're okay. You'll be fine. You..." he trailed off.
He wanted to say that Sherlock was the strongest person that John knew, but he also didn't want to say it. It was too awkward, too... sentimental. But Sherlock was strong. He was. No other person could handle this so well. Only Sherlock. John was proud of the man in ways that John would never admit out loud.
Sherlock was going to get over this. With a little bit of help and a lot of trust and time, Sherlock would get over it. Make peace with it. Be able to think about it without puking.
And, like the ever loyale blogger and doctor and, most importantly, friend he was, John would be there for every step of Sherlock's recovery.
I think I lied about how many chapters this would have, but the muse left me. So, in a rather abrupt but still likeable ending, this story reaches its close. Thank you to all of the followers, for the favs and the reviews.
I do not own Sherlock. Thank you!
