Chapter 14

One week later

"What?!" Sherlock squawked into the phone, then covered his mouth in case anybody heard him. "Today?" He tried to keep his cool demeanor.

It was late afternoon, and Sherlock Holmes was quietly freaking out at 221B Baker Street.

"Yes, Sherlock. Today." Lestrade was on the other line. "He seems to be recovering well, and the doctors think it's safe for him to come home if he takes it easy. NO adventures or cases. I've got my best men covering the case you were working on when John…"

"Yes, yes," Sherlock muttered impatiently.

"Well. Well, he'll be dropped off in a couple of hours. He'll still be in a wheelchair- the placement of the bullet effected his gait and therefore he has to be confined to a wheelchair for a little while longer. You can handle that, right?"

"Of course I can. Don't be moronic." Sherlock's tone was tenacious, but tight.

"You know where to call if you have any trouble. If it's serious, call 999. Otherwise, call me or the hospital."

"Fine."

"I'm hanging up now, Sherlock."

The line went silent. Sherlock threw his hands up to his scruffy mess of hair and ran his hands through it.

Today. Of all days. Sherlock was starting to think that he would never come home…

Overcome with the need to do something, anything, Sherlock's hands twitched out for a second. He didn't know where to start. Confused, he turned around to look at the kitchen. He took a couple steps near it, then faltered.

John won't care if it's clean or not. It would have been debatable when they first met, but it had been ages since then. But… John's room was neglected and covered with dust, unkempt, since he hadn't stayed in it in over a week.

But Sherlock didn't know how to clean!

He thought for a minute, the crazed thoughts in his head finally sorting out a bit. "Mrs. Hudson!" He called out as loud as his rusty voice could get.

"Yes, dear?" The reply was barely audible among the cars and sirens outside his flat.

Sherlock sprinted downstairs. "I need your help."

Mrs. Hudson was so surprised, she dropped the bundle of clothes that she was holding.

Sherlock sighed. "Cleaning."

"Oh. Oh! Yes! Cleaning," Mrs. Hudson was flustered, but she cottoned on pretty quickly. "What sort of cleaning?"

"John's room?"

Mrs. Hudson didn't question it. She just followed Sherlock carefully up the creaky stairs, not even bothering to look at the fallen clothes.

An hour later, John's room was tidy and clean. The living room was even straightened a bit. Sherlock liked to think that he had helped- but in reality, Mrs. Hudson had done almost all of the work. She didn't even mention the not-your-housekeeper thing.

Sherlock sighed. It was a sigh of relief, though, not impatience like most of his other sighs. "Thank you," He murmured softly to Mrs. Hudson.

"My pleasure, dearie. I'll send up some tea in the morning." She patted his hand and drifted out of the room.

It was already late. The sun was completely set, and John would be arriving in about an hour or so. Sherlock didn't know what to do with himself anymore. He settled on laying down on the black and white couch and remaining entirely motionless until John arrived. That way, he wouldn't ruin anything important.

Sure enough, an hour later, a loud knock came to the door. Sherlock closed his eyes, swallowed.

Then he got up.