Sherlock wasn't too surprised when he got John's text late Monday morning.

Clinic is really short-staffed and they're putting me to work right now. Bring me lunch?

That hadn't taken long. It was barely eleven o'clock. He smiled and hit reply. Sure. 1:00? –SH

He arrived at the clinic promptly at 1:00, bearing coffee and sandwiches from Speedy's. Sarah cornered him as soon as he stepped into the hall that led to John's office. He gave her a wide smile and raised the bag of sandwiches, keeping her at a distance. "Sorry I didn't bring enough to share."

"No, you're not." Her smile was clearly more genuine than his, but then she'd always been like that. "John's still in with a patient. You can wait in the staff kitchen if you'd like." She ushered him toward it, talking as she walked. "He should be finishing up soon. We've kept him busy all morning. He slipped right back into the job with barely a blink."

"Yes, that doesn't surprise me," Sherlock said. He didn't tell her how nervous John had been about even coming here to talk to her.

"He's agreed to work three days a week plus one Saturday a month." Sarah pushed open the door into the kitchen and held it for Sherlock.

He stepped around her. "That's more hours than he was working before. He still has physio and other appointments almost every day."

"We need the coverage. It was tough enough without John, and then Sam quit last month. He and his wife moved to be closer to their grandkids. John said he could work eleven to six, schedule all his therapy visits in the morning."

"Hmm." There were two nurses eating at the closest table; he didn't recognise either but they both watched him as he walked past to sit at an empty table in the back of the room.

Sarah perched on the corner of the table where he sat—very unsanitary, for a doctor. "Sherlock, if you think that's too much for him, tell me. I need to know I can rely on him being here."

"What? No, of course you can rely on him. He's John. Of course you can."

She nodded and tossed her hair behind her shoulder, then leaned toward him and lowered her voice. "Is he really doing as well as he seems to be?"

Sherlock tilted his head and considered: what he thought, what to tell her. "He is. There have been rough moments, but—. He'll be fine at work. I know he will." At home . . . no, it hasn't been bad. It could be worse.

"And you? How are you doing?"

"Me?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows. There was no way Sarah actually cared about how he felt; she was only asking because it was possible Sherlock's well-being could affect John's job performance. "I'm fine. Same as always."

"John had a counselling session this morning but you didn't go with him?"

"No, I—." He narrowed his eyes. "Did he tell you he wanted me to go with him?" He knew John and Sarah were close enough friends to discuss personal matters, though he doubted John would ask her of all people to try to talk Sherlock into counselling.

"No. Honestly, I don't think he mentioned your name once this morning." She smiled. "Sorry. Just my own genuine concern. It might be something for you to consider. I know these last few months can't have been easy for you."

Sherlock gave an exaggerated sigh and concentrated on prying the lid off his coffee so he wouldn't have to look at her. "If I tell you I'm taking an anti-depressant will you leave me alone?"

"That depends. Are you just telling me you're taking one or are you actually taking it?"

He tipped his chin down to give her his best withering glare. It should have been effective even though she was sitting above him, but apparently she'd known him too long to be intimidated. She just met his gaze for a moment and then nodded. "Good. I'm glad you're both doing well."

"Yes. Everyone's lovely." He wondered briefly if he would have been better off waiting for John out in the lobby with all the patients. Normally he didn't like to be around strangers' germs but right now possibly catching a deadly disease sounded better than continuing this discussion with Sarah.

Fortunately, he was saved from further conversation by John's arrival. He nodded a friendly hello as he passed the two nurses who sat at the other table; Sherlock took a closer look at them but he still didn't think he'd ever met them before. The younger one called John "Dr Watson" and stared at the stethoscope looped over his shoulders instead of his face; she'd only become a nurse in the hope of meeting a doctor.

When John reached Sherlock's table Sarah stood up. "I'll leave you two to eat in peace. Oh, I got the details about that yoga class for you, John. I'll forward you the email."

"Ta, Sarah. Did you get me crisps, Sherlock, or just a sandwich? I'm starved."

Sherlock pushed the bag of food toward John. "Yoga?"

"Yeah, it's a chair class that's closer than going to the one at the rehab centre. Sarah was going to find out if it was all old people."

"Judy says it's not," Sarah said, and stole a crisp from the bag as John opened it. He batted her hand away and she laughed and stepped back from the table. "So, Sherlock, a bunch of us are taking John out for drinks after work. Join us?"

Sherlock froze. Of course not. He flicked his eyes over to see John's reaction and was relieved that John was wearing his "don't worry, I know you hate that sort of thing" expression, not the "please, it would mean so much to me" one.

He carefully unwrapped his sandwich before answering Sarah. "I need to go over to New Scotland Yard this afternoon. I'm not sure how long that will take."

"Well, you're welcome to join us whenever you're done." She smiled; they all knew she knew he wouldn't join them, but that's what social interactions were like, weren't they? Everyone always pretending. Sherlock sighed and started to eat.

When Sarah had gone John asked, "You didn't go see Lestrade this morning?"

"No. I wasn't sure if he had an early shift or not."

John tipped his chin in disapproval but didn't comment, and the food Sherlock had given him proved enough of a distraction that he didn't pursue the topic. After a couple of minutes he had devoured all of the sandwich and most of the crisps; Sherlock was only halfway through his own lunch. His starvation seemingly postponed for the moment, John slowed in his consumption enough to tell Sherlock about his day so far. It felt like old times; he always told Sherlock about the patients he saw, and Sherlock had learned long ago that if he appeared to listen and nodded in the right places while John talked about strep throat and sprained ankles, he'd get more details when it came to the rare but truly interesting medical cases. There hadn't been any of those so far today, so Sherlock half-tuned out John's monologue and watched for clues as to how the morning had really gone for him.

Clearly, seeing his co-workers had been easier than John had expected; they'd welcomed him back and no one had looked at him with too much pity in their eyes. Based on his experiences over the past couple of months, John would've had other concerns: patients who spoke to him as if he could no longer hear, perhaps even some who were uncomfortable being treated by a doctor who couldn't walk. But John's easy demeanour right now and the excitement with which he was describing the rash he had seen on the back of someone's knees told Sherlock that nothing like that had happened. The way his office was set up probably helped; the examination table wasn't very high, and many of the patients never even had to climb onto it. They just sat in the chair next to John's desk, so no one would ever really be looking down at him in the wheelchair. And of course John himself would've helped his own cause even more; no one who was treated by him could ever doubt his skill as a doctor, although his professionalism might have been called into question if any of his patients could see him right now. He had emptied a packet of sugar onto the table and was using it to draw an outline of the shape of the probable skin cancer he had found on someone's back. When he was done with the story he brushed the sugar into his empty sandwich wrapper and dusted off his hands.

"So I assume you deduced Sarah's news?" he asked Sherlock.

"News?" The way John said it, he could only mean one thing, but Sherlock really hadn't been paying attention to her at all. Why would he?

"Yep. She's due in October."

"Oh. That's . . . good. For her, I mean. And . . . her husband?" Was Sarah married? He let his eyes dart to the corner of the table where she'd been sitting, trying to call up the image of her hand as she'd talked to him. Yes, she'd been wearing a ring.

"Yeah, Gerry. Remember they got married in Bermuda last summer?"

That explained why Sherlock didn't recall going to her wedding, at least. "Isn't she a little old to be having a baby?" That was the sort of thing he wasn't supposed to say to people, but he thought it was okay to say it to John.

John shrugged. "She's a couple years younger than me. It's a little more risky, yeah, but she's not too old."

Sherlock picked more green peppers off his sandwich; he liked the flavour they imparted but not the way they crunched in his mouth. He piled them on a serviette so John could eat them if he wanted. Sarah was pregnant. That news should have no effect on him, unless it meant more hours at the clinic for John come autumn. And yet . . . and yet. It made him think, made him remember back all those years ago, after he and John had first moved into the flat but before they were together. He almost asked her out. He talked about her, he was working himself up to it, and then he and I—. If things had gone differently, John might've ended up with Sarah, which was unthinkable, of course. He and John probably wouldn't even know each other anymore. But if John were with Sarah, if they were married, with a baby on the way . . . . Sherlock wouldn't be sitting here with him. And John wouldn't be sitting in that wheelchair. He glanced up quickly to see John tipping the crumbs from the crisp bag into his mouth, oblivious to Sherlock's thoughts.

He picked up his coffee cup and tried to listen as John moved on to more stories about the diagnoses he had made that morning. There was no sense in dwelling on things that hadn't happened, especially so long ago. John didn't want to be with Sarah, of that Sherlock was certain; he had chosen Sherlock and Sherlock had chosen him and their life together now was their life, even if parts of it had gone wrong. At least John seemed happy being back at work. Three days a week would mean a lot of time apart from Sherlock, but if that was what John wanted, then Sherlock wanted it, too.

Late that evening, Sherlock startled back to awareness when the lift doors hissed open. He was sprawled on the sofa and had lost track of time in his Mind Palace. He should have . . . eaten dinner? Ordered something for both himself and John? He squinted at John as he emerged from the lift. He'd only had snacks at the bar; there were salty crumbs on his cardigan. And he'd had three, no, four beers. No, four beers and one shot of something stronger. Enough to affect his mood, no doubt, and certainly his posture; Sherlock hadn't seen his arms and shoulders so relaxed since he'd gotten the wheelchair. It was possible he shouldn't have been drinking at all, with the medications he was on, but given that he was a doctor out drinking with a group of other doctors and nurses, Sherlock thought he could probably let it pass. At least a few beers would make him much less likely to realise that Sherlock had not held up his end of their bargain. He'd never quite made it over to see Lestrade and the rest of the Yard today.

John hung up his coat and crossed the room to peer down at Sherlock. He smiled at whatever he saw and then nodded and gestured at the sofa. "Up. I need to stretch out. This is the longest I've been—." He tapped both hands on the arms of the wheelchair instead of finishing his sentence.

Sherlock sat up and groaned—how long had he been lying in the same position? He needed to use the loo. He stood and cracked his back, bent to give John a hasty welcome-home kiss and then shuffled down the hall. By the time he got back the stiffness had worked itself out and John had abandoned the wheelchair and his shoes and stretched himself out on the sofa; he was short enough to fit his whole body between the arms. Sherlock put his hand on the back of the empty wheelchair, considered whether John was still likely to get upset if he sat in it, and then twirled one hand in the direction of John's head. "Last I recall that sofa fits us both."

John sat up enough to allow Sherlock room on the first cushion and then dropped his head and shoulders onto Sherlock's lap with a sigh. Cheap beer and some sort of artificially-spiced snack. Not the best John-smell, but having him this close made it worth enduring. John wriggled around as if Sherlock's thighs were a particularly dissatisfactory pillow and Sherlock shifted against the sofa's arm until they both seemed more comfortable. "Better?"

"Mmm. Long day," John said, but he was grinning and Sherlock didn't think the contentedness came entirely from the beer.

He brushed a crumb from the corner of John's mouth and then traced his fingers along his jaw. "Good day, though?"

"Yes. Thank you for lunch." John took Sherlock's wandering hand in both of his and gave it a kiss. Sherlock let his hand fall to rest on John's chest and allowed himself to sink back against the sofa, cosy and comfortable.

He noticed it before John did; a motion in the corner of his eye, a jostling of the sofa back behind him. He jerked his head toward the movement with no sense at all of what it might be. It was John, John's leg, the left one, moving, but not in any rational, controlled manner. A muscle spasm, knee knocking against the back of the sofa, heel jumping enough to knock the fleur-de-lis pillow to the floor.

"Fuck." John pushed himself up halfway to sitting; Sherlock flinched as the movement pinched the flesh on his thigh. He caught John by the arm but John twisted away, though there was no place for him to go. "Fuck," he said again, and squeezed his eyes shut.

Sherlock reached for John again, gave a tentative stroke along his shoulder and settled his hand on his upper arm. "It's all right. They told us this would happen."

John shook his head, a tight, wordless repudiation. Sherlock's instinct was to reach out and try to calm John's spasming leg, but he knew his touch wouldn't be welcomed. He didn't think there was any way to stop it, anyway. They'd been told by several doctors and nurses to expect muscle spasms, though; they didn't happen in the early days after a spinal cord injury, but became much more likely as the reflexes were restored below the injury level. It didn't mean a return of conscious function of any sort; it was just an over-exaggerated reflex that John's body could no longer stop or control.

"It doesn't hurt, does it?" Sherlock felt stupid even asking but John's face was so scrunched it seemed he must be in pain. There were a few spots high on his thigh that were still sensitive to pain, although this movement seemed to involve his lower leg instead.

"No, it doesn't hurt. How could it hurt?" John curled both his hands into fists and then slammed them hard against his thighs.

Sherlock started in surprise and then wrapped himself around John's back so he could grab both his wrists and stop him from hurting himself. "You're going to bruise yourself."

"Who the fuck cares?" John rocked against Sherlock's grip but didn't really try to escape it. Sherlock wasn't sure which of them would win a wrestling match at this point; John's upper body was certainly stronger but Sherlock might be able to overpower him if he could use his whole body. He didn't want to have to overpower him, not ever.

After a moment John softened fractionally in his grasp. "Let go, okay?" Sherlock hesitated but then released his wrists. John leaned forward; his lower leg and foot were still jumping awkwardly against the cushions but Sherlock thought it might have slowed just a bit. John took hold of his own calf, gently but firmly; Sherlock recognised his shift into doctoring mode. He rubbed at the spasming muscle; that was exactly what Sherlock had wanted to do for him. Sherlock exhaled and leaned back against the sofa and let John tend to himself. His internal clock told him less than a minute passed; his internal clock had no sense of how time actually felt. He rubbed his fidgety right hand up and down John's back and waited for the spasm to pass.

Eventually John straightened up; his trouser leg had pulled up along his calf and Sherlock could see a muscle still twitching beneath his sock, but the larger, jerky movements had stopped. He wondered if John's self-massage had helped at all, or if the spasm had just run its course.

John let out a hiccupping noise and then collapsed sideways against the back of the sofa; Sherlock half-caught him and pulled him close. "I know. I know," he murmured against John's neck but John just shook his head and tried to bury his face in the sofa cushion. Sherlock circled his arms all the way around John again, slid his hands beneath his upper thighs, and lifted him onto his lap. John tensed for just a fraction of a second and then relaxed, not objecting. Sherlock had forgotten how natural it felt to hold him like this; the position had largely been supplanted by Sherlock's tendency to climb into John's lap when he was in the wheelchair. He tightened his arms around John's chest and spoke softly against his ear.

"John. You know a spasm is nothing to worry about. You probably just triggered it when you stretched out after sitting in the same position all day."

John sniffed. "I know. Not helping."

"Sorry." He kissed John's hair. "What will help?"

John shook his head again, knocking Sherlock's chin with forehead. "Nothing. Make it not happen again. I don't like it."

What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Of course you don't like it. Why would you? Everyone had told them spasms were inevitable. If they became too frequent or started interfering with daily life, there were medications available, but since this was the first time it had even happened John was a long way from that. "As long as you keep up your exercises it shouldn't get too bad."

"I know that, Sherlock." That exasperated sigh was the one John reserved for times he thought Sherlock was being particularly dense. "I just don't like it. What if it happens in public?"

"I'll cause a distraction."

John groaned and tightened his fist in Sherlock's shirtsleeve. "This is not a psychosomatic limp, Sherlock. It won't stop just because you distract me."

"It's not you I'll distract. Idiot." He kissed him again. "If we're in public, I'll distract whomever we're with so they don't notice." He paused as if considering, then added. "Most likely I'll insult them. That usually gets everyone's attention."

John smiled at that but then dropped his head against Sherlock's shoulder again. "There are already so many things I can't do anymore. I don't need to add any more complications."

"John, there are very few things you can't do."

"Oh, cut the bullshit, Sherlock. I've spent the whole day finding out new things I can't do. Like tonight, at the pub, I realised we can never go dancing."

Dancing. "But you can—." Sherlock cut himself off. A few weeks ago when he'd been living downstairs Mrs Hudson had tried to show him a documentary on telly about wheelchair dancers, but he hadn't watched more than a few minutes with her because John—. "You hate dancing."

John wiped his arm across his face and snuffled a little. "But you like it."

"John, in the five years we've been together, we have literally never gone out dancing. Never."

"Weddings. We've been to at least three weddings together."

"At which you've very reluctantly slow-danced maybe twice with me and then left me on my own. I've had to dance with women."

"I should have done it, though. You wanted to dance with me and I wouldn't do it but I should have because you wanted to and now I can't." His voice was unsteady enough that Sherlock thought he was going to cry, which would've been understandable a few minutes ago but was frankly quite ridiculous in the current context. Dancing.

"I will still dance with you whenever you want me to. I promise."

John turned his head. His eyes were above Sherlock's thanks to his position on Sherlock's lap; Sherlock could see the glimmer of tears clouding the blue. "I don't want to go dancing."

"I know." Sherlock kissed away a tear that escaped and held him, completely at a loss as to how to comfort John when he was making so little sense. Fortunately, just holding him close seemed to be enough; some of the tension lines around John's eyes eased.

"I might be a little drunk." John rubbed some of the wetness from his eyes and then wiped his hand on Sherlock's trousers.

"Yes, I noticed."

"How? It's not like I was stumbling."

Sherlock shifted so he could lean more of both his own and John's weight against the cushions. "No, but you're slurring a bit."

"I am not."

"True, but you would be if you weren't compensating by over-enunciating."

"So you're saying I sound like you." John let all of his weight sag against Sherlock's body. He's feeling better.

"Also, you rather stink like cheap beer."

"Sorry. It was pretty crap beer but they had spicy peanuts."

Sherlock bent his head to nuzzle his shoulder. "Are there any other ridiculous regrets I should know about? Besides dancing?"

John pursed his lips as if thinking. "I've never driven a motorbike."

"You wouldn't know how to drive a motorbike."

"And now I'll never learn." He turned sad puppy eyes to Sherlock; it would've been funny if they weren't still damp with tears.

"How about this," Sherlock suggested. "The next time I steal a motorbike, you can ride behind me on it."

"Next time?"

"Ah, pretend I didn't say that." He scratched at his head and gave John a sheepish look and was exceedingly relieved to see John fighting not to grin. He pressed his face into his hair and smelled the cheap beer and breathed deeply, glad John was home.