CHAPTER 25 – Something New

The next morning, John is banished to sitting alone in the bedroom during Sherlock's violin practice. It seems that Sherlock has decided to ignore Helen's suggestion of allowing John to be there when he practices. John wonders if this might have something to do with Helen's suggestion of Sherlock teaching him - maybe he really wants to embrace the role of a teacher, and doesn't think it fits with the pupil witnessing him rehearse.

Who knows what goes around in that brain of his at any time, really? When it comes to their relationship John has got the general impression that he's reacting instead of initiating, and that anything unexpected confuses and shuts him down instead of his natural curiosity taking over like it does in most other things.

Maybe they are both guilty of overthinking everything? Should John draw confidence from the fact that Sherlock had, in no uncertain terms, invited him to share this bed? He hadn't doubted Sherlock's conviction at the hospital, nor had he doubted it on that first night back at home. Before Sherlock left for Harwich, they'd both been acting as though once they got back home, things would really change, that hesitation would be a thing of the past. Last night had showed that when they were too tired to think straight, things could actually happen quite naturally.

Over breakfast, John had decided that it was time to do a little exploring of recent nightly events. "Could you tell me about the midnight retreats to the bathroom?" he had asked Sherlock, careful to keep all traces of disapproval out of his voice.

In reply, Sherlock had explained away his nocturnal absences by blaming the medications. "It says 'insomnia'", he had pointed out, waving one of the medication package inserts around in front of John like a white flag.

Back to denial, then? Or was John being unfair, not giving Sherlock the space he needed, always demanding an explanation for everything? This ought to be normal, Sherlock sulking in the living room, violin in hand, yet John knows the man, and the high-strung anxiety he's emanating is not the old, somewhat benign restlessness of Sherlockian boredom. It seems to be intensifying. After a significant period of living together, and the intimacy of Sherlock's hospitalization, John feels fine-tuned enough to Sherlock's moods to tell the difference. Something is gathering, like a coming storm pressing on both their temples and making them antsy. This is how it tends to go with Sherlock - one step forward, three steps back, then a screeching halt, and sulk and then another tentative step forward.

John picks up a forlorn sock from the floor and drops it in the laundry basket; he might do a wash later. The bedroom is clearly in dire need to a good hoovering and airing, so he opens a window as first aid.

He then decides to check the wardrobe to see if Sherlock has left anything on its floor that should go into the laundry. The door is ajar, and the reason turns out to be a bag full of Sherlock's things that John had taken for him to the hospital. It's been pushed sideways until it has finally blocked the magnetic catch. The contents are mostly clothes - pyjamas, the draw-string waist joggers and the hoodie that Sherlock had worn to the National's first PT sessions, and his beloved blue dressing gown. Usually Sherlock asks about the dressing gown the minute it has been deposited in the wash, and John used to tease him about it. 'No, Sherlock, you can't have it. It takes at least ninety minutes for the complete cycle, which you would know, if you could ever be bothered to do it yourself.'

It's obvious that the garment has lain here, scrunched up and abandoned, for months. Is there a deduction to be made here, John wonders. Doesn't Sherlock want any of these things anymore? Why? Are they tainted to him now,in some way?

It had taken John a long time to be able to look at his army gear after his own discharge. The gun had been the only thing he'd kept within sight. He doesn't look at photos from Afghanistan or the preceding training at Sandhurst, not ever. Something about them makes him uncomfortable, makes him prefer not to be reminded.

He upends the canvas bag on the bed. He had packed it on the day of Sherlock's discharge since for Sherlock, such a task would have been physically impossible at that stage. Since he hadn't asked after any of these things at Harwich, or after coming home, even John had forgotten about them.

He puts the dirty clothes into the laundry basket.

At the bottom of the bag, he finds the white marker board that had served as a means of communication during the worst period of the illness.

Why had he kept it, packed it in this bag, instead of throwing it away?

Suddenly, he remembers his train of thought. It had been something Sherlock had said, 'I might need it again'. John, distracted with other things and simply happy at finally being able to leave the National behind, had simply thrown it into the bag. How much does Sherlock fear that the GBS might return? It's a relatively rare disease, and a relapse, not to mention one as severe as Sherlock's initial case had been, is probably a one-in-ten-million thing. It doesn't seem very typical of Sherlock to worry about such statistical glitches.

John sits down on the unmade bed, reading through the phrases written on the board.

Most of them had been pre-printed, practical suggestions from the speech therapist assigned to the MITU, but some had been suggested by John himself. Of the most intimate, most emotionally precarious phrases Sherlock had never used a single one, but the fact that both of them had been aware of their availability must have counted for something. Or so John had hoped. The two of them have never been very good at talking about how they feel or what they really want. They've usually just known where they stand. In a twisted sort of way, Sherlock had been at his most open and honest during those days, since his verbal prowess had been stripped away. It's harder to make excuses, harder to lie, when you only have a very limited selection of things to communicate.

God, this is hard. The realisation hits like a punch to the gut. John has never had too much trouble communicating with former partners what he wants in bed, or out of it. With Sherlock, there's no roadmap as to what to expect. When he stands under the armour-piercing scrutiny of those oddly coloured irises, John seems to lose half his confidence and a good chunk of his coherence. He worries what Sherlock thinks of him, now. It's obvious their old roles have been altered. He has always been the sidekick, the supporting act, the one nobody notices when standing next to someone like Sherlock. He used to know his place in this partnership, and it was fine. Sherlock shone with the rays of a thousand suns, and it was plenty enough for the both of them to bask under.

Now, John feels as though he's the one deciding the course of action. Maybe he ought to accept that fact, at least for a while, and not expect Sherlock to take over anytime soon. If he hadn't got up the nerve to go roust Sherlock out of the bathroom, neither of them would have crossed the divide of the bed and sought contact. Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock had simply been waiting for him to make a move.

oOo

John is allowed out of the bedroom after Sherlock's finished, but the look on the man's face tells John all he needs to know about how dismally Sherlock has decided this practice session has gone. While tidying up the rest of the bedroom, John had made note how much he'd repeated certain musical passages, over and over - sometimes stopping right in the middle only to begin again. When things go well, Sherlock makes it through entire pieces. Clearly that hasn't been the case today, so John decides not to ask about it, lest he get his head bitten off.

John heads downstairs to the cafe to get a couple of toasted cheese sandwiches for their lunch.

Half an hour later, his phone rings just after he fails to talk Sherlock into eating an apple for dessert.

John had been offered a short-notice shift by his locum agency only that morning, which he'd declined, and he thinks it likely that the agency is now calling him again to offer something else. As he fumbles his phone out of his pocket, he's tempted to accept. He could do with some downtime from Sherlock's rather passive aggressive form of silence.

"Hello?"

"Is this John Watson?"

"Yeah? Sorry, I don't recognise-"

"It's Jonathan Baxter."

John frowns in surprise. "Oh. How did you get my number?"

"You gave it to me at the hospital. Don't you remember? When you went down from the ward to the cafeteria to get something to eat, you asked me to call you if he needed you. "

"Yes, of course." John had given his contact information to practically all the nurses looking after Sherlock. His number must've been recorded in Sherlock's file, but he just wanted to be sure they could get hold of him as quickly as possible.

"I'm calling, because I thought you might like to know the aftermath of your visit to Doctor Goffe. "

John is curious. Sherlock had left the doctor's office in such a temper that he'd refused to say anything other than the fact that Goffe was not a suspect. Somehow, he'd suddenly seemed irate at even John, not just his fellow doctor. "Sure," John answers politely.

"Is it convenient? Can you talk freely?"

John realises that Jonathan is asking whether their conversation could be overheard. He eyes Sherlock across the room and wonders if he'd even heard the phone ringing, since his ears are covered by headphones and he's facing away from John. A faint operatic chorus is sounding from the headphones.

Since the hospital, Sherlock has been using the phones to tune John out. Before, he'd always preferred the CD player turned to an uncomfortably loud volume - enough to irritate Mrs Hudson who would tut about the neighbours. The headphones had originally been John's, brought by him to the hospital for Sherlock to use. John is hardly allowed to touch them now, something that Sherlock ensures by hanging them up on the bison skull, which are just out of John's reach unless he stands on a chair.

"He's not listening, if that is what you are asking."

"Has he forgiven me yet for pushing him into that appointment? It seemed a sensible idea at the time. He looked like he needed a once-over after what happened. I got the feeling that pursuing your investigation would make him willing to endure an examination," Jonathan muses. "He did make it quite clear he hates everything about hospitals and doctors, even before the MITU. Can't blame him sometimes," Jonathan muses. "I didn't mean to meddle or insinuate you weren't looking after him," Jonathan hastily adds. "I know it's hard to help when it's someone you know."

John hums in agreement. He'd been half-tempted to insist Sherlock get checked out at some A&E, but Sherlock would've fought tooth and nail against such a suggestion. He had wondered if Doctor Goffe would have spotted just how on edge Sherlock was during the appointment. Could Goffe possibly have come to realise why?

Perhaps he was being unfair and overtly suspicious. After all, Sherlock had already been on edge, and any attention drawn to his well-being would likely have lead to a confrontation at that point. John had thought that he'd appeared to have been feeling somewhat better at the Vault, composure rebuilt, but clearly it hadn't taken much for the castle to crumble.

Before Sherlock, John hadn't had much experience with people who could be described as neurologically atypical. Even though talking to Mycroft, and the reading John had done after their conversation had filled in some gaps in his knowledge, he had initially misread the start of Sherlock's meltdown at Barts, thinking it was a garden-variety panic attack or something new. It was obvious what had happened at Barts and later at the Vault had taken a lot out of Sherlock.

"It was good to see him up and about, but clearly there are still some issues there.," Jonathan says, and John is grateful that the man isn't berating him for allowing Sherlock to drive himself to that state. Jonathan had only been Sherlock's nurse for a few shifts, but he must've realized that there's no turning the head of Sherlock Holmes once he decides something, or talking him round when he says no. Which he does, a lot.

"I understood he went to the general neuro ward from the MITU? What happened next?" Jonathan asks.

John glances at Sherlock, who still seems utterly oblivious to the conversation John is having, or even that he's having one. John feels a bit awkward discussing Sherlock's recovery, despite the fact that Jonathan is a healthcare professional, too. He does want to know what had happened in that doctor's office, and Jonathan might well tell him where he knows Sherlock won't. So... "Yeah. After that, Harwich Manor for a month."

Jonathan whistles. "Fancy. And now he's continuing rehab at home, then?"

John bites his lip. "Not really. They did recommend an exercise regime, but as far as I can tell he hasn't done any of it. And he's chased away every PT therapist paraded in front of him. The only things he's accepted is a violin tutor, but I don't know if it's making things better of worse."

"Well, he needs to find something. These things take time. The work's only beginning when the inpatient rehabilitation period ends."

John knows this. Mycroft knows this. Sherlock knows this, since he was told this repeatedly at the hospital and Harwich. He knows, but since Sherlock obviously can't ever, not once in his life, heed good advice and do what he's told, he ignores it all.

"Sherlock must have bitten Goffe's head off, because the doc was pretty put out about the exam," Jonathan reveals, "he told me in no uncertain terms that he was not going to prescribe illegal drugs for anyone, and if I had sent him to ask such a thing, he'd get me fired."

Shit. This is not acceptable collateral damage for a case. "Sorry. He can... um, rub people up the wrong way when he's on a case. I hope there's no blowback to you."

Jonathan laughed. "Relax. I played dumb, and he seemed to buy it. In any case, I'm not a trainer here the way others are, so I doubt I will have to ever refer anyone to him again."

The nurse then draws a thoughtful breath. "One thing Goffe did tell me is something I need to pass onto you. Since I referred Sherlock, Goffe felt it necessary to share his assessment with me. He thinks Sherlock needs rehabilitation that will take into account where he is mentally, and that the usual mind-set of trainers who frequent the Vault certainly isn't suitable. It's a shame really, because he might have been convinced to try some PT here, if he thought it was all a disguise for this case of yours."

"Yeah, well, now that we've got the warrant and have the personal trainers' names, I don't see much point in him trying to go undercover with any of them." John says, laughing. "He may have already sort of blown his cover on that one. But, the police are now working their way through the list, contacting each of them and wrestling out of them the names of their clients. That's a whole lot of interviews and leg work and further warrants. In the meantime, Sherlock and I have been practically banished from New Scotland Yard, until they identify the victim's trainer. It's been a while, and it looks as though Sherlock's about to go from stir crazy to totally comatose."

"Is he into any sports? It doesn't have to be a gym, there's tons of things you can do to build strength in a less dramatic way than pressing iron."

"I think he did fencing and martial arts at some point at school and university, but since he's not practiced for years, I doubt he'd take either up now. He's still grousing when it comes to walking, let alone anything more athletic. He calls it the curse of the eidetic memory - he knows exactly how badly he is doing compared to how it used to be. He doesn't tell me much, but that all seems rather obvious now. He's avoiding all of it."

"What did he like at Harwich?"

"He did some riding there, but that isn't really the sort of thing you mean, or is it?"

"Probably doesn't do a lot for the upper body, no. For balance, it's really good, but he's past that point, isn't he?"

"I suppose it would have to be something he hasn't done before, to keep him from comparing," John says in a resigned tone, "but then I can't imagine him wanting to try something he's not done, because he'd probably have a reason why he hadn't wanted to try it before. Plus, being a beginner at anything right now- just no." He's pretty damned sure an attempt at getting Sherlock to do something new and weird would end in spectacular failure.

"What about climbing?" Jonathan suggests.

John is tempted to dismiss it for the aforementioned reasons. What is more, his impression is that climbers, surfers, sky divers and bungee jumpers and the rest of the extreme sports crew all try to convert everyone to their chosen sport. There had been a few of these guys in the army, and they had seemed incapable of understanding why everyone doesn't want to live like nomads, traipsing around the globe in search for the biggest tube waves or the riskiest walls of ice to traverse. Fanatics. Sherlock certainly doesn't need a new source of such single-mindedness in his life. "What about it?"

"It's great for upper body strength, and in the beginning it's possible for the belayer to compensate for the climber's lack of strength when using a so-called top-rope. Routes can be tailored for beginners without looking too easy - or too daunting. And even when you're in the middle of it, if it gets too much, you can stop a climb at anytime, and the belayer will lower you down. All that aside, there's a clear goal, which I am guessing might be something he likes. Plus there's a lot of brainwork involved, which he's clearly good at."

John ignores the strange vocabulary, and latches on to the words clear goal and brain. "He does need something he can actually win at right now. His confidence has taken quite a knock." John still isn't quite convinced of the idea. "Do you really think he's fit enough for it?"

"Yes, almost anyone is. And it can be tailored so you can win, no matter what, because if one way doesn't work, you try a different one, and as I said, the belayer can help. It's like taking the scenic route instead of a vertical climb. You can't really fail, you just learn to try a different approach, since it would be an indoor wall with plenty of routes. Or, you can try again later when you've built up strength and technique. Once you've got one route up to the top conquered, you can then learn to do it with fewer moves, or to do it faster. Later on, those who fancy a wilder experience can change to leading the route instead of top-roping."

John wonders if Sherlock could ever be persuaded to return to the Vault's climbing wall, given that he'd had a near meltdown there. "I don't think the manager would be keen to see him again, given the uproar that he caused with the warrant."

Jonathan answers quickly, "I could take you to a place more private than the Vault. I work out on a climbing wall in the Docklands. If you'd prefer to go out-of-hours, I've got a set of keys. It'll be quiet and peaceful. Darren - my mate who owns the place – lets me use it whenever, because ITU shift schedules can be awkward. We've got a lot of routes, some even with auto-belay devices, so I can make do with training even when I don't have a partner with me."

John eyes Sherlock's stationary form on the sofa. "Do you really think he's up to it?"

He hears a sigh from Jonathan. "Climbing is an intellectual challenge as much as it is a physical one. I've taught people with far more severe physical limitations than Sherlock, people with permanent disabilities. It's all about whether you can think of the best way up to suit your own physical strengths and weaknesses. And it has one BIG advantage: he'll have nothing to compare it with, because he's never done it before. Neither will you, assuming you haven't tried it, either. You should do it together."

An idea dawns in John's head. "I wonder if there is any way to make him think it's case-related. It's the only thing that gets him motivated to leave the house at the moment. Your approach with Goffe certainly worked to get him in front of a doctor - even if it ended badly."

Jonathan chuckles at the other end. "So, he's not much more of a bundle of joy at home than he was at the National, then?"

"Nope," John says, and inadvertently pops the p the way Sherlock tends to do.

At the hospital, Sherlock had seemed to get along with the man, and Sherlock doesn't get along with anyone. John finds Jonathan's bold way of talking about patients - former or not - both unsettling and strangely liberating. Perhaps it had been Jonathan's honest, no-nonsense attitude that had lead to Sherlock tolerating him. It seems that Jonathan had been genuinely worried about Sherlock at the Vault, and isn't afraid of speaking up about what he thinks would help. Part of John wants to pounce on the suggestion, because it feels so reassuring to have people on his side, and Lord knows he's had very few good ideas himself on what they could try. It's good that this is coming from someone else, and that the someone else isn't Mycroft - any attempts to involve the big brother further would invariably lead to World War Three. John is still amazed that Sherlock hadn't thrown a tantrum over finding out Helen had been referred to them by Mycroft.

"I've got to start a shift soon," Jonathan says apologetically. "I'll call you back tomorrow so we can talk schedules and I can tell you how to find the place. All you have to do now is figure out how to talk him into it."

oOo

"Have you got any sports gear in your undercover stuff cupboard?" John asks, trying to sound casual. Of course, he already knows that there is a neatly folded pile of clean clothes that will suit perfectly - because he had dug them out and laundered them yesterday after Jonathan had called.

Sherlock stops poking tea leaves on the bottom of John's mug with his finger. "Of course I do. A jogger's kit is a perfect disguise for surveillance purposes. No one gets suspicious of seeing a jogger go around the same block three times."

"If that stuff is in decent shape, could you go find it?"

Sherlock's head snaps up. Suspicion has now clearly set in.

Sherlock had been vocally annoyed at the fact that it's Sunday, and Lestrade had gone to see his children. It means that the case won't advance today, and not even the toxicology reports are available yet. The warrants to get the trainers to release their client details are grinding through the courts - it will be at least another couple of days before they were are likely to discover any leads there. It's obvious that the trainers are worried about losing high-profile clients due to the risk of publicity with the warrants. Sherlock has not yet raised the idea of going back to work in the lab on his samples, and John had decided against reminding him about them. Thankfully, the case still hadn't ground to a complete halt - Molly had, at least, sent a text yesterday, confirming a substance called methasteroid as the steroid component in what Watford had been using.

Still, as far as Sherlock is concerned, today means a day wasted, lounging around at home.

"I assume this has to do with the case?" he asks.

"No, I just want to see you in a leotard," John replies deadpan.

"Then poor you, because I don't own one." Sherlock snorts snobbishly. Still, he is clearly so bored witless that something needs to be done, before new bullet holes appear in the walls.

Maybe this boredom could work to John's advantage. He's spent too many of the past twenty four hours trying to cook up some loosely case-related excuse to drag Sherlock out of the house. Every attempt he's rehearsed sounds so lame that he's just decided to brazen it out.

Sherlock levers himself up from the kitchen chair where he'd been sitting, still staring angrily into John's empty mug and ignoring his own undrunk tea. He heads down the hallway, dressing gown lapels trailing behind since he hadn't bothered to tie the sash.

Soon a bundle of clothes is flung in front of John's feet.

"They're not for me; you need to hold onto them," John says.

Sherlock throws himself onto the sofa. "Explain."

"It's a surprise," John admits.

"My old sports gear is a surprise, devised by you? I have to admit, John, that in gift-giving, that trumps even Mycroft's most pestilent efforts. "

John picks the clothes up and chucks them back at Sherlock. "Put them in a bag, and put some proper clothes on so we can go somewhere."

"John, I hate surprises. What is this about?"

"I promise it will be worth it." John finds a plastic bag in the kitchen, into which he drops the T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms he'd dug out from the bottom of a drawer in his former bedroom. The tracksuit had been given to him by Harry for his own stint in rehab after the shoulder injury. How fitting.

Since Sherlock isn't making a move from the sofa, John collects the clothes he had just thrown at the man and shoves them into the same bag.

"What about shoes?" Sherlock asks.

"Shoes?"

"You have not mentioned them, so I assume we don't need to bring a pair, which is curious. Sports gear is hardly ever paired with regular men's walking shoes. That points to specialty footwear non-hobbyists would not own. Where are we going? Ice skating? Ten pin bowling? Golf?" The sneer drips, but he does ascend from the sofa.

At least Sherlock is trying to deduce John's plan, instead of refusing, or simply demanding to know where he is being dragged off to. John wonders if he should be alarmed that Sherlock is downright malleably agreeing to this mystery tour, despite his token protestations. Clearly, Sherlock's curiosity has been piqued. Maybe it's enough.

"None of the above. Where we're going is a mystery, so get ready to go," John says.

"Why should I?"

"Because solving mysteries is what you do."

Sherlock considers this, and then shrugs. "Fine, I will come with you, if only to see what this strange scheme is, but if it is too boring, I make no promises whatsoever to participate."

"Good enough for me. Now go put your trousers on."

oOo

The cab stops on the edge of a quiet roundabout. On the west side, the view is a solid wall of glass and steel - the usual buildings associated with West Silvertown, ever since the Docklands began to be more extensively re-developed.

To the east, however, is a high metal wall, graffiti covered and topped by razor-wire, featuring a steel gate. In the distance, the dilapidated hulk of the Spillers Millennial Mills is already visible. John remembers the papers describing it as an eyesore that has plagued London's development companies for years, but according to Jonathan, a part of it has been re-purposed.

John pays the cabbie while Sherlock circles the entrance. He hasn't said much during the ride, and John suspects he'd been racking his brain trying to deduce where they were going.

"Have you got it yet?" John asks and slams the cab door closed behind him.

A sign lit with tiny blue LED lights above the gated entrance says "First Ascent". To John the place looks more like the wreckage of a bomb explosion, than somewhere he wants to be taking Sherlock in his current state. John briefly worries about whether listening to Jonathan had been a good idea, after all.

Sherlock's gaze narrows as he looks up the grain silo. "I must admit that I don't. 'First Ascent'?" He pushes the only button in the intercom under the blue light, and the gate lock is released.

To John, the word 'gym' begins to seem very misguided after he pulls open the heavy-duty door and they walk inside. The ceiling of the grain silo reaches some thirty metres above the ground. All around the circular tower, trails of artificial climbing holds snake up towards the roof. There's a lower, cavern-like area off the side, where the floor is covered with thick mattresses.

"Oh," Sherlock says quietly when realization dawns. John can't decide if the syllable had sounded disappointed or not. Maybe the jury's still out.

"Hey," Jonathan says as he walks out from what looks like a small office off to the side, and joins them in the main hall. "You made it," he adds, shaking John's hand. He's wearing knee-length, baggy, dark green trousers that look dusty and worn. He has paired them with a T-shirt that reveals a formidable set of sculptured arm muscles. To John he certainly looks more like an athlete than a bodybuilder. His short, straight, brown hair looks tousled and there are rings of sweat framing his armpits - he must've already done some climbing while waiting for the two of them to arrive.

"As in, he made me come here, yes," Sherlock says suspiciously, ignoring Jonathan's offer of a handshake. He's eyeing John as though he hasn't decided whether to give this venture the benefit of the doubt, or to get properly stroppy. "Why are we here?"

The question is directed at John. He glances at Jonathan for reinforcement, and gets a smile. "To do something different than lying around on a couch waiting for something to happen."

"Namely, that," Jonathan adds, and points over Sherlock's shoulder at the nearest wall.

"Why would I want to climb the walls of a derelict grain silo?" there's already a hint of Sherlock starting to unload with sarcasm there.

John needs to salvage this before Sherlock gets a chance to properly reject the idea. "Because this is more fun than climbing the walls at the flat."

Jonathan laughs, even if Sherlock doesn't. "A famous climber once answered a similar question by saying that he did it, because it was there. What he was scaling was Mount Everest, but you gotta start somewhere, right?"

Sherlock blinks, looking unimpressed at what he's hearing.

Jonathan points over to the corner of the room. "You can get changed over there. Just grab a pair of shoes from the shelf next to the office, one you think will fit, and take them with you. The size numbers are on the bottom. They need to be really tight. So tight it's uncomfortable."

"I doubt it's the only uncomfortable thing about this endeavour."

"Shush. Enjoy your surprise," John tells him.

Sherlock rolls his eyes.