John returned within four minutes of Lestrade's text, arriving with leftovers from Speedy's. He was hopeful at the half-eaten pie, but Greg shook his head.
"Doing okay?" John asked. He placed his keys on the table and let his hand rest on Sherlock's shoulder, lingering with the question.
The detective nodded, glancing at Lestrade. The older man moved his head to the side, looking like a father encouraging his leery child to approach a dog for the first time; he may as well have muttered go on now, you can do it. Sherlock cleared his throat. "Could I have that?"
John followed his gaze to the box of food, staring for a moment. "You're serious?"
Greg, too, seemed surprised.
Going all the way, I see, his eyes seemed to say.
The detective lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry, that was rude."
"No!" John nearly ran to the kitchen, shoving the cold pasta in the microwave. "No, not rude at all. I'm just…no, no, not rude at all." He smiled, looked at the saint that Greg had to be, and let out a breath that seemed to take several pounds with it.
"Thanks," Sherlock said, softly, looking at John. His John. Yes, he accepted it. He felt moisture in his eyes and tried to blink it away, but his doctor was sitting by his side before the first tear fell.
"Hey." John extended his arm, letting the man rest his head on his shoulder. Sherlock didn't cry more than that; he simply ravished the scent of wool and tea, warmth and constancy, mixed with something familiar yet undefined. He enjoyed John's presence before, but now, to relish in it, to enjoy the moment for itself, to allow himself to believe in forever, was too substantial to call overwhelming. It was serene and exhilarating at once, like watching a sunrise while sitting on the edge of a cliff.
"Hey." It was all John could say, feeling the weight—the uninhibited, free weight—of his friend against him. "Hey."
Greg retrieved the meal from the kitchen, returning too with utensils and a tall glass of water.
John squeezed Sherlock's shoulder before gently moving him to a straight position, taking the plate himself and cutting the pasta into short pieces. No offense, his eyes said. Sherlock didn't mind; he ate, slowly at first and then ravenously, his body suddenly remembering what food was, his tongue awakened to the explosive world of taste, his stomach to the thought of nutrition. It was not a 'yes' to food; it was an acceptance to trusting, wholeheartedly, what his friends wanted of him. The joy on the doctor's and inspector's faces couldn't be described.
It was an odd, beautiful scene, the three of them—one of family, recovery, vulnerability—made all the realer by Sherlock vomiting onto the rug.
John was quick to clean it up, rambling all the while "It's okay, it's okay" from fear that the experience would turn off the prospect of food altogether. But the detective only nodded, childishly, sinking back into the cushions of the couch, holding a pillow as a dear friend. John soon replaced it.
Greg dismissed himself soon after.
It's not really clear whether either slept; John surely didn't, watching as Sherlock's chest rose and fell, rhythmically, as though succumbing to sleep; but the moment was more refreshing than any sleep could have been. Sherlock was entirely relaxed, save a hand clinging to his doctor's wrist.
"You'll eat again?" John broke the silence some time later, when it suddenly seemed appropriate.
"Yes, John. I'll eat again. But not now. Please."
"Soon, though."
They stayed quiet for a while longer.
"John?"
"Hmm?"
"I'm sorry I don't trust you naturally. I'm sorry it takes effort."
The doctor smiled. "You trust me now. That's what matters. I appreciate you opening up to me, Sherlock. I really do. I know I freaked out when you told me about…seventeen…but it's because I couldn't imagine what that must have been like for you. Mycroft told me that you completely closed yourself off. And when you asked for Greg, I thought you were doing it all over again."
Slowly, and with much effort, Sherlock sat up. That was the scent he couldn't quite identify. "You smell like Mycroft."
"What?"
"Mycroft. Why do you smell like Mycroft?"
John bit his lip. "He was at the café. We chatted a bit for lunch."
"He doesn't go there without precedence. What did he want?"
"Sherlock, let's not talk about it now. You're weak. Come, now." He lowered the detective's head onto the cushion, moving himself out of the way and angling himself towards his desk. "You rest, and let me get some work done. Hmm?"
"John. What are you keeping from me?"
The doctor draped a blanket over his weaker flat-mate. "You can't have trust without an element of unknown. You've got to trust me on this one. I'll explain later. Fair?"
Sherlock obediently brought his head to the pillow, but his eyes never shut.