Chapter Thirty Five: Solutions
"Each person deserves a day away in which no problems are confronted, no solutions searched for." Maya Angelou
The team that Mycroft had assembled turned out to consist of two medical technicians and two men in non-descript suits.
"Doctor Watson," asked one of the men wearing a suit.
"Yeah." John answered.
"Good evening, sir. My name is Mr. Hamlin. I am in charge of transporting Mr. Holmes out of the hospital and back to his place of residence. Am I correct to assume that it is also your place of residence as well?" The man asked curtly.
"Yes. It is." John answered.
"Very well. Our superior has instructed us to allow you to accompany us. However, if at any time we tell you to do something, you do it. No questions asked. It is for your own safety, and for the safety of all the members of my team and Mr. Holmes. Do we understand each other?" Mr. Hamlin spoke with a clipped, authoritative voice which encouraged no arguments.
"Yes." John said wearily. He was tired, and wanted to get Sherlock away from this madness as soon as possible.
"Very good." Mr. Hamlin said.
One of the technicians picked up the case off the table where Mycroft left it earlier. Taking out the syringe and the vial, he prepared an injection and skillfully injected the drug into Sherlock's right arm. Sherlock gave a soft sigh after the drug began to flow into his blood stream, then became still again.
Non-pertrude, the technicians began to unhook the tubes and moniters from Sherlock's body.
"Is there anything in the room that belongs to Mr. Holmes or yourself?" Mr. Hamlin asked John, who stood away while the technicians worked but couldn't help but to watch anxiously.
"Uh, no." John replied, looking around. "My phone is in my pocket, and I didn't bring any other clothes with me. The flowers and the get-well gifts belong to Sherlock, but that's about it."
"Very good. We will take care of it." Mr. Hamlin noted. Silently, they watched the technicians finishing unhooking the last of the medical equipment and throw back the blankets.
Even after fifteen days, Sherlock still didn't look much better than when he arrived. The pajamas he was wearing could not disguise the fact that he was woefully thin, almost skeletal in appearance. Bulges under his clothes showed the locations of the bandages covering his chest and arms. One of the technicians gave a nod to the man nearest to the door, who opened it, allowing a third technician in, who was pushing a gurney in front of him.
Despite the fact that Sherlock could no longer feel any pain, John held his breath anxiously when the three technicians transferred Sherlock's body from the hospital bed to the gurney. Then one of them put an air mask over Sherlock's face and attached it to an oxygen tank that was much smaller than the normal, standardize air tanks that hospitals often use.
"We can't take Mr. Holmes through the traditional exits, because they are all being watched, so we are using an untraditional exit." Explained one technician, a youthful man with an open face and a kind expression, when he saw John looking over at them curiously. "We are going to wheel him down to the morgue in the basement. If anyone sees us, they will just see three technicians taking a body downstairs. The air mask is just a precaution to ensure that Mr. Holmes is able to breathe normally until we get him transported to the car."
"I see." John said, nodding gratefully at the technician for explaining what they were doing. Had they just threw a blanket over Sherlock's head, John would have been distressed and probably would have protested and thus caused a scene.
"When we get down there, our mode of transportation will be ready. Before you get upset, please know in advance that we will be traveling in a hearse." The kindly technician replied as he checked the readings on the oxygen tank.
"A hearse?!" John gaped, then turned toward Hamlin. "Is this Mycroft's idea of a joke?"
"Hardly, Doctor." Hamlin replied in a clipped voice. "There are a few media vans outside, and several reporters lying in wait at various exits throughout the hospital. We need to get past them without anyone stopping us. And no one would dare to approach a hearse when it is transporting a body to the cemetery." Hamlin explained.
"But don't worry, Doctor Watson. We have no intention of dropping Mr. Holmes off at the cemetery!" The talkative technician said, the corners of his mouth slightly raised as he fought off a knowing smile.
"Thank God for that!" John said as he watched the blanket being thrown over Sherlock's face, obscuring his face from view. "I have had enough of cemeteries and burials and death to last me a lifetime!"
"We were briefed on the situation, Doctor. And I apologize if our methods seem a little extreme, but I assure you that we are doing it with Mr. Holmes's safety as our main priority." The technician replied softly.
"Once we get a few blocks away, we will move Mr. Holmes to another vehicle, and then continue the rest of the way to Baker Street." Hamlin explained.
Operation "Moving Sherlock" went off without a hitch. In less than ten minutes, John was riding in the back of the hearse alongside his friend, occasionally checking his vital signs and making sure he appeared comfortable. And as predicted, even though there were scores of reporters around, no one dared to approach the hearse.
Mycroft's team pulled into a building a few blocks away from the hospital, in order to change vehicles. As Hamlin correctly pointed out, it would have looked strange if a hearse suddenly appeared in front of 221 Baker Street.
The new vehicle turned out to be a van with the logo "Webber's Moving Service" painted in bright letters on the side. Hamlin explained that several men, disguised as movers, where going to carry Sherlock into the flat.
"Don't you think people are going to be a little suspicious that several men are going to be carrying in a body?" John had asked incredulously. "I mean, we do have some neighbors."
"If anyone looks, they won't see a body!" Mr. Hamlin stated flatly.
And now, thirty minutes after they left the hospital, Sherlock Holmes was carried into the entrance of 221 Baker Street, rolled up in a rug.
John was secretly glad that Mary and Mrs. Hudson were not present. He could just imagine what they would say if they knew that Sherlock was drugged and transported in the manner that he was.
Mary, who admired Sherlock's abilities (and that was before he saved her life), probably would call her former rugby students and have them chase down Mycroft.
And Mrs. Hudson? John didn't think even Mummy could save Mycroft once their esteemed landlady found out how "her boy" was treated!
The men carrying Sherlock ascended up the stairs first. John tried to follow them up, but was delayed by Hamlin, who wanted to go over the code words that John was to use, even though they had already went over them a dozen times on the way back to the flat.
Somehow managing to keep his impatience in check, John briefly recited the words he was expected to use over the phone in case there was a kidnapper, an assassin, or a reporter in the flat. John thought the entire thing was silly, but Hamlin reminded him that if someone had a gun trained to his head, he wouldn't be able to say the truth over the phone, so the code words were a necessary precaution.
Finally, Hamlin let John go, satisfied that the doctor knew what to do in case anyone made it past the security team set up to watch 221 B Baker Street. Relieved, John raced up the stairs, almost running over two of the men that had carried Sherlock upstairs a few moments before.
The flat's main room was empty. The rug that Mycroft's men used to transport Sherlock was now rolled out and spread on the floor. But there was no sign of Sherlock anywhere.
They must have put Sherlock in his bedroom. John thought. Crossing the room, he went down the hall until he reached Sherlock's bedroom and pushed open the door.
Mycroft had not been lying when he told John that he had "everything arranged."
Sherlock's room was miraculously clean (While Mrs. Hudson cleaned Sherlock's room weekly when everyone believed he was dead), her hip kept her from dusting some of the objects stored there. Mycroft's people, whoever they were, had managed to clean the eighteen months' long accumulation of hidden dirt and missed cobwebs, leaving the room in pristene condition.
Beside the nightstand was a small, state-of-the-art heart monitor, as well as an I.V. stand with a bag of saline already attached. Various wrappings and bottles were arranged neatly on the nearby bureau.
Sherlock was still unconscious and was being held in a sitting position by the talkative technician from earlier. John noted that Sherlock was bare from the waist up, and dressed in new pajama bottoms from the waist down. Another man, dressed in a cashmere sweater and slacks, had removed the bandages covering Sherlock's torso and was examining the wounds. When John entered, the man turned around and gave John a polite smile.
"Good evening, John."
John froze, his mouth hanging open. "Matthew? What are you doing here?"
Dr. Anthuster smiled knowingly. "Let's just say that a certain mutual acquaintance of ours saw fit to interrupt my dinner so that I may make a house call." Dr. Anthuster chuckled. "Actually, Mycroft and I are on friendly terms with one another. He has been a patient of mine several times over the years. I also had the pleasure of meeting his younger brother once or twice, when Mycroft asked me to see to his brother when he got ill, long before you came. But never have I seen him so quiet."
"Apparently the Holmes brothers revel in the need to outwit one another." John replied before studying his employer. "So Mycroft probably paid you to employee me, am I right?"
"What? Oh! No! Of course not, John!" Dr. Anthuster waived his hand dismissively. "I hired you for the reasons I have already explained. To tell you the truth, I wasn't entirely sure you were the John Watson, and I didn't want to ask, in case it was something you did not want mentioned. I didn't get full confirmation of who you were until Mycroft came to see me, right after that tape aired last year, to make sure that I would not be concerned if you missed work for a few days." Anthuster explained.
"I see." John said guardedly.
Anthuster seemed to be telling the truth. But when Mycroft was involved, one never knew.
"Pardon me for a moment, if you would, John. I am checking Mr. Holmes's injuries to make sure that the transfer here did not cause any of his wounds to open up." Dr. Anthuster said before turning his back to John and continued with his examination.
Cautiously, John edged forward and glanced over Dr. Anthuster's shoulder.
Now visible, Sherlock's ribs stuck out under his pallid skin. His entire chest was covered with molten bruises in various degrees of healing. Some had already lost their bluish twinge and were turning yellow. The jagged line of stitches showed where the surgeons had cut into Sherlock in order to extract the bullet from his side. The edges of the skin were still slightly pink, but the wound seemed to be healing well.
"Well, he seems to have made it in one piece, I think." Dr. Anthuster said, satisfied with the results of his examination. "I am glad you will be here with him, John. Personally, I would not allow Mr. Holmes out of a hospital for another month at least, given the number and severity of his injuries. But under the circumstances, I am told that this was necessary."
"I wish it wasn't, Matthew." John replied, not being able to tear his eyes off of his friend's injured body.
"Well, I need to re-bandage Mr. Holmes's wounds before I check the ones on his arms and his neck."
"Can I help?" John asked.
Dr. Anthuster hesitated for a second, and then shrugged. "I see no reason why not. David here will hold him up while we make quick work of this."
"So your name is David?" John addressed the technician who was so helpful earlier that night.
"Yes, sir." The technician said quietly. "David Billings."
I'll need to remember that. Mycroft needs to hear from me what a good job he did in explaining what was going on so I didn't suffer an anxiety attack. John resolved.
Working quickly but expertly, John and Dr. Anthuster re-bandaged Sherlock's chest and side. David positioned himself behind Sherlock so that Dr. Anthuster could remove the bandaging from around Sherlock's throat.
"Good God!" Dr. Anthuster exclaimed, looking shocked at the deep, purple bruising and the healing cut. "So the rumors are true. At least the press got something right! Well, now I see the urgency of moving him out of the hospital so quickly. Those vultures in the press will do just about anything for a story."
John barked a humorless laugh. "Don't I know it! I had to deal with them a year and a half ago."
Silently, the three men checked the remaining injuries to Sherlock's arms (which John was happy to see were healing well) before they finished dressing Sherlock. Mr. Billings then carefully laid Sherlock out on the bed before he began to hook up the I.V. drip and the heart monitor. Dr. Anthuster took John to the other side of the room.
"Now, Mycroft left behind some medications for your use." Dr. Anthuster stated, nodding to the corner of the bedroom, where a mini-refrigerator was plugged up to the wall. "The ones that need to be kept refrigerated are in there. The rest on arranged on the bureau. If you need anything else, you are to call me, and I will arrange for it to be delivered here."
John nodded in agreement. "Can you prescribe any medication that will deal with nausea? Sherlock rarely eats, even in the best of times." John asked.
Anthuster smiled wirily. "I know. Remember, I had to deal with the man myself. After the last time, I sent a bill to Mycroft which included extra fees for child care." Anthuster laughed. "You have my deepest sympathies, John."
"Thank you, Matthew." John said politely. "I hope you don't mind if I take a few more weeks off?"
Dr. Anthuster laughed again. "Mycroft already arranged it, John. Consider this a paid vacation, if you can call it that! Take whatever time you need, and don't hesitate to call the office if you need something."
"Good-bye, Doctor Watson." David said. Having completed making sure everything was in working order, David finished by covering Sherlock with some blankets and the duvet. "Good luck with everything."
"Thank you, Mr. Billings. You have been very helpful tonight. I hope your employer is aware of that."
David smiled politely and followed Dr. Anthuster out the door.
John took a moment to collapse into the comfortable arm chair that was placed beside Sherlock's bed. It was not a piece of furniture that came from the flat, so he had to assume Mycroft had it brought up for his use.
As usual, the "minor government official" thought of everything.
Sherlock continued to sleep on. His face was remarkably relaxed, as though he was finally getting a restful respite, as opposed to the fever induced nightmares he had suffered from ever since he regained consciousness a few days ago.
Maybe it was the unidentified drug he was on. Or maybe he sub-consciously knew he was home.
John sighed. None of that mattered. What mattered is that Sherlock was finally safe, and John would make sure he stayed that way.
Several days past, and John found himself in a familiar role. Nursing Sherlock back to health.
Again!
It was easier in some ways. For one thing, Sherlock still couldn't speak yet, so John was spared the usual complaints he had to put up with whenever Sherlock made himself ill. Also, Sherlock was unusually passive around John, obeying his instructions without so much as an eye roll or an expression of disgruntlement.
It appeared that simply being back at 221 B Baker Street was enough for Sherlock at the moment. He wasn't happy, exactly, but he was content for the moment.
To say that Mrs. Hudson was pleased by Sherlock's return would be to tell a lie. Through gross underestimation.
In short, Mrs. Hudson was estatic.
The morning after Sherlock rather unorthodox trip from the hospital, Mrs. Hudson took the opportunity to take up some broth for Sherlock's breakfast as a means to have an excuse to talk to him.
The "talk," if one could call it such, lasted for over an hour, and consisted of Mrs. Hudson simultaneously berating Sherlock for causing her so much grief and crying as she hugged him. The conversation also consisted of Sherlock being fussed on for allowing himself to get hurt, for not eating properly, and for not telling her about "her" new grandchild.
It was a mark of how much Sherlock's patience had grown that he endured the molly-coddling silently and without any glares or eye-rolls before Mrs. Hudson finally left him in peace, but not before she threatened that she would throttle him with her broom if he ever pretended to be dead again.
John, for his part, was impressed by his flat-mate's unusual restraint.
Mary was also pleased that Sherlock was home. If she was a selfish person, then she was happy purely for the fact that Sherlock being home meant that John was home too.
But Mary was not a selfish person. Most of the time, it was she who brought up the meals to the two flatmates, in order to spare Mrs. Hudson from repeat trips up and down the stairs with her bad hip. And while John was occupied in watching over Sherlock, Mary helped to take up the slack by running errands, doing the laundry, and basically helping Mrs. Hudson with the management of the entire building without any hint of irritation or complaint.
Sherlock, for his part, seemed unusually alert whenever Mary was present. Although his expression was neutral, he kept a close eye on her, especially whenever she was with John. It was almost as if he was making it his mission to deduce her entire life story.
Sheridan, for her part, was thrilled that her father was home. Her appitite improved dramatically, and she practically bounced up and down the stairs to help Mary carry things back and forth to Sherlock's room. She was still restricted from spending too much time with her father, due mostly to the fact that Sherlock was still extremely weak, and any activity seemed to wear him out completely.
Still, as far as Sheridan was concerned, Sherlock was out of the hospital, which meant (in her eyes, at least) that he would recover. So it was hard to dampen her spirits.
John didn't say anything about it, but he noticed how Sherlock was slightly more content with Sheridan around. It was almost as though he was fearful that if she was out of his sight for too long, she would be kidnapped, or something would happen to her.
Of course, considering he spent the last year worrying that Moriarty would somehow find Sheridan, John could hardly blame Sherlock for his nervousness.
So he said nothing when, the day after Sheridan returned home from the safe house, he had woken up early to find that Sheridan had left her bedroom during the night and was curled up beside her father.
John didn't say anything about how surprised he was when he opened the door and saw Sheridan sleeping beside her father, their breathing in almost perfect harmony with one another, with her arms wrapped around him as though she was afraid that someone would steal him from her.
John didn't say anything as he admittedly gaped at the scene for a long time, with the morning sun filtering through the curtains, before he finally had the sense to get his phone and take a picture of this tender moment. After that, he left the pair alone and went to the kitchen to make himself some tea, to reflect on what he had witnessed.
He told himself that he was planning to use the picture to blackmail Sherlock later, or to show it to any Yarder who was stupid enough to ever accuse Sherlock of harming a child again.
But if he was being honest with himself, he took the picture so that he would be reminded of how much was lost, and then regained, in the past eighteen months. And it was something he never wanted to forget.
November 26th, eighteen months after the Fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital.
Three days after Sherlock returned home, the first true sign that things were beginning to get back to normal occurred. It happened when John tried to give Sherlock some pills that he had been prescribed to help with the swelling in his throat. Instead of taking them automatically, as he had before, Sherlock scowled.
"No!"
John couldn't help it. After weeks of silence from his flat mate…
"You spoke! You actually spoke!"
Sherlock glared up at him. "Well done, John! You may congradulate yourself, since your auditory skills are working splendidly!"
The insult was so very Sherlock (despite the fact that his voice was much softer and a good deal more hoarse than usual) that John actually started laughing.
"I can't believe it! The first words out of your mouth in almost three weeks, and the first thing you do is insult me! So I know you must be getting better!"
Sherlock looked somewhat displeased by this pronouncement and turned away from John, suddenly acting as though he found the opposite wall more interesting.
"You know, for someone who just regained the ability to speak, you suddenly gotten very quiet! What's wrong?" John asked. He expected to rejoice with his friend, but Sherlock seemed oddly depressed by this clear sign that his health was returning.
"Nothing's wrong." Sherlock mumbled.
"Well, if nothing's wrong then, go ahead and take your pills, so I can get on to bed!" John teased. "I'm only here to make sure you take them, so hurry up!"
Sherlock, if anything, looked even sadder than before. But he obediently reached up and took the pills from John's outstretched hand before swallowing them and laying back down.
John caught the stricken look of Sherlock's face. "Hey, Sherlock, is something wrong?"
"No." Sherlock whispered. "I'm just tired. You go on to bed."
John lingered. Something was off. Just when Sherlock regained the ability to communicate verbally again, he shut down. It made no sense.
Or maybe, as Sherlock said, he was just tired.
Seeing that Sherlock would not talk anymore, John gave up and left, figuring that Sherlock was simply having a down moment.
He learned later just how wrong he was.
Later that night, John was sleeping on the couch in the sitting room, partly to guard the door, and partly to be there in case Sherlock needed him. At around one-thirty, he was awakened from his sleep by a gentle, insistent tapping on his shoulder.
His eyes snapped open to see the person standing before him, then relaxed when he saw who it was.
"Sheri?" John whispered.
Sheridan stood before him, her skin reflecting the light of the moon that filtered through the windows, her eyes troubled. She had her purple robe wrapped around her. "I'm sorry to disturb your rest, Uncle John, but I need your help."
John sat up and threw the duvet off of him. "Did you have another bad dream?"
For the last few weeks, poor Sheri had been suffering from nightmares that caused her to wake up screaming. She never told John or Mary what they were about, only that they had to do with "Dad."
Sheridan shook her head. "It's Dad! I came downstairs to get a glass of water, because I was thirsty. Then I heard a noise. It was from Dad's room. I heard Dad crying! And I think he got sick again!" She looked up earnestly at John's face.
John got up from the sofa and checked his phone. There were no text messages. "He didn't text me that he needed me."
Sheridan shook her head. "He probably doesn't want to disturb you. But I think he needs help. He sounds horrible! Do you want me to stay up and help you?"
John patted the girl affectionately on her shoulder. "No, no! I'll take care of it! You go back to sleep."
Sheridan's assessment proved to be correct. When John entered Sherlock's bedroom, he found the consulting detective hunched over the side of his bed, gagging and retching into a bucket that John had the foresight to place there for just such an event.
He had hoped they wouldn't have to use it, as Sherlock had managed to keep down everything he has swallowed since returning home. But now it seemed like it was finally being put to its intended use.
"Sherlock?" John whispered as he slowly entered the room.
Sherlock didn't even bother to acknowledge his presence, so John crouched down so that he could examine Sherlock and try to figure out what the problem was.
The consulting detective was drenched in sweat, and shaking. His hair hung down his face as he continued gasping and coughing. Instinctively, John reached over to place his hand over Sherlock's shoulder, half-expecting for Sherlock to glare at him and tell him he didn't need any help.
So when Sherlock made no resistance to the touch, John became very worried.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you in pain?" John asked, gently wiping the hair away from Sherlock's face so that he could see his expression.
What he saw was a picture of abject human misery. Sherlock face was slack, but his eyes were wild and panicked, as though he had just been attacked. Frowning, John felt for Sherlock's pulse, noting that it was rather rapid. However, his temperature felt normal, suggesting that there was no new infection.
"Fine." Sherlock whispered. "Just…fine."
"Since when is throwing up fine, Sherlock? And why didn't you text me?" John muttered, exasperated.
"Can…handle it." Sherlock whispered. "Just, bad dream. Nothing. Go back to bed."
John nodded sympathetically. He understood nightmares. There were several times that he woke up and got sick, if they were particularly vivid. At least it wasn't a return of the infection. "Uh-huh." John said. "Right. Sure, ok. But since I'm here, I might as well get this sorted."
Without waiting for a response, John took the bucket away to wash it out. When he returned, Sherlock was still slumped on the mattress, exactly in the same position as he was earlier. His eyes were closed, but the slight hitch in his breath showed he was still awake.
Trying to be causal about it, John placed the bucket back beside the bed and retrieved the wet towel that he brought in to gently wipe the sweat from Sherlock's face, who remained limp, passively submitting to the doctor's ministrations. This accomplished, he went over to the small refrigerator and took out a syringe and a small bottle.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock whispered, opening his eyes slightly.
"I'm giving you something for nausea." John answer easily, approaching Sherlock, syringe in hand. Sherlock watched him as he inserted the needle into his I.V. line. "It will take a minute to take effect, so I'll stay with you until it does."
Sherlock frowned. "I can take care of myself."
John shrugged. "Then I'll keep you company."
"I don't need company, either." Sherlock grumbled wearily.
John huffed. "Oh, what are you so worried about? If you are afraid that your reputation as a high-functioning sociopath is damaged, then I have news for you. It's already ruined! I don't think anybody believes that crap anymore!"
Sherlock shrugged. "People try to project what they want to see. It doesn't make a difference. I am incapable of feeling emotions, John. Ask anyone!"
"Really? Then explain why you were willing to jump off a roof to save three people, or why a little girl doesn't feel happy unless you are with her? Explain why she is so attached to you!"
"That's because I was the only constant in her life for a year, John." Sherlock responded. "Children naturally cling to things they are used to, whether it's good for them or not!"
"Oh, stop denying it, Sherlock! Sheri told me about how you took time out of your busy crime-fighting schedule to spend time with her, and how you walked several miles in the middle of a damn blizzard to get her antibiotics when she was sick! If that isn't proof enough for you, then I don't know what is!" John retorted.
Sherlock sighed and suddenly found that looking at the ceiling was preferable than continuing this conversation. John studied him for a moment in silence.
"Aren't you going to share your great secret with me?" John finally prompted.
"What secret is that, John?" Sherlock asked listlessly.
"I may be slow compared to you, Sherlock, but I'm not an idiot. I have deduced long ago that you didn't have a particularly happy childhood, and your father probably wasn't there for you like he should have been. That is one reason why you are so anxious whenever anyone discusses Sheri around you. You are afraid you aren't doing a good job being a father to her. And don't tell me I'm wrong, either!"
"Fine. I won't tell you." Sherlock grumbled.
John smiled. "Just for your information, you have done a very good job with her. Bloody hell, I don't know if I could have done better!"
"That was the idea." Sherlock whispered.
"What?" John asked, confused.
Sherlock looked back toward John. "You were correct, earlier. My experiences as a child left me woefully unprepared for fatherhood. Mycroft pretty much took on the task of raising me, but his methods were rather…unorthodox, and wouldn't have worked with Sheridan, who grew up being taught that emotions were a good thing to have. Perhaps I should have impressed upon her the liability of having emotions, but I felt a change so drastic from the teaching Sheridan had already learned from her mother would not be beneficial for her, given the situation and the danger we were in. Anyway, I didn't have a sappy, indulgent, attentive person to emulate. So I asked myself what you would do in the situation, and tried to act accordingly."
John gaped. "Let me get this straight! Every time you had a question on how to deal with Sheri, you asked yourself 'What would John do?'"
"As I said, John, I had a child on my hands and no one to ask for advice. The internet proved to be utterly useless in the situation. I didn't have many options!"
John smirked. "I don't know whether I should feel flattered that you think I am good father material or insulted that I am your idea of a 'sappy, indulgent, and attentive person.'"
"What do you call hovering around like a protective 'Mother Hen' and looking at me like I'm weak and pitiful?" Sherlock snapped, eyes narrowed.
"Uh, because you look weak and pitiful?" John quipped.
"Well, stop it!" Sherlock hissed. "I preferred you punching my face in to this!"
"Can you be a little more specific?" John asked.
"Stop being so damn forgiving!" Sherlock said fiercely. Had he been able to, he probably would have yelled out this statement. "I wish you would yell at me, punch me in the face, tell me how disgusted you are with me, how you plan to leave as soon as possible! Anything but this!"
So now we get to it. John thought. "So you want me to hate you, is that it?"
"Haven't you been paying attention, John? I don't have any friends! Anyone who is stupid enough to be a friend with me gets hurt! It's inevitable. I'm not safe to be around!"
Fuming, Sherlock turned away on his side. It was the side that he was shot, and he could not help flinching at the pain that movement cost him. "Now I think you should just leave."
"Sherlock…"
"I said leave!" Sherlock snapped.
John froze where he stood. He could leave as Sherlock wanted him to. Give him time to calm down. Or he could stay and tried to reason with Sherlock, which might result in a shouting match.
To leave would have been the logical, sensible thing to do. It was what Sherlock wanted at the moment.
But John had just about enough of doing what Sherlock wanted!
Who did he think he was, anyway? The man waltzes into his life, becomes his best friend, and then fakes his death and leaves him to grieve, only to come waltzing back into his life. And now he was trying to play the martyr and telling John that he didn't want to be friends anymore because it was too dangerous?
Well, John was tired of Sherlock making those decisions for him!
"No!" John said flatly, crossing his arms in front of him.
"No, what?" Sherlock muttered.
"No as in the letter 'N' followed by the letter 'O.' Other terminology would be 'forget it,' 'nay,' 'negative,' or 'like hell!'" John said crossly. "I have had enough of this!"
"Enough of what?" Sherlock asked quietly. The anger in his voice that was present earlier was entirely gone.
"Enough of this!" John fumed as he stood over Sherlock's bedside. Defiantly, he practically fell into the arm chair and continued staring at his flatmate, who was still turned away from him. "I am sick and tired of you making all the decisions on what is good for me while I don't get any say! You did it when you decided to jump to save my life eighteen months ago, you did it when you decided to go after Moriarty all by yourself, which left you in a less-than-desirable state of health, and you are trying to do it now! I have had it, Sherlock!"
"If you had it, then why don't you go?" Sherlock whispered.
"Because we are friends, you stupid arse! Get that through your head! For six months after your alleged death, I had to listen while people tried to convince me that you were a fraud! But never once did I believe it, even when you told me so! And I was right! Before that, I had people telling me that I shouldn't be friends with you! Well, guess what? I don't see anyone else willing to jump off a rooftop to save me from a sniper's bullet! Do you?"
"You're twisting the facts, John. Had you not met me, you never would have had a gun pointed at you in the first place." Sherlock replied despondently.
"I know, because I would have been the one to do it! Don't you get it, Sherlock? You saved my life when we first met. I was alone and depressed, and you changed all that! And now you are doing it again, trying to make decisions for me! Well, if you want me gone from your life, I'm not going to help you! I'm going to stay your friend, whether you like it or not!"
Scowling fiercely to get his point across, John gripped the arms of the chair. "If you want me gone, you are going to have to get Mycroft to send in his team of ninjas or agents or whatever to come in and carry me out! So stop being so damned stubborn and accept it! I'm not going anywhere!"
The room was quiet for a few seconds. Neither man moved.
"You are too loyal for your own good, John." Sherlock finally whispered.
"Of course, maybe I'm wrong about everything. Maybe you regret jumping off of St. Bart's roof to save me in the first place." John wondered aloud, pretending to seriously ponder the matter.
"Of all the idiotic things to come out of your mouth, John!" Sherlock snapped, turning suddenly to glare at his flat mate. The effect was ruined by the pain the shot up and down Sherlock's body, and his glare never materialized. Whimpering, he settled back down on the pillows.
John fought back a knowing smirk. "Did we forget something, Sherlock?"
Sherlock nodded. "No sudden movements unless I wanted to hurt more?"
John grinned. "See! You do pay attention sometimes! Which means I'm right! Again!"
Sherlock didn't bother replying. He was too busy whimpering and sulking.
John chuckled. Now was the time to show mercy to the vanquished. "Well, now that everything's decided, I think you need another dose of morphine."
"I don't need your pity, John!" Sherlock grumbled, teeth clinched tightly together.
"Good." John retorted back. "Because I'm not doing this out of pity."
Sherlock watched wearily as John measured the dosage of morphine in a syringe and attached it to the IV drip. After a few moments, Sherlock's face relaxed somewhat as the throb on his side became a dull ache.
"So you're not moving out?" He finally asked.
John frowned as he studied Sherlock, who looked at him as though his answer held the balance between life and death. "I have no current plans to. Oh, I will be moving in with Mary, at some point. After all, a husband and wife usually live together, or so I've been told! But we still plan to live in 221 C. So I'll just be downstairs!"
"You already discussed this with Ms. Morstan?"
John sighed. "Yes, I already discussed this with Mary, Sherlock! Everything we want is here. The flat is only a few blocks away from where we both work, and Mary gets along very well with Mrs. Hudson, and Sheri. So why wouldn't we stay?"
Sherlock turned (slowly, this time) to face the wall.
John took a moment to think back over the events of the day. This odd behavior from Sherlock was very preplexing. Sherlock became upset once he showed signs of getting better. It made absolutely no sense!
Sherlock despised being sick! Why would he act like this now?
Unless…
"Is that why you were so depressed earlier? Did you think I was going to leave once you got better? That I was only staying because you were injured?" John asked.
"No." Sherlock protested.
John studied him for a moment before he broke out into a grin. "You're lying! That's exactly what you were thinking!"
Sherlock shook his head, but it was a weak protest, and they both knew it.
"I'm not planning to leave, you know. Now, I will move in with Mary, after we are married. But we plan on staying here." John said, trying to reassure his friend that things would not change so much. "And you are here, unless you plan on moving out."
"Where else would I go?" Sherlock asked.
The question was probably meant to be rhetorical, but it contained some truth behind it. Where else would Sherlock live, if not at Baker Street? Where else would he find flatmates and a landlady willing to put up with him?
"Do you still want me to punch you in the face?" John teased.
"Not really, but I wouldn't stop you." Sherlock whispered as he burrowed a little deeper under the duvet.
"Like you could, right now!" John reminded him. "You can't sit up on your own, and you can barely feed yourself. You have about as much strength as a newborn kitten!"
"Thank you so much for reminding me!" Sherlock grumbled, but his sarcasm was weakened, due to the morphine that was causing him to become more tired by the second.
John smirked. "Oh, and the whole 'pretending to be dead' thing? Just don't do it again, alright? I would like to see you stick around this time."
"I won't." Sherlock whispered weakly. "Death was extremely dull. I hated it!"
The two men sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. Finally, John chose to break the silence. "Sherlock?"
"Hmm?"
"Thank you for not being dead."
"Like I had a choice in the matter." Sherlock whispered, closing his eyes. "I heard you telling me to live. In the…dark."
John frowned as he suddenly recalled that terrible moment back at Scotland Yard, when Sherlock's heart had stopped beating. "You heard that?"
Sherlock nodded wearily. "You…called me back. Couldn't leave…you…behind. Not…again."
John watched as Sherlock's breathing even out as he drifted off, not sure how to handle this new revelation.
Sherlock actually heard him? He came back, because John begged him to?
Did he really exert so much control over Sherlock's supposedly non-existent affections that Sherlock literally came back from the dead when he heard John's voice?
What did that mean, ultimately?
"You… are thinking too loud again, John." Sherlock said, then yawned. "Go back…to bed. You're tired."
"Look who's talking!" John shot back.
Sherlock nodded absently, but didn't answer.
John watched him for several minutes, making sure he finally was asleep. Then, he went back to the living room and retrieved his own duvet and pillow.
Surely, he could sleep one night in the armchair, just so Sherlock would see him in the morning and know that he meant what he said.
Because he was not going anywhere.
Author's Note: Finally! Sherlock and John finally have their talk about what happened, and where their friendship progresses at this point onward.
Sorry if both characters seem a little OOC, with Sherlock being a bit emotional and illogical, while John is the voice of reason. I felt that John has had a lot of time to cope with the revelations of the past year, while Sherlock is just now trying to come to terms with it. I think that Sherlock, being Sherlock, probably got it in his head that John was only staying until Sherlock got better, and then he was planning to move out. This explains why he wasn't happy that he regained his ability to speak. In his mind, the sooner he got well, the sooner John would leave him.
I think this conversation was important for them to clear the air, with John doing something besides punching Sherlock in the face.
You have to love Mrs. Hudson! If landlady duties entails being a surrogate mother, then Mrs. Hudson is the definition of what a landlady should be! I love how one of her complaints to Sherlock is how he didn't tell her about "her" granddaughter!
And if the penalty for Sherlock is being beaten to death by a broom if he dares to fake his death again, then I wonder what she will do to Mycroft? (spoiler alert, anyone?)
Only four more chapters after this! What will I do with those four chapters? There is still many loose ends to take care of. So keep reading and find out!
Disclaimer: I do not own "Sherlock." And I am having my characters sanctioned and committed! I mean it!
Peaceful Defender-Uh, Chase?
OC Chase Douglas-Yeah, Peaceful Defender!
Peaceful Defender-Why are Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade, Hopkins, and Clarky all here, in my living room?
OC Chase Douglas-We are having a funeral service!
Peaceful Defender (gags)-You are not going to bury Moriarty in my back yard!
Stanley Hopkins (smirking)-Like we would hold a funeral service for him! Actually, we are here to pay our respects to Mycroft's Rolls Royce!
Peaceful Defender-Wait! (looks around) Is that why you are all standing around a burnt tire? And that is why Clarky is dressed up as a priest?
Greg Lestrade-(holds up video camera and points it at Clarky) Sush!
OC Clarky (wearing a Catholic priest's robes and holding a Bible)-Fellow mourners, today we have come to pay our final respects to a 1985 Rolls-Royce Phantom VI, a true classic. As some of may or may not know, only three hundred and seventy-four cars were ever produced. So while losing an automobile is truly a tragic event, the loss of this car is all the more so, as it is unlikely that Mr. Holmes will ever be able to find an exact replica of the one he lost.
Peaceful Defender (nudging Chase)-Is he serious?
OC Chase Douglas-Sush! We are at a funeral! And yes, he is serious! I looked up the DMP's car on wikipedia! So you can see why this is so sad for us all!
Peaceful Defender-Then where is Mycroft?
OC Chase Douglas-He couldn't make it! He said something about how he would rather start a nuclear war than attend! Poor DMP!
OC Clarky-Now, let us have a moment of silence, and may we pray that Mr. Holmes' car will find comfort in the fact that it was…ahem…sacrificed for a good cause.
(Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, Silvia Anderson, and Stanley Hopkins break out into muffled giggles. OC Chase Douglas looks on sadly. Peaceful Defender looks at everyone as though they are crazy.)
OC Clarky (still droning on seriously)-Does anyone have any words for the dearly dismantled?
Stanley Hopkins (takes a step forward)-I do! (clears throat) Now, I only had the pleasure of seeing the car once before it was…(cough) detonated…but I think I speak for everyone here when I say that we all will mourn the car's passing. May it rest in pieces! (lowers head reverently).
(Sally Donovan, Greg Lestrade, and Silvia Anderson struggle desperately to keep from laughing out loud. OC Chase Douglas takes out a handkerchief and wipes his eyes. Peaceful Defender is debating whether or not now would be the best time to get a drink).
OC Clarky (still serious)-That was beautiful, Stanley! I don't think anyone could do better. Thank you for your touching and heartfelt words!
Peaceful Defender (points at burnt tire)-You aren't going to bury that thing in my yard, are you?
Stanley Hopkins-Actually, Clarky and I are going to sneak into Mycroft's back yard and bury it there. So he can visit it and remember all the good times!
Peaceful Defender-You mean like the time he had you kidnapped out of Paris, after you helped air the Bart's tape?
Stanley Hopkins-Exactly!
OC Clarky (holds up his Bible)-Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being here today. In closing, I need only remind you that sometimes we can't explain it when bad things happen, but we do know that they happen for a reason, so says the good Book! So let us be comforted by the fact that the car is up in that good old Highway in the Sky! (Turns to Stanley Hopkins) Ok, Stanley, let's go ahead and transport the poor soul to its final resting place. We can send a tape of the service to Mr. Holmes later!
Peaceful Defender-If I lend you two shovels, will you return them?
OC Clarky (shrugs)-Sure! Unless Lucky's sneaky government official brother confiscates them from us! Well, folks, that concludes our service! Please remember that there will be a "Celebration of the Life of the Rolls-Royce" at the local pub in two hours! Stanley and I should be done by then! (picks up burnt tire) Let's go, Stanley. Digging a grave is thirsty work, and I want to get me a drink after we are done!
Peaceful Defender (watches Stanley Hopkins and OC Clarky walk away with burnt tire)-Why do I get the feeling they won't be coming back!
OC Chase Douglas (dabbing his eyes)-It was a touching service!
(Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, and Silvia Anderson are still snickering in the background).
Peaceful Defender (messaging forehead)-I'm going to need a review after this!