(A/N) Uninteresting fact, I'm sure: I've just realised I've been posting for a year today. I've learnt a lot. Wish I could say thank you to everyone that gave a try to my stories. -csf


. Part Two of Two .

The patient is asleep, mostly due to the side-effects of the pain-killers, I'd assume. It's time for me to rest somewhat as well, if I can. I won't risk going far, Sherlock might need me. Waking up to total darkness and some confusion as to the recent events will make Sherlock understandingly berserk.

I remove my sling and chuck it to the table. I have a few minutes to slump myself on my armchair, resisting the urge to close my eyes at once.

Good idea too, for Mrs Hudson is making her way up the stairs with a brown envelope. Sherlock's file, from Mycroft.

'Thank you so much, Mrs H', I appreciate as I go greet her. She will have none of that, fussing over me at once:

'Oh, John, what have you two done this time? You don't look so good, love.' She shakes her head and tuts away as I take hold of Sherlock's medical records, browsing through.

'I'm fine, Sherlock's got the worse of it, but given time he'll be fine', I assure her calmly. I know she must be worried sick about him.

It won't stop her from going over to the table to try to put some order in 221B. It's a coping and control mechanism, I know, but I need to put an end to it at once. Sherlock's photographic memory will guide him through the living room so long as it's kept the same.

'Mrs Hudson, I know you're not the housekeeper, but could you do Sherlock some nice rich soup?' Diversion manoeuvre engaged.

She knows she's being played, but she won't say No to Sherlock. Reluctantly she agrees to come back later. With one last sad look at me, she adds: 'Call me, John, if you need me. Sherlock won't make it easy on you.'

I smirk softly. I don't expect so either. He's too independent. Even when we are on cases and I'm his backup, still he won't fully disclose or share his plans. I've been fighting a long running battle for his trust.

As soon as Mrs Hudson is leaving, Sherlock is emerging from his room, grumpy and bewildered in equal amounts.

'Sherlock, are you okay?' I ask. Dumb question, too obvious for the genius. He snorts arrogantly. If it wasn't for the blue scarf you still haven't let go off, I'd might believe your act there.

'I need my medication', he tells me forcefully. He wants to haste his recovery. Like a kid, he acts as if more medicine and painkillers could fix him faster.

'It's too early.'

'Nonsense, John.'

'No one would have given you more at the hospital.'

'That's why I came here.'

I won't be your enabler on this, Sherlock. I'm a doctor and your wellbeing is at risk. 'I can't, Sherlock. Not until I have a proper look at this.' I raise the folder in the air. He won't see it, but he'll know what I'm talking about, surely.

At the cover of Sherlock's darkness he twists his face in despise towards me, for not playing along. He'll never take notice of my instant reaction.

It's like something in our mutual confidence has been broken by his terrible affliction. There's a huge gap between us, and I can't reach my friend, not right now.

'Just go away, John', he tells me, coldly. It sends a shiver down my spine.

I can't. 'I won't.'

'I don't want you here. Mrs Hudson can help me.'

She will. We both will. 'If you rest a bit more, you'll feel better, you'll see.'

'I'm not one of your stupid average patients.' I know who you are, Sherlock. 'And you are useless as a doctor, John. I need a specialist, not a... GP.'

I gulp. That's what I am now, yeah. 'Fine, I'll run some names by your brother.'

'He can do it himself. He doesn't need your help.' I know his tone of voice comes from a place of hurt, he doesn't mean it.

'Fine. Look, Sherlock, I know this is all new and you're in pain, but—'

Suddenly he snaps at me: 'No, you don't know! I'm not a crippled washed-up GP like you! Don't you ever think you know me!'

My heart sinks at his words and his perception of me. Stoically I fake a tight smile and shuffle around, mechanically. Time for me to leave, before things spin out of my control.

I go past Mrs Hudson at the door, she must have heard all of it, roused by our argument. Somehow, this is sweet caring Mrs H and I can't bring myself to face her, humiliated by Sherlock's words. The way he sees me. I need to go. She must see the same. Out. Keep steady till you're out of sight, John.

.

What sort of a person am I, that abandons a friend in his hour of need? Slowly, the anger and the hurt have turned into guilt, after a cooling off period. My friend is lost and alone, and I've taken to heart words said in haste. I should have known better.

Even as a washed-up crippled GP I can still be of use, Sherlock.

As I return to Baker Street with hundreds of apologies crossing my brain, ready to be vented, I'm deeply worried about Sherlock.

I come to find him in the living room. Sat on my armchair, his back turned to me. All I get to see of him are his long legs and disheveled curly hair sticking out. He looks quiet, peaceful, acceptant of his eremite-like loneliness. It pains me to see him this alone.

'Sherlock', I call him softly, 'I'm sorry.'

This time he's startled. He turns reflexively towards the sound of my voice. I can see relief in his expression, I didn't quite expect that. 'I shouldn't have left', I add.

He shakes his head and shows me the object he's been holding. Something blue? Still his scarf, I suppose. He tugs at it and the Velcro scratches typically. I realise he's got hold of my shoulder strap. I had forgotten it in the living room table.

'What else didn't I see, John?' he asks me quietly, pained. 'What didn't I observe? This sound, the Velcro, I heard it a lot. I disregarded it. And it was the most important clue.'

'What do you mean?'

'The explosion. Obviously it didn't just hit me. I've been hearing your voice, I felt the strength of your grip and the energy of your footsteps. You seemed okay.'

I had to fake it, Sherlock. Every time I walked into the room I lightened my footsteps, pushed through my own pain, because I knew you are a great investigator, no matter the circumstances. I had to fool you, Sherlock, because I knew you'd push me away if you'd realise you couldn't lean on me to get through this. 'Sorry for that as well.'

'How did you fool me? I'm the genius here.'

A brief smile comes to my lips. 'You had a lot on your mind, forget it', I diverge at once.

'What else is there?' he insists.

I sigh. I suppose I need to tell him. Or he'll ask Greg or Mycroft. Either way I can't hold it from him. 'Dislocated shoulder, it's been reset. A couple of cracked ribs on the same side. The sling helps with both. I really shouldn't have left it behind. I'm sorry I didn't tell you.'

He shakes his head, frustrated. 'How could I not notice it?' he insists.

'The same way I didn't understand your restlessness because I let myself get blinded by what happened. I failed you, Sherlock. I should have been better at supporting you.' I bow my head down in defeat. Not that Sherlock will see it, nor did I want him to. A shiver of cold is the only proof that I stand here at the moment, the shock of the events eroding me from inside out. For the first time, I'm actually facing my condition; I've been so focused on Sherlock.

'John.'

I realise Sherlock has got up, awkwardly, tentatively. He hesitates on what to do. He doesn't understand what is going on, my silence. I can't bring myself to fake steadiness right now. Yet I refuse to be a burden on him. If I can just be in this limbo for a bit longer, immorally exploring Sherlock's loss for a couple of moments of privacy, then maybe I can still pull myself together and help him like I should be doing.

Sherlock is usually the steady one; carrying both our weights as drained me.

It's too much for a crippled—

'I didn't mean that', he says at once, with a bold fire in his blue eyes. It's almost as if he could see me. I don't know how I expected to further fool the great detective. 'John, I mean it now that I didn't mean it then.'

Child-like excuses, I guess he wants more painkillers and he's gracing his way to them.

'No offense taken', I mutter, and it's true. I'm not offended by his truth. I'm squeezing my shoulder tight in my hand, numbly, as I speak.

'You're bleeding, please sit down, John', Sherlock asks me quietly.

I look down on my left shoulder. Sure enough there's a wet red stain there. 'It's superficial', I shake my head. Then it hits me—

—Sherlock saw it.

I've been talking to a man who's been looking back at me. His sight has returned since I left him, and he's used my uncertainty of his condition to study my reactions shamefully.

'You can see again, Sherlock.' I really shouldn't be smiling. He's tricked me. I don't care, I'm relieved. Why keep it a secret? Was he waiting for me to deduce it? I— He was watching me, it hits me all of a sudden. I raise my chin and tighten my jaw. It's the last time you'll ever see my vulnerability, Sherlock.

He's been quiet, as if giving me enough time to take it all in. Now he insists, calmly: 'Will you sit down, John?'

I shake my head curtly. 'Don't need to.'

He purses his lips softly, pondering me. 'No, you don't need to', he concedes, 'but you may wish to do so.'

I shake my head again. 'I'm fine.'

He rolls his eyes, muttering 'I said I was sorry!'

I clench my jaw. 'Don't be.'

'I've clearly hurt you with my words, John.' Will you leave it alone already?

'No', I lie.

'You can't have taken offense to be called a GP because that's your job. You go to the clinic to save lives. And give out vitamins; you do that too. And you can't have taken the rest to the letter because you know you're not crippled.' I look away in a tell I couldn't help. 'I see...' Sherlock states, abusing that expression that to the both of us has just gained a new meaning. 'John, I am sorry', he says it again, this time softly, meaningfully. 'I was upset. I meant to hurt you because I wanted to push you away. But I didn't feel better when you left.'

I look at my friend, and his child-like explanations of his inner turmoil. This time he's got there without my help deciphering it for him. Actually, he just may be acting more mature than me, right now.

I've realised that I've been doing the same. Pushing him away, hurtfully. And I, as well, didn't mean to hurt him.

'We should both take a seat, Sherlock', I concede at last. He smiles genuinely, relieved. 'Who's going to make tea?' I wonder.

'Rock, paper, scissors?' he volunteers, with a smirk.

.