Visitation
They drink their tea. Mostly in silence. John prods a few questions about the case from Sherlock. He answers them mechanically, as if reading a script. Yet, he mostly dodges glances and keeps instead to his fancy new Samsung as he answers a god-awful load of texts from Mycroft. Evidently, the British government assigned this case.
"So...Where do you live now?" John swallows. It was an open invitation back to Baker Street. Sherlock might not know that yet.
Sherlock looks up. He bites his lip.
"I've been assigned rooms near St. Thomas hospital." Sherlock nods. He won't say what street. John bows his head. He understands that this means Sherlock must frequently visit the hospital. Decidedly not Bart's, then.
Would it not be easier to live with a physician? One that cared for him personally as an added bonus?
"Well, I still live on Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson saved your old room and still only charges me half. We were hoping you'd come back and help pay the light bill." John grins. Sherlock sets down his phone, finishing the last of his tea. His eyes dance. They scream. Shriek. Ache. He wants to. John knows he wants to.
"Not sure they will allow it, but thank you." Sherlock nods.
"Would you ask them?" John leans forward. Takes Sherlock's shoulder as he moves to get up. Sherlock's eyes go wider still. They plead. They sob. The lashes flutter_scattering moths drawn to the flame of John's compassion. He swallows.
"Uh, yeah. Okay." Sherlock nods. Smiles. As if asking to be dismissed.
John clutches a little tighter, noticing the little tremor that is rolling through him. Inwardly, John's heart is sinking. Only God and the British government are likely to know what sort of medical record he has accrued. How he wished that he could examine him for himself and help him through this.
"Sherlock?"
"Mm?" Sherlock and John stand up together. John has taken his hand again, in both of his now. Holds it firmly, rolled in a fist, to his heart.
"Sherlock, don't be a stranger, alright? Like, really, dying was bad enough, mm? Say you'll call on me every now and then?" John smiles, trying to keep up a good-natured front to his every evaporating patience. Sherlock smiles curtly, coldly, professionally.
"Oh, if they will allow it. They dictate a lot of my cases now, but...Perhaps when I resume helping Lestrade…"Sherlock nods.
"Right. However you like, but...You will call won't you?" John cringes at the non-committal nod.
Then, against every fiber of his person, John lets him go. He can see in his eyes that he wants to be let go of. This, being tethered here, it's hurting him too much.
"Thank you for...for the tea." Sherlock waves at the table. Then, he scoops up his phone and retreats.
"I love you, mate," John whispers in reply, watching him flee.