A/N: Short and late, sorry. -csf


Two.

Rain splatters on the cold window pane as I stare on blankly. Straining drops chasing each other playfully through established paths, sudden contractions and changes in direction through unexpected gusts of wind. It's a mindless task, to observe the rain stained window, but I pursue it nonetheless, with the relentlessness of a mind adrift, hoping to anchor itself in some distraction, any distraction.

It's easier to be the numb soldier than the doctor right now. Hold your position, wait for the call-back, keep steady soldier.

Behind me the dismayed screech of metal wheels on a trolley grate my brain with their disconcerting whine; but I won't turn. My attention focused solely on those rain drops drifting down the tall, cold glass surface of 221B's living room windows.

It never stops raining.

The same rain peltered the cab windows yesterday, when we were heading towards the crime scene. Sherlock was energetic, enthusiastic and laconic as always. His high energy drawing me in to his maelstrom of brilliance, a vortex of light emanating from that beautiful mind.

I asked about the crime scene; at least I think I did. Sherlock adjourned tangible explanations and I accepted his stance knowing his mind was already overridden by hypothesis and statistics for similar crimes. Joining the pieces of the puzzle, focusing the picture they formed one at a time. When the time came, I would be told. Sherlock would disclose the crime, the clues and the culprit in his usual showmanship manner. I could afford to wait and get to know it all in one go. Let myself be awed as always, I enjoy it as much as my friend does.

I never thought there was anything I needed to know in advance.

I'm not a detective. I'm a doctor, a soldier, and now a sidekick, and it's exactly as a sidekick that I should have known more earlier.

Sighing I shake my head to no one, seeking solace in the darkness as I rub my eyes harshly. The imprint of recent memories to stark a contrast against the darkness.

My sternum twinges painfully in sharp warning.

Yeah, I climbed a ladder. It had been rigged by the criminal. I had a nasty fall. Broke a couple of ribs. Some intercostal detachment, bruised ligaments and the ominous possibility of worsening my condition if I don't keep mostly to an unnatural immobility while they heal, unify again.

Angrily I look up, to that cold foggy window and glare at what I find in it.

The sunset is spreading over the city. The dusk brings out new reflections of the lit windows across the street, overlapping rooftops, lit lamplights, multi-coloured traffic lights interchanging mechanically, a city bustling independently from human command.

There is misery behind those anonymous residential windows, and shop window displays, of busses circulating on those streets and the front screen of the emergency vehicles waiting for the green light. Each of us independent of the others, oblivious even, just waiting to play our role in the interconnected humanity, a game of chasing twinkling lights, watched and imagined mindlessly from within the windows of Baker Street.

There are soft padded steps heading my way. Quiet, subdued, theatrical in their fabrication. Sherlock must have thought I was asleep. Seeing my eyes open, red rimmed and dark circled, he approaches with more determination. There is an electrical switch clicking and a soft light bathes the familiar space.

I keep watching the window. The rain less perceptible now, layered by the Pepper ghost imprint of the room reflected on the glass pane. The Damascus curtains framing the window only reaffirm the theatricality of a fragile reality.

Sherlock. Behind him, in the kitchen, tea mugs and nibbles on a metal trolley is the answer to the sounds I heard earlier.

'John?' my friend's soft voice is compassionate, caring and calm. I allow my eyes to drift back to source.

He looks a bit frazzled, despite the homeliness of the inside out t-shirt and the blue silk dressing gown framing his slim figure.

A loitering, damaged soldier is, despite all rumours, not an usual sight within our walls. Yes, we get hurt a lot. The risk comes with the job. But usually we're back on our feet before long.

I let him take a good look at me. He'll need to have a strong memory of my state to solidify his decision – the only he can come to – of leaving me behind as he pursues his next cases.

I'm too much of a broken man to follow him; and even if I fought the excruciating pain there could only come long-term damage, and no real support or backup for my friend in the Work.

'Hey, mate. Got a new case?' I ask, desperately swallowing back the bitterness in my voice. I ran out of luck. Not even Sherlock Holmes could have foreseen the upcoming disaster. I hold grudges on no one.

He blinks, then seems to ponder my words. His eyes – water coloured like the rain splatters on the windows – flicker in the direction of his laptop, abandoned on the desk. Finally he looks me straight on, with a determination that nearly startles me. 'Yes, a case', he agrees.

'So... Going out?'

He shakes his head, no.

Then abruptly he turns towards the kitchen. 'Made us dinner, John. You can't live of pot noodles, toast and tea.'

Mostly liquids, as I've found out chewing toast is ruddy painful, but he gets his point across.

'Take away?' I smile.

He hides a smirk and a blush, looking most interested to the fireplace mantel he clears: 'I cooked. Learned something once for a case. The world of Michelin starred French chefs is cut throat in Paris. Literally', he adds with too much enjoyment. 'The garnish section was one of the cleanest crime scenes I've ever worked in, apart from the gruesome garrotting. You could have eaten of that floor.'

'No, thanks', I retort automatically with a frown. 'Undercover work?' I gather. 'Did you start as a pot washer?'

Sherlock comes to take a seat on the coffee table, knowing full well he's got all of my attention now, the pain having recessed into the back of my conscious mind now I've got a distraction.

'They nearly kicked me out', he admits with a wide goofy smile. I smile too. Soon he's chuckling, good natured. 'They told me I don't know how to wash pots. I told the head chef he didn't know how to choose real saffron and was being sold inferior quality substitutes. I may have elaborated more on the topic than they expected. By the end of it I found myself promoted to the garnish section.'

'That's amazing.'

'It helps it was the dead man's job and they were desperate for someone to take over the section. As for the work itself, it was child's play. Memorize and reproduce at high speed. I even managed to collect samples and pick up trace evidence from every non-serrated single edged long blade knife there, and there were nearly sixty of those. With such pressure, high temperature and hot tempers, not to mention wide availability of weapons, it's a wonder how they keep their assassination quotas so low.'

I try my best not to chuckle – only because my grumpy ribs don't like the exercise.

Sherlock takes a deeper breath, nearly a sigh, looking me over. He seems pleased with himself, calmer, as he sees my despondency leaving me.

I realise Sherlock must have been overthinking this, wondering how to help me, cheer me up, when clearly all the genius needed to do was to be himself.

'Ready to try some food? I lifted the recipe of the murderous French chef, so we should be alright', he tells me.

I smile all the thanks I can't quite out into words yet.

.

TBC