Chapter 4
AN- Sorry about the late update, school has been absolutely crazy. I have had a softball game every day this week, plus two on Saterday, and a horseback show this coming Sunday (wish me luck!). The only reason I have time to write this is because my game got rained out! I am still looking for a beta, if you are interested, please PM me.
Warning- nothing M rates, but be aware that this is a T rated story
Also, a reviewer, sneakysnakes, pointed out a few spelling errors that I have now corrected. Thanks to sneakysnakes! Sorry for those of you who read those errors, as I have said before, I am working on it!
Disclaimer- I do not own BBC's Sherlock, even though I wish I did.
"Sherlock, I am fine, for God's sake! There is no need for you to help me do every d%$n thing." I angrily tell my husband (AN- I don't swear). I love my Sherlock, but at this point, he is getting on my nerves. It has been several days since I woke up, and I get to (FINALLY) go back to Baker Street, but that may or may not have to do with someone who holds a minor position in the British government.
I am still not doing as well as I would like, but from a doctors standpoint, I'm doing fairly well for having been shot. My leg is in a heavy plaster cast, my ribs are wrapped up tight, and my arm is in a sling. Everything hurts, but I get to go home. Sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, I rub my forehead with my good and say, "I'm sorry, love, I just want to be able to do some things on my own."
My husband sits next to me on the narrow bed and carefully wrapped his arm around me, letting my head rest on his shoulder, even though he has to slouch. "I know," he says, "but if you are incapable of doing something, I want to help you, just like you help me by even being home." Over the course of the past couple of days, Sherlock has told me of how things were going while I was abroad, and he did not seem to be able to function properly, and I can tell when he is playing down parts, of which I will have to collect from others when I get the chance.
"Come on," he said, "lets get my blogger back to Baker Street." He stands as the nurse comes in with the wheelchair, a pair of crutches hanging off of the back.
It takes both my husband an the nurse to maneuver me into the chair with the amount of hard plaster that is casing my limbs, but eventually we manage to get into the hallway where Sherlock waves the nurse away, pushing me himself. I can't help but admire the man I married, with his silky black curls, stormy blue eyes, and the little smirk he cannot help but wear as we pass people on the way to the entrance of the hospital.
Waiting outside is a sleek black car, Mycroft's doing, I assume. This time I am able to help Sherlock and maneuver my way into the back of the car. He hands me the crutches before climbing in beside me, having to fold up his lanky legs to fit inside of the small interior.
By the time that we reach 221 B, I am getting tired again, but I make it up the seventeen steps with little hassle, even with the crutches. Sherlock stands behind me, seemingly worried that I will fall.
"Sherlock?" I ask, after settling into my chair with my leg propped up, "Do you mind if I order some take out? I haven't eaten real food since I left for Afghanistan!"
"Of course! I took the liberty of ordering Chinese before we left the hospital. One of Mycroft's minions will bring it by in about an hour, if you want to shower. I know that you hate the hospital when you are a patient." It is times like these that I love my husband, and can forget about things like finding eyeballs in the microwave or fingers in the fridge.
"That sounds great, love. Mind helping me wrap up the cast?" he did, in fact, not mind helping at all. I settled into the bath quickly, glad of the relief to my shoulder. Sherlock stayed behind with me in the loo, helping me clean up when I can't reach a spot and wash my hair. There is nothing in this world that is better than my husbands long fingers working the tension from my back, even if he had to skip over sections because of my injuries.
When we were done, the food had been left on the table, which was for once without any sort of experiment or foreign/toxic substance. It was a nice change. Baker Street had not evolved much, the only major things being that most of the mess had been cleaned, and a skeleton of a small reptile had joined the skull on the mantle.
"Sherlock," I said, after taking a bite of delicious Chinese, "why is there a skeleton on the mantle next to the skull? I thought Mrs. Hudson had taken the skull away?"
"She did, but I took it back while she was visiting her sister about two months ago. It wasn't hard to find, and the lock was even simpler to open. As for Leonard, I got lonely without you and Skully to talk to." Was his reply.
"I never knew the skull had a name. When did that happen?"
"When I was six. We all make mistakes when we were children." The look on my husbands face when he says this sends me over the edge and I burst out in laughter. He looks at me like I am an extraterrestrial (I can never say alien around him. Long story for another time.) Although that was the funniest thing I think I had ever herd my husband say, my laughter quickly died as the pain in my ribs returned.
Of course, because he is Sherlock Holmes, he does not fail to notice my wince of pain and immediately grabs two pain killers out of the medicine carbonate.
I glare at him, "Only one, I don't want to pass out yet, I haven't even had a cup of tea."
"It's just Aspirin. I don't want you to fall asleep yet either." He says, and I give in drowning them with water.
After dinner, we sat on the couch together, Sherlock's back pressed up against the arm rest, thighs spread so that I can sit between them, leaning back against his chest. We each hold a cup of tea, just basking in the feeling of holding each other for the first time in about a year.
As we listen to the sounds of London bustling around us, the sound of a siren comes closer and closer, quickly followed by pounding on the door downstairs. Neither Sherlock nor I try to move, for we hear Mrs. Hudson answer the door. Someone runs up the stairs two at a time (only making contact with eight of the steps), and the door flees open to a disheveled looking man at the door.
I recognize him as Detective Inspector Lestrade of the New Scotland Yard from my husband's description.
Sherlock calmly looks up over the edge of the couch and says, "What's different about this one?"