Mycroft Holmes leaned on his umbrella as he stood quietly and observed the profile of his brother in the moonlight.
Sherlock stood leaning on a sparse tree trunk, looking up at the starry sky as the lighted cigarette between his fingers rose and fell. They were in an isolated corner of the sprawling grounds of the hospital, a long way away from the bustling traffic of patients, relatives, ambulances—the sounds of humans in trouble, in grief and the sounds of rescue and support.
Taking a deep breath Mycroft straightened his shoulders and pulled himself to his full height as he walked up to Sherlock. He observed Sherlock's body stiffen at the approach but otherwise stay unmoving. Mycroft came up to stand silently by his brother's side, staring into the distance, only the tiny scraping sounds of his umbrella on the dried grass any indication of his presence.
It was only when Sherlock threw the cigarette butt down and crushed it with his shoe, that Mycroft spoke, his voice soft.
"You may have saved his life."
"Only after I had endangered it first," Sherlock murmured quietly.
Mycroft looked at Sherlock and said sharply, "That is not very productive thinking at this stage, Sherlock."
Sherlock looked back, something sad and forlorn in his ever changeable eyes as they glinted silver in the moonlight. "It is however the brutal truth."
Mycroft pursed his lips, "It is the nature of the work that you do. John was well aware of the risks."
Sherlock looked away in the distance again as he leaned back onto the tree, his hands in the pockets of his giant coat.
Mycroft sighed. "I had assumed I would find you fretting by his side, driving everyone mad and trying to control everything."
"Contrary to popular belief I am well aware of my limitations and know when to cede control to ones who are better trained than I am," Sherlock said drily. He sighed as he sneaked a quick glance at Mycroft, "Besides I have you. I don't need to stay in there getting in everyone's way to know what's happening. You'll do enough of that for both of us."
Mycroft rolled his eyes as Sherlock continued, "I was with him while they resuscitated him. Three shocks with the defibrillator restored sinus rhythm, blood pressure came up with fluid resuscitation, they put in a chest tube on the right side and intubated him. Once they took him to the OR there was nothing to do but wait."
Mycroft nodded, "He is undergoing surgery right now. They did pre-operative imaging and found he'd fractured his L1 vertebra, a bony fragment is impinging on his spinal cord and it needs to be removed. Dr Gibson is the best spinal surgeon in the country and he will be working on that. They also found a rather large and growing hematoma near the liver. And of course the open fracture of the right tibia. Dr Nolan is working on doing an exploratory laparotomy and Dr Chadda is working on the leg."
Mycroft paused as he turned to Sherlock, his eyes full of worry at the sight of the slumped figure of his brother. "Every expert that we could summon is at hand. The best nurses, the best anaesthetists, the best surgeons. Everyone is working hard, Sherlock, to save his life and limb."
They stood in silence even as the loud wail of a distant ambulance echoed around them. The stillness emanating from Sherlock distressed Mycroft. It did not portend well for his frame of mind. He would take a manic and frustrated Sherlock any day over this still, quiet figure with the tightness around his eyes; except when he was actively deducing, it was a sure sign of a mind working at an agitated pace while the body was kept in check by his formidable will.
Finally Sherlock said, "I know."
He pulled out his packet of cigarettes and offered one to Mycroft. Both lit up and took deep drags as they stood silently.
"Harry has been informed. But she won't be able to come. She's in rehab," Mycroft said as he flicked ash off.
Sherlock straightened up and turned to Mycroft, eyes narrowed as they flicked, scanned, deduced.
"The last time was two years ago, she was in rehab for eight months during that particular episode," Mycroft continued.
Sherlock's eyes widened as the data coalesced into a conclusion. "You arranged it. You're paying for it. You've been monitoring her and helping her." His look was one of wonder, not that Mycroft would do this, but that he had never considered it.
Mycroft shrugged, "She is family, she is John's sister after all."
"Oh, John….John….," Sherlock's mirthless chuckle was loud, deep. He shook his head in wonder and leaned back against the tree, "And he thinks you are a pompous, inflated wind-bag and in equal parts fears you and views you with derision."
Mycroft rolled his eyes again as he took another puff. "Oh, please! Trust me I can live without his approval."
Sherlock shook his head and sighed.
Mycroft phone pinged. He opened it and read the message quickly.
"Time to go in. They are wrapping up in the theatre."
He turned and looked at Sherlock intently. "Whatever be the outcome, I wish you to know that we will face it together, Sherlock. You are not alone in this."
Sherlock's eyes were moist as he murmured quietly, "I never doubted it."
The private room in the Intensive Care Unit was buzzing with hospital staff.
One nurse was helping a resident doctor set up the ventilator and monitors. Another was setting up IV fluids and antibiotics on one stand and type specific blood on another. A wards person was making the bed.
Dr Gibson and Dr Chaddha stood on one side as they faced the two tall dignified looking men, one holding an umbrella and the other wearing a great big Belstaff coat. Dr Gibson was a thin rakish man in his sixties with a balding head and a sharp penetrating eyes. He was doing most of the talking while Dr Chaddha periodically nodded his head.
"We found a fracture of the transverse process of the first lumbar vertebra. A rather large bony fragment was pressing against the spinal cord. Fortunately it had penetrated only the outer layer." He gesticulated to the nurse to bring him a paper and pen to draw on, but stopped as he was interrupted.
"So only the dura matter, not the arachnoid?" Sherlock asked, his voice deep and polite. He was standing with his hands behind his back, fingers digging into his palm as he struggled to keep his voice even, his gaze focussed.
Dr Gibson gave a start and looked closely at Sherlock. "Yes, that's right," he said slowly. "So the chances of infection have decreased. However there is rather substantial inflammation around the injury which accounts for his acute loss of functioning. We removed the fragment and have relieved the compression. We hope that the inflammation settles down in the next few days."
Mycroft spoke for the first time.
"So John should be able to walk in the next few days?"
"We hope so. But with acute spinal injury the outcome is always unpredictable."
Sherlock clenched his jaw as he absorbed this. "What about the other injuries?"
"Well, Dr Nolan did an exploratory laparotomy and found a large hematoma on the superior surface of the liver. He estimates it was easily a litre if not more. It collected between the liver and the liver capsule as it grew. And it pressed against the diaphragm and hence compressed the right lung, causing it to collapse. The capsule tore on one side causing bleeding into the abdominal cavity, we estimate that was another litre. Dr Watson has received three pints of blood intraoperatively and will need some more post-operatively. The hematoma was evacuated. Also he fractured the eleventh and twelfth ribs, one of which nearly punctured the lung. And there is some adjacent pulmonary contusion."
He paused for breath as he looked at the Holmes brothers.
"Mr Holmes, he did lose a lot of blood and he was down for quite some time. We have done the best we can, but we won't know about full neurological recovery until he wakes up."
With most relatives he would perhaps not have been so detailed in his explanations, but the reputation of Sherlock Holmes preceded him. And although all he knew about the tall man with the umbrella was that he was Mr Holmes's brother, he suspected he was someone important in the government. A mere six hours ago he had been amongst friends and family celebrating the sixteenth birthday of his grandson, when official looking armed men had interrupted and without further ado escorted him to the hospital. Wonder who he is? He looks like a decent enough chap….
They turned as they heard the sound of a bed being rolled in. John lay unconscious on it, looking frail and small, tubes sticking out of him.
An elderly fit looking surgeon introduced himself as Dr Nolan, while the nurses and the wardsman shifted John to the ICU bed. The anaesthetist, who had been inflating the Ambu bag, removed it and began to attach the endotracheal tube to the ventilator, while the nurses got busy hooking up the intravenous antibiotics and blood. One stooped down to tie the urine bag attached to a Foley catheter to the bed. Another attached the chest tube and intraperitoneal tubes with their drainage bags full of blood stained fluid to the other side of the bed railings.
Sherlock looked grimly on, his knuckles almost white, his fists were clenched tight behind his back. Mycroft sneaked an anxious glance at his brother…..Dear Lord! I hope John comes out of this okay….I did everything I could…..I don't know how Sherlock will handle it, this is a first….
As they watched, Dr Chaddha, the orthopaedic surgeon spoke out. "Mr Holmes, I needed to put in a nail and rod to hold both ends of the tibia together. Fortunately there was no neurovascular damage, so I think his leg should be okay. As you can see he has a plaster cast on for now."
Dr Gibson stepped forward.
"We've decided to keep him intubated for perhaps another 24 hours to give his lungs a chance to recover. Dr Watson will be sedated and unconscious till then."
He took a deep breath and looked at Sherlock with kindly, wizened eyes. "Mr Holmes, it is my experience that relatives have many questions after the first day and we are all here to answer them when they arise. Right now the pertinent information has been given and we will all be back tomorrow to answer all your questions."
The staff shook hands with both brothers one by one and left. After some more adjustments and carrying out more orders the nurses left too, with a caution, "Don't touch anything, buzz if you need anything. We'll be in and out all night, so if you wish to go home it is fine."
The room fell suddenly quiet with only the hiss and beeps of the ventilator and monitor breaking the silence. Sherlock slowly sank down on the chair that had been placed strategically at the bedside and looked on at John. So small, so breakable…..like something vital has been snuffed out of him…..John….John.
Mycroft cast a surreptitious glance at his brother. At the exhaustion and despondence on the face, the tears held in check by the force of habit rather than embarrassment, as Sherlock bit his lower lips absently and stared at the frail figure on the bed.
Physical touch has been something the brothers had not indulged in since Sherlock had outgrown his childhood. A sudden vivid memory flashed in front of Mycroft's eyes; of an emotionally distraught Sherlock crying in Mycroft's lap as though his heart were breaking when Redbeard had died.
Propelled by a protective instinct ingrained in him since Sherlock was a mere baby, Mycroft laid a firm hand on his shoulder, wanting to offer so much more. He let out an involuntary gasp, as at the touch Sherlock turned with an anguished child's cry and buried his face in Mycroft's abdomen, his hands fluttering by his side before they settled around Mycroft's waist.
Shaken fingers dropped the umbrella as both hands came up to cradle his brother's head, as though wanting to shield him from all the world's woes. A powerful wave of the unbounded love he held, long suppressed due to convention and fear of ridicule, swept his body as he held his brother, trying to convey his affection and support through his touch alone. Sherlock's shoulders shook minutely as he cried silently and tightened his arms around Mycroft's waist.
With a voice overcome by love, Mycroft whispered fiercely, "He is going to be fine, Sherlock. Yes, the recovery will take some time. But he is stable and with you by his side he will go from strength to strength, my dearest." He stood stooped, as he ran his fingers gently through Sherlock's hair soothingly and allowed that tired giant mind to rest for a while.
Post-operative Day 1, 9.30 pm
We've got you, soldier. You are now ours, look how we squeeze your neck and snuff the life out of you, you white infidel….
I am dying, I can't breathe. I have no strength…..can't move my hands…they've stuffed something down my throat…..Oh God! I'm dying, suffocating…nothing can help me…Fuck, fuck…. John's head screamed as his weakened hands made clumsy attempts to reach his neck, to pull out whatever the fucking Taliban had crammed into his throat...I'm dying…I don't want to die. Why does it always have to be me…..always ME…wasn't a bullet in the shoulder enough…almost died once, don't want to die again….We've got you, we're going to kill you…the staccato sounds of machine gun fire roared inside his head, his eyes heavy lidded as though they had put weights on them as well…desert sand whooshing past him as he clamoured, tried to pull and claw this thing they had put inside him….
And then blessed relief…..
"JOHN, stop it. Listen to me, JOHN."
Sherlock's voice floated into his ears. That beautiful other-worldy baritone, the only sound in this entire universe that he trusted, that soothed him above all else, spoke.
The fight died out….I'm safe, he's found me. I'm safe, he will never allow anything to harm me. His twitching hands fell limply by his side as his confused, sedated brain latched on to the voice even as it tried to clamber out of the haze and face the real world. Sherlock's voice. Always Sherlock…..always Sherlock.
"I'm right here. You're safe. You are in hospital. You have a tube down your throat to help you breathe. Settle down, John. I'm right here. Take deep breaths. It's going to be okay."
Sherlock kept speaking in low tones, as the nurses and resident doctor responded to his urgent buzzing. Slowly John opened his eyes, eyes that looked drugged and uncomprehending. Sherlock moved to the head of the bed, giving the medical staff space in which to work. He kept his face low and kept murmuring reassurances and explaining what was happening to John, peering down into his eyes.
Slowly awareness returned as John's eyes became more alert.
"When you're ready, Dr Watson, we want to remove this tube out, okay?" the doctor said calmly.
John gave a brief nod but kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock.
"Keep your eyes on me, John. They're about to deflate the balloon and pull the tube out," Sherlock's voice was soft, the gentleness in it like a physical caress.
"One, two, three…..okay, Dr Watson, it is out."
John coughed and coughed. His chest hurt. A cool hand pressed gently over the right side of his chest supporting him, as the hacking cough continued.
"You fractured two ribs, John. That's why it hurts."
"Here, Dr Watson, have some ice chips, they'll help your throat," a nurse said as she angled some ice chips from a plastic cup to John's dry lips.
As John settled down, the staff took more necessary readings, made adjustments before they left.
Sherlock came and sat down, facing John, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the bed as he started to explain.
In low murmurs and slow words, allowing the words to penetrate, keen eyes watching every subtle reaction on John's face he explained-what had happened, the injuries, what was done to repair them, what the current situation was, what the prognosis was.
The medical doctor in John's head listened carefully and analysed the information streaming from Sherlock's lips without interrupting. But most of him was looking in wonder at Sherlock, at the tired, haggard face, the unshed tears with which his eyes shone, at the concern and love he saw beneath the normally proud and impenetrable expression that Sherlock always wore, like an armour. His bottom lip was curled in as it did when something had upset him. As he spoke, an isolated tear creeped out of one beautiful blue-grey eye, even as his voice continued to remain steady.
How could I have not seen this? How much I mean to him…is this what it takes to see the love, the regard that he holds for me…. to know how much he cares?
John asked finally in a hoarse voice, "So the bottom line is that I'm going to walk. And recovery will be a bitch, but it's all okay?"
"Yes."
John looked stoic as he said, "Okay then, I can deal with that." He nodded pointedly at the tear rolling down.
Sherlock blinked his eyes and said disgustedly, "Ignore it. Sentiment."
Post-operative Day 2, 11 AM
"Do you have any more questions of me before I examine you, Dr Watson?" Dr Gibson asked.
"No, it's fine. Do what you have to do," John replied.
Sherlock stood silent, watching intently as Dr Gibson did a neurological examination. There was a look of relief all around as John's toes wriggled slightly, the reflexes sluggish but present and there was some return of sensation to touch.
Dr Gibson looked pleased as he said, "Well, this is good progress indeed, Dr Watson. You will need a few more days of antibiotics and several weeks of physiotherapy. And you will be in some considerable pain from the fractures and the abdominal surgery. We are going to need to manage that effectively. But I am very optimistic with the outlook of complete recovery."
John took a deep breath as he looked at Sherlock. They smiled at each other, hope and relief in their eyes.
Post-operative Day 3, 10.45 AM
The warm wet sponge felt both rough and pleasant as it was rubbed over his back with firm, expert strokes.
The matronly nurse with the stern no-nonsense look on her face talked as she worked at giving John his sponge-bath.
"You're a lucky man, Dr Watson. I know it doesn't much feel like it right now."
Raising one arm, she rubbed his armpit and then soaked the towel in the hot water bowl and wrung it again. Briskly picking up another limp arm, she continued, "Mr Holmes's brother is right frightening if you ask me! It was a crazy night, that's for sure. Cecilia, the theatre nurse told me that the Director of Nursing was personally present in the theatre to make sure things were ship shape. The floor was crawling with medical staff and special forces people. As though you were a VIP or some foreign leader or something….Thirty years of working in hospitals, never seen anything like it!"
John grunted as he listened….so weak, I can't even raise my hand, as though I have no energy. I wish she would stop yapping…..so Mycroft had made himself useful for once, fuck, hate owing him anything…
She peered down as she rubbed to towel behind his ears, next to the nasal crease, removed gunk from his eyes. "I mean don't get me wrong, of course you are a celebrity, what with your blog and all. Even the ones who've not read it and heard about you being in the hospital are reading it now." She wrung the towel again. "You know, Dr Watson, Mr Holmes is not at all like what I thought he would be. He comes across as a brilliant but a tad eccentric in the blog….you know, like…well, anyway I thought he'd be difficult and surly." She shrugged her shoulders as she wiped his chest, "But he's been nothing but gentlemanly since he's been here. We were just about ready for him to bite someone's head off. But he's been courteous and unobtrusive. And he doesn't speak much does he? And we can all see that he does care about you very much!"
John grunted again, too tired to respond. He filed her words for contemplation later.
She raised the gown and started wiping down the left leg and the right thigh which had a plaster cast on.
"I know you feel weak, Dr Watson. It's all that blood loss you know. And your spinal injury. Thank God, you haven't caught an infection yet." She raised a freshly wrung wet towel and offered it to John. "So, do you want to do your privates or would you like me to do them?"
Post-operative Day 3, 3.45 PM
John sat in bed, his back reclined at an angle on the hospital bed as he listened.
"Dr Watson, my name is James Adams. I am the physiotherapist assigned to you."
John looked at the young Adonis in front of him looking disgustingly fit and enthusiastic.
James rubbed his hands as he continued, "Well, you are a doctor so probably know this already. Muscle tissue starts to atrophy within as less as 72 hours if not used. So we need to start putting those muscles to work."
He held John's arm and bent it at the elbow. "We'll start with passive exercises and as you regain your strength and mobility move on to active exercises. Are you ready to begin?"
Post-operative Day 4- 10.40 PM
Sherlock emerged from the bathroom wearing his royal blue robe over his usual pajamas and t-shirt.
"Not a word," he said warningly to John, who gave a tired smile.
A small bed had been supplied with the room and placed at right angles to John's bed. The door to the adjoining bathroom opened on the third wall.
Sherlock had been sleeping on the uncomfortable, lumpy bed for the past three nights. And watched John as he slept. Or rather as John tried to stay asleep. Every night he watched as John's body was wracked with involuntary movements resulting from whatever hellish nightmares his subconscious chose to engage him in. Only Sherlock's voice seemed to calm him, bring him back from the precipice. Sherlock grabbed bare snatches of light sleep, refusing to allow himself to sleep soundly for fear of not being there when John needed him.
John seemed to have no memory of the troubled sleep, only woke up exhausted and weak. He moved slowly in bed like an old man. The physiotherapist had tried to get him to stand on his own feet but he had been unable to keep his balance for more than a couple of minutes. It tore into Sherlock to see his friend so helpless, especially because he could do nothing to hurry the tide of time.
Now he slid on the bed, his back resting on a pillow propped against the wall and pulled the sheet up to his chest. "I am tired of trying to sleep in formal clothes." He shrugged.
John watched Sherlock balance his laptop on his lap and his eyes move rapidly on the monitor. His voice was hesitant as he said, "You could go home to Baker Street and sleep, you know."
Sherlock's voice was soft as he flicked his gaze up and met John's eyes, "I know."
John sighed and looked up at the ceiling, lost in thought. It was a while before he said, "Still feel so damn tired, so weak."
Sherlock looked up briefly and murmured, "It's going to take time, John. It is normal to feel dejected when the body feels frail and out of sorts. It will pass as you regain your strength. You're a doctor, you know this."
"But I'm already sick of being here. Cooped up like a prisoner." He lay quietly, staring up at the ceiling, one hand absently plucking at the hospital sheet. "I've…I've been having flashbacks. About Afghanistan, about my injury."
Sherlock looked up, "It will pass, John. Too many similarities with the past. Injury, hospitals, pain."
"It's…..I just hate being helpless, you know," John said. "I hate that you have to be here, looking after me."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "John, I hope you know me well enough to know that I never do anything because I have to. I am here because I want to be."
Yes, but how long can you stand this? It seems like only yesterday that you wanted me… how can anyone want me now…I mean, look at me. I seem to have shrunk into nothing….how can he even bear to look at me now…. I have nothing to offer him, he has young attractive partners at his beck and call whenever he wants release…. Who wants an old invalid? It's over….
John looked at him, his eyes resigned, "It is going to be a long recovery, Sherlock. Two, maybe even three months. If I recover fully, there's no guarantee that I will."
Sherlock's voice was soft, grave as he said gently, "John, self-pity is a very unattractive trait. Fight it. No one is doing anyone any favours here. And this is not forever. You'll get your health back. Sleep. I'll be right here."
"Yeah, yeah, you're right," John agreed as he looked at Sherlock. Sherlock went back to his work, as John looked on.
Let him watch me…it gives him comfort perhaps, the feeling of safety….to know I'm here….Sherlock's fingers flew over the keyboard as his mind became actively engaged in his work, even as he remained aware of John's silent gaze.
So glad, so glad he is here..…I wish that he were here, on this bed, holding me….if only it were possible, to feel his arms around me, bury my face in his neck…. I could get lost in him, hide in him…..let myself go….if he were holding me, I could get some fucking sleep, without worrying about the fucking nightmares….bloody PTSD…. Fucking army fucked me over for good….I would be safe if he were holding me….But, he can't…..I did not give him the right…he asked for it….and like a fucking ninny I said no….the only man in the world who actually sees me and still somehow manages to want me in his life…. I said NO! I am the world's biggest idiot….it is too late now….truly my idiocy knows no limits….His eyes drifted shut. I must wake up….Sherlock has to know that he was right….I am an idiot…..
Sherlock listened to the gentle snoring silently for several minutes till he thought John had reached NREM sleep. Only then he allowed himself to raise his eyes and look.
John looked small, wasted, his complexion still wan, his wrists looked like twigs that could be snapped with one hand. If only I could go over there, climb into that bed and pull that body close….cloister him in my arms…. keep him safe… transfer all my vitality to him…make him whole again. But I can't…. I don't have the right… he did not give me the right…..
Post-operative Day 5, 9.30 AM
John's legs trembled as he sought to bear his own weight. One hand gripped his cane whilst the other dug into Sherlock's forearm. The pain in his back was acute, searing as he stubbornly breathed through it.
"John, are you sure about this?"
John gritted his teeth as he snapped, "Just fucking help me, okay? I couldn't have stood that fucking catheter for another day! And fucking wheelie –walkers! They want me to use a bloody walker, Sherlock! As though I'm an old man." His face looked wretched as he looked at Sherlock. You must have already lost whatever desire or respect you ever had for me, I'll be fucking damned if I let you see me using a walker and shuffle around like an old man…. I can do this…I can't keep letting him see me like this….
Slowly they took the few steps to the bathroom. John eased his grip on Sherlock and transferred it to the sink as he stood by the toilet bowl. Even with the few steps his breath was now laboured with exertion, with pain.
"I can stay in here if you like, John," Sherlock offered softly.
A short jerk of his head, "No…no, thanks. Just, just wait outside would you?"
Sherlock nodded and left, pulling the door close, but still leaving it slightly ajar. He stood listening, ready to rush in if he thought John was losing his balance.
John's lips trembled with trying to contain his misery. He stood and stared at his face in the bathroom mirror, gaunt and sunken. Can't bear to look at my own self. Wonder why he hasn't left already? Must be some misguided sense of loyalty….. John pulled at the Velcro of his hospital bottoms and pulled his cock out. Adhesive from the Foley catheter still stuck to one side. How am I going to sit on the toilet without his help? And once he sees me like that why would he ever look at me with any desire? Who am I kidding? I've lost him…. I had one chance. I messed it up. He will leave….But where can he go? We live together. I am going to be a burden on him…Sudden tears of frustration and self-pity sprung unbidden in the deep blue eyes as he tried to choke back a sob.
Sherlock stood by the door, his head inclined as his ears strained to hear the sound of the urine stream.
"John, are you okay?"
Putting on his most irate tone, John replied, "Can you just stop asking me that? It's bloody annoying."
He's right there, you fucking idiot. He will hear you. Shut the fuck up, don't cry, he'll know. Sherlock sees everything…
Post-operative Day 7, 4.30 PM
"Oh John, I brought your favourite, fresh banana bread and chocolate almond cookies. Just baked them this afternoon," Mrs Hudson fluttered around putting the food in place, as Lestrade left to find a vase for the flowers that he and Molly had bought.
John smiled amiably, his eyes vacant as his mind was elsewhere.
Ever since he woke up, his thoughts were crowded with memories of the previous night. Hazy though they were, he remembered crying out and waking up shaking from another panic and PTSD triggered nightmare, only to find that Sherlock was by his side within seconds. As he'd opened his distraught eyes, he had seen Sherlock kneeling next to his bed, close without touching, his soothing voice murmuring, "It's all right now. It was just a dream, John. You're safe. It's all right. Go back to sleep. I'll be right here." As though the voice was a command he was meant to obey, his eyes had fluttered shut, as he feel asleep without fully processing what was happening.
"Gave us a bit of a turn, didn't you?" Lestrade remarked as he returned with a vase and handed it over to Molly. He put his hand in his coat jacket, "Expect that kind of drama from Sherlock, not from you, John," he chided.
Molly sat at the edge of the bed after putting the flowers in the vase, smiling nervously as she looked up from time to time at the bored looking Sherlock who stood looking out of the window.
"Yeah, everyone's been asking how you are. I told them that Sherlock saved you," she said looking like a proud mother and then giggled.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed his coat, "I'll be back soon, John. Thank you for everything, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly. Just need some fresh air."
Post-operative Day 8, 10.15 AM
"Well, once again, John, it is a splendid relief to see you on the road to recovery. I'm sure the strength and the lower limb balance will resolve in due course, very soon one hopes." Mycroft said as he took his leave.
"Thanks for stopping by, Mycroft. And thanks for all your help," John said as he nodded.
Turning to Sherlock, Mycroft jerked his head towards the door, "A word, if you please, Sherlock?
The brothers stood out in the corridor as they talked.
"You do realise he needs more rehabilitation, physiotherapy, more care? He can neither stand nor walk unaided, he does not have full sensation back on his feet. How can you take him home? What if he loses his balance and falls down?"
"He needs to go home, Mycroft. I've spoken to a friend, Philippe Andreas. He's one of the best physiotherapists in London. And he's agreed to do home visits, starting tomorrow. And I can work from home, solve cases from home. I can help mobilise him around the house."
Mycroft shook his head. "Well, if you're insisting on taking him home, at least bring him to my house for a few weeks. There is full time staff, and I can arrange for round the clock nurses if required."
Sherlock tone was uncompromising as he responded. "Thank you, Mycroft. But he needs to go back to Baker Street. His home." He paused as he looked into Mycroft's keen gaze. "He's not been sleeping well, he's to start on oral antibiotics, there really is no reason to treat him like a fragile child out here. He detests above all else, feeling helpless. I need for him to claim his autonomy back."
Mycroft inclined his head gravely, "As you wish. Let me know if you need anything, Sherlock."
Post-operative Day 9- 4.20 PM
The genial giant of a man smiled warmly as he shook hands.
"I'm Philippe Andreas, Dr Watson. Sherlock's friend for years. He's done me the honour of asking me to look after your physical health when you return to Baker Street tomorrow."
John looked at Sherlock, eyebrows raised.
"Philippe is the best physiotherapist in London, John. He's an old friend, who has agreed to do us a favour. He'll be doing home visits until you get better," Sherlock explained.
Philippe folded his arms to his chest, "Dr Watson…" he began.
John raised an arm, "John, please." Fuck it, if Sherlock recommends him, he must be good.
Philippe smiled agreeably, "John then. I won't try to trivialise the task we face. Sherlock tells me you've lost close to five kilos in weight already. And that there is a residual proprioception deficit which coupled with some muscle wasting makes it difficult to balance yourself currently. You are in considerable pain and we will need to manage it effectively without getting you narcotic dependent. I've worked on loads of such injuries and I bring all my expertise to the table. Not to mention, that I owe Sherlock for many past favours and he is a good friend. If you trust me and follow my regimen, I promise to have you in better shape than your pre-injury status within less than two months. Will you let me help you?"
John face was grim with resolve, "Believe me, there's nothing I'd like better."
Philippe wiggled his big bushy eyebrows warningly, "It's not going to be easy, John."
John gave a short laugh, "And you don't know what a tenacious bastard I can be. Not to mention that I live with the most stubborn man ever born and I'm sure he'll keep me right on track."
Sherlock smiled, "Well, that's settled then. We could actually seek discharge tomorrow. Philippe has been through the house with an occupational therapist. Everything that can assist you, is in place. You are on oral antibiotics now. And with physio taken care of, it really isn't incumbent on us to stay here any longer. I know you still have difficulty mobilising by yourself, but I'll be there most, if not all of the time."
Sherlock inclined his head questioningly, his eyes teasing and warm, "That is, if you're amenable to leaving tomorrow?
John looked at Sherlock, hope blossoming in his heart, "Oh God, yes!"