Half of this chapter was typed on my iPod on the way to and during my morning class. My evil, conspiring finger then proceeded to accidentally delete everything I'd written, and I spent the subsequent study period frantically re-typing everything from memory. Hope it was worth it.
These characters are not and will not, sadly, ever be any possession of mine. They are the original creative property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and are currently being leased to the lovely Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
A/N: To all those who responded so warmly to the first story: my sincere apologies for the delay. This installment proved to be much more labor-intensive than those previous. And longer. So much longer.
3. The Limp
Before Sherlock had so much as learned John Watson's name, he knew the limp was psychosomatic. It wasn't lost on either of them that the thing had almost derailed any plans of moving into 221B Baker Street. The notion of life with Sherlock Holmes was sufficient enough as a complicating factor, but those damn stairs. They were absolute murder.
John took plenty of frustration and shame dealing with the leg in public. He didn't need a big fat bloody reminder of it every morning he got up to leave the house.
Of course, Sherlock soon fixed that.
It had, in fact, become something of a non-issue. John had stopped going to his therapist appointments months ago. Though reluctant, she'd been unable to offer any real objection; Doctor Watson appeared to have made a full recovery in every respect. No limp, no tremor, increased activity, improved mood. If anything, she was at a loss to explain how such a sudden change had occurred over so short a period of time. John did his utmost to avoid the subject and made sure to cut off contact very quickly.
Apparently, his therapist was one of the few people who had yet to read his blog.
His limp was most definitely the least of his problems at the moment. As if it weren't enough that Sherlock had acided-away most of the sink during an experiment ("Jesus Christ, Sherlock, you're supposed to be a scientist! Shouldn't you know when this sort of thing's going to happen?"), his sister had chosen this lovely time to completely lose her head. Again.
"No, Harry, no. That's not…You assaulted a man in the middle of the street. What did you think was going to happen?...Whether or not he knew you're gay isn't the point, it's still no excuse for flying off at him when he…Really? And how much did you have to drink that night?...Of course it's a fucking question, Harry!...No. You got yourself into this mess, you can damn well get yourself out."
Sherlock looked up from the financial records of his current client when John hurled his cell across the counter. "Problem?"
"No."
"You seem agitated."
"Do I?"
"You're usually a bit more particular about how you handle your appliances."
"I'm fine."
Sherlock would've been content to leave the subject there; any exposure to highly reactive personal situations tended to leave an unpleasant itching sensation in the back of his throat. But John's agitated state, carried throughout the rest of the evening and into the following day, was particularly disquieting. For Sherlock, the final blow fell when John rushed into action too early during that day's stakeout, nearly losing them the target. He'd even gone so far as to fire a clip of random shots in an attempt to compensate for his error.
Not like John. Not like John at all. Sherlock pulled him aside afterwards, waving away a disgruntled Lestrade as he attempted to approach them for statements.
"For God's sake, Sherlock, I'm fine!"
"No, but you are lying. Your sister's in jail and you have refused to offer assistance."
"How…"
"Oh, please. It hardly required deduction. You said she'd beaten a man. Based on the habits I already know she possesses and on the line of questioning you took with her, she was most likely drunk at the time. Knowing she's assaulted someone, I can also assume she's currently in jail. What could she possibly ask you for while in that position, other than bail money and a lawyer?"
"You do realize this is none of your business?"
"I know perfectly well. That's why I decided not to mention it."
"Right. Okay. Then what do you call this?"
"I apologize. Please allow me to edit myself: it wasn't my business, until your frankly unreasonable heightened emotional state began to threaten our work."
"We caught the suspect."
"Barely. I cannot allow this to go unaddressed, John. You must understand that."
"All I understand is that you need to fucking sod off!"
The next day, John's usually taciturn cell phone rang a total of seven times. Sherlock could only think that Harriet Watson was in possession of quite the forceful character; your average drunk couldn't convince the police to allow them that many attempts at contact.
John checked the caller ID when it first rang that morning but didn't answer, and allowed every other call to ring out before finally shutting it off near the end of the night. He didn't say a word to Sherlock all day, took two pills that he usually only used when his leg bothered him, and went to bed uncharacteristically early.
Sherlock was at a loss. Normally, whenever he found himself befuddled by interpersonal issues, his first and only instinct was to consult John. As this was not an option under the current circumstances, he went to Lestrade instead.
He was well aware that his asking Lestrade for advice was an indicator that he'd suffered some manner of a psychotic break. Perhaps he had. But the D.I.'s response was refreshingly concise:
"Do you like it when people bother you after you've had it out with your brother?"
"Of course not."
"Then think about how John feels. Just give him some blessed space, Sher. The man's got a whole life to worry about that's got nothing to do with you. At all."
Although he fell woefully short on the finer points of investigation and crime, Sherlock had to acknowledge Lestrade's expertise on personal matters.
Space. He would not have arrived at that conclusion on his own. But something most certainly had to be done; John's current level of distress was inexcusable. And, honestly, why should it be different than any other experiment?
The next morning, he left the flat before John had woken up. He sent him a text at 7:45, John's borderline robotic wake-up time.
Gone out. Lead on new case that must be addressed. Back before midnight.
SH
And again, five seconds later:
Maybe longer.
SH
The process was a familiar and unexpectedly uncomfortable one. In the weeks following that text, Sherlock took up three cases on his own. He didn't send John to follow up on a single lead. He met all his clients at Scotland Yard instead of Baker Street, so that John wouldn't have to deal with it. He didn't pull John out of bed when he made a breakthrough in the middle of the night.
And it was hateful. But John needed his rest. John needed his space. It was a meager sacrifice, but it was the only thing Sherlock knew how to offer. All he had to give.
But he found that John was oddly…necessary. He was reliable, and certainly better at delicacy. This became quite clear to Sherlock in the midst of his second case, when he suspected he'd said something unintentionally offensive to a witness. At least, that was the only probable explanation as to why the woman had thrown her scalding coffee on him, marched off, and refused to be of any further assistance.
As Sherlock termed it, and as John told him it was probably better not to say in public, John was "good at doing people". He picked up on the things that Sherlock missed. He addressed the things Sherlock neglected.
Like the possibility of an ambush.
On the third case, Sherlock had gone to meet a perfectly normal civilian informant. The puzzle, at least in his head, was already solved. His conclusions were infallible, his line of inference flawless. Not a chink. Not a crack. He'd considered every conceivable probability.
Hence why he found himself somewhat unprepared when four men appeared and immediately assaulted him. Of course, he instantly knew where they'd come from, how they'd traveled, and who they were working for. There are ample opportunities to observe a subject in detail while he's got you in a stranglehold.
Too clever, too late.
Sherlock's first thought was that John would instantly be on the second man, so long as he hadn't already been incapacitated. If he was unable to shake his own assailant, all he had to do was hold off asphyxiation until John had a chance to reach him.
In the real world, all three men were on top of him in seconds. John wasn't there.
He was unarmed. Whenever he brought a gun on their regular cases, it was always for John.
No John. No John.
By some miracle, and with the assistance of some very rusty martial arts, he managed to escape. Barely. To his utter disdain, he went to NHS to get patched up before returning to Baker Street, so the supplement of a little acting could hide his injuries from John. He never spoke of the incident to anyone.
It was around this time that Sherlock began to suspect that he wasn't the only one guilty of withholding information. Their time together in the flat was limited nowadays, and what conversations they did have in passing were much briefer and curter than what had once been typical. And yet, John still managed to betray it all.
He'd been going on regular dates with Sarah for the first week and a half, and had then begun the slow decline of more and more time spent alone in the flat. The amount of rubbish in the waste-bin and the newly use-polished buttons on the television remote told him that much.
His hand tremor was back. At first, this was only speculation based on a few scraps of observation: John had started holding his books up with his right hand alone, where he'd previously taken the easy route and just used both. He kept it in his lap more often, almost never placing it on an armrest where Sherlock could get a good look.
When army-trained, balanced, methodical John suddenly lost control of his food tray and sent spaghetti splattering over every vulnerable surface in the kitchen, not a doubt was left in Sherlock's mind.
All the evidence appeared to be leaning against Lestrade's hypothesis. But then, Sherlock couldn't be sure of the exact source of John's rapid decline. For all he knew, the business with Harry was still unresolved and could very easily be placing him in a state of elevated stress. He could assume nothing.
That, of course, was before Sherlock properly understood the gravity of the situation. John's voice woke him the morning after the conclusion of his third case. It reverberated down from the upper floor, calling his name over and over, the spaces between the shouts ringing with indecision and reluctance.
Sherlock arrived in John's room to find him sitting upright in bed. The pattern of folds on his sheets suggested that he'd woken up, flipped the covers off as if making to get out of bed, and then flipped them back on again.
"Sherlock, my…cane is downstairs. Could you get it for me? I can't…I mean, I'm having a little trouble…"
He rolled his head down, looked out the window. His voice was dry. "Walking."
Sherlock didn't react. He was very careful not to react. "Where is it?"
"By the fireplace. I think. I don't know, I wasn't…I wasn't really keeping track."
It was, in fact, propped against the wall right next to the bricks. Dust had collected on the handle. Sherlock methodically brushed off the cobwebs and carried it back up to John with no comment beyond: "Can you make it down the stairs?"
"Yeah, yeah. Yes. Definitely. Um…thanks." He held up the cane with one hand, but Sherlock still saw the way he reflexively clutched at his right thigh with the other. "You know…for this."
"Not a problem."
Sherlock considered it an extraordinary stroke of good fortune that his case had ended the night before. By the time John came downstairs, accompanied by that awful, staggering jerk of a step, Sherlock had firmly entrenched himself on the couch. Case files. Maps. Police records. An entire library of excuses not to leave John alone. Though John was clearly surprised that Sherlock hadn't already dashed out on some errand or another, he said nothing.
Not once in the course of that day did Sherlock ever completely remove his attention from John. Very flatly, he called Sarah early in the morning and cancelled the plans they'd made for that night. He never left the flat. Most of the time, he stayed seated, avoiding anything that would require moving or standing. When he was forced into these situations (for example, to use the bathroom), Sherlock saw the way his face clenched when it turned to the cane a split second before he picked it up.
Sherlock didn't move from the couch all night. The next morning, John lurched unevenly down the stairs with the cane still in hand.
In Sherlock's opinion, that was quite enough data. He could not allow this to continue. He would not allow this to continue.
Admittedly, he had been unprepared for this particular turn of events. Sherlock never imagined he could shirk his duties by giving John too much space. No matter. Hypotheses were made to be rewritten.
That morning, he told John about his new case. A serial killer playing copy-cat to Jack the Ripper. Two policemen had already been assaulted on the job, one left seriously injured. Very dangerous.
When John agreed to go with him, he purposefully didn't act eager. Sherlock purposefully showed no response. They both went straight for their coats.
"Where are we headed, exactly?"
"Crime scene. It's the fifth victim so far. Well, the fifth one they've found."
"You think there're more?"
"Almost certainly. The police were hesitant to declare serial killer this time. I suspect that's why Lestrade was so slow calling us in."
"Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"I've never turned Harry down before. We never get on, but when she does something ridiculous…well, I usually help. That was the first time."
"Siblings are problematic, John. I can understand that as well as anyone."
He handed John his gun. John slipped into the waistband of his jeans, flipped beneath his coat. As they left, Sherlock lagged back to watch as he went down the stairs first. And smiled.
John limped right up to the fist step, clutched the cane in his hand, and skipped down without once touching stick to tread.
"You coming?"
Sherlock obliterated the smile and closed the door behind him. "Of course."
Sometimes, what John needed more than food or sleep or even peace was Sherlock Holmes.
A/N: Yes, I am aware that "acided" isn't technically a word. Mycroft up next, once the story finally resolves itself into something writable. Thank you so much for all the responsive reviews. Please continue! (and don't be shy with the chapter suggestions, either)