All the boring plans that John had that afternoon dissolved just as quickly as he had decided to make them that morning, which was a blessing, because he now found himself having a better reason to stay at the flat, and that reason was to tend to his best friend.
During that time, John had forced Sherlock to eat something, stuck him in the shower, and lent him some of his clothes, which looked awfully funny and small on the man's tall thin body (John also made a mental note that they'd have to get the detective new clothing).
Now, couple of hours later, after all the babysitting, John had made his way to the living room in the flat, hoping to get some rest.
But Sherlock had followed close behind. And unexpectedly, when John sat, the detective did the same, their legs even rubbing together by the proximity.
"Ok, so who knocked you hard on the head?" John said as he experimented sliding farther away from Sherlock, who in the end always shifted near John.
The soldier sighed at the stagnancy of the conversation and tapped his fingers on the couch's armrest. "Anyways, I think I'll have to tell the others that you're alive." Said he, deciding to change the subjects.
Sherlock shook his head.
John frowned. "What- why?" The detective didn't answer. "Look, I wasn't planning on spreading the news like a wildfire Sherlock, I'm just going outside to call Molly and Lestrade to keep them updated." With that, John stood and inched forward, but stopped suddenly when he felt something grab him.
Sherlock held his arm tightly. "Don't go, please." He muttered, without making eye contact, his face as blank as it could be, yet the tone of his voice betraying him. He sounded almost desperate. "Stay."
John frowned with worry and pried his arm away slowly with care. "It's just a phone call Sherlock, I'll be back." Seeing the detective stand up as well, the man gently pushed him back down. "You stay, Sherlock." With that he smiled at Sherlock reassuringly and walked away, picking up his own phone from his pocket. But as he reached the stairway, out of Sherlock's view, John let himself shudder, feeling weak at the knees.
Sherlock's eyes, he'd never seen them that way before, so dead. Please Sherlock, don't do this to yourself… Come back to normal, I'll help you. I promise I will.
He immediately composed himself as soon as he saw Mrs. Hudson come inside from the café, the promised sweets in hand.
"Out for a stroll already?" She'd asked him, passing him on the stairs.
John shook his head. "Just a few phone calls is all." He corrected her.
Seeing John walk away, Sherlock fused his eyebrows together and curled into a ball on the couch, turning his back towards the world.
And even when Mrs. Hudson came in with the food, he didn't bother turning around. He heard her say a few things about what she'd brought him and the weather, but none of it mattered –not that it ever did.
He heard her tell him he seemed tired before she left him alone.
But Sherlock didn't care about anything anymore. He just wanted to be beside John.
John entered the flat a couple of minutes later and he had a very stressed look on his face.
Stopping at the start of the stairs, he paused for a breather.
When he'd told those Lestrade and Molly the news, each had given him a different reaction.
The Scotland Yard's Detective Inspector had simply denied the idea and told John that it was bullshit. Then John had to dutifully explain to him all that happened –twice in a row- before the tiniest spark of credence had lit up in the man. But that only caused Lestrade to rant about all the cases he had to re-do, all the time he'd spent correcting his mistakes, and everything that he must've kept bottled up for all the years. Then he'd finished saying that he wanted to see Sherlock.
"Please Greg, I hope you believe me when I saw this, but he's a mess. He really just needs a day off. Come by tomorrow." John insisted.
"Ok John, I'll do this favor for you. I might not believe all this entirely yet, but I do trust you. So I'll see you later."
The call was over. That honestly hadn't been so bad. But now it was time to ring the next person, and he wasn't sure he'd be able to say the same for this one.
Dealing with Molly had been a complete contrastive situation. The moment she'd heard that Sherlock was alive she'd turned off the phone. And John actually had to call her a couple of times more until she picked up again. Now this time he had the chance to tell her all the details: Sherlock wasn't himself, he wasn't responding to anything, and he felt that it was necessary to be next to him (John) all the time. John heard Molly gasp when he finished.
"Alright. I- I get it. He wants to be with you."
John blinked as he picked up what she was trying to say. "Molly! I've told you already, I'm not gay." He sighed in annoyance.
"It's ok, John. I'll see you later." The phone call ended.
And that's why it'd been so frustrating to John.
Climbing up the stairs of 221b, Baker Street had never been so hard like this before. It was as if his legs were heavy like led.
It was all because of today; from the moment he woke up to the minute he ended dragging himself upwards.
"Sherlock." He called out. "See? I'm back." Entering the room he saw the detective curled on the sofa with his back towards him. The typical tantrum position. John thought with a smirk. Except this time, Sherlock wasn't an angry child, but a sad, traumatized one.
Upon hearing his voice, the detective unfolded himself and sat normally again on the couch.
John helped himself to some untouched strawberry jam pastries on the table before sitting next to Sherlock that was presently staring out into space as if he was in his mind palace.
The soldier looked up and begged God to give him patience because this would be hard, really hard to deal with.
John then turned on the T.V in an attempt to distract himself and his friend, who slowly sat on his heels with his knees pressed onto his chest. It was another familiar pose of his and John tried not to grin, reminding himself that Sherlock was not ok, and that just because a few of his usual habits were returning didn't necessarily mean that he was recovering.
And so, that's how they spent their afternoon, watching crap telly with in total, disturbing silence.
Later that night, John decided that he should prepare some dinner and Sherlock had followed him into the kitchen.
"Want some pasta too?" John had offered, waiting for the answer. The other only shook his head, but the soldier decided that he would make dinner for him anyways.
Once it was ready, he served small, equal portions for both and set it on the table.
Sherlock had robotically picked up his fork and started to eat, even if he had just declined food. John clenched his fists under the table at this.
"Do you want to talk about it?" John finally asked. He waited. "No? Ok." John was trying to settle back into the life with Sherlock. He really was. And at the same time, he wondered if Sherlock was doing the same effort, or was doing the silent treatment on purpose, maybe even as a punishment to himself. But that seemed highly unlikely.
In the end, John settled with easier questions. "How's the pasta?"
Sherlock ate a bit and swallowed before answering. "Good."
Within a couple of minutes, both men were done. The plates had been washed, John had eventually gone into the shower, and prepared himself for bed, with Sherlock –of course- right at his heels.
"You can go to your room you know? I won't be doing much from here on out."
But Sherlock just stood there, like a statue.
"Sherlock, please, go to sleep, I bet it's been ages since you've slept properly. But don't hesitate to wake me up if you need something, ok?" John yawned, betrayed and frustrated by his own body, feeling the pulling sensation to go lie down and close his eyes. Yet Sherlock still didn't budge. Only when John had bid him good night was when he turned to leave.
It was half past 3 a.m., and Sherlock couldn't sleep. He fidgeted, tossed and turned, but nothing would make him feel any less agitated than he already was. Finally he simply walked out of his room, tiptoed quietly into the hallway and up the stairs to John's room, where he opened the door as carefully as he could and lied down on the floor next to John's bed, where the man snored quietly.
And Sherlock stayed like that until the moment when he awoke the next morning before John, deciding to leave before the other even had the chance to see how he'd been beside him most of the night.
*An important note to read before you go away :-P: I agree with the theory that Molly Hooper helped Sherlock survive the fall. So I just wanted to clarify that when John called to tell her the news about Sherlock, Molly was only pretending to be surprised. I might add though, that specifically for this prompt, I wrote Molly in a way so that it was the only thing she knew. Basically this means that the fact about Sherlock returning as an altered man was something that she genuinely was not expecting.*