"Well, I'm off," John said a few moments later – after descending the stairs and heading for the door.

"Have fun," Sherlock said with mock enthusiasm, the idea of cleaning up was already beginning to irritate him.

"Please try not to blow up the whole street while I'm gone," was John's parting remark and Sherlock detected the real note of worry buried in that sarcastic phrase.

"I shall do my best," he replied quietly. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his hands were deep in the sink, as he tried to scrub off the burnt scum at the bottom of the largest pot.

John smiled at the look of utter concentration on Sherlock's face as he battled with the nasty dishes. He headed into the hall to get ready to go. With some difficulty, he slipped on his smart-fitting, heavy, winter coat and Irish cap. It took him much longer to do up the buttons on his coat with one hand, and it was even more difficult to do with his damaged arm tucked inside. Because the coat was not overly large, it would not accommodate John's arm and sling and thus he had to leave the top four buttons undone, often leaving his neck exposed to the elements. Sherlock had bought him a very warm – and he guessed expensive – scarf which he now wrapped around his neck. He grabbed his leather gloves and keys before heading out the door.

…

Sherlock listened to the daily routine as it played out in the hallway: the slip of fabric and jingle of coins as John struggled to shrug on his large winter coat, the dull thud on the hard-wood floor and the quiet grumbling of John's voice as he fumbled to put on his boots and tuck in the laces that he was too frustrated to attempt to tie, the keys being taken from the hook by the door – he loved it all... it was familiar and domestic and spoke to a new normality he and John had finally been able to achieve after months of struggle. He found himself mentally checking off all of the important steps John needed to complete in order to be ready for the biting elements: coat – check, boots – check, scarf – check, keys – check… hat? Had John remembered to put on his hat? Sherlock heard the door close and John's footsteps retreating down the stairs. He quickly went over to the clothing rack. The hat was gone. John must have put it on after all.

Sherlock returned to the carnage of the kitchen and scrubbed rigorously at the dishes. He felt like an idiot. Since when did the great Sherlock Holmes ever make time for dishes? …Since John and I have come to a new understanding, he reflected. He remembered the conversation well and admonished himself for having grumbled for even a moment at having to do something ordinary.

After returning home from the hospital a little over two and a half months ago, he and John had had a very serious talk about how they were going to continue living together now that their situations had changed so drastically. John had promised at the very beginning of all of this to be Sherlock's eyes. He had essentially agreed to stay with him forever and aid him in any way he could. In return, Sherlock had agreed to take on more responsibilities around the flat as well as keep himself in good health. Finally, both had agreed to be utterly and completely honest at all times. The system had worked thus far.

It was frustrating in the beginning – mostly because of John's injury… it had made him irritable and the trauma had caused him to lose many nights of precious sleep to nightmares. John hadn't had the patience with Sherlock that he normally would have, and small issues – such as dropping teacups full of hot tea all over the rug and not knowing how to clean it up – became serious issues that left John more than a little upset. John had finally come around after having a tantrum-like fit because he couldn't get dressed properly – Sherlock had helped him see that it was his own inability to be independent, or to help Sherlock around the house, that was making John so unreasonable. John had taken a deep breath and accepted the explanation and from that point on had been much nicer to live with.

John certainly could be stubborn though. Sherlock chuckled softly to himself as he replayed John's words from earlier in his mind: "I'm the only one who has the right to be angry this morning." As if they took turns being upset. Sherlock supposed that, in a way, they actually did. One of them was usually quite calm while the other stormed on about whatever was bothering them that day. It just came naturally to them, they balanced each other and it worked.

Sherlock could still sense the constant frustration that John felt as he continued to be unable to do things with the facility he had been used to. Sherlock guessed that John felt he had come full circle. He'd been injured, healed, and then been injured again and now had to go through the tedious process of healing all over again. Sherlock also knew that John's injury still gave him pain, though it wasn't supposed to after this much time. On top of it all, the limp – though nowhere near as pronounced – had returned with the injury, and his leg pained him constantly. John had confessed one evening his fear that he was slipping back into the place he was at before he met Sherlock – that somehow all of the good was slipping away and he was going to give in to the fears and the pain that had haunted him over three years ago. "I never want to go back there, Sherlock." He'd said with such emotion in his voice, such fear, that Sherlock thought he must have been fighting back tears. Sherlock had never seen John cry… well, not since the day he stood in the cemetery and watched John mourn him. He had hated himself back then. But he had never seen John give into anything like this before. The closest he'd been to seeing John truly afraid had been during the Baskerville case when he'd drugged John and used him in an experiment – even then, it was quite possible the drugs which had caused him to become so unnerved. Even when John had had a bomb strapped to his chest, he had been so calm. John was always so steady and unchanging. But this new injury had really affected him. It made Sherlock hate Mycroft all the more. After all, it was his fault that the entire incident occurred. Sherlock had managed to be as amiable as possible to John by compartmentalizing his feelings. He had focused all of his own frustration and anger upon his brother thereby leaving a copious amount of patience for both himself and John. It was, of course, an unhealthy way to deal with the situation, but it had worked, so he didn't feel like changing anything. The brothers hadn't spoken since John had gotten out of hospital.

Despite himself, Sherlock knew that his own mental state wasn't as sound as he wished it to be. The explosion this morning had really rattled him. His heart-rate had taken far too long to slow down and he had felt his hand trembling as he stood in the doorway after John had put out the fire – unable to focus his thoughts or figure out a way to solve the issue. The sound had brought him right back to the day he'd lost his sight nearly six months ago and that angered him. Why would that event still bother him? Why did loud noises have the ability to terrorize him? A car had backfired out in the street two nights ago and the unexpected noise had actually caused Sherlock to start and then hit the ground. He had recognized the sound almost instantly, but had been unable to prevent the physical duck-and-cover reaction. He had been thankful that he had been alone in the flat when it happened – John didn't need to know about this.

He slipped out of his private musings and focused on the raw feeling of the sensitive skin on his hands which were still sitting in the grimy water. Maybe he should just throw out the pots and buy new ones… John would never know. Then again, he probably would. That was the curse that came with having taught John how to see things the way Sherlock used to. He was hyper-vigilant in his observations and, while he would never be as capable as drawing conclusions from visual evidence as Sherlock was, he was getting much better at using his new skills to analyze and deduce the great detective himself and would certainly notice any changed made to the flat. Still would that be such a bad thing? Mrs. Husdon certainly wouldn't mind if they bought a new stove too… hmmm. He dropped the pot he was working on into the water with a splash and, after quickly drying his hands on a tea-towel, headed for his laptop.

…

The damp mid-December air was cuttingly crisp. It stung John's face as he stepped out onto the curb and he turned his coat-collar up against the wind as he hailed a cab to take him to work. He winced when, slipping into the back-seat, he had somehow managed to jar his shoulder.

A common fracture of the clavicle should take roughly twelve weeks to heal, but John had been healing for nearly ten weeks and he had a feeling that his was going to take much longer than expected. He'd seen the x-rays, and it didn't look good. He knew from experience that physiotherapy after three months in a sling was going to be a long and frustrating process and the longer he was stuck like this, the longer and more frustrating the process was going to be. He tried not to think about it too much. Overall, it hadn't been too bad. Sherlock had been good to him. He'd been patient and even abnormally accommodating and helpful.

John didn't normally like letting people do things for him, especially when he was injured, he felt that he needed to prove that he was still capable of being self-sufficient. But something about Sherlock made his help ok. Sherlock knew from experience that sometimes people need to do things for themselves and that other times it is really nice to have a helping hand. John was still in charge of simple things like evening tea – Sherlock had spilled one too many coups of tea on their rug. John knew that Sherlock could walk with two cups of tea without spilling a drop if he really concentrated, but tea was often too mundane a thing for Sherlock to waste the mind-power on. However, Sherlock had taken over some of the other tasks – such as folding laundry – that John just was too frustrated to do.

Though the time that it was taking for his shoulder to heal seemed endless, it was the toll that the injury had taken on his mind that bothered John the most. Both of his injuries had come to haunt him in the night. The real pain often blended with old emotional scars from his days in the war to create even more vivid nightmares than before. John was sure that Sherlock knew nothing about it though. Sherlock couldn't see John's tired eyes and John almost never cried out anymore and he never mentioned them. Just because he and Sherlock had sworn to be honest with each other, didn't mean they'd promised to share every detail of their lives with each other. Sherlock had never asked about the dreams, or how John was coping with the emotional side of his recovery, so John hadn't offered the information.

He paid the cabby and offered some lame excuse to his boss when he arrived at the hospital over a half-hour late. He worked hard for the rest of the day, the work keeping his mind off the pain in his shoulder and away from his fears that Sherlock was at home, being bored, and trying to find some way to dispel that boredom. John wondered idly if the flat would still be there when he got back… and would it be clean? I couldn't believe it when Sherlock had actually begun cleaning up before he left.

"Knock, knock," Sarah said from the office doorway.

"Hullo," John said with a smile.

"Are you going to take a lunch today/"

"Why? What time is it?"

"Definitely past lunch time," she said with a smile. Though they were no longer dating, the two had managed a very comfortable friendship. John appreciated having someone at work to hang out with to whom he could also rant about Sherlock. If anyone would understand, Sarah would.

"Well then, I guess I better eat," John said standing up, "Want to come with?"

"Sorry, I've already had mine. I'll cover some of your patients while you're gone. I have a slow day today and want to avoid paperwork."

"Alright, thanks." John reached for his coat but Sarah was quicker. She took it down from the hook on the back of the door and held it up to help John into it.

"Thank you," he said again.

"No problem," she said while handing him his scarf, hat and gloves. "Though it would probably have been easier for you to have brought a lunch. It's cold out there and by the time you get this get-up on lunch will be over." She said with a smile.

"Yes, well, no time to make lunches when you're living with Sherlock… and even if I did make a lunch… I don't think I'd trust Sherlock to leave it alone long enough for me to be able to eat it the next day."

She shook her head with a smile, "Why on earth do you put up with him?"

"I still don't know," John replied with a returning smile.