It takes another forty-eight hours before Sherlock can actually wear clothes again without the friction of the cloth exacerbating his injuries. Molly stops by with some hospital gowns, terrible blue-green overwashed cotton impractical garments, but Sherlock can hear John meet her at the door, thank her politely, and rebuff her hopeful hint that she'd like to see him with her own eyes. He's not ready to see anyone. Not even her.

John brings the gowns into the bedroom, helps Sherlock get one on and tie it around his waist. It's soft but provides little warmth. It also leaves his arse bare, but after half a dozen sessions of John examining every inch of his injured skin and staying reassuringly detached throughout, Sherlock has no reason to object. They never speak, when John is in doctor mode, nothing except professional questions like "How is your wrist feeling?" and "Does that hurt?" and "I need you to flex your foot for me, good, as far as you can, that's it, do you feel that?"

It's humbling to be so helpless. One-handed, can't walk, can't sit for long. Sherlock hates being helpless, would be a quivering wreck if he were having to rely on anyone except John. He knows it, and strongly suspects John knows it too. John calls into the surgery and simply tells them Sherlock needed him, no other explanation, he'll be back eventually if they still want him. No hesitation whatsoever at putting his job in jeopardy for this, for playing nursemaid. Sherlock knows he doesn't deserve this level of trust, of care, but can't bring himself to apologize. Not with words. Only by being the best patient he can be.

And it isn't easy. There's a reason Sherlock hates hospitals: they're unrelentingly ordinary. Full of ordinary people with ordinary bodies breaking down in ordinary ways. They're also a reminder that no matter how magnificent his brain is (was?), his own body - transport - is no different than anyone else's. It breaks in the same ordinary ways, and no amount of thinking or deducing or flights of genius can make it repair itself faster. To have his body still be failing him so spectacularly, even after his ordeal, is . . . depressingly plebeian.

His mind, though . . . Sherlock hates that even more. Because how can he assess how damaged his mind is, if he can't trust it to not be damaged? It's a vicious Catch-22: the accuracy of Sherlock's assessment of his cognitive abilities depends on those same cognitive abilities being intact. But if they're not, then his assessment is likely flawed, leading him to believe he's fine when he's not. An under-abundance of reliable data.

And he feels fine. Truly. He keeps reminding himself of that fact - he survived, he's healing, and nothing actually feels slower than normal. And yet.

"Want to talk about it?"

Sherlock freezes.

"It's okay if you don't," John says. "But you've got your thinking face on, and you're going to have to talk about it sometime. Might help to think out loud. Listening is one of my more useful traits, or so you've said."

Sherlock sits up and licks his lips, tries to force words out of his mouth. Some words, any words, long words, short words - Christ, even the thought of letting John in and sharing his internal monologue is terrifying. Sherlock is very rarely frightened, of anything, but it's fear keeping his mouth shut now.

John watches him, face blank for another long moment, then flashes a tight smile and returns his attention to his crossword. He's dragged his armchair into Sherlock's bedroom, the better to keep an eye on him without the awkwardness of sharing a bed at all hours of the day. It's okay, somehow, when they're both asleep (or close to it), but the moment Sherlock and John are both awake and alert, John evacuates and retreats to his chair and his tea and his newspaper and his laptop. Physically close, but giving Sherlock space.

Sometimes John is more brilliant than Sherlock ever gives him credit for.

"Boredom," Sherlock finally says.

John puts down his paper (neatly folded, pencil laid diagonally upper-right to lower-left on top) and raises his eyes to Sherlock's face once again.

"I'm not bored," Sherlock admits. "I should be by now. Why am I not bored?"

"You've have an incredibly trying experience-" John starts.

But Sherlock interrupts. "That's done now, though, you see? My body needs time to heal; I accept that. You're doing an eminently adequate job with it-"

"Thank you," John murmurs.

"-but my mind. I can't tell if it's in need of healing, too, because I can't tell whether I just feel fine or whether I am fine. Am I ordinary now, with delusions of genius? If I were still myself, I'd be bored. And I'm not."

"You're sleeping sixteen hours a day." John frowns and ticks the reasons off on his fingers. "Your body is frantically trying to heal some pretty major damage, and yes, even for you, your brain is technically just another internal organ. It's not getting priority right now. You've also been bloody well kidnapped, which I know you don't want to think about, but a situation like that leaves marks. Psychological as well as physical. And I know you think psychologists are all shit, but you're going to need to talk to someone eventually. I can give Ella a call, if you want."

Sherlock shakes his head. "Even if I wanted to, Mycroft would read her notes."

"Mycroft can go fuck a cactus."

Sherlock blinks.

And John looks away, shaking his head. "I told him to fuck off, the other day. Actually threatened to shoot him. So I hope you aren't holding out hope for a touching fraternal visit anytime soon."

"Why . . ." Sherlock stills, the evidence rearranging itself in his mind. John, who generally keeps a deathgrip on his temper unless unreasonably provoked. Mycroft meddling. Mycroft undoubtedly spearheading the rescue attempt. And yet taking almost six weeks . . . Sherlock's mouth goes dry. "He left me there?" he whispers.

John tenses, just the slightest bit. Confirmation.

"He had something to do with - with the whole affair." Sherlock is sure now. "And he chose to drag it out. To let them-"

"I don't think it was quite like that," John says quietly. "But yeah, I got the impression you were bait in some political game. Mycroft didn't call their bluff." He raked his hand through his hair. "But it wasn't a bluff, wasn't it."

Not an outright question, but not a statement either. Sherlock takes a deep breath and lets his lets his chin drop in confirmation.

"I may still kill him."

The determination in his words causes a momentary flutter in Sherlock heartbeat.

"I may let you," he says softly. "I - I don't think I can forgive him for this."

"I know," John says. "Me neither."