Sherlock is healing. John tries to remind himself of that, tries to focus on Sherlock's progress as they survive one day, then another. The bruises and smaller abrasions fade first, followed by some of the deeper cuts. John exchanges the splint on Sherlock's wrist for a proper cast. It necessitates another visit from Molly to bring the plaster sheets, but Sherlock manages a small smile and thirty seconds of small talk without insults, a miracle all on its own.
The bathing situation reaches critical mass around the same time as the cast. For the first several days, they manage to make do with John merely running a damp flannel over Sherlock's skin while examining his injuries, both of them afraid to disturb all the dressings and ointments and wrappings. The result is an improvement over Sherlock's condition when he was first rescued, but it's by no means adequate for actual hygiene purposes. John starts and abandons the conversation twice before finally coming right down to it.
"Sherlock, you stink."
Sherlock sighs and grimaces. "Not by choice, obviously."
"Yeah, I know. And even if we got your new cast waterproofed, you wouldn't be able to bathe yourself, not with one hand and - in your condition." He means painful burns on your back so you can't stretch and welts on your feet so you can't walk and too-sensitive new skin over half of your body so the water will feel scalding or freezing if it's not just right, but Sherlock undoubtedly will understand. He always picks up on subtext like that.
And Sherlock does nod, although he also pushes himself up to a sitting position. "You're offering, I assume?"
". . . I guess I am."
"Go run the water, then, and I'll see how much standing my feet will allow me to do."
John does. The answer, as it turns out, is "not much at all." It's fortunate that the loo is so close to Sherlock's bedroom, because John only barely manages to prevent Sherlock from pitching headfirst into the bathroom door. He doesn't say anything (not out loud, anyway), just braces his shoulder under his stubborn flatmate's arm and half-hauls Sherlock to the tub.
The temperature takes a while to get right - not lukewarm, not exactly, but nothing near properly hot, either. Sherlock perches on the lip of the bathtub and stubbornly insists on stripping off his gown himself. John pretends to keep his focus entirely on the tap.
Getting Sherlock into the tub is almost as difficult as getting him to the bathroom in the first place. There's no dignified way to shift eleven stone of naked flatmate into a full bathtub, especially when the flatmate in question has a brand-new cast on one wrist. John finally strips down to his pants, grips Sherlock tightly around the chest from behind, and steps into the tub. The awkwardness of the situation (Christ, when did pressing his bare chest to Sherlock's naked back become reasonable?) pales when pitted against the likelihood of Sherlock slipping and falling and injuring himself further if he had to maneuver himself one-handed. John lowers them both into the water, making space for Sherlock between his knees.
"Never done this before," Sherlock mutters.
John huffs out a breath. "I have, but never with someone with such bloody long legs. And never while still wearing my pants."
He immediately regrets the words - it's too soon, much too soon for that kind of teasing. Especially with the front of his pants so frighteningly close to Sherlock's arse. John is mildly surprised to realize his discomfort isn't for the reason he would have expected: it's not because Sherlock isn't female. It's not because there's anything sexual in their position at all, other than general proximity. It's merely because Sherlock's not ready, couldn't possibly be ready, to joke about sex. Not after -
"So how do we do this?" Sherlock says, interrupting John's constant internal monologue.
Right. Bathing. "Lean forward a bit so I can do your back, then I'll let you do whatever else you can reach."
Sherlock complies, folding himself nearly in half. The position puts the burn marks on his back in much better light, which proves to be extremely helpful. John is as gentle as possible with the flannel, only barely touching Sherlock's skin as the fabric skims over it. Sherlock shudders anyway.
Sorry - so sorry . . . John realizes he's murmuring the apologies in a constant litany as he works. He slows his strokes as the cloth swipes lower, nearer to the angry red marks around Sherlock's arse, but Sherlock holds completely still even when John finally bites the bullet and gently scrubs the entire area.
It gets easier after that. John passes Sherlock the flannel and scrambles out of the tub. He's soaked from the waist down, pants sticking unpleasantly to his skin, but he stays long enough to ensure Sherlock can get a good start on washing his own chest and legs with his good hand.
"Go dry off - I'm fine," Sherlock commands, punctuating with a flick of the flannel.
John does, wrapping a towel around his waist and darting upstairs for a clean pair of pants. And jeans and a t-shirt, while he's there. By the time he gets back to the bathroom, Sherlock is sluicing off the lather with handfuls of water as best he can.
"Your hair still needs work," John says. He ends up retrieving a mug from the kitchen and pouring the lukewarm water over Sherlock's head a cupful at a time, then cracking open Sherlock's expensive bottle of shampoo and carefully massaging it into those overgrown dark curls. The room immediately smells of Sherlock, the Sherlock from before -
No. John quickly rinses the residue away and tries very hard to ignore how Sherlock's eyes had drifted closed under the pressure of John's fingers. And how amazingly sexual he had looked, while not actually being sexual at all. We're friends, I'm just being professional, this is medical -
It's a lie. It's a lie and John knows it. Sherlock probably knows it too, but he's not showing any particular inclination to talk. John empties the tub and does his best to towel Sherlock dry right there, shifting him only as much as is absolutely necessary. Sherlock doesn't protest, doesn't speak. His eyes do stay locked on John's face, but John tries to ignore that too.
Clothes. Still a while yet before Sherlock can wear real clothes, but John retrieves one of the clean hospital gowns. Sherlock manages to stand almost all the way up on his own, John drapes the gown over his shoulders, and together they get him back to his bed. Sherlock is asleep five minutes later.