Summary: Sherlock is released from hospital and returns to Baker Street, but there's something lurking in the corner.
The foyer of 221B, several weeks later.
The outer door opens, illuminating the glass of the inner door. John pushes the inner door open, then stands to the side, holding it open to allow Sherlock to enter. Just out of hospital, Sherlock looks pale and the slightest bit unsteady on his feet. They take a moment to remove gloves and scarves. Mrs. Hudson appears from her flat.
MRS. HUDSON (moving to give Sherlock a careful hug): So glad to have you home, dear! John and I have both been beside ourselves...
She glances at John, who silently implores her not to say anything more.
MRS. HUDSON (pulling back from the hug): Oh, never mind me. You'll want to go up and get settled. I've got a casserole in the oven, I'll bring up later, shall I?
JOHN (smiles appreciatively): That sounds lovely.
Sherlock nods, turns and mounts the staircase, holding the railing as he begins to climb the stairs. John gives Mrs. Hudson a hopeful look, then follows close on Sherlock's heals.
SHERLOCK: Not necessary.
JOHN (concerned): What?
SHERLOCK: You hovering so close, bracing yourself to catch me. I'm recovering nicely John, I'm not going to take a tumble down the stairs.
John huffs, but backs off by a fraction. Sherlock continues up the stairs and into the flat, pausing just inside the doorway. He inhales slowly and surveys the familiar room. The sun is streaming through the windows and there's a fire going in the hearth. The corners of his mouth twitch into a tiny smile.
SHERLOCK (in a low voice, almost under his breath): Home.
John comes through behind him and makes an agreeable noise as he hangs his jacket on the peg and moves to help Sherlock out of his coat. Sherlock grunts slightly, the movement proving to be uncomfortable if not downright painful.
JOHN (hangs Sherlock's coat beside his own): Yeah, you're going to be sore for a while yet. You need a pain pill?
SHERLOCK: Not yet.
He struggles to remove his jacket, and John helps with that too, folding the jacket over his arm.
JOHN: Sofa or bed?
SHERLOCK: Chair. (ignoring John's disapproving look) I've done far too much lying about lately.
John takes Sherlock's jacket into the bedroom, then calls back down the hall to Sherlock.
JOHN: Mrs. Hudson laid out your blue dressing gown. Want it?
SHERLOCK: Mm-hmm.
John quickly returns with the dressing gown, holding it open so Sherlock can slide his arms into it. Sherlock eases himself
down into his chair and lets out a breath, relaxing into the chair cushions as his eyes wander the room.
JOHN (going into the kitchen): Tea?
Not waiting for a response, he begins filling the kettle. Sherlock's eyes fall onto an object propped in the corner. His smile immediately fades and his brow furls.
SHERLOCK (in disgust): What the hell is THAT doing here?!
JOHN (steps back into the room and looks around in alarm): What?
SHERLOCK (pointing at the corner): That! That! Why is it here?
John turns to look where Sherlock is pointing and we follow his gaze to see a familiar large umbrella with a curved handle leaning against the wall.
JOHN: Oh, your bother's brolly?
He shrugs, turning back to the kitchen to plug the kettle in and get mugs from the cupboard. It also keeps Sherlock from seeing John mentally kicking himself.
JOHN (carefully keeping his voice casual): Been meaning to return that. No worries, I'll take care of it.
Sherlock aims a hard look at John's back, then takes a deep breath and steeples his fingers against his chin.
SHERLOCK: Good.
Images run through his head of the various times his brother has visited 221B, focusing on the fact that not once (even after Sherlock slammed him against the wall) did Mycroft ever leave the flat without his umbrella firmly in hand.
He takes out his phone and brings up the weather app, thumbing back through the past few weeks' rainfall reports. Then his eyes flick to the carpet, especially the area around John's chair, noting a few spots where the carpet has been crushed by something small and round.
John returns with two steaming mugs of tea, handing one to Sherlock, who takes it and studies John over the rim while he settles into his chair.
SHERLOCK (keeping his voice carefully neutral): You haven't spoken to Mary.
John swallows a gulp of too hot tea, the fingers of his free hand tensing. He hides the movement by laying his hand on the chair arm, but not before Sherlock notices the reaction.
JOHN (voice calm, but clipped) : No. And I'm not going to until I'm ready. Not one minute sooner, Sherlock.
SHERLOCK: So you'll be staying here for a while.
JOHN (relaxing slightly): Seems best considering... If that's alright?
SHERLOCK: Yes, of course. It's fine.
John nods, sets his tea aside and picks up a newspaper from the side table. Sherlock sips his tea and surreptitiously observes John take a few deliberate, deep breaths and flex his fingers as he begins to peruse the newspaper.
After a few moments, Sherlock sets his mug on the chair arm, picks up his phone and sends a text.
Please collect your umbrella. -SH
His phone pings back a response and he carries on a conversation via text while John continues to read the paper.
Certainly. Assuming it's no longer needed? -MH
Just retrieve the damned thing before I throw it in the bin. -SH
Next time you have a near death experience, make better preparations. -MH
For what? -SH
Watching over your friend, little brother. Don't expect me to do it again. -MH
Turning off his phone, Sherlock glances up at John with a look of rare affection, which John is too absorbed in his reading to notice.
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A/N: I'm not sure who's actually the goldfish here, but I figure after all of the Sherlock whumping in HLV, he could use a bit of comfort. Thanks to lostwithoutablogger and JolieBlack for the comments on Chapter 1 that inspired this second bit of the story. :)