Chapter Nineteen

John woke up, feeling slightly nervous. He rubbed his eyes and got up, immediately leaving his room and knocking on Sherlock's door. No answer. Fear threatened to crawl to the surface but he swallowed it down and carefully opened the door.

Sherlock had removed all the files and stacked them neatly next to the bed. He was curled up, lying on his right side, still topless. Despite his position, he seemed very relaxed. John felt tenderness towards the sleeping man, a feeling that suddenly seemed normal. Something had happened to him and the last few days had changed him and his perception of the world, but he started to get used to it. It didn't seem quite so threatening and strange anymore.

He smiled and closed the door again, making sure he would not wake up yet. Then, finding that he was incredibly hungry, he dressed and made his way down into the kitchen, starting to cook a proper breakfast. Sherlock would eat, he would make sure of that.

When he had finished, John went back upstairs to wake Sherlock. He felt guilty, but he knew that his friend needed to eat. For all he knew he hadn't eaten anything in three days.

John knocked again, and again he did not receive an answer, so he opened the door to find Sherlock still in the position he had left him in. With a smile he sat down on the edge of the bed. Sherlock looked indeed peaceful, his face relaxed, no sign of the frown that usually adorned his forehead.

"Sherlock," he said quietly, not quite wanting to wake him up. Sherlock sighed and unfolded his body, turning until he lay on his back.

"Sherlock, wake up." A small grunt, like a boy who should get up for school but didn't want to. John waited for Sherlock to ask him for another five minutes. The thought made him chuckle. He gently touched his shoulder, stroking the skin above his collar bone.

With another sigh, Sherlock woke up. He opened his eyes, unfocused and heavy with sleep. His hand came up and John anticipated for him to push his hand away, but instead he just placed his hand over his, just like he had done last night when he had cleaned the wound.

"Good morning. I made breakfast, in case you're hungry."

Sherlock inhaled deeply and then smiled. "Hunger is dull."

"Of course."

Sherlock blinked a few times, and then his smile widened as if he only just now remembered that he had worried about him. "Thank you."

"You'll eat."

"Do I have a choice?"

"No." John grinned and pulled his hand back. Sherlock only let him go reluctantly.

"I couldn't sleep. I thought you might be gone when I would wake up."

"I told you, I'm here."

Sherlock nodded. "I'm just not used to worry about anyone."

With a grunt he sat up, now being on eye level with John. "You look much better."

John chuckled, and not quite wanting to, got up. "I'll wait for you downstairs."

But Sherlock didn't wait. He grabbed a shirt from the back of his chair and followed him downstairs. John found that he would have preferred if he had stayed like he was. He could easily get used to Sherlock walking around topless…only to check on the progress of his injuries, of course. But it was chilly in the kitchen, so Sherlock was evidently being much smarter than he was.

"Eggs?" he offered when Sherlock sat down on the table, dragging his hands through his hair.

"Hmm." Deep in his throat and rather appreciative. John wondered if he had ever seen Sherlock eat for pleasure.

He placed a plate with ham and eggs in front of Sherlock, producing two slices of buttered toast right after.

"Thank you, John."

"No problem."

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Come to the library with me today?" he looked calm, but John was sure he had invested quite a bit of thought into this idea. "Of course, only if you feel up to it."

"Do you feel up to it?"

"Only if you come along." He took a bite of toast.

"Okay."

Sherlock seemed honestly surprised, looking at him with wide eyes.

"Alright."

John drank his tea and ate his toast, watching Sherlock eat. He couldn't help but smile as Sherlock finished everything he had put before him. For a second he considered to praise him for it, but he knew it would be a bit much.

"We should get flowers for Mrs Hudson." John was silently adding a bottle of expensive wine to that list.

"We should get her a phone," Sherlock mused. "Much more useful."

"For you, yes, but we want to say thank you."

Sherlock grinned.

"She was being incredibly sweet when she thought I was sick."

"You were sick."

"Worried sick, yes."

Sherlock looked at him almost gently. "The birds were a bit vague, no?"

John chuckled. "I hate your voice mail."

"No you don't."

"Yeah, I don't. For a moment I thought it would be the only thing I'd ever hear you say again. 'Busy, obviously'." A sigh escaped his lips.

"I liked the message you left me."

"Which one?"

"The one where you need me."

John stared, blushing.

Sherlock chuckled. "I was listening to the message when he caught me. I thought it would be the last thing I'd ever hear you say." He tried to keep it light, but again, he could not hide the bitterness.

"Wait! Does that mean you got all my texts and the messages I left you and still you didn't have it in you to let me know you were okay?" John regretted saying this immediately. Sherlock never did anything without thinking it through properly.

And he looked surprised. "I didn't think it would have been helpful." He folded his hands and leaned over the table, closer.

"Well, it would have. I could have stopped worrying, at least for a bit."

"You talked to people who were clearly sent by me."

"Clearly, yes, in retrospect! Sherlock, I thought god knows what had happened to you. How was I supposed to understand that you sent me messages through people? And, you just said it yourself, the bird were a bit vague," he got up and walked to the window. "A simple 'I'm alive and okay' would have been nice."

"If I had sent you a message like this, Moriarty would have found both me and you much faster."

"How so?" He turned around, leaning against the window sill, arms crossed almost defensively.

"I'm not the only one to have the underground working for me. He has spies everywhere, and those spies mostly don't even know that they are spies. He gathers information from them without them ever knowing that they betrayed someone."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"You know how innocent he can pretend to be. He does not even pay for information, he just plays with people until they hand over the information that he needs."

"Sherlock, you're not really paying for information either. You're paying them because they have nothing. They would do it for you without receiving anything in return."

Sherlock's eye narrowed, as if he didn't know why John would say such a thing.

"Sherlock, when I told them you had disappeared they alerted the whole city. Thank God we were apparently on the news so that they know you have resurfaced. Otherwise they'd still be searching."

"You were brilliant by the way."

John was both surprised and confused by the sudden change of topic, but apparently Sherlock had heard his opinion on the matter and was ready to move on. "How do you mean?"

"At the library. You did everything the way I hoped you would."

"I wasn't sure about that either. How did you know I was there?"

"The man that Moriarty killed after he … shot you. He came back to report that you were there and that you wanted to speak to the curator."

"And you were there with them?"

"Moriarty thought he had drugged me enough to keep me unconscious for a while. Of course I let him think I was. I'm surprised that even though I have been rather clean since … well, since you moved in, really, my body was pretty comfortable with the dose he gave me. So I heard them talking."

"Wait, if he gave you something this strong, how could your blood test be clean?"

Sherlock smiled smugly. "Occasionally my brother happens to be helpful."

"He exchanged the blood samples?"

"Obviously."

"That's why you were so cold yesterday. You were suffering from withdrawal."

Sherlock shrugged. "It was over when we came home. I think your hands helped."

John walked back to the table and sat down, sipping his tea. "Did you tell Anthea's sister that someone would come for a security check up?"

"Yes, well, I sent someone to inform her."

"She was being very brave," he mused, hoping she would be at the library so he could clarify a few things.

"She's back in Oxford. Mycroft made sure of that."

"When did you even speak to him?"

"Last night when you slept."

"Of course."

He looked at Sherlock, watching his face. He was just a tiny bit nervous, even though John couldn't say why. He still looked sleepy, and he wondered whether he should have left him sleep for a bit longer, but then again, he had enjoyed waking him up. Okay, wrong thought again. It was definitely not good thinking about these things while staring into Sherlock's eyes.

"I'll clean up while you get dressed and then we go?"

Sherlock nodded, his eyes still locked to his. Neither of them moved.

"Thank you," he said eventually, pushing himself up with his arms. "Can you just look at the bruise again? When I woke up it was rather painful."

John smiled, and somewhere in his mind it registered that Sherlock was somehow very eager to take off his shirt when he had the chance. They moved into the living room, closer to the window so he could see better. When Sherlock pulled up his shirt, John gasped. The bruise was now of an angry bluish and red colour, the centre purple and the edges almost yellow.

"Your professional opinion?"

John coughed and leaned back. "It looks bloody awful."

"Ah," Sherlock said, grinning. "It will still go away again, right?"

"Yes, but it'll be a while."

Sherlock turned around to him, his navel level with John's face. Not the best position to be in to make a professional statement. Sherlock smirked down at him, the bastard!

"I'll be getting dressed then," he announced and turned to go.

John stared after him. Yes, his world had definitely changed.

A.N. Well, since Lionfeathers practically begged for another chapter...here you go ;) (might not be able to go online tomorrow, just so you know that I might not be able to post a new chapter)