John felt ridiculous, here he was sitting on the sofa sideways with his knee and foot under pillows to keep it elevated. Mrs. Hudson was fluttering around asking if he felt alright, if he needed another cuppa, or if he just wanted her to go.

Sherlock was uncharacteristically silent in his chair, hands clasped in front of him, his violin on his lap. John's eyes seemed to be tracking over Sherlock, looking to see if he had an injury that John had missed noticing in the great race to A&E. With a start he realises the light has shifted in the room, namely less from the windows and the bulk of illumination coming from the glowing grate, 'Goodness hours must have passed.'

"Two hours and 36 minutes have passed since Mrs. Hudson left because you had 'zoned out' and were no longer paying her any mind." came the soft rumble of Sherlock's baritone.

Blinking slowly John felt as though he was swimming towards the surface of reality, as though, for that time he had fallen into a deep pool of contemplation where nothing but his flatmate, sitting in his chair, existed. He brings up his fingers to rub at his eyes, "Was that how long I was out of it?"

Not voiced as severely as usual, "Yes, well I'd hardly have quoted you that time length if I hadn't known that was what you were wondering." yet with a bit of a bite, "After all you might not be a genius, but neither are you a common 'pleb'."

John snorts out a laugh and shifts his gaze to the sheerly curtained windows, "Sorry Sherlock, I guess I got lost there somehow." Shifting a bit on purpose to make his foot ache (which clears his expression of anything other than the pain), John tries to figure out why he was staring at his friend like he was the last pint of bitters in all of London. He has a sinking feeling in his gut that he knows the answer to that question already, so wrapped up in his personal worries he misses Sherlock talking till he visually pops into his field of vision.

"John! Please, you know how much I detest repeating myself!" He stands over John in his perfectly tailored clothing, shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms, hands shucked in his pockets casually, his head tilted in that endearing manner he has when he's trying to figure... 'Oh no, what did I just think?!'

Concerned only with hiding, John covers his face with his hands and rubs vigorously, as though trying to wake himself from the strange stupor he was in all afternoon. "What was it you said just then, I'm paying attention now."

Sitting on the arm of the sofa Sherlock leans toward John, "I said I was unsure if you were building a mind palace of your own or if you just went completely off line."

John laughs a bit behind his rubbing hands, "No Sherlock, if I had a mental anything it would be bunker not a castle." Hands falling into his lap, John looks up at his flatmate, "I'm not sure what I was thinking, something about you maybe being injured tonight and me not noticing. Somehow I got stuck in a loop of looking for signs of injuries you could have been hiding from me."

Sherlock makes a derisive, haughty sound and turns on his perch. "Would it have mattered, you haven't seemed interested in recent past, as long as I don't bleed out, that is."

Incensed John leans forward grabbing the arm Sherlock is waving at him dismissively, giving it a good yank he pulls Sherlock down onto his knees. "John!" Sherlock cries out in shock, "Your foot, what are you doing?"

Teeth set, both hands grabbing handfuls of Sherlock's shirt and dragging him closer, John shakes his head, "The foot is fine, but I can't chase you and I know you were about to run out of the room." Heaving Sherlock the last few inches he now has the detective sitting sideways across his upper thighs, torso twisted to face John. "What the fuck did you mean by that, because I'm pretty sure the last time you got seriously hurt I ENDED MY MARRIAGE to take care of you."

Sherlock stares at his best friend and flatmate, who at the moment looks as though he wants to throttle Sherlock again, just like that first night. "I'm sorry John," he begins, eyes wide and trying to hover over his wounded friend whilst being pinned in a very odd position. "My thoughts were not on our recent past, but upon my return."

John looks at him for a long silent moment as his grip slowly loosens. "Sherlock," his fingers finally releasing him, "I'm..." he pats the sofa here and there restlessly - as though looking for something, "can you help me shift my foot onto the coffee table? I'd like to talk about this and your too big to sit in my lap."

A smirk alighting on his mouth Sherlock effortlessly straightens, grasps both edges of the pillows under John's foot and lifts them slightly with a questioning look to John. Who places his hands under himself and shifts his leg ninety degrees to the left whilst Sherlock supports the weight in his makeshift hammock of pillows. He watches as John's face pales a touch with the effort and resulting pain the movement causes, then he folds himself down at the other end of the sofa.

John sits here looking at his foot for a few moments, then, "When you came back I was angry, terribly angry. Before you say anything, I know I should have been smarter about it, should have known you'd been running on nothing with no regard for anything but completing your task. But you arrived so well put together and your usually behaved self that it just didn't click."

I know now, well you've told me some of it, so I know things were bad for you and yet I acknowledge that I probably don't have a clue."

Sherlock, staring across the sitting room to the dying embers, doesn't blink at this. For once he is unsure of what to do making the silence stretch out in the room as John waits to see if his friend wants to clarify any of what he's asked about.

"When I returned to London I was not in the best of shape and Mycroft was being his cryptic self in hinting around you and Mary's serious relationship..." the soft baritone breaks off for a second, head tilting down seeming to be flicking through memories rapidly, "I suspect my rational for showing up as your waiter had some grounding in wanting to make light of all that had happened. My 'magic trick', everything that happened to me while I was away, and that you had moved, so clearly, on. I acted like a spoilt brat and ruined your evening because I couldn't understand that my best friend might not have time for me like he always had."

Slowly Sherlock turns wide eyes to John, tension in the brow belying the worry he tries to hide, "So I don't blame you for not seeing that I was in more pain than our minor tussling could explain and I am sorry for that. I see that I caused a rift that night that hurt on both sides for a long time and,"

Stopped mid-sentence by a tight grip on his arm Sherlock looks to John for why. "You aren't the only one who made mistakes Sherlock. Look, I had always given in to you, always dropped whatever I was doing when you called, regardless of what I was doing, or who I was with. It's just part of how it works with us and I shouldn't have expected you to understand that it had changed while you were gone." The tension in his grip relaxes, "Can we both just pretend that we aren't two British men who couldn't talk about their feelings when it happened and pretend we had a lovely reunion whilst deleting the actual event?"

A tight-lipped smile steals across Sherlock's face, "Of course we can, I've deleted it already." His fingers again pressed together and against his lips Sherlock seems to do just that making a tendril of hope unfurl in John's chest. Feeling faintly nauseous he stomps hard on the feeling, knowing instinctively that that is something cannot be explored. He's busily trying to smother the sickly feeling when Sherlock clears his throat, "As we are likely to have spoken of my travels in our 'lovely reunion' should we not do so now so you have that knowledge if you should need it?"

John feels a thoughtful feeling welling up inside, "Would you even be allowed to tell me?"

Sherlock waves him aside, "Of course, there may have been a few things that are medically pertinent, not to mention I'd have told you anyways."

John giggles, "Well lay it on me then my son, so we can re-write our history."

Things go smoothly for John for the first week, with a certain amount of irritation he realises he's looking forward to needing only use his cane again. Sherlock, being overly solicitous that morning shifted the table against the far wall. Rendering only one side of the table useful, but giving John a clearer shot to the loo on his crutches, for which he is thankful, this morning more than ever. He wakes to a horrible feeling low in his spine and an urgent need to run to the loo.

Carefully sitting up on the sofa he's been sleeping on, pulling his casted foot off the divan (that arrived two hours after they returned from A&E the first night), John grabs his crutches and is off in a flash.

Twenty minutes and an unsatisfying session sitting on the loo later and John is staring at himself in the mirror knowing something is off, but not sure what it is. Is it his hair? There has been quite a bit of growth and it had been about time to get it cut when he broke his foot. But that isn't it, it's grown out longer than that before. Is it his facial hair? He's not been shaving daily and he finally has full layer of scruff. But same as the hair, he's gone longer.

Then he sees is, like a wash of cold water down the back of his neck, he sees it. His face is a bit softer, fuller cheeks and soft jaw-line. Not anything resembling a double chin, just a thickness that had been absent before.

Pulling back he quickly pulls his hoodie and shirt off and scans his torso for alterations. 'Shit, shit, shit...' repeats over and over in his mind as he sees the roundness that is developing in his pelvic area, his waist is dropping in a bit, muscle density changing from in activity. With dread he opens up the cabinet to pull out his two week pill sorter.

Closing his eyes in dread he tries to remember if it's full (minus the three days he's already taken). In his minds eye he remembers loading the two - two week pill sorters with all his various meds, but he's no longer sure he filled all the weeks.

Hand shaking a bit he opens Sunday's box. Inside is a daily vitamin and calcium pill. Closing the box he curses and stuffs it back into the cabinet in frustration. Left hand shaking he pulls out his mobile and calls Harry only to get nothing. He sends her a text asking where she is, only to get an automated message about being in Northern Ireland with spotty mobile service.

Trying not to loose his cool John starts hitting his forehead with his mobile as though that might boost it's signal to his sister. But after a good five or six smacks he gives up and sets the mobile down. Despondently he pulls the T-shirt out of the hoodie and puts them both on before putting the mobile in his 'roo pouch and uses the crutches to get back to his bed in the sitting room.

Never so thankful for Sherlock's strange hours he texts his best friend to see if he will be home soon. Moments later he gets a curt text about awaiting test results on the case and being back around tea-time. Letting out a stress-release breath John then skims through his contact list for a one Clara Watson. With an oily uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach John sends her a text asking her if she has time to talk. Ten minutes later his mobile rings.

"Hello?"

"Hiya John, I was thrilled to get your text, I've been wondering what your up to of late. Not that Harry was a reliable source of info on you ever, anyway, how are you?"

John swallows for the tenth time, Clara sounded just the same and he's known her since he was fourteen. Something in him just wants to start crying at the thought of this lovely woman being trapped in his family and that he's about to drag her back in.

"I'm not so good, no, I had an accident last week and I need a spot of help. Will you come?"

Not even a breath, "Of course John, you know I consider you family."

A loud huff of relief and, "Thank you Clara, I'm at 221B Baker St."

"I'll be there in a mo luv."