Here we go! Things are starting to roll now people, no warnings (unless angst bugs you) (and a dude having extra sexual organs) to this one.
It has been three more days of staying on the sofa in the sitting room for John and he's had about enough of it! Somehow it is too soft and that has started to make his joints and his lower back ache. 'Good lord! It's only been a week and a half, how does Sherlock laze about here so often?' Feeling very grumpy and put out he levers himself upright and heads to the loo again. He's struck by an urge to stay in the loo a while and after a few minutes of sitting there wondering if his toes really are that colour, or if it's the contrast with the cast that makes them seem so dark, John is struck with a worrying thought.
He's cramping up. Grumbling to himself under his breath he digs into the pocket of his robe for the tiny tampon he secreted there for when this day came. Truthfully he had been waiting for it for a good while now. Funny that, he abhors the fact that it has to happen to him, but was also irritated that it couldn't behave and happen on schedule. With a roll of his eyes he reminds himself that times of injury and high stress often alter the reproductive cycle.
Sighing he pockets the wrapper, shifts his penis and balls to the right and deftly inserts the tampon, even though it's been a long time since he had to do so. Levering himself upright he washes and stands there staring at his reflection for a few long minutes.
His judgmental eyes see the almost roundness or softness to his face, the way his waist is dropping in and, with a few pinches and pokes, the density of his muscles seems less. He knows the changes are happening slower than he thinks they are, but self image is a tricky thing. Often what one sees is not as damning as one thinks it is.
A sudden thought has his eyes widening in fear, Sherlock will surely figure it out! It has been eight years since he allowed himself a cycle and the resulting bleeding with be heavy and fast once it gets going. There is no way to disguise the sent of rotting blood that will accompany every trip John makes to change his tampon! The 'super sleuth' will certainly *sniff* it out.
Speeding back to the sofa, well in so much as a man on crutches can speed, John scoops up his mobile and texts Harry, no response for five long minutes so he texts Clara. Moments later he gets the MSG 'Sorry in Cardiff for two days, will call 'round when I get back.' John starts panicking.
He could call Greg... But then Sherlock would do that, 'I'm hurt, but there is no way in hell I'm going to admit it' routine of flouncing about in anger. No that has to be avoided at ALL costs. Nothing for it, he has to ask Sherlock.
"It's about time you asked," comes the base drawl from the kitchen table, "I know you don't like to ask me to do personal things for you, but really John, your not getting up and down those stairs at the moment."
Fisting his hand in his hair John tries not to curse out loud at his flatmate; though, from the considering look on his face he might as well have. "You know why I don't like to ask Sherlock, you often don't consider privacy something you need to notice and in my present condition that bothers me."
Sherlock, who had been at his microscope all morning, scrapes back his chair and stands, walking over to come to a rest beside his flatmate. Seemingly avoiding looking too closely at John he smiles slightly, "True, but I have an invested interest in keeping you sweet while your bones heal." those moonstone eyes flicker to John's for a breath, "As such I'm not likely to breach your privacy should you ask me not to."
John fists his hands in the throw in his lap and glares at them, purposefully angrily to scrub his face of the emotional tells Sherlock sees vividly. "Right, thank you." clears his throat roughly, "Can you head down to the chemist by the clinic and get the script for 'Watson' please?"
Sherlock levers himself up instantly, "Of course John." and is out the door.
John quickly sends a text to the chemist telling her a tall dark haired man was collecting his 'wife's' script for him today as he's broken his foot. The chemist responds with an affirmative and tells him it was already waiting for him, but she'll pop in a 'repeat' as he'll be convalescing a while still with a break, along with a 'get better soon'.
Letting out a long slow breath John leans back against the settee, he, for the first time in days, feels the underlying stress begin to bleed off. 'Thank fuck.'
Sherlock strides into the small chemists across the way from the clinic John does locum work at. There is only one attendant, a single woman in her late forties with a daughter, no son, who is also single and she clearly thinks Sherlock could be a match for. Before she can speak Sherlock weighs in, "No, I am not interested, I'm here to pick up the 'Watson" script." Then he watches as the woman's proprietary body language drops to friendly interest in his request.
"Oh yes, 'H. Watson', one moment please." she turns, missing the confused look on Sherlock's face, and flips through the out drawer of the cabinet. "Ah!" she returns triumphantly, "here you go." And just as suddenly her body posture shifts to inquisitive, "If your picking up her scrips you must have met Dr. Watson's wife, poor thing has a pretty hard time with that agoraphobia. I hope it's not too late for these, she doesn't need that on top of it does she?"
Sherlock pulls on the mien of a warm, in the loop friend, "No, I haven't met her actually, I just work with Dr. Watson, not been invited 'round for tea yet." Smiles, "Just going to pop this through the mail slot on my way home."
The woman's expression dims a bit, clearly seeing she'll not find anything else out, she just rings him through.
Sherlock leaves, the sycophantic, ingratiating, smile slipping from his face like water down a window pane. Pulling his mobile out he sends John a quick text saying he's got a case and won't be coming straight back to the flat. He has some serious thinking to do.
Sherlock finds himself in a darkened lab watching a centrifuge spin. The prescription in it's stapled shut paper bag sits on the counter in front of him as he sits there staring at it. His mobile is in his hand, but he has stopped looking at it, the information on it is disturbing so he will avoid it, delete it.
The flicker of the lights coming on make him twitch, which tells him just how much this situation has derailed him, and in walks Molly. She squeaks when she sees him in the corner of the room, "Goodness Sherlock, you frightened me!" She wanders over to the machine and notes she has a few minutes left before it finishes. "Sherlock?" She waves her hand in front of him eliciting no response, only when she turns, seeing the paper bag and moves to pick it up does he move. "Don't touch that." Flinching she pulls away and looks back at him, "What is it?"
Pulling himself up imposingly, "It's a script for John." he grabs the paper bag and pockets it. Then he's looking down at Molly seeing only open helpfulness and light worry about John. This, if anything, decides it for him and he collapses back into his perch, "I have a question for you Molly."
She looks shocked, "Of course Sherlock, anything." and she too perches against the edge of the counter waiting.
"I'm worried about John, he's being secretive and is clearly internally upset about something that I don't know, which is perhaps from his childhood. What do I do?" He stares at her piercingly over his fingers propping up his chin.
Molly swallows, "Okay, and your worried that something is wrong with John?" her voice twisting the word 'wrong' slightly as if she's not sure what Sherlock is after.
"No I think he's going to sprout wings and fly." he answers derisively, "Molly, I don't know how to approach him and ask. What if this is something he can't handle me knowing? If I ask him about it the answer will be clear on him if he wants it to be or not! He knows that," Sherlock's expression clouds for a moment, "which I'm sure is the reason he was glowering at me earlier."
Molly interrupts his musing, "Turn the lights off, or close your eyes," her eyes get big and round, "oh I know, write them out and give it to him. Then leave the flat for a while so he can read it alone."
Sherlock stares at her for a few minutes in mild confusion, "So if I can't see him you think I'll not pick up on what it is, rather if I give him time to process it, either he'll be mad enough I won't be able to make it out, or it won't matter?" He nods once, "Yes, that might work. Thank you Molly." He's up and whisks out the room, pausing only to kiss Molly on the cheek lightly and murmur, "Thank you Molly." again.
Molly smiles at an empty doorway, "Your welcome."
John is luxuriating in the quiet of the flat, he does find himself missing the silent presence of his flatmate, but it is also nice to not have to worry about what his expression is telling the genius in the room!
After the text from Sherlock he got one, from Clara, which said only 'Tell him' and John had yet to respond to it. She had to know there was no way he could tell Sherlock, either it would be too weird, even for him, or he'd want to experiment on him, neither of which John could allow.
At some point he must have fallen asleep because he wakes, stiff necked, his foot throbbing for the first time in days and to the flat being dark and cold. In a sudden rush John realises his 'selfish', 'arrogant', 'unfeeling' flatmate has been 'keeping the trains on time' in 221B of late.
'Goodness,' thinks John, 'I haven't even seen Mrs. H. since the day Clara was here.' Yet his little corner of the room was tidy, there is always a glass of fresh water on the coffee table. He knows food has been brought to him at regular mealtimes and he's shocked to realise that Sherlock has been the one serving him, making sure he had his meds and retreating to his own room at a reasonable hour, to take that manic energy away, letting John rest. He's just blinking away the revelation when the downstairs door opens and closes quietly.
For an irrational reason John is filled with fear, he knows this happens to him sometimes when his hormonal balance is off. He can be taken by a flight of fancy and his adrenaline spirals out of control. Breathing slowly and calmly his eyes clenched shut tight John listens to the soft quiet steps on the stairs. Once they round the landing he opens his eyes and turns his head to see Sherlock rising out of the gloomy stairwell. He can't suppress the relief that floods him in that moment.
Sherlock strides in the room, all attempts to be quiet gone having seen his friend's eyes glinting at him in the dark. John looks very happy to see him, which Sherlock at first thinks is a very good sign. Then he realises the room is cold and dark, detouring into the kitchen he turns the light on over by the breakfast bar so the diffuse light won't hurt John's eyes. Then he notes the food he left on the kitchen table along with the meds still waiting there.
Suppressing an irritated sigh he lifts the tray and brings it to John, whisking the glass of water away to get fresh again. On the way back John's voice, quiet and querulous, "Why are you... Your not this kind of flatmate Sherlock..."
Sherlock sits beside him and pushes the pain meds across the tray toward him and pulls out the scrip and hands it over as well. "I am not," he pauses realising that challenging John's vague suggestion that he is unfeeling would only distress his friend and make him defensive. Sherlock did not think a defensive John would be a good conversationalist tonight. "You hurt yourself helping me and as we live and work together you and your health are important to me."
Trying not to look as though this is the huge deal to him, it obviously is, Sherlock slides the tray a slight bit closer. "I see you fell asleep after my text, sorry I left so quickly, but I had something to think about."
A cold, heavy feeling settles in John's stomach, "Thinking about what Sherlock?"
Sherlock maintains staring at the fireplace, "I asked Molly what the best course of action would be and she has reinforced my initial plan, though added some silly steps."
The heavy feeling starts to suffuse his entire core, "What did you ask Molly about?"
Not responding Sherlock crosses the room, stokes the barely burning embers with new wood. While his back is turned he starts talking, "I told Molly I was worried about you, but that I did not know how to tell you I was. She offered up some good ideas and some really silly ones."
Swallowing past what feels like his own fist in his throat, "What was the silliest?"
Sherlock turns his head, slightly over his left shoulder, not to see John, only so John can see the small smile curling his lips gently. "She suggested I write my worries out on a paper and deliver them after you had gone to sleep for the night and then vacate the premisses for a few days."
John can't help himself, he chuckles, "That is a bit mad."
Sherlock nods, "I need to ask you some questions John, and based on your behaviour over the last while you may not like the specific ones I ask. How would you like me to proceed?" This time he does look over his shoulder at John, "I could stay here and look into the flames as I ask, limiting my ability to read what you choose not to tell me. Or..."
John shakes his head, his shoulders falling inward and down, "No Sherlock, come and sit with me, I will let you ask what you want."
His flatmate silently slips across the room and comes to rest beside him. His eager eyes track all over John's frame, "You've given up on your privacy and you are deeply shamed, John it can't be all that bad. Eat you medication please."
"Right of course." he collects everything, tray, meds and water, pulling it all into his lap, "Go on, ask."