Chapter 8
John visibly drooped in relief at Sherlock's words, a shaky laugh escaping his lips as he stumbled towards his chair, flopping into it as his legs gave way beneath him. He leant forwards, resting his head on his hands, suddenly exhausted. He felt as if the world had left his shoulders the moment Sherlock had admitted he needed the hospital. He knew it wasn't over though, that it was nowhere near over but it was a step in the right direction and a step that he was thankful for.
When he looked up Sherlock's blue-grey eyes caught onto his. The youngest Holmes was still sitting in his square green chair with his right arm rested in his lap but now with a strange mixture of confusion, worry and pain all mixed into one on his alabaster face. He was biting his lip too, the pearly white teeth digging into his dry bottom lip, although not hard enough to draw blood. It still worried John though, after all, Sherlock had never showed fearful emotions before.
Mycroft was also still sat in his chair but now the phone had dropped to his lap and his face had relaxed into a look of pure relief. It was strange, really, for John to see so much emotion from the normally icy 'British Government', a man who could apparently kidnap without so much as a thought. But now his feelings were obvious, dragged back out into the open along with Sherlock's past.
The room had filled with silence again, but not the awkwardness of before, this time it was as it they were all simply waiting, although for what nobody knew. Sherlock's gaze had slipped back down to his lap and he seemed reluctant to make the first move, willing to accept he needed the hospital but not wanting to start the movement there himself. John didn't want to rush his friend, desperate not to pressure him into another panic attack or start another flash back. He knew it was up to him though, as Mycroft appeared to be watching the scene before him rather than actually participating in it. John figured it was probably the result of watching too much CCTV, seeing everything unfold before him but unable to do anything directly about it.
So eventually he stood, as calmly and normally as he could, rolling his shoulders to let his back click free as he normally would. Sherlock's gaze flickered up, startled by the sudden noise but he quickly returned it to his lap as the battle of emotions continued in his mind. Wordlessly John collected the three empty mugs from around the room and took them to the kitchen, feeling the burning gaze of Mycroft on his back again. Without a word he dumped the mugs on the worktop and turned on the hot tap, holding his hand under the water as it heated.
He let his mind wander as he waited, thinking back over the past night and to the fall three days ago that had started all of this mess in the first place. Sherlock had said it was just a sprain, he had lied, and for some reason that hurt. Then he hand kept it hidden, a strange proof of the lack of trust Sherlock had. John had always felt he was trusted by his friend, even on their first case together. After all, who wandered off with a serial killer leaving only a new acquaintance to stop their approaching death?
John was suddenly aware of the burning sensation in his hand and he pulled it back from the water with a sharp exhale, shaking it dry of the water. He shoved the plug into the sink with much more force than was necessary, and dropped the mugs into the rising liquid, ignoring the water that splashed back onto his jumper. He squirted the green Fairy in, watching as it foamed under the heavy torrent from the tap. He knew it was a waste to fill the sink just to wash the three mugs but John needed to be out of that silent living room and the washing gave him time to think and to puzzle through the apparent situation.
Only when the sink got close to overflowing did John turn off the tap, letting silence return and the sound of clicking BlackBerry keys drift to his ears. Sherlock must have found his phone then, probably down the side of the sofa, but who was he texting? Lestrade was John's first thought but then he remembered the time with a glance to his now foam covered watch. Sherlock couldn't be texting Lestrade this early; Lestrade would never reply. John listened carefully until the clicking of keys stopped with a final 'ding' as the long text was sent.
With a frown John looked back down at the sink, taking a mug in one hand and a cloth in the other, washing the mugs quietly was he listened. The slight buzzing of a phone on silent shuddered through the air as Mycroft received a message in the lounge. There was no more sound of his phone but John presumed he was now replying as Mycroft never ignored a summon from his mobile. One mug washed later and Sherlock was texting again, the speed of his messages barely slowed even with the use of only his less dominant arm. Eventually the clicking stopped again followed by the buzz of Mycroft's phone mere seconds later as he received another text. John felt his eyebrows rise as realisation struck; were they texting each other?
He risked a glance behind him, watching as Sherlock narrowed his eyes towards his brother, only looking away when the precious BlackBerry in his lap lit up, casting an eerie shadow over his features. He picked up the phone in his left hand, his eyes flicking backwards and forwards as he read what was written on his screen. There was a pause and the screen darkened as the backlight faded, its glow then barely visible in the sunlit room. Mycroft cleared his throat from the sofa and Sherlock shot him a glare before lighting up his phone once again. John turned back to the sink before him, his suspicions confirmed. It still bugged him though, after all, he had never known Sherlock to keep secrets from him before.
After a second he dropped the mug silently into the water and hurried soundlessly thought the kitchen door and into the hall, half hurt and half not wanting to disturb the newly found equilibrium between the two brothers. The first room he came to was Sherlock's and he found himself slowing to a halt outside the door, pushing it open to reveal the mess he remembered inside. The space was now filled with early morning light through the open curtains and John could see the true extent of destruction in the room. He swallowed the lump in his throat, pausing in the doorway and remembering the last time he had been in there, remembering the previous night.
After a second he shook the memory from his mind and crept into the room, careful not to tread on the glass and wood that littered the floor. Crossing to the half-dismantled chest of draws in the corner of the room John set himself the task of packing Sherlock a small overnight bag to take to the hospital with him because many people did have to stay in this type of situation, if only to ensure there were no post-surgery complications. He didn't doubt for a moment that Sherlock would have to have surgery, not after seeing that hideous angle at which his wrist had been bent before.
Now armed with Sherlock's pyjamas and a change of clothes John hurried up to his room to find a bag. He knew Sherlock kept one in the bottom of the wardrobe as many people did but he didn't really want the job of hunting for it in that room and his bag would do just the same job. He stopped at the bathroom on the way, grabbing his friend's toothbrush and deodorant just in case Sherlock required them during his stay. He would probably also want his violin and laptop but those probably wouldn't be very hospital friendly items, not that he would be able to play the violin anyway.
John climbed the stairs, his socks making very little noise against the wood as he moved to his bedroom, wondering whether to take overnight stuff for himself as well. Normally adults weren't allowed overnight visitors, not that any typical rules would be a problem with Mycroft around, but John questioned if Sherlock would want him to stay the night or not. On any normal night he would have known he was wanted, a form of protection for his friend against the stupidity of the hospital staff and to help fight away the boredom of his stay, but now he just wasn't sure.
He paused for a second, taking one last glance around his room before snatching his phone charger off the top of his desk and shoving it in the bag, deciding it was better to be prepared and have to take the charger home later than end up sitting in the hospital with a dead phone and no way to communicate with anyone. On a last spur of the moment thought he added the blanket that had sat folded at the bottom of his bed every day since the cold snap had begun the week before.
Slinging the bag over his shoulder he hurried down the stairs, his treads heavy on the wooden steps with weariness. Leaving the bag on the bottom step John wandered cautiously into the lounge, pausing in the doorway on his way. Sherlock looked up at his friend as he waited in the doorway, his eyes searching over his appearance as he did so. He could tell instantly his friend was tires, that he hadn't slept the night before and had spent the whole night sitting on the floor, he could see the emotional and mental stress carved onto his expression but most of all he could see the worry that was evident there, no matter how deep John tried to keep it hidden.
Sherlock knew in an instant that it was he who was leaving this all on his friend, all the stress and the worry and the pain that now donned the doctor's features. He had never cared for anyone in the way he had for John, a fact that had become blazingly obvious to all after the scenario at the pool. It was strange for him to have that nagging feeling in his chest, the one telling him to do the right thing maybe not for himself but for his friend instead. So it was with that in his heart that he rocked himself to his feet, turning to face his friend who still stood in the doorway, now with a look of confusion on his lined face.
The detective's hands drooped to his sides, his expression blank even through the pain the movement must have caused him. The room fell silent as Mycroft lowered his phone and looked up, his eyebrows contorting as he watched the scene with worry, his gaze flicking between his brother and the army doctor as they stood. He took a breath and then Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, made possibly the first consciously selfless decision he had ever made in his entire life.
"John," he whispered, watching a flicker of confusion flash across his best friends face as his name was called. Sherlock paused and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly to hold his mask in place. He could feel it slipping, the emotions that were slowly breaking through no matter how desperately he tried to keep inside. John stood opposite him, still hovering in the doorway, his head cocked to the side in question. Eventually he looked back up, knowing he could wait no longer.
"I'm ready to go," he admitted shakily, staring straight into the deep blue eyes of his friend.
