Chapter 2: And Now That You're Here~
He'd spent the first 3 nights after his return in St. James' CCU, under the watchful eye of nurses that moon-lighted as British agents.
John was there ,as well, of course,to keep an eye out for him.
And the next couple of days he spent in a hotel, while the whole business with the Chief was sorted out.
A private meeting had been arranged with Lestrade, to inform him of the conditions of Sherlock's return.
His fame could never inflate like it once had.
He must be believed to be dead, from now until he actually breathed his last, if at all possible.
Sherlock had agreed to meet Lestrade down in the subway tunnels.
The man clung to him for dear life, until he thought he should suffocate , and apologized profusely.
"It's...alright...it's over now." Sherlock said, patting him awkwardly on the back.
John hadn't been there for that. He was at home, debriefing Mrs. Hudson.
She fainted when she got the news.
For the next few days after that, Molly Hooper had agreed to let Sherlock and John both stay in her spare bedroom. The agreement being that Sherlock ,who was all roughed up, would stay on or near the spare bed for the entirety of the next couple of days ,until he could be indiscreetly moved back into Baker Street. John would need to stay "missing" until the scenario where he was "found" could be written, rehearsed, and then performed along the Thames, (a show put on and worthy of the BAFTA) so he would kip on the floor, provided with a nice quilt bed roll thing from Molly's closet.
She was lovely company, and filled them in on everything they had missed in , for Sherlock, 2 years, and , for John, around 6 months, worth of absence.
It may as well have been Eternity, with all they had endured. But London had gone on at its own sleepless, and yet sleepy, little pace.
In that moment of their lives, Sherlock and John were wide awake to how foreign the ordinary can feel ,when one has been away suffering an ordeal, that no one else would ever know about, and no one else would ever understand.
It wasn't a pleasant feeling.
But the common place, had never been so out of place, as it had been, in the instance that they were standing at their own doorstep, the smell of tea, and burning biscuits, wafting outside.
"It's Christmas..."Sherlock said.
John shrugged, "You need to heal before you take any more cases..."
"No ,I mean, it is the actual day of Christmas. December 25."
John's jaw gaped," You're right ,it is."
"I suppose then I should say, Happy Belated Chanukah, as well as, Merry Christmas. It's what people do, isn't it, wish each other a wonderful holiday ,or some such?"
John used to know the answer to those sort of questions...
"I suppose..."
Sherlock drew a shaky breath.
"Are you ready?" John asked.
"Yeah." he answered wistfully, and John turned the doorknob.
"SURPRISE!"
They walked in on Mrs. Hudson,Greg, Molly, Mycroft, and his and Sherlock's parents, all preparing Christmas/homecoming dinner.
Mrs. Hudson tackled Sherlock,and held onto him for a full 10 minutes. Then his mother did the same, clutching him until he was blue in the face.
His father stood back and quietly observed. Noticing that his younger son did not look well, held his body at an odd drawn up stance, had a haunted look in his eyes...
"Merry Christmas, son..." he said, drawing close,and hugging Sherlock with a firm/gentleness that the women had not had the restraint for. Sherlock wrapped his arms awkwardly around his father, grateful beyond words for this,because the fervor of the matronly emotion had hurt him ,accidentally.
"Heard you were in the hospital?" Mr. Holmes said quietly into Sherlock's ear.
"Don't think Mum should know?" Sherlock muttered back, and then cringed at the look in his father's eyes, when blood welled up to where his hands rested on his shoulders.
"Dear God, boy, what happened to you?!" he hissed ,harshly.
Mycroft came up to John, and said softly, " I believe my father, my brother, and I, should take a moment to speak privately. Will you excuse us?"
John nodded, and then looked Mr. Holmes in the eyes, "John Watson, hello. "he said, extending a hand. "I'm his friend, and his doctor. If you have any questions about what they tell you, I will be happy to put your mind at ease."
Mr. Holmes shook John's hand, a tender smile on his face, "Oh, hello, John. I already know you quite well through my boys."
The Holmes men stepped aside, and John drew a shaky breath, and stepped into the kitchen light, allowing the matronly swarm to settle down on him. Lestrade smiled at him apologetically, almost, as he was bombarded with questions about the "holiday". Ah, and normally he'd give anything for this much attention from the females...
A few minutes later, the three men stepped into the room again. Mr. Holmes had been crying, though he had carefully concealed the most tell-tale signs. Mycroft's expression was impossible to read, but he had a hand protectively on Sherlock's back, and asked him a question, the only part of which John heard was "plasters...need to reapply?"
Sherlock looked up, and his eyes met John's. His face was a mask of stone, save that he was a little "green around the gills." He smiled, as if trying to reassure John, and went and sat on the settee, wincing at the effort it took to propel himself that far.
Sat there in deafening silence, whilst his loved ones chattered on, so out of body, and out of mind, and strangely back in his own home just in time for Christmas dinner, as if this were a dream.
John's eyes rested on him, silently swearing to guide his every step through this painful journey. The homecoming had really just begun with being relocated in this place...
Mr. Holmes came up to him then, swallowing his bile, and whatever pride may lay in his old roots.
"So, I would like to get to know Doctor Watson more personally. Step out to the back lot with me?"
"Sure."
It took an act of God to take worried eyes off of Sherlock, who was currently listening to something Molly was saying, with a child-like grin on her face. She was also showing off a new engagement ring ,and Sherlock was appraising it (and secretly all it's previous owners...though he'd learned not to say such a horrible thing aloud to Molly Hooper)...
When they got outside, Mr. Holmes turned about to face John, stiff upper lip almost wavering.
"My son...was tortured?"
John swallowed.
Oh, yes, a long road home yet...
"Yes..." he answered plainly, and began to brace himself for a series of medical questions like, "what are long term effects?" , "will he be in greatly prolonged pain?"...
And the worst,
"Is he going to die?"
"No, no the most of the recovery will be in his mind..."
Mr. Holmes shook his head, "My own child..." he whispered, horrified...
John laid a strong hand on his shoulder, and they stared into the night.
"Least he's got you..." says Mr. Holmes out of the blue yonder.
John smiled ,slowly.
"Yes. Yes, he does. Always..."