Chapter 13

Dreamless sleep was a gift to him, and the decent hours to wake up at were reassuring to him, but other than those two thoughts his mind was groggy and blurred. He heard discussing voices far away. Focusing more, he realised they were downstairs, discussing a broken door. When did it break? He slid from bed and rubbed the back of his neck when he heard it click as he walked out towards the parlour. The smell of food lingered in the hallway. That cleared some of the fog within John's mind as he turned to find the tray at the second bedroom door, both plate and mug empty.

"Oh God…" That's when John finally remembered last night, the bullet through the lock, finding his best friend bleeding to death by the fire, the arguments. Did nothing ever go smoothly for him anymore?

He carried the tray back to the kitchen, doing his best to stay balanced on shaky legs. An eerie silence was throughout the flat when he blocked out the voices downstairs. The raven that had been perched outside the window last night was gone. John stumbled around in his groggy state, something he already highly disliked, made his footsteps thud against the wood. The pale light of dawn pierced through the air from the street, making the several feathers shine around the black armchair, though he was sure they were Black Markers as he stared at them, the light reflecting off the glossy surface, but the edges not so battered and clipped as the ones he owned.

As he assembled a mug of coffee, glancing miserably at the dirty medical kit by the sink, red water dried in a swirling pattern around the plug and the stained, scrunched up rag for his friend's broken nose covering the bandages underneath. Checking underneath it showed red blotches staining the once fresh bandages. Something to have to leave the house and buy when he knew it would be safe to leave Sherlock.

Carefully sipping on the morning drink rebooted his systems, making the vision in front of him slowly become clearer with every minute. As each drop of dried blood came into focus, some already crusting on the wooden floor and rug, each second of last night's memories replayed in his head; walking through the door, seeing his best friend silently deal with the agony on the floor, still bleeding wounds, and a bruise-coated face, everything horrible to see.

'Now what do you do?' he asked himself and felt the answer already forming in his head. 'You help Sherlock recover!' John was surprised the answer hadn't come to him as simply as last night. It was so simple! Help Sherlock recover; get him back into the world, make things as they used to be!

Get answers.

No, it wouldn't be that simple. Sherlock would now be considered a dead man walking; the world had shoved him out, sealing the gates, prepared to tear him apart if he stepped back in. Making things as they used to be was out of the question, and this was probably half of it! John still didn't know what Sherlock's warning had meant…

"Breathe, calm yourself, one step at a time," John whispered to himself as he thoughts began speeding ahead too fast and making his head spin. A few deep breathes, clearing his mind of questions, queries, focusing solely on current time and events. Keep tasks within the flat, make sure Sherlock was alright. But what was the point in trying to help him when he kept rejecting assistance!?

Later that morning, John was reading the paper, enjoying a light lunch with the TV on low, and noticing the agile raven outside the window, suspiciously returned. He would have questioned its repeated presence, but he followed with the mornings plan and went through everything that had to be done within 221B. Investigating ravens wasn't on the list.

He had finally cleared the first aid kit away, scrubbed the red water stained bowl- doing his best not to remember whose blood it was – and taking no time to throw away the bloody rag, sadly a few dirty bandages too, leaving only one small strip left. The tray had been cleared of its contents, the small note missing. So it had meant something. John decided to pass the consideration of refilling the mug and leaving it by the door for now, as no movement or sound was heard from that side of the flat. He did wonder, or more panic, that Sherlock might not be still breathing, but a knock on the door and the responding grunt of disapproval only made him smile and walk away. The man for once slept.

After this he had turned to clearing the crimson liquid from the floor and chair, leaving the wooden floor around the seat much shiner than the rest. He made to clean the stains in the stairwell, but Mrs Hudson had got there first, probably in the very early hours of the morning before the repairmen arrived for the door. As much as he wished as the landlady hadn't dealt with the blood, it meant he had one less task to do and more of a chance to focus on his friends recovery. When he could actually get involved that is.

While enjoying the calm of midday, the news basic and the paper holding small articles of varying topics, he kept himself entertained and able to avoid eye-contact with the raven outside. The small bird spent equal time looking into the flat and watching the street below, looking to the left, right and straight ahead in an unchanging pattern for equal amounts of time before turning, for an equal amount of time, into the flat.

The raven suddenly followed something on the street below, which John couldn't bring himself to ignore, and as it looked directly below at the front door, the bell rang. John huffed, thinking it was coincidence, making to answer the door, but he heard it open before he stood. Mrs Hudson was certainly up and about to day. No bad hip was getting in her way.

Simply seconds later, Lestrade walked through the open door, looking back to wonder where the stains had gone. John smiled, but stayed sat.

"I see you've been busy." His glance at the clean area by the fire assured John what Lestrade was talking about, but he still shook his head.

"Not as busy as I would have liked to be. It's actually been a pretty slow morning." There was a pause, Lestrade looking around, everything cleaned and looking towards the hallway.

"What's he been doing?"

"Sleeping if you can believe it," John joked, standing to turn the kettle on, or grab a beer from the fridge if the conversation got low. "And he ate."

"I'm actually not that surprised. Poor sod must have been through hell." John stayed quiet as he made the drinks. Hell seemed an appropriate way of putting it together. But how much was hell? Some people compare hell to a bad day, others just being alive. But hell came in different forms, and Sherlock's must have been pretty close to a horrid hell if they were right on what they were guessing he'd been through. "How are you coping anyway?"

"If you count a decent sleep and not wanting to forget the past few days then pretty good," he said with a smile, handing over the coffee Lestrade requested between his question and John's answer. "How about you?" There was another pause.

"I guess the simplest way to put it is shock," Lestrade said simply, intending to carry on, but a head popped round the kitchen door corner and Mrs Hudson smiled at them. Her eyes looked tired, most likely from last night and the morning's activities, but she wore her usual smile which John was glad to see. "Hey, Mrs H."

"Is everything alright up here?" She made a glance towards the hallway like Lestrade. John shook his head, almost wanting to laugh at them both.

"Sherlock's going to be fine. He is fine. He's just resting up." Lestrade's face suddenly showed concern.

"Have you actually seen him since last night?" John opened his mouth to speak but closed it again.

"Uh... Strictly speaking no, but I have checked on him." He explained leaving out food, finding the empty tray that morning and knocking on the door mid-morning to hear the disgruntled response from Sherlock. Lestrade sighed at first, but shrugged while Mrs Hudson seemed fairly convinced he was okay.

"Just look after him," Lestrade said.

"When do I not?"

Several hours later, long after Lestrade had left for a late shift and Mrs Hudson had gone out to see some friends, John found himself staring at the laptop in his lap, his blog up and hit count at an understandable zero. Since the Fall he hadn't written anything at all. Nothing seemed worth documenting in his life. He felt like writing something now, telling the world that his final update on Sherlock's death had been false all along. Of course he couldn't. That would cause more problems than Sherlock walking out the front door.

Later he found himself looking at the transcript of the strange dream from several months ago. He'd already established the first line, indicating friendships built after Sherlock's death. How a message in an unreal dream was relating to reality he didn't know. The second line still held more confusion. Did the truth rising relate to Sherlock returning and being the only man suspected to have the answers to John's questions? But darkened dead? Refusal to fall back?

Frustrated, he closed the laptop, hoping the answers would appear before him. Nothing. Instead he heard creaking wood behind him and shuffling feet. He looked around and to his utter amazement he saw the thought-to-be sleeping man standing in the kitchen. John gawped for a while, his mouth left hanging open to say something but failing to. Sherlock, turning the tap to stop the stream of cold water filling a glass, caught John's gaze as he made to grab something from a cupboard, no doubt food. He froze like he was caught in the spotlight while robbing a bank with no means of escape or any idea how he got there. There was a locking of eyes, but it broke off as he quickly shuffled away with food and water in hand, John simply following. Despite the fact he was still wearing the same dark, dirty, ripped clothes of last night, John couldn't help but be impressed.

His injuries seemed clean, tended to. He wasn't being ridiculous and spending long hours awake, or rushing around. He was doing what he really needed, and that was resting. Though his fear to be seen wondering around was a mystery. Then the fact Sherlock had grabbed some food reminded John of his neglect of refilling the tray's contents to leave by the door.

By the time the sun was down, John had not only refilled the contents with a hot meal, a warm drink and another glass of water, he put the remaining bandages of the first aid kit on there as well, since Sherlock appeared to have a basic idea of how to look after himself, despite an army doctor living in the same walls. When John returned to his seat to watch unnecessary late night TV, he saw the raven from the morning perched outside. The funny thing was is that throughout the entire day, it had stayed glued to its spot, making the repetitive movements of observing the surrounding area. Only now did things change. It gave a final scan through the window, a final look at the street, and then it flew up. No doubt to find a better place to roost, but John was sure that the bird would be back. Why, he may never know.

Over the following four days, a pattern began emerging. John left food in the morning and the evening, but avoided midday. He went out to shop, stacking up on bandages, painkillers which he began leaving out for Sherlock, food, but he always stuck around at midday. That's when Sherlock woke up, emerging from his room not as silently as he wished, and crept through the flat to the kitchen to grab whatever he needed and could carry. Remembering the reaction of the first day of Sherlock's official return, he would sit at the desk, or in his armchair, reading the paper, reading something on his laptop, and glimpsing round when he was sure Sherlock wasn't looking. It was only to make sure he was alright.

Much to John's dislike, his friend seemed to hold no indication on a plan to change clothes, but it didn't matter as long as the lacerations appeared to be clean, his cheek healing, his nose somehow back in shape and the bruising diminishing at a slow rate. The glass of water seemed to be a one-off, as the following adventures outside Sherlock's room resulted in the making of tea, while grabbing something from the cupboard and possibly something from the fridge if such an item was there, or if he could carry it. John had to hold back a laugh sometimes, resulting in a strange smile on his face that Sherlock almost glared at.

However, one thing that John always looked out for, and not very discretely, was Sherlock's eyes moving towards the raven perched outdoors. When he entered and exited the kitchen, his eyes were always drawn to the black, feathered body by the window. John had his own suspicions about the creature, how it was always outside in the light of day and left when the night had begun, but his worries of Sherlock made him overlook it.

...

The return hadn't been the smoothest of transitions, but when hurt so badly and needing to remain conscious; he couldn't exactly be delicate with the whole matter. Yet his actions didn't seem to halt the army doctor's kindness, not even the argument in front of his brother and the detective inspector. Desperately needed food and a comforting drink left outside his door, retrieved and replaced merely minutes before his friend awoke. That had been the night of the return and the first day back. Now it was the evening of the first day back, trapped with a weary and cursed body in his room, recovering alone even though he wished he didn't have to.

No, he wasn't alone. He had his companions.

Nonetheless, the stupidity of his reaction when he went to get a drink kept stabbing at him. He wanted exposed, he wasn't endanger, and his secrets weren't written across his face. But his friend's sudden change in response to his presence was a surprise and strange relief. He didn't like being seen, not after spending so long in the shadows. Being seemed by human eyes still felt like it posed a threat; it was ridiculous, but that's what the past three years had been like.

Endless hiding, endless suffering, endless questioning.

It was the third day of his return, still hiding away in the evening hours, sleeping when he wasn't awake eating, or drinking, or examining the wounds littering his body and making sure that he was in good health. There was a knock at the door when he was in the midst of a light sleep, no distant voices spoiling his dreams with talk of past, present and future events he did not currently care for. Curse the voices. But not to curse the knock.

He gave no response at first. He waited for the sound of a clattering tray and the footsteps to go away. When he was sure that it was clear, he opened the door and took what had been left. He clumsily placed it on the side, heading to the sink first, splashing his face with water to regain some concentration. It didn't wake him up anymore, his body had gone into shutdown, reload, recover. Sleep was the main focus and nothing else. His brain had nearly switched off, causing frustration and a calm. It was strange, but it meant good. Wounds were checked, cleaned, fresh bandages on the tray used to cover the gash on his chest. The bruising was still thick around it, the boot print still solid on his chest and laying a finger on his skin made him ache for minutes on end. Only alone was he brave enough to check the wounds under his clothes, when letting the curse show wasn't a threat.

Curse, a word he now hated. It wasn't the right word, but it's how he saw this. This was a secret beyond no other. It wouldn't be revealed. Not to anyone, never. Not even those he trusted most, not family, not friends, all to stop him from knowing. He must never know.

The thoughts were gone as he rested his head against the cool mirror, before returning to his bed, the soft mattress and thick duvet superior to the scraggy blanket and worn down mattress he had been using over the past three years. He rested on the side of the bed, leaving two of his three companions sat on the end of the bed, also enjoying the comfort of the duvet. But they were roused from their sleep at the smell of food, not noticing as he ate. Only when Protection neared his lap as he took a gulp of his drink, did he see hunger flooding both their eyes. Protection and Wisdom were both tired and starved, despite how much he tried to look after them as they assisted in his survival. What of Smoke? Smoke was still serving, and how tired Smoke must be. It was then that Smoke itself appeared at the slightly open window that let in a cool breeze in the dark of night, joining Wisdom and Protection at his lap, showing more envy than the others of food. There was no question, or thought.

A quarter was left of his food, the glass on the side refilled at the sink, and left for his three companions to refill tiny but certainly deprived stomachs. Even after two days of nearly solid sleep, his eyelids felt like horrid weights. He lay down, pulling the covers up to his waist. The usual sleeping position was resumed. Protection curled up in his right arm, bent to allow Protection to rest between his upper arm and his chest. Wisdom curled above his head, laying its head in his hair with its body resting on his palm, as he kept his left hand above his head. Smoke was cold and tired, and so curled up not on his chest as usual, but next to his neck, the warmth of the hood helping, resting there to stay warm and to avoid the horrid slash on his chest. Finally resting, finally in his old home and their new one.

Sherlock and his three small, life-saving companions.