John Watson was picking up milk at the Tesco's around the corner from 221B Baker Street.
It was quite an unaccustomed experience for him. He walked straight in, found the milk, paid in cash and walked out. There was no hunting about in the foreign-foods aisles for some strange ingredient on which Sherlock wanted to experiment. There were no urgent texts interrupting his shopping with dreadful foreshadowing of the disaster area he might expect to find when he got back to the flat. There was no battle with the chip-and-pin machine, resorting to Sherlock's card to get the job done while lines of impatient shoppers shot accusing glances in his direction. The walk to the shop had been quick and pleasant; the walk back was not going to be an adrenaline-filled dash to the flat to stop Sherlock from putting fingers into the leftover risotto.
In short, it was a nightmare. John's left hand had not stopped trembling in nearly a fortnight.
He glanced down at the carton he was carrying, noting the way his weight shifted to accommodate it and the way, despite his best attempts, his stride was shorter on his left leg than on his right. Two weeks, he thought, feeling the beginnings of a dull ache below the knee. Two weeks and everything is back to the way it was before, the way I was before.
He wondered where his cane was.
Absorbed in the milk and the leg and the sheer, blinding monotony of it all, it took him a moment to notice the quiet rumble of the car's engine as it crept along beside him, matching his walking pace exactly. When it did manage to work its way into his thoughts, he jerked his head up and – yes – of course – the dark, polished finish of an imposing, yet unmarked, car.
A thrill ran through him – the first in many days. Hello, Mycroft.
As soon as he noticed the car's presence, it drew to a halt and a vaguely familiar-looking driver bustled around from the front to open the door for John.
"Developing a routine, are you?" he asked the shadowy figure already in the back seat, but secretly, he felt a wave of relief at the fact that Mycroft had come to find him. In two weeks, John's life had gone from some strange, perverse kind of perfection to this, this awful stagnation… and John was running out of ideas. Mycroft was the only untried weapon in John's arsenal, and John needed him.
He slid into the proffered seat, locked eyes with the other man and…
… that wasn't Mycroft.
His breath caught in his throat.
"Good of you to join us, Dr. Watson," came Mycroft's voice, but from the passenger seat of the car. Mycroft cast a glance behind him and John met his eyes in mute recognition. Thank you.
Sherlock, next to John, was lost in a deep scowl.
They rode in silence for a few minutes, John shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Sherlock motionless except for the intensification of the glare (if such a thing were even possible). Clearly, he was not here by choice.
John cleared his throat, but hesitated to speak first. What should he say? I'm sorry, but he had been saying that non-stop for days, and Sherlock hadn't responded even once. "I'm sorry" was not going to fix this damage. You're not a freak, but John couldn't say that. Sherlock would never, ever hear that word from him again.
What else was there? What did Sherlock want from him?
"A conversation," suggested Mycroft drily, "usually involves at least one of its participants speaking."
"This is not a conversation, Mycroft," said Sherlock, through gritted teeth. "This is an abduction."
"An abduction I hope will become a conversation," was the amendment from the front seat. "For once, in person, rather than via one-sided text messaging."
"What is it to you, anyway?" Sherlock demanded. "What do you want? You gain nothing from forcing us into an uncomfortable position and insisting we maintain this farce of communication."
"Only a farce because you refuse to participate, Sherlock."
"You have no right!"
Mycroft remained silent. This, John knew, would frustrate Sherlock more than anything – this smug, wordless reinforcement of Mycroft's absolute certainty that he was right.
"Let me out, Mycroft."
"Generally, it is frowned upon to exit a moving car in the middle of a busy street."
"Pull over."
"Sherlock, I am well aware of your ability to maintain a petty argument for an unreasonable amount of time. But this is Dr. Watson, and I am afraid you cannot continue this indefinitely."
Thank you, John thought numbly, listening to Mycroft come as close as he ever would to reasoning with his younger brother. Thank you.
"That is my decision to make, Mycroft!"
But you're making the wrong one, John willed Sherlock to understand. I'm sorry. I'm sorry all the time, but you're still gone, and it's like coming home from the war, and I don't know how to tell you I can't do it. I need you to come back.
What can I do for you to make you trust me again?
Sherlock was still snarling at Mycroft, something about manipulation. Mycroft's manipulation, Mycroft's pulling the strings to force Sherlock into the car with John. Sherlock didn't want to be around him.
And, John realized, forcing him to see this. Forcing him to watch as Sherlock fought against having to speak to him, listen to him, share space with him. He didn't want to see this. It hurt enough just to know it, without having to witness it in vivid colour and stereo sound.
Sherlock didn't want to be here, and, despite how much he missed his friend, despite everything, neither did he.
"Sherlock's right," he said.
Both Holmes brothers fell silent at the unexpected sound of John's voice. Sherlock looked at him sidelong, curious, probing, but it was more than John had received from him in weeks and he was glad, so glad that Mycroft had kidnapped them. Thank you, he thought again, even as the words he spoke said the opposite.
"You have no right to do this to him. You can't just force someone to change how they feel because it's what you want."
By now, Mycroft had turned to face the back of the car as well as he was able. He looked slightly taken aback, and John didn't blame him. If he knew about the text messages, then he knew how hard John had been trying to get in touch with Sherlock; the fact that John was telling him off for making it happen had to be more than a little surprising.
But Sherlock was still looking at him, and now it was that same uncertain expression he had worn the first time he and John had shared a ride. That's not what people normally say, John remembered. People probably didn't normally take Sherlock's side in arguments with Mycroft, either.
"My brother is being unreasonable, John," Mycroft began, and got no further.
"It doesn't matter!" John interrupted. "It's not reasonable to kidnap him off the streets and expect him to do whatever you tell him to, either! I know you're trying to help, Mycroft, but could you just leave him alone?"
Hypocrite, he berated himself. How can you do this? You wanted his help!
He didn't see the signal Mycroft gave the driver, but it was less than a minute before the car drew up to the kerb. Sherlock was out of the car before it had even halted completely. John, desperately trying to avoid Mycroft's disapproving expression, was not far behind.
When the car pulled away, John realized that Sherlock was still standing behind him.
"John," he said carefully. "That was – good of you."
Good, John thought, seemed to cover an awful lot in Sherlock's vocabulary.
Sherlock seemed to be debating his next words until, finally, very softly, "Thank you."
A risk. John had to take it. He might never have another chance.
"Will you come home?"
The silence in the car could not possibly have been as long as the one that followed John's question.
Suddenly, jarringly, John's phone rang. He and Sherlock stared at each other for a moment longer; then Sherlock gestured toward John's pocket and he pulled out the mobile.
"Hello."
"John." Mycroft's voice. "My brother – "
"Sorry, Mycroft, I'm busy," John said hurriedly, snapped the phone shut and shoved it carelessly back into his pocket.
Sherlock's eyes were still on him.
"All right."
"Hmm?"
"Baker Street, then. But we'll need to stop on the way."
John hardly dared trust his luck. "Why?"
"My skull. It's still in Lestrade's office."
It was strange, somehow, to have Sherlock standing back in their sitting room again.
Two weeks can be a very long time, realized John. Indeed, these past fourteen-odd days had dragged on so tediously he was sure he had aged in years rather than in weeks.
Or perhaps that was just the worry, and the fear, and the gnawing guilt.
Sherlock was back now, though, wasn't he?
The crux of the matter was, John honestly wasn't sure.
Sherlock had freely elected to return to their lodgings, if a mite hesitantly, and had seemed markedly less cold in the cab to and from Scotland Yard. He was clearly still uncomfortable, though, and had spent the return trip holding his skull, rather as a child grips a security blanket, and avoiding John's gaze. (During the past several days, John had frequently caught himself wondering how unfavorably he was being compared to that skull. He was both pleased and displeased with his conclusions.)
Arriving, John had climbed out first, and had paused to wait for Sherlock, who took his time. John had begun to wonder if Sherlock was regretting his decision, but he waited, and soon Sherlock climbed out as well. Something about his posture was still a bit too defensive, though, a bit too unwilling to trust.
Well, thought John, resignedly, I definitely deserve that.
As they entered 221B, he almost missed the look of relief that flitted across Sherlock's otherwise stony features.
At least he's glad to physically be home. John allowed himself a small smile at the thought of Sherlock spending nights in Lestrade's office, and the comparative luxury of their rooms, and followed Sherlock up the stairs.
The first thing Sherlock had done upon entering the room was to cross to the mantle and carefully, almost ceremoniously, place the skull back in its customary abode. Having done that, he now looked slightly lost.
It was strange, somehow. For both of them. Silence was the norm for Sherlock; standing in the middle of the room, not knowing quite where to go from there, was decidedly not.
It was therefore only fair that John take charge. Sherlock had never exactly been socially graced, and now John had gone and pulled his safe haven (namely, John himself) out from under his feet. He realized that, as he had been the one in the wrong, he would have to be the one to smooth the way, and decided to jump right in. There had been far too much waiting around in the past two weeks – god knows he needed some action.
"Right." John flinched inwardly at the sound of his voice falling into the silence of the room. "Dinner?"
The rest of the evening was spent in slightly less awkward camaraderie. John's well-meaning attempt to make pasta had blown up in his face when a deposit on the burner caused the flames to leap up a foot high around the brim of the pot; although he was absolutely certain that the deposit was the direct result of one of Sherlock's earlier experiments, he wisely didn't comment, only stated calmly that the menu had changed to takeaway. Sherlock's small smile, really no more than a brief upward quirk of the lips, told John that his hurriedly assumed air of indifference hadn't come across nearly well enough to fool the detective.
John ran out to get the takeaway, and when he returned shortly thereafter, he found Sherlock had once more taken up residence in front of his – John's – laptop, and was thoroughly engrossed in whatever he was doing.
"Sherlock?"
"Hm?" Eyes on the screen, Sherlock grunted his acknowledgement.
"Food?" Looked up briefly, taking in the takeaway bag, and probably its contents, in a quick glance.
"Just tea for me." Focused on the computer again, scrolling quickly down the page.
"Right then. Is that a case?" John heaved the bag onto the table – still far too clean; he would have to do something about that – and began unloading the containers.
"Could be. Not sure yet." Typing, fingers flying as smoothly as ever.
"Right. Good. Fine."
Sherlock hit a key with a sharp tap, presumably the "enter" key, and sat back in the chair.
Had he just sent an email, about a potential case, from John's computer? And how had he guessed the password so quickly? John had thought it would take him longer, but he shouldn't have been surprised. He didn't know, however, whether Sherlock had really – really– understood.
John fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment before abandoning the takeaway and coming to stand by Sherlock's chair, almost the way he had that night. Hopefully, things would go better this time.
"Listen, um, Sherlock – "
"When did you change it?"
John froze. Sherlock had understood. Again, John should have assumed he would. Just because John suffered setbacks without Sherlock didn't mean it was the same on the other end.
"Right after you left. Not twenty minutes."
Sherlock nodded slowly, but he didn't quite meet John's eyes. "Are we okay, John?" he asked softly.
"I think we will be," replied John, also slowly, as Sherlock's eyes met his at last, however briefly.
They weren't there yet, but they had started.