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Maisy-Shane

"You've hardly left my side have you?"

John started awake at the sound of that deep baritone voice that could not possibly come from anyone else other than—the greeting of dark and pale eyes confirmed this. He didn't quite react for a while, just staring into that face that seemed to be demonstrating a look of amusement and silent gratitude. John's heart hiccupped and restrained a heave of relief that had swelled in his chest. Sherlock was sitting up in the bed as if he'd just awoken from a delicious amount of sleep. His complexion was more pallid that usual and the bandage wound around his forehead under his curls being a giveaway that that wasn't the case, but if it weren't for those two things, John could have easily believed that Sherlock had simply had a good night's rest.

"Most people when they wake up," John said croakily. "Ask how long they've been out and where they are..."

"You forget that I am not most people," Sherlock smiled. "I knew before I'd even opened my eyes that I was in the hospital. Does our flat stink of disinfectant and elderly people?"

John felt as if he could cry; he wasn't really the crying type. He had seen dear friends of his killed in action before his very eyes, and only then would he release a few solitary tears. Not because he was heartless, but because he could not stand just sitting there bawling his eyes out; it made him feel vulnerable and childish. Though right then, he came very close to crying. John told himself it was because he was scared of resuming a normal dull life, yet it was clearly more to do with the fact that his flatmate hadn't been killed. If he was not under the interrogating cool eye of the man in question, he may have just caved to this urge.

"I'm..." Sherlock started, and then paused for an elongated amount of time, which John granted him patiently. "I'm glad that you're erm..." he cast his gaze down. He didn't really have to elaborate any further. The doctor knew exactly what he was attempting to say.

"Me too," John amended for him. "You got off worse than I did though. You have—"

"Judging on the amount of pain I feel in my right side I would assume I have lower rib fracture, luckily not damaging the diaphragm because that would have just slowed down my recovery. I have a wide cut on the right-hand corner of my forehead that required eight—no," his eyes leaned upwards in thought. "ten stitches and I have a colles' fracture in my left wrist. All of that with additional cuts and bruises, which should take over a month to heal from though it should take me a couple of weeks."

John stared with raised and went to pry into how he had gotten all of that information, but decided otherwise and closed his mouth. "I'd give yourself a bit longer than a week to recuperate," he said after the notion had jabbed hard at his brain for a handful of minutes.

"Do you know how boring recuperation is, John?" Sherlock said sharply, grimacing and brushing his fingertips over the bandage on his forehead. John went to ask if he was okay when the other man pressed on. "My brain will just decay and then what use will I be to anyone? No, a week will do fine thank you. It's bad enough that I'm losing out a week on finding Moriarty."

John blinked. "M-Moriarty?" he stammered. "How do you know he isn't de—?"

"Oh come on," Sherlock sounded exasperated, throwing his good hand into the air in frustration. "It's not hard, John. A man like Moriarty wouldn't be killed off so easily, don't you ever read?"

"Read? What does reading have to—?"

Again, he was cut off midstream. "Moriarty is what is known as my archnemesis...well, other than my brother of course. He won't be killed off so soon."

"This isn't a story plot, Sherlock," John's frown was nearly engraved into his features. "We just about survived that ourselves."

"Ah but you see, Moriarty is like—like my dark half, he is just as brilliant and calculating as I am," Sherlock said, a grin swerving up the corners of his lips. "And no doubt just as lucky. They have not found a body, I didn't expect them to. I didn't pull the trigger to kill him, John."

"Then, why did you?"

For the first time since waking up, Sherlock was silent and his smile faded swiftly. John would have compared the reaction to that of nervousness or embarrassment if he hadn't convinced himself Sherlock was unable to feel such emotions. Sherlock went to speak when the door opened and Lestrade let himself in, a look of relief relaxing his at first taunt features.

"You bloody bastard," Lestrade exclaimed, laughing as he crossed the room, taking in the image of a rather irritated looking Sherlock. "You had me going there for a minute."

"Oh no, it's been far longer than a minute, detective inspector," Sherlock retorted. "I've been unconscious for approximately a week judging by the smell of both you and Doctor Watson."

"The smell of us?" Lestrade sounded confused as to whether to take it as a joke or as a truth.

"Yes, the smell of your deodorant is faint. Both of yours," Sherlock explained hastily with a tone of boredom laced in there. "You and John usually apply a fresh amount twice a day, once in the morning and once after your evening showers. The scent is there so I assume you have both been home at least—four times? However, it is not as strong as it usually is, and it is coming more from your coat than your actual clothing so that means it is a natural odour that has moulded into your clothes rather than coming from you."

"But how did you get a week from that?" Lestrade did not appear impressed or in awe as usual, in fact he seemed concerned. "You've only been unconscious for three days, Sherlock."

Stunned silence claimed the room. Sherlock's cheeks went a faint shade of pink and he refused to meet either of their stares. John felt like he should assure his flatmate that no one was right all of the time and that he had just come out of a coma after all, though he doubted either of those things would console him.

Sherlock inhaled shakily. "I guess three days have allowed my brain to go somewhat stagnant," he muttered.

"Take it easy old boy," Lestrade said, his intonation carrying very little conviction. "You were only off by a couple of days."

Sherlock didn't seem at all reassured and didn't speak again for a long period of time. The atmosphere was too awkward for either John or Lestrade to stand; the detective inspector excused himself first claiming his phone had gone off. John followed after sitting in absolute stillness for around forty minutes.

"I'm going back to the flat, to get changed and have lunch with Sarah," John said as he rose from his seat, picking up his cane and pulling on his jacket. "Will you be alright?" he received no answer. He stood there watching Sherlock for a few minutes, awaiting some form of a response and, once again, obtained none. "I'll be back around five this evening...if you want my company of course." Again, nothing. "Try your best to relax and—yeah," John headed for the door, checking briefly over his shoulder to see if his friend had moved an inch to find he had not even turned his gaze away from the wall opposite him.

Sherlock only stirred once the door shut behind the doctor; he let out a long breath as if he had been encasing it in his throat, and he gingerly touched his forehead. John had not mentioned any real head trauma; he would have corrected his self-analysis if he had missed it. It was only a concussion if that and should have surely passed over three days. Sherlock swallowed and sat immobile in his bed, fingertips touching the material of the bandage, eyes closing as he waded through his mind, wondering if anything had gone amiss, if he had lost something.

[SH]

In a way, the sole attraction John had for Sarah came from the fact that she offered him a slice of normality. She offered him a stable relationship, one that wasn't constantly sprinting from one extreme to the next. They could spend an evening together without winding up chasing down some supposed villain, they could sit in a restaurant, and he could actually finish a meal. They could converse without reverting to criminal activity and he could talk about mild issues and subjects, nothing too harsh on the brain. With Sherlock, it felt like he was stepping into a pair of brand new shoes that sometimes pinched him and constricted him. Whilst with Sarah, it was like slipping into a pair of comfortable old shoes, and he didn't have to worry about it damaging or suffocating him.

In addition, she had no difficulty in expressing herself. That was one of the things he enjoyed most about her.

"How's your leg, John?" she said when they reached his flat, returning home from a pleasant lunch.

"It's alright," he replied. "The cane's a bit of a nuisance though. Good thing I didn't get rid of it. Sherlock said it would come in handy someday. Personally, I think he wanted to keep it just so he could drag stuff over to him when he couldn't be bothered to stand up and get it himself."

Sarah let out a small, sweet laugh and then her face straightened out into a serious manner. "How is he, John?"

John was not sure how to answer that because he honestly wasn't certain. Sherlock was—not himself; that was the best way to put it. Sure, he seemed unfazed by the fact Moriarty had gotten away and he seemed nonplussed at his own injuries, but it was when his skills in deduction came under threat when he suddenly seemed vulnerable. It was strange, imagining Sherlock unnerved. John only really ever seen him disconcerted when he had emerged clad with explosives and both of their lives were on the line. That was the only time. It had unsettled him.

"John?" Sarah probed as he had seemingly spaced out.

"Hm?" once he realised he had lapsed into silence, he smiled apologetically. "Yeah, he's um—he's fine."

John had spoken very little of Sherlock that day to Sarah; usually it was one of the hot topics and she listened intently. But today, all he'd had to share was that Sherlock had woken up and he did not provide any further detail on the matter. It felt odd to Sarah and she was perplexed to what could have possibly happened to stifle John on the matter. They headed up to the stairs, not talking very much, just John making small observations about trivial things like how he could never find his keys and how much of a bother the stairs were now he was using the cane again. The only time he said something of interest was when they reached the door. He froze and tensed up.

"What's wrong?" Sarah urged after a few moments passed with them just standing at the door.

John turned to her, eyes wide and face ashen. "T-The door...it's unlocked."

Sherlock had once warned him to not enter the flat if it had been unlocked and he was absent; it could possibly be one of his various enemies lying in wait to pounce and slay the only consulting detective. John's hand still grasped the door handle, clammy as he contemplated on what to do whilst listening fixedly to see if he could pick up any sound in the flat. It was quiet, not a single noise penetrating the air. He decided to go in and check, turning to Sarah and breathing, "Wait here" as low as possible. She nodded and crossed her arms the way she did whenever she was anxious or on edge. John inhaled deeply allowing the oxygen to broaden in his chest and then shakily exhaled it, the inner workings of a soldier strictly ordering him to remain calm and keep a clear head.

He turned the handle and burst in, hoping to catch anyone who may have snuck in off-guard. It didn't even cause the figure sitting on the armchair to flinch or even glimpse up from their newspaper. John blinked in confusion, his heart jittery and skipping numerous beats in his chest.

"Sherlock?" he gasped, a range of emotions running through him all at once. They varied from relieved, to aggravated, from pleased, to distress. "What are—what are you doing here? Y-you're supposed to be at the hospital!"

"Hospital? Dull," the dark haired man countered, giving the doctor a fleeting look. "No, I discharged myself."

"How? They wouldn't discharge you once you've just woken up from a coma," John scarcely restrained himself from shouting.

"Oh, don't worry. The CEO owes me a favour; I found out which one of her nurses was slipping patients poison a year back," Sherlock slanted his attention back over to the newspaper, which John knew he was most likely not even reading. "She didn't have a choice really but to let me go."

"Does Lestrade know?"

"Oh I'm sure he'll figure it out once he finds the room empty. Out of the two options, I think he'd find it more likely I left rather than died. Hello, Sarah. How was the lamb?"

Taking this as her que to timidly appear, Sarah entered the room and offered a languid smile that was not reciprocated. "It was—good thanks, how did you—"

"And John how was the steak?" Sherlock interrupted.

John wasn't sure how to reply. Lie to spare his flatmate his feelings or tell the truth to remain—was the term loyal? Would that act be considered loyal? Either way, he elected the latter hesitantly. "Um, I had the lamb too, Sherlock."

Sherlock visibly stiffened. To Sarah, this meant nothing. It was a mystery to her how he'd even figured out what she had had for lunch, so getting one tiny detail wrong didn't appear to be a great deal. Still, John understood and cleared his throat awkwardly. He had only seen Sherlock make two mistakes on insignificant observations; the first was when he was with his older brother and had missed out the details that would have informed him that John had slept on the sofa; the second was after he had woken up that morning. This was the third now. The first occasion, Sherlock had been blatantly intimidated and stressed by Mycroft's presence so that wasn't really of his own fault. This time, it was. John did not think it meant anything serious. The man had just been involved in an explosion for crying out loud. He was only human after all, as Lestrade had said. No, John wasn't worried about Sherlock's deducing abilities. They were sure to regulate in no time. No, it was how Sherlock was going to handle all of this. He loathed feeling vulnerable, and the whole being corrected thing was not only humiliating for him but also daunting.

"Well, um John thanks for the lovely evening," Sarah spoke abruptly, eyes flicking from the doctor to the consulting detective. "I will call you later, okay?"

On any other occasion, John would have insisted she stayed and demanded that Sherlock behaved himself and acted with a bit more politeness. However, this time, he merely nodded and limped over to her, pressing his lips softly to her cheekbone.

"Thank you," he whispered. "I'm really sorry, Sarah—"

"Don't be," she adjusted her handbag, her cheeks burning a faint pink. "Just look at it this way; you owe me." Delivering a chaste surprising kiss upon his mouth, she serenely addressed Sherlock. "Hope you feel better soon." This final sentence earned a groan and Sherlock abandoned his newspaper with an overdramatic purposeful loud rustle and went over to the window, glowering bitterly out of it.

Another reason John enjoyed her company; Sarah seemed resistant to his flatmate's bizarre and otherwise obnoxious behaviour. She didn't get upset or encourage John to challenge him; she just seemed to strip it of its hard exterior and see the insecurity there that most people failed to notice when it came to Sherlock.

Meeting John's gaze again, she smiled and gave a slight wave of her hand prior to turning around and heading out the door, shutting it behind her. Mutely grateful, John tried to mentally prepare himself for what was bound to come now.

"How does it feel to be attached, John, it must be so enthralling," Sherlock remarked snidely after a delay of speaking. "It's like—growing fond of a wart isn't it really?"

John raised an eyebrow, batting down the waves of anger that threatened to rear their ugly heads. "I wouldn't quite call it that, no."

"Love is overrated, I'm afraid," Sherlock continued as if he had not heard. "Just like sand."

"...Sand?"

"Yes, just a bunch of little rocks yet people travel around the globe just to sit in it."

"So—my feelings for Sarah are just like sand?"

Sherlock spun around at that, eyes wide and hands pressed neatly together, one in a cast the other not. It was the one thing along with the bandage around his head that reminded John that this man was, in fact, quite injured.

"Oh I see, so you—you love Sarah?"

John involuntarily flinched. "What? No! I—I don't love her, Sherlock, no. We've only been dating for a few months..."

"Ah but you see, you likened your feelings for Sarah to that of sand, which I previously likened to love." Sherlock was smirking, his pale eyes glittering. "Oh, John, you poor sod."

John curled his fingers into his palms into a fist, painfully aware of the bright colour that had now claimed ownership of his face. "I'm not talking to you about my love life, Sherlock. I'm talking to you about you. Why did you leave the hospital? You shouldn't even be standing right now let alone at home!"

"Like I'm going to be doing anything different from what I'd be doing in that prison," Sherlock snapped, giving the window his attention once more. "I'm just lying around waiting for my bones to go back into place."

"But what if you need urgent attention?"

"I have a perfectly capable doctor living with me, don't I?" Sherlock had beckoned him eagerly into this tidy trap and John was now kicking himself for being led so easily into it.

"Perhaps, but at the hospital you will be kept out of trouble," John tried to regain some footing in the debate. "You won't be tempted to go running after Moriarty."

"I told you, John, I'm giving myself a week," Sherlock reminded him. "A week to retire and allow my mind and body to mend. I can't risk making idiotic mistakes when it comes to this man. No, he's earned my full attention and my best game, as it has been once called."

John threw his hands up into the air in defeat and resigned into his armchair. Sherlock, as he did whenever he got his own way, allowed a small grin break across his face. Unknown to him, it was noticed by his doctor, who just rolled his eyes and feigned ignorance, switching on the television set.

[SH]

Around eight o'clock that night, John Watson's phone vibrated angrily in his jacket pocket and when he opened up the new message, he read:

I assume my little brother has persuaded you to let him have his way...again.

Just keep an eye on him and don't give in so easily.

I trust your skill as a doctor to make sure nothing else goes wrong.

If he gets worse, drag him to the hospital kicking and screaming, or even give me a call if you need a firmer hand

MH

John reread it a few times over, his thumb ghosting over the buttons as he considered sending one back in reply. In the end, he decided against it and pocketed his phone again, light heartedly telling himself he would reply later. Sherlock had performed reasonably normal since he had been allowed to have his own way. He was distant and cast his glazed eyes on the television screen, and even had some dinner that Mrs Hudson had cooked for us, as a 'one time only deal' as she's 'not our housekeeper'. John was silently confident that Sherlock would be back to abnormal self soon and started to look on the coming week with a positive attitude.

[SH]

Sherlock had been sitting there all night trying to distract himself to no avail. He could not kill the solid lump sitting idly in his throat, refusing to shift so it was difficult to swallow or even speak. It served as a constant reminder that he was anxious and pathetic. He truly was.

Before, when he would feel this way, he would return to his flat utterly alone, left to his thoughts, and he could even indulge in a helping of cocaine to help loosen his bunched up muscles. That was not the case anymore. John was here and, to make it worse, the doctor's opinion of him mattered a great deal to him. Sherlock felt naked and stripped of all superiority; he was just like any normal human being right now and it gnawed at him, turning his brain to mush.

Moments like these, he wanted nothing more than to feel high and loose. As he sat there, listening to a piercing screech of a woman on the television belonging to one of those television soaps, Sherlock felt the itch. It dragged itself daintily over his very core in an almost taunting manner that could be likened to that of a seductive whisper in one's ear, the deadly kiss to that sensitive skin of the throat. It offered itself to him, offered him ways out of how he was feeling, techniques to prevent John, Lestrade and his damned brother from finding out. And it said that one thing that had caused him to cave in the past continuously: just this once. Once wouldn't hurt anybody; it would not damage him, it would not get him addicted again. However, like many others who are susceptible to addictions and obsessions, it would never just be the once.

At this point, his muscles were so tight under his skin that his hands had actually started to tremble.

"I think I'm going to go to bed," he rather choked out, his voice thick with suppressed exclamations of chagrin. He tentatively got to his feet, resting a hand against his abused ribcage. John rose also yet he was not sure why. He felt as if he was a cane for Sherlock, there to steady him and take the painful weight away.

"It's only—half nine," John pointed out bemusedly, as he knew Sherlock would usually stay up until the early hours or even not go to sleep at all.

"Hm, you do cause me to question my faith in you at times, doctor," Sherlock said, not meeting his friend's gaze. "You said before I need to get lots of rest, and I intend to do that so I am—so I can be in my best form in a week's time." His posture was slightly bent as he struggled to stand up straight without causing massive discomfort. John put a hand on Sherlock's arm as he swayed.

"Do you need a hand?" he checked, brow furrowing.

"No of course not," Sherlock cringed away from the touch as if it burnt; in fact it made him even more aware of his weakened state. "I will see you in the morning."

"Give me a call if you need any pain killers or something," John offered as his flatmate made to walk away.

"Will do, doctor," Sherlock called over his shoulder.

His bedroom was the most neglected room in the house, as it hardly got any use. The bed itself was uncomfortable and old, but there was no point in him purchasing a new one. He usually had very little time for sleeping. It was strange being in his bedroom at this time of night, and he felt at a bit of a loss, standing there with no idea what to do with himself. Sherlock settled on sliding out of his trousers and unbuttoning his shirt, glimpsing out of the corner of his eye at the mirror that stood next to the door that was scarred with a large crack down the centre where he had punched it out of sheer frustration when he was suffering withdrawal symptoms. He had refused to get a new mirror just so it can stand there as a reminder to what he went through to quit the bastardly drugs in the first place. As he studied his reflection, though, he was not really paying heed to the break. He was glaring at the bruises and cuts littering his body, including a handful of scars that he considered as old friends.

The scars lay like photographs all over him, like the tokens of men he had engaged in a fight with, the reminder notes of the mistakes he had made, the autographs of various men and women he had brought to justice. That is what they all meant to him. On his inner forearm, where the veins revealed their vulnerability beautifully, there used to be puncture holes and, when it had reached its peak, bruising after punching in the syringe three times a day.

Sherlock stretched out his left arm, the blue veins breathing peacefully under the lighter shade of skin. He felt a chilly blanket of perspiration rest upon his forehead and his entire body started to quake. He fought to regain the memories of those despairing nights where he would writhe in absolute agony after a day without the drugs flowing through his system. Those vicious words that lashed out like whips when those who cared sat beside him trying their best to be there for him, those looks of mistrust lurking in people's eyes as they studied him asking over and over: "Are you using again?" and not believing him, turning his flat inside out just to ensure he was telling the truth. That was absolute misery.

"If I find out you're using again, Sherlock," he recalled Mycroft shouting. "I will never be able to forgive you..."

"I don't care if you never do," Sherlock had yelled back.

"You do care," Mycroft had said. The amount of conviction in his tone was so immense that Sherlock had not dared to dispute it.

The sweat lingered on his body sending violent tremors through his being, but he felt calmer now. He watched his reflection for a couple more minutes, vaguely listening to the sound of John walking around in the living room on the phone to Sarah. John was apologising, and arranging to meet up the following day for a romantic dinner. He mentioned that Sherlock was a grown man and did not need someone to be there all the time. Sherlock felt like interjecting, like telling him that he did in fact need him there all the time because he feared he would cave into his cravings otherwise. That confession was assassinated immediately and began to decay in his mouth.

TBC