John watched as Sherlock turned into a newborn giraffe. At least that's what he thought some days. It was both amusing and awful to watch at the same time. It hurt. And it hurt Sherlock. No matter how much he attempted to hide the pain of breaking, it was evident.
They went to a crime scene on the one month anniversary that Sherlock had told John. Both knew it was the day. Neither wished to celebrate.
Sherlock determined it was a home invasion gone wrong. Very sloppy.
But he stumbled around the house instead of swooping like he normally did while pointing out the clues that led to his deductions. While John was used to seeing it by now, it hurt no less. Lestrade looked on uneasily. Anderson and Sally whispered to each other and smirked when they thought no one was looking.
But they both saw. Sherlock gritted his teeth. But when John heard 'cripple' and 'attention' in the same breath from Anderson, he couldn't just stand there.
"Problem Anderson?" he asked a bit too loudly.
Anderson's head snapped up. In that moment, John was proud of his strangely good hearing.
Anderson took a second, then smirked. "Sally and I were just discussing how the freak here probably got hurt. She thought that someone just got entirely too sick of him and pushed him down some stairs, while I was partial to the idea that someone stood on his cape when he tried to take off."
In one swift movement, John had Anderson in a headlock. He never knew what hit him.
"Listen carefully," John said under his breath, ensuring that no one else would be able to hear him. "I could kill you right here, right now, but I'm not going to. Wanna know why? Cause I just don't want to contaminate a crime scene. Anywhere else... well... I'll snap your neck if you insult Sherlock again. Got it?"
Anderson whimpered.
John was satisfied and released him.
"Not bad," he commented with a smile. "I could teach you some moves next time." He ignored Lestrade's bewildered stare and Sally's twitterings.
With a little wave, he returned to Sherlock's side.
He whispered at him "Done?"
Sherlock nodded almost imperceptibly.
"What was that?" Sherlock murmured.
"A lesson. Shall we return to our humble abode?"
"Surely you're not referring to Baker Street?" Sherlock replied with a fake gasp.
With only a smile, John took Sherlock's arm, completely naturally, and led him out of the house to summon a cab.
He felt the stares, but just didn't care.
John was devastated when he realized soon Sherlock would not be able to manage stairs. He was sure Sherlock had already realized this himself, and had probably come up with a solution or deleted the problem altogether.
He didn't ask though.
The morning after the Anderson incident, John stood in the kitchen and declared "I'm ready."
"Really?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"Well, no," John admitted, "but I'm never going to be more ready, so..."
Each armed with a cuppa, they sat in their respective chairs.
"I want to die here," Sherlock announced.
"Wow," John breathed.
"It can wait if you're not ready."
"No," John shook his head. "It's just, I don't even know. You seem so damn calm about it and I'm...just a mess."
"That's just how it works."
John nodded.
"Okay. Continue."
"You'll be able to handle it on your own at first, but as it gets closer to the end..." he trailed off, seeing John's horrified expression.
"Keep going," he waved a hand at him.
"You'll probably need help, and I'm sure my devoted brother," Sherlock added perhaps a bit too much sarcasm to that, even for him, "will provide anything you need."
John nodded. He was pretty sure it hadn't sunk in yet. Still. Or ever.
"And," Sherlock added, "no extraordinary measures. No intubation. No CPR. Nothing like that." He eyed John. "But I will allow IV fluids, noninvasive feeding tubes, pain meds, and oxygen. Got it?"
John nodded numbly.
"Okay," he said slowly, the implications of agreeing to that slowly sinking in.