AN: The next chapter is really long, I promise. Hopefully this will tide you over until then. I normally only upload one chapter a week, but people have been begging, so...
Soon Sherlock could no longer walk unassisted.
Crutches weren't too much help, as his arms were weakened as well as his legs. They worked for short amounts of times, but Sherlock hated them, just as John knew he would.
It was so awful, because Sherlock wanted so much to be independent, and yet there wasn't really anything that John could do to help.
He had acquired a wheelchair near the beginning, and it sat in the corner of the living room, partially obscured by boxes and books.
John unburied it and didn't say anything.
Sherlock mostly stayed in bed or on the couch, and when he did have to move, crawled or insist John help him. Help him meaning 'carry like a child'.
John still didn't mention the wheelchair.
It was only when John was upstairs in his bedroom one day, cleaning up, when he heard a crash and ran downstairs to find Sherlock lying in the hallway to his bedroom, that John insisted the wheelchair be used.
Sherlock sulked for the rest of the day, but complied when John threatened to take away his violin, citing the reason 'no broken bones' as just cause.
John also shot down the multiple experiments Sherlock posited that he could do with the wheelchair. Again, on the basis of no broken bones. Again, Sherlock sulked.
He didn't want to go out after that. Most things weren't a big deal, it wasn't like he went out to do the shopping or anything really, but crime scenes were now a no.
Sherlock sent John with the laptop again, like he had done for that case so long ago.
Anderson gave odd looks, but said nothing, likely remembering John's very real and terrifying threat. Lestrade was supportive. He'd send evidence to the flat for Sherlock to test and experiment on, but adamantly refused to send bodies there. Sherlock sulked about that for a while, then sent John to the morgue with the laptop.
It was odd, but it worked. And while John was concerned about leaving Sherlock home alone, at least he could supervise. Remotely, but still supervise.
Most of his cases were now solved from his bed where he spent most of his days. It was a common sight for the webcam to show Sherlock perched in his bed, thankfully wearing more than the sheet he'd worn the first time around.
Sherlock often moaned from his location in his bed or on the couch about being bored.
John couldn't really blame him; he'd be pissed too.
Days ran into weeks that were marked only by a steady decline that John was both shocked and enthralled by. Sherlock insisted John take notes for him, citing that he would find a use for them before, but John suspected they were more for his benefit than anything else.
Sherlock insisted on multiple tests to be performed everyday, including pulmonary function tests. He made John graph them and noted the downward slope.
John didn't graph them, but noticed the increasing amount of time Sherlock slept each day, the increasing number of times he coughed an hour, the declining weight balance that was too low to begin with, the seemingly impossible but occurring decrease in consumption of food despite the feeding tube, and the qualitative factors that could not be measured, but John knew they all pointed towards one thing. He blamed his increase in observation to his prolonged time with Sherlock, but knew he was only deceiving himself, as even a blind man could tell what was happening.
Decline. Rapid decline. Leading to the inevitable conclusion.
John did his best to ignore it and keep himself busy.
Looking after Sherlock had increased from a full time job to the only thing his life consisted of.
People came to visit. Eventually the news must have spread, regardless of John's instructions relayed from Sherlock about keeping this information very hush-hush. They came in pairs usually, as misery loves company.
Sherlock hated it.
John tolerated it.
Mrs Hudson secretly enjoyed it, as it kept her busy, cleaning up and making treats, all the while dutifully protesting that she was not their housekeeper.
No one else really liked it. They did it. Perhaps out of a sense of duty.
But everyone knew it was only out of that sense of responsibility, so none of the visits were particularly enjoyable.
John had to move some of the stuff out of Sherlock's room. His room was often a mess, but had recently been cleaned, sorted and various boxes were sitting around it, clearly labelled. 'Test tubes and glassware' and 'medical journals' were just a few of them.
John knew why Sherlock had done this. Hated that he did. Hated that he had to.
Hated a lot recently.
He had to fit medical equipment in there. Just the basics, like Sherlock had requested. IVs, feeding tubes, oxygen, and other basic supplies. Nothing invasive. Nothing life sustaining. Just for comfort.
And it was still too much for the man who demanded he be let out of the hospital the day after being shot in the chest. "Just the lung." he insisted. John had refused, but gave in the next day. Sherlock was insistent like that.
So all this, even though Sherlock had approved it, felt out of place and wrong.