A/N: I completely imagined the bathtub. I don't know that we've ever seen it, but in case we have and what I described is different just call it creative license and go on with your day. There is also an obscene amount of cuddling and sex in this chapter.
Also- note that I had to break this monster chapter into two separate sections, so if you're wondering what the hell is going on, go back and read the previous chapter. :)
Now
Over the course of his life, Sherlock had woken up in hospital a number of times. Once when he was a child, details deleted. Twice when he had overdosed, details also deleted. Once after he'd met John, details kept in their own section of the Mind Palace so that he would never forget the look and feel of John's sympathy. Sherlock felt the throb of a headache behind his closed eyelids as well as something deeply unpleasant in his shoulder, instantly decided that his ribs were best not dwelled upon, and oddly, he needed the loo rather desperately. Cautiously, he opened his eyes, and seeing no one about slowly sat up and swung his legs down onto the floor. Oh, bollocks. That hurt. His entire body, especially his chest, felt like one giant contusion.
John wasn't here.
He tried to tell himself that it didn't hurt; a much more painful soreness than either his ribs or his shoulder- or even his bladder. He wasn't particularly successful.
Sherlock removed the pulse monitor, grabbed his IV and slowly stood, ignoring the rolling nausea in his abdomen. The wheel on the portable IV squeaked as he made his way to the loo, fumbled in his pajamas- he could feel stitches pulling in his shoulder, and relieved himself for what felt like an age, leaning his good shoulder slightly against the cool tile of the wall as he did so.
He washed his hands and made his slow, plodding way back to his bed. A nurse, no doubt called to his room because of the pulse monitor, was waiting for him. Sherlock ignored her and gingerly sat back down again, rolling his eyes when she fussed around him.
John was still not here. Why wasn't John there?
Sherlock swallowed hard, refusing to deduce the obvious and lay back, assuming his customary thinking pose. His brain felt hollow, as though some of his cerebral cortex had been scooped out. Sherlock found it quite difficult to concentrate. He shut his eyes, falling back asleep before his thoughts fell into any sort of order.
Sherlock could tell that he was alone, and frankly saw no reason to open his eyes to confirm this. Petulant or not, he refused to continue if John was not there with him and absolutely refused to entertain the thought that John's absence was anything less than temporary.
His Mind Palace was far better company than reality. There was quite a lot to catalogue, to file away. He began sorting, putting images and details into piles, flicking through them as though through pages in a novel, fingers twitching slightly as he thought. Sherlock could put away his shame and embarrassment at the knowledge that Moran had been more clever than him, had planned his scheme with such dedication and brilliance that he had not only completely fooled Sherlock, but he had fooled Mycroft.
But... no.
No one fooled Mycroft. It was unthinkable to believe that some lackey of Moriarty's had outwitted his brother. But. But that would mean-
The realization caused Sherlock to jerk in place, almost jarred from his palace at the shock. Sherlock felt his shoulder give a warning twinge as he flicked through thoughts, going back over the events of that night- no. Earlier than that. Moriarty. Get Sherlock. Honey you should see me in a crown. Failsafe. Falling. Mycroft's almost casual mention of observation. Irene.
Sherlock could not have said how long it was before soft squeak of expensive Italian leather on the floor alerted him that he was no longer alone. As though it were a catalyst, rage surged through him so powerfully he gasped a little in reaction, all at once so furious he was not entirely sure that he would be able to hide his reaction. Sherlock could almost see the pieces slated to fall into place... stacked precariously on the precipice of something, some knowledge so vast that...
Sherlock's eyes flew open.
The private room no longer seemed spacious. Mycroft stood behind a small visitor's chair, half in shadow, posture deceptively casual as he stared impassively down on Sherlock like some bird of prey. Sherlock couldn't keep the knowledge off his face. He wanted to spring up and punch Mycroft, to feel his own knuckles tear open, to mark his brother's face and know that it was his rage that had put it there.
"Ah." Mycroft moved slightly into the light. Sherlock could see the large contusion that covered Mycroft's eye and part of his cheek. It was recent enough that the skin was still puffy, the outer edges an angry looking violet as the broken skin vessels bled underneath the skin.
It was a whopping shiner. It was brilliant.
"As you no doubt have guessed, your doctor has already expressed his feelings in the matter of my involvement. Unfortunately, he chose to do this in front of several of her Majesty's finest." Mycroft paused, his lips tightening with the slightest movement. "Regrettably, he has been detained." Mycroft pulled out a pocket watch and checked the time. "However, that matter will be cleared up soon enough and your happy reunion will no doubt commence." Mycroft shifted so that the shadow hid his face again and Sherlock was struck by the fact that Mycroft did not have to show this weakness, nor was he obligated to provide Sherlock any explanation as to why John was not with Sherlock when he awoke in hospital.
It was a gesture so utterly out of character that Sherlock was floored. Was he being manipulated again? Why couldn't he tell?
He huffed out a quick breath of frustration at his own ineptitude and responded to Mycroft by closing his eyes, effectively ignoring his brother- unless Mycroft wished to speak. It was slightly less simple to ignore the soft sound of Mycroft sitting down and instead recreated the rather lovely image Mycroft had painted with his words. John, furious. John's mouth would be a thin line, his face all but blank, eyes staring with a deep intensity. That was when Sherlock knew John was at his most angry. Then... a twitch of his eyelid. A muscle clenching and relaxing in his jaw before his fist rose.
Sherlock may have daydreamed a time or two about punching the smug off of Mycroft's jaw. It brought him no less pleasure to know that John had done so, instead. He settled back in the bed, staring up at the ceiling, knowing that there was a faint smile on his lips that he had absolutely no intention of stifling.
It was some time later that Sherlock heard the telltale buzz of Mycroft's mobile, and the sound of the great git shifting in his chair to check his phone. Sherlock was still furious enough to ignore him, but a step in the hallway caught his attention. Had he been thinking clearly, he could have prepared himself for the crushing disappointment of seeing Anthea instead of John. At the very least he could have better masked it.
"Ah." Sherlock loathed the sound of Mycroft's oily, smug voice. "Well, it does appear as though Dr. Watson bypassed the happy reunion to... oh dear. That is unfortunate." Anthea brought Sherlock a small bag. The click of her heels was loud as she placed it on Sherlock's legs, gave her employer a frosty look that even Sherlock had no trouble interpreting, and left without a sound. "He appears to be... packing, Sherlock."
Sherlock closed his eyes, shocked at feeling of acute pain in his solar plexus at Mycroft's gentle words. He allowed it for one moment before sucking in a gasp of oxygen and forcing the sentiment away. Instead he chivvied himself to sit up, discounting the way things tilted crazily and the low roll of nausea in his gut. He could ignore his brother as he slowly stripped, reaching into the bag and finding new pants. It took some work to bend his body correctly so that he could maneuver his feet into them, pulling them up with one hand when the muscles in his shoulder informed him in no uncertain terms that this action was a bit too ambitious. It became calming, this simple act of dressing himself, his intense focus lasered on socks, the ancient pair of jeans he'd had with him at the safehouse when he had gotten groceries. Anthea had given him one of his t-shirts, and Sherlock was grateful for her foresight when he gingerly eased the stretchy material over his arms, his head and shoulders and down his torso. When he was done, Sherlock sat there to take stock of his injuries.
Careful non-thinking kept him numb enough to not react when Mycroft's hand swam into focus holding two tablets and a glass of water in front of him. He took both and swallowed them, ignoring the annoyed squawk of the nurse and Mycroft's smooth tones as Sherlock stood, fully dressed. He rummaged in the bag and saw Anthea had left him a mobile and twenty quid inside one of the trainers. Sherlock took both and pushed them in his pocket, and dumped the canvas trainers on the floor so that he could shove his feet into them. There were no laces, and Sherlock was once again pleased at Anthea's foresight, even if her sense of humor at the style of shoe left rather a lot to be desired. Sherlock had certainly never before worn something so... colorful on his feet before. Even when he was high.
He left the hospital room without speaking. He didn't particularly want to think, either. Well, that was patently untrue. Sherlock did not want to remember . But he could. Oh, yes.
The cool London air was like a slap to the face, and Sherlock shivered a little in the thin cotton shirt before sliding into the back of the cab. Sitting still made his body throb like a sore tooth. He remembered falling onto the plastic, and fighting it. Based on the bruising pattern glimpsed in the mirror of the tiny hospital loo, John must have performed CPR once he drowned. Sherlock's mind shied away from remembering and with a little concentration he found he could recapture that numb sense from before.
"Where to, guv?" The cabbie's voice was bored. Sherlock didn't even bother to deduce her. He didn't care.
"221 Baker Street."
Sherlock closed his eyes at the wave of pathetic gratitude that rolled over him at simply saying the words. He had not been there in so long. Even seeing the worn furniture and chaotic jumble of his and John's life through the cameras had not done it justice, and Sherlock was floored, and a little grateful, at the feeling of homesickness. He had never felt that particular longing for a mere place before, yet had no trouble categorising and identifying the feeling.
Sherlock only opened his eyes once to gauge where they were before shutting them again, the grid of streets from Paddington to Baker Street. Sherlock had not been at Bart's, and he wondered for a moment why Mycroft would have had him installed in a less-familiar hospital.
Before he could answer his own question, the driver pulled up to the kerb. It had started to rain, and Sherlock forced himself to take a deep, calming breath before paying the cabbie and sliding out of the cab. The cooler air made Sherlock hunch his shoulders in an instinctive need for protection before he looked and crossed Baker Street to the familiar door only to be stymied by the solid barrier. Rain dripped down onto his hair, sliding like icicles down the collar of the shirt.
He had no keys.
It was such a stupid thing. He had been gone for so long and thought of his flat with such detail, but his fantasies had always been with he and John drinking tea in their chairs or watching crap telly on Sherlock's couch. He had never thought about the particulars of money for cabs and keys to his door. From there to here was full of particulars that Sherlock should have planned for. He truly was unforgivably stupid sometimes.
Sherlock debated on whether to knock or just go right inside. He was actually reaching out for the knocker when the door flew open. Sherlock froze at seeing Mrs. Hudson's red-rimmed eyes and quivering bottom lip. He was stuck by a feeling he could not name; something at once so wretched and so wonderful that he did not know how to react. The numbness receded as his throat tightened painfully, the burn of tears causing Sherlock to blink rapidly. He stooped slightly, bringing his arms up for a hug, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.
Sherlock was utterly unprepared for the sharp slap of the palm of Mrs. Hudson's hand against his cheek. His head rocked back with the surprise of it and Sherlock brought his own hand up to cover his cheek protectively, staring stupidly down at her. His other hand caught his weight against the door frame, keeping from spilling out on his arse onto the wet stoop.
"You idiot man. Do you have any idea what you put him through?!"
Despite the violence of the slap, her words were not furious, but instead a mix of deeply wounded and desperately disappointed. That somehow made it worse. Sherlock felt the tightening in his throat grow to almost unbearable lengths, but it wasn't until Mrs. Hudson stepped forward to wrap her bony arms around him and pull him tightly to her that he felt he could breathe again, sucking in the slightly stale Chanel No5 almost gratefully.
"Oh, Sherlock."
He could hear the catch in her voice and shut his eyes. The numbness was a memory and Sherlock felt as though he was trembling on the precipice of something utterly ghastly; a shameful wave of emotion that would break him up and push him to the ground. He heard the sound he made and tightened his arms around her slight frame, inexplicably grateful that she was here.
The squeak on the top stair caused his eyes to pop open, his head whipping up. John stood there with his hand on the railing. Sherlock blinked and took in the sight of him, eyes darting from John's feet to his head in a heartbeat. His feet were bare, something John did only once he woke up. Otherwise his feet were always encased in trainers, or loafers, or slippers. His jeans were the same from before, creases in the denim fairly shouting that John had napped for rather a long time. There was a tea stain next to the cuff of his shirt. The hand on the railing had two bruised knuckles. Nervousness or clumsiness? Sherlock could not tell. John's face looked as though he had left exhaustion behind several hours ago. The normally clear eyes were dull with utter weariness. Ah. Not napping then. lying still in the same position for hours. Tired. Worried.
Sherlock must have made another sound, because Mrs. Hudson stepped back and dabbed at her eyes with the tiny wisp of a rather useless-looking handkerchief. "I've just put the kettle on. Come on inside then."
Sherlock could not possibly move until John began walking, watching him move silently down the steps and into Mrs. Hudson's flat without a was uncomfortably aware that he was standing there like a great berk, clutching his reddened cheek and trying desperately not to react incorrectly, other arm still hanging in the air from Mrs. Hudson's hug. This was so far out of his area as to be a caricature of human experience. Sherlock shut his eyes again and forced himself to follow. The tablets Mycroft had given him were making him faintly nauseated, and he knew that Mrs. Hudson would have at the very least some biscuits to go with their tea.
Sherlock followed John and Mrs. Hudson, everything still feeling strangely surreal. He wasn't high, and hadn't been for ages, or he would think this was some kind of hallucination. His shoes left odd markings on Mrs. Hudson's floor, wet swirls and patterns that Sherlock couldn't help but focus on.
"That smells lovely, Mrs. H." John's quiet voice hit Sherlock like another blow to the ribs. He shivered with reaction. Sherlock became aware that the smell of roast chicken was making his mouth water. His stomach made a hopeful gurgle and he rubbed it absently.
"Sit." Mrs. Hudson pointed and Sherlock and John both sat in their normal spots. Prior to him... leaving, and when there wasn't a case on, Sunday dinner with Mrs. Hudson had become a rather nice habit. John would bustle and insist that he needed food to power that 'great sodding lump in his skull', and Sherlock would protest just enough to get a reaction from his flatmate before going and eating the perfectly cooked dinner Mrs. Hudson made.
John kept his gaze on the table in front of him, and Sherlock tried not to care as Mrs. Hudson dished up their food with rather a lot more slamming and crashing than she usually used.
"I'm sorry." The words were out before Sherlock could think about what his mouth was doing.
Mrs. Hudson paused with a startled gasp, then set the chicken down much more gently on the table. Sherlock forced himself to watch her blink away tears. When she spoke, her voice warbled. "Now you two eat up, and we can talk after. You both look completely knackered."
To give himself something to do, Sherlock took a bite of chicken, then another. Sherlock soon found that he was practically inhaling his food. He helped himself to seconds before realizing that both John and Mrs. Hudson were staring at him with almost identical smirks on their faces. Sherlock flushed so deeply even his ears got hot with embarrassment. He finished his bite almost primly, wiping his mouth with a slightly embellished flourish.
The silence was split only by the sounds of cutlery onto plates. It was a testament to how many things had changed that Sherlock felt a need to fill the silence.
"Well, Mrs. Hudson, you'll be pleased to know that your flat will soon be empty again."
Sherlock thought that it was the very least that he could do. John would no doubt be feeling guilty for needing to leave 221B. Given that Mrs. Hudson's anger was directed at Sherlock's ... absence, and not John for leaving, it was obvious that John had not yet told her that he was moving. Sherlock was not entirely certain where this sudden streak of altruism came from. Knowing John, he had rushed to pack before Sherlock was released from hospital, in order to avoid anything... awkward. As much as the truth of his words hurt, Sherlock tried to keep his voice pleasant. His smile felt rubbery and false.
Mrs. Hudson's eyes grew wide. Sherlock found that it would be much too painful for him to meet John's gaze, so he stared at the table. The delicious food suddenly tasted like dust in his mouth. He put his fork down very carefully, feeling the smile slide off his face.
"You're moving?" John's voice was so mangled that at first, Sherlock couldn't quite understand what he was saying. Sherlock swallowed and forced himself to look John in the eyes for the first time since they sat down together.
John's face was completely blank, but his eyes looked utterly furious.
"Well..." Sherlock blinked several times, utterly confused. He spoke slowly, the words just as painful as the knowledge. "Mycroft wasted no time in informing me that you were packing, so I..." He trailed off, several things clicking into place at once. Sherlock realized his mouth had dropped open in shock. Somewhat belatedly, he shut it with a small click.
"That utter fucking bastard." John's voice was tight. Angry.
Sherlock's new mobile pinged with a text. Sherlock blinked rapidly down at the picture file, feeling his face turn so red that he was actually lightheaded for a moment. It made his previous blush look like nothing. It was a copy of his own test results, showing that he was negative for all STIs. Another ping, and John's records showed up with the message 'I hope you and your doctor find this information useful. Be well, brother.' His skin felt too warm for his face.
"Dear God," was all he could manage. He quickly put his phone away. Sherlock fought the urge to look around for whatever cameras Mycroft had installed in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, knowing that Mycroft was likely recording his reaction for playback at all future arguments. He reached out with shaking fingers for his water glass and took a gulp.
"Sherlock." The two syllables in John's commanding voice made Sherlock gasp, choking on the water he'd just swallowed.
"For heaven's sake, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson slapped him on the back, something that absolutely did nothing to quell his coughing, but it allowed him to use the time to attempt to order his whirling thoughts. Sherlock immediately took another sip of water, noticing that John was struggling to keep from lashing out verbally in his fury- no doubt due to Mrs. Hudson's presence.
Almost before he was finished drinking, Sherlock began speaking. "Mycroft...! He. I." Sherlock jumped to his feet, ignoring the jar of his ribs at the abrupt movement. "There was no possible way that Moran had replaced those workers, that he could have possibly managed to outsmart my brother. Someone like myself, Moriarty perhaps, but not a common idiot such as him." The words started off shaky, then started tumbling out one after the other like a pot of water boiling over. "Moran insisted that everything was in reaction to him. Pawns moving against the king on the chessboard. But my brother... it was his idea for my Fall. He fed the information to Moriarty to get him on the rooftop. He had anticipated the snipers, but not how many there would be, so there were several different possibilities, all planned out with meticulous detail. I knew that there would be some smoke and mirrors, John, but not which trick we would use." He whirled, almost giddy at the feeling of everything slotting into place in his mind; his long, disused synapses firing into place at long last. "Mycroft must have told you part of the plan. A mere whisper of his machinations for you to volunteer as bait. He knew. He knew that Moran would not be drawn out for anything less, and to do that I needed to be on scene. Mycroft knew that I would be watching. Why would I be watching? Simple. Sentiment. Ridiculous and tiresome but I am not as infallible as I wished. Write that down in your blog John, I'm sure you'll enjoy my confirmation."
Sherlock couldn't help the small bite of pleasure he felt at how uncomfortable John looked at his words. Mrs. Hudson was staring at him with wide, confused eyes, poised to drink her tea but frozen in shock at his outburst. Sherlock whirled and began pacing again, muttering under his breath. When he came close enough to John for the doctor to grab his wrist, Sherlock froze and sank into his chair on legs that were completely useless. He began again, staring as John's calloused, tanned fingers tightened around his pale wrist.
"My damnable brother needed both of us to draw out Moran... the last player in Moriarty's web. Perhaps the kidnapping was not part of his plan-" John snorted and Sherlock couldn't help the way his eyes jumped up to John's before focusing back on John's strong fingers. "-but it did show him that he would have to up the stakes if he wanted to catch him." Sherlock's voice bottomed out as John tilted up his chin, looking over his face with that clear gaze of his that missed nothing.
Minutes, possibly hours, later Mrs. Hudson coughed and set down her teacup with a clatter. "Well I'm sure I don't know about all of this, boys, but I do know you both look exhausted. Sherlock, you just got out of hospital. Shouldn't you rest, dear?"
Sherlock blinked. He could see that John had several questions, but it would perhaps be prudent to answer them out of their landlady's hearing.
"You're not.. leaving?" Sherlock forced himself not to wince at the feeble break in his voice. He knew the answer, understood what Mycroft had done, but found he still craved John's response.
"No, Sherlock. I'm not going anywhere."
John knew that compared to Sherlock, he was not overly intelligent. Usually he didn't dwell on this. Sherlock was a proper genius, but he was also spectacularly moronic about certain aspects of humanity. It was just one of the many things that worked for the both of them, that John happened to excel in the aspects of life where Sherlock found himself lacking. A weird sort of karmic balance. Now, as he followed a obviously exhausted Sherlock up the stairs to their flat, John could see as clearly as Sherlock's deductions came to him. The signs weren't obvious, but John was a trained medical professional, and he well recognized the signs of someone attempting to hide the signs of acute pain. It was there in the white-knuckled grip on the banister, the shuffled half-step as Sherlock tried not to aggravate the muscles in his lower back- hurt either from the residual trauma of the CPR or the force of the landing onto the pool cover. It was there in the slight gasping wheeze as Sherlock struggled with breathing, the hunch of the shoulders. Sherlock's shirt had dried from the outside deluge in the time that they ate supper, but John could see the slight sheen of sweat on his neck as he struggled not to show how hurt he was.
It made him grit his teeth wishing that things had unfolded differently. It still seemed a bit like a dream: Sherlock's uncharacteristic meekness, the moment of epiphany that had Sherlock cursing Mycroft for reasons that John wasn't entirely certain he followed, and this... a hurt, exhausted Sherlock stoically attempting to hide his pain from John. No. No, sir. That was just not on.
And what had that bit about him moving meant? John shook his head when Sherlock paused on the threshold, sucking in a startled gasp of air.
John, as soon as being released from Mycroft's super secret spy jail of which John was not entirely convinced was not a set from one of the lesser known Bond films, had rushed over to 221B, after being told in no uncertain terms that he'd have a hell of a lot more than an ASBO if he showed up at Sherlock's room in the hospital. John had rushed about a bit frantically, setting up all of Sherlock's things so that their flat would look right for when Sherlock got home. The text from Anthea that there were a few surgical complications, and that Sherlock wouldn't be home for five whole days had left John with nothing to occupy his time. He'd stretched out on the settee and lost himself in his thoughts, going over and over everything that had happened. He'd shopped. Cleaned.
Slept a great deal.
Now, John touched Sherlock's lower back, jerking his fingers away when Sherlock stiffened and flinched away from him.
"Sorry... I. Sorry." John winced in response.
Sherlock's shoulders hunched in on himself even more. It gave John a sense of purpose. Whatever he had thought might happen when Sherlock returned, first he needed to rest and recuperate.
"No. It's fine, Sherlock." John gave a tired smile. "It's all fine."
Sherlock didn't even respond to that. John tried to tell himself that it didn't matter, that Sherlock was just exhausted, but he couldn't help the small frisson of panic that trickled down his spine. Sherlock was acting as closed-off and inhuman as he'd done when they'd first met- before they had gotten to know each other. John fell back onto his Doctor persona and attempted to push down the personal drama to deal with later. Much later.
John crossed so that he was in front of Sherlock. He made his voice gentle, but not patronizing. "Sherlock." Sherlock took a few minutes before he seemed to focus on John's face, he blinked slowly, as though he wasn't entirely there. "Hey. Come with me. Let's get you situated, yeah?"
Sherlock nodded, silent and suddenly pliable, as though he lacked the energy to argue. It made the doctor in John take notice- from the almost manic deductions from before to this strangeness... clearly whatever he had been given at the hospital had kicked in. John made a mental note to text Mycroft for the details as soon as he was able. He let John lead him to his room, not even responding when John helped him strip off the t-shirt. No bandages around his ribs. That more than anything told John that Sherlock must have been sedated in hospital. They hadn't been broken, obviously, thank Christ. John had the quick thought that a bath might be more relaxing and went to start the water, firing off a quick text to Anthea requesting Sherlock's medical file. When he came back to Sherlock's room, he was still standing there, staring down at the floor.
"Sherlock..? Do you want... I mean, if you don't want me fussing then I'll leave it-"
Sherlock's hand whipped out, grabbing John's wrist; a reflexive movement that mirrored John's actions from before. "No."
Well that was clear enough.
"Alright then, Sherlock. It's alright." John's voice gentled. Keeping his movements brisk and impersonal, he helped Sherlock to take off the jeans and the truly appalling looked like something a teenager would wear. Sherlock didn't protest when John led him to the bath, simply pushing down his pants with a grunt of pain and hissing when he slid into the steamy water.
John had always liked their bath. Mrs. Hudson, as with so much in the old house, had kept the Victorian clawfoot tub, and it was probably the only thing large enough to fit Sherlock's great gangly body. Mrs. H. had made noises about updating the bath to something more modern, but neither of them wanted to get rid of it. John stood up, wincing at the crack of his knees and started to leave, only to be stopped once again by Sherlock's large fingers locking around his wrist.
Sherlock didn't speak this time, but just turned his neck to stare at John. His look was slightly less blank, but John had no problems diagnosing that Sherlock was probably quite likely in a shock. Even more likely was that Mycroft insisted on Sherlock's attending doping Sherlock up to his eyeballs to keep him still and healing. Being home after everything that had happened, with being so exhausted on top of it would do in anyone's head. Even genius consulting detectives.
"I'm not leaving for long, love. I just have a few things to take care of. Ten minutes, tops."
Sherlock's lips twitched down in a frown, but he let go of John's wrist. John winced inwardly at the unwitting endearment, relieved that Sherlock didn't appear to have noticed his slip of the tongue. "Just sit tight. Be back in a tick."
John got two towels and set them on the radiator to warm. He set his phone on the end table near Sherlock's bed and quickly wrestled his chair into the corner of Sherlock's bedroom, fully expecting a long night. Sherlock's bed had already been made with fresh linens, so that was one thing done at least. He grabbed his duvet cover from his own bed and his laptop and charger and set it on his chair. John went into the kitchen and filled the kettle, flicking it on with a little frown. He had the impression that he was no better than Sherlock, pushing away little things (and not so little things such as Sherlock dying thanks ever so) until he was at a place where he felt strong enough to deal with them. John heard his phone ping twice and frowned, listening.
Sherlock still hadn't moved in the water. There were no sounds of scrubbing or splashing. John pinched the top of his nose and made his way back to the loo, snagging his doctor's bag on the way. Sherlock's would would likely need to be bandaged. They hadn't wrapped Sherlock's ribs (or Sherlock had refused to wear the bandage), but John felt that it wouldn't hurt, given the situation. John stumbled as the visceral memory of pressing Sherlock's chest, staring down at the pale, blank face that had left him again hit him and caught his hand on the door's frame, barely saving himself from falling forward.
Maybe Sherlock wasn't the only one who had some things to think through. Sherlock looked up at John's entrance, lips quirking an something between an exhausted smirk and a feeble smile. "Hello."
"Hi. You want to soak a little longer?"
"Not particularly. I am... tired."
John's eyebrows sprung up in surprise. For Sherlock to admit weakness was practically unheard of.
"Right. Just a quick scrub, then." Sherlock didn't stop him, but didn't exactly help him either. Instead, as John briskly rubbed him down with the flannel, Sherlock gazed almost unblinkingly at the faucet. John felt like an unprofessional arse for biting the inside of his cheek when he washed Sherlock's penis and testicles and lower, but was left strangely cold when Sherlock's unblinking stare didn't waver.
John finished his task, draped the flannel over the faucet and pulled the plug. He found himself leaning forward and kissing Sherlock's forehead before rocking back on his heels and helping him to stand, but Sherlock didn't say anything. John got the two warmed towels and wrapped Sherlock's weird hair in one and attempted to fit his the trunk of his lanky body in the other. It didn't take long to dry him off, even being overly careful of Sherlock's injuries. Sherlock remained completely unresponsive, even when John began rubbing briskly enough at his drippy hair that Sherlock looked like a bewildered porcupine with the ginger strands poofing out in every direction at once.
John turned and Sherlock's hand was on his wrist again before he could move. Beginning to get a bit worried now, John used the grip to tow Sherlock into his bedroom and help him into a pair of pants.
"I need that back eventually, you know." John tried for levity, nodding down at his captured wrist.
"No."
John jerked his gaze up, only to see that Sherlock was frowning over at John's chair. "Sherlock, I need to look over your injuries. Wrap your ribs. I will need my-"
"No." Sherlock didn't sound petulant or angry, but his grip tightened slightly on John's wrist. Sherlock turned to get into the bed, pulling John with him.
"Sherlock," John didn't bother to hide the chiding tone of his voice as he leaned back, resisting. "I'm going to wrap your ribs, even if for my own piece of mind. If you want me to lay down with you, that's fine but I will need to tidy up a few things first."
Sherlock made a frustrated sound, sitting instead on the edge of the bed. His fingers loosened and it galvanized John into action. He took the towels down into the laundry, locking the door to the flat on his way back up. John flicked off the kettle and instead grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. John made his way upstairs, found something to sleep in, used the loo, washed his hands and debated whether or not to brush his teeth. Deciding that he'd been gone too long (as Sherlock's patience was not exactly endless) he chose to make his way to Sherlock's bedroom instead, as apparently Himself had decided John was sleeping there. John didn't even bother to try to tell himself he wasn't completely chuffed by this entire turn of events.
The room had gotten much gloomier. The rain had not abated. John switched on a lamp. Sherlock had not moved from his perch on the side of the mattress, as though he was ready to spring up at the least bit of provocation. John grabbed his bag and his phone and knelt down in front of Sherlock. His skin had broken out into tiny gooseflesh, despite the warm towels. John was surprised to see that he had several texts. He flipped through the scanned copy of Sherlock's medical chart that Anthena had sent him on his phone, ignoring the other texts. He checked quickly to see if what he planned on giving Sherlock would react with any of the meds prescribed by his attending, then reached into his bag for something a little stronger than Paracetamol.
Sherlock didn't even hesitate, taking the two tablets with a swig of the water. John made quick but careful work of Sherlock's ribs then pulled him up by both hands so that he could pull back the duvet cover and sheet. "Come on then, you great git. Into bed." Sherlock groaned in relief as he stretched out in his own bed and John turned away to get the light.
"John!" Sherlock cried out, then gasped in pain.
John turned, ignoring the panicked cry, all at once furious that Sherlock would jacknife up like that and allow himself to be reinjured.
"For fuck's sake, Sherlock. I'm just putting out the light!" John did so, then blinked a few times, wincing at his own temper. He turned to make certain that Sherlock had laid back down and comfortable before crossing the room around the large bed and sliding underneath the covers. John didn't miss Sherlock's relieved sigh and felt even more like an arse for barking at him. He could almost feel Sherlock's nervous tension from only a few inches away and rolled his eyes in the darkness.
"Come on then."
Sherlock turned with a pained grunt and made himself comfortable so that his head was on John's chest, his body contorted so that his healing ribs were not being pressed into the mattress, but so his legs tangled with John's. John brought his arm up, hugging Sherlock to him for a moment before relaxing his arm and cupping the back of Sherlock's slightly damp curls.
Sherlock sighed and moved slightly closer, rubbing his cheek against the soft material of John's vest, fisting his hand in the loose part of the shirt as though holding John right there, with him.
John didn't bother to censor himself from tangling his fingers in Sherlock's hair, rubbing at the scalp. "Did you know that your roots are showing?"
Sherlock snorted inelegantly. "Hasn't been a priority. But I will not miss seeing the ginger.A bit like seeing my father in the mirror each time."
"Ah." John tugged a little and Sherlock caught his breath. He resumed petting the curls, moving his hand down the nape of Sherlock's neck to trail his fingers against the bumps of Sherlock's spine, before reversing the path and completing the entire circuit again. Sherlock began to relax in increments. The rain was loud, hissing down with occasional vehicles spitting water back up onto the kerb. It was surprisingly cosy here with Sherlock, listening to the sounds from the busy street.
Slowly, Sherlock spoke, as if unsure if he should.
"I was... unsettled at waking up in Hospital and not having you there. I..."
"Hush." John gave a little tug of Sherlock's curls, ignoring the gasp. "I am so sorry that I wasn't there for you. I think your brother was a bit narked, to tell the truth." That reminded John that he'd had messages and he debated whether or not to turn to get his phone. He was bloody comfortable and not too keen on moving.
"His eye is viciously bruised- purple and a bit of green." Sherlock didn't even bother to hide his satisfaction at this from his voice and it was John's turn to snort.
"Yes, well doing a stint in the subbasement of the Home Office- or wherever I was was a bit of a shock. If I had been able to do so I would have been there with you. They kept you sedated to heal, you know. That's why you're probably feeling a bit floaty and out of sorts."
Sherlock nodded. "I know. I saw the stitching on my shoulder. At least five days healed, if not longer." John rolled his eyes at himself. Of course even a hurt, exhausted Sherlock had been able to deduce that. Sherlock burrowed slightly closer to John, kicking slightly at the duvet so that his feet were uncovered.
John knew that they both were exhausted and on the verge of sleep, but he didn't think he could relax until he had the answer to one question. He continued debating with himself on whether or not he should take a gamble and break the peace between them. And it was peaceful. His hand on Sherlock's scalp, the feel of the soft curls around his fingers, the heat of Sherlock's skin on the back of his neck, down his spine and back up. Sherlock had relaxed to an extent that John was not sure if he had ever observed before.
"Ask, John. You've become fractionally more tense as you debate whether or not to ask me whatever question has been stagnating in your mind."
Fair enough. John took a deep breath. Despite Sherlock's causal observation, John felt him tense fractionally in nervousness as he waited for John to speak.
"I ... I know that everything that happened happened rather quickly. But I assume that while you were in hospital you had time to process. That's the only conclusion that. I mean, I can't blame you if..." Oh bollocks. He was making a hash of this. Attempting to summon some of his alleged bravery, John just blurted out what had bothered him the most from their dinner with Mrs. Hudson. "Do you want me to move out?"
"No!" Sherlock's hands tightened forcefully enough on John's shirt that it seemed as though Sherlock was going to physically attempt to keep him in place.
"Then what was that all about earlier?" Again, John kept his voice gentle. Deliberately, John began stroking Sherlock's neck and shoulders again, down his spine as far as he could reach.
"Mycroft said that you were packing. To leave. I." Sherlock turned so that his face was hidden, smashing his nose into John's collarbone. His voice rumbled low and almost completely muffled. "After what I had done, I could not blame you. I... attempted to make things easier on you, since I thought you would feel conflicted."
"But I wasn't leaving."
"I understand that now!" Sherlock's head popped up, meeting John's eyes in the dark room. He huffed loudly enough that his fringe flipped over his eye. "My brother is an arse."
John couldn't argue with that. Sherlock dropped his head back onto John's chest and not-so-subtly moved his leg so that John's calf was trapped under its weight. John couldn't help the sappy smile that stretched his mouth, and was very glad that Sherlock couldn't see it.
"Maybe he wanted you to realize that I wasn't going anywhere. Maybe that was his welcome home present."
"John I think you might be confusing these ideas of altruism with someone who is not my brother."
John snorted. "Maybe." For several more minutes there was just the sound of the rain and the occasional passing vehicle on Baker street.
"John?"
"Yes, Sherlock?"
"'m glad you're not leaving."
John found himself relaxing slowly, felt Sherlock getting heavier as he slipped into sleep. Thunder rumbled in the distance. John heard his text alert one more time before he followed Sherlock into slumber, warm and comfortable.