{Aw, I'm glad that you guys liked 'awake Sherlock' (although, technically, he has always been awake and has had consciousness for a while) - thank you so much for your lovely words! Makes writing this fic seem way more fun than it already is! You know, even if I am having an obscene amount of fun with dropping hints about what's to come every so often…}
A week after his adventure in Hampshire and six days after Sherlock's eyes first opened, Mr. Holmes appeared with a laptop to put on the little meal table that slid out and over his brother's bed. John lingered in Ms. Monroe's room for as long as he could, if only because he didn't want to be drawn into any forced conversations, but he eventually let himself in.
As far as his impression of Mr. Holmes went, John could not help but notice that he held himself properly. It was not in the straight-backed manner of the soldier by any means, but it rather seemed… sophisticated. Upper class. He possessed the queer affability of a politician that wanted to be liked but, at the same time, that wanted to keep an arm's length from the public. Something in his thin, tight-lipped smile seemed private.
He appeared, for all intents and purposes, to be just as untouchable as his brother.
Dr. Stein was by Sherlock's bedside again, resting with one hand on the white plastic bar. Of course, she would allow somebody to come by and calibrate everything, if it was within visiting hours. They hadn't had a locked-in patient for quite some time and the hospital was supportive of communication, et cetera, et cetera…
John hovered by the door in his heavy brown coat, shifting to the side so as to move into Sherlock's range of vision. Their eyes met- brown with grey- and he managed a small grin.
As the week had passed, Sherlock's stare became less intimidating. That had been a relief. He would have kept volunteering regardless, (quitting of his own accord had never really been an option) but it made his visits easier on the both of them.
It was nicer when he didn't have to constantly feel self-conscious.
"I can have somebody come by in the next day or two," Mr. Holmes told her, turning to shut the laptop and unplug it. "It won't work until he can fix his gaze properly, but it should be of some use. He's improving, isn't he?"
Dr. Stein hesitated for a moment, shifted her clipboard from one arm to the other, tucked a forelock of hair away from her face.
"It's difficult to say," she said to Mr. Holmes. "We're taking him through standard physiotherapy, but the muscle atrophy has taken a toll. The improvements with his fingers moving are good, but… it can take a very long time before motor function returns. Even then, it likely won't be the same as it was before."
Mr. Holmes nodded in understanding, putting pressure on the handle of his umbrella as he turned to look directly at him. That thin smile reappeared and, for a moment, John found himself wondering if Sherlock's looked similar.
"How long would you say it would take, Dr. Watson?"
It was a long, awkward moment before John realised that he was not only being addressed, but that he was also being asked for his input.
"Oh. I don't, uh, work here," he said.
"I know." The tip of Mr. Holmes' umbrella twirled on the linoleum beneath his hands. "I wanted to ask your opinion anyway."
Dr. Stein looked at him- and John felt his ears and the back of his neck go warm.
"Erm- I won't pretend to know the situation more intimately than Dr. Stein, of course, but, if improvement continues… it can easily take a year and a half for somebody to gain the strength to even walk normally. Anything shorter than that would be… highly unusual."
Mr. Holmes lifted his umbrella and rested it on one shoulder. His smile had not faltered for a moment.
"I suppose, then, that it's to our advantage that Sherlock Holmes is a highly unusual person."
He left the hospital room and the flashing of clear, grey eyes in his wake. The two doctors watched him go and the silence stretched between them until it was taut. Finally, Dr. Stein began to fuss with putting the laptop away. It was brand new, still sleek and shining from the package- and she peppered it with fingerprints.
"They always think that their particular case is going to be the exception," she said. "I wonder if he thought he would hear something different from you than he would from me."
John moved to his chair and leaned against one of the arms, pressing his hands into his pockets. His cane fit between his knees.
"He doesn't seem the type, but everyone is a bit odd about their family."
Sherlock's eyes were on him again, but he did his best to ignore them.
"Mr. Holmes in particular. This," she said, tapping the spine of the laptop before sliding it into the case that had been provided, "is a state of the art piece of technology. Once it's calibrated, it should be able to let our Mr. Holmes communicate-"
"Through eye movements," he said, tilting his head slightly. "But isn't it a bit early to expect somebody to have the energy to control a computer through staring and blinking?"
Even if Sherlock was particularly good at staring, he only seemed comfortable with fixing his gaze- and occasionally glancing up or, at rare occasions, down. John had had the good manners not to comment when the simple strain of keeping his eyes open made Sherlock desperate to rest for a while.
"It's even earlier for him to get back to work."
"You're joking."
"No, those were his exact sentiments. Apparently, once he can use a computer, he can start solving crimes again."
"Solving- solving crimes-"
He slid into his chair without even thinking about it, bending to support his elbows on his knees. His fingers rubbed small, constant circles against his temples, but they did little to nothing in helping him digest the stupidity of that concept. There was no way that somebody who had just managed to wake up after a bloody coma could possibly expect to set after the thugs and louts of London.
"He has a website, apparently," Dr. Stein added as she wound the cord up into a loop. Everything about her voice was tight. "Science of… something or another. Mr. Holmes was talking about some sort of backlog of people needing his assistance."
"Well, yeah, I'm sure there is a backlog, but…"
A pair of clear, grey eyes stared him down. He caught sight of them between the cracks of his steepled fingers and a pang of guilt made his stomach turn unpleasantly.
"…We'll just have to see."
Dr. Stein paused from where she was placing the bag into the small bedside table for safe keeping. "Yes," she said, standing and straightening up. "We'll see."
The reality of it all seemed to graze both of them at the same time. Sherlock might never be able to adequately use his laptop. He might catch pneumonia, as locked-in patients often do. It might end poorly, despite the amount of money that Mr. Holmes would be willing to pump into his treatment.
She nodded softly to him and left the two of them to their own devices.
John read him an article about a family of drug dealers in Liverpool, an article about pathological liars and something about the solar system. He stayed for a little longer than usual under the pretence of checking for news of Alice Rucastle as a missing person in the paper. She still wasn't there.
He went home and made his tea- a bowl of soup and toast without butter- before he remembered what Dr. Stein had told him about Sherlock's website. Would it be prying to look through it?
… What would it be like to read what he had once written before he went under? John only knew and understood his silence. He didn't have an inkling of how his mind worked. He didn't know what his voice sounded like. He scarcely knew anything about him. He was a puzzle with missing pieces. He could already tell that his life had been interesting.
Or, at least, more interesting than his own.
He couldn't resist.
A quick search brought up 'The Science of Deduction'.
As far as websites went, Sherlock's wasn't half bad. It wasn't plain like his blog was and it wasn't gaudy or flashy or stupid. There wasn't an advertisement to be seen. He could clearly type- and his sentences were thankfully devoid of abbreviations, slang and spelling or grammatical mistakes.
For some odd reason, that was a bit of a relief.
He scrolled down and, quelling the tremble of anticipation in his chest, he started to read.
"I'm Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective.
I'm not going to go into detail about how I do what I do because chances are you wouldn't understand. If you've got a problem that you want me to solve, then contact me. Interesting cases only please."
…
There was something distinctly off-putting about those four, simple sentences. Was Sherlock arrogant? He had never placed a lot of thought into his character traits before. Honestly, he had never felt the need to. He certainly didn't know very much about Ms. Monroe, but it was comforting to at least believe that the people that he visited weren't prats. What was there to misinterpret about detective work? What was a consulting detective anyway? How good was he if he could cherry pick his cases? Was he magnificent or pretentious?
… How bored had Sherlock been, with only stories of petty crime to tide him over every day?
Another wave of guilt and anxiety pressed against him as he continued to skim through the content. He observes, he deduces, he decides.
Had he already solved John Watson without even needing to speak to him? Was that what those piercing eyes were doing whenever they rested on him?
He shook his head, managed a soft laugh and kneaded his bad shoulder with his thumb and forefingers. No, he decided. He didn't talk about himself enough to give Sherlock anything to go on. And even then, what reason did he have for being nervous? He wasn't hiding a damn thing.
John continued to read.
The case files detailed puzzles that Sherlock couldn't be bothered to solve and a long list of finished investigations. Most of the links had timed out, which was a shame.
The forum only merited a quick skim on John's part. Sherlock didn't post many messages about himself, which was what he was really after. Apparently, he needed to find somewhere new to live, due to an incident with his landlord.
The rest were messages from clients, oldest to newest.
Murder charges, blackmailing, being framed, missing people, stumbling into trouble, a young woman that had taken a curious job in the country in which she was expected to cut off all of her hair, suspected foul play, lost terriers…
He heaved a slow sigh and shut his laptop, turning back to his soup.
It felt as though he had betrayed Sherlock's trust- and he had come out none the richer for it.
Every spoonful was cold.
