Hertfordshire, September 2013
Diagnosis: meniscal tear, moderate
Treatment, short term: bed rest and elevation of the leg until swelling subsides. Administer acetaminophen as needed
Treatment, long term: physical therapy and use of assistive device as needed
John has spoken barely ten words to Sherlock in the past two days. He avoids looking into the iridescent eyes that follow his every move - now distant, now doleful - and he keeps his thoughts under lock and key, not only from Sherlock but from himself. He senses, rather than knows, that there's a roiling maelstrom of feelings lurking just beneath his placid surface, and he cannot succumb to it for fear of being swept away.
But on the third night in Mycroft's home, John startles awake with a pounding heart and the certainty - the absolute certainty - that Sherlock is dead.
He throws off the duvet and stands, disoriented in the darkness, then quietly makes his way to the room two doors down from his. John finds Sherlock lying on the bed in a t-shirt and cotton pajama bottoms, his blank stare illuminated by curtain-diffused moonlight. He is as pale as he was on that day, and John reaches out the way he did then to grasp Sherlock's wrist in his hand.
This time, it's warm and thrums with a pulse that's probably too rapid, but John doesn't care. It's alive, and that other hand wasn't, and he doesn't understand but he needs to, now, so he asks in a voice that's soft with sleep, "How did you do it?"
Sherlock's eyes close and his chest collapses on a sigh.
"Switched the body," he whispers, and the blood drains from John's face - the suck of the tide just before a devastating wave - and he drops heavily to the side of the bed.
"How?" John rasps, clutching Sherlock's wrist tight enough to bruise.
Sherlock turns his head and, finally, their eyes meet.
"Does it matter anymore?"
"No," John says. "I suppose it doesn't." But he feels Sherlock's eyes on him, watching him work through a deduction of his own, and he cannot help the small rush of fury that accompanies the realisation when it comes.
"Molly," John says, and Sherlock nods.
"Was it only me, then?" he demands. "Who didn't know? Seems pretty elaborate just to pull one over on me." John drops Sherlock's hand and stands, crossing to the tall windows that overlook Mycroft's property. A rustle of bedding and the quiet rattle of metal on metal tells him that Sherlock has gotten to his feet, but John keeps his eyes fixed on the green-grey grounds below.
"Not just you," Sherlock explains. "Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. Everyone but Mycroft and Molly," John turns to see him nearly lost in shadows, leaning heavily on his cane and almost small in a way he's never been before, and it's that uncharacteristic vulnerability that keeps him rooted to the spot when he might walk away. But he hasn't said his piece, not by half, and he takes a step forward, his hands gesturing of their own accord.
"Why? Why did you do it?" John swallows. "Sherlock, why didn't you tell me?"
Sherlock is quiet, the space between them charged with the heat of John's anger. After a moment, he says, simply, "Moriarty."
John's head tilts in confusion. He steps forward as though the movement will bring him somehow closer to comprehension, and Sherlock shifts unsteadily on his feet.
"I'll burn the heart out of you - those were his words." Sherlock says, and John nods. "He discovered how." Sherlock gives a small shake of his head. "He always knew."
"Your name, your reputation - yes, I remember. But you sent me away, Sherlock. You made me think - I could have helped. I thought we had a plan -"
"It wasn't my 'reputation', John."
"Then what -" John begins, and Sherlock limps into the light, locking eyes with him. There's desperation there, and pain. Worry... fear and concern, all trained on John, and the force of it hits him like a bullet. "Oh." he says breathlessly. "Oh... God."
"Three guns, three bullets - Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock's eyes glitter strangely. "You."
"Sherlock... "
"He would have -" he starts, shaking his head. John walks across the room, takes his hand and pulls him gently down on the edge of the bed, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's thin frame. Sherlock lets out a shuddering breath against John's hair but otherwise sits still, allowing this. "If you'd known, if you'd even hinted that it wasn't true... it wouldn't have been me, John, it would have been you."
"So... you were protecting your heart," John says softly, and Sherlock gives a tight nod. "And mine... mine was just collateral damage."
John feels Sherlock stiffen in his arms, but rather than letting go he tightens his embrace, splaying his hands over Sherlock's bony back and resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder, determined to tell Sherlock in the only way he knows that it's fine - it's fine. That he may not like it, but he understands; that his heart is a small price to pay if it's kept them safe.
Eventually, Sherlock relaxes enough to lean his wan cheek against John's head, to wrap his awkward arms around John's solid frame and hold him close.
"I missed you." John, his voice muffled against Sherlock's arm.
"So much." Sherlock, in a whisper.
And perhaps it's the darkness that allows the tears to come.