John swung his legs over the side of the cot, ignoring how the swollen, stitched on skin on his back pulled, threatening to tear. He had been stuck in bed with nothing but newspapers, television and unpleasant company for over a week. At the very least he was going to stand up and get himself out of the horrible room. Sherlock was lying across all the chairs, his limbs woven through the arm rests. His eyes were closed, his breath coming out evenly.
"You're an idiot," Sherlock announced.
But not asleep. John sighed and ignored him, shimmying himself to the edge of the bed.
"You shouldn't be out of bed until the pneumonia has passed," Sherlock commented. John decided not to argue with him. He'd had transfusions for the blood loss and his minor case of pneumonia was left at nothing but a low grade fever and a cough. They wouldn't discharge him until the fever had passed but he could bloody well stand up. Even if sitting did leave him dizzy.
John pushed himself to his feet, groaning as the movement tugged at his burns. He should have waited until the nurses would allow him his next dose of drugs, but he was feeling remarkably impatient. But he was getting a strong refresher on how many muscle movements tied into his back.
"What is to be gained from this?" Sherlock complained. Dots blurred in front of John's eyes. He inhaled slowly, keeping a hand on his cot. He felt as if energy was draining through his body and out of his feet, but he took a step. And a second one.
Sitting now, John ordered himself, his vision spinning as he painfully struggled back onto the bed without the use of his arms.
Shite, John thought, closing his eyes. He was a long way from self sufficient. That was a problem.
~~/~~
Harry spent most of the next three days crying and fetching snacks from the vending machines. John mainly kept his eyes closed while she was visiting, except for the semi-regular count on the growing pile of unwanted food building up on one of the visiting chairs. Donovan came to visit again, oddly enough, but she'd barely stood inside the room for ten seconds before she was heading out again. John was puzzled but he didn't ask and Sherlock didn't offer up any explanations.
Sherlock spent most of the time sitting in the uncomfortable chair beneath the window, watching the streaks of light slowly move over John's blankets until they faded with the day.
"Surely you are staying at 221B," he commented out of the dull silence when Harry was once again buying vending machine snacks. John blinked at him, perplexed, and Sherlock stared into his eyes. "Mrs. Hudson is better care than most and you will be bored anywhere else," he insisted.
John swallowed.
"Baker Street is…" he started and cleared his throat. "not my home." That was an understatement.
John stared at his bandaged left hand. There was nothing left for him at 221B but a broken friendship and an old woman he hadn't spoken to in nearly a year before he'd landed in hospital. It was rather telling of Mrs. Hudson's nature that she hadn't asked how he'd come to be tortured by an American stranger.
He'd avoided Baker Street intentionally, the one place more likely to kill him than Afghanistan. Able to rip his heart straight out of his chest and push a gun into his hand. It was the only place he'd ever felt so happy to be alive, with Sherlock in the living room and Mrs. Hudson banging around downstairs. Diffused, now, that Sherlock was 'back', never gone at all? He could remember the fine layer of dust coating the living room the last time he'd visited, before driving to Sherlock's grave. To see Sherlock standing in the middle of it once again, like no time had passed at all? The kitchen restored to its general chaos, the lights on, the sound of a violin nearby? Sherlock stared at him, his gray eyes wide, expressing some depth of emotion John couldn't fathom..
"You're saying no. I don't understand," he concluded. John blew out a breath and forced himself to look at the man. Sherlock was sitting in the chair next to his bed, his elbows propped on the mattress beside John's left hand, his expression darkened with confusion. His pale eyes were shadowed with too little sleep, his cheeks still gaunt.
This again, John thought, sighing.
"Are we friends then?" John asked, turning his head and meeting Sherlock's wounded eyes. "Because you jumped off a building and I collapsed and I really don't know what's left from that."
Sherlock turned his face away.
"I saved your life," he repeated. John swallowed.
"I didn't want it to be saved," he answered.
"You're an idiot. Everyone wants to be saved. Except for the minuscule number of true suicidal individuals but even they often seek help in the last minutes, even if it never comes," Sherlock replied, turning back to him, his eyes cold. "Irrelevant either way, as you were not one," he added.
"Jesus," John muttered, and shook his head. "No, Sherlock, but I would have rather died by your side than be so thoroughly left behind," he growled. Sherlock's eyes widened. With understanding, finally. "Got it finally, have you? I am a dangerous man. An active man. How the hell did that slip your massively inflated mind?"
Sherlock swallowed. The silence fell back between them heavily and John switched on the television. A cooking show about making bratwurst. Daytime television. John stared at the peppy woman, unsure what else he'd do to entertain himself.
"Stay at Baker Street. You'd be an idiot not to," Sherlock ordered.
John nodded slowly, keeping his eyes on the television, not wanting to acknowledge that he had very little choice.
~~/~~
"I've got your paperwork, Dr. Watson," his nurse said, walking into the room. John struggled to sit up despite his bound shoulders, trying to remember the nurse's name. Giving up, he jerked his head in Mrs. Hudson's direction. She was sitting by Harry beneath the windows. Mrs. Hudson held out her hand, but Sherlock snatched the paperwork from the nurse and spun toward the window, already reading it. The nurse gave it up to him without complaint and left the room. John was grateful. He'd already had two recovery surgeons go over his continuing care with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson and he didn't want to deal with it again.
Harry shook her head sharply, realization settling over her face as she watched Sherlock cross the room.
"Excuse me?" she hissed. "You take care of him? The self centered twat who calls himself a genius?"
John inhaled slowly, feeling his heart rate picking up. They hadn't told her, then.
"Harry," he started, as calmly as he could.
"Like you think I can't care for you better? Jesus, John," Harry turned on him.
"Mrs. Hudson-" John started, but Harry threw out her hand.
"I do all this for you and still you think Sherlock bloody Holmes is going to take care of you? You'll forgive him but not me? He jumped off a fucking building. I drank, that's it," she cursed, leaning over John's bed. Mrs. Hudson stood up and quietly pushed Harry out of the way to sit down next to John, inserting herself in the conversation. Harry had to back up to keep from being run over.
You cheated on your wife with my married best friend, he thought but that was hardly relevant.
"It's not like you didn't have to fuck off to bloody Afghanistan to keep yourself from gambling. You're no better than me," she snarled.
"And clearly this means he should trust himself to your care," Sherlock commented, sounding amused.
"Shut up, Sherlock," John growled.
"I'll let you in on a bloody secret, John. Sherlock Holmes is a madman and a fraud, and the fact that you'd forgive him and not me is disgusting. You want to blame me for all your problems, fine, but don't tell me that this fucking loser is better than me," she continued, her voice getting louder as she pointed toward Sherlock.
"Harry," John started, trying again, but she opened her mouth to yell some more.
"He forgave you, but even he is smart enough not to trust you," Sherlock snorted. Harry rounded on him, her eyes flashing but Sherlock got there first.
"You have a practiced inability to think beyond yourself for longer than ten minutes at a time. How long did it take upon discovering Clara's cancer for you to blame it for your return to drinking? A week? And how long after you started drinking did it take for you to ask why she did not focus all her chemo-therapy riddled attention on your problems, when they were so tragic? A month? No, less than that. It's not about your drinking. I've spent most of my life addicted to opiates and nicotine and I'd rather spend an evening with a record of John's screaming on repeat than another hour in your company," Sherlock snarled. John pushed his head back into his pillow and closed his eyes.
" From the moment you got in here you've used John's injuries for your own attention. You want to be well? Stop lying to yourself. Getting another cat will only make your home filthier. It's hardly John's responsibility to take care of you. Find a hobby, stop talking about your problems, do other people favors, ask for nothing in return, and laugh when they say things resembling jokes," Sherlock ranted. Harry stared between them both, her mouth open, and finally she leaned down to grab her purse and jacket.
"For your information, I have friends. I don't have to be here for this," she announced, gathering her scattered belongings. "Assholes," she added, leaving the room. The hospital room was silent in her wake, but John couldn't help but find it a relief.
"I didn't like her anyway," Mrs. Hudson whispered, patting John's hand.
"Laugh when they say things resembling jokes," John repeated dryly.
"I know how to make friends," Sherlock replied, sounding defensive.
You just don't deign to do so, John completed for him. John snorted despite himself. Mrs. Hudson tittered and patted John's hand again. Of all of the vitriol Sherlock could have spilled, that sounded remarkably like advice. John rather doubted Harry would listen to it.
Sherlock sat quietly for a moment while John absorbed that his relationship with Harry had worsened yet again.
"I don't know what's with the snacks," he admitted finally, gesturing to the mountain of bagged food they'd collected.
"She was trying to hide her smoke breaks," Sherlock replied.
"Not very well," Mrs. Hudson complained.
"I didn't even know she smoked," John protested, glancing between the two of them. Mrs. Hudson shrugged.
"Not good?" Sherlock asked, looking at the empty doorway.
"Nothing I haven't told her. She doesn't care," John replied. Sherlock huffed out a breath and settled back into his seat. If nothing else, John was grateful for the quiet. "Thank you," he added finally and went back to sleep.
~~/~~
The taxi ride was destined to be painful. Sherlock got in first, though he'd always wait for John before, so John didn't have to slide. John nodded to him, grateful, as the nurses helped him into the car. Sherlock climbed in after and ordered 221 Baker Street, as he had so many times before. The time stretched between them and every jolt of the taxicab pulled at John's stitches and bruises until he was clenching his teeth to keep from making a sound and alarming their driver.
They reached 221B and the taxi jerked to a stop and rumbled, idling.
John stared at the back of the seat in front of him, anger churning in his stomach. He had two recovering dislocated shoulders, three severely pulled pectoralis muscles, recovering skin grafts on his back, dozens of third degree bruises, and two broken toes. He knew his limits and there was no way he was getting out of the car on his own. Sherlock had apparently already determined that, for he exited onto the street and walked around the car without hesitation. Leaving John to pay the cab fare as always, John noted, glad that Greg had recovered his wallet from the crime scene. He flipped open the leather flap only to growl under his breath. Mike had stolen his cash.
Unbelievable. Sherlock opened the door for him and John let him wait while he paid with his card.
Okay, John thought, shoving his wallet deep into his pocket and looking up at Sherlock. He couldn't raise his arms over his shoulders, couldn't use his back muscles and couldn't twist at all. He slid himself around on his seat by his feet until he was sitting toward the sidewalk and waited. Sherlock's eyes darted over his body, noting every pain point.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted. John nodded. It would hurt no matter what they did.
"Problem?" the tax driver grunted, wanting him out. Sherlock opened his mouth to reply.
"None, thank you," John cut him off, before Sherlock went off on one of his deductive rants. John didn't have the energy for it.
"I'll pull you up by your hips," Sherlock offered. John nodded, resigned, and planted his feet to help himself stand. Sherlock stepped close and lightly touched his hands to John's lower back, as if expecting the skin there to burn him."In three seconds," Sherlock ordered. John nodded and stayed quiet, waiting for the man to start to count. The nurses had seen him into the taxi. John felt Sherlock's warm touch against his waist and hesitated. Sherlock was alive. Flesh and blood and warm against him. For a moment John wanted to pull the man close and hug him. Then suddenly Sherlock's grip tightened and he was wrenching him to his feet.
"Jesus, Sherlock," John cursed, his back searing in pain. "What was that about a count of three, then?"
"That was three seconds," Sherlock replied, blinking.
"You're supposed to count," John growled, getting his balance. His vision wavered. He had to sit again. Soon.
"Counting is never accurate," Sherlock huffed and started toward the door to 221B. John squared his shoulders. 221B. Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock. He felt like he was going into battle. If he was going into battle, he didn't want to wait around and think about it for long. John shuffled himself closer to the door and knocked.
"I hid all her skillets," Sherlock blurted. John turned toward him, baffled, and Sherlock flushed. "Just in case."
John grinned, just in time for Mrs. Hudson to pull open the door.
She smiled for a moment, obviously excited, and John tried to keep up his happy expression. Mrs. Hudson smiled wider for a moment, before she seemed to deflate. Her shoulders fell and her hand pulled away from the door handle.
"Oh, my boys, on my doorstep again," she said before Sherlock stepped forward and kissed her cheek. There were tears in her eyes when he pulled away and Mrs. Hudson reached out a hand to John. He glanced down at the slings holding his arms to his belly and and Mrs. Hudson smiled slipped as she understood, her gaze fluttering down his broken body. John felt his smile fade and she straightened.
"Let's get you inside and sitting down and I'll put the kettle on," she offered. John nodded and she moved her arm to clasp his shoulder John straightened sharply, doing his best to ignore the pain that shot down his arm.
"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'um," he added. Mrs. Hudson huffed out a laugh.
"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper," she protested, stepping out of the way so Sherlock could help John come inside.
Getting up the stairs was agonizing. John kept his arms pressed protectively to his chest, praying he would not fall as he made his way up, leaning heavily against the wall. Sherlock walked behind him, no doubt ready to brace him should he fall. Mrs. Hudson walked ahead and unlocked the kitchen door.
"We'll put him in your bedroom, Sherlock," she ordered.
"No," John corrected, leaning his weight on the wall and staring at the closed living room door.
"Well, you can't very well sleep on the couch in your state and I don't hardly fancy helping you up any more steps," Mrs. Hudson argued, standing her ground. John's shoulders pulled with his weight.
"We'll discuss it later, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock ordered and stepped forward to unlock the living room door.
John breathed in the heavy scent of dust and pushed himself up from against the wall. He forced his way to his chair and stood by it awkwardly, having neither the strength nor the arms to help him balance as he sat. Sherlock helped him down and a plume of dust clouded the air between them.
Dust is eloquent.
Sherlock stepped out of the way and stood in front of the dirty mirror. His eyes flickered around the room, taking it in in his quick methodological way of looking at everything. John's heart ached at the sight. Sherlock looked like a ghost, standing in these old rooms.
Sherlock's gaze caught on something. John followed his eyes to a pile of papers on the coffee table. Astronomy papers, John remembered. From astrophysics to constellations and their myths. He'd collected them, in his grief, thinking Sherlock had started learning it because he could never be found ignorant, couldn't stand to be mocked. But he'd left them there, when he'd seen the empty kitchen and collapsed into his pain.
John glanced around the flat, a conclusion slowly dawning on him. The dust, Mrs. Hudson's shock and joy, the papers. He couldn't turn around, but he was willing to bet that the kitchen was still devoid of any microscopes, any questionable organic samples.
Sherlock had not come back here, yet. Had he lived at the hospital, then? John moved his head tiredly to catch up to where Sherlock was standing by the still-cluttered desk, his hands still clasped tightly behind his back. As if he could feel John's curiosity on his skin, Sherlock whipped away from the window.
"You must be hungry. Indian?" he announced, just before he swept from the room. He'd never even taken off his coat and scarf, John realized, hearing the door slam behind him.
He watched the dust particles float in the air in front of the window. He'd need his next dose of antibiotics and pain meds in an hour. He rather doubted Sherlock would remember that. John fiddled with a loose thread on the armchair. He'd barely been back in 221B for a minute before he'd found reason to be annoyed with Sherlock Holmes again. And yet, he was back in 221B. After so much time. Mrs. Hudson certainly had a fateful way of getting what she wanted. John huffed out a laugh, imagining the doting old woman as a crime boss, arranging for Mike's timely services.
"Yoohoo," Mrs. Hudson called, not bothering to knock as she made her way into the room, a tray of tea and what looked like crumpets in her arms. John opened his mouth to thank her but the words caught in his throat when he saw her face. She'd been crying. Her eyes were still red from it, her face damp from being washed clean. He started to stand to embrace her, but moving hurt and he stilled. Mrs. Hudson smiled quietly, reading his motion, and set the tray on the small table beside him as she'd done so many times for him in the past. This time, though, she pulled the table in front of him and settled herself into Sherlock's seat across from it.
"Well," she said, glancing around the abandoned room. John glanced down at his restrained arms, unsure what to say. He joined her in taking in the empty place. It'd been such a home. "He's a bit of a dick, isn't he?" she said finally.
John coughed out a laugh.
"Yes," he agreed. Mrs. Hudson smiled, mischief in her eyes.
"Shall I pour?" she asked, gesturing to the tray.
"For our uh- rant, then?" he guessed, puzzled.
"Well, we've got to commemorate something," she joked and leaned forward to pour the tea.
They sat in silence for awhile, each watching their respective teacups cool, until John started to wonder how long Sherlock was going to be gone.
"You know, he promised me that he'd never involve me in his crazy antics, living up here. Not when it came to his work. Except for that time with that American boy, but his time on my bins sorted that right out," Mrs. Hudson waved away her time as a hostage at gunpoint with an idle hand and pointed at John. "And you know, he kept to that. Never asked me to relay messages or any of that nonsense my husband carried on with. But this? Making me believe him dead? Thirteen bloody months, should have hit him harder."
Mrs. Hudson sucked her lips into her teeth and shook her head. Finally, she reached forward to take a sip of her tea. John twisted his hand to undo the velcro restraining his left wrist and followed suit, his elbow tugging on its restraint. The tea was over brewed and tepid but he drank it anyway. He had to keep up his fluid intake for at least another week. Not that Sherlock was likely to be a help with that. Mrs. Hudson pulled a finger across a still-damp eyelid and John considered shooting him.
"But, you know, I could forgive him that. He's such a funny little man. I think we caught him by surprise, mourning. So, I could look past it, just this once. Once, mind."
John frowned, wanting to ask if she expected Sherlock to try that trick again. He wasn't sure what could convince him that Sherlock wasn't a fucking prick faking it, were he to die again.
Again. John huffed out a breath at the thought, sickly amused.
Mrs. Hudson sipped at her tea again, her eyes misty. John struggled to keep himself from contemplating the pain of the last year and focused on how his back was itching instead.
"But not telling you?" she said finally, putting down her tea cup. It rattled in its dish for a moment. John blinked, dragging his attention back to her. "Doctor Watson, there aren't words," she said.
There were footsteps on the staircase. Slowing down steadily, getting softer, someone perhaps trying to decide if they wanted to eavesdrop.
"These latest bruises? I know they're little to what you've suffered this year," she said.
John frowned, unsure if he should correct her that beneath his little bruises lay thick bandaging protecting a healing skin graft and permanently damaged shoulder joints. The footsteps stopped. He'd heard. John closed his eyes. Still, he wasn't sure he couldn't argue. Losing Sherlock, had that been worse than getting a name burned and peeled into his back? Beaten, waterboarded, left to exposure? Maybe. Probably. When it wasn't so recent. He tried to remember the moment he'd stood at the base of the hospital, recovering from a slight concussion, seeing Sherlock's body crumpled on the concrete.
"But John? You and I? We're family, see. We'll get you set to rights and it'll heal. And that internal stuff, it'll go on its way just the same, but give us time to tend to it," she ordered.
John opened his eyes, unsure what to say. Family? When had Mrs. Hudson start feeling so much for him? He believed her. She would get him set to rights, at least when it came to healing his back and keeping him hydrated and remembering his prescriptions. But family? He didn't have anything to offer her. He wanted to thank her but the footsteps were approaching again and Mrs. Hudson had clearly heard them for she was moving to stand up.
"Eat," she ordered, pointing to the crumpets, and left as quickly as she'd come. Sherlock stood aside for her and walked in, carrying a brown bag of takeaway. John rubbed his hand down his leg, straightening his slacks. This first day, if he was to judge, was going the best it could; awkwardly.
"You need protein to heal. I bought chickpea curry," Sherlock announced, setting the bag down on the little table and taking Mrs. Hudson's seat. John nodded.
"Good thought," he replied and Sherlock nodded back. Sherlock peeled the takeaway cartons open and pulled two plastic forks out of the bag. Grateful again that his left hand still had its fingernails, John started to eat. It was awkward, lifting his fork up with his wrist, half bent over to reach it, but he managed.
He wasn't sure what to do after he'd eaten as much as he could and there was still a half-full bowl of food in front of him. Sherlock was lying on the couch, long since done eating, stuck in his thinking pose. John had never just left dirty dishes about and certainly not intentionally, but he could barely stand on his own and he certainly wasn't getting up without help. Finally he settled on pushing the small table away from himself with his feet and painfully twisting himself around to grab one of the ancient newspapers off the floor beside him, where they'd clearly been since the year before. Surely there was something in the art sections that he'd missed.
"Take your pills," Sherlock ordered. John blinked up from where he was staring at the bottom half of an article, and noticed the white pharmacy bag half hidden behind their food.
"Right," he agreed, reaching for them. He swallowed them down dry.
He was startled hours later, having studiously ignored the Sherlock-covered newspaper headlines and started at the bottom of the dusty pile, to find himself reading an article about the Hickman Gallery's scandal in housing a forged Vermeer painting, discovered to the great credit of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, with the assistance of a Mr. Sherlock Holmes. John was never mentioned. Better times, he thought, looking up at the room around them. Sherlock was still thinking, looking like part of the furniture, subsumed by the stillness. He'd been so destroyed, knowing Sherlock gone. Shouldn't he be grateful now, to have him back?
Probably one of the killers you managed to attract. Jesus. Jesus. She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go.
You go. I'm busy.
Busy?
Thinking. I need to think.
John exhaled slowly, shaking off the melancholy, and returned to the newspaper.
Recovery always felt anti-climactic. He remembered sitting in this same chair, slowly realizing that his post-war recovery really was going to happen while he sat in an armchair, drinking tea and flipping through a newspaper for a puzzle for Sherlock. This time it was apparently bound to happen next to congealing food while increasingly needing to pee.
A/N: Part II begins! What do you think?