The peeing issue was coming to a head and the silence between them was killing him. John wasn't used to brooding in his anger. He wasn't used to being angry for long at all.
Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty. I'm a fake. The newspapers were right all along.
Christ. A shouting fight would be better than this, he thought.
"John," Sherlock called, from too close. John jerked, tearing the newspaper he was pretending to read. Sherlock was standing at his elbow. He frowned, looking concerned. John could guess why - He never startled. He had always been too grounded, too aware of his surroundings, too aware of Sherlock in particular. John forced himself to meet Sherlock's eyes. So, he could be startled now; a symptom of anxiety. Either it'd pass or he'd learn to live with it. That was the best attitude, he'd found, when dealing with his PTSD. Sherlock stared down at him, not looking nearly so accepting.
"You need to pee," he announced finally. John shifted, his waistline uncomfortable against his bladder.
"Amazing," he deadpanned, unsure what else to say.
"Meretricious," Sherlock replied, his lips twitching in amusement. For a moment John wanted to see him laugh again, his gray eyes lit up with joy in that way that used to make his heart skip. Then Sherlock held out his hand, offering to help, and the moment died. John let him grab his hips, trying to ignore how uncommon it was for Sherlock to touch anyone. Then they were lifting him out of the chair and he couldn't pay attention to anything but the pain.
Sherlock walked with him and John struggled not to brush him off. His pride churned in his stomach, worsening when Sherlock left him sitting on the toilet, aware that he couldn't stand on his own, not for that long. For a moment he was concerned he'd have to call him back, fumbling with his bandaged hands to get his penis out of his pants. Finally oriented, John peed, holding back a relieved groan. Then he had the cumbersome process of checking its color for blood and flushing without standing up or twisting his damaged shoulders. Exhausted and limp, John cleared his throat, praying the idiot was still in the building. To his relief, Sherlock quickly opened the door and started toward him. Sherlock helped him up to wash his unbandaged left hand and followed him back into the living room.
It was only when John was seated again that he realized they'd done the entire convoluted routine without saying a word to each other. He'd missed that relationship so badly it'd felt like a missing limb, when he was mourning. Sherlock settled back onto the couch, returning to his intense pondering without comment. Trying not to care, John picked up his newspaper to block his sight of the man. He was in 221B for Mrs. Hudson's care, that was all. He'd be gone as soon as his legs could carry him. John flipped through the newspapers for a remaining crossword.
The hours crawled past, his pain medicine slowly becoming less helpful, and the light in the room started to dim.
"Five letters, third letter 'e', for 'Go Fish in a Basket'," he asked, squinting against the fading light.
"Creel," Sherlock replied. John blinked and looked up from his puzzle. He hadn't meant to ask, hadn't meant to talk to the man at all. From Sherlock's closed off expression, the genius knew it.
John cleared his throat and returned to his paper.
"Thank you," he added finally, filling in the word.
~~/~~
They ate leftover curry that night in strained silence and Sherlock helped him into the bed there, on dusty purple sheets that looked like they'd gone untouched for a year. John didn't thank him and Sherlock left his pills on the table beside him without a word. He walked out, his stride quick and unhesitant, and swung the door closed behind himself.
John decided then that he'd gone to bed too soon. Dry-swallowing his amoxicillin and vicodin pills left him only too awake in the dark room.
He'd never handled being alone well. Not since the army. John stared at the shadowed ceiling, acutely uncomfortable. This was worse, much worse than it'd been before. His skin was crawling. He wanted a gun in his hand. He wanted to feel the strength of a wall behind him, not to be stuck as he was, jutting out into the room in Sherlock's bed. He could hear dripping from the floor above. This was untenable. John pulled himself up by his abs, moving too quickly. He didn't know how the hell he was going to get into the living room.
The screeching sound of a discordant violin split the air. John sat at the edge of the bed, trying to slow his breathing, listening to Sherlock tuning his instrument in the living room. He'd forgotten how very helpful that sound could be, when it wasn't waking him up and driving him barmy. There were no violins in Afghanistan, none in war zones or in torture chambers. Violins belonged to London, for when they were safe and Sherlock was feeling introspective. John waited for his heart to slow, gripping the edge of Sherlock's bedframe and staring around the shadowy room. It was neater than the rest of 221B, no piled books and strange nicknacks. Nothing but a dresser in the corner, a closet, and a limp old poster of the periodic table. John exhaled slowly and loosened his deathgrip on the bed, just as Sherlock started to play.
Sherlock was clearly drawing the violin bow back and forth over the same strings, paying little attention to the pulsing sound it made, and John sighed, trying to concentrate on the noise. He was in London, 221B again, and he wanted to get the fuck to sleep. He lay back down, content to listen to Sherlock's strange choice of activity, when the note dipped, slowing drastically, and continued in a deeper tone. It sounded mournful. John swallowed and stared at the ceiling, unsure what to think while he listened. He'd never thought about how Sherlock must feel, in all of this. Sherlock had broken his cover to join the missing person's search, that much was obvious. Was that safe? And now Sherlock Holmes, by far the least likely candidate for nursemaid, was trying to help him back to health? John pulled the covers back over his body with his feet, uncomfortable with the mournful music. How much had Sherlock cared about their friendship, even as he'd ruined it? How much had he lost? John tried to ignore the sad song, not liking his answer. And what did Sherlock want now?
It wasn't his problem, John told himself, closing his eyes.
~~/~~
John woke too early, the room still dark, his shoulders spasming in pain. By the time he finished stretching and cursing, any hope of sleep had fled. He had to make his own way to the living room. He settled on the technique 'bull it through' and pushed himself to his feet. He quickly decided to forego any thought of brushing his teeth, and pushed himself straight toward the living room.
He felt feint with exhaustion before he'd gotten halfway through the kitchen and ended up collapsing into a kitchen chair, resting his forehead on the cool wood.
"You're an idiot," Sherlock declared. John looked up to see the man in the doorway to the living room, wrapped in a sheet, his hair mussed with sleep. John could see the glow of street lights in the window behind him.
"What time is it?" he asked.
"Four forty two," Sherlock replied without checking. John nodded, remembering that trick. "You should have called for help."
John supported his forehead on his fist and didn't respond. There wasn't much to say. Sherlock was right, but he still wasn't going to do it unless entirely forced to.
Fuck pride, John thought, remembering his past patients who'd been similarly stupid. But to be so pathetically dependent on Sherlock now? Sherlock stood by the doorjam, looking lost, his gray-blue eyes searching John's face for clues.
"What do you want from me, John?" he asked, wrapping the sheet tighter around himself. John rubbed at his face. He didn't want to get into this now.
"What do you want from me, Sherlock?" he returned gruffly. Sherlock shifted, looking acutely uncomfortable. He never did like to talk about himself, John remembered.
"My partner. My.. friend," Sherlock said awkwardly. He glanced around the small kitchen like he was lost.
I'd be lost without my blogger.
"I don't know how to do that," John replied, not planning on spending a lot of time figuring it out.
"Isn't that what forgiveness is?" Sherlock asked, pulling his sheet tighter around himself.
"Is it?" John snapped. Sherlock blinked at him, his gray eyes wide with surprise at his tone.
"I am sorry, John," Sherlock vowed, his voice deepening.
"For what, then?" John challenged. Sherlock hesitated. John wanted to punch him. Had planned to punch him, but his shoulders were still too damaged to repeatedly lift a loaded fork to his mouth without aching for hours afterward.
"I could have taken you with me. Moriarty would have believed me capable of it, killing you just so no one else could have you. I did not think you'd come with me, did not think you would give up your life for me. But clearly, you lost it all the same," Sherlock confessed. John felt the information fluttering above his emotions, refusing to sink in. That was a solution he hadn't thought of, another way he could have been alright, if Sherlock hadn't lied.
"So you're sorry you didn't take me with you," John confirmed, anger churning in his stomach. He'd be furious, he thought, if he could get his brain to work. Instead, he just wanted to stop talking and lie down.
"A thousand apologies, John. I never thought you'd be so affected -" Sherlock started, before cutting himself off. "That's not why you're angry. You're not upset that I died…" he deduced, stepping forward into the kitchen.
"I am," John corrected him.
"But what's worse than that?" Sherlock asked, apparently baffled.
"Lying," John replied, pushing himself back up to his feet and feeling his shoulder tug badly. Yet another one-liner he couldn't walk out on. John pushed himself toward the living room, frustrated, and Sherlock got out of his way. John dropped himself into his chair on his own, ignoring how that tugged at his back and jostled his arms.
"I never lied to you," Sherlock protested, pulling his violin off of his chair and flopping onto the couch.
"Withheld information," John amended, not caring. He flipped through the newspaper, looking for the crossword he'd left unfinished the night before.
"And why would that matter to you?" Sherlock asked, his emphasis on 'to you' making John's teeth clench together.
Yes, indeed, what use is information to a fool? John sucked at his teeth and ignored the jibe.
"What's the name of an American squash … team, I guess?" John asked, finding where he'd left off.
"Pumpkin. No, really, why would that matter?" Sherlock repeated, refusing to be deterred.
"Four letters, first letter 'm', for 'flat-topped elevation'?" John ordered, filling it in. Sherlock growled and flopped down onto his back.
"Mesa. And why would it matter?"
John dropped the paper to his lap, trying not to think too much about the painful conversation.
"It matters because we were partners, supposedly. Jumping off a bloody building -without me even knowing why - would never have been possible if you had ever been honest with me. If it hadn't been for your exalted ego deciding nothing but your bloody cleverness could get us out of that situation. I was surrounded by a danger you didn't deign to tell me about. No, no, say I'm too stupid to have helped," John listed before lifting the paper between them to cut off the sight of Sherlock stuck in his 'oh' revelation expression. "Gossipmonger. Starts with a 'y'," John demanded.
"Yenta," Sherlock answered tonelessly. John nodded firmly and returned to his puzzle. "You think you could have prevented it all," Sherlock accused. John closed his eyes, struggling to keep control of his temper.
"Possible, yeah," he replied, not looking away from the crossword. He needed 'ten C's'. That sounded like a musical hint.
"Arrogant," Sherlock scoffed.
"Yeah?" John replied, anger thick in his voice. His back was starting to sting again; he wanted his drugs back. He was supposed to take them when his pain reached a four out of ten, but he just wanted them to numb his emotions away. That was better, if he was going to need to sit in 221B again. Sherlock didn't answer. It wasn't like him to leave a topic behind. "There wasn't much we couldn't do," John added, wanting his words to cut the man.
He desperately wanted to leave the room. John cursed under his breath and looked for a new crossword clue. Surrender, as territory. That, he could do himself, John thought, writing in "CEDE" down the squares.
"You're right," Sherlock said finally. John looked up, shocked, to see Sherlock sitting at the edge of his couch cushion, his hands clasped in front of his mouth. "Excuse me," Sherlock pled, speaking quickly, and rushed across the room and out of the door, slamming it behind himself. John blinked after him, unsure what to think.
What do you want from me, John?
A place to stay while he healed? Was that it? He'd be in 221A with Mrs. Hudson, if that were true. John glanced around the empty room, his eyes catching on Sherlock's laptop, his violin, his coat by the door. Signs of life, brought back to 221B.
Sherlock had left in nothing but a sheet, he remembered belatedly, and wanted to rub a hand against his face. He coughed out a laugh, thinking of the people of London leaving for work, jolted by a naked man in a sheet racing down the sidewalk. Sherlock Holmes, truly, truly alive.
John felt like somehow he'd become the missing link. Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, all returned to their roles. But he couldn't slip back into his old skin and say he was healed.
A bus brake screeched outside the window and he jerked, pulling an elbow out of its sling. He wasn't scared of screeching noises. They weren't associated with anything.
Just anxiety. He was stuck in a chair without the use of his arms. John blew out a heavy breath, trying not to let his imagination run away with him. He was in a locked building - but that didn't matter; no one who came after Sherlock would be stopped by a residential door lock. John inhaled, trying to focus on the smell of the dust and the congealed food beside him, but he couldn't smell it. He couldn't see the door from where he sat.
He was breathing too shallowly. John inhaled sharply, feeling like ice was poured down his veins. He needed to get up. He needed to get the hell out of there but he was trapped. John exhaled and fought breath back into his lungs too quickly. His arms started to tingle - not enough oxygen.
Calm down.
Breathing. He was breathing. His lungs expanded but he didn't feel like he was getting any air. His eyesight was getting spotty - he definitely wasn't getting enough air. Panic. He was panicking. How was he going to run if he was panicking?
Fuck.
Breathing. He needed to focus on breathing. John closed his eyes, hating how it blocked his sight. It didn't matter; he couldn't stop anyone who came through there. But he needed to breathe.
Seven seconds in, ten out. Nothing else. John felt his mouth fill up with spit and tried to swallow. He choked and his eyes flew open again as he coughed, bent over and straining against his slings but he caught his breath and he could breathe again.
Adrenaline was pounding through his body, making his head feel light and his hands shake. John tipped his head back against the back of his chair, trying to calm his breathing and wait for his heart to slow.
Shite.
At least he'd found a new way to stop a panic attack - choke on his own spit. John pulled his other arm out of its sling, needing to feel it free, and stared at the ceiling above him, trying not to think.
~~/~~
"Oooh, trouble up here, is there?" Mrs. Hudson cooed, coming inside not long after, pushing open the living room door as if it weren't before five thirty in the morning. Seeing the tray of tea and food in her arms, John didn't try to stop her.
"Well, he went out in a rush, didn't he? Have a bit of a domestic?" she asked, sliding the tray onto the table beside him.
"No. Because we're not together," John replied sharply, dropping the newspaper onto the floor beside him. Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips, not happy. John ran his fingers over the chair's frayed fabric. He still hadn't managed to get himself to restrain his arms again. They ached without the slings, even through the Vicodin, but he didn't care.
"How can I help you, then?" Mrs. Hudson asked, bustling in like it was the most natural thing in the world to be nursing her ex-flatmate back to health. John swallowed, uncomfortable.
"Turn this chair?" He asked and did his best to help her shove the chair around, albeit only pushing with his undamaged leg. Mrs. Hudson grunted with the effort, too old and too injured for such tasks, and collapsed into the chair beside him.
"Can I ask you something, dear?" she asked, picking a bit of lint from her pants. John swallowed, sure he wouldn't want to answer. Mrs. Hudson didn't wait for a response. "You never wanted to come back here. I knew it. You knew it. Why are you back, now?" She leaned forward to pat his knee, barely missing where the skin graft cut ended.
"I don't want to be here now," John replied, moving his leg away. "But I need care and Harry is - incapable."
Mrs. Hudson frowned, obviously concerned.
"She's bloody selfish, is what you mean," she said. John didn't argue. Mrs. Hudson leaned forward in her seat. "So when you're well, you're just going to leave him?" she asked. John focused on the couch behind her, where Sherlock had last been. He could hear the city bus announcing its route, loud enough to disrupt them even with the windows sealed up.
"I cannot stay here," he answered.
"Well, that's your right. And he probably deserves that. But I don't," she declared, pointing a crooked finger at him. John refocused. "You will visit me, doctor," she ordered. John sighed, trying to imagine visiting. Sitting in 221A for tea. It sounded painful.
He needed so much more than Mrs. Hudson to get through this. John cleared his throat, pushing the thought aside.
"I'll be in touch," he promised.
"Well, I'll bet you this, dear. Ten weeks from now? You won't be leaving," she declared and poured the tea. John shook his head, unsure what more there was to say. He couldn't think of anywhere he was less comfortable than sitting in the dusty remains of a life he'd mourned. Nor anyone who made him as angry and uncomfortable in his skin as the revived and unrepentant Sherlock Holmes. He'd need to start his life again, when he got his shoulders back. He wouldn't be visiting; they could meet for coffee, Mrs. Hudson and he.
Mrs. Hudson smiled softly, seeming to read his disagreement in his eyes and not arguing. She sat back in Sherlock's chair, making herself comfortable. They were taking shifts not to leave him alone for too long, John realized, clearing his throat again. Sherlock had noticed the night before after all. Of course he had.
"Mrs. Hudson, have I thanked you-" he started but Mrs. Hudson pushed a cup of tea at him, cutting him off.
"Posh. We're family, we are. Drink your tea," she ordered. Cowed, John obeyed.
~~/~~
:I should not have lied to him. I should have brought him with me. SH :
Sally Donovan was an idiot. Most people were. Sherlock spun his phone around in his fingers, unsure she'd be clever enough to read the subtext there.
:That was a request for advice. SH: he typed out quickly, seeing that she was not typing a response.
Sherlock stared out of the cafe window, seeing nothing in the cars fighting through the traffic outside. He'd lost John, and for so little. Lost John to try to protect him. Ironic, he could see that plainly.
"Coffee?"
Sherlock glanced up at the middle-aged, balding man who'd approached his table. The man wore a wedding ring, but he dressed in too-long frayed clothing beneath his cafe uniform. All dark colors, though the Employee of the Month sign that hadn't been replaced for ten months had him dressed in bright colors. He hadn't bought new clothing, just wore all he had that wasn't bright, regardless of it matching. And he'd lost weight. Mourning, probably.
For ten months, still barely willing to dress himself ? That was usually a family member or a lover. Not a mistress, or he'd have to hide it better. A child or a spouse? Sherlock couldn't tell. The man was raising his eyebrows slowly, looking concerned. And his label said 'manager' - likely not stolen. Why send a manager to serve a man? Sherlock frowned. The cafe was expecting a problem. He'd sat too long without buying a new drink, presumably.
"Yes, pardon. I'll have a large, two sugars please," Sherlock replied and the manager smiled like there was no concern in the conversation at all.
"Very good, sir," he said, walking away.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Sherlock replied and the man shot him an uncomfortable look. Sherlock growled, turning back to his phone. John always managed to give his condolences without unsettling people. He'd have to observe how he did that. His phone buzzed obediently.
:Am I your new friend, then?: Sally asked. Sherlock sneered at his screen and turned his phone in his hand for a better keyboard, prepared to type out some vitriol in return.
:You certainly need one, given your usual company: he started, but his phone popped up another text onto his screen.
:Apologize. Tell him you were an idiot:
Sherlock deleted his text.
:I did. SH: he wrote instead. A cafe worker delivered his coffee to the small cafe table. Not the manager, though there was no one else in the cafe. Not busy. Uncomfortable now, probably. His phone buzzed against the wood surface.
What'd he say? Donovan asked. Sherlock snarled, pushing the phone into his pajama pocket. He'd run away too soon for John to respond.
How was it that John had so thoroughly seen the worst of him? Just when he'd begun to want John to think the best of him. His phone vibrated against his leg.
:Try again.:
"Damn it," Sherlock hissed. John needed his amoxicillin in twenty minutes. He needed to go back.
221B. He'd been happy, there. As a man who hadn't known the meaning of the word. Now the silence was stiff with thinly veiled hate and he had no idea how to live with that. He didn't want to live with that. But he needed John.
Sherlock grabbed his hot coffee off the table and started for the door. He threw it out in the trashcan on the corner and held up his hand for a cab.
~~/~~