Recovery

I quite enjoyed writing this chapter. It's a short one, again. But it's going more in the direction I want it to go.

I think this fanfic is going to take longer than I thought.

Enjoy, and please review :)

'Okay. Just a couple more steps' John said, ushering Sherlock into the flat Mycroft had left to them; 221B, Baker Street.

John assumed that this was Mycroft's attempt at humour.

They finally managed to get into the flat, and were almost ready to pass out with exhaustion when a familiar, friendly face appeared before them.

'Mrs Hudson?' John questioned, taken aback by the beaming grin of the woman, who was now embracing them.

'Mycroft sent me to be your house keeper! He said he wouldn't need me quite as much, because he's got Greg'. Mrs Hudson smiled, neither Sherlock nor John could bare to say anything that would dampen the glint that was shining bright in her grey eyes, but they couldn't resist a harmless little dig.

'Myc's turning Greg into a proper housewife then?' they joked, getting a snuffle and a 'humph!' in response.

John walked further into the flat, gasping at what lay before him.

It was perfect.

A fire was flickering in the small fireplace that adorned the room. A dark, leather sofa stretched across the width, facing a small, elegant television. Some papers, obviously Sherlock's, already laid scattered across the room – it made it feel more like home.

Mrs Hudson mumbled something about making dinner, and disappeared down the steps apparently to another flat that was to be just for her. That was nice of Mycroft.

A large thick envelope was resting on the bureau. Signed only for 'John'

He paused, trying to recognise the writing. When it didn't come to him, he opened it and read;

John,

I have chosen to write to you on these delicate matters because I believe sometimes, a hard copy is necessary to keep one grounded, and in full belief.

It seems my brother had decided to give up on college, and if you let him, he will rely on you for everything. You must not allow him to do this.

Whilst once I had the ability to control his movements, he is now at the age where he must make his own decisions, and to him I am someone who is only there to hold him back. I worry about him. Constantly.

I have managed to get you your previously assigned target A level grades, and neither of you will have to continue at college this year or any other.

You will both, if desired, begin university next year; one year early.

You now have AAAA to your name.

Sherlock has AA*A*A* to his. Please make him aware.

You both will stay at Baker Street for the time being, and you can do so when you continue your education should you wish it. However, this is yourself and Sherlock's personal preference.

I am always on hand when you need me, and all choices to be made are yours.

Good luck, and to your good health,

Myc Holmes.

John repeated the letter to Sherlock. He sat, amazed.

He knew Mycroft held a 'minor position in the British Government' but even Sherlock had no idea how he had the capability to just give them A levels. It was incredible.

Overwhelming.

Sherlock worked out that they had five months until they had to think about getting prepared.

He also mentioned that the news that he didn't have to work with the 'imbeciles' in college anymore, and his new home, all mixed up with the excitement of being told he was free from Hodgkin's Lymphoma made the last few weeks, the best he could remember.

John settles Sherlock into the nearest bedroom, and as he went to leave, he felt his wrist being pulled back.

'Stay with me' Sherlock mumbled, already half asleep, but awake enough to tighten his hold on him.

John grinned, slowly shuffling under the duvet to join him.

He leant forward and pressed his lips against Sherlock's. – They remained like this for more than 20 minutes, intertwined, comfortable, in love.

John stroked Sherlock's head, mentally recording the growth progress.

'You're growing out faster that I am!' he exclaimed, smiling.

'I worked it out, John' Sherlock whispered. When John looked back questioningly, he rolled his eyes. 'Fine was more suitable than you thought'. Trust Sherlock to listen into a conversation John had been having when he was concerned for his life. 'F.I.N.E' Sherlock added, his eyes glinting.

'Oh yeah?' John replied, waiting for a response.

'Fragile, Insecure, Neurotic, Emotional. Just about sums us up, eh? We're F.I.N.E?'

John chuckled, stroking Sherlock's head, now laced with fine black stubble. He brushed his lips against his ear, and whispered words he'd never meant more.

'We're fine'.