Sherlock burst into John's bedroom the next morning with unusual fervor carrying, of all things, John's morning tea tray. He flew across the room dressed in nothing more than an untucked shirt and breeches under an open banyan, feet bare despite the morning chill.
"Do wake up, John!" he said, plunking the tea tray down on the table hard enough that the cup and saucer clanked and rattled.
The upon-waking bleariness shot out of John's eyes as he assessed the threat before realizing where he was.
"Good morning, Sherlock," he said when the fact that he was in their home in London, in his own warm bed. It was a comforting realization he'd had to make a couple times in the night. The lamp he left burning by the door still glowed in the daylight. Sherlock noticed and padded over to extinguish it without a word. The thick fabric of his robe billowed out behind him as he walked.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of this early morning call?" John adjusted himself in bed, sitting up and fluffing pillows against the headboard.
"An experiment, John. I could barely stand to wait for you to wake!"
"You didn't wait, Sherlock." But his annoyed tone was false and Sherlock didn't notice it anyway.
"You were sleeping badly as it was." He made a sweeping gesture at John's bedside table where a second lamp sat, oil somewhat depleted, as well as a book. John imagined Sherlock knew exactly how many pages he'd read in the night, too.
"Come now, take your morning piss and drink your tea so we can begin." Sherlock brought up the chamber pot from under the bed. "In whichever order you prefer, John, but do hurry."
"What's the rush?" John tried to evacuate his bladder in the time Sherlock was turned away fetching his tea.
When John finished, Sherlock rushed away with the covered pot, leaving John to sigh and wonder if the man planned to experiment with it rather than just empty it. Really, he did not want to know.
Sherlock had left his tea on top of his book so John could reach it from the bed. Matthews had been leaving it on the table near the fireplace when he came in to build up the fire. The change was nice. Usually it took him a good five minutes to balance himself out of bed and creak the short distance to his comfortable chair. It was awful starting every day feeling so old and decrepit. Perhaps he should request his tea tray beside the bed in the future. The thought made him feel sixty. Perhaps not.
Sherlock returned pot-less.
"So what is this experiment, Sherlock?"
"I've noticed your movements in the morning, John. It takes you a painfully long time to rise and start getting about. You walk about a good deal during the day with relative ease, thus your leg must stiffen in the night. I would like to try some different massage and exercise techniques to see if any will make it easier on you."
John's eyebrows lifted as he sipped his tea. That was thoughtful and… personal. Very personal.
"Are you drinking your tea? Have you drunk it?"
John hid his smile by further draining his cup before setting it aside.
"First, I must examine the scarring." He flung back the covers in one great wave.
"Sherlock!" The chill of the room was a bit startling and John's nightshirt was rucked up, leaving John on display from the waist down. John flushed red and tugged the tail of his nightshirt to a slightly more modest position.
"Yes, what is it?" Sherlock either did not notice his blatant nudity or he was pleased that he could freely examine John's leg from hip to toe without obfuscation.
"Never mind," John replied as he lay back and looked at the ceiling. He did not need to look at his own leg again. Let Sherlock see if he wanted.
"Aren't you cold, Sherlock?" John asked after a few minutes. Sherlock had stirred up the fire, but the room was still cold and now John's lower extremities were fully exposed.
"Cold is a state of mind." Sherlock was wrong enough but his dismissive statement made John smile.
He tried not to think of the intense perusal, to pretend that Sherlock was just another doctor, not his rather distant husband. Certainly not the husband that strode into his bedroom in a state of undress looking so handsome and long-legged and rumpled. And definitely not the husband whose slim form John wished to similarly explore. He could only pray that his hot blood stayed in his face and didn't deflect to similarly heat up his groin.
It was clinical, Sherlock's examination, and methodic, if very hands-on. Sherlock covered each scar with cool fingertips, moving John's leg this way and that, bending his knee and ankle slightly to see the movement. Still, sometimes the movements were undignified and John felt incredibly uncomfortable cupping his hands over his groin. If this was going to be a regular occurrence, he was going to wear drawers to bed.
"I shall try massage first, John. It will also allow me to more deeply examine the scarring in the muscles and tendons underneath. It may increase your discomfort at first, though."
John made a non-committal hum. It wasn't as if Sherlock was waiting for permission.
The massage – slash – deep tissue exam wasn't entirely pleasant, but John refused to complain. Sherlock was trying to help; the least John could do was let him. Sherlock might raise John's leg perpendicular to the rest of his body, for example, and dig his fingers into a particular scar and bend his knee to feel how the muscles and tendons moved under his fingertips. John tried to think of his anatomy dissections and wondered if Sherlock had attended anatomy lectures himself. It seemed more than likely.
John was rather glad that those fingers sometimes caused him pain. It was better than the fluttery feeling of arousal in his belly when Sherlock's hands were too gentle and explored places like the uninjured inner bend of his knee or the soft skin where this thigh flared into buttock. Sometimes those fingers just ruffled the hairs on his legs, or outlined a deep scar. John would flush with embarrassment, or least he called it that, and will his thoughts to something less lascivious than Sherlock making those same intent observations over every inch of his body.
More than (an agonizing) half an hour later, Sherlock declared himself finished for the day.
"I believe it is the scar tissue here that is the biggest problem." Sherlock indicated one of the darkest scars just below John's knee. "It has stiffened up a tendon, though I believe the tendon is intact or at least healed. We shall have to see if we can stretch it a bit. Was it painful, John?"
"Some, yes," he replied when he realized he was expected to do so.
"I'm not doing this as systematic torture. You should have said something if it hurt too much."
"It wasn't too much, Sherlock." John laid his hand on Sherlock's arm, not even sure if the man was still listening. "I promise I'd tell you if it was too much. It was nothing more than I'd feel all morning hobbling around on my own. Besides, I have faith that this will help."
"You do?"
"I do, Sherlock. If my health is a puzzle for you to figure out, I imagine I'll be an acrobat by the end of the month."
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the hyperbole but it was clear to John that the faith and flattery eased some strain inside him. Inside both of them, perhaps.
"Well, walk about then, and tell me if it is improved." Sherlock handed John his cane and moved far enough away to properly observe. So this was why Sherlock had asked him to walk around so randomly the day before. John slid off the bed, balancing carefully. He took a few steps, one hand on the edge of the bed. By the time he'd made it to the fireplace, he felt much more comfortable.
"I feel very much improved, Sherlock, nowhere near as rough as I usually do first thing. Thank you."
John beamed at him and Sherlock was momentarily taken aback.
"You're welcome, John."
A few more trips about the room and John said, "I think I'm ready to dress and join civilization. Would you like to walk out with me around ten and perhaps discover a new restaurant for luncheon?"
"If you wish, John. I must make a list of the unguents and salves I want to try, and we can go shopping after I finish writing up my notes on our experiment." Sherlock abruptly strode out the door, slamming it shut behind him.