My Sherlock is absolute shite. I will apologize for him. Promise to do better in future chapters.
Also, short chapter. No apologies for you.
It took only about one total hour for Mycroft to get a couch into the apartment. What neither Holmes brother said was that the couch was from Sherlock's own flat. Sherlock could tell John was impressed, but just sat in his chair even as darkness fell and the movers in formal wear had long gone as well as a smug-looking Mycroft.
Sherlock had ignored every remark his brother had made about how John looked, only telling Mycroft that he owed him a favour this time. Mycroft hadn't responded but Sherlock knew that smug, pleased look. It would come back to haunt him, he knew it.
John told Sherlock where to find an extra blanket and pillow. John rose and showered, Sherlock hovering outside the door in case John needed anything. When the shower was done, he leaned heavily on Sherlock as they walked to his bedroom. His breathing was ragged.
"I don't know why I'm so tired." John mumbled as Sherlock pulled the covers back and sat the man down.
"The doctors said your body wasn't fully healed. You need a lot of rest."
"And I suppose," John smirked tiredly, a chuckle vibrating his chest, "you're going to be taking care of me?"
Sherlock, face emotionless, said, "if I have to, I'll stay as long as needed. Just remember I will be gone before your parents get here." He rose and left the room, telling John to ask if he needed anything.
John sat in his room and fought sleep most of the night, slipping in and out of consciousnesses. He tried hard to remember the room, the flat, the street he lived on. He tried to remember how he got injured, what he was doing, how he'd gotten there. He tried remembering anything about his parents aside from the obvious feeling of home that was brought on when they were mentioned. But mostly, he tried remembering who Sherlock was and why the man seemed almost desperate to keep John safe without there being a relationship between them. His brother, Mycroft, had slipped a few comments at him about how he looked rather well and grown, how Sherlock was behaving rather oddly, as well as how the apartment matched him well. What any of it meant, John had no idea. He didn't trust that look on the mans' face though, for some reason.
Even though he knew virtually nothing about this man named Sherlock, John had a gut feeling that the man meant every word he set. Not only that, but that the man would stop at nothing to make sure John got better. The conclusions John drew about Sherlock seemed not only spot-on, but comforting.
Sherlock, just as promised, left before John's parents arrived. He'd been there to see John safe while dressing, hovering outside the bedroom door. He'd made breakfast-edible is not a word John would describe the food-but the tea was wonderful. John received a call his parents were on the way and Sherlock had all but ran out the door, threads of dignity clinging to him.
John couldn't help but notice how there was not a trace of Sherlock, or any evidence he'd slept over, about the flat. The man was as tidy as a ghost.
His parents came in with a flourish, hugs and kisses from his mother and distant half-meant smiled from his father. For the next few hours, he prayed they would leave him alone so he could tell Sherlock to come back. It was an odd feeling, desiring a man's company over his own family. But it was there none the less.
"Tell me, now, do they have them homo people in the war yet?" His father commented, the smell of alcohol more potent on him then John could remember on anyone he'd seen-or smelt-since the hospital. John realized very quickly why he felt uncomfortable, even as his mother looked away in almost shame.
"I assume so, but that's not really important to the..."
"Of course it is! I'd never fight next to one of them." His father interrupted, angry. "Deserve to be shot just like them others." John didn't feel the same but he figured fighting would do no good.
"Think of Harry, love..." His mother encouraged but that just sent the man into a rage about how he had no daughter, there was no room for such filth in his life.
John found out his sister was gay right then. Almost at the same time he realized he didn't care. The rest of the morning and day consisted of John trying to not say anything to offend his father while trying to talk openly with his mother.
Somewhere in the conversations, John realized that there might be a connection to the events that had circled him all day. Sherlock refused to define their relationship and was acting overly protective of John's health. John's father was a very open homophobic. There was absolutely no telltale signs of Sherlock in the flat, nor did it seem that either parent knew Sherlock-or anyone for that matter-had gone to get him and bring him back. They didn't ask if anyone was here helping him, nor did they make any comment if they knew of Sherlock's existence. John was almost 100% sure that his father would make rude comments about a man being in the flat, staying over.
The day promised to drag on and on, on and on.
At some point, John made an excuse of being tired and they agreed to let him sleep, rest. They told him they'd be back in the morning but that would have to be it because his father had work to return to the next day. Once they were gone, John found himself even more exhausted than he realized.
Barely able to reach his phone, his shoulder aching and a migraine pounding his head, John didn't realize who he was texting.
Help please. JW
On the other side of London, Mycroft felt his phone buzz and told Sherlock to wait just a moment. When he checked his phone and saw the message, he didn't know what to immediately draw from it. Why had Sherlock not received the text, or more importantly, why did John need help?
Mycroft puzzled over it, setting his phone down and urging Sherlock to continue.