That evening when John hears a bath being drawn and he hobbles outside to stand on the pavement for ten minutes he knows he's betraying Sherlock's trust but he is terrified that staying locked up in the flat will lead to someone else getting hurt. He's back inside again before Sherlock has come out of his bath. He can't go anywhere and Just standing up outside for ten minutes has him leaning heavily against the doorframe and by the time he is upstairs and in the kitchen he is exhausted. Knowing that Sherlock might have heard him come down he makes tea and when Sherlock comes out all damp hair and flowing bathrobe he is slumped at the kitchen table sipping at it with another mug sitting across from him.
'I'm sorry if I'm grumpy. I'm just tired and it hurts.' He offers placatingly and Sherlock gives him a genuine smile. He had not heard John going outside and seeing him in the kitchen actually willingly drinking tea is the most wonderfully normal thing he has seen in forever. He never knew it could make him so happy. Tea drunk however John disappears again but he takes a small plate of Mycroft's food up with him to his room and this also is good.
Before bed Sherlock goes up to check on him again and John is curled up in bed an empty plate on his desk. He seems asleep. Sherlock has a desperate urge to slip in there with him again but somehow it feels as though now that they're home the rules have changed. It once again feels like an invasion to creep into John's bed. Instead he retreats to the sofa and curls up for another night of worrying and fitful turning.
Next day when Mrs Hudson brings up the post and a couple of boxes of food from Mycroft, he might as well deliver them in bulk now that they're home, there are several uninteresting official looking letters for John which Sherlock sticks on the kitchen table and three personal looking ones for Sherlock. After breakfast, or rather late morning cups of tea John had retreated up to his room again saying he was tired and he was going back to bed. This seemed to be all he had done since coming home but Sherlock tried to discount it with the fact that he had been so ill.
Sherlock decides to make an attempt to be nice and he heats up a plate of Mycroft's latest offering and places it on a tray with a glass of orange juice. As an afterthought he puts John's post on the side of the tray as well as the book John had been reading before all this got out of hand.
He finds John curled up in bed staring at something that looks suspiciously like that hateful photo. The something disappears under his pillow as soon as Sherlock enters and turning over John glares slightly at him. 'Jesus, will you learn how to knock, I could have been wanking off or something.' He snaps at Sherlock.
'No you couldn't, your wanking off hand is broken in six places.' Sherlock realises as soon as he says it that this is clearly neither the point nor a good thing to say. Mummy used to say that Sherlock had a talent for having frogs leap out of his mouth.' It had seemed such a stupid thing to say at the time but right now he knew what she had meant as John went pink and then white in front of him.
'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I'll knock.' He apologises and holds the tray out. 'I brought lunch in bed.' He offers by way of apology and John nods slightly struggling to sit up without jostling anything painful too much. He accepts the tray from Sherlock with a slight 'Thank you.'
'Feeling any better?' Sherlock asks.
John makes a non-committal noise in response and picks up the orange juice. 'Thanks, he says again after a few sips, I'll come down in a bit for some tea.' It's clear that this is Sherlock's cue to leave and he sadly does so. He feels deprived of something vital with John constantly locked in his room and it's not just a matter of wanting to be able to protect him.
When Sherlock leaves John pushes the tray away but reaches for his post. He must be terribly behind with his bills he thinks, he hasn't thought of such practical matters in forever. He doesn't really care if his phone gets disconnected but being without water and electricity would be a nuisance. Indeed the first two letters are reminders for bills that need paying but the third makes him blanch. Two sheets of paper. The top one is a printed latter without a sender and he can see through it that the bottom one is pictures. He looks at the pictures first out of simple curiosity even though he knows this is bound to be bad.
Little photo shopped images. A woman hanging from a ceiling hook, just a cartoon but with Mollies face pasted on it. A picture of his sister and Clara from their wedding, the one posted in the paper, only Harry has no hands and Clara has no head, a picture from a computer game of a young soldier lying blood-spattered and here there is no one photo shopped in instead there is a list of his friends from the army in tiny writing next to it. A photograph of Lestrade lying sprawled on the floor of his office clutching at his arm and grimacing, he knew that hadn't been an accident and worst of all a very vivid photo of little Johnny Howey lying naked in a pink bathtub his eyes closed, his face pale.
John feels like his heart is beating out of his chest, tears are burning in his eyes making it hard to pick up the letter and read the message.
Good boy for going outside yesterday, you gave someone a day's reprieve. Doesn't give me enough access to you though, not when you can't stand up for more than a few minutes. Tonight you will leave the latch on the window to your fire escape unlocked. If I find that you have I might give you another day's reprieve for being such a good boy. The easiest way to end this for all of you though is just to slip in that bath. Once I read that the right John has bled out in a tub all the others will be safe. What have you got left to live for anyway. No friend, no work, all broken, a broken little toy soldiers. When toys break you're supposed to throw them away.
The world swims before John's eyes and suddenly he can't get enough air. He feels like he's having a heart attack and for a second he wonders if he is about to be saved the trouble of choosing if he will die or not but then he realises, he's having another panic attack. He just has to slow his breathing down, he just has to be calm but there is no way that is going to happen and eventually he hyperventilates to the point of passing out.
He comes too slumped uncomfortably on the bed with the cursed letter squeezed tight in one hand and a cold tray of food beside him. He struggles into a sitting position again having to bite his tongue to not cry out as every muscle and bone in his body protests having been lying slumped over on himself. He tries to drink the orange juice but it tastes acidic and he pushes the whole tray away as slowly gingerly gets up. With effort he straps the boot onto his leg, he can't get downstairs with that hurting as well as the searing pain in his chest and back. With minute steps he moves the tray over to the desk where he tips the food into the bin covering it with paper, he doesn't want to worry Sherlock more than necessary. He opens the window, pours the juice out of it and closes it without locking it. He stuffs the horrible letter into a drawer and slowly in tiny increments he makes his way downstairs to force himself to have tea with Sherlock.
This story is too much fun to write I can't bring myself to end it.