Chapter 3

A groan from the sitting room announced John's awakening. He'd been asleep for just over three hours and Sherlock had taken advantage of the lull to finish up one of his on-going experiments. He'd also cleared off a large section of the kitchen table to allow them to actually sit down and eat.

Sherlock was standing at the sink, washing out the last Erlenmeyer flask when John called from the sitting room, "What time is it? No … what day is it?"

Sherlock chuckled and walked from the kitchen to the sitting room while drying his hands on a kitchen towel that may have been red at some point but was now faded to a dull rose colour. "It's still Tuesday; it's 5:50 and you've been asleep for just over three hours," he said. "How are you feeling?"

John lay still on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling and taking stock of his body. Everything ached … his muscles, his joints, his bones. Hell, even his hair ached. "Not too bad, considering," he responded with a grimace as he shifted on the sofa and his ribs twinged in complaint.

Sherlock simply gave his bruised and broken friend a raised eyebrow in response.

"All right. Fine. I feel like shite. Is that what you wanted to hear?" snapped John as he once again tried, unsuccessfully, to sit up.

Sherlock slung the damp towel over the back of his chair as he stepped across the room towards his friend. "Let me," he said, as he eased an arm under John's back and ever so slowly raised him up to a sitting position. Grabbing one of the several pillows he had placed on the floor earlier that afternoon, he positioned it on the coffee table and then raised John's right leg to rest on the pillow. He then took a second pillow and placed it at John's left side to offer support for his arm and shoulder.

While he sat there, letting Sherlock arrange his limbs, John began to feel bad for having snapped at the younger man. After all, it wasn't Sherlock's fault that he was in such straits … it was the fault of a badly-maintained warehouse and the idiot who thought he could outrun the Consulting Detective.

Looking up at the dark-haired man who was now standing upright, John said, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn't have snapped at you; that was uncalled for. It's just …"

"I understand, John," said Sherlock. "You're in pain, you're frustrated and you cannot have another pill just yet. The only thing I can offer you is tea."

"Tea would be heavenly, ta," said John as he smiled up at Sherlock.

Without another word, Sherlock spun around, grabbed the towel from his chair and in three great strides was back in the kitchen. As John sat there, trying not to move too much or breathe too deeply, he could hear the distinctive click of the kettle being turned on, the clink of mugs being taken down from the cupboard and the particular whoosh of their refrigerator seal being broken as Sherlock retrieved the milk. They were the sounds of home and comforted John in a way nothing else could.

A few moments later, Sherlock reappeared carrying a tray he'd dug out from God knows where that now held two steaming mugs of tea and a small plate with a collection of biscuits. Sherlock carefully set the tray on the table, picked up one of the mugs and handed it, handle first, to John, who stretched out his right hand and gratefully accepted it.

"I didn't fill it purposely," said Sherlock before John could make mention of the fact that his mug was no more than three-quarters full. "You're not yet accustomed to functioning with your non-dominant hand and I didn't want you to worry about possibly spilling a boiling hot liquid in your lap."

John grinned at his friend and said, "Good thinking, Sherlock. A burning in my nether regions is really not what I want to experience at this point in time."

Sherlock chuckled as he picked up his own mug and sat at the other end of the sofa, twisted sideways so he could comfortably watch his blogger to ensure that nothing untoward happened.

"So, what should I be doing?" asked Sherlock as he sipped at his own tea. "I've got your doctor's notes on when and how to take your painkillers and anti-inflammatories, as well as the prescriptions. I'm here to help, John, but … you're going to have to tell me when you need assistance. I'm not … good … at these sorts of things."

"Sherlock, don't worry. You've been doing great so far. Unfortunately, there's not much to do at the moment. It's going to take time and patience, but my ribs will heal, as will my knee and foot and arm …" John's voice trailed away.

"What's wrong, John?" asked Sherlock in a sharp tone.

"Hm? … oh, sorry Sherlock. It's just that listing all my injuries made it seem 'real' all of a sudden."

"Like the cast on your arm and the brace on your knee didn't feel real already?" asked Sherlock with a smirk. He could see that John wasn't upset by his injuries, rather more in awe of them at the moment.

"Oi, you!" said John with a chuckle. "You know what I mean. Physically there's no doubting that I'm injured and in pain, but my brain finally seemed to kick in and say 'Wow, that's a lot of injuries, you git'. Of course, everything still seems a bit foggy around the edges at the moment."

"That must be the painkillers," said Sherlock. "Appreciate the fog while you can, John," he added wisely, "because soon enough you're going feel every bruise and break and tear that covers your body."

"Thanks for the pep talk," responded John sarcastically.

"I'm here to provide assistance, not be your life coach, John," said Sherlock, though the twinkle in his eyes showed his appreciation for John's attempts at humour.

They finished their tea in silence, but it wasn't long before John's breathing became shallower and he began shifting, albeit rather unsuccessfully, to try to relieve the pressure on his ribs and the myriad of bruises that covered his torso.

Sherlock, noticing that the doctor was becoming more and more uncomfortable, glanced at his watch, then stood and picked up the bag that he had dropped beside John's chair when they'd arrived home. Rummaging through the pocket, he pulled out one vial and read the label.

Sherlock filled a glass with water at the kitchen sink, returned to John's side and replaced the now-empty mug that was still clasped in the injured man's hand with the tumbler. Popping the cap off the pill bottle, he tipped two of the painkillers into his palm and held them out towards John. "Here, take these."

John looked from the two white pills that were now perched beneath his nose to his only usable appendage that now clutched the glass of water.

"Oh, sorry," said Sherlock as he took the glass of water and placed the two pills into John's palm.

Once he had taken his meds and drained the glass of water, John said, "Sherlock, could you give me a hand to lie down. I'm exhausted and once these pills kick in, I'm going to be out like a light."

"Of course, John. But don't you want something to eat first?"

"No, I'm not hungry at the moment. Maybe later."

"All right," said Sherlock as he placed a pillow against the arm of the sofa for John's head, tucked a second pillow under John's left shoulder and then carefully shifted the man's right leg so it lay on the sofa, his ankle supported by yet another pillow.

"I'll be in the kitchen; call if you need anything," said Sherlock, as he spread one of the many afghans that Mrs. Hudson kept knitting for them over the supine form of his friend.

"Hmmm," murmured John, already half-asleep.