Chapter 4

It was day three of John's recovery and so far things had been going better than he'd hoped. He had, with Sherlock's help, been able to get from the sitting room to the other man's bedroom so had actually slept in a real bed the previous night. The only down side: Sherlock's sheets were something like one million thread count Egyptian cotton and now John was afraid that he would never be able to go back to the plain old regular cotton that covered his own bed.

While he did feel bad about having booted Sherlock out of his room, John couldn't deny the logic in having him stay there: the loo was barely six steps away and he should be able to make it, albeit very slowly, on his own using his crutch. The kitchen was just down the hall, as was their homey and welcoming sitting room and, best of all, no stairs.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, his hair mussed and his eyes half-open, John proceeded to take stock of his injuries. His ribs were aching, but no worse than previously. So, despite the fact that deep breathing was still excruciating, John decided to put his ribs in his mental "doing better" column. His shoulder was still definitely in the "Good Lord, this hurts worse that being shot" column, and his arm was a firm "don't notice a difference good or bad".

Moving on to his right leg, John tried very gently to move his knee. He managed about ten degrees of movement before he winced in pain. Okay, he thought, another thing in the 'worse that being shot' column. Between the pain in his knee, the pain in his shoulder and the aching of his ribs, John was reluctant to even take a look at his ankle, so he decided he was done reviewing his injuries for the day.

He was just about to try standing up when the bedroom door was flung open and a certain Consulting Detective appeared, wearing pin-striped pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt that may have once been blue but was now decidedly grey-looking. His blue silk dressing gown was hanging off his shoulders, open and swirling around his knees.

"Ah, John, good. You're up," said the Detective as he stopped in front of his friend and held out a hand. John stared blankly at the hand, then up at the younger man's face. An impatient huff and emphatic wiggling of fingers let John know that the hand was there to help him stand.

"Oh," said John, feeling rather stupid. "Sorry, not quite awake yet," he added as he grasped Sherlock's and carefully rose to his feet.

"Are you steady?" asked Sherlock as he prepared to let go of his friend's hand.

"As I'll ever be," responded John with a sigh.

"Excellent. Everything is prepared, so let us proceed to the washroom."

"Hunh?" asked a confused John. "What do you mean 'prepared'? What have you done?"

"I've prepared everything for you to have a shower," responded Sherlock. "You've not been able to shower since your release from hospital and to be honest, you are becoming slightly malodourous. So, I've got towels on the warming rod, I've placed a chair in the tub for you to sit on while you shower, I've got both soap and shampoo out and I'm now I'm simply waiting for you."

"Wait … what?! You're waiting for me? Why?" asked John, rather fearful that he already knew the response to his question.

"I'm waiting for you so I can help you shower." The "obviously, you idiot" remained unsaid, but evident.

"You are not helping me shower!" shrieked John. "I am perfectly capable of washing myself. I've been doing so since I was five year's old. For God's sake, Sherlock!"

Sherlock stood two steps away from John, watching him closely and letting John's rant go in one ear and out the other.

Once John had finished speaking, Sherlock drawled, "Really John. Do you honestly think you are capable of showering on your own? First off, your left arm – your dominate arm I may add – is out of commission. You cannot stand for any period of time, hence the chair. You cannot bend over because of your ribs and the bruising. How do you expect to be able to wash your legs or your hair … hmmm?"

Embarrassing as it was, John realized that Sherlock was right. As he stood at the side of the bed, swaying slightly, he came to the conclusion that unless he accepted Sherlock's assistance, there was no way he was going to be able to shower.

"It's just … well … argh!" exclaimed John as he threw his right arm up and wobbled on his non-too-steady feet. Righting himself, he continued, "I'm sorry, Sherlock; you're absolutely right. I can't do it on my own, but you shouldn't have to help."

"Would you prefer Mrs. Hudson?" asked Sherlock in all seriousness.

"God in Heaven, no!" stated John firmly. "That would be just too … too …"

"Exactly," agreed Sherlock. "So, will you let me help you? I've even put your swim trunks in the loo in case you were too embarrassed to have me see you naked."

"That's … actually quite thoughtful," said John as he glanced up at his friend. "But no, I can handle this. After all, you seem perfectly comfortable swanning around in only your bed sheets; I should be able to handle you seeing me covered with soap."

With a little bit of manoeuvring and a great deal of help from the Detective, John made it safely into the washroom and soon found himself bare as the day he was born, sitting on a plastic chair placed in the tub and trying not to blush in embarrassment. Sherlock, though, proceeded as if there was nothing odd about the situation and his matter-of-factness quickly calmed John's nerves.

Sherlock had done an excellent job in preparing the area: He had not only placed their bath mat in the tub, he had also laid down a damp towel under the chair legs to ensure it would not slip across the porcelain at an inopportune moment. He had placed John's shower gel and a new washcloth on the edge of the tub and he was presently testing the water streaming from the shower head to ensure it was neither too hot nor too cold. He had even remembered to bring along a bin bag and tape to cover John's cast so it wouldn't get wet.

"All set?" he asked, looking down at his friend.

A hum, which Sherlock took to mean 'yes', was the only response he go so, presuming all was well, Sherlock proceeded to direct the spray of water towards John's head and back. John's shoulders were tense, mainly because he was sure the force of the water would aggravate his injuries, but Sherlock once again proved his genius. The water flow was strong enough to be effective but not so strong as to cause pain and the temperature was absolutely perfect. John moaned in pleasure. The water felt so good on his skin and he was looking forward to getting the smell of hospital out of his nose.

On hearing John's moan, Sherlock quickly asked, "Are you okay?"

John grinned up at his friend and said, "Perfect. I'm just perfect. Now, hand me the soap and washcloth and I'll see how far I can get on my own."

The next few minutes the two men worked in perfect harmony. John was able to lather up and wash his chest and stomach as well as the upper portion of his legs, and Sherlock manipulated the shower spray to rinse away all evidence of soap once John had finished. However, by the time he'd done what he could, John was both exhausted and still only half-clean.

"May I?" asked Sherlock diffidently as he held out his hand for the soapy washcloth. John grimaced, but handed it over and leaned back against the chair. A tap on his left foot caused him to raise it slightly and Sherlock got right to work soaping and rinsing. He was extremely gentle when soaping up John's right leg, so John didn't feel anything other than the soft movement of the cloth over bare skin.

Sherlock then shifted position so he was now standing behind John in the shower, with the water spraying off to the side. "Can you shift forward a bit so I can wash your back?" he asked. John leaned slightly forward, his face contorted in pain, while Sherlock quickly washed and then rinsed the soap off John's back. Once again, he was very careful whenever he came anywhere near John's shoulder and his touch was whisper-light as he passed the cloth over the deep purple bruises that covered most of John's torso.

"Lean back and I'll wash your hair," he said. John gingerly leaned back against the chair and tilted his head back, keeping his eyes shut. He sensed Sherlock shifting behind him – presumably reaching for the bottle of shampoo – and then he heard the distinctive pop of the cap being opened. The smell of citrus, rosemary and something else that John couldn't name filled the room and his eyes snapped open.

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed as he raised his head, "Bloody hell, you're not using your hundred-pound-a-bottle shampoo on me. Where's mine?"

Sherlock glanced down at his friend with a look of disgust on his face. "I am not going anywhere near your £3-I-got-it-on-sale-at-Boots shampoo, and neither should you. It's disgusting what it does to your hair and the smell of it is horrid. Seriously, nothing in nature smells that bad unless it's been dead three weeks! Now, be quiet, lean back and let me finish."

"It's not that bad," said John stubbornly. "Besides, it does what it needs to do – it cleans my hair. That's all I want from my shampoo."

"John, trust me, you are going to see the error of your ways once I'm done. Now, lean back or do you want shampoo in your eyes?"

Seeing that there was no way he was going to win this one, John sighed as deeply as he could, winced, closed his eyes and leaned back. Sherlock poured some shampoo into his palm, rubbed his hands lightly together and then began massaging the suds through John's hair.

Despite the pain of his ribs, his leg, his shoulder; despite being unable to properly breathe; despite being slightly embarrassed and rather put-out that his demands were being ignored, John could not argue with the fact that having Sherlock wash his hair was actually quite a luxurious experience. John had always been a sucker for having his head massaged. Even as a child, when he was feeling ill or anxious, all his mother had to do was get her young son to sit down beside her while she tenderly ran her fingers through his hair and scratched lightly at his scalp, and John would immediately calm. Even now, almost thirty years later, a scalp massage had the same effect.

John slumped slightly on the chair, his neck loose, and allowed his head to shift and swivel under Sherlock's gentle ministrations. He didn't realize it, but he had even begun a low, tuneless humming that made the Consulting Detective smile.

Once Sherlock was sure every strand of hair was completely covered, he removed the shower head from its clip and rinsed away the shampoo, making sure every last bubble disappeared down the drain. John went to sit up, when he felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulder holding him in place.

"I'm not done yet."

"Hunh?" came the inelegant response from the put-upon doctor.

"Conditioner, John. I've not put in the conditioner yet."

"Conditioner!" squawked John. "I don't need conditioner. Seriously, Sherlock – I'm more of a 'wash-and-go' kind of guy. I don't need fancy shampoos or conditioners or God knows what else in my hair. My hair is fine now that it's clean. Just help me out of the tub."

"John," responded Sherlock as he quickly began rubbing the conditioner through the ash-blond-silver hair of his friend, "I'm not leaving you half-finished. Trust me; when I'm done, you are going to be pleasantly surprised at how healthy your hair is. You need a conditioner – your ends are dry and damaged. Besides," he added with a smirk, "it's in there now … so you'll just have to be patient!"

"Argh," complained John. "You're enjoying this way too much, you know."

Sherlock simply grinned at his friend and began rinsing away the conditioner.

When he was finished his ministrations, Sherlock helped John to stand, handed him a towel to wrap around his waist and then carefully assisted him out of the tub. John succeeded in mostly drying himself before sitting on the closed toilet lid to dress. He managed, somehow, to get a clean pair of pyjama bottoms on, but the accompanying t-shirt was beyond his capabilities.

"Sherlock?" he called through to the bedroom, where Sherlock had disappeared once he saw John seated. "I could use a bit of help, please." The consulting detective appeared in the doorway with yet another bottle in his hand.

"Of course, John. Just let me set this down." Placing the bottle on the edge of the sink, Sherlock picked up the t-shirt that had slipped to the ground and handed it back to John. "Hold this," he said, as he picked up the recently-discarded bottle and unscrewed the lid. The aroma of arnica wafted through the humid air, tickling John's nose, but there was something else there as well.

"I smell arnica but I can't place the other aroma," said John as he watched Sherlock pour some white cream onto his hands and then gesture John to sit up straight.

"Well, there's comfrey and a few other herbs in here. It's a liniment of my own devising," said Sherlock as he carefully spread the lotion across the bruises that covered John's torso.

"Of course it is," said John with a smirk. "You couldn't just go down to Boots and pick up some Tiger Balm. No … instead you have create your own treatment!"

"Mine is a much more efficacious treatment," said Sherlock rather haughtily, as he wiped his hands off on the discarded towel and then proceeded to re-wrap John's ribs. "You know," he added, "it would be quite useful on your shoulder, too."

"I'm sure it is," said John soothingly. "If nothing else, it at least smells better than what I usually use." John grimaced and winced as Sherlock tied off the wrapping and then proceed to ease the t-shirt over his head. By the time he was dressed, he was panting slightly from the exertion and the pain and he said, "God, I'm getting old if putting on a t-shirt winds me."

"Don't be an idiot, John," said Sherlock as he rummaged in the medicine cabinet and pulled out a small, flat jar. "You're injured. Any movement is going to be excruciating and exhausting. Now, one last step and then I'll comb your hair and help you to the sitting room. The tea is steeping as we speak."

"What are you putting in my hair now?" asked John, rather exasperated by this point with all the fussing.

"A light pomade on your ends; you've got terrible split ends. That's what comes of using cheap products. You should take more care of your hair, John, or you run the risk of early hair loss."

"Oh for God's sake. Fine! Just be quick, hunh? I really need some caffeine."

Five minutes later, John's hair was primped and styled to Sherlock's liking and the doctor was finally ensconced on the sofa, his leg elevated and a soothing cup of hot tea clenched in his right hand.

Taking a sip of the warming liquid, John gave a small sigh of appreciation – seriously, when he could be bothered, Sherlock made excellent tea. He called to his friend who was in the kitchen preparing a slice of toast with blackberry jam for John to enjoy with his tea, and said, "I still don't see what all the fuss was over my hair. It's just my hair. I keep it short for a reason – so I don't have to go through all that each time I have a shower. It's just not me."

Sherlock stepped over to the sofa, handed John a plate with the toast already cut into smaller, bit-sized portions and simply smiled at his blogger, saying nothing. He then stepped back into the kitchen, plunked himself down in front of his microscope and began noting the results of his latest experiment.

About an hour later, John had finished both tea and toast, and had read through the newspaper that Sherlock had thoughtfully left on the table at the side of the sofa. He looked about the room for a few moments and then brought his right hand up to his head, ready to run his hand through his hair in frustration. The book he had been reading was perched on "his" chair and though it was only across the room, it could have been in Timbuktu for all that John could reach it.

But, as his fingers touched his head, all thoughts of his book vanished. He ran his fingers through his short tresses, and then did it again. Never in his life could he remember his hair feeling so silky and soft. There was no roughness to the strands; his hair felt healthy!

As he sat there, running his fingers through his hair and marveling at the feeling, John didn't realize that Sherlock had moved from his position and was now standing in the kitchen doorway, watching his friend with a smile on his face. Never doubt me, thought the Consulting Detective, I know the proper way to treat one's hair.