Chapter 5

Later that afternoon, John was sitting in his chair watching football on the telly while Sherlock was seated at his microscope intently examining something – John didn't want to know what. Mrs. Hudson had kindly brought them lunch earlier and had sat with them while they ate. Or at least tried to eat.

Mrs. Hudson was a wonderful woman, and John loved her dearly, but she'd obviously not given much thought to John's injuries when she arrived with a large pot of soup. His left arm was encased in a cast, which meant that his free hand was his right hand. But, of course, being left-handed that meant that it was quite a struggle for John to get soup onto the spoon, let alone to his mouth.

He didn't want to be rude and refuse the potato and leek soup that Mrs. Hudson had made from scratch, but he'd been at it for five minutes and very little had made it into his mouth. He was considering saying he wasn't hungry but his stomach was about two seconds away from grumbling when a mug appeared in front of him.

"Here," said Sherlock, as he interrupted Mrs. Hudson's ramblings. "This will work much better." Taking the spoon from John's hand, he then poured the soup into the mug and placed it on the table in front of him. John smiled up at his friend, mouthed "thank you" and took a sip of the soup. "Mmm, delicious soup, Mrs. Hudson," he said as he placed the mug back down on the table.

Mrs. Hudson was so intent on her story of how she and Mrs. Turner were convinced her "married ones" had cheated during their last bridge game that she didn't even realize that John had complimented her soup, let alone was now drinking it out of mug. Sherlock and John shared a fond grin and returned to their meal.

It wasn't long before John began shifting uncomfortably on his chair; his ribs were aching and being upright for such a lengthy period of time was quite painful. Sherlock noticed John's movements and quickly overrode Mrs. Hudson's conversation.

"I think it's time for you to go, Mrs. Hudson," he said as he picked up the now-empty pot and placed it in the sink. He turned back and, gently grasping Mrs. Hudson's arm, pulled her to her feet and began hustling her towards the door. "It's just about time for John to take another painkiller and they tend to make him sleep. I'll bring you back your pot once it's clean."

John sat in his chair with an amazed look on his face; he still wasn't used to this "kind and caring" Sherlock. The dark-haired man's voice grew fainter as he led Mrs. Hudson to the door and basically pushed her out onto the landing. "Thank you so much for lunch, it was very kind of you," he said while trying to close the door to the flat.

"Good bye, John. Call if you need anything," she called into the flat. "And you," she said to Sherlock in a quiet but firm voice, "you take care of the poor doctor. No smelly experiments or explosions!"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," responded Sherlock as he firmly closed the door behind her.

By the time Sherlock had taken the eight paces from the door to the kitchen, John had managed to push himself away from the table and was upright, although leaning heavily on the table while fumbling for his crutch.

"John," said Sherlock, "you should have waited for me!"

"I'm fine, Sherlock. Really. I want to try to make it to my chair unaided, but if you wouldn't mind staying close …" he said rather abashedly. John was embarrassed at having to ask for assistance, but he knew it couldn't be helped. He still was not quite steady on his feet and any incautious movement made him wince in pain.

Limping very slowly from the kitchen table and with Sherlock keeping close, John was completely winded by the time he made it to his chair. It had taken him almost two minutes of effort, with his knee twinging and his ankle complaining at the weight he'd placed on it, but he'd made it. And on his own! Feeling quite pleased with himself, John eased himself into his chair and raised his right leg to rest on the ottoman that Sherlock had positioned there earlier.

Proud of his friend's accomplishment, but concerned over the state of his breathing, Sherlock said, "Are you okay? Can I get you anything?"

"A glass of water would be lovely, thanks," said John, trying to make himself as comfortable as possible.

In the few moments it took for Sherlock to retrieve John's glass of water, the injured doctor had managed to settle himself in his chair and had got both his breathing and his pain under control.

"Here," said Sherlock as he handed John two white pills. "It's time for your painkillers and your anti inflammatories. If there's nothing you need for the next little while, I'm going to go take a shower."

"You go right ahead," said John once he'd swallowed his pills, "I'm fine right where I am and I have no intention of moving." To prove the point, he placed the now half-full glass on the small table beside his chair and reaching for the remote, turned on the telly.

It wasn't long before the pills, the full stomach and the droning voices on the telly put John into a light doze. He was tired enough that he didn't hear the distinctive sound of £500 Gucci loafers on the stairs, nor the creak of the door to the flat as it was pushed open.

Mycroft was finally making an appearance.

Stepping into the sitting room, the British Government could see that John was asleep, and the sound of water starting up pinpointed Sherlock's location. Experience had taught Mycroft that his younger brother would be occupied for at least 20 minutes, what with showering and then dealing with his often recalcitrant curls. That fit in with Mycroft's plans nicely.

Mycroft settled himself in Sherlock's chair across from the dozing doctor and proceeded to study the injured man. Between the cast on his arm, the brace on his knee and the boot that encased his right foot, it was obvious that the smaller man had suffered a great deal. Not to mention the bruises that were visible at the neck of his t-shirt and down his right arm, or the fact that his breathing was rather laboured. Cracked or broken ribs, thought Mycroft sadly.

Though he would never say so aloud, Mycroft was rather fond of his brother's friend and flatmate. Doctor Watson was a kind soul who honestly cared about his brother and went out of his way to ensure that Sherlock was "fed and watered", so to speak. He was a handy man to have at your side in a conflict – and Lord knows Sherlock got into plenty of those – and his skills as a doctor had come in useful on several occasions. But what really endeared the doctor to Mycroft was the fact that he was perfectly able to stand up for himself; he was no pushover, nor was he easily intimidated. Their first meeting had proved that without a doubt.

Cataloguing the younger man's injuries, Mycroft nodded to himself; seeing John looking so damaged confirmed that his decision was the correct one. He was just about to announce his presence, when a snuffling sound came from the man seated across from him. John wrinkled his nose and his eyes slowly opened. On seeing someone seated across from him, John's head jerked up and his eyes flew open.

"Jesus Christ, Mycroft!" he panted as his tried to catch his breath. "You scared the shit out of me! Don't do that!"

"My apologies John, it was never my intention to alarm you."

Catching his breath, John gasped, "It's fine, it's fine." Once he was feeling slightly more composed he said, "If you're looking for Sherlock, he shouldn't be long. He's in the shower."

"Actually," responded the Government man, "I came to see you. How are you doing?"

"Well, just about everything hurts but it could be worse. At least I'm relatively upright and relatively mobile. And thank the Lord I've got Sherlock to count on!"

Mycroft raised his eyebrow in disbelief at John's comment and carried on as if John had never spoken. "I cannot imagine that 221B is proving to be the most hospitable place for your recuperation, and I'm sure that my little brother is proving to be rather useless at providing assistance," drawled the older man. "I can make arrangements for Sherlock to be out of the country on a case for a few days and get a real nurse in to provide assistance, should you so desire. Or, if you prefer, I can also arrange for you to spend some time at an exclusive rehabilitation hospice until you feel able enough to get around on your own. All you have to do is say the word. Believe me, I know what Sherlock can be like and I'm sure by now he's driving you around the bend, as they say."

Listening to Mycroft tear down his friend riled John. He knew the brothers had a difficult relationship, but to just step in and offer to remove Sherlock from the equation? That was uncalled for.

"Actually, Mycroft, things are perfect as they are," responded John in a forceful tone. "Sherlock is handling everything incredibly well and I'd rather be here, at home, than carted off to some institution, no matter how poncy or reputable it is. So, you can just forget about packing Sherlock off to some foreign clime for the duration. I'm staying here, and so is he," concluded John.

Surprised at both the tone and content of John's speech, Mycroft raised his eyebrow and said, "If you insist." He knew better than to engage in a war of words with the ex-Army Doctor.

"I do insist," said John.

"Well, in any event a car will be made available to ferry you to and from your various doctor and physiotherapy appointments," said Mycroft. Seeing that John was about to refuse, he added, in a gentler voice, "Please, I'd like to help in whatever way I can."

Mycroft's tone caused John to take a good look at the older man and it was obvious, even to John, that the offer was being made in all sincerity; Mycroft truly did want to help. "That's a very kind offer, Mycroft," said John with a smile, "and one I shan't refuse. I'll email you the list of my appointments once it's finalized."

"Oh, don't bother," responded Mycroft with a smirk. "I am already in possession of all the dates and times. There will be car waiting for you next Friday, at 9:30, to take you to the hospital for your follow up."

John stared at Mycroft and said, "You know, it's rather creepy when you say things like that."

Before Mycroft could respond, his phone gave a bing and glancing down, he said, "Ah, well. John, I must be off. I am pleased to see that you are doing well. I am even more pleased to hear that Sherlock is rising to the occasion." Mycroft stood up from the chair and headed towards the door adding, "Please do not hesitate to contact me should you require anything. I'll see you again soon."

And then he was gone.

A few moments later, Sherlock stepped into the sitting room, dressed and with a damp towel in his hands. Taking a quick look around the room, he said, "And what did my dear brother want?"

"I still don't know how you do that," said John with a smile. "Actually, he came by to see how I was doing."

"Hmm, that seems rather … out of the ordinary for Mycroft. Was that it? No ulterior motive?" asked Sherlock in a suspicious tone.

"Well, that and to offer me the use of one of his cars to ferry me to and from my various appointments. I thought it was rather kind of him," said John. There was no way he was going to mention Mycroft's other offer – the one to get rid of Sherlock for a few days. That was never going to happen if John had any say in the matter.

"I'm surprised he didn't offer to move you to a rehab center, or even figure out a way to get me out of town for a few days. That is more along the lines of something he'd do."

"Well," said John, "that never came up. Besides, I'm not leaving home, nor are you. I'm fine right where I am and I couldn't manage without you."

Sherlock blushed at his friend's kind words and to cover his embarrassment he turned away and called, "Tea?" as he headed down the hallway towards his room.