Chapter 7

Things had been quiet in the flat for the past couple of days. His follow-up with Doctor Samja had gone well, but John was still hobbling around with his crutch as he'd not yet graduated to the cane that Lestrade had kindly gifted to him. But, he was definitely feeling better, even though his ribs still ached and the bruising was now turning all sorts of glorious colours. The deep purple and blue marks had lightened and now bore hints of yellow and green. Looking at John's torso now was almost like looking through a kaleidoscope.

John's knee was still encased in the brace, and his ankle was still booted, but his range of movement had increased significantly. Even his shoulder was feeling better. The inflammation was considerably reduced, and while he was still wearing the sling as the weight from the cast on his arm continued to be too much for his shoulder to bear, at least he was no longer in constant agony. Now the pain seemed to come in waves instead, but John wasn't sure which was better. At least with the constant pain, he knew where he stood, so to speak. Now, he had moments when he actually felt human again. That is, until he'd forget and breathe too deeply or move carelessly and suddenly he'd been seeing stars and tears of pain would form at the corners of his eyes.

He was bored, too. Not Sherlock's 'shoot the wall' level of bored, but bored just the same. As much as he loved 221B, he could only have so many mental conversations with the skull, or let his gaze drift over the familiar contours of furniture and piles of paper, before he felt like he was going stir-crazy. But, he knew that it was still too early, and he was still too unsettled on his feet, to even attempt walking across the room at any speed, let alone tackle the 17 steps that led down to the ground floor and their front door.

Sherlock was out at the moment; he'd volunteered to pick up John's prescription refill at the chemist's and would bring back dinner as well. The simple act of eating was proving to be an adventure, what with trying to determine what John could manage. With his dominant hand in a cast and sling he was forced to do everything with his right hand, which meant that not only was eating an extremely slow process, it was also quite messy. So … his favourite Pad Thai was off the menu because of … well, the noodles; Sherlock turned his nose up at pizza; pasta was difficult because he hated having to ask Sherlock to cut up his lasagne into bite-sized pieces. So, in the end, tonight would be curry night.

John was sitting comfortably – well, as comfortably as could be expected for a man who'd fallen almost ten feet off the side of a building onto the concrete pavement – with a fresh cup of tea at his side and the most recent BMJ on his lap. He was engrossed in an article about the treatment of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in returning soldiers and didn't hear Mrs. Hudson making her way up the stairs.

"Whoo hoo," called Mrs. Hudson as she stepped into the sitting room.

"Mrs. Hudson, good afternoon. What can I do for you?" asked John.

"Oh, John, you poor dear," twittered Mrs. Hudson. "How are you feeling today?"

"Actually, Mrs. Hudson, I feel pretty good, considering." John tried to sit up straighter in his chair but the movement caused his ribs to grate and he grimaced in momentary pain.

"John! What are you doing? Here, let me," said Mrs. Hudson as she hurried over to his side and in her usual kind and bustling manner soon had John sitting up straight, with a pillow tucked at the small of his back and another under his left elbow helping to support his arm and take the strain off his shoulder.

Once she was happy that John was comfortable, Mrs. Hudson stepped back and then proceeded to perch on the edge of Sherlock's chair. John smiled at his landlady and said, "Ta, Mrs. H."

Mrs. Hudson looked around the room and then said, "Is Sherlock not here?"

"No," began John, when Mrs. Hudson continued speaking over him.

"That boy! I'll have words with him when he gets back. Leaving you here, all on your own, and you like … well …" and she waved her hand at him to show him what she meant. As if John wasn't fully aware of his physical limits. "Honestly," she continued, "I thought he knew better!"

"Mrs. Hudson … Mrs. Hudson. Relax, it's okay. Sherlock kindly offered to go to the chemist to pick up my refill, and then he's coming right back. He's bringing dinner as well. Besides, it's not like I'm alone. I have you here, don't I," said John firmly, but with a smile.

Mrs. Hudson flushed slightly and said, "Yes, well …"

Still smiling, John reached over and picked up the mug of tea that Sherlock had made for him before he'd left. The rim of the mug was just about at his lips when Mrs. Hudson said, "John! Is that tea? Don't tell me you were up and about making yourself tea, when I was just downstairs. Seriously, wandering about, doing too much … and you call yourself a doctor." A sniff followed her pronouncement.

John grinned and said, "No, Mrs. Hudson. I wasn't up and about making tea. Sherlock made it for me before he left."

"Sherlock? Made tea?" asked Mrs. Hudson, rather surprised. She was convinced the lanky detective didn't know where their kettle was, let alone the mugs or tea bags.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," responded John patiently. "Sherlock made me tea."

"Are you sure it's just tea?" she asked worriedly.

"What else would it be?" asked John, his brow furrowing as he looked down in his mug.

"Well, with Sherlock you never really know, do you dear?" Standing up, she plied the mug from John's grasp and said, "Here, I'll make you a new cup that you can enjoy without worry," and she disappeared into the kitchen.

John sat in his chair, shaking his head in amazement. He knew there was nothing wrong with Sherlock's tea. Ever since the events at Baskerville, Sherlock was now always very careful to reassure John that the tea was simply that – tea and nothing else. And, to John's amazement, the Detective was quite the dab hand at both tea- and coffee-making. Sherlock may deny it, but his tea-making skills were definitely on par with John's.

John didn't have the heart to remind Mrs. Hudson that he'd been imbibing Sherlock's tea for quite a while now, to no ill effect. After all, what harm would it do to allow her to make him a fresh cup? It made her feel good, and he got a hot cuppa out of the deal.

Still, it rankled that Mrs. Hudson seemed to think that Sherlock was either unwilling or incapable of providing assistance or being there when John needed him. Mycroft's attitude John could understand; after all, he'd seen Sherlock at his best and his worst. The same with Lestrade. John had been told the story of how Lestrade had found the strung-out young genius hanging around a crime scene and who, when questioned, had solved the case in less than five minutes. Lestrade had seen something in Sherlock and had given him an ultimatum: get clean or stay home. It took a couple of tries, but the Consulting Detective had finally overcome his demons. So, yeah, John could understand why Lestrade doubted Sherlock's commitment to help.

But Mrs. Hudson? It hurt John to think that she didn't have faith in the lodger she loved like a son. After all, wasn't he the one who had freed her from her abusive husband's clutches, and in such a manner that she never had to worry about Frank Hudson darkening her doorway ever again?

Thus, when Mrs. Hudson returned to hand a fresh, hot mug of tea to John, he said, "Mrs. Hudson, would you sit down please."

"Of course, John. Is something wrong?"

"No. In fact, everything is right. Thank you for the tea, I truly appreciate it; but you didn't have to make me a new cup. It's just that … um … look, it's this way. You don't need to worry about me. Sherlock is being an excellent friend and caretaker. He's become an ace at helping with my knee brace and sling, he makes sure I take my meds and that there is always food in the house. He makes me tea and coffee all the time. And as humiliating as it is to admit, he's even taken to washing my hair for me."

By the time he'd finished his speech, John was red-faced with embarrassment and Mrs. Hudson was cooing and had tears in her eyes. Leaning over and patting John's arm, she said, "I knew you'd be good for him. I always thought Sherlock had potential to be a warm and caring person and you've brought that out in him."

"But … I didn't do anything," protested John.

"Don't fool yourself, young man," responded Mrs. Hudson firmly. "You've changed Sherlock for the better. But he's done the same to you, hasn't he? You're not the same man who moved in all those months ago, are you?"

John blinked owlishly at his landlady. He'd never really thought about it before, but she was right. Sherlock had changed John … and thank God he had. John didn't know where he'd be or even if he'd still be around if it wasn't for his insane genius of a best friend.

A warm smile grew across John's face as he focused his attention back towards his landlady. "Nothing gets past you, does it Mrs. Hudson?" asked John as he placed his now empty mug on the table beside his chair. "You're absolutely right – if it wasn't for Sherlock …"

Mrs. Hudson smiled wisely at her lodger and stood, saying, "I'm glad we had this talk, John. I'll be downstairs if you need me." Then she quietly exited the sitting room, gently closing the door behind her.

Not five minutes later, Sherlock came bounding into the sitting room, the aroma of vegetable curry and samosas wafting through the air as he walked through to the kitchen.

Stepping back to John's side, Sherlock pulled a bag out of one of his Belstaff's voluminous pockets and dropped it in the doctor's lap. "Your meds," he said as he proceeded to hang his coat and scarf on the peg by the door.

"What did Mrs. Hudson want?" asked Sherlock as he turned back towards his friend. "Is everything all right?"

"Of course it is," said John as he reviewed the instructions on the bottle of painkillers Sherlock had picked up for him. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, I wasn't two steps in the door before our landlady pulled me into an extra-long hug and said I knew you had it in you. I'm beginning to think you may need to run some tests on her John; I afraid she's losing her mind!"

John grinned at his friend and said, "Don't worry about it, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson is fine. We're all fine, in fact. So … dinner? I'm starving!"