A/N: Extra special thanks to sarajm for her help with this chapter in particular. Her excellent suggestions and comments helped me overcome some major issues. Any remaining errors are all mine!

Chapter 8

John's recovery was proving to be long and hard on both residents of 221B. It seemed that, as the weeks passed, John's progress went from lows to highs and then back again and his mood followed suit. His outlook covered the gamut from quiet and apologetic to depressed and angry, depending on what was happening with him physically. John's mood-swings often left Sherlock confused, but he somehow managed to maintain his equilibrium throughout. He was never short with his injured friend; he never yelled or walked away in impatience.

Sherlock was immensely proud of John's determination and perseverance in the face of adversity and didn't hesitate to let John know. John, for his part, was exceedingly grateful for everything Sherlock had done and was continuing to do for him and made a point of telling him so at every opportunity.

As for everyone else, any doubts they'd harboured about Sherlock's abilities or John's welfare were quickly quashed in the light of what they saw before them. They may have been an unconventional pair – an ex-addict self-diagnosed sociopath and an adrenaline-junkie ex-Army doctor – but their friendship and their compassion was a beautiful thing. They brought out the best in each other.

It was just unfortunate that John's recovery was in no way what could be deemed "straightforward". Among other issues, he'd had to try three different anti-inflammatories before he found one that he could stomach – literally. Regrettably, the last set weren't as effective as the previous two, but at least the injured man was no longer forced to deal with nausea and painful stomach cramps with the third set of pills.

Recognizing that John was struggling with his limitations, Sherlock made sure to acknowledge – and at times even celebrate – all the firsts. The first time John walked from the bedroom to the sitting room with no assistance from his flatmate; the first time he showered on his own; the first time he managed the seventeen stairs that led from the flat to their front door; the first time they ventured outdoors; the first time John managed to go a day without resorting to his painkillers. They were all accomplishments and deserving of recognition. Sherlock even badgered Mrs. Hudson into making John's favourite sweet – Eton mess – when, at five weeks, his cast finally came off.

Of course, once the cast was removed, physiotherapy began as John now had to rebuild strength in his arm and flexibility in his shoulder. Fortunately, Mycroft was true to his word and there was always a car waiting outside 221B to drive John to and from his physiotherapy appointments, so that was one worry off Sherlock's mind.

John's physiotherapist, Steve, had come highly recommended. He was a no-nonsense, intense young man who, in John's words, "could give my old drill instructor lessons!"

When John came home, exhausted and sweating after his first workout with Steve, Sherlock took one look at his friend and said, "Are you sure you're not overdoing it, John? It is normal that you be like this after a session?"

"I guess you've never had physio before, hunh?" said John as he collapsed into his chair. "I'll say this much; Steve definitely knows what he's doing. And you've got to remember that I've got a lot of ground to make up. My arm and shoulder have been pretty much immobile for the past month or so, so everything is going to be hard and exhausting at the beginning. That's the whole point of doing physio."

"Well, if you're sure," said Sherlock rather doubtfully as he stepped into the kitchen to fetch a large glass of water for John.

Unfortunately, physio turned out to be not only hard and exhausting … it was also quite painful.

"I'm fine," said John rather belligerently to his physiotherapist three sessions later. For whatever reason, every exercise Steve had him do hurt unbearably that day, but John was determined not to let a little pain stop him. "Let's just keep going," he insisted after Steve stopped the session only fifteen minutes in.

"That's not going to happen, John," responded Steve as he looked down at the older man who was clutching his shoulder and trying not to curse aloud. "You're only going to do more damage pushing through. Look, this happens. Everyone's entitled to a bad day, and this is yours. It's not going to set you back any to take the day off. So, I want you to go home, relax and use a warm compress for about fifteen minutes."

Seeing the glare on John's face, Steve narrowed his eyes suspiciously, as though he could read John's thoughts. "I especially don't want you doing anything stupid like trying to do your exercises on your own," said Steve. "Your body needs a chance to recover. I'll see you on Friday, yeah?"

"Fine," snapped John as he snatched his towel from where it was laying at the end of the bench, stuffed it back into his bag and marched out of the work-out room.

By the time John made it home – he'd had to take a taxi and it seemed the cabbie hit every pothole between the hospital and Baker Street – he was in a rage and also in some serious pain.

The banging of the front door roused Sherlock from his mind palace. The sound of a walking boot pounding on the seventeen steps that led up to their flat alerted him that John was home early and was definitely not in a good mood. One look at the doctor's face and Sherlock quickly swallowed his query. Instead, he simply walked into the kitchen and calmly made John a cup of tea.

After listening to John rant and rave for about ten minutes, Sherlock added another job to his mental list of "Things to do to help John" – physio partner. From then on, Sherlock attended every session with John, listened and absorbed everything Steve said and even had several discussions with the man about additional exercises John could do at home that would help speed his recovery.

The ankle fracture also took longer to heal than expected, and that put John into a tailspin. He'd left home one morning, excited that he would be returning sans boot only to be told that he'd have to wear the thing for at least another two weeks. John had smiled at Doctor Samja, shook the man's hand, said "Thank you," and left the office with a volcano bubbling beneath his calm appearance.

By the time he'd arrived back at 221B, John was so incensed it was all Sherlock could do to stop the man from kicking the wall and damaging his ankle even more. It took most of the day, but Sherlock finally managed to calm down his feisty friend. When John tried to apologize for his actions, Sherlock brushed it aside with an "I understand, John. I'm disappointed for you, too."

Up to that point in John's recovery, Sherlock had refused any and all cases where he'd have to leave the flat. Determined to ensure that John never had to worry about anything, he had announced to Greg early on that the policeman was "welcome to bring cases to me, but I won't be visiting any crime scenes any time soon."

But after almost six weeks of living in each other's back pockets, John had had enough. He needed some privacy and he knew that Sherlock was getting antsy. Crime scene photographs and witness statements could never replace first-hand impressions, so John urged Sherlock to head down to NSY to help Greg with his latest case.

"I'll be fine on my own, Sherlock. I'm managing to get around pretty good and I promise that I won't do anything stupid," said John. "I'm just going to sit here in my chair and watch a bit of telly. I may even take a nap. Mrs. Hudson is just next door at Mrs. Turner's, and if I need you I'll text."

"Well … if you're sure," said Sherlock, already slipping into his coat.

"Go!" said John with a chuckle. "Go show them how it's done and solve the crime."

"I'll be back in a couple of hours," called the detective as he hurried down the stairs.

Thank goodness Sherlock was as good as his word. About ten minutes before Sherlock was due to arrive home, John tried to get out of his chair when suddenly every muscle in his lower back and upper leg seized. He couldn't budge for the pain; he couldn't stand up nor could he lean back in his seat. Every movement was excruciating. "Oh God," moaned John as he sat there, teetering and trying to keep as still as possible. He couldn't even reach his phone which was sitting on the table an arm's length away.

Fortunately, Sherlock arrived home shortly thereafter, took one look at John's pain-filled eyes and quickly figured out what had happened. In slow increments, Sherlock helped John stand and then supported his friend as they made their way to the bedroom. Once John was seated on the edge of the bed, Sherlock helped him change into his pyjamas, dosed him with some painkillers and carefully worked the knots out of the seized muscles, all the while berating the doctor for his idiocy in not having moved in over two hours. "Honestly, John," said Sherlock as he finally sat back and pulled the duvet over his now-relaxed friend. "You call yourself a doctor and look what you do to yourself!"

"Dammit Sherlock. I'm a doctor, not a physiotherapist," murmured John as he snuggled under the blanket and yawned hugely. Then he sniggered and said, "Remind me to lay off Star Trek for a while."

Sherlock simply stared at his friend for a few long moments, shook his head and said, as he left the room, "Get some sleep. I'll wake you when it's time for dinner."

Fortunately, that only happened the once and from then on it was relatively smooth sailing.