Chapter 6
Now, although Sherlock didn't remember who he was, some of his personality traits were still very in much in evidence. These included his sharp mind, laser like focus and a great heaping of stubbornness. All very good traits of course when you are trying to solve a murder against the clock. Not so good when you want your flatmate to pause, and take a rest. However, John was able to use one of their adventures to his advantage like a carrot, as he lured Sherlock all around the flat and before you knew it, he had managed to get the other man to comb his hair, brush his teeth and take a shower, with very little fuss. Finally, the doctor had wrangled him back into his armchair to watch the news, while he awaited dinner and more stories.
Only then, did John feel comfortable enough to leave him and see to his own personal needs.
Tired and mentally exhausted with worry, he stepped into the shower and turned on the hot water. John allowed himself the luxury of a few minutes of blissful relaxation, before his mind returned to this problem with his flatmate. How on earth was he going to explain it all to Mrs. Hudson? With a sigh he turned off the shower, and in the quiet he could hear the soundtrack from the television through the door that he had left slightly ajar to monitor Sherlock's presence.
He was reaching for the towel then as he was stepping out the shower stall, just like he had done a thousand times before when he slipped. Crying out, he scrambled for purchase on the slippery floor, desperately flinging out one hand to steady himself, and in the process managing to give his bad shoulder a good wrench.
Wave after wave of pain exploded out like red hot fire from his old wound and he closed his eyes against sensation, curling up on to himself to lean on the wall. It took him a minute or two before he was in control of himself again, only to realise that he wasn't hearing the television anymore. One handedly, he reached for a towel and wrapped it awkwardly about him, just as a tentative knock sounded on the door.
'I'm fine,' John called out automatically.
'I heard you cry out,' came the concerned response, 'what happened?'
'Just need a minute,' John replied evasively, still not able to stand fully upright as yet. 'I am okay.'
'Are you sure?'
'Yes, I am sure.'
There was a long silence where neither of them moved.
'Well I'm not sure!' Sherlock remarked with a scowl that John could feel even if he couldn't see.
Long fingers clasped the edge of the door, 'Can I come in?'
'I would rather you didn't', John remarked, however he was resigned to having this conversation and he waited as a curly mop of hair, followed by a pair of blue eyes peeked around the door in slow increments.
'John!'
Sherlock came in all in a rush of worry, hovering around uncertainly, 'Is it broken? Why are you holding your arm like that?'
The detective assisted him to limp/shuffle over to the toilet, where he put down the cover so he could sit. The doctor could feel the sudden stillness run through Sherlock, when he shifted his position and exposed his bad shoulder to the strong bathroom light.
'It's an old wound,' John assured him, 'hurts like the dickens in cold weather, but other than that it gives no trouble.'
John looked up to see the question in the man's eyes. 'You asked earlier what type of doctor I was. I am, no I was an army doctor.'
Sherlock hummed quietly to himself, as if this information had filled in some question he had.
'It was in Afghanistan,' John added in.
'I know,' he murmured.
John looked up quickly in surprise,wondering if the old Sherlock was back, but the other man shook his head. 'I just know, I don't know how I know.'
John considered trying to explain but feared he would muck it up, and he was too tired now in any case.
In the meantime, Sherlock reached out a hand, asking for permission. At John's nod, he proceeded to tighten the man's towel so it wouldn't fall, and then drape John's good arm across his shoulder. Carefully, he maneuvered the man out into his bedroom which was closest to the bathroom.
'There's a hot water bottle in the bathroom cupboard, third shelf on the left,' John informed him as he took a chair. Sherlock soon returned with the requested item, and draped it over the injury. It didn't take a genius to deduce that the doctor was still in a lot of pain as he slouched over on his chair, with a sickly look to his face.
Sherlock shuffled his feet.
John probably wanted him to go, but was too polite to say so. The doctor was a war hero, why would he want anyone staring at him when he was in such a vulnerable state? For a second, a messy ball of emotions rolled into Sherlock's mind as he stood there staring into space. John was a loyal friend, hero doctor, compassionate person, and he, Sherlock was this overly tall flake, with curly hair. Why were they even friends, far less best friends?
'Should I go?' he asked in sudden doubt and despair.
'No!' John said emphatically and without even looking up, he reached out to clutch a handful of Sherlock's dressing gown.
Sherlock sat on his bed with a silly grin. It was probably a bit not good to feel so happy at the moment, but it felt good not to be sent away.
Really good.