A/N: Sort of a continuation, and yet a pause. -csf

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In the end, Sherlock wasn't ready to let go, and that was it.

A morning later in the week saw Sherlock have to deduce a padlock code to get to the fridge. Coincidently, it was his turn to make breakfast, which usually meant we both went without, but this week Sherlock was in a mood that brokered no failures.

Perhaps because the turn to prep us some breakfast had befallen him in a more permanent manner.

I was injured during a chase, as the criminal backtracked on us and jumped me chaotically. We both ended up tipping off a balcony's edge and falling into the swimming pool below. As it turns out, a water front two storeys up can have quite a fondness for inertia, and hitting it felt like hitting bricks before the cold waters engulfed me. Luckily it was the deep end of the hotel pool, so I slowed before the bottom. As I came back to the surface, I could barely drag with me the near unconscious criminal. Sherlock helped us both out of the cold water's embrace, and it was only then that I confirmed that my bad shoulder was dislocated. That soon got fixed, but left a mess of bruises and swelling behind that kept me from moving my left arm much. Or breathe deeply. Breathing's a challenge.

As soon as he found me in the morning, struggling with the last steps on the stairs, Sherlock helped me to the kitchen table with a gentleness seldom explored before. I was a mess, a tense ball of frustration, bruises and stubble (couldn't groom facial hair, could hardly brush my teeth).

'John,' he started, taking a close seat by my side and staring down at my eyes. 'You can't make breakfast.'

I give in to such wise words; it's pointless to deny it.

'Cereals, then. If you open the fridge door for me again.'

He usually does. I've been living off cereal and the occasional takeaway.

'No milk left.'

'You used it up? That's very selfish of you!'

'Just drop it, John. You used all the milk. And I forgive you for your selfishness, John.'

'Oh. Sorry,' I add sheepishly. 'It's fine, I'm not hungry.'

'You need food, so you can take your painkillers, John.'

'Don't need either,' I say through gritted teeth, getting up from the chair.

Sherlock gently pins me down. 'Excite me, John,' he asks me.

'Wha-what do you mean?'

'I find cooking boring, John. Make it exciting, please. Make it a challenge. I want to enjoy helping you. I'm not... I'm not the selfless hero you imagine me to be, John. I'll get bored, I know I will. You, John, have the incredible innate ability to make the ordinary extraordinary. Use that to keep me engaged.'

I blink; processing the cognitive overload.

'You like it when I annoy you, when I make things difficult, such as when I hide your microscope where you cannot find it until you washed the dishes?'

'I like it when you are unpredictable, John. And you are very, very good at being unpredictable. It really is one of your best traits. You do it even when you don't plan it. You never cease to amaze me, John.'

You are unpredictable even when you don't plan it? What does that even mean? That I'm impulsive? 'But you want me to plan this. Ways to make your helping me not-boring.'

Sherlock grins. 'Exactly, John! Glad to see your brain remains unaffected, much unlike your upper torso and stamina.'

'I suppose it could work.' I mull the idea over.

'It will work, John!'

'Okay, dry cereals and painkillers this morning, a quick power nap, and I'll come up with something.'

Sherlock nods like a child promised Santa's arrival soon.

So, like I said, soon after Sherlock has deduced the padlock code to the fridge door and he excitedly sets up to make scrambled eggs following a posh chef's recipe that I found online already with half the ingredients missing.

Sherlock enjoys the challenging and abhors the commonplace. He's also a surprisingly good cook when he sets his mind to it.

Now, some people – cough, Mrs Hudson, cough, cough – have insinuated that I'm exploring Sherlock's eagerness to impress me, but they don't know how much I wanted to be able to breathe freely.

And we both agreed that if a case came through, the case took priority.

Sherlock is getting a bit pale from all the time spent indoors solving my puzzles.

And, of course, I'm running on dry now, about to deplete all my ideas, and then Sherlock will definitely get dangerously bored, before he just... leaves me behind.

I just hope that by then I'm a bit more mobile.

'John, stop worrying, it's annoying.'

Sherlock is still Sherlock. He can read me like a book. I am worried. He just can't figure out why, and I keep his attention distracted with the little puzzles.

I don't want him to know that until the swelling goes down more significantly, there's no way to tell if I can regain the original (post-bullet, post-infection) mobility in my dominant arm.

Anyway, there's no need to alarm Sherlock. What will be, will be, right?

I force myself to focus on the periodic table of the elements that I brought up on my phone. I'm thinking periodic table scrabble for the next message. It should take Sherlock at least three seconds to decode the syllables from the atomic mass numbers, hopefully. I'm not telling him that's what the numbers mean, he needs to figure that out on his own.

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I'm sleepy and foggy from the painkillers. I seem to recall the sofa. Sherlock and someone else's voices – Greg's? – lull me into comfort again.

'A case, Lestrade! Do you wish me to beg?'

'I don't have a case for you. Anyway, you need to help John, not go off on a dangerous chase on your own.'

'I'm helping John.'

'You feel guilty, don't you?'

'Guilt is pointless, how does it change the past?'

'Sherlock, it's okay to care.'

'I don't like how it feels. Suffocating, oppressive. I'm not like this!'

'You are now. John's made you more human. Look, I'll check the cold case files. Maybe I can find you something. And keep John engaged, will you? Poor sod has enough on his mind already.'

'John is doing what he does best; being a storyteller.'

I fall deeper asleep after that.

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As I wake up, feeling more rested after a midmorning doze, Sherlock is already the firecracker flatmate in the process of wrecking the flat. There are books open at random pages all over the living room rug, all with the same word circled in red pencil – bored.

I don't quite feel the need to ask Sherlock what is going on.

He quickly rushes over as I force myself up, supporting me for the last few inches. Posture still a bit broken, I'm standing upright as much as I'll ever be for now.

Right, time for my emergency stash of mysteries.

'Kitchen,' I direct under my breath.

'John, are you sure?' he senses my stoicism and wants to dismiss it. I'm not quite brave enough without it.

I let go of a shaky breath. 'All better now,' I lie. 'Kitchen. And, Sherlock, did you leave your microscope in my room upstairs?'

He nods. 'You had the most interesting bird droppings on your window sill, John. I have determined them to be from the Corvidae family. Do be careful, they have a penchant for shiny small objects and are incredibly cunning.'

'I know. I've been training a jackdaw to return for food and rewards.'

Sherlock looks absolutely stunned.

'You make friends easily, John.'

'You'll need your microscope, mate.'

Reluctantly, Sherlock leaves me in the kitchen and bounds up the stairs two steps at a time.

By the time he returns, microscope under an arm, I hand him one of two warm cups of tea.

'John, you shouldn't have.'

'Nonsense, I needed one too. And I need to keep my arm moving, helps keeping the circulation flowing in the trapped vessels.'

'John, are you making that up?' he asks, setting down the microscope.

'Maybe. I don't fully know. I'm under the influence of strong painkillers.'

Sherlock gulps. Again, he looks like he blames himself for my misfortune. He shouldn't. I must redirect his emotions.

'Nice cuppa, mate?'

'Perfect as usual.'

'Good. That's also your mystery. The perfect cup of tea. Use your investigative skills, recreate it, when you figure it out, bring me one.'

Sherlock's mercurial eyes flash in dangerous challenge.

'Are you mocking me, John?'

'Heck, no. I'm hoping you learn how to making me a cuppa once in a while!'

He smirks.

'It's childish and slightly petty, but I accept your challenge, John.'

As the kitchen becomes once more the setting of the consulting detective's scientific investigations, the warm scent of tannins and bergamot in Earl Grey fills the flat and I feel some more tension drain from my tense shoulders. Home. Feels just like home.

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