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Sherlock listened to the dissipation of their footsteps and did best to calm the heaving in his chest. Raising both hands up, he placed them on his chest, covering in the region of his nipples beneath the gown, and began slowly slipping them down his body. He pushed down a little, exacting pressure against his torso, and let his fingers probe, dipping – gown and all – into the small cleft of his tummy button and down further until the gown disappeared and was replaced by loose-fitting boxer-shorts and the feel of the thin line of the catheter that an out of the leg on the left side. His fingers could feel his hips, his legs, the shorts, the tiny, auburn hairs on his thighs but his legs couldn't feel him. Balling his hands into fists, he slapped down hard, pummelling into the sides of his thighs with abandon and screwed his eyes up before pulling his arms up sharply. He held both arms in his face as his chin trembled. He couldn't feel a thing; not an ache, not a tingle, not a forming bruise from his thumps. He didn't even feel numbness; he just felt emptiness – nothingness.

His breath escaped through his nose raggedly and, in pure temper, he reached down and tugged the oxygen line away, dragging it from behind his ears, letting it fall against his chest, offering sporadic hisses as it leaked oxygen. He placed the fingers of his right hand around the cannula in the back of his left with every intention of ribbing it away but found the trembling in his fingertips and blur to his vision make the task impossible. His resolve faltered and he dropped his hands back to the mattress, jutting his jaw out as he stared at the panelled ceiling above him. He'd had enough now – John needed to come back now. He couldn't do this alone. All kinds of words and images of what it meant to him to be paralysed ran through his mind and they stung. He had no idea how to be confined to a wheelchair; how was he supposed to do it?

It took a few moments of silent and internal coaxing for him setting into calmer breathing but the time it took to get there dizzied his head. He felt nauseous, his head aching as it spun. He reached across with his right hand, rubbing in gentle circles on his chest as if to appease indigestion. Bile rose bitterly in his throat and he knew he was going to vomit. He swallowed, feeling a cold sweat stroke over him and the unmistakable bubble in his stomach that tucked up beneath his rips, rising up, up, up. He couldn't call out in time but turned his head to the left as a particularly violent retch saw him evacuate liquid with difficulty. He choked and retched again, the bile burning his throat painfully and he spat in an attempt to clear the foul substance from his mouth. He coughed another mouthful out in time with the arrival of a male and female nurse.

"Alright, not to worry." The young female nurse said - her voice was soothing but not condescending. "Do you feel like you might vomit again?" She asked, walking to the bed, right up in Sherlock's face as she rounded his side and carefully rocked him into his side. Both of the nurses held the Detective still in an unfavourable recovery position as he retched a fourth time, this time vomiting a little more profusely, soaking his cheek, the sheets and the scrubs of the female nurse as he coughed horribly. "Get it all up," She mumbled, her hand working gently between his tense shoulder blades.

"I'll get some fresh bedding," The male nurse spoke up over the sound of him snapping on gloves, standing behind Sherlock. "And a fresh gown?" he asked.

"Yeah, and some spares." She smiled gently. "Feeling better?" She turned her full attention on Sherlock. "I know the pain relief can make you feel a bit rotten." One gloved hand held Sherlock on his side with a firm but gentle grip on his ribs whilst the other began to move the sheet back with ease. "I'm Emma." She told him with a twinkling-eyed smile.

Sherlock sighed, swallowing the bitter, acrid liquid that lingered in his mouth and burned his nose. "Can I have some water?"

"Of course, let's just wait a moment for Alex to get back and we'll have you cleaned up and then I'll make sure you have plenty to drink, alright?" She said with a nod, knowing she couldn't very well move away when her patient was unable to support himself. Before Sherlock was even aware of it, Emma had the soiled sheet from beneath him and in a ball with the sodden pillow on the floor, leaving him lay on the waterproof mattress, covered with an unsoiled blanket. "You did well, actually," Emma smiled with jest, "Most people usually end up getting it over the blankets, but you were quite contained." Her joke landed well and, despite feeling awful, Sherlock's jaw twitched.

"Practice," he hissed, his head aching more firmly and his arm beginning to deaden beneath him. "Very sickly child-," he blinked slowly. He felt embarrassed, humiliated and exposed but he couldn't find the words or exasperation to express his discomfort at the closeness. "Um…John…" he blinked, his eyes a little clouded.

"Doctor Watson?" Emma asked him, just as Alex returned with sheets and gowns and an arm full of emesis basins.

"He's with my brother," Sherlock groaned a little as Emma pulled him closer to her whilst Alex set about remaking the bed – to their credit, they were trying to do it as carefully as possible without disturbing Sherlock's body too much and they were doing a good job.

"Probably gone for a cuppa," Emma placated gently, her gloved hands even more gentle as she turned Sherlock onto his opposite side and waited for Alex to support him before she walked around there to meet Sherlock, allowing Alex to continue with fixing on the sheet. She was dedicated to patient care, quite clearly, and Sherlock warmed to her as much as he ever could to anyone. She was treating him with dignity and distraction and whilst he was impossible to distract, he appreciated her efforts. "Would you like me to find them for you once you're settled?" Sherlock's nod in response was small and he grimaced as he was carefully guided to lie back onto his back. "Alright," Emma said with ease, her touch gentle on his shoulder. "Would you like me to help you clean up, or do you think you can manage? We have a flannel and a basin and we can fill it up with warm water from the sink in the corner."

"What…um, John…" Sherlock began, raising his hand to his face in discomfort, rubbing his hands at the side of his head, feeling sticky and dirty at the streaks of vomit in his hair.

"Listen," Emma placed her hand on Sherlock's, "How about I sent Alex in search of your brother and Doctor Watson and then I can help you get cleaned up in the meantime? If you're feeling too nauseous lying flat I can raise your head slightly," She said with authority, keeping him calm, yet still with gentle clarity.

Sherlock nodded weakly, feeling as though every inch of his normal personality had been drained from him; he had no fight left, no anger and no ability to yell the 'fuck off and leave me alone, I am not a child and don't treat me like one' that desperately wanted to fall from his parted lips. He felt too sick, to tired and alone and lost. Half of him was broken and he wasn't sure if he'd ever feel whole again.

The café was quiet and filled and emptied intermittently. Sitting opposite Mycroft, John felt indescribably uncomfortable as he stared into what barely passed for a mug of hot coffee. Still, he held the mug – warm against his fingers – between both hands and sighed, "I don't know what we're going to do." He broke their silence, looking around then down at his cup, anything to avoid eye contact with Mycroft. "We can't stay at Baker Street – not only isn't it financially viable but it's not practical. I need to keep in the city, close enough to get to work and I know Sarah will give me as many shifts as I want but at the same time he's going to need me at home for a while." He forced himself to look up, "Look," he licked his lips nervously, "I'm going to need all the help I can get. Sherlock's not going to accept carers and I don't want that for him, either. I'm going to need…your help."

"Whatever I can provide to make life easier for my brother, and for you, is a given Doctor Watson. Accommodation, assistance, equipment or care; whatever you need, I will ensure you have it, you need only tell me. As a medical professional, off the top of your head, what is it you'll need initially; just in order to allow Sherlock to come home quickly and safely." Mycroft held his untouched coffee in his right hand.

"Home's a long way off," John rubbed the back of his aching neck, glancing around as the café began to fill slowly.

"Yes, but what is needed? I can have a new home with equipment and assistance in place if I know exactly what is needed now." Mycroft's voice hardened slightly, as though tetchy toward John's barriers.

"A chair," John exhaled, "The NHS will provide something standard but he'll need something to suit his needs and support him where he's weaker. Given the location of his injury, he's going to need a chair that completely supports his hips and back to mid-waist." He thought aloud. "In terms of housing, wherever we go needs to have wide-access doors, ramps, easy-access bathroom, varied height units and presses in the kitchen. Erm…" he stopped, rubbing his tired eyes and sighed. "It's not an initial need by any means, but standing frames would be ideal for Sherlock, given the nature of his personality – anything we can do to offer independence we need to do it,"

Mycroft felt the heaviness in the atmosphere from John's words, the emotion thick on his face and nodded gently, "Get me a list of everything, even housing, whether it's initially needed or not and I will have everything arranged." His nod was firm and sobering.

Blinking, "Thank you," was all John could muster.

They fell silent a moment, staring off into space. Mycroft's mind raced with possibilities whilst John's swam with memories. Mycroft's eyes floated over those gathered around them in the café, wondering why they were here and what they'd been told. He could read most of them easily; knowing most of them weren't here for a brief visit or good news. He reasserted himself, fixing his features, terrified but not willing to show it. All the while, John's mind finally allowed him to go over the negative; he'd been so focused on being positive that the void of sadness felt wider at being avoided.

"I think our company is required," Mycroft's voice broken into John's thoughts and the Doctor looked over his shoulder, spotting a nurse heading toward them. "I'm not so sure he is certain he has the right people." Mycroft almost sounded sarcastic as he painted a smile on his face when the nurse drew closer.

"Doctor Watson and Mr Holmes?" He asked, nervously.

"Yes," John nodded, brow creasing.

Alex's face softened in relief, "Mr Holmes is asking for you both," he explained, gaining confidence. Both men immediately rose to their feet, chair squeaking against the floor.

"Is he OK?" John's face paled.

"Yes," Alex asserted quickly, "He's quite alright. The medication he is receiving for pain management can make patients feel nauseous. He vomited and is a little lethargic and uncomfortable and just asked that we come and find you both, I think familiar faces would be more of a comfort to him right now." He smiled, "We just changed his bedding and fixed him into a clean and comfortable gown. Another of the ICU nurses, Emma, is with him at the moment so he's not alone. When I left the room, they were discussing the benefits of a perfectly brewed cup of tea." Alex offered by way of mollification and did the trick for John.

"Ah," he smirked, "Yeah, don't get him started on tea – or anything for that matter." He walked quickly but steadily behind Alex with Mycroft close behind. "The only thing he'll correct you on sooner is tobacco and the periodic table." John's eyebrow arched and, despite himself, Mycroft gave a knowing, breathy laugh.

"Emma's the woman for the tea-talk," Alex kept up the gentle conversation as they returned to the ICU, "But Bill, who mostly works nights, would certain give him a run for his money on tobacco." He smiled gently, stopping at the entrance into Sherlock's small room to allow John and Mycroft to enter first.

John peered in with bright eyes at the sight that greeted him – Sherlock's upper body was raised, surrounded by pillows and support for stability, and his face had a small flush of colour to his cheeks that was a grateful sight. There were two new, more comfortable-looking seats in the room, one on the right side and the other in the far corner. Standing on the left side, Emma tilted her head to John with a broad smile, "Doctor Watson," she beamed, "We were just talking about you."

"All good, I hope," John folded his arms nervously across his chest and stepped closer to the bed, strangely glad of Mycroft's presence directly behind him – large and comforting in an unexpected manner.

"No," Sherlock breathed uneasily, "None of it." A small, sad smile tugged the left cheek and John had to hold his breath to avoid tearing up. Sherlock's dark hair was damp from being washed and his head was comfortably nestled in a crisp, V-shaped pillow that slipped around his neck and shoulders. His eyes seemed so much brighter, or John hoped they did; maybe they were just clearer, no longer bothered by the nausea he'd been silent about and the sleep he'd been drugged into?

Emma smiled and shook her head, "Of course it was all good," She mocked a stared of disgust in Sherlock's direction, stepping away from the bed to allow Mycroft and John to close in on Sherlock. "He's just had a little something to settle his stomach and, if he's up to in in a while, we can pop back and see about something small to eat. We'll look into moving him somewhere a little more comfortable once the drain is out of his thigh, maybe tomorrow if he's feeling strong enough." She said carefully, directing her conversation at John.

"Thank you," He nodded, arms falling down to grip the bar at the side of the bed, the tops of which were hidden beneath the new provisions that curled around Sherlock to allow him complete support. John hoped that Sherlock would be in a position to support his back himself – certain from earlier when he had placed his hands against Sherlock's hips that he had the strength and feeling – but he knew that the hospital staff liked to skate on the side of caution and he rather suspected that it made Sherlock feel a little more secure, too. Without a word, Emma disappeared on silent feel and, after watching her go, John turned back to Sherlock with a soft, emotional smile. "You OK?"

Sherlock's cheek twitched and he gently examined his hands in his lap. It was only then, as he raised his head again, that John took note of the missing oxygen line. "Yeah," he nodded, his brow furrowed and curls pushed back in a manner that Mycroft didn't see very often, making him look so, so young and far too vulnerable. His eyes looked lost without their curly fringe, but Mycroft rather thought that that was down to the Detective feeling lost over all.

"Are there any questions you wanted to ask, anything you're not sure of or need to know?" John pressed on, becoming a Doctor before a partner.

"Like what?" Sherlock sighed and John noted the more steady level to his voice. "I know what the word paralysed means, John." His eyebrows quirked upward in the way he did when people bored him and Mycroft deemed this a very, very good sign; if he was bored, his mind was intact.

"I think he more means is there anything you need to know or need explaining, not just questions about…the situation." Mycroft's voice rumbled from his chest.

"When can I go home?" Sherlock looked up, eyes to his big brother, impossibly small and innocent.

"Not yet," John chipped, "I don't know when but it won't be before a week at the very, very least. You were shot, Sherlock – it's not just something you're going to bounce back from. You've an injury to your thigh which needs tending to; it's not just your spine. You had a pretty good bump to the head when you fell, too." John frowned, his tone insistent. "Be reasonable,"

"I found out a half hour ago that I am never going to walk again, John. I think my lack of reasoning is justified." He huffed. "What are they doing about it anyway," he groaned, his head rolling between his brother and partner on the soft pillow.

"What are who doing about what?" John asked, lowering himself into the chair at the bedside, sighing at the comfort.

"Lestrade and his band of Merry Men," Sherlock sniffed, "The case; are they focussing on the case?" his hands gestured wildly.

John couldn't stifle the laugh in time and it jumped loudly from his throat, "Only you could be concerned about a bloody case whilst all but tied to a bed in intensive care." he shook his head in disbelief and then looked up at Mycroft, standing like an awkward ornament beside the bed.

"Well, are they?" Sherlock frowned. It seemed that lucidity brought about his usually keen focus. John saw this as transference; he would focus on something other than his own situation. To Mycroft, his brother was scared and finding anything he could to avoid admitting so.

"In their fashion," Mycroft replied, humouring his brother.

"They'll ruin everything if they charge in there – it has to be precise and well timed. There are markings involved. It has to be precise!" he specified, hands wildly dancing.

"Sherlock-," John silenced the Detective with the tone of his voice, "I know what you're doing and you should stop. No matter how much you try and fight, it isn't going to go away. Talk about it, talk about it to me or to Mycroft; God, just open your mouth and be honest with us. You're acting as though you've broken your leg and are going to be dancing again in a few months." John's exasperation came out loudly. "Tell me how you feel, what's going through your mind – tell me where your mind is at."

"No," Sherlock shook his head, resting back into the cushions a little more, becoming impossibly small.

"Why not?" John's mouth drew down, "Tell me how bad you feel; get angry! Shout, scream, swear, cry, or just…punch me! Just do something, react to this Sherlock. This is horrible, this is life-changing and you're just…" He exhaled, words failing him.

"I'm fine." Sherlock said, teeth gritted as Mycroft eyed him. "I'm coping fine."

"You're faking." John spat.

"I'm coping!" Sherlock matched. "You want me to be weak and cry? Well I won't because I'm not weak! I am coping! This is transport!" he smashed his fists into the tops of his legs, his face reddening. "It's just a shell, it doesn't matter? Reacting in anyway but moving on isn't going to stop this happening, John." His fists hit harder and John didn't stop him – he needed to do this, this had to happen.

At the foot of the bed, Mycroft's stomach lurched and displayed in a vicious wince across his face. Emotion was hard to deal with and even harder to see exhibited on his little brother as Sherlock beat against himself until he arched his back aggressively, a groan deep in his chest bursting out through his open mouth, and flopped down against the pillow again, breathing raggedly which eventually turned into deep, infuriated sobs. John shot to his feet and reached out his hands to encase Sherlock's wrists but the Detective pulled away.

"Don't touch me," He snapped, his jaw stiffening in an attempt to calm. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his arm and sucked in his bottom lip tightly. John rested his hand on Sherlock's forearm, feeling his bristle, and smoothed his thumb and forth over the light dusting of dark-auburn hairs.

"See," John dared whisper and Sherlock's stormy eyes focused on him, wet and piercing. "I told you that you weren't fine, didn't I?" a small smile tugged the corner of his mouth and Sherlock's relaxation came in the form of him releasing his assaulted lip from between his tightly clamped teeth. "It's OK to be hurt and angry, Sherlock. I am! Everything's changed and it's shit. Don't pretend that it's not."

"But screaming and crying isn't going to change it, I need to be determined." Sherlock said stubbornly.

"Rest and acceptance is important, too." Mycroft's voice was a surprise to them both and was thick with emotion. "John's right, Sherlock – you need to grieve."

"For what?" He shook his head, curling his lip.

"For the way things were. Life is going to change, despite being confident or stubborn or focused on the future. Things are different, there are going to be difficulties; loads of things lie ahead that you're going to have to come to terms with and accept as the new norm. New ways of living, working, moving and just…being." John explained, "It's a huge loss and it is normal to grieve for that."

"But what's the point?" Sherlock shrugged, "Why mourn the changes in life? Life changes all the time, for everybody. It's just a body."

"No," John shook his head, "No it's not just a body, Sherlock. It's your body, your shell, your transport. And now it's different, it's not working the same anymore – everything has changed. And it's human to be hurt by that. You were hurt by somebody for no reason and to such an extent that you'll never be the same. I'm not saying you need to sit here and sob and let go, I'm just saying you need to let out your feelings and accept things, not just gloss over. That's the point, Sherlock." He sighed and looked at him deeply; the younger man's face slowly began to soften. "And at the risk of making your brother vomit, certain aspects of our relationship will change, too. It's OK, it's normal to be sad for that." His eyebrows rose up a moment as dawning spread across Sherlock's features.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said softly.

Shaking his head, John licked his lips, "Sorry for what?"

"Changing," he whispered.

"Oh, Sherlock," John locked his hands in the Detective's, "You have no reason to be sorry. What you've got to be, though, is realistic. This is going to be hard and you're going to feel different emotions. I need to know that you accept that, that you trust me enough to tell me when you're feeling hurt or angry and let me try to help?"

Watching them carefully, Mycroft took a deep breath in. He had never imagined that Sherlock, in all of his life, would ever be capable of loving somebody. Then again, he didn't bank on Sherlock ever meeting John Watson who, in his own unique way, was different to the rest of the world as much as Sherlock was. It wasn't just about sex – Mycroft had it on good authority that, for his brother, it wasn't about sex at all – it wasn't about being gay or being in a relationship in the conventional sense; Mycroft knew that for John and Sherlock it was about finding somebody who fit into the spaces in their lives as perfectly as if they were two pieces of the same puzzle. John was right for Sherlock in many ways and his ability to convince Sherlock that being human, at least sometimes, wasn't a crime was just one of the many brilliant things he brought to the young man's life. Mycroft trusted John with his delicate brother – the brother who'd never been socially acceptable but always, always been brilliant – and for him to feel that level of comfort with John was a task in itself.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 626