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The day filtered on and night fell swiftly across the hospital, making it quiet and dimly lit. The atmosphere felt somewhat different than the night before and John assumed it was because he was cloaked by les worry; in the space of twelve hours he'd seen Sherlock change from a sobbing child he'd emerged from his operation as to an almost perfect replica of himself. There were still kinks to iron out, he was still snappier than usual – if that was possible – and sighed a lot, but he was doing OK and John was doing OK too. Seeing a little more activity and colour in Sherlock made him feel that maybe, just maybe, they had enough fight between them to get through this and arrive on the other side in one piece.

Mycroft had left after Sherlock had been handed a cheese sandwich and a glass of orange juice by an orderly. He'd taken in with a forced smile and picked at the bread but had downed the juice, his throat in need of wetting from a day spent crying and vomiting. Mycroft had leaned over the bed and kissed Sherlock's head, walking away without a word and a tea in his eye. John pretended not to see and Sherlock pretended not to feel emotional to know that his brother loved him. But they both saw it, they were both fully aware and Mycroft knew it. The Ice Man he may be, but his brother was his brother and that was something nobody could interfere with, not even gunmen and certainly not spinal cord injuries.

John watched Sherlock fight the effects of his next round of pain killers for twenty minutes before giving in, falling deeply asleep on the bed, now lowered back and all supports removed, giving him a flat, comfortable posture, his lips bobbing softly as he sucked against his tongue contentedly, his body and mind relaxed with the aid of medication, but relaxed nonetheless. John watched him, endeared by the occasional twitches in his hands and wrinkling up of his nose, the soft sounds that escaped his mouth and tiny turns of his head as he dreamed. He watched until his eyes grew heavy and his limbs relaxed and, finally, just before midnight, he fell into an exhausted sleep, his entire being emotionally drained, his feet hooked under Sherlock's bed and stretched across the frame, his right hand acting as a pillow for his chin as his body sunk into the high-backed, soft-seated chair right beside Sherlock.

So deep was his sleep that it took a moment for the noises around him to waken him, penetrating slowly into his sleep-addled mind; a small, slushy whisper of his name. His eyes opened slowly and his hips arched up in a stretch as he came into wakefulness, his eyes landing on Sherlock's wide, grey-eyed stare focused on him with unblinking lashes. "Sherlock?" John's voice croaked as he stretched out his back.

"I woke up and couldn't fall asleep again." Sherlock's whisper was husky and low and John could hear the fogginess in his voice that came when his mind worked overdrive. "I'm not comfortable."

"Are you cold?" John sobered, realising Sherlock would need his assistance in finding better comfort. "Want another pillow?" he jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, "I could ask the Nurses." Sherlock shook his head.

"Lie with me," He asked, embarrassed of his want. His need. "Please?"

Pulling the chair closer to the bed, John checked behind him before he lowered the bar and then shuffled even further forwards, arching his back over to lie, somewhat uncomfortably, with his head against Sherlock's pillow, right beside the Detective's face.

"I meant up here." The bridge of Sherlock's nose crinkled.

"If I do that, they'll kick me out." John reasoned, "And if I catch your drain or the catheter, it could get messy." He grimaced comically, drawing a smirk to Sherlock's tired face. "But I promise, as soon as we're home I will lie right beside you for as long as you need me to." His face was so close to Sherlock's that they shared the same air. "Are you scared?" he asked carefully.

Slowly, Sherlock nodded, "A bit," he admitted, carefully.

"What scares you most?" John asked, seizing his opportunity to probe Sherlock's mind whilst he was pliant. Sherlock's shoulder twitched a little in a shrug. "OK, what things are scaring you at all?"

"Change," Sherlock's tongue darted across his lips. "That I'll be treated differently, that my body being different will change everything else." His eyes flicked across John's face, feline orbs searching for something.

"It will be different, for a while at least." John said, honestly. "People are going to be different – nobody knows how to treat people when they come in a different package to them, it can be a bit strange initially. Look at you and Sally Donovan, or Anderson." John reasoned, "People ridicule what they don't understand and so, until you make it clear that your only difference is that your legs don't work, people will be different. But it'll pass."

Sherlock swallowed, the bob of his Adam's apple drawing John's eyes to this throat before they returning to his mouth. "I don't want to leave Baker Street. It took me months of searching to find that place and…Mrs Hudson," he sighed and blinked twice, rapidly. "I'm in pain." Sherlock's brow creased.

"Where?" John asked, softly. "Your head?"

"No, here-," he reached down and placed his hand squarely against his chest, right over his heart. "It sort of feels like I'm going over a hill in the car; it's like a sinking feeling."

John's face wrinkled in sadness but he held it together well. He shuffled further forwards and reached out one hand, cupping it over Sherlock's cheek and turned his face back to him before placing his lips softly against Sherlock's. He held the touch for a moment before sitting back completely in the seat, working the kink from his back.

"Are you still going to kiss me like that when I'm half your height?" Sherlock asked with a flicker of sadness in his eyes.

"Maybe," John nodded. "I could get you back for every reference you've ever made toward me being short. We can't all be lanky planks like you." He wiggled his brows, despite the lump in his throat, and smiled. "You know, Mycroft's insistent on getting you the best of everything you need to live as normally as before." He crossed his ankles, "Just because your legs aren't working, doesn't mean you can't continue with most of what you were doing before. Supports can help you stand once you work up your back and core strength," John listed and Sherlock's eyes brightened immediately. "Oh yeah," John nodded, "You can get frames that will support you all round, kind of tighten around your hips and back to keep you supported and allow you to stand upright. Mycroft's actually insistent on those." He smirked.

"I need to know I can carry on with everything, though. Everything!" his eyes widened at John. "I want to be able to keep working for Lestrade, for Mycroft even. I don't want it to stop; I couldn't handle it if it all had to stop. I know moving around in a wheelchair is going to be a huge difference but I want to be who I was." He pushed one hand through his hair and lifted his head, lying back on his upturned palm, his fingers knotting in his curls the way he pretended he didn't like. "I feel like a child." He said suddenly after a silence. "That nurse, Emma," he said, looking at John with a tug to his lips, "She stripped me down and washed and dressed me. It was humiliating; I don't want to live like that!"

"You won't be." John insisted, "Your personal care will be just that – personal!" he sat forward again, resting his arms on the bed. "It'll take a bit of getting used to but you'll learn to read your body, learn to know when you've had enough activity or when you need more, learn to read your needs." He licked his lips, "It's a bit delicate, I know, but you'll learn to take control of your toileting. If you need to…go…" he gestured his hand, every inch the unprofessional and then sighed, "You're catheterised now so it's hard to really know, but if the sensations are there, if you can feel pressure in your bladder, you'll know when you need to catheterise yourself and it'll be fine. You'll do fine. All fine." He blundered. Sherlock grinned at his awkwardness. "And there are suppositories and pads for…everything else." he added. "Once you build up your strength and are sitting stronger, you'll be able to dress yourself with no problems. It'll take effort and determination and probably angry tears at the start, Sherlock, but it will get easier. It'll become normal."

Sherlock's cheeks pulled into a well-meaning but forced half-smile and John sighed, shuffling closer.

"Is that what you're scared of?" he asked "Being human in front of me? In front of others?" he fixed his eyes firmly on Sherlock's.

"Sort of, I suppose. I've always been able to ignore the shell and use my mind and now I'm going to have to be focusing some of my mind on my body and it's all different." He shrugged, "I don't want to fail."

"Fail at what?" John asked incredulously. "Sherlock, you're a fool, you know that? For all that you're smart, you're bloody stupid." He swatted the Detective's arm. "You can't fail at this. You're going to be fine; you're Sherlock Holmes for Christ's sake! You can do anything."

"Except come unscathed from a bullet in the back," Sherlock said, eyebrows suitably raised and voice sarcastic. "Two, in fact."

"This could have been so much worse." John said sternly, "I know that it doesn't feel like that because it's so raw, but it could have been infinitely worse. You could have died; there could have been enormous amounts of internal damage. But Sherlock nothing like that happened – your stomach, kidneys, liver, bladder – nothing was touched by a single bullet. It's not naïve to consider that in some respects you got off lightly." John was doing his best to rationalise what, at the moment, was completely irrational.

Sherlock huffed out a breath and drew his arm from behind his head, touching John's a moment before letting his hand rest lazily on his tummy, "I'm sorry," He whispered.

"You have no reasons at all to be sorry, Sherlock." John shook his head, a frown drawing his brows in sympathetically.

"Let me finish," Sherlock shook his head, his hair rustling against the pillow. "I'm sorry for taking away part of us." He said and scowled as John went to cut in again. "I don't want this to be over – us. I need you. I l…I love you and I need to know that you're going to stay. Because, if you can't, then you need to tell me now and I won't – I won't hold it against you. You're a physical person, John and if you don't think you can stay then-,"

"Stop it," John cut in sharply, "I am not leaving you because sex is going to be different, or intermittent or non-existent. I didn't fall in love with you for the sex, Sherlock. Stop it, stop this-," he waved his hands and rose to his feet, though he didn't know where he was going. "Pity doesn't suit you." He snapped.

"I'm not – I just want you to know that I wouldn't be angry with you if you decided that this isn't something you can do."

"I'm insulted," John turned back to Sherlock, "Mostly that you'd think I'm that fickle and that sex with you was that great that it defined our relationship. It's never been what we are, Sherlock – sex has never been the staple of our…union." A heavy silence fell and they stared at one another. Sherlock broke the tension with a snuffle before erupting into full, deep laughter that confused John to the point of despair; Sherlock was hysterical and he didn't know why. "What?" John frowned, "Sherlock what?"

Taking a deep breath, his hand on his contracting tummy, Sherlock exhaled through pursed lips and calmed himself slowly, a smirk lingering on his full lips. "God-," he sighed out, "And you said you're insulted!" he smiled again, "Sex with me wasn't that great?" He bit his lip as John's cheeks pinked.

"Oh, I didn't mean…"

"I know," Sherlock sobered, "I know what you meant and you know what I meant, too. I wasn't – I wouldn't blame you if you decided to cut your losses, I wasn't asking you to go I was just giving you the option."

"Please stop it," John edged closer to the bed again and returned to his seat, "You've been on drugs, you're exhausted, in shock, you've probably got concussion – if you were of sound mind you'd know that the words that just came out of your mouth are ridiculous."

"So is walking to a crime scene and waking up the next day paralysed." Sherlock snipped.

"So is being too cynical for your own good." John's response came with an equally sharp tongue. "Don't start feeling sorry for yourself and don't pretend that this isn't a bad thing – accept that it's awful and fight for something normal. And don't assume that I'm running off with the next person to walk by, because more than likely it'll be a nurse or your brother. Or Lestrade and none of them are the kind of thing I'm into." He added humour again but the seriousness was conveyed. "I'm not leaving you because something has changed, not now and not ten years down the line, Sherlock. I'm here for every step and stumble," he prodded Sherlock's tummy, "And I'll be here if you decide to return to work or that you don't want to; I'm here to support and love you, to listen even if it's only to listen to you shout and scream because you're frustrated and tired. I'm sticking around and I know right now it sounds like some corny line out of Love Actually or something, but I mean it; I love you Sherlock."

"I love you." Sherlock spoke the words on full lips more easily than ever before; they tumbled without stammer or hesitation, without falter or stumble and they warmed John's heart and instilled faith – hope – deep inside that no matter what came next they could tackle it together.

My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 548