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The brothers fell into a perfect silence. Mycroft's foot tapped the minutes in the air and Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, his cheeks still a little red and eyes still a little glossy with the tears he'd been forced to stem on Mycroft's arrival. Mycroft didn't do tears, he never had. It was like this that John found them, ten minutes tapped by Mycroft's foot later, when he returned to the room smelling of fresh air with cheeks pinked from the cool, winter air that was blowing a light wind beyond the walls of the hospital where life was still somewhere close to normal.

"Oh," he stumbled to a stop, realising Mycroft's presence by the back of his head being just visible over the chair. "Mycroft, hi,"

"Good morning, John." Mycroft rose to his feet and graciously shook John's hand. The surprise at Mycroft's appearance was evident on John's face. "I trust that some fresh air did you good?"

"Yes," John nodded, slowly walking to the chair in the corner of the room. He shuffled it closer toward the bottom of the left side of Sherlock's bed. "It cleared the cobwebs a little." He smiled.

"Good," Mycroft smiled, mostly sincerely though it touched on sarcastic. "That's good."

"I spoke to Greg Lestrade, actually," John stated, trying to make himself feel a bit more comfortable in the seat as both sets of sharp, Holmesian eyes settled on him. "Just called him whilst I was loitering outside, just to see if there was y'know…anything new,"

"There won't be." Sherlock said; his head lulled to the side again but this time to face John rather than his brother.

"No," John sighed, somewhat sadly. "No, there isn't but he sends his best wishes."

"I'm sure he does. Did he film me on his phone or just take pictures to post around the office? I bet he loved it, I bet that Sally was in hysterics as the bullets hit." Sherlock scathed, hands twisting in his lap.

"No, Sherlock." John tutted, "Both of them aren't exactly my favourite people, but they're doing their best on this case. They were sincere when they came here yesterday, asking how you were. They're both offering up their time." He held out his hands, offering the metaphorical gauntlet to Sherlock.

"What name do they have on the case then? Who Shot the Freak?" he reeled off bad-temperedly. "Freak's Gunman? I bet there's a reward for the person who owns up."

"You're being ridiculous." John sighed, knowing he had to ignore the harshness.

"No, you're being ridiculous." Sherlock snapped back, "We didn't even know who was involved in the crime we were investigating in the first place therefore the likelihood of actually knowing whom the gunman is or being able to track them is slim to none. Use your head, John, for God sakes." Sherlock lifted his head forwards before slamming it back onto the mattress with a dramatic groan. "Oh, God – I'm going insane! Get me out of here!"

John reached out his hand gently, touching Sherlock's ankle and smoothed his thumb lovingly before he realised what he was doing. His fingers stilled, Sherlock's eyes watching the digit and then rolled up to look at John. Looking mortified, John snapped back his hand and took a deep breath. Somewhere in him, Sherlock found humility.

"Bit higher," he mumbled softly, "Think hips, not ankles and then I'll be able to tell you that it's nice when you touch me." John looked up at him, tears threatening, and dragged his lips into a wet smile and Sherlock's expression matched perfectly. In silence, they told one another that it was OK; no matter how much they snapped and jibed or made mistakes, it was all going to be OK. It wasn't, not for a while, but believing it was better than nothing.

It was mid-afternoon before Doctor Webber made an appearance. Mycroft stayed silent about the state in which he'd found his brother earlier that morning, even as Sherlock insisted to the doctor that he was feeling fine, strong and really didn't need to be here at all. Thankfully for Sherlock, the doctor seemed to agree. The drain in Sherlock's thigh was removed and the wound closed with a couple of stiches before being dressed. The procedure had fascinated the small boy – and scientific adult – in Sherlock as he watched, feeling neither pain nor tug, as needles and thread were dragged through his slim thigh, closing over the incision. He was going to have a scar there, and a sizable but neat one, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Once they had him washed, changed and comfortable, Sherlock was moved to a more permanent and somewhat busier area of the hospital. He was given as much privacy as possible, placed in a room with two other occupants and the ability to draw the curtains around, but the closeness of others had set his mood back to bitchy and emotional. All the while, Mycroft remained vigilant over his brother. He excused John for coffee, to make calls or take breaks, and 'Sherlock sat' by himself. John's times away from Sherlock were always brief and as much as an emotionally irritated and exhausted Sherlock loved to see him leave, he felt so much better when he came back.

Mycroft stayed into the night, tired but never showing it, watching as his brother fought the effects of drugs and his body's exhaustion to the very last, only giving into sleep after an hour of refusing he was even remotely tired. And still Mycroft stayed, watching the time slip from one day to the next. He talked with John in hushed whispers about the things he'd found on the internet that might be of use to Sherlock, of the benefits of hydrotherapy and of anything that came into his mind that would stop him from telling John the one thing he knew the Doctor deserved to know. And he almost made it, he almost managed not to break Sherlock's promise, but he couldn't keep it from John much longer. Glancing at Sherlock's sleeping form; he licked his lips in plebeian manner and crossed his legs the opposite way, facing John across the bed where their chairs were positioned, a mirror image on each side of the bed. "He was quite upset when I arrived this morning," he broke what had become a peaceful, sleep-hushed silence.

John's eyes scanned Mycroft's face in the dim light of the lamp attached to the wall, turned on but away from their faces, illuminating them enough to without overpowering the darkness. "We had words a bit. Sort of," he admitted numbly.

"He was upset with himself." Mycroft clarified. "As I stepped into the room, he was sitting up, gripping the bars pulled up at the bedside, crying like a small child. He was crying because he couldn't move himself – he had manoeuvred his back straight and yet, whatever else he had endeavoured to do, he couldn't and he sobbed. Not just tears of sadness but big sobs of frustration, just like a child. He is frightened and frustrated, John and he doesn't know how to deal with those emotions. He is not accustomed to them. He is independent and self-sufficient and now all of that is changing and it is frightening him."

John's face stretched down in horror, in guilt and he rubbed his hands against his temples, "I shouldn't have left."

"On the contrary, you should. It is right that you did. It pushed him to realise that he has limitations, it brought home in actions what the words mean." Mycroft gave something by way of consolation.

"Was he OK with the nurses, when they're busy they can be a little less pliant to his mood I just hope they were mindful of him." John asked.

"There were no nurses, only Sherlock and I." Mycroft held out both hands, elbows on the armrests of the chair. "I touched my brother in a way I haven't since he was small. I wrapped my arms around his back and knees and I laid him into bed the way I used to when we were children. He was tormented by insomnia as a child, much as he is now," Mycroft's face softened with nostalgia. "He'd pace and stomp about, tugging at his hair, driven mad by the noise in is head and then, usually an hour or so before sunrise, he would flop to the floor as though he were going to convulse or fall gracefully to my bed with a groan and just sleep – he would just fall so suddenly and deeply asleep." He breathed out heavily through his nose. "I see the same, confused vulnerability in his now, John and I need to know that you are going to stay with him – by all means take a breath but please commit to him. Don't take his verbal attacks to heart and don't leave him. I don't think he has the ability to do this without you."

"I'm not leaving him." John's voice stuck; his throat raw with emotion. "I'm not. I won't."

Without another word, Mycroft got to his feet and pulled his coat up from where it was thrown over the back of the chair and slipped it on. He nodded a goodbye at John, remaining silent, and glanced on Sherlock's sleeping form before he turned and walked quietly away, his shoes barely clipping against the floor. John watched him disappear out of the room, following him with his eyes. Rubbing his face with both hands as he disappeared from view completely, John let out a sigh. Mycroft was finally showing how rattled he was by this and it only made John even more determined to be strong for Sherlock.

From there, the week seemed to merge into itself; Sherlock would have periods of rollercoaster emotions, feeling strong and able one moment before crashing into a dip of anger and frustration the next. He hated the ward and then preferred it; he felt exposed in the gowns up restricted in his pyjamas; he hated the staff and then they were tolerable. At one point, he hated John but it lasted mere seconds before he was demanding assistance to move from the bed to the chair at the bedside. The nurses, though usually insistent upon being there to assist with such tasks, were just glad to see Sherlock do something that they allowed John to take the lead, watching at a distance just in case. And John, God love him, took it all in his stride. He watched Sherlock go from strength to strength both mentally and physically, working painfully hard to keep his back straight, even as it began to ache deeply, doing all he could to minimise the amount of time he'd be kept in hospital.

John was proud of him, but he didn't say for fear that Sherlock would snap him in two for being patronising. But he saw a change in him quickly, a steely determination to be better and stronger, as did Lestrade when he visited, but Mycroft didn't come back again. Sherlock didn't mention it at all and John didn't bring it up with him, but the doctor had begun to wonder if Mycroft's resolve had cracked completely. It was when Wednesday arrived; marking Sherlock's full week in hospital, that Mycroft finally reappeared. Dressed once again in a full suit, he strolled into the ward at force with Lestrade and Donovan at his heel. John and Sherlock exchanged worried glances, their brows knitting together in frowns, as the three stood – the unlikely trio – at the foot of Sherlock's bed.

"What?" Sherlock's frown deepened, ignoring Sally's presence. "You've just stormed in here like the Mafia so it's clearly not something favourable." He added, catching Greg's expression. "So spit it out, I'm not a five-year-old."

"We've got a lead," Greg sighed, hands on his hips, pushing back his grey suit jacket. "It's nothing concrete but we're following it up. The flat in Northumberland Street was dusted; there haven't been squatters in there but they've found clear fingerprints by the door into the bathroom and the window that overlooked the street."

"That's good, isn't it?" John sat forwards in his chair, hands occupied with a pen and paper. He and Sherlock had been preparing a list – mostly out of boredom – of places they could look for suitable accommodation. It had been a strange conversation, consisting mostly of jokey responses to suggestions of 'moving Mrs Hudson with them' but it was mostly fruitless. "If it's at the window then that's – I mean, it could be whoever fired the shots."

"That's what we're thinking but so far there have been no matches in the database," Greg licked his lips, "So we know for certain that whoever's been in there isn't already a known criminal, not in the UK at least."

Sherlock's shoulders dropped, "That's narrowed it down then, hasn't it?" he shook his head slightly, resting back against the bed. He had managed, before then, a full hour sitting upright with only the support of a pillow against his lower back to push him up slightly and support his weight. It seemed as though all strength and determination drained form him with the small amount of hope being dangled in his face and then whipped away again by their not-so-bad-but-not-particularly-great news.

"We're not giving up." Sally pitched in, aiming her words at John with a firm but honest stare.

"Well we can rest assured then, can't we? Sally Donovan is on the case." Sherlock's face dripped with as much sarcasm as his tone.

"Sherlock," Mycroft groaned at his brother, eyes rolling.

"No," Sherlock shook his head, "Don't shush me. Why bother coming here with something as pointless and useless as that? What can I do with that information other than delete it the moment you leave? Oh we have a lead but actually we don't. And the only reason you're here is to gawp," he pointed at Sally.

"It's not like that, Sherlock, and you know it." Mycroft stepped forward one step.

"Do I?" he tilted his head, "She hates me. And, quite frankly, I'm not overly fond of her. So when you're quite finished lying to me and you've had enough of staring, you can turn around and leave the same way you entered."

"Sherlock," John reached out one hand, used the outbursts now but still always a little burned by them. He touched his hand against Sherlock's arm gently but was quickly shrugged away.

"Take a photograph if you like, bring it back to the Yard, I'm sure they'd all love it." Sherlock's jaw tightened.

"Whatever, Freak." Sally turned, eyes rolling, her heels clicking against the floor as she began to walk away, stopping only when Greg called out to her.

"Donovan." His voice was low and firm. "Look," he turned back to look at Sherlock, "We came to tell you because I thought you would like to know, to keep up with the case, to be informed. That is all; call it a gesture of good faith that we're doing what we can."

"Thanks, Greg," John spoke up as Sherlock's lips formed a pout. "I know it's not easy and it means a lot that you're doing this. He's grateful, we both are."

"I can talk for myself," Sherlock snapped into John's face, a deep wrinkle in the bridge of his nose creasing his entire face.

"Then do it, and politely, or I'll see about a cold water enema." John leaned back in the chair, the words delivered and received in jest, making colour rise in Greg and Sherlock's cheeks.

Sighing, Sherlock looked back up at Greg and, in a sickly voice, thanked him. "Th-thank you," He stumbled over the word slightly, ignoring the rise of Sally's eyebrows as she stood level with Lestrade again. Mycroft's aura radiated smugness.

Greg and Sally excused themselves almost immediately, but Mycroft lingered at the bedside. As the officers moved out of earshot, disappearing down the corridor, he lowered himself into the empty chair beside the head of the bed, the seat of which had been raised by a pressure cushion which immediately informed Mycroft that Sherlock had, at least for a while, been sitting there. He allowed himself a brief flutter of joy in his heart and stomach, but his face remained flat.

"Do you think you can start exercising your Governmental rights, yet?" Sherlock asked, his eyes were on John's pad of paper but the words were aimed at Mycroft. He looked up, a little sadness in his gaze but almost fully masked by annoyance and generally being fed up of being catered to. "I've had enough, I need to go home."

"Are you in a fit state?" Mycroft's tone was oily and rich. Normal.

Sherlock didn't reply but John, rather to Mycroft's surprise, seemed to be on the same page as Sherlock. "In fairness, he's not going to be any worse off if he does go home. They'll have him back most days for an hour or so of physio, he'll have urology appointments and occupational health will be in to ensure everything's in working order. It just – it depends on if," Sherlock blushed and Mycroft knew what it was that he didn't want to say. John had pride and accepting Mycroft's offer of help had, though it was welcomed and appreciated, served to dent that pride a little.

"There are two houses in central London, quite close to Baker Street and the surgery to allow you to continue to work," Mycroft looked at John, "Both of which have been previously lived in by disabled individuals and therefore had been made accessible. The first is a three storey house with a loft conversion; the basement and first floor have been amended for easy access, the upper floor and attic remain as normal. The other is a flat a little further across town but still central; it is a little older but it provides what is needed. I am assured both meet your specific needs and both are competitively priced." He explained, almost without taking a breath.

"How much?" John asked, "A month I mean, how much? I need to know that my wage is going to cover the rent."

"They're for purchase, Doctor Watson, not rental properties. All you and my brother need to do is give me the nod in the direction which you wish to go and I will take care of it." He steepled his fingers beneath his chin and Sherlock eyed him curiously.

"No, see when you said help – I didn't, I mean, I'm not expecting you to buy us a house. I just-," John's words fumbled as his brain swam with gratitude and embarrassment in the same go.

"You're far from naïve, Doctor Watson. Sherlock and I are from a family who were never without what it was we needed at any given time." Mycroft began and John heard Sherlock draw in a breath. "There is a sum of money allocated for whichever property you choose. If you like, I can make the choice for you. It will be ready, your belongings moved in from Baker Street, whilst you both focus your attentions where they are needed more pressingly." He rose to his feet, "If I were you, I would take the house in the city. Yes?"

John and Sherlock met in a glance and all John could do was shrug, wordlessly giving Sherlock the casting vote. Looking up at his brother, his tongue darting across his pink lips, Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"Consider it done, little brother." Mycroft gave a courteous nod, eyes down on Sherlock. "I'll see to it that all suitable equipment is also in the house and have the keys with you as soon as possible. The moment you are aware when you will be discharged, contact me; I will send car. Keep up the good work, Sherlock…" Mycroft threw over his shoulder as he walked away, his voice as silky and slick with sarcasm as ever yet completely genuine. He meant his words wholeheartedly.

In the silence that followed, John's mind rushed with the possibilities and changes that lay ahead. They were moving into a home they hadn't seen, one fully set up for Sherlock's new needs; they were leaving Baker Street; Sherlock was getting stronger by the hour and life was changing by the minute. It was a rollercoaster of fear and anxiety, excitement and amazement that made him nauseous and dizzy and utterly lost but uncertainly happy.

"I feel odd." He spoke up.

"Good kind of odd?" Sherlock asked, hands pushed firmly into the mattress as he hoisted himself up a little, straightening his back up. Instinctively, John read up to reposition the cushion that had been squished when he sat back and ensure it was stuffed down enough to boost Sherlock's back forwards and maintain support.

"I'm not sure," John replied on a sigh, eyes up to Sherlock. He placed down the notepad and pen and licked his lips, "We're leaving Baker Street." he said, unsure if it were a question or a statement.

"It's a bit…strange," Sherlock admitted, face contorting a little at the pulling pain between his shoulders as he fought to maintain his balance and straight back.

"Are you alright," John asked carefully, not wanting to coddle him but desperate to help.

Sherlock nodded, "I'm – it's," he searched for the words lost in his mind, "I just need to leave here, anywhere is better than here."

John nodded with a slow blink, understanding the sentiment. He'd barely been back to Baker Street since Sherlock had been admitted, merely nipping back for an hour at the most whilst Greg had stayed with Sherlock. He hadn't even seen Mrs Hudson but knew that every couple of days, she had been sending food via Greg to give to them. She'd miss them as much as they'd miss her.

"I want my normal life back," Sherlock sighed, "We need to try and form something normal out of this," he held his arms out a moment at his expanse and then slapped his fists into his thighs. He did that a lot, John and noted, especially when frustrated. He had a suspicion it was to test if he could feel it, knowing that Sherlock would spend the rest of his life wondering if the sensations would come back. "Work, normal life, sharing a bed," he quirked his mouth at John, "So what, it's not Baker Street? It's not here. If I don't get out, if I don't start getting normality, I'm going to rot." The openness of his words struck John deeply. "I need my life back."

John rose to his feet, his back curved as he leaned across the low bed to kiss Sherlock's temple, "I know, we'll get it, really soon." he let his hand linger on the back of Sherlock's head a moment, resting in his curls, before he straightened with a low groan at the protestations of his muscles. "I'm just nipping to the loo; I'll be back in a minute." Sherlock nodded and watched John walk with confidence from the ward, smiling as he passed staff and patients and disappeared out into the corridor with a sad sort of smile half-pulling at his full lips.

Thank you once again for your patience. Sorry it's taken longer to get this chapter up, I was sick and didn't feel like concentrating much on it with all the proof-reading it takes, but here it is! We're getting there - I'm quicker at the moment with the rewriting so I HOPE (can't promise, but I HOPE) to have all of the rewriting done in the next two weeks and then I can begin posting the NEW chapters!

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: 482