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It all seemed to happen quickly from then; too quickly in some respects and not quickly enough in others. By Friday, mid-way through a second week in hospital, Sherlock was released and signed up to numerous outpatient clinics and programmes which would see him returning to the hospital for intense physio and counselling sessions that were designed not only to ensure he got the best care, but to break up the monotony of being home, giving him something to focus on and set goals toward. Sherlock was both enthralled by the idea of leaving and terrified. They still hadn't seen the new house, not even John on his own, and they were both excited about it whilst still battling the apprehensions they held about its suitability or whether they'd be OK on their own, without the back-up of nurses ensuring them that things were being done right. John had never felt more out of his depth caring for somebody who needed him as a Doctor, finding it hard to keep his medical mind rational above his loving feelings for Sherlock.

Sitting on the edge of Sherlock's bed, now made but for the dents where they sat, John kept his arm around Sherlock's back by way of support, ensuring he offered enough but didn't overpower. He could make out the waistband of the incontinence pants beneath Sherlock's loose bottoms and it made his heart beat fast. It had been Sherlock's choice, his option for now at least – until he got to grips with other methods. Beside them sat their overnight bag and another filled with Sherlock's personal care supplies gearing them up for the first month at home before they accessed what they needed through the pharmacist. Sherlock's hospital issue wheelchair sat unfolded and ready at the foot of the bed, looming beside them. It was daunting and neither of them knew what to say, sitting side by side in perfect silence as they waited for Mycroft.

John's feet were firmly against the floor, his knees bouncing with nerves whilst Sherlock's knees lead sideways, his ankles together and twisted, numb and nursing his writhing hands on his thighs, long fingers twitching and twisting nervously. Reaching out his free hand, John closed his fingers around Sherlock's fidgeting appendages and looked him softly in the eyes when he eventually raised his head. "Nervous?" he asked in a low tone.

"No," Sherlock lied.

"Me too," John said through a breath that stretched his ribcage wide. "It's going to be fine, we're ready. You're ready."

Sherlock breathed heavily twice before twisting his head uncomfortably to look over his shoulder, almost butting into John's forehead with the back of his skull, "Where's Mycroft, what's taking him so bloody long?"

"He'll be here – just relax." John said, calmly.

"Don't tell me to relax. I'm fine, OK? I'm fine." Sherlock's snap was born out of nervous, John knew, but it still stung a little. Had Sherlock truly been fine then John would have been able to move his arm from around his back and know that he had the confidence to trust his own strength to hold his back up straight, as it stood he didn't dare risk moving his arm at all, aware of how much Sherlock had leaned back to rest on him.

"OK," John replied simply, willing himself not to take things personally.

Timing as impeccable as ever, Mycroft turned into the ward at that point, walking purposefully toward his brother and John. His steps were quick but controlled and Sherlock threw his head over his shoulder to him as he came to a stop at the end of the bed. "Sherlock, John…" he spoke in a low voice. He was nervous too, Sherlock knew it instantly.

Putting his arm around Sherlock's waist, John turned awkwardly, removing the hand from around Sherlock's back, and greeted Mycroft with an even smile. "Afternoon," he said cheerfully, his cheeks pushing up.

"Are the papers dealt with?" Mycroft asked, "Signed out and everything in order."

"About an hour ago," John nodded, thankful for the sake of his neck when Mycroft came around the bed and he didn't have to strain to see him.

"Then you're ready to leave now, as is?" Mycroft asked bluntly, clinically, his hands encased in leather gloves indicating to John that the weather outside was less than favourable.

John nodded."The nurse will have to walk to the car with us; procedure. Kind of the same with new mothers and their babies; safety, I guess." John explained, moving his hand up to Sherlock's shoulder as he rose to his feet. He turned his attention to Sherlock, "Want to try this yourself or do you want my help?" He gestured with his free hand toward the wheelchair.

"I can do it." Sherlock's voice was small in sound but harsh in tone, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the mattress and grunted as he shuffled his body forwards slightly.

"Mycroft, could you…" John waved his hand, "Can…can you just push it over." He said, drinking in the awkwardness oozing from the elder Holmes. Nervously, Mycroft gripped the handles on the back of the chair, edging it toward John uneasily. "Thanks," the doctor smiled insincerely, his mind occupied on supporting Sherlock, and pulled the chair closer to the bed. He locked the brakes down over the large back wheels and then placed his hand on the armrest for extra stability, stopping it moving one inch. "There you go…" he said calmly and quietly to Sherlock, his mouth in line with his ear.

Sherlock inhaled heavily through his nose and bore all his weight on his arms as he moved across the bed a couple of inches. The action made his face hot, his cheeks flushing, his frustration building with tears in his eyes and an angry headache that tensed his temples. The effort was angering and tiring, his arms supporting him to move slowly across the mattress, dragging his unmoving legs.

"That's it…" John coaxed carefully, "Just reach over, take hold of the armrest," Taking another shaky breath, Sherlock reached out a trembling hand, fearful of his balance, and hooked his fingers quickly around the padded bar. He let out a steady puff of air at the achievement. "That's it," John smiled, eyes misty, "You're doing fine."

"I'm not a baby!" Sherlock snapped; face and neck reddened under the effort, under the humiliation he felt at his feeble attempts at something so easy before.

John didn't say another word, didn't take the bite to heart, and simple exhaled loudly through his nose as Sherlock's back lost strength, wobbling his frame slightly, before he focused harder than before. He was going to complete this on his own, no matter what. No matter what.

Mycroft's face was sickly pale, his stomach clenched and his heart pounding as he watched but didn't want to, witnessing the red-faced effort of his brother to do something as simple as move a foot of distance from a bed to a chair. He felt sick, the horrible acid feeling rising in his throat. He wasn't sure if it were nostalgia and nightmares or the thick realisation in the starkest of ways that Sherlock's body really was beyond repair.

Sherlock stilled a moment, getting his breath back, his arms trembling as he reached for the other armrest, pulling his body awkwardly into the seat with a heave, his cheeks crimson and his back dripping with sweat. His breath escaped him in ragged puffs as he pulled himself awkwardly into a more comfortable position, finally seated in the wheelchair.

His eyes glassed as he looked at John, crouched before him. "It's good," John nodded as he raised Sherlock's legs onto the foot rests. "It's really good." He assured. He rested both hands on Sherlock's shoulders and pressed their foreheads together in a brief moment of publicly displayed affection before he rose to his feet, ignoring the tears in his own eyes and the look on Mycroft's face, aware that he looked like he was about to topple to the floor. "Stay with him," John said in something halfway between a request and an order, "I'll fetch the nurse."

Mycroft replied to John with a wordless nod as he walked on, a march in his posture echoing the determination on his face. Stiffening himself, Mycroft placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder but was hastily rejected as Sherlock twisted his waist and arched his back until the hand was removed. It was Mycroft's way of telling Sherlock this was hurting him too without having to admit it and his brother hadn't wanted to hear it, too stuck in his own pain and embarrassment, his own hurt mind; he didn't need Mycroft's too.

Mycroft pulled his hands back to his sides and straightened his back, willing himself to reposition his mask and hide his true feelings. He turned his back on Sherlock and faced in the direction John had gone, awaiting his return with his hands clasped behind his back and his legs trembling in anticipation of what was to come, in fear of the reality of Sherlock's future, and raised his jaw lightly, keeping his calm.

John couldn't return quickly enough and Mycroft almost sighed as he did, a tall, slim female Nurse at his side with a wide, bright-eyed smile and auburn hair dragged back in a bun. Her tunic was half hidden beneath a navy cardigan and she came to a stop at the end of the bed, watching as Sherlock carefully and amateurishly gripped the large wheels of the chair and pulled back in an attempt to turn himself around to face John and the Nurse. It took a few moments, and more than one bump of the chair against the bed, but he managed it without assistant and locked his brimming eyes on John with a final gasp of relief.

"All set?" the nurse gave a bright smile, her arms once folded under her bust now separated as she toyed with her fingers before stepping forwards after awaiting Sherlock's nod of approval. She nodded back and stepped between Mycroft and Sherlock to grip the handles on the back of the chair. "Just mind your hands," She reminded Sherlock as he folded them into his lap obediently. "OK?" she looked up to John.

"Bags," John reminded himself out loud, and leaned over the bed clumsily for the two backpacks. "OK," he nodded, exhaling uncertainly. "All set, I think."

"Let's get you on the move then," She smiled softly and touched against Sherlock's shoulder before beginning to walk. She neglected to notice the stiffening of Sherlock's body at the touch, but John and Mycroft saw it clearly and exchanged, rather habitually, a look of agony and shared exhaustion.

Their walk was near silent, broken only by the Nurse – Kate – enquiring of Sherlock's first appointments at the outpatient clinic, who his physiotherapist was and where it was they were moving to. All the questions had been aimed at Sherlock and answered, carefully, by John as the younger of the three men sat rigidly, eyes forward and smouldering, teeth worrying his lower lip and mind – no doubt – turning over and over at just how different the reality of going home was against the need and the idea. The lift ride to the ground floor of the hospital was excruciatingly quiet, the awkwardness and tension in the air giving John a pounding headache he wished would shift the moment it settled into the side of his skull. He held tightly to both bags in one hand and exhaled the brief wave of uncertainty-induced nausea as it wobbled from his knees to his creased forehead in succession.

"Right…" Kate said with ease and gentle tone, guiding the wheelchair effortlessly through the doorway of the lift and into the main foyer of the hospital. Sherlock closed his eyes, able to feel the fresh air as the automatic, twisting doors swung back and forth ten feet away as patients, visitors and staff stepped in and out of them. "Cab, car or bus?" she asked, their pace quickening a little as they reached the revolving door.

"Car," Mycroft broke in. "It should be parked in the disabled access just to the side of the entrance." He said with his hands in his pockets as they stepped in through the door and out into the cool, early-winter air. Sherlock's sigh of the fresh, cold air was audible to all and cathartic to his rushing mind.

Sure enough, Mycroft's car was parked at the side of the hospital in the designated disabled spots. Kate walked toward it, Mycroft now leading, and pushed the breaks onto the back wheels of the chair as she halted at the side of the dip in the pavement. "Access inside or…"

"No," John stepped in, "Chair in the boot, I'll lift him in." At that point, Mycroft's driver stepped out of the car, every inch the professional man's chuffer in his suit and hat, and took the bags from John's hands to place into the boot of the car. John readied himself under Kate's watchful eye, hoisting up his jeans and fixing his laces before turning to Sherlock, breathing out heavily. "OK? Ready?" he checked.

Silently, his face like thunder, Sherlock nodded. John's nod was brief and authoritative as he stepped forwards, taking Sherlock's right arm, and wrapped it over his neck as he placed his own arm around Sherlock's back. He scooped Sherlock's knees effortlessly – thankful now more than ever for his slim frame – and with a small huff of breath, hoisted Sherlock up into his arms. Mycroft had the door to the back of the grand, stretched car already open and watched with a breath hitched in his chest as John struggled very slightly, his chin drawn down, to manoeuvre Sherlock into the backseat without clanging his head off of the surround of the car.

It took a moment, and a slight readjustment of Sherlock's knees, but John managed to shuffle himself half into the car and placed Sherlock gently into the seat, giving him the ability once inside to pull himself into a more comfortable position. "You can do your belt alright?" John asked as smoothly as he could, able to feel Sherlock's mood radiating through his skin. A nod was his only response and John tried to keep his temper even, trying to be compassionate; he licked his lips and stepped back out of the car. "Of course, once we have our own car I can just position the chair closer to the passenger's seat and he can scoot across." He smiled at Kate, watching Mycroft's driver fold and push the wheelchair into the small boot space without an issue.

Kate returned his smile warmly, "Good luck," She said, reaching out with a soft hand and touched John's forearm. She crouched at the waist and peered inside the open car of the door. "Best of luck, Sherlock," She called inside, not once showing on her face is she was offended when her sentiments went ignored. Straightening back up, she offered a wave with clasping fingers as Mycroft climbed into the car and John followed. Mycroft knocked twice on the divide of the car and it rolled away smoothly.

The silence remained heavy and all-encompassing in the car. Sherlock sat with his back awkward and his knees knocked and turned to the right, with his head resting against the blacked out window beside him. His right hand gripped the door handle whilst his left held tightly to his seatbelt. He looked small, broken and afraid from toes to neck whilst his face set firm in an angry, scornful expression. Mycroft sat proper and silent, his eyes dead ahead, ignoring those around him but not really; he read every movement, every breath and every thought as clearly as if they were shouted into his face.

The awkward silence was torture for John, almost as harsh as the anticipation of home, and he fidgeted and tutted at his own discomfort for the full twenty-minute journey to their new home. John recognised the area immediately as Lisson Grove as the car pulled up to a stop and Mycroft freed himself from the tense atmosphere inside the car, stepping out onto the street. John shuffled out next, checking that the driver had Sherlock's chair out before he peered back into the car.

"Ready for this?" he said calmly and as smoothly as he could, hushing his voice to keep it just for Sherlock. Sherlock took a deep breath and John heard it shudder in his chest. Looking up with wet eyes, tears refusing to fall, Sherlock nodded wordlessly and unbuckled his belt. "You've got to talk to me, tell me when you need my help and when you don't, you know? I don't want to mither you but I want to help you when you need it instead of seeing you struggle. Don't take this the wrong way, right?" John frowned in expectation. "Can you slide yourself down this end of the car without help or…?"

"I can do it," Sherlock swallowed, his voice sounding sore as it escaped from his throat. He'd been silent and emotional for far too long.

John nodded, edging out a sigh of relief. "OK, good." He straightened up, reaching for the chair that had been placed at his side, and ensured the brakes were on as he waited for Sherlock to be within easy reach. "Do you want me to help you out or do you want to try scooting over yourself?"

Sherlock looked up, fingers tight on the ends of the seat, and blinked at John. He took two deep breaths, whistling through his nose. "Help me." He barely whispered the two small but ultimately huge words past his full lips.

John's throat constricted, "Of course." He positioned the chair in the easiest way he could before crouching and reaching into the car, smiling wetly at Sherlock as he embraced him with both arms as he had done back at the hospital and carefully, with a deep sigh, hoisted him up and out of the car, placing him with a shake to his arm down into the wheelchair. He let out a sigh, more out of relief that Sherlock hadn't been bruised in the process than of losing the weight at lifting him.

Sherlock sniffed twice and glanced around. "Wait…" he frowned and looked up to Mycroft, John just out of view as he retrieved the bags out of the back of the car. "All of these houses have steps up to them."

Mycroft shook his head and pointed a short way down the street, "Yes, but as I said before, the house had changes made to it for a previous occupant who was wheelchair bound. There are steps up to your house, too, but there is also a working lift." Mycroft clasped his hand behind his back and looked upon Sherlock as though the boy had lost his mind not to have considered this himself.

"Great…" Sherlock spat, "So there's a big neon sign on our front door saying a cripple lives here." He jutted his lower jaw harshly and closed his eyes as a breeze blew his curls across his forehead.

"No Sherlock, not neon." Mycroft replied petulantly, not voicing how good it was to hear the complaints rather than the buzzing silence.

John appeared between the two of them and reached down, hooking the two bags conveniently over the back of Sherlock's chair. "Manage yourself?" he asked quietly, waiting for Sherlock to snap or jibe with a ready expression of indifference painted on his face for disguise.

"Yeah," Sherlock nodded; his voice equally as quiet as John's when he reached to the sides of him and unlatched the brakes. Mycroft led on, two steps in front whilst John lingered close to the back of Sherlock encase he struggled to move himself. But if the effort was painful, Sherlock refused to show it as he manoeuvred himself at a steady pace behind his brother. The only sign that Sherlock was working was the slightly increased rate of his breathing, otherwise John found himself in awe at the ease with which Sherlock was moving.

Mycroft came to a halt outside of the house that was now his brother and John's. It's black, Georgian style front door was adorned with a large knocker and, just as Mycroft had explained, was led up to by a short path and four stone steps and beside that, built up onto something of an extended front-patio, was a working lift that was designed to hold one wheelchair, bringing it easily from the path up level to the small parapet that made it easy to then reach the front door which was easily accessed by a ramp.

"See," Sherlock hissed, clamping down the breaks as the three of them stood in wait in the street, just staring at the house, "Neon sign!"

"What? What do you mean, neon sign?" John's brow furrowed.

"That-," Sherlock gestured, "…bloody monstrosity!"

"It's a lift, Sherlock. Not sure about you doing it yourself, but I'm pretty certain that I'm not up for bouncing this bloody thing up the steps." John clapped his hand onto the arm rest beside Sherlock's elbow. "It's great Mycroft," John turned his voice softer and a little more subdued. "Thank you."

"Inside is equally as equipped, don't be shy," Mycroft stepped into the street-level gate and held it open with an air of awkwardness as, with a little difficulty and a lot of profanities, Sherlock guided the chair through the gate, grazing the foot rests on more than one occasion but doing it alone, something he was determined to do and something which sat light in John's heart.

"How does it work?" Sherlock asked, nodding to the lift as John came up behind him.

"A simple key," Mycroft reached into his pocket and handed a small, silver key over to Sherlock and another to John. "The doors are opened by the key on the outside, manoeuvre the chair in and the doors lock automatically behind you. Turn the key into the small engine-of-sorts inside and the lift rises. Take the key out, the doors on the opposite side open without the need of the key and voila, you've arrived."

Sherlock turned the key over in his hand, his apprehension creeping back in again, and gave an unsteady sigh. "Need a minute before we go in?" John asked, resisting the urge to reach out and hug the man knowing he would both dislike it as was his manner and dislike it as to feel patronised.

"No," Sherlock straightened his back and, holding the key between his teeth, gripped the wheels again. "No, just get it over with." He managed around his clamped bite, steering himself toward the lift.

John glanced over his shoulder at Mycroft, watching Sherlock work the lift before climbing the stairs. Mycroft had schooled his expression to indifference. "That's his way of saying thank you, you know?" John said, blinking and then turned his eyes back to watch Sherlock deduce his new aid.

"Thank you, Doctor Watson." Mycroft continued up the stairs, standing straight backed and patient at the front door. Maybe it would be OK, maybe it wouldn't, but Mycroft knew he couldn't do more for Sherlock than he currently was and he had to be happy in that. It would be John's place, mostly, to assist Sherlock and Mycroft needed to get into his mind that it was him that, in many respects, that was surplus and that it came down to gestures like the house and financial support for there to be anyway that he could show Sherlock he cared without having to become terribly human about the entire affair and break down into sobs and hugs.

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: 532