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The interior of the house was nothing like what John had been expecting. Following carefully behind Sherlock and Mycroft, they were welcomed into a large hallway which was partitioned, rather than directly closed off, from the dining and study space that did away with the awkwardness of doorframes. The kitchen, separate from the reception rooms again by partitioning rather than fully sectioned off rooms, was large with low-level countertops and a standard hob as well as a low, eye-level grill and oven worked into one of the units. Got down to by a lift system similar, but larger, to the one outside, the basement was an enormous living and sleeping space with a sectioned off, fully kitted bathroom. The bath was small, but with a door access and the shower in the corner was fitted with a seat inside, bolted to the wall.

"The top floor is attic space and the first floor is two bedrooms and a bathroom though I would assume that these two floors will be of main use to you both." Mycroft stood with his hands behind his back as Sherlock guided himself around the basement. There was a clear distinction between the sleeping and living space, a double bed in the corner and floor mats that divided up the space whilst right below the tall windows that allowed the light from above to flow in was a designated lounge space with TV, book shelves, coffee-table and sofas, all accessible and with space between them that would allow Sherlock easy movement. "Of course in moving your belongings, they were simply guessed at where they belonged. More personal items were left in boxes and are up on the dining table for you to organise yourselves. I took the liberty of ensuring the fridge and cupboards were stocked." Mycroft said, pushing the convenient button on the lift to bring. He preceded Sherlock and John in and waited for John to faff behind Sherlock before he simply pushed and held the up arrow, stopping at the next level cleanly, "It wasn't rigged to go to the top two floors, simply because the previous owner didn't need to use them. I suppose the same applies here and, if you truly wanted to, you could possibly make use of the rooms in renting them to students, it wouldn't take much in converting one room to a kitchen."

"No," Sherlock shook his head, "Mine." He added in a rare moment of comic petulance as he guided the chair sleekly out of the elevator and into the kitchen.

John could see he was exhausted, just as he was, and overwhelmed by all they had to take in; a new home, a new lifestyle, a new area and ultimately they would become new people. It was exhausting, not only mentally but physically, and it was only the beginning. "This is above and beyond, Mycroft…" John sighed, hands on his hips, glancing around the enormous kitchen as Sherlock moved slowly around it, touching everything with long, inquisitive fingers.

"It's what he needs." Mycroft said simply. "There are a few things still to be completely organised, a few kinks to iron out, but ultimately everything is complete." He gave a nod. "The standing frames will be the last to be organised but they are important."

"No rush," John leaned back onto one of the navy-blue counter tops. "He won't be able to use them until he's strong enough and that could take weeks, months realistically." John was certain something close to disappointment crossed Mycroft's face. "He needs to be strong enough, I mean there are probably ways around it, tighter supports and all but for him to fully get the benefit of being able to stand he'd be better if his upper body was strong enough, he'd be able to move a little more rather than be confined against the supports." John explained briefly. "By all means if they arrive he can use them, I'm just saying," he dug deeper, scrutinised by Mycroft's hawk-like gaze. "The stronger he is in his arms and upper back, the more beneficial the standers are; he'll be able to work, or play the violin or whatever, but he needs to be strong from the waist up, you know?"

"You are the medical man, Doctor Watson." Mycroft simply nodded with his face blank of anything but nothingness. "I trust it's up to your standards, Sherlock?" he called out, his voice a little louder, watching Sherlock with focused eyes.

Sherlock was silent, down the far end of the kitchen, his hands on the wheels of his chair but unmoving as he gazed around him in innocent wonder. But his expression, sharp and dark and full of torment, gave away his resigned unease and enervation.

"You OK?" John asked when no reply was offered, not even in the way of a facial expression. "Sherlock?" he called for his attention, "Are you OK?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock's brow creased as he rested back, his arms on the armrests.

"Hungry?" John asked, simply for something to say and out of a childish urge to raid the new kitchen. "I could fix us all something to eat, you too Mycroft." He insisted.

"No thank you, John," Mycroft said calmly and politely and John noticed that his Christian name was slipping out of Mycroft's mouth more and more recently. He wondered if it were simply down to his softening at Sherlock's situation. "Oh, not even a cup of tea?" John offered, thumbing toward a sleek looking, brand new kettle on the counter. John hadn't taken in too much that the counters were low, though it was immediately obvious they were. Not being especially tall it wouldn't be of huge inconvenience to him and would be more beneficial to Sherlock.

"No, thank you." Mycroft pushed his hands into his pockets. "I have…business to attend to. As long as you are OK, Sherlock, I will see myself out and be in touch after the weekend." He turned to head into the hallway.

"Mycroft," Sherlock called out, unmoving in his position but insistent in his tone.

Mycroft froze and turned back, "Hmm?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, trying to form words and trying to avoid them at the same time. He breathed out through his nose and drew his lips to the side before slackening his jaw again. "Thank you."

Mycroft's face didn't display even the simplest of reactions; he simply nodded slowly by way of reply and turned again. "Goodbye Sherlock, Doctor Watson…" he called out, his shoes loud on the floorboards in the hall.

John watched Mycroft leave with both relief at his absence and apprehension. As the door closed with something of a slam behind the older man, John let out a held breath and turned back to Sherlock, eyebrows up. "Welcome home," he muttered carefully.

"You too," Sherlock drew in his bottom lip.

"Feeling OK?" John asked, resting back against the counter again, one leg crossed over the other, with his arms folded over his chest. He hadn't removed his coat as he'd entered the house – it almost felt like they were visitors so it hadn't seemed right.

"Mostly," Sherlock replied, his tone cool and despondent.

"Is your back sore? In fairness you've been upright all day, that hasn't happened so far." John scratched the back of his neck and then folded his arms again, eyes licking over Sherlock before scanning the kitchen again, trying to get used to it.

"Bit, maybe…" Sherlock replied, eyes cast everywhere in a mirror to John.

"Want to shower and burn your clothes?" John asked and when Sherlock looked at him, finally, with a deep frown he chuckled. "…when I was a medical student, I worked on the ward for a while and used to see a patient every day. He'd been in a car accident…both legs were amputated to the knee," he rubbed his chin as Sherlock swallowed audibly. "…on the day he was leaving, he was so jovial and bright, had been awake most of the night before and was already positioned in his chair to go home when his parents arrived to pick him up. I stopped them as they were leaving, wished him luck and asked him what he was going to do first when he got home….he laughed and said he wanted to have a long, hot shower and then burn his clothes, anything to get rid of the smell of hospitals from his body." John's smile was sad as it lingered on his stretched up cheeks and it took a moment or two to bring himself back.

"Shower maybe," Sherlock sniffed, seemingly cold to the sentiment but John could see a flicker of something in his expression at the story. "No burning of anything, though. And before you ask, no; I'm not hungry. But tea brewed properly would be a pleasurable experience." His tone was harsh but John knew it wasn't directed at him.

"Tea it is, then." John pushed himself straight, "Wonder which cupboard…"

"Probably the one closest to the fridge for the tea, mugs on the opposite side…" Sherlock said quickly and watched as John found the items in exactly those places.

"Did you look around here already?" John laughed.

"No-," Sherlock shook his head, "But Mycroft laid his own kitchen out the same way and the family home whenever our Mother asked for his help,"

"That's cheating." John chuckled, placing two mugs on the counter before he took the kettle to the sink to fill it.

Sherlock's sigh was huge, "No, it's just remembering. I don't cheat, John. I never cheat."

"No." John humoured him softly, "Of course not."

"I'm going downstairs," Sherlock placed his hands on the wheels to move forwards and bumped himself into the low cupboard door. With a grunt, he twisted his hands to turn himself backward a little more, trying to gain space to turn slightly, and bumped the handle of the chair against the counter, giving the chair a jolt forwards. Sherlock huffed out through his nose and threw himself backwards, "Fuck!" He slapped the arm of the chair before pummelling his legs with both fists – a tool John was coming to hate – letting out a horribly deep, long growl with it. "Argh!"

Flicking the kettle on quickly, John turned to Sherlock and crouched as he grabbed at his hands, cupping Sherlock's wrists tightly and lifted his arms up. "Stop it! Stop; you're going to hurt yourself."

"Well I can't feel it so what does it matter!" Sherlock yelled, anger swimming in his eyes, spitting the words out through clenched teeth. He writhed back and forth, twisting his arms to pull them from John's grip. "Get off me; I'm not a child…"

"Then stop it, stop hitting out at yourself. You're angry, I know and you're frustrated, I know. But throwing punches at your thighs isn't going to change that nor is yelling at me." John's voice instinctively fell softer at the end of his rant and his grip loosened as Sherlock pulled back. But he didn't hit out at himself again. Resting his hands in his lap, Sherlock's breathing rocked a moment as he fought off showing any more emotion than he already had. "It's been a stressful day and it's going to take some getting used to but…this place – it's brilliant."

"It's not home," Sherlock shook his head. "It's not Baker Street."

"But it's not far, Sherlock. We couldn't have stayed, it wouldn't have worked. We're close by; we can visit Mrs Hudson any time you like. But it's going to be OK here – it's got everything you need, it's like bloody spaceship." John chuckled breathily and Sherlock smirked despite himself. "It's a lot of adjustment, I know. And like I said, today's been a tough one. Don't get stressed, just take a minute to breathe."

"I can't even move around the fucking kitchen." Sherlock rolled his head back and sighed.

"Because you're getting stressed out; I'll help. Let me make the tea then you can carry them." John got back to his feet.

Sherlock looked almost disgusted, "I can't."

"Why not? You've got wheels for legs, Sherlock, not hands. I have hands for pushing and legs for walking. You hold the cups, I'll steer the buggy." John winked over his shoulder, standing at the counter.

"It's not a buggy." Sherlock corrected quickly.

"Name it." John turned as he reached into the fridge for milk. "Name the chair so I don't have to spend the rest of my life calling it chair."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, not taken in by the childishness. "Don't be ridiculous, it's an inanimate object."

"Wrong," John stirred their tea, his back to Sherlock. "It's part of who you are now so make it personal and by that I don't mean urinating in it like a bloody cat marking its territory," For some reason Sherlock found the line wholly funny and laughed despite his best efforts to remain stubborn-faced and mardy. "Give it a cool name like…, God, I don't know," John leaned back on the counter again and looked at Sherlock, shrugging his shoulders.

"Baskerville?"

"Baskerville?" John repeated. "Where the hell did you hear that?"

"Some book," Sherlock shrugged, rubbing his fingers along the armrests either side of him before looking up at John. "I like it. Baskerville. John, put Baskerville in the back of the car. John, grab Baskerville from the bathroom…." He tried it out.

"Sounds like a dog," John admitted.

"No, if I wanted a dog I'd name it Mycroft."

John rolled his eyes but couldn't stop the laugh that brewed in his chest, "That's mean."

"When can I go back to work?" The question from Sherlock's lips was so sudden, so off-beat that it took John more by surprise than he assumed Sherlock meant it to.

His mouth bobbed open and no words formed, bringing a frown to Sherlock's brow so thick John wondered if it would ever smooth out again. "You've been home an hour…" he cleared his throat.

"I didn't ask how long we'd been here, John." Sherlock snapped and glared at John, met only with the doctor's crinkled expression of disbelief, born out of having no idea what to stay. "Don't look at me like that." Sherlock cleared his throat and sighed, dropping his hands to the wheels again and forced his chair straight, avoiding further conversation with John – and taking away the ability for John to say anything to turn the conversation around – and disappeared at a slow but steady pace out of the kitchen and carefully into the fitted lift, vanishing from John's line of vision.

John let out a sigh and rubbed both of his hands harshly across his tired face, scrubbing into his eyes until they felt raw before he pulled his hands away, leaving his vision momentarily blurred. The lift, though mostly quiet, had a recognisable sound and John listened as its doors opened softly on the level below. The sounds of the wheelchair against the hardwood floor throughout were unmistakable too as Sherlock exited the lift and it was hard to ignore the metal-on-metal clatter and string of profanities as the chair hit off the doors of the lift as he exited.

Steeling himself with a deep breath, John rolled his shoulders and his aching neck before taking the cups in his hands and left the kitchen, it was only then that he realised a small, narrow stairway down into the basement still existed, tucked under the stairs that led up, right beside the carved out space for the lift shaft. Uncarpeted like the rest of the house, his steps were heavy as he descended the enclosed staircase, his eyes on the cups to ensure nothing spilled, his mind on the unrelenting niggling fear that things were going to get much worse before getting even an inch better.

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: 476