Home Random Page


CATEGORIES:

BiologyChemistryConstructionCultureEcologyEconomyElectronicsFinanceGeographyHistoryInformaticsLawMathematicsMechanicsMedicineOtherPedagogyPhilosophyPhysicsPolicyPsychologySociologySportTourism






Thanks for reading!

 

 

The first night in Lisson Grove was a comfortable one, seeing the awkwardness of the day slowly beginning to fade. John had stood back and watched with itchy hands as Sherlock clumsily – but all on his own – moved from 'Baskerville' to the sofa down in the basement. John ordered pizza and coaxed Sherlock into eating more than half a slice as they sat together on the sofa, comfortable with the closeness they'd both missed since the accident. The sudden intimacy after so long without caused John's body to react in its usual way, but with heady determination he ignored its insistence and snuggled his arm around Sherlock a little more, their eyes set on the television though not taking it in, and just thanked God silently that he was able to hug Sherlock at all; the bullets could have caused so much more damage.

In both a romantic gesture and something born out of ease, John had scooped Sherlock into his arms and carted him across to the bed after the ten o'clock news. He allowed Sherlock the privacy to undress and wash himself before bed, only stepping in when the frustrated huffing threatened to turn to tears, and held the covers back as Sherlock lay flat and comfortable in the large, luxurious bed. John had noticed the tears that lingered in Sherlock's eyes in the dim orange glow of the lamp left on in the lounge to keep the room bright enough should they need to get up in the night. He didn't say a word, though; he pulled Sherlock closer to him, his arm encasing him tightly, and stayed awake until Sherlock's exhausted body grew limp and his breathing even as he fell deeply asleep.

John found it hard to shut down his own mind, though, and sleep didn't come easily. He positioned Sherlock more comfortably on his side of the bed, using cushions as props behind Sherlock for stability and then lay flat on his back, one hand cradling his head, and stared up at the painted ceiling above him. He couldn't believe Mycroft had done what he'd done for Sherlock – for both of them – and the sensation of somebody going above and beyond the call of duty for a loved one when it was most unexpected of the person was strange. His other hand rested on his tummy over his t-shirt and he could feel the beat of his heart and the rush of his breaths beneath his fingers. His heart was still beating fast, as it had been doing pretty much since the shooting; he was certain it would take until the gunman was caught for it to slow back into a normal rhythm.

A snuffle or two from Sherlock throughout the entire night was the only indication to John that he was actually sharing a bed with the man again as Sherlock didn't move from his position the entire night, entirely too exhausted and comfortable, and didn't wake once. John only managed three hours between six and nine before being disturbed by the buzzing of his phone on the locker beside his bed. He woke with an insomnia hangover, eyes foggy and head heavy, and reached across quickly to avoid disturbing Sherlock whose brows merely twitched at the noise.



John coughed, clearing what little sleep he'd achieved from his throat before holding the phone to his ear without examining the screen. "Hello?"

"John, hi, did I wake you? Sorry." Lestrade's voice was low and honest, fatherly as ever.

"No, no it's fine. Just a sec-," John whispered, shuffling quickly from the bed, his pyjama bottoms loose on his hips as he padded across the floor over to the sofa beneath the window, bright with what little light was allowed to trickle in from the sun behind heavy, wintry clouds. "Sorry, Sherlock's still out of it." John sunk into the comfortable couch and rubbed at his tired eyes. "What's up?"

"A courtesy call, mostly." Greg replied, "How's the new place?"

"Astonishing," John replied with a chuckle. "It's like the TARDIS." He sniffed and smiled as Greg matched his laugh. "Nothing new, I take it?"

"Nothing huge – no match on the prints across the UK; if they're a repeat offender, they're not a British citizen and if they are British then they've never been caught before," Greg sighed.

"Which makes the entire thing infinitely more difficult," John finished form him. He couldn't help the disgruntled sigh that flooded past his lungs and lulled his head back against the sofa. "We need some good news, Greg. We need something to go on or something positive."

Greg's voice cracked, "We're trying, honestly. I swear, Donovan's going to wear herself into the ground. There's something in this that's really riled her up."

"Guilt?" John questioned through a long yawn.

"Possibly," The DI supposed. "How is he, anyway?"

"Sherlock?" John scratched his cheek then slapped his hand lightly against it in an attempt to waken himself up. "He's up and down by the hour; one minute he's determined the next he's not. Hasn't cried, not really but I think there's going to come a point when it hits, you know? Probably when the day's going well and he just suddenly gets it on him like a tonne of bricks. His outpatient physio appointments start tomorrow and I think that, if nothing else might push him over."

Greg gave something between a laugh and a sympathetic sigh before he replied, "Yeah, I can imagine; not only will there be somebody telling him what to do but also somebody touching him – not the biggest man for affection is he so I dare say it won't go well."

"He'll probably bite their heads off, yeah." John exhaled a laugh, "Listen, thanks for calling. Maybe come over, y'know, off duty. Familiar faces and all that, call it a housewarming or something-,"

"Sure," Greg replied quickly, light-toned. "Let me know when's good for you. I'll bring the beer."

"Great," John sat up. "See ya, Greg."He didn't wait for the reply before hanging up the phone, throwing it lightly down onto the coffee table. He rested his elbows on his knees a moment, cradling his head in his hands as his chin dragged down into another, exhausted yawn. He drummed his fingers tightly on his head before resolving to 'get up and go' and made his way to the bathroom. He threw himself into a hot shower and washed away the past week and a half with great-smelling shower-gel, courtesy of Mycroft.

He lingered more than was necessary for a standard shower as he paid his body the attention it had missed for the last few days, hands expert and quick across tender flesh bringing about an unimpressive but sudden and sharp orgasm with Sherlock's name whispering on his lips. His forehead pressed against the tiles, water thundered down against his shoulders as he stood to catch his breath before he braced himself for climbing out into the cooler air.

He quickly wrapped himself in a white, fluffy towel from the shelf in the corner, stocked with all kinds of bathroom essentials. He shook his head as he used a smaller towel to dry his hair, glancing around the bathroom – well, something closer to a wet-room – smiling at all the things Mycroft had considered that would lead somebody who didn't know him to believe he was an interior designer with streaked blonde hair and a penchant for calling people 'darling'. John realised then, if he hadn't before, that the older Holmes brother – much like the younger – was merely trained in not showing his emotions; it wasn't that he didn't have any, just that he preferred to keep them all for himself.

Bundling up his pyjamas, John walked back into the bedroom and smiled at Sherlock's still-sleeping form, arms up by his face as he lay on his side, the pillow still behind him offering soft support to his back. He lingered a moment, thinking 'looks can be deceiving', before rifling through the cupboards and draws in search of his clothes. He left Sherlock sleeping as he went upstairs to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for the two of them. Toast for Sherlock with the smallest flick from a butter knife, and hot, sweet tea to go with it. His lack of sleep the night before had left him feeling a little nauseous but he buttered toast for himself, too, knowing not eating wasn't the right way to go and piled everything onto a tea tray to bring back down to Sherlock. He padded carefully down the stairway, trying not to jostle the tray too much, and slipped on silent feet across the lounge to the bedroom. He smiled a little, half out of love and half out of embarrassment, as he was met by Sherlock's wide eyes.

"Ow," John frowned comically, "I was going to give you breakfast in bed."

"Well-," Sherlock coughed, "I'm still in bed and you're holding breakfast so it's not entirely impossible to still achieve."

John rolled his eyes, "Half of the fun is waking the person you're offering breakfast too. More romantic, it's one of those sentimental things again Sherlock. C'mon, thought you'd have caught on by now." He smiled again, placing the tray onto the mattress on his side of the bed where the covers were thrown back. "Tea and toast, and…" he leaned forwards and kissed Sherlock's head, "Good morning,"

"Morning," Sherlock said as he drew his arm from beneath the pillow and leaned against it, rising his upper body up onto his elbow.

"Can you sit; want some help?" John asked gently, aware he could set Sherlock off into a rant with something as simple as this question but needing to ask it anyway.

Throwing his other arm behind him, gaining purchase, Sherlock shook his head, "Just push the pillows up," he huffed, his wrists bearing his weight. "I can sit back." John nodded and reached across the bed as Sherlock lifted his upper body away from the pillows. He pushed them back against the headboard, stacked to offer as much leverage as possible, and hovered as Sherlock twisted his hips enough to turn onto his back completely before dragging himself backward. The effort showed on his face, his cheeks puffing as he moved in an action that was clearly uncomfortable. He sat back with a sigh, a little unevenly and still a little far down the bed, but all off of his own merit and essentially sitting upright against the headboard.

"Comfy?" John checked and received a slight nod for his troubles. "Sure?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock nodded breathlessly, adjusting his position a little with white-knuckled determination until he managed to drag his bottom back a little more. He sighed, smiled sleepily and nodded certainly at John.

"Here," John held out the plate of toast to Sherlock. "I expect you to eat every last bit, too. And I'll put your tea on the locker beside you, will you reach it alright?"

Examining his plate, Sherlock nodded. "Thanks,"

"I was thinking," John began, positioning himself next to Sherlock on the bed, his tea in hand, watching the detective reluctantly attack his slice of toast.

"Dangerous," Sherlock replied with his eyes down on his plate.

"Possibly," John agreed. "If you're bored, which is a given, but if you don't want to stay home after being in the hospital without any fresh air for so long, I thought maybe we could do the short walk round to Baker Street; we could grab coffee in Speedy's, see Mrs Hudson, I know she'd like it and I know, despite whatever you might say, that you would too."

Licking his lips, a small bite of toast between his teeth, Sherlock finally looked up at John again, eyebrows quirked at the suggestion. "S'pose." He swallowed, "Greg's not planning on coming over for the housewarming today then?" he asked with a sniff.

John rolled his eyes behind closed lids, "You've been awake this whole time?"

"Your phone rang in an otherwise silent setting, of course I was awake. I was just comfortable, didn't want to move…forgot for a moment that I couldn't…" he mumbled and it tore into John's heart like a dagger. "No, don't…" Sherlock put out his hand as John went to reach out to touch him, "Its fine," he quirked his brows again. "Coffee with Mrs Hudson…fresh air…great, riveting, let's do it." his voice was both sarcastic and sincere, born out of the need to do anything but crumble and John accepted it as though Sherlock had danced the hula in appreciation at the suggestion.

"Good," John nodded and raised his cup to his lips, eyes watching as Sherlock grimaced, moving his shoulders uncomfortably, unable to find a position he felt truly comfortable in and unable to move successfully in search of one. John said nothing, though; he wanted to get the balance right with Sherlock, not risk a meltdown or an argument that he knew they were just hanging on the cusp of. He wanted to savour the full day they had together, outside of the hospital, and try to begin establishing a routine or a flow to how their life would be from now on.

With nominal hesitation from Sherlock, John helped the detective into the shower and out again with the love and attention he deserved, but it didn't cool the humiliation for Sherlock whose cheeks fired and temper flared until he was restored to a come comfortable state of dress. It made John's stomach clench to position Sherlock into his sanitation underwear before pulling on his clothes and he knew that Sherlock felt hideous at the intrusion, head thrown back on the pillow with tears in his eyes. John was sure, over time, that he'd manage to dress himself without help but as it stood he required John's assistance throughout the task, the activity tiring him without the ability to move his lower body into more attainable positions. With his mood plummeting and his patience non-existent, he flopped with wet hair into his wheelchair with an expression fit to kill as John disappeared back upstairs with the breakfast dishes, both allowing Sherlock a moment to himself and getting himself out of the firing line should Sherlock's temper break.

He realised it was all about finding the balance; there were going to be times when Sherlock was embarrassed by the help he needed or the acts that had to take place and there would be times when he'd get angry. John had to learn that the anger wasn't really aimed at him, had to learn to be as quick and thorough as possible and also learn that putting space between them was a good thing – Sherlock needed his own time, his own space to breathe and think and John needed to remember that he was John Watson, not just there to be all Sherlock couldn't at the moment. He knew what he had to do; it was just difficult to do it. He didn't want to see Sherlock struggle but he didn't want to baby him, either – balancing had never been so difficult.

It was the slight laugh behind him that finally alerted John to Sherlock's presence. Crouched before the washing machine, trying his hardest to work out how to put a load on a woollen wash with an extra rinse, his face the picture of an uneducated househusband, John looked utterly perplexed as he peered over his shoulder to the kitchen walkway to see Sherlock, curls dried and silky, both frowning and smiling at him with devilment in his eyes.

John sat back on his heels and turned himself enough to look at Sherlock, "What are you snickering at?" he cocked an eyebrow. "How about you come over here and work the bloody Starship."

"Make your mind up;" Sherlock rolled his eyes, moving further into the kitchen, "Is the Starship or the TARDIS? Doctor Who or Star Trek. If you have to be a geek in my presence, John, at least stop mixing up your references."

"I wish I'd never introduced you to the Sci-Fi channel." John tutted his amusement, licking his lips as Sherlock halted at his side. "I can't work the machine," he pointed at it, lights flashing and a small squealing noise was coming from inside somewhere.

"I know, I could hear you muttering to yourself. You and machines don't get on too well, do you?" Sherlock asked with the playfulness still lingering on his brow. "Forget the washing; you said we were leaving the house today. I've been cooped up for ages and I need fresh air."

"We can go out the minute I put this load on," John scratched the back of his head, "…and machines and I get on just fine, thank you." He pushed himself up from the floor and then crouched on his toes, knees bent wide, staring at the buttons. "Oh…bloody easy. Look," he pushed the start button, realising he'd pushed it in too far the first time and inadvertently set the machine on pause. In an instant, the machine began to hum as water was drawn in through the back. "See, told you we get on fine."

"Yes, yes; big chief make fire." Sherlock schooled his expression to one of indifference. "Can we go now? I want to remember what clean air smells like."

"We live in London, Sherlock." John stretched his back out as he rose up again, "Clean air in this city is impossible to find and would you shift your arse or I can't get past to find my shoes." He cocked his head at Sherlock and poked his foot out, kicking his toe lightly on the foot rest with a wink. "In the words of my mother, you make a better wall than a walk-way."

"Door than a window," Sherlock said, turning himself with little aggravation.

"What?"

"The saying is 'you make a better door than a window', as in, you're blocking my view." Sherlock's tone was matter of fact and perfectly usual; the same old Sherlock and John prayed it lasted.

John smiled, dragging it out. "I know that saying too, but if you're a wall rather than a walk-way, then you're a blockage." He explained, retrieving his boots from the bottom of the stairs that led up, sitting down onto the second step to pull them on and loop the laces. Sherlock had followed him right down the hall and waited, wordlessly, as John immediately began fixing his shoes after his own.

"Kind of like constipation, then?"

John's teeth parted in a slight laugh as he shook his head, "In a fashion, Sherlock, yeah." He rose to his feet. "Want me to grab you a jacket?"

"Coat," Sherlock said as John headed toward the stairs down to the basement, "And," he called out, waiting for John's footsteps to halt. "My scarf,"

"Of course, no outfit on Sherlock Holmes would be complete without a navy scarf. But I'm not sure if I've got another winter coat. You're welcome to mine and I can wear that green jacket, it's warm enough." John muttered back before trundling back up the stairs to peek around at Sherlock. He took in the Detective's expression warily.

"My coat not yours, why would I want yours?" A frown danced across Sherlock's face where it had previously been rather light.

"Your coat's probably under ten tonne of rubbish by now," John smirked and then thought better of it. He took a stead breath and approached Sherlock, "Sherlock, there were bullet holes in the back of it and the hospital staff had to cut you out of it in A and E. Look, we can find you a new coat." He tapped his hand on Sherlock's where it rested limply over the armrest. "You can wear a jacket of mine for now, it'll be warm enough it's not that cold out."

Sherlock snatched his arm back angrily, "No, I can't." he snapped. "That's my coat, it was my coat; they can't just cut up my things. It's my coat!"

"They had no choice Sherlock; would you relax? It's just a coat. We could probably find one the exact same in the city." John threw his hand to the door in wild gesture.

"No we can't," Sherlock growled, "That's my coat, my coat. Not just some coat or other on the high street! MINE!" He gritted his teeth together as he yelled, glaring up at John with venom in his eyes.

"It's just a coat, Sherlock. I know you like to be all mysterious in it but it's just a coat." John did his best to placate.

"It's not!" Sherlock spat. "Move," he dropped his hands down to the wheels. "John, move or I'll move you." He insisted angrily, ramming forwards with the chair. "Move!"

Hands up defensively, John stepped aside and let Sherlock go, watching him struggle slightly in his anger as he disappeared into the long dining room-cum-study. Sitting down on the bottom step of the up-stairs, John cradled his head in his hands and tried to make sense of the sudden switch in mood. He'd always known Sherlock was fond of his coat, but to be this upset about it perplexed John deeply. To him, though somewhat iconic with the man he'd come to love, it was just a coat and coats could be replaced. And then John wondered if it were more than a coat to Sherlock – he wondered if it were Sherlock's last ditch attempt to cling onto the identity he'd almost lost since the shooting. Before, he was Sherlock Holmes the great detective whom everyone, in some way or another, admired or hated but above all was astonished by. Now, he was almost literally half of who he used to be and John realised that not only was Sherlock's coat something of a thread still linking him to who he used to be, but it was a cape; put it on and become braver, become the Consulting Detective, escape the confines of his chair and be who he was once again.

John sat in his own silence for a moment before slapping his hands once against his knees in a metaphorical kick up the arse. He rose to his feet and slipped warily into the large reception room. Sherlock had positioned himself at the table, laptop open and an internet page was draw up on his website. John couldn't read anything clearly as the glare from the window light hit against the screen oddly. He cleared his throat and took baby steps toward Sherlock, pulling out the dining chair closest to him and sunk into it, siting across it sideways, resting one elbow on the table and the other on the back of the chair.

"I know it's not just a coat." He began slowly, "And I know what you're like about people touching your things, though I don't know why because you've no regard for others belongings." John scratched his ear and watched Sherlock's eyebrows rise up and fall back down with disgust. "…clinging onto a coat to try and pretend nothing has changed wouldn't be healthy." He said with a soft voice. "Wearing it, had it been in-tact, wouldn't have stopped you being paralysed, or turned back the clocks, or made people look past the chair, Sherlock. It'd all still be there."

"I'm not stupid." Sherlock slushed into his hands before finally turning his head to look at John. "I know all of that."

"We can buy you a new coat, one the same or one different; whatever you want, you can have it because like it or not, Sherlock, everything's changing now and gripping tightly to the past is unhealthy. You're not the same person you were anymore and…"

"Spare me the philosophical preamble, Doctor Watson." Sherlock breathed out heavily through his nose. "I over-reacted, I was…illogical and overemotional over something insignificant. I know." He tilted his head. "I just wanted one thing that wasn't taken from me."

"I'm still here," John suggested, delivered with all the America's Sweetheart mush with which it was intended. "And you're still alive; it could easily have been something fatal."

"Don't rationalise it like that," Sherlock snatched his arm back as John touched it lightly with his fingers. "I'm angry about this," he slapped the bars of his chair, "I'm angry, so God damned angry; it doesn't matter that I lived or died, what matters is that I feel angry about what I'm left with. You're a Doctor, John; you know I'm allowed to feel this way."

"Yeah," John's brows arched up and his voice dripped urgently from his tongue, "But before I am a Doctor and you are a victim, I am John, OK? I'm me and I love you and it's hurting me to see you this way. And it's not about the coat," he rubbed his hands over his chin, "It's about you rushing to get back to normal when you can't; you've got to make a new normal. And you can start by getting a new…fucking…coat."

Sherlock expelled a heavy breath and dragged his mouth to the side, staring at John with eyes flicking over his entire face. He wanted to say more, John could tell, but he stayed silent. He was uncomfortable and vulnerable and felt so humiliated by his situation that he was lost for words to explain the enormity of it and John knew this; he could see it all in his face, behind his eyes. The anger, though directed at him, wasn't truly anger toward John but at his life, at his emotions, at his lack of control. John wanted to be able to give him back the control he was lacking but knew that it had to be the right time, Sherlock had to be strong enough and, pretend as he might, right now he wasn't there yet.

Sherlock moved himself back from the table and licked his full lips, "If we're going out, we'd better go now before I change my mind about life entirely."

In Sherlock-speak that was "I'm sorry, I love you too, I'm scared and I need you". John's cheek tugged up into a half smile on the left side and he nodded, "Come on," he rose to his feet, "Let's go."

The cool breeze hit John's face and caught his breath the moment he pulled open the front door. It was a small shock, making him inhale quickly, but it was refreshing and exhilarating, too. He stepped aside, eyes fixed on Sherlock as he tried twice before successfully manoeuvring himself through the front door and then locked the door behind them. He waited at the top of the steps until Sherlock had the lift engaged and then rushed down, waiting to meet him at the bottom. Sherlock gave a frustrated sigh at his failed attempts to turn the chair the couple of inches it needed to slip easily out of the lift and looked up to John with desperation in his eyes, the bantering of minutes before lost in the inability to do something so small.

"Whoa, alright, Calamity Jane," John stepped up as Sherlock wacked the foot rest against the lift again, "You're going to damage the chair and yourself."

"Shut up and help me." Sherlock growled low in his chest as John wrapped his hands around the armrests and straightened the chair up a little, giving Sherlock the room to push forwards and roll out easily. He watched the lift doors swing shut in Sherlock's absence before following behind Sherlock, out of the gate.

"Oops, everything alright?" John frowned, walking into the back of Sherlock as he stepped out from fixing the latch across the gate. Sherlock sighed twice with eyes closed then craned his neck back to look at John. There were tears of frustration in his eyes again and his lips were pulled into a tight line. "Want me to…?" he asked, clasping his hands around the handles. Sherlock's nod was small but obvious as he brought his hands into his lap. John licked his lips, wanting to reach down and squeeze Sherlock's shoulder, but went for the chirpier, 'paste over it' option. "Right then," he stepped forwards, propelling Sherlock onward. "On your right you'll see a fantastic imitation of a home not unlike our own," he began in a low voice, "On your left is…a fucking great bus blocking the view," John grumbled as the red bus in question came to screeching halt at the empty stop, to let passengers off.

Despite himself, Sherlock breathed a laugh out through his nose. "The bus doesn't really sell the tour I'm afraid," he played along, much to John's amazement. "Refund, please." He held his hand back in John's direction.

"Non-refundable tickets," John shook his head, having been about to turn against the pavement to cross, silently thanking he'd been watching the roads carefully. "I hope Mrs Hudson's in, I didn't call ahead." John mused, checking the road before moving across it quickly, his fingers tight around the handles of the chair as though it would somehow make Sherlock safer.

"Not going to be anywhere else, is she?" Sherlock answered with a little petulance.

"She could be doing that thing that people do, Sherlock; you know, going out and making friends." John tilted his head round, trying to catch Sherlock's face but his chin was buried so deeply in his scarf his expression was unreadable from the side. "Anyway, how are you feeling? Better now you're out?"

Sherlock nodded, rocking his head back a bit, "Don't feel so confined, yeah." He supposed. "Stop a second," he said rather suddenly, holding out his hands. "I can do it…" he let his arms down as John slowed.

"Sure? I don't mind, you know, if you want to just…catch your breath." John wanted to say 'sit back' but daren't.

Sherlock shook his head, his fingers poking out of his coat sleeves to take the lips on the wheels. "No, I want to." He cleared his throat and thrust forwards slowly with John right at his side, step for step. John knew it was because they were growing ever nearer to Baker Street, he knew that Sherlock wanted to be presented to Mrs Hudson as 'the man who could'. Had John been pushing the wheelchair into the café, it would have looked as though he was pitiful – or, at least John knew that was how Sherlock's mind worked – and Sherlock didn't want that. John knew this was a cape, pulled over his extremely unsure and frightened body in an attempt to mask all of that and show the world that, despite his legs not working, he was coping just fine, thank you very much.

Crossing into Baker Street, John found it hard to keep the butterflies in his tummy at bay. His eyes stayed on Sherlock, but to watch his step, and he found himself wondering if he was feeling the same apprehension. He scolded himself for it though, for feeling unsure about this, because why should he? He'd lived in Mrs Hudson's company for an entire year – why was it strange to visit her? Was he worried what it would do to her, to her emotions? Or was he scared of how Sherlock would react to her if he saw her reaction to him? He tried to bury all of it, to do away with every negative thought and just be happy to see Sherlock so determined about something, even if it was only point-proving; he tried his hardest.

John stepped ahead of Sherlock to rap the knocked on the door of 221b and waited patiently. Almost immediately, though, the door was pulled open, and both boys painted a small smile on their faces as Mrs Hudson stepped out, her hands flying to her mouth when her eyes flicked across her two, male visitors. "Oh, boys!" she screeched, arms open wide to hug John before she crouched a little and encased Sherlock tightly, kissing the side of his cheek whether he liked it or not before she pulled back, cupping his face in her hands. "Oh…you," She swallowed, blinking thick tears down her cheeks. "I was so worried about you, Sherlock."

It took her a moment to finally let go, but when she did she beamed a bright smile between both of the men before her. "I'm fine, Mrs Hudson. Look-," Sherlock held his arms wide open. "Absolutely fine; I'm fine."

John smiled, always a fan of Sherlock's convincing voice when his face told another story, and placed his hands on the back of the chair. "Tea, Mrs Hudson? If you're not busy, we can sit in the café."

Wiping her cheeks dry with her fingers, the woman smiled brightly, her cheeks pushing up to her eyes. "Of course I'm not busy; wait here one minute." She dipped back in through the black door, returning a second later with her handbag and door keys. "Right, let's go. Do you…I mean…can I…oh," She held one hand to her forehead and looked with sympathetic eyes on Sherlock, standing on the step into Speedy's. "I can help, we can lift…," she flustered, seemingly of the same opinion as John; to help or not to help.

"It's alright, Mrs Hudson, go on in; I can manage," John reached out, his reassuring hand cupping her arm. "Go on," he whispered to her, "He'd probably prefer not having the audience, anyway." Mrs Hudson's face pulled into one of sympathetic understanding and she nodding, turning into the café and waited, unable to keep her eyes from 'her boys' as John gripped the handles, turning Sherlock to face the street, before carefully but speedily pulling the chair up over the first step, stalling for just a moment as Sherlock took a sharp breath before he dragged it up over the second and in through the door with millimetres to spare. John sighed out, having half expected not to make it through the doorway, and peered around to Sherlock. "OK?"

Sherlock gave a silent nod, a little unnerved by the jostling and took a few steady breaths, "Fine," he managed, "I'm f-fine, why wouldn't I be?" he asked, dropping his hands down to the lip of the wheels again now that he was back on solid ground, taking control once more. John knew that this – along with the self-harming by way of battery he'd taken to – would be Sherlock's way of being the bigger person, of being the one in charge, knowing that John wouldn't move the chair if his hands were over the wheels. John held his arms back, hands up in a defensive stance as Sherlock edged the chair back before turning slightly, with some difficulty and a loud clatter as the footrest hit off the leg of a chair, screeching it across the tiled floor a bit.

"Sherlock let me just…" John stepped forwards, receiving a dark scowl from Sherlock's pointed eyes. "…stop it, OK? Let me just move the chair and you can do the rest yourself, alright? Jeez." He walked around the opposite side and lifted up a chair, bringing it away from the table indicating they would sit there, making space for Sherlock to get through as well as quietly dragging another table over a fraction, chairs and all, giving Sherlock's better access with his unease at guiding the wheelchair. "There," John said, shaking his head when Sherlock's lower jaw set firm and he skimmed his hands forwards, turning himself into the table, his back to John and Mrs Hudson. "I'm sorry-," John looked at the woman with soft eyes, "He's just…"

"He's Sherlock," she finished for him, a hand on his arm. "Go and sit down, I'll get the tea. Go on," she coaxed, "Give him a cuddle. He needs a cuddle." She smiled; her were eyes bright but still filled with tears.

John took heed of her words and approached Sherlock, aware of the change in his bearing; Sherlock's hands were fidgeting against the table top and the expression on face was thunderous. Sitting down, John tilted his head slightly, trying to be supportive without crowding him. "You OK?" he asked, eyebrows lurching up. "I'm fine, stop it." Sherlock snapped, turning to his side as Mrs Hudson came over with a smile and placed a tea tray laden with cups, pots and milk before she took the seat opposite John. "Thank you," he broadened his smile to something almost sincere as she handed him one of the tea cups.

They sat in a momentary silence, broken only by the stirring of spoons in cups as sugar and milk were added to taste. It was John who broke the silence first, unable to stand the prickly quiet and niggling fear that Sherlock was back to clinging on to good temper by his fingernails; he had to occupy him somehow. "Thank you for all you did whilst Sherlock was in the hospital; you didn't have to cook for us but it was greatly appreciated."

Screwing up her face, Mrs Hudson shook her head and tutted John away, "Not at all – I wanted to do it, I couldn't have you boys wasting away, could I? I saw that nice Inspector a lot, too. Inspector Lestrade; he visited once or twice to tell me how you were doing and to ask a few questions about something to do with your brother," She looked to Sherlock who managed, whilst completely disinterested – lost in his own mind – to push his face into something of an 'oh yeah, please continue' smile.

"Lestrade's been great," John agreed, sipping his tea. "As has Sherlock's brother."

"He came with men to empty everything from the flat," she spoke up with wide eyes, hands flying expressively. "All smartly dressed, they were; posh suits and shoes nicely polished. Their mums would be proud of them, I expect." She nodded absentmindedly. "Oh, Sherlock…" She reached out her hand to touch his and if she felt the tremor that John could see, she didn't mention it. "I was so worried. When John phoned to tell me and then the Inspector and your brother, the news didn't get any better. I'm so sorry, Sherlock." Tears welled up in her eyes again.

"It's fine," Sherlock squeezed his hand against hers a moment before pulling himself form her grasp. "It's fine, I'm fine, see? I'm absolutely fine." He nodded as if that would make it better; make it true.

"If there's anything you need, if you want me to help with anything, you need only ask." Her face set firm as she looked between John and Sherlock, conviction in her voice.

"We're fine," Sherlock cut in with his voice somewhat firmer.

"We're managing," John smiled, trying to soften the sharpened edge of his words. "Thank you though; you know, you'll have to come by and see the new place. You'd like it, it's like a fairground." He smiled sweetly as Mrs Hudson dabbed her eyes. "Come by one evening, instead of sitting in by yourself. Have dinner with us," he pushed his cheeks up at the light coming back to her eyes.

"I'd like that," She smiled back then looked to Sherlock, "I could bring dessert." She nodded in his direction.

"Lovely," Sherlock forced a smile and sarcasm dripped from his tongue but Mrs Hudson was used to it, ignoring it in the way it was intended and simply return the smile with love. A blanket of quiet fell over the three of them again and John's eyes floated between Mrs Hudson and Sherlock, trying to read their faces. Sherlock was lost in his own world, up inside of his head and disappearing off somewhere that John assumed was in a world where nobody was challenging him and life was rosy. Mrs Hudson look forlorn, sad eyed and tired and as she caught John looking he cast her a small smile. She'd noticed the change in Sherlock, John knew, and she didn't like it; he could see the fear she felt behind her eyes.


Date: 2015-12-18; view: 474


<== previous page | next page ==>
Thanks for reading! | Thanks for reading!
doclecture.net - lectures - 2014-2024 year. Copyright infringement or personal data (0.016 sec.)