Thanks for reading!

John woke early on the day of Sherlock's first physical therapy session after a particularly unrestful night. Sherlock's sleeping pattern that had been established at the hospital seemed to disintegrate after their first night in the house; it seemed that returning to Baker Street to see Mrs Hudson had stirred up some memories in Sherlock and reignited the fires of insomnia. He'd refused to allow John to help him into bed when he had finally given in and retired himself, but without Sherlock beside him John worried too much to sleep. He listened as Sherlock made his way around the house, almost doing laps, muttering to himself occasionally before falling so silent that it made John's worry deepen. Somewhere along the lines between three and four am, John had managed to fall asleep whilst Sherlock was still wide awake but he received little rest as the alarm on his phone sounded at seven thirty.

His eyes darted open at the shrill chiming of his phone and the heavy, insomnia-hangover of the day before carried with him into the new morning. He closed his eyes again as he reached out for this phone, quickly shutting off the alarm and let out an exhausted sigh. Turning onto his side, he stared at Sherlock's side of the bed with fuzzy eyes. He hadn't come to bed at all and John didn't know what kind of a state he'd find him in. Rubbing his face with both hands, he threw back the covers and raised to his feet unsteadily, in need of much more sleep and an entire pot of coffee. Scrubbing his mussed hair with one hand and shielding his mouth with the other as he yawned, John pattered up the stairs in search of Sherlock.

He found him where he had expected to, at the table with the laptop. He was wide awake and greeted John with a soft, grateful sigh as the doctor placed a small, none-too-overpowering kiss on the top of his messy curls. Sherlock was comfortable with that, little kisses and little cuddles. It wasn't that he didn't like big, showy relationships; he preferred to keep it simple, to not have to focus too much on what his body wanted – yeah, sex was good, but it was never a prerequisite of their relationship. John knew that, and accepted it. He stayed behind Sherlock, hands on his shoulders, and peeked at the screen.

"What are you doing?" he asked; his was voice sleep-clogged and weak.

"Research," Sherlock replied. "Couldn't sleep so I thought it would be useful." There was an unsure edge to Sherlock's tone, a searching in his voice for reassurance and John did his best to offer it as he peered closer to the screen.

"Catheterisation methods," John read aloud. "Suppose it pays to know what options are available to you." he squeezed gently on Sherlock's shoulder and moved away, giving him the privacy he deserved. "Breakfast?" he called out, heading into the kitchen with slow, dragged steps.

"Can I eat before the hospital?" Sherlock asked back in a raised voice.

"You're going for therapy, Sherlock, not surgery. Of course you can eat. Question is, will you?" John replied whilst stifling a yawn.

"Is there fruit?" Sherlock called out, eyes on the screen as he scanned yet another website.

"Yeah, what do you fancy – grapes, bananas, apples, pears, strawberries which, incidentally, need to be eaten in the next two days, erm…there's melon in here, too." John listed with his head in the fridge.

"No…" Sherlock mused, closing the lid of the laptop down. He reached for the brakes on the chair, pushing them off and steadily eased back from the table, turning with little struggle and went into the kitchen, his bottom lip between his teeth. "Can we just skip this appointment?"

"No." John straightened up at the strength of Sherlock's voice and wasn't surprised to find him in the walkway. "It's important."

"It's Sunday," Sherlock grouched.

"Oh, had you planned on going to church?" John's eyebrows rose considerably. "It's only going to be short, just to meet your physiotherapist, nothing major. It's not going to be as heavy going as future sessions, I guarantee it," he held a banana in one hand and a carton of grapes in the other.

"Seems pointless," Sherlock scrubbed both hands through his hair. "Why exercise my legs?" he slapped his hands down to his thighs, "They won't feel the benefit." Sarcasm was rife in his tone and John did his best to swallow it down.

"Because it's important," He said, simply, placing the items on the counter and walked closer to Sherlock. "And please, stop hitting yourself – you'll bruise."

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock veered backwards as John got closer. "And I've got some stuff to do for the website."

John halted as Sherlock left the kitchen, a frown painted on his face, "Stuff like what? Surely you're not planning on working again so soon? Don't you want to wait until after therapy at least?" he trailed helplessly behind the detective.

Sherlock spun around more quickly than John knew he was capable of. "You've taken my independence; you've taken my privacy, my ability to take care of my own body, and my coat. Can you please at least leave me with the ability to do something that doesn't require this broken vessel and let me use my brain without having to linger over my shoulder just in case I struggle?" His eyes were wide, his teeth clamped together. "You're an idiot, I'm not. So let me do something that doesn't require an Idiots Guide alongside it. You are not taking my work away from me John Watson."

"Oh, back to this, are we?" John sighed out, "Your appointment is at ten. It's now almost eight. When you've calmed down and want a hand getting dressed, let me know. Until then, good luck with your brain work and not being an idiot." He pushed away from where he leaned against the door frame and turned back into the kitchen to make himself breakfast. He didn't hear the chair move against the floor so knew that his words had at least hit Sherlock enough to stop him moving closing to the computer, but he hadn't responded either. John moved around the kitchen in silence, making two cups of tea out of habit and setting aside toast for Sherlock as well as himself; he couldn't not do it, it felt petulant. He carried the tea and toast into the dining room and plonked them down onto the table beside Sherlock where the detective sat staring at the open laptop with nothing on the screen. But John still felt insulted by his torrent of abuse and didn't leave his usual extra kiss on Sherlock's crown, instead took himself away to the kitchen again and brought his breakfast with him down to the basement without another word.

Sherlock stared at the plate and mug beside him, his jaw working as he ground his teeth together. He was angry with John for taking over, angry with him for not taking over. He was angry with him for stepping in and helping when he didn't need it and angry with him for always being there when he did need him. He was mixed up, both relieved to be able to rely – such as he did – on John and disgusted at the need to do it in the first place. The embarrassment and the humiliation were rife though John continually assured him he shouldn't feel that way. It didn't help; confined to a chair unless lifted out, he sat in his own bodily fluids without the ability to even recognise his bodily needs. He'd never been a person of regret; occasionally he'd berate himself for doing things wrong but he always took it as a learning curve. Right now, though, he found himself wishing things were different, that he could 'do over', travel back in time or take some pill to make it all the way it was again. It wasn't perfect before, not by a long chalk, but he couldn't get past the idea that it was just so much worse now.

In a fit of anger, more at himself than anything, he grasped the cup between the fingers of his left hand and hurled it to the far end of the dining room, watching it hit off the wall, spilling tea up the light paint before smashing and dropping to the floor in a rainstorm of tea and china. His chest heaved as he breathed deeply and fast before grabbing the plate, too, sending it on a flying lesson in much the same manner as the cup, not feeling the same satisfaction when it simple dropped to the floor half way down and rolled on its side, dropping the toast butter-side-down onto the painted wooden floor. He manoeuvred himself back from the table with difficulty, his temper making his judgement worse, and hit the footrest off the leg of the chair beside him with such force that he knocked it down, slamming it to the exposed floorboards with a horrendous bang.

The bang was followed by thundering footsteps as John raced up the stairs in search of Sherlock. "Sherlock? Are you OK?" it went through his mind that the detective may have tipped up, or tried to stand and fallen, and so the relief to wash over his face when he saw Sherlock perfectly "fine" and the dining chair leg-ways up was visible and profound. "Jesus…" he sighed. He stepped into the dining room further and lifted the chair back up, pushing it under the table. He glanced around a moment and noticed the cup and plate. Licking his lips, he looked back at Sherlock's face. "Not hungry?"

"No," Sherlock spat, piqued.

"And the wall is?" he asked, stepped on a trail of cooled tea as he made his way down to the far end of the room, picking up the plate and toast before piling the broken cup onto the plate carefully. "This entire room is going to stick of tea." He grumbled, crouched on his toes, and snapped back up once he was sure he had all the shards of china. "Cut yourself?"

"No,"

"Well that's something." John twisted his left hand awkwardly, a nervous tick of his in some respects; when uncomfortable in situations he had a tendency to twiddle his left wrist and pad his fingers against his thumb. "Can I just ask," he cleared his throat, pursing his lips, "Why did you feel the need introduce the wall to your breakfast?" There was lightness to his tone but he was serious in his expression and Sherlock looked away from his eyes, colour flushing his cheeks in anger. "I get angry too," John went on, "But I don't start throwing things around."

"No, you go for a walk but I can't do that. I can't go to Sarah's place and sleep on the sofa." Sherlock spat angrily.

"No, you can't and you know why? Because you're an antisocial, moody sod who nobody wants to be around," The words were out of John's mouth before he even knew he was thinking them. He sighed noisily then looked Sherlock over again, "You definitely didn't hurt yourself or anything?"

Sherlock shook his head and matched John's sigh. "No, I'm fine."

"Why don't you go and fish your clothes out downstairs, wash up in the bathroom. I'll mop up the tea and come down and give you a hand if you need it." John's voice was even and Sherlock knew that he was hurt. He didn't say anything more as he moved slowly from the dining room to the lift, clattering inside of it as his hands – shaking with anger – moved the chair weakly inside the metal box.

John watched the doors close before he set about cleaning up. He sighed with his movements, feeling overwhelmed by an anger-of-sorts that he'd not felt toward Sherlock for a long time. He assumed it wasn't true anger, more fatigue and grief, bubbling itself to the surface in both of them and tripping from their mouths in snappy, petulant words that weren't meant in the way they appeared. He knew that Sherlock was angry and upset and he was too, he just wished there was some way he could stop it from manifesting in Sherlock the way it did, all vicious tongue and gritted teeth.

It sounded sharp, but he wanted Sherlock to cry, to talk openly when not in a bad mood and work through the issues. Nothing had been addressed, not properly; John didn't know what Sherlock wanted to do in terms of his personal care, if he had any intentions of seriously going back to work or if it was just something he said to piss John off. Mostly, John had no idea what was truly in Sherlock's head – not that he ever had before – and that frightened him. He needed to know what was whizzing through his mind, what was making him angriest and what was making him saddest, so that he could maybe talk it through or put things in place to ease the torment. He was grieving, too; he'd lost part of his life in this, too. He was beginning to fear that Sherlock was simply going to crash further and further into an angry pit of faked adjustment that it would eventually spiral him into a deep depression. John needed help with Sherlock and Sherlock desperately needed help. He just didn't know who could give it and what help, precisely, they needed.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 626