Thanks for reading!

The hospital was quiet but still managed to be somehow considerably busy. Bundled into a corridor that served as a waiting area with plastic chairs lining the walls, John thumbed through a year-old TV magazine as Sherlock fidgeted beside him, his hands fumbling against themselves and tapping into the armrests of his chair. Blindly, John reached over and encased Sherlock's hands in one of his own, tightening under the twitching stopped. "It's going to be fine," he said carefully, his voice in a whisper because it seemed appropriate when in a hospital to whisper.

"I know it's fine." Sherlock snapped before sighing. "I know." He said, more softly.

"They're not going to say anything you don't already know; you're not going to get more bad news." John said without looking up, pulling his hand away from Sherlock began to writhe beneath his hold. "Relax, as much as possible for you without drugs, and stop worrying."

"I'm not worrying," Sherlock snapped again, though there was less venom in his tongue. "I'm just…,"

"You don't want it, I know." John closed the magazine and turned to face Sherlock. "Would you prefer it, I mean find it less embarrassing or whatever, if I didn't come in? Maybe Mrs Hudson would take you to the sessions instead or your brother."

"No," Sherlock gave John a look of ridiculousness. "I just don't want to be here, end of story. No ifs or buts, just not at all."

"If you don't get regular exercise your muscles will waste away, you'll get sores and without regular movement you could get sick. It's important, and it's also important you build up your back and arm strength, too, and your stomach muscles. You need the ability to hold yourself up if you want to stand, Sherlock." John listed carefully, "It'll help with confidence, too; the physical activity will release some hormones around your body that'll help you to look on the brighter side, help you to see the better in your situation, don't interrupt me!" he poked his finger in Sherlock's face as the detective's long jaw dragged down. "The physiotherapist can help with a lot of stuff; help you make decisions about what chairs and equipment is better for you, help you decide when it's right to work and what you're going to be fit to do, help you with the most effective ways of personal care, too." He watched a flush rush Sherlock's cheeks. John sighed and reached out, touching Sherlock's hand subtly, "But today," he promised, "It's going to be simple – ease you in gently, let you get prepared and adjusted."

Sherlock's eyes flicked in their manic fashion as he read John's face, the tiny freckle of his right eye disappearing as his pupils grew large, John wasn't sure if it were the love Sherlock felt for him but rarely showed beginning to brew past the grief, or whether it were the wonder that constantly fluttered through the detective's mind simple expanding into his strange eyes. Whatever it was, it caused John to reach out, his hand touching Sherlock's chin as he moved forwards in a loving gesture of public display like never before to leave a soft kiss against Sherlock's barely parted lips. Sherlock's eyes closed to the closeness, despite his reservations to such acts, and he licked his lips as John pulled away again. His lips parted slightly, about to say in a whisper that he was sorry for the events back at the house, but his chance was lost as a door down the corridor opened and a young man in a white polo-shirt and soft, grey jogger-bottoms peered out with a smile.

"Sherlock Holmes?" he called out, his tone deep and his accent placing him a native of Belfast city. He walked further down the hall to greet John and Sherlock as they both turned to look at him. Reaching the pair, he held out his hand and gave a soft, one-sided smile. "How's it going, I'm Ciaran." He shook Sherlock's hand, then John's.

"John," John rose to his feet and reached to the chair for the handles.

"Ah," Ciaran held out his hand. "You can manage alright?" he asked Sherlock gently.

"Of course," The frown on Sherlock's brow was deep and the scathe in his tone born out of nervousness he wouldn't admit to.

"Grand, would ye be able to bring yourself down here then," he said walking on, back toward the door he'd come through moments before. Reaching it, he held it open and kept his eyes on Sherlock – John right behind – scrutinising how he moved his body and used his wrists to wheel the chair down the corridor and into the large gym at the end. "Good stuff," Ciaran nodded, "C'mon in. John, if you'd like to take a seat, there's chairs against the wall." He said with his back to the pair as they stepped further into the large hall.

The room was vast with a high ceiling that made everything echo. There were large, thin windows against the high walls on one of the four sides whilst the rest was painted a crisp white and covered in various posters and leaflets on the services offered and different muscular and skeletal issues that would lead people to being here. The floor, a school-hall brown, was hard and uninviting but sectioned off in areas. In one corner of the room there were four hospital beds, all made up and piled with cushions and supports. Opposite, there were two, parallel bars, standing at around three-foot high, with blue crash mats either side of them and a padded walk-way up the middle. John's stomach lurched with memories from his student days. There were various sets of weights and so many hoists, frames and different styled wheelchairs that John found himself bewildered by the availability.

Illuminated by overhead fluorescents, the hall felt cold and when Ciaran spoke his voice carried in a dooming fashion. "So," he clapped his hands, the bang resonating. "I'm sure you were told by the hospital when you were released what it is you'll be doing with me?" he folded his arms across his toned chest.

Floating between John and Ciaran, Sherlock shook his head and looked back to the wall of chairs where John had seated himself for his collaboration. "Not to me," Sherlock said. "John?"

"Nothing specific," John spoke up, feeling a little shunned by Ciaran's abrupt (professional?) taking over.

"Well today it's nothing big, I just want to get to know your range of motion, how you are and are not comfortable and discuss plans of action and timetables for your future physio sessions," Ciaran ran a hand across his lightly stubbled cheek. "I guess the main thing is just t'get to know one another," he laughed slightly, a deep but oddly soothing sound. "So…" he sighed out hopefully and reached to a desk shoved into the corner for a brown paper folder, "Sherlock Holmes…" he said quietly, muttering to himself, "Complete paraplegia," he twisted his mouth and looked up at Sherlock, then down to his folder again. "Just for reference, do you have a leg bag or…? Your transition is new, I know, but just so I know when working your legs in future," he looked up and smiled, then looked between John and Sherlock as the detective stayed silent.

John sighed, his body twinging for Sherlock. "Pads right now," he spoke up. "In the process of finding out what's going to be best for him…" he added. John didn't feel the same level of embarrassment at this as Sherlock clearly did but then that was understandable as it wasn't his bodily functions they were discussing. "But it's all so new, like you said," John swallowed uncomfortably, "We'll keep you informed."

"Great," Ciaran nodded, completely unfazed. "OK then, let's get down to business." He threw the folder back down and removed his watch from his wrist. Sherlock exhaled loudly, glancing back at John as Ciaran took the handles of the chair and guided him toward the beds in the corner. John held his breath; this wasn't going to be easy. Sherlock's frown was deep and menacing, the bridge of his nose wrinkled right up, as Ciaran reached to the sides of him to pull the brakes up on the chair. His heavy hand clapped onto Sherlock's shoulder gently, "Want to remove your coat there, buddy." He suggested in his Belfast brawl, smooth and thick. "I'll throw it over the back of the chair here, just don't want you over heating because there'll be a bit of movement." He smirked, watching Sherlock's hands as he unzipped his jacket. Taking a deep breath at the effort, Sherlock leaned forwards enough to pull the thin jacket from behind his back and off of his arms. He handed it off to Ciaran without looking at him and then gripped the armrests of the chair, shifting his bottom forwards minutely.

"Can you shuffle yourself up or do I need to get the hoist?" Ciaran asked smoothly.

"I can…" Sherlock began, looking at the bed. It was a couple of feet off the ground and he knew there was no way he had the strength or height to pull his body up. "…or John could…" he frowned, feeling small and inadequate.

"If you can't manage it yourself, I'll have to use the hoists. It's health and safety," Ciaran's eyes widened slightly. "Sit tight," he gripped Sherlock's shoulder again before walking quickly across the expansive hall and returning pushing a wheeled devise. It was large and looked a little like a banana stand the way it curved over at the top with hooks but attached to those was a hammock-style seat with straps. "Pretty simple," Ciaran explained with his voice raised as he approached, "Basically we can use this to move you from the chair to the bed. We just slip the seat behind you, it's soft material so it's flexible, and we pull the cuffs up under your leg and secure you in and then from the controls…" he stopped beside Sherlock and plugged the machine in beside the bed, "…we can lift you up and place you safely on the bed without hurting you or damaging ourselves."

Sherlock's face was a picture and John winced. "I am not getting in that." His voice came out in a thick growl, despite how small and nervous he felt.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to. I know all this seems a bit daunting, like, but it's part of your life now and part of what you need to maximise your life. If I lift you, I could injure my back and then I have grounds to sue not only you but the hospital and it throw me out of work and, who knows, could land me in the same position as you if the worst came to the worst. I know there's pride, Sherlock, I've been doing this job six years. You're in a position now where you've got to let go of that and stop feeling embarrassed by being a human being and accept the help you're offered." Ciaran's tone was even and friendly but his words were serious and put across as such. It was clear to John – and Sherlock – that he'd take no messing nor would he go easy on Sherlock.

"John can…" Sherlock began weakly.

"I'm afraid not." Ciaran was soft.

"But he's a doctor." Sherlock spat, like a five-year-old attempting to one-up another.

"Not in this hospital. I know this is a bit adjustment for you, Sherlock but if you don't work with me it's only going to be more difficult. So…" he held out both hands, "Can we get on?"

John could see Sherlock's jaw tightening from across the hall and held his breath for the man's response. With a pithy nod, Sherlock looked up at Ciaran. "OK." Sherlock's breaths were deep and quick as Ciaran get a gentle smile and reached up to the canvas seat of the hoist.

"Right we'll just pull this behind you," Ciaran began, reaching behind Sherlock. "Are you able to lift your backside under the strength of your arms?" he asked and Sherlock nodded, weakly and barely raising his body up high enough for Ciaran to quickly drag the leg cuffs beneath him before he dropped back down with a pant and a grunt, his arms giving out under the pressure. "Alright, it's alright, take it easy." Ciaran touched his shoulder, "Get your breath back." He stood before Sherlock a moment before crouching down, attaching the cuffs of the hoist and reaching up to re-join the loops to the top of the machine. "OK? Ready?"

Silently, shakily, Sherlock nodded, his hands in his lap fidgeting wildly.

"It's alright," Ciaran reassured, "Nothing drastic, just up and over, then down onto the bed; over in moments." He patted Sherlock's leg. He nodded in Sherlock's direction before accessing the controls on the machine. With a buzzing, electrical noise the seat of the hoist tightened and Sherlock's face paled as he was slowly lifted from the chair. It really did only take moments, and the process was slow and smooth, but Sherlock's breathing – despite his efforts – was fast and erratic. "Almost there," Ciaran assured over the light buzz of the machine as the Sherlock was lowered down slowly onto the mattress. "Now," Ciaran gave a small smile, turning the machine off and stepping closer to the bed to release Sherlock from the hoist. "Wasn't so bad, was it?"

Sherlock breathed through his nose and blinked fiercely, hating himself for being so ridiculously emotional and hating himself for being here at all. It wasn't until he felt hands covering his own that he realised he was gripping tightly to the thighs of his trousers, knuckles white from the effort.

"Sherlock, is everything OK? Do you want some more time to gather yourself?" Ciaran's voice was soothing, soft and slow, and his eyes – though Sherlock felt uncomfortable at their scrutiny – were sincere. "John," he called over his shoulder, "There's a soft-backed chair here beside the bed if you want to come and take a seat?" Preferably, Ciaran would have liked John to stay where he was but he could see in Sherlock's expression that this was going to be nigh on impossible without making it worse.

John was on his feet and at Ciaran's side in seconds, smiling toothlessly as he lowered himself into the seat around the opposite side of Sherlock. "Y'OK?" he asked with his eyebrows arcing up as Sherlock swallowed loudly. He was clearly uncomfortable both at the closeness and the lack of control but nodded in spite of it in John's direction.

"Alright then," Ciaran clapped his palms, "All I want to do is work out where you stop being able to feel your body. Your notes have it down as being T12 L1 SCI - from the pelvis, is this correct?" he looked up questioningly at Sherlock and then flicked his eyes to John.

"Mid-abdomen," John submitted, "Hip bones down, I guess so, yeah."

Ciaran mapped it momentarily on himself and nodded; "OK, great. Let me just lower the bed so it's flat and get you a little more comfortable and I'll do a few quick tests, alright?" He worked quickly and efficiently, helping Sherlock to shuffle forwards just slightly and then lowered the head of the bed, laying the entire table flat before easing Sherlock back onto the pillowless mattress. "OK," Ciaran huffed and vanished from Sherlock's line of sight to the end of the bed.

Ciaran removed Sherlock's shoes quickly and pressed each of his feet flat to his hand. John hadn't gone into such workings and watched Ciaran with interest as he bent up and stretched out Sherlock's legs in turn, feeling beneath them for muscle tone and positioning them in various ways. He bent his right knee right up into a right angle before gently easing it out again and repeating the same on the left. His hands moved gently across Sherlock's thighs and John found himself particularly drawn to the grace and care with which he treated Sherlock. He licked his lips, completely absorbed in the skilful, intricate ways in which Ciaran worked before moved further up Sherlock's body again.

Sherlock lay staring at the high ceiling, mapping it's gentle slope downward and it's skylights, the hanging fluorescent lights and beams across the middle of the roof which told him it was an addition to the original building of the hospital; an extension that was purpose-built but painted and stoned outside to blend with the rest of the hospital. His hands lay fixed to his sides and though his body moved with Ciaran's actions over the next ten minutes or more, he couldn't feel where it was Ciaran's hands were placed until they reached higher up his waist, fingers grazing softly over his shirt just below his tummy-button. "Ow," he muttered, though it didn't hurt, and the sound made John smile.

"That's the spot," he chuckled at Ciaran.

"That's good," Ciaran nodded, his hands gracing up Sherlock's sides a moment. Sherlock reached up, clamping his hands around Ciaran's wrists and pushed against the touch to push him away.

"It's my legs that don't work, not the rest of me. Stop touching me." He tightened his grip until Ciaran's hands pulled away from his sides and then he let go. John reached up in a gentle gesture, his hand touching Sherlock's shoulder supportively, but the detective turned on him. "Stop it! I don't like this, I don't want this! Get me up and let me leave. I want to leave, now!" he pushed his hands down against the mattress, gripping the sides for stability, and made an effortful attempt to bring himself to sitting, his cheeks turning crimson as he fought against the weakness in his arms and back to straighten himself up.

John stood quickly, his arm immediately going around Sherlock's back to help ease him up and kept it there for support. Resigned, Ciaran nodded. "I think that's enough for today," he gave a thoughtful look in their direction before running a hand through his short hair. "I'll send an appointment through the post for next week, give you some time…" he licked his lips and John could tell that, though used to such reactions, Sherlock's manner had disappointed Ciaran a lot. "I'd also like to give you some leaflets for some groups – counselling sessions, meet-ups, that kind of thing." He said, moving to his desk further across the room and coming back instantly with a hand full of leaflets. He handed them to John before turning to Sherlock completely.

"No thank you," Sherlock shook his head, his breath a little ragged at the effort of supporting himself with just John's arm by way of resistance. "I don't want your groups or sessions."

"Sherlock," John said low, looking apologetically at Ciaran.

"That's OK, none of it is mandatory. Just look them over, have a think – talking to people in similar situations can be beneficial." Ciaran reasoned lightly. "Now, just rest back for me," he said, raising the head of the bed again, dismissing Sherlock's tone with apparent ease. "We'll get you back into your chair."

Sherlock tightened his grip on the sides of the bed, "No it's fine; John can help me."

"I'd really rather he didn't, as I said before he isn't a member of staff here and as a health and safety regulation and as best practice for you, it's safer to use the hoist." Ciaran said, his hand coming to rest on Sherlock's leg.

"Do your parents know?" Sherlock asked and John's groan was so loud there was no way he didn't hear it, but he chose to ignore it.

Ciaran frowned, "Do my p…know? Know what?"

"About your marriage to a Catholic girl? Can't be easy for them, good Protestant family from the North of Ireland to see their son marry a girl from the 'wrong side of the tracks'." Sherlock's voice was vicious and spiteful and John could do nothing but support him, knowing no amount of 'Shut up Sherlock' would actually stem his angry flow of words. "Then again, it could be worse, you could tell them you're gay and that would ruin them entirely. But you won't tell them that will you? I don't even think you'd ever admit it to your wife and that's not fair, the sweet girl wants children but you'd rather keep her busy with redecorating the house whilst you have it off with a doctor in the ICU."

"Sherlock!" John growled.

Sherlock snap in anger was instant, "What?"

John tongued his cheek, "You know what! Ciaran, I'm sorry. He's…"

"No…, it's…," Ciaran stood, mouth agape, and blinked frantically. His chin bopped, looking for words that wouldn't form and then snapped his mouth shut.

Rubbing his face quickly with his semi-free hand, John exhaled a deep sigh, "I'm sorry-," he apologised quickly, "He's had a stressful few days and it comes out in torrents of abuse. I'm…really sorry. If you could just, y'know, move his chair around here I'll get him set. Could you lower the bed?" Ciaran licked his lips, about to object, but silently did as John asked, handing him Sherlock's chair before lowering the bed enough to allow John to hook Sherlock under his knees and return him to his chair. He crouched, glaring at Sherlock on his way down, and fixed on his shoes quickly before throwing his jacket toward him angrily. He rose back up and looked once again at Ciaran as apologetically as he could muster. "I'm…I'm sorry, I know it doesn't cut it and I get it. I'm sorry, he's just – he's not a people person."

"No," Ciaran shook his head, all but lost of the ability to regain his composure. "Um – I'll have the appointment to you in the next couple of days." He reached across, shaking John's hand. "Good to meet you both."

John moved Sherlock's chair smoothly past the bed and glanced at Ciaran again. He couldn't say sorry anymore and it wasn't helping anyway. He closed his eyes, unsure what else to do and then nodded uncomfortably at the physiotherapist before walking at something close to a run to leave the gym as quickly as possible.

The gym door slammed closed behind them as it swung back heavily in its cradle and John took the bang as his signal to lose it with Sherlock. Stopping abruptly in the hallway, he fell into one of the plastic chairs that lined the walls and shook his head whilst his tongue awkwardly roamed his cheek again. "That was…just, possibly – no, genuinely – the single, most awful thing I have ever witnessed from you." His frown was deep and Sherlock refused to meet his eyes. "Don't you get that? Don't you have enough humanity in you to know that what you did in there was wrong and childish?" John threw a pointed finger toward the door. "You just demoralised everything about him."

"Don't be dramatic," Sherlock groaned, his eyes cast to the floor.

"Dramatic? No, you're the dramatic one. It's one thing to take your aggravation out on me but to do it to a professional who is giving up their time to help you – that's way out of line Sherlock." John bit his lip to keep from saying anything more. "I just…I don't even know what to say; I don't even get you. Why did you do it?"

"I told you I didn't want to be here," Sherlock finally looked up, teeth gritted in aggression as he shouted back at John, their earlier quiet voices reserved for this area forgotten.

"And so you verbally abuse the therapist? Nice." John laughed sarcastically. "That was just nasty." His sigh blew heavily through his nose, reading Sherlock's face. He was repentant, still seething angry, he wanted to cry but he wouldn't and he was scared, so damned terrified and it was all wrapped up in a bubble of humiliation. John could see it all, even though his teeth were gritted and his voice loud. "I know this isn't easy," John's tone came softer. "I know that a person touching at you isn't something you want and I know everything about this is hard and uncomfortable – I know it. I get it, alright, I know. But that wasn't on; you can't talk to him like that and this morning…you can't talk to me like that either. Talk to me, tell me what you're thinking, what you need and what is going through your head because unlike you I can't read minds."

"I don't want to be here; I want to go home. How's that?" Sherlock's left eyebrow raised a little and John scanned his face.

"I knew that already." He replied. "Sherlock, please; I'm being serious. You have to open up to me, you have to let me in and, you know what he's right; I think meeting and talking with people is what you need, you need to realise that this-," his hands clapped down onto Sherlock's chair, "…isn't a death sentence nor does it have to mean the end of the world."

"It is the end though, isn't it John? I'm not who I was and it's on everybody's lips, it's in everybody's eyes. I see it in your eyes, Mycroft's, Mrs Hudson's and I saw it in Lestrade's at the hospital. I'm not stupid – I don't want your pity, either. I want…" he stopped abruptly and John saw it immediately, the flick of light in his eyes as tears filled up. Sherlock bit his lower lip and John reached out, squeezing Sherlock's hand in his own.

"It's alright," John insisted, "It's OK to be angry and upset, Sherlock. Go on, tell me. What do you want?" "…I don't know," Sherlock admitted, blinking, and the first tear tumbled from his left eye, flicked away by thick lashes. "I just don't want this." Sherlock his hit free hand down onto his thigh, slow thumbs finally getting more and more forceful until John captured Sherlock's pummelling hand with his own. "I don't want it," he looked at John, crying openly despite himself, "I don't want it. I don't want it…" he repeated over and over, leaning forwards until his head rested on John's shoulder, "I don't want it…" he sobbed, "…I don't want it."

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders awkwardly and held onto him tightly as his body shook with fierce sobs, heavy and thick tears tumbling onto his shoulder as they fell like rain from Sherlock's eyes against his neck. It was all John could do not to sob along with him but he knew this was important, he knew he had to do this; it had been so long coming.

It was gone one pm when John unlocked the front door, welcoming himself and Sherlock into the bosom of their Lisson Grove home, and both of them were physically and emotionally drained. Sherlock's tears had stopped almost as soon as they'd started, back at the hospital, but they had both felt empty and emotional and had opted for taking a walking before heading back home. They had talked a little more, but Sherlock hadn't been forthcoming with information and John hadn't felt like he should off-load his own worries onto Sherlock. Mostly, then, the chat had been light and general with main focus being on Sherlock's desire to get back into some form or work as quickly as possible.

John had, naturally, tried to dissuade him from this; he'd listed numerous reasons why Sherlock should focus on his health for a while, build up his strength, before committing to returning to work. But the Consulting Detective was adamant; he wanted to return to helping at Scotland Yard as soon as it was viable and he wanted that to be sooner rather than later.

The only positive thing to come out of the fatigue that the day had brought with it was that Sherlock was desperate to sleep when they arrived home. With John's help, he washed and dressed for bed and balled onto the sofa with John in the quiet of their basement living room. The TV was on but muted and the two sat close, the throw-over from the back of the couch thrown over Sherlock, his entire upper-body resting back against John's chest with a cushion at the base of his back as John's legs surrounded his like comfortable, loving supports. The winter weather made the early afternoon dull and cold but the burning fire, beside the television, cast light amber glows around the large room and kept the chill away.

They hadn't sat like this in a long time, not properly, not even before the accident. Sherlock had been too busy, wrapped up in his mind and John had been cramming in as many shifts for Sarah as she could throw at him, wanting to ensure they had a loop of money for support which would allow John to accompany Sherlock to Wexford for a couple of days for a case. Of course, said case was never taken on as time slipped away and, incidentally, so did Sherlock's mobility. But Sherlock liked this, the cuddling; he liked the closeness of John if nobody else. It was slow-paced and intimate without having to strip naked and have sex on the bathroom floor; he had never understood why everybody felt the need to fuck all the time. Love could come in different ways, could be expressed in a hug or a kiss in private, or in a smile, without it having to be public or involve nudity.

"This is…good," Sherlock shuffled his head against John's chest, resting back a little more, his entire back taking up most of John's chest. His voice was small and tired and John knew it was as much a result of the crying as it was genuine fatigue.

"Umm," John nodded, his chin resting on the top of Sherlock's head, eyes on the TV though not paying too much attention. "It is. Missed this," he smirked though Sherlock wasn't able to see his face.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock spoke up and shuffled a little more, attempting to find comfort. He rested his right arm across his waist and placed his left up by his face, using John's tummy as a pillow. "…about this morning and at the hospital,"

Sherlock felt John's sharp inhale as much as he heard it. "Wow, you're apologising." He heard the laugh in his voice and the smile on his lips, too.

"It won't happen again, so savour it." Sherlock lifted up his left hand and slapped it down again, the back of his hand walloping John lightly. "But I am," he softened again, "I know it's as hard on you as me, all of this, and you're not doing what I'm doing-,"

"But I'm not paralysed, Sherlock. I understand where all your anger is coming from don't even think that I don't and I don't judge you for it. I just think you should attempt to channel the feelings in another way and I really wish you'd stop hitting out at yourself." John's voice remained soft, there was no urgency or fighting for the last word, or to be right, it was just talking. Honestly.

"I just get – I don't know, I just get frustrated." Sherlock sighed through his nose and John felt the warm breath through his shirt. The closeness made him aroused, missing being with Sherlock so much, and he thanked God for the cockblock in the form of the pillow. But he didn't and wouldn't act on his feelings, right now it was about loving Sherlock as Sherlock needed. He gave a soft sigh and schooled a smile to his lips as Sherlock craned his neck back to look up at John. "I don't mean it."

"I know," John said softly, kissing Sherlock's head lightly. "Why don't you try and get some sleep?" he said gently, "I can stay here with you or I can let you relax back on your own and go and make some dinner?" He pushed Sherlock's hair from his forehead and placed another gentle kiss on the small frown-lines. "That'd be good," Sherlock nodded, the mention of sleep making his jaw ache, twitch and stretch down in a long, silent yawn. When his teeth chatted closed again, John smiled.

"OK, ease up-," Moving himself slowly, John hoisted his own arms under Sherlock's armpits and pulled him up to sitting. He slipped his own body from beneath him and then pulled Sherlock back into the corner of the sofa a little more, surrounding his head, neck and the side of him with cushions. "Comfy?" he checked, receiving a nod as Sherlock snuggled his head into the couch cushion that had been supporting his back moments ago. "I'll just be upstairs," John nodded over the back of the sofa, toward the stairwell, "Shout up if you need anything or if I don't hear you, ring me," He placed Sherlock's mobile onto the coffee table and then dragged it closer to the sofa so it was within reach of him. "OK?"

"I'll be fine-," Sherlock yawned again, "Go on, go be Fanny Craddock, whoever you feel like…" he smiled with widely stretched cheeks as John slapped across his head with a cushion.

"I'm more Jamie Oliver, thank you." John finally walked from the couch, risking a navel gaze to ensure his arousal wasn't obvious to Sherlock. He thanked God, for the second time, for jeans that fight well.

"Who?" Sherlock called out and John smiled to himself, seeing clearly in his mind the little frown that would appear at the bridge of Sherlock's nose at not understanding the joke.

"Chef. A modern one, Granddad." He called out and stepped onto the bottom step of the stairs. "Now shut up and go to sleep." He smiled to himself again before padding quietly up the stairs, his socked feet silent against the uncarpeted wood, even as he reached the landing.

Standing in the silence, John inhaled a deep breath and blew it out loudly. He rubbed both hands over his face, leaning his head back and stretching out his muscles as though he'd been in a car for hours. His body ached with a combination of the tiredness the day had bought about, both mentally and physically, and the arousal he felt at the closeness yet unyielding distance between him and Sherlock. He relaxed his arms back down, keeping his eyes closed as he let the wall behind him support his weight for just a second. He sighed again, beginning to feel like it was all he did these days, and then kicked himself into action.

He straightened up, rolled his neck and shoulders, and stepped into the kitchen with determination. Over an hour later, he emerged with his t-shirt stained with tomato sauce and his hands feeling raw from the amount of times he'd washed them and washed away dishes to satisfy his need to keep the kitchen spotless as he worked. But his effort paid off and he carried a tray with two plates of homemade lasagne down to the basement, trying not to let the glasses of water perched in the middle spill out onto the food. He glanced down at his feet as he descended the stairs and stepped on silent feet into the basement. "Sherlock," He called out carefully, "…dinner."

"Um-huh," Sherlock's sleepy recognition made John smile – partly because he knew Sherlock had relaxed and actually got some rest and partly because it sounded sweet.

"I made lasagne, from scratch. Proud of me?" John smiled as he spoke and moved around the back of the sofa and into the lounge, placing the tray down onto the table. "Good sleep?" he asked, amused by Sherlock's mussed curls.

"I guess," Sherlock nodded, lay comfortably on his side with his cheeks mushed in a pillow. "Mind if I shower before we eat? I just…I feel…" he shrugged under the throw.

"Of course," John nodded, a little too eagerly. "C'mon…" he dragged the coffee table back and crouched down before Sherlock.

Another long chapter (though I know you tend to like them longer like this!) because I wanted the hospital scene all in one go. Nothing much has changed here, just cleaning up of mistakes and HOPEFULLY I got them all!

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: 553