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"Sir," Donovan swung into Lestrade's office, her hair tied back and a handful of papers rustling in her grasp.

"What?" Greg looked up from a stack of files on his desk, pen flicking between his fingers in mind-numbing boredom and fatigue. "I'm busy, Sally. What?"

A slight look of disgruntlement settled on Sally's face before she handed over the sheets, "There's a match on the prints in Northumberland Street," She said slowly as Greg took the papers, "Guess who?"

Greg's eyes flicked over the documents, scanning them quickly for something recognisable or a name in bolded letters, but couldn't find a thing, "Who?" he asked, blinking the exhausted blur from his eyes and looked back up at Sally, "Who?" he repeated more forcefully.

"Sherlock Holmes," She said, eyes wide and manicured brows raised.

Greg frowned and shook his head, "Quit it and just explain what you no, Donovan, I'm too busy to run in your childish circles today."

Closing the office door tightly, Sally invited herself to sit in the chair opposite Greg's desk and took a deep breath, "The prints at the window match Sherlock's. So – he was in the building before we were with him. Breaking and entering, technically, but given the circumstances…" She trailed off. "So basically, we're back to square one; we know nothing other than Freak was there."

"Well he hardly shot himself." Greg leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands across his stubbled cheeks. "I'll ask him about it, about being there. Just…just keep going," he sat straight again before rising to his feet, reaching around the back of his chair for his jacket.

Sally stood up, following Greg as he left the office, "Are you going there now, to his place?"

Lestrade nodded, "I need to ask them a few more questions anyway so I can raise this one with Sherlock while I'm at it."

"I'll come with you," Sally said optimistically but Greg held out his hand, shutting her down.

"I'll handle this one by myself." His eyes were serious and his tone authoritative but Sally was determined if nothing else.

"But, Sir – you're not supposed to address a witness by yourself." She spat protocol in his face with a stubborn jut to her jaw. "You could bring the new girl, of course," she said, slipping her arms into her coat as Greg glared at her.

"This is not the time, Donovan. I mean it, you say nothing. In fact, you don't even breath in Sherlock's direction, you got me?" His eyes widened and fixed intently on her until she held up her hands, nodding her agreement. "I'm serious," he doubled his authority before leading on, hearing Sally in his wake, leaving the office floor with purposeful steps.

Stepping out into the cold, darkening Sunday afternoon, Sally sped her steps up to keep up with Greg's large strides, following him to his car. She climbed in without invitation and fastened her seatbelt. But no matter what Greg's warnings had been inside, she couldn't help her opinions. "It's possible he set something up to hurt us, you know; automatic fire or something. It just went wrong."



Hands on the steering wheel, about to drive off, Greg turned to her with disbelief all over his face. "What?"

"It's possible, he's a freak; we all know he gets off on the chase, on the thrill. It's a plausible explanation." Sally looked on stubbornly. "He could have been working with his brother; the pair of them are as weird as Hell. It could have been something the brother set up to damage Scotland Yard but Freak got caught in the crossfire."

"I really hope you're just thinking aloud and don't actually intend to run with something as ridiculous as that?" Greg's brow knitted close, dark brows meeting. "I know you and he have issues but that's ridiculous, you're ridiculous."

"It's Sherlock Holmes," Sally argued as Greg finally steered the car from his parking space and into the busy streets. "You can't consider anything ridiculous and write it off where he's concerned. He's a psychopath."

"When are you going to give this up?" Greg rolled his eyes, focused on the road almost fully. "The bloke is paralysed. He can't even dress himself. Surely that, if nothing else, requires you to ease off him a bit?" Greg knew that he sounded pitying, condescending and probably hugely patronising at Sherlock's expense but he wanted to stem the flow of Sally's anger before allowing her anywhere near Sherlock and John. "I don't know about you," he said, his voice a little distant as he ensured the road was clear before taking a turning, "…but I think he's been punished enough for whatever he might have done to piss people off in the past. Nobody deserves what he's going through."

"Doesn't mean it's not a possibility," Sally practically sulked. "You can't put anything past him," She insisted moodily.

Greg sighed and shook his head, not dignifying her with an answer to her pettiness. "I meant what I said, you don't say a word to him, got it?" Greg was met with silence and it riled him. "Donovan!"

"I've got it," she replied quickly at the flare of temper from her boss. "I've got it,"

With his eyes closed, body warm in the heat and head resting back against the wall, Sherlock could almost pretend he wasn't here. All but strapped to the bucket seat in the shower, he basked in a moment of privacy and let the power shower tumble down on his shoulders and chest with hot, heavy droplets and let the high heat attempt to scorch away some of the anguish that was buried deep inside. He knew that John had been somewhat relieved to see him get upset – it had reminded John that some part of Sherlock had remained human despite everything – but he had so much more inside that couldn't even begin to reach the surface that caused a sinking feeling in his chest.

He felt lost, trapped in his own mind whilst is screamed in the loudest of voices as his body to get up and move and yet it disobeyed him. Sherlock had never liked being disobeyed, least of all by something he had had so much control over since his younger years. His body was the one thing he'd always been fully in control of; he could make it stop with heroin, he could make it go with speed, he could make it smaller by not eating and bigger by eating more. He could make it run, make it walk, make it hurt and ease it. He could make it look how people expected it to look and he could make it look how he wanted it to look. He had used it to his advantage in the past, and to the advantage of others. And now, thirty-six and at the height of his abilities and finally beginning to find a place in society where he fit – with John's help – he found himself unable to control what was once so biddable and it was sickening to his core.

He opened his eyes, his breathing becoming a little heavier against the heat, and licked the hot water from his lips, blinking as droplets fell against his face. Gripping the seat with his left hand, he reached up with his right and pushed his hair away from his face, turning slightly to get out of the stream of water for long enough to blink his vision clear and reached up, pulling the showerhead from its nook and turned up the temperature of the water at his shoulder, turning the dial from six to nine. The steam clouded quickly, fogging up the bathroom, and instantly the shower felt hotter. He sucked his bottom lip and held it between his teeth a moment as he gripped the showerhead with both hands and held it two inches above his left thigh.

The searing hot water tumbled down onto his leg in razor-sharp splinters and Sherlock simply watched it before moving the head across to his other thigh. He repeated the process a few times, able to see bight, red marks appearing, and then slowly drew the shower higher. He caught his arm in the jets of water and hissed, dropping the showerhead to the floor at the sudden sting of the heat. The clatter was loud and he knew it would only be a moment or two before John came rushing in. reaching behind him with one hand, the other returning to grip the chair, he turned off the shower and breathed deeply. He glanced back down at his legs, the red marks angry and vibrant, and then rested his head back on the cooling tiles behind him. He couldn't make it hurt anymore, not in all the places he used to as a young man to ease the pressures in his mind, and without that ability the valves in his head tightened.

"Sherlock?"

John's voice sounded wet and far-off and it took a moment for Sherlock to be able to swallow and speak. "I'm fine." He said quickly, "Can you just hand me a towel over?" he reached forwards slightly and held out his hand through a tiny crack in the shower doors. John pushed a thick, white towel into his hand and waited patiently as Sherlock attempted to dry and hide his body.

"Need my help?" John asked carefully, frowning when Sherlock didn't reply immediately. "Sherlock?" he stepped closer to the shower, "…OK?"

"Go away…a minute." Sherlock breathed back unevenly, making John's heart beat a little quicker.

"Are you OK? What's the matter?" he asked, pressing his hand to the fogged up glass.

"No-," Sherlock shouted in a deep voice, looking up at the handprint against the glass. "John, please…" there was a sob to his voice and John couldn't stand it. He gently pushed back the door, needing to know what was wrong, and immediately felt his stomach twinge at what he was greeted with. Sherlock sat staring down at himself, the towel gripped in his left hand and braced against the wall whilst his right held tightly to the chair. His eyes were locked on his genitals as urine flowed down his legs, pooling in a puddle at his feet. His chin was vibrating with humiliation and anger and his nostrils flared as he looked up at John. "I said go away…" he bubbled behind gritted teeth.

Not knowing what else to do, John reached into the shower and took the towel from Sherlock's hands. "It's fine," he said gently, reaching out a hand to Sherlock. He squeezed gently against his shoulder and leaned down to pick up the showerhead, fixing it back into the holder. "Take another shower," he said gently, "Shout me when you're ready." He spoke so calmly that Sherlock couldn't even find it in himself to snap. John watched his face, reading the conflicting emotions through his jutted jaw and wet eyes, and backed out carefully, pushing the doors closed behind him. "Just shout, OK? When you're done, just call me."

Sherlock listened to John's footsteps retreat before reaching behind him to turn down the temperature dial and turn on the shower. Immediately the hot water fell down on him in a cleansing burst and he reached to his side, taking the sponge and shower cream from the lip of the shower, and scrubbed against his body as far as he could reach without fearing he'd lose his balance. He scrubbed and scrubbed, almost taking up the entire bottle of shower cream, until he finally felt clean again. He hadn't managed to wash away the stabbing of humiliation he felt deep in his stomach but he felt outwardly OK again. With even breathing, he called out to John as he reached up to shut off the water.

In typical John fashion, nothing was said and Sherlock thanked him silently for that. He held the towel against his waist in modesty as John brought his chair right up to the shower door with another towel laid out in the seat. With strong arms, he hoisted Sherlock's wet body up without a heave and placed him into the chair gently. "I threw a pair of PJ bottoms on the bed and that blue t-shirt you like. I can't find your dressing gown – Mycroft must have put it away somewhere," John rambled, just for something to say and pushed Sherlock back toward the bed. "There's underwear and a pad, too." He added gently. "I'll help you with the…thing and then, do want a hand drying and dressing or do you want to manage yourself?"

"I can do it. I'll call if you I can't." Sherlock whispered, cheeks a little flushed, not looking up at John as he pushed on the brakes.

John was quiet as he helped Sherlock onto the bed, allowing the detective the privacy of his towel before he helped secure him into the incontinent pants. He worked quickly, doing his best to minimise the amount of time he had to bother Sherlock and helped his to sit back up once he was finished, pulling the chair closer to the bed again so that Sherlock could manoeuvre himself back into it. "OK," John faffed, "I'll go and warm up dinner…it'll only take a couple of minutes. Just…"

"…shout, yeah I know." Sherlock looked up, schooling a smile to push up his cheeks softly. It was sincere, but tiny.

"I'll be just upstairs," John said carefully, walking toward the table in the centre of the lounge to pick up the tray.

"I know," Sherlock nodded, reaching forwards to the bed for his t-shirt and bottoms, pulling them closer along with his underwear. He sat a moment and watched John until he disappeared, listening to the padding of his feet up the stairs and waited for them to move overhead into the kitchen. Once they did, he took a deep breath and pulled on his t-shirt and then stared with tired eyes between his bottoms and his legs. He was determined to do this; he wouldn't rely on John forever.

John cleared his throat as he shuffled into the kitchen, placing the tray down onto the counter. He grabbed one of the plates and placed it into the microwave, setting the timer for three minutes to ensure it was piping hot. As he picked up the glasses, about to swap the water for something fresher, there were three, sharp knocks against the door followed by the ringing of the bell. Setting the tumblers down again, he wiped his hands across his backside and jogged across the hallway to the door, pulling down the latch, and swung the door open.

A frown immediately furrowed his brow but was softened into a look of delighted confusion, "Greg…hi. Sargent Donovan." He pushed his cheeks up into a smile. "Come on, come in…" he urged, letting the officers in from the dark, cold street and pushed the door closed behind them as they stepped into the hallway.

"See what you mean about this place-," Greg glanced around. "Mycroft Holmes can certainly pull some strings," he exhaled a whistle and John smirked.

"Yeah, it's pretty neat." He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. "Is this a social call or…?" he shrugged, "It's just Sherlock's not really…" his tongue lapped over his lips.

"No it's kind of official." Greg coughed lightly. "Sherlock free for a quick chat?"

John blinked a couple of times in confusion before kicking into gear. "Should be," he nodded. "Can you just wait here a minute – he's changing, that's all, I need to…" he pointed to the stairs. "I'll come back for you in just a minute." Greg nodded, freeing John, and the shorter man raced down into the basement. "Sherlock? Are you alright?" John asked calmly.

"…Y-yeah…" Sherlock's breathy reply came slowly, followed by a deep exhale of breath. "I'm…I-I-I'm fine." He breathed quickly through his nose and John crossed the room to meet him. Sherlock was sitting upright on the bed, hands gripping tightly to the sheets for support. He was dressed in his tatty bed t-shirt and only his sanitary underwear. "I d-dropped…" he took a deep breath and John scanned around, noticing Sherlock's pyjama bottoms in a pool on the floor.

"Alright, I got it." he slipped to his knees and lifted the bottoms up, quickly but smoothly pulling them up as high as Sherlock's thighs before taking Sherlock around the chest and lifting him carefully, "Hook your arms," he said softly and waited until Sherlock's long arms were latched around his neck before dropping both of his hands, arms tight against Sherlock for support, and lifted the trousers up over his bottom, resting them loosely on his hips. "I'll add a grabber to the list of things we need from Occupational Health." He huffed out a breath. "OK otherwise?"

Sherlock frowned, "Lestrade's here?"

John crinkled his face and nodded, "Sally Donovan's with him." Sherlock's lips twitched slightly. "Are you going to play nice or shall I make up something and ask Greg to come back on his own tomorrow or something?" He held his hands out, waiting for Sherlock's decision.

"No, it's fine." Sherlock shook his head and reached out his hand, pulling the wheelchair closer to the bed. He locked the brakes on before gripping the armrests carefully. "…I can manage," he looked back at John. "I want to manage."

John nodded, breathing slowly. "OK, I'll…I'll bring them down, if you're sure?"

"I'm sure," Sherlock's tone was a little snappier than John was expecting but put it down to exasperation as he tried to keep his weight on his arms to move himself from the bed to the chair. John was nearly reluctant to leave but knew Sherlock had to do this, he had to be self-sufficient. He nodded, more to himself than anything, and padded back up the stairs, stopping on the top one.

"Sorry, he's all set if you want to come down." He waved at Greg and turned back, feeling a heavy sinking in his stomach as Sally and Greg came down right behind him. "Sherlock?" John called out, stepping down off the last step.

"John…" Sherlock's voice was a little slushed and John frowned, craning his neck around the small divides of the room to find Sherlock. "…c-can, um, can you…" John marched across the room, leaving Sally and Greg loitering with wide eyes at the sofa, both watching the Doctor and the Detective awkwardly. John reached Sherlock just in time as he struggled to hold his weight up, hands still gripping the armrests of the chair, his face crimson with exertion as he fought against himself to stay upright.

"It's alright, I got you…" John crawled across the bed for the best way to get to Sherlock and hooked his arms beneath Sherlock's, taking his weight by pulling him backwards against himself. "Alright, just relax. You're really tense, Sherlock…" his voice was calm and quiet. "It's alright – I've got hold of you, you're not going to fall." It took a moment but Sherlock's upper body relaxed, his shoulders relaxing down from beneath his ears. John held onto him, forgetting the police officers behind him. "OK? I'll sit you forwards but I won't let go, alright? Then I'll help you up." He explained his movements before making them and then slowly edged Sherlock forwards, moving one hand to wrap around his waist at the front as he slid himself off the bed.

"Wait," Sherlock coughed to clear his throat and breathed deeply twice before nodding, letting John continue. He hooked his hands around John's arm and allowed the doctor to lift him up, guiding him efficiently into the wheelchair with minimal fuss.

"OK?" John checked again and watched Sherlock's light nod. He didn't take over any further, letting Sherlock unhook the breaks and move himself from the bedroom toward the lounge, letting him make an entrance to Lestrade and Donovan the way he wanted. Sherlock had to go in there, guns blazing and lips stiff and that's exactly what he did with John two paces behind him.

"Ah, Sally…," he sniffed, drinking in her and Greg's pale expressions at being met by Sherlock's inability, at fully witnessing just how changed he'd become. "The illustrious, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company this evening?" there was breathlessness in his tone but he painted a good picture of stability as he glanced up at them both.

"Not a social call, but I have to say this place-," Greg whistled, "…it's like an interior designer threw up on it."

"Business, then?" Sherlock asked, a moment of adrenaline filling his body with the hopes that Greg was coming to him for help, to offer him work. He glanced at John then back at Greg. "Spit it out?"

"You were in the Northumberland Street flat, weren't you?" he said uneasily. It was clear he was uncomfortable; faced with Sherlock's disability on full display like this was forming rocks in the DI's stomach and Sally looked to be experiencing the same, knotting emotions beside him. "Your prints are on the window; those prints are yours."

"Can't be," Sherlock shook his head, "You said they weren't a match for anyone on your records."

"And they weren't, not initally." Greg nodded, his left hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. His eyes couldn't focus on Sherlock's; he felt compelled to flick over his body, over the chair, over the house, over his feet and his hands but he couldn't meet Sherlock's eyes.

"I was arrested for possession when I was twenty-seven, Lestrade." Sherlock blinked furiously. "I'd come up on the system straight away."

Sally sighed, "Well they are definitely yours, I ran the screen myself; your name, your photograph – your fingerprints."

"Are you denying being there?" Greg asked, feeling that approaching it head on with Sherlock was best. He'd always given Sherlock that, at least; honesty and face-to-face, no thrills bluntness.

"No," Sherlock shook his head, hands in his lap twisting, "I was, we were," he nodded back at John and Greg looked over in time to see John's cheeks flush. "About six hours or so before you were with us. Mycroft came to me before he went to you,"

"What were you doing there without our authority? Without our assistance," Greg shook his head, his voice stretching out in annoyance at Sherlock; a paternal annoyance that made him sound like a concerned father over a Detective Inspector who could easily arrest Sherlock for breaking and entering.

"My job," Sherlock spat, reaching down to grip the lips of the wheels of the chair, moving himself in between the sofa and the table for distance between him and the officers.

Greg scrubbed his hands over his face and shook his head again, "With those prints proved to be yours, we have absolutely nothing. Less than nothing," he groaned, "…was there anything else that you've got on this at all? Whether it could help us in finding the shooter or with the original case?"

"Nothing," John spoke up, "Mycroft knew nothing and neither do we. That's why you were brought in, because of the resources it'd open up to help improve our knowledge but still," he shrugged, "They're good and they know it; we have as much chance of finding who shot Sherlock as we do at actually solving this case and in my reckoning that's about a one in a million."

"It's national security I'm worried about," Greg placed both hands on his hips, his coat pushed back. "If we don't catch these bastards it's not just your closure that's impossible, it leaves the world vulnerable. These guys are a terror threat; they've tried it before and they'll try it again."

"I'm not stupid – we know what they are we just don't know who," Sherlock snapped.

Sally laughed through her nose, "And therein lies the problem, doesn't it Freak?" Sherlock glared up at her, his ice-blue eyes darkening and intensifying to a dissatisfied green, his neck craning as he waited for her to continue, to throw another jibe.

"Donovan," Greg held out his hand to her, snapping angrily. "You're absolutely sure you have nothing else on this organisation? No names, no places and no past affiliations?" he looked between John and Sherlock, still unable to meet Sherlock's eyes.

John shook his head and had the grace to look apologetic. "We came up with nothing. I wish we had, I wish I could tell you that there was a stock of information but…," he threw out his empty palms and shrugged his shoulders.

"No," Greg sighed out, "It's fine – I just hoped you'd gotten further along than we had." He dragged one hand through his silver hair. "How're…things?" he asked, visibly growing more awkward. "Coping OK?"

"Fine," Sherlock replied and bunched his cheeks up in a closed-lipped smile. The colour that had flushed his cheeks earlier had all but vanished, leaving him his usual sickly pallor. His breathing was a little unsteady, John could pick it up easily, and he knew that was because of the events of the entire day being capped off by Sally being in his home.

"Tea?" John asked, needing something to say, anything, as a silence fell with prickly spines over the room.

"No, thanks," Greg shook his head, "We have to get back. Talk to your brother," he turned back to Sherlock again, "If there is anything he knows, I need to know it." his eyes, at last, locked to Sherlock's and for a moment they didn't break their stare.

Sherlock blinked, swallowing uncomfortably, and nodded. "I'll ask,"

"I'll see you out," John said softly by way of a quick exit and lead up the stairs, thankful that Greg and Sally followed without another word.

Reaching the hallway, Greg handed Sally the car keys and told her to go on ahead, lagging behind he tapped John's arm. "How is he?"

"Today? A disaster." John nodded for a few moments, "Things are happening, they're being realised; he's…he's learning what he can and can't do, what he does and doesn't have control over. He's realising that until he's strong enough to do this on his own, and probably even when he is, it's not a very dignified situation to be in." John silently hoped Greg got the undertones of what he was saying without having to give much away. He needed Greg's friendship, putting Scotland Yard aside, he needed the companionship of somebody he could trust and open up to that wasn't Sherlock so that he could do his grieving, too.

Greg regarded him a moment, using his thumb to scratch the side of his chin, more as a tick than to satisfy a genuine itch. "Can I help?"

"He won't accept it." John almost smiled.

"But if I can, call me; he – you – can't do this alone." Greg sounded more gentle and caring that John had ever noticed before and, holding out his hand to shake his, he felt as though he could confide in Greg if he needed to.

"I will thanks." John nodded a goodbye, giving a brief wave as Greg slunk out the front door and hopped quickly down the stone steps. John waited until he had left through the garden gate before closing the door. He rested back against it and sighed heavily, feeling the tension ease as the police officers vanished. He edged forwards, calling down the stairs to Sherlock. "Ready for dinner?"

"Sorry," Sherlock called back up. "Tea?"

John smirked; he should have known it was too good to be true that Sherlock had actually been interested in food earlier, or at least he wished he'd pounced on the opportunity to feed him up whilst he was willing. "OK," he called back, walking weakly into the kitchen to prepare tea. He leaned heavily on the counters, his body aching with tiredness, as he made his and Sherlock's tea. He carried the mugs carefully down the stairs with a yawn stretching his jaw, but found himself unable to keep his smile away as his eyes fell on Sherlock as he stepped off the stairs.

Arms shaking, Sherlock had dragged himself to a crouched standing position, his hands wrapped around the armrests of the wheelchair tightly. He was breathing heavily, his cheeks a little red, the air escaping his lips in puckered huffs as he plucked up the courage to allow himself to fall somewhat, landing in a slightly off-centre but otherwise perfect sitting position on the couch. He exhaled in a laboured pattern born out of relief and threw his head back on the sofa, smiling at himself, proud of his achievement. His eyes fell on John, upside down to his thrown-back head, and drank in the sight of his large smile.

"Knew you could do it," John's brows knitted in a loving frown as he leaned down, placing the cups on the coffee table, and then bent at the waist to kiss Sherlock's cheek. "Proud of you," he whispered quietly, planting another kiss, and smiled to himself as Sherlock's arms reached up around his back and pulled him down onto the couch.

"Sit," he ordered.

Scrambling, John made himself comfortable on the sofa before allowing Sherlock to reclaim the position he had taken up earlier than afternoon, his back resting fully against John, swaddled by his legs. "You'll get there – you'll find the strength and you'll get there; dressing, moving, showering…you'll be fine. It's just not an over-night thing." He ran a hand through Sherlock's curls, soft from their shower and still very, slightly damp.

"Yeah I know," he sighed out of contentment, his head resting comfortably on John's ribcage. "Promise me something?"

John's mouth twitched, "Of course."

"Never let Sally Donovan in here again."

John was almost amused for a moment, "I had no choice, it was official business not just a friendly visit." He twisted a particularly buoyant curl around his finger and let out a gentle breath, "Do you think your brother does know more than he's let on?"

Sherlock shrugged, "I hope not. I'll murder him if he does."

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: 511


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