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Sherlock woke with a start, his breath hitching in his throat and his eyes wide, and stared above him at the ceiling. Lay on his back, both hands were thrown across his tummy and it rose and fell quickly as his chest started to heave in gulps of air. He was drenched with sweat, his mind reeling with the remains of a dream beginning to fuzz away in the back of his mind. He'd been running from somewhere but he didn't know where, nor could he work out where he was going. He raised his chin, scrubbing his curls into the pillow as his head went back and licked his lips, his mouth feeling thick and chalky. He felt that adrenaline surge caused by fear, but he didn't know why – the dream was a distant memory, plaguing him but containing no facts.

Turning his head, he watched John a moment, attempting to match his breathing to that of the slumbering doctor, but the slow breaths made him feel light headed. He inhaled slowly and let it out in a puff, resetting his breathing pattern and let his eyes close, hoping exhaustion would return. But Sherlock's impatience was greater than his need for sleep and he groaned, flicking his eyes open, his jaw setting firm. He reached down with his hands, one gripping the very edge of the mattress whilst the other balled into the sheet; keeping a tight hold, he held his breath slightly as he dragged his upper body into a sitting position, sighing out his held breath in steps as he adjusted to his new position.

Daring to let go of the mattress, he gripped his right leg underneath his knee and pulled the limb around, then the left, to leave him sitting on the edge of the bed. He grabbed the mattress again tightly, grounding himself, and pushed his weight against his hands to turn his body fully, sitting naturally on the edge of the mattress. He flung his head back, a half-smile pulling his lips to the left as he silently celebrated his victory. He waited a moment, catching his breath, before he reached out and took hold of the armrest of his chair, positioned conveniently beside the bed. It took a few moments of working up to it, but he swung his body in an effortful movement from the mattress, across into the chair, in one, swift, if a little shaky, action.

He glanced at John, thankful he was still sleeping, and reached for the brakes of the chair to free up the wheels. He moved slowly, hoping he wasn't too loud, and moved from his side of the bed into the bathroom. He filled the sink with water, arms stretched out at the taps, washing and brushing his teeth efficiently. He didn't attempt to dress, not sure he could handle being unable to cope and then have to wake John for help. Instead stayed comfortable in his lounge pants and tattered t-shirt, leaving the bathroom with a feeling of independence returning brewing in his stomach; he was determined to work as hard as he needed to on his own to ensure he was exactly the same as before.

He manoeuvred the chair through the open room easily, minding the furniture to avoid any sudden bangs that might disturb John. It was only then he looked at the clock and realised it was still very early, not even five am. He sucked his bottom lip over his teeth with his lower jaw jutting forwards and steered himself into the lift with ease; it wasn't a silent machine by any means but it was quiet enough that it was unlikely to disturb John too much. The metal doors closed behind him, closing him into the lift and rode smoothly up to the next floor. He relished, somewhat, in the independence that the early hour and John's deep sleeping offered him. It took him considerably longer than it would have taken John, but he managed just fine in filling the kettle and making a cup of tea. He would have relished a little longer had he not faced the difficulty of bringing the cup from the kitchen to the dining room. He stared at the mug on the counter, trying to figure out the best way to carry it with him into the other room.

He held it the cup in his left hand, his fingers griping tightly around the handle, and swore at himself for his inability to guide the chair one-handed. He swapped over, taking the cup in his right and attempted to move the chair with his left and threw back his head in frustration as he turned into the side of the counter. Licking his lips through a heavy sigh, Sherlock positioned the cup between his thighs, gripping his legs beneath the knee bend to pull them closer together, locking the cup tightly between the lower end of his thighs. He grinned at himself, pleased with the accomplishment, and reached down either side to straighten the chair again and moved forwards smoothly. The front wheels of the chair bumped ever so slightly over the lip of the kitchen walkway, where the beading of the floor met the that of the hallway, and Sherlock gritted his teeth as the cup bounced in his lap, slipping forwards and spilling the hot liquid over his pyjama clad legs, soaking the seat and dripping to the floor; almost immediately, the cup slipped completely free and crashed onto the floor, shattering dramatically, the noise seeming louder in the otherwise silent house.

In an instant his independence, his silence and his moment to himself was stolen at the shattering of the porcelain as it dropped, rolled and splintered like a firework across the hallway floor, showering what was left of the tea across the floor and up the walls. The settling of the last, rocking piece of crockery was followed instantly by John's hoarse, shouting voice and his heavy, trudging footsteps as he bounded up the stairs, his pyjamas crumpled and his hair disarrayed, with a look of pure fear on his face that only settled when he took in the scene and realised that Sherlock was alright.

"You OK?" John stared at Sherlock a moment, rested on the top of the stairs, hands held out in wonderment as a frown knitted his brows together delicately. Had he not been standing with a prominent morning erection, Sherlock might have found him endearing enough to calm his seething temper but as he was, Sherlock found himself uncomfortable and unsure how to deal with his own mood and John's state.

"Fine," he spat, reaching for the wheels and jar the chair back a couple of inches. "I love sitting in tea-soaked clothes which I'm pretty sure is scolding hot. Best of it is, I could be burning blisters into my legs right now and I can't even feel it. So yeah, John; I'm OK!" his lips were firm in a pout at the scathe in his tone was biting.

John let his head lull back in slight aggravation and then sighed. "C'mon," he stepped forwards, holding on hand out to Sherlock in a gesture he wasn't even sure of the nature of himself. "I'll clean up in a minute; let's make sure you're comfortable first."

"I'm perfectly comfortable. Can't even feel it," Sherlock glared at John and then slapped his palms down onto his thighs. "Not a thing. Nothing. Not a sting or a burn or a bruise. Same as yesterday when I urinated all over myself – didn't feel it then and don't feel this now." His slapping hands balled into their habitual fists and pummelled down against his damp thighs. "Nothing. Hurts. And. I. Can't. Stand. It!" he growled low and that pain – that broken sound of a man once so strong in almost every sense – was what tripped the switch in John's heart.

"I know…" he softened, dropping to his knees in a puddle of tea, the sleepy haze beginning to lift. He grabbed Sherlock's hands in his own by the wrists and locked his fingers around the skinny bones tightly. "…but beating yourself up both physically and metaphorically isn't going to prevent this, Sherlock and I know that you know that. It's a cup – cups break. I drop cups all the time. It happens. I'll clean it up and you'll be fine."

"I don't want you to clean it up," Sherlock roared back, dragging his hands free of John's vice grip. "I don't want you to have to nursemaid my every action. I want to dress myself, to use the toilet myself, to make myself a cup of tea and be able to carry it to whenever I want to go with it. I don't want this, any of this and you don't seem to understand that. Why should I accept something I never even asked for?" his eyes were sharp and painfully keen as they dug into John's brain with their icy stare.

The doctor turned away and rose to his feet, "I didn't ask to be shot but I accepted it. I didn't ask to go to Afghanistan when I joined the army, but I accepted it. I didn't ask Harry to be so insufferably riddled with pain but I accept it and I do my best to change it, to cope with it. I didn't ask my father to die, Sherlock, but it happened and I accept it. There are so many things that happen here, in this world, that people don't ask for, that they don't want, but they have to live with and take it on and learn from it and-and…and just grown a pair of balls and move on, move forwards and live a life different to before, yeah, but still living. You could have died, Sherlock – this could have been all over but it's not. You got a chance, you got the opportunity to keep going; you're mentally fit, you've gained a little, much-needed weight; you're still able to be who you were before, Sherlock. You're making your own barriers here – just because you're in a chair doesn't mean it's all over. Make changes, for God sakes, instead of fighting against those trying to help you with the transition. Especially me because I'm the one baring this, Sherlock – you think I like this, do you actually think it makes me feel good to see you this way? I don't mean in the chair, I mean so destructive towards yourself. God! I swear, if you're serious about not wanting this I'm sure there's tonnes of places you can take yourself to and score enough junk to push into your veins that you die. Feel free; the front door is right there-," John's rant slowed and he threw his arms out toward the front door.

Maybe he meant some of his words, or all of them, but he had never meant to burden them on Sherlock. The anger had gotten too much, the fatigue, the fear and the stress and it all just bubbled over. He felt horrific but he knew he couldn't swallow the torrent back down again and, as he was trying to tell Sherlock to do, he owned that and accepted it. Stiffening his jaw, he locked his shoulders and cocked his head to Sherlock.

"No?" he raised an eyebrow, "You don't want that? You don't want to go out there and end this? You do want to try harder and accept that this is it now and there are some things you'll need more assistance with and others that, with time, you'll learn to do exactly as you did before? Yes? Have we come to this agreement without actually speaking another word?" his hands flew out at his sides, empty palms up. "Sherlock?"

Blinking, Sherlock's pout thickened as he released the bite on his lower lip. "No I don't want that." His shoulders visibly relaxed.

John rubbed the back of his aching neck and sighed, "Go down stairs, get undressed and I'll help you into the shower. I'll just clean this up first."

"I can manage," Sherlock said, turning for the lift. "If I can't, I'll call you but please – give me this? Give the privacy and the time to do this myself?"

John nodded instantly, a little worried about Sherlock's ability to cope just yet but ultimately willing, and smiled a slight twitch of a smile in the right corner of his mouth. "Absolutely."

John waited until Sherlock had vanished and the sound of the lift doors opening on the lower floor indicated his arrival. He crouched down, his toes taking his weight, and gathered up the shards of the cup quickly, mindful of the smaller splinters that seemed to have snowed over the hallway. He wrapped a tea cloth in the kitchen and dropped the pieces into the bin before grabbing the sweeping brush and mop to clean up the floor and skirting boards, beginning to turn a little orange as the tea dried.

He just felt exhausted. He went over and over in his mind about the rant he'd blown in Sherlock's face and dipped in and out of both feeling better for having done it and feeling guilty. He knew that he couldn't coddle Sherlock – he hadn't ever done it before and he wasn't about to start now – but at the same time he knew there was, to some degree, going to be changes in the way he treated them. Realistically, there were things Sherlock needed help with – may always need help with – and things he was probably never going to do again. But he wasn't about to allow the Detective to wallow in that; Sherlock was of a strange mind, he knew, and he was aware that without it being kept up, without him being allowed to push his own limits, his mind would contort and revert to the habits he kept in his younger years and John wanted to prevent that.

He wanted Sherlock to see his own abilities, to embrace his changes and build on them. He could continue to work alongside Lestrade, but it would be in a different manner. John knew that that wasn't enough for Sherlock, but he wanted the man to realise that it was small graces that would stop him from feeling as though his entire life had changed completely.

With Sherlock out of the way for a while, John sat at the dining table, scrolling through Sherlock's laptop. He hadn't updated his blog in a while and felt that now was the time. With a cup of tea at his side and a banana, left untouched, that was beginning to look a bit brown he opened up a clean page on his blog and then stared at it. What could he even say? Tell them about Sherlock's inabilities, tell them about his aggression? There were no cases, there were no achievements in terms of his craft. And then he smile, small but genuine, and left the post untitled as he began to type.

Lisson Grove is a quiet area. Spaceship houses are plentiful but I think we got the Mothership.
He's doing OK. Ups and downs, good days and bad days, triumphs and tantrums and that's just me.
Things are hard to achieve, others are easy.
Reached a milestone yesterday, though I think – he moved himself from the chair to the sofa without any assistance, without any support from me. I couldn't tell him so but I felt my heart swell at the sight.
If I had never realised before, I did then just how much his presence in my life means to me. He changed me considerably – when I met him I was so alone and, to this day, I owe him so much and I hope that I can begin to repay that now that it's he who requires the occasional helping hand.

He laughed through his nose and rolled his eyes, quickly going back and deleting a portion to begin again. He wasn't naïve, he knew Sherlock read his blog posts and he knew that there'd be hell to pay if he got too personal, too soppy or too revealing.

Lisson Grove is a quiet area. Spaceship houses are plentiful but I think we got the Mothership.
Sherlock is doing well – changes are being made and life is different but he's getting stronger by the minute. Reached a milestone yesterday: moved himself without my help from Baskerville to the sofa – made me realise that, despite the difficulties, things are able to be overcome
Lestrade and the team at Scotland Yard have taken up the original case, the referred case we were on the night of the shooting, and are doing a good job. Sherlock would disagree, I'm sure, but doesn't he always?

He smirked at himself, his fingers pointed and moving slowly, and licked his lips as he guided the cursor to the Submit button. Nodding, he tapped the mouse pad gently and posted the short update. He wrapped his hands around his cup of cooling tea and sat back, a yawn stretching his jaw down, and sipped at it quietly. It was almost seven and Sherlock hadn't called out; he'd given him time, space and privacy and now he decided it was time to make sure Sherlock hadn't fallen or drowned himself. Biting the corner of his mouth, he closed the laptop down and set his cup on the table. Padding from the dining room he leaned over the stairway and called down.

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Oh – you're done, you OK?" His eyebrows arched pleasantly.

"I'm fine," Sherlock replied, a little breathless. "Think you…could…c-could you just…help me a minute?"

John sprang into action, cantering down the stairs quickly, "What's up?" His face broadened in a smile at the sight he was met with. Sherlock was wet-headed, fresh from the shower, and perched on the edge of the bed, legs lifeless over the edge. His upper body was covered completely, dressed in a smart powder-blue shirt and he had a pair of boxer shorts on and socks.

"I'm…too…," he breathed out, "My back…" he bit his lip.

"Hurting?"

Sherlock nodded, "I can't…" he gestured to the sanitation pad and his trousers.

"Alright," John slipped across the bed. "Let's get something to support your back. See-," he began, gathering as many pillow and cushions from around him as he could lay his hands onto, "…this is why you shouldn't analyse your Physiotherapist." He smirked, despite his obvious discomfort, Sherlock snorted a little. "Alright," John returned to behind him and stacked the pillows highly and around Sherlock's hips and back. "We'll have to see about getting supports or something. I always assumed you'd great posture and back strength, but it must have been a mirage cause by your enormously long legs!" he put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. "Ease back…there you go."

Sherlock rested back, his breath hitching a little at the ease that came with not having to support himself, his back muscles calming their spasms as he all but lay down upon the soft supports behind him. John bent forwards and stole a small kiss from Sherlock's slightly parted lips.

"I'll be quick, I promise," he whispered then moved around the bed to quickly finished Sherlock's personal care in silence and with huge respect for his partner. He heard Sherlock's breath catch a couple of times as he worked with gentle hands, knowing it was more embarrassment than anything and apologised every time. True to his word, he had Sherlock dressed in moments and inserted himself beside the detective on the pillow stack once his work was done. "There," he said in a hushed whisper, exhausted from little sleep and content as Sherlock's arms rested down on him.

"I'm sorry I woke you."

"No you're not; you're sorry I woke up and disturbed your quiet-time." John laughed.

"True." Sherlock smiled, tired eyes closing with contentment. "I'm sorry about…the sex." He blurted.

John lifted his head from where it had nestled a little into Sherlock's shoulder and glanced into his mirror-effect eyes. "What?"

"You miss it."

"Of course, but has never factored in hugely and, anyway, I have hands." John blushed at his own candidness. "Don't be sorry."

"…and I'm sorry you feel…like…you said. Upstairs." Sherlock was having a hard time being open about his feelings, about empathising with John, but he was trying.

"I'm tired and moody, don't pay any attention." John dismissed, not wanting to go over it all again. "C'mon, much as I'd love to we can't lay here all day. I think we need to go and talk with your brother."

"No – I…I don't want to go there." Sherlock held John a little tighter.

"Call him then, ask him to come here." John frowned, extracting himself from Sherlock's long arms. "But no, don't call him. We're going there. We're going out – you need it and so do I. I'm going for a shower, I'll be ten…twenty minutes," he licked his lips. "Don't run away."

"That is not even the slightest bit amusing, Doctor Watson." Sherlock grouched, comfortable at last as his back completely calmed but smiled, despite himself, at the mirth on John's face as he disappeared into the bathroom.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 487