Thanks for reading!

The eyes were wide, obvious and unrelenting against Sherlock's effort-reddened face as he and John moved through the Diogenes Club in silence. Men stared in wonder, recognising Sherlock and John, silent in their scrutiny as Mycroft appeared to greet them. No words were spoken as Mycroft led them back into an area that would allow them privacy and the opportunity to talk. He didn't know they were coming, or rather he knew but they hadn't informed him. CCTV counted for rather a lot, Sherlock's good grace to telephone did not. Closing the door with an almost inaudible click into its as they reached his office, Mycroft's raised eyebrows betrayed his otherwise calm exterior and John took that as his cue.

"I dragged him here." He spoke up, hands out defensively. "Lestrade was round last night, asking questions about the case – without knowing what they're doing for the original order, we've got no hope in finding out anything about the person who shot Sherlock. We can't tell them anything. We're pretty certain you can't, either, but that's why we're here; we need to be sure you don't know anything else."

"What I know, Doctor Watson, I have already shared." Mycroft replied, hands behind his back. "You should not be here – Sherlock is not strong enough for this kind of traipsing around the city."

"I'm fine." Sherlock bit his tongue.

"You're far from fine, Sherlock." Mycroft's voice rose and John all but jumped at the severity of it. "You were shot in the spine two weeks ago – you haven't yet had a physiotherapy session of value though I fear what little you have had was a disaster. I know you," he added, watching Sherlock's face, "You will not roll over and beg – you will fight tooth and nail with your stubborn, ridiculous pride."

"We're not…" Sherlock began.

"You're here to badger me, to do Detective Inspector Lestrade's work for him. I say this once and once only; there is nothing I can tell you that is any more beneficial than what you already know. You have all the information that I have and if you cannot do solve it, dear brother, I dare say Scotland Yard will have no hopes. If there was nothing else…?"

"Mycroft," John's face crinkled in disgust. "Those bastards have paralysed your brother. Your brother, the little on you grew up with. This guy, right here," he pointed at Sherlock. "He's your flesh and blood. Your brother!" he snapped. "You know more," John's eyebrows arched. "I know you do – you're better than he is and he's a bloody genius." John inhaled sharply and paced behind Sherlock under the Detective's watchful eye.

"You flatter me, Doctor Watson. But flattery will not increase my knowledge," the false smile on Mycroft's face disintegrated rapidly. "I know nothing more than I have already shared. I came to you, Sherlock, because I required your help. I regret that I cannot over anything else – I am aware of what these people are capable of and that it might be them responsible for the shooting – but regret does not form new leads, Doctor Watson. You should know this, being a Military man." He stiffened his jaw. "I intended on calling today," he changed the subject. "The standing frames have arrived and I expect you'll want to utilise them immediately so I'll have them at the house this evening. Whilst on the subject, is there anything else you require?"

"Back brace," John inhaled and opened and closed the fingers of his left hand tensely; he was angry with Mycroft, still certain – though he didn't know why – that there was something more he knew but he couldn't keep it up, not when he had the opportunity to drink the man dry in terms of supporting his brother and enabling him to live as full and easy a life as possible. "A fully-supportive back brace; back supports to add to seats, he needs a chair with a stiffer, more supportive, lower back." He reeled off and then moved closer to Sherlock. "This comes up too high-," he tapped the material that made up the back of Sherlock's chair. "He needs something stiffer, lower, with fixed support. The shooting didn't just damage his lower limbs, Mycroft, he's got back ache, weak muscles – he needs support." Mycroft reached onto his desk and retrieved a pen and embossed notepaper. He made notes quickly, listening as John continued. "He needs equally stiffened back supports for chairs – you can get them anywhere, a little like those massaging things for cars and offices, but with a tougher frame."

Mycroft nodded, "I'll look into it immediately. Is there anything else you require urgently?"

John licked his lips and wracked his brains, trying to thinking of anything they could do to ensure Sherlock's independence in the home. "A grabber; again they're not hard to come by – just to allow him to pick things up he drops, get the post, whatever." John scratched the back of his head and Mycroft nodded, making notes clearly.

"I'll see to it they're acquired as quickly as possible." Mycroft placed the paper and pen back to his desk. Sherlock's mouth bobbed open, John saw it, but it snapped shut just as quickly. Frowning, John was about to ask what was wrong but assumed Sherlock had just decided against it in front of Mycroft so made a mental note to ask him once they left. "I am sorry," Mycroft began again in a silky tone. "I wish I could offer more but I can't."

"Is it Moriarty?" Sherlock blurted. "A year back, that cabbie…he said Moriarty." He frowned, looking up at Mycroft for confirmation.

"Honestly, I don't know. We know nothing, Sherlock, absolutely nothing, hence your involvement in the case." Mycroft rested his backside against the desk in an alarmingly casual manner, in John's opinion.

"How can we know nothing? People always make mistakes, Mycroft, how could there be no mistakes, no slip-ups revealing who they are?" Sherlock snapped, lulling back his head in exasperation. "Until we know who and what we're dealing with, this case is dead in the water. And so is any chance at me looking the person who shot me square in the eye." His hands reached down, grasping the brakes on the wheels to knock them off, and jolted himself backward enough to turn the chair. He didn't allow himself enough room, however, and clattered the footrest noisily off the chair that sat before Mycroft's desk, leaving it locked in and tangled. "Argh!" he growled through gritted teeth, unable to move forwards or backward, truly locked in and on the brink of embarrassing, aggravated tears. "Don't just stand there staring at me!" He yelled, widening John's eyes in shock. "Help me, for God sakes! Move this fu…" he pushed out, long fingers wrapped around the walnut arm of the chair and clattered it side to side, taking chunks out of the leg where it was locked against the metal of his wheelchair, and growled deeply in his chest.

"Sherlock, stop. Stop! Stop it!" John placed his hands over Sherlock's. "I know – you're angry, I know. But it's not the chair's fault, y'know?" his voice was firm but gentle and Mycroft watched, embarrassed and out-of-place, as somebody else tended to his needy brother. "Look, let go and I'll move it." he prised Sherlock's fingers free, the Detective breathing angrily, and lifted the chair up and free of the collision, inspecting the damage. "I would say I'd pay for that, but I'm not going to." He looked at Mycroft with both amusement and sadness in his eyes.

"He-," Mycroft began and cleared the emotion from his throat before it surfaced fully, "…He always did have a temper, didn't you Sherlock?" He knew his façade would not fool his younger brother, but he also knew Sherlock wasn't focusing on him and he could therefore slip emotionally through the cracks this once.

"Take me home." Sherlock planted his hands in his lap and looked up solemnly at John. "Please – just…get me out of here." The broken, defeated tone in his voice struck John and Mycroft instantly and nobody could look Sherlock in the eye.

"Yeah, let's go." John took the handles of the chair and eased Sherlock through the door as Mycroft opened it respectfully. "Sorry Sherlock – this was a bad idea. And I'm warning you," John halted in the hallway, glancing at Mycroft with venom in his eyes, "If you know more and you're protecting your own arse…I'll never forgive you."

Mycroft inhaled quietly. "And I know you to be a man of your word, Doctor Watson but I assure you again – there is nothing more I can offer by way of information. Go," he dismissed the doctor, "Take my brother home; he's not well enough for this yet. I will be by this evening with the equipment." He turned and stepped back into his office, closing the door without another word, leaving no room for conversation at all.

John breathed deep in the fresh, cool air halting his walking a few steps from the Diogenes club. He took a deep breath in and then sighed out, steeling himself. "Y'OK?" he asked uneasily, resting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He felt the muscles tense under his touch but didn't withdraw his fingers.

"Fine, John." There was a scathe in his tone, a deep, hissing anger that John had come to know well.

Inhaling through his nose, John pursed his lips and then relaxed. "I'm sorry – but Lestrade said…"

"I know what he said, John, I was there. And I know…" a moment of relenting crossed Sherlock's face. "…he knows more,"

"You think he knows who's involved in the organisation?" John frowned, abandoning his station behind Sherlock and walking around to face him. "Or you think he knows who fired the gun?"

Sherlock licked his lips carefully, unfolding his arms from his lap to grip the wheels beside him, "Both?"

The taxi-ride back to Lisson Grove was quiet. Sherlock seemed unable to voice his ideas manically and John dipped off into his own world. They looked like opposite ends of the mantel, like china dogs that face away from one another, with their heads resting against the side of the cab and their hands supporting their chins, elbows resting on the handle of the door. Sherlock had wanted to sit on the seat rather than in his chair in the disabled spot so Baskerville had been folded and laid flat on the floor and it skidded occasionally as the taxi turned corners a little more swiftly than it should.

As the cab halted, John reached down to unhook his belt and pulled his wallet from his coat at the same time. He handed the driver his fare but declined assistance when it was offered. He let himself out of the cab and unfolded the wheelchair on the street, fixing the brakes securely before peering back inside the taxi. Sherlock was staring at him, bottom lip between long, white teeth; his eyes glistened as he tried to pull himself back from the daydream he'd wandered into throughout the journey.

"Shuffle over?" John asked. Sherlock nodded and reached to his belt, long fingers unhooking it and pulling him free robotically. He flattened his palms on the leather seat and in small, slow and effortful movements slid himself across the seat until he was in the seat John had occupied. "Good," John nodded, "That's good. Here-," he reached out, almost back inside the cab completely, and hooked one arm behind Sherlock before he hoisted the other beneath his knees. Not for the first time, he thanked Sherlock's small size as he swung him upward, through the door and into the chair in a quick – if a little clumsy – movement. "You OK?" he checked as Sherlock breathed a little heavily in his seat.

"Fine," Sherlock pushed himself backward as John closed the cab door. "Can you just leave me alone for a bit?" Sherlock asked into the street, watching John frown as he turned to him. "You haven't done anything, you're just…I'm just a bit suffocated. You go home, it's fine, I'm going to go for a w…" his mouth formed the word but the sound didn't come out and John watched the light disappear behind Sherlock's eyes.

Closing his eyes, John steeled himself. "Why don't we both go?"

"No." Sherlock snapped, "You're not my minder and I don't need one. I can do this myself."

"Well do you want to come inside first, freshen up a bit and get something to eat or something-," John shrugged, "Accept the limits on yourself, Sherlock. You're not ready for this, that's one thing I will agree with Mycroft on; you're not strong enough, not yet."

"Go inside, John," Sherlock said with a dead voice, turning the chair. "I need some air."

John shook his head, laughing silently and sarcastically, "Then take a deep breath." He walked around to be alongside Sherlock and walked with him, past the gate to the house and further up the street. "I'm coming with you, wherever you go."

"I don't need babysitting." Sherlock said viciously.

John grabbed the armrest of the chair, halting Sherlock, and knelt before him, inserting himself between Sherlock's knees. "Clearly you do because you're acting like a child. You aren't physically able to do this yourself yet – I don't want to take away your independence, I really don't, but you can't be independent in this way yet Sherlock, you've got to work at it. And, if I'm honest, I don't trust you."

Sherlock's grey eyes bore into the creases on John's milky forehead. "You don't trust me?"

"No." John shook his head, "Because this is a moment of weakness and in times of weakness you do things to yourself."

"This is about drugs again, isn't it?" Sherlock's brows twitched up and John nodded.

"Partly, I suppose. But I don't trust you not to throw yourself into the Themes, either." He licked his bottom lip nervously. "You're self-destructive and leaving you on your own two weeks after being half-robbed of your life would be foolish of me as a friend, as a doctor and…" he heaved a breath out, "…and as your partner."

Sherlock's feline eyes scanned John's face, flicking quickly and menacingly over ever pockmark and creamy wrinkles of his lightly tanned skin. "I don't want to die-," he said plainly, "I just need breathing space. And…I kind of was hoping for a cigarette," he arced his eyebrows and John laughed despite the sop of emotions in his chest.

"Smoking I'll forgive," he smiled at Sherlock, rising to his feet. "But I can't let you go on your own, I'm sorry – I can't."

"I get it," Sherlock looked up at John, watching him stretch out his back. "Together then?" he asked, hands back on the lips of the wheels, "Corner shop," he nodded down the road, "And no comments about the fact that I am going to chain smoke until I vomit."

John shook his head, "Just this once, you have my word." He saluted.

"I don't buy it," Sally slapped the brown, paper file onto Lestrade's desk and rested her hands on her hips with a firm, barbed expression. "There is no way the Freak is in the dark about any of this and even less of a chance is weird brother is; that guy practically is the British Government." Her brows rolled up, "He planned all of this himself, to land the Met and us in particular in trouble. The whole idea of a trafficking gang is bollocks! It's a tall-tale spun by Freak so he could set up the shooting – he was aiming for us."

"Shut up," Greg growled into his hands, rubbing them noisily across his exhausted face. "Just shut up," he glared at her, "The guy is paralysed, Donovan. His life is pretty much over and you think he did it to himself?" he laughed callously.

"The bullets were meant for one of us," Sally insisted. "Me or Peter, or you – or all of us,"

"Me?" Greg jabbed his hands into his own chest, "Sherlock and I go way back; this wasn't meant for me. Six years…" he shook his head, "…he owes me too much, I owe him too much," he licked his bottom lip. "You're being ridiculous; you've no evidence, nothing to go on whatsoever."

"His fingerprints are in the flat, he admitted to being there!" Sally's voice rose. "I'm not letting this go," she turned toward the door to leave Lestrade's office. "I'm not; I know he's involved." She spat, closing the door behind her firmly as he re-joined the rest of the team in the open-plan office.

Greg sat back in his chair, reluctantly contemplating Sally's view. He understood where she was coming from – the only lead they had was that Sherlock was in the flat from where the shots were fired, the flat they were investigating. But he couldn't bring himself to believe her ideas, Sherlock wouldn't be so stupid and as much as he detested Donovan and Anderson, he really had no reason – nor the personality – to set up all of this. They'd joked their entire relationship – such as it was – that nobody could ever really know Sherlock but Greg was sure he did, well sure he knew enough to know that this wasn't something he'd do but at the same time he couldn't get Sally's thoughts to leave him be.

He sat forwards and picked up the phone, reaching into his desk for a small diary and searched out a telephone number. Entering the full code, he held the phone to his ear and sat back with a deep sigh. It took three rings before the call was answered.

"Mr Holmes, hi – it's Detective Inspector Lestrade. I wondered if we could possibly meet for a bit of a chat," he licked his bottom lip, desperate for a cigarette. "As soon as possible, today if that's convenient for you…no, of course. I understand that, Mr Holmes. This isn't just out of police badgering you know? You do understand you and I are working toward a common goal on this one – yes, fine. Four pm, thank you." He all but threw the phone back into its cradle and rose to his feet.

Fuck the patches; fuck the 'doing well'. He needed a cigarette and he was bloody well going for one.

John sat comfortably on the park bench, basking in the brightness of the early winter sun, and found himself mesmerised by the look of contentment on Sherlock's face as he indulged his craving for nicotine. He'd never been a fan of smoking – working in the medical field and having experienced Cancer in the family had added to the personal value he'd already held that it wasn't the best idea to smoke – but he believed that, in some way, the action and the normality of it, the familiarity of it, was cathartic for Sherlock in a time of great change.

Inhaling deeply on the cigarette, Sherlock raised his eyebrows, "What?" he asked, the smoke billowing from his lips and nose.

John shook his head, his smile a little wider, "Nothing," he kind of laughed, "You just...," he waved a hand in Sherlock's direction and then shrugged. "Good?"

Sherlock nodded, "Normal." He replied, confirming John's thoughts. This was Sherlock rebelling against his new life and reverting back to a much older one.

"History," John submitted, aware it was pseudo-romantic in an 'American Movie' kind of way. "Hungry? We could go into the city, eat out? Or Angelo's – he'd like to see you."

Sherlock dropped the butt to the ground and exhaled through pursed lips, "I don't care what Angelo would like."

"Hey, c'mon." John scolded. "He's good to you."

"He believes he's indebted, that's why." Sherlock rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand.

"He's still good to you." John rolled his eyes, his tongue lapping over his bottom lip. "You're scared," he pointed a finger at Sherlock and watched the detective's expression change – it hardened and his jaw tightened quickly. "You don't want to want to be near where you were shot."

"I'm not frightened of anything," Sherlock spat, hands gripping the wheels of his chair for a quick getaway but John was quicker, he clapped his hand onto the armrests and turned Sherlock around to face him.

"You're scared and I'm glad. Why? Because it's a human reaction and I was beginning to think you were half Terminator."

"No," Sherlock shook his head, his lips pushing a firm pout, "I'm not frightened and I'm certainly not half Terminator; what I am is half broken." He snapped, taking John's wrists in his hands and gripping until the Doctor let go. "But I'm not stupid, I'm not a child and I don't need patronising or stopping from moving. Don't ever do that to me again," he pushed John's arms away.

"God, Sherlock! You're making me dizzy. One minute you're teasing, the next you want to tear out my heart! I don't get it! I don't get it and I can't take it!" John gritted his teeth. "This is killing me too, you know? It's killing me," he hit his fist against his chest, "But I'm trying to make this work, I'm trying to help you and stand back at the same time; I want you…pick a mood. Be angry, be sad or…be hurt; just be anything but this rollercoaster of half-hearted aggression."

John hated this – public displays of dirty laundry – but he couldn't hold back; this morning had opened the lid on a volcano beneath and now he couldn't contain it. Sherlock made to move away again, turning off on the argument, but John wasn't done – not by a long chalk – and he grabbed the handles on Sherlock's chair, spinning him round at the same time.

"You don't get to storm off because I can't. We need to talk, to be honest with each other or we're not going to make it and you're going to end up living with your brother and I know you would much rather it were me seeing you in your birthday suit than him." he gestured crudely. "Sherlock we need to work together, we need to be honest with each other about how were feeling or we're not going to last and you're not going to be able to do this. I can't do this unless you talk to me, openly, rather than being silent one minute and irrational and gobby the next."

Sherlock exhaled loudly, "The only person being gobby right now, Doctor Watson, is you. Get your hands off my chair and let me go."

"No, we're talking about this."

"Fine – but we do it back at the house, not here in public." Sherlock conceded.

Squaring his shoulders, John straightened his back and took his hands off of the chair. "Lead the way." He nodded on.

The house filled with the tension that had blown on the wind back in the park, filling it up again with the same biting discomfort that had flooded in that morning, the moment John closed the front door on the street behind them. Sherlock dragged off his jacket and scarf, handing them off to John in perfect silence, and moved into the dining room whilst John hung their coats. The doctor stiffened his back, his leg beginning to ache in sympathy, and walked with soldier's precision into the dining room. He pulled out one of the chairs and sat down as Sherlock moved into the space that had been made at the table with the absence of a chair, stored in the corner of the room instead and piled with a box filled with books.

"Me first," Sherlock said stiffly and John nodded, reclining in the high-backed chair slightly. This was all very rational and far too clinical; it was an argument, one born out of his love for Sherlock, and it was being held in discomfort and with the air of a board meeting at a stretched dining table.

"Go for it," John folded his arms.

"I'm not about to patrol the streets like a disabled hooker looking for a fix. I have been clean for three years and it's going to stay that way. Yes, this is hard and I'm angry and I'm-I'm looking for somebody to blame and I can't find them but I am not so hell-bent on ending my life that I'm about to commit suicide or drug myself into a coma and that you don't trust me on that is frankly offensive because I thought you had this little thing for me called love." Sherlock's face was expressionless and his voice was sombre.

"Of course I love you, it's because of that I don't want to see you go off alone when you're barely fit enough to cope and potentially find yourself, or put yourself, in a position that'll end in something with the ability to be fatal." John argued calmly. He was seething, a raging bull of temper pounding in his stomach, but he wanted to give Sherlock the chance to talk because God knows, he wasn't going to learn how he felt any other way. Sherlock wasn't about to break down and cry and so he was willing to take his openness in whatever way it came; he just couldn't promise he'd change his mind.

"Then trust me," Sherlock said frankly. "When we first met, you trusted me off the bat. You viewed Baker Street with me mere twenty-four hours after we'd met, John. You trusted me without having cause to and yet now, when you know me better than my own brother, you find yourself unable to trust me?"

"It's not that I don't trust you overall; it's that I don't trust you not to be unable to…it's that I don't think you're strong enough to say no to situations you think will rid your mind of the things it's going over right now. If I offered it, I know you'd take it." John said, almost sorry he thought so badly of his lover.

"I wouldn't." Sherlock shook his head, "What I want is space, thinking-space and breathing-space and space to get back a piece of who I used to be. I don't want syringes and teaspoons, John, I want my life back."

And there it was, brutal honesty delivered with a slight raise of his voice and a quirk of his eyebrows that told John all he needed to know. The expression, the very slight twitch in his tone said: You're right, I am afraid, but I'm smothered. I love you but I can't take your presence twenty-four-seven. I'm scared of what's ahead of me because I can't deal with the uncertainty of how my life would be. Right now I feel like I'm floating – I don't know who or what I am and all I want is for you to give me the space, the tiny bit of space, to find out – I promise you with all I can that drugs is not the answer for me. I love you too much.

"I believe you." John said, hoarse. He sat straight and reached across the table, his hand closing around Sherlock's as they lay clasped in front of him, fidgeting on the edge of the dining table. "I'm sorry; I'm sorry if I made you feel patronised, I'm sorry if I made you feel belittled or…like I was taking away your freedom; that's not my goal. But as your friend, as what I am to you and you are to me, I need you to understand that I'm just…I'm scared; I don't know what's ahead for you, where you're going to be in a year's time. I don't know if you'll find the strength but I want you to but until you do, until the ability comes back or grows or…whatever," he shook his head, "Sherlock, I'm going to worry because you can't be the same as before. Like it or not, we've both got to accept that."

"I do." Sherlock pulled his hands from John's in a gentle movement, "…I'm trying to," he added, quieter.

"Like I said before, I agree with your brother, you're not strong enough to go off gallivanting yet. But…" John sighed, trying to give Sherlock a bit of the grasp on independence he needed, "…I know you; I know sitting here cooped up isn't any good for you and neither is having somebody completely adhere to every need you have. But do you understand where I'm coming from, what I mean? I'm just…trying to help."

"I know – but I'm in my thirties, John, and I'm wearing a nappy and sitting in a pushchair and it's…" he licked his lips and took in the slightly taken aback expression on John's face at just how open he was being. "…it's suffocating. It's embarrassing and degrading and…"

"Right then," John clapped his hands, "Let's start now – let's start right now in doing things that will prevent me having to help you out so much; give you back a bit of modesty and privacy; promote independence." He reached across the table for the laptop. "You were reading up about the different methods of catheterisation; allows you to take care of all…that…yourself," he waved his hands in Sherlock's direction, finding being medical man and Sherlock's partner a clash in terms. "You definitely want to go down that route? Does away with the pads and stuff and gives you freedom to be private – the tubing itself can run along your leg if you go with external catheters, and the bag fits to your thigh or your calf..."

There was a slight flush to Sherlock's cheeks when he nodded, "Yes…" came out a little more hoarsely than he'd have intended it to.

"We can order them online, or through the pharmacists in town." He said, tapping slowly on the keys of the laptop into a Google search bar. "The standing frames will be good, help you get a little more height, freedom in that respect, but you're going to have to work hard for it not to be tiring because until you've built up your back strength, it's going to be uncomfortable. If you're going to kick up a fuss with the physiotherapists, I'll do some research, badger your brother for equipment and we can kind of work on it ourselves-,"

"I want that," Sherlock nodded fiercely.

John glanced up, seriousness in his eyes and pointed at Sherlock, "Mess me around and you'll be packed off to an NHS outpatients clinic, you hear me!" Sherlock almost smiled as he nodded, despite himself. "I love you, and I'm sorry…OK? Promise me you'll do this more often? Tell me when I'm smothering, be honest and open?"

"I'll try," Sherlock nodded. "You've got to trust me, though – you have to, John. Because if your trust is gone then everything from before has gone and I can't…" he bit his lips together and John reached out his hand, touching Sherlock's arm.

"I trust you," he nodded as sincerely as he could manage. "I do."

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: 477