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(Timeframe – about a week on)

"Sherlock," John padded on bare feet down the stairs, arriving with a childish jump off of the last step, making Sherlock look up from his position on the sofa, surrounded by ominous looking folders of cold-cases he'd bugged Lestrade for. His curly hair was mussed, pushed out of his face and he peered over his shoulder and laid his head on the back of the couch to get a better view of John. "Post," he declared, holding out a white NHS envelope to Sherlock, "Probably your appointment with the consultant, or the urologist."

Reaching back, Sherlock took the letter and opened it out; popping the pen he'd been scribbling notes with into his mouth, he scanned the text. "Urologist." He garbled over the biro and John nodded.

"Can discuss better personal care plans," he smiled.

"Friday," Sherlock said, waving the letter in John's face. "Doctor David Uttari." He read out and dragged the pen from his mouth, "Sounds like a video game." He smirked as he folded the letter back into the envelope and dropped it onto the coffee table for safe keeping.

John laughed, falling into the sofa beside Sherlock, "Does a bit. I was going to take a shift on Friday to give me Thursday off, what with Mrs Hudson coming over, but I can take one on Saturday for the Walk In clinic, if you're going to be OK with that?" John scratched the back of his head.

"Work when you like, doesn't bother me, as long as you are here Thursday. You invited Mrs Hudson round so you can do the cooking." Sherlock pointed his pen at John. "Whilst you're here-," he reached for a document, "Remember this being on the news?" he handed the file to John who scanned through it quickly. The case of a little boy abducted and murdered back in early 2007.

"I was in Afghanistan." John shook his head, scanning quickly. "No clues?"

Sherlock tried to read John's expression when he mentioned Afghanistan but he couldn't fathom whether he was fuelled with nostalgia in the worst way or disgusted by what his eyes were skimming over. "I think it was the Dad." Sherlock mused, taking it back.

"The Dad?" John's eyes rolled, "This is like Cluedo all over again, isn't it?" he poked Sherlock's thigh and let a laugh escape breathily through his nose. "Are you getting yourself dressed today or what?"

"Are you?" Sherlock countered, drinking in the rather adorable sight of John in his grey bed-joggers and a ragged light-blue, long-sleeved top.

"I have a shift in about an hour, so yeah it's kind of a given that I shall be adorning clothes." He nodded mockingly in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock's face fell, "Oh – I forgot you were in today."

"It's on the fridge," John pointed up to the ceiling, "On the whiteboard you made me buy." He smiled, "Not up to spending the day on your own? I can call Mrs Hudson; she'll come over and treat you like a baby if you'd like." His eyes danced.



"I've spent the last few days on my own whilst you've been off gallivanting and I have been doing impeccably thank you very much; dressing and feeding myself, and everything." There was sarcasm rife in Sherlock's tone but it was comical. "I just thought you were having today at home, that's all. I'd gotten use to your presence I guess and now it's gone again..."

"You wanted normality, Sherlock."

"I know I did," he looked at John, his cases abandoned, "I do." He nodded, "I just…"

"You miss me?" John smiled, scrunching up his nose and grinning like the All American teenage girl.

Sherlock nodded, "A bit, I suppose."

"I could call Sarah, tell her you've an appointment or something and we could spend the day together, but then when it turns up you have a real appointment – like on Friday – she's less inclined to be so lenient." John reached across and rested his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. "Kiss me," he said slowly and edged forwards, pushing his lips to the soft cushion of Sherlock's. It surprised him, somewhat, when Sherlock's tongue pushed into his mouth – it usually took John to instigate such affection – but he didn't fight it, opening his mouth wider to allow Sherlock the familiar access. "This…" he pulled back a moment later, "Is blackmail."

"Is it working?" Sherlock asked with a hopeful frown playful on his brow.

"Very nearly," John kissed Sherlock quickly and stood up. "I'm getting a quick shower and then I have to go. Anything you need me to do before hand?"

"No, if there's anything I need I can do it myself." Sherlock warned him and looked almost sad as he rose from the couch. "Go on-," he conceded, "Make yourself pretty for Sarah."

John held his hands in an incredibly rude gesture as he disappeared into the bathroom. Sherlock found a smirk at the joke but it vanished quickly. He'd been self-sufficient before the accident and had been gaining it back in the past few days and was loving the freedom, the independence that was once again his, but he couldn't lie; he'd grown used to John's constant presence and bug him as it had to be smothered, it hurt him to be left with so much time on his hands with John's absence, too.

"No really," John sipped his tea and smiled at Alice, the new practice receptionist as they sat together in the break room, "He just stood there looking and was able to give her entire life story, affairs and everything." He sniffed, shaking his head.

Alice's mouth drew down in shock, "Psychic?"

"Sherlock? No way. He's too socially inept for that. It's just…observation; he can just see people." He drained the remainder of his tea and swilled the cup under the small sink, "He read me the moment we met and all by the tan on my skin and my mobile phone."

"And it was love at first sight?" Alice asked, blinking slowly, awed.

"Sort of," John dared blush.

"He sounds wonderful-," Alice cooed and the snort from Sarah as she entered the room made John chuckle.

"Sherlock Holmes and wonderful in the same sentence, that's a new one on me. He's dominant, rude, obtrusive, commanding, selfish, secretive and eccentric but he's essentially the total opposite of our dear John here that he completes him in the most perfect of ways," she gave a giggle and nudged John gently. "No – he's nice; complicated, but nice." Sarah folded her arms across her chest. "How is he?" she sobered immediately and looked to John with her sympathetic eyes and pale, freckled face schooled into half concern and half love.

"Good," John nodded. "Stronger – managed a full ten minutes with the stander without discomfort, so that's good. He's flying – working for Scotland Yard on some older cases, even cooked last night, albeit slop…" he smiled and Sarah echoed it warmly. "There're less bad days, he seems to be on the brighter side of acceptance which is a blessing."

"Give him my love? He'll probably throw it back at me but give it anyway?" Sarah touched John's arm lightly.

"Of course." He nodded, "Thank you." He straightened his cardigan before walking away with a smile for both women, heading back toward his room.

He felt more human being back at work – it gave him back a sense of John Watson, MD and not just John Watson, Sherlock's fella. He felt useful again to others besides Sherlock, he felt like he was 'earning his keep', though Mycroft had so far taken care of everything they needed on a financial basis – there had been mornings that bills had landed on the doorstep and when he'd taken them, the following morning, to the bank to be paid he'd been promptly told that it had already been addressed. Whilst this was great – he admired Mycroft's determination to help – he kind of felt indebted.

But then again, Mycroft hadn't been in touch for over a week and in that he felt angry. Sherlock had received parcels from him – the cup holder for his chair, back supports for chairs and even a letter addressing him explaining details of his new wheelchair – but that had been it. No communication, no 'how are you'. John assumed that the man knew; he wasn't naïve enough to dispel the possibility – probability? – that Mycroft had installed cameras in the house whilst ensuring it was fit for them. Still, he wished the man would be in touch with his brother directly, show some support of a familial kind as well as financial.

As he sat down at his desk, he considered calling home to check in with Sherlock. He had a couple of hours before his next patient, which was a rare occurrence, and he planned on filling the time with updating patient records but figured he could spare a few moments to call Sherlock. As he reached own to take the receiver from the cradle his phone gave a shrill ring. He jumped, the noise loud in his otherwise silent room, and laughed at himself as he lifted the phone up.

"John Watson," he said softly.

"It's Alice," the receptionist sang lightly, "There's a call for you on line two."

"Thanks Alice – got it," he smiled, reaching down and pushing the button. "John Watson," he spoke clearly, his posh telephone voice deep and strong.

"John, it's me."

"Sherlock," John rested back in his chair, "Calling instead of texting; God, you must be bored. What's up?" he asked, crossing his ankles beneath the desk.

"Bored." Sherlock's tone was long and drawn out.

"There is no way you have every one of those cases finished for Lestrade," John laughed.

"All but two, that one about boy murdered in 2007 and another about some drug ring in central London." Sherlock virtually yawned as he explained to John. "More to the point, aren't you supposed to be seeing patients?"

"Paperwork," John said softly. "Why don't you call Lestrade, tell him you're done with the lions share and see can you get any more information on the two you're struggling with."

"I'm not struggling with them," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "I'm just bloody bored."

"Well get out for some fresh air, then." John suggested, covering the receiver as his door was knocked and opened, revealing Sarah with a bright smile as she popped her head around the frame. "Sherlock," he turned back, "I'll call you back – give me five minutes."

"HI SARAH!" Sherlock shouted, though the woman was oblivious and John rolled his eyes as he laid the phone back into the cradle.

"Hi-," he quirked his brows, "How can I help?"

"I just wanted…you know I was joking before," she pointed over her shoulder with her thumb, "About what I said to Alice about Sherlock…the…" she flustered.

Tutting, John shook his head with a friendly smile, "Sarah, it's fine – of course I know you were joking." He looked at her with soft eyes and she felt herself blush. "Honestly," he added, unnecessarily, "All fine."

Shifting her eyes awkwardly, Sarah smiled. "Good, glad that's…understood." She nodded with almost her entire upper body moving to the motion. "I'll let you get back to your phone call." She smiled and reached for the handle.

"Thanks, Sarah," John said, by way of goodbye, and found his smile stayed even after she'd closed the door. But it soon softened, his brow turning deep in a frown as he thought; he wasn't so out of the loop, so used to being involved with the male of the species, that he'd forgotten how to read the female body. She was coming onto him, flirting with him like she had when he'd first started here, and he realised now that in the way he'd playfully responded and bantered back with her that it must appear that he was doing the same. He hissed in a breath; this wasn't good.

John arrived home that evening in miserable rain and a dull, grey sky. It seemed that during the course of his work day, a crisp early-winter day had become the depths of winter in a heartbeat. He held his bag over his shoulder and cuddles his coat tighter around his neck as he pushed his key into the lock and all but jumped into the hallway, gasping. "Fuck…" his teeth chattered, "Rain's like bloody iced blades, uh…" he shook himself off, water falling to the floor and sniffled, the cold air having made his nose run. "Sherlock?" he called out, dropping his bag to the floor. Unzipping his coat, he hung it on the banister rather than up with the others on the pegs, hoping it would dry out being a little closer to the radiator.

"Kitchen," Sherlock's reply was a little breathless and, for a moment, John wondered if something was wrong.

Frowning, his tongue lapping over his lips, he stepped cautiously across the hall and into the kitchen. His frown of uncertainty became one of gentle love as he realised the reason for the slight wain in Sherlock's voice. Baskerville was discarded by the door that led out onto the decked yard and Sherlock was upright and stable, if a little flushed, digging around in one of the higher cupboards of the kitchen.

"Hi there," John leaned against the door frame, a wide smile of uncontainable pride on his face. He didn't think that this would ever get old, seeing Sherlock regaining all he assumed he'd lost; they'd all assumed he'd lost. "Snooping?"

Shaking his head, pain beginning to creep in but his resolve strong, Sherlock pulled the tub of salt from the cabinet and placed it onto the standers table, "Experiment."

"Ah," John nodded, "Do I take it, then, that the dining table looks like a tsunami's hit it?"

"Best not to look," Sherlock replied easily.

"How long have you been standing?" John asked as casually as he could, stepping further into the kitchen and rolling up the sleeves of his cardigan as he reached the sink, quickly washing his hands.

Thinking a moment, though John was without a doubt that the detective had been methodically counting the seconds, Sherlock shrugged, "About ten minutes, maybe."

"Good," John shook off his hands and grabbed the dish towel from its hook. "Want to help with dinner or are you getting a little tired?"

"You're not planning on lasagne again?" he frowned at John, seemingly disgusted by the idea of mixing pasta, mince and tomato sauce with anything that resembled cheese.

"No I was thinking of ordering Chinese, just wondered if you'd do the calling," John smirked.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock screwed up his nose. John waited for something else, some kind of quip, but it didn't come. Instead he watched as Sherlock moved back a little in the stander, a clumsy but quick transition, and lined up enough to be able to lower the seat and transfer back into his chair easily. John felt a small pang of sorrow but quickly quashed it; yeah, OK, he was tired and in a bit of pain, but he'd been standing all that time, he'd built up the strength and he'd done it himself. This was an achievement, not a loss.

Instead of saying anything about it, John clapped his hands, "You say that now." He filled in the silence, "I'll order you something, yeah? Eat it later?"

He turned toward the phone – one of two in the house – sitting in a cradle on the kitchen counter and twiddled it in his hands as Sherlock seated himself comfortably. "No," he said, a strain in his voice before he coughed and cleared his throat, reaching out for the salt. "Experiments." He smiled, moving past John. "Tea would be good, though."

"You know, you're incredibly lazy?" John leant on the counter, tossing the phone in his hands a little more speedily and Sherlock, half way out of the kitchen, turned back with arched brows. "I've come in from a hard day's work and now you want me to slave for you – ridiculous. You were right near the kettle just then and yet you couldn't be arsed to make your own tea? Sometimes I hate our marriage." The joke was obvious and, to John's delight, Sherlock kept it up.

"I've had four children in as many years, I deserve a rest." He grinned and spun again "Experiment!" he called back, disappearing into the dining room with a light, amused laugh. It brightened John's smile and danced on his heart; a lighter-minded Sherlock was always a good Sherlock to be around. Twirling the phone one last time, he reached to the door of the fridge for the take-away menu and dialled out.

Suitably stuffed an hour later – John had taken the liberty of ordering in for Sherlock too, knowing full well he'd eat with him – Sherlock shuffled a little closer to John on the sofa, liking the scent of him under his nose. He'd missed John a little more readily today and it was weird; he'd never formed attachments as strongly as he had with John and, in the past, had never wished he were around so pertinently as he had today. It was nice to have him back, to recline against him like they'd been doing so often since the accident, to feel completely supported and loved without there being any agenda or anything expected of him to perform back in any way.

"Did you go out earlier?" John asked, breaking into Sherlock's thoughts, halting the hand that had been idly pulling at Sherlock's curls whilst both of their eyes were locked on the TV.

"Out the back," Sherlock nodded, "Cold air was nice."

"Clear your head for the cases?" John yawned, his chin bumping the top of Sherlock's head.

"I guess," he signed contentedly. "How was work?"

"Quiet, actually. Not as much winter flu as I expected." John twirled his fingers again. "Funniest thing, actually." He smirked, "Sarah was kind of…," he paused. "Well…not really but…" he mumbled.

"Kind of what?" Sherlock tilted his head back and then laughed sarcastically, "She's really still trying to form something sexual with you?" he asked, so matter-of-factly that John considered maybe it wasn't so much the 'funniest thing' and more the 'this is about to be analysed' kind of thing.

"No," he sighed, "But…"

"Are you considering accepting her advances?" Sherlock asked, turning himself by gripping his hands against John's body, looking the doctor in the eye.

"Acc-…Sherlock, don't be ridiculous." John almost laughed. "It's Sarah! My boss, my colleague, my friend – not my girlfriend, not you,"

"I'm not being ridiculous; it is a perfectly sound assumption. You've been there before, you like her and she likes you. You were interested in women before we met. She's the type of person to paw all over you, I've seen it happen." Sherlock's brow twitched.

"That was forever ago, Sherlock! And you hit the nail on the head yourself, there, I was interested in women before you. I'm not now." He licked his lips awkwardly. "Can we not do this, I was telling you because it wasn't a big deal and now you're turning it into something huge. It's not like we're having an affair!"

"But you would, if she offered?" Sherlock asked. "You're a sexual man, John."

"As are you if you'd bother to pay attention. I'm not attracted to Sarah."

Sherlock shook his head, pushing himself up with the air of the back of the sofa to sit off of John's body, "But you didn't answer my question which means that you would; if she made advances, you would accept them."

"I wouldn't." John shook his head, "I'm happy – you and me."

"No you're not – I may not be firing on all cylinders but I'm not stupid; I sleep next to you, I live with you, your body reacts in ways mine doesn't and you need those reactions aiding. That's not being happy, that's accepting your fate." Sherlock spat vehemently. "She can offer you the desires I couldn't before and can't for sure now."

"You offer me plenty – why are we even having this argument? I don't like Sarah like that, Sherlock. It's you I love, in a chair or otherwise. I don't like Sarah in that way and I certainly wouldn't go to her for sex. I have you and that's enough for me," He fixed his eyes on Sherlock, "Is this something you've been waiting for, a row like this to be able to tell me to go? Is it you who doesn't want me anymore?"

"I told you before, you don't have to stay." Sherlock said, eyes not meeting John's.

"I don't have to, no, but maybe I want to. You're a stubborn git and you throw everything up when you're insecure but don't want to admit it. You've made some amazing progress in the past week or so, you're so strong and you're determination is inspiring. What about that do you think makes me want to leave? I see nothing different in you, you're the Sherlock I met, was weirded out by, fell in love with and still love. I know you hate me being open like this with the love stuff, but it's true. I don't want to leave you, I don't want to sleep with Sarah, I want to be with you in any way I can and any way you can offer me. Sex, no sex, hugs, no hugs, walking or in a chair – I love you, not Sarah." John glared at Sherlock almost angrily.

"I don't like her." Sherlock said, stubbornly, his jaw firm.

"I noticed that, and all she ever does is sent her love." John rubbed his hand over his cheek. "I'm sorry I said anything OK, it wasn't supposed to be a big thing. Can we go back to cuddling now please because I was just getting my hips into a comfortable position...?"

Sherlock's eyes flashed and John knew, in an instant, he'd won him back. "You really aren't taken in by her flirting?"

John sighed, "I like Sarah, a lot, but no – I am not taken in by her flirting."

"But do you flirt back?" Sherlock asked suddenly, eyes scanning John's face. "Of course you do." He sighed. "Does she know it's insincere?"

"What?"

"The reciprocation of her flirtation, does she know you only do it to be polite? Or, do you do it because you mean it, because it is sincere?" Sherlock looked like a child, wide eyed and imploring, using the words of an adult with all the confusion of a love-sick teenager he'd never admit to being.

"It's sincere, I suppose, but it's just that – harmless flirting." John shrugged carefully. "Sherlock, I can't say it any more firmly; I don't want Sarah. God," he sighed, "Look forget I said anything." He climbed off the sofa, "Just delete it, like the…bloody solar system."

Sherlock sighed, a frown on his eyes and flung his head back over the back of the sofa. He breathed deeply a couple of times, watching John disappear into the bathroom and then back again in the same few paces. He hissed through his teeth, a sudden searing pain creeping in, and then gasped. "Ouch," he jerked forwards suddenly and John's face crumpled.

"What?"

"Oh! Ow…" Sherlock's hands flew around his back and he gritted his teeth.

"Spasms?" John's brows knitted and Sherlock nodded, his face contorted in pain. "Here-," he cupped one arm around Sherlock's front and reached down with the other, his fingers firm and splayed as he massaged against the entirety of Sherlock's lower back in palm-width sections. He offered Sherlock pillows to relax forwards, eventually leading him to lie out on his tummy, his arm beneath his head, giving John full access to his back with both hands, continuing to massage the tightly knotted muscles with both hands, firmly twisting his body beneath his fingers. "Feeling any better?" he asked, moments later, taking in the smoother sound of Sherlock's breathing.

"Yes," he nodded, still in a little pain but free of the initial, vice-like cramping aches. "Much." he exhaled, coolly.

"Is that your Marriage Moment?" John asked with a little smirk on his lips.

"My what?" Sherlock asked into his arms.

"Four Weddings and a Funeral; the way to get out of an embarrassing pause in conversation is to ask the girl to marry you…" John said, hands working Sherlock's bad a little less forcefully. "Doesn't matter," he smiled to himself. "I'm sorry, OK? If it hurt you to hear that about Sarah, I'm sorry but I want you to be fully aware that I'm not going to enter into anything with her." He halted his hands all together and shifted along the sofa to sit right by Sherlock's shoulders. "Look at me, please?"

Begrudgingly, Sherlock raised his head.

"Paralysed, arrogant, stroppy, experimental, individual old you is all I need, all I want and all I love. I don't see Sarah, OK? I see you." He licked his lips, "I know you hate the sentimental rubbish so I'll keep it short. I told you about Sarah as part of sharing my day, not because I want her or because I was rubbing it into your face. I should have kept it to myself, I'm sorry. I love you and nobody else, despite what you think."

Resting his chin on his arms, Sherlock looked up so high his almost rolled back into his head. "OK. Me too," he admitted with a tender bite of his bottom lip.

"I know," John nodded. "Now are you finished being dramatic? Mycroft did warn me about this…" he scratched his hand against his head nonchalantly. Sherlock shook his head and rested back onto his arms, looking out at John.

"No – still tight." He said with little joking.

"Hot bath? There's a bath in the top floor bathroom. I could probably manage to carry you up there."

"No," Sherlock shook his head, "Just do what you were doing before, it was helping. And no more talk about Sarah." He spat her name, his eyebrows crooking in disgruntlement.

"Aye, sir," John nodded, glad of the resolution, and shuffled back down the sofa, "Don't go to sleep," he warned.

"Mm-hmm," Sherlock nodded, relaxing again under John's hands. This was good, this was enough. John was certain it wasn't a real resolution, but it was an appeasement, a break in the tension it had caused. Whilst he felt bad for obviously upsetting Sherlock, he felt better for having told him. He certainly didn't intend on going anywhere near a romantic relationship with Sarah. Of course he didn't.

-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


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