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"And then there are two bedrooms up there and an attic." John pointed up from the bottom of the stairs and then smiled at Mrs Hudson as she clutched her mug of tea, relishing in being given the guided tour of their new home, "We don't use them, obviously, having everything on these two floors. Seems a bit of a waste but Sherlock's adamant we don't rent them out." he shrugged.

"Lodgers are more trouble than they're worth," Mrs Hudson said and then gave John a cheeky smile. "It's lovely, really lovely." She nodded, sipping from her cup as she followed John back into the dining room. "And Sherlock gets around OK?" she asked, peering around the door frame, hoping not to be caught asking after the proud detective.

"He can't hear you, he's downstairs," John assured her gently, "But yes, he's doing great. This past week and a half, especially, he's really kind of, I don't know…just kind of become his old self again." He shrugged, unsure how else to describe it. "He's just doing so much better."

A sad smile took over the small woman's face and it took all her efforts not to well up with tears. "I'm really glad, I was so worried." She nodded at John, placing her cup onto the cluttered dining room, glancing around her. "This is the-," she waved her hands at the contraption in the corner, "Um," she fished for the word, "Frame-thing," she looked back at John, hopefully.

"Standing frame," John's smile was wide but one with the elder woman rather than at her. He stepped closer to it, resting his hand on the table. "Yeah – a Godsend, this thing; started off managing about two minutes, now he's averaging two or three times a day, ten or fifteen minutes each time. He's doing really well – if I could get him to conform to some kind of physical therapy programme, he'd do better but…for now," he smiled, "It's a special bit of equipment."

"Looks rather odd," she pulled down the sides of her mouth.

"I suppose it is, in some respects. It's perfect for him, though – supports his entire body and voila, he's standing upright in his full six-foot glory; he lights up, he's who he was again until it gets tiring and he has to sit," John shrugged one shoulder, "Why don't you go back down to him, I'll just check on dinner and join you. Greg should be here soon, too."

"Oh," Mrs Hudson's smile brightened, following John out as far as the hallway, "That lovely Inspector?"

"Yeah," John laughed lightly, "I'd been meaning to call him over so I figured why not tonight, seen as we had you for company, too. Was a bit of an after-thought but he seemed pleased enough to just be considered but he's doing a lot for us, he was a fixture when Sherlock was in hospital and he's doing all he can on the case – it's the least I can do to cook dinner," he placed his hand on her shoulder lightly, "Go on down, tell him I said he's to put the book away." He added, watching the woman disappear down the stairway to the basement.

He listened out for a minute, smiling as he heard Mrs Hudson's almost infamous "yoo-hoo" to Sherlock as she traipsed through the living room, and then took himself into the kitchen. Dinner wasn't a masterpiece by any means; a simple fish-dish with new potatoes, green beans and carrots and what John hoped would be a half-decent white parsley sauce to accompany the fish. He'd picked up wine and a few bottles of lager, ensured there was something small – in this case, cheesecake – for afters and was feeling hopeful and rather proud of his efforts this far. Poking a fork into the not-quite-there-yet potatoes, he turned the heat down slightly to prevent it bubbling over and fixed the lid back on as the doorbell rang, sending its obnoxious chin through the house.

Pacing across the hall, John smiled as he pulled open the door, "Greg, glad you could make it," he held out his hand to the officer on his doorstep.

Shaking John's hand firmly, Greg offered his usual tired but always sincere smile. "Me too – wasn't sure what you brought to dinner parties, not asked to many, so I got a bottle of white, a bottle of red and a few cans of lager," he held up the blue-and-white striped carrier bag to John, handing it over proudly.

"Cheers mate. You needn't have bothered bringing anything; it's supposed to be a night of me thanking you." John smiled, placing the bag on the stairs for a moment to allow him to grab Greg's coat and hang it on the hooks. He led the detective into the kitchen with him, emptying the bag of its items and storing them in their rightful places. "Drink?" he clapped his hands, "Lager, wine…?"

"Lager's great, thanks," Greg nodded, accepting the cool bottle from John as he popped the lid off. "Where's the man himself?"

"Entertaining Mrs Hudson who, consequently, is almost vibrating at the knowledge that you're joining her for dinner tonight," John laughed, opening a bottle for himself, and rested back on the counter as Greg did the same opposite him. "You're a hit," he winked.

"Nice to be a hit with someone," Greg licked his lips and downed a good mouthful of the lager.

John nodded, eyes wide, "I know what you mean." He peered across the cooker at his food, satisfied nothing was burning just yet.

"You look exhausted," Greg pointed his bottle at John.

"Could say the same about you," John countered jokingly and then shrugged, "I am, I guess – I'm back at the surgery, working four or five days out of seven so far, off tomorrow for Sherlock's appointment at the hospital. Lots of late nights and early mornings, you know? Typical Sherlock fashion with added agonising muscle spasms at all hours." Greg drew his mouth down in sympathy. "What's your excuse?" he quickly switched the subject, nodding at the DI.

"Work," Greg laughed at himself. "Twelve or fourteen hour days, six days a week…Sally-bloody-Donovan and her conspiracy theories." He shook his head, "The usual."

"Conspiracy theories," John shook his head, swigging from the bottle, then placed it down and turned his back on Greg momentarily as he checked on the dinner, turning off what was cooked through and began moving around, plating up and fixing everything up.

"You know Donovan, always a problem with someone somewhere."

"Me and Sherlock," John looked over his shoulder.

"Not - not in so many words no." Lestrade's unease was evident and John shrugged it off.

"Can't please everyone," he chuckled, despite wanting to press the detective inspector further. "I'm going to be a few minutes with this, why don't you go down and join in the general chit-chat and I'll call you all back up when it's done."

"You don't want a hand?" Greg offered, eyebrows arching up.

"No, not at all, you're the guest. Go on, go and make merry with Sherlock." John smirked. Rolling his eyes at the quip, Greg took himself off, down into the basement, leaving John alone with his cooking and his over-thinking.

Satisfied with his quick setting of the dining room table, John dished the dinner out onto piping hot plates and ensured they were at the table, along with the wine, water and glasses, before he called down the stairs for everyone to "shift their arses" and join him for dinner. He piled up the pans in the sink whilst he waited for everyone to join him, filling it with hot water and bubbles and letting the washing soak. He rinsed his hands quickly and dried them on the dish towel, throwing it aside just as Mrs Hudson's gentle laughter could be heard as she stepped out of the lift with Sherlock.

"Was there brandy in Mrs Hudson's tea?" Sherlock asked, accosting John the moment he saw him; though his expression was serious, his voice was soft.

"Not yet," John smiled. "Doing OK?" he rested his hand on Sherlock's head, fingers in his curls to feel the gentle nod the detective gave.

"Oh, leave off you two. This is a family day out," Greg teased, climbing the last step of the stairs.

"Jealousy is foul, Lestrade." Sherlock licked his lips.

The four made their way into the dining room, directed to their assigned seats by John and sat down their meal comfortably. John and Sherlock were on the main side of the table, backs to the entrance, and Mrs Hudson and Greg were sitting on the opposite side, much to Mrs Hudson's girlish delight.

"You really did all this yourself, John? It looks wonderful." Mrs Hudson smiled, eyeing the plate of well-presented veggies and cod covered in a creamy sauce. "You never managed this in Baker Street," she commented lopsidedly and looked at Greg with a smile. "Do you cook, Inspector?"

"Greg, please," Lestrade insisted. "But no – not really, more microwave dinners." He looked to John with a knowing laugh.

"John's had to learn to be a good housekeeper since we no longer have you, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said softly, always charming with the older woman.

John had always found their relationship endearing; like a mother, she would hen-peck and like a son he would snap, but essentially – like mother and son – the were infinitely caring and loving of each other in a way John could never understand, given Sherlock's reactions to almost every other person on the planet. But it occurred to John, and not for the first time, that his friend closest allies, even with Mycroft in consideration, were the three of them here with him now.

"Well you're doing marvellously, dear," Mrs Hudson smiled fondly, skewering a piece of carrot. "But I was never your housekeeper." She added, a cocked eyebrow looking so comical on her face.

"Of course not," John shook his head and finished off the dregs of his lager. "So I get a thumbs up?" he asked, eyeing everyone's plates as they ate contentedly, even Sherlock though he did insist on picking. Greg nodded, his mouth too full too speak, and dropped his fork down to offer his literal thumbs up.

"As ever," Sherlock remarked, reaching for the jug of water, "Your manners are impeccable." His eyebrows rose up in his typical mocking manner and Lestrade responded with a curl of his lip, more than used to Sherlock by now.

They descended into a comfortable quiet, broken intermittently as they ate by Lestrade's polite questions aimed at John or Mrs Hudson's giggling at the DI. They were at ease with one another – even Sherlock, who all but cleared his plate gratefully – and the flow of the evening was neither forced nor strained. John kept everybody topped up with drinks and took a moment to sit back and smile at the faces around him locked in conversation; he'd not felt this content in a long time, pre- or post-shooting, and it felt strange and unnatural but so, so right.

He was brought back to the room as Sherlock edged back from the table, taking his plate on his lap and holding out his hand to John for his. "I can do it," He said softly. Sherlock flicked his wrist at John and waited until the crockery was passed to him. Lifting the cutlery from his own plate, he placed John's on top and steadied them both with his hands, then edged back into the table again, stretching across to take Mrs Hudson and Greg's empty plates.

"Ah no, it's alright…I can…" Greg said, pushing back his chair to get up.

"I can't walk Lestrade, but my hands work fine." Sherlock said sharply, his fingertips resting on Greg's plate offering enough purchase for him to drag it toward him a little before taking a better grip but the DI reached down and took it in his own hands.

"Honestly, let me." He said with a hit of nervousness.

"Yes, really Sherlock," Mrs Hudson echoed Greg's movements, "We can do this ourselves, just you sit tight. Here-," She stepped around and reached onto Sherlock's lap, "Give those to me, let me take them for you, dear."

John gritted his teeth in a cringe, "It's really OK, I make him clean up after himself…" he tried to joke.

"Take them," Sherlock spat, lifting the plates from their perfectly sound position on his lap and let them clatter noisily onto the dinner table, "Take them," he drew back from the table and turned, heading straight for the lift.

"Sherlock-," Greg called out, "We just…,"

"Leave him," John shook his head, "Just try not to coddle him; he's capable enough." He said, getting to his feet. "C'mon into the kitchen, I'll put the kettle on." he held out his hands to his guests and stocked his own arms with the dinner plates, carting them into the kitchen as the lift doors closed behind Sherlock. Mrs Hudson loitered close to John in the kitchen, insistent on helping him to clean up whilst Greg took on the task of making tea and coffee for everyone.

"I really didn't mean to upset him," Mrs Hudson said sadly, her face draw down as she died the stock of plates and placed them on the counter.

"I know, I've done it myself often enough – you get lost in trying to make things easier and don't realise you end up completely taking over. He'll be fine in a minute, you just bruised his ego. Just, like I said…try not to assume he needs help with everything. He can pretty much do all himself," he smiled at her fondly and, drying his hands on the dish towel, placed his hand softly on her shoulder in what he hoped was a gentle gesture. "Don't look so worried, it's easy to get swept up. I promise that it's fine."

"He looked pretty pissed," Greg commented, leaning heavily on the counter, liking that he could all but rest his butt on the work top without hopping up. "Then again he always does," he smirked and John offered a small smile of agreement.

"It's just the babying he doesn't like – like he said, his hands work fine. He's completely able to do it; in fact we're just waiting on Mycroft getting hold of something to fix onto the chair to make it even easier, cup holder or tray of some sort. Just don't jump in so quickly – you've seen it Greg, the first few days we were home when it was bad, if he needs the help he'll ask for it until then you've just got to assume he can do it without a glitch." John explained again. "It's really not a big deal, we'll go down there now and hand him his coffee and it'll be forgotten and he'll expect to be the centre of attention again," he smiled. "Don't look so worried, guys, please – I put my foot in it all the time, we're all learning here."

Just as John had predicted, their arrival into the basement was greeted with an outstretched hand with grabbing fingers waiting to be filled with a coffee mug. John took a chance look in Greg's direction and the pair shared a knowing nod. Sitting close to, but not touching Sherlock, John hooked his legs up comfortably as Greg and Mrs Hudson relaxed back into the L-shaped couch. Sipping at her tea, Mrs Hudson couldn't help gazing around the room, still in awe of the houses size and furnishings. Greg's eyes wandered, too, flicking over Sherlock's empty chair, the second standing frame – meant for Bart's whenever Sherlock decided he would fully return to work and was able for it – in the corner by the wall that led into the bathroom, the discarded supports with their grips for the backs of chairs and tried to assess them all. Trying to take John's words to heart was harder than he'd imagined – he hadn't seen a lot of Sherlock since coming home, not really, and he was finding the changes, the equipment that accompanied him, hard to adjust to.

"This place still gets me," Greg laughed, a hand brushing through his silver hair.

"It's like a make-believe fairground." Mrs Hudson smiled, clutching her cup between both hands.

John nodded, sitting forwards to leave his cup on the coffee table, "I had no idea places like this even existed, Mycroft found it."

"Has his uses then?" Greg joked under his breath and Sherlock looked across at him.

"Very occasionally," he chipped in and neither John nor Greg could work out if it were sarcasm or joining in with the joke.

"My sister wouldn't be the sort to buy a house," Mrs Hudson went on, undeterred by the slight dip in the atmosphere and it brought a smile to John's tired face.

"Neither would mine," John winked and reached forwards for his cup again with a laugh threatening in his throat.

"Your sister is an alcoholic; Mrs Hudson's sister is just elderly. In reality, your sister doesn't really have a valid reason other than her own weakness and stupidity." Sherlock looked at John earnestly. He was operating on the rule he and Mycroft shared; if it was true, it shouldn't hurt. John, it seemed, was attempting to log into this system but wasn't quite there.

"Yes, alright Sherlock," John held his hand up to him. "Save your opinions on Harry for tonight, thank you. Don't spoil a nice evening."

Greg's eyes shifted awkwardly as he rose his cup to his lips, draining what remained of his hot drink. "Listen, sorry to eat-and-run but I'm working tomorrow." He looked a little apologetic as he flicked his eyes between John and Sherlock. "It's been nice, dinner was great. Thanks." He rose to his feet, leaving his mug on the coffee table.

"Thanks for coming," John said, getting to his feet.

"I should…" Mrs Hudson said, standing up too. "…it's getting late," She smiled at John.

"Of course, thank you for coming!" He nodded gently.

"Thank you for dinner, it's been lovely to see you both and to see the new house." She gushed, wrapping her arms around John tightly and kissed his cheek before she gave Sherlock the same treatment. As he usually did for his housekeeper, Sherlock didn't deny her the tactile ways and even returned the kiss on the cheek she offered. "Lovely to see you," She said, cupping Sherlock's cheeks. "Lovely to see you,"

"You too, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock brightened his eyes as much as he could without looking more menacing than happy.

"Sherlock," Greg held his hand out to younger man and shook Sherlock's hand firmly when he extended it to him. "I'll be in touch-," he said, awkwardly. Greg was forever awkward this past few weeks.

"I look forward to," Sherlock replied with an eyebrow arched.

"I'll see you both out," John said when Greg held his hand out to him, allowing the Inspector and Mrs Hudson to lead him up the stairs and into the hallway.

Sherlock reclined a little more into the sofa, his head back against the rest and tilted to give him full view of the stairs to await John's return. He listened to John as he exchanged pleasantries on the doorstep, heard the light smacking of lips as he kissed Mrs Hudson's cheek and bid her goodnight. A wave of relief washed over him, though, as the door was pushed closed and he heard John slip the bolt across and hook the chain in place. Alone, again; this was how he liked it, just he and John.

John's eyes were fixed firmly on the rather young, yet keen-eyed doctor sitting around the opposite side of the desk, listening intently to all he had to say. Sherlock's chin was all but resting on his chest, his eyes to his lap where his hands fidgeted nervously. "Well – your ultrasound is good, your blood results are good, no sign of infection and there doesn't appear to be any damaged caused by the shots themselves to the kidneys,"

"No they completely missed any major organs at all which, in some small manner, was a miracle." John scratched his cheek.

"Your urine output is normal?" he asked, glancing up from the sheets in front of him and flicked his young eyes over Sherlock, then to John.

"Hard to know," Sherlock's tone was small.

"Ah, yes – you don't catheterise, do you?" Doctor Fisher asked, "Notes don't say either way." He glanced back down.

"He's been relying on pads for now; he needed more time to come to a decision, to work out what was going to work for him personally," John submitted. "But in answer to your question, things seem OK – his belly's never distended as though he's retaining urine. I have noticed something of a kind of a hint as to when his bladder is fuller," he licked his lips and looked at Sherlock gently, "His stomach muscles will sort of jump – not quite a spasm, more movement." He frowned at how unprofessional he sounded.

To his surprised, the doctor nodded, "Some patients experience similar things to this; it isn't always good to rely on this as a sign for catheterisation or using the bathroom as though fully able-bodied as the patient themselves often doesn't realise the movement and it isn't always a precise measurement, but it is definitely something I have heard mentioned before," he smiled a little at John then turned to Sherlock. "Had you come to a decision as to what avenue you'd like to go down? It comes down at the end of the day to what you're comfortable with."

John felt his tummy tighten in a slight cringe at Sherlock's unease as he took a deep breath, not comfortable discussing anything of this sort with John let alone with another person. The doctor nodded his encouragement as he opened his mouth to talk at last, "I did um, a bit of reading up on ex-external catheters."

Doctor Fisher nodded – progress? – and licked his lower lip, "Definitely a less invasive option," he reclined in his seat, "Offers you the ability to do away with the use of sanitation underwear expect maybe at night it would be more comfortable to use them then. It's not one-hundred percent ideal if you plan to be more active – could be a little bit of a pain come physiotherapy sessions. It allows you freedom and privacy, certainly; you can use the bathroom to empty the bag – it does give you a lot more control." His elaboration seemed to make Sherlock frown in confusion than nodded in agreement and affirmation that this was the right choice for him. "There is a higher rate of UTIs reported for those who use external catheters because of the nature of them being constantly worn on the body but there are preventative medications for this in the form of antibiotics."

John frowned, "So although a lot more positive in the way of independence it's not the best of options?"

"More commonly, people chose the method of intermittent self-catheterisation. Simply, the catheter is inserted into the urethra every four to six hours – it's different for everybody how spaced the time between each catheterisation will be; if you drink more, your bladder will fill more and you'll need to catheterise more often. It's simple and can be done in the privacy of any bathroom." He explained with his hands expressively, "It does away with the need for wearing tubing or bags worn on the body. You simply need a catheter and lubrication and you can carry those in a bag or backpack on your chair." he nodded sharply. "Some people opt for wearing smaller pads, too, but with regular catheterisation and vigilance, there should be almost complete security, thought initially I would say to continue to use the sanitation pads as a little extra back-up because nothing is going to happen over-night." He gave a gentle smile.

"It's reliable?" John asked, gently.

"Mostly affective, yes; of course, like most things to do with the human body it presents its own possible risks but they are minimal when due care is taken. Shall I walk you through it, for example?" he suggested and reached into the draw to his right, drawing out a wrapped piece of tubing and a small bottle of slick, clear liquid. "It is as simple as it sounds, but not, as I said, without its risks. It is important to ensure your hands are clean before and after the catheterisation; hands are dirty things and would be first in line for causing infections. Then the next vital step is ensuring the end of the catheter to be inserted into the urethra is lubricated six to eight inches along." He explained, taking the catheter from the wrapping and shook the little bottle of lubrication to indicate it. He measured a rough estimate of six inches along the tubing in his hand and held it up.

"It is important that the catheter be properly lubricated or it could cause tears along its passage inside the body which opens up the possibility for infection which is nasty at the best of times but when you're unable to recognise any symptoms of pain it could go unnoticed and get worse. The main thing to remember is to be slow and steady – ease the catheter in and you reduce the risks of any issues, and apply the same ease when removing it; it may be that your bladder will spasm, causing it to close over the catheter, the important thing in this case is to be patient and not to attempt to pull the catheter away. The more careful you are, the more vigilant and relaxed you are about this, the easier it'll be."

Sherlock's face was set in a thick frown, his eyes on the Doctor's hands, his cheeks a glowing red whilst John nodded silently; it was different being on this side of a medical consultation of this sort.

"You would be given prescriptions to be filled which will allow you to freely obtain catheters via your local pharmacy." Doctor Fisher explained. "In terms of when to catheterise, it all comes down to your body and your fluid intake. Initially at least it would be ideal to keep a track of what you drink and then how much you void from your bladder when you catheterise. The more you take in, the more you'll excrete naturally, but it's important to keep an eye on what is voided from the bladder to ensure your bladder is emptying correctly; it wouldn't do to fail to empty the bladder completely as this could lead to UTIs."

John looked across at Sherlock as he took a heavy breath in.

The doctor slowed his lesson and looked at Sherlock kindly, "I know that it's a lot to take in and it sounds daunting, but after a couple of days it becomes as natural as using the bathroom the same way as you did when able-bodied; it'll become as usual as changing your socks." He smiled.

"What about kidney stones," John asked, "He won't feel the pain,"

"They are a risk – this risk is greater when you're wholly inactive so exercise, physiotherapy, as much movement as possible is paramount. It's when you don't give your body the movement it needs, calcium levels will raise in the blood and this is what leads to the kidney or bladder stones. This is one of many reasons why we strongly recommend intensive physiotherapy." Doctor Fisher nodded.

"I know," John's brows twitched and he looked across at Sherlock. "It's been hard getting him to do anything – he's not the most comfortable with human contact," he smiled. "Being a doctor, I understand how important it is – being Sherlock, he's still not receptive."

Doctor Fisher shared John's smile, "Ah, yes. Doctor Watson…So you have the added bonus, Sherlock, of having a doctor in the house to assist you with this anyway." he tapped the notes before him with another, gentle smile. "You're the first person I have seen so far in my short career with your specific injury, Sherlock – T12-L1 spinal cord injury," he read off of the notes, "I've seen many, though, in worse or slightly better situations and some of whom have shared your views on the physio side of things and I will say to you what I said to them; to keep your independence, your health in check, it is a must. You need the physical activity or you'll find that you're able to do it at all. Do you see?"

Inhaling sharply, Sherlock nodded, "Yes,"

"I really do think that intermittent self-catheterisation is the best option – it's a way to really take back everything from your life prior to your accident almost fully." Doctor Fisher nodded sincerely at Sherlock. "Of course if you opt to continue the use of just the pads, if you're comfortable that way, then that's fine but I think in terms of confidence and a little more freedom, self-catheterisation is the best way forward."

"No harm is experimenting," Sherlock looked up, his voice low and his eyes a little misted and far-off. The entire thing had been overwhelming and embarrassing and he just wanted to leave as soon as he could. He'd do, say, try, perform anything if it would get him out of continuing this conversational line and allow him to go home – he'd had enough of hospitals to last him a lifetime.

John was, obviously, the only one to get the double-meaning of Sherlock's words and let out a breathy laugh before covering his hand with his mouth.

"Indeed, there's not." Doctor Fisher nodded. "It's finding where you're comfortable and you won't find that unless you give it a go. We can set up a repeat prescription today for your requirements and set up a follow-up appointment for two weeks from now, give you a bit of time to get to grips with the new routine. I'm sure Doctor Watson will be right on hand to ensure the first few insertions go as smoothly as possible," he smiled warmly, reaching into his desk to push the items away before tapping at the keyboard of his worn, old computer.

John chanced a look across at Sherlock and their eyes met. Pulling his mouth into a one-sided smile, John reached out his hand and touched against Sherlock's elbow. "You OK?" he asked softly. Sherlock nodded silently but the sigh that accompanied the movement told John that a meltdown was imminent if they weren't freed from the doctor's office soon. Sherlock was feeling embarrassed, closed in and claustrophobic, at discussing his own mortality – his own body and accepting it's needs – and needed to leave. "Thank you for this," John looked back at the doctor, "Discussing things has helped set our minds at ease; Sherlock's very…"

Doctor Fisher waved his hand, "Its fine-," he rose to his feet, crossing the room to the noisy printer in the corner. "If you take this to the pharmacy, to the left of the lobby on the ground floor, they'll fill it for you and give you the docket you need for accessing your repeats at your local chemist."

John rose up, taking the sheet from the doctor's hand as he offered it. "Thank you," he held out his hand, shaking Doctor Fisher's hand firmly.

"I'll have your follow-up appointment sent out to you in the next couple of days. Good luck, I hope you find a…rhythm, that it works," he stumbled a little over his words under Sherlock's gaze. He held his hand out to the detective courteously and Sherlock shook it briefly.

"Thank you, Doctor." He replied, his full lips sticking together, dried out at the nervousness he'd been consumed by for the entire consultation.

Holding out his hand in something of a half-wave, the doctor nodded a goodbye, "I'll see you soon."

John held open the door and allowed Sherlock to lead him out. As the door closed behind them both, a lightness came over them at having a hurdle out of the way – you always felt lighter leaving the doctors than going in; John assumed – even with his own experience of being the one in the medical driving seat – that it was just the weight off your mind at expecting the worse before going in. The headed toward the lifts in silence, John's eyes reading over the prescription whilst Sherlock focused on getting out of the hospital as soon as possible. Pushing the call button on the lift, they waited awkwardly for its arrival.

"So…" John broke the silence just as the lift doors opened to allow them in, the lift empty besides themselves. "…how'd you feel now?"

"OK," Sherlock replied coolly.

"Think you can do this? You know I'll be there to help until you get it right, just like with getting dressed – it'll take a few days and a few…mistakes and a bit of effort, but you'll get it right and it'll work out." he licked his lips as the lift kicked in and began to sink them down to the lower floors slowly.

"I'll manage," Sherlock looked up at John, the discomfort of moments ago slowly seeping away. "I like this option better, I think…there are just so many things to consider, so much to take into account."

"There is no matter what option you choose," John nodded, placing his hand on the handle of the chair as the doors swung open on the ground floor to allow them out. "I didn't mean to freak you out asking about kidney stones but it's a possibility. But like he said, if you're careful and do your bloody physio-," he clapped his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, walking a little quicker beside him as they searched out the pharmacy, "then the risks are lower."

"Yes, Doctor." Sherlock glanced up, a little playfulness in his eye. John liked that, the devilment, the slight cheekiness that came over Sherlock in times of comfort, the Sherlock he got that nobody else did.

"I'm serious," he poked Sherlock's shoulder again, "I agree with Doctor Fisher, actually, I do think this is a better option in terms of being able to move about more and social freedom, I guess. You've just got to promise me now that you'll work with me and let me help you with physio."

"Yes, John." Sherlock stopped, "I will – can we just drop all medical talk now and get this prescription and go home? I just want a couple of hours of today to not be about hospitals and my inabilities and for it to just be about anything else…"

Raising his hands up in agreement John nodded, "Lips are sealed," he pulled his thumb and index fingers across his mouth like a zip and pointed Sherlock forwards as he spotted a sign for the pharmacy. He tried to convince himself over any possible doubts that Sherlock meant his promise, that this would work better and life would go on as normal. He was obscured, he knew, by rose-tinted specs that were blocking out, conveniently, all the tantrums Sherlock was likely to throw in pure frustration over the next few days until he got the hang of things but he didn't care – he convinced himself that this was going to be the final hurdle and then everything would be fine.

- Never has my thanks been more sincerely extended to Hannah and Rasmus than in this chapter, the second half would have been a balls up without their amazing assistance and I owe the chapter to them.

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: 670