Big changes in this chapter, a pretty big part of the story originally has been rewritten drastically...

John slipped out of bed begrudgingly on Saturday morning, just before seven. Friday had been a drain on Sherlock's resources so he wasn't surprised when he wasn't greeted with Sherlock's grunting as he moved, instead the Detective slept on with his open-mouthed breathing and slight sucking against his tongue whilst John threw on his clothes after a quick wash in the bathroom. He sat on the bed again to pull on his socks and shoes and fought with the urge to lie back down and stay; he wasn't hungry for the sleep or lazing after the work, he just wanted to capture Sherlock's face a little longer whilst he slept – the lines of worry erased from his forehead, leaving it smooth and soft, leaving him looking younger than his thirty-six years and infinitely calm.

But John's worth ethic ran just as deep as his love for Sherlock did. Leaning over the bed gently, he kissed Sherlock's temple in a moment of sentimental mush before finally pulling himself away. He grabbed his phone and keys from the locker and slipped almost silently across the large room and padded on the balls of his feet up the stairs to the top floor. His breakfast was a quick and rushed affair; a banana from the bowl on the counter and a glass of milk. Making a mental note to bring more milk home, he ate the banana as he left the house, opting to walk in the early morning crispness rather than hail a taxi or jump on the bus. He hadn't worked a weekend clinic since he'd first started at the practice with Sarah but he remembered it had been all but silent most of the day with many people assuming that the weekend meant no doctors in surgeries and taking themselves off to A&E. But even with the prospect of his day being rather easy, or at least filled mostly with catching up on paperwork and talking to Sarah, he battled with his wills at turning at returning to the house.

By the time he reached the surgery, the morning had lightened and a heatless sun had brightened in the sky where the clouds that threatened rain or snow parted for brief intervals. His face felt cold in the slight breeze and his nose was beginning to run, but he felt more awake and clear-headed for the brisk, winter walk as he pulled open the doors of the surgery to allow himself in. Sarah looked up from behind the desk, seeing patients on the weekend and running reception to keep labour down, and smiled softly as John approached.

"Morning," he offered her a light wave of his left hand and then reached for the zip on his coat, hauling it down with a loud scraping.

"Morning, John. You're bright and early," She flicked her eyes toward the clock on the wall above the patient's toilet door.

"Better than late," John pushed his cheeks up. "Any calls so far?"

"One, young girl with a five-month-old worried about a rash on his tummy; I said to bring him to A&E if the rash didn't disappear beneath a glass when rolled over it gently," Sarah said, eyebrows up sympathetically. "But there's been nothing else so far. Oh," she stopped John as he walked toward his room, down a small sub-wait corridor toward the back of the surgery. He spun on his feels and smiled at her expectantly. "Yesterday," she garbled, waving her hand, "Sherlock, the hospital – how did it go?"

John's mouth formed a silent 'oh'. "Good," he nodded, "Healthy enough for now," he said, pushing his hands into the pockets of his open coat. "Giving self-catheterisation a whirl," he spoke with an air of ease that made Sarah unsure whether to smile or frown. "There's something on his mind, I think it's cases he's working on for Scotland Yard, maybe his own, I don't know - but he's good otherwise," he nodded and turned again, "Thanks," he called out, an afterthought, and continued down toward his room.

Sarah watched him walk away, swinging her arms at her sides awkwardly like a teenager before turning back toward the desk. She loitered a moment before turning and heading down the corridor. She paused outside of John's room with one arm raised, ready to knock, and it took her a few moments to muster the courage she needed to knock. She listened out for John's acknowledgement before walking inside with a gentle smile that pulled at her eyes.

"How can I help?" John asked, rolling up the sleeves of his cardigan. He lowered into his chair and started the computer, waiting for Sarah to speak.

"I just wanted to say that if you need someone, I can…," She stammered, raising a thin hand to her face as she flustered her pre-planned speech. "I just mean that. Oh, bugger." She rolled her eyes, "Look if you need to talk, I'm open to listen – that's what I wanted to say, I just wanted you to know that if everything with the shooting and Sherlock is getting too much and you need to vent I'm here. But, it's probably stupid and you probably had people to talk to," she waved her hand, heading toward the door again, thoroughly embarrassed, "Forget I said anything, sorry."

"Sarah," John said gently, stopping the auburn-haired woman in her tracks. She turned slowly and was met by John's ever-warm smile. "Thank you – that means a lot."

Sarah stepped closer to John's desk and hovered a moment before sitting in one of the two chairs that faced him. "Did you want to grab a cuppa and talk now; the phones are set and we have nobody booked – we can sit out front to be on the safe side and just talk?"

Twitching his lips, John nodded. "Actually, yeah – that's exactly what I need."

"Thing is John," Sarah said, sipping her third cup of tea of the morning. Surgery had been deserted the entire time, bar a few phone calls, and she was on the brink of telling John to take the day and return home, but their conversation had been strong and she wasn't willing to cut it off for the sake of closing up shop. John obviously needed the chance to talk and, after all, she'd offered. "You focus so much on what he wants, what he needs from you. It's important to remember that there is a lot you still want and need, not just from him, but in your life in general."

"It's not about me, though. It's not my life that's been damaged," John blinked slowly, a little unnerved.

"Your life is with Sherlock in your manner – I don't label people and I certainly don't judge but there is a relationship between you and Sherlock that is unprecedented. It's not a homosexual thing, I don't think. Pansexual, maybe, I don't know but you guys have a special bond that nobody understands – and your life has been changed too." Sarah reasoned, leaning back on the seat and resting her elbow on the edge, cupping her head in her hand. "You can't focus all your attention on him, all your time on him, and abandon what the changes have done to you."

John shook his head, "Sherlock's the priority. You've him," he flashed his hand to her, "He's the most stubborn and active person I've ever met – without mobility all the while he goes crazy. If I stop thinking about him, about his needs and wants and keeping him going then so will he. Yeah, sure, I miss things about our relationship before – but then there are things that happen now that didn't before, you know?" he blushed a little, "We sit together on the couch, him using me as a pillow, every night so long as he's in a good mood. We didn't do that before, our intimacy was sex and by sex I mean a quick hand job or blow job in the shower, Sherlock was never into that – but I knew that and so I don't miss a huge amount since the change in his life."

"But it's not just his life," Sarah said. "I don't just mean sex, either John. What I mean is you need to consider your wants. Are you truly going to spend the rest of your life as Sherlock's partner and to some extent be there as a carer or…"

John shook his head firmly, "I'm not leaving him – I love him as much if not more than I did before he was shot. Relationships come with rough and smooth; he needs me for certain things, yeah, and so I'll be there for those. I can't just turn away because he's a foot or two lower down now and can't reach the top shelf," he said with a little petulance in his tone and Sarah regretted not wording herself more eloquently.

Sitting forwards, Sarah pushed her hair from her eyes, "I didn't mean it like that. I just meant – I just meant that part of what you were attracted to in Sherlock was his adventure, true?" when John nodded, Sarah echoed it. "That adventure, the rush of running around London playing Spiderman has stopped and, realistically, probably won't start again – part of what you loved in Sherlock isn't there anymore. Doesn't that make your reasons for loving him change? If there was a part of my partner that had gone that was previously a big part of why I loved them, I would question whether I still did love them or whether…"

"I'm not you, Sarah," John rose up from his chair. "I know what you're trying to do but I'm happy with Sherlock and I love him not in spite of everything but because of it. He's extraordinary and he's changing and that's both hard and amazing and I won't give that up. Sure, there have been mornings I've opened my eyes recently and thought that I could run away and not have to look at him with pain in my eyes or see the pain in his; I've remembered my old life, before Baker Street and Sherlock Holmes and Afghanistan and I've wondered 'what if'."

Sarah matched his height as he rose from her chair and reached out her hand gently, touching his shoulder. "It's not a bad thing to wonder, John."

"It is," he nodded, tearful but refusing to cry. "Sarah I love him but it's hard. He's so different, but he's still the same but not quite. I miss him and I love who he is now equally – he's softer around the edges and yet more angry than before. I wondered a few times how it would be if I just-," he looked up at Sarah and sighed out, shrugging his shoulders. "…if I just…" he shook his head.

Sarah stared at him intently, her lips drawn to the side, both hands on his shoulders as they stood face to face, trying to reassure him that, as best as she could, she understood. "I won't judge whatever you're trying to say so just say it – nobody can tell you what's right or wrong to feel in a situation like this."

John nodded and blinked and exhaled heavily, "If I just left."

Sarah stepped forwards, hands out as if to offer a hug and then dropped them to her sides. "John, it's OK – there's no shame in being…unsure."

John's hand flew out, "I'm not unsure, I love him, I do but…." He rambled before sighing heavily again, "I'm sorry – I have a splitting headache, do you mind I just…" he thumbed behind him toward the door.

Sarah could hardly refuse and, softening her face, she shook her head, "No, go on, take as much time as you need." She tried to smile sincerely but it came out as forced as it felt, watching him with sympathetic eyes as he all but scrambled out of the surgery.

He walked home slowly, contemplating his words. He'd actually admitted, out loud, what had merely niggled once or twice at him. He knew he never could or never would leave Sherlock, but the thought had occurred to him and now that it had been spoken, he felt almost as though he'd betrayed Sherlock in some way, or failed him as a partner. Reaching home, he dug his hand into his coat pocket for the door key, wrapping the door in the meantime with his free hand and was surprised when the door was dragged open by Mycroft. His appearance seemed strange to John and brought him back, in his mind, to the hospital where he'd seen the older man dressed like this before; his usual smart trousers were in place but rather than a suit jacket and waistcoat over his shirt he wore a smart jumper, the sleeves of which were slightly hitched up over his remarkably dark forearms. "Doctor Watson," he smiled his usual sly smile, "I was under the impression you were working today?"

Stepping in, John searched his mind for a reply, "Yeah, I'm umm…coming down with a migraine," he rubbed his temple. "No real panic on in the world of colds and flus so I wangled the rest of surgery off," he smiled tiredly. "Good to see you," he said, pushing the front door closed as Mycroft stepped into the kitchen. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Bathroom," Mycroft said, eyes on John in an attempt to read him.

"Oh, is he OK?" John frowned, standing impatiently in the doorway to the kitchen whilst Mycroft worked on fixing himself, John and Sherlock a cup of tea.

"As OK as is humanly possible for Sherlock, yes." He looked up, his attempt at a joke, and smile menacingly at the Doctor. "Perfectly fine," he embellished on his reply at John's expression, "Taking care of his needs," he said and John noted the air of unease.

"Oh," John licked his lips, "He's keen." When they'd gotten home that night Sherlock hadn't really mentioned what had been discussed with the urologist. John had assumed he needed a day or so to process the information and then would tackle it head on; he felt both a pang of pride in Sherlock's determination to take yet another portion of his life into his own hands and a pang of worry at Sherlock's lack of knowledge so far on the entire procedure. "I'm just going to-," he gestured to the stairs with his thumb. "I'll be right back." Mycroft watched him walk away, almost running down the stairs, listening to his footsteps as they got quieter and then turned to mere echoes as he walked across the floor downstairs, his voice muffled below as he called out Sherlock's name.

"Sherlock?" John called, not entering the bathroom out of respect but loitering around outside, "You OK?"

"Fine," Sherlock's reply was quick and curt.

"Managing to do everything alright?" he asked, trying to screw his Doctor-head back on through the fuzz of his guilt and tension headache. "Need a hand or-?"

"No, I'm OK, just finished," Sherlock called back and appeared a moment or two later, toiletry bag on his lap and a flush to his cheeks but looking otherwise smug and John couldn't help smiling.

"You OK?"

"Stop – I'm fine," Sherlock nodded, "What are you doing home?"

"Headache," John shrugged, dismissively. "What's Mycroft doing here?" he frowned, following Sherlock across the floor to the locker on his side of the bed.

"New chair," Sherlock turned with a smile reminiscent of a child on Christmas morning. "It's upstairs, you didn't see? In the dining room," he looked up toward the ceiling, "It's strange – looks so different to this," he tapped his hands on the arm rests, "No rests for a start, the wheels kind of arch in and the back of the seat is lower…" he explained, "Coming up?"

"Yeah," John rubbed his head, smiling at Sherlock's excitement and watched him move away toward the lift. He took the stairs two at a time but not particularly at speed and braced himself before leaving the stairwell and stepping off into the hall, arriving at the top just as Sherlock led out of the lift.

Mycroft's head appeared around the dining room framework and he offered his usual sly smile in John's direction, "How's the headache, John?" he asked, sticky-sweet.

John nodded as he exhaled, "Pounding," he replied, his hands in his jeans pockets as he scuffed his feet across the floor to join them in the dining room. He watched with an unforced, wide smile as Sherlock moved with relative ease across into the new chair that seemed to fit his form like a glove. Just as John had insisted upon to Mycroft, the back of the seat was lower and stiffer, instantly offering Sherlock's back so much support he seemed to sit straighter and taller whilst his knees were held closer together by the more compact seat that supported his thighs. Without the armrests at the sides of the chair, Sherlock found it easier to move, his arms straighter and more relaxed as he pushed forwards and pulled back on the large, slanted wheels, turning with ease and precision. "Wow," he said on a breath out, leaning against the wall.

"Better for his posture?" Mycroft asked, looking to John for assurance.

"Definitely, look at him," he waved a hand in Sherlock's direction. "Much better."

"How does it feel?" Mycroft asked and folded arms across his chest as he watched Sherlock move.

"Free," Sherlock looked up, suddenly a bubble of confidence and his usual arrogance. "Independent."

"Keyword," Mycroft nodded. "Good. Very good, yes," He nodded again and dropped his arms, "Well as long as everything is in order I should be going." His eyebrows rose as he looked to John and the Doctor felt his face flush hot. "Sherlock," he nodded to his brother. "John."

"Bye," John nodded awkwardly, "Thank you -," he pointed toward Sherlock, "It's great." Walking past John, into the hall, Mycroft retrieved his coat and let himself out of the house without another word. Sherlock moved past John, into the kitchen, basking in the lighter feel of the chair.

"What?" Sherlock asked, his back to John but able to feel the Doctor's eyes on him, as he reached into the fridge to put away the milk where Mycroft had failed to clean away after making tea.

"Nothing – you just look happy," John said feebly.

"I am," Sherlock turned, "I slept OK, I feel – positive. It feels OK today."

"That's good," John said firmly, more guilt bubbling in his stomach at the words he'd uttered to Sarah. How could he consider leaving Sherlock? He was the same person, and this – right now – was a testament to that. Why would he leave?

"You don't seem happy, though," Sherlock moved closer to John and reached out his hands, initiating contact by laying both palms against John's hips. "Are you alright?"

"Yes – I'm fine, I'm absolutely fine." He pushed a smile to his tired face and crouched, transferring Sherlock's hands from his hips to his shoulders, " I love you," he reached up with both hands and moved forwards as he pulled Sherlock's upper body closer, kissing his lips softly. "I know sometimes I get stroppy and you get argumentative, but I love you."

Sherlock allowed John his kiss, pursing his lips to meet John's before reaching up and cupping his fingers around John's wrists, not pulling him away but definitely asserting authority. His eyes flicked across John's face as the doctor moved back slightly; he read every inch of the emotion in John's eyes and felt his heart beat a little quicker for it "I know," he finally nodded and held John's left hand to his mouth, pressing his full lips against the heel of John's palm before dropping his hands and pushed his dark curls from his face. "Can you help me?" he asked, moving past John back into the hall. "My back's hurting – will you do something?"

John smiled, "Sure," he nodded, licking his lips and drying his eyes with his fingers. "Go and lie out on the sofa, I'll come and give you a massage,"

John lulled Sherlock into a light sleep when they settled in the lounge; Sherlock's muscles were tight and cramping beneath John's fingers and within a few moments his skilled hands had relaxed the Detective so much he'd drifted off. John reclined into the sofa with his phone in hand, toying with the idea of calling Sarah. He threw his phone to the coffee table and lifted Sherlock's outstretched legs up onto his lap, massaging against the muscles of each calf with skilled fingers, deeming it a better form of manipulation for his limbs than leaving him untouched at all.

His thumbs pressed hard into the tight calf muscle and rolled inward, stimulating blood flow, and felt his body reacting once again the closeness he shared with Sherlock. It was getting to be an issue; prior to the shooting he could stand as close to Sherlock as he liked and, save for exceptional days, not be constantly aroused by it but since the accident – with the knowledge, he supposed – his body seemed to want more of Sherlock than it was allowed. Selfishly, he pulled Sherlock's legs closer into his body, resting across his groin area as his fingers continued to press into the pliant muscle beneath them.

The heaviness of Sherlock's limbs against his enclosed erection was perilous. He sucked in a breath and pushed Sherlock's legs down, standing from the sofa and eased the detective in a more comfortable position before turning into the bathroom. It was moments like this that the open-plan style of the home was a bit of a bug. He turned on the shower, making sure it was hot and flowing down on his toughest jets before he stripped and stepped inside. He needed to wash the morning away and he needed to feel hands on his body, anywhere on his body, even if they were just his own. Wrapping the fingers of his left hand around his penis, he moved in slow broad strokes across the already achingly hard muscle, feeling it tighten further beneath his fingers. He braced against the wall of the shower with his free hand, supporting his needy weight as slow shudders racked his bones as he continued to masturbate.

His rhythm quickened as his hips began to move, forcing him to fuck his hand quicker than his wrist was able to move. Thrusting against his hot, shower-wetted hand, he threw back his head in a groan and cried out in pleasure as he ejaculated, thick spurts of semen coating the wall and his fingers in an intense orgasm that hadn't been experienced in a long time. His body continued to jerk, hips forcing his cooling penis through the slackened loop of his fingers, riding out every last thread of pleasure they could claim. He rested forwards, head on the tiles and legs feeling limb, his body glistening from the water and the sheen of sweat that somehow still managed to cling to his skin.

He directed the shower head, powering away his mess with the jets of water, and then straightened it out again to tumble down across his body. The heat was thick and scalded his skin, burning off the morning with Sarah and the guilt, washing away the pain of telling Sherlock and the look on his face, bit wouldn't take it all away, not completely. It left enough behind to keep John in the memory of what was important, of who was important and just how sorry he was. He turned the water off some ten minutes later, feeling the air cool almost instantly, and stepped out onto the floor dripping wet. He reached for a towel and wrapped himself in it before reaching for a smaller one to dry off his upper body and hair. He felt refreshed, sated and sleepy, and determined to make sure he kept affirming to Sherlock how sorry he was and that he would never let anything like that happen again.

Turning toward the mirror over the sink, he jumped out of his skin as he caught Sherlock in the corner of his eye. Half-smiling, the detective was in the doorway with his curls mussed from a short nap and his face puffy and wrinkled from his position on the sofa. Calming his heart, John smiled, "Good sleep?"

Sherlock nodded, licking his lips, and moved into the bathroom a little further. Inhaling, John dropped the towel in his hands into the laundry basket that sat beside the sink and sunk down, keeping his towel up with one hand and cupped Sherlock's cheek with the other, bringing him close for a kiss. "Love you."

"Promise?" Sherlock asked with the weakness and innocence on his tired face hitting John's heart painfully. Vulnerability was always more present in Sherlock when he was tired – it seemed that fatigue and insomnia drew out the person he would be beneath the brilliance and social ineptitude.

"Sherlock I promise, I love you." He kissed Sherlock's full, pouty lips again and rested his wet forehead against the curls on Sherlock's brow. "I promise."

Sherlock nodded against John softly, so innocent, and reached up with both hands passionately cupping John's cheeks to turn their soft kiss into something deeper. His tongue explored John's mouth familiarly yet coyly and his fingers twisted into the length of hair at the bottom of John's neck. His at Sherlock's taught jawline, John's eyes closed to the kiss, his knees bending to lower him further as he allowed the kiss to push deeper, tongues duelling for dominance.

Despite the headiness, John pulled back with a pant and locked Sherlock's eyes with his own, "Are you sure?" he whispered hoarsely.

Sherlock's nod was small but honest, "I want to make you happy."

"You do-," John said firmly, "You don't have to have sex with me to make me happy, Sherlock – you make me happy just being here. It makes me happy just having you."

Sherlock smiled but shook his head softly, "No, really – I want to. I don't know…how, but I want to."

"OK," John smiled, crushing Sherlock's lips a moment before standing up. "Bed?" he asked, one eyebrow cocked, and smiled as Sherlock nodded as though this were his virgin feat. John supposed it was; this was the first time Sherlock had wanted anything intimate at all and it was awkward and virginal. It was new and different and things would be done differently and Sherlock probably only be pleasured by way of kisses or upper-body erogenous zones, but it would be intimate and close and it was all John wanted. He wanted Sherlock, any way he was able to have him.

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: 566