Chapter Text
Sherlock isn't too convinced home is going to be easy, but they are both extremely emphatic when the doc poses another option to them. "We can wait another day, even consider some short term rehab, John, until you've got your strength back."
"No," John utters quietly.
"Long as physical therapy says you can manage there, I'll send you home today, then." There are many other discussions about pain management, wound care, oral antibiotic recommendations, activity clustering, and follow up. The doctor says before John leaves he must have an health visitor appointment scheduled for the following day on the books.
"That's coercion," Sherlock not-quite-snarls, low and quiet.
The doc gives a tiny smile. "I see it as compliance. I'm happy to write the order, it just needs to be safe for John." He softens up the somewhat strict condition with a smile of support. "Questions, then, gentlemen?"
John is less confident looking, but Sherlock is quick to reassure all of them, especially John, so he faces him as he speaks. "We can manage this at home. Whatever you need, all of it will be better out of the hospital. And if we get stuck, we - I - have some resources," at which point John and Sherlock exchange a glance, both of them knowing he means Mycroft, "and I'll reach out for help."
Supportive, the nurse voices her agreement as well, that John is certainly to the point where there's little benefit of being in the hospital provided John has help and there is a contingency plan in place. She temporarily removes the immobiliser, to be placed again after John's got a shirt on again. "I'll help with this part, and then I'll take your IV out, and review these instructions again."
"We've already done that," Sherlock complains.
"I know you've got it," she says to Sherlock. "I'm just not sure John does."
"It's fine. We're fine," John says. "Please don't ... with the papers again."
When the shirt is on, the immobiliser goes over, and when Sherlock balks a little at helping John get the rest of the way dressed, so he turns away while the nurse helps with that too.
"I'll be back soon. Let me pack you some extra dressing supplies in case you need them for today, until the health visitor comes tomorrow."
From the chair, John cannot stop the feeling of being unsettled, of something wrong, of missing a key detail. There is a moment, a heavy moment, both of them on the cusp of yet another adventure. Finally, John frowns deeper and with uncharacteristic calm, asks in a monotone voice, "Are you upset with me?"
The question nearly catches Sherlock off-guard, and he works at keeping his expression unchanged, though he is very surprised at the question. "Of course not."
"Then, did I do something to make you angry? I just get the feeling, ..." He is frowning and his voice is low and quiet, all evidence that he truly is concerned about something. The awkwardness in the silence swells.
Until there is a bustling at the doorway. "Oh thank god you're still here! I've been trying to get over here to see you all morning!"
It is Sylvia, from the ICU.
"Some of my favourite people, and I wanted to say goodbye and good luck before you leave." She crosses to John's side, her energy raising the atmosphere in the room, her dynamic presence commanding attention. "You look amazing! Patients in clothes are just the best things I think we ever see! I've heard you're to be discharged, and home must sound wonderful."
"I'm sorry," John begins, seeing Sherlock's extra-serious expression. "Who are you again?" He glances to her name badge, and reads, "Sylvia. You were one of my nurses?"
She picks up the glittery dragon from the bedside table, giggling. "This is adorable. Your daughter's obviously." Then, nodding, she addresses his statement and tells him, "You were pretty sick, those couple of days. Completely normal not to remember, and probably a good thing. A lot of unpleasantness, right?" she speaks kindly to John, shoots a glance at the description briefly toward Sherlock. "But those days are behind you. And you, good grief, look so much better." Her eyes sparkle a little more as she considers Sherlock. "How about you, friend? Doing okay?"
His mouth might speak a word that sounds like fine, but his eyes as well as his tone say something else entirely.
For a moment, she glances at them both, puzzled particularly as she can see and feel the dissonance between them.
The light-hearted levity of her visit evaporates. "No, really, are you all right?" Sylvia asks at them both.
"I ... uh ... think so," John begins.
"We're fine," Sherlock states, a bit coolly, and his expression indicates the opposite of this.
John, frowning, starts to wonder at the niggling sense that these two know more than he does, and a moment of inspiration loosens his tongue. "Hey, I'm sorry for what, your words, the 'unpleasantness'. I guess I wasn't very cooperative? Or did or said something?" he adds. He is either going to be thought of as off his noggin or perhaps he is managing to pick at the edges of the scab.
Sylvia, hand on her hip, seems to know that he is fishing. "You didn't tell him very much, did you." She states this while clearly looking at John before pinning her glare on Sherlock. "Because clearly," she almost chuckles, "you," and she turned back at John, "don't remember anything, do you?"
Although John tries to keep his face neutral, he is aware that the corner of his mouth quirks, and he casts a sidelong glance at Sherlock. Gotcha.
"So here's the thing, speaking generally of course," Sylvia says trying to act casual, "when people are septic, you know toxic metabolic encephalopathy and critical illness, there's no way a person is thinking clearly. So, do either of you think a person in that state can be held accountable for anything they might say?"
From inside Sylvia's scrub pocket comes an audible alarm, and, groaning softly, she glances at her mobile that has lit up with an incoming, high-alert message. "I have to get back. Sorry," she says, wanting to linger as she pockets her phone. Whatever seriousness they'd been not speaking about earlier is set aside, and Sylvia smiles at them both. "You," she breathes to John, "be well and take care of yourself." She lightly wraps her arms around John, gently, barely squeezing whether not wanting to hurt at all, or perhaps less sentiment. But for Sherlock, her hug is more emphatic, and she pats him a few times before letting go. "And you, I wish you the very best. Take care of this one, and yourself too." Her hand grasps his as she pleads into his eyes. "Mostly, both of you, be kind to yourself. This is all fixable."
She disappears in a whirl as she scurries back to her home unit.
Taking a deep breath, John settles into the chair again, trying to find a comfortable position for his arm and shoulder. Closing his eyes, he knows he's missing something, and he tries to remember her exact words. But even just sitting there doing very little, he can feel his heart pounding, thrumming in his chest with an echoing heat and warmth in his face, neck, and ears. His sensations are not entirely from his physical situation and discomfort.
"Sherlock," he whispers, and it's more than audible in the room. "What's she talking about?" His question is met with dead silence, and John opens his eyes despite the exhausted state he's in. "What happened?"