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“How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart, you begin to understand, there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend.” - J.R.R. Tolkien
Sherlock loses the leg in a freak accident.
One minute, John is chasing after him and yelling to mind the oncoming traffic, the next he is looking down in shock at a mangled mess of blood, tissue, and protruding bone.
The surgeon at the A&E is frank with him once John discloses that he is a doctor. There is too much damage to do anything but remove the extraneous bone, seal off the blood vessels and nerves, and shape the remaining tissue for artificial limb attachment.
Lestrade joins John in the waiting room, grim and muted.
“You hear what happened?”
Lestrade grunts in the affirmative. “Came over the radio.”
They sit in tense silence for a while before Greg speaks up again. “How…how bad?”
“He’s going to lose the leg to mid-thigh,” says John, dully.
There is an audible sigh, and then Lestrade pats John’s shoulder gently. He probably means it to be a reassuring or comforting gesture, but all John’s downturned eyes see is his own leg, whole and unbroken. Its lanky counterpart will never look the same, and that knowledge slowly crushes the breath out of John’s lungs.
“Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?” Lestrade has never sounded less in control, not even when Sherlock routinely sashayed onto his crime scenes and shanghaied the entire affair.
Guess Sherlock will not be doing much sashaying any time soon, if ever again.
John shakes his head in response to Greg’s inquiry. Nothing to do but wait.
Because it is not like hoping will do any good at this point.
Sherlock’s return to consciousness is as simple as a soft sigh and a quietly exclaimed, “Oh.”
John quickly stands, his back protesting from sleeping in the hard chair. He walks over to Sherlock’s side, and watches his friend’s eyes go unfocused as confusion crosses his face. Then, a shudder passes from his forehead to his lips, and his features smooth into indifference.
“Gone.” It’s not a question.
“Yeah,” supplies John, unnecessarily. “And a couple of broken ribs, a nearly fractured pelvis, and a severe concussion from your head making contact with the pavement after the lorry hit you.”
Sherlock remains silent for a few minutes, and John considers returning to the unforgiving chair. Then, Sherlock speaks up again. “And the suspect? Did you manage to catch her?”
John nearly laughs in disbelief. “Uh, sorry, no. Was rather busy trying to keep you from bleeding out before the ambulance could arrive.”
“Pity.” The ‘p’ is violently ejected.
“Right.” John frowns, then lets the doctor in him take over. “How are you feeling, other than the obvious? Any blurry vision or pain in locations other than what I mentioned?”
Sherlock gives him an impatient look. “No.”
“Good, that’s good,” John responds automatically, his frown deepening at Sherlock’s attitude. “The doctor should be in in a bit to do a more comprehensive check.”
“Obviously. How soon can I leave?”
John’s confusion at Sherlock’s responses grows. “Uh, optimistically, a couple of weeks.”
Sherlock sighs in discontentment.
John takes a moment to think on the fact that this conversation has not gone anything like he imagined it would. He opens his mouth to point that out, but ultimately decides on something more neutral. “Do you need anything? Water or a book or something?”
Sherlock turns his head to survey the morphine drip. “No chance you can double my dose, so that I can sleep through my imprisonment here in blissful ignorance, Doctor?”
John lets out a disbelieving huff. “Sorry, no chance.”
“Then what’s the point of you?”
For a moment, John thinks Sherlock is ribbing him. But the icy gloss over his eyes when he turns back to glare at John is unmistakable. It’s the look he gives clients who are boring him, the face that must haunt criminal’s dreams.
“What do you –” John starts, and then stops when Sherlock closes his eyes and emits a long-suffering sound.
“There’s nothing to be done, so leave me alone,” spits out Sherlock, venomously, eyes still shut.
“Right,” John mutters, then presses his lips together. “I suppose I will just go back to sitting, then.”
If Sherlock even hears him, John will never know. He remains silently still as John returns to his chair and resumes his watch.
Sherlock is despondent from then on. John stares solemnly at the empty space where a full left leg should have rested whenever his friend is unconscious. He feels as though he has lost a limb, too.
When the nurses change the dressings on the stump, Sherlock refuses to look at the proceedings. This throws up another red flag in John’s mind. Sherlock may feign disinterest in his transport, but he has always been particularly fascinated by anything aberrant on or in his body.
Mrs Hudson visits, as do Molly and Lestrade. Their not-housekeeper takes one look at wan, quiet Sherlock and bursts into tears. John has to calm her down with reassuring tones before she can approach the resting patient and offer some of her homemade scones and a gentle hug. Sherlock barely acknowledges her.
Molly is more tactful, her lips forming a severe bleak line, as she stands at Sherlock’s bedside and ends up carrying on a one-sided conversation about the assortment of body parts she has set aside for his perusal once he is recovered. Sherlock just looks through the pathologist with a vacant expression, and Molly nervously glances over at John, as if he can explain Sherlock’s behaviour.
Lestrade brings some cold case files, probably hoping to attract Sherlock’s mind. They sit, unread, on the bedside table.
If Sherlock experiences any phantom pains, as John knows amputees often do, he does not complain. In fact, there are no complaints at all. No proclamations of boredom, no snappish retorts, no degrading assessments of the staff. Even through the stretching exercises, he remains unengaged. It is as if Sherlock has shut down all pathways in his mind to his emotions.
Or maybe it is not a voluntary thing at all.
John realizes, with a jolt of helpless dismay, that his friend is depressed. And that he is woefully equipped to deal with it.
Never have seventeen steps appeared so daunting. Sherlock looks up the narrow staircase and then over to John with an uneasy expression. The blogger gives what he hopes to be an encouraging smile and gestures for Sherlock to precede him. There is no chance that Sherlock will interpret that as a sign of reassurance instead of as the safety net John’s body will offer should he fall.
And when Sherlock slowly, but successfully, makes his way up the steps with his newly-fitted prosthetic, John realizes that it was never actually about the physical challenge of climbing the stairs. No, it was walking back into his old life, their old life, knowing that nothing will ever be the same.
John knows that feeling intimately well. It took Sherlock dragging him on a breakneck chase through London and a confrontation across two panes of glass to pull him from his ennui. There is no possibility for him to reciprocate in kind; John lacks Sherlock’s brilliance. Fixing depression caused by a psychosomatic source is one thing, dealing with the same feelings from actual physical trauma is another.
Sherlock stays shut away in his room, completely silent, for the first twenty-four hours after their return to 221B. It reminds John of the first day in the hospital. He tries talking through the door, and then just leaves food that sits untouched, despite the discharging doctor’s lecture on the need for proper nutrition during recovery.
Almost exactly one day later, Sherlock bursts forth with all the energy of a hyperactive five-year-old and demands that Molly send over body parts, that Lestrade bring him up to speed on the latest serial killer (because of course one must be playing about without him there), and demands that several missives be delivered to his homeless network.
John thinks that maybe everything is fine, that Sherlock just needed time to reorient his mind palace or whatever, and now they are back to how they always were.
As usual, he reaches the wrong conclusion from the facts at hand.
Sherlock is supposed to go to group therapy, but everyone agrees it is probably for the best if he sticks with individual treatment. John sits outside and waits for him, wondering what he says in the hour-long sessions with the Mycroft-approved therapist. Sherlock never seems any different leaving than coming, though he is unexpectedly polite to the therapist.
Physical therapy is more sit and wait time for John, but at least there are other people waiting who help the time pass more quickly with conversation.
He meets Amelia the fifth time Sherlock is worked out by his trainer, a frighteningly muscular but quite jovial man named Carsey.
“Which one’s yours?” she inquires after they exchange the well-mannered salutations of strangers.
John points at Sherlock, who is doing something complicated with a roller.
“You and he?” Amelia asks, making the oft-repeated mistake of assuming they are partners.
“Just flatmates,” he explains, with a small smile.
“Right, sorry ‘bout that.” She looks like she feels badly for the mistake. “Um, how’d he get hurt?”
“Auto collision.”
“Oh, terrible thing.”
John just shrugs. “How about you – who’re you here for?”
“My brother, Tim,” She nods at a man in the corner on the physioball. “That giant ginger, sort of lanky fellow over there. He’s a swimmer. Well, was a swimmer. Lost his arm six weeks ago during a hike with some friends that ended with a medevac.”
“Sorry, that’s rough. How’s he taking the loss?”
“It was real hard on him at first…lost his scholarship and everything.” Amelia looks and sounds wistful. “But after the initial bit of depression, he’s pushed through and has a real positive outlook. His recovery has even accelerated. How’s yours taken the shock?”
John grimaces. “Hard to tell. Best I can see, not well. He’s not very open with his feelings. I think it’s mainly the lifestyle changes he is finding difficult. But, like I said, it’s hard to tell.”
“Well, that you’re here says a lot,” Amelia points out.
“Not much of anyone else to put with the twat,” says John, frankly, and then offers a wry grin.
She smiles kindly. “Yes, but you do.”
Finished with Carsey, Sherlock comes to stand by John and eyes Amelia speculatively.
“See you next time,” Amelia offers as John stands. “And both of you take care, alright?”
John smiles warmly. “You, too. Hope your brother continues recovering well.”
Sherlock is quick to comment once they are out of auditory range. “I see you’ve expanded your variety of locations from which to pull. Must be difficult to find prospective dates when you are always following me around.”
The meaning of Sherlock’s words does not immediately register. When it finally does, John stops at the door and turns around to face Sherlock. “You thought I was chatting her up?” he asks, incredulously.
“Of course. You smiled four times during the duration of your conversation, while sitting five centimetres closer than you have to anyone else in the room previously. Your pulse increased when she showed interest in seeing you during your next visit.”
John opens the door for Sherlock and tries to keep from looking abashed. “Actually, we never really talked about anything beyond the reasons why we were both here. And shouldn’t you have been focusing on your exercises instead of on who I talk to?”
“I have lost my leg, not my ability to observe,” responds Sherlock, primly. “Besides, the range of your facial expressions during the exchange indicated that you were emotionally invested in the subject. No doubt you will be asking her to coffee next time. Be aware, though, she is a recent divorcee and is probably looking for a ‘rebound’ relationship.”
And John really has no response to that, so he simply follows Sherlock to the elevator and lets him go off on a rant about sanitation of shared rehab equipment.
Mycroft manages to finagle his brother into an experimental trial for a hybrid prosthesis. The project stems from previous work with axolotls, echinoderms, and other organisms with regenerative capabilities. Part of the prosthetic will be completely organic and genetically-targeted to promote cell regrowth, while the rest will serve as structural framework for the growing limb.
It sounds a bit like science fiction to John, but the lead scientist, Dr Samantha Henley, assures them that early attempts at this hybridization have been successful. At their interview, she presents her raw data and discusses the alterations she has made to previous methods for this latest trial.
John pipes up at the end of her presentation. “What’s your sample size?”
Dr Henley smiles brightly. “Actually, we’ve had quite a few people volunteer. You will be subject number forty-seven.”
“Potential side effects?” John asks, since Mycroft was characteristically not very forthcoming on the details.
“Worst case – the body completely rejects the new macrophages and refuses to generate the blastema cells.” The researcher shuffles some papers and pulls out a graphic. “As you can see, we graft them on the exterior edge of the amputation and then promote de-differentiation in the surrounding tissues. If this process were to fail, then the outmost layers of dermis and muscles would remain de-differentiated, necessitating removal. However, this has only happened in less than 1% of lab tests.”
“What about the bone?” he inquires, genuinely curious. “You only mentioned skin and muscle de-differentiation.”
Dr Henley nods. “Yes, that’s correct. For some reason, bone does not regenerate in the same way that other body tissues manage. I have a colleague who is looking into that, but has yet to move past laboratory trials. For now, we use osseointegration, same as current bone and joint replacement surgeries. Implants will be ankylosed with the bone and integrated into the structural framework that the new organic portions will grow around.”
John cannot help but be impressed by the science. He glances over, expecting to share an excited grin with Sherlock, but finds the man not paying any attention. In fact, he has not said one word since they exchanged greetings with Dr Henley upon arrival. Is he acting this way from genuine apathy or just stubbornness over Mycroft’s involvement? Either way, this is cutting-edge research, something Sherlock should be totally enthralled by. Instead, he is staring at the fern resting on the desk, acting like this is another client interview for a case only meriting a 2.
“Um, that’s certainly reassuring,” John offers as he turns back to the researcher. “And I am certainly impressed. Uh, we both are. How long until he gets started?”
“There’s miles of paperwork and consent forms to sign, but once that pushes through and final candidacy testing is completed, we can get started immediately.” Dr Henley pushes a hand through her hair and rubs the back of her neck, calculating a rough estimation. “I’d say no more than two weeks, as long as the pre-tests all check out.”
“Great, that’s great. I guess as long as Sherlock doesn’t have any questions –” A quick look at the still-distracted man tells him that Sherlock has probably blocked out the entire conversation. “– then I suppose we are all set.”
“Thanks again for agreeing to participate.” Dr Henley offers her hand, and John shakes it as he stands. Sherlock keeps his hands resolutely behind his back and the researcher has the good sense not to try to force a handshake from him. John smiles in apology and follows his friend out of the office and onto the street. Sherlock signals for a cab, and one magically appears.
John does not speak up until they are about a minute into the ride. “Just so I understand, were you being rude to prove something to Mycroft or were you genuinely bored by all that?”
When Sherlock does not even acknowledge that John has spoken, John tries again.
“Are you alright, Sherlock? Because frankly, that was fairly cool stuff. Like, your particular brand of stuff.”
Sherlock continues staring out the window intently. John leaves him be for the rest of the trip back to Baker Street.
As soon as the vehicle stops, Sherlock exits in a hurry. John grudgingly pays the cabbie, which gives his flatmate enough time to make an escape to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
John can only sigh and make himself a cup of tea.
It is the silence at the crime scenes that unnerves John. Everyone keeps their distance and no one speaks directly to Sherlock. They all use John as an intermediary, including Lestrade.
Sherlock is his usual unaffected self on the outside, so John has to be annoyed for the both of them. But Sherlock is different, too. He is perfunctory, quick. No grandstanding or showing off.
It’s like all his bravado was amputated with his leg. And Sherlock just is not Sherlock without the snark.
He still seems to relish the puzzles offered by the inept criminals of London. Just not with the same zeal. There is no leaping around, declaring Christmas has arrived. It is like he still wants to work, but doesn’t enjoy it. Like the work has become just something to keep his mind from destroying itself.
Despite this, life seems to be equilibrating once again. That is, until the Riker case.
They intercept the suspect, Juliet Lewis, while checking for orange peels (no clue why…Sherlock insists they are absolutely vital). The woman turns the corner, sees them rummaging through her bins, then takes off in the opposite direction at a dead sprint.
John pursues automatically, vaulting over the variety of obstacles Juliet knocks down as she flees. He gets nearly halfway down the alley before he realizes he is alone in his pursuit.
A backward glance pulls him up short. Sherlock is standing with drooped shoulders and a devastated look on his face, which quickly morphs into fury.
“GO,” he bellows, pointing at John like one would at a misbehaving dog. “Stop gaping and catch her.”
John spends one more breath contemplating, before the thunderous expression on Sherlock’s face spurs him back onto the chase.
Twenty minutes later, Juliet Lewis is in handcuffs in the back of Lestrade’s car.
John finds Sherlock standing beside a harried-looking Sally Donovan, tapping away on his mobile. Any attempts to initiate conversation are brushed off, and Sherlock flags down a cab and leaves while John is giving his statement.
“Guess he’s back to his old, rude self, then, huh?” Sally comments after John is finished with Lestrade and waiting for a ride back to the flat.
John waits until she has walked away before muttering under his breath, “I’m not so certain about that.”
Dejected.
Sherlock has been dejected for days.
Violin sits unplucked, body parts untouched, mobile ignored.
John tries to ply him with tea, nicotine patches, and even at one particularly desperate point, his Browning.
But none of it pulls the detective from his funk. Or is he mourning? John cannot tell anymore. Sherlock’s moods have become even more mercurial since the solo pursuit of Juliet Lewis.
“Molly has a full human brain for you from a suspected poisoning. Says that she thinks the man was injected in his brainstem with some sort of heavy metal not usually detectible on tox screens. She’s even offered to let you use the ICP-OES to figure out which one.”
The lump on the sofa remains motionless.
Time to appeal to Sherlock’s sweet tooth. “Mrs Hudson’s just baked some mince pies for her knitting group and has extras, would you like one?”
Silence.
The man is either annoyed or truly ignoring John. And there is a chance that he is annoyed by John so he is ignoring him. One more try, and then he might give in to the urge to tactfully retreat to his room with a cup of tea and his laptop.
“There’s a forensics conference in town – I’ll let you harass the seminar speakers without any censure on my end.”
Still nothing.
John would almost rather have Sherlock yelling at him, throwing things, acting like a petulant child. That version of the man is at least something to respond to. The silence is unsettling. But he does not want Sherlock to be alone with his demons. John has done that, and it took the man on the sofa to pull him out of his tailspin.
So he sits down in his chair instead of going upstairs. Whenever Sherlock decides upon what he needs, John will be ready.
It’s only more bad news from there.
Their periodic meetings with Dr Henley to check for regrowth after the graft procedure have been looking less and less hopeful. Each time, the researcher tries to reassure Sherlock with platitudes.
“These sorts of things just take time. Other subjects are experiencing similar growth rates.”
“We are trying to rewrite evolutionary biology, so progress is going to be gradual.”
“The macrophages have not been rejected, which is a good sign.”
Each time, John can see a little more of Sherlock crushed. Or maybe he is projecting his own feelings onto his friend, because with each negative report, John feels the hurt eating away at his hope like a parasite.
“It’s only transport,” Sherlock says softly one day after they have returned to 221B from the doctor’s.
John looks up from sorting through the post. His friend is gazing down at his prosthetic leg forlornly.
“But, it’s clearly affecting you,” responds John, carefully.
“It shouldn’t. Yet, my cognitive abilities are impaired.” Sherlock sounds defeated.
“Well, you can’t actually completely dissociate the mind and body. You know that, right?”
Sherlock pays him no mind, steepling his fingers below his chin. “Perhaps I simply need to compartmentalize better.”
John drops the post onto the side table and drops his hands into his lap. “Sherlock, just what are you on about? Are you seriously trying to disconnect your feelings? Christ, you’re not an automaton, no matter how you may try.” He takes a deep breath, looks down at his clasped hands, and then speaks softly. “I know that you’re disappointed that improvements haven’t been on schedule, but you’ve accomplished so much. I –” he pauses for a moment, searching for the right words. “I’m really proud of you for sticking with therapy and for working cases again. It can’t have been easy to get back out there, trust me – I remember how hard it was to walk through your old life, trying to reconnect. But you have and you are, and I’m truly in awe of how well you are coping. I hope you know that.”
John looks up, a tiny bit nervous that Sherlock will mock him for his outpouring of sentiment. But the detective has already retreated into his mind palace, and has likely not heard a word of his confession.
He watches Sherlock’s face until the sun sets, then gets up and starts to make dinner, thinking it is probably for the best that Sherlock missed him making a fool of himself.
Moriarty eventually makes an explosive reappearance, with his usual trope of snipers serving as the murderous accompaniment to his aria.
Fortunately, it seems that the arena the psychopath chooses for their latest showdown is an overreach, and they manage to hunker down behind one of a sea of shipping containers as the snipers take pot-shots.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are…” croons Moriarty.
Another shot goes wide as John reflexively ducks. Sherlock is madly tapping away at his mobile at his side, doing God-only-knows what. John peaks back around the container, searching for the tell-tale starburst of weapons’ fire. Instead, he sees several shapes moving across the tops of the containers.
“We need to move,” he cautions. “They’re going to surround us soon.”
Sherlock ignores him completely in favour of more tapping.
John huffs and pulls out his Browning.
“I can’t hold all of them off, Sherlock. Any bright ideas?”
Moriarty abruptly shifts from teasing to howling, and the way his voice echoes around the solid structures makes it difficult for John to understand his words. But he can see Sherlock perk up at something the psycho says, and a long-forgotten expression of glee creeps across the detective’s face.
“What is it?”
Sherlock suddenly gasps, the sound he used to make when he had fit together all the pieces and was about to turn their world on its head.
“It’s a maze,” he breathes, his voice wondrous.
“What?” snaps John, feeling antsy.
The mobile’s screen is shoved into John’s field of vision and he realizes that Sherlock has pulled up a satellite image of the docks. A distinctly maze-like design, formed by the shipping containers, fills the display.
“Why?”
Sherlock shrugs, but the glee does not leave his eyes. “No idea, but is it something unexpected from our dear Jim.”
John grits his teeth and resists the urge to tell Sherlock off for being so excited by the psychopath who is trying to kill them yet again. “Come on, we need to find more secure cover. Does that map show any possibilities?”
Whatever Sherlock is about to say is replaced by the clear crack of a fired shot and an immediate grunt of pain. One look at the detective confirms that he has been hit…in his prosthetic leg.
“Guess we can tell Dr Henley that the nerves are reconnecting,” groans out Sherlock, colour draining from his face.
“Shut up,” John mutters, aiming his Browning and firing off a couple shots of cover fire. Then, he grabs Sherlock under his armpits and pulls him along the edge of the container, trying to get out of the sniper’s sights. “No chance you can stand?”
“On one leg, yes.”
“Good, do it.” John pauses long enough for them to readjust so that Sherlock’s arm is resting on his shoulder and they are able to hop along in the world’s most motivated three-legged race. “Which way?”
“Ahead there is a T. Go right.”
They move as a unit, Sherlock giving directions and John determinately pushing both of their bodies to their limits. Only once they no longer hear the sound of boots scampering across the metal tops of the shipping containers, does John stop to assess Sherlock’s wound.
It is fortunately only a graze, but the nerves must be quite raw, because Sherlock hisses when John’s fingers gently probe the edges.
“Sorry,” John whispers, “It’s not too bad, but Dr Henley is definitely going to have a blip in her data from this.”
Moriarty’s voice is suddenly clear and loud and extremely close, making John’s adrenaline spike again. They both flatten against the container and scan the container tops rapidly.
“Now you’re just boring, broken Sherlock,” mocks the madman. “I’m amazed your pet’s stayed so loyal for this long. Look, he’s even been carrying you.” His voice turns nasty. “Seems rather like something a beast would do.”
“Ignore the megalomaniac,” murmurs John as he pulls Sherlock’s frame back against his body and starts their forced march again. “Where to next?”
Sherlock studies the satellite image, and then points ahead. “He’s trying to push us toward the centre, where there is no doubt some sort of ridiculous trap.”
“Oh, it’s ridiculous now? Usually you are so rational,” grunts John as he readjusts Sherlock’s weight.
“Is that supposed to be reassuring?” Sherlock snipes back. “Turn left at the next intersection.”
“Well, you usually tend to delight in whatever brand of madness Moriarty concocts for you.”
“And usually I’m fully functioning, too,” Sherlock points out. “Now, time to climb.”
John stops moving. “Climb?”
“Yes, climb. Open your ears.”
“How are you going to climb?”
Sherlock pushes himself off of John’s back. “Obviously you will climb while I provide sufficient distraction for your escape.”
“No, that’s not how it’s going to work. We get out of this together. That’s how it’s always been, so start thinking of something else.”
A consternated expression crosses Sherlock’s face. “This is the best plan. There is no way for both of us to survive this confrontation.”
“Dammit Sherlock, find a way!” John’s voice rises at the end and he nervously looks around. “I am not leaving you,” he insists, accentuating each word in a hushed tone.
“You have to.” Sherlock stops looking at the phone and turns his laser focus on John. “This way is a dead end to the centre. Moriarty is right behind us, no doubt with his sniper entourage.”
John lifts his chin stubbornly. “Then we both face whatever’s in the centre. Because no way am I leaving you alone with him.”
“Oh, Johnny Boy!” Moriarty’s sing-song voice splits the heavy tension between them. “Feeling a bit possessive are we?”
They pivot around to find Moriarty perched nonchalantly on the edge of a nearby container, legs swinging freely.
“Aww, did I interrupt a lover’s tiff? Please, don’t stop on my account.” The villain leans forward as if eager to continue watching their argument unfold. “I find your dynamic so utterly fascinating,” he purrs out. “Especially now that poor Sherlock’s been maimed. A lorry did that? Such a pitiful way to be put out of action.”
John knows they have seconds to push their advantage, because a quick glance around shows an absence of gun-wielding henchmen. He aims the Browning at Moriarty and is about to fire when Sherlock huffs out a laugh. Confused, John looks over and finds the detective’s eyes locked on the smug bastard above them.
“It was a test,” Sherlock asserts. “To see if my cognitive abilities have been compromised by my injury.”
“Duh, Sherlock.” Moriarty sounds bored. “Which you have so disastrously failed. Daddy’s so disappointed in you right now.”
Sherlock pushes away from John and limps forward. “How? How have I failed? I deduced that this was where you would be, that this was a giant maze, that you were pushing us toward the centre. What have I missed?” he demands, agitated.
Moriarty sighs audibly. “It’s so sad to watch a piece of art crumble. Almost as sad as wasting so much effort and planning on a dud.”
John’s weapon is still pointed at Moriarty and he slowly begins to squeeze the trigger.
“Wouldn’t do that, Doctor Watson,” the madman cautions in eerie tones. “Need I remind you of what happened the last time you threatened me?”
Three red dots appear against the back of Sherlock’s skull. John lowers the Browning reluctantly.
Moriarty’s face darkens. “Now run along, like the little rats you are.” He pushes himself up to standing, all the while watching them with his vacuous eyes. “Here’s hoping for your sake that you only need a little more time to get over your case of the sads, Sherlock. I will be most disappointed if my favourite plaything is permanently broken. Perhaps disappointed enough to destroy your favourite plaything as punishment.”
And with that parting shot, both Moriarty and his entourage disappear into the night.
“You could have run. Left me behind, like you did when you captured Juliet Lewis.”
John looks up from his blog entry, where he is trying to find the best way to explain Moriarty letting them go (again) without making it obvious that the madman was only leading them by their noses.
“What?”
Sherlock leans forward in his armchair. “Why wouldn’t you leave me? It was the most logical decision.”
“If your massive brain cannot see why not, then my words are going to be fairly pitiful in comparison for explanation.”
Sherlock frowns. “Are you still annoyed over Moriarty calling you a ‘pet’? Really, John, you should know better than to rise to his bait.”
John rubs a hand across his face. “Yes, because you are so good at not doing that.”
“Then what is it? Are you frustrated because you failed to shoot him when you had the chance?” Sherlock tips his head to the side. “Why exactly did you do that? Moriarty said something about the last time you threatened him being a reason to stop.”
“I really don’t know, Sherlock,” John feigns indifference.
But the detective is fixated on getting an answer. “The last time you would have threatened Moriarty was at the pool. But I was the one with the Browning that time.”
The impulse to bolt surges through John’s body. “Well, Moriarty’s insane, so why are we trying to analyse his psychospeak?”
“Because his words are often keys to explain the greater puzzle. And he seemed to believe that I was unable to solve his riddle this time around. Anything could be relevant.” Sherlock sinks back into the chair and tucks his good leg into his chest. “And if I truly failed, then we must be prepared for whatever he will try next.”
“Er, yeah. Pretty sure that that bit had nothing to do with any kind of ‘greater puzzle’.”
Sherlock’s sharp eyes narrow. “Why are you so certain?”
John taps his fingers on his armrests. “Heart-thinking over head-thinking.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” demands Sherlock, “Are you trying to use some sort of literary verse?”
John offhandedly recites under his breath, “The heart wants what the heart wants. Isn’t that from Shakespeare or Emily Dickinson or something?”
Sherlock still picks up on his muttered words and frowns. “The heart desires a constant supply of blood, not poetry.”
“Yeah, well, goes to show what you know about matters of the heart,” John tersely replies, then shuts the lid of his laptop. “I’m going out, been needing some fresh air all day.”
Sherlock says nothing as he leaves, just watches with barely concealed bewilderment. Sometimes, John wonders just how Sherlock has made it so far without engaging certain emotions.
And just what or who has prevented him from doing so.
“There has been 30% regrowth in your quadriceps since we tried the new enzyme treatment.”
John’s head snaps up. Weeks of bad news and truncated progress have conditioned him for the worst, but this…this is good. He looks over at Sherlock to gauge his reaction and finds the detective’s eyes closed. Storing the new information in his mind palace? Overwhelmed by the chance of success? Or maybe something subtler, that John could never hope to understand with his puny brain?
He lets Sherlock process or whatever he is doing, and asks, “Does that mean that you will continue this treatment?”
Dr Henley nods. “Absolutely. There’s a new study in Science that further supports the nAG protein as being the key to limb regrowth. And Sherlock’s shown steady but positive progress. I’m not going to guarantee full functionality, but the organic components are nicely interfacing with the artificial bits. The knee joint will be the true test, but as long as you keep up on the therapy, I’d say that you’re safe to feel cautiously optimistic.”
John smiles, really smiles, and feels some of the damaged edges of his hope begin to reknit.
Sherlock slowly returns to himself. Well, not completely himself. A new self, born of his struggle to overcome this unprecedented challenge, but still close enough that it would be tough to tell the difference from a once over and some basic conversation.
Experiments begin to pop up around the flat. Lestrade calls John to get him to stop Sherlock from nagging at him for cases. Violin music begins to wake John from sleep at all hours. And the detective is increasingly ambulatory, even jogging beside John on runs through Regent’s Park.
There are strops on the sofa and no-sleep marathons lasting up to 86 hours. Stake-outs that require ridiculous disguises (one time they even cross-dress…and Sherlock actually looks disturbingly attractive as a woman) and newly-crafted insults for clients, criminals, and Anderson alike.
It seems almost too perfect. Too convenient. John would suspect the changes only run skin-deep, if he did not spend almost every waking moment with Sherlock. Because the detective is either shamming everyone all the time or he really is settling into his life as a changed man. And John is not quite sure why it is bothering him until Moriarty resurfaces and begins taunting Sherlock through his blog.
He realizes that it is the timing of this turned corner that irks him. Sherlock was completely depressed until Moriarty stomped back in their lives.
John reaches his wits end one evening after Moriarty hacks the website and leaves the image of a giant, bloody heart with the words ‘You Better Be My Valentine’ emblazoned across the entire page.
He slams one fist into the arm of his chair and slaps the laptop shut with the other hand. Sherlock barely looks up from the text he is studying at the table near the window.
“I don’t understand why you are still so upset,” Sherlock complains, as if they have actually had this argument before.
“That it took Moriarty to revive you? Seriously, seriously? How am I not supposed to be upset?” His voice rises at the end, but he is too incensed to care.
“John,” Sherlock’s own voice is even, “That’s incorrect. Although James Moriarty is a formidable opponent, there is hardly any true affection between us.”
“Because this flirtatious, dancing-around each other thing you’ve got going…no affection there whatsoever,” John proclaims, throwing up his hands. “You can’t deny that he excites you.”
Sherlock studies him for a long moment. “I may be intellectually intrigued by him, but there is nothing more than that. And he is not responsible for my recovery, of that I am certain.”
John scowls. “Right, and the fact that you’ve managed to almost completely regain all function in your leg since we last encountered him is just a giant coincidence.”
“Of course not. Although much of the credit should be awarded to Dr Henley and the scientific community at large, your presence was absolutely instrumental in my recovery.” Sherlock goes back to perusing the book, as if the conversation has concluded satisfactorily.
Well, maybe for him it has. John, however, is entirely dumbfounded. “Me?” he manages to squeak out, as the anger seeps away to be replaced by mystification.
Sherlock looks up again, perturbed. “Yes, you. Did I not make that clear?”
“Uh, yes, that’s, yeah,” John stumbles verbally, and then manages, “I just didn’t know you thought that.”
Shutting the book, Sherlock clasps his hands in front of his face and rests his chin on them. He stares at John…no, deduces him for what seems like an uncomfortably long time. Several expressions cross his face in quick succession – confusion, realization, frustration, and then he settles on a soft smile.
Apparently decided on a course of action, Sherlock stands and walks toward John. His steps are sure and even, no hesitation, no hitches.
John looks up at the detective when he stops in front of his chair. Sherlock’s face is contemplative, as if he is undecided on exactly what he plans to do next. A little jolt of anticipation shoots down John’s spine as Sherlock removes the laptop from atop his legs, places it on the side table, and then sinks down onto his good knee.
“Sherlock, what’re you doing?” John asks, nervously watching Sherlock’s hands slowly come to rest on the outside of his thighs. “You know Carsey warned you about kneeling.”
“Yes, and so do you, because you were there. You’ve always been there, John Watson,” Sherlock practically coos, “Always there for me, and I have neglected to thank you.”
John’s eyes widen. “You could always just say thank you. That’s good enough.”
Sherlock leans forward, placing one hand on John’s chest while the other runs along his cheek. “No, you misinterpret my message. I have not been sufficiently appreciative.” He carefully strokes John’s jawline, and the blogger’s eyes flutter shut in bliss. “No one else was at every appointment, sat through every session of physical therapy. Only you handled my emotional withdrawal without taking it personally and retaliating, only you could have possibly understood the ramifications of such a physical loss.”
John feels Sherlock shift again, this time pushing himself up until he is practically lying on top of him. The detective’s nose strokes along his own, tenderly.
Whispering now, Sherlock continues. “You, always you. By my side, through it all. You, who never pitied me, never neglected me.”
The tiny breaths of air Sherlock releases as he speaks tell John that his lips are within centimetres of the other man’s. John screws up his courage and leans forward until he feels the gentle pressure of Sherlock’s lips. The other man inhales, as if he did not expect John to take the initiative, and John grins internally. He brings his hands up – one to cup Sherlock’s jaw, the other to settle into the curls at the back of his head – and begins to direct the kiss.
Sherlock moans, low and deep, giving John the opportunity to swipe his tongue across the other man’s lips, then gently press inside. Now it is John’s turn to moan, as Sherlock strokes his tongue against his, a wonderful feeling that he hopes will be repeated with perhaps their entire bodies, naked, and on a bed.
Which reminds him of the fact that Sherlock is probably putting a bit too much pressure on his still-healing prosthetic. John reluctantly pulls away, with a final solid press of lips and runs his fingertips across one cheekbone, over the bridge of Sherlock’s nose, and then onto the other cheekbone.
“Interested in moving this somewhere a bit more horizontal?” he rumbles and is pleased to see the detective blush in response.
“Definitely,” agrees Sherlock, stealing one more kiss before they move to his bedroom, where they completely bliss one another out for the next few hours.
And for the rest of their lives.