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Sherlock’s recovery is slow. And, if for nothing else, John is at least able to be a little grateful for the time it gives him to begin sorting himself out.
There are weeks where he is at Baker Street alone, Sherlock still in hospital as his body works at knitting itself back together, doing its best to repair the damage from the bullet that blew a bloody hole in everything that has ever been important to John. “Trust issues” doesn’t even begin to cover what John is experiencing.
Sometimes, he breaks things. His hands tremor violently around mugs of tea and plates of take away. He sweeps up millions of shards, white and sharp, from the kitchen floor—so much of what once was whole that now isn’t.
Sometimes, he breaks things on purpose: a glass of whiskey against the wall, the mobile phone that would not stop displaying the smiling face of his wife as it rang, the shirt that wouldn’t button up straight as he dressed one morning. Everything is in pieces, and he is thankful for the weeks of solitude. He’s never been so broken.
Then, there are the weeks once Sherlock is home, whinging a lot, sleeping even more. Sherlock requires near constant tending (time for your meds, just drink the damn tea, no I will not get you a bag of fingers from Molly), which gives John something, anything to focus on other than the shambles that make up his life.
They are both so broken in so many ways. When Sherlock whimpers as the pain meds run low in his system, John feels the ache in his own chest.
It hurts to watch nimble, kinetic Sherlock so fettered by his own body. At the beginning, Sherlock isn’t able to play his violin, or work cases that require any sort of legwork, or sit for long periods at his microscope. Hell, he can’t even make it from the sofa to the loo without a little help. In time, he’s able to walk a bit on his own—first in the flat, then up the street and back. John goes with him, helping him with the stairs, hand hovering near the small of Sherlock’s back as he takes laboured and deliberate steps on the pavement.
One evening, John comes into the lounge with two plates of dinner, and when he sees what Sherlock has chosen to watch, he openly gapes. They’ve gone through the whole of James Bond and Planet Earth and Harry Potter, so it was bound to devolve into crap telly eventually. But, “Strictly Come Dancing, Sherlock? Really?”
“Why not?” Sherlock says with a shrug.
John shrugs back, handing Sherlock his plate, and settles next to him on the sofa.
“How is this in any way fair?” Sherlock asks. “They’ve got a model and a pop star in their twenties up against a fifty year-old television presenter who’s likely never had any formal dance training whatsoever.”
“How do you even know who these people are?” John asks; Sherlock doesn’t even know who bloody Madonna is.
Sherlock waves his phone in the air, the glowing face still showing the Google search he’d brought up.
Ah. “Well, it’s telly. It’s not meant to be fair,” John explains.
“That footwork is abysmal,” Sherlock says, watching a professional dancer do his best to lift his lumbering celebrity partner off the ground.
“Just a bit of fun, I reckon,” John says.
Sherlock hums, turning his attention back to the screen. They watch the entire programme, Sherlock commenting on the proceedings with more expertise and genuine enthusiasm than John would have guessed.
One of the couples dances a waltz. “No, no, no!” Sherlock shouts at the screen. “Didn’t even master the arm positions!” He takes a large bite of chicken. Around it, he continues his rant. “What sort of choreographer can’t even manage that much? This professional is useless. Even I could manage that much, and I was working with you!”
“Oi!” John protests, but he is smiling. “Thanks a lot.”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” Sherlock says, waving his fork dismissively. He swallows his bite and goes very still.
And then John feels the weight of it, too. His heart drops with the memory of his and Sherlock’s dance lesson, of his first dance with Mary at their wedding. John clears his throat, and Sherlock turns to look at him.
“Sorry,” Sherlock says, so quietly.
John clears his throat. “It’s fine,” he says, and he takes their plates back to the kitchen. He does the washing up, letting the rush of running water drown out the sound of the music and cheering coming from the lounge. When he returns, the couple is different, one of the pop stars, and they are dancing a not-too-bad salsa. If he sits closer to Sherlock this time around, Sherlock doesn’t mention it. And if Sherlock rests his head against John’s shoulder, John doesn’t say anything either.
There is progress, but it’s slow. The up-the-street walks become to-the-park walks, and those become around-the-park walks. The air grows colder, cleaner. Sherlock is gaining stamina, needs less medication, is able to work small cases. John can tell he’s working on something bigger, but he refuses to comment on any details when John asks.
John returns to work at the surgery. He goes in for one day, works his shift, and hands in his resignation before he leaves. He cannot yet even playact at professionalism around his wife (his lying wife). He cannot see her face or hear her voice or smell her perfume without his hands shaking. She tries (John. John, talk to me. Please.), but it’s no good. He can do locum work part-time for now. What he can’t do is come back to this place for even one more day.
Sherlock is out when he returns that evening. John rings to order a pizza for delivery and pours himself a generous whiskey. He waits until he’s paid for his pizza before pouring another. Sherlock comes in just as he’s fitting the stopper back in the top of the bottle. Sherlock looks at him, eyes doing that thing where they move too quickly to track, and John knows that the entire story of his day is written all over every single thing about him. He’s always so laid-bare when it comes to Sherlock. The whiskey makes it easier not to mind.
“Where’d you get to?” John asks, deflecting, but genuinely curious all the same. He points to the pizza, and Sherlock nods, so John gets down another plate for him.
“Had a few appointments. Then I met with Lestrade about a possible case, but that turned into nothing.”
“How’re you feeling?”
Sherlock presses his lips together. “Tired,” he says with more honesty than John was expecting. “But okay.”
John smiles as much as he can muster, just one side of his mouth. “Me too,” John says.
Sherlock stays in his pajamas the next day. His mood seems to be placid rather than bored, which is good. They move around each other easily. Sherlock spends a little time at his microscope, more time on the sofa reading or just being. John potters about with laundry and a bit of writing. Late in the evening, John lifts his head from his computer at the sound of Sherlock tuning his violin.
He feels his body grow as tight as the strings themselves as Sherlock finally lifts it to his chin to play. It’s stilted at the start, and Sherlock isn’t standing exactly upright, but the melody eases both of them to something like normal as it moves along. The tune is soft and slow, and when it’s done, Sherlock sighs and places the instrument in its stand.
“Lovely,” John says.
Sherlock frowns a little, hums. “Out of practise,” he says. His hand moves to his abdomen as he crosses to his chair in a bit of a hunch.
John goes to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water and a pain pill. When he presses both into Sherlock’s hands, he says again, “Really, lovely.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock says. He pops the pill and swallows it down. John watches the line of his throat as he does. He lets his hand light on Sherlock’s shoulder, gives it a little squeeze. Sherlock’s eyes close as he brings his own hand, large and warm, to cover it. John lets the moment linger, brushes his index finger against the skin of Sherlock’s neck as he pulls away.
It’s almost a week later when John comes in from an afternoon shift at a surgery in Brixton which was a complete madhouse—low on supplies and severely understaffed, especially for the season. John feels wrung-out to his bones as he climbs the stairs to the flat.
Sherlock’s got the telly on but pauses it when John enters. “There’s a curry for you in the microwave,” he says.
“Ta,” John replies as he shucks his jacket and scarf, hanging them on the peg.
The telly starts up again as he gets his food. He takes a seat next to Sherlock on the sofa. It’s Strictly again—apparently, Sherlock’s recorded it since this isn’t the evening for it. Sherlock comments as the contestants dance, argues with the judges. John doesn’t really have anything to add, so he just makes agreeable humming noises as he eats. When he’s done, he sets the plate on the coffee table and settles in a little deeper into the cushions. Sherlock leans into him, and John’s arm comes around his shoulders; he doesn’t stop himself tracing an idle pattern against Sherlock’s arm with the tips of his fingers.
The programme ends, and Sherlock switches the telly off. John takes his plate to the sink and just leaves it there. He’ll do the washing up later. He returns to the lounge to the sound of music. Not Sherlock’s violin this time, but a lady’s voice singing “Moon River,” coming from the speakers of Sherlock’s laptop. John cocks his head in a silent question.
Sherlock looks up to John and clears his throat. “This was one of the waltzes from last year. They don’t use traditional music, so I wanted to see it.” He clicks a bit at the mouse, starting it over again. “It’s… nice.”
John watches Sherlock watching his computer screen, his eyes following the lines of the dance that John can’t see. The light from the monitor makes Sherlock’s eyes light up, bright turquoise.
John sniffs and steps into Sherlock’s space, hunching over to watch the dance to its lilting end with him. When it’s done, YouTube brings up its rabbit-trail suggestions on the sidebar. One of them is the Andy Williams version of the song, so John reaches across Sherlock’s arm and clicks it.
After an annoying advert for loo roll, the music starts up, and John takes a step back. He holds out his hand.
Sherlock takes it.
There is no fumbling or toe-stepping this time, so unlike the first. They do not take formal waltz position. Instead, John laces his fingers behind Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock’s hands rest around his waist.
They sway, easy and slow, their feet barely leaving the ground. It’s a quarter-step up and back down, moving while standing still. John’s hands move, fingers skimming the pulse at Sherlock’s neck, down over the soft tee-shirt cotton of his chest and around his back, so he can hold on tighter, pull Sherlock closer.
Sherlock’s breath is in his hair, against his temple. John’s cheek is just below Sherlock’s jaw, chin resting at Sherlock’s shoulder. His heart is not at the ceiling; his head is not swirling. He feels more grounded than he has ever been. His heart beats against Sherlock’s chest, at the core of his very being, and Sherlock’s answers back in a steady rhythm, warm and sure against his own.
They move slowly over the floor of the lounge, neither of them either leading or following; both are simply drifting (two drifters, off to see the world), and it’s as fluid as water, as natural as breathing itself. This, John thinks. This is dancing. Even after the music stops, they continue because neither one of them lets go.
“You are married,” Sherlock says after a while, arms still holding steady around John’s waist. The words are not laced with sadness or regret, a mere statement of fact.
“I know,” John replies with an equal, easy calm. “She shot you.”
“I know,” Sherlock says. He breathes against John’s ear. They sway for a bit longer before Sherlock adds, “I have a plan.”
John smiles against Sherlock’s shoulder.
~End~