Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

At the hospital, several of John’s coworkers asked what happened. Sherlock remembered, and in flawless clarity no less, but his willingness to repeat the story for every curious nurse and doctor was waning. He remembered down to the minute what had happened.

They had been chasing after someone, as usual.

Jumping out the back door of the bar, they had two options: toward the street or down an intersecting alley. The would-be robber ran toward the street and Sherlock sprinted after him, so John went down the alley.

Adrenaline was igniting Sherlock’s skin. He could run for miles. He could become God. He could-

John jumped out from a side street ahead of them and leveled his SIG, yelling at them to stop. Staring down the barrel of a gun, the criminal obediently skidded to a stop, cursing that the “short prick has a gun?!” Sherlock slowed and stopped behind the man, pulling out a pair of handcuffs from his coat pocket.

The soldier didn’t think much of it when he heard heavy footsteps bouncing down the alley walls from where he came. It was hard to tell how far away the footsteps were because of the reverberating sound. Figuring it was Lestrade, he kept his eyes on the man Sherlock was cuffing. He opened his mouth to speak…

…then heard a car door slam closed. He furrowed his brow and turned his head, watching a car he’d run past just a minute ago rev to life.

“Sherlock?” John called out, glancing at his fiancé quickly as he backed away from the alley entrance. Sherlock noticed the concerned expression on his partner’s face and watched him take cover behind a parked sedan.

Sherlock heard a car engine rev, the loud sound deafening everyone near the alley as it bounced around the walls. The getaway car, Sherlock suddenly realized. It was so loud Sherlock didn’t hear Lestrade approaching until he was just a couple yards away.

“What’s going on?” Lestrade demanded. Sherlock shoved the caught criminal into Lestrade and jogged toward the alley.

“It’s the car!” John shouted, leveling his gun over the hood of the sedan he was half-standing behind, aiming for the driver as they sped toward him. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

They had barely a second to think before the car came screaming down the alley. Just as John promised, he fired his gun. It wasn’t a kill shot, he had aimed for the bloke’s shoulder, but he’d expected the man to perhaps stop or serve.

He only realized the driver had no intention on stopping until it was almost too late. John ran for it as the driver put the pedal to the metal and aimed for the hood of the sedan. Metal crunched and tires screeched and John was sent flying by the impact of the parked sedan’s window colliding into his back. He hit the ground and bounced before hitting the ground again, rolling to a stop.

“John!” Sherlock cried out, breaking into a sprint. Someone yelled at him to stop but he ignored them. Fear was squeezing his lungs. All he could think about was John.

The fear was made worse when Sherlock could see past the wrecked cars to the figure on the asphalt. The short blonde was lying on his front, painfully still.

Sherlock felt tears springing up in his eyes.

“No no no,” He whispered, scrambling to his knees by John’s chest. John’s eyes were half-lidded and unblinking. “John?” Hurriedly, Sherlock placed two fingers against John’s throat, underneath his jaw.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“Oh thank God.” Sherlock nearly sobbed in relief at the pulse against his fingertips. “John, can you hear me?”

Still no response.

“John!”

Unconscious. He’s unconscious.

“John you idiot wake up!”

What do I do!? Sherlock panicked, patting John’s limbs down in a frantic search for injuries.

“Calm down, love.”

At hearing John’s voice, Sherlock snapped his attention toward John’s face. He was still staring into nothingness, jaw slightly slack.

“Wrong John, darling.” John’s voice said softly, a hint of sweetness to his tone despite the current circumstance. Finally, Sherlock glanced up toward the sound and saw John, Mind Palace John that is, dressed in Sherlock’s favorite red v-neck jumper and kind cobalt eyes, looking down at him sadly. “’fraid it’s just me.”

“What do I do?” Sherlock pleaded, looking down at Real John again. “You’re the doctor. Tell me what to do.”

“I’m not an actual doctor.” Mind Palace John reminded Sherlock. “I can only give you advice based on what you’ve seen-”

“I know that!” Sherlock shouted. “Give me advice!”

“Well, I usually check for bleeding.”

Right, bleeding. Sherlock recalled his ears and nose being checked by John for trailing blood many times before.

Copying his memory of John’s touch, he looked in John’s ears and found nothing. John’s nose was also clear of any blood. His forehead had a decent scrape and there was another hidden one beneath a patch of red stained blonde hair on John’s right side, but nothing from his nose and ears.

“No fractures then.” Mind Palace John explained. “Good.”

Sherlock went to touch John’s neck then paused.

“Best not to move me just yet. You don’t know if I’ve sprained or broken anything in my neck.”

“What do I do about you being unconscious?” Sherlock’s breathing became shallower as his panic worsened. “How do I wake you up?”

“You can’t wake me up, but I should regain consciousness on my own soon.” He reassured. “Unfortunately all I can tell you is that the longer I’m unconscious, the more severe my concussion is.”

“John?!”

Sherlock glanced up and saw Lestrade running over, hand holding a phone to his ear. The two men made eye contact as Lestrade slowed to a stop by Sherlock and Lestrade’s face fell. Lestrade was about to ask something when Sherlock heard a female voice asking if Lestrade needed police, fire, or medical.

“Medical.” Lestrade answered, kneeling down next to Sherlock. “Is he alive?”

“Yes.” Sherlock swallowed, trying not to think about John being anything other than alive.

Lestrade gave the dispatcher their location and John’s status:

He was breathing, his pulse was strong, but he was unconscious and had been for two minutes. He’d been struck by a parked car that was driven into at high speed and, aside from the probable traumatic brain injury, he physically seemed okay.

The dispatcher walked Lestrade through checking John for neck injuries, and when Lestrade found nothing Sherlock maneuvered John onto his back.

He’s going to be so sore later. Sherlock lamented, rubbing John’s bad shoulder.

“I think the sedan took the brunt of it.” Lestrade let out a breath, checking his watch. They were closing in on three minutes now.

“Nng…”

A low groaning noise rumbled out of John’s throat and both Sherlock and Lestrade perked up.

“John?” Sherlock asked eagerly, silently begging for a reply. “Can you hear me?”

John’s eyes closed slowly, his brow furrowing a little. A sluggish hand reached for his head.

“John answer me.” Sherlock’s tone was stern and he repeated the question in a demanding tone. “Can you hear me?”

“What…” John slurred, confused and disoriented, eyes peeling open with great effort. He pulled his hand back and saw blood on his fingertips.

“Remember the questions I would ask?” Mind Palace John attempted to remind Sherlock, no longer visually in the external world but still heard in Sherlock’s mind. Thinking back on the times Sherlock was being examined for concussions, he recalled a few of the questions.

“What’s your name?” Sherlock asked, reaching down to pull John’s wrist away and guide his attention to Sherlock. John groggily looked up at Sherlock, both recognizing and not recognizing him.

“John.” He mumbled, eyes struggling to focus. His vision was blurred.

“John what?”

“… Watson.”

Sherlock smiled. Surely he wasn’t too bad, then, if he could remember his name. Still pretty hurt probably, but he wasn’t severe.

Right?

“When’s your birthday?”

John blinked slowly, body sagging into the asphalt as he finally gave up on moving away.

“Uh… July… somethin’.” His eyes closed as exhaustion crept in like a fog clouding his mind. “Sssseventh... There’s a seven somewhere.”

“How old are you?” Sherlock asked, taking John’s hand in his and pushing some of the blonde fringe off John’s forehead. He couldn’t help but worry at the difficulty John was having.

“Thirty… something.” John grimaced and shifted a little. “Fuck my head hurts.”

“Take it easy. You hit your head.” Sherlock stroked his thumb over the pained wrinkles on John’s forehead. “Does anything else hurt?”

It took John a moment to answer, and in the silence of waiting for a reply Sherlock recognized the sirens in the distance.

“My back. Shoulder.” John replied. “EVAC?”

Sherlock frowned, momentarily confused until he realized he knew that term. He’d heard John say it in a few of his episodes before, specifically when he thought another soldier was there. He didn’t tend to use military terms around Sherlock very much.

Hopefully he’s not hallucinating, Sherlock bit his lip. Hopefully it’s just a matter of ease for him.

“We’re in London, Captain.” Sherlock reassured the army doctor, still smoothing out the wrinkles over John’s brow. “But there’s an ambulance on the way, yes.”

John didn’t answer, just grunted and groaned a little in pain.

“Do you know who I am?” Sherlock questioned. John hummed. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

John held a thumb up and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile.

Chapter Text

“You’ve got a vomit bag in your hands my love.”

John dry heaved into the bag, eyes still closed and silently grateful for the reminder and the helping hand guiding the bag to his chin. He was fading in and out of awareness and his head was a constant burning blur of pain and pressure, but still he recognized the tall pallor brunette sitting next to him, holding his hand over the bedrail. It was hard to think of a name, in fact it was excruciating, so he gave up and accepted that for whatever reason he felt best when the man was near.

All the sound came to John as if he was listening underwater. The lights were dimmed in his half room, but the hallway lights were absolutely abysmally blinding. Movement made John nauseated, as they found out on the ambulance ride over, and they hadn’t yet given him any anti-nausea medication. Or any pain medication, for that matter.

Overall, though, he still seemed like John. Still hummed for confirmations and grunted his disagreements, though Sherlock had to translate a few times for him which the other doctors seemed to find amusing. Especially when John wouldn’t realize they were asking him something until Sherlock asked for them, then suddenly John answered Sherlock’s question.

It was clear it was because he cared more about Sherlock more than he cared about his coworkers, but that didn’t stop Sherlock from taking the piss.

“He knows better than to ignore me.” Sherlock joked lightly, pleased to see John smile a little. It felt like a personal win against John’s current state that he could still make John feel amused. Take that, concussion.

Several times John asked what happened. He could clearly tell something was wrong with him but no matter how many times Sherlock explained that he’d been hit by a car he didn’t remember the answer nor that he’d already asked the question before.

It was evident that John was by no means coherent. Most of the time he laid in the hospital bed, slack jawed and eyes closed, and only roused into mild consciousness when someone, typically just Sherlock or Lestrade, got his attention.

At one point John tried to hand something invisible to Sherlock, mumbling thickly about orders and a “Sholto” with closed eyes. It wasn’t difficult to deduce that John was struggling to understand that he wasn’t in Afghanistan. Perhaps he was dreaming, perhaps his brain was misfiring and coming to the wrong conclusions. Perhaps what Sherlock feared was true, and he was hallucinating.

It was hard to know when not even John knew.

Sherlock took John’s hand and squeezed it, explaining that he didn’t need to worry about anything.

“Just rest.” The detective whispered, standing up for a moment to bend over and kiss John’s recently cleaned forehead. It smelled of antiseptic. “Don’t think.”

Lestrade stuck around for a while but wisely refrained from telling Sherlock that the driver was a few rooms down, thanking whatever powers may be that Sherlock was too busy fretting over John to question why Lestrade wasn’t off doing paperwork yet.

Once John was being taken to a room, which was no easy feat and resulted in John retching into the bag again, Lestrade excused himself with a gentle pat on John’s hand and a whispered goodbye. The doctors were adamant that it was best if the amount of people vying for John’s attention was kept to a minimum. Besides, Lestrade still had work to do. So much paperwork, so little time.

Sherlock followed John as he was wheeled down the hall and up a floor to the intensive care unit. The nurses helped John get settled, turning a singular lamp light on and keeping the overhead lights off. They hooked him up to various machines to monitor his vitals and informed Sherlock on what to do and what to avoid. No screens that John could see, including phones, laptops, or the television. No music or listening to television, either. You can sit with him but don’t hold long conversations. Basically the less he thinks the better.

Still, knowing John would want him to know, Sherlock stepped out of the room and called John’s best friend. He opted to use John’s phone as he didn’t have Murray’s number in his own.

The deep warm voice greeted Sherlock with, “Hey Watson.”

“Hello, Murray.” Sherlock managed to surprise himself with how calm and collected he sounded.

“Oh! Hey Holmes.” Murray sounded a tad confused but not worried. “What’s up?”

“It’s…” Sherlock paused, unsure of where to begin. Start with the good news. “John’s alive.”

Murray was quiet for a moment.

“Uh oh.” He murmured then asked warily, “What happened?”

“He was… struck by a car.” Sherlock winced at how that sounded. Before he could add anything Murray demanded,

“I’m sorry what?”

“A parked car. A car hit another car and hit John.” Sherlock cursed under his breath, his anxiety getting to him and rushing his words together, and he shook his head to disperse some of it. He tried again, taking his time to breathe. “A suspect drove their car into a parked car, and John was using said car as cover.”

“Christ.” Murray breathed. “Is he alright?”

“He’s attained a traumatic brain injury. They’re keeping him overnight, perhaps longer.”

“They better. Anything else?”

“No broken bones, no sprains. Just battered and bruised. And sore from how he fell, but the doctors are confident he didn’t reinjure his shoulder.”

There was a long pause as Murray processed the information. Sherlock listened as Murray let out a sigh, obviously distressed at the news.

“Do you need me up there?”

The question, admittedly, came out of left field for Sherlock.

“I…” He thought about it, looking at the window into John’s room. John was unconscious, still.

Sherlock couldn’t deny that he was barely holding it together. With the adrenaline waning, he already found himself dry heaving in the hallway an hour ago, having gone through shock. Being in the ICU, alive and well, while the person he cared about most was lying in a bed unconscious, again, was almost too much. Two decades had passed but the memory still hurt.

Apparently, the lack of an answer was enough for Murray.

“I’m coming up there. Need me to grab anything?”

Sherlock thought of the flat and his eyes lit up.

“A blanket from 221b. Mrs. Hudson can let you in.”

“Alright. What about a book? Your laptop?”

“Laptop, yes.” A laptop would be far more versatile than a book. “Don’t forget the charging cord.”

“I won’t. What about grounding shit? Do you need your lavender?”

Sherlock glanced at John’s face again and his lips tightened. Victor’s dying pale face invaded his mind and he shivered.

No, no don’t think about it.

“Yes. Just in case.”

“What does John use?” A car door slammed closed. “Aside from headphones.”

“He prefers touch. Objects with texture. Soft ones.” Sherlock answered, starting to pace up and down the short stretch of hall in front of John’s room. “I’ve got my scarf, which he already prefers, so don’t worry about that. But bring the headphones. I’ll use them.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Murray’s car engine rumbled as he turned the car on. “Text me the room number, yeah?”

“Of course.” Sherlock took a deep breath, relieved that he wasn’t the only one involved. Just having someone take care of a few small things for him really helped. “Thank you, Murray.”

“Course mate. Tell John I’m on my way.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched, thinking to himself that even if he did tell John that John wouldn’t remember it. Instead of saying so, Sherlock simply told Murray goodbye and hung up.

He walked back into the room and John stirred a little but settled down almost immediately, visibly having recognized a noise but still too disconnected from the outside world to do anything about it. Sherlock texted Murray the room number and sat down in the cushioned armchair by John’s bed, watching John’s profile for a long moment.

Just six hours ago everything was normal. This morning was normal, brunch was normal, interviewing the client was normal; everything had been so normal. How was he supposed to know this would’ve happened? What was he supposed to do? John wasn’t the one who got hurt on cases, Sherlock was.

Would John be normal again? Would he be John again, or a fragment of who John had been? Traumatic brain injuries could change a person’s personality. It could permanently affect his senses. If John was John but not John, would Sherlock still feel the same way about him?

According to the doctors, he would forever be more susceptible to seizures, now. Stroke, too. His lifespan would be shortened. What was Sherlock supposed to do if John died before him? Live on? Die with him? Become a hermit in his flat? The possibility had never crossed his mind before.

The idea of living in a world without John was terrifying.

His heart ached in his chest. His lungs burned. Sherlock gripped the armchair and closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing and not on the panic in his ribs.

No, he would still love John. Of course he would. He was still very much John in the A&E, even down to the way he answered questions. If his personality shifted, they would figure it out. They’d make do. They always did.

He’s alive, Sherlock reminded himself. He can breathe on his own, drink on his own, likely eat on his own, and that’s absolutely marvelous considering his injury. He doesn’t have any broken bones, just a bruised mind.

John was still alive, and for right now that was more than enough.

Chapter Text

Murray strolled down the halls of the intensive care unit, glancing idly at room numbers as he passed by. He already knew the ward well enough, having spent quite some time training there during his residency, but noted the numbers anyway. It was a distraction if nothing else.

In his hand he carried a bag with Sherlock’s laptop and charging cable, John’s headphones, a vial of lavender oil, a jumper from their dresser, and a couple surprises he picked up on the way there. Under the same arm he carried a plush blanket he stole from John’s armchair.

He used his free arm to push the door open once he found the right room. The room was just barely lit by a dim desk lamp, located across the room from the figure lying in the bed. Murray recognized the short blonde prick in the hospital bed, torso elevated to reduce swelling in his brain, as well as said short blonde prick’s fiancé sitting beside the bed.

It was an oddly familiar sight, sans Sherlock Holmes. Murray’s heart ached at the memory of seeing his best friend lying in a hospital bed again. There were significant differences, though, that kept Murray from “blanking out” as his wife called it. For instance, there were no bandages wrapped around John's left shoulder this time. In fact, his chest wasn’t even exposed. The hospital gown he had on covering his chest and disappearing underneath a cotton blanket was actual cloth and not paper, too. Man, they would’ve been praying for gowns like that in the base hospital.

Murray couldn’t ignore the similarities, however. The slack jaw, the limp body, the lack of response to the door opening; it was heart wrenching to witness the strongest man he knew in this position again.

Sherlock glanced up when the door opened, pleased to find John’s best friend. He saw recognition and pain in Murray’s eyes before Murray saw him. Murray gave the pale brunette a small, sad smile, handing over the blanket first as Sherlock stood up.

“I’m almost certain I got everything.” Murray whispered, but his baritone still broadcasted loud in the almost silent room, save for the machine beeping. He set the bag down on the edge of the bed and opened it.

“Thank you.” Sherlock whispered back, dropping the blanket in the armchair for now. He took things from Murray as the behemoth gently handed them over and he placed them where he wanted them.

“I bought a couple things on the way here.” Murray declared then fished in the bag. He pulled out a sleeping mask and… a stuffed hedgehog?

Murray walked around the foot of the bed and set the stuffed toy down next to John’s waist where the bed was bent, smiling to himself. He waved the sleeping mask and explained, “To help with the light. The pressure can be soothing, too.”

John stirred and both Sherlock and Murray looked down at him. The army doctor didn’t ease back down into unconsciousness this time, and Sherlock whispered a quite thank you to Murray, taking the mask when Murray’s large hand extended it across the bed to him.

Then, Murray’s attention focused on John.

“Hey there, mate.” Murray said softly, quietly judging how sensitive to sound John was. John groggily opened his eyes and Murray used his bulk to block direct eyesight with the lamp. Just as John thought, it was Murray that he’d heard.

John furrowed his brow and slurred, “Murray?”

Murray smiled.

“Yeah Watson, it’s me.”

Sluggishly, John reached for Murray and the large man intercepted the rogue limb, bringing it down, Murray’s large hand engulfing John’s.

“You’re real.” John mumbled. Sherlock’s expression turned pained. So he had been hallucinating? Hopefully John’s possible hallucinating was not a product of his traumatic brain injury but instead the stressful situation he found himself in.

“I’m real.” Murray confirmed, his hand squeezing John’s gently. “You’ve been seeing me?”

Knowing John didn’t have the mental facilities to reply right now, Sherlock answered for him.

“In his episodes it’s not uncommon. Sometimes he sees you, sometimes he hears you.” Sherlock could sense the questions in Murray’s eyes. “It’s a replay of the memory. Although I’m not certain why he’s hallucinated now, I assume it’s the stress.”

Murray frowned, rubbing John’s hand. It could be stress, but it could very well be a worrying effect of the traumatic brain injury. Murray would let the nurses know on his way out to keep a close eye on his brain, advising that they order a CT scan promptly. It was better to be overly cautious than passive and let a hemorrhage go unnoticed.

“Being in hospital as a patient could be a trigger.” Murray proposed, watching his best friend struggle to stay awake. “We spent quite a few months in hospital after he got shot.”

John reached up with his right hand to touch his left shoulder, his touch gentle. As if he expected it to hurt.

“We?” Sherlock whispered. At the same time, John also spoke.

“Shot?” John mumbled, eyebrows furrowing at the pain of his confusion. He was struggling to keep his eyes open. Murray carefully flattened John’s hand against the shoulder of his hospital gown, showing him he wasn’t injured.

“No, not shot.” Murray explained softly, ignoring Sherlock’s question for now. “Shot long ago, not now.”

“But hospital.”

“Hospital in London, not Afghanistan.” Murray emphasized the places for John’s benefit, trying to keep his words simple and slow for him. Hoping to redirect John from thinking too much, Murray picked up the hedgehog toy he bought. “Bought this for you. Squad hedgehog.”

John opened his eyes a little and saw the fuzzy thing in front of him, and Murray guided John’s hand in his to grab onto the toy. It took a moment, but John tightened his loose grip and smiled with a turn of his lips.

“Remember?” Murray whispered cautiously, unsure if he should be asking or not. John hummed and Murray smiled, relieved. He set the toy on John’s abdomen, unsurprised when John’s hand stayed resting on it. “Rest Mr. Hedgehog.”

John closed his eyes and fell back asleep, not before mumbling thickly,

“Fuck off.”

Murray grinned.

After a few moments of letting John settle down and fall unconscious, Murray took his time to sit down in another armchair after pulling it over to Sherlock. Sherlock then decided to ask him the question again.

“You both spent time in the hospital?”

Murray looked confused for a moment before realization struck him. “Oh, no. I spent a lot of time visiting him. I wasn’t a patient.”

“I see.” Sherlock hummed. “Why a toy hedgehog?”

“I saw it at the store.”

“You bought it as an alternative to my scarf, I know,” Murray seemed a little surprised that Sherlock knew that, “but why a hedgehog specifically?”

“Because I bought him something similar as a joke years ago.” Murray lightly smacked Sherlock’s arm with the back of his hand. “You’ve seen him out of the shower. His hair gets all spikey. You know, like a hedgehog.”

Sherlock smirked. He stared at John’s new stuffed animal as he pictured the blonde’s post-shower hair and giggled.

“That is… strangely accurate.”

“Isn’t it?” Murray laughed lowly. “Plus he can be a bit, you know, temperamental and prickly.”

Sherlock covered his mouth, trying to laugh quietly as to not disturb his sleeping fiancé. Murray grinned proudly at his joke and crossed one leg over the other, settling in.

Sherlock could see why John was so fond of Murray. Murray was a jokester, but a kind one. A thoughtful, considerate man that lived among the teasing and banter. He cared and he cared a lot. Not many people earned enough of John’s loyalty and trust to be a long-term part of his life, but Murray had, and Sherlock understood why, now.

Theatre friends came and went, coworkers were coworkers and nothing more, but Murray and Sherlock… Well, they were granted access to John’s life while most were kept a safe distance away.

This was what Sherlock was thinking about when Murray asked his question several minutes later.

“He sees me?”

Sherlock came back to reality and glanced over, finding Murray staring at John’s unconscious form. Had it not been for Murray’s voice resembling a low roll of thunder, therefore making it a bit difficult for him to whisper, Sherlock might not have heard him. Murray’s expression was carefully blank.

“Only sometimes.” Sherlock admitted softly. Murray’s throat bobbed as he swallowed and he nodded shortly. Knowing this was John’s best friend and feeling the need to reassure, Sherlock continued. “It’s not as… dramatic, as you think it is.”

Murray finally brought his gaze over to Sherlock. “What do you mean?”

“He doesn’t run about the flat or shout. He just… stops. He slows down then freezes.”

“So… not like you.” Murray asked. Sherlock remembered the episode he had shortly after seeing Murray again when he returned from The Fall and sniffed.

“Not unlike me, necessarily, but you’re not entirely wrong. We don’t experience PTSD the same way. For instance, I’ve not had an episode in three months. I’m on my way to having my diagnosis revoked. John…” Sherlock frowned, staring at his lover for a long moment. “They’re not as frequent as they used to be, but…”

“How frequent…?” Murray whispered, silently wondering if he wanted to know.

“About once every month.” Sherlock looked over at Murray again, meeting his eyes. “It used to be more than once a week.”

Murray’s face turned pained and he averted his eyes, looking at John again instead. Sherlock frowned.

“They don’t last very long. A few minutes usually. The longest has been about fifteen minutes. Well…” Sherlock paused, remembering Baskerville and swallowing hard. “There was one instance a few years ago that… But that was an outlier.” Sherlock coughed to clear his throat and adjusted his suit coat around him.

“When he starts an episode, I talk him through it. I’ve developed a carefully constructed set of guidelines that change based on how he acts and responds. Specific questions that I’ve tailored to tell me roughly when in the trauma he’s in and how to best ground him in reality. I’ve more or less turned it into a science.”

“Wait, so he’s…” Murray risked a glance over at Sherlock. “He’s told you?”

“Told me what?”

“Told you what happened.”

Sherlock shook his head and spun the engagement ring on his finger. “No, at least not in detail, but I’ve deduced some of it based on what he’s said, both in his flashbacks and out of them.”

Sherlock could feel Murray studying him for a long moment. He wondered if he crossed some sort of social boundary without knowing.

“He talks?”

Sherlock quickly peeked at Murray and looked away, back down at his hands and rambled.

“I… yes. Sometimes. I ask him questions. It helps ground him.”

“What does he say?”

“What he sees, hears, feels. Depending on his answer, I can help him focus on what is real and avoid what isn’t. And I make it a point to avoid asking about what he’s flashing back to. I don’t want to submerge him deeper in the flashback by asking what happened, you know. Most of the time he answers me.” Admittedly Sherlock was a bit excited to talk about it, having worked very hard to account for the nuances of John’s PTSD.

“Most of the time?”

“Sometimes he’s too out of it. Or he mumbles things, usually military terms. When he’s too dissociated to reply, I tell him that it’s just a flashback, not to worry, he’s safe, etcetera.” Sherlock takes a deep breath. “I support him through it. I do my best to ensure he spends as little time in the flashback as possible.”

They are both silent for a while, busy processing and thinking and staring at John who, by now, should have woken up to tell them to shut up but hasn’t. Murray wasn’t too surprised, but Sherlock was worried.

“Should we be talking this much?” Sherlock whispered to him. Murray glanced over and Sherlock gestured to John, and Murray offered a tiny curl of his lip in a smile.

“It’s fine.” Murray reassured. “But we could leave the room to talk if you want.”

“I – well – do you want to?”

Murray smiled a little more and uncrossed his legs, standing up. Sherlock hesitantly followed suit and left with Murray, watching the behemoth close the door behind them. They stood out in the hall for a brief second before Murray’s smile faded, seriousness on his usually jovial face.

“Out of curiosity…” He swallowed, getting used to the feeling of speaking at his normal volume again, and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “What have you deduced about what happened?”

Sherlock blinked, not anticipating that question, then straightened his posture and focused.

“I’ve categorized time in his flashbacks as pre- and post- injury. When we started dating, he told me that he had been shot while treating someone on the battlefield. Specifically, he was shot twice from behind by a sniper. As for what I’ve gathered…”

“Throughout our relationship I’ve deduced that he was in not just a firefight but a proper battle. Pre-injury, John heard a mortar fall, saw and shielded himself from an explosive, and had to run into open land for another soldier. Those were the easiest to deduce and piece together, although I don’t know the exact timeline of events. I assume him running into open terrain was the reason he was targeted, however. Post-injury, I’ll admit, I’ve not gathered much. I know you treated him and that he doesn’t like to be carried, but that’s about it.”

Murray nodded a little, impressed but also pained to a degree.

“I had to carry him to the EVAC helicopter.” Murray confessed, shifting on his feet. Sherlock frowned softly. That explained… a lot, honestly. “You were… surprisingly accurate.”

“Thank you.” The ex-soldier glanced at Sherlock. “And… thank you.” The look in Sherlock’s eyes told Murray that he wasn’t been thanked for the compliment.

“Anything for Watson.”

Chapter Text

Murray stayed for a long time, far longer than he anticipated staying. It wasn’t often that he and Sherlock got to have a conversation one on one, especially not since Sherlock’s return. They talked about Murray’s wife and child, the upcoming wedding, John’s father randomly showing up at Baker Street; Murray could see why John liked Sherlock. Sherlock was quick-witted and charming in his own, unique way. And he was just as protective over John as Murray was.

John woke up twice and was surprised both times to see Murray, not remembering talking briefly to Murray the time before. Sherlock was worried but Murray reassured him that this was normal. It was scary, but it was normal. Give it a couple days and things should be relatively returned to how it had been before the accident. Relatively.

John asked about a person named Sholto again and Murray couldn’t help but smirk a little. “Don’t worry about the Major, mate. Just sleep.”

Major Sholto? Sherlock pondered the name and rank. He didn’t recognize it, but there was a vague recollection of Murray or John mentioning a major they once knew.

When John went back to sleep soon afterward, having been notably disorientated this time around, Sherlock couldn’t help but ask, “Who is Sholto?”

Murray smirked wider.

“Remember the Major I told you about?” He whispered. “The C.O. Watson, you know, casually -” Murray wiggled his brows, “that helped earned him his nickname?” Sherlock appeared confused before his eyes widened and he blushed. “His name was Sholto.”

“Oh.” Sherlock breathed. Murray sat back down and Sherlock stood there for a moment, wondering if he was supposed to feel jealous or not.

He decided quickly that it wasn’t worth getting upset over his fiancé’s long forgotten ex and sat down next to Murray.

“His brain must be pretty jumbled.” Murray commented softly to Sherlock. “Sholto and he stopped talking long before Watson got hurt.”

Curiosity led Sherlock to ask, “Why?”

“Why did they stop?” Murray confirmed. Sherlock’s lips tightened into a line, feeling a little embarrassed that he cared to know, but nodded anyway. “Sholto was caught by an IED and sent home. From what I understand, Watson tried to reach out to him, you know, just to check up on him, make sure he was okay. Sholto never answered. So John stopped trying.”

“I see.” Sherlock breathed, his heart doing a funny thing at Murray’s answer. “Is it… normal, for him to be this confused?”

Murray smiled lightly at Sherlock and patted him on the arm. “Time doesn’t make much sense right now. Think of it like… Like a bookshelf. Everything has its place, every memory is categorized chronologically. Then something comes by and knocks the shelf over. Right now, he’s just trying to get the shelf standing again.”

John heard the whistling of the air and his heart managed to rise and sink at the same time. He flung himself against the ruined wall of a blown apart building and plastered himself there, praying that the mortar wasn’t trained on this building still. He needed to get across the battlefield and out of open land.

“Medic!” Someone cried out before the mortar hit, rattling the ground like an earthquake. John jumped up after it hit and sprinted, using the blown up dirt and debris as cover. The soldier sounded a distance away. Someone else could take care of them.

As he sprinted, and caught up to a few allies taking cover between two buildings, the same soldier shouted again. “Please! Anybody!”

Captain Watson looked in the direction of the voice and his heart sank.  The man was pinned down by mud brick rubble that was once a building, wide eyed and petrified. John glanced around, checking that the coast was clear, and then told one of the men to cover him.

Before he could convince himself otherwise, he ran for it.

The pinned soldier saw him running and started babbling in a wheezing voice, “Oh thank God, thank you, please!”

John was about half-way when an explosion shocked the ground twenty feet away, causing him to stumble. Reflexively he lifted his left arm to shield his face, feeling bits of dirt and sand pelt his fatigues. He kept running.

He slid to his knees by the man, using some of the crumpled building as cover as he pulled and shoved slabs of wall off of the soldier. The man grimaced and snarled, but began to help with his one good arm when John got his chest free.

“What’s wrong?” Captain Watson demanded, grunting as he got both arms under the man’s armpits and dragged him. The soldier cried out in pain and John noticed one problem right away.

“My arm and my leg.” The soldier panted, shaking with adrenaline and fear. “I think they’re broken.”

“Okay.” John huffed out, opening his pack. He was running on empty but he had just enough morphine to-

Two gunshots cracked the air and John watched the front his shoulder burst outward with blood.

It was a blessing that Murray stayed as long as he did. He insisted on overseeing the neurological testing as well as the requested imaging to be done. He stated to the nurses that John was suffering from a moderate traumatic brain injury and was still struggling with posttraumatic amnesia six hours after the event. They seemed to take his opinion seriously and promised they would put that in his file.

He even stayed for dinner. Well, John’s dinner. Unsurprisingly, John’s head hurt too much even with the anti-nausea medication to eat a full meal. The nurses noted that he appeared to need a stronger pain medication and left, taking the barely touched food with them. The good news, however, which Murray had to remind a worried Sherlock of, was that John could still eat and drink. He still had the capability to swallow.

Sherlock hadn’t even considered that not being able to swallow was a possibility and was both relieved and mortified.

The CT scan came back normal which was an absolute relief. No bleeding, at least not presently or not enough to be detected, but definitely bruised and battered, which was expected for his presenting injury. His neurological testing came back with mixed results. They were pleased that John understood language and could give intelligent answers, but his lack of complex sentences and sluggish movements were obviously concerning. And that wasn’t even including his memory issues.

Soon after the good news, and the not-so-good news, a nurse came by again. It was a nurse they didn’t recognize. Murray was just getting ready to leave and adjusted his coat, looking at her expectantly. She was all smiles and positivity. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“I have good news.” The nurse said. Murray furrowed his brow and shushed her with a finger to his lips, gesturing to John who stirred at the sound. She added sheepishly in a much quieter voice, “Sorry.”

She gestured to the door and Murray and Sherlock shared a look before following her out. Once they were in the hall, the nurse closed the door behind them.

“I’ve got good news.” She was all smiles again. “Mr. Watson will be getting discharged tomorrow.”

The nurse found that the two men didn’t respond how she thought they would. Sherlock’s eyes went wide with shock and Murray appeared absolutely baffled. Before Sherlock could ask even the beginning of a question, Murray was demanding answers.

“You’re telling me you’re discharging a moderate TBI in less than twenty-four hours?”

The smiles faded from the nurse. “I – um – Yes. The doctor thinks–”

“You know what stop, you’re right. I want to know what the doctor thinks. Get the doctor, I want to hear it from him directly.”

“I’m sorry sir–”

“I don’t want your apology. I want the consultant over Doctor Watson’s care.”

Sherlock didn’t blame the nurse for scurrying off. Murray was intimidating and Sherlock wasn’t even on the other end of it.

Murray shook his head and cursed under his breath. Sherlock eyed him cautiously and asked,

“I gather that’s not good news.”

Murray let out a dark chuckle. “No, no it’s not. I’m hoping the nurse got it wrong and they’re transferring him out of ICU to acute stay, but if she’s not wrong…” Murray whistled. “She better be wrong.”

“How long should he be staying?” Sherlock asked, realizing now that he didn’t actually know. No one had bothered to tell him yet, and he hadn’t had a chance to turn on his laptop and submerge himself in researching.

“Seven days minimum.” Murray answered, looking up and down the hall. “Unless they’ve changed the guidelines since I left, which I seriously doubt.”

A white coated man walked around the corner by the nurse’s station, turning and sauntering toward them. Sherlock studied him closely as he approached. It was then he realized that he’d never actually seen John’s consultant before. He’s seen John’s nurses and the specialist but not John’s consultant.

“Hi, I’m the doctor over Mr. Watson’s care. My name is-”

“Doctor Watson.” Murray corrected coldly. “Your patient is Doctor Watson.” The physician’s eyes went a little wide.

“Oh, I see. I apologize, I didn’t know.” He quickly excused. Murray narrowed his eyes. “I’m Doctor Frances Brummell. I understand you wanted to speak with me?”

Murray cleared his throat. “Yes. Am I to understand that Doctor Watson will be discharged tomorrow?”

Dr. Brummell furrowed his brow slightly, giving a tiny nervous smile. Knows it is a bad idea?

“Yes.” Murray leveled his head, breathing in deep and glaring. The doctor swallowed. “He can eat, drink, and utilize motor control, he can understand and reply to questions, and his Glasgow Coma Score, which is a test designed to-”

“I know what the test does.” Murray growled. “I’m an attending and a professor.” The doctor stopped talking immediately, mouth parted as he stared. Only then did he seem to realize how furious the six foot five tank of a human being was. Or perhaps he realized how majorly he fucked up, choosing this family to turn away, when one of them was a doctor of higher rank.

Murray continued.

“What score did you give him.” It was not a question, it was a demand. The doctor closed his mouth and swallowed.

“Thirteen.”

Murray sighed through a closed mouth, the sound like a low groan or a bellows being emptied, and rubbed his hands down his face. He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, barely listening as Dr. Brummell tried to explain himself.

“Stop.” Murray ordered after a moment of gathering himself. “Just… stop.”

Brummell stared at Murray, and Murray met his gaze.

“He’s not a thirteen. He’s barely an eleven.” Murray held up his closed hands. “Eye opening response is between a two and three. Sometimes he opens in response to speech, sometimes he doesn’t. So, two point five.” Murray held up two fingers then his thumb.

“Motor response is pretty good, but not great. He’s sluggish, slow, but responds to pain with intent to get away from it. So we’ll give him a five.” Murray opens his other hand. “He’s at a seven point five. Severe TBI, but we’ve got one more category left. And this is the one I think you or one of your nurses got stuck on.”

Dr. Brummell crossed his arms in front of his chest, starting to glare at Murray. Murray ignored him, continuing to explain anyways.

“Verbal response. He’s not orientated, not at all. He’s asking us every time he wakes up why he’s in hospital and acts surprised that his shoulder isn’t injured.” Murray lowered his hands for a moment, keeping the fingers how they were. “He was shot in Afghanistan in the shoulder years ago. So, he obviously cannot differentiate over five years ago to now. Not good.”

Murray raised his hands again.

“Is he able to answer questions? Technically, yes. Are they decent answers? No. One or two words at most, no full sentences. Are his responses sometimes confusing? Yes, but you can kind of see where the logic is at times. His words? They’re somewhat clear, but they’re definitely slurred. So, we can safely give him a three. Anything higher than that is unwise.”

Murray opened both his hands, showing both palms and spreading his fingers.

“Ten points. With an extra point five to boot.” Murray smirked. He lowered his hands and the smile faded. “And even if he was a mild TBI, I could have you for medical malpractice and negligence for discharging a brain injury so soon. Minimum for mild is at least two full days, three preferred in acute care. What the hell are you doing trying to discharge a moderate in less than twenty-four hours? Without even sending them to acute no less?”

The doctor clenched his jaw and continued to glare, weighing his options. Sherlock wasn’t entirely about the jargon but he could piece together enough to be silently angry. Especially at Murray’s threat of medical negligence.

When Dr. Brummell didn’t offer a retort, Murray spoke.

“I request a different consultant for Doctor John Watson’s care.” Murray narrowed a steeled gaze.

Dr. Brummell smiled with fake politeness.

“Gladly.”

He turned and briskly walked away, back toward the nurse’s station, and Murray continued to glare until the doctor disappeared from sight. The ex-soldier rolled his shoulders, releasing some of the tension in them, and Sherlock studied him carefully.

“Are you usually that condescending with fellow doctors?”

At the slight teasing tone, Murray glanced over at the pale brunette beside him and smirked a little.

“Only the dumb ones.”

“I’m headed off.” John whispered. Sherlock felt lips against his temple. “See you tonight, darling. I love you.”

Sherlock blinked, half-awake, and John’s blurry face filled his vision. Sherlock smiled, heart thudding in his chest as John leaned down to press their lips together for a breath-taking moment. He pulled away and Sherlock mumbled, slowly peeling his eyes open again,

“I love you t- your hair.”

John smirked, a light blush tinge to his cheeks. He watched his half-awake fiancé stare at the top of his head incredulously.

“You like it?” He murmured pushing a hand through the brushed back fringe kept in place by product. “The hairstylist suggested it.”

Sherlock stared for a long moment. John giggled at the sparkle in Sherlock’s eyes.

“I’m inviting them to the wedding.”

John burst into laughter and Sherlock smiled in awe, reaching up and carting his long fingers through John’s slicked back silver fringe.

“We’re not having a wedding, darling.” John playfully chided. “You’re the one who said courthouse.”

“Well I’ve changed my mind. We’re having a wedding and your hairstylist is invited as my new best man.”

John started another bout of laughter and Sherlock chuckled with him. A long pale finger curled under the collar of John’s scrubs and pulled him down, their lips locking. John struggled not to snicker during the kiss and after a moment they both broke away to smile at each other.

“Greg’s been replaced then?” John joked. Sherlock grinned again.

“Unless he can convince you to grow your beard out for the wedding,” Sherlock remarked, tracing a nail over the curve of John’s jaw and down his neck, “your hairstylist obviously has my best interest at heart.”

John’s pupils flared in his irises and his breathing hitched. Sherlock watched John’s throat bob as he swallowed. A finger curled under Sherlock’s chin and tilted his head up so John could press a longing kiss to Sherlock’s lips.

As he pulled away, John murmured, “No turning me on before work.”

The doctor patted Sherlock’s cheek lightly with a knowing grin before standing up straight and walking out, leaving Sherlock lying dazed on the bed. The dirty thoughts and images that John’s touch elicited filled Sherlock’s mind. He vaguely recognized John calling out a farewell, “I love you!” The flat door then closed and Sherlock blinked, coming back to himself.

John had just buckled himself in his cab when his phone buzzed in his pocket. His brow furrowed, wondering who would be texting him this early, and fished his phone from his coat pocket.

            I’ll just have to do it during, then. –SH

The blonde doctor swallowed. He was in for it, now.

Sadly, Murray had to leave before the new physician over John’s file came by. He needed to see his own family, get something to eat, the usual chores. As much as he appreciated Murray’s company, by the time he left Sherlock was honestly relieved to have some time to sit in quiet with John, typing on his laptop and replying to Lestrade’s texts asking how John was.

How is our favorite army doctor? –GL

Leaving me to deal with the mediocre ones. –SH

They wanted to discharge him tomorrow. –SH

The reply was a little slow, but Sherlock barely noticed, too busy with his research into traumatic brain injuries.

That seems too quick, right? –GL

Exceptionally quick. According to John’s best friend, minimum for someone in John’s position is seven days. –SH

We’ve requested a new doctor for John’s care. Obviously this one doesn’t know how to treat TBI’s. –SH

The pause between replies was longer this time. Long enough that Sherlock actually noticed, regarded it curiously, and then went back to what he was doing. It was several minutes after that that Lestrade’s text came.

Mycroft says not to worry about it. He’s got it covered. –GL

Sherlock winced with mild disgust.

I would express gratitude but I would have rather remained oblivious about you being with my brother. –SH

Sherlock sent the text and set his phone inside his coat pocket, the coat draped over the chair Murray had been sitting in. The phone buzzed in the pocket and Sherlock ignored it, going back to his web search reading.

Uncertain of how much time passed, Sherlock got lost in the gathering of information. A nurse came by to check on John’s vitals and left without waking him, murmuring softly to Sherlock that it was probably best that John slept anyways. She hinted that Sherlock should get some sleep as well and Sherlock brushed her off, saying that he was fine.

Sherlock took a break at one point to stretch his limbs and noticed John stirring. Sherlock froze and looked over, seeing John’s brow furrow and his lips turn downward in a frown. The rest of his body went still, but he mumbled something incoherent.

The detective recognized what John was doing and frowned. He grabbed his scarf and walked over, balling it up and laying it over John’s shoulder and pillow. Sherlock smiled sadly when John turned his head into it, the frown disappearing.

“Ssh,” Sherlock shushed in a weak breath, “No bad dreams.”

Sherlock watched John settle back down and brushed his long fingers through the silver blonde hair.

The hair flashed to brunette like a lightning strike and Sherlock froze, hand hovering over John’s head while his heart stopped in his chest. For a moment he questioned reality. Then he wondered if he was going mad.

He thought of Victor. The sad smile faded. Ah, yes. Well, yes and no. No more mad than he already was.

Perhaps he did need to sleep.

Sherlock carted his fingers through John’s hair again, bent over to kiss John’s temple, and then went over to the collection of things that Murray brought over for him. He grabbed the vial of lavender and unscrewed it, taking a long breath in. The sweet floral coated his sinuses and lungs and he felt his muscles melting.

He pulled the armchair closer to John, pushing them side by side with Sherlock’s head at John’s thighs, and unfurled the throw blanket Murray brought. It was going to be an uncomfortable sleep but sleep was better than anxiously waiting.

Sherlock smeared some of the lavender oil on his clavicle and screwed it shut, setting it on the end table. He sat down in the chair, scooted until he was in the most comfortable position he could find, then draped the blanket over himself and looked at John’s sleeping face one last time before closing his eyes.

He sat in the poorly manufactured plastic chair and stared. Just stared. Dried tears on his cheeks, eyes swollen from sobbing, his aching eyes stared at his best friend. Listening to the bubble wrap popping of Victor’s chest as he fought just to take in a small breath. He was so pale, so sickly, and so thin. He barely looked like the Victor Sherlock knew.

People came and went. Sherlock barely noticed. He only took note when they obstructed his view by passing in front of him.

Sherlock felt a soft feminine hand on his upper back, rubbing gently. Soothingly. They didn’t try to stop him, didn’t try to get his attention. They just sat there with him and waited. That’s all they had left to do, now. Wait.

No more physical therapy, no more bed rest, no more playing pirates and reading about abnormal psychology.

No more friends.

The machine’s beeping began to slow. People began to cry. Sherlock’s chest filled with panic. What was he supposed to do now? Be alone?

A low ring filled the room. A flatline. Sherlock shot up and screamed. The kind hand that had been rubbing his back grabbed him and fought to restrain him.

He didn’t want to be alone again.

“Sherlock?”

The detective groggily lifted his head and blearily opened his eyes. He found dark blue, kind but confused, eyes staring at him. Sherlock smiled softly, secretly pleased to see John awake for once.

“Mm, hello.” Sherlock unfolded himself from his curled up ball in the chair, wincing and groaning at the stiffness. He was getting too old to curl up in chairs. When his feet hit the floor, he rubbed his eyes with his hands. “Everything okay?”

“I don’t… know.” John whispered back, voice still slurred but not as harshly as it had been before. “Everything hurts.”

Sherlock stood up and stretched briefly, back aching.

“Where am I?” John continued. It was then Sherlock noticed he was holding Sherlock’s scarf in his hand, thoughtlessly toying with it. Stressed.

Sherlock smiled sadly. He leaned over and slowly, giving John a chance to process the movement, pressed their lips together, cupping John’s face with one hand. His pulse slowed in his veins and his muscles relaxed. Even with that brief touch of lips, and the hundreds of times that they’ve done it before, it still had the same effect.

The tall brunette pulled away and stroked John’s cheek, prepared to explain for the thirtieth time.

“You’re in hospital. You were hit by a car.” Sherlock peeled the blanket away and tugged John’s hospital gown out from behind his back. “Your bruises are probably settling in.”

“Bruises?” John murmured, not entirely understanding. Sherlock didn’t entirely expect him to.

Just as he thought, John had a dark blue and purple bruise at his lower back near his hip, resembling a headlight. He could only see part of the bruise from this angle, the rest hidden against the bed and under fabric, but Sherlock’s heart ached all the same. There were probably more.

Sherlock tucked the gown against John’s body and covered him with the blanket again.

“Car?” John repeated, frowning. Sherlock couldn’t help but match his expression, though he was pleased that John remembered Sherlock mentioning the car moments ago.

“Car.” Sherlock confirmed. He lowered the bed rail, thankful that Murray showed him before he left, and sat on the edge of the bed by John’s thigh. “Bad accident.”

John’s frown deepened. He reached out to Sherlock, eyes glancing over Sherlock’s exposed hands. Sherlock offered his hand and John turned it over in his, studying it.

“Hurt?”

Sherlock’s heart ached as if it had been shocked. He offered a poor excuse for a smile.

“No, I’m not hurt.” The brunette leaned forward and kissed John’s forehead, holding John’s hand. “You’re hurt.”

John’s brow furrowed with his confusion. He began to look pained and overwhelmed.

“I don’t…” Know. Understand. Remember.

“Shh.” Sherlock shushed, stroking a thumb over John’s cheek, cupping John’s jaw. “Don’t think. Just rest.”

“But…”

“No buts. Sleep, mon cher.” Sherlock kissed John softly on his thin lips and smiled when John closed his eyes, relaxing into Sherlock’s hand on his face. “Things will be less confusing when you wake up.”

Chapter Text

Time was starting to make more sense. John wasn’t sure when he started to piece things together, when he started to remember things, but it was becoming easier. Sherlock, of course, was keeping track.

To keep himself busy, and to keep himself from spiraling, he turned the experience into an experiment. It detailed when John woke up, for how long he stayed awake, and what he talked about when he was awake. Sherlock also made note of all possible variables such as time of day, hallway activity, stray sounds or lights; even the weather at the time.

When John was transferred to acute stay after twenty-seven hours in ICU, Sherlock could not have been more excited. Acute stay, according to his research and what Murray told him, would be far easier on John in terms of sensory input. Less foot traffic, less commotion, and at least at Bart’s there would be a bench seat for Sherlock to lay down on.

John woke up as they were preparing him for travel, and he seemed confused. Sherlock hoped that John’s confusion wasn’t a permanent fixture, now. It had been cute before, but Sherlock missed his other expressions.

“Here we go.” The nurse, a tanned woman with slick black hair in wild curls tied in a bun, warned light-heartedly, guiding the bed out of the room. John squeezed his eyes closed and groaned.

“Hello, John.” Sherlock reached his free hand out to John, the other holding his bag of things that Murray brought him, the blanket stuffed beneath Sherlock’s arm. John held onto Sherlock’s hand once he felt it, his movements not as sluggish as they had been the day before. “Are you okay?”

“Head hurts.” John mumbled. Sherlock tried not to frown. He was due for another dose of gabapentin soon.

“I’m sure it does.” Sherlock squeezed John’s hand. “Eyes closed, okay?”

“Where…?” John trailed off.

“New room.” Sherlock answered simply, hoping John wouldn’t ask more questions. “Quiet room.”

“Honeymoon?”

Sherlock chuckled and smiled, walking alongside the bed. “No, not yet.”

They were about halfway there when John shifted uncomfortably and mumbled, “Stop, stop.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. Worry spiked his chest when John used his free hand to swat at the nurse’s hands on the railing. That wasn’t like John at all. The nurse and Sherlock shared a worried look.

“What’s wrong?” The nurse asked, noting John’s pale face. “Nauseous?”

John nodded sharply. The nurse grabbed a plastic rimmed bag from her scrubs pocket and opened it up.

“Good thing I brought this with me, ey Doctor Watson?” She took John’s hand and helped him cup the rim of the vomit bag. “You just hold onto this for me and we’ll sit here for a second, alright?”

As they stood in the hall, waiting for the color to return to John’s cheeks, Sherlock hoped the nurses in acute stay would be as considerate and patient as Nurse Garcia.

John was exhausted, but for the first time in a long while it was a pleasant kind of exhausted. He was so busy thinking over rehearsal, meeting the rest of the cast and some of the crew, seeing some of the sets being worked on, that he didn’t have enough room in his brain to think about his pain.

Ironically, he was thinking about how right Dr. Thompson had been to suggest theatre for him when someone called out, “Sir! Wait!”

John turned on his feet, looking at the origin of the voice. It was the cabbie that had just dropped him off in front of his flat. John furrowed his brow, confused.

Then he noticed, as the cabbie walked around the side of the cab, the stick in the man’s hand.

No, not a stick.

A cane.

“You forgot this, sir.”

John’s eyes widened and he gingerly took the cane from the cabbie, absently mumbling, “Thank you.”

“Course.” The cabbie replied, oblivious to the importance of this moment for John. “G’night.”

“Night.” John breathed, staring at his cane in his hand. He looked past the cane to his right leg, staring at the limb. That limb should be hurting right now. John should be in agony. He should be struggling to stand.

But here he was, standing like there wasn’t a bullet lodged in his calf.

By the time they made it to the room, John was seriously struggling. Sherlock set his things down on the bench seat by the window and closed the blinds, keeping the afternoon sun out of the room. Without needing to be asked, Nurse Garcia dimmed the room light until just the faintest rays of warm light illuminated the room.

“When you want it off, just press it down ‘till it clicks.” The nurse whispered in the quiet room. Sherlock smiled gratefully.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.” She smiled back. “Well, back to the ICU I go. I’ll let the nurses here know you’ve arrived.”

She left and Sherlock looked at John, unsurprised to see him breathing a little heavy. He looked about ready to vomit again. His hands clutched the blanket over him tightly and his cheeks were puffed out a small amount.

Sherlock walked over and brushed a hand through John’s hair, pushing it away from his face. He couldn’t force a smile this time, too worried to push it aside.

John reached a hand up, putting a hand over his eyes and groaning lowly. He felt like he had the worst headache of his life. Sherlock kissed John’s forehead.

“Thirsty?” He whispered. John shook his head, just slight enough to get his point across without making him want to keel over. Sherlock frowned, his worry mounting. If John didn’t start drinking and eating soon, they would have to IV him. “Okay.”

Sherlock gave him one last kiss to his battered head before unpacking his things again, putting them where he wanted them. As he placed things around the bench seat and on the end tables, he listened to John’s breathing get slower and shallower, more relaxed. Several minutes later, as he unraveled the throw blanket and tossed it on his new makeshift bed, he glanced over at John.

John wasn’t asleep, but his eyes were closed and his hands weren’t gripping the blanket anymore. Sherlock was relieved, but he couldn’t stop the fear in his chest.

Moved to a new room. Travel was especially hard on him. Vomited once, almost twice. Bad vertigo. Won’t drink or eat. Normal? –SH

Sherlock sent the text then stood there for a long moment, wondering if he should approach John or not. Usually he knew what to do when it came to John. Upset? Affection. Angry? Listen. Hurt? Comfort.

He’s never seen John this injured, though.

Yes and no. Vertigo, for the most part, is a yes. With his meds he should have an appetite. Bring up concerns to his new doctor.

Lmk if they say something questionable.

Sherlock read the text and closed his eyes. He wasn’t fretting over nothing, then. Good.

God bless Bill Murray.

“Are you kidding me?!”

Sherlock snickered, bundled up in a blanket on one end of the couch, cradling his cuppa, while John shot up from the other end, throwing his arms up in anger. The brunette watched the enraged army doctor groan loudly and walk off toward the kitchen, leaving the television to play the horrid medical sitcom Murray told Sherlock about.

“I can see why Murray warned me about keeping breakable objects in the vicinity.” Sherlock teased, watching his lover roughly pull the fridge door open and grab something.

“Fuck off.” John cursed, closing the fridge door and opening a cabinet drawer. He pulled a bottle opener out. “God, it’s worse than I remember.”

“Your reaction or the show?” John glared at him from the kitchen and Sherlock couldn’t help the mischievous grin he had. “I’ll take that as both.”

“I hate you.” John popped the Bailey’s open and put the bottle opener back in the drawer.

“I love you, too.” Sherlock shifted in his blanket cocoon. “Now hurry up. We were just getting to the good part.”

John walked in, his feet hitting a little heavier than normal with his anger, and raised an eyebrow at his boyfriend.

“You’re actually watching this?”

“Of course not. I’m watching you.” Sherlock sipped his tea. “You were just about to yell obscenities and explain proper emergency room medical technique to a screen again.”

John rolled his eyes and huffed, sitting down next to Sherlock. He took a long gulp of his Bailey’s then set it down on the coffee table, begrudgingly listening to the program again.

Just as Sherlock predicted, ten minutes later John groaned loudly and spouted curses.

“Oh you fucking – did you bastards do ANY research? That’s not how you intubate someone! Turn it- NO! TURN IT THE OTHER WAY! The curve goes - YOU FUCKING BELLEND!” John yelled at the top of his lungs and covered his face with his hands, screaming into them. “I’M LOSING MY BLOODY MIND!”

Sherlock absolutely cackled, having to set his tea down as the rant started and almost rolling off the couch by the time it ended.

Several minutes later, Sherlock secretly recorded the next outburst and sent it to Murray with the caption, ‘I can never repay you enough for this.’

The next time someone entered their room, they introduced themselves as John’s new consultant Dr. Anna Dumont. The woman was dirty blonde with shoulder length hair tucked behind an ear and had icy blue eyes rimmed by practical rounded rectangle glasses. She shook Sherlock’s hand and, since John was awake, she shook John’s hand as well.

When she spoke to John, it was clear she had experience. She used simpler words than she usually would, kept her sentences to a few words maximum, and pointed and gestured to things she wanted answers about.

Dr. Dumont asked questions, which Sherlock appreciated. She did her own examinations, too. It was a relief to see someone aside from a few nurses taking John’s condition seriously.

Sherlock brought up the walk to the new room as well as John’s reluctance to eat or drink.

“Why don’t you want water?” She asked John, resting a hand on the bed rail. John shifted, wincing as he did, and leaned back into the bed. The blonde wasn’t sure what was being asked, exactly, so he said what was on his mind.

“Hurts.”

“What hurts?”

John didn’t respond right away. He thought for a brief moment.

“Everything.” He finally replied.

“Head?”

John nodded, closing his eyes.

“Bruises?” Sherlock asked next, curious. To his surprise, John nodded.

Dr. Dumont hummed thoughtfully and reached over the bed rail to pat John’s forearm. “I’ll try to fix. Rest.”

The army doctor hummed tiredly and she stepped back, smiling politely. She waved Sherlock to the door and started walking, and Sherlock followed her out.

Dr. Dumont closed the door behind her and she looked at her clipboard for a few seconds. Done, she held the board to her chest and looked up at Sherlock.

“Everything seems par for the course at the moment.” She reassured. “Nothing is reaching out to me as especially worrisome.”

“The lack of drinking?” Sherlock reminded.

“I think that’s just unmitigated pain showing through the medication, which is making him nauseated. We’ll get him something a little stronger and see how that helps. Since I’m done with examinations and it’s not a long-term solution, I’ll be giving him something stronger than I usually would for tonight and I’ll have nurses checking on his vitals every hour.”

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief.

Dr. Dumont glanced at her clipboard again, studying it as she spoke, “As for his scores, he’s slightly improved since yesterday at this time. I’m going to order another CT scan for tomorrow morning as well as a specialist consult for tomorrow afternoon. I’d like to keep this progression going, and I want to make sure the pain medication I give him tonight doesn’t cause anything problematic.”

“That would be preferable, yes.” Sherlock breathed. “Thank you.”

She smiled warmly. “It’s no problem, really. I owe your brother a lot.”

Sherlock remembered what Greg texted yesterday and his smile became a bit sheepish. Dr. Dumont didn’t seem to notice the awkwardness on Sherlock’s end.

“I was warned that he has posttraumatic stress disorder?”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched. He nodded. “He served in Afghanistan. Spent several months in hospital after he was shot.” The doctor frowned.

“I see. And in his file someone noted that Doctor Watson had experienced a hallucination shortly after the accident?”

“I think it’s a possibility.” Sherlock corrected. “Of course, John doesn’t remember having one, but he said a few things that point to it being a possibility.”

“Well, either way, there may come a point that being here in acute stay will be more stress than it’s worth, and I don’t plan to keep him here longer than when that time comes.” She shrugged. “If that doesn’t happen, wonderful. The longer he stays the better odds he has of not enduring long-term effects. But if it does happen then obviously the hospital is too stressful and he needs to go home where there’s, assumedly, less stress.”

“That sounds… reasonable.” Sherlock paused thoughtfully. “You’ll be keeping him for more than just a few days?”

“Oh absolutely.” She patted Sherlock’s arm in a reassuring gesture and Sherlock tried not to cringe away from it. “No less than six more days. Now,” Dr. Dumont tapped her clipboard, “I’m off to make some calls and do some paperwork. I’ll have a nurse come by and administer the pain medication.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock whispered with gratitude. The doctor smiled at him.

“Of course. I hope he eats and drinks well, and I hope you two have a good night’s sleep.”

“So long as he’s comfortable, I’ll sleep well.” Sherlock said with sincerity. The doctor offered a nod before she walked away, and Sherlock watched her leave. When she disappeared out of sight, Sherlock sniffed and coughed a little to clear his throat of his emotions, preemptively wiping his eyes.

He walked into the room, feeling like he might be able to face this again now.

Despite the late-night bath and pain medication, John was feeling the full effects of sprinting to Regent’s Park. Damn consequences of his actions. Damn loyalty.

He knew it was going to be a bad day when Sherlock not only woke up before him but had apparently given up on waiting for him to wake up. Grimacing and biting back a growl, hissing through his teeth, he swung his good leg out from under the sheets and lifted the bad one out by hand.

“Fuck.” John cursed. His right calf throbbed and spasmed in protest. John barked, “Sherlock?!”

The doctor strained his ears, listening for signs of life. Signs that his boyfriend was still in the flat.

Relief flooded him when he heard someone plodding down the hall.

“John?” Sherlock called back, opening the bedroom door. John’s back was to the door so he had to look over his shoulder, twisting his torso. The agony on John’s face made Sherlock’s eyes widen and his eyebrows shoot up.

“Need – heat pack.” John said in a strained voice. “And my – fuck – my muscle relaxer.”

Sherlock nodded and turned on his heel, rushing out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. “The methocarbamol?”

“Yes!” John called back, a particularly strong spasm causing him to be louder than he expected to be. He gripped the bed and listened to Sherlock open the medicine cabinet above the sink.

Soon Sherlock came back in with a pill and a small glass of water, which John took gratefully. His lover hovered by his side, waiting for further instructions.

“Living room or here?” Sherlock questioned, taking the glass from John once he was done.

“I don’t think I can walk.” John admitted sheepishly. “But I do need to piss.”

“I’ll carry you.”

Sherlock leaned down toward John and John pushed on his chest. “No, no carrying me.” Sherlock simpered at John.

“Fine.  I’ll help you walk.”

John clenched his jaw and he sighed. He held out an arm and Sherlock helped pull him up onto his feet, then locked an arm behind John’s back and guided him to the bathroom.

A couple hours later, Sherlock’s relief was unquantifiable when John managed to drink some water through the straw he was holding for him. John was struggling to stay awake long enough to swallow some applesauce, but Sherlock was just proud that John was swallowing it down and keeping it down.

“After this you can sleep.” Sherlock murmured reassuring words to John, feeding him the last spoonful. When he was done Sherlock set the empty container and plastic spoon on the feeding tray. “Very good, mon cher.”

John hummed, closing his eyes. Sherlock smiled down at him, noting that John’s frown was gone. He leaned forward and kissed John’s head, smoothing a thumb over the back of John’s hand as he sat down on the edge of the bed by John’s hip.

“How is your pain?”

“Good.” John slurred. He rested his hand on Sherlock’s thigh. “Tired.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Sherlock leaned back and watched John’s face, admiring it. Unsure if John would understand but wanting to voice it anyway, Sherlock remarked, “You’ve been through a lot.”

John brushed his fingers over Sherlock’s dress trousers. Sherlock was immensely glad Mrs. Hudson dropped some fresh clothes by for him earlier today.

“I love you.”

Sherlock watched John’s lips speak the words and his heart almost imploded in his chest. The words were mumbled and slurred and barely coordinated, but Sherlock didn’t care.

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to John’s, kissing him softly. He whispered between them, “I love you, too.”

Six hours later, after a good long dreamless nap and some more water and bland food, John asked something that Sherlock was more than accustomed to answering.

“What happened?”

“You were hit by a car.”

John was silent for a minute or so. Sherlock didn’t look up from his laptop, figuring John would fall back asleep.

“I’ve… asked that before.”

Sherlock glanced up slightly at John, finding him staring at his blanket-covered feet with a distant look in his eyes. Sherlock looked up fully and set his laptop off to the side on the bench seat.

“You have.” Sherlock replied, albeit cautiously. He pulled the throw blanket off his lap and uncurled his legs, putting his socked feet on the floor.

“Why don’t I… remember?” John frowned, but this time it wasn’t entirely in confusion. There was irritation and sadness mixed in. “I know… But I can’t…”

Sherlock stood up and walked over, sitting down on the edge of the bed. John continued staring into blank space.

“You hit your head.” Sherlock explained, getting the feeling that John would actually absorb his answer this time. “Brain injury.”

John’s jaw clenched. Sherlock gave a lopsided frown. Obviously the way Sherlock responded to John’s question made him realize Sherlock had answered it before. Part of him was glad that John was asking questions, connecting dots, making deductions. There was a part of him, however, that hated to see the in-between; conscious enough to recognize something was wrong but not conscious enough to understand why.

“Give it time.” Sherlock reassured, taking John’s hand in his and squeezing it. “Answers come naturally.”

John sighed. “Time.” He repeated, sounding defeated. Sherlock could feel his defeat.

“You’re only two days out.” Sherlock tried to soothe. “Better than expected.”

The blonde processed what Sherlock said for a long moment and Sherlock let him take his time, watching him with curious, concerned eyes. He was surprised when John held out his arms, beckoning Sherlock closer.

Sherlock couldn’t help the small smile on his face at seeing John wanting to cuddle.

“For a little bit.” Sherlock prefaced. “Scoot.”

Surprisingly, John moved over with ease. Vertigo alleviated? Sherlock pondered. Maybe the pain medication was helping with the vertigo, too. He made a mental note to inform Dr. Dumont about that tomorrow and maneuvered himself onto the bed.

As much as he wanted to hold John, it was easiest on John for Sherlock to rest his head on John’s good shoulder and let John hold him, so that was what Sherlock opted to do. He felt his chest threatening to burst with emotion at the feeling of John pressed against him, cuddling with him, again.

John rested a hand on Sherlock’s side and used the other to play with Sherlock’s curls, and tears leaked silently from Sherlock’s eyes.

Chapter Text

Days passed.

John’s pain management was under control and his nausea was basically gone. Bruises were still tender but the bone-chilling ache was being coped with. Most importantly, however, his memory was starting to improve. He still struggled with remembering what past events occurred when, but his short term memory was becoming more accurate. He could remember who visited him and why they were visiting him. He could even remember plans for the near future.

For instance, he could remember that Clara was planning to visit tomorrow. She found out two days ago and John watched from the sidelines as Sherlock had to corral a frantic Clara on the phone, trying to convince her that John still needed as few visitations as possible and no, she couldn’t come right then. John felt bad that she found out almost a week after the accident, but he couldn’t blame himself or Sherlock for not thinking of it. They were both so busy dealing with the aftermath.

Thankfully John didn’t need physical therapy, his bruises were painful but still just bruises. However, day four after the accident Dr. Dumont did order a speech and language therapist for him. At first Sherlock didn’t see how the therapy could help but after just a few days he could definitely tell a difference in John. John started using longer sentences and understood longer sentences as well. Four days out from the ordered assistance John was significantly improved. Not as good as before the accident but he was getting there.

With John’s vertigo lessened by the pain medication, he was permitted to take showers with assistance. Sherlock declined help from the nurses, stating in no uncertain terms that he would do it and no one else was allowed to help, and so Sherlock’s showers became their showers again. For a moment they could pretend they were in a hotel and nothing was wrong. Well, aside from the purple and green blotches under John’s skin.

It was day eight since the crash when Sherlock came out of the loo, having finished his nightly routine, and saw John covering his face with his hand. From the angle he was at, he could see John’s lips in a line and his chin quivering. Sherlock furrowed his brow and frowned, rushing over.

“John?”

John hurriedly wiped his eyes and tried to hide his face from Sherlock. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie, mon cher.” Sherlock leaned over and wrapped his arms around John’s head and shoulders, pulling John to his chest. “It’s okay.”

John wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s lower back, his free hand gripping the blanket on his lap. He shook, trying not to cry, and thickly mumbled,

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“For keeping you here.”

“Wh- keeping me here?” Sherlock repeated, disbelieving. “Who said you’re keeping me here?”

“No one, I just-” John sniffled, “You shouldn’t have to stay.”

“I don’t have to stay, John. I want to stay.” Sherlock kissed the top of John’s head. “If roles were reversed you’d do the same thing.”

John didn’t have anything to argue with against Sherlock’s point so he didn’t try. He simply held onto Sherlock and tried to allow himself to be soothed. It worked for a few minutes. Long enough that he’d largely calmed back down.

A stray thought crossed his mind and he growled. Sherlock looked down at the top of John’s head and rubbed John’s back.

“What has you angry?” He asked, free hand smoothing through John’s greying blonde hair.

“I’m tired. No. Frustrated.” Correctly naming emotions, Sherlock thought happily.

“About?”

“About this.” John gestured to the room. “The… waiting.”

“The waiting?” Sherlock repeated. John nodded. “To get better?” John nodded again.

“I’m aware of time. But time… It doesn’t make sense.”

Sherlock frowned and squeezed John in his arms. John hugged him back, burying his face into Sherlock’s t-shirt.

“It’s confusing and overwhelming.” Sherlock explained. John nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly. He was glad Sherlock could put the words to his experience when he presently couldn’t. “Sleep will make time go by quicker.”

“Only so many hours I can sleep.” John countered.

“I know.” Sherlock sighed. He understood the boredom immensely. “Trust me, I know.”

They hugged for a long moment before John pulled away and made room on the bed. It was part of their routine now to cuddle for a few hours before John’s pain medication kicked in and he was out like a light. The fact that John was remembering the new routine was exciting. Hopefully it meant they could go home soon.

Sherlock was about to climb into bed when the room phone rang. John winced as Sherlock cursed and answered it. John was better with sound than he had been, but the room phone was still exceptionally loud.

“John Watson’s room.”

“Um, hello, this is reception. I have your sister here wishing to visit you.”

Sherlock’s stomach dropped.

Harry.

What was she doing here? How did she find out?

He could be honest. He could tell the receptionist that he wasn’t John Watson but that it was in John’s best interest if they barred her entry. He could lie and say he was John Watson and that he didn’t want to see her.

He could tell John. But would that needlessly stress him? John was already having a bad day emotionally.

Sherlock took a deep breath.

If it was someone toxic from Sherlock’s past, and Sherlock was the one injured, what would John do? It took only a second of thought to know the answer and he sighed, hoping he wasn’t making the wrong decision.

John would, of course, never make that decision for him. So it was only right that Sherlock do the same. Sure, he knew the likely answer, but he also knew John would want to at least be presented the choice.

“One moment.” Sherlock told the receptionist and pulled the phone away, covering the receiver. John was looking at him curiously. “It’s… your sister.”

John’s eyes widened. Then narrowed. He looked thoughtful and angry. He wasn’t very good at hiding his emotions since the accident. Another reason to not see Harry, Sherlock couldn’t help but think.

“I’m going to turn her away.” Sherlock warned, giving John a chance to object. John glowered through Sherlock’s chest as he thought. “Is that okay?”

John looked up at Sherlock, his anger fading a little.

“I trust you.”

Sherlock’s heart tinged at the sentiment and he gave John a small, lopsided smile that portrayed both his relief at John’s answer and his sadness that he had to make the choice to deal with Harry at all. John mirrored him. He wasn’t entirely sure on the details but he remembered enough. That and his stomach felt knotted up and his heart ached at the mention of Harry.

The brunette brought the phone up to his ear again and he spoke.

“This is John Watson’s husband. John doesn’t want to see his sister. Please bar her visitation and any future visitations she attempts.”

The nurse took a few seconds to reply, simply saying, “Understood, sir. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Sherlock hung up the phone and watched it for a moment, almost expecting it to start ringing again. Once it set in that what’s done is done, he found John’s eyes and they shared a look of mixed emotions and uncertainty.

John patted the bed and Sherlock’s uncertainty melted into a smile, settling his long body in beside him. They pressed against each other’s sides, tangling their legs together to try and fit on the bed.

“Husband?” John asked. Sherlock blushed.

“It seemed the right thing to say.”

“I don’t remember getting married.”

Sherlock laughed and John watched, pulse racing when Sherlock threw his head back into the pillow.

“We’re not married yet.” Sherlock reassured, patting John’s chest. “There’s nothing to remember.”

John let out a breath of relief. “Oh thank God.” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at John and John studied his face, remembered what he just said, and his eyes widened. “Oh.”

Sherlock snickered and stretched to kiss John’s cheek. “I know what you meant. Don’t worry.” He pulled away and John’s shock was replaced by warmth and adoration.

They settled down and relaxed, laying in silence and thinking to themselves. The silence lasted only ten minutes before John asked something that Sherlock was curious about himself.

“How did she know?”

Sherlock stroked a hand along the skin of John’s arm, mumbling back, “I don’t know.”

It took John longer than normal to fall asleep after the pain medication. Sherlock could feel the tension in him. John wasn’t one to sit back and not act. But, he was also incredibly injured and didn’t have much of a choice. Sherlock coaxed him into sleep as best he could, uttering reassuring phrases and offering physical affection.

Before John fell asleep fully, Sherlock got out of his bed and assisted him in scooting into the middle again. He tucked him in and gave him a goodnight kiss. John barely woke up. Sherlock didn’t blame him; the new medication might as well have been a John tranquilizer.

Sherlock lied down on the bench, curled up on his side. It wasn’t his preferred way to sleep but it was the only comfortable way his 6 foot tall body fit on the bench. He managed to lay there, staring into the dim light of John’s hospital room, for a miracle of two minutes before he shot up. There was too much he needed to know.

He grabbed John’s phone and turned it on, walking out into the hall. Once it was booted up, as he expected, John’s phone became a vibrating paperweight in Sherlock’s palm. When the device was done imploding, he turned the device to silent and began to snoop.

A few texts from Murray. Few more from Clara. A couple from Greg.

Almost a hundred from Harry.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed so hard his shoulders sagged. He didn’t have the emotional capacity to deal with Harry, and if he didn’t then John absolutely couldn’t. But he was also curious as to why now and how Harriet found out.

A puzzle!

The detective went back into the room and got comfortable, or at least as comfortable as he could get, and heard his own phone vibrate on the seat by him. Raising an eyebrow, he looked at it. Unknown number.

Who do you think you are?

Sherlock rolled his eyes and put his phone on silent as well. Wonderful. She managed to find Sherlock’s number, too.

The brunette didn’t bother reading any messages besides Harry’s. The others already knew John’s phone was off and he wasn’t allowed to look at it, so any messages were either from before they knew or for after he improved.

He scrolled back to the last time John texted his sister, basically telling Harry to not contact him again, and read the messages that followed. She apparently hadn’t replied to John’s text until yesterday, four years after the fact, and even then she didn’t really reply as much as feign concern and guilt trip.

Clara told me you got hurt. How are you doing?

Clara? Sherlock’s heart swelled with anger and betrayal. He grabbed his own phone and texted the person mentioned.

Harry is harassing John. Says you told her what happened. Explain. –SH

He stared at the conversation and waited. A minute went by. Two minutes. Three. He was ready to get up and start pacing when bing!

I’ve not spoken to her since the divorce hearing last month. It wasn’t me, I swear. I learned my lesson the first time.

Sherlock softened. Last time something like this happened Clara didn’t hide the fact that she told Harry about John’s invalidation, so Sherlock was inclined to believe her. The betrayal faded but he was left still feeling confused and angry.

Wait, oh my god. Two of her fucking friends came by to pick up something yesterday.

Sherlock’s lips curled in a snarl. His hands started to shake with his anger.

Did they take anything? Be anywhere in your flat they weren’t supposed to be? –SH

Besides her stuff? I don’t think so?? I’ll check!

They asked about John and what he was up to and I told them I’m not at liberty to say.

Sherlock glanced at John’s sleeping form and gritted his teeth. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was itching for a satisfying case after the blunder of the last one, or because he was feeling particularly protective and vengeful, but he wanted to run out and search Clara’s apartment with her. But he also didn’t want to leave John on his own. So, he compromised.

Take a picture of the room they were in and any rooms they entered. Multiple angles, well illuminated. Send them to me. –SH

Um, okay.

A few minutes later Clara sent the first set of pictures. It was of her living room. Bit cramped but well decorated and homely. Sherlock studied the picture, ignoring needless deductions about who sat where recently and how someone spilled a drop of red wine on the rug months ago.

The detective moved on to the next angle. Scoured it for anything interesting.

Nothing but a flat under the ownership of a good-natured person. Plenty of pictures of friends, family, even a couple of John and her with a certain someone cropped out. Bookshelf full of books, organized by author. Television on an entertainment center full of DVD’s and board games.

Nothing appeared out of the ordinary in the living room. He moved on to the kitchen.

An acceptable amount of disarray for someone who lived alone and worked long hours. It didn’t take long for Sherlock to note one piece of the puzzle. It was practically staring him in the face. One of their wedding invitations was held in place on Clara’s refrigerator by a magnet. On the invitation, it listed both of their phone numbers.

Sherlock cursed. So that was how Harry got his number, then.

Wait, but how did her friends know to take note of the numbers specifically? They could have easily just told Harry about the wedding if they saw it by happenstance, but they wouldn’t have remembered the numbers. Too many numbers in succession, the brain on average remembers up to six at a time. Picture.

They went in wanting to know information. They went in to snoop and document.

Did you at any point leave them alone in a room? –SH

Not on purpose. They split… oh.

Sherlock sighed. Just as he thought. They purposefully divided Clara’s attention so the other could peek around and look through things.

Now the question was what did they find that pointed them to John’s hospitalization? The quickest answer would be a visitor’s sticker or wristband, but Clara hadn’t visited them yet. She planned to visit them tomorrow.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. Planned.

Do you have a planner? –SH

No?

What about a calendar? –SH

Yeah, I’ve got one. Why?

Where do you keep it? –SH

In the kitchen.

In plain sight? –SH

Oh my god. I keep it on the back of the door.

It says what day and time I’m visiting John and his room number. Tell the receptionist!!

Harriet already attempted to see John just an hour ago. She is barred from visitation now. –SH

Oh my god I’m so so so sorry.

Sherlock frowned. You did nothing wrong. Blame Harriet. She gave the order. –SH

Order?

To search your flat for information. Her friends didn’t go over to pick something up from you. They went over to meddle. –SH

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Not at all. –SH

Sherlock put his phone down and went back to John’s phone. Now he knew how Harriet Watson discovered her brother was in hospital. Time to figure out why she suddenly cared.

He unlocked the phone with ease and found where he left off in Harry’s texts, reading the ones after it.

Johnny?

I know you said not to contact you again but I’m worried about you.

You’re the only family I have left, baby brother.

I just don’t want another instance like the “getting shot and not telling your sister” to happen, you know?

I love you. I care about and miss you.

I’m happy for you and Sherlock. I heard you’re engaged. That’s wonderful!

Sherlock set the phone down and seethed. He gripped the seat and hung his head, shaking with his anger. The audacity to try and blame what she did, the blowing up about John being shot, on John was too much. Sherlock could remember the conversation on the phone so clearly that it might as well have happened right now. He could hear the pain in John’s voice as he reached his breaking point.

“You told Clara and not me? Your sister-in-law and not your actual sister? What the fuck, John!”

 “Harry-”

“No! Don’t you fuckin’ Harry me you fuckin’ prick! Two years and when you finally remember to tell your family, you tell her before you tell me. What the actual fucking hell, John.”

“I wanted to wait to tell you. It’s not as easy as it sounds.”

“’Harry, I got shot in Afghanistan’. Sounds pretty fuckin’ simple to me!”

“You weren’t the one who got shot!”

Sherlock opened his eyes, glaring at the floor. Apparently getting verbally ripped to shreds the first time wasn’t enough for her. Harriet Watson wanted to play mind games? She wanted to play strategy?

She chose the wrong opponent.

He used his own phone to text the unknown number instructions to meet at an intersection corner by a shop at a specific time. Well lit, well surveilled, and in a safe area.

Unsurprisingly, Harry texted him back telling him not to be late.

The detective stood up and grabbed his clothes, heading to the bathroom.

To war it was.

Chapter Text

He contemplated waking John up to tell him what was happening. In the end he decided against it. He would be back before John woke up. Sherlock had no plans to mince words or engage in a lengthy conversation with Harriet Watson.

It didn’t take long to get to the intersection Sherlock decided upon. He adjusted his coat around him and stood with his back to the shop front. It was nearing eight at night, now. Sherlock preemptively made a couple calls then kept himself busy on his phone as he waited for the older Watson sibling to arrive. People passed by on occasion but largely paid him no mind.

Of course, she was late. Which was fine since Sherlock purposefully arrived a little late as well, knowing that she would attempt to exert control over him by making him wait. There was no way that she covered enough ground in one hour, walking or riding, to be thirty minutes late unintentionally.

The street was quieter, now. People stopped passing by him at one point. He waited, texting a certain someone some details.

At the sound of boots hitting the asphalt, Sherlock glanced up. Sure enough, John’s older sister was walking toward him. He’d only met her once and not under brilliant circumstances, but she looked far more haggard and unwell than he remembered. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her clothes had seen better days.

Within moments Sherlock gathered all the information he needed to gather and calmly pocketed his phone. She approached and stood at least five feet away. Sherlock regarded that curiously. Treating me as dangerous? He wondered what Harriet got out of that ploy.

Then he remembered carefully deconstructing her with deductions the last time they talked and understood.

“Sorry I’m late.” Harry’s voice was rougher that Sherlock remembered.

“Its fine, I just arrived as well.” Sherlock countered, offering a fake polite smile. Harry didn’t show it, but Sherlock knew she was disappointed. “I won’t keep you long.”

“How’s John?” Harry interjected before Sherlock could continue speaking. Sherlock’s smile widened.

“I’m not here to talk about John.” Harry opened her mouth but Sherlock talked over her complaining, turning his back to the intersection and the CCTV cameras around. “I prefer to issue my threats and warnings face-to-face.”

At threats, Harry’s eyes went a little wide. Momentarily stunned, Sherlock took advantage of the quiet space to talk.

“I see the first time wasn’t enough for you. That’s what I get for trying to be kind, I suppose. Unfortunately I need to get back to the hospital soon so I’ll be blunt and concise. Be sure to keep up.”

Sherlock pointed at various parts of Harry’s body and attire as he spoke.

“Currently intoxicated. Alcoholic hepatitis but you continue to drink, refusing medical advice. No doubt you’ve developed cirrhosis by now. Look at the state of your extremities and the veins in your neck. Considerably swollen. You probably have another three years left to live at this rate, and that’s a generous estimation.”

Harry’s eyes shot wide.

“Going by the dirt on your shoes and your clothes, you’re couch surfing between friends but spend a fair few nights passed out in alleys. Your friends live nearby but didn’t drive you so you walked. They’re getting ready to drop you now that you’re not fun. Hard to be fun when you’re barely able to stay awake, isn’t it?”

“How dare you.” Harry snapped, fury in her eyes. “My friends are the best thing that ever happened to me!”

Sherlock simpered. “Oh yes, I’m sure they’ll visit your grave.” He countered sarcastically.

Harry gaped.

Before she could interject, Sherlock continued, speaking quickly.

“Yesterday you sent two friends still under your control to Clara’s to poke around. The goal was to find anything you could use to manipulate John back into your life, wasn’t it?”

“I sent them to get my things!” Harry countered. Her nervousness still shone through the façade.

Sherlock didn’t take the bait.

“Maybe if he sees how sick you are he’ll come back and take care of you, just like he did with Mum. It didn’t work with Afghanistan but hey, maybe it’ll work now that you’re actually sick.”

“How dare you bring up-” The anger was giving way to pain as Harry tried to argue back. Sherlock talked over her.

“Then your friends came back with not only phone numbers but John’s current hospitalization. What wonderful flying monkeys they are, aren’t they? Injured John would be so much easier to manipulate. But tell me, Harriet,” Sherlock stepped closer and stared directly into Harry’s shocked eyes. Harry stopped arguing, lips parted with words on her tongue.

“Who will be there when you die?”

Harry looked about ready to cry, but where Sherlock would’ve stopped before he instead pushed on.

“No one. You’ve burned any bridges out of the fire you’ve started for yourself. The bridges you call friends will burn the second you become too much of a problem. Most of them have burned already.”

“N-No, you’re-”

“No one will take care of you, no one will hold your hand to comfort you, and you will die a narcissist’s shadow. If alcohol poisoning doesn’t claim you first, you will die alone and in horrific pain as your liver becomes a hardened husk of what it once was and your heart finally gives out from the stress. Then, if you are very lucky, John may be gracious enough to claim your remains at the hospital. You might even get a funeral.”

Sherlock leaned away as a car drove down the street toward them, lights flashing but not speeding, and he smoothed out his coat. Stunned into silence, Harry stared in disbelief and deep-seeded hurt.

“You are so much like your father it’s impressive, honestly. I sincerely hope I never have the displeasure of meeting either of you again.” The detective coldly commented. “But maybe you’ll get lucky. Maybe John will pity you as you lie on your death bed and he’ll generously pay you one last visit.”

As the police car drew closer, Harry noticed the flashing red and blue lights reflecting off of windows and turned to look.

“You are not to contact us. I have connections that will ensure if you attempt again that you regret trying to insert yourself into either of our lives.” Sherlock watched Harry meet his gaze again and smiled, turning to face the Yarder driving down the street, “By the way, if you’re so desperate for family, your father lives in South London. I hope Victim Support managed to reach you.”

The police car stopped on the curb beside them.

“Goodbye, Harriet. You and your father deserve each other.”

Harry’s eyes flared with rage and she shouted, throwing a punch toward his face. Sherlock easily leaned out of the way of the drunken clumsy swing. She swung again, cursing and crying, and Sherlock stepped away. As Harry did exactly what Sherlock had planned for her to do, he listened for-

“Stop!” A loud male voice thundered from the street.

Sherlock smiled.

Checkmate.

When Sherlock returned from his excursion, he expected John to be asleep. It was midnight by the time he finished with the police, filed the restraining order, and confirmed the plan with Mycroft.

“Another Mary?” His brother had asked on Sherlock’s way back to the room.

“In how I want her dealt with, yes.” Sherlock confirmed, thinking back to the young blonde techie that couldn’t take John’s no as an answer. “How is Ms. Morstan, by the way?”

“Moved to America soon after she was released from the program.”

“Good for her.” Sherlock picked at his nails as he rode the elevator back up to their floor. “Thank you for this, by the way.”

“Your welcome.” Mycroft replied, sounding as if he was smirking. “Consider it my wedding gift.”

Sherlock smirked as well. As Sherlock traveled down the labyrinth to John’s room, they said their goodbyes. He was still smirking when he opened the door and looked in.

John turned his head from the window and met Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock’s smile dropped, replaced instead by confusion and mild concern.

“What are you doing awake?” Sherlock asked, stepping in and closing the door.

“Nightmare.” John sheepishly replied with a small sigh. Sherlock frowned and walked over, coat still on.

“Night terror?”

“No, just a nightmare this time.”

Sherlock cupped John’s face to give him a kiss.

John furrowed his brow at the coldness of Sherlock’s hand and reached up, taking the hand off his face and holding it, rubbing it over to warm it. Sherlock pulled away, wondering what John was doing.

“Did you go outside?”

Sherlock’s lips tightened into a line and he considered his options. When he didn’t answer right away, John looked him in the eyes again and saw the conflict there.

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

Sherlock sighed. He couldn’t lie to John.

“I would have preferred to tell you once you healed more,” Sherlock hesitantly began, “but… I left and saw Harry.”

John’s eyes widened. His expression was a mix of confusion, hurt, and betrayal.

“You what?”

“Do you remember Mary?”

His expression wasn’t as hurt or betrayed after a moment, but he was still massively confused. Even without the brain injury, this conversation would have likely had the same effect.

“What? Why?”

“Do you remember what happened to her?”

John’s brow furrowed, his eyes still wide, and he stared at Sherlock with caution.

“We had her sent to an inpatient facility, remember?”

“I… remember.” John wasn’t entirely certain where this was going but he didn’t think he liked it.

Sherlock swallowed. Here came the struggle of explaining what happened while John still struggled with language comprehension.

“Well, after Harry called the room I turned your phone on. We wanted to know how she knew, right?” John nodded hesitantly. “I figured out how she knew. It might be… I’ll explain it another time.”

John frowned. Sherlock squeezed John’s hand. “You’re still injured, John. You’re not supposed to be thinking and what she did was very manipulative and sneaky.”

John’s frown faded. He sighed. “Fine. You’re telling me soon, though.”

“Deal.” Sherlock leaned down and kissed John’s cheek.

“Why did you see her?”

“To…” trick her into getting arrested for being drunk in public and attempting to assault me and then to have her shipped off to an extensive rehab facility. “… talk.”

John gave Sherlock a look. It screamed disbelief and ‘come on, really?’

“We did talk.” Sherlock preemptively countered. “Maybe I didn’t initiate contact for the express purpose to talk, but it was a… bonus, you could say.”

Sherlock’s fiancé didn’t seem convinced but he was too tired and still too unsure of Sherlock’s words to argue. “So you talked and…?”

Now came the biggest dilemma. Sherlock had to decide on whether to tell John about what he deduced about Harry or not. Did he tell her she was dying? Could he handle that news? Sherlock bit his lip.

No. If Mycroft stuck to his word, she wouldn’t be dying anytime soon. John didn’t need to know the full extent. Not right now.

“She was… drunk.” Sherlock tentatively explained. John narrowed his eyes.

“Mycroft wouldn’t help if she was just drunk.” John surprised Sherlock by deducing. “There’s more to it than that.”

Sherlock sighed. Maybe he could simply say…

“She’s… sick.”

John’s eyes widened. “How sick?” He demanded.

Sherlock took a breath.

“Sick enough.”

It was obvious there was something wrong, something seriously wrong, and Sherlock didn’t want John to know. John could tell Sherlock was holding something back, trying to soften the blow, attempting to protect John from the truth. The soldier had so many questions but his headache was starting to pound in his skull. The doctor in him knew he should stop and try to rest, but stubbornly he pretended everything was fine. One of the very few perks of an invisible illness was also its greatest detriment.

If you can act, no one knows you’re suffering.

John sucked in a slow breath. Sherlock watched him, studied him, waited for him to speak. After thirty seconds of silence, John met Sherlock’s eyes. His gaze bore into Sherlock. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably.

“Tell me the truth.” John prefaced. His jaw was tense. “Is she dying?”

Sherlock stared. There was a difference between omission and lying, and he couldn’t very well lie about that, could he? John would kill him. Worse, he might leave him. Lying about the health of someone’s sibling, no matter how estranged, was divorce-worthy behavior and they weren’t even married yet.

John’s eyes closed. Sherlock’s silence was enough confirmation. His heart burned with his brain and the couple shed tears from earlier came back to haunt him again, gathering in his eyes.

Well, so much for keeping that a secret, Sherlock bit his tongue and reached out to hold John. John wiped at his eyes.

“No, no, it’s fine.” John mumbled. “I’m not… sad. I don’t know why I’m…”

“Overwhelmed.” Sherlock reminded John. “You’re overwhelmed.”

“How long?” John asked, ignoring what Sherlock said. “How long does she have?”

“About two years, if -” Sherlock pointedly added, “if, she doesn’t get help, which is why Mycroft is involved.”

At knowing it wasn’t happening very soon, and understanding finally that Mycroft was taking care of things, John calmed down significantly. He was still shedding a few more overwhelmed tears and Sherlock was able to bring him close again, rubbing John’s back.

It didn’t take as long for John to calm down this time.

“I hope this crying isn’t staying.” John grumbled, taking the tissue Sherlock offered him and blowing his nose. “It’s getting annoying.”

Sherlock snorted and kissed John’s forehead.

Chapter Text

John didn’t know who was more excited.

He was definitely excited, of course he was, but it was a calm excited. The anticipatory kind of excited. Repeatedly checking that they weren’t leaving anything behind and jittering his leg as they signed discharge papers excited.

Sherlock, however, was practically bouncing off the walls.

The detective’s typically whirlwind mind was a maelstrom. He asked John no less than five separate times how he was feeling and if he was done writing yet. The man that hadn’t left his side but once in fourteen days was walking several feet ahead, stopping only when he realized he was too far ahead. With the way he was acting, John was mildly surprised when they got to the cab that Sherlock didn’t shove him in.

The second the cabbie stopped the car outside of 221b Baker Street, Sherlock was scrambling out and snatching their things. John paid the fare and picked up the few things Sherlock was allowing him to carry, which were clothes and the throw blanket, before he climbed out with a grimace, sore and sporting a headache. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock was waiting at the opened front door for him, watching him and tapping impatiently on the doorknob. John smiled toward his vibrating fiancé, ignoring the headache starting at the side of his head as he walked up.

Sherlock swallowed. He needed to get John to wear sunglasses more often.

For now, though, it was time to get moved back in and settled. He ushered John up the steps, or at least he tried to.

“Go on, up you go.” Sherlock patted John’s lower back with his free hand, nudging him toward the staircase. John chuckled and swatted at Sherlock’s hand, heading toward the stairs leading down.

“I’ve got to take these down to the laundry.”

“You don’t have to do anything.” Sherlock chided, blocking his path. It was hard to tell with the sunglasses but John gave him a suffering look. “Set them down. Mrs. Hudson will take care of it.”

“Mrs. Hudson is our landlady,” John countered, “not our housekeeper. Now move.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“John, no.”

“Sherlock, yes.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. John tilted his head and his eyebrows rose.

“Are you going to do it?”

Sherlock stuck his chest out, taking in a deep breath…

Then sighed dramatically and took the bag of clothes from John’s hand, setting the other bag of their things down by their feet.

“Fine.” Sherlock grumbled. John offered the throw blanket to him and Sherlock begrudgingly took it, wishing as he descended that John had run up the stairs and forgotten about the laundry for once.

John watched him plod unhappily down and smirked at his lover’s strop. He listened as Sherlock went out of sight and into the basement, waiting for the telltale sound of the washer door opening. And he waited. And waited. Then he wondered if Sherlock was waiting him out.

“I can still hear, you know!”

Click!

The doctor grinned.

“Who knew that all this time,” John teased, “to make you do the laundry I just needed to get hit by a car.”

A few seconds later, Sherlock’s head peeked around the doorframe and glared. John laughed heartily, beaming proudly when Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back to what he was doing.

So he didn’t have to sort colors and fabrics and all that other nonsense, he tossed the throw blanket in, gave the settings a cursory glance, and then set it to wash. The bag of clothes was left by the washer to be forgotten about until Mrs. Hudson noticed they were there and would, inevitably, wash them for him so John, and by extension Sherlock, wouldn’t have to. As was right and just with the world.

Sherlock started the ascent and John watched him.

“Set it right?”

“Yes.”

“Sure?”

“Yes!” Sherlock groaned. “Let’s go upstairs, please.”

Up the stairs they went, Sherlock being sure to let John take the lead. They didn’t have to go up very many steps at the hospital so there was no telling how John’s head would take the climb, and the last thing John needed was another head injury. Thankfully, John took it well. Limped some and relied on the railing, but with the weather front coming that was to be expected for the older man.

Entering the flat was just as wonderful as John expected it to be. He took a deep breath in, smiling and gazing around at their slice of paradise, and he relaxed for the first time in two full weeks.

The detective closed the door behind them.

“How is your headache?”

“Bit worse since the hospital.” John admitted, wincing as he slid his coat off. “Christ. God bless London weather, ey?”

“Shoulder?”

“Yeah.” John strained. Sherlock helped him hang his coat then hung up his own. “Sunglasses helped.”

“They did?”

“Yeah. Not much sun out right now but still.” The blonde gazed around the flat again and smiled. “Home.” He sighed happily.

Sherlock kissed John’s cheek. “Home.”

The pale brunette walked over to the desk in the sitting room and placed the bag of their things on it, pulling out his laptop and John’s headphones. John noticed what he was doing and went over to help. Sherlock smacked his hand.

“No. Bad doctor.”

John’s eyes went wide and he gaped at Sherlock, who was trying to hide a shit-eating grin. John narrowed his eyes and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist, tugging him away from the desk. The soles of Sherlock’s shoes slid against the wooden floor.

“You little brat.” The blonde growled playfully. “Did you just chide me like a dog?”

Sherlock giggled, halfheartedly attempting to stop John’s progression to the kitchen. He could have accepted whatever sanctions came with disciplining John right then, but instead he doubled down.

“No!” He lightly hit John’s side and then the arm around his abdomen. “Bad doctor!”

John tugged on him hard and Sherlock sprawled, losing the little balance he gained, and John’s arms around his waist were the only things keeping him upright as he laughed.

“Bad doctor?” John repeated mischievously. “Bad doctor?”

“Let me go!” Sherlock wasn’t very convincing, giggling as he was. “You’re supposed to be resting!”

“Is that all it takes to be a bad doctor? Not resting?”

“Yes! Now let go!”

John grinned, squeezing Sherlock against him. By now they were in the kitchen, near the hallway, and Sherlock had all but given up on standing on his own two feet again. In the moment of pause, before Sherlock could right himself, John snarled in his ear in a low, rough voice that made Sherlock’s pulse race.

“Then I want to be a very bad doctor.”

Stunned and turning red, Sherlock’s laughter stopped and he swallowed. John grinned, basking in the pride of flustering his detective in the way only he could. But just as quickly has Sherlock had been stunned, he came back to himself.

After all the time in hospital and the impending storm, John wasn’t as strong as he usually was, which meant Sherlock was able to get out of his grip and instead drag him. John didn’t mind, letting himself be dragged along to the bedroom, his pulse racing and drowning out the headache in his skull. He didn’t mind at all.

He’d follow Sherlock anywhere.