Chapter Text
Shruti sat on the examination couch, arms folded tight, eyes narrowed like she was about to declare war.
“This,” she said, glaring at both men, “is betrayal.”
John didn’t even look sorry. “It’s sclerotherapy, not execution.”
Sherlock stood beside her, hands clasped behind his back, entirely composed.
“It is a minimally invasive procedure,” he added. “One injection.”
“One injection my—” she stopped herself, then pointed accusingly, “you both dragged me here.”
“You agreed,” John corrected.
“I was emotionally manipulated.”
“You were medically advised.”
She gasped. “Same thing!”
John sighed, snapping on gloves. “Right. Lie back.”
“No.”
“Shruti.”
“No.”
Sherlock intervened, tone calm. “The sooner it’s done, the sooner you can resume complaining elsewhere.”
She glared at him. “I will remember this moment.”
“I’m counting on it.”
With great drama, she flopped back.
“Fine. Do it. End my suffering.”
John prepped the site efficiently. “You’ll feel a sharp sting—”
“I KNOW WHAT A NEEDLE FEELS LIKE, JOHN!”
“Good, then this won’t be a surprise.”
She grabbed Sherlock’s hand—tight.
“Don’t let go.”
“I won’t.”
John positioned the syringe.
“Ready?”
“No.”
“Proceeding anyway.”
“JOHN—!”
The needle went in.
“OH YOU—!” Shruti swore vividly, voice rising as the solution went in. “THIS—THIS IS—WHY DOES IT BURN—?!”
John, utterly unfazed, continued. “Because that’s how it works.”
“I HATE YOU—both of you—especially YOU, Sherlock, you TRAITOR—!”
Sherlock winced—just slightly—as her grip tightened painfully.
“Noted,” he said calmly. “Continue.”
“I WILL NOT CONTINUE—OH MY GOD—IS IT DONE—?!”
“Almost.”
“JOHN I SWEAR—”
“And… done.”
Silence.
A beat.
Then—
Shruti’s eyes filled instantly, tears spilling over as she sucked in a shaky breath.
“I hate this,” she said, voice breaking. “I hate injections, I hate procedures, I hate—everything.”
John immediately softened, pulling back. “Hey… hey. It’s done.”
Sherlock leaned closer, his tone dropping completely.
“It’s over,” he said quietly. “You did it.”
She sniffed, still clutching his hand.
“I said one injection,” she muttered weakly, tears still falling. “That felt like ten.”
“It was one,” John said gently.
“Lies.”
Sherlock reached up, brushing a tear from her cheek with his thumb.
“Exaggeration,” he corrected softly.
She glared at him through watery eyes.
“…Don’t correct me right now.”
A pause.
“…Understood.”
John disposed of the syringe, glancing back at her with a small, reassuring smile.
“You’re alright.”
Shruti sniffled again, then muttered,
“I’m never trusting either of you again.”
Sherlock’s lips twitched faintly.
“You will,” he said.
She tightened her grip on his hand again.
“…Unfortunately.”
And just like that—tears, fury, and all—
it was over.
“Now walk,” John said.
Shruti stared at him like he had personally lost his mind.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
Sherlock’s grip on her hand remained steady as she slowly swung her legs off the bed.
“I hate both of you,” she muttered.
“Documented,” Sherlock replied.
She stood. Paused.
Took one cautious step— and immediately stumbled, grabbing Sherlock harder.
“Ah—!” Her face crumpled. “It burns! John—it burns!”
“That’s expected,” John said, watching closely. “Keep moving.”
“Expected?!” she cried, half-limping, half-dragging herself forward. “You’ve been torturing me since day one!”
Another step. Worse this time.
She actually teared up again.
“I swear—” she gasped, voice breaking dramatically, “I’ll leave you for good! Both of you! I mean it this time!”
Sherlock steadied her instantly, one arm firm around her waist now.
“You’ve said that before,” he murmured.
“I MEAN IT MORE NOW!” she shot back, wobbling again. “This is abuse—medical abuse—emotional abuse—friendship abuse—”
John pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Shruti, just five steps.”
“I’ve already taken ten emotional steps away from this relationship!”
“Physical steps,” John corrected.
She glared at him through tears.
“You are heartless.”
“Walk.”
She took another step—hissed—clutched Sherlock tighter.
“Oh my God—why does it feel like fire in my leg?!”
“Because the solution irritates the vein lining,” John said calmly.
“I didn’t ask for the science lesson!” she snapped.
Sherlock leaned slightly closer, voice low.
“You’re doing well.”
“I am not doing well,” she said instantly, though she didn’t let go of him.
Another step.
A shaky one.
Then another.
John nodded. “Good. That’s enough.”
The moment he said it, she stopped and clung to Sherlock like she’d run a marathon.
“I’m never forgiving you,” she muttered into his shoulder.
Sherlock, completely unfazed, replied,
“You will. Statistically.”
She pulled back just enough to glare at him again.
“…I hate your statistics.”
“And yet,” he said calmly, “you’re still holding my hand.”
She looked down.
Realised.
Did not let go.
“…Shut up.”
~~~
Two hours later, after much coaxing, mild threats, and Sherlock’s unrelenting presence as a human support system, Shruti had finally made it out of John’s consult room and back home.
The moment she entered the townhouse, she demanded her daughter.
Shelley—now a lively two-year-old—came toddling in, babbling happily.
For exactly ten minutes, Shruti softened.
She kissed her, played with her curls, let the little girl climb onto her lap, even laughed once or twice despite the lingering discomfort in her leg.
Then—
“Okay, enough,” Shruti said abruptly, gently but firmly handing her back to the nanny. “Go. Go to Eva. Mummy is… temporarily unavailable.”
Shelley protested.
Shruti kissed her quickly again. “Yes, yes, I love you too, now go.”
The nanny carried her off.
The moment they were out of sight—
Shruti lifted her skirt.
And froze.
A second later—
“WHAT THE—?!”
Her voice echoed through the room.
“My whole thigh is red!”
She turned sharply, outrage written all over her face.
“What the hell is this?!”
Sherlock, who had just stepped in behind her, didn’t even flinch. He walked closer, gaze already assessing.
“Inflammatory response,” he said calmly.
“INFLAMMATORY—?!” she snapped. “It looks like I’ve been attacked!”
The skin along her thigh was flushed, streaked slightly where the injection had been—angry, warm, unmistakably irritated.
“This is expected post-sclerotherapy,” Sherlock continued, as if reading from a manual.
“I was not informed it would look like a crime scene!” she shot back.
John, who had followed them in more leisurely, took one look and nodded.
“Yes, that’s normal.”
She whipped around to him.
“You said it would burn, not that my leg would turn into a warning signal!”
“It’ll settle,” John replied. “Few hours to a day. Maybe slight bruising after.”
“Maybe?!” she repeated, scandalised.
Sherlock, entirely composed, added, “You are overreacting.”
She stared at him.
“I am underreacting, if anything.”
He raised an eyebrow.
She pointed at her thigh again. “Look at it!”
“I am.”
“And you’re calm?!”
“Yes.”
She let out an exasperated sound, dropping the skirt back down with dramatic force.
“I knew this was a bad idea. I knew it.”
John sighed. “You also wanted it done.”
“That was before my leg declared war on me!”
Sherlock stepped closer, voice quieter now.
“It will fade,” he said. “You’ll forget about it by tomorrow.”
She folded her arms.
“I will not forget.”
A beat.
Then, muttering—
“I will hold a grudge.”
John smirked. “Of course you will.”
Sherlock’s lips twitched faintly.
“Noted,” he said.
“I’m separating from you,” Shruti muttered darkly, still fuming, arms folded tight.
Sherlock didn’t even blink.
“Oh?” he said mildly. “And you won’t miss Shelley?”
That made her pause.
He continued, voice calm, almost thoughtful—
“Mycroft will certainly have opinions. He’s rather particular about family structures. I doubt he’d approve of his niece being raised without—”
“Don’t you dare bring Mycroft into this,” she snapped immediately.
“—both parents present,” Sherlock finished anyway.
Shruti glared at him.
“I will take Shelley with me.”
Sherlock tilted his head. “You believe you can manage a two-year-old, your recovery, and your current… grievances simultaneously?”
“I can,” she insisted.
A beat.
“…With help.”
“Which you already have,” he pointed out.
She opened her mouth—
paused—
then narrowed her eyes again.
“That’s not the point.”
“No,” Sherlock agreed. “It isn’t.”
She huffed, turning away from him slightly.
“I’m still leaving,” she muttered.
“Temporarily,” he said.
“Permanently.”
“Temporarily.”
She spun back. “Why are you so sure?!”
Sherlock looked at her—calm, certain, entirely unshaken.
“Because,” he said, “you’re still here.”
A pause.
“And,” he added, glancing pointedly at her hand, “you haven’t let go of me once since we left John’s clinic at Bart's.”
Shruti froze.
Looked down.
She was, in fact, still holding onto his sleeve.
Tightly.
She let go at once.
“…That means nothing.”
“Of course,” Sherlock said.
A beat.
Then she muttered, less forcefully now—
“I’m still angry.”
“I’m aware.”
“And I might still leave.”
“Statistically unlikely.”
She glared again.
“…I hate your statistics.”
“And yet,” he said calmly, “they remain correct.”
That earned him a sharp slap across the face.
The sound echoed.
John blinked once—then completely lost it.
“Oh—brilliant,” he laughed, stepping back. “Bravo, Shruti. You’re clearly taking full advantage of the fact that 'good' men don’t hit women.”
Sherlock’s head had turned slightly with the impact.
Slowly, he looked back at her.
And—smirked.
“No,” he said quietly.
Before she could react, he caught her wrist—not rough, but firm—and in one smooth movement, turned and pinned her lightly against the nearest wall.
Shruti froze, more startled than anything.
Sherlock leaned in, his expression no longer amused—but intent, steady.
One hand came up, slower now, gentler—fingers brushing along her cheek where her anger still lingered.
“I know you’re annoyed,” he said, voice low.
Her breath hitched, just slightly.
His thumb traced once, briefly, under her eye—wiping away the faint trace of earlier tears she hadn’t even realised remained.
Then he leaned in and kissed her.
Not rushed.
Not teasing.
Just… grounding.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against hers.
“Walk around the house,” he murmured. “It will help.”
A beat.
“You’ll be perfectly satisfied with the results by next week.”
From across the room, John made a face.
“…I’m still here, by the way.”
Neither of them acknowledged him.
Shruti blinked, her anger… not gone, but softened at the edges.
“…I still might leave,” she muttered weakly.
Sherlock’s lips curved faintly.
“Of course,” he said.
~~
“Sherlock, what are you doing—?” Shruti muttered, still half-flustered, half-annoyed as he moved away.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he returned with a cold pack, already wrapped in a soft cloth.
Her eyes narrowed. “What now?”
He sat beside her and gently lifted her leg before she could protest.
“Sherlock—!”
“Stop moving.”
She glared. “I will move. It’s my leg.”
“And you’re refusing to walk,” he shot back.
She opened her mouth—
He placed the cold pack against her thigh.
She flinched. “Ah—cold!”
“Good.”
Then, with deliberate care, his fingers began working around the inflamed area—slow, controlled pressure, avoiding the worst of the injection site.
“Are you—massaging me?” she asked, incredulous.
“Yes,” he muttered. “Since you refuse to follow basic post-procedure instructions.”
“You could’ve just said that nicely.”
“I did.”
“You absolutely did not.”
He ignored that, continuing—firm enough to help, gentle enough not to worsen the pain.
After a moment, she exhaled.
“…Okay, that actually helps.”
“I’m aware.”
She glanced at him, then away again, trying not to look too pleased.
“You still deserved that slap.”
“Debatable.”
“And I’m still angry.”
“Also noted.”
A pause.
Then, quieter—
“…don’t stop.”
Sherlock didn’t.
His movements slowed slightly, more rhythmic now, easing the tension in the muscle.
From the doorway, John leaned casually, watching the scene with a smirk.
“Ah yes,” he said. “From attempted separation to therapeutic massage in under ten minutes. Impressive turnaround.”
Neither of them responded.
Shruti just shifted slightly, letting herself relax— while Sherlock continued, as if this had always been part of the plan.
A few minutes later.
Shruti, far more relaxed now, absentmindedly reached up and began twirling a curl at the nape of Sherlock’s neck.
Soft. Springy.
Interesting.
Sherlock stilled.
“…What are you doing?”
She didn’t stop. “Nothing.”
His eyes flicked up to hers, unimpressed.
“Shruti.”
She gave an innocent little hum, still playing with his curls, gently tugging one loose.
Sherlock exhaled, long-suffering.
“I am not Shelley.”
That made her grin.
“I know,” she said. “Shelley doesn’t sit still this nicely.”
“I am not ‘sitting nicely,’” he corrected. “I am administering care.”
“Mhm,” she murmured, clearly not convinced, twisting another curl around her finger.
He caught her wrist this time—not harsh, just enough to still her.
“Stop.”
“Why?” she challenged lightly. “You’ve got nice hair.”
“That is irrelevant.”
She tilted her head. “It’s very relevant to me.”
A pause.
Then, softer—
“It’s calming.”
Sherlock’s grip loosened slightly.
She took that as permission and gently resumed, more careful this time.
“…sixty seconds,” he said.
She smiled faintly.
“Deal.”
He went back to the cold pack and measured pressure, pretending complete focus—
while she quietly played with his curls like she hadn’t just declared war on him an hour ago.
From the doorway, John muttered under his breath,
“Unbelievable.”
~~~
A sharp, indignant wail cut through the hallway.
Shelley.
Loud. Immediate. Demanding.
Shruti’s head turned instinctively. “That’s—”
Before she could finish, Sherlock was already on his feet.
In one smooth motion, he stepped out, located the source, and returned moments later with Shelley in his arms—her tiny face scrunched, tears streaming, fists clenched in outrage.
He held her against his chest, steady, secure.
“It’s alright,” he murmured, voice low, controlled—but softer than usual.
Shelley didn’t care.
She wailed louder.
Shruti winced. “Oh God—”
From behind them, John stepped in, already rolling up his sleeves.
“Alright, give her here, you’re doing the wrong bounce,” he said.
“I am not—”
“You are.”
Sherlock handed her over anyway.
John shifted her expertly, resting her against his shoulder, one hand supporting her back, the other gently patting in a practiced rhythm.
“Hey, hey… there we go,” he murmured.
The crying didn’t stop immediately—but it changed.
Less sharp. Less panicked.
From the doorway, a few staff members watched, amused smiles spreading.
“Uncle John to the rescue again,” someone whispered.
Another chuckled softly.
Shruti, still seated, shook her head faintly. “He’s annoyingly good at that.”
Sherlock crossed his arms, observing.
Shelley hiccupped, her cries finally tapering into soft whimpers against John’s shoulder.
“There we are,” he said quietly, continuing the gentle patting.
The room softened with her.
Shruti exhaled, calmer now.
Sherlock watched for a moment longer—then stepped closer again, his attention splitting seamlessly between both of them.
“Why do they wail like that?” Shruti muttered, watching Shelley’s dramatic recovery against John’s shoulder.
Sherlock, of course, had an answer immediately.
“It is a primary communication mechanism,” he began. “Infants lack developed verbal faculties, so they rely on vocal distress signals to indicate discomfort—hunger, fatigue, overstimulation—”
Shruti slowly raised both hands.
“No.”
He paused.
“You do not get to lecture me,” she said firmly. “I’m the one with a diploma in child psychology.”
A beat.
John snorted.
Sherlock tilted his head slightly. “And yet, you asked the question.”
“That was rhetorical,” she shot back.
“It did not sound rhetorical.”
“It felt rhetorical.”
John, still gently patting Shelley, added, “For the record, that one was hunger mixed with mild outrage.”
Shruti pointed at him. “See? That’s an acceptable answer.”
Sherlock looked faintly unimpressed. “It is an oversimplification.”
“It is a useful simplification,” she corrected.
Shelley let out one last hiccup, then settled, her tiny hand clutching at John’s shirt.
Shruti watched her, softening despite herself.
“…Still dramatic,” she muttered.
Sherlock glanced at the now-quiet child.
“Genetic predisposition,” he said calmly.
Shruti turned to him, eyes narrowing.
“…You’re implying she got that from me?”
“I’m stating a pattern.”
John choked on a laugh.
Shruti grabbed the nearest cushion and threw it at Sherlock.
He caught it mid-air.
Effortlessly.
“Violence,” he noted.
“Don’t start.”
“Oh, don’t start—”
But he already had.
In one swift motion, Sherlock caught her wrists as she reached for another cushion—and this time, he didn’t let go.
“Sherlock—!”
He pinned her hands lightly against the back of the sofa, not rough, but firm enough to stop her completely.
“Violence,” he repeated, quieter now, a faint edge of amusement in his voice. “Unprovoked.”
“It was provoked,” she argued, struggling just enough to prove a point. “You provoked it—let go—”
“No.”
Her eyes flashed. “You are insufferable.”
“And you are escalating.”
From across the room, John didn’t even look up this time.
“I’m not getting involved,” he said, still holding a now-calm Shelley. “Last time I intervened, I got dragged into it.”
Shruti huffed, still pinned, hair slightly disheveled now.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Observing,” Sherlock corrected.
“Liar.”
A beat.
Then, quieter—
“Let go.”
Something in her tone shifted just enough.
Sherlock’s grip loosened.
Not fully—but enough.
She didn’t pull away immediately.
Instead, she just looked at him—annoyed, yes, but not entirely.
“…You’re impossible,” she muttered.
“Consistent,” he replied.
Another pause.
Then she finally slipped her hands free, smoothing her hair with a huff.
“I’m still angry.”
“I’m aware.”
“And I might still leave.”
“Unlikely.”
She rolled her eyes—but there was no real heat left in it.
From the side, John muttered,
“Five minutes. That’s a new record.”
Neither of them denied it.