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Sherlock's phone rang. He smiled; it was John's ring. Pulling his phone out of the pocket of his dressing gown, he answered it.
"Hey there," he said in a low, sexy voice. He was pleased to hear John laugh.
"Hey, Sherlock, I uh..."
"What? Is something wrong?"
"I'm fine, nothing's broken or anything, but... I had a bit of a fall, and sprained my arm pretty bad. I'm all right, thankfully."
"Where are you? I'll-"
"I'm at the clinic. Harry and Padme brought me, and they'll drive me home. I just didn't want you to worry. I'll be a bit late for dinner."
"Are you sure you're all right?"
"I'm fine. Just stay put and I'll be home as soon as I can."
"Okay. Oh! John..."
"Yes?"
"I love you."
"I love you, too, Sherlock."
Sherlock was waiting by the door when Harry opened it, standing aside so John could enter. His arm was in a sling, and there was a cut and a bruise on the right side of his face.
"John..." said Sherlock, stepping forward and gently taking John's face in his hands.
"It's all right, Sherlock," said John, "It looks worse than it feels."
"And the arm?"
"I got some pain meds."
"Good, good."
Sherlock looked at Harry.
"Thanks, Harry, I can take it from here."
"Okay," Harry replied. She turned to her brother. "Take care of yourself, John."
"Yeah, I will."
"And I'll help," Sherlock added.
With a nod, Harry headed back to her car.
Sherlock smiled at John.
"Come on, I've got dinner ready."
They entered the kitchen and John saw that the table was set, and he could smell their dinner.
"That smells familiar..."
Sherlock smiled.
"You sit down, I'll get our dinner."
John smiled. "Yeah, okay."
Sherlock made his way over to the stove and ladled out two helpings of soup. Using his cane with one hand and carrying John's soup with the other, he walked over and set it in front of him.
"Oyster soup! We didn't have... did you make this from scratch?"
"More or less," replied Sherlock.
"Oh, Sherlock... this must have taken a lot of work."
Sherlock waved it away. "It's fine. Cooking every once in awhile is actually kind of fun."
John smiled.
"What would you like to drink?"
"I think I should stick with water."
Sherlock gave him a puzzled look.
"Alcohol and pain meds are a bad combo."
"Ah, right. Water it is."
Sherlock got out two glasses. He put ice cubes in one and filled it water, then he poured some wine into the other glass.
As Sherlock walked over to the table with the glass of water, John got up.
"Sit," Sherlock ordered.
"It's okay, I can get-"
"Sit down, John," said Sherlock in an authoritative tone. "Relax and let me take care of you for once."
John stood for a moment, trying to decide if he should argue. Finally, he smiled and sat back down.
"Yeah, all right."
John waited until Sherlock had brought his own food to the table and sat down before he tried a spoonful of soup.
"Oh! This is amazing!"
"I'm glad you like it."
"I really appreciate this, Sherlock," said John. "I was planning just on scrounging up something simple."
"Yes, I know," said Sherlock. "And what sort of husband would I be if I let that happen?"
John smiled.
They ate in pleasant silence; John enjoying both the soup and Sherlock's attention.
After he finished his soup, John sat back, sighing.
"You're tired; you should go to bed."
John nodded.
"I'd like a shower first. I'll definitely need your help with that."
Sherlock nodded.
"Let me take care of things here," he said, indicating the dishes. Even as he said it, he got up and stacked his and John's bowls to take to the sink.
"All right," John replied. "I'll wait in the bathroom."
Sherlock walked into the bathroom to find John sitting on the (closed) toilet. His shirt and trousers where undone, but he hadn't managed, or hadn't tried, to pull them off.
"Here, let me get those," said Sherlock. He set the pyjamas he'd brought in on the top of the hamper.
John got to his feet as Sherlock slowly knelt in front of him. He removed John's shoes and socks, then moved up, pulling down his husband's trousers and pants. John stepped out of them, then sat back down so Sherlock could help him get his shirt off.
Finally out of his clothes, John walked over and sat on the low stool in their tub. Between their advancing age and Sherlock's bad leg, they had put the stool in there so neither of them had to try to get out of the tub, or stand the whole time they were showering.
Sherlock opened up and dragged a folding chair over to the tub. He got the body wash, shampoo, and a pouf and sat them on the edge of the tub right next to John.
Next, Sherlock took the showerhead off its hook and turned the water on. He adjusted it until it was the right temperature, then sat down on the folding chair.
"Ready?"
"Yeah," said John.
Sherlock wetted John's hair, then began running the water over John's shoulder and torso. John took the showerhead from Sherlock.
"John, let me-"
"I want you to wash my hair first," John replied. "I can manage the showerhead just fine."
"All right," said Sherlock. He got up, favouring his good leg as he poured some shampoo into his hand. He then began lathering up John's hair. He moved his long, strong fingers slowly over John's head, giving him a scalp massage as he washed his hair.
"Ah, this is nice," John cooed. He had relaxed, and his good hand, still holding the showerhead, was resting on his knee. The water was running between his legs.
"You know," Sherlock mused as he continued to rub John's scalp, "If you turned the showerhead inward a bit, you'd be having a really good time."
John snickered. "When did you become such an old pervert?"
"I know," said Sherlock, shaking his head. "You've been a terrible influence on me."
John laughed.
Sherlock gently tilted John's head back, bending nearly in half to kiss him.
"Let me rinse your hair," he said, reaching for the showerhead. John handed it to him, then tilted his head back a little further, covering his face with his good hand.
Sherlock carefully rinsed the shampoo out of John's hair. Then he sat down, pouring some of the body wash unto the pouf. He began gently washing John's back and shoulders. He moved around to the front, taking care not to jostle John's arm.
John smiled as Sherlock worked.
"This is nice," he said. "I wonder if I can get you to do this even after my arm's healed...?"
"Possibly," said Sherlock with a smirk. "I know I certainly milked it for all it was worth when I was injured."
"You were shot, Sherlock; that's a bit more than just spraining your arm because of your own clumsiness."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, obviously. But I still took advantage."
By this time, Sherlock had washed John's torso and legs. John stood so Sherlock could clean his middle.
"Yeah, you did a bit," said John.
"But..." John continued as Sherlock calmly, fairly clinically began cleaning his genitals, "I really don't mind when you take advantage of me."
Sherlock stopped, mid-stroke, and looked up at John. John was grinning like a loon.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "If you're suggesting-"
"I'm not 'suggesting' anything," said John, still smiling. "I'm just saying."
Sherlock looked at where his hand was; resting gently on John's scrotum. He smiled.
"Maybe when you've healed up a bit," said Sherlock.
Sherlock helped John into his pyjama bottoms (they didn't bother with the top), then changed into his own night clothes. They went into their bedroom, and John sat on the bed. He took a breath.
"Problem?" Sherlock asked.
John lay down. "Just... memories..."
Sherlock sat on the bed, sighing in relief at getting off his bad leg.
"You're thinking of the last time your arm was injured."
John shook his head. "I had a hell of a time trying to get a good night's sleep."
Sherlock brushed his fingers through John's grey hair, looking down at him sympathetically. "But, as you said yourself, you were shot. This is minor compared to that."
"I know, it's just..." John shook his head.
Laying down, Sherlock slid close to John. He kissed him gently.
"Would you like me to read to you?"
"What have you got?"
"A Practical Guide to Forensic Chemistry."
"Sounds thrilling," John snarked.
With a laugh, Sherlock picked up his cane and got to his feet. He put the chemistry book away and looked on the shelf where John kept his books.
"Lonesome Dove?"
"I just finished that one..."
"The Illustrated Man?"
"Eh..."
"The Haunted Mesa?"
"Oh! Yes, that one."
Sherlock smiled.
"All right."
He sat back down on the bed, sliding over close to John.
With some effort, John scooted over, laying his head on his husband's lap. Sherlock opened the book and began reading. Relaxing, John found that despite his discomfort, Sherlock's voice was quite soothing, and he was lulled into a pleasant, deep sleep.