Archive of Our Own

Sherlock had said once, it isn't the fall that kills you, it's the landing.

Natural instinct had John automatically scrabbling unsuccessfully for sure footing. That failing, he tried to brace himself, the crux and weight of a body in motion focused on a singular outstretched arm. At that point, it was all down to physics:  distance, time, mass, force, and velocity. If Sherlock were an uninvested or uninterested observer, he would likely have calculated the equation, using John's weight, the distance to the ground, the application of Newton's third law. The man, in motion; the pavement, solid and immovable. And unforgiving.

His arm failed to brace his fall. Immediate, severe pain ensued, exploding into him. Blinding. Later he would wonder why it was so different, distantly remembering the wartime injury and realising, by terrible first-hand comparative knowledge now, the historical, army-linked cardiovascular collapse, shock, with the loss of consciousness is a far superior and kinder way to experience trauma. Amidst the world rising to meet him, the fall from above, his breath taken away as the criminal jumbled in the wreckage of the structure - but John's immediate distress rendered him uncaring. Impact was coupled with the sound of muffled snapping, a solid breaking, shattering thunk. Then terrifying pain, the lightning hot, sudden, piercing, all-encompassing agony centered somewhere between elbow and wrist reduced him to only laser sharp pain taking over all sensations of his arm. It had been followed in short measure with a solid thwack, his shoulder and head taking the next impact, a bit of a sickening bounce. If John had been aware, watching as an uninvested observer, he might have made a comment about getting his bell rung.

Too shocked to do more than find an inhale and then one long guttural cry, he coiled in, curled on his side, the offending limb in his line of sight - cockeyed at an abnormal, non-sustainable angle, burgundy around bone protruding through not only his skin but his sleeve, bleeding. Stunned and overwhelmed with sensation. An epicenter of pain obliterated almost everything else.

Holy fuck that hurts.

Oh god ... Well now, that's a bit not good. Oh god ...

Noise from above, when Sherlock arrived a bit slower than usual, his distressed, out-of-breath words neither of them paid attention to. John! John! Ohmygod John!

Protective physiology kicked in, John's mentation that of pain-related distance, his head and ears ringing, his foggy mind behind a veil under a burst of endorphins. Scattered things got incompletely through: gray sky above, dotted with utility poles, the corners of buildings, old cement pattern-worked lattice eaves, written signs and bricks, and the pain still in focus. But duller, down a tunnel, his brain feeling quite pins and needles, that dizzying sensation, carried away by pain off the scales, he welcomed and leaned into the altered sensorium, the kind occurring just before a person loses consciousness. Noise and speech that didn't quite pierce through. Vision from the outside disappearing first, a collapsing tunnel in front of him, his pulse sounding loud and thrumming in his ears, and then, tachypneic, he surrendered with an exhale to the welcome merciful unconsciousness. John's eyes closed as he drifted ...

++

In the presence of trauma and severe pain, the body surges with catecholamines, stress hormones, to keep the basic units functioning. Blood pressure changes, diverting blood from non-essentials to the heart and brain. The body prepares to offset profound blood loss and haemorrhage, and the brain releases natural endorphins and enkephalins that help John immediately deal with pain as it dampens his perceptions. Vaguely, in the distance and behind darkened, closed eyelids, John was only peripherally aware of the summons, the sirens, the primary and secondary surveys done by the first on scene paramedic. John's circulation, his hyperventilation and shock, led him to an overall decreased sensation, tingling throughout, protectively shielding him from the pain and nerve and tissue injury of his upper extremity. The head injury, ironically somewhat protective.

Blink. A bright light shone at him, an eye held open by a nitrile gloved fingertip. It was all grayscale. Silver sky over someone's shoulder, the top outline of a nearby charcoal building, roof angles and more gray. He might have identified his location or the environment in his vision but nothing was connecting, his brain overwhelmed and processing very minimally. "Steady, on my count, we turn." There were more directions, something about the hard collar, the spinal alignment, the placement of the backboard, but John floated away again.

He paid no attention to the bulky stabilisation of his mangled arm, a few thick pieces of gauze over the slow bleeding, dark and venous. The sharp pierce of a large bore IV in his uninjured antecub didn't register. The medics discussed criteria for tourniquet only if needed for haemostasis. There was then a padded, protective air splint, the wheeled gurney, the slam of ambulance door, the vehicular rumbling of transport, the lights and sirens. He was unaware that Sherlock was in attendance, down by his feet, that the ride was tense, Sherlock demanding answers that the paramedics didn't have and couldn't give. Someone spoke vital signs - blood pressure low, heart rate elevated. He didn't hear the hiss of automated hospital ambulance entry doors. He missed the complete clothing removal, the trauma workup, the positioning under a portable xray machine, the CAT scan of his head, and would have no recollection of his barest of purposeful attempts to follow commands of a targeted neuro exam. Sherlock would later be grateful that John was oblivious to most of the A&E, the demands for immediate medical updates, that John didn't hear the vicious tone of his voice, that the explanation for non-opioid pain medication was the best and most appropriate care at this specific juncture, and all the rest.

Sherlock himself wouldn't want to remember that, either, let alone having John - caretaking, problem-solving, crisis-management John - awake for that.

There was shivering, whether from rapid infusion of IV fluids, trauma, shock, or actual sensation of cold, but eventually, warm blankets had been applied, a second liter of fluids was spiked, and the pain medication had been given some time to work. John wasn't specifically aware of these things either.

"Dr. Watson?" Words eventually drifted across his frontal lobe, from distant places, barely piercing his thoughts, his awareness. With another breath, warm, comfortable in his fog, his mind, he didn't fight his way up to respond. Until there was a firmer tone combined with a shaking touch over his collarbone. "Dr. Watson, hey, open your eyes if you can. You're in the hospital."

The question failed to coalesce, but John's puzzled look must've spurred the nurse to further explanation. "Bit of an injury. Concussion, most likely; but your head and neck CT was clear." Her gaze was kind and concerned as she peered at him closely. "You with me? You'll be okay. Compound fracture, radius and ulna. Bleeding's stopped. Nod your head that you're following." Albeit slowly, he complied, following the command without really understanding, to which she smiled kindly at him. "Good. Waiting on surgeon now, so they can fix your arm. Deep breath," she told him, stretching to reach above him to silence the alarming bedside heart monitor. A nasal cannula was already in place over his ears, and she repositioned it in his nose, and he couldn't stop the reflexive turning away from the higher flow invading his nose. "Now, none of that. Oxygen's a little low. Deep breath," she cued again. His free hand reached slightly toward his face to remove the offending plastic, but the blankets and the IV and then the nurses hand prevented that. "Let's leave that be."

"Where ...?" was the only word that he seemed capable, and she thought he'd meant 'where am I?' so she told him UC London, named the doctor on call who was en route.

"No," he said quietly, his chest feeling tight, his body heavy, his fingers and feet numb and tingly. "Sherlock? My --" He didn't know how to finish that sentence so he didn't.

Her smile was a little telling, but before he could complain or seek info, there was more explanation. "He's down the hall. He was a little ... let's say, woozy, seeing your injury. We sent him off to gather himself. One of the policemen was with him. Gray haired chap." Tired, still drifting, John gave a slow nod. "You've had some pain meds, and we have your arm immobilised and elevated, with ice packs. Do you know what day it is?" He answered correctly, and followed up with his name, date of birth, and the PM. "Are you having a lot of pain now?"

"Not too bad," he whispered, glancing toward where his arm was indeed elevated on a couple of pillows. Ice packs rested over the mid-section, and a paper drape precluded his actual viewing of his fingers. "Little numb," he said. "Quite, actually. Probably a good thing?" Some of the dots came into focus for him, though the narcotic and stress hormones blunted a lot of the minutiae. "What happened again?"

"Compound arm fracture, remember? Waiting on surgery to repair. You were following someone?" She waited for him to nod, though it was slow. "You have some swelling, probably around the nerves." The nurse adjusted one of the ice packs then apparently touched his hand, and John felt a very muted, very dull and distant sensation on his index finger, made a humming sound of ... unpleasantness. "You feel that?"

"Yes," he breathed, recalling the grisly appearance of bones, of dark red blood welling up. Sensation, he knew, was reassuring that there was some nerve function. It was promising. "Dull, but yes."

"I'm looking for a Dr. John Watson?" A deep, confident voice sounded from the doorway.

The nurse affirmed it, and patted John's other hand. "Your surgeon."

"Dr. Watson, I ..."

"It's John." His voice sounded flat and slow to his own ears. "Please."

"I'm David Clemons, John. Not exactly the way I prefer to meet our more famous London clientele."

"Not me. My flatmate ..." Words came slowly and then disappeared from whatever John had been planning to say. Thinking about where Sherlock was - and wasn't - derailed his thoughts. He blinked, the void around him dull and nearly empty.

"Ah yes, I heard he had an expected meeting of the floor. Little scalp lac, needs a few sutures, he should be good as new." His amusement, had John been clear enough to make the connection, would have assured John that Sherlock was indeed quite all right. But this was shock upon shock as he continued, "I don't imagine that little anecdote will make it onto your blog, will it?"

John was actually stunned at that previously withheld piece of news and missed the cautionary hand of the nurse toward the surgeon too late to shut him up. His own altered mind, slowly processing, he barely got out a whispered 'what?', before the doc continued.

John missed most of what the surgeon then said. "You on the other hand, have a compound fracture and are going to need some hardware, plate and screws, both bones. It's fairly straightforward to fix and I'm hoping not to need the external hardware, everything should be installed inside. It's open now, so it'll need a good clean out, irrigation. Re-alignment, rigid fixation, to let everything heal. Some antibiotics. Stay overnight. Casted at least four to six weeks, depending on how your x-rays progress post op." He hesitated, seeing the non-processing that John was doing. "Did you get any of that? You with me? You'll be fine. ORIF, plates, screws, a cast ... You understand, John?"

"Sherlock?" His mind, overwhelmed, not to mention medicated, was stuck on the very first bit of information they'd dropped.  John saw but didn't really observe the look the doctor and nurse exchanged.

"He got a little dizzy, knees buckled once he got in with you, got a look up close." The nurse came closer to his line of vision. "He's getting a few sutures as we speak. That detective is with him."

The doc, glancing first at the wall clock as the nurse was speaking, then spoke a bit more plainly. "The plan, as I said, surgery to repair. Looks like the OR will be ready for you soon. Anesthesiologist will see you before that. Do you have any additional questions?"

"Wait." Attempting to blink his mind, his thoughts clear, John tried to press up on his other, non-affected elbow. "I want to see him first, before I go." Even to his own ears, his voice sounded tight and foreign.

The doctor misunderstood, "Yes, anaesthesia will be --" When he realised what John intended, he halted when the nurse shook her head at him.

"I'm not sure that's good idea, given that he ..." the nurse began. "They're still finishing up with him I believe."

Gently, the doc interrupted. "Long as he doesn't delay things, or hurt himself. Again," he attempted a little humour before consulting his mobile. He answered the text, then, slid the mobile back into a pocket. "The OR team will be down to collect you pretty soon okay? Until then, Mr. Holmes can come wait with you here."

"In a wheelchair, yes," the nurse said, with some degree of seriousness, before leaving the curtained off area of the A&E.

"Okay," John said quietly, relaxing back against the elevated headrest of the stretcher he was lying on. "Thanks." In the haze of pain medications, the trauma of what had happened, the head injury, he was still quite foggy but relieved that he'd get to lay eyes on Sherlock.

"In the meantime, the requisite terror of paperwork." Dr. Clemons had a clipboard in his hand, and a pen poised for a fact-finding mission.

The doc reviewed his surgical history, confirmed the only allergy was to bee stings, asked about his last meal which was many hours ago, and had John clumsily sign the consent form, best he could with his non-dominant hand. A targeted assessment of his sensation, along with the physician relaying to him the nature and location of the fractures, using sober words such as open, oblique, and comminuted. Although he reassured John it was the most common type of compound fracture, they'd take their time and get him fixed up soon.

"Much as probably neither of us see the necessity, I am also required to have you sign your surgical site." John almost snorts at that until he realises the surgeon is not kidding, and there is some assistance as John makes a mark on the skin of the injured arm, up near his bicep. "I'll see you in the OR, then, in a little while."

Whatever pain med they'd given him earlier was still working, and he drifted off in a fog, a gently rolling ship, a blessed relief from the pain and the hardship of waiting. A bit later, distantly, John heard Sherlock coming long before he saw him. It was not surprising in the least that he was arguing about what he considered ridiculous, the unnecessary wheelchair, the restrictions.

The nurse appeared solo at first to lay a thin drape over his already covered injury, hiding ice pack and pale digits and the bit of bloody gauze, then brought Sherlock to John's non-injured side. For a moment, neither of them spoke, and the nurse admonished both of them to be careful, pressing her hand on Sherlock's shoulder, wordlessly emphasising the need to stay seated, and left them alone.

"Well, that was humiliating," Sherlock hissed, turning his face away from John to glare at something - nothing - in the far reaches of the room.

"You okay?" John wished he could reach out, to turn Sherlock's head toward him, to pry off the edge of the scalp dressing and check the incision line, the sutures, the size of the damage.

"Of course I'm not okay." Turning back, he stared at John, meeting his eyes, his own stormy gray and unreadable. A folded gauze square adorned the upper left portion of Sherlock's forehead secured by a few pieces of clear tape. "And neither are you."

"Fixable. Both things." John became aware of a couple things simultaneously - his thoughts, definitely not even approaching normal, his detachment seemed to be waxing and waning in waves of disorientation, and along with that came the increase in throbbing discomfort of a swollen, misshapen, compound fractured limb. For a moment, he stared at the outline of the sheet-covered bulky mess of his arm. "The surgeon was here." Although the explanation was very recent, John struggled to find description that would make sense. "Going to ... repair. Hopefully. At least I think ..." I'm not sure exactly what he said, John may or may not have spoken out loud. "Pins?"

"Yes." He hesitated, wanting to reach out and touch John, himself, for reassurance. "Molly's keeping Rosie tonight." At seven, Rosie and Molly frequently planned little get-togethers, and were working their way through a series of child-friendly TV shows. Rosie was pestering for a cat, too, and was trying to talk Molly into the cat (Toby) having his own social media page. "Molly says get well soon, or something along that line of drivel."

"Drivel," he echoed with a quiet snort at Sherlock's word choice. "But no pets." Somewhere ingrained in John's mind, he knew making decisions under the influence - of anything - was a bad idea.

"Obviously."

Sherlock set tentative fingers on John's forearm, feeling the dread of whatever was coming and the unsettled tension inside. "John, I'm --"

Motion occurred at the doorway, and two scrub wearing staff arrived. "We're from the OR." His words were easy and kind. "Looking for John Watson."

Things happened quickly from there, one of them introducing himself as John's anaesthesiologist. He briefly confirmed John's birth date and the expected procedure, and reviewed that he would be assuring John slept through the repair with no awareness of pain. "Any questions Mr. Watson?"

"No, I guess not."

"Are you having pain right now?"

"Yes, but it's ... vague. Better ...?" For a moment, he looked over at the barrier-covered extremity, perhaps tried to move it, gave a quiet gasp, something between ouch and a breath. "Hurts."

"Okay then. We'll give you a small dose of pain meds and a small dose of sedative, then take you upstairs, the med will make the ride easier, help you relax and make you just a little sleepy. Midazolam. Then fentanyl."

"All right." John watched with disinterest, actually, as he swabbed his IV line and administered the medications. For a moment, he sought out Sherlock's worried face, making and holding eye contact. It all felt very surreal, disconnected.

The anaesthesiologist spoke again. "Let's go get that arm taken care of." The sheets were straightened, the brakes on his stretcher undone, the foot pump lever making the bed higher so it would be easier to push, and began to roll out to the hallway.

"Stop, please," Sherlock asked, rising to his feet despite being cautioned not to. To John, he spoke, "I'll be ... waiting. Somewhere." His fingers were cool and clammy on John's shoulder.

"Mmm-kay ... see you." The slow, sedated voice from earlier was even softer, as John was groggy in ways Sherlock envied. Moments later Sherlock was left standing in an empty room, wheelchair behind him, heart pounding, skin tingling, mildly nauseous, feeling bereft in so many ways.

HIs forehead throbbed, from inside and out, as a nurse came into the room then, ready to scold him, until she saw his stricken expression and, with a compassionate smile, helped him sit back down in the chair. He was still sitting there, shell-shocked, when Greg appeared in his line of vision. His voice was something between pitying and apologetic. "John'll be all right," he said as preamble. "I have to run, something blew up -- no not literally, before you get wrongly interested -- and," he paused to roll his eyes. "Maybe I should call your brother. To come wait with you?"

"God no." 

"You should ... I don't know, find somewhere to wait. Eat something?"

The suggestion alone gave Sherlock more nausea, and he gestured for Greg to shoo.

When the nurse came back to check on him, to let him know a volunteer from the transport office was on their way to bring him to the surgical suite waiting area, all she found was the empty wheelchair and the torn-off patient ID band discarded on the floor.

++

"Are you waiting here for Mr. Watson?" The question interrupted an article in an older paper magazine, an analysis of The Great Influenza of 1918.

He welcomed the interruption for several reasons, primarily, for the update on John. But also because, to his frustration, he was having trouble concentrating. "Yes." It was a relief to set the magazine aside. "I am." He'd checked in with the volunteer desk that was placed just outside the surgery doors. It was a guard, a blockade, a controlled funnel, but he'd given his name, and John's, and the system thankfully - surprisingly - had worked.

"Surgery's done. I'll take you to meet him, you can follow him up to his room where he'll be spending the night."

In his mind, he corrected that to, where we'll be spending the night, but he kept quiet as he followed the woman down a hallway to where two other staff was just arriving.

One of the nurses smoothed the blanket up over John's shoulder as Sherlock approached. His eyes were closed, dents from an oxygen cannula over his cheekbones, and his face seemed puffy. But his colour was less pale than earlier, and he did not seem to be in any distress. "He's pretty groggy, of course," she said, then paused as she caught sight of him, the bandage on his forehead. "You involved in the same accident?"

"Loosely, yes."

From the bed, John breathed deeply and offered a low chuckle. "No he wasn't." His voice was raspy and gravelly from either disuse or recently used airway equipment. Or both.

Interrupting, Sherlock came close to the side, ready to divert the conversation in any way he might have to. "You look - your arm looks - better," he peered intently at John's cast, with swollen fingers pale, all of which was elevated on a couple of pillows and covered with a white, moldable ice pack. "Any pain?"

"None. But that's because they do a nerve block. Very numb right now, a little achey. Tomorrow, it'll be ... " Words like excruciating or substantial escaped John's attempt to use. His half-mast eyes were rather glassy.

"A little worse," the nurse finished for him. "Bone surgery is like that for sure," the other nurse said, indicating that they should likely get moving. "But you'll get stronger stuff in the IV, if you need overnight, then prescriptions for home."

"What room are we going to?"

"424 bed 2."

That detail did not pass by Sherlock. "Wait. What? Bed 2, as in there's a bed 1? No," Sherlock said. "No. He needs a private room."

"Actually, except for ICU, and postpartum, all our rooms are semi-private. He'll have the bed by the window, so ..."

"No. John!"

"It's fine. It's just for one night." The lift arrived then, and conversation took another direction as they slid in, taking care not to jostle John's bed too much, and then it was only a short hallway until they were at John's door.

Sherlock stood off to one side as the bed was steered into the room, past a pulled curtain, positioned, and another nurse and technician arrived to assess John, refresh the ice pack, and stow his belongings. "Is your mobile in the bag?" Sherlock asked, halting their movements to simply put it away. "Do you want it?"

"Should be," John said, his voice still a little hoarse, groggy. "And no. Ugh, killer sore throat."

"Breathing tube from surgery," the nurse advised him, "It's normal, and it'll get better."

"Or we can just go home. I'll get you that coffee ice cream you like," Sherlock uttered with a bit of a displeased look at the room. Despite the privacy curtain between the beds, Sherlock found it unacceptable. This was just not on.

"There's no IV pain meds at home, so, no thanks."

"There could be," Sherlock said before realising that comments like that don't actually go over well among healthcare professionals. Or John, when he was not recovering from anaesthesia.

"He's kidding. This is fine."

"You made the bed by the window sound like a good thing. That's the worst view ever," Sherlock grumbled.

The younger, taller nurse seemed to check out the window as if for the first time. "You may be right. But here we all are." The discoloured brick buildings adjacent and across the street were rustic at best. Words like chipped, worn, broken, and ugly also applied.

"Mr. Watson, what else --"

"It's Dr. Watson, actually," Sherlock quipped quickly, snapping.

"It's John, please," he amended, a glance toward Sherlock, who was simply radiating displeasure, a tornado unsure of its path but eager to begin the destruction wherever it touched. "This is --"

"You can't stay here." He directed this at John, then turned to the nurse, "He can't stay here. Surely there is a private room somewhere."

"I'll get you settled, bring you some water, hook you up for a little monitoring." She pressed the call bell button into his hand. "Here, if you need something in the 90 seconds before I come back, feel free. Do you need pain meds yet?"

"No, still numb. Water would be great, thanks."

"One for you too?" the nurse offered Sherlock, who was still looking slightly horrified that John would be in this room, this semi-private room, and that no one was taking him seriously.

"Of course not. We're not staying here."

John tried not to cringe. "Sherlock, please. Stop it. Just ... stop it. It's fine, now, do you want water or not?"

Sherlock's blinking was all John got in answer, so he affirmed with a touch of sarcasm that water would be wonderful, yes please, and they were then left in the small area, John in the bed, Sherlock, displeased, standing near him.

"It's just one night."

"I wanted to stay with you."

"Don't you think Baker Street is better for you, given that, you know, in case Rosie needs something, you would ..."

"John, don't you understand? This could have been ... much worse than the concussion and broken arm. It could have been ... " His voice grew rough with something he'd have denied was sentiment.

"I know. I had the same thought, that guy could have ... killed you. Of course, then the railing gave way."

"And you had a please god let me live moment?" Huffing with annoyance, Sherlock absently brushed a few fingertips over the bandage on his forehead, then realised. Embarrassed, he tucked his hand down again. "This is wrong."

"On a lot of levels, yes." Faintly, John could feel the nigglings of queasy sensations begin, and he spoke, "I need my head up more," then when Sherlock didn't react immediately, it became more urgent as John could feel the over-salivation, the burning in his throat. John added, "God, now, please, I'm gonna be --" and as he reached blindly for the bed control, the retching began.  Sherlock, not at his best, either, grappled for the basin opposite John's bed, then struggled to find the call bell and the bed control all at once.

The resultant tangle of arms, John's frantic clutching the plastic bin, the need to empty his stomach, was disheartening.

++

"Is the ondansetron helping?" the nurse asked, having changed the top sheets, John's gown, and wiped him down with a few warm cloths. He'd refused more than that. For now. "Might take a little."

"Not really." His words were flat. "If I just lay here, it's not as bad." With his eyes closed, he attempted to focus on his breathing, trying to will away the multiple things that didn't feel quite right. "Tell me again, what did they do?"

The nurse's fingers were cool against John's shoulder. "Sure. Open reduction, internal fixation of displaced fractures of both radius and ulna. Some unusual ..." she paused, opening her report sheet from within her pocket, "Let's see, Galeazzi fracture? Does that sound right?" John nodded, then regretted the movement as he could feel unsettled again, dizzying sensations just from that slight activity. "I had to look it up. Sorry, just keep still. I won't ask you anything again. Good reduction, everything aligned well with the plate and screws. Something about restoring the radial bow? Which sounds like it went well. I mean, it was a terrible accident, but you're on the mend now."

"If he wasn't sick to his stomach, you mean," Sherlock interjected. "And stuck in this room with a roommate."

"Place is pretty full, so we can't block an empty bed. It'll only be for one night, so," she explained. "We'll be checking on him. And John, your only job is to let us know if you need something. How you're feeling."

"He won't do it. He'll just lay here and suffer rather than be a bother to anyone. Which is why I'm going to stay with him."

"Can't, sorry. Not in these tiny rooms, with another patient."

"I want to talk to your supervisor."

"Sure," the nurse said, "but it's not going to change the answer. You're not the only one ever to ask. And --"

"Sherlock, stop it. It's fine." John's voice was gruff, between the breathing tube for surgery and the vomiting. "Go home. You should rest your head, too."

"I'm not leaving you." There was a bit of desperation in Sherlock's tone, his delivery, his body language. Despite the anaesthesia and sedatives, John could tell he was ... beyond upset.

The nurse did truly seem sorry for it as she checked John's remaining IV fluids, the IV site, and pulled the bedside table closer so he could get what he needed with his uninjured arm. There were tissues, the water, a basin, and the patient call bell. "Oh, and there's this," she said, hanging a plastic bottle on the side of the bed. "I'll check back in on you in a little bit. Put the call light on if you need." Addressing Sherlock, she tried to placate him, too. "And visiting hours don't end for a while, so make yourself comfortable. You've got some time yet."

"It's not okay. It's unacceptable," Sherlock seethed, dragging a chair closer to John so he could speak quietly. His head pounding, he found himself plotting how and when to get his ridiculous brother involved. He considered just calling an Uber and forcibly removing John himself. The pounding, the overall whirring in his ears, seemed specifically point tender at the line of sutures on his forehead. "We could --" 

"It'll be all --" John began, just as another wave of nausea hit him, and he groaned softly as he reached yet again for the basin.

Although John had recently been sick and theoretically should have had very little remaining in his stomach, that was not the case, and Sherlock didn't even ask his opinion, just pressed the nurse call himself. And, dejectedly, realised that John was indeed going to have to spend the night in this infernal room. Without him.

++

"You might as well go home," John said, miserably. His throat even rougher than before. He couldn't get comfortable, with his stomach or his arm, or his foggy, fuzzy head, and he'd refused pain meds just given the vomiting he was already doing.

Before Sherlock could protest that, the nurse was back, with a somewhat cautionary look about her. "Surgeon says we can't do more nausea meds just yet. Wanted me to run an NG tube option by you. It might give you some relief," she added, quietly.

"No," John breathed, his good hand coming to rest over his stomach, hoping for relief. "Not yet," he amended. The NG tube, a nasogastric tube, could be inserted through the nose with the end eventually resting in the stomach. It would be connected to suction and would drain all stomach contents as well as any saliva John would swallow, the normal gastric juices. It did often give patients relief from nausea. But, he knew, they were also quite unpleasant going in, as was simply having one in place, so he didn't want it. Unless truly there was no other option. In other words, if not having it became too miserable to bear.

"Might be the concussion. Or the concussion plus the anaesthesia. They gave you dexamethasone during the case, which theoretically should have helped." With a small, resigned smile, the nurse offered a warm blanket, which John accepted, if a little flatly, just given how lousy he was feeling. "Call bell is right here," she said, placing it in John's unencumbered hand. "Your only job, and I'm being completely serious here, is to use it if you need something." She waited for him to acknowledge the statement. "Or you change your mind about the NG tube."

"I won't," John assured her. "Not unless ..." And he made a sound as his stomach again began to revolt, but he breathed through it and a few moments later, laid his head back against the pillow. The room was silent as the nurse disappeared, checking in quietly with the patient in bed 1 on her way out the door. John wondered for a moment if perhaps Sherlock had left as well, so opened an eye to check. Still in the chair, perched like a seated gargoyle, he sat with serious, blinking eyes, just watching John. He watched the IV pump, green lights indicating it was working well, the occasional pulsating sound of the motor. He cut back his gaze quickly to John, then would find something else to stare at - the bed linens, the two siderails that were clicked into place on either side of John's head, the angle of elevation of John's arm. John wanted to speak, to offer reassurances that he'd be okay if Sherlock went home, but the words were heavy and slow in his mind - which he found mildly concerning - and the nausea was riding just below the surface of his consciousness. Instead, he allowed the exhaustion, coupled with the recent sedation, to pull him under. He closed his eyes, hopeful that things would be greatly improved when he awakened.

++

The room was faintly lit when John next opened his eyes, and for a moment, he had zero clues what was going on. He'd been awakened by a faint groan, and it seemed apparently the sound had come from him, from his own throat. There was also the sensation of discomfort in his neck, his stomach, and he could feel the faint burning of stomach acid. Worse, there was the distant throbbing in his arm. Oh right, it occurred to him, yes, surgery, recovery, in the hospital. 

"John?" the whispered voice came from the chair at the foot of his bed. "You all right?"

Afraid to speak for the bile he could feel rising, he settled on another faint groan, "mmmm."

"Do you need me to get someone?"

"No," he breathed, closing his eyes again, only to find that the spinning, the dizzying sensations were worse that way. When he tried to focus, Sherlock was standing close by, in his line of vision. John thought about saying hello, but couldn't bring himself to form the words.

"You look awful." Taking a closer look at John's expression, his pallor, his frown, he could also tell, "You're having pain."

"Yes." John couldn't have masked his grimace even if he wanted to. "Time?" Sherlock told him. "You can go home." With his unfettered hand, he moved as if to cradle his epigastric area, pressing slightly as if that could alleviate some of his symptoms.

"You sure you don't need --?"

"No." As soon as he spoke the word, the dry heaves hit again, and Sherlock couldn't stop the sigh. All in all, he much preferred problems he could solve - and fix - and this seemed far out of his influence. There was a soft noise of distress, John obviously uncomfortable, miserable.

"This is why I didn't want to leave." Sherlock leaned in, pressed the nurse call. "Because you're so bloody stubborn."

A few moments later, there was a nurse there to see Sherlock holding the basin in front of John as he was sick again. "I think it's time, that nausea med is due again. I'm getting it right now."

When the nurse returned, it was with another practitioner as well. "I'm Loretta, from the surgery team. Was coming by to check on you, and sounds like my timing was good." She took a moment, evaluating his fingers, the skin colour and temperature of his arm, adjusting the pillow elevation slightly. "This looks good. I'm sure the nausea is the anaesthesia and head injury combo. Plus, pain makes many people sick to their stomach too. Going to order a fluid bolus, some scheduled IV paracetamol, runs right in the IV, most of my patients find good relief with it." She paused, unrushed, her smile kind. "I'm sorry for your nausea. But this med'll help - and it won't aggravate your stomach." She glanced between Sherlock and John, then her eyes cut immediately back to Sherlock's forehead. "You're a little wounded, too."

"I'm fine, compared to this," Sherlock said quietly.

The nurse had already pulled the computer workstation close, and had several vials of medications for John there. "I have good stuff for you. Extra fluids. The nausea med, ondansetron, again. Hope this one will help for longer. I'll be back soon with the other, that IV paracetamol. It's a great option." John kept his eyes closed, trying to doze off, as Sherlock watched on. Eventually the nurse came back, connected the IV pain med, and made sure John had the call bell in his hand. "Let me know if you need something."

"K."

"I mean that," she cautioned.

In response, John simply picked up the call bell without making a sound and tried to give her a tiny smile.

Over the next few minutes, John's condition did seem to stabilise. And then improve. The smaller IV fluid bolus infused, bag emptying over a short time, and with it, the dose of pain medication. His nausea abated and, at least for the moment, did not seem to be returning. The nurse freshened the ice pack over his arm, assuring his shoulder and elbow were supported. "I can't exactly explain the IV pain med. It's intravenous paracetamol, but for some reason, our bone surgery patients really benefit from it." Her whisper was quiet as she stood next to Sherlock, watching John rest. His breathing was even and indicated, perhaps, he was lightly dozing. "I'm the night nurse, too, by the way." They both were interrupted by a quiet tone, an overhead page, in the hallway informing visitors that visitation hours were ending, and to please leave quietly and promptly so that patients can rest. "I'll be keeping an eye on him."

"He won't ring," Sherlock informed her.

"I know. I'm going to put a wireless pulse ox on him. At least that way, we can see his heart rate from the desk. I'll know if he's resting, or in distress." A bit conspirator, a bit problem solving, she let her voice get even quieter. "I'll tell him it's to keep an eye on his surgery side perfusion, make sure his hand is getting good flow."

"Tell him it's because he's untrustworthy." In the hallway, there were people walking past, following the bloody rules, Sherlock thought. "He could still be discharged tomorrow?"

"Of course. Tonight, it's just keeping stable, meds for nausea again if he needs. Pain management." Fondly, she patted him on the arm, her eyes even showing sympathy for Sherlock's obvious reluctance to leave. "Here," she offered the marker hook-and-looped to the white board. "Leave your mobile number. I'll call you if there's a change. Looks like you should maybe rest your own injury."

From the bed came some sudden movement, John's good arm brushing at his face, restlessly, followed by him opening his eyes. "I need --" His hand grabbed for the urinal bottle, and the nurse grabbed gloves to step closer. 

"Take care, all right? Now's a good time to leave, I'll help him."

"Good night, John." Sherlock could see that his needs were indeed fairly urgent and, not wanting to make either of them uncomfortable, he waited for John to murmur his own goodbye. Then, with his own nausea brewing at the thought of leaving him, at the knowledge of what could have happened, he somehow managed to leave the room. In his wake, he could hear the nurse explaining to John that, just this once, he'd probably need a little help, given that he was one-armed.

Though he did head toward the lifts, he had zero inclination to actually leave the building.

++

"Can I help you?"

The question, asked for the third time at a slightly higher volume, pierced his consciousness and his dull headache. For a brief moment, he had no idea exactly where he was, where he'd nodded off. Oh, that's right. Hospital. Specifically, in a waiting room several floors beneath John Watson.

"Excuse me, sir? Are you all right?"

He'd wandered down to one of the lobbies, pretended to be with another group when someone spotted him. It was relatively close to A&E, within the building, a barely tolerable distance from John. He'd removed the white beacon on his forehead, the bandage over the blasted stitches he'd received, and folded himself into an obscure, out of the way reclining chair. He'd been hoping to avoid discovery altogether. "I'm fine."

"Are you waiting to be seen? Have you been logged in with our triage nurse?"

"Waiting on a friend." He hoped a vague answer would satisfy the question.

"You've been here a while." There was a knowing squint to the person speaking to him, a uniformed man with a security name badge on a lanyard. "What's the name, and I'll go check on their location for you."

"Not necessary."

"You realise, inpatient visiting doesn't start until tomorrow, or well, actually later today, at ten." For a moment, Sherlock kept quiet, understanding it was just a little bit past midnight. He understood exactly what was at stake, that annoying this officer would get him thrown out of the building for sure. The headache was such that trying to concentrate on what one of the man's pressure points was, worsened it, and he couldn't even logically deduce how to get what he wanted. "I understand it's hard to leave. But you'll sleep better in your own bed, and you need a breath of fresh air, perhaps a meal, then tomorrow when you return, it'll be better." The voice was gentle, surprisingly, and Sherlock found himself wishing Mycroft could argue the point for him. But exhausted, he kept quiet. "Look, how about I call a cab for you, get you into it."

"I'm fine here." Sherlock gestured with a wobbly hand at the chair in which he was sprawled out. "Not hurting anyone."

"Come on, mate." The body language and posture of the security guard changed into something bigger, more authoritative, more assertive. "Cab stands right out front here. I'll walk you out." Sherlock's stand off lasted only another minute and ended when the guard reached for the radio link on his collar. He was weak enough, and 'off' enough, that he allowed himself to be assisted, steadied, and accompanied through the hydraulic doors leading outside. And indeed there was a cab waiting.

The security guard prompted him for the address and made sure he had means to pay, before guiding him into the back seat.

"Where to?" came the question from the front seat.

"221 B Baker Street." The guard answered before Sherlock could undo bloody anything, and once Sherlock had cleared the car door, it closed behind him.

What the hell just happened here? Sherlock wondered as the vehicle began to move. The ride was quick, the cabbie quiet and efficient.

The further the distance from the hospital, from John, the more unsettled Sherlock became. It galled him that he'd allowed himself to be ejected from the building, and it occurred to him he could just change his mind and have the cabbie take him back. But his head was indeed pounding, and he tried to see the upside. He could, potentially, rest at home, gather clothes for John to come home in - have no doubt about it, Sherlock declared to himself, John will be coming home today - recharge his mobile, and wait it out. Confirm plans for Rosie. Perhaps even, his throbbing head would appreciate a familiar pillow, the familiar scents of his own comfortable sitting room. The flat was oppressively quiet and dark, and aggravatingly John-less. Sherlock grabbed his mobile, tucked into the couch, and tried to let his mind decelerate. His resonating pulse rate thrummed harsh behind his head, did become less intense. Although he didn't expect to actually fall asleep, when he next opened his eyes, it was just starting to be light out.

++

John's nurse was extremely unconvinced. "Are you sure?" Analytic eyes took in John's pallor, the emesis bag nearby though at this moment unused, and the pained look in his eyes. "We could keep you another night, the doc said."

"I want to go home," John stated, quietly wondering at his stubbornness, that the wiser idea would be to stay, to continue with hydration while managing pain. The defiant behaviour was coming forward without his needing to choose. At the skeptical face the nurse made, he amended, "I think."

The overnight was rough, and the morning hadn't shown to be that much better. He'd slept in fits and starts, requiring pain meds, dry heaving that awakened him from the rare moment of shallow sleep, lightly dozing for very short intervals only to startle awake with distress. The morning, though, had brought a conundrum:  a head injury to be balanced with pain meds that might make him nauseous, but the pain might be causing the nausea as well. The scheduled IV dose of paracetamol, the final dose, had already been given, and John was still uncomfortable. To put it mildly. "Your surgeon said he'd be back mid-morning, re-evaluate, so it's him you'll have to convince. You'll need a good plan. Maybe think about an antiemetic, the one that dissolves under the tongue, thirty minutes before the pain pill." She'd already brought him fresh ice, and helped him sit upright more, fixed the pillow under the casted arm, arranged the ice pack. "And here, you can still get the stronger narcotic, John. After the ondansetron? I'll go fetch it, if you agree."

"Yes. Thanks."

It was in that position later, after the meds had kicked in, that Sherlock found John, sound asleep in the hospital room. John's nurse for the day must have spotted him, and came to the bedside next to him, both of them watching John sleep, breathe, rest.

"He just fell asleep, couple minutes ago. Doc said he'd be back, talk discharge later today perhaps. Going to finish up this bag of IV fluids, and see how he's doing." The noise at the bedside must have penetrated John's consciousness a little, and he turned his head but didn't open his eyes. She lowered her voice even more to ask Sherlock, "How are you? Head ok?" She stared hard for a moment at his bruised forehead, with the sutures in it, noticed that he simply shrugged in answer. "I'll be around, okay?"

"Yes, thanks." Sherlock didn't necessarily want her to leave. "But he's doing okay otherwise?"

"Nauseous. And some pain, expected of course. But yes, he's okay." With a smile and a quick pat on the upper arm, she left him there with John. And, Sherlock tried not to seethe about it, the intrusive presence of the thankfully silent roommate.

++

It wasn't long before John was awake again, but Sherlock didn't notice until his name, sounding raspy and soft, interrupted his doom-scrolling. "Sherlock?"

The mobile, in Sherlock's hand, suspended midair as Sherlock looked sharply at John. "You're awake. And ... looking a mite green."

John made a low sound in his throat, one of confusion, and then he seemed surprised by the state of his casted arm. "I thought maybe I was dreaming."

"Try to move it, I'm sure it ..."

"Ow."

"... hurts."

"See, not a dream. You do remember?"

"Yes, bloody scaffolding." John blinked a few times, trying to clear his head or minimise pain or perhaps both. "Open reduction?"

"Yes. Internal hardware. Compound break, and ... Gallileo fracture?"

"Oh, Galeazzi."

"They're maybe going to let you go home today."

"And then again," came the deep voice from the doorway, "maybe they're not." Standing tall in scrubs was one of the surgical team, smiling at them both. The smile faded a little as he looked at John. "How do you feel, Mr. Watson? The gods-honest truth, please."

"Bit of brain fog. Nausea seems," John paused to scowl a little, "a touch better?" He signed, deliberately slowing his breathing down and trying to focus. "And it's John, please."

"I'm inclined to let you leave, long as you feel able. And you have help readily available." He put on a pair of gloves before coming closer to assess John's fingers, thumb, the rest of his arm. He cued John through some of the sensation tests and overall seemed satisfied. "The question is, are you able?"

"I think so. Long as ..."

"You'll have help? I mean, you said you have a daughter. She'll be ..."

"She's seven," Sherlock interjected. "I'm his flatmate. And will be 'readily available,' as you said. More than." 

"What do you think, John? You can manage this at home?" Faintly, John gave a partial smile and nodded his head. "Okay then. It takes time, as you know, but I'll start working on it. And be back with information, prescriptions, discharge instructions, and we'll have your follow up appointment made before you leave." He seemed to be waiting for John to change his mind, but when John didn't, the doc turned to Sherlock. "Figure out your questions, and we'll be back in soon." He left his business card on John's overbed table. "Home is usually better, and I do think you'll recover more quickly there. All right?" John nodded again, slowly, clearly a little divided on that statement.

++

"Discharge instructions are here, okay. You're both listening?" Frowning a little, John nodded that he was while Sherlock rolled his eyes. He went through, from top to bottom of the form, instructions for bathing, activity, hygiene, ice, elevation, sling use - which he indicated was in the package next to him. It was more supportive and more restrictive than the simple sling he'd been using in the hospital. There was a review of prescriptions, which included pain and nausea medication, suggestions for hydration, and some strategies for sleeping. "You both good so far?" he asked, waiting for both to indicate to proceed. At which point, he showed them the sling, where it adjusted, and then suggested John get into his tee shirt, so they could help apply it correctly. It was to be worn, except for bathing, full time until he was seen again in the office.

"I'll leave you to it, then, and either I or the nurse will be back to place the sling properly." Sherlock had opened the bag of clothes, pulled out a comfortably worn, faded tee shirt. "So, I think that's it. John, any questions? No? Good, how about you, Mr. Holmes?"

"You've been thorough." There was a bit of biting sarcasm in the tone, but Sherlock didn't say anything else.

"Okay, my number is here. And you'll call with questions." When John agreed, nodding again, the doctor offered out a pen. "Sign here on this line."

John took the clipboard and steadied it against his cast, then grabbed the pen, prepared to sign, but he stopped. "Which line?"

"The line, there, under your printed name, is for your signature."

"There are two lines." John let the pen drop, with his good arm pulling the clipboard up to inspect it more closely. "Actually, up close, there's two of -- I'm seeing double."

For a few long seconds, both the doctor and Sherlock were rendered speechless. "Okay," he said, "so we're going to put the discharge on pause."

"No." Sherlock, unbidden spoke quietly.

"Just until we sort this out," the doc explained.

"I didn't realise," John began, alternating closing one eye before letting them both slowly close for a moment. "I thought it was just blurry from ..."

The doc nodded. Although his specialty was orthopaedics, he didn't seem particularly rattled, as he began to assess some of the specifics, including at what point the vision was double - closer range only - and he tested very briefly the visual fields in each eye, extra-ocular movements, along with normal gaze findings. "Diplopia," he began, "or double vision, is not that uncommon after concussion. Happened to one of my kids after a rock-climbing injury. Hang on a moment while I ..." Pulling out his mobile, he scrolled for a bit, sent off a text, and then faced John again. "Going to have one of our hospitalists come by. I don't believe it changes things too much right now. But let us look at a few things before you leave, and I'll reach out again to the radiologist, get them to specifically focus on optic nerve area if they can see it, and frontal lobe. An MRI would be best, eventually, but they might recommend another CAT scan before you leave, just make sure there isn't any oedema." He waited, looking at John carefully. "You're following?"

"Yes. Diplopia, post-concussion is ..." John, frowning, blinked as he attempted to recap.

"Let's go with unfortunate. And you're barely twenty-four hours from injury. This is usually short lived. Requires no treatment except time. However, there will be some things you'll need to pay more attention to at home. Common sense things. Like don't aggravate your headache. Watch up close screen time - your mobile might be best avoided, but across the room for a television, probably fine in small amounts." He frowned a little. "Sorry this delays your discharge plans. But it's best to make sure it's safe to discharge you, before you go. I would expect you'll need to be seen by physical therapy before leaving, so they can really evaluate your balance and proprioception." The doc glanced again between them, Sherlock looking worried and John already with his head leaned back against the pillow, eyes closed again. "They may have suggestions for both of you, how to manage at home. Maybe a home PT visit, even?"

Absolutely not, Sherlock held his tongue. "If we have to," Sherlock murmured, feeling the lie and glad John wasn't about to call him on it. Mostly, he simply wished that they were just home already.

"Once they've all seen you, hospitalist and such, long as they greenlight you for home, then I'll enter the discharge order." He waited, and when there were no further comments, he gave them a sympathetic smile. "We'll be in touch, okay?"

When John remained silent, Sherlock answered quietly, "All right." It was mildly disappointing he couldn't even share that small victory of keeping his defiance under wraps for the moment.

++

"I didn't think we'd ever get home," Sherlock confessed, low and quiet, keeping a rather anxious watch over John. The wheels of the discharge process turned even slower as they waited for another doctor to come evaluate John. And waited for the repeat CT scan of John's head, just to ensure there was no structural damage or increased swelling. Then they waited for both physical and occupational therapy to look at the nitty gritty of John's vision and how he managed and compensated. They had him walk, climb stairs, locate chair railings, door knobs, and things in his vision that could predispose him to injury. An eye patch was discussed and determined unnecessary and not recommended. Sherlock, though he hated the need, had zero interest in waiting any longer for a cab and had requested Mycroft provide transportation.

But they were home, finally, seated in their chairs, Sherlock still nervous and John quiet and serious. "You sure you're okay? Want anything?" The silence was so annoying that Sherlock nearly fussed, ready to lash out in frustration at John's non-responsiveness. "I'm making tea." 

John still hadn't moved when Sherlock returned with two steaming mugs, so he felt compelled to fill the silence as he set John's mug down in easy reach. "Brought you an Oolong. Decaf, though." They'd recommended not overdoing it on stimulants of any kind. "It's hot, obviously."

The monologue continued, Sherlock making attempts periodically to reach out as John remained broody and introspective. "Rosie's not due until dinner, and Molly said she's bringing food for us all." "You haven't taken any pain meds, I'm bringing you a dose, and some water." "Do you need anything?" "Here's fresh ice, I'll help place it." "That should probably be a little more elevated, shouldn't it?" "Rosie's going to be here soon, do you need the loo before she gets here?"

That last one did actually elicit a reply. "Yes." Frowning, he pushed himself awkwardly until he was sitting, and Sherlock steadied him by his good arm as he stood up. As recommended earlier by the physiotherapist, Sherlock transitioned off quickly, backing off to let John do as much as he could on his own. They'd advised that Sherlock's role would be to facilitate independence while keeping John safe.

"Are you going to need help?"

For a moment, John seemed to blink the question into clarity, and slowly, he made a dubious face as, adjusting the sling a bit, he said, "I certainly hope not."

"Well," Sherlock saw the amusement under the confession, added his two cents, "that makes two of us." The walk down the hall to the bathroom, though he kept a hand against the wall, was slow but fairly stable, and Sherlock stood by as John entered, closing the door behind him. The subsequent exit of the bathroom and return to the couch, and the remainder of the afternoon, was unremarkable - and very subdued.

++

Molly was frowning a little as she set the dinner she'd brought along in front of each of them. It was received uniquely: Rosie'd helped and was excited about it. Sherlock seemed his usual distracted, disinterested. John tried to act animated, but Molly could see through that. "So how are you feeling, really?" she asked him quietly, an aside, when Rosie'd finished eating and left the table.

John frowned in return, giving a huffing sigh, slowly. "I'm not sure, to be honest."

"I have to work tomorrow, but I could see if --"

Sherlock objected. "Not necessary. Rosie has school, and I'm here." In his protectiveness over John, his delivery was sharp. Sharper than it needed to be.

"Well," she said, somewhat uncertainly, trying not to show annoyance at being interrupted, cut off. By this point, after so many years of friendship, she knew that it was just Sherlock's way and not necessarily personal. "You'll call me?" she rested a hand on John's arm, a silent plea, a request.

"He's not using his mobile for a while. Doctor's orders."

"Then you'll call me?" she asked, the trace of an edge to her voice, challenging Sherlock a bit more than her usual docile acceptance. The assertiveness was offset, at least a little, by her compassionate smile. She truly was only worried about them.

"I'll make sure," John told her. "We should be okay." Sherlock still seemed a little put out at Molly's offer for some reason, and John had neither the energy nor the clarity to get involved with that. "Thanks for minding Rosie, Molls, truly."

The reminder about Rosie softened Molly instantly. "Oh, we had a grand time. She's such a delight."

Rosie had re-appeared, inserting herself figuratively back in the conversation and literally as she weaseled under Molly's arm, giving a chuckle and a hug in the process. "Molly said we'd see about going clothes shopping sometime."

"What's the point of that," Sherlock groused. "We order your things online."

"But you can't try anything on. Maybe I want a new style?"

"At seven?" Sherlock did actually grin at her delivery, glancing with entertainment over at Molly, who was grinning back at all of them. "Heaven help us, John," he said, sotto voce, at Rosie's sass and antics apparently with Molly's full support. Or perhaps, her instigation.

"We'll pick a day soon, okay?" Molly asked, giving her a hug back. "I had fun today." Rosie pressed her nose against Molly's, being silly, and Molly poked a playful finger against her. "Now, your papa's a bit injured. Might need a little help now and then while he gets better, remember?" Rosie assured them all that she did. Then, to Sherlock, Molly spoke again. "I meant it, if you need something, please ask." Worriedly, she looked at John, and added in a soft whisper. "Because you don't seem like you're doing all that well."

"He's had surgery, and a concussion, and I think what he needs now is some peace and quiet," Sherlock intoned quietly. Not a millisecond later, Rosie found some sort of bug on the floor and squealed as if she was about to be skinned alive.

While Sherlock attended to the bug and shushed Rosie, Molly gave John a gentle side-hug and let herself out of the flat.

++

The first night was something of a blur. John would not remember saying goodnight to Rosie though he didn't doubt it happened. Same with being told to go brush his teeth, having Sherlock cover him with a blanket, and spending a somewhat fitful night on the couch. When he awakened, uncomfortable, it was Sherlock sitting near, lurking quietly across the darkened room who provided pain pills and water. Twenty minutes later when the meds kicked in and he was queasy and retching, it was Sherlock who tucked another pillow behind his head and made sure there was a bucket close by. Overall, the night was just as foggy as the day had been, and it ended when it got light out and Rosie came downstairs. John slept through her being taken to school.

The couch became the center of John's universe for a little while.

On it, time passed with John resting, or sleeping, or something in between. It was in the middle of everything, it was relatively comfortable, it allowed for him to be watched scrutinized observed monitored someplace central where Sherlock could keep an eye on him. And mostly, it worked out fairly well.

He was on the couch a day or so later when it occurred to him that he had to call off work, and Sherlock told him he'd already done it for him. The clinic manager had taken him off the schedule for a few weeks and wished him a good recovery. She asked Sherlock to promise to reach out when and if John was ready to return.

He was on the couch when Mrs. Hudson brought them some chicken noodle soup.

When Mycroft arrived with some sort of clandestine conversation to be had with his brother and they disappeared from John's line of sight.

When Rosie came home upset about something from school and had a little teary moment. And when she stared hard at the cast, and at John's colourful bruises, she had a minor meltdown borne of fear and the what-if's of the typical seven year old. Sherlock comforted her, then helped her snuggle up gently, taking comfort in her nearness to John, while he heated something up for dinner.

He was on the couch, a day or so later when he decided he needed a shower. Which, once he'd realised how inopportune it was only having one arm, he quickly changed his plans to a bath.

And he went back to the couch after clumsily trying to get himself washed in the bathtub, considering it a success that he'd mostly got clean, kept his cast dry, and didn't reinjure himself in the process. Reapplying the sling was a two person job, so Sherlock helped not only with the tee shirt but in sliding the immobiliser into place. Both were keenly aware of the personal nature of the task, the intimacy of assisting with getting dressed, of simple daily activities. Exhausted afterwards, John fell almost immediately back to sleep, but Sherlock could almost feel his fingers tingling where he'd brushed up against John. It was decidedly a pleasant sensation.

++

John's fog lingered a bit. But there was no such fog surrounding either of the Holmes brothers. Sherlock's protectiveness was off the charts as he tried to facilitate healing, while screening information, activity, visitors, and to limit drama - such as the bug sighting. In the hallway, out of John's hearing, Sherlock complained about Mycroft's presence. Mycroft complained Sherlock wasn't answering either text or calls. Sherlock complained Mycroft wasn't needed, that he was being intrusive, that he himself had everything handled. Mycroft complained that, if Sherlock truly wanted to keep him at arms' length, he should have answered his bloody mobile. Sherlock complained that he was harnessed to a terrible family.

Mycroft volleyed a personal question, then. "And how are those sutures, Sherlock?" There was an intentional, loaded pause before he continued, a little harsh with quite a bit of agenda, "Tell me in your own words how that occurred? Your medical record seems to indicate you might have been upset over Dr. Watson's condition." A brow raised, and Sherlock could tell what was coming was going to be even more unpleasant. "Seems it may have been a swoon!"

Sherlock could only stare at his sibling for a moment before deciding he'd had enough. "Piss off," he whispered, ready in his mind to storm back inside the flat, slam the door. But his feet weren't cooperating. "And go away."

"You realise," Mycroft said, his words and his inflection suddenly quite gentle, "that you've quite obviously shown your hand. And once John puts that together, I think the good doctor will figure it out too."

++

John was just beginning to get off the couch periodically when Mrs. Hudson came for a longer visit - and then after getting a few niceties out of the way, berated John in her gentle yet firm way, for not being careful, allowing the accident to happen in the first place. When Sherlock intervened, informed her that it was truly unpreventable and had nothing to do with John, she turned to chastise Sherlock, a little less gently, for putting John in a precarious, dangerous situation.

Her parting displeased statement, pointing at the pillow and blanket that John was using, on the couch, was that he should be sleeping in a bed, for the love of all things holy, and that he would feel better attempting to maintain some degree of normalcy.

"I suppose she's right." Sherlock was still quietly prickly. He tried to leave John alone, to keep the fussing to a minimum, to maintain Rosie's usual routine, but he was still not himself. "You probably should be sleeping in a bed. So tonight, feel free to take the downstairs bedroom."

"No."

"The steps will be too much. And also, what do you mean, no."

"I'll go upstairs. I'm sure it'll be fine." When Sherlock was ready to unleash a vehement protest, John put up a hand. "We are not arguing about this."

Sherlock was uncharacteristically quick to agree. "Correct, we are not arguing. You will take the downstairs bedroom." For a brief moment, surprised, John could only blink - so Sherlock continued. "The very last thing I'll allow is for you to have to manoeuver the stairs in the middle of the night, get into that sling with a fragile arm and a head injury." He made a sour face. "Do you even consider how ridiculous you are? Your stubbornness overrides any common sense. Or are you still truly brain injured enough to be ... so clueless."

It hadn't, actually, occurred to John that navigating the steps, especially in the wee hours of the night, might be a little unsafe. "I don't want to displace you," he tried, protesting mildly. He tried another angle, "And I don't get up all that often overnight."

Sherlock didn't reply to that, but the face he made spoke volumes.

John conceded, answering quietly, "If you're sure, maybe only for a night or two."

++

There were steaming mugs of tea and three breakfast plates on the table when John stopped mid-sentence to stare at Sherlock.

"When did you do that?" John asked, looking pointedly at Sherlock's scar. Which was now without sutures.

"What?" Sherlock frowned a little at John's question and sought clarification before serious alarm took root. "You mean that ... minor little incident?" His fingers made a dismissive gesture even as his brothers words, his prediction, echoed ominously in his frontal lobe.

"No, the sutures." Although John referred to them as if they were still there, very definitely, the little black strings of the suture ends are gone, leaving a few dots of angry skin, a faint slash along closed wound edges. "They're gone."

"Oh, yes, I took them out. Yesterday."

"You didn't tell me."

"I was wondering if you would notice."

"You're still testing me."

There was a small, half smile, and Sherlock nodded a little. "A small one. It's not a big thing." The smile grew bigger. "And good for you, didn't take you too long."

"I could have done that ... oh, wait," John deflated as he realised that, with his double vision, probably coming at Sherlock's skin holding tweezers and scissors was probably not a good idea. "Guess not."

"It wasn't too hard." There was a bit of colour in Sherlock's face as he then confessed, "Once I got used to the mirror image, that is."

"I'm sorry, I wish I could have ..." 

"It was nothing," Sherlock tried to reassure him. "I'm sure, eventually, it'll happen again sometime, and you'll be able to resume your usual stitch removal duties."

The residual frown on John's face spoke volumes, that it wasn't nothing, and that things were still different. Too different. And unacceptable. "No it wasn't nothing," he finally whispered, then pushed back from the table to take up his spot on the couch again. Although he closed his eyes, listening to Rosie and Sherlock doing normal things about the flat, he didn't fall asleep.

++

The fog that had settled in since the injury and showed very slight change, finally, finally began to improve, and once it did, the progress was quick. John interacted more animatedly with Rosie, talking to her about her day, watching a show now and then. When he tried to read her a short story, though, his double vision was still there enough to trigger a headache, so he begged off. But overall, he was improving. The nausea resolved and didn't return. His appetite got a little better as a result. The pain in his arm, also much better, which he knew had to be a result of the swelling and inflammation finally abating. He was getting quicker applying the sling, trying to follow instructions, and had his follow up medical appointments logged into the calendar on his mobile.

He slept in the downstairs bedroom, though, and slept well finally. Not only were his symptoms better, but there was no child across the room snarfling or rolling about or talking in her sleep. He was vaguely aware, one night, that perhaps Sherlock had come in to join him, but when he roused himself from a deep stage of sleep, the bed was empty. He told himself that he'd probably imagined it. Or wished it to be true.

His headache roared to life, though, when he focused too hard, tried something too strenuous, or tried to read something, even something short, large-fonted, or quick, just given the double vision that still plagued him.

Conversation, though, clearly showed better thinking, less confusion, more sharp topics.

One evening after Rosie was asleep, John asked Sherlock about the outcome of the case, what happened to the man who'd been fleeing, that had started this whole business. "I'm fairly certain they got him."

"You don't remember?"

"Little busy at the time."

"With?"

"You. You were in terrible pain. We were waiting for the ambulance and eventually, you passed out. Shock or something, they thought." He made a face. "Very frightening time, when you went from yelling - with good reason, obviously - to limp." He'd stared intentionally at John's now-casted arm, vividly recalling the injury, before looking away. There was discussion of tea, decaf, which they set to fixing with Sherlock getting the cups out and John using his good arm to turn the kettle on and select the blend. "You should have your sling on, shouldn't you?"

"I'm okay. It's not like I'm going to be up for that long." Staring at his still slightly discoloured fingers, he wriggled them, feeling the shifting of muscle and tendon deep in his arm. 

"John." The tone of how Sherlock spoke his name was displeased, cautionary.

"Since when do you follow directions? Since when do you even care about following directions?" Sherlock tried, unsuccessfully, to put on an innocent somewhat shocked face. "In fact, you mostly hear directions and do the opposite out of pure defiance."

"That's different."

"It is not."

"Still," Sherlock hinted, giving a raised eyebrow to John's freely moving cast, until John rolled his eyes and with a sigh, returned to the other room. Eventually, they ended up back on their chairs, John with his arm quietly elevated, and Sherlock returned to the previous conversation. "Do you remember any of that? The chase, the hospital, any of it?"

"The injury? Not too much. Chasing him, yes." A smile flickered across his face as part of that memory did return. "I was out for blood, though, after he hurt you. Just didn't plan on it being my own."

"Oh that? It as nothing. He caught me, took my breath away, that's all."

"I didn't know that at first. But I do remember being ... incredibly angry. Maybe it's a good thing this happened." He glanced at his fingers protruding from the cast and wriggled them. "In my outrage, I guess I could have hurt him." Neither needed to mention the earliest of days, of Jefferson Hope, of John's protective nature. And that was before all their shared experiences, their obvious commitment to each other - even poorly defined at the moment. "Who knows what might have been."

Sherlock's face showed a multitude of thoughts, varying expressions that ended in quasi-amusement with somber undertones. "I had similar thoughts once you were down. I was ..." he hesitated, looking a little uncomfortable, "... terrified you were in serious trouble. My first thought, coming up on scene, was that you'd broken your neck."

"We're a pair, aren't we? Each worried about the other." John waited a bit before asking something else. "I have wondered, honestly, what happened in the hospital? You just ... saw bone, and it was ..." He gave a pointed glance at the healing scar on Sherlock's forehead, and decided not to make a downward slide whistle sound, but Sherlock was quick to answer. "Unlike you to pass out, for any reason, let alone something bloody."

"Understandable, I think." Defensively, he offered, and then tried to explain, "The stress of the events, and then you stopped talking on scene. The paramedic kept shaking you ..." The expression on John's face was somewhat skeptical, so Sherlock found someone else to blame, "And then the A&E staff, they didn't even clean anything up!"

"You've looked at bones, and things much more horrifying than that, you know." Still embarrassed over the whole incident, Sherlock sighed before, eventually, turning to look at John. The smile on John's face wasn't what Sherlock had expected. It was calm, confident, and somehow omniscient. "You've created more gore than that, too," John prompted.

Sherlock blinked a moment, considering that John's smile seemed out of place. Sherlock could feel his cheeks colour as, embarrassed, his own smile lessened and he grew more serious. "I disagree, with whatever you’re thinking. So ... you know what, just forget about it," he demanded.

"It wasn't the bone. It wasn't even the blood." He leaned in, careful not to disturb the elevation of the cast/splint, or pillows. "Was it?" He didn't wait for an answer. "You got all symptomatic for another reason, something else. It bothered you because it was me. Because it had happened to me."

John recognised the glint in Sherlock's eye, the need to be clever, to deflect, to offer up something sacrificial. Sherlock didn't disappoint, and complained, "It's because I hadn't eaten. And because no one warned me, and that alone --"

"If that had been someone else's arm, you probably wouldn't even have given it a second thought." John pressed the point. "In fact, you might have been over-the-moon curious. Or taken photos."

"I don't --" Denial began to fly from his lips, but he stopped part way, wondering if - perhaps acknowledging - John was right. And then, once he realised, his lips pressed together, a thin line of keeping himself from speaking.

"It's because it was me. You were worried about me."

"They wouldn't let me in. I couldn't get an update." He vividly recalled insisting to be brought to John's bedside, deducing something about the staff member who'd refused, something that brought about a few gasps of someone listening. He'd long deleted the specifics of what he'd stated. "I threatened to bring in the entirety of the British government and the Commissioner of Police if they didn't let me through immediately."

"It's kind of sweet," John suggested, brow raised with a smile. "You couldn't help it," he added kindly.

"Shut up, John."

"Oh Sherlock," John commiserated, kindly, getting a feel for how desperate Sherlock had felt at the time. "I am sorry, you know. I didn't mean for it to happen," he whispered. Then, for a moment, they shared a smile, sipped at their tea. Better, he thought, to tap out of the argument, and choose instead to let the charged emotion settle for a few minutes. Instead, John reached out a foot to rest it lightly against Sherlock's ankle, sort of an 'I'm still here' kind of touch, one that conveyed 'we're okay.' His own breathing, comfortable, and he tried to gauge when Sherlock also had calmed down.

Sherlock wasn't really having it, and broke the silence, gesturing at John's toes. "Am I in your way?" Still annoyed, Sherlock wriggled his leg but didn't break the connection. The tone, though, was one of dissatisfaction. Of discomfort. John considered that, even these days later, he was probably still embarrassed over what had happened.

"No. Shhh." John shifted the pillow behind his head, tipped back, and rested lightly against the back of the couch. "It's fine." With another faint touch, a reminding rub against Sherlock's leg, he smiled a bit and closed his eyes briefly. "Believe me," he began with a somewhat serious tone. "I get it. In Afghanistan, I saw plenty of ... really awful, traumatic wounds. Soldiers I was stationed with. Those who came through our med center. Missing limbs, Missing ... well, I could describe, but truly, the human body subjected to things it was never meant to have done, unsurvivable catastrophic trauma. Never really had issue with it, awful as that sounds. Just, I was an army medic, an army surgeon, it's what came with the territory. It as my role, I wore the hat, took on the expectations. Oh, and don't misunderstand, it was bad and I felt terribly for the soldier, and it was something I chose not to dwell on. But it never really got to me."

"If that's you trying to make me feel better, you're failing."

"I know, shh, I'm not finished," John soothed. "But my worst nightmares ever, were not about my army days. I know you remember a few of those times, when I'd first moved in." Those moments, so long ago, were distant - waking up with a scream in his own throat, heart pounding in his chest, eyes wide, remembering his own GSW - and other atrocities, wounds, and treating IED injuries. "Those were mild by comparison. The worst was after ... after Barts," he spoke quickly, not wishing to add any further description, "seeing your head, your curls, your body like that. Flat on the sidewalk, blood on you, and pooling under you." The words broke up a little as the emotion crept into them. Then, cautiously, he turned his head to the side, choosing to open his eyes again, check on Sherlock's reaction. "I've seen terrible things. Bad things that were much worse in the army. But then? You on the kerb? Worst nightmares of my life." Sherlock was staring back, eyes hooded, gaze guarded, but certainly paying attention, quietly taking it all in. "Not because of the injury or the gore. But because it was you. And it felt like I was losing you. Every time, in every dream, most waking moments too, I lost you. You," he added, lowering that to a whisper, then smiling warmly, murmuring quietly, "It's always been you." Thoughtful, Sherlock's eyes were dark as he absorbed what John was saying. His expression was just beginning to soften, to warm, when John tapped on his ankle with his foot. A slide, a reminder, I'm here, you're here, we're okay. "The most important part of that, though, was that you came back." Weighing his words, he tried to determine what and how much more to say. "Funny what fire exposes, you know?"

"I do think, John, that you might need to shut up." His words were cool, almost flat. And immediately effective. "I fear you're still more brain injured than we realised. Do you know what it seems like you're telling me?"

"It's been ... going on two weeks now. Almost," he reminded Sherlock. "I'm definitely not a hundred percent yet, but pretty close. I know exactly what I'm saying." He waited a moment, making eye contact and waiting for Sherlock to really listen to what he was saying before continuing. "So, yes, I know what it sounds like. There's a reason for that." Unrushed, he sat, waiting, his words and the message heavy between them, connected by situation as well as the contact of their feet. "It's the truth."

Outside the flat, the street noise continued, cars and people and businesses winding up their day. The street lights glowed as the sky grew dusky. Nothing was different from any other day - out there. But inside, quietly, each were aware things might not be exactly the same moving forward. Eventually, John felt the need to check in with Sherlock, before he got more lost inside his thoughts. Before either of them did.

"You okay?"

"Fine."

"You're just quiet. Did I ... overstep? Are you not interested in ..." John hesitated, making a gesture with his good hand, between them. "... this? Whatever this might turn into."

Sherlock countered with his own question, leaning in as he asked, "You're sure you're okay?" As soon as John nodded, a barrage of questions ensued. "What month is it?" John told him. "Who's the PM?" John answered that as well, a small smile unstoppable as Sherlock apparently hunkered down to grilling him for capacity. "What is the address of the Diogenes club." That one, he didn't even ask as a question. "Give me your mobile number in reverse." This one, John grew a little more serious, focused. "How many windows were on the side of the college building when you ... took care of Jefferson Hope?"

At that, John actually laughed. "I have no idea. All I saw was the threat to you."

An eyebrow raised back at him. "Think. You should be able to recall that detail."

"It would be a guess." John remembered a lot of details that night, the way the pill bottles looked on the table, the way they'd faced off across the table. But the number of windows?

"Then guess."

"Eight." With a smile, he added, "Don't discount what I'm saying based on this particular question. I mean what I'm saying. But windows? I truly have no idea." Sherlock sat, still and unmoving, lost in his mind palace or something, so John dared to reach out his hand to touch Sherlock's arm, and when there was no protest, he let his fingers rest there. "So," he murmured softly after a few minutes, "were there eight?"

"I don't know." He blinked a few times, back to the present, and caught sight of where John's fingers still touched his arm. Both of them gave a soft, quiet laugh. "But you must know. It's in your memory somewhere. I could hypnotise you and help you recall it."

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite. No hypnosis. Who knows what you would have me do." The silence between them grew less uncomfortable, and their tea was long ago emptied. A little awkwardly, John spoke again, "Sherlock, do you think --"

"Stop. Please don't grill me about various boring things about a relationship, about what I want, about the logistics of ... all of this."

"But --"

"You may simply know that I want it all. And we can go as slow or as fast as you want. We are already partners in almost every meaning of the word."

For a moment, John couldn't move immediately past Sherlock's statement: I want it all.

In his mind, he added, thank god.

He chose a word to repeat, knowing at least they were on the same path. "Yeah, it's the outlier, the 'almost' that I'm curious about." The earlier tension was much lower, nearly gone, and John smiled. "Do I need to spell that out?"

"God no," Sherlock said in nearly a whisper. "And I want all that too." The bravado in his tone fizzled by the end of the sentence, and even in the softer evening light, John could see that his cheeks had a hue of colour they didn't usually. "Though I'm not quite sure how to ... uh ... make it happen."

"So do I. Want all of it, I mean," John admitted, feeling a bit awkward himself. "And though I've dabbled in ... the possibility of perhaps a ... another man, I never ... with a bloke, never ..." His own face coloured, to his chagrin, so he giggled a little before summarising. "But yes, I want to. And it's very new, you and I, and it matters a lot that we do whatever we want, on our own time." Sherlock's forearm felt tight and tense under his palm. "And I'm not sure how coordinated I'll be for a little while yet, down an arm."

"Please stop talking." Sherlock stood up, somewhat abruptly, and took their empty tea mugs to the kitchen. Then from the doorway, he stood quietly, watching John, enjoying their newly developing future. "But I think the bedroom, more specifically the bed, has enough room for us both, and if you're okay, I mean, I'm fairly certain ... I mean, just to sleep." There was a pause. "Unless you ... no, not yet, but ... "

"Yes. Yes, please." John rose, too, reached for the light as Sherlock disappeared down the hall. "However, you do have bony elbows, so perhaps you can keep those to yourself." Once they were both in the bedroom, John snickered softly and added, "I might have had a dream a night or two ago that you snuck in here to join me while I was asleep." Sherlock was in the process of exchanging his dress shirt for a soft tee shirt, but his hands froze as John looked over at him, and his expression seemed off. "Was I imagining that, Sherlock?"

"Which answer will get me in the least amount of trouble?"

"Irrelevant," John stated, and after a pause, he crossed the room to unfreeze Sherlock's hands with his free and mobile hand, to smooth down the tee shirt he'd not quite donned. And once he'd done that, he left his hand lightly at Sherlock's waist as they stood, eye to eye in the bedroom. When he spoke, it was with gentle sincerity. "What I want, now and always, is the truth."

++

John turned on his side on the 800 thread-count sheets, feeling the warmth of sharing the bed (though as he stretched out his leg, he can tell by the warmth under his foot that the other side was recently vacated), the window open for the early morning, warm summer breeze. The movement caught his wrist, his arm, a little stiffly. Now that the cast was off, his muscles were finally regaining their strength, the joints getting used to some gentle exercise, his range of motion improving slowly but steadily. Now and again, a certain bend, a press in a different direction, would still catch him, the soreness and ache from deep within, reminding him that he was still recovering.

"Papa!" The door opened, and Rosie stood in the doorway, Sherlock just arriving behind her looking a little apologetic. "We're going to make waffles!"

"And I brought you tea," Sherlock glided past Rosie, holding the tea safely out of range, carrying it closer to set on the nightstand. "Because I think we're going to need the caffeine today." 

Chuckling, bouncing a little, Rosie scampered over to the bed and climbed up, wriggling herself across John to snuggle briefly - one point four seconds, to be precise - before bouncing again on the mattress. "We should get a cat. It could sleep on the bed with us. Or upstairs, with me." Hesitating, she watched John guard his tea, bringing it to his mouth in the pause of Rosie's exuberance, before asking, "Cats can climb stairs, right? Our cat will be able to, right, so she can sleep with me?"

"We are not getting a cat, Rosie-bug. But maybe next week you can go visit Toby again?" John suggested, knowing Rosie was rather easily distractable. "And I'm all about waffles today. Do you need help out there?" 

"No, we're fine! Batter's made, the waffle-maker is heating up."

"Would you like to go set the table?" Sherlock asked, ruffling at her hair, enjoying her energy. And probably enjoying the fact that they could still divert her attention. "That would be so very helpful."

Both of the men watched her leave the room, skipping and prancing out of the bedroom. "You didn't let her have coffee, did you?" John teased, as always appreciating her high energy levels as soon as she opened her eyes each morning. "Because she's ... a lot!"

"No coffee." Sherlock came closer, leaning down and folding himself so that his head was nearly on John's pillow as well, breathing his air, a hand coming up to rub lightly over his neck. "You like waffles, right?"

"Of course." John's hand began a search pattern of its own, rubbing up Sherlock's bicep to cup the back of his head. Gently, he tugged just a little until their lips met, once, twice, then holding, lips parting and tongues dipping briefly out to touch. "Sorry about ..." John tried to turn his head away, having not yet brushed his teeth.

"It's fine. You're nice and warm, cozy here." A hand holding a stubbled jaw, their mouths finding each other again, and John was beginning to question whether they could get away with a nap later.

"Papa, waffles?" Rosie, of course, from the doorway.

Sherlock tried to back away immediately, to pull apart, but John held him close. "It's okay," he whispered. "All right, all right," he spoke to his daughter, "I suppose the waffles will wait no longer." Letting go of Sherlock, he pushed to his feet, assuring them he'd be out in just a moment.

++

"The truth?" Sherlock, worried, asked the question in answer to John's question, nibbling a little at his lower lip.

When did you first know you were attracted to me?

From across the bed, head on a pillow, brow sweaty from their recent exertion but beginning to cool, John chuckled, a deep somewhat throaty laugh just from being horizontal on the bed. "I think you know that I want the truth."

"The first time I noticed it, the ... attraction ... as you put it. I was sitting in the ambulance, unknowingly describing you to Greg using words like crack shot, a fighter, military service, and ... " His voice quieted a little, "Strong moral principle. And there you were, on the other side of the police tape, arms behind your back. You were trying to be casual but everything about you was very intentional, and you were paying full and total attention to me without looking directly at me. That's when I knew, the first time anyway."

"You played that pretty close, didn't you?" Shifting up in the bed, John reached over to extinguish the bedside lamp, plunging the room into not quite darkness. The streetlamps gave a tiny amount through Sherlock's drapes, and the small hallway nightlight gave a bit from under the door.

"Until the hospital, you mean?" He reached out a toe to rest lightly on John's calf. "Mycroft accused me of ... showing my hand. The word he used might have been swoon."

"Did you punch him in the mouth for that?"

"No, but you're welcome to take care of that next you see him." A hand crept across the stretch of bed between them, then, searching for and then resting against John's ribs, fingers splaying comfortably. 

"If you're getting chilly you can just come on over here, you know. You're allowed to sn--

"Don't say it."

"Snuggle? Why? You're allowed to do it, and I'm allowed to say it. Last I knew we're two consenting adults and we can do what we like here." Sliding a little closer, John moved so that their skin was touching more, an entire leg, more of his arm resting right against where Sherlock's was crossing his midsection. "Speaking of doing what we like, I liked all of this evening so far." He pressed over, his lips coming in contact with Sherlock's temple. "And I'd like to do that again sometime."

++

The day was intentionally packed, activities for Rosie early starting with a tumbling play group in which she played more with the mat and her socks than doing any actual tumbling, but it was cute and John managed to capture a few adorable photos. One of the photos was of Sherlock reacting to one of the actual forward rolls she accomplished, his smile and eyes and celebration very genuine. Very enthusiastic. Very parental.

Lunchtime was a picnic in the park, their favourites brought along in a basket along with bottles of water and one rare occasion juice pack for Rosie, a special treat as John wasn't keen on the sugar content. After that, with multiple consults to their mobiles without Rosie picking up on it, a short walk to a pre-arranged flat. There was, now just over ten weeks, a small fluffy gray kitten with stripes on her feet and tail, ready to meet Rosie and the men. John had already dropped off the carrier, and the basic supplies were stashed with Mrs. Hudson, who of course had given permission for addition of the pet. Along with her blessings, too.

"One of my office staff just got a kitten, thought we'd go visit on the way home," John said, and Rosie agreed while Sherlock rolled his eyes at what he considered was a very obvious, very out of character statement. "All right?"

Both of them were surprised when Rosie didn't suggest, again, that they should have a cat on Baker Street.

They were not surprised, however, at the squeal she let out when John asked her quietly, "So what do you think, Rosie? Do you think this kitten would like to come live with us?"

++

"Rosie had a great day," John observed. "I wasn't sure she'd ever settle down to go to sleep."

"Once you told her she could leave the door open, see if the cat might sleep with her, she was at least willing to get into bed."

"Only took her a half hour to stop making those little kissey noises to summon her."

"We're lucky she didn't bring any cat food in with her."

"Yet. She'll think of that eventually." John knew it was the case, knew how Rosie's mind worked, it was just a matter of time.

"And you know she's going to insist on some ridiculous name." So far, the kitten was nameless, and many suggestions had flown back and forth. Even the cat was getting bored of it, content to lay on a soft blanket licking her fur despite Rosie's attempt to see what name she responded to. "Fluffy. Or worse. John you might be called upon to intervene, and prevent that sort of travesty."

"I don't think she's going to take your suggestion of Einstein."

"Pity."

The silence after was comfortable for a bit, listening to the sounds of late-night London. John shifted, turning easily onto his side, one arm curled under his pillow, the other coming up and reaching across to fuss with an errant curl. Without focusing, he let his thumb brush over the faint scar on Sherlock's forehead, only visible up close or when the light was just right. And as they'd done a few times, Sherlock reached up to stroke John's hand there on his forehead, both of them remembering - the day, the fear for the other, the injuries. Right on cue, though, John's arm tingled a little, and Sherlock's hand went there next, his palm warm over where the scar was, over the surgically implanted hardware.

The event, the terrible event, that set things in motion, bringing about change for the better, a wonderful new dynamic. Partners in every sense.

"I know," John breathed. "Me too."

Though it was he who said it, he spoke for both of them.

Settling in on their respective pillows, close enough to feel the nearness, far enough not to be overly warm, there were exhales, satisfied relaxation, a day well-lived.

And then, in the quietness of the flat, there came the soft sound of feather-light paws, barely audible, the subtle weight of four tiny feet and light body finding footing on the space near the end of the bed. Then, carefully, the faint padding and weight of the cat's approach. She started tip-toeing toward them on Sherlock's calf then shifted to the small space between before crossing to John's leg to traverse the rest of the distance along his side, his chest. Then, with a low-throated purr, she turned around once and curled into a ball between them, resting on a hammock of linens that stretched from one shoulder to the other.

Slowly, John brought his hand lightly with his fingers to stroke at her fur - only to find Sherlock's hand already there.