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Chapter Text

Around the table, Mrs. Hudson and Henri are sharing what could be categorised as Extreme Sherlock stories. "And the one time, he shot the wall. With a gun. He SHOT my walls, like a madman with a gun. And this one," she tilts her head at John, "draws a smiley face around it."

Neither John nor Sherlock correct the small incorrect technicalities.

Henri laughs. "To be certain, you have far more experiences, over a far longer time." He tells about some of the fussing, over Sherlock refusing to wipe his own chin, of some of his bedtime resistance, of the complaining and obstinance. Of the (powerless) threats from the back of the ambulance.

The stubbornness stories take on new life, and chuckles are shared by most of them, including Mycroft, who smiles from time to time. Curiously, though, he does not share any tales, adventures, or anecdotes. And no one asks.

"And yet, here we are, somewhat voluntarily, sharing dinner with them."

Mrs. Hudson leans forward with an intensity, her fondness plainly evident, and says to Henri, "Oh, I might fuss at him. Give him grief, you know, he does take such advantage of my housekeeping skills. But I will defend him with my last breath. Both of them, when it comes down to it. My boys, the both of them."

They raise glasses, clink them together. With a lopsided smirk, Sherlock holds up the syringe and red rubber catheter he's been using. "Not going to get a satisfying sound out of this, but I'll join you."

"Toasting yourself?" Henri chuckles again. "A bit arrogant, that."

Sherlock grins in return, then launches a sassy reply. "Toasting Mrs. Hudson, actually. Why are you here again? Exactly what have you actually accomplished, these last weeks? Your presence has been ... entirely unnecessary."

Mycroft finds his words first. "Not exactly, Sherlock." His tone is underpinned with backstory, of having the upper hand for the moment, of very obviously leaving things unuttered.

John and Henri exchange a glance, somewhat animated, their expressions guarded and secretive. Sherlock is ready to really gear up for a very unhappy complaint when John gestures for quiet, his hands requesting that all of them keep quiet, and he faces Mycroft directly. "We should tell him. Because of course, he doesn't remember. How could he?" He assures Sherlock, "You were sedated, so it's understandable." Then, looking between Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, he adds, "Though perhaps now is not the best time to say too much, though."

"Oh pish," Mrs. Hudson breathes.

Clearing his throat, Mycroft speaks then, "Do you really think Mrs. Hudson hasn't been thoroughly vetted, cleared for quite a bit of ... shall we say, sensitive material?" There is a pause as he and Mrs. Hudson share a look, and Mycroft glances at John. "So feel free to speak freely."

"There was a threat, while you were in the hospital. Someone actually made it into your room, posing as a nurse. We caught her, Henri and I. Henri had her quite efficiently trussed up. I barely blinked, and she was ... incapacitated."

The words sink in, most of the group is quiet, Sherlock in particular blinking as if to help him believe it. Henri, though, gestures at John as he says, "Seriously, that's the version you're going with?"

"Will someone," Sherlock hisses, "someone, even you, Mycroft, tell me what really happened?"

"John has spoken correctly, leaving out that one minor detail that he identified the threat. And shot the woman first."

With a liveliness, Sherlock looks from John to Henri and back, making silent deductions. But Mrs. Hudson giggles to herself and gathers their attention with her interjection. "As if anyone is surprised by John shooting someone. Again, I might add."

Sherlock is still holding the syringe of liquids, and he raises this toward where John and Henri sit. "I apparently owe you an apology. You are certainly not the trained monkey I'd expected."

Mycroft raises his glass. "To trained monkeys, wherever they may be. Certainly there are none in this room.”

It isn’t long before John and Sherlock are again on their own, and Sherlock isn’t too interested in preparing for bed. So John straightens up, takes care of some organising, and then gathers supplies for pin care. Sherlock watches in silence as he cleans the sites, dries carefully, and applies fresh ointment to each one. As John deems them all clean and looking in excellent condition, then finishes the last one, Sherlock says, “So how did you figure it out?”

It takes barely a moment and he understands the question. ”Something didn’t seem right. And then I saw her shoes.” He fills in a few of the details, the scrubs, the faint strangeness, something about her that made him pay attention, and then noticing the boots.

”She was an idiot, then, leaving that detail slip.”

John can only shake his head, at Sherlock’s observation. "It happened so fast. And then Henri, he was ..." John chuckles at the memory, of the woman on the floor, the blink of an eye, and then she was tied, incapacitated, and Henri was a whole new personae. "I have to say, seeing Henri, as if for the first time, he was ... amazing. He was double-oh seven, in the flesh."

"For pity's sake, John, did you not think it through?" He hesitates and John waits too, for Sherlock to finish his thought and on his own (dramatic) timing. "A Bond reference, predictable." He leans in then, back on topic. "Of course Mycroft would not simply hire a meager translator. That is ridiculous, and ..."

With an edge, John interrupts him, recalling vividly that emotional turmoil, the newfound knowledge, the rescue detail at the time, and the seriousness of Sherlock's injury - all of these are in John's mind as he says, curtly, "I was a little busy at the time. And you were a mite touch-and-go, then. Unstable." The couch dips faintly as John, having set supplies away, returns to sit down next to Sherlock. "To have gone from mundane, clinic shifts, you know, living a regular life, to --"

"A boring life."

"Hush," John says with a smile, reaching a hand out to take one of Sherlock's, feeling the need to have a connection, to feel the warmth and life in their grasp. "To breaking up with my ... well, my girlfriend at the time, by the way, too. Forgot that little detail."

"Girlfriend."

"Yes."

"Girlfriend."

"Yes."

"I'm sure I would have hated her."

"I'm sure, she would have hated you too." With a faint squeeze and a smile when Sherlock looks up at him, John continues, "Actually, it was all quite an overwhelming time. To be so vigilant, in Serbia of all godforsaken places, not easy."

"I suppose overlooking that detail, then, is ... somewhat understandable."

"Thank you."

"For an idiot."

The small giggles that have been breaking out at Sherlock's acerbities, at his quick complaints, his biting observations, come full force, and John stops holding it in. "I'll just finish, back to the hospital room story," John says, carefully, "that I knew something was wrong. And I had my gun close, because I didn't really trust anyone else but our team. When she bolted from the room, and I just knew I couldn't let her escape. It would have risked ..." Their eyes connect, meeting in a way that could only mean something - and mean something deeply. "Unacceptable."

"Yet, from what I gather, you didn't shoot to kill."

"Surprised even myself. Last second, aimed to incapacitate."

"Pity."

"That's what your brother said." John snorts just a little. "Not often you two agree."

Sherlock's thumb meanders over John's, sliding over his hand, just very faintly touching. When it stills, John glances down at their joined fingers. It is a comfortable, quietly intimate silence. His words are slow and heartfelt, "You saved my life."

John can't stop the rising swell of emotion, their history, their years of togetherness, the separation, now being together again. He breathes carefully, knowing that Sherlock is paying him close attention, that his appreciation is indeed sincere. Their eyes hold, linger, unwaveringly open. Into the space between them, he whispers back to Sherlock with equal intensity, "And you saved mine." He doesn't clarify the inclusivity; saving him was years ago, that it is also present tense, that apart from Sherlock, he has been hollow and barely existing.

No further words are needed. After a few moments, John presses his lips against Sherlock's temple with all the tenderness he can muster. "Let's go to bed."

Of all the things John dislikes - and the list, to be honest, is fairly long - the worst is needing to wake Sherlock up. At all. For any reason. He avoids it whenever possible, but when it is one hundred percent necessary, he goes about it subtly if he can.

The smell of coffee. Or tea. 

Turning the telly off.

The faint sound of an incoming text message that may or may not be contrived.

The shuffle of feet in the floor, walking about the flat.

Running the sink, the shower, or starting laundry.

His typing style, the hunt and peck, on his laptop. If this one works, it is a delightful repartee of Sherlock's adjectives:  abysmal, neanderthal, archaic, pointless ...

Or, if Sherlock is resting against John's shoulder, sleeping, his face relaxed occasionally to the point where his mouth is slightly open, a sigh, a deep breath sometimes will stir him. Or the faint shifting of his knee under Sherlock's bent one. Or the gentle press of his lips against Sherlock's temple, nipping at sensitive follicles.

This morning, even that doesn't seem to awaken him.

Today there is another mobile doc appointment, of the oral surgeon - another house call, a simple request. It will be - presumably - a productive visit.

He turns just slightly, adjusting their body positions. Sherlock snuffles but doesn't open his eyes and his breathing hitches once then evens back out.

And so, knowing that time marches on, he smiles to himself, enjoying the anticipation of simple pleasures, of the closeness of waking up together in the morning, he presses forward as he slides a hand up along Sherlock's neck, behind his ear, letting his fingers wrap sweetly behind Sherlock's head. It's time. "Morning," he whispers, carefully gauging when to make another move. When Sherlock's eyes flutter open and seem to mean it, he says it again and kisses the stubbled jaw in front of him. As has been a more common thing for them to do, Sherlock turns his head, his lips coming toward John. "Mmmmm," John breathes as their lips meet.

"Ugh, morning breath," Sherlock says, the grin sleepy and lopsided. Also not an uncommon complaint. Observation. Complaint, John has insisted before. "I hate these wires. Ohhhh!" There is a much more awake smile, more open eyes, and Sherlock is suddenly animated. "Today's the day. These damn wires!"

"Yes. Appointment's in about an hour."

"They've been on forever. Eternity. Longer than that, even."

The smile doesn't fade until later after the oral surgeon, at Sherlock's side seated on one of their taller stools, pieces of metal and clips holding the wires in place on a drape near them, tells him, "Okay, there we are. Open slightly, it's going to be sore." He complies, and John can see the frown as his jaws part for the first time, a very small distance. "Good. Any clicking, best you can tell? Any sharp pain here?" Her gloved fingers are gently resting over the angle of his jaw as he makes the motion several times, still narrow. "Good. Going to check inside, just very gently, relax if you can." She examines along his teeth, along the inside, gently evaluating the healed incisions with her fingers and then, equally gingerly, with her head lamp and a tongue depressor. "Good. As expected." She slides the chair back with her feet, pulls off her gloves, and gives him a smile. "All done."

"Wait, what do you mean? That's it?" She tells him again, her expression clearly meaning every word, that he is doing very well, that they'll make an appointment for a few weeks out. Slowly, shocked, he shakes his head and asks, "Aren't you taking off the rest? The ... braces?"

"Of course not. Your jaws still need to heal, the bones to finish coming together. And you have some preparatory work still, before we can fit you for the implants, your new teeth. Everything has to be well-aligned until then. And even after."

The words sink in, and Sherlock's shock turns to disappointment. "What?" His eyes turn to John, who sits, unsure how to help. "John, did you know this?"

"I assumed it wouldn't all come off today, yes. You had a lot of damage, and ..."

"You didn't think to tell me?"

"Here's the thing," John begins, knowing - hoping - he can salvage this, provided Sherlock listens to him. "You've been through a lot. And it's going to take time. Your mouth, your smile, your teeth, are all important, and --"

"How much longer?" Sherlock interrupts, and pins the question and a serious stare at the surgeon.

"Well, an orthodontist will need to make a little room for the new crowns, then some molds, and placement. Then a few weeks, maybe a month, to hold things in place while the roots settle in. This prevents your teeth from shifting, from moving, getting crooked as the swelling abates. Three or four months would be my best guess, though it may be a little longer."

"Can the braces be moved to the back of my teeth?"

"I wouldn't recommend it. Harder to clean, longer appointment times, much more expensive. And not up to me. You'd need to see an orthodontist who specialises in lingual braces." She frowns just a little. "And these are already on, so."

His eyes close as he exhales, the disappointment radiating around him. "All right. I didn't realise ... Though I suppose it makes sense." The confession is costly, and it breaks John's heart a little, seeing the sadness, the unmet expectations, the resignation.

John tries to salvage the moment. "On the upside, the wires are off. Which is great progress."

On cue, Sherlock opens his mouth slightly, his teeth parting a small amount. The grimace on his face lets them all know it is stiff and painful. "I suppose. Where are Hudders' biscuits? I've been waiting a long time for one."

"Be careful," the surgeon tells him, and at his sneer, she amends, slightly apologetic, "Obviously."

As Sherlock takes tiny nibbles of one of Mrs. Hudson's baked biscuits (and smiles as if he has just solved a locked-room, triple murder), the surgeon reviews her expectations, hands John the list of updated instructions for eating after wire removal, and gives her recommendations for slowly managing and improving the newly acquired motion of his jaw. Over the course of the afternoon, not that John's counting, Sherlock eats his way through most of the tin of biscuits.

That evening, after dinner, consumed very sparsely by Sherlock, he disappears into the loo to brush his teeth. Again. For the third time that day, thoroughly enjoying the feel of finally scrubbing and friction and the ability to rinse his mouth well. John finishes up the kitchen and wanders down the hallway to make sure all is well. He finds Sherlock looking in the mirror, crutches next to him, drawing back his lips, smiling, running his tongue over the brackets, and studying the implant posts.

"No one will take this - take me - seriously. A consulting detective, with braces on his teeth? Oh for gods sake, it's ridiculous."

"Heading back to work so soon, are you?"

His eye narrows at John's deliberate avoidance of his complaint. "John."

"Because," John says, coming to stand right next to him, his chin resting lightly over Sherlock's shoulder, eye to eye in the mirror. Sherlock nearly snarls at him, teeth bared like an angry attack dog, "I mean, when you're not making that face," he breathes softly, with a small chuckle. Sherlock ceases the snarl, and even leans in, presses a little closer to where his back meets John's front. It defuses the annoyance rather quickly, and John's expression is gentle and kind. "I'll take you plenty seriously." To demonstrate, he moves to take Sherlock's face between his gentle hands, draws him closer, broadcasting his intention quite clearly. "All right?" he asks quietly, wanting to make sure Sherlock wasn't still too annoyed, and certainly he didn't want to antagonise the man. And to be honest, he won't antagonise him.

In response, Sherlock nods, leaning in to press their lips together.

Unsure how uncomfortable the motion might be, John lets Sherlock guide the kiss. And it is wonderfully gentle, as Sherlock's teeth part, his lips allowing access as their mouths meet, a deeper and gentler kiss than any they've shared. It doesn't last long, though, and Sherlock sighs again as they draw apart. "Little sore, sorry."

"Oh it was wonderful. Might be, actually," John offers, "a nice little exercise to help your jaws be less sore."

"That seems a bit self-serving, John."

"Okay, then. Don't?"

"Perish the thought," Sherlock whispers as he brings their heads together again, this time to add a little brush of tongue to their slightly open-mouthed kissing.

[A/N: by bidders request, John goes the extra mile to help Sherlock through a medical situation. This section is written for you!]

"Are you sure you're up to this?" John asks, his hand on the door to the flat. They've summoned a car, which should be arriving shortly.

Sherlock has chosen to venture out to the orthopaedic surgeon's office for the pin removal. "Yes." His crutches are less cumbersome now, his shoulder vastly improved. He's been bearing weight on his leg now, not full weight yet, but certainly some. Provided the xrays are reassuring, the pins should be removed.

"Okay." His mobile chimes, the car is out front, and they venture off together.

They've been out before, going to the occasional restaurant, off to visit Mrs. Hudson, once for a press conference that was largely scripted and held at the Yard, once to meet Greg for pints. This is the first medical appointment, though, and John watches Sherlock get quieter the closer they got. By the time they check in with the receptionist, Sherlock is lagging a little behind, wordless, introspective. Nervous, perhaps. Fortunately, they are not in the waiting room long at all, but when John accompanies him to the first room for intake, he senses Sherlock's distress and begins to question the wisdom of the decision.

However, they are here already, committed, and there is not a lot of time to think - or overthink - or change their plans. At least, not yet, but John's mind is already considering options, knowing that he will do whatever it takes to help Sherlock, to make this outing a success. An xray is completed, multiple views of Sherlock's leg, and the nurse leads them to a treatment room.

Sherlock is edgy, unable to sit still, and pale. The exam table is papery and waiting, and Sherlock refuses to sit down yet. He crutches over to inspect an artists rendering of the pelvic bones, complains at the incorrect old Latin labeling of os ilei. There are few other things with which to entertain himself, and John's attempts at conversing are ill-received. When he vibrates over to the wall cabinet and prepares to open it, John clears his throat.

"What?" His voice is tight.

John is saved from having to come up with an appropriately soothing response when the PA enters, his greeting warm and friendly. Sherlock doesn't respond with words, but he does take his hand quickly down off the handle of the cabinet. The provider glances at John, questioningly. "Mr. Holmes, everything all right?"

"You tell me," Sherlock says, lifting his chin a little, almost daring the man to parry a reply back.

"Well, your xray is greatly improved. You're due to have the hardware removed, which is progress for a lot of reasons. Comfort. Reduce the risk of infection. We'll probably get you fitted for a walking boot today. How's the weight bearing going?"

Sherlock's fingers dismissively flick in John's direction, delegating his response, so John answers, "He's doing pretty well. Weight bearing more. Less pain than a week ago." Keeping his words brief, he then makes sure Sherlock can interject, "You would say so, right?"

His eyes are cloudy and troubled when he stares back at John, but he does murmur his agreement.

"Okay then, once the doc reviews your films with you, we'll get on with ..."

Suddenly, things get real and Sherlock makes some sort of distressed sound, something between a throat clear and a whimper. With a shaky voice, Sherlock takes a step backward with his crutches and, recovering his words, says, low, "John?"

Quickly trying to determine how best to proceed, John taps the PA on the arm, tilts his head toward the door, and says, "Can you please ... We need a minute here."

Once the door closes behind him, Sherlock does exhale tightly and only briefly looks John in the eye before staring at the floor, a tooth worrying at his lip.

"How can I help you?"

"Can you do it?"

"Remove the pins, no. Did that in med school, maybe once, too long ago, and ... No." John wants to wrap his arms around Sherlock, crutches and all, to tuck his head down into John's shoulder, to insulate him from hard things. "Is it ... are you worried about pain?"

The frown, the scowl, deepens, and Sherlock's voice comes out a little small then, "I'm not sure."

"I know what you told me, that you were ..." He struggles for words that aren't brutal, torture, or too upsetting. "That you were mistreated. That your leg was intentionally injured, and reinjured."

"Maybe we should have had them come to the flat."

John does reach out then, his hand sliding onto Sherlock's arm, gently. "And we can reschedule and go home, do exactly that if you want."

"Oh, I want, but I ... We're here, and I want it done, but ..." There are voices outside the door, the PA from earlier, the deeper voice of who is presumably the surgeon. "John?"

"Okay, we'll stay, and I'll do everything I can to help. I do have an idea, okay?" The look Sherlock levels at John is nothing short of miserable. "Trust me, okay, and we'll stop at any time if you say so. All right?"

He nods tentatively, eyes cast down again. John understands that this is a terribly embarrassing situation for Sherlock, and tries to consider his feelings. "First off, do you want me to talk to them in the hallway, or is here all right?"

"Here."

There is blinking and nodding as John gives a cursory explanation of what happened and what his idea is. The surgeon, fortunately, does seem open to listen. "I understand, and the whole experience, your injury, must have been terribly traumatic for you. I'm very sorry that happened to you." The doc and the PA exchange a glance, questioning, as John has spelled out the situation and his request. "Your plan, john, I think it's fine. If you're amenable, so are we. We can work with that. Really, removing traction pins is," he begins to explain, gently, meeting eyes with John, who is concerned over the whole proceeding, "relatively smooth. A minor tugging, and it's done." Neither moves to get started yet, and the doc looks from one to the other. "So let's get this hardware off, Mr. Holmes, and get you out of this office."

"God yes," Sherlock quietly agrees.

"Do you want me to review the xrays with you first?"

John doesn't want anything to delay them, to potentially have this harder for Sherlock, so he answers, "Can we do that after? I mean, obviously removing them is safe now."

The PA nods and sets out a few supplies, gauze, dressings, antibiotic ointment, and a gadget that mounts on the end of the pin, screwing into it to give them leverage as it is removed.

"Okay then," John says, slipping his shoes off and coming alongside the treatment stretcher. It is a large leather bed, with siderails, removable pieces, and fully adjustable. The back is almost fully bolt upright and not reclined at all, which is optimal, he thinks. He slides up on the crinkly paper, tucks back into the far side against the rail, spreads his legs and pats the area in front of him. "Here's for you. Close enough to talk you through it. And not in anyone's way."

"You're sure?" he questions, a little flat, more than a little worried.

"Yes. We've got this." The hesitation is profound, Sherlock's inner fears just under the surface, having a hard time as he wants to comply. "Up you go, soldier," John says quietly. It is a quiet admonition that Sherlock should try very hard to follow orders.

The crutches lean on the far wall as Sherlock pivots, slides up into the space John has made for him. The PA helps support his right leg as he lifts it, the hardware resting on a foam block provided, his leg stretched out in front of both of them. John twists a little then to make more room, lets his arm fall along the siderail right next to Sherlock. With a minimum of fuss, the providers bring over the equipment and a work light that illuminates the area they'll be working on. "Usually people feel the most at the first twist, Mr. Holmes, and then it's just minimal pressure as the pin unscrews from bone." There is absolute stillness, and the doc speaks again. "If it's too much, too intense, or too painful at the side, I can numb the skin with a little local anaesthetic, but it will only help on the skin level, the surface."

"No. Just ..." Sherlock can't seem to decide where to look - at his leg, at the far corner of the ceiling, or at John's leg that is along the border of the stretcher.

Silence prevails in the room as everyone watches. Gloves are donned. The brace that connects the pins is unscrewed. John keeps quiet, too, but notices as they activate the skin antiseptic, that Sherlock presses back quite hard into his chest, and it spurs his words of affirmation. "You're okay. You're safe. Just going to clean the sites before they work on them." The doc's hands hesitate too, listening as John explains what they're doing. "This'll just feel cold, a little pressure. Shouldn't sting." He gives in finally, and brings one hand to rest along Sherlock's arm, just gently, hoping it is reassuring. "Deep breath. You're doing good."

"Well." Sherlock doesn't miss an opportunity to correct John's grammar.

"Well," John agrees readily. "Just breathe. A little scrubbing again." The PA places the clip on the end of the wire, tightens it down, and all of Sherlock's muscle tone changes. He tenses, and John feels his hand suddenly grip whatever he can find - his thigh on the one side, John's arm on the other. "You're safe. They're not going to hurt you. Close your eyes if you want?"

"God no," he hisses. "I don't want to do this."

"I understand," John says quickly, "but this is the next step to recovery. Okay?" John knows that they won't continue until Sherlock gives permission for them to proceed. "Okay?" he finally prompts.

While the room waits in complete silence, Sherlock sighs again and gives one reluctant nod.

John is grateful he doesn't delay any further, and he can see his fingers working the clamp already. "A little pressure here," the doc says as his other hand rests lightly on Sherlock's foot as he holds one of the tibial wires and giving the wire a firm twist - and after quite a bit of torque, of pressure, of the doc's arm faintly trembling, it gives.

It loosens.

"No, oh god, stop!" Sherlock blurts, followed by shaky, tremulous breathing. They stop, all of them collectively holding their breath. A moment later, Sherlock demands to know, "Is it loose?"

"Yes."

"That's as bad as it'll get? That's the closest you'll need to get?"

In the moment of hesitation, John answers for them, hoping it is kinder than the truth. "Yes. Each of them will have that tightness at first, but yes, that's it.

"Can you do it without your hand on my foot?"

John answers that too. "It's just to steady your leg while they unscrew it."

"I don't like it."

"I know. But I think we're going to have to let them. You are," He corrects. Trying not to audibly cringe, John wriggles his fingers into Sherlock's hand, where he is pinching extremely hard into John's arm. "Loosen here, and take a breath." When Sherlock does as John asks, John says then. "Let us know when we can keep going here."

"I can't. I can't do it. I swear, John, I hear them in the hallway. And in my mind, any minute, they'll be coming in to ..."

"We're in London."

"I know that. I know they're not here. But ..." he taps at the side of his head, unhappily. "Don't you think I know that?!"

"We're not going to let anything bad happen to you." This is the surgeon speaking, and patiently waiting, his gloved hands clasped together, and John is very grateful for his kindness.

"Let's breathe through this, and at least finish the first one, yeah?" John says, and a moment later Sherlock nods at the doc, who steadies the pin and begins to turn it again. A few turns, and the doc is setting it aside, clanking onto the covered metal procedure table. A small trickle of blood, as expected, drips darkly from the hole to be blotted up by the PA, and then they leave a clean piece of sterile gauze over the area. "Nice job," John croons quietly, reassuringly, into Sherlock's ear. "You did it. You can do this. You okay?" He waits for Sherlock to nod, almost imperceptibly, and John fights the urge to press a kiss to his temple. "Okay. Deep breath. Ready? We should keep going." They slide the clip off the one removed and onto the end of the next one, and work fairly quickly until they reach the one on Sherlock's lower ankle. They barely begin to put the clip on when Sherlock tenses up again, pressing back into John. "Okay, this one's ... Deep breath, we'll wait. This one's a little lower, and I know you can do this. After this, we'll be halfway done. You're doing well," John says, unable to stop the faint smirk at himself for his corrected word choice. "Just breathe. Think about, oh, I don't know, think about ..." John pauses, wondering at what Sherlock will find the most helpful.

The PA suggests, softly, "Walking again?"

Which spurs an idea for John, and he is grateful to the PA for the excellent set-up, the perfect timing. "Think about wearing your own trousers again. Without snaps or velcro."

There is the faintest rumble in Sherlock's chest that radiates a little bit, faintly, into the proximity of John's body. Not quite a purr, not quite a growl, but certainly something. "Shut up, John. You're distracting them from task completion." For a moment, no one is sure what to do with this, so Sherlock waits only a few seconds and says, "What are you all waiting for?"

He does cringe again on that pin, when it appears to be more frozen in place. John whispers more as he sees the amount of force the doc is using on the motion, the twisting, and he cues Sherlock through quite a bit of torque. "Breathe, in and out. This one must have had a lot of bone growth, and ... No, don't move, don't -- you're okay. Just deep breath, and again, more pressure, almost there."

This time, the clank on the metal tray is louder and John can tell that the doc is relieved when it does become free, and they are all glad to be rid of that one. The remaining four pins come out cleanly, the slightest amount of bleeding, and John says less as Sherlock does manage to adjust, to control his reactions, as they work. Eventually, the procedure light is flicked off and the PA dresses the holes. "So site care, daily dressing changes until they're scabbed over. Shouldn't be any further bleeding. And they're very clean, no sign of infection. Nice job, by the way on keeping the pins clean. We don't usually see this type of hardware as often these days, but, I guess that's understandable, given that they were placed  ..." He chooses to downplay the thought and amends his original intent, "Not in London. They worked, and your leg has healed pristinely." He pushes back again, gives a steadying hand briefly on Sherlock's knee, and grows a little more serious. "All done. You did a great job here, both of you." Sherlock is quiet, listening, still a little tense, John can feel against him, but overall much better, improving more, even as the doc is speaking. "None of this has been easy, I know. But this part, anyway, is behind you."

The exhale, the sigh, the wordless de-escalation Sherlock practices, says it all, and they all can feel the tension in the room lower.

"Questions so far?" The doc explains that, from here, the PA will fit a walking boot and schedule their final follow up visit, and then, before leaving, he thanks them both for doing what was necessary to get the job done. He was, of course, referring to the office visit, the pin removal. But it hits each of them as far greater than that, just with the phrasing and such. The fall in the first place, keeping people safe, the rescue, the recovery, all of it.

The PA as well, leaves the room to gather what is required for the type of boot Sherlock will wear, and in the privacy of the room, John breathes, "Get the job done?"

"Not a coincidence."

"You can move," John suggests from behind him, still there on the stretcher. "I mean, you can let me up."

"Not a chance." Smiling, Sherlock leans his head back, tucks into the warm place between John's shoulder and head, and tries to get comfortable. He turns toward John's temple, breathing him in. Somewhere in his behaviour is a thank you, an acknowledgement of his efforts, a relaxed pose for the moment, anyway.

"What?" John asks, surprised, wondering at his motivation.

"Well, I wasn't enjoying it at all until now."

"We could do this at home?" John offers, though he mimics Sherlock's nuzzling, breathing in a bit of Sherlock's own position, of his curls, his hair product. Their proximity is indeed settling, though he isn't ready to admit that yet. "Perhaps, let me up and ..."

"Not a chance," Sherlock says again. "With the audience, and you being uncomfortable now?" He is chuckling when the PA returns with the boot, a full-length, to the knee contraption.

"Behave," John murmurs, moving his hand to Sherlock's waist, a caution, a presence. "Because I snuck along a pair of trousers, so if you want to wear them home, you'll cooperate with all of us."

The crutches gradually find themselves used less and less. Sherlock's soft tissue injury of his shoulder seems to be improving, with gentle exercise and John's daily massage. Sometimes he uses oil, or heat, or just mindless pressure while watching the telly, Sherlock seated on the couch and John either standing or sitting against the back of the couch. Eating normal food, though John still tries for soft, not terribly chewy, and not anything thick that requires a large bite, becomes easier and less painful. The orthodontist figures out a treatment plan, and as such, there are daily elastic changes to hold open the space his new teeth will fit into, over the already-in-place posts.

The boot overall is helpful. It has been well received, and Sherlock particularly appreciates that it is removable, that he can wear his usual clothes, and that he is making progress.

"You should just move your things down here," Sherlock says to him one night. "I mean, you're here every night anyway, and --"

"Okay."

"Wait, that's it? No arguing, no extra enticements necessary?"

"No, I was thinking about it as well." John ponders that Sherlock was expecting a large amount of convincing to be needed. "As well as what to do with that room."

"An office," they say together. John follows this up with a surprised, "I would have thought you would want a lab."

"Mrs. Hudson is going to let me have 221 C for that. Now that it's empty again."

"It wasn't occupied long," John reminds him. "And, well, once we repurpose that upstairs room, it's a nuisance to undo. Are you sure?"

"Sure enough to have jumped off a building for you."

There is an immediate, gut-level reaction, of wanting to fuss about that, too soon for humour, too hurtful to be funny - but John blinks, taking a second, then two, and knows it hurts still, but that it is also very true. Moving on, he thinks, choosing progress, as he retorts, "Then I'd be an idiot not to agree."

"Exactly."

Later, John hesitates in the doorway of Sherlock's bedroom. Of their bedroom. Most of his things have migrated down, and it is a mite unsettling.

"Are you sure, I feel like I'm invading your space."

"Of course I'm sure."

"It's a big step."

"Or seventeen little ones."

"Stop it, you know what I mean."

"Why is this bothering you? Why are you being difficult about it?"

"I'm not sure exactly what we are doing, but I know that I don't want to take advantage of you. You were injured, major surgery, just recently home to London. I mean, the whole back from the dead, press and all" Mycroft had orchestrated almost all of that, and it had been fairly smooth from their end. John explains, further, "It's a lot. And I just think we need to go slow. To be careful not to rush."

"I thought this was a good step. You seem to be otherwise opinioned." Sherlock, atypically, seems to want to explore this, to make John even more uncomfortable. "Do you not want to sleep with me?"

"Sleep? Or ..."

"Yes, all of that. Aren't we heading there?"

"I don't want to rush you."

"Rush? Is that what you call this, rushing? It's been three years in the making, and --"

"You weren't here for two of those years, I remind you."

"-- and while we've never talked about your bisexuality, you clearly --"

"Oh god Sherlock, stop talking!"

"-- have had inclinations toward me from the beginning, and --"

His cheeks burning and flushed, John's discomfort rises and spurs him to action. To somehow silence Sherlock's intentionally motivating, instigating words. Which he does with a kiss, a quick press of the lips to keep Sherlock from speaking more. It becomes slower, more heated, less anxious, their lips parting, meeting, rising. Hands and knees touch, their bodies twisting, melding, molding, and John's reluctance becomes something only of the past. His arm draws around Sherlock's waist, and they press together, both of them quite obviously aroused. The kisses morph, less lips, more everywhere else, hands snaking into hair before they slide apart just enough to find buttons and belt buckles and zippers.

Breathless, John manages to pull back more completely, and he waits until Sherlock is paying attention. "You're sure?"

"Yes John. Are you?" He turns the question back around, making sure he understands what it feels like to be questioned such.

"God yes."

Some of John's possessions that have occupied the bed are quickly and somewhat hastily relegated to the floor, as they seek and find and wrestle with clothing - Sherlock's boot being the first thing that they jointly remove. For a first time, it is mostly hands and sighs and tightly coiling drives of pleasure, of John's reassurance that he can touch, of Sherlock's wide-eyed wonder at seeing John stretched out and gloriously naked. It is frottage, and giving and receiving pleasure, of quietly stifled groans of satisfaction. It is physically celebrating a new beginning, a shared bedroom, a joined relationship, and a commitment of two men, admittedly better together.

In the morning, it is sleepy smiles and pillow-marked faces, and brewed tea brought back to bed, and the wonderment of why they didn't do this much sooner.