Chapter Text
You are the nighttime fear
You are the morning when it's clear
When it's over you're the start
You're my head, you're my heart
- Florence Welch
"Hi."
Sherlock's eyes fly open at the sound of John's voice.
He steals a quick glance at the wall clock. Half past seven in the morning. He must've slept through the night, after all. It had not been his intention. He had meant to use the quiet hours for thinking about what he was going to say or do when this moment came - when John returned.
He remembers closing his eyes the night before for a second, with no intention of sleeping, but he must have dozed off deeply enough to allow John to enter the room wihout him noticing. His concentration isn't what it used to be. Too little practice recently to pay attention to details.
John looks sheepish. Unlike Sherlock, he clearly hasn't slept, nor has he bothered to try and tame his blonde hair.
John never comes to the hospital this early.
"God, it's still weird to be able to talk to you without getting constantly interrupted. Or insulted," John says and leans his palms on on the backrest of his usual chair. Instead of sitting down, he's practically hiding behind it.
Sherlock decides that he hates the fact that John has a regular chair here. Not because he doesn't want John present, but because neither of them ever deserved these months. In general Sherlock doesn't indulge in such superstitious thinking - karma, luck, it's all rubbish, really.
John doesn't deserve to go through this. None of it.
Sherlock had been convinced that the anger would return the moment he clapped his eyes on John again, but now that John is actually present, the fury has somehow drained from him.
Mostly, he's relieved that John has come back. Part of him had doubted even that.
John looks poised for battle, like he's facing off with a viper when he straightens his back and takes a step closer. The air practically crackles with what they both know needs to be addressed.
"Look, I'm sorry. I really am," John says. "You'd probably argue me on this, but I really think we need to put a lid on what happened for now. Until you're better. Until you can tell me yourself what's going on here. I felt bad for going on that date - not for the reason Molly insinuated, or maybe it was partly that---" John presses the heels of his palm on his eyes - underneath which dark shadows reign - and sighs. "We need to talk about it. I want to talk about it. You probably need to, but we can't, not right now. It's bloody useless if it's just my monologue and my assumptions of what you're thinking. Even with the board, you can't----" John leaves the rest out, and Sherlock wonders which of them he's protecting by not uttering a reminder of how things are. "Do you understand?" John asks.
'Yes,' Sherlock offers.
As much as he would hope for instantaneous closure, what John is saying does make a modicum of sense. Even if he thinks his judgment is sound, John's actions might be currently governed by some overblown sense of doctorly detachment and decency.
If John needs to wait until he's better in order to move forward in a way that doesn't feel conflicted, then so be it. If John won't believe a single word he tries to convey, what's the point of trying right now?
Trying to talk about what happened is clearly a lost cause until he's better.
Sherlock knows it's unlike him to be this patient, this accommodating. He doesn't feel like himself, so is it any wonder that he isn't behaving like he normally does?
"I'm sorry. That's all I can say," John concludes.
Sherlock wants to tell him not to be, because that apology shouldn't be about what happened - only about when it happened, and that it didn't happen long before. Come to think of it, Sherlock would prefer that there was no apology at all, except maybe for that cowardly retreat from a mess that was largely John's own making.
John is biting his lip, unsure what to say next. He looks downright tortured.
Sherlock decides it's time for the news. He closes his eyes, concentrates, and moves his ankle.
To his amazement, his whole leg shifts on the bed from the knee down.
John is staring.
Then his arm shoots out and grabs Sherlock's ankle. He lets go, flings the sheet away and grabs it again.
John hand is warm, and the warmth sends a strange tingling down to Sherlock's toes. It's like a puff of dust landing on his limb, or a blow of wind.
"Do it again," John commands him, and he obeys, relishing the feeling of his leg and, along with it, John's hand moving an inch.
John looks like all his Christmases have come at once. He moves to the foot of the bed, flings away the sheet so that it only covers Sherlock from the thighs up and encloses both of Sherlock's feet within his palms. "Anything else? Can you move your toes?"
He tries, but there's nothing.
"Anything else?" John asks hopefully. He leans on the footboard, curling his fingers around Sherlock's feet. It tickles slightly and there's more tingling, now up towards his knees.
He manages a pathetic attempt at a cough. John's eyes dart to the respirator. He stares at it for a moment and then his jaw drops. "Jesus. When? Sherlock, when? Today?"
'No.'
"Last night? Did Lestrade see? Have they told Mycroft?"
'Yes. No. No.'
'Why didn't they tell me? Why didn't they call me? I'd have been straight over! You know I would have. This is great, this is--- Oh Jesus, I was so worried," he admits, "It's been weeks. They were discussing more tests. I didn't want to worry you. This is so, so, good."
This confession surprises Sherlock. It's yet another example of how John is trying to spare his feelings, tries to hide these things from him because he thinks he knows best.
Something John had said earlier, a thing Sherlock had obviously stupidly mistaken for kindness, comes to mind: 'I'm sorry I can't trade places with you.' Sherlock now can't help but suspect that John thinks he'd be the strong one, that he wouldn't fall to pieces like he obviously assumes Sherlock must have been doing.
Emotionally compromised - another thing John had said. In a way, it's the worst insult John has ever directed at him. It still stings. It's the most important reason why he can't and shouldn't talk to John properly, until he can provide a setting in which John isn't constantly reminded of the fact that he's a patient.
Sherlock detests the possibility of rejection - who wouldn't? Would John crack jokes about Stockholm syndrome, remind Sherlock of all those labels that have been slapped on him, some of which he has embraced because it's easier that way? Easier to play the part of the unfeeling sociopath than to bear the pity and confounded expressions?
There's an even greater fear now: what if John will never stop looking at him the way he does now, with pity and a malignant sort of protectiveness that reeks of condescension? John looks at him as though he were something that has intent but lacks comprehension.
John has always been protective of him. John steps in when he fumbles socially, cleans up the mess afterwards, cracks jokes at his expense sometimes, when he thinks Sherlock can't hear.
When it comes to love, when it comes to sex, when it comes to women, John treats him as though he shouldn't even be trying to understand because it's all so completely over his head.
Will John take him seriously? The past weeks have done nothing to ensure he would. John is his greatest advocate, but when it comes to love, will John let him stand on his own two feet?
John is still holding his actual feet - a strangely intimate gesture.
John lets go when he notices Sherlock looking at his hands, looking less embarrassed than Sherlock had expected when being called out on the fact that they're still touching, still connected like this.
Touching had become so easy, so natural during the past weeks. John's hand under his hand been a tether to the real world, his main means of communication for days and days. After he'd lost that, John had still been there - brushing back an errant lock of hair from his forehead, holding his hand, flexing his elbow under the pretense of repeating the exercises recommended by the physical therapists.
All in all, John had been touching him almost constantly up to the kiss. He'd been acting like someone long denied of an act, and then suddenly allowed to do what he's wanted.
One evening, weeks earlier, the pain had been at its worst - his whole back on fire, electricity running through his limbs, scorching, cramping even without the muscles moving. Nerve endings had been misfiring, sending unfiltered alarm messages to his brain. Nothing had helped - as the neurologist had explained, opiates are not all that effective in neuropathic pain, and using them in copious amounts would have not been pertinent anyway, considering his past... issues. Paracetamol was a joke, nonsteroidal anti-inflammatories equally weak in effect. The only thing that had offered a respite, the only thing that had helped, had been John.
That night Sherlock had ended up leaning on him like a ragdoll as John sat behind him on the bed, keeping him in a sitting position with his arms around him, the pressure finally off his lower back.
There had been none of this infuriating awkwardness that now colours their interactions then, none of this apprehension.
John finally leans back and lets go of is feet. Now that the joy of this new development has lost its novelty and thus its brightest edge, he looks a little withdrawn again. Regretful, even.
Sherlock glances at the television. He doesn't want to watch it, but he's growing tired of watching John beat himself up in the confines of his own head.
If they are not to discuss the thing that must be burning on both their tongues, they need all the distractions they can get.
John turns the television on and drags his chair right next to the bed. He picks some movie Sherlock has no interest in.
What Sherlock knows he should be doing instead of wasting his time with fictional gas explosions, is making a list of things he is going to tell John once he can talk again.
A week later, almost nine weeks after the day when the illness had made itself known, Sherlock becomes a man who has two first words.
In his infancy, 'bad' had been the first one. After being sternly chastised by a nine-year old Mycroft for the very many 'bad' things he had perpetrated by the age of one, that was the word his brain had chosen as the first one it managed to connect to his vocal cords.
At age 34, after so many days of silence, his second first word turns out to be 'John'.
No one seems surprised.
It's a word he has missed more than any of the others in his extensive vocabulary.
Sherlock hurries to say that very word, before the anaesthetist has even managed to turn off the respirator that is now screaming bloody murder since it thinks the patient it's been ventilating has stopped breathing.
He hasn't. He simply does not need the machine's services anymore. The endotracheal tube has just been removed.
Slowly, he'd been weaned off even the pressure support mode of the machine. When he had been able to inhale and hold an amount of air worthy of two breaths, the ITU anaesthetist had told him it was time to take out the tube. Which meant that most likely he will not need to stay at the Intensive Treatment Unit for much longer.
He secretly holds hope that John might take him home soon, but it's highly unlikely. He can't yet lift an entire leg off the bed - not enough strength to beat gravity. Many of his bodily functions are still offline due to his nervous system still being out of whack in many ways.
With the return of his respiratory muscles, protective reflexes had also made a victorious comeback, which had unfortunately meant that he had began gagging on the tube and fighting the respirator on a regular basis, wanting to cough, wanting to swallow. The last two days of waiting for permission to extubate have been hell - just a different form of it from the one he'd been residing in.
Sweat clings to him like a film. He closes his eyes, willing his convulsing diaphragm to stop trying to expel from his trachea what is no longer there. His breaths come in short pants, nostrils flaring.
John's hand is on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "Okay?"
He nods. He can nod, now. Turning his head to the side is still agonizingly slow, but he can do it if need be. He has also regained some movement in his wrists, which had allowed them to return to the Morse code, tapping his fingers against John's palm.
They had been successful in settling back into the same denial that had been their companion at home. They both probably know it's just a timeout, a temporary fold in time and space where they both pretend nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
Talking doesn't seem enticing yet even though it's possible, because Sherlock's throat feels dry, aching and swollen. They had warned him it might be sore - understatement of the century - after the removal of the intubation tube. On the other hand, he's been waiting for weeks to be able to say something, so sod the discomfort.
"John," he says again, testing each letter, each twist of the tongue.
The anaesthetist arranges an oxygen mask on Sherlock's face. He promptly removes it.
"Mr. Holmes, I'd strongly recommend it stays."
"I'd strongly---recommend---you leave," Sherlock whispers. He had been warned about the risk of vocal cord damage associated with being intubated for a long time. Likely this hoarseness is just due to temporary swelling and the fact that his vocal chords have been unused for long. He's still dismayed to find his baritone so quiet, throaty and leaky.
John smiles at the anaesthetist, who relents. "Alright, then. Tell them to call me if there are any problems." The two nurses who had been assisting him trail out of the room behind him.
The door closes.
It's just the two of them in the room, now.
"Alright, out with it, then," John says with a smirk.
Sherlock's heart skips a beat.
What does John mean? Out with what? He hasn't made that list, he isn't prepared, he hasn't exactly formulated the optimal way of expressing his interest, no, not interest, such a modest word, his fondness---
"You must have a ton of complaints amassed that you've been dying to---" John pales when he realizes his choice of word and snaps his mouth shut.
Ah. John thinks he's got a tirade to unleash about the way he's been treated. Funnily enough, that hasn't been the topmost thing on his mind lately.
Sherlock shoots him an exasperated glance. "I think we've established----," he pauses to lick his lips, his mouth is so dry the hoarse words are sticking to his palate like fudge - "That I'm not ---- in fact, dying, so you can stop being so bloody tactful," he hisses.
That's all he wants to tell John at the moment - to stop treating him like he's made of glass.
What was it John had said? 'Once this is over, we can, I think we can talk, yeah, we should probably talk.'
This is far from over.
He's rather exhausted, actually. John looks a little worse for wear, too. Or is this stalling, deflection?
He can't bring himself to look at John, unsure of what the man expects from him. Does John now want to put everything behind them, relieved that he will no longer have to face Sherlock in what he'd judged to be an emotionally compromised state?
Sherlock realizes there's too much residual anger left for him to attempt discussing anything important right now. The last few days fighting a battle with the respirator have been exhausting. He needs a more level head to be able to talk to John about things he has never been good at discussing. Besides, speaking does hurt as is he'd swallowed razor blades.
He needs to wait until he feels a little more like himself again.
"Purcell? I thought you'd have chosen something more upbeat now that you're on the mend," Mycroft says after learning from a glance at Sherlock's phone that he's listening to the composer'sopera Dido & Aeneas.
The worry lines Mycroft has been wearing under his eyes are slowly disappearing.
With a flash of mischief in his eyes, Mycroft grabs Sherlock's phone, and swaps the opera track for some treacly, insipid Beethoven piano piece.
Five days later, John comes in later than usual in the morning, carrying a small plastic bag which he hides in the linen cupboard.
"I've got a surprise for you," he tells Sherlock and grabs a pair of gloves, presenting them like a rare treasure.
Sherlock blinks slowly, looking unimpressed. "I'm not in the mood for jokes."
John puts on the gloves. "I saw your neurologist in the lobby. He says that it's time to take that out," John says and points to his nose. In all likelihood, he's referring to the nasogastric tube. "They did test your swallowing this morning, didn't they?" John asks.
They had. Swallowing with the tube still in place makes Sherlock gag, and leaves his throat sore. Having it removed does not sound like an enticing prospect in the short run, but he's very much looking forward to getting rid of it altogether.
"Do you want a nurse to do it? I know I'm not supposed to do stuff like this, but I didn't know what you'd prefer." John asks.
At least this time John is acknowledging what Sherlock had told him earlier, that he doesn't want John to act as his doctor. This is different, though, since the decision has already been made by the neurologist. Also, John seems endearingly eager to help him get rid of the wretched thing he'd hated from the start. He's not doing this out of some physician's duty. He's getting this sorted as fast as he can, because he wants to help, and he can guess what Sherlock wants.
"I've had enough of nurses, and you've already dressed for the part," Sherlock reminds John and squares his shoulders.
So far he has regained movement in half his toes, his neck and his shoulders, which he can now bend back but not raise. It's something. It's a start.
John gently peels away the brown tape securing the tube in place, leaving the skin underneath sore. The tube has frequently chafed Sherlock's nostrils raw, as if he had the flu.
"Ready?"
Sherlock nods and closes his eyes. Gently but not too slowly, John pulls it out and then quickly slips an emesis basin underneath his chin. Sherlock's eyes water as he gags for a moment, but nothing comes up. His mouth tastes vaguely of mouthwash, vintage spit and bile.
"I've got an even better surprise next," John says conspiratorially. He goes to the cupboard and digs out what he'd hidden, revealing from the plastic bag a container of what looks like ice cream.
"Usually they start people off with something bland like yoghurt, but I figured that if a two-metre tall assassin or a Chinese mafia acrobat couldn't kill you, you're probably safe with a bit of ice cream."
"Can't argue with that," Sherlock replies.
His throat still feels like a cactus has been dragged through it. Ice cream might help. They had been giving him sips of water during the past few days, but that's all. He knows he can swallow, but the doctors had wanted to play it safe. According to them, he's at a sgnificant risk for pneumonia even if he doesn't accidentally inhale his lunch.
John produces two spoons. He's about to wrench open the cardboard cover of the package, when he suddenly freezes as though he's remembered something, and regards Sherlock with an apprehensive look. "You're not about to throw me out, are you?"
"What?"
"Like before?" John asks, obviously trying to avoid saying the reason out loud.
He had looked somewhat hurt when Sherlock had insisted that not even John was allowed in the room when he was being assisted with eating before the nasogastric tube and intubation had become necessary.
John puts the ice cream and the spoon on the nightstand. "Or are you?" John asks, and he's now practically pleading. "Honestly, I was really looking forward to this. It means we've won, that you're beating this thing."
Why is a meal of ice cream suddenly such a significant symbol? What is there to celebrate about, really? They knew it was likely that there would be a plateau phase and then improvement. It doesn't mean that Sherlock is over the moon because he is regaining the abilities he had originally acquired before the age of two.
Everyone else seem to operate under the assumption that the worst part so far had been when his condition had kept gradually declining. They're all wrong. In a way, these early days of recovery are worse, because before there had been a chance that his recovery might be fast, that the effects would resolve much more quickly than the onset of the illness. Now, Sherlock is truly facing the reality of what this is going to be like. How agonizingly slow it will be to regain his abilities.
Before, John and everyone else had complimented him for his intellect, for his athleticism and for his work performance. Now they keep feigning encouragement and awe at things such as managing to scratch his own elbow or yawn.
Sherlock blinks, realizing he must've remained silent for longer than is polite. John is biting his lower lip, looking as though he's preparing for a fist to the face.
"It's fine", Sherlock says.
John's face blooms into a grin. "Fantastic!" He wastes no time in carving out a small spoonful of the dessert. He then gingerly shoves it into Sherlock's mouth.
It's like receiving a drink of water after years in a desert.
It's as though his taste buds have been working out during their hiatus. He tastes real pod vanilla, full-fat cream, sugar and strawberry and if there's anything closer to heaven that he could possibly have in his mouth he doesn't care.
The sound he makes after swallowing is nothing short of lewd and John laughs.
For a second, Sherlock's memory transports him to the very first evening they'd spent together - chasing a cab, giggling in the dark in the downstairs foyer at 221B. John leaning against him while wiping tears of laughter on his jumper sleeve.
Sherlock had thought he'd found a flatmate that day, but what he'd actually found that day was John, and he still has a hard time believing his luck.
John digs out his phone and aims the camera at him.
Sherlock scowls. "John, please don't." Even if John had just wanted to document this admittedly happy moment, Sherlock finds the thought disturbing that there would exist evidence of his predicament, even if it's just for John's safekeeping.
John lets his hand fall. "Fine. I just thought Mycroft might want to see this." He starts texting.
Sherlock tries to crane his neck to read the message, but John's chair is too far away.
"S-eating-ice-cream-thought-you'd-want-to-know," John reiterates while typing those very words.
They eat some more of the ice cream.
Within a minute, John's phone chimes with a text alert. "He sent you a smiley face."
Sherlock feigns a scandalized expression. "He did no such thing!"
"Alright, you got me. What he says is 'Duly noted, which flavour?'."
Sherlock raises his brows. "Aren't you going to answer?"
'Strawberry cheesecake' is what John types into a reply he shows Sherlock. "I know you like the one with the brownie bits, but it's too solid for you at this point," John says apologetically.
Another text alert. John shows Sherlock his phone. 'Such decadence. MH' the message reads.
"He promised to come by around this time. Maybe we should save him some?" John suggests.
"If that ponce wants decadence, he'll have to find his own," Sherlock tells him.
A few days later, Sherlock's central line becomes infected, spreading bacteria into his bloodstream. The fever rises quickly one evening, making him shiver so hard his teeth clatter. Even the sheets hurt as the skin that has already regained feeling gets over sensitised. At least they remove the offending central line. Now that he can turn his head again, the thick cannula inserted into the junction between his neck and his shoulder for the plasmapheresis had begun to bother him.
It takes five days of feverish delirium and antibiotics which his kidneys turn out to not be very fond of, to put him back on the mend. The antibiotics they switch him on to give him constant nausea. He doesn't throw up, not even once, but it's bad enough that he refuses to eat anything.
A reintroduction of the nasogastric tube is discussed, since he begins rapidly losing weight again, but only briefly, since Sherlock threatens to strangle anyone who dares to approach him with that torture device. Thankfully, nothing grows from the tip of the catheter sent in for cultures, and the infection resolves itself within a few days, although the antibiotics are planned to continue for another week to be on the safe side.
The Guillain-Barré continues to recede like a tide retreating from the beach, but it doesn't leave him feeling normal. There are ghost sensations produced by the recovering nerves - he keeps waking up thinking someone is touching his limbs even though not even the sheets are on them. Muscle cramps plague his legs, some sort of sciatic pain regains a foothold, even traveling up his spine like an electric jolt. New medications appear in his regime, chosen for their claimed ability to prevent these misfirings of nerve from turning into a permanent phenomenon.
His co-ordination is gone. Decimated. He had hoped, in hindsight, rather naively, that once the nerves returned online, his brain would be able to supply them with precise enough directions for things to be as they were. It almost seems like his muscles and his nerves have forgotten how to work together, and it doesn't help that he's lost a significant amount of muscle mass.
Luckily he has something more important to think about: a conversation he and John still haven't had.
Every setback, every realization concerning how slow this recovery will be, makes him hesitate mentioning anything until he can somehow sham at looking and acting normal, and also makes him more determined than ever to focus on getting to that point in his recovery. He fears that the more time passes, the more opportunities John will have to convince himself that what had happened had been an isolated incident within the twisted alternate reality of a hospital, never to be repeated or spoken of.
His so-called 'recovery', which hardly feels like one, since he's still bedridden, has certainly raised John's spirits. Such enthusiasm is somewhat infectious, at least when John is present.
The steps of progress that delight John are small, but seeing that relief makes Sherlock believe, if only for a moment, that things are alright.
There's physical therapy. Boring to the extreme, but it serves its purpose. The progress is slow, but there is some.
At some point, he'll be a man who will also have learned to walk twice. He had hoped to walk out of the hospital, but it's becoming clear that getting to that performance level will take much more time than he'd hoped. He'll be discharged way before getting back on his feet. Discharged where, he does not yet know, because he refuses to discuss any other option than home. This wrenches a lot of frowns from Mycroft.
As per his request, John brings him his own socks from home. He wouldn't be caught dead wearing the tight, anti-blood clot socks the hospital supplies.
On the day he's due for his first physical therapy session in the PT rooms instead of his own bed, John dresses him in a black pair of his own wool blend socks, since he can't manage such a feat just yet. Hands, especially fingers, are still very, very weak and uncoordinated. The irritating tingling in his limbs has been constant today, and although it might possibly be signaling the return of more nerve function, it's most distracting.
"I hate my feet," Sherlock finds himself telling John. This keeps happening to him - he's become awfully chatty, on occasion revealing things he hadn't meant to. Getting so used to all his thoughts staying put in his head has temporarily changed his inner filters. It's ridiculous, the things he finds himself prattling about.
His feet have low arches, and he'd prefer a smaller size. These feet are not an asset, that's for sure. He tries to glower at them as best he can.
Judging by his smile, John seems to find this endearing.
Sherlock wiggles his toes - a re-learned skill he relishes.
"What do you mean you hate them? They're fine. How can you hate any bit of yourself after clearly winning some evolutionary lottery with your looks? I bet you stole the ticket while the winner was in the loo."
Sherlock has never had any trouble disliking himself. Learning this skill comes with not being an average, normal, easily educatable child. As a teen, before his proportions settled into something more functional, he'd been all limbs. He still feels like that sometimes, especially when forced to fly tourist class. John's compact frame must be so much easier to manage.
Sherlock is frowning, staring at his toes that look pale and useless. They do move, but most of his soles still feel numb.
John's eyes are fixes on his feet still, too. "Actually, now that I'm getting a good look at them," John says in mock seriousness, "You're right. They're completely terrible. I'm not having them in the flat. Think we could get you a transplant while we're at it?"
Sherlock sticks his tongue out - another thing the joy of which he has recently been re-acquainted with. John doesn't usually seem to appreciate it much, but now he laughs.
"There's gotta be something, you know", John muses mischievously, "No one is allowed to be that bloody perfect."
Fourteen weeks and three days after he'd found himself unable to climb the stairs into his own home, Sherlock sits in a chair. Not in a bed, but a chair.
An actual chair.
He suspects he will remember this chair for the rest of his life. It's an armchair with thick armrests and a high enough back to ensure his head doesn't drop back and give him whiplash.
He had been wearing a cervical collar all week to allow him to properly sit up in bed, to strengthen his neck muscles that have withered as badly as the rest of him. As announced by the physical therapist earlier this morning, the collar is no longer necessary.
He feels thin, sinewy and weak. The sludge fed through the nasogastric tube had seen to it that his basic needs were met, but after its use had been discontinued it's been worse. Eating is slow, and he absolutely, furiously abhors the fact that he still requires a lot of assistance with it, as he does with everything else.
He leans forward slightly. He half expects his head to drop forward, but apparently, his physical therapist is less of an idiot than Sherlock gives him credit for. They've promised him that the collar comes off when he so decides.
It's time.
The collar would have been be the last thing he couldn't possibly conceal when wearing his own clothes, instead of hospital-issue monstrosities or his own pyjamas. Constant monitoring of his vital signs is no longer necessary - they only take his blood pressure every few hours, so much of the wires have been removed. There's just a regular IV cannula and the catheter now, the former of which can be corked temporarily, and the latter hidden with a bit of creativity.
Sherlock has a plan, and now he finds himself finally ready to implement it. It'll take him a few days to regain enough strength in his back to manage sitting up long enough, but after that he's going to resolve what John has started.
All that he needs for what he's about to do, he'll have to procure with Mycroft's help.
Three days later, it's time.
John's at work today, due for a visit late in the afternoon once he has sorted out today's writhing mass of flu victims at the surgery. He'll have plenty of time to get ready.
There's one thing Sherlock wants to do before he begins the preparations with the help of Mycroft, due to arrive in a few moments.
He can use his phone now - he can't lift it to his ear yet, but the voice command feature and the speaker make that unnecessary.
After solving the last one the night before, he now gets to call Lestrade and tell him all the solutions to the cold case files.
"You may have this - as soon as you swear this plan of yours does not include a daring escape out of this hospital," Mycroft says, cruelly holding Sherlock's dress shirt hostage.
Sherlock is sitting on his bed, legs dangling down from the side. He's wearing his own trousers for the first time in months. The fabric feels irritating, sharp on his skin, and very different from the baggy cotton pyjamas that have been the terrible staple of his style lately.
A pair of hospital-issue pyjamas lay crumpled on the floor where he'd shoved them off the bed.
Mycroft tuts at the sight. "I see your laissez-faire method of housekeeping has not been affected by your stay here."
"Why would it have?" Sherlock snaps back, relishing the fact that he can argue with Mycroft. He'd never thought he'd miss that.
"This is all awfully theatrical," Mycroft gripes while bending down to lace Sherlock's shoes, "Even for you."
Mycroft has at no point asked why he's doing such a thing - arranging an outing for himself and John to the winter garden of the hospital, dressed in his own clothes, while having every intention of docilely returning to his hospital room afterwards.
Mycroft hasn't asked about the details of his plan, because Sherlock suspects his admittedly intelligent brother probably has it all figured out already. He always does and Sherlock has more important things to think about right now than his brother.
He needs to do all this here, now: face John on equal terms. free of all external reminders of what his life has been for the past months. Looking like himself, sounding like himself.
It's becoming obvious that Sherlock won't be able to go home for a while - it will be weeks, if not months until he can handle the physical challenges of returning to Baker Street. Mycroft has been looking into options, since Sherlock won't be needing the services of an actual hospital ward for long now. He had been half-expecting, practically hoping for John to offer to sign him into his care, and take him home soon. No such offer has materialized. John seems to mostly agree with Mycroft that something else needs to be sorted out post-discharge. Sherlock doesn't like discussing it and usually refuses to do so.
Besides, there are more pressing matters at hand.
He can't look after himself yet, but he can do this.
"If there's something you need to discuss with John, couldn't you have done it once you've returned home?" Mycroft asks.
Sherlock glowers at his brother - he still has a slight paralysis of his facial nerve on the left, but that merely makes his frown a little lop-sided. Apart from that, he has now wrenched control of his facial expressions back from the illness.
He'll never forget the look on John's face when he'd come to visit a week earlier, after Sherlock's facial nerves had begun to show signs of improvement.
John had swallowed and then pressed the tip of his forefinger hastily to the edge of his own eye to inconspicuously remove a trace of moisture that had suddenly pooled there. "Oh my God. You're smiling," John had breathed out and countered the smile with his own.
Sherlock had reached out his hand and in his distracted relief John had offered it palm-down, in the same position he'd always arranged it into when their only form of communication had been Morse code. "Right, yeah, sorry," he'd said, and quickly grabbed the hand offered into his own, placing them both on the bed. He had stared at Sherlock as though he'd never seen his face before.
"I missed that," John had said. "Missed you. You have no idea how much."
An important reason for meeting John somewhere other than in his assigned room is this: they've both become too accustomed to that environment, and the roles they have been forced to adopt in it. He needs to jolt John out of a routine of visiting a patient, when he comes to see Sherlock.
They need a neutral ground, a fresh start.
It's ten past six in the evening. It takes John approximately twenty minutes to scarf down a sandwich from the shop around the corner from the clinic, and to hail a cab. A further thirty minutes in late commuter traffic is required to reach the University College Hospital. After that, it's five minutes from the parking lot to the Costa Coffee in the atrium, from where John always gets two teas because neither of them like the NHS-issue bags available on the ward.
Another five minutes are needed for John to go to his room, find the post-it note Mycroft had ghostwritten for Sherlock, frown at it and then make his way to the winter garden.
Taking into consideration when John's shift had ended, he should be arriving any minute, now.
The winter garden is small, and one could argue the word 'garden' - it's more of an atrium, with wooden benches separated by suffering-looking potted palms. Located at the start of a high walkway between the wings, it's airy enough and enjoys an abundance of sunlight, which Sherlock has not experienced much of lately.
Were it any other occasion it would be a plausible option to close his eyes, relish the feeling of the last rays of sunshine on his face and to relax. But not today.
He wipes his sweaty palm on his trouser leg and stretches his legs out, having to place his palm on the bench to avoid losing his balance. He had chosen a seat furthest away from the entrance - not that it mattered, since the place seemed practically deserted.
Mycroft had brought him in, a nurse the third member of their entourage.
Sherlock is dressed entirely in his own clothes now, curls brushed into submission with the assistance of a nurse. He doesn't feel entirely like himself - the clothes no longer fit, among other things that feel off kilter. He still needs to do this, now.
Besides, he shouldn't expect this to feel familiar or easy. He knows things now, things that have changed how he sees his life and John. Possibilities have opened up he would never have dared to imagine.
That is assuming John has decided what he wants, and that it isn't to walk away from Sherlock once this nightmare is over.
John isn't leaving him, at least not yet, since he has just opened the glass door to the winter garden and stepped in.
It takes him little time to spot Sherlock. His expression is a mixture of relief and apprehension. He wastes no time in making his way to the bench.
"To be honest, I thought you'd had enough, legged it and used that note to buy yourself some time. Didn't expect to actually find you here," John admits, not sounding as worried as his words might have suggested.
John then sits down next to him.
Sherlock's mouth is dry. He'd come up with several opening statements, but now that those familiar blue eyes are actually facing his, his brain is scrambling for a hold of his darting thoughts.
"What's this, then?" John asks, "You figured we'd fancy a change?"
As is John's habit and wonderful ability, he has unwittingly offered Sherlock the best possible tangent to go off on.
"In a manner of speaking, yes," Sherlock says slowly and pointedly, homing his gaze right into John's, trying to decipher the undercurrents there. "I'm owed a conversation. A rematch, if you will."
John blinks, and then seems to catch on. He's looking at Sherlock now with a quirked-up lip about to bloom into a smile. "Rematch?"
"On even ground. I assume I am no longer deemed emotionally compromised?"
John huffs. "Do you remember every bloody word I ever say?"
"I always remember the important ones," Sherlock says, surprised at his own biting tone. He doesn't like the way John is making light of the situation, not when he's struggling to convey something that really isn't his area when it comes to communication.
John leans his palms on his knees, eyes downcast. "Look, that wasn't the way to go about it, I know, but I was right, wasn't I? About that evening not being the time or the place."
"I agree. The right time and place would have been approximately two years ago."
He allows John a moment for this to sink in. John shifts on the bench, turning slightly towards him.
"Angelo's?" John asks and receives a nod in reply. "You shot me down, remember? I was just beating around the bush, trying to get to know you, honestly, and you jumped to the conclusion that I was propositioning you."
"What would you have done, had I informed you I was amenable, instead of what I actually did say?"
"'Amenable'? You make it sound like going to the dentist."
"What do people usually say, then?" Sherlock asks, genuinely curious. He turns slightly towards John, because having to keep his head turned is making his neck and shoulders ache. "When they think they're being propositioned, I mean?"
"'Yes'?" John suggests.
Fair enough.
"We're doing this, then?" John asks, "Talking about it."
"Since you promised me this conversation while depriving me of a chance to participate in what technically constitutes my first significant kiss----"
John stands up suddenly. "Sherlock, what the hell...?" he exclaims.
Sherlock arranges his hands onto his lap, waiting patiently for John to calm down.
"That was your - no. Not fucking possible. Tell me that wasn't it."
"I said technically. And you're veering off the point. That point being, of course, where we want to go from here."
This is it. This is really it.
John is still standing, arms spread at his sides disarmingly. "Since I, quote, deprived you of a conversation, unquote, I suppose it would be fair if you told me first what it is you want. In a way, I revealed my hand already."
"How exactly? You stormed out, stayed away and then marched in to demand we pretend nothing ever happened for an undefined time period. Admittedly my skills at interpreting social cues is lacking, but I'd say your behaviour would fall within the parameters of mixed messages."
John's expression softens. The bewilderment is gone, in its place now a calmer smile. "I kissed you. I think it's all there, really. I think that's enough to deduce from."
"And you've had ample time to analyze the consequences? To consider the potential shift in your identity?"
John stares at him. "I don't know what I expected out of this discussion but it wasn't you sounding like a self-help book. How about you stop worrying about me and tell me what it is you want."
Sherlock leans the heels of his palm on his thighs for fortification. He wishes John would sit down for this, because he's feeling exposed and raw with John towering over him like this. On the other hand, he'd never assumed this would be easy, regardless of whether he would be standing up, sitting down, lying down or standing on his head.
He'd been making a list in his head of things he wants to tell John. An extensive list, which he'd then distilled down to the absolute most important points.
"What I want is you by my side, forever. This is not a result of illness distorting my sense of boundaries, not residual gratitude. This is how it's been from the beginning. Am I making sense? Am I right in suspecting that I ruin your dates because, in fact, you let me do that, for a very specific reason?"
He should just come out and ask it instead of these roundabout words, but they've always understood each other even from very few clues.
The look dawning on John's face tells that he has understood, he really has.
"Yes," John says, "you're dead on." His expression is a little wary, and Sherlock can't blame him - all he has actually done here is reiterate something that has already been in effect for two years.
"I am flattered by your interest," Sherlock says and John laughs.
"And this time my answer is yes," Sherlock adds.
John is looking at him with an indescribable expression. Sherlock is adamant to memorize it, and spend the rest of his life trying to understand why it makes him feel like John is holding his heart in his hands right now. If he asked, Sherlock would wrench it out of his ribcage and gift it to him without a moment's hesitation.
"Right. That's good, then. Brilliant, really," John says.
Sherlock believes every word. "In that case, I demand logistical help with kissing you," he says, feeling drunk on hope and relief.
He would have expected John to be surprised at this blunt request, at least a little taken aback, but he looks nothing like it. It likely proves that the thought of kissing him again has crossed John's mind.
"You've really thought this through, haven't you? The note, waiting for me here. If I didn't know better I'd say you're a bit of a romantic," John says.
Sherlock rolls his eyes at him. "Hardly."
"I won't tell anyone."
"Shut up and help me stand," Sherlock says, averting his eyes because a sudden nervousness has overcome him.
This is happening. It's happening right now, and he feels like standing behind the curtain before a violin recital, aware of the possibility of failure and ridicule.
John leans down, drapes his arms around Sherlock's waist and pulls him up.
"This is by far the most complicated kiss I've---" John dares to venture, stumbling a little on the word 'kiss'.
This gives Sherlock a tiniest boost of confidence - if even Three Continents Watson is made nervous by this situation then Sherlock might not be as much an underdog as he'd thought. "Up," he demands.
John looks down. "So you want your arms around my...?"
"Yes," Sherlock says sharply and lifts them as high as he can, which isn't very high at all. He needs to continue to be very direct, mostly to keep himself from losing his nerve. "Preferably before they flop back down," he adds disapprovingly.
John bursts into a laugh, grabs his wrists and joins them behind his own neck, bringing their faces inches from one another.
"I bet we look like a pair of complete idiots right now," John breathes into his neck. Trust John to be still thinking about what others might think or say. Sherlock swears an oath to make it his mission to exorcise that train of thought permanently from John's brain.
"I don't care," Sherlock announces, "it's your turn to be quiet and let me kiss you".
The End NO, IT'S NOT.
In a way, this is just the beginning, because the 1st of December will mark the start of A NOVEL-LENGTH SEQUEL:
Summary: The sequel to "The Breaking Wheel", in which Sherlock goes to rehab (of the other sort), starts scraping his life back together, attempts to solve a case, and tries to make sense of what it actually means to be in a relationship.
Point-of-view characters: John, Sherlock and Mycroft.
Significant tags include (but are not limited to): Romance, Body image issues, Drugs, Sexual identity issues, Serious illness, Physical rehabilitation, Mental breakdown, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Depression, Pain, Established relationship (although they're not exactly sure what it is that they've established), Anxiety, Hurt/comfort, Angst, Dissociation, Miscommunication, Sports, Casefic, Sherlock's violin, Friends to lovers (or the aftermath thereof), Awkward sexual situations, Autism spectrum disorder, Unhealthy coping mechanisms.
I am beyond excited to have had the chance to team up with one of the greatest voices in this fandom, 7PercentSolution. Among her many skills, she is the queen of casefic, and a formidable Mycroft expert. If you're not familiar with her extensive collection of Sherlock works yet, I might suggest starting with my personal favourite, Musgrave Blaze.