Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Phone calls at three in the morning were never about good things.

John was in Barcelona for a medical conference. He was woken up by his mobile ringing and fumbled around in the unfamiliar hotel bed, trying to untangle himself to answer it. He knew right away it couldn't be good news. If he were at home, he might expect Sherlock to be calling him from the first floor of the flat, trying to get him up for a case. But here, when Sherlock probably hadn't even noticed he was gone? It had to be bad.

He managed to grab his mobile and get it to his ear, flailing out with his other hand to steady himself against the bedside table and not fall out of bed. “Hello?” he said.

“Sorry to wake you Dr Watson,” Mycroft's voice said. John's stomach turned to ice. Mycroft calling him was very bad. “I'm afraid Sherlock's been involved in an incident. I think you should come home.”

John was already out of bed and trying to find clothes. “What happened?” he demanded.

“He was attacked,” Mycroft said. “I don't know all the details. It's unclear what he was doing, but he was found in the street by one of his Homeless Network. I've rerouted a private flight to land at El Prat. It will be there in half an hour and wait ten minutes. I suggest you be on it, if at all possible.”

John was throwing things into his suitcase now and decided that he could replace everything in the loo, so he ignored it. “How bad?” he asked.

“I don't have all the details,” Mycroft repeated. “But...he's unconscious. And I understand most of the trauma is to his head.”

John closed his eyes, briefly. “I'm on my way.”

Overall, it could have been worse for Sherlock. There was a sizeable subdural haematoma and some swelling of his brain. The haematoma had been drained with a simple burr hole procedure and most of the swelling went down quite quickly. No one had been able to tell John if there would be any brain damage and he'd sat for long time in the hospital waiting room, trying to avoid thinking about things like DNRs and withdrawing life support. Sherlock Holmes without his cognitive functions would not want to live.

Mycroft was no help whatsoever. He had the power of attorney, but John felt like it would be easier to reach God by phone than Mycroft. He spoke to secretaries and assistants, all them assuring him that Mr Holmes would return his call as soon as possible. Finally, after Sherlock had been unconscious for two days post-surgery, John was forced to scour through Sherlock's address book and find the private, emergency line to Mycroft. Scour was a bit of a strong word, as there were only two names in it and one of them was John's.

Mycroft was in a meeting. “I trust your judgement, Doctor,” he said, in a low voice. “I can't leave here at the moment. Do what you feel is necessary and I will support your decision. You'll know better than I what the right thing to do is.”

“It doesn't work that way,” John said, exasperated. “I don't have the power here, Mycroft. I need you here.”

“If it becomes urgent, I will come,” Mycroft said. “Until then, you are a far better judge than I am.”

John couldn't really argue with that. It was logical. It was Holmesian. It was annoying as hell. “They're going to do another MRI,” he said. “We'll see if the swelling has gone down any further. If it hasn't, we may have to think about...”

“I understand,” Mycroft said.

John thought he finally sounded a bit perturbed, but maybe he was just hoping to get any sort of response from him so much that he was hearing things. Iceman, that's what Sherlock said they called him. He thought it was very apt.

“If he wakes up and he's not... himself,” John added. “You need to tell them no extraordinary measures. He wouldn't want that.”

“I agree,” Mycroft said, and the coolness was back again. “Is that all?”

“Yeah,” John said. “I'll ring you if something needs to be decided on.”

Mycroft barely had time to thank him and say goodbye. John leaned against the hospital wall and tried to control his temper. Getting angry wouldn't help anyone, though angry was what he felt. Angry at Mycroft, angry at himself for going away and leaving Sherlock open to attack, angry at Sherlock for going out on his own. He was angry at everything.

Because if he was angry, he didn't have to be scared.

The MRI showed some improvement in regards to the intracranial pressure and John decided to give Sherlock a little bit longer to pull through before he made any big decisions. Sherlock was stubborn as hell, and if there was any way he could make himself wake up, he would. John felt he owed him the chance to try.

His faith was well-placed.

Sherlock woke up around ten o'clock that night, just as John was getting ready to go home and try to get some sleep. The nurse caught him as he was heading toward the lifts and he hurried back to the waiting room. He paced anxiously as Sherlock was assessed. His heart was pounding in his chest, terrified of what the report might be. He practically ambushed the doctor when she entered the room.

“Dr Watson?” she said. “Do you want to come with me to somewhere more private?”

John knew where that was—that was the Bad News Room. He did not want to go to the Bad News Room. “Just tell me, please,” he said.

She smiled and invited him to take a seat in a corner of the room. “Sherlock is doing very well,” she began. “He responded extremely well to the majority of the tests. His motor functions are very good, but he has some weakness on the right side. It isn't severe and should resolve with physio.”

John relaxed a little, but he knew that couldn't be the full report. “And?” he pressed.

“He has some retrograde amnesia about the incident, which is perfectly normal,” she went on. “And he didn't know the date.”

“He never knows the date,” John said.

“Or the current prime minister,” she said.

“He never knows the current prime minister,” John said.

“Oh. Well, then that's quite good,” she said. “Are you sure that's not out of character?”

“For Sherlock? No,” John said, with a relieved laugh. “Is that what you were worried about?”

“That's part of it,” she said. “But he's also showing signs of dysphasia. He answered our questions, but he struggled very hard to find the right words. He was able to write his name and some... er... opinions on our questions, but his verbal expression was very stilted. He understood everything we asked of him, so it seems to be expressive and not receptive.”

“Oh God,” John muttered, feeling a bit sick to his stomach.

“Really, Dr Watson, of all the possible outcomes, this is very good,” she said.

“I know, I understand that,” John said. “But you don't know Sherlock. Sherlock needs words. He needs to be able to speak. If he can't speak...” he shook his head.

“It may just be temporary, it's very early days yet,” she soothed. “And with these sorts of injuries, as I'm sure you know, recovery is absolutely possible. Sometimes it reverses itself very quickly. And if it doesn't, there are plenty of therapies to help him along. I understand his brain is used to working in unusual ways, as well, which will help. I can't promise a full recovery, but I do think Mr Holmes is capable of it, if anyone is.”

John nodded, trying not to be too panicked. She was right; if Sherlock had come through this with his brain mostly intact, it was better than most people. Sherlock probably wouldn't see it that way, though. He wondered if he was scared, not being able to communicate freely.

“Wait, if the hemiparesis is on the right, how did he write for you?” he asked.

She frowned. “Is he not left-handed?” she said. “He tried to pick up the pen with his right hand and then moved to the left one and wrote normally. I assumed that was his dominant one.”

John shrugged. “Can I see him?” he asked, deciding there were more important things to think about than Sherlock's cross-dominance.

“He's back asleep; we still want him resting and the assessment took a lot out of him,” she explained. “But you're welcome to look in on him if you'd like. I trust you to know what you shouldn't be doing.”

John was led into Sherlock's room. He looked to be resting comfortably, a lot of the tubes and machines gone now. He still had oxygen prongs in and part of his head was shaved from the burr hole procedure, giving him an odd, patched look. He was a bit black and blue from the beating, bruises starting to fade into yellow and puce now that they'd had a few days to heal. His ECG monitor beeped normal sinus rhythm and John always found that sound comforting. He checked his obs and reassured himself that Sherlock was all right.

As he turned to leave, he noticed a piece of paper on the rolling table. It had Sherlock's eccentric scrawl, a mix of capitals and lower-case letters all scribbled together. John noticed it was a bit off—spaced differently, like he wasn't sure how to judge the room he had on the page and some of the letters were squished together or bigger than the others. Some of the spelling was off too, which was very unlike Sherlock, but that was part of the dysphasia. His name was dashed across the top, with two R's in Sherlock, followed by 'I do nt kno' underneath. This was underlined several times, as though he'd had to emphasize it. Beneath that was 'teadius' and 'go a way'. John smiled.

At least Sherlock's personality was intact.

It took a few days before John's visits to the hospital were timed with Sherlock's periods of being awake. They were keeping him very well sedated, because apparently Sherlock was 'agitated' when he was awake. John interpreted this to mean 'acting like Sherlock'. He kept trying to get out of bed and they didn't want him moving around too much when his brain was still recovering, especially with the hemiparesis, which made him more liable to fall. Finally, John managed to find him while he was upright.

“How are you?” John asked, taking a seat by the bed.

Sherlock frowned and furrowed his brow, his mouth opening and closing several times before he managed to get out “bored”.

John had to fight hard to keep his face neutral. It was sickening to see Sherlock—who used words as weapons, who collected and treasured words and worshipped them and scorned those who didn't have as many as him—struggle to say his favourite one. It made John's stomach twist.

He forced himself to laugh. “Hospitals aren't supposed to be exciting, Sherlock,” he said. “You need to rest.”

Sherlock made a face. “Bored,” he repeated. “Bored... bored.”

“Can I get you anything?” John asked. “Do you want a book or something? Your laptop?”

Sherlock's mouth moved again. He looked very frustrated when the words wouldn't come. John found it hard to watch him struggle, but didn't prompt and let Sherlock come to it himself.

“History,” he said. He seemed to know this wasn't right. “History... nnn-nnn.. er... er... new... history... now... history...”

John tried to parse this and figure out what Sherlock meant. “I'm sorry,” he said. “Can you use different words?”

“Words.... er... broken...” Sherlock said, annoyed. “Thoughts... blood.” He touched his head, where the sutures were. “Broken.”

“I know, Sherlock,” John said. “I'm sorry. Do you want to write for me?”

Sherlock nodded. John retrieved the notebook and pen he habitually carried with him. Sherlock had trouble holding it open with his right hand, which was slow to respond to his commands. John held it flat for him and Sherlock wrote with his left hand, his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration.

“How come you can write so well with your left hand?” John asked.

Sherlock opened his mouth to explain, but nothing came out. He made a few 'er' noises and gestured a little, but couldn't seem to find any words. “Bored,” he settled on, in the end. “Bored.”

John wasn't sure if he found the question boring or if boredom had led to his ambidexterity. He suspected the latter was more likely. He could picture Sherlock being so bored that he decided to learn how write with the opposite hand or something equally insane for an experiment.

“Nooz papper,” John read, upside down, as Sherlock finished writing. He sounded it out a few times.“Oh, yeah, I get it now. Newspaper. History that's happening now. I can bring you some newspapers, sure. Anything else?” Sherlock wrote again. John laughed. “I can't bring you a murder, Sherlock. I don't think the nurses would approve.”

Sherlock pouted. He wrote again. John had to sound it out again. 'Orderlyy a fair hav'

“I don't care if the orderly is having an affair,” John said, with a roll of his eyes. “I doubt it affects his ability to do his job. I'm glad to see your powers of nosiness are still intact, though.”

“Still... smart,” Sherlock said, a bit urgently. “Still... smart. Smart. Not... er... gr... er... grammar... right... but... but... but... smart... always...”

John smirked. “I know, Sherlock,” he assured him. “You're still a clever arse.”

Sherlock nodded and grinned.

A man came in the next day to give Sherlock a full assessment, so they could come up with a treatment plan for him. John guessed he was some sort of occupational therapist, but he only introduced himself as 'Geordie'. He was a fatherly, grey-haired man with a deep, soothing Scottish voice and the feeling that he had nothing better to do than what he was doing at that particular moment.

John had requested to be present at the assessment, as he would be the one who would be interacting with Sherlock the most. He didn't like the term 'caregiver', but he knew that's basically what he was.

Geordie took Sherlock through a few exercises with his hands and feet first. Sherlock's right side was slow to respond, but he got all the tasks completed eventually. There were some memory and decision making tests next. Sherlock did pretty well with those. Then they moved on to the speech tests, starting with repetition. Sherlock did about fifty-fifty on those, able to repeat some words and a few short phrases, but having trouble with longer sentences.

Geordie held up a pen next. “Do you know what this is?” he asked. Sherlock nodded, looking insulted. “Can you tell me?”

Sherlock frowned and concentrated. “Tr... er... blue,” he said.

“Yes, the ink is blue,” Geordie said, in a praising tone of voice. “But what is the object itself called?”

“Pen,” Sherlock came up with, after several seconds of opening and closing his mouth and saying 'er...'.

“Perfect, great,” Geordie said, making a note on his paper. “What do you do with a pen?”

“Words,” Sherlock said, making a writing movement. “And... erm... maths and... and... and... pictures.”

“Great,” Geordie repeated. He made some more notes. John tried to read them, but they were too far away for him to do it without being obvious. Geordie touched his glasses next. “What about these?”

“Spectacles,” Sherlock said, without too much hesitation. “Broken... eyes... erm... erm... hear... no... er... look.”

“Perfect,” Geordie said. Sherlock rolled his eyes at John, who hid a smile.

Geordie pointed to John next. “Do you know who this is?” Sherlock nodded again. “Can you tell me his name?”

Sherlock looked over at John and opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He closed and opened it several times. “No, no,” he said. Or maybe 'know, know'. He looked annoyed and then a bit panicked and John really had to bite his tongue not to say his name for him. Sherlock looked back at Geordie and shook his head.

“That's all right,” Geordie soothed. “Can you tell me about him?”

Sherlock looked at John again. “Baker... Baker,” he said. “Baker.”

“That's our address,” John explained.

Geordie nodded, but put a finger to his lips and John clamped his mouth shut. “Tell me more, Sherlock,” he said. “What does he do?”

“Pills...” Sherlock said. “Pills... and... running... and... er... war. Also... words... stories... not... pen... words... keys... words.” He made a motion of typing on a keyboard. John guessed he was trying to explain about the blog. “Words.”

“Great,” Geordie said. “Can you tell me anything else?”

“Women,” Sherlock said and John chuckled at the disgusted tone in his voice. “And... pub... also... er... tea... tea and.... short...” John gave him a mock annoyed look at this and Sherlock grinned. “Me... follow...” he shook his head, as though disagreeing with himself. “No. No. Me...” he made an odd gesture John couldn't interpret, a sort of circular motion between the two of them. “Trouble... me... fix...”

“Do you want to write it?” Geordie asked. “Are you able to write?”

Sherlock nodded, and snatched the pen as soon as it was close enough. He scribbled on a piece of paper Geordie set down, then pushed it back.

“That's good, Sherlock,” Geordie said. “It's very good you can write. A lot of people can't after this sort of injury.” He looked down at the paper and took a moment to decipher it. “He assists you with your work? Is that right?” Sherlock nodded. “And what do you do for a living Sherlock? What does he assist you with?”

“Murder,” Sherlock answered, without hesitation.

John felt that interceding here was necessary. “Er, he's a detective,” he explained. “We solve murders.”

“Oh, I see,” Geordie said, looking a bit relieved.

“No, no,” Sherlock said. Or again, maybe 'know, know'. He pointed to the paper and Geordie handed it back to him. He wrote on it again and pushed it toward John.

He picked it up and read it. The words 'Jon H. Waaatson' were printed in capital letters and underlined twice, as though Sherlock were trying to prove that he remembered it.

“Know,” Sherlock said, and John knew which word he meant this time. “Know... you.”

John arrived home after Sherlock's test to find a new bag of knitting had appeared on the chair in the hallway. Mrs Hudson's response to stress seemed to be cleaning, baking, and knitting. In the week since Sherlock's attack, she'd made 221B spotless, and after she was out of things to polish, she moved on to baking until John really could not eat anything else—and now she was knitting. He'd already taken a bag of hats, mitts and scarves to the charity looking for them and dropped off a box of preemie hats at the nursery during one of his trips to the hospital.

She hurried out of her flat, as she always did when he came home after seeing Sherlock. “How is he?” she asked.

John gave her a reassuring smile, though he could have used some reassurance himself. “He's doing very well,” he said. “He had his assessment done and I got him to agree to a treatment plan, though I very much doubt he's going to cooperate with the therapy. His movement was a bit better today, I think.”

Mrs Hudson still looked worried . “But his speech?” she said. John shook his head. “Poor thing. Sherlock loves his words. Is he frustrated?”

“Yeah,” John admitted. “He's pretty annoyed. He's angry. That's good. It's a better response than feeling sorry for himself. Angry is a bit more productive.”

She nodded. “Poor thing,” she repeated. She sighed and changed the subject. “I made you lunch. And there's a cake in the fridge.”

John's stomach was not pleased about this, but he forced a smile and thanked her. He ate the lunch provided and managed a slice of cake, but decided that Mrs Hudson needed to see Sherlock before John's trousers didn't fit any longer.

Mrs Hudson was always a bit reluctant to visit anyone in hospital. John and Sherlock had both had their share of stays, but she didn't often come to visit. John didn't hold it against her—lots of people weren't comfortable in hospitals. She accepted his offer to come with him when he returned for proper visiting hours later that day, however. She knew Sherlock wasn't coming home any time soon.

“Now, he'll be speaking like a child or a person with a mental disability,” he prepared her, as they walked through the halls. “But his comprehension is still very good and he thinks normally, he just can't articulate it, so don't talk to him like a child or simplify your words. Just give him time to get out what he wants to say and if he doesn't make sense, ask him to repeat himself. Don't finish his sentences or help him out unless he asks you to.”

She nodded, looking a bit flustered. He smiled at her and knocked on Sherlock's door, then let her go in first.

John didn't know much about how Sherlock and Mrs Hudson met or why they seemed to like each other so much. She was the only person in the world that John had ever seen Sherlock be openly affectionate towards. He smiled when she nervously entered the room, looking pleased to see her, albeit in a guarded sort of way.

“Hello, dear,” Mrs Hudson said, hurrying over to the bed. “Oh my goodness! I've been so worried! What were you thinking, running off on your own like that? You could have been killed! Look at your poor head!”

Sherlock made a face like a scolded child and flinched away when she tried to touch the shaved area of his head. It was pretty nasty looking. The incision was open to the air now, so the stitches could be seen and there was a sort of dent where the hole in his skull had been made. “Fine,” he objected. She hugged him and he tensed up, but patted her on the back in a perfunctory way. “Sta... er... cease.”

She let go and stepped back, tears in her eyes. John brought a chair over for her to sit in. Sherlock pointed to the rolling table, where the pen and paper were located. John pushed it over to him and he started to write.

“Mrs... Hus-don... Hus-don...” he said, after he'd written it down. That was one of the techniques Geordie had suggested. For some reason, reading was sometimes easier than speaking spontaneously. “Hus-don.” He wrote again, but frowned and shook his head, then glared at John. “You... no.”

“Sorry,” John said, though he wasn't sure what he was apologizing for. “Have you tried singing it?” This earned him an even deeper glare. “Singing comes from a different part of the brain, Sherlock. It might be easier.”

Sherlock shook his head and turned his attention back to Mrs Hudson. She seemed to have gathered herself again. “Not... not... need... visit... need,” he told her.

“I know, dear,” she said. “I wanted to.” She lifted up the handbag she had with her and pulled out a little box. “I made tarts. I thought you might like something homemade, though I know you don't like to eat. But you should, because you need to be healthy. And I made you a scarf. John says yours is in evidence, so I don't want you to catch cold when you come home.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but dutifully took the objects and put them on the table. He looked to John, confused. “Edi-vence?” he asked.

“Yeah, Sherlock, they took your clothes for evidence,” John explained. “It's an assault case. They're investigating. Your scarf and coat were pretty bloodied up, from what I understand.”

Sherlock wrote again. “Die,” he said. He held up a hand before John could say anything. “Die...” He frowned and clasped his thumb and forefinger around the opposite wrist, like a bracelet. “Arrest.”

“No, they haven't arrested anyone,” John said.

Sherlock slapped the table in frustration. “Wrong,” he told John. He pointed to the paper. “Eyes.”

John leaned over. “Oh, DI! Sorry,” he said. Sherlock was reading it as a word and not the two individual letters. “Do you mean Lestrade? Is Lestrade on the case?” Sherlock nodded, making an 'obviously' gesture as he did so. “Yeah, Lestrade's in charge. He was pretty insistent on it. He'd like to chat with you, but he said not to rush you. So when you feel like you're ready, let me know.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said. “Fine... n-now. Fine.”

John was a bit sceptical that Sherlock was up to it, but he was already frustrated and John didn't want to fray any more nerves. “I'll give him a ring,” he said.

Sherlock nodded, content. He turned back to Mrs Hudson, who looked very concerned at his outburst. “Fine,” he assured her. “Not... not... rowy.”

It took John a second to figure out he meant 'worry'. Mrs Hudson didn't seem to need to decipher.

“You silly boy,” she said. “I'm always going to worry about you.”

Sherlock didn't know what to do with that. She smiled and patted his hand. He twitched his lips back at her. “Silly...no,” he objected.

“Yes you are, you are a very silly boy,” Mrs Hudson insisted. “You have to promise me you won't ever wander out on your own like that again, it was a silly thing to do. You should have told someone where you were going.”

“Adult not... not... child,” Sherlock told her. “Not... have... have... erm... tell... all... moves.”

“You can't run around on your own,” Mrs Hudson said. “It's dangerous. If you'd had John with you, you might not have been hurt.”

“Very... good me,” Sherlock said, pompously. “Many... er... years... solo. Fine.”

“Yes, well you have people who care about you now,” Mrs Hudson said. “And who are your friends and can help you. You shouldn't be on your own when you're doing silly things.”

Sherlock reluctantly nodded, mostly, John suspected, to make her move on to a new subject. They chatted for a bit longer, Mrs Hudson doing most of the talking and Sherlock only saying a few words here and there. John chimed in to make up for Sherlock's lack of conversation. After about twenty minutes, Sherlock started to look tired. He would never say anything, but John knew how much an injury like his took out of a person. It was exhausting to try and do something that was hard for a long period of time. John could remember after he was shot, trying to build up the strength in his shoulder again. A shoulder that wouldn't do what he told it. He slept for weeks after he came home from Afghanistan.

“It looks like the nurse wants to check on Sherlock,” John said, taking the opportunity to extract themselves without implying that Sherlock was running out of steam. He'd just deny it and get offended. “We should probably give her some room to work.”

Mrs Hudson took the hint and got to her feet. “You behave yourself,” she told Sherlock, sternly. “I know the sort of patient you are. You be good for these nice nurses and doctors trying to look after you.” Sherlock stuck his nose in the air. Mrs Hudson smiled affectionately and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I'm glad you're all right, Sherlock.”

Sherlock flicked a smile at her. “Fine,” he said. “Not... rowy. Not... fuss.”

Mrs Hudson patted his hand and John said goodbye, then ushered her out to the hallway. The nurse greeted them as she passed, going into the room after they'd left. John waited while Mrs Hudson arranged her coat and scarf to her satisfaction.

“It's so nice that your mum came to visit,” the nurse said to Sherlock. John could hear her from the hallway.

“Not... mum,” Sherlock said, in a patronizing tone of voice. “Land—er—land-lady.”

“Oh, I see,” the nurse said. “It's still nice for her to visit though, isn't it?”

“Maybe,” Sherlock admitted.

John and Mrs Hudson took the lift down to the ground floor. Once inside, she started to cry. She fumbled in her handbag for tissues and John wasn't sure what to do.

“I'm sorry,” she said, with a sniff. “I didn't want to do it in front of him. I was so worried. My friends have had strokes and I was so afraid that he wouldn't be himself. I know his speech isn't right, but he's still him. When you described it, it seemed like a stroke and I—oh dear, I'm being silly. He's still himself, isn't he?”

John smiled and put his arm around her shoulders, squeezing her up to his side. He touched his head to hers. “Yeah, he's still Sherlock,” he said. “Lucky us, huh?”

She nodded and cried harder. John held on to her, feeling relieved himself. He'd made the choice to give Sherlock a chance to recover and he had to live with it, for better or worse. Thankfully, it was the right choice. Sherlock Holmes was still Sherlock Holmes. If nothing else, it was a place to start.

Chapter Text

Mrs Hudson returned to her knitting once they were home, but she seemed to have stopped baking. John took that as a sign she was feeling better about Sherlock. He was able to eat his (small) dinner quietly and take a few minutes to update his blog and respond to comments. He'd kept the entry about Sherlock's injury very vague, simply saying that he'd been hurt and was unable to take on cases at the moment. There had been a flood of good wishes on the blog in response to the entry, but he hadn't had time to thank anyone for them. He made a new entry now, to thank everyone all together, and then went through to respond to some of the ones from people he knew personally.

It was odd to be the in the flat without Sherlock. He didn't often go out, really only for cases, and John was usually with him when that happened. John wasn't used to being on his own any more. He was used to clinking beakers and violin playing at all hours and weird smells coming from the kitchen or derogatory comments as he watched telly. With Mrs Hudson's cleaning spree, the flat seemed unlived in and eerie, like Sherlock had never been there. There was even room to eat at the kitchen table, though he didn't because it didn't feel right.

Lestrade called to check on how Sherlock was doing. John updated him and told him that Sherlock was ready to talk to him. They agreed to do it during visiting hours the next day. John went to bed early, feeling a bit lost, like he had all week. Without cases or Sherlock's mad hobbies, there was very little to do on his own, and the moment he didn't have anything to distract himself with, all the worry came rushing in. He didn't know what to do with himself.

He had a restless night's sleep, unable to settle his mind and then having nightmares when he finally nodded off. Since Sherlock's injury, John had been having more nightmares than usual. In general, they'd eased a little over his time at Baker Street, but had never gone away completely. Usually he could pinpoint the trigger—a body lying a certain way at a crime scene or footage of soldiers on the news, or old black and white war films on telly. He supposed in this scenario, when of his 'comrades' was hurt, it wasn't surprising that he was having nightmares of endless wards of patients that he could neither get to nor help in time. All his guilt and his feelings of helplessness that he was trying to ignore crept in at night and invaded his dreams. He woke up feeling like he hadn't slept at all.

Sarah called in the morning, asking him if he could cover for a doctor who had a family emergency. He accepted readily, happy to get out of the flat for a while and have something to distract himself with. The other doctors were chatty and cheerful, and John had lunch with them and Sarah. Though they all politely inquired about Sherlock, the conversation didn't revolve around him. John felt like it was all he'd been talking about with everyone lately, and it was nice to have a change of topic.

Lestrade met him outside the hospital after work. He looked strained and worried. John knew he was working hard on the case. Sherlock, as much as everyone disliked it, was part of the team and when one of their own was attacked, it was a challenge that needed to be answered.

“Christ, this place is like a hotel,” Lestrade muttered, when they entered the lobby.

“Private healthcare,” John said, with a shrug. “Mycroft pulled out all the stops. Probably for the best. You know how Sherlock gets in hospital. They have more patience for him here.”

“Probably used to rich twats,” Lestrade said. “How's he doing?”

“I haven't seen him yet today, but I talked to him on the phone this morning to let him know you were coming,” John replied. “He's harder to understand on the phone, when I can't see what gestures he's making, but sounded about the same, maybe a little better. ”

“My mum had a stroke a few years ago,” Lestrade said. “Sort of a similar thing, isn't it? She's still a bit dotty, but she's a lot better than she was, with the physio and stuff. She had the speech thing too. It had a name...a-something dysphasia...”

“Anomial?” John suggested.

“That's it,” Lestrade agreed. “She couldn't do names. She could tell you all about it, what it did or what you used it for or what it looked like, but she couldn't tell you the name. She had to talk her way around everything. Couldn't do our names either, me and my sisters' and their kids'. She called me 'lad' all the time. She's better now. She calls me by my dad's name a lot, but I think that's the confusion thing, more than the speech thing.”

John nodded. “Sorry,” he offered.

“Not your fault,” Lestrade said, with a shrug. “I just meant, I know what it's like. So... it gets better.”

“Thanks,” John said.

“And how are you doing?” Lestrade asked, eyeing him critically.

“I'm okay,” John said, not sounding particularly reassuring even to his own ears. He felt like crap. “Just a bit tired.” He didn't think Lestrade believed him. “I'm fine.”

“Let me know if there's anything I can do to help,” Lestrade said.

“I will,” John said.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. Sherlock was up in one of the armchairs today. He was dressed in the pyjamas and dressing gown John had brought in for him a few days earlier, finally out of the patient gown he'd been in since he'd been in hospital. He was looking out the window, lost in thought. It was such a normal pose for him, that John felt a bit relieved. A step toward normality. He looked over to John and Lestrade when they arrived, nodding a hello.

“You look better,” John said.

“Rain,” Sherlock explained. He made a gesture above his head like water falling on it . John thought he probably meant shower. “Wash... and also... also... er... razor. Rain... s-solo, but... razor... help.” He wrinkled his nose, clearly not pleased about the help. “No... shampoo yet... because... er... er... blood.” He pointed at his head.

Sherlock had been refusing to let anyone bathe him since he'd woken up. He wasn't going to do it until he was allowed to do it by himself. John wasn't sure if it was just a control issue, or if he didn't like the idea of a nurse seeing him naked. He expected it was the former, as Sherlock didn't seem to have any qualms about walking around in public in a bedsheet.

“Yeah, you have to wait to wash your hair until your wound heals up a bit more,” John said. “Probably not too long, though.”

Sherlock nodded. “Hair...” he couldn't seem to find the word for it, so just made a disgusted face. Despite all his idiosyncrasies, Sherlock was meticulous about his grooming. John imagined he probably felt pretty grimy not being able to wash his hair. He squinted at John now. “Doctor... er... today?”

“Yeah, I was called in,” John said. “How did you know?”

“Clothes,” Sherlock said. He touched his shoulder. “Wrinkle... because... because... grey... no... white... white... lab.”

John smiled, happy to hear some deductions again. “Good eye,” he said.

Sherlock nodded. He looked to Lestrade. “Quiet you,” he said. “Er... er... nervous?”

“Nope, just waiting for my turn,” Lestrade said. His smile seemed a little forced. Seeing Sherlock's state for the first time was jarring, John knew. “I was hoping to talk to you about what happened, if you're up to it. I know you don't remember much, but anything might help.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said. It was his favourite word—the one that came the most easily to him. Well, 'fine' and 'bored'. And 'no'. “Er... shh... er... progress?”

“Right,” Lestrade said. “Well, it's a bit thin at the moment. The tech folks have managed to track your journey on CCTV from when you left Baker Street to where the assault happened, but there aren't any cameras on the scene itself, so we go blind right at the important part. We know you were there about an hour before the homeless guy found you, but we don't know when precisely the assault took place. It looks like that's where your destination was, you didn't end up there by accident. It doesn't look like anyone was following you, but without knowing why you were going there it's hard to look for suspicious people around the area. We have no physical evidence, and the only thing forensics can tell me is that you were hit with something metal. I don't even know what weapon was used.”

Sherlock made a superior face. “My... case... er... solve... case... me,” he complained.

“There wouldn't have been a case if you hadn't buggered off on your own without telling anyone what you were up to,” Lestrade told him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don't... memory,” he said. “Can't... scold... don't... memory.”

“I can and I will,” Lestrade replied. “You may be a genius, but you're a bloody idiot.”

Sherlock scowled. “Questions,” he ordered. He looked down at his hands for a moment. “Words... broken, so ask... ask...” he growled and pointed at John. Sherlock still couldn't get John's name out. “Doctor. Ask doctor for... er... sense.”

“I've understood you pretty well so far,” Lestrade said. “Just take as much time as you need, I'm in no hurry. We'll go slow and give you time to think, okay? If I need to you repeat anything, I'll ask, and if you still have trouble, maybe you could write it for me.”

Sherlock nodded. John brought over the rolling table with the paper on it for him, then took a seat on the hospital bed, for lack of a better spot. Lestrade took out his notebook and made a few notes before he said anything.

“So, do you remember anything about the assault?” Lestrade said. “Do you know why you left your flat or who you were going to meet?”

Sherlock was silent as he thought for a bit. “No,” he said. “Er... black.”

“What about before the assault? Were you working on a case?” Lestrade asked.

“No case,” Sherlock said. He pointed to John. “Aeroplane... for doctor... er... er... meeting, so... so... solo. Ss... er... science.”

“John was doing science or you were?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock pointed to himself. “Solo and... science,” he said. He wrote on his paper. “Ess-perment.”

“Oh, okay, yeah,” Lestrade said, with a nod. “Sorry. You were doing one of your weird experiments things. All right. When was this?”

“Always,” Sherlock said. “Morning... and... and... later... er... same. Always. Long ess-perment.”

Lestrade wrote some more. “You were working on your experiment all day,” he translated. “We're trying to get your mobile records, but your phone was pretty smashed. The techies are trying to pull information from the SIM card. Do you remember anyone calling you or you calling anyone?”

“Maybe call, but... er... working,” Sherlock explained. “Not... not... ears... because working. Wrote... call...” he wrote again and opened and closed his mouth, then shook his head. He moved his thumbs in the air, the right one jerking out of synch with the other, not as smooth a movement.

“Text,” John supplied.

“Test,” Sherlock agreed. “Test...” He wrote on the paper again. “Mo-lly. For cases. But... no. So... more... ess-perment.”

“And no one e-mailed you? You didn't get a letter? No one came to visit?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock shook his head, thoughtfully. “Door... maybe... but not... not... answer,” he said. “Because—”

“Experiment,” Lestrade said, with a smirk. “Right. I see the pattern here. We pulled the cab number off the video and found the cabbie using it. He doesn't remember you saying anything about what you were doing. Apparently you told him to leave his wife because she was cheating on him. He wasn't very inclined to be helpful. My impression is that's because you were right.” Sherlock grinned, proudly. “Do you have any idea why you would have gone to that area of the city? We couldn't think of anything that might interest you there. Except... er... well, a lot of drug deals go down there.”

“No,” Sherlock said, firmly. He looked to John and repeated, “no. Clean... not... dr-drugs.”

Lestrade didn't look entirely convinced and John didn't like the little tinge of doubt in the back of his own mind. “The thing is, we can't rule it out because you can't remember why you went,” Lestrade said. “So... it's a valid line of inquiry.”

Sherlock was scribbling violently. “Donovan,” he said, spitting out the word with venom. “Donovan... idea.” The look on Lestrade's face made it clear that Sherlock was right. “She... stupid. So... er... er... never... ears... no... no... drugs. Other... er... reason maybe... sometimes... sometimes...” He was scribbling again, but the word didn't seem to come to him. He slammed his hand down on the table in frustration.

“Do you want a break, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked. “We can give you a bit of a rest.”

“Fine,” Sherlock snapped. He glared at the paper.

John leaned forward to see if he could help him out, raising an eyebrow to ask if it was okay if he stepped in. He never knew if it was helpful or insulting, and he could only imagine how frustrated he would be if someone kept trying to finish his sentences or pretend to know what he was trying to say. Sherlock nodded to give his permission.

“In... information?” John read, trying to sound out the letters Sherlock had written down. 'In famation'

“Again,” Sherlock ordered.

“Information,” John pronounced, clearly.

“In-fo-ma-tion,” Sherlock repeated. He nodded. “Yes. Man... in-fo-ma-tion.”

“So you go there to get information from someone,” John said.

“But you weren't working on anything, so why would you need information?” Lestrade asked.

“Not... know!” Sherlock said, his voice raising. “Don't... don't... memory!”

“Okay, Sherlock, okay,” Lestrade said, soothing. “Can you tell me this man's name?”

Sherlock shrugged. “No... no... name,” he said. “Not... imp—imp...” his fists clenched and unclenched and then he just shook his head, giving up.

“Where do you usually meet him?” Lestrade asked.

“Need... ink,” Sherlock said. He wrote out the address for Lestrade and handed the paper to him.

“I'll see if we can track him down,” Lestrade said, squinting down at the writing.

He shot a confused look to John, who made a surreptitious gesture to the door, implying he'd figure it out once they were outside. He didn't think Sherlock would appreciate John correcting his writing. Lestrade nodded back. Sherlock scowled at them both, clearly very aware of what they were doing.

“Er, he might be able to give us some information,” Lestrade said, quickly.“Thanks, Sherlock.” He smiled and closed his notebook. “I think that's good for now. If you think of anything else, let me know, all right? And I'll keep you updated as best I can.”

Sherlock turned his face away, looking frustrated and tired. “Fine,” he said.

Lestrade nodded, standing awkwardly in silence for a few moments. “All right then,” he said, finally.

Sherlock suddenly sat up in his chair. “Test,” he said. “I think... test.”

“Sorry?” Lestrade said.

“Before... leave... maybe... maybe... memory test,” Sherlock said.

“A test—er text from who?” Lestrade asked.

“Maybe...” Sherlock pointed at John. “You?”

“No, I didn't text you,” John said. “I never try to contact you when I'm away because you don't answer the phone.”

“No, you,” Sherlock insisted. He furrowed his brow, thinking. “You.”

“I don't think so, Sherlock,” John said, gently.

Sherlock frowned and shook his head. “Test,” he said, more to himself. He looked to Lestrade. “You see... phone... see.”

Lestrade nodded. “All right. Thanks. I hope you feel better soon.”

Sherlock shrugged and turned his face away again. John followed Lestrade out of the room. They paused by the lifts, while Lestrade retrieved his notebook again and wrote a few more bullet points in it and John figured out the address Sherlock had written down. Somewhere in the Strand area, not far from where Sherlock had been assaulted.

“You don't really think he was after drugs, do you?” John asked, after Lestrade had added the address to his notes.

Lestrade rubbed his face. “No,” he said. “But I'm the only one. Everyone else on the case has it pretty much closed as a drug deal gone wrong. Every damn officer that Sherlock has ever insulted or antagonized or made to feel like an idiot is more than happy to label him a drug addict and say it's his own fault.” He sighed. “I know what Sherlock is like when he's using. He was clean when I met him, but I don't think for long, and I made it very clear he can't work with us if he ever goes back to it. And I think it gave his mind something to do—a better high. That's why he works with us. But he's had a few setbacks and I know what they look like. He's not in that place right now, or he wasn't. Whatever he was doing there, it wasn't to buy drugs. It might have something to do with it, some case or something, but he wasn't there for himself.”

John nodded. “I wish I hadn't gone to that conference,” he said. “I keep thinking if I'd been here, he wouldn't have been hurt.”

“You couldn't have known,” Lestrade said. “And you might have just been in here with him. You've been good for him. It's good that he has you around. He'll get himself together. Sherlock's the most stubborn, determined person I've ever met. His brain will figure it all out. He'll probably solve his own damn assault from his hospital bed. Listen, is there anyone you can think of who had a grudge against him or might want to hurt him?” John just raised his eyebrows at him. “Yeah, I know it's a stupid question, but has there been anything in particular lately. Any threats, any disgruntled clients, anyone he got in the way of?”

John thought back. “We get threats all the time,” he said. “Nothing's ever come of it. We mostly ignore them. There was a father who was a bit miffed Sherlock wouldn't take on a case to help his son. That... Verringer thing.”

“That kid in Thailand?” Lestrade asked. “I didn't know you were involved in that.”

“We weren't. Sherlock wouldn't help. He said it was obvious the boy was guilty,” John explained. “And there was a husband a little while back who threatened to sue on some grounds, I can't remember what. He hired Sherlock to find his wife and Sherlock did—with another man. He was a solicitor. I think he was just blowing off steam. And there was another person who claimed Sherlock ruined their business by getting one of their employees arrested, but, I mean, the employee was guilty, so there's not much he could do about that. And—”

“Okay,” Lestrade held up his hand. “Yeah, I can see this might not be the best angle to came at it from. You don't have a list of who doesn't want him dead, do you?”

John laughed. “You, me, Mrs Hudson,” he said. “And Molly. And some days... I don't know if you and I count.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade agreed. “All right. Well, I guess I'll get back to work. I was sort of hoping to have more to go on, but I guess I'll have to make do. Hopefully some of the test results will come back soon.”

John smiled in sympathy. “Let me know if you find anything,” he said.

“I will.”

They said goodbye and John returned to Sherlock's room, taking a seat on the bed again. Sherlock looked exhausted. He gave John a weary sort of look. John thought he looked as weary as John felt.

“You... think... think... drugs,” Sherlock said.

“No, I believe you,” John assured him.

“You think... you... gone... so... er... er... cheat,” Sherlock pressed.

John hated when Sherlock plucked thoughts of his head like that. It was exactly what he had thought, for the briefest moment in the back of his mind. One of the wriggling, nagging thoughts that he wasn't even aware he had until someone spoke it out loud.

“Look,” Sherlock said, pushing up his sleeves. He had trouble with the left arm, since his right wasn't cooperating. “Old... er... er... needle... not... new.”

“I don't need you see your arms, Sherlock,” John said, keeping his gaze purposefully away from the old scars. “I believe you.”

“Sure?” Sherlock pressed, studying John carefully.

“Yep,” John said.

Sherlock tilted his head to one side, contemplating. “Why?” he asked, after a moment. “Just... me... no... no... proof... for... truth.”

“Because friends trust each other,” John said.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Sen-sentiment,” he complained.

“Besides, if you were using, I think I'd notice a personality change,” John said. “And you're the same annoying dick as you've always been.”

Sherlock lips twitched a bit. He pointed to the bed. “Move,” he said.

John got up and tried to hover without hovering as Sherlock slowly got to his feet. He had a cane, but waved it away when John offered it to him. He sort of lurched, balanced himself on the nearest object and dragged his foot along. John kept a steadying hand on his shoulder, undeterred by Sherlock's glare. It took a few minutes, but he managed to get to the bed and into it without incident. He looked pale and drawn.

“Go 'way,” he told John.

John chuckled. “Okay, Sherlock. Try to rest.” Sherlock nodded and John thought he might actually comply with the order.

“To-tomorrow,” Sherlock said, making it halfway between a statement and a question.

“Yeah, I'll be here,” John promised.

Sherlock nodded and rested back on his pillow. “Pred-pred-... obvious, you,” he said. “Boring.”

John smirked, knowing he was just blustering. “I don't have to come,” he said.

“Fine,” Sherlock said. “You... fine. Come. Fine. But... now, go 'way.”

John left, thinking that, in his own passive-agressive way, Sherlock Holmes might have just admitted he liked having him around.

Chapter Text

John was called into work every day for the next few days, which he was happy about. He would visit Sherlock after his shift was done and then go home to have dinner with Mrs Hudson. It was a routine, and when things were up in the air like they were, a routine suited him fine.

Sherlock also started his physio and speech therapy, which meant by the time John arrived in the evening he was in a fairly foul mood. Sherlock hated doing things that he wasn't good at, and in this case, where progress was slow or even non-existent, he seemed to be determined to be as difficult as possible. He wasn't bad about the physio, John often found him dutifully working on his exercises when he arrived, but the speech therapy seemed to make him crazy.

“Like... child,” he complained to John, after the first session. “Stupid... games... like... er... nursery. Not... stupid.”

“I know Sherlock, but your brain isn't working with your mouth,” John said. “So you have to teach it how to do it again. It's going to be a lot of work and frankly, it's going to be rubbish to do. You just have to keep practising.”

“Bored,” Sherlock muttered, looking very much like a child for all his insistence. “Not... like it.”

John just smiled and let him complain, offering reassurance if he thought it would help. He didn't think it did and he didn't think Sherlock bought his optimism. Which was probably smart, because sometimes John didn't even buy his own optimism.

The nurses were clearly not enjoying Sherlock's mood swings, but John actually found them a bit comforting. This Sherlock—the one who complained and was bored and refused to do what he was told and caused trouble—that was the Sherlock that John was used to having around. To see Sherlock actually fighting back a little was good.

“Nurses... feed me,” he grumbled, pointing at his untouched food tray with disgust. “Always... make me... eat because... er... blood iron... wrong. You eat.”

“I'm not going to eat your food so the nurses don't bug you,” John said. “You need to eat a lot more than you have been. You need food to get better and yes, you're probably very anaemic. I don't know how you don't pass out when you put on your shoes. Eat your food. They'll put in a feeding tube. I'd put in a feeding tube, if I was your doctor. ”

Sherlock pouted. “I eat... you eat,” he bargained.

They eventually came to an agreement that John would eat the jelly, if Sherlock would eat the soup and roll. He did so like he was eating nails, but managed to get it down.

Another sign of normality was that Sherlock managed to steal his CT and MRI images from somewhere and demanded that John explain to him what they meant.

“You can barely walk, how did you—never mind,” John said, as Sherlock pulled the films from where he'd hidden them behind his pillow. John took them and stuck them up on the light box, a little curious himself to see the damage.

John had always wondered what the inside of Sherlock's head looked like. He'd expected maybe a system of clockwork gears or a computer motherboard. It just looked like every other brain, though. It was a bit disappointing.

“All right, well this is the film from when you were first brought in,” John said, pointing. “There's the haematoma. You can see where the white area is, that's the blood. It's pretty substantial.” Sherlock frowned at it. “And this is the one from after the burr hole. The haematoma is gone, but you can see some swelling in these areas. It's pretty close to Broca's area, which is probably why you have the dysphasia. This is the one from the day you woke up and this fourth one is from yesterday. The swelling is a bit better, but you still have some intracranial pressure.”

Sherlock glared at the area where the swelling was, as though he could will it away. “Bad?” he asked.

“Honestly?” John said. Sherlock nodded. “This is pretty mild compared to what I'm used to seeing. But it's not good. Neuro isn't really my area of expertise, I prefer thoracic, so I can't be as certain as I'd like. You have to be a bit barmy to do neuro. You'd be good at neuro.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. John grinned. “You... think... better me?”

“Prognosis is good, yeah,” John said. “But you have to cooperate.”

Sherlock sighed. “Bored,” he said.

“Do what you're supposed to and you can do things where you won't be bored,” John said.

Sherlock stuck out his tongue at him and John laughed. Sherlock glared at him for a few moments, then snorted and joined in.

Molly came to visit a couple of days after Lestrade. She appeared at the doorway of Sherlock's room and gave a timid knock, hugging her handbag to her chest

“Hi, Sherlock!” she said, cheerfully. “I thought I'd come to visit you. Erm, obviously, because I'm here. But, if it's not okay, I can go. I probably should have called first... but, I wanted to get you a present, like a Get Well present, but I couldn't think of anything you actually, erm, liked, so I brought you a card and also—also some autopsies? Well, not actual autopsies, because you can't drag corpses around and stuff. But files.” She took a breath. “Should I go?”

Sherlock looked slightly overwhelmed at this greeting and blinked at her a few times. “Au-au-tos-py?” he asked.

She nodded, her ponytail bouncing. “Yeah. I thought you were probably bored in here, so I brought some files that I thought you might find interesting. There was a bloke in with situs inversus incompletus. That was pretty neat. Well, not for him. Well, don't know if it bothered him. He didn't have any defects from it. He was shot.”

Sherlock's eyebrows raised with interest. “Come,” he said. Molly entered the room and John vacated the chair so she could sit in it, patiently reassuring her that he didn't mind.

Molly spilled the files all over the floor while trying to pull them out of her handbag. John helped her clean them up and gave them to Sherlock, who balanced them on his lap. “I'm glad you're all right,” she said, as he paged through them. He nodded, absently. “Oh, I got you a card, too.” She pulled a pink envelope out of her bag. Sherlock took it and put it on the rolling table, unopened. “See, you can see the levocardia, but the rest of the organs are transposed through sagittal plane. If you were available, I would have called you to observe, since it's sort of rare.”

Sherlock nodded again. “In-interesting,” he said. Molly beamed.

“I'm going to get a coffee,” John said, taking the opportunity while Sherlock was distracted. “Do you want something, Molly?”

“Oh, yes! Coffee would be great,” she said. She fumbled in her handbag for her purse. “I think I have some money...”

“I'll cover it,” John said.

“Are you sure?” Molly said.

“I can afford it,” John assured her. “What do you take?”

“Milk and two sugars, please,” she said. “Decaf, if they have it.”

John didn't think he wanted to see what Molly would be like on caffeine.

He headed down to the café on the ground floor. It was a very nice little place and he'd spent quite a lot of time there in the first few days, when Sherlock was still unconscious and John didn't want to leave the hospital for fear of something happening while he was gone. The girl working the cash recognized him.

“How's... Sherlock, is it? How's he doing?” she asked, as she worked on his order.

“Much better, thank you,” John said, surprised she remembered.

She smiled. “I'm glad to hear it. I think it's sweet that you're here all the time. I wish my boyfriend cared that much about me.”

John groaned inwardly. “He's not...” he began, but didn't have the energy. “Milk, two sugars. Thanks.”

He took the coffees back upstairs, but stopped at the door to Sherlock's room and backed out again. Molly was leaning in, looking very earnest as she spoke and Sherlock seemed to be paying attention. John felt like he was intruding on something. He waited outside, trying not to listen in. A few phrases still came his way, as Molly's voice rose and fell. 'Not want to worry him...', 'if you need to talk...' and 'you can have me...'. John didn't know what it meant.

He went in after Molly's whispers died away. Sherlock was staring at her, looking bewildered and she was blushing. Which was pretty much their standard MO, John thought.

“Thanks!” Molly said, when John handed her the coffee.

Sherlock went back to looking at the autopsy reports. Molly and John chatted about their respective workdays, with Sherlock sighing every once in a while to indicate that he was bored by the conversation.

“I better get going,” Molly said, when she was done her coffee. “Toby will be wanting his supper. I'm going to have to take those back, Sherlock. Sorry.”

Sherlock let her take the reports, with a bit of a pout. He pointed to one. “Tell...tell...” he looked to John and made the gesture of being in handcuffs.

“Lestrade,” John supplied.

“Lester,” Sherlock tried. “Tell Lester... nanny. Nanny... kills. Look... er... socks, no... shoes. Shoes.”

Molly's eyes widened. “Oh. Okay. Erm, I'll write that down. That's important.” She borrowed Sherlock's pen and wrote it on her hand. “Nanny. Shoes. Okay, got it.” She put her handbag over her shoulder after dropping the reports back into it. “I hope you feel better, Sherlock. I'm glad you're okay.”

Sherlock nodded. She smiled at John and turned to go.

“Mo-lly?” Sherlock said. She turned back. He seemed to be struggling with what he wanted to say. He wrote it down. “T'ank you. Thanks.”

John felt his mouth drop open and he closed it again with a snap. She flushed happily and beamed. “You're welcome, Sherlock,” she said.

“What was that about?” John asked, after she left.

“What?” Sherlock asked. He leaned back on his pillows, making a waving gesture as though dismissing a servant. “Go 'way.”

John didn't argue. He knew when Sherlock had had enough company. He smiled as he left. Sherlock may have lost a lot of his words, but at least he'd learned some new ones.

“Oh, you're here,” the nurse greeted John, when he arrived at the hospital a couple of days later. The tone of her voice indicated that what she really meant was 'thank God you're here'.

“What did he do?” he asked.

“Oh, he's just having a bad day,” the nurse said. “He's in a mood. He usually perks up after you've been here, or calms down, depending.”

John was surprised by that. It wasn't something he had taken note of, but he often suspected Sherlock put on a bit of show of being all right for him. “What happened?” he said.

“Well, it got off to a bad start,” the nurse explained. “We had a new patient in with echolalia and there was a problem with her room, so she was out in the hallway for a while, quite early in the morning. He hasn't been sleeping well and he was finally resting when she arrived and she disturbed him. She's been settled in now, but Mr Holmes was rather annoyed by her. Then I gather physio didn't go very well today. You know, sometimes you just have off days.” John nodded. He remembered that from his own physio sessions. Some days you just couldn't get the hang of it. “And then after that, when he was still upset, the hospital chaplain came in. He goes around and sees new patients, just friendly little visits. But, well–”

“It's Sherlock,” John said, understanding.

“Well, I don't know about that,” she said, politely. “But I suggested that perhaps Mr Holmes wasn't in the best mood and... well, that sort of ended in tears.”

“Literally?” John asked. She nodded. “Who was crying?”

“The chaplain,” the nurse said. “He made the chaplain cry.”

“He can hardly even speak!” John said.

She shrugged. “So, after that, he wouldn't eat lunch and got a bit stroppy about that with me and now he's just... well, he seems a bit down.”

John thanked her for the warning and headed into Sherlock's room. He was curled up on his side, knees to his chest and turned away from the door. John recognized it as his sulking pose. He walked around to see if Sherlock was awake and found him staring out the window.

“Hello,” John said, testing the waters. Sherlock didn't answer. “In that sort of mood, are we?” No answer. It was always best to ignore Sherlock when he was like this. Just like a child; it was attention seeking-behaviour, and it couldn't be rewarded. John picked up a newspaper from the rolling table and sat down in the armchair with it. “If you feel like acting like a grown-up, let me know.”

He read the newspaper. Sherlock didn't move or speak. He could do this for days, John knew, and he'd made up his mind that if Sherlock hadn't said anything by the time he was done with the paper, he would just go home.

Of course—of course—Mycroft decided to pay a visit in the midst of this. It had been nearly two weeks since Sherlock's assault and Mycroft hadn't set foot in the hospital since it happened, but of course he had to choose the worst possible time to finally come and visit. At least it got Sherlock upright.

“No, no,” Sherlock said, sitting up and pointing violently at the door Mycroft had just entered through. “Go.”

“Yes, it's nice to see you too, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, with a smirk. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Sherlock said. “Go... now, Myco.”

Mycroft's face softened for a brief moment, so fast that John wasn't even sure he hadn't imagined it. “You used to call me that when you were little,” he said.

This was apparently the wrong thing to say, as Sherlock flushed red. He grabbed for the pen and wrote on his paper. “Myco... Myco,” he tried again, getting redder with each failure. He pointed at the door again. “Go. Come to... gloat. Don't... want.”

“I did not come to gloat,” Mycroft said. “I was concerned about you.”

Sherlock snorted. “Concerned?... No,” he said, his words even more halted than usual. “Wait... long... long... if... concern.... Come... come to...er...er... laugh.”

“Sherlock, I would never do that,” Mycroft said, firmly. He looked insulted at the suggestion. “I would never come to laugh. Not when you're—I wouldn't do that.”

Sherlock turned his face away and glared at the wall. Mycroft gave John an entreating look, but John wasn't particularly inclined to help him out. He'd been keeping Mycroft updated about Sherlock, but his lack of obvious concern had been a bone of contention between them.

“Mummy is on one of her treks to the far ends of the Earth,” Mycroft said, with a sigh. “I don't think she has mobile service where she is. I've left a message at her hotel, but she hasn't responded yet. That was several days ago.”

Sherlock looked back now. “No,” he said. “Not... tell. Not... rowy. Fine. Fine.”

“If it were one of your normal shenanigans, I would agree with glossing over it,” Mycroft said. “But she needs to know what happened, Sherlock. This is a long-term scenario. You aren't going to be well for some time. She'd want to know.”

“Fine,” Sherlock insisted. He made an angry gesture. “Always... tell. Always... always... mouse.”

Mycroft looked confused. “Mouse?” he said. “I don't know what you mean.”

John knew Sherlock meant 'rat', but he hesitated before stepping in and by that time Sherlock was already yelling.

“Mouse! You always.... tell,” he said. His face was bright red now, furious and maybe embarrassed. John wasn't even aware Sherlock could show that depth of emotion. “Always... tell... because me... bad and you... good. Make... look... look... er... er... er... best you.”

“That is childish and untrue,” Mycroft snapped. “Besides, there would no need for me to tell her anything if you didn't keep getting yourself into these situations.”

“Mycroft—” John warned.

“Sit-sit—...” Sherlock stumbled. He shook his head and moved on. “Because do things! Not... sit... sit... like you. Sit... and... watch... eat and-and-and fat. You... back... always... always... er... strings.” He made a gesture like moving a marionette around. “Always... not... danger.”

“Sherlock—” John tried, now.

“Yes, and I remain safe while you cause everyone grief,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock was starting to turn purple and John had had enough. “I think you should go,” he said. Mycroft opened his mouth. “Now, Mycroft. This isn't good for him.”

Mycroft nodded. John got up and escorted him from the room. “Goodbye, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, before he left. “I do hope you feel better.”

“Fine!” Sherlock hissed.

Mycroft smiled, a bit sadly. “I know.”

John saw him out to the lifts, giving the nurse a reassuring nod that everything was fine. She had her hand hovering over the phone and he wouldn't be surprised if she were about to page security.

“What the hell was that?” he demanded. “You were in there less than five minutes! D'ju come just to rile him up?”

“Of course not,” Mycroft said. “I came under the delusion I might visit him like a normal family member, but apparently we're incapable of that.” He shook his head. “I knew what to expect, but... his speech... I thought if I gave him time to recover, it might be better.”

“Easier, you mean,” John said. “For you.”

“I know you think I've been neglectful,” Mycroft said. “But after what just happened, do you think I would have been any help coming sooner?”

John sighed. “No,” he admitted. “I suppose not. It's been a bad day for him. Bad timing on your part. Maybe in a little while, when he's had more therapy and he can speak more fluently.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft said, but didn't seem too hopeful about it. “Please keep me updated. I do have an interest in his welfare, whatever my appearance. And I'll cover whatever he needs in terms of therapy or procedures. But for God's sake, don't tell him that!”

“No, God no,” John said, and they both laughed.

“Is there anything I could have sent for him?” Mycroft asked. “Does he need or want anything?”

John thought. “If you could find a way for him to wash his hair without getting it wet, he'd be thrilled,” he said. “And, I dunno, does he—have you ever seen him eat anything voluntarily? Did he have something he liked as a kid? He really needs to eat and it's like pulling teeth.”

“I'll think on it and get back to you,” Mycroft said. “Perhaps I could have something sent in for him.”

“Thanks, that might help.”

The lift arrived and Mycroft departed. John returned to Sherlock's room. His face was back to its normal colour, but his fingers were tapping in agitation on the rolling table and he was breathing fast.

“You okay?” John asked.

“Fine,” Sherlock replied. John was getting very sick of that word. He gave John an appraising look. “Anger... why?”

“He was upsetting you,” John said. “You have a hole in your head. Raising your blood pressure isn't good for you.”

“No, before... anger... before,” Sherlock pressed. “When... arrive anger.”

John hesitated. Sherlock just stared at him, inquisitively. “When you were first injured, he called me,” John began. “They called him, because he's your emergency contact, and he called me. I thought I'd meet him here, when I came from the airport. He couldn't be arsed to leave the meeting he was in. He hasn't come once to see you until now. I've had to update him by phone and even when... there was a time when we had to consider what to do if you didn't wake up or if you woke up and you weren't...” John made a vague gesture. “You. He wouldn't even talk about it. He wouldn't even give me five minutes. Just said that he'd trust my decision.”

“You doctor,” Sherlock said. “Better... er... logic... know more...”

John rolled his eyes. “That's what he said. That's not the point. The point is... I don't get along with Harry, but if she was as badly off as you were, I'd be there in a heartbeat. He was acting like a prat and it pissed me off.”

Sherlock nodded an acceptance of this. “If... bad...” he said, thoughtfully. “If... er... sleep... always. I not want... want... alive.”

“I know, Sherlock, you've told me,” John said. Sherlock looked confused. “You don't remember? We worked that assault case last year. The victim was brain-dead and the family wouldn't take him off life support. You told them they were idiots and made me promise that if that ever happened to you, to make damn sure I didn't let you carry on like that. And to donate your brain to science.”

Sherlock grinned at this. John shook his head and smiled back.

“Did you really make the hospital chaplain cry today?” John asked.

Sherlock laughed. “Yes,” he admitted.

“Sherlock, that's not funny,” John said, but laughed himself. “What the hell did you say?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said. “Only... look. He talk. I... shush. And...” he made an unwelcoming face, demonstrating how he'd looked during the incident. “He come from...” he frowned here, searching for the word. He made a prayer gesture. “Comfort... she... dying. He very... sentiment. Not my fault.”

“Only you could make someone cry by saying nothing,” John said.

Sherlock sobered up again. “Bad day...” he said, quietly. John nodded, he hoped in an encouraging way. “Emotions... lots. No... no... control.”

“That's normal after a head injury,” John assured him. “It goes along with—”

He stopped himself before he finished the thought.

“What?” Sherlock prompted.

“Brain damage,” John said. He went on quickly at the look on Sherlock's face. “I know you think of brain damage as being unable to feed yourself or gorked or whatever, but you have to realize that any scenario where you've had severe trauma to your head causes brain damage. Yours isn't that bad, but the hemiparesis and the dysphasia—that's brain damage. It's not going to be easy to heal, Sherlock. You have to be patient.”

Sherlock nodded and for a moment, just one moment, it looked like he might cry. He blinked hard and it was gone, but that moment of vulnerability was awful for John to watch. The fact that Sherlock was telling him about how he felt made him feel a bit sick. It was a good thing—Sherlock needed to get it out. Even him losing his temper with Mycroft was probably for the best, to release some of the anger and frustration. Still, it was hard to see someone who always had complete and easy mastery of their emotions fighting to keep control. It was like Baskerville all over again, but worse because there was no drug to blame it on. It was just Sherlock.

“D'you want to get out of here for a bit?” John asked.

Sherlock looked hopeful. “Where?”

“We could go down to the café,” John suggested. “You can watch people and tell me who's having an affair with who.”

“Push? Chair?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, you'd have to go in a wheelchair,” John said.

Sherlock made a face. “Okay,” he said, reluctantly. “Coffee?”

“We'll see,” John said.

“Means... no,” Sherlock grumbled. John smiled. “Okay.”

“And you're not allowed to make anyone else cry,” John added.

“Not... fault!” Sherlock objected.

John laughed and went in search of a wheelchair.

Chapter Text

Over the next week, things in continued much the same way. John visited Sherlock every day and calmed him down or cheered him up, depending on what sort of mood he was in.

Mycroft surprisingly came through on his promises. A selection of dry shampoo arrived at Baker Street by courier and John brought it in so Sherlock could clean up his hair somewhat. Another night, a full on feast was sent in for the night staff on Sherlock's ward. It was from some fancy restaurant John had never heard of, but Sherlock was very interested and the nurses were so delighted that he actually wanted to eat something, they happily let him take what he wanted from the spread. It wasn't much, but it was food and Sherlock ate it. They couldn't ask for more than that.

John sent e-mail updates to Mycroft, slightly warmer in tone than they had been in light of his showing some consideration for Sherlock. He felt a little like a father chronicling his child's progress. 'Sherlock did up his buttons today', 'Sherlock is working on his 'J' sounds', 'Sherlock balanced on his weak leg today'. The improvements were achingly slow and Sherlock had near daily strops about how boring it all was, but there was progress.

Sherlock had one benefit in that his vocabulary was enormous. If he couldn't say or think of the word he wanted, he had a huge variety of others to fit, some of which sent John scrambling for a dictionary. Sometimes, if all his English words were failing him, he tapped into his database of French and German. This often caused consternation to the hospital staff, who didn't know what to do when he yelled at them about his 'oreiller' or Hausschuhe.

Mostly conversations with Sherlock required concentration and creative thinking to get through. He spoke agramatically (which he hated, but couldn't seem to help), he used epithets for names he couldn't remember or say (John among them; Sherlock still called him 'doctor' if he needed to reference him and had a tendency to refer to pretty much anyone else as 'idiot'), he swapped syllables or words into weird orders and he used abstract concepts to refer to things (his overall injuries, for example, were always 'blood'). And then there were times when the dysphasia had no logic whatsoever. John spent nearly five minutes one day trying to figure out what an increasingly irate Sherlock wanted when he said 'apples', only to realize he actually meant 'socks'.

Aside from this, John had very little trouble following most of what Sherlock was saying. It might have been because he was used to patients with head injuries or under anaesthesia or sedation. Or maybe just because he knew Sherlock and how his mind tended to work. He often found himself laughing at or scolding something Sherlock was saying while everyone else in the room just looked confused. It also meant that by the time John arrived to visit each day, Sherlock was at the end of his rope with people not understanding him.

The main, problem, at least in Sherlock's mind, was keeping him entertained. The more he healed, the better he felt, and the better he felt, the worse he behaved. Molly was helpful, bringing in reports for him to look at and once letting him Skype an autopsy. John brought in his laptop for him. They played chess on a little travel version the nurse provided, which helped Sherlock's concentration, and John made Sherlock move the pieces with his right hand, which helped his coordination. They had the television hooked up, and Sherlock quickly became an expert on all the soaps, yelling at the characters about the various plot points they were failing to notice. This helped, but John had to talk him out of signing himself out of the hospital three times, and the hospital staff lost him for nearly an hour one day when he stole a wheelchair and rolled off to explore without anyone noticing.

They put him in the dressing gown with the symbol for 'stop this patient and see if he should be out on his own' after that. It didn't help. Sherlock simply took the dressing gown off and wandered around in his pyjamas.

John was aware, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he was stressed. He knew that he couldn't keep going at the pace he was going forever. He was visiting Sherlock and updating people about Sherlock, making sure Mrs Hudson was all right, going to work as much as possible to earn money to pay the rent since it was clear that there wouldn't be any coming in from cases in the near future, worrying about Sherlock, trying to keep up with his friends, trying to help Lestrade with the assault case as much as possible, worrying that it wasn't solved and there was someone out there who wanted Sherlock dead and hadn't succeeded. It felt like he was juggling ten clubs at once and if he failed to catch one of them, everything would come crashing down around him.

When he woke up the in morning, he often felt a sudden surge of panic, worried that he'd forgotten something or that he wasn't where he was supposed to be.

It all caught up with him at the surgery one day. He was sitting quietly in his office, trying to resist the urge to fall sleep, when Sarah stuck her head in.

“John?” she said. “You're out of patients.”

John blinked into awareness and looked at the clock. He realized he'd been sitting there for nearly fifteen minutes, waiting for a patient that wasn't coming. “Oh,” he said, stupidly.

Sarah came in and perched on the edge of his desk. “You know you can talk to me, if you need to,” she said. “I know it's hard. Sometimes it helps to talk someone not directly involved in the situation.”

“I'm fine,” John assured her. “Just tired.”

“Should you maybe take a day off?” she asked. “From everything. You've been here every day, and I really appreciate it, but I do have other people I can call in. And you've been to the hospital every day. It has to be tiring.”

“I have to go,” John explained. “There's no one else. He won't let Mycroft in and Mrs Hudson gets too upset and his mother is in Antarctica or some other edge of the world and he doesn't have any other friends, except maybe Molly or Lestrade, but they have jobs and I don't want to bother them. I don't mind doing it. He's my friend, so I want to help him. But I can't really do anything for him. I mean, I can prescribe medicine and repair internal organs and fucking put someone's intestines back inside them, but I can't do anything for him. And he's Sherlock and the worst thing that could happen to him is to take away his independence, so he's just constantly angry and impossible and it's hard not to lose patience with him, even though I know he has every right to be upset. And I've been just sort of going one day at a time, but now that I know he's going to live, I have to think about everything else that goes along with it. There's the money, which Mycroft will cover, but I can't ask him to pay the rent and I know Mrs Hudson will let it slide, but I can't expect her to go without because we can't pay her. And there's money in the bank account from previous cases, but that won't last forever. And—and—fuck.”

Sarah knelt next to his chair and wrapped him in a firm hug. He hadn't realized he'd been ranting until he stopped and now he sort of leaned into her, like he couldn't hold himself up any more.

“He's my best friend,” he said. “And I owe him so much. I don't want to let him down.”

Sarah rubbed his back and kept him in the hug until he started to feel silly, and leaned back again. She planted a comforting kiss on his forehead and he smiled a little.

“I think you've gone above and beyond the call of duty, soldier,” she said, gently. “No one can say you didn't do everything you needed to. But you can't help Sherlock if you make yourself sick. You need to rest. You need to decide what's most important. If you think that visiting Sherlock is what you should be doing, then you need to give up some other responsibilities. Do you have enough money for this month's rent?”

“Yes,” John said.

“Do you have enough money for food?”

“Yes.”

She nodded. “Right, then I don't want to see you back here until you've had a break,” she said. “I will not call you, and if you come in, I will send you home.”

John laughed. “Fine, fine,” he said. “You're right.”

“And if you need help, you have to ask,” she said. “Because I'm sure we're all waiting to be asked, but we don't know what to do. So ask.”

“Yes ma'am,” John said. “I don't think there's anything anyone can do. I'm just... God, I'm exhausted.”

“Rest then,” she said. “Take care of yourself.” She leaned in like she was sharing a secret. “No one is going to judge you for it. And if they do, they're wankers. So sod them.”

“Wise words,” John said, with a solemn nod. “Thank you.”

She smiled. “You're welcome. Now get out of here.”

When John arrived at the hospital, Sherlock was sitting on the bed, one leg curled up beneath him, his bad one dangling off the side. He was watching Countdown on the telly; John could tell from the music.

“No, no! Stupid,” he told the screen, showing his paper to it. “All... letters easy.” He pointed to the word on his paper. Dictionary Corner announced that 'machinery' was possible and Sherlock nodded in satisfaction.

John never understood how Sherlock was such a genius, but seemed to be under the impression that the people on the telly could hear and see him.

“You see... see... film before?” he asked John.

John laughed. “Yeah, Sherlock, it's been on forever,” he said. “My mum watched it religiously. She was good at the maths.”

“Me same,” Sherlock said. “Good...good... at all.” He turned the telly off and pushed it away with his cane. John had finally convinced him to use it and Sherlock had quickly found it very helpful for poking things. “Dead—no, er, late.”

“I know, I'm sorry,” John said. “I was talking with Sarah.”

Sherlock frowned. “Comfort,” he said. “You... upset.”

“No, I'm fine,” John assured him.

“Wash red, but... still see,” Sherlock said, pointing to his forehead. “Her... er... colour. She... er... kiss. Not...” he searched for the word. “Shag still. So... er... comfort kiss.”

Not for the first time, John really, really wished Sherlock didn't notice as much as he did. “I'm fine,” he repeated.

Sherlock stared at him for a bit longer, then seemed to drop the subject. John moved over to the armchair and fell into it, trying not to show how tired he was. Sherlock's gaze followed him. “Sing... help start... er... today,” he said.

“Oh, the Melodic Intonation Therapy?” John asked. “How did that go?”

“Stupid,” Sherlock said, making a face. “Feel stupid. Em—embarrass.”

“Yeah, well you can either feel stupid or not speak properly,” John said. “Did it help?”

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. “Fast sing,” he said. “More... not stops.”

“Different part of the brain,” John said. “That's why singing helps stammerers too.”

“Also pattern,” Sherlock said. “I... pattern.” He tapped rhythmically on the table in demonstration. “Good pattern... from... er... bow.” He made a gesture of playing the violin. “Good... pattern.”

“Great, Sherlock, that's really good,” John said, encouragingly. “I'm glad you're cooperating. It should help your fluency.”

“Feet now,” Sherlock announced, and started to get out of the bed. John stood up, ready to help him if he needed it. He put a bit of pressure on Sherlock's shoulder at one point, to help him balance on his bad leg until he'd sorted out what his feet were doing, but otherwise the movement was much smoother than it had been. “Try early but... nurse say... er... wait. Busy, so not feet... with me. Try anyway... but, er... security. Scold. Stupid because... 'cause... feet fine. Not... fall.”

“How many times have you fallen so far?” John pointed out. Sherlock's legs were black and blue from trying to move around when he shouldn't and crashing into things.

Sherlock scowled. “Before,” he said. “Now... not fall.”

“You're doing a lot better,” John admitted. “We should try and get you into a pool, work on your strength a little. I swam a lot for my shoulder.”

Sherlock took some unsteady steps toward the door, John keeping close to his side in case he stumbled. “Like... swam,” he said, sounding interested.

“Oh, I didn't know you liked to swim,” John said.

“Mamie beach,” Sherlock said.

John heard that as 'Miami beach', but didn't think that could be right. “Mamie?” he said.

“Old... old... mother,” Sherlock explained.

“Old mother...” John repeated. “Your mother?”

Sherlock frowned and stopped moving. John had noticed he had a bit of trouble walking and talking at the same time. Too much struggle in his brain, trying to do two hard things at once. “Old mother,” he said. “France. Mamie. You have... er... er... gran?”

“Oh, your grandmother,” John said. “She's French?”

“Dead,” Sherlock said, bluntly. “Not... French now. Past.”

“Right, she was French,” John said. “And she had a... beach?”

“Rooms... beach,” Sherlock explained. “Er.. h... h... maison.”

“I see. Her house was by the beach,” John said.

Sherlock made an exasperated face. “Not... not... parrot me,” he said. “I know... I know... what I speech. Like... like... echolalia, you.”

“Sorry,” John said. He often found it bemusing that short words were hard for Sherlock, but words like 'echolalia' seemed to jump into his mind. “What was she like, your Gran? Did you get along?”

Sherlock started to walk again, seeming to be pondering the question. They started on a loop of the ward. “Yes,” he said, stopping again after a bit. “She... same me.” He moved his hand around, like two eyes looking at things. “See. See and... and... smart. Pictures.” He made a motion of someone taking a photograph. “Tree... picture. In Baker. Know?”

“The black and white one?” John asked.

“She... takes,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, wow,” John said. He'd always liked that photograph. It was of a large tree, taking just at the right moment to capture a single leaf falling from it. It was minimal and sharp and precise. John had assumed that's why Sherlock liked it. He didn't know it had sentimental value. Maybe it didn't. “So you used to swim when you visited her?”

“Water... spectacles,” Sherlock said. “Schnorchel.. See... fish and plants. Samples for... ess-perments.”

“Ah, swimming for science, not fun,” John said. “That sounds like you.”

Sherlock gave him a confused look. “Science fun,” he said.

John laughed. Sherlock stopped talking now and concentrated on moving. John was surprised he'd got as much out of him as he did. Sherlock very rarely spoke about his childhood or young adulthood or anything that happened in the past. He lived purely in the present. John hoped it wasn't a sign of a personality change. That was possible with a brain injury to the frontal lobe. John suspected it was more that Sherlock was concentrating so hard on moving and speaking, he forgot to be a reclusive jerk.

The first few days that Sherlock had walked around, he'd had to stop several times to rest. Today they made it around without any pauses, though Sherlock was winded when they arrived back at his room. He went to the armchair, so John went to the bed.

“Patient,” Sherlock said, giving John a scrutinizing look. “Upset you... patient. Reason... for kiss. Upset you... because not... not... help him. Yes?” He'd clearly been puzzling this out the entire time they'd been walking.

John smiled, a bit sad. “Yeah, Sherlock. Yeah. That's exactly right.”

Sherlock nodded. “Sentiment, you,” he complained. “Not help all... everyone.”

“I know,” John said. He tried to change the subject. “Chess?”

“No,” Sherlock said. “You go... Baker. If... er... er... er...” he made a pouting face and indicated that's what John was doing. “No... fun. Go 'way.”

“I'm fine,” John insisted. “I'll be cheerful, I promise.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Go 'way,” he repeated. “Upset you, so... go. Bored.”

John had to wonder if Sherlock knew what was going on and was trying to get him to leave on purpose. It didn't seem much like Sherlock, though. “Are you sure?” Sherlock nodded, firmly. “All right. I'll be back tomorrow. I'll try to be more fun. Bye, Sherlock.”

“Bye... John,” Sherlock said.

John was already in the lift before he realized it was the first time Sherlock had said his name.

Chapter Text

John went home, updated Mrs Hudson, ate dinner and went to bed. He slept for nearly twelve hours and woke up with a much better outlook on life, though he still felt anxious and unsure of what to do with himself. He spent the day catching up on things he'd been ignoring, including buying groceries and sorting through the mail. They were simple things, but they were things to do that helped give a sense of normality and he felt better for getting them accomplished.

He headed out to the hospital at the usual time, with a book that Sherlock had requested. He arrived to find a woman in Sherlock's room. His first, immediate thought was 'oh, Sherlock's mother is here', which was odd because he'd never met her before or seen a picture or spoken to her. In fact, he'd sort of written her off as a mythical being created by Mycroft and Sherlock to hide the fact that they had actually been grown in labs. It seemed impossible that there was a woman out there who had somehow manage to produce two such insane, unique people. They seemed like they should have popped into existence fully formed.

Yet here she was, and John knew her right away. Not just because of the family resemblance, but because she was holding Sherlock's hand and he was letting her. John couldn't think of anyone else in the world he'd let do that—at least not with the apparent ease that he had.

They both turned to look at him when he came in, which meant John now had two pairs of identical sharp grey eyes appraising him. It felt like those dreams when you walked into lecture halls naked and knew everyone was looking at you.

“You must be John!” she said, in crisp, RP tones. She smiled at him and it was unnerving, because it was Sherlock's smile, but warm. “I'm Metrodora, Sherlock's mother.”

She held out her hand and John crossed the room to take it. “John Watson,” he said.

Up close, he could see the resemblance even more strongly. She had the same aristocratic bone structure, or, John supposed, Sherlock had the same as hers. Her eyes moved in the same quick way as Sherlock's and her frame was long and lean like his. John couldn't see much of a resemblance to Mycroft, but then Sherlock and Mycroft didn't look very much alike at all.

He did notice she had the same ease as Mycroft, the feeling that she was exactly where she was supposed to be at any one time. Sherlock had a restless energy that made him seem like he was constantly moving. Even when he was sitting still as a statue, it was obvious his brain was racing. She was a steadier, calmer presence.

“I've heard nothing but good things about you from my boys,” she said, giving his hand a firm shake. “It's so nice to finally meet you, though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

He shot Sherlock a 'you could have warned me' look and Sherlock gave a careless shrug in reply. He didn't seem particularly affected one way or the other to have her there. He didn't look pleased or displeased. He just looked like he always did—superior and vaguely bored.

“I'm very sorry I've been absent,” she went on. “I was out of mobile range, and the island I was on was quite remote. I had to wait several days for a plane to arrive after I received the message from Mycroft. Thank you very much for seeing to Sherlock's well-being.”

“It's no trouble,” John said.

“I very much doubt that, but thank you,” she said. She gave him a bit of an amused smile. “At your ease, Captain. Please, sit down.”

John realized he was standing at strict attention, as though he were on parade in front of the Queen. He tried to relax his posture a bit and ended up in the 'easy' state of alert, which only made her smile more. He cast about for a place to sit. She was in the only chair. He finally perched himself uncomfortably at the end of Sherlock's bed, near his feet. He had absolutely no idea what to say to her. He didn't know anything about her—what, if anything, she did for a living or where she lived or if she and Sherlock got on well with each other. It was fine, though, because she seemed perfectly happy to do the talking for him.

“Mycroft's message sounded very dire. I expected far worse. I understand there's been quite an improvement from the initial injuries, though,” she said.

“Fine,” Sherlock told her. “Fine. Not... fuss. Fine.”

“I know, dear,” Mrs Holmes said, in an absent, dismissive fashion. “I hope Sherlock hasn't been too much of a bother. He's never been a good patient.”

John laughed. “He's behaved himself pretty well,” he said. “Except for the escape attempts.”

“Very good,” Sherlock said, in an insulted tone. “Very good... spite... bored.” He nodded toward John. “Paper.”

John had completely forgotten the book he was carrying in the shock of seeing Mrs Holmes there. He handed it up to Sherlock. “Yeah, sorry. That's the one you wanted, right? Poe? In French?”

Sherlock nodded. “French... read better,” he explained. “English words... more... more... thoughts need.”

“Usually it's the other way around,” John said. “The second language tends to be more affected than the primary one.”

“Words order... er... er... proper... French,” Sherlock said.

“I've noticed you're using something closer to French syntax sometimes,” Mrs Holmes said. “Though, English is such a cobbled together language, perhaps the French grammar is easier to puzzle out. You learned both languages simultaneously but I suppose you do use English far more often. Est-ce que c'est plus facile pour toi de parler le français?”

“Non,” Sherlock replied. “L'anglais... plus...” he searched for a word here, then shrugged. “Simple.”

“Interesting,” Mrs Holmes said.

Sherlock nodded an agreement. John suddenly felt like he was the weird one in the room for not caring much how Sherlock's brain worked, only that it did. Maybe it was a genetic thing.

“I don't want to tire you out Sherlock, so I'm going to go now,” Mrs Holmes said, clapping her hands together in a gesture he'd seen Sherlock make when he was about to embark on something. “I will come back and visit soon, though. Tiens-toi bien..”

“Oui,” Sherlock mumbled, like a child. John rather enjoyed seeing him put in his place so easily. Apparently even sociopathic geniuses had to listen to their mothers.

“Will you show me out, John?” she asked.

“Oh, er, yeah,” John agreed.

“Going... talk... about me,” Sherlock said. “Er... er... calumny.”

She smiled and kissed his cheek. “That's exactly what I plan to do,” she agreed. “But the way I said it is polite. And there will be no calumny involved, I promise. Take care of yourself. If you need anything, I'll be staying at the townhouse.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said. “Fine.” He picked up his book and stuck his nose in it, as though demonstrating how fine he was.

She gave him an affectionate look. “Yes, Sherlock, we all know,” she said.

John walked with her out to the lifts and tried not to think too much about the fact that he was alone with Sherlock's mother. He had the full force of her attention now, and it felt like he was being interrogated with one of those bright lights shining in his face, like on American police dramas.

She wasted no time in getting down to business. “Now,” she began. “I want to know about the analgesic situation.”

John blinked at her. “Sorry?” he said.

“What's he receiving for the pain?” she clarified. “Has he been given opiates?”

“Oh!” John realized what she meant. “No, no. He refused anything intravenous as soon as he was coherent enough to do it. He's on paracetamol now, that's all. I had to force him to take that, even.”

She looked relieved. “Good. My sons tried to conceal how bad the drug situation was, but I am aware of it,” she said. “I wouldn't want a relapse, though I don't want him in pain either.”

“No, he was very firm about not getting anything habit forming,” John assured her.

She nodded. “We're going to have tea,” she announced, when the lift reached the ground floor. It was not a suggestion, it was a stated fact.

John knew better than to argue with a Holmes on a mission. He followed her silently into the café, where he was ordered to sit down because she was paying.

She placed his cup in front of him and he reached out automatically to spin it around and take it with his left hand, only to find she'd placed that way already. He had to spin it back again. She took a seat opposite him and once she was settled, she put her sharp focus on him once more.

“I want to know about his condition,” she said. “I know Sherlock and Mycroft are both lying to me about how bad it is. I want to know the truth. I did some research online while I was waiting for my plane, but that's hardly useful. You're a doctor, so I want your opinion. I'll know if you're lying.”

John thought she would, too. He was struck with the sudden thought that this is what Sherlock would be like if he actually cared about people. She had all the same intensity, but it was focussed on him and it was slightly terrifying. At least Sherlock rarely paid attention when someone spoke to him.

“Neuro isn't my forte, but I'll do my best,” he said.

He outlined Sherlock's condition, not pulling any punches about the severity of it. He started out using layman's terms, but quickly realized he was being patronizing and stuck to a more scientific analysis. She nodded along, stopping him only here and there to ask questions or get clarifications.

“So, if the ideal circumstances should happen and everything goes for the best, is there a chance for him to make a full recovery?” she asked, when he was done. “Is that reasonable to hope for?”

“Absolutely,” John said. “The brain is often able to reroute around damaged areas and sometimes the dysphasia just goes away spontaneously. And as stubborn as Sherlock is, I think he can work through it. However, it's also possible that he'll retain problems with his speech for the rest of his life. It's hard to say with certainty. Usually people recover as much as they're going to within the first year.”

She nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “I prefer to know all the facts when I can.” She took a sip of her tea. “I would also like to speak to you about what happens when Sherlock is discharged. If he requires long-term care, it might be best for him to come home with me. It seems a lot to ask you to be responsible for him.”

The nurses and doctors had been pressuring him about that as well. The object of every patient's care plan was to get the patient home or to somewhere where he or she could be looked after, post-hospital. Technically, Mycroft was in charge of working with Sherlock for those sorts of decisions. The Holmes brothers weren't exactly good at working with each other at the best of times, however, and they were somewhat at an impasse. Sherlock wouldn't speak to Mycroft and always knew when Mycroft was using John as an ambassador. No decisions had been made, and John had been concentrating more on getting through day to day. He hadn't thought about what might happen once Sherlock came home.

“I want what's best for Sherlock,” Mrs Holmes went on, before he could answer. “And I also want him to be happy. I've always found that Sherlock does best when he's parented from afar. That's something Mycroft has yet to understand, though why he feels the need to parent at all is an entirely different matter. I want to respect Sherlock's wishes, and I don't know if his living with me would be the best for him psychologically, though of course I would be more than willing to take care of him if I felt that it would be to his benefit. However, if you feel that you can't continue to live with him, we have to plant the seed now. Sherlock responds far better to being nudged than forced. He has to think he's come to the decision himself.”

John's first, gut reaction was to say 'of course I can continue to live with him, I'm not going to abandon him because he's a bit injured', but he forced himself to think rationally about it. He couldn't guarantee to be around forever. What if he decided to get married or had to move away for some other reason?

“I think, even if he doesn't get any better than he is now, he would still be able to look after himself,” he said, after he'd thought about it. She'd sat quietly and waited for him. “I mean, as well as he did before, anyway. He can dress and feed himself. He can move around, and that's only going to get better. As far as I can tell, his decision-making skills and impulse control haven't been affected. It would just be his speech, and plenty of people go their whole lives unable to say a word and do just fine. The only problem I could foresee is the stairs, but there are ways around that.”

“So, you think, even if you weren't around, he could function on his own?” she asked.

“Yeah,” John said. “And it's early days yet. It's more of a tincture of time now, as my Gran would say. It's wait and see.”

“No one would think less of you if you decided you couldn't handle it,” she said, studying his face carefully.

“I know,” John said. “And I really don't think it'll be a problem. And if it is... well, we can deal with it as it comes.”

She smiled. “Good. I'm glad,” she said. “He really has been so much better since you became his flatmate.”

John was surprised at that. “Really?”

“Oh yes. He's never stayed so long in one place,” she said. “He was in and out of different flats every month or two. And I've only received three phone calls from Mycroft since you moved in together. I used to get about five a month. I think you must be a very good influence on him.”

“I don't think anyone can actually be an influence on Sherlock,” John said, with a smile. “He's pretty stubborn.”

“We all are,” Mrs Holmes said, with a shrug. “It's in our nature. And Sherlock has the Vernet sense of the dramatic too, I'm afraid. Too much art in the blood, I think. It's liable to take the strangest forms. He's a very bright boy, but he really does the most ridiculous things sometimes.”

John thought that was about as apt a description as he'd ever heard for Sherlock.

She proceeded to do a full interrogation on him as they finished their tea. John suspected it was supposed to be small talk, but the combination of her questions and her intense gaze made it seem like he was being drilled on Mastermind or something. Was he settling into civilian life? How did he like the army? Did he miss it? Where was he working now? Did he like that? Did he miss trauma? Was Sherlock recovered after the incident in Belgravia? She didn't know all the details, but Mycroft had been very worried about him, you know.

John answered, trying very much not to say 'yes ma'am' and 'no ma'am' like he was speaking to a commanding officer. It was like a combination of Sherlock interviewing witnesses and Mycroft pulling his superspy routine. He could see a lot of Mycroft in her when she spoke, actually. She had the same authority that made it very difficult to not tell her everything you knew. She also laughed the same way as Mycroft, and that was unsettling.

He was very grateful when she announced that she was going. It had only been about twenty minutes, but it felt like hours.

“If you give me your mobile, I'll put my numbers in for you,” she said. “In case you need to reach me.”

John handed it over and opened his mouth to talk her through putting the numbers in, but she had it well in hand. Most older people John had encountered still regarded all technology as witchcraft, but Mrs Holmes was clearly as tech-y as her sons.

“I'll give you my mobile number,” she said. “And the number for the townhouse as well. I'll be staying there while I'm in London. Oh, I might as well put in the other numbers too, in case you ever need them. There's our home in Lincolnshire, and I'll give you the one for the beach house in Nice too. I'm usually there for part of the year.”

She handed the phone back and he rose to walk her out to the door and hailed a cab for her. He saw her off and went back into the hospital, feeling slightly overwhelmed. It was a very odd reaction for a mother to have about a serious injury to one of her children. Just pure calm logic. He'd expected a bit more anxiety from her. He supposed it wasn't really surprising, considering the family to which she belonged.

John thought about what might have happened if it had been him who had been hurt and his parents were alive to react to it. His mother would either be hysterical or pretending nothing was wrong. His father would be terse and angry and pretending nothing was wrong. And Harry would likely get pissed and do something stupid.

He had to wonder, in the end, which family was really the more dysfunctional one.

Chapter Text

With Sherlock's mum in town, John felt a little less burdened. He knew that she would be visiting and he could take a day off here and there. He did so a few days later, after she texted him to let him know she would be visiting that day. He called Sherlock to warn him that he wouldn't be coming and got a very 'so what?' response, which made him feel pretty stupid for worrying about it all this time.

He went out to the pub with Stamford, whom he hadn't seen in weeks. There was a match on and some of the other lads were there and it was the most fun he'd had in ages. He came home feeling very content and positive about the world in general, though that might have just been the slight buzz from the alcohol. He hadn't got pissed, just a bit tipsy and that turned out to be a good thing, because he'd put one foot on the stairs to go up to the flat when his mobile rang.

It was well-past eleven and no one called at that hour, unless it was bad news. He didn't recognize the number, which made him more nervous and took his buzz away very fast.

“Hello?” he said.

“John!” Sherlock's voice came through the line. He sounded urgent. “Come now! Nurses... not listen. Not... see.”

“What's happened?” John asked. “Are you all right?”

“Murder!” Sherlock said. “Head blood... not... random. Come now.” The phone was hung up and John was left with a dial tone.

He turned around and walked back out the door. He'd been home such a short time that he was able to hail the cab he'd just got out of again. He couldn't decide whether to be annoyed or thrilled that Sherlock was raving about murder in the night.

At least it was another step toward normality.

Lestrade was in the hallway when John arrived at the hospital. He looked confused. Donovan was there too. She just looked annoyed.

“Oh, good, John,” Lestrade greeted him. “Maybe you can figure this out.”

“What's wrong?” John asked.

“I dunno,” Lestrade said. “He called me shouting about murder, but he's so worked up I can't make heads or tails of what he's telling me. I think it has something to do with the patient in the room next to him, but I don't know what he's trying to say. He told me to go away and wait for you. He's in there.”

John stepped into Sherlock's room and found him attempting to pace with his cane. He grabbed John by the shoulder when he saw him, looking relieved.

“Make... sense!” he ordered. “Not... understand me. Make sense... so understand.”

John raised a calming hand. “Okay, Sherlock, relax,” he said. “What's going on?”

“Murder!” Sherlock said. He pointed to the wall separating his room from the one next to it. “Female... head blood... fall er... er... stairs.” His speech, which had slowly become more fluent, was broken again in his excitement.

“The woman next door has a head injury from falling down some stairs,” John tried to translate.

Sherlock nodded. “Male... not husband but... kiss... and er... er... arms.... blood... and... say... random, but not random,” he went on. “Push.”

“You think her boyfriend pushed her?” John said. “It wasn't an accident. It wasn't random.”

Sherlock threw his good arm up in triumph and pointed at Lestrade, who was listening from the doorway. “See? Making sense,” he told him. “Say... say... much times but... stupid... not understand.”

“Okay, okay,” Lestrade said. “Why do you think the boyfriend pushed her?”

Sherlock ran a hand down his forearm. “Arms... blood... from... er... er... catch,” he said. “But wrong... blood... wrong.” He made a clawing gesture. “Sharp. Fingers.”

“He has wounds on his arms from her fingernails,” John said.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes! He says... catch... try... but... li... li... er.... er...menteur,” he said. “Not say... true things. Wrong blood.”

“Why is it wrong?” John asked.

Sherlock blew out a long breath and looked very daunted at having to explain himself. He opened his mouth, but all he could get out was a sort of 'ta-ta-ta' sound, bouncing on it like an aeroplane propeller starting up. He sometimes got stuck on sounds and couldn't seem to work past them. He shook his head, looking frustrated. Then he teetered backwards on his feet and John reached out and grabbed his arms to keep him from falling.

“See?” Sherlock said. He grabbed John's forearm and made a raking gesture on it. John realized he'd faked falling to explain his point. “Go... like this. Not his.”

He lurched forward now, and grabbed John by the throat with his good hand. His other hand did the same after a few extra moments of effort. “Stop,” he ordered.

John had already instinctively grabbed Sherlock's arms in an attempt to not be throttled.

“Wounds.... up down,” Sherlock explained, nodding toward John's hands. “If push.” He gave John a weak shove and John stumbled back, losing his grip on Sherlock's arms. “Up down. His up down. Not... catch. Push.”

“Maybe he just caught her a different way,” Donovan's sceptical voice said, from somewhere behind Lestrade.

“Quiet, not... need you,” Sherlock replied, in a perfectly dismissive tone, like she was some little fly buzzing around his head. “I... er... correct. Also... blue... er... er...” he pointed to his neck. “From... from... hands. Think... fall... but hands.”

There was silence now, with John and Lestrade looking at each other, trying to work out if this was something they should be taking seriously. Sherlock looked between them, his eyes lit up with excitement and a big smile on his face.

“Are you sure?” Lestrade asked, after a moment.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, firmly.

Lestrade nodded. “All right, I'll look into it,” he said.

“He has a head injury, sir!” Donovan objected. “You can't really think he saw anything.”

Lestrade looked back to Sherlock. “How did you notice it?” he asked.

“Bed... past door,” Sherlock said, tracing the path with his hand. “See... er...” he pointed to his neck again. “And also... arms. He walk... next. Also... hear...” He frowned and hummed four notes under his breath, then half-spoke, half-sang in the same rhythm “con-ve-sa-tion.”

“Sounds like Sherlock,” Lestrade said to Donovan, with a shrug. “No harm in giving a look 'round. He's solved three cases from looking at newspaper articles while he'd been in here. I think his brain is working just fine. C'mon and show me what you mean, Sherlock. Do you mind?”

Sherlock shook his head and limped out of the room. Lestrade stepped back to let him through and followed him into the next room, one hand hovering as though to be prepared to catch him if he tripped. Donovan stood in the hallway with her arms folded, looking furious.

“I can't believe...” she muttered. She shook her head and looked at John. “He's still running around causing trouble, even with a brain injury. You'd think he'd have learned his lesson by now. Someone's whacked him over the head and he still doesn't see that maybe he should stop poking his nose around where it doesn't belong. If it even was a case-related thing.”

John's hands clenched by his sides. “He wasn't looking for drugs, you know,” he said, remembering what Lestrade had said about the general view of his team.

“Even he doesn't remember what happened,” Donovan said. “Or he says he doesn't. We've been looking for weeks and there's nothing. No evidence at all. Don't you think it's pretty convenient he was out of camera view? Sounds like he was doing something shady, don't you think?”

“No, it sounds like someone lured him there and attacked him where they wouldn't be seen,” John replied. “Absence of evidence doesn't make a case.”

She shrugged. “Doesn't not make one either,” she said. “I know you think he's your friend—”

“He is my friend,” John corrected. “He's my best friend. And he really, really doesn't need people doubting him right now. It's hard enough for him as it is. So maybe you two could call a truce on whatever insane feud you have going.”

“I'm just saying it was bound to happen,” Donovan said. “The way he runs about, someone was bound to get to him. Whatever the reason. Watch out you don't get yourself hurt, too.”

“Thanks,” John said, tersely. “Thanks for your concern.”

“John,” she said, and for a moment her usual cold demeanour was gone. “I'm not enjoying this. I don't like seeing him hurt. It's not like I hoped for it, or anything. But I do mean what I said. Be careful. One day he's going to get himself in over his head and it's all going to come tumbling down. Make sure you don't go with him.”

“John!” Sherlock bellowed from down the hall.

“I'll be fine,” John told her.

He hurried to catch up with Sherlock. He was hovering outside the patient's room, looking angry.

“Can't... let,” he said to John. He pointed to Lestrade, who was speaking into his mobile near the nurse's station. “Can't... look-see, because... allow not...”

John wasn't quite following. “You're not allowed to go in?” he guessed.

“No,” Sherlock said, nodding his head. This only confused John more. Sherlock sometimes swapped words with their opposites. It was a form of paraphasia, a subset of dysphasia. He said up when he meant down or nurse when he meant doctor. “Need... ask mum. Can't... let.”

John still wasn't getting it. Lestrade thanked the person on the other end of the phone and returned to them.

“The girl can't give us permission to examine her, because she's not lucid enough,” he explained to John. “So I had to ask next of kin. Her mother's agreed. There's a constable on his way over with a permission form. Once she's signed, we can go in and look. She seemed a bit suspicious about the fall too, so maybe you're right, Sherlock.”

“Not... maybe,” Sherlock declared. He looked to John. “You go... look. Not... er...” he made the handcuff gesture he used for 'police'. “So... okay.”

“I don't work here, I don't have any more right to be in there than Lestrade does,” John said.

Sherlock sighed. “Useless... you!” he snapped.

“Sorry,” John said, with a shrug.

It took about twenty minutes, which seemed much longer thanks to Sherlock's impatience, but finally the permission to examine the girl came over the fax machine. Sherlock was first through the door.

He and Lestrade went to either side of the bed. The girl was asleep. She was black and blue all over and her head had been completely shaved and wrapped in bandages, obviously a post-craniotomy patient. A very young nurse followed them anxiously into the room, looking like she didn't know what to do.

“Look,” Sherlock commanded John. “You... doctor. See.” He pointed to a specific area of her neck.

John grabbed the torch from the bedside table to get a better view. Her neck was as bruised as the rest of her. John could see some of the bruising was deeper than the rest. He tried to mentally eliminate the rest of the bruising and focus only on the darker areas.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I see it, Sherlock. Fingers.” He held his hand near her throat and his fingers matched up roughly with the bruise pattern.

“Me too,” Lestrade said, with a nod. “But I don't know whether I'm only seeing it because I want to or because it's actually there.”

“Yeah, that's what I was just thinking,” John agreed.

Sherlock gave an impatient sigh. “Eyes,” he said. “Look for...” he struggled with the word. “Er... er... blood dots.”

“Petechiae?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock nodded.

“Is she asleep or sedated?” John asked the nurse. He didn't want to pull her eyes open and have her wake up, wondering what the hell was happening.

“Sedated,” she replied. She hesitated, biting on her lower lip. John gave her an encouraging look. “I thought something was wrong. She seemed scared—agitated. That's why we had to sedate her. I wanted to tell the doctor but...”

John nodded. A lot of doctors didn't like getting advice from nurses. They looked on them as maids or housekeepers. Which was ridiculous, because any doctor worth his salt should know that if a nurse thought something was wrong, there was something wrong.

“Can you get me an ophthalmoscope?” he asked her.

“I'll vouch for anything,” Lestrade said, when she hesitated. “You won't get in trouble. He's a doctor and I'm a copper. It's all fine.”

She went out of the room and came back a moment later with the ophthalmoscope. John pulled on some gloves and gently pried open the patient's eyes, examining them for petechiae.

“Maybe,” he said, after a few moments. “Possibly.”

Lestrade sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I don't know if I have anything to go on. I guess I'll question the boyfriend. No harm in that. Come back and ask her when she wakes up. I'll need to get someone in to photograph the bruises before they fade too much. Does that satisfy you, Sherlock? Will you go back and be a patient now?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Tell me... me... answer?”

“Yeah, I'll let you know if you were right,” Lestrade agreed. “Now go back to bed.”

Sherlock was apparently content with this and walked back to his room. John followed him, and made sure he got to bed safely. He looked extremely pleased with himself.

“You pub,” he said to John. “Er...er...” He puffed out his cheeks a little. “Friend... Barts. Name can't.”

“Stamford,” John said.

Sherlock nodded. “You pub... with.”

Yep,” John agreed. “First night of fun in weeks and you have to discover a murder attempt.”

“Murder fun,” Sherlock said, with a sniff.

John laughed. “Sure it is. Try not to cause any more trouble before morning, all right?”

“Maybe,” Sherlock said.

John grinned. He headed out to the hallway, where Lestrade and Donovan were in a heated argument. They were speaking too softly for John to hear what they were saying, but their body language told him all he needed to know.

The nurse watched them with wide eyes. “I've never had the actual police come before,” she said. “Just security. I feel like I should have noticed something was wrong.”

You did,” he reminded her.

“But I should have said something,” she said. “I'm supposed to be a patient advocate. But it's tricky, isn't it? Because if you're wrong, it's really bad. I mean, to accuse someone of that and have it be wrong. The doctor said she was just anxious because of the head injury, but I think it was because of the boyfriend. He's dodgy.”

“You should always trust your instincts,” John said. “They'll get more tuned as you go along. When you've done this for years, it'll be like having ESP. You'll know what's wrong before it happens.”

She nodded. “Your... er... friend?” she said, clearly uncertain about what label to put on Sherlock. “He's really clever. I'm on permanent nights, and he's not a very good sleeper, so I've talked with him a bit while he's been here. He's interesting. He's not much for manners, but he's really smart. He knew everything about me. Is that ESP?”

“Something like that,” John said.

“He's really clever,” she repeated.

Sometimes, John thought, it was important to celebrate the small things. Like the fact that however banged up Sherlock's brain was, he could still spot a murder attempt as it rolled by him on a trolley.

He smiled and nodded at her.“Yeah. He is.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock was, of course, right about the girl. John left the hospital around 2AM, after Sherlock had calmed down enough that John felt he wouldn't go running off looking for the boyfriend himself. In the morning, he woke up to a text message 'as transcribed by Flora (the night nurse)' which read 'Boyfriend arrested'. This time there was no debate on how John should be feeling. He was just happy Sherlock was acting like himself again.

It wasn't surprising that the doctor declared Sherlock fit to be discharged the next day. She said that there was nothing more to be done for him there, and now that his blood work showed proper electrolytes and iron and another vitamins, she felt he was ready to leave their care. Sherlock was practically out the door before she finished speaking, but John managed to convince him to stay another night and leave in the morning, so John and Mrs Hudson had time to prepare the flat for him.

It was clear that Sherlock hadn't considered any other possibility than going home to Baker Street. He refused to entertain the idea of going to a rehab hospital, where he could continue to work on his speech and physio. He was going home and that was final.

John had already talked to Mrs Hudson about how she felt having Sherlock come home with his injuries. She assured him she was perfectly happy to have him there, and if the stairs would be a problem, maybe she could swap bedrooms with Sherlock for a bit, or go and stay with her sister until he was able to manage them better. John felt a surge of affection for her and had hugged her tight and told her she was brilliant. She seemed slightly confused by this, which only made him love her more.

She was thrilled when he told her that Sherlock was being discharged and ran around, making sure the flat was clean and picking out clothes for him to wear home from the hospital. She and John tried to identify problem areas where Sherlock might trip or not have enough room to manoeuvre and cleared them.

John went to the hospital bright and early, but not early enough for Sherlock, who had already called twice to ask where he was. Sherlock managed to get dressed on his own, but they encountered the first problem with his shoelaces. His hand trembled badly when he tried to tie them.

“Sorry, I should have brought slip-on ones, I didn't think,” John said.

“Fine,” Sherlock said, as he made a fifth attempt to do the bow. “Not... problem.”

“Do you need me to—?”

“No.”

Three tries later, he managed to get the first one done up in a sloppy bow. The second one was accomplished in six tries. Then they moved on to the next problem.

“Not my... coat,” Sherlock said, when John handed him the leather motorcycle jacket he'd brought. He looked extremely offended that John could have brought anything else but his ubiquitous one.

“Yours is in evidence,” John reminded him. “And you don't own another one. I took this one from your dress-up stuff.”

Sherlock made a foul face, but was too eager to leave to throw too much of a strop. He shrugged it on and wrapped the scarf Mrs Hudson had made for him around his neck.

“Not... not... wear that,” he declared, when John tried to hand him a woolly hat. “Stupid... er... er... cover.”

“You've still got that weird patch of hair on your head and a nasty scar,” John pointed out. “I thought you might want to hide it.”

“Why? Don't... don't er... care,” Sherlock said. “People... look, fine.”

"I could have brought the deerstalker," John joked.

"Not... not my hat," Sherlock said, firmly. "No... hats."

John didn't put up a fight. He collected all the things Sherlock had managed to accumulate during his stay and put it in a bag, then they were off.

Several of the nursing staff stopped Sherlock to wish him well. John was surprised; he had thought that Sherlock was certainly not a patient a person would miss. He supposed that anyone whom you'd had in your care for nearly a month, whom you'd seen go from barely making sense and unable to move around to walking and talking fairly coherently, probably made an impact on you in the end. Sherlock kept shooting John confused looks at the fuss they were making.

“Everyone goes,” he said. “Either... better or die. Not any... any... different.”

“Sometimes it's just enough that a patient didn't die,” John said.

“Sentiment,” Sherlock said, with disapproval “Names... you know... all?”

“Yeah, I've seen them pretty much every day,” John said. “You don't know any of their names, do you?”

“Waste... space,” Sherlock said.

For all his railing against sentiment, Sherlock was clearly pleased to be back home. His fingers bounced anxiously on his knee all the way there and he beamed at the door when they arrived. Mrs Hudson was waiting for him in the hallway and threw her arms around him when he and John entered. She mumbled into his chest about how much she'd missed him. Sherlock let her do this for longer than John would have expected.

“Enough now,” he said, finally. “Release.”

Mrs Hudson stepped back, wiping the happy tears from her cheeks. “Do you want tea?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

She scurried off to make it. Sherlock eyed the stairs, looking like he was calculating a maths problem.

“Do you need—?” John tried to ask, again.

“No,” Sherlock cut him off, again.

He hobbled over to them and tried a few approaches. Eventually he decided on gripping the bannister with both hands and leading with his good leg, sideways up the stairs. He pulled himself up the first stair, balancing briefly on his bad leg to get his good one up to the next one and repeated. John was right behind him, ready to catch him if there was a problem, and carrying his cane.

“Take a break if you need to,” John said, halfway up the first flight. “We're in no hurry. Take your time.”

“Shush,” Sherlock said.

John fell silent. Sherlock made it safely to the landing and paused there, breathing heavily. His lips were set in a hard line and John couldn't tell if it was from frustration or pain or fatigue.

“Fine,” Sherlock said, before he asked. “Just... breathe. Lungs... er... lazy.”

“Once you're up, you can stay there,” John said. “So, we just have to get you up.”

Sherlock nodded. He rested for a few more moments and then braced himself for the next flight. He lost his balance going up those, when his bad leg went out on him. John caught him and silently put him on his feet again. Sherlock muttered something under his breath that was probably 'thank you', but might have been something far less polite.

By the time they reached the first floor, Sherlock had sweat pouring down his face and he was flushed red in the cheeks. He took his cane back and limped over to the couch, flopping down with a sigh.

“Welcome home,” John said, brightly.

Sherlock glared at him, though a bit of a smile broke through. He looked around, scrutinizing every detail of the flat. “All clean,” he said, with distaste. “Don't like. Move... things.”

“Just a little. We wanted to make sure you had room to move around,” John said.

“What?” Sherlock asked, pointing at a book on the coffee table.

“Oh! That came in the mail yesterday,” John said. “It's a book of postcards, sort of get well cards. A bunch of your fans got together to send it. A lot of them are hand-drawn, and there are messages on the backs. It's pretty brilliant, actually.”

Sherlock snagged it with his cane and brought it closer to him, picking it up to look through it. “Silly,” he said. “Money waste.”

“Yeah, well, they didn't think so,” John said, with a shrug.

“Yoo-hoo!” Mrs Hudson said, arriving with the tea. She set it down on the coffee table. “I've used the good things because it's a celebration. It's so nice to have you home, Sherlock.”

“Said already,” Sherlock grumbled. “Not need... repeat.”

Mrs Hudson gave him an affectionate smile. “Sorry, dear.” She handed him his cup and poured one for John. He took his to his chair and she sat down in Sherlock's after she'd served herself.

“Stop... stop look me,” Sherlock said, after a few moments of silence.

John and Mrs Hudson both immediately moved their gazes elsewhere, which turned out to be at each other. They exchanged amused smiles and Mrs Hudson gave John a wink.

Sherlock sat in grumpy silence while they had their tea. John and Mrs Hudson chatted between themselves, trying to include him but not getting much of a response. Sherlock looked really tired, and John wasn't sure if he was being anti-social or getting up the stairs had been too much for him, or both. Mrs Hudson took the tray back down when they were done and Sherlock looked a little recovered. He stood up and hobbled into the kitchen.

“Ess-perment all gone!” he complained, as though mourning a loved one. “All... clean!”

“Sherlock, you've been gone for nearly a month,” John pointed out. “We couldn't let it sit around and... grow things.”

Sherlock pouted and sat himself down in a chair, sighing as he looked over all the equipment for defects. “Have... start again,” he muttered. “No samples. All gone.” He picked up John's notebook, which he'd left there from the previous night. “Yours? No cases, why... why... write?”

“I've been trying to keep track of your assault case,” John explained. “I've been taking notes when Lestrade called to update me and looking through the papers and internet and whatever. I'm not you, so I haven't done anything useful with it, but I thought when you felt better you might want to have it.”

Sherlock nodded and leafed through it. “Stupid... cursive,” he said.

“Left-handed doctor,” John said, with a shrug.

“No progress,” Sherlock said, his eyes scanning over the pages. “No... edi-vence?”

“Not really,” John said. “They swabbed your defensive wounds and took samples from under your nails when you came into hospital, but nothing matched when they ran the DNA. They're still working on getting information from your phone, but they had to send it out to some expert. None of the forensic people could get anything from it. Lestrade couldn't find that bloke you said you get information from. No one's come forth as a witness with any information. It's pretty dead all around. Lestrade's had to shelve it, for the moment. He said he's still working on it, but there are other cases that have taken priority.”

“Still... not memory,” Sherlock said, frustrated. “Try... palace visits and—and think... but all... black. No... no... er... streets for memory.”

“It's pretty common to not remember the incident,” John said. “You might never get it back. Hopefully you'll get something of the time leading up to it, though. If we knew why you went...”

Sherlock shrugged and shook his head. “Work,” he promised, setting the notebook aside. “Smart...so solve... er... myself. Talk... er... er... réseau? No... word...” he hummed under his breath, but that didn't seem to help. “Group... no homes.”

“Network?” John guessed. “The Homeless Network?”

“Yes!” Sherlock said. “Will... circulate. Get in-fo-ma-tion. They not... help police. But me help.”

“They've been stopping me, asking how you are,” John said. “The one who found you wandered off after talking to the police. I haven't been able to thank him. He didn't have to stop. He used one of the mobiles you give out to call for help. Speaking of which...” John went over to the computer desk and came back. “I bought you a new mobile. Same model as your old one. It's all ready to go, phone plan in place and everything. I put a few numbers in for you, too.”

Sherlock nodded a thank you and added some numbers in himself. John couldn't see who they were for, but he did catch one name.

"Who's G. Norton?" he asked.

Sherlock pointed to the word at the top of the screen and read "contact" aloud in a matter-of-fact way, before putting the phone in his pocket. John didn't press.

He began to spread his science equipment out over the table, like a toddler setting out his toys to play with. “Lots of... thoughts,” he said to John. “Lots of... things for... er... make. Couldn't proper at... at...” He looked blank and his hand moved aimlessly.

“Hospital,” John supplied.”Yeah, I bet you came up with a bunch of weird experiments while you were in there. Though I was impressed with how much you managed to get done with plastic utensils and food. I think that's why they kicked you, to be honest.”

“Mold... interesting,” Sherlock objected. “Very... useful knowledge. They... not understand.”

“Yeah, I don't know why they didn't appreciate you growing things in your loo,” John said, with a roll of his eyes. “Mrs Hudson put all the pipettes and slides in the silverware drawers when she cleaned up. All your stuff is around in the kitchen somewhere, you just have to look.”

Sherlock swatted at him, absently. He worked at connecting all the tubing and beakers and cylinders back together. His tongue peeked out of his mouth in concentration. He was basically working one-handed, using his right one as a sort of weight to hold things down while his left did all the work.

“Go 'way,” he said to John. “Want... alone.”

“Are you sure?” John asked.

“Yes. Day and day and day always... watch,” Sherlock said. “Nurse and doctor... and Mummy. Always....er... er... people! Always... always... questions. Want alone, now. Fine. So... alone.”

“Fair enough,” John said. “I'm going to run out to the shops. I wasn't really expecting you home and I've just been buying for me. We need a few things. Is there anything you want me to pick up? Do you want me to fill any of the scripts they gave you at the hospital?”

“No pills,” Sherlock said, his nose wrinkling in distaste. “No need. Just buy... normal. Not need.”

“Okay. Well, call me if you change your mind or if you need me for anything,” John said. “Mrs Hudson is downstairs if you... get into trouble.” Sherlock paused briefly in his work to glare at him. “Just don't do anything stupid, okay? Don't try and take the stairs without help or anything.”

“Just work,” Sherlock promised. “Go 'way.”

John smiled. “All right. Have fun.” Sherlock gave him a fake smile. “And... er, I'm just... it's good you're home.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and muttered about sentiment. But, as John turned to go, he saw a real smile flash briefly over his lips.

Chapter Text

John left 221B and started to walk down toward the shops, making a mental list of what he needed to get. It was a few moments before he noticed the black town car keeping pace with him as he walked.

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” he muttered. He put on some speed and waved at the car dismissively. The car kept even with him. He was forced to stop at a pelican crossing and the car stopped too, the door opening up as if by an unseen hand. “No, I am not playing this game today.” He stared straight ahead, but the car stayed put. “I'm serious. Go away.” He was starting to get strange looks from his fellow pedestrians. “Nope. I'm not getting in.” Cars were honking.

John sighed and got in the car.

“Hello John,” Mycroft greeted him pleasantly, from the seat across from him. “Can I drop you somewhere?”

“Nope,” John said. “I'm actually quite fine walking, thanks.” He glanced over to Mycroft's assistant, who was glued to her Blackberry as usual. “Hey.” She looked up briefly, and then back down again.

“Tesco or ASDA?” Mycroft asked.

John glared at him. “Tesco,” he said. “Which is about twenty seconds up the street. So you better talk fast.”

Mycroft spoke discreetly to the driver and car pulled away. “We'll take the scenic route,” he said.

“What would you have done if I hadn't left the flat today?” John asked.

Mycroft laughed. “John, you and my brother are extremely predictable,” he said. “There was no question of you not leaving the flat. He's kicked you out, hasn't he? I imagine he's dying to be on his own for a while.”

“You do realize you sound like a Bond villain, don't you?” John said. “You should get a cat to stroke. It might mellow you out a bit.”

“I'll keep it in mind,” Mycroft said. He crossed his legs and settled into his seat. “I've heard you met our mother. You made a very favourable impression on her.”

“Does she know you go around kidnapping people?” John asked.

“You entered the car of your own volition,” Mycroft pointed out.

John sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Bit of a day, Mycroft, so get to the point,” he said. “What do you want?”

“I wish to discuss Sherlock's treatment plan, and where we go from here,” Mycroft said.

“Physio, speech therapy, same as in hospital,” John said.

Mycroft nodded. “Do you really think you're going to able to convince him to go now that he has a choice?” he asked.

John had been pretending that wasn't going to be an issue and didn't like it brought up where he had to worry about it. He was just trying to get Sherlock settled for the moment, and worry about how the hell he was going to get him to do what he was supposed to when he came to it.

“He'll do the physio on his own,” John said. “He's good about that. But he's still really fussy about the speech therapy.”

“Sherlock has never been fond of doing things that he isn't good at,” Mycroft said, with a smile that passed for fond. “Have you considered bringing someone in to the flat? Perhaps if he didn't have to interrupt his work, he might be more inclined to cooperate.”

“God, are there even people who would put up with Sherlock like that?” John asked.

“I've found that money tends make people very patient,” Mycroft said. “As before, I expect all bills to be sent to me and so you are free to do whatever you need to. Money isn't an issue.”

John was starting to realize that money was Holmesian for 'I care about your welfare'. At least from Mycroft's point of view. “I'll ask around,” he said.

“Good,” Mycroft said, with a nod. “And how is the assault case coming along?”

“Dead in the water,” John said. “You know that, I'm sure. Haven't you hacked into Scotland Yard?”

“And Sherlock intends to take the case on himself?” Mycroft asked, dodging the implication elegantly. John just stared at him. “Yes. Silly question, I apologize. You need to watch him then, John.”

“I do,” John said. He smirked and added, “constantly.”

“Of course, but he is in far more danger at home than he was in hospital,” Mycroft said.

John frowned. “What do you mean? If someone wanted to try something, wouldn't it have been pretty easy to walk in and do something? Pretend to be a visitor, make it look like a blood clot or a seizure or something. It's not like his room was guarded or...” He rolled his eyes at himself. “You had people there.”

“I insisted on that hospital for a reason,” Mycroft agreed. “Far easier to keep tabs on who is coming and going. But Baker Street, unfortunately, is much harder to monitor without Sherlock noticing and making a fuss.”

“Do you really think he's in danger?” John said. “I mean, maybe it was just a random attack.”

“You don't believe that any more than he or I do,” Mycroft said. “Don't you think it's rather convenient to have been attacked in an area that immediately makes the crime look like a drug deal gone wrong? Or that the attack happened in the precise location where none of the thousands of CCTV cameras in London would see? We are looking at someone who thought this out very carefully, John. It was not a spur of the moment action.”

John's fingers wiggled anxiously in his lap. He glanced over to Mycroft's assistant, who was behaving as though she couldn't hear what was being said.

“I find the nature of the attack very disturbing as well,” Mycroft went on. “If someone truly wanted him dead, a bullet to the head would have been much quicker and more effective. Why risk the chance that he might live? Coshing him over the head with a metal object is a very odd choice for something so clearly thought out. It suggests a crime of passion—great anger. To go for his head and suggests someone with a personal motive. He seems to have aimed for Sherlock's most prized possession.”

“You know I wouldn't purposely let him walk into danger,” John said.

“Of course. And all I ask is that you keep an eye on him,” Mycroft said. “And yourself. There are other things to take away that would mean just as much.”

“What do you mean?” John asked.

Mycroft smiled. “Nothing. I believe we've arrived at our destination,” he said, as the car came to a stop.

“Did you drive around and practice that speech to get the pace down?” John asked. “Or is it just a coincidence that you were done just when we got where we were going?”

“I only employ chauffeurs with excellent timing,” Mycroft said.

John couldn't tell if he was joking or not, but his assistant cracked her first smile since he'd got in the car. He exited now and found himself in front of Tesco, about two minutes away from 221B on foot.

Yep. Money and mad, spy film manoeuvres. Definitely how the Holmes family expressed concern.

Sherlock was on the phone when John arrived home. He was at the kitchen table, with it cradled on his shoulder, the cord wrapped around the wall from the living room. The landline was mostly only for decoration and John wasn't even sure he'd ever actually made a call on it. They always used their mobiles for communication. But Sherlock's new mobile number hadn't been handed out yet, so John supposed the landline would be the best way to reach him.

Sherlock was muttering 'yes' and 'no' and making non-committal grunts every once in a while. John knew who he was talking to without him saying. It was the same sort of conversation all blokes had with their mothers on the phone.

“Mummy,” he said, after a while. “Trying to... science. Yes. Yes. No. Er. Yes.” He shot John an embarrassed look before murmuring “same” into the receiver. “Yes. Yes. Bye.”

He picked up the phone from his shoulder and held it in the air, looking down at his experiment. It stayed that way for several moments before John realized he was expecting him to hang up the phone for him. He contemplated refusing, but it seemed a bit rude to ask Sherlock to hobble out to the cradle.

“Not your servant,” he settled on, as he took the phone and hung it up.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, giving John a once over when he came back into the kitchen.

“Yeah,” John said.

Sherlock made a face. “Tell him... what?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” John said. “He just wanted to know how you were. The usual thing.”

Sherlock studied him for a few moments, then nodded. “Mummy wants... er... eat us,” he said. “No, no. Wants... er... er... supper us.”

“Today?” John asked, alarmed.

“No, no. When... when... suitable,” Sherlock assured him. He wrinkled his nose. “Brother same.”

John could think of very few things that he would like to do less than have dinner with the Holmes family. In fact, he'd invaded Afghanistan and the thought of that had filled him with less dread. “Your mum, she doesn't think we're...” he made a gesture even he wasn't sure the meaning of.

Sherlock looked at him blankly. “What?” he said.

“Never mind,” John said.

“Very... busy us,” Sherlock said, with a little smile. “So supper... always never possible.”

“Yes,” John agreed, in a deadpan tone. “Absolutely.”

Sherlock laughed and went back to his experiments. John put the groceries away. He'd tried to buy everything he'd ever seen Sherlock voluntarily eat. It wasn't a big list, but being in the hospital had put him on a good eating schedule, and John was hoping it would continue. Sherlock had to be the only person in the world who was healthier for eating hospital food.

His mobile rang halfway through his work. He glanced down at the number before answering. “Hey, Greg,” he said.

“Hey, John,” Lestrade said. “I keep trying to ring Sherlock on his mobile and then I get the 'this number is not in service' lady and remember it's in pieces on my desk. I got your e-mail that said he was coming home today. Is he around?”

“Yeah, he's right here,” John said. He put the mobile into Sherlock's outstretched hand.

“Sherlock... Sherlock Holmes,” he said, into it. “Yes. Here now... Mmmm. Ess-perment. Yes. Yes. No. Not care. Want...want... Mo-lly edi-vence, said before. She... erm... agree, just ask. Yes. Fine. Yes. Go 'way.” He put the phone down on the table and pressed the 'end' button forcefully.

“What was that about?” John asked.

“Bother,” Sherlock complained. “Inquiry... health. Want my... health update. Also, bring edi-vence for case... later. After... work.”

“He's going to bring the files for you to look at?” John said.

Sherlock glared at him. “I say!” he complained.

“Right, sorry,” John said. “Shouldn't you maybe wait a bit? You just came home. Give yourself a few days to rest before you jump back into things.”

Sherlock continued to glare at him. John recognized the futility of telling Sherlock to take it easy and went back to putting the groceries away.

He went out to the living room after that and looked for something to do. Most of his days recently had revolved around keeping things together and visiting Sherlock. Now that things were together and Sherlock was there, he felt a bit unsure of what he should be doing. He realized that it was because there was nothing he should be doing. There were no 'shoulds' left, and now he didn't know what he wanted to do.

He picked up a book he'd been meaning to read for ages and settled down on the couch with it. He made good headway into it that afternoon, though he was interrupted a few times by people calling to check up on him or Sherlock. Eventually, he just left his mobile in the kitchen for Sherlock to answer himself, but Sherlock had apparently had enough, as John's mobile was thrown violently from the kitchen, hitting the back of Sherlock's chair in the living room and bouncing on to the seat of it.

“You could have just turned it off,” John pointed out.

“Not...satisfy same,” Sherlock replied.

John grinned. The phone calls died down after that and the flat was restored to its usual noise of clinking beakers and liquid being poured and Sherlock muttering to himself. Along with a few crashes here and there, as Sherlock's hand didn't cooperate and he dropped something. He wasn't quite as graceful with his left hand as he had been with his right. The crashes were always followed by an immediate assurance of 'fine'. Sometimes with that Victorian schoolboy cursing that Sherlock favoured, too. There were a lot of 'damns' and 'blasts' that afternoon, and once, a very angry nonsensical tirade John suspected was aimed at a Bunsen burner.

Lestrade arrived around tea time, bearing copies of all the files and photos of all the evidence in Sherlock's assault case.

“I've asked Molly to re-run the DNA herself, like you insisted,” he told Sherlock. “She's going to do it tomorrow. She's a bit swamped today, but she said she'd do it as soon as possible. I brought you a copy of the CCTV footage, too. It's on one of those...stick wotsits.” He handed over a flash drive. “Officially, this case is cold, just so you know. I've been ordered off of it. So, if anyone asks, I'm not working on it. Unofficially, if you need anything else, let me know. It's pretty unorthodox to let someone work their own case, but...” he shrugged. “sod'm.”

Sherlock nodded in a way that might have been an expression of gratitude. “Useless you,” he said. “But...will fix.”

Lestrade grinned. “Thanks. I gotta run, I'm having dinner with my sister and the sprogs. Just call if you need anything. Welcome home.”

Sherlock didn't respond, he was already sorting through the files.

John looked through the files too, picking up the papers and photos after Sherlock set them down. It was very thin. The reports were mostly inconclusive and the photos didn't show him anything particularly remarkable. Sherlock's face didn't betray anything and John couldn't tell if he was getting anything more out of it than John was.

“D'you want something to eat?” John asked, after they'd been at it for a while.

“Working, no... no...,” Sherlock said, looking blank as he searched for the word. He made an eating gesture and settled on a repetition of “no.”

“Worth a try,” John muttered. He made dinner for himself, and left half of it out, in case Sherlock changed his mind.

“Need... hands,” Sherlock announced, just as John was about to take his first bite. “Come now.”

Normally John would have told him to shove off but, once again, it seemed a bit rude to deny him help if he was asking for it. Sherlock was trying to put the photos and reports up on the wall around the mirror over the fireplace. He called it a 'mind map' and he did it with tough cases, so he could see everything all at once. He was using his right-hand as a weight again, but it didn't seem to be doing much good, and there were papers strewn all over the floor where they'd fallen from his hands.

“Motor... broken,” Sherlock explained, glumly. John tried to think of what 'motor' was an analogy for, but then realized he meant 'motor skills'. “Practice... but broken.”

John silently picked up the papers that he'd dropped and put them back in a pile, then worked under Sherlock's direction to attach them to the wall with Blu-Tack. They'd switched to that after Mrs Hudson complained about holes in her walls from the drawing pins.

It was a long process. Sherlock had a tendency to rearrange the papers multiple times when he was putting the map together, as he changed his mind about how to organize them. Which meant that John had to move them around repeatedly until he was satisfied and there was the added complication that one of Sherlock's paraphasias was 'right and left', so he often said one when he meant the other. John's supper was stone-cold by the time he returned to it. He ate it anyway, fearing that taking the time to reheat would allow Sherlock to come up with a new task for him. He finished quickly and returned to the living room, where Sherlock was fumbling, trying to get the flash drive into his laptop. It kept sliding across the table when the drive was pressed against the USB port.

“Do you want me to—?”

“No.”

Sherlock selected a heavy tome from the bookshelf and put it next to the laptop, so it couldn't slide further. The drive went into the port and he smiled in triumph.

“See? Fine,” he said to John, as he waited for the drive to be read.

“Yes, that was clearly far easier than letting me do it,” John replied.

Several video files came up, all neatly labelled by the street, the time period and the angle. There were a few angles for each leg of the journey and there were two longer files, which were labelled 'full footage, best wide angles' and 'full footage, focus on SH'. Luckily, using a mouse only required one hand, and Sherlock had no trouble selecting the files. John peered over his shoulder to watch with him.

Sherlock started with the 'full footage, focus on SH' file. They watched in silence as Sherlock exited 221B, walked down the street a bit and hailed a cab. He hopped into it and the cameras changed, keeping track of the cab as it moved through the streets. The angles were all zoomed in, so it was a bit grainy, but Sherlock could be seen in all the shots. He seemed to be talking to the cabbie and John recognized his 'deduction' face, even through the pixels. He was clearly doing his Sherlock Scan on the driver. The cab stopped; Sherlock hopped out again and paid the driver, then walked for a bit. He turned down a side street and the footage ended.

“Anything?” John asked. “Do you remember any of that?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Like watch... cinema. Me but... like... actor,” he tried to explain. “Like out of... self in... erm... dream. Watch self.”

He played through the file again, then selected the 'best wide angle' file, which had a clearer view, but wasn't zoomed in on Sherlock. He played that a few times, without any sign of recognition and moved on to the individual files. They showed each street from different views, giving a slightly different perspective for each scene.

Sherlock went meticulously through each file, watching them several times and freezing in places, bringing different frames into software he had installed to clean up images. He zoomed in and out, cropped and cleaned, but didn't indicate whether he'd come up with anything. Some frames he saved, which John hoped was a sign that he'd noticed something. He was in one of his silent modes, though, and John knew it was best not to question him. He wouldn't answer anyway.

Exhaustion hit John around ten o'clock that night. He started to yawn repeatedly, until his nose was stuffed from the tearing of his eyes and he came perilously close to face planting on to Sherlock's shoulder a couple of times. It felt like he'd been running just ahead of a giant wave for so long, and now that Sherlock was home and it was all relatively okay, the wave had caught up and swept over him. He didn't have to run any more and he suddenly realized how tired he was of running.

“Go 'way,” Sherlock told him, after about the twentieth yawn. “Not help and... noise. Go sleep. Tired you... ov-obvious. Useless.”

“M'fine,” John said, widening his eyes in an attempt to keep them open.

“Go 'way, don't... don't want you... near,” Sherlock ordered, pointing toward the stairs without moving his eyes from the screen.

John contemplated fighting, but knew that Sherlock was right. He wasn't being any help, and passing out on the floor would be a bit embarrassing.

“You should try and sleep too,” he said, straightening up and stretching out. “Don't be up too late.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock said, not really listening.

“G'night,” John muttered, and headed for the stairs.

“Mmm,” Sherlock said.

John thought, absently, as he climbed up to bed, that it was good to have Sherlock working on a case again. It was nice to have the beakers clinking and the muttering and the clicking of the mouse. It made the flat feel proper again.

And Sherlock would laugh and scoff at him, but it made it feel like home.

Chapter Text

John was awoken around three AM by the sound of something horrible being inflicted on someone. No, something. It was the sound of a violin being brutally tortured.

Over the months he'd lived with Sherlock, he'd grown used to him playing at all hours of the night. Sometimes, when John woke up from nightmares, he even found the noise soothing. This was the sound of an instrument in distress, however, and there was no turning over and going back to sleep with that racket.

He got up and padded downstairs. Sherlock was facing the window and holding his violin, his back to John.

“Sherlock?” John asked. “You okay?”

Sherlock jumped like he'd been startled. It was normally very hard to startle Sherlock. He whirled around to face John. “Fine,” he said. He tried to play again, wincing at the noise that came out. John could suddenly see the problem—Sherlock's left-hand moved on the frets well enough, but his bow arm moved erratically, if at all, and screeched on the strings. “Only... er... bow... trouble.”

“No kidding,” John said. It became apparent this was the wrong with to say, as Sherlock pouted and turned away from him in a strop. “Maybe you should take it easier on yourself? Playing the violin is running before you can walk. It's going to take time to get your dexterity back.”

“If... force then... fast,” Sherlock said, to the window. “Need control. Need... better hands.”

“Ah,” John said, understanding Sherlock's motivation.

Sherlock whirled back around on him. “No 'ah',” he said, angrily. “No 'ah'. Fine. No... head... erm... erm.... look in. Fine.”

John sighed and held up his hands in surrender. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything by it,” he said. He nodded toward the evidence wall, hoping to change the subject. “Any new thoughts?”

It just wasn't his night that night as this seemed to make Sherlock even more upset. “No! Can't... think. No... er... er... focus. Look but... wander... and... and... and... and...” he snapped his mouth shut to stop the stammering and made a face that John had come to think of as 'hitting the reset button', closing his eyes briefly and starting again. “Thoughts but no... logic and look away and... not memory and... broken. All... all... broken.”

“You're not able to focus on it? Is that what you mean?” John asked, trying to make sense of the rant.

Sherlock nodded. “Brain roam,” he said, making floating gesture with his hand.

“Your hemiparesis is on the right,” John said. “That means your left brain is damaged. That can affect focus and short-term memory and attention span. It might just be part of your injuries.”

“Too many... in-jur-y,” Sherlock said, and it was the first time John had heard him call it anything but 'blood'. “Hands and feet and... mouth and... and... see. Maybe... all head broken. Not... clever now.”

“No, that's not true,” John said. “You've proven you can solve cases, Sherlock. You noticed Sarah's lipstick on my forehead after I washed it off and you saw that girl had been pushed down the stairs after only seeing her for a few seconds. There's nothing wrong with your logic or your observation skills. Anyone who has been through what you have been through would have trouble concentrating. And you're tired, which isn't going to help things. You need to sleep.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “Can't.”

“The police have had this case for a month and haven't come up with anything,” John said. “Mycroft has looked into it and hasn't come up with anything. You're not going to solve it in one night and it can wait until morning. When you're rested, you'll be able to focus better.”

“No, no, not... won't,” Sherlock said. “Can't. Can't... sleep because... not sleep.”

“Sorry?” John said.

Sherlock touched his head. “Since... in-jur-y, sleep... worse,” he explained. “Bad before. Never... good... sleep but... worse now. Can't.”

“You have insomnia?” John said. Sherlock nodded. “And I don't suppose you thought to tell anyone at the hospital about this?” He received an indifferent shrug here. “Insomnia comes with head injuries, Sherlock. The neuro people would have been able to help. We all thought it was just you being you.”

“Pills,” Sherlock said, with distaste.“Not... want pills. Can't pills.”

John sighed. “There's more than pills. There are relaxation techniques—meditation or behaviour therapy. Chamomile tea or valerian root and other herbal things. I used to take chamomile pills when I couldn't sleep. If you had told someone instead of insisting you're fine all the time, it could have been sorted out weeks ago, you clot. Now you're more sleep deprived than normal and in a mess.”

“Fine,” Sherlock muttered. Louder he added, “not... cl-cl-clot.”

John laughed. “Yes, you are,” he said. “Look, there's nothing I can do about it now, but I'll try and see what we can do in the morning. In the meantime, even lying down and resting is better than being up, driving yourself mad. Put down the violin and go to bed.”

“Boring,” Sherlock said. He put the violin back in the case, though.

“Get used to being bored,” John advised. “Because you need to rest.”

Sherlock nodded, once, in a very hostile manner and went over to the couch, curling up into his usual ball on his side. “Just think,” he said. “Not... rest.”

“I know you're not,” John said.

But he counted it as a victory anyway.

Sherlock was gone from the couch by the time John came down again the morning. He wasn't in the kitchen either, and for a brief moment, John was pleased he'd gone to bed. Until he saw that Sherlock's bedroom door was open. Sherlock, when he did sleep, always shut the door. John went down the hallway and peeked in. No Sherlock. The door to the loo was open, so no Sherlock there either. He hurried back down into the kitchen and living room, as though he could have somehow failed to notice a six-foot tall detective with a bald patch and a limp. No Sherlock.

He turned and raced down the stairs to the ground floor, his heart pounding in his chest. He half expected to see Sherlock sprawled and broken on the floor, but the hallway was empty. He was about to pound on Mrs Hudson's door when the front door opened and Sherlock hobbled in.

“Oh, thank God,” John said. “What the hell are you doing?!”

Sherlock looked surprised at this greeting. “What?” he said. “Just... history.” He pointed to the newspapers he had tucked under his arm.

“Did you go downstairs by yourself?” John asked. Sherlock made a non-committal gesture that John knew meant yes. “You can't do that, Sherlock.”

“Can,” Sherlock objected. “Was... do. Fine. Not child. Don't need... hands hold.”

“You have very little control over half your body,” John said, trying and failing to keep his voice calm. “If you lose your balance or trip, you won't be able to catch yourself. It's stupid, okay? It's stupid to go downstairs without someone spotting you.”

Sherlock's cheeks were starting to flush red. “Stop!” he ordered. “No... scold me. Not child. You not... er... parent. You just... er... er... bothersome! You fussy and tell... tell... orders. Bored. Sick... sick of you. Leave alone! Fine!”

“Oh, believe me, I would love to leave you alone Sherlock,” John snapped back. He could hear his voice raising, but couldn't seem to stop it. “I can't, though, because you're a complete idiot who can't be trusted to make reasonable decisions! I am sorry, Sherlock, but you are not fine, okay? You are not fine. No matter how many times you say it or how much you believe it, you are hurt. You are injured. You have brain damage. You have to take it easy. Do you have any idea—? No, of course you don't. You wouldn't.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. “What?” he demanded. “Not ask... help. Never ask. You just... doctor me and—and...” his fingers clenched up by his throat. “Close. And...ugh! Not need. Not want.”

The door to Mrs Hudson's flat opened and she emerged. “What is going on out here?” she demanded.

“Sherlock came downstairs by himself,” John said.

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson scolded. “That was silly. You should have called for me, I would have helped.”

Sherlock scowled. “Not... need... help,” he said, slowly. “Not... want help. Fine. Not need... fuss. Just... just... just... alone! Want... alone! Too much... people! I think... home and... alone! Not... breathe close and... er... er... rules and... child make me. Fine! I... I fine.”

“Oh my God, if you say you are fine one more time...” John muttered.

“That's quite enough of that from the both of you,” Mrs Hudson scolded. “You two need a break from each other. John, go upstairs. Sherlock, come with me.”

Both men started to protest, but she silenced them with a Look. She pointed to her flat and Sherlock stuck his nose in the air, but lasted for only a few seconds under her stern gaze before he pouted and limped into it.

“I'll take care of him, John, you go upstairs,” Mrs Hudson said, giving him a pat on the shoulder.

John sighed and headed back up to the flat. He felt like throwing things. He wasn't sure why he was so angry, but his fingers were twitching at his sides and he didn't know what to do with himself. It was like all the frustration he'd been trying to hold down had bubbled over. He was tired and Sherlock was tired and everything seemed worse than it was. He satisfied himself by kicking one of Sherlock's shoes across the floor and then rolled his eyes at how childish that was. He took a few calming breaths and put on the kettle to make coffee.

He took his coffee out to his chair, looking over Sherlock's evidence wall. It looked like he'd printed out some still frames from the CCTV footage. They were on the mantelpiece, leaning against the wall underneath the mirror. John couldn't see anything unique about them. His eyes kept being drawn back to the evidence photo of Sherlock's bloodied coat. The collar of it was soaked and John guessed that even if it was ever released from custody, it wouldn't be salvageable.

Eventually he decided he didn't want to look at that any longer, and moved to his laptop to check his e-mail. There was a cheery one from Sarah, hoping that Sherlock was doing well at home, and to let her know if he needed to get out of the flat for a bit. Stamford had e-mailed as well, also sending good wishes for Sherlock's recovery and hoping that he wasn't driving John too mad, mate. Harry had sent a short one, in her usual serial killer style like her keyboard had neither a shift key nor any punctuation on it besides exclamation marks. It always took a bit of parsing, but John eventually worked out that she too was hoping Sherlock was okay and that they could get back to solving cases soon. She was dying to hear about them, several exclamation marks.

He was in the middle of replying to Sarah when the distinctive thump of Sherlock's stomp-drag sounded on the stairs, along with Mrs Hudson's cooing murmurs. He'd just sent it off when they arrived at the top, Mrs Hudson with her hand under Sherlock's elbow.

“There we go,” she said. “See, no trouble at all, Sherlock. You mind what I've said.” She turned and went back downstairs.

Sherlock came over to the table and sat down across from John, spreading one of the newspapers out so he could read it without having to hold on to it.

“So,” John said, after a bit of silence. “You grounded?”

Sherlock snorted a laugh he quickly tried to cover. He put a serious look on his face. “No... pudding,” he said, in an aggrieved tone.

They both started to laugh then, harder than they should have because they kept setting each other off.

“What did she say?” John asked.

Sherlock waved dismissive hand. “Bored,” he said. He sobered up a bit. “She say... need... er... er... sorry you. But not... not... my fault if you... anger. But... not try to... anger you. Not... not... not... er... purposeful.”

John thought there might have been an apology in there somewhere, worded skilfully so that no apology was actually given. “I'm sorry for stifling you,” he said, feeling he should reciprocate. “I don't mean to. It's just... I'm a doctor, so it's hard for me to not be able to...”

“Fix?” Sherlock suggested, looking pleased to be able to produce the right word on cue.

“Yeah,” John said.

Sherlock nodded. “She say... same,” he said.

“She's smarter than both of us,” John said.

Sherlock looked doubtful.

“Did you sleep?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “Lie down, but... no sleep,” he said. “Awake always.”

“I'll take a look around and see if there's anything that might help you,” John said. “No pills. Just herbal stuff, or something. You're supposed to be getting ten hours of sleep at night when you're recovering from an head injury. I think that would probably require a miracle and heavy drugs, but a few hours at least would be better than nothing. We're also going to have to find some people for the physio and speech therapy.”

“No,” Sherlock said.

“Sherlock—” John started.

Sherlock raised his hand to stop him. “Not no,” he said. “No. No.” He grabbed a pen and scribbled on the edge of the newspaper. “A—aware.” He touched his head. “Weiß.”

It took a moment before John caught on. “Oh, you mean no as in know, not no as in no,” he said. Sherlock nodded. “Sorry. I didn't realize it was a verb.”

Sherlock scribbled again. “Pronouns... hard,” he said. “Choose. Easy-faster for... er... skip. Slow with pronouns.” He frowned and concentrated. “I...I... I... know. I know... know... that. I know that.”

John grinned. “Brilliant. That's the first grammatically correct sentence I've heard you say,” he said.

“Words... find hard, so skip,” Sherlock said. “I know... wrong but... can't. Skip, so fast. If look... slow speak.”

“You're doing really well,” John assured him. “It's much better than it was. But you need some more help. Do you think you could handle someone coming in here a few times a week? Would that be better than going out to see them?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Annoying... both,” he said. “Better... here, maybe. Busy me. No... er... time for... move.”

“I'm gonna see if someone knows someone who'll come in,” John said. “I'll ask Stamford. He knows everyone. Someone is bound to know of somebody.” Sherlock shrugged again. “I'll make you a deal. I'll try not to be so pushy if you try not to be such an idiot.”

“Not idiot,” Sherlock mumbled. He looked up at John and nodded. “Deal.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock's first couple of weeks at home involved a lot of trial and error. John e-mailed Stamford and a few other people to see if anyone knew of a good speech and language therapist who was willing to make house calls. Within twenty-four hours, John had a list of eight names. He consulted with Sherlock—who dismissed three directly—and researched on the internet and eventually narrowed down the list to four names. They each specialized in either head injuries or working with children or both. John thought those were the most important skills for someone working with Sherlock to have.

The first two each came in for one trial session and refused to come back. The third seemed to think it had gone well, but Sherlock wouldn't let him come back. He was so worked up, he couldn't even articulate what the problem was. He just kept saying 'no' and also 'pumpkin'. John couldn't figure out if the latter meant anything or if it was just one of Sherlock's random dysphasia moments. Either way, it was clear that it wouldn't be in Sherlock's best interest to continue with that therapist.

The fourth one turned out to be the charm. Violet Hunter was a few years younger than Sherlock and pretty in a sensible sort of way, with beautiful chestnut hair and a face full of freckles. She seemed very self-possessed and a had no-nonsense sort of demeanour. Honestly, John's first thought was that Sherlock was going to walk all over her. She was just the sort of self-confident person Sherlock loved to tear down.

John been absenting himself during the sessions, feeling as though it was a private sort of thing. He was sure Sherlock didn't want him around when he was struggling and making silly mistakes. He'd made a habit of going down to Mrs Hudson's flat for that period of time, but when Violet came for her trial session, he sneaked back upstairs on the pretext of getting his laptop. After the last therapist, he wanted to make sure Sherlock wasn't torturing her or being tortured by her.

“Well, that's the first time anyone has made those pictures into a murder mystery,” she was saying, when he entered the flat. They were at the kitchen table and Sherlock appeared to be working on one of his experiments while they did their session. “Usually I ask people to put them in order and tell me a story and they come up with something about boys picking apples for their mother. But now that you point it out, that wheelbarrow is awfully large for getting apples. Do you really think you could fit a corpse in there?”

“Chop... chop, yes,” Sherlock replied, making a graphic slicing gesture with his hand.

“Yeah, yeah, I can see that,” Violet agreed. She appeared to be undisturbed by the mental image.

John knew they'd found the right match.

Violet was happy to return and Sherlock gave the enthusiastic approval of 'fine' when John asked. So they arranged for Violet to come in three times a week for 45-minute sessions. John didn't think Sherlock could take much more than that, and Violet said that he was a hard enough worker that it was enough.

“I like him, he's mental,” she said.

Definitely the right match.

Sherlock agreed to leave the flat for physio, which he did twice a week on the days Violet wasn't there, then had the weekends off. He was diligent about doing his exercises every day, though, so again, that was enough time. Progress inched along, and though there wasn't obvious improvement day-to-day, comparison to a month before, or two weeks before or even one week before showed that it was happening.

The sleeping problem wasn't so easy to fix. Sherlock wasn't a good sleeper at the best of times, and his brain damage wasn't helping anything. He couldn't seem to drop off to sleep, even with chamomile tea or valerian root pills. He was tired and genuinely seemed to be trying to sleep, but every morning John would come down to find an awake Sherlock, even grumpier than the day before. John was having trouble keeping his patience and was getting pretty desperate to find something that worked.

Then, one day he was standing in the tea aisle comparing various relaxation teas when a woman toting six children grabbed a box off the shelf, shoved it into his hands with a knowing nod and carried on.

Sherlock drank it that night and within five minutes had drooped so far in his seat that he was practically snogging his microscope. He went to bed even earlier than John, which had never happened in the history of them knowing each other.

John came down in the morning to find Sherlock dutifully watching children's telly. It was a suggestion Violet had made to help improve his spontaneous speech. Kids shows focussed a lot on grammar and phonemes, so it was an easy way to practice. Questions like 'do you know any other words that start with B?' or 'what words rhyme with cat?' allowed Sherlock to think in those terms and find the right words and use them correctly without much forethought. Also, children's shows tended to talk directly to the viewer, so it was like a practice conversation for Sherlock, with simple, to the point communication. And since he already spoke to the telly anyway, it wasn't like he felt silly about it.

“Have you seen the dog?” the girl on the screen asked, as John made coffee.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, slowly. “The dog... behind. The dog... the dog... dog... isbehind. Stupid child, just... just... look!”

John smiled. It was hard not to tease Sherlock about it, but he was very, very serious about his telly watching, and John didn't want to discourage him. He simply became used to having his breakfast in front of talking pigs and dancing alphabet blocks.

John went out with his coffee now and sat quietly until the show was finished.

“Did you sleep?” he asked, when Sherlock's attention was free again.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “For... while.”

“What time did you get up?” John said.

Sherlock looked at his watch, counting under his breath. Numbers were hard for him to pick out of the air. He could name them in sequence, but trying to spontaneously find the right one was hard. “One, two, three,” he mumbled. “Three.”

“So, about four hours, not too bad,” John said.

“More tired now,” Sherlock complained. “Sleep and... now more tired.”

“You will be, until you get caught up,” John said.

“Also...” Sherlock struggled here, his eyes rolling upwards in search of the word. He shook his head, unable to come up with it. He put his hand on his chest and pressed down. “Heavy. Heavy sleep.” He tried again for the word. “Hag-ridden.”

“Hag-ridden,” John repeated. “Sorry Sherlock, I don't know what you mean. Can you use different words?”

“Will write,” Sherlock said, snagging a pad of paper on the table with his cane and pulling it over. It fell on the floor and he continued to corral it with his cane, until he could bend down and pick it up. He had a pen in his pocket and wrote on the paper, showing it to John.

'Sleeep par all siis'. John mouthed the sounds to himself a few times until it made sense.

“Oh! Sleep paralysis,” he said. “Okay. Yeah. Sorry, I've never heard it called hag-ridden before.”

Sherlock frowned. “Lore,” he explained. “Lore... story. Must be... er... hard drive. Didn't know. Since... in-jur-y... palace all... er...” He made a swirling gesture around his head. “Messy. Not... er... order. All facts... run around. Need can't... find, but find... not need. Say... proper name.”

“Sleep paralysis,” John said.

“Sleep para-sis,” Sherlock tried. “Last night, sleep para-sis.”

“Have you had it before?” John asked.

“Yes. When... when... drugs,” Sherlock replied, making a gesture over his shoulder that John had figured out meant he was indicating a past thing. His verb conjugation was dodgy, so he tended to indicate tenses with movement. “And also... when... dream awake.” He wrote again. “Loo-cid. Loo-cid dream. Sometimes.”

“Well, any sleep problems you had before will be worse post-head trauma,” John said. “It's like your sleeping habits get reset. That's why your insomnia is worse, too. It all goes with that.”

“Don't like,” Sherlock grumbled.

“It won't be forever,” John promised. “Just until you get a normal sleep pattern going again. Or what passes for normal with you.”

Sherlock was pretty good about continuing to drink the tea and going to bed at a reasonable hour. He complained and moaned and got stroppy, but in the end he seemed to want to get better and was willing to do what he needed to do. John suspected that, though he wouldn't admit it, he was also pretty exhausted.

As well as the sleep paralysis, he also had night terrors for those first few nights. The first time it happened, John was still in the living room after Sherlock had gone to bed and rushed down the hall when Sherlock began screaming. It took him longer than it should have to recognize it for what it was. He'd seen enough of them in Afghanistan. Night terrors were common in patients with PTSD. John himself had apparently had them after he was shot, but he, of course, had no memory of it.

Sherlock was backed up against his headboard, as close he could get and had his good hand out in front of him like he was fending off something. He was sweating and bolt upright and staring ahead in blank horror. He made no response to John speaking to him or even seemed to be aware John was there. John was on the verge of calling for Mrs Hudson, as though she would be able to fix it, when he realized what was happening.

“It's okay, Sherlock,” John said, in soothing tones. He tried to think of what Sherlock would find comforting to hear. Logic, probably. “I know it seems real, but it's not. You're having a nightmare. You're safe.” Sherlock whimpered softly. “It's okay. You're fine. Just relax. Everything is fine.”

He continued this sort of chanting for about a minute, using his best 'doctor voice', not sure if Sherlock could even hear. Then Sherlock started to relax a little and soon he lay back down, his eyes closed and he was back asleep. John let out a long, nervous breath and tossed his blanket back over him.

He wondered if the Queen gave out knighthoods for heroic acts of flatsharing.

Adjusting to life outside Baker Street was perhaps even harder for Sherlock. He was a man who was used to bouncing around the city with ease, and now he stumbled and limped and had to use the disabled access. There was also a problem with people understanding him when he spoke. It was hard for those who knew Sherlock well to follow him, but for strangers, it was nearly impossible. With his limp and his weak arm and his speech problem, people tended to assume he was someone with a mental disability and would drop into that high squeaky voice that they used with children. It drove Sherlock mad and he—who had never failed to leave with the last word in his life—started to go silent and write or gesture instead. John had to encourage him to keep practising and keep trying and be patient with people, even as he himself wanted to smack them across the face.

John received a lot of comments to the effect of 'what a good man you are for helping him out like this', as though Sherlock was a family member he was burdened with or John was a social worker hired to take care of him. It used to be that everyone mistook him for Sherlock's boyfriend; now they mistook him for Sherlock's caregiver. The former was annoying, but the latter seemed somehow insulting. John had to fight to keep control of his own temper as well as try to soothe Sherlock's, and, on a few occasions, he failed at both.

Despite this, either John or Mrs Hudson went out with Sherlock every day, walking around the neighbourhood and going into shops or restaurants and practising normal life skills that Sherlock had to relearn or, in some cases learn for the first time as he'd never really bothered with them before.

John found he had a different kind of stress with Sherlock at home. When Sherlock was in hospital, he felt bad for not being there more. Now that Sherlock was home, he felt bad for being there too much. Before he was waiting for Sherlock to get better, now he was waiting to see what the next problem would be. He had Mycroft demanding e-mail updates and Mrs Holmes calling to check in, and sometimes it felt like there were Holmeses coming at him from all sides. There were days where he sincerely wished that he could stay back and throw money at the problem and get updated every once in awhile.

He was relieved to get called into work, thrilled to be out of the flat for a few hours. Sometimes he just went downstairs and sat calmly in Mrs Hudson's living room for a few minutes, not doing anything. She never commented on this, just stuck cups of tea in his hand and continued about her business.

The first two weeks were the hardest, then it eased off a bit. Sherlock started to find his way, and most of the everyday problems had been worked out. John had asked an occupational therapist he knew from the army to come in to the flat and help figure out what needed to be done. Bars and non-slip decals were installed in the bath so Sherlock could shower without risking a fall, and they put up a railing on the outside wall of the stairs, so he had something to grip going up and down. Sherlock had his hair cut short, so it was all more or less one length and he didn't have to fuss much with it. The barber did a good job with cutting it to hide the odd patch around his scar, but the shorter length made Sherlock look even more haggard than before.

How Sherlock was coping with all of this was hard to tell. He was frustrated and angry, and John thought a bit depressed, but that was Sherlock's default state anyway. He didn't want to talk about it, and John didn't even attempt to pass on the information about a support group the physiotherapist gave him. Those poor people there had been through enough without throwing Sherlock Holmes at them. He seemed to talk to Mrs Hudson a bit, and to Molly when she came to visit. John had an awful feeling he was going to lose it completely one day, but he couldn't figure out a way to prevent it.

He threw himself into trying to solve his assault case, but there was simply nothing there. Molly retested the DNA, but didn't come up with anything significant. Just that the attacker was a Caucasian male with brown hair. John passed a message onto the Homeless Network and received a few vague hints in reply. The man who had found Sherlock didn't have anything new to offer, insisting Sherlock was already down when he found him and there was no one in the area who might have done it.

Sherlock spent hours staring at the mind map, and John recognized him visiting his mind palace for long periods of time, but he always emerged looking frustrated. He couldn't remember anything useful.

“I want... out,” he declared to John, about two weeks after he'd come home. “I want out and murders and Barts and... and... er.... clues and... logic. I want crime. I want... do something. Something... with answers. Bored. Bored!”

“Call Lestrade, tell him,” John said.

Sherlock looked over at him, like a hopeful child. “Allowed?” he asked.

“I'm not your dad, Sherlock. Do what you want if you think you're up to it,” John said.

“I want... smoking,” Sherlock added.

“No,” John said. “You can have murders but you can't have cigarettes." He moaned at what he'd just said. "God, I am your dad.”

Lestrade didn't have anything for Sherlock right away, but a couple of days later he called to ask him to come to a crime scene. This was a very good thing as by that time Sherlock had declared he would kill everyone on the street for a cigarette, but no one would sell him any because he'd blackmailed all the shops. He decided he could probably steal some, but even with a good disguise his limp would be easily recognizable. He was still trying to work around this problem when John had gone to bed, and he was very relieved when Sherlock bellowed his name up the stairs and banged his cane on the wall to wake him up in the morning. That could only mean a case, and it was about damn time for a case.

It wasn't exactly the crime of the century, or anything John would put down as memorable, but it was a good case to start back on. Not too much running around required and enough of a challenge for Sherlock to be interested in it.

The crime scene crew showed surprising consideration for Sherlock's injuries for a group of people who didn't like him. The SOCO unit member who handed out gloves quickly saw that Sherlock was struggling with them and held them open so he just had to stick his hand in, like a surgeon prepping for an operation. Someone cleared their equipment out of the way when he limped over to the body so he had a safe path to walk. And even Anderson held out a hand while Sherlock found his balance in a crouch by the body, ready to intervene if he fell.

“I've made it clear that there's no be no mean-spirited teasing or jibes or anything,” Lestrade told John, in an low voice.“If there's a problem, let me know. They will be removed immediately.”

For the first time, John had the impression that it might not be a good idea to cross Lestrade. He had a fierce sort of parental air to him that day. John suddenly understood why everyone in the room was being so considerate.

It wasn't all smooth sailing. Sherlock was excited, and when he was excited, his speech was worse. It took ages for him to get his deductions out, having to talk around words he couldn't find, sometimes in long, convoluted paths. He grew frustrated with himself, and the more frustrated he became the more his speech foundered, and the more his speech foundered, the more frustrated he became. Lestrade was very patient, not even blinking if Sherlock had to sing or act out to get his point across and managing to make connections between what Sherlock was saying and what he meant.

“S'not really that much worse than normal,” he said, at one point. “I mean, I've seen him so sleep-deprived he could barely stand up straight and with such a high fever he was hallucinating and once he came in with 3/4 of his face frozen from the dentist. It's not any worse than that. He doesn't really make sense most of the time, anyway.”

Aside from the speaking, there was also the movement issue. Sherlock was used to running around and throwing himself on the floor to look at clues. Now he even found bending over hard to do, and John had to catch him a few times when he was too overzealous in his attempts to examine something.

Overall, though, Sherlock could do it. He still saw everything, he still deduced everything, he still put all the pieces together with his keen logic. Somewhere underneath the stumbled words and the clumsy limbs, he was still the clever detective .

Things went more smoothly at the lab, where Molly was almost psychic in her ability to know what he wanted even when he wasn't making sense or sometimes before he'd even said it. She was thrilled to see him and came dashing from across the room so enthusiastically that, for a moment, John thought Sherlock was going to use him as a human shield.

“I'm so glad you're back!” she said, wrapping her arms firmly around his waist and pressing her cheek to his chest. His arms remained limp at his sides and he gave John an alarmed look. “Sorry! I'm just... it's so nice to have you here again. I missed you.”

Sherlock gave her his 'Molly' smile, the charming, fake one he used when he wanted something from her. She beamed back and seemed very happy to run around and grab things for him or be an extra hand. John thought she was a bit of a confidence boost for him as well. She had a way of doing things for him that didn't seem like she was doing things for him.

John noticed he wrote things down more often than he normally would, and double-checked results, or would confer with Molly and then, five minutes later, check to make sure he was remembering it correctly. He scribbled on scraps of paper and his shirt cuff and, once, Molly's forearm. He rubbed at his forehead, but glared at John when he asked if he had a headache and tossed his head like an angry horse. John took that to mean 'yes, but fuck off'. So he did.

He seemed to find a second-wind around three in the afternoon—and then at six, when John was halfway through his first bite of pizza after having eaten nothing all day, Sherlock unceremoniously stood up, grabbed his cane and motorcycle jacket, and walked out of Barts. John was forced to leave the pizza behind as he made a dash to keep up with him, tossing a goodbye and thank you to Molly as he left.

It was nice to have things back to normal again.

Two hours later—two very long hours later—a killer had been caught and Sherlock was obviously exhausted. He was pale and his hands were trembling and he looked like he was about to fall over. The explanation of the facts to Lestrade took much longer than it normally would have and involved a whiteboard, drawings, charades and musical numbers to get through.

Sherlock sat slumped in the cab seat with a little satisfied smile on his face. He shook his head every time John tried to talk to him, and when he did speak—one-word sentences—his voice was hoarse from overuse. He was out of practice speaking that much and he couldn't seem to bring himself to speak any more.

John hovered behind him as they made their way up to 221B, even more worried Sherlock would fall on the stairs because he was so tired. They made it up safely, and Sherlock shrugged off his jacket and half-fell on to the couch.

“You look like crap,” John told him, bluntly.

“Fine,” Sherlock assured him.

John gave him a sceptical look, but left him alone. He had to learn his limits, and with Sherlock that always seemed to mean letting him go until he crashed and then picking up the pieces.

John went into the kitchen to find something for dinner. The only thing he'd had to eat that day was one bite of a pizza and several cups of coffee. He was feeling a bit peaky himself. He was out of practice running after Sherlock and found that he was a bit tired, too.

“I know it's probably a stupid question, but you haven't eaten all day, so do you want—”

John stopped as he exited the kitchen.

Sherlock was on his side on the couch, asleep. It looked like he'd simply fallen over and decided not to get up again. His bad arm dangled off the edge and one of his legs was bent awkwardly beneath him. John shook his head and went over, covering him with a blanket.

Sherlock stirred a little, reaching with his good arm to pick up the bad one and put it in a more comfortable position. “Solved,” he mumbled, contentedly. “Still... smart.”

“Yeah, I know Sherlock,” John said. “You've run yourself ragged proving you're clever. You're a bloody genius.”

He only received soft snoring in reply.

Chapter Text

The case seemed to have taken a lot out of Sherlock, and he spent most of the next week recovering himself. Normally, once a case was solved, he'd be dancing around for another one right away, but with the dark circles that had appeared under his eyes and the periodic blank look on his face, he didn't look up to much more. John was a bit worried Sherlock had done too much and had made himself sick. He seemed to be aware that he needed to take a break, however, which showed a self-awareness to which John was unaccustomed.

He seemed to be a bit calmer now, and more willing to devote his energy to getting well. John hadn't realized how stressed Sherlock had been until he was less stressed. He just took it as Sherlock being himself, but he could see in retrospect how wound up he had been. John suspected he was afraid that he was 'broken'. Solving the case and proving that he could still do it made him feel a bit more secure. This was all speculation, though, because who the hell ever knew what Sherlock Holmes was feeling?

In any case, John felt better about leaving him on his own and knowing he wouldn't do anything too stupid while he was gone. He started taking more shifts at the surgery and going out again, and so he was more relaxed as well.

Mrs Holmes seemed to agree that all was well, as she returned to Lincolnshire at the end of the week. She fortunately left before her plans for a family dinner came to fruition. It was one less Holmes to keep track of, so that made John's life easier.

The physio continued to show great improvements. Sherlock's right side was responding a bit more readily, and he was less clumsy when he moved around. He was a good multitasker and was capable of doing his exercises while he worked on an experiment or watched telly. John became used to the 'thump-thump' of Sherlock repeatedly throwing a ball against the wall and trying to catch it. He also became used to it hitting him in the back of the head when he missed it, which was more often than not. Sherlock briefly decided to use this as a method for getting John's attention when he didn't feel like speaking, but revised it when John started reciprocating.

“Can't... hit, injury!” he objected one day, after John's well-aimed return hit him in the shoulder. He feigned looking sad. “Not... fair.”

“Use your words, or I'll aim for somewhere that'll hurt a lot more,” John responded, picking up the ball that had rolled back to him and raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but reconsidered his position. “Pass... er... er... Internet?” he asked.

“I hope you mean your laptop, because I don't think I can fit the Internet in my arms,” John said.

“Ha,” Sherlock said, sarcastically. He had retrieved his sarcasm now, even if his words weren't as scathing as usual. He managed to convey the sense of boredom just fine without them. “Shouldn't... er... tease. Injury. 'Cruel', apparently. Lady at... shop, spoke. Very... sorry for... er... er... child. Mrs Hus-don says... not trip let... by me.”

John brought the laptop to the kitchen for him. “Yeah, I don't think tripping children is exactly polite,” he said.

“Deserved,” Sherlock replied. “Small brat. Run and... scream. No... er... supervision. How... shop you all days? People.” He made a horrified face.

“Welcome to real life,” John said.

“Dislike,” Sherlock said, firmly. “Tedious. Too many... all... there and... erm... existing. Can't... not see all... too much. Dislike.”

“I should tell Violet about this,” John said, tossing the ball up in the air and catching it. “Two minutes ago you couldn't be arsed to say my name and now you won't shut up. Good technique, threatening you with violence.”

Sherlock's cane came up and hit the ball out of the air.

John noted that Sherlock didn't have to be able to speak to get the last word.

Within those first few weeks of Violet coming, John kept waiting for the day she'd pack in it. For whatever reason, though, she and Sherlock seemed to get along. As well as Sherlock got along with anyone, at least. He called her 'sensible' once, which was one of the highest compliments a person could receive from him. That didn't mean he wasn't an arse to her. Whenever John passed through the flat while she was there, he always seemed to be insulting her or arguing with her. And while she always looked frazzled by the end of the sessions, she seemed to take most of it in her stride.

“I rather like working with him,” she said, as John walked her to the door after a session one day. She said this like it was a deep dark secret she was confessing. “He keeps me on my toes. I have to work to keep him focused because he gets bored so easily. It's a challenge, and I like challenges. And he's interesting, if you can get him going on something he likes. Plus, if you ask him to practice something, he always comes back with it practised. It's rewarding.”

She worked with John too, giving him techniques to help Sherlock along. “You need to be a bit more firm,” she said. “You don't make him work for it because you understand him even when his speech isn't properly formed. It's a lazy way to do things. It's not your fault—you can't help understanding him. But forcing him to stop and really think will help him out.”

“Sherlock is always moving at the speed of light,” John said. “His brain is so fast, he can't bother to slow down. I don't think he has the patience to be slow and so he sort of depends on the people who understand him. I don't know if it's laziness or just... trying to keep himself sane.”

Violet nodded. “It's still not helping him,” she said. “He needs to rebuild the pathways. You may have to push him and ask him to correct himself. I know it seems like bullying, but it'll help in the long run. I'm trying to encourage him to struggle through or talk around the problem words instead of writing things down. He's not used to making mistakes, I don't think. I think he's used to learning things very easily, and he wants to skip the hard part and be better. He's improving, but it's going to take a while. I'm waiting for that to sink in, still. He's still at the stage where he thinks if he gets angry enough and fights enough, he can beat it. I'm afraid it doesn't work that way.”

"I'm pretty sure that's how Sherlock thinks everything works," John said. "He bypasses all the formalities and gets right to the point."

"I thought it was just me," she said, with a smile. "I do think he's improving, though. More than I would have expected for this stage of his recovery. He just needs some patience."

"Good luck," John said.

She laughed and thanked him, then went on her way.

She was right; there was improvement happening. It was slow—so slow that John sometimes didn't even notice it—but it was there. Sherlock wasn't necessarily improving with finding words or his fluency, but he regained his confidence, and that was really what he needed. He needed to feel comfortable making mistakes so he could attempt to fix them, rather than trying to cover them up and making them worse.

So things went on and life went on and Sherlock started to solve cases more regularly and with greater ease. Violet was extremely accommodating, working with him at the lab if he was there, or at Scotland Yard if he was there, or Skyping with him if he was somewhere she couldn't get to. John was never sure if he should be pleased that Sherlock was keeping his appointments or annoyed that he thought he could drag Violet around the city with him. Either way, if she ever asked for a reference, he was going to write her an essay.

The overarching problem was that Sherlock's assault case still hadn't been solved.

And it was driving him mad.

They were nearly two months after the crime and the longer it took, the colder the trail became. Sherlock spent hours in front of the mind map and trolling through old cases and fact files in search of similar MOs, but he couldn't find anything to help. There were certain things he had figured out. He knew the attacker was 6'2" and right-handed, based on the angle of the blow. His wound had been swabbed at the hospital, before he was taken in to surgery, and one of the tests run on it found trace amounts of motor oil. Sherlock had already suspect he had probably been hit with a wheel brace, based on the shape of the wound. The motor oil fit in well with that theory. Unfortunately, there were plenty of 6'2", right-handed men who owned wheel braces in London, and without a suspect to apply the facts to, they were pretty much useless.

What it came down to in the end was that he needed to remember, and he couldn't remember. John thought there was progress being made and still had hope that it would all come together in the end. Sherlock wasn't as hopeful, but he was stubborn, so he wasn't inclined to give up.

His mobile finally came back from the experts, who had managed to retrieve a bit of the text messaging data. The call history and app info were gone forever. What they had recovered was mostly gibberish, with a few words and parts of words legible here and there. The last message on the phone was almost completely garbled except for what might be 'case' but could easily have been any other word that began with a C and ended with an E and had two other letters between. It seemed the most likely word, though they all admitted they were grasping at straws. Lestrade pointed out that the best way to lure Sherlock somewhere would be with a promise of a case.

“F'I was going to try and kill you, and I might someday, I'd definitely tell you I had a case for you,” Lestrade said. “Then I'd tell you to meet me somewhere to discuss it and hit you before you had a chance to realize what was happening. Because with you, of course, you'd know right away I was lying. So I'd have to act fast.”

“You seem to have thought this out very carefully,” John noted, with a smirk.

“I was trying to solve this case at one point,” Lestrade defended himself. “I was trying to think like the assailant. But I won't lie, the thought of killing him has crossed my mind.”

Sherlock looked like this wasn't news to him. “No... er... gun,” he said. “You say... gun in, er... pouch, no... pocket. So, I not... alarmed.”

“Yeah, that's why I think he must have acted right away,” Lestrade said. “You didn't draw your weapon, so you must have been caught off-guard. Which suggests someone you knew or that you were unprepared. But if you knew them, you wouldn't have brought the gun at all. Unless you thought the case was going to be dangerous.”

Sherlock gave him a surprised look. “Logic,” he said. “You... having sense.”

“I am a copper,” Lestrade said. “I've been one for a while, in fact. I'm not completely useless.”

“Don't... delusion self,” Sherlock replied.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Such a charming personality,” he muttered. “Don't know why I ever thought about killing him.”

“Just so I know,” John said, when they were back at the flat and he was adding what little new evidence there was to the wall. “We don't think it's Moriarty, right? I mean, you would have told me if you thought that.”

Sherlock made a weird bob-shake gesture with his head. “No, yes,” he said. “No... not. Yes... tell. Too... er... er... crude, for... for...” he frowned. “Name can't.” He shot John a stubborn look. “Not singing.”

“No, fair enough,” John said. “I'll let that slide. If you can't say his name, I'm not going to make you.”

Sherlock nodded. “When... he acts... will be... er, subtle,” he explained. “Will be... clever. This is... not clever. Caveman... able. Any... could do. Just... lucky to...” he made a gliding motion. “Slip and... unnoticed.”

John was relieved to hear that. Not even Baskerville had made him as afraid as he was in the presence of Moriarty. That night at the pool was one of the worst of his life. He didn't like the thought of him being involved with this—or anything. He didn't like the thought of him out there lurking while Sherlock was unable to defend himself either. From how Sherlock had analysed him, however, John didn't think Moriarty would like to 'play' with Sherlock like this. He'd want him at his best. Which was some comfort, in an odd, terrifying way.

“Maybe you need to step back and... let it go a little?” John suggested, as Sherlock settled in for what John predicted would be another hours-long staring session. “Maybe you're too close to the problem? If you could separate yourself...”

“Can... forest and trees,” Sherlock replied. “Can separate. Not... emotions.”

John gave him a sceptical look. “Yeah, I know, Spock,” he said. “Just don't go insane.”

“Ball,” Sherlock said, holding out his hand.

“Full sentence,” John replied.

Sherlock made a face. “P-pass, pass... ball me...” he said, his eyes rolled upwards as he concentrated. He shook his head and started over. “I want... ball.”

“Close enough,” John said, and retrieved the squash ball from the table.

He left Sherlock staring at the mind map, the steady thump-thump of the ball hitting the wall following him upstairs.

John had nightmares again that night. It had been a few days since the last one, but he imagined going over the assault case again with Sherlock had triggered something.

He woke up in a sweat and took a few moments to calm himself. Sometimes he was able to roll over and go back to sleep, but tonight he was too wound up. He padded downstairs to get some tea and calm down.

At first he thought the 'thump-thump' noise was the pounding of his heart, but then he realized it was Sherlock tossing the ball around. He headed into the living room and found Sherlock sitting on the floor with his legs stretched out in front of him, his back to the coffee table and his laptop beside him. He was staring up at the wall. He threw the ball and it hit the fireplace and then the floor, bouncing back to him. His hand closed slightly too late to catch it and it slipped away. He retrieved it with his cane and threw it again.

“Night... er... night... scared?” he asked, without looking over to John. He caught the ball this time and threw it again.

“Yeah,” John said. “Was I, er—?”

“Not yell,” Sherlock assured him. “I see, no, er... listen?... Erm... creak bed. Toss turn.”

“Sorry,” John said. Sherlock shrugged. “Why are you on the floor?”

“New... er... new perspective,” Sherlock said.

John stared at him, critically. “Did you fall?” he asked.

“No,” Sherlock said, making a face. “I meant... meant for down. Just... faster than meant.”

John smirked. “Do you want tea?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

“Yes what?” John prompted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes... I... erm... want... tea,” he said, slowly.

“I was just hoping for 'yes please',” John said. “But good job.”

Sherlock held the ball up threateningly and John ducked into the kitchen, laughing. He managed to find two clean cups. Well, one cup and a ramekin. He didn't know why they owned a ramekin, but it worked well enough and was not the weirdest thing he'd drunk tea out of since moving into 221B.

John set the mug on the coffee table behind Sherlock and put himself down in his armchair. “Have you been staring since I went to bed?” he asked.

“No, I... ess-perment-essperiment, some,” he said. “And... I memory.”

John's ramekin froze halfway to his mouth. “Memory—er, remember what?” he said.

“Test,” Sherlock said. “I memory... what... sent from... er... er... criminal.”

John's heart started to pound again. He tried not to get too excited. Every lead they'd had so far had fizzled out into nothing. There was a good chance it wouldn't help at all. “What did it say?” he asked.

Sherlock tossed his head backward, indicating a piece of paper on the coffee table. John picked it up and tried to decipher Sherlock's awkward left-handed scrawl and weird spelling. The ink was all smudged as John's lessons on how to curl his left-hand around to avoid smearing had not yet been taken to heart.

John sounded out the words to himself until they made sense. The first line translated to, 'I have a case for you, Mr Holmes. I need your help badly.'

The next line, presumably Sherlock's reply, said 'dee taiils'. That was fairly straightforward.

The next line read 'blaa blahh frend truble murder blahh'. John guessed that was Sherlock's opinion on what the details were.

The next line was the address to where Sherlock had been assaulted and words that translated to 'I promise the case will be worth your while. I can't tell you anything else like this. We have to meet in person.'

“And you went?” John said.

“Edi-edi... apparently,” Sherlock replied.

“You must have been bored,” John noted.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed.

“Do you know who sent it? Did you remember the name?” John asked. Sherlock shook his head. “Well, if you've remembered one thing, the rest might come back. It's a start.” Sherlock nodded. “What made you remember?”

“Science,” Sherlock said, pointing to the kitchen. “I... same... er... chem-chem-cals. Chem-cals. Chemicals. I use tonight and... smell. Smell same. So... memory. Plus... test. Phone data. I... connect.”

“Smell is linked to memory,” John said. “I remember reading an article about that in a medical journal a little while ago. I suppose it makes sense. Don't huff any more chemicals, though. I don't think that's good in your state.”

Sherlock shrugged. He sipped at his tea and tossed the ball several more times. John had been keeping rough track of his success over the weeks and it seemed like he was catching it more often than he had been.

Sherlock tossed the ball one more time and then made absolutely no move to catch it. He remained motionless as it bounced over his shoulder, on to the coffee table and then on to the sofa. He looked suddenly pale and his eyes were wide and blank.

“Sherlock?” John said, fearing he was having some sort of focal seizure. “What's going on?”

“Shhh!” Sherlock said, waving his hand in irritation. “Need shush. Shush!”

“Okay, okay,” John said.

Sherlock's eyes closed and John recognized him heading into his mind palace. He sat in silence as Sherlock's hand moved like he was navigating around. The colour returned to his cheeks somewhat, but he still looked pale and shaky. John waited.

And waited.

And waited.

He waited so long, he must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew he was awoken by a clatter on the stairs and he jolted in to consciousness, finding himself slumped in his armchair. Sherlock was no longer on the floor. It took John a moment to organize his thoughts enough to realize what this meant. Then he leapt to his feet and ran to the stairs.

Sherlock was halfway down the first flight, sitting on the stairs and looking vaguely surprised. “Fine,” he called, before John asked. “Just... balance wrong.”

“That's why you're supposed to have someone with you, you clot,” John said, hurrying down to meet him. His attempts to help Sherlock up were soundly rebuffed, Sherlock jerking his elbow out of John's reach. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” Sherlock replied. He pulled himself to his feet and started his usual odd shuffle down the rest of the stairs.

“Where out?” John pressed. “It's—” he looked at his watch, which he wasn't wearing. All he saw was his wrist. He glanced to Sherlock's watch instead. “Four in the morning. It's still dark.”

“Out,” Sherlock repeated, stubbornly. “Alone. I go... alone. Want... alone.”

“You aren't,” John said. “You bloody well aren't.”

Sherlock stopped to glare at him. “Yes. Want... alone. You always... always... there! I... not want. I do... alone thing. Alone,” he said.

“No, Sherlock, the last time you went out in the dark on your own without telling anyone where you were going, you ended up in this mess in the first place,” John said.

“I... fire you!” Sherlock said, throwing up a hand in frustration. “You... free. I relieve from... duty. Not baby-sit. No... obligation.”

John frowned, surprised by the vehemence to Sherlock's words. “Is that why you think I'm doing this?” he asked. “Because of some sense of duty?” Sherlock shrugged. “You're my friend, Sherlock. I'm really put out that someone hit you in the head, and I'd like to make sure it doesn't happen again. Believe me, if it was duty, I'd have quit ages ago.”

Sherlock stared at him, looking confused. “I... wouldn't same,” he said. “If you... I wouldn't... er... help same.”

“Yes, well, I'm not a cold-hearted bastard,” John said. “And that's a fucking lie, so don't try to pull that sociopathic bit with me. Tell me where you're going.”

Sherlock sighed and reached into his pocket, pulling out a piece of folded paper. John took it and opened it up. There was a facial composition of a man on it, like a police sketch. In fact, that's probably what it was, because 'Property of Scotland Yard' and 'Not For Personal Use' were watermarked at the top of the page.

“Is this him?” John asked. “Did you remember?”

Sherlock nodded. “Blurry... but... I think right,” he said. “I can't... eyes and fur.” John assumed he meant 'hair', but didn't think he was in a mood to be corrected. “Cape—no... er... can't. See?”

“Yeah, you've put a hoodie on him,” John said. The face was almost entirely obscured by it, only the bottom of the nose and the mouth were clear. “That scar on his lip. It looks like a cleft lip repair.”

“Significant?” Sherlock asked.

“I dunno. Probably puts his age range in the 20's,” John said. “Any younger and the scar wouldn't be visible. Any older and it would be more noticeable. I don't know if that helps. Do you know who he is?”

“I... need confirm,” Sherlock said. “I need more... info. I go now... for that.”

“I'm coming with you,” John said. “Whether you like it or not. This is important. I want to help.”

Sherlock sighed and took the paper back from him. “You... cab behind,” he said. “Need silence. Need... thoughts. Need alone.”

“Fine,” John agreed. “But if you pull any tricks trying to lose me, I will find you and hit you in the head myself. Now, where are we going?”

Sherlock continued down the stairs.

“Mycroft.”

Chapter Text

John ended up going out in his pyjamas, or, more accurately, an old pair of scrub trousers and a t-shirt. He didn't think Sherlock would wait long enough for him to get dressed properly.

This turned out to be a problem when they arrived at their destination, John's cab pulling up behind Sherlock's. It was a posh looking building with 'Diogenes Club' on a discreet plaque by the door. Despite the early hour, it appeared to be fully operational. A snooty person snootily informed John he could not enter the premises in what he was wearing. Sherlock was fine, he had hadn't changed since they'd come home from Scotland Yard. He was cleared, and went into the club, leaving John behind to argue with the concierge. After some debate, the concierge provided John with a jacket, and threw up his hands in a way suggesting that it was no longer his problem. John wondered if there were lions waiting to attack anyone who wasn't dressed in a bespoke suit.

He caught up with Sherlock in a sitting room, which was full of quiet, posh looking men. Mycroft Holmes was among them, sitting reading a newspaper by the fireplace. Sherlock was limping his way over, the noise of his cane earning several glares. A person could hear a pin drop in the place. It was dead silent. John received many a disapproving look, presumably because the lions had failed to keep out the riff-raff like himself.

Sherlock stopped by Mycroft and poked him with his cane. This was unnecessary, as Mycroft had already noticed him and was looking up in confusion. He and Sherlock seemed to have a conversation entirely with their eyebrows and then Mycroft stood up and led them in to a side room.

“This must be urgent for you not to have texted,” Mycroft said, once the door was closed. “And you seemed to have dragged the poor doctor out of bed.”

“He... follows,” Sherlock said, with annoyance. “I not... invite. Like... stray.”

“Cheers,” John muttered.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock struggled with his words for a few moments, looking like he was trying to pull the sound from his throat or push it out from the other side. “You... understand me?” he asked, finally. “I need... talk. You... follow?”

“Yes, you're making perfect sense,” Mycroft assured him, looking concerned now.

Sherlock nodded. “I need... face see,” he explained. “So... no test. You know? You know who.... erm...?” he pointed to his head. “You... secret me?”

“No, of course not,” Mycroft said. “If I knew, Sherlock, believe me, I would not keep it to myself. Why do you ask?”

Sherlock pulled the paper from his pocket and handed it over, watching Mycroft carefully as he looked at it. “You know... him?”

Mycroft nodded, slowly. “Yes, it looks like Jason Verringer,” he said. “It's not an exact likeness, but they all have these retrousse noses. Why?”

“He... culprit,” Sherlock said. “He's... reason I... erm... er... er... broken.”

“You are not broken,” Mycroft said, a bit sharply. It was the first time John had seen him display any sort of typical big brotherly attitude. Clearly no one was allowed to call Sherlock broken, not even Sherlock. “Are you sure?”

“I... re-mem-ber,” Sherlock said. “And also... I... connect. I... er... er... les indices.”

“Je comprends,” Mycroft said, his accent as flawless as Sherlock's. “You deduced.”

“Someone want to fill me in here?” John interrupted. “Who is Jason Verringer and why would he want to hit Sherlock in the head?”

“He is the brother of Alex Verringer,” Mycroft said. “I assume you know about him?”

John nodded. “Yeah. That uni kid who went to Thailand on school break,” he said. “Murdered two girls there. His dad came to ask Sherlock for help, but Sherlock turned him down. He was miffed, but... not homicidal. I don't see the connection. Sherlock didn't have anything to do with what happened. Did he?”

Sherlock was pacing around the room, looking agitated and not paying much obvious attention to the conversation. He looked like crap. John was worried about him.

“You might recall there was quite a tug-of-war over jurisdiction and a good deal of press debating whether or not our government should have extradited him or if the British consulate should have offered him asylum or who should be sent over to represent him in court,” Mycroft said. “I was in charge of those negotiations.”

“Ah,” John said, somehow unsurprised. “But that's you, that's not Sherlock. He didn't have anything to do with that.”

Mycroft shifted on his feet. “That's not strictly true,” he said. “I felt that if Verringer was guilty, the Thai government had every right to try him there and imprison him. If he was innocent, however, I felt that it was important for us to step in and honour his status as a British citizen. I asked Sherlock to review the case for me.”

John looked over to Sherlock. “You didn't tell me about that,” he said.

Sherlock shrugged. “I... not interesting,” he said. “Ov-obvious guilty. Open shut. Not... not... worth hours, really.”

“I wondered why you were so quick to get his dad out of there,” John said. “You didn't even let him finish, that's why he was so angry. You already knew.” Sherlock nodded. “So, Sherlock advised you not to take action and that guided your decision. Yeah, I'm putting the pieces together now. And then Verringer was convicted and died in prison. He had an infection of some sort... what was it? Endocarditis?”

“Yes, he had a previously unknown heart defect, and must have been exposed to some bacteria or fungus there,” Mycroft said. “He didn't report feeling ill until it was too late. The family blamed the British government, of course. They still believe he was wrongly accused, and so they said that he was placed in unsafe conditions that led to his death.”

John shook his head. “But that was months ago,” he said. “I mean... I understand they're still upset, obviously they would be, they're entitled, but why would this brother take so long to act?”

“If you recall, I did point out the crime seemed very well thought-out,” Mycroft said. “It required a perfect storm of circumstances. Sherlock being willing to come. It being dark and deserted. There being no cameras. Being able to attack him before he could react. The fact that you were away, so he was on his own. I imagine it took some time to cook up.”

“But why Sherlock?” John insisted. “I didn't know he was involved, how would Jason Verringer know about it?”

“People talk,” Mycroft said. “Even those legally required not to talk. There is a reason I don't trust my employees implicitly. There is always a chance for classified information to get out. And my relationship to Sherlock isn't classified. I imagine it wouldn't be too hard to figure out, given a little time and effort.”

“All right,” John said. “But why Sherlock and not you? No offence, but it's much more your fault than his.”

Mycroft nodded, looking studiously stoic. “It is,” he agreed. “And if you couldn't get to me, which, as you know, is extremely hard, who would you go for?”

“Your brother,” John said, with a nod. “Who was involved, however remotely.”

"Brother... for... brother," Sherlock said, carefully.

Mycroft looked over to him. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I shouldn't have involved you.”

Sherlock dismissed this with an angry wave of his hand. “I just...” he began, and fought with his words some more. He stammered badly, bouncing on a 'sh-sh-sh' sound for several seconds. Mycroft, who hadn't had as much direct exposure to Sherlock's dysphasia, looked alarmed and a bit embarrassed.

“Start again,” John said. “Work around the sound.”

“I want,” Sherlock tried once more. “I think... maybe you... know and... cover because... gover-gover-government face...er... er... er...er...”

“To keep the government from looking bad,” John interpreted, seeing Sherlock starting to grow frustrated. “You knew and didn't say in hopes of covering it up and not making the government look any worse over the whole affair.”

Sherlock nodded, flashing a brief, grateful look John's way. “You would,” he accused. “You would... if... wanted.”

“I would,” Mycroft agreed. “If I felt it was for the best. Which I don't. And I didn't. And if I had, I would have at least told you in private. I wouldn't let you wonder for the rest of your life. I am not that cruel.”

Sherlock watched his face carefully and they held each other's gaze for several seconds. "Next time. I... never help," Sherlock said, his jaw set hard. "No... ask. Not for... anything. You... fix problems... yourself fix. Always... always I... bad and you... fine. You safe. Me... trouble.”

“I am sorry,” Mycroft said. “I am very sorry.”

Sherlock shrugged, making no sign that he'd accepted the apology.

“We should tell Lestrade,” John said, disrupting the icy silence that had filled the room. “There's no real evidence, still. He'll need to build a case. We should let him get started.”

“Please keep me informed,” Mycroft said. “I have as much of an interest in it as you.”

John nodded. Sherlock remained silent, looking the most frigid John had ever seen him. He turned and left without saying goodbye.

After leaving the Diogenes Club, John and Sherlock went directly to Lestrade's house. It was unlikely he'd be at Scotland Yard this early, and it was probably for the best to approach him alone and explain everything, without the rest of the Yarders there to throw suspicion over the whole thing. It was very clear from working with them again that they were all convinced Sherlock had been seeking drugs when he was attacked. Sherlock didn't seem to care, but John found himself frequently on the unpopular side of the debate.

“How did you make the connection to Verringer?” John asked, during the cab ride. “You don't usually follow the news.”

“When... er... no... leads, I look... erm... book you,” he said. He made a typing motion. “Erm... words, you. Talk about me.”

“The blog,” John said.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “And... er... pen words. Little book.”

“My notes,” John said.

Sherlock nodded. “I search... all names. You say names... and I look... er... images. For memory... help. No... memory but... when... face find, I... know... “ he gestured around his lower face. “I know... I see'd. See'd? Er... saw. So... I look again names and... er... sis-no, brother... look like. I... look more facts and find.”

“You did all that while I was asleep?” John asked.

“You... train loud, for wake,” Sherlock said.

John nodded. It wasn't the first time he'd heard that. He was trained to be on call and go to sleep as fast and deeply as possible before he was woken for another patient. “I'm sorry I haven't been much help,” he said.

Sherlock shrugged. “You never,” he said. “You... not job... thinking. You... feet help. Er... move help.”

“Was that a compliment?” John said.

Sherlock shook his head, though his lips twitched up at the corners. “Ye-...No.”

“Oh, fuck,” Lestrade greeted them when he opened the door. His hair was all over the place and he was in pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt with the Met Police crest on it. “This can't be good. C'min. I need coffee if I'm going to have to talk to you this early in the morning.”

John had never been in Lestrade's house before. He suspected it was probably his childhood home, as there was a makeshift growth chart marked on the kitchen door jamb, with marks for 'Greg' at various intervals. There was also a 'Tina' and 'Jenny' marked. John assumed they were his sisters.

The fridge was covered with photos of various young people—Lestrade's nieces and nephews. There were also thank you cards tacked up and a couple of drawings from children—including one with what was clearly a very frowny Sherlock in addition to the friendly looking Lestrade.

Sherlock seemed like he'd been there before, as his eyes didn't roam as much over the place as they did when he went somewhere new. More like he was cataloguing what had changed rather than deducing what every object and colour meant.

“Do you want coffee?” Lestrade offered, as he stumbled around the kitchen blearily. He didn't really accomplish anything for the first thirty seconds and then managed to flick the kettle on and find the coffee tin.

“Yeah, that'd be great,” John said. “Thanks.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade found mugs and prepared the coffee, then flopped down in a chair at the kitchen table with a sigh. “Okay. Hit me. What's happened now?”

Sherlock explained the situation, with John chiming in where it was needed to help him along. Lestrade frowned down at the facial composite.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “I checked the father's alibi. I didn't check the brother. I didn't know...dammit.”

“You...check why?” Sherlock asked.

“John gave me the names of a few people who you'd ticked off,” Lestrade explained. “It wasn't much, but I had nothing to go on, so I looked in to them. I was able to confirm Verringer Sr was home when you were attacked. I should have thought of a sibling. It was hard enough to get grounds to ask around about him. I had no evidence. I had to do it on the sly.”

“Don't beat yourself up,” John said. “None of us knew.”

Lestrade didn't look reassured. “Lemme get the case files, I have a copy in the office,” he said. He got up and left the room, returning a minute later with a manilla folder. “Here we go. Show me how you worked this out. You can point, it might make things easier for you.”

Sherlock seemed surprised as Lestrade spread out the photos and reports over the table. “Why?” he asked, again. “Why... have?”

Lestrade stared at him. “It's an ongoing investigation,” he said. “It's not solved. I keep all my cold cases here, and I look over them once in a while and see if anything new comes to me. I keep telling you—I'm a copper. I've been one for over thirty years. I'm not a genius, but I do my job. Sometimes even without your help. Now, show me what I missed.”

Sherlock went slowly through his reasoning process. It was always hard to watch him do this. What should normally have been one long hard-to-follow monologue became a stammering, start-and-stop, wandering ramble. It was especially hard, when it was obvious where he was trying to go, not to speak for him so he wouldn't have to struggle. It was hard to be ahead and wait for him to catch up. John supposed that's what Sherlock must feel like all the time—waiting for the world to catch up to his cleverness.

Sherlock explained the deductions and facts about the assailant that had emerged over the course of the investigation. Jason Verringer was 6'2", right-handed, brown-haired and a car enthusiast, which might explain why a wheel brace was his weapon of choice. He restored old cars as a hobby. Sherlock had learned all this from his Facebook page.

“I don't suppose he changed his status to 'whacked Sherlock Holmes in the head' at any point?” Lestrade asked.

“I check.... I check night in... er... erm... question,” Sherlock said. “No... changes. No... significance which... er... odd because always up-update. All days, but not... not that one.”

John was amazed at how calmly Sherlock was able to lay this all out, pointing to photos of his clothing and the crime scene, which were stained with his blood. He spoke dispassionately, and even though he used 'me' and 'I', he could have been talking about someone he'd never met. The only time he flinched at all was when looking at a picture of himself taken at the hospital before surgery, when he was still unconscious and half-dead looking. He didn't dwell long on that and moved another paper over it after he was done. John noted that picture wasn't up on the wall at home.

“All right,” Lestrade said, rubbing his face with his hands. He still looked a bit stunned from being woken up so early. “Here's what's going to happen. We are going to do this by the book, to the letter. You are not going to be involved. If this guy is the culprit, I want him in jail, and I don't want him wriggling away because of any unusual practices. We are going to gather evidence ourselves, based on your recommendations, and work like actual police officers, and no one will say we didn't follow procedure. Is that understood?”

Sherlock made a foul face. “You never... catch alone,” he declared. “You... all time... and never catch now. You need... help mine—my help.”

“We didn't have any leads before,” Lestrade replied. “Now we do. You can come to the Yard, if you're going to be difficult about it, which of course you are. But you cannot interfere. You can sit quietly and wait. And if and when we bring him in, you can watch the interrogation, but you can't participate.”

John stepped in before Sherlock could object again. “All they need to do is build up enough of a case for a judge to allow a DNA sample to be taken,” he pointed out. “The DNA from under your fingernails is on file. If it matches, he'll have a hard time explaining that away. Let them build the case. You've done all the heavy work. Let them do their jobs.” Sherlock still looked sceptical. “If you interfere, the whole thing could be thrown out of court. Do you want him to get away with it?”

Sherlock sat in stony silence for a minute and then nodded. “I want... update,” he said. “I want... knowing happens and... and... er... nouvelles. Erm... news.”

“I can do that,” Lestrade agreed. “I can keep you apprised. If you behave.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed.

“All right. One thing I do need you to do is write a full witness statement,” Lestrade said. “Everything you remember. I don't want to do it orally because if I have to clarify what you've said, it could be construed as me leading you on. I know your writing's a bit dodgy too, but there is a programme for witnesses who can't speak, where you can pick out the words you want. It takes ages, but it might help. Do you think you could handle that?"

Sherlock nodded. "Easy," he said. "I... not stupid... just words wrong. I know... what... saying want. Just... can't."

“I know, Sherlock," Lestrade assured him. "I didn't mean it like that; I just want to do it the easiest way. We'll head in to the Yard, and I'll put you up at the PC. Lemme get dressed, and I'll take you in.”

“I'm gonna run home and get dressed, too,” John said. “I'll meet you at the Yard later on. Is that okay?” Sherlock nodded. “Do you need anything from home?”

“Er... laptop,” Sherlock said, making a typing motion.”I have... files for... important. Help. And also... ball. I not... not... physio today. I... void. Er... er... cancel.”

“Fair enough,” John said. “I'll call them once the office is open and let them know. Try to cooperate, okay?”

Sherlock pouted. “Yes.”

John had a quick shower, got dressed and wolfed down some breakfast, sensing it would be awhile before he'd get to eat again. He grabbed what he needed and headed out to Scotland Yard. Sherlock was in Lestrade's office, clicking at a collection of words on the screen to make his statement. John had offered him an app for his phone that did something similar, but he was too stubborn to use it. Violet also preferred for him to try to speak, rather than relying on other forms of communication. In this situation, though, John didn't think she'd mind him getting a bit of help.

“Do you need anything?” John said.

“Shush,” Sherlock replied.

John shushed. He sat in a chair in the corner of Lestrade's office and waited. It took nearly two hours for Sherlock to write out his account. He took several breaks along the way, to shake out his hand and 'order... thoughts'. By the time he was content with it, most of the rest of the Yarders were in and Lestrade was holding a sort of scrum in the bullpen, explaining the situation. He finished and everyone broke off, heading for phones and PCs and evidence lockers. There were some sour faces, but most people appeared to be willing to help.

“You... er... make right," Sherlock said, before he printed the report out. "Look and... fix wrong things."

John swapped seats with him and read over the report. It was mostly coherent, though the word order was funny in some places and in others words were missing or doubled. The words he'd had to type in rather than choose from the list were often spelled wrong. John left the syntax alone, but fixed up the spelling to make it clear what Sherlock meant, checking with him before he corrected anything to make sure he wasn't putting words in his mouth.

Most of details of the report John already knew, but there was a bit more about the actual assault itself. Sherlock agreed to meet 'the assailant' and was attacked as soon as he turned the corner. He didn't remember much, but had seen his attacker's face, and knew that there was a brief scuffle before he was hit with a blunt object. He lost consciousness immediately and only remembered waking up three days after the surgery. It was all to the point and free of speculation. There were just the facts as Sherlock remembered them, no deductions based on them and no implication that it was Verringer who was the culprit.

“He didn't say anything?” John asked. “When he attacked?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I sound... not re-mem-ber,” he said. He made a twisting motion with his hand. “Like... dial down. Er... volume low. I...er...er...” He pointed to his ear. "Er...tinnitis."

“I suppose people don't have battle cries in real life,” John said. “Still, it would be helpful if he shouted something like 'you keel my brother, prepare to die'.”

Sherlock gave him a confused look. “No... accent,” he said. “Why have you... Spanish?”

“It's a film thing—never mind,” John said, with a smirk.

Lestrade entered the office and John gave him the report he'd printed out. He read it over and had Sherlock sign it. “Great, that'll do nicely. Now, go sit in the break room and stay out of our way. I'll keep you updated as best I can.”

There were several strong objections to this plan, to the point that John had to grab Sherlock by the arm and pull him away. Even then, he stuck his heels into the floor like a toddler but still didn't have enough control over his limbs to put up much of a fight.

“I... dislike!” he announced, as he flopped on to a couch to sulk. “They... mess up. They not... good like me.”

“They're your friends,” John said. “Well, they're your colleagues. They want to help. Trust them.”

“No,” Sherlock said, folding his arms across his chest.

“Trust me then; you can do that, right?” John said. Sherlock shrugged a shoulder. “I trust them.”

“You... stupid,” Sherlock muttered.

“Play with your ball and shut up,” John said, tossing it to him.

“Not dog!” Sherlock objected.

“I dunno, I have been taking you for a walk everyday,” John pointed out.

Sherlock glared at him.

“And you are pretty messy,” John continued.

Sherlock continued to glare at him.

“And I have seen you chew on the furniture,” John added.

“For... essperiment!” Sherlock burst out. “I bite, not... chew.”

There was a brief moment of silence before John snorted and started laughing. Sherlock scowled, but then his lips twitched and he laughed as well. John sat himself down on the couch opposite and prepared for a long day.

Chapter Text

According to Sherlock, time did not speed up or slow down; only a person's perception of it did. But if someone had asked John, he would have insisted that time pretty much stood still that day. Of course, a day spent trying to keep Sherlock Holmes quiet and in one spot was not exactly a laugh. Every time John's attention wavered for an instant, Sherlock made an attempt to escape. It failed each time. Especially after John took his cane away. It didn't stop him from trying; it just made him lurch around, dragging his foot behind him until John felt bad and gave the cane back.

Lestrade was good about keeping them updated, stepping in as each development occurred.

“Face rec between your composite and Verringer is 72%,” he said. “Which is pretty good considering we only have half a face to work with and sometimes we don't even get 100% on two full, straight on photos of the same person. I need you to look at a photo array, Sherlock. Can you pick him out of here?” He held a page of photos of similar-looking men.

Sherlock pointed to one without hesitation. “Yes,” he said.

“You sure?” Lestrade pressed.

“Much,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade nodded, though he didn't confirm if Sherlock had chosen the right one or not. John thought that wasn't allowed, as it might encourage the witness to either change his or her mind or keep believing in something false. “All right. Donovan and Cook are working on the CCTV footage. Now that we know who we're looking for, we can try to pick him out and track his route that way. I'll let you know how it goes.”

John thanked him. Sherlock tried to escape. John made him sit down again.

In the afternoon, DI Gregson stuck his head in to ask if Sherlock would come take a look at a case for him. They'd worked with him a couple of times in the past and Sherlock considered him 'acceptably intelligent'. John wondered if Lestrade had asked him to find something for Sherlock to do. It seemed unlikely, as the only time John had seen Gregson and Lestrade interact, their conversation had been entirely comprised of insults to one another. However, it did take Sherlock up a floor and so completely out of Lestrade's way. Maybe they'd called a truce.

Sherlock had solved that in a couple of hours and returned to his sulking in the break room. By that time, Donovan and Cook had managed to find Verringer on the CCTV footage and track his route to and from the crime scene. His face was heavily shadowed by his hoodie, but the figure left from Verringer's block of flats and returned there again, all within the right time frame. They couldn't get him right to the crime scene, but it put him in the area at the time of the crime.

Lestrade was working on phone records and brought in a report on that around tea time. John had fallen asleep on the couch and was awoken when Lestrade marched Sherlock back into the room.

“Sorry,” John muttered, rubbing his eyes. “I didn't mean to nod off. What's up?”

“I have Verringer's mobile records,” Lestrade said. He pointed to the couch and waited until Sherlock had sat down again before he continued. “There's no record of him ever contacting Sherlock directly, he probably used a burner phone for that, but he did use his mobile at the right time in the area of the crime scene. We can pretty much definitely place him there. That should be enough to get a search warrant, combined with Sherlock's composite, and ID, and the footage of him. I'm waiting for the judge to ring me back.”

He left again. Sherlock's good foot bounced anxiously on the floor, out of synch with his bad one, which only managed every other bounce.

They were clearly getting into the really agitated stage of waiting now. Sherlock sprang to his feet every time someone walked by the room and then set into pacing. John gave up trying to keep him calm and lay back down on the couch, keeping his feet out of Sherlock's way.

Finally, after Sherlock had paced for a solid forty-five minutes, Lestrade returned.

“Warrant has been issued,” Lestrade said. “For his flat and the garage where his cars are. We're going out now. I'll try to keep you updated. It may take a while.”

“Good luck,” John said.

“I want... come!” Sherlock said.

“No,” John and Lestrade said, together.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said, in his parental voice. Sherlock was winding up for a fight.“I promise I will handle this. I will find what we need and I will have him put away. You've worked with me long enough to know how stubborn I am. Bulldog tenacity, isn't that what you said?”

“Not... compliment intend,” Sherlock replied.

“Well, I'm taking it that way,” Lestrade said. “Let me do my job. I owe you that, and I won't let you down. All right?”

Sherlock wavered on his feet, looking anxious and exhausted and about ready to explode. “Yes,” he said.

Lestrade smiled. “All right.”

They brought Jason Verringer in around nine o'clock that night. Mycroft arrived at the same time, though John hadn't texted him. He must have found out some other way. Lestrade let the three of them into the viewing area that looked in on the interrogation room. Sherlock and Mycroft were silent, both looking straight ahead, both leaning on their cane and umbrella respectively, and their fingers working bouncing patterns on the handles, almost in unison. For the first time, as John got a view of their profiles from the side, he could tell they were related.

He didn't know what he expected Jason Verringer to look like. Facial composites didn't really do justice to anyone and criminals, as an abstract concept, still wore black and twirled moustaches in John's mind, even though he knew that was demonstrably untrue. Verringer came in and sat down at the table. He looked normal. A clean-cut, handsome, middle class-looking kid. He looked like every other twentysomething out on the street. But he looked nervous.

“Is that him?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, no doubt in his voice. “You see... er... plate?” he wiggled his thumb at John. “Er...”

“Thumbnail?” John guessed.

“Bone,” Mycroft said. “His thumb has been broken and healed recently.”

Sherlock scowled at him. “Yes,” he agreed, reluctantly. “I do that. With... head.”

John thought that was a fairly novel way to describe getting punched in the face. “I did that once,” he said. “Punching a bully at school, before I learned how to punch properly—Harry taught me that. I had my thumb inside my fist. He must have done the same thing.”

“Suggests a rather amateur approach,” Mycroft noted.

“There's not a lot about him that ever suggested he was criminal mastermind in the first place,” John pointed out. “Just patient, and lucky.”

The door opened again and an older man in a posh suit walked in. John guessed he was the solicitor. Lestrade and Donovan followed shortly after. There were a few moments of organizing papers and getting the tape recorder set up.

“I appreciate you coming in,” Lestrade said, politely.

“You made it pretty clear I didn't have a choice,” Verringer returned.

“You don't have to say anything,” the solicitor said.

“But it's in your best interest to answer our questions,” Lestrade said.

Donovan finished fussing around with the recorder and established the time and who was present in the room and that Verringer knew what his rights were, etc. Then they set down to business and the atmosphere went from slightly tense to positively choked.

“Can you tell me where you were on the night of March 29th of this year? Between eight pm and midnight?” Lestrade began.

“I was at home,” Verringer answered, promptly.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. “You didn't have to think on that,” he said. “That's impressive. If someone asked me where I was two months ago, I'd have to give it a think. You sound pretty sure of yourself.”

“I have a good memory,” Verringer said, undeterred.

“So, you're sure?” Lestrade pressed. “Anyone who can vouch for that?”

“I was alone,” Verringer said.

Lestrade smirked a little. “All right. Well, I have your mobile records here and it tells me you answered a call around 11:20, from the Strand area,” he said pushing a piece of paper with a bit highlighted on it towards Verringer. “From someone named... Aaron Lowrie?”

“My friend's mobile was broken, I lent it to him for a few days,” Verringer said. “Aaron must have rung him. We all know each other.”

Lestrade pushed a photo towards him. “So this still here, from the CCTV footage, this isn't you making that call at the same timestamp?”

Verringer shook his head. “It couldn't be,” he said. “I didn't have my phone.”

“S'funny, that, because this bloke here,” Lestrade said, tapping the photo, “he came out of your block of flats and returned there that night. So maybe you know him?”

“There are lots of people in my block,” Verringer said. “I don't know everyone.”

“So this man who has your mobile and lives in your building, you don't know him?” Donovan asked.

“I bet lots of people were making calls that night, maybe you have the wrong man,” Verringer said. “It doesn't have to be my friend. You can't even see his face.”

Lestrade nodded. “Maybe,” he said. “Now, like you, I remember that night very clearly, because I was called to a crime scene. A friend of mine was assaulted in that same area, around the time this call was made.”

“I'm sorry,” Verringer said, with false sincerity.

Beside John, Sherlock shifted in place a little and Mycroft glanced over briefly. He and John shared a look, which both concluded that he was fine for the moment.

“Do you know Sherlock Holmes?” Lestrade asked. He pushed a photo of Sherlock across the table. “That's him, there.”

Verringer made a show of looking. “I don't think so,” he said.

“He's in the papers a lot,” Donovan said, and she couldn't quite disguise what she thought of that. “You've never seen him before?”

“I don't read the papers very often,” he said. “They don't report the truth.” This was said with venom. John wondered if he was bitter about how the media had reported his brother's trial.

“I've talked to Mr Holmes, who is out of hospital now, and he says he's met your dad,” Lestrade said. “He asked for his help in your brother's case. But you don't know him, never heard of him?”

Verringer shrugged. “My dad spoke to a lot of people,” he said. “A lot of people who didn't want to help. I'm guessing this man said no. If he hadn't, I might recognize him.”

“How about like this?” Lestrade said, showing him the photo of Sherlock pre-surgery. “Do you remember him like this?”

Verringer blanched a little and swallowed, but shook his head. The solicitor complained about showing disturbing pictures to his client and ordered Lestrade to get to the point.

“This guy has a brother, too,” Lestrade said. “His name is Mycroft Holmes. You must know him?”

Verringer hesitated here. He didn't seem to know if he should acknowledge that he knew him, which would make more of a case against him, or to deny it and risk having proof thrown at him to show he was lying.

“I know... I know of him,” he settled on. “He worked on my brother's case. My dad knew him. He... was in charge of helping my brother. He didn't do a very good job.”

“Did that make you angry?” Donovan asked.

“Yes,” Verringer said. “Of course.”

“Angry enough to do something about it?” Donovan pressed.

“No,” Verringer said, with not quite enough defence to be believable. People who were actually innocent tended to get more upset when they were accused of things they didn't do.

Donovan showed another picture. “We searched the garage where your car is,” she said. “We found this wheel brace behind a workbench.”

“It must have fallen,” Verringer said. He had started to sweat a bit and took a sip from his water.

“Do you see right here?” Donovan said, pointing to a specific part of the photo. “Where the handle meets the socket? We found traces of blood there. The rest of it was really clean, considering s'been lying around a garage, but there's definitely blood, up in the narrow indent there. The DNA is being run now. Do you think it might be Sherlock Holmes's blood?”

Verringer shrugged.

“I think it will be,” Donovan said. “Because the socket is a bit warped right here, there's a little bit that sticks out. And our forensics team was able to definitively say that it matches the wound on Mr Holmes' head exactly.”

Verringer didn't say anything.

“There's another thing,” Lestrade said. “Mr Holmes remembers who attacked him. He made this composite for us.” He showed the photo Sherlock had mocked up. “Looks a lot like you, don't you think? You have the same little scar there on your lip, see? A medical friend of mine says that's from a cleft lip repair. A... 'unilateral complete cleft lip'. You had that, didn't you?”

“A lot of people do,” Verringer said.

“This bloke on the CCTV footage does too,” Lestrade said. “See on this still, here? He got pretty close to the camera there and you can just make out the scar. You still don't think it's you?”

“It... it can't be,” Verringer insisted.

“No? Well, me, I think that's a pretty good case,” Lestrade said. “And so does the judge. Which means he thinks I have grounds to take a DNA sample from you. Mr Holmes was able to grab his assailant's wrist and we have DNA from under his fingernails. Am I gonna find it matches yours?”

Verringer swallowed again. He looked scared now, like a little kid. Sherlock had stopped breathing and John touched his arm, making him jump and exhale again. He gave him a brief a nod before looking back to Verringer, his lips working silently. John thought it might be 'c'mon', but he couldn't be sure.

“I don't know,” Verringer said, finally.

“You seemed pretty sure earlier,” Donovan said.

Verringer went silent again.

“Look, Mr Verringer,” Lestrade said. “I don't think you ever went with the intention of killing Mr Holmes. I think you were angry and you wanted to hurt someone for hurting your brother. That's understandable. I have siblings and I've felt like killing people who've hurt them before. And you must have known when he went down that he wasn't dead. But you didn't finish him off. You walked away. If you confess now, I can make sure the judge knows that. It'll help you in the long run. But if you keep denying it and that DNA comes up as a match...” Lestrade shook his head, the implication that horrible things would happen hanging in the air.

Verringer shot a look to his solicitor, who murmured something John couldn't make out. Verringer hesitated and looked lost.

“Do you want a minute to think about it?” Lestrade asked, gently.

Verringer nodded.

Lestrade flicked the tape recorder off and took it with him. He and Donovan left the room and Verringer and the solicitor leaned in, whispering furtively to each other. Verringer kept shaking his head.

Lestrade entered the viewing room. Sherlock's shoulders had finally relaxed a little. Mycroft was still watching the conversation intently. He looked pale and his lips were drawn tight. The grip on his umbrella made his knuckles white.

“Do you think we have him?” Lestrade asked, watching Verringer and the solicitor.

“He's really scared,” John said. “He's just a kid.”

“Bad... bad kid,” Sherlock snapped.

“Stupid kid,” Lestrade corrected. “He's a stupid rich kid who's never had to deal with anything bad in his life that daddy couldn't fix and didn't know what to do with himself when he couldn't. So he did something stupid to make himself feel better and has to deal with the consequences, which he doesn't have too much experience with either.”

“You sound very knowledgeable, Inspector,” Mycroft said.

Lestrade shrugged. “Criminals have types,” he said. “Sort of like...er... what's the word? Archetypes? You stick around enough and you know there's really only a few stories being told. You just have to find out which one it is.”

“Nothing...sun new,” Sherlock muttered.

“Exactly,” Lestrade said. He looked over to Sherlock, judging. “If he tries to negotiate a deal, you okay if I accept?”

Sherlock didn't answer. Lestrade opened his mouth, but then seemed to think better of whatever he was going to say. He moved his gaze to Mycroft, who was still watching the conversation with a laser-like focus. John wouldn't be surprised if he could read lips.

“If he serves time, I will be content,” Mycroft said. “In prison. That should make him understand how to better deal with his anger. The length of his imprisonment is negotiable, though the longer the better. Does that suit you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock frowned and his hand danced on his cane for a moment. “I want... why,” he said. “Reason. Ess-essplain. If... er... erm.... avouer—”

“Confess,” Mycroft translated.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “If... co-fess. You do... what is... want.”

Lestrade nodded. “All right,” he said. “I'll give him a bit longer to stew. That's always good for making people think clearly. I have to get forensics in to swab him, too. Should make a statement.”

“You've done very well, Inspector,” Mycroft said.

Lestrade looked surprised. “Er, thanks,” he said. “Don't get any ideas about recruiting me, okay? I'm happy where I am.”

“The thought never occurred to me,” Mycroft said. “You made your loyalties very clear some time ago, if you recall.” He touched his jaw, briefly.

There was clearly some sort of private joke there, as both men grinned. Lestrade ducked out of the room again.

“You okay?” John asked Sherlock.

“I don't...” Sherlock started. He struggled and ermmed for a bit, getting more and more frustrated with himself. Mycroft's face contorted in sympathy, but Sherlock had his back to him and couldn't see. “Why? I don't... why?”

“You don't understand,” John said. “You want to know why he did it.”

Sherlock nodded. “I need... why,” he said.

Verringer's DNA sample was taken, after his solicitor read through the warrant with great diligence. The forensics girl swabbed inside his cheek. He looked about ready to throw up when she was finished. He was done now, John could tell. He had that tired, almost relieved look that people got when they were found out. When they didn't have to hide any more. Premeditated killers tended to look more like they were annoyed at being found out. It suggested that, however thought out it was, he wasn't a psychopath.

Lestrade and Donovan returned. Sherlock's back went rigid again. It took a long time for a deal to be negotiated, but eventually both parties agreed on terms, and Verringer agreed to try and explain himself, off the record.

“After my brother was convicted,” he began. “I was really angry. Just so angry, I couldn't think. I know everyone thinks he was guilty, but he wasn't. He couldn't have been. It wasn't like him at all to do something like that. He never hurt anyone in his life. I know he was innocent. I needed...I was so angry and I needed to understand why no one would help. Why they thought he could do something like that. I wanted to talk to Mycroft Holmes, to tell him he was wrong and to... know why he didn't do more. To try and convince him to help.

'I tried to contact him, but I couldn't get through. I left so many messages and just... nothing. I just wanted to talk, but all I kept getting were secretaries and under-secretaries and interns and it was impossible to get hold of him.”

Mycroft frowned. “I didn't receive any of those message,” he murmured.

“Not... reply if... were,” Sherlock pointed out.

Mycroft nodded. “True. I might have at least known he was... upset, however,” he said.

“Upset's putting it mildly,” John said.

“Then Alex died,” Verringer went on. “He was sick and he didn't tell anyone and he died. He shouldn't have been there in the first place! If anyone would have listened!” His eyes flashed and John could see the temper there, something wild and scary waiting to come out. Verringer stopped and controlled himself. “I was so angry. I kept thinking I would get less angry, but I didn't. I was Alex's big brother. I was supposed to look after him and... he's gone. I couldn't take it. I didn't know what to do. I just kept thinking that if Holmes had listened, if he'd understood, that Alex would still be here. But he was like a ghost. I couldn't get near him. It was like he didn't even exist.

“I have this friend who works for the government. Not a big job, just a low-level position. I talked to him about seeing if he knew how to get hold of Holmes. He said it was impossible. But while we were talking, he mentioned this brother. Sherlock. I remembered the name from my dad going to talk to him. I didn't... I'd never put them together, though it's pretty obvious. Stupid names, they must be related, right? And my friend mentioned that he'd heard the brother had been there all hush-hush the night before Holmes decided to withdraw his objections. And I knew... I knew it must have been Sherlock who convinced him. He's supposed to be this clever detective. Some sort of genius. He must have influenced him. And... I was just so angry.”

Mycroft was surreptitiously texting. John felt very sorry for this friend of Verringer. He was certainly out of a job and John suspected that was the very least of what he was in for.

“I kept thinking that if he had a brother, this Holmes, he should have understood,” Verringer said. “He should have be able to understand what I was feeling and at least returned my call. And I was so angry. So I... thought what he'd feel like if someone took his brother away and... I couldn't get it out of my head. I kept... thinking about it. I just wanted to hurt him—hurt them both, the way I had been hurt. The way they'd hurt me and my family.

“So, I sort of started planning. Just in my mind. It made me feel better. My friend was mugged a couple of years ago and they never found who did it, because there were no cameras. So I knew where would be a good place to go. I wasn't going to do anything for real, not really. But then... I saw on his friend's blog that he was going to be away for a few days. I started reading the blog after I found out about Sherlock. I wanted to know who he was. What sort of man he was. Anyway, it seemed... perfect. And I was so angry, I thought it might help. It might make the anger go away. So, I convinced him to come. I didn't really think he would. But he agreed, and even then I sort of thought that maybe I'd just talk and try to explain, but... I was so angry and when I saw him I just...”

Verringer stopped and looked exhausted. “He went down. And I ran. I should have chucked the wheel brace properly, but I was too flustered and I haven't had the nerve to go back and retrieve it. ” He gave a little laugh. “I've been waiting to get caught. I was surprised I wasn't. I thought maybe it meant I did the right thing but...” He shook his head. “And Sherlock's still alive and who knows what Holmes is thinking. Bloody iceman probably doesn't even care.”

“And are you still angry?” Lestrade asked.

Verringer nodded. “Yeah,” he said, with another bitter laugh. “I'm furious.”

Verringer was given a piece of paper to write his full statement out—on the record. John imagined it would probably be slightly less damning, as the solicitor was directing him very firmly in what he was writing.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He looked like a lost child. John didn't think he was satisfied with the reasoning involved. He wouldn't understand something that had no common sense. He walked out of the interview room and told John not to follow. John decided to listen, for the moment.

“He won't be pleased,” Mycroft noted. “He won't like it. He wanted something bigger. A big, clever conspiracy against him. He won't understand. We hardly have a bond enough to speak, let alone be compelled to avenge one another.”

John frowned. “Verringer seemed so sure of himself,” he said. “There's really no chance his brother was innocent?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No. The evidence was extremely incriminating. I asked Sherlock to come in to see if there was anything to suggest he hadn't done it, not that he had. I was looking for any reasonable possibility that he might have been innocent. There was nothing. It was rock solid. I will grant that it was perhaps not in his character, but he was very high on an illicit substance. It tends to bring out the hidden aspects of one's character. Otherwise, I'm afraid it's just a brother's affection.”

“It's sad,” John said. “It's sad all around. For everyone. It's bloody pointless, all of it.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed. “And that's why Sherlock won't like it. Watch him, John.”

“Yeah, I know,” John said. “Danger night.”

Mycroft nodded. He looked about as tired as John felt.

“You know it's not your fault, right?” John said. “I mean, you couldn't have known. It's not a logical train of thought. No one could have predicted how Verringer would react.” He knew he was saying this to himself as much as to Mycroft. Hearing Verringer say he knew when to attack Sherlock from reading the blog was like getting punched in the stomach.

“He is my brother and it's my job to protect him,” Mycroft said. “And I failed. I appreciate your sentiments, but it is very much my fault.”

John noted that Verringer had said almost the exact same thing about his own brother. So maybe, whatever the world's opinion of Mycroft Holmes, he wasn't such an iceman after all.

Chapter Text

Sherlock was already in the lift by the time John left the viewing room. He was too late to catch him and hurried down the stairs to meet him at the bottom floor. Sherlock looked blank and completely exhausted—as tired as John had ever seen him.

“Do you feel any better?” John asked, once they were in the cab home. “That he's been caught?”

Sherlock gave a shrug that could go either way. He didn't talk at all during the ride back to Baker Street, even if John asked him a question. All he received were nods and shakes of his head and neutral shrugs.

Mrs Hudson was at the door when they arrived home, dressed in her night things. Sherlock passed by her without a word, making his way up the stairs slowly.

“Mycroft rang me,” she whispered to John. “I've searched through all the usual hiding places, but I didn't have enough time to be thorough. Did you really catch who—who hurt him?”

John nodded. “Yeah. He's been arrested,” he said.

She looked relieved. “So, it's over now?” she said. “We don't have to worry about him being attacked again?”

“No,” John said, with a reassuring smile. “No, he's safe now. Thanks for looking, Mrs H. I'll stay up with him.”

“Let me know if you need anything,” she said.

John thanked her again and caught up with Sherlock on the stairs. Once they were up in 221B, Sherlock went to the kitchen table and resumed work on the experiment from the previous night. John made some dinner and a cup of tea for himself.

“You—” John began, uncertainly. “Er, if you... do you need to—?”

Sherlock's only response was to take John's mug from his hand and claim the tea for himself. John sighed and made another cup, taking it to the living room along with his dinner.

He was up into the early morning, making sure Sherlock wasn't going to do anything stupid. He could get in reckless moods sometimes, and though the obvious outlet was drugs, there was a risk of him purposely putting himself in extreme danger or experimenting with volatile chemicals. A different sort of high, a way to distract his brain from the noise of his thoughts. A 'dry' drug.

John had never seen him high by the standard definition. He'd seen him high on cases and high on his cleverness, but not high on drugs. He suspected there was cocaine on hand somewhere that they hadn't found in their searches, but as far as he knew, Sherlock hadn't relapsed since he'd known him. It was always a risk, though, and John felt safer with Sherlock in his sight, until the mood passed.

Mrs Hudson came upstairs around six the next morning and sent John to bed, taking over the Sherlock Watch. Sherlock hadn't said a word all night, just sat in the kitchen and worked on his experiment. John had spent most of the night trying to write a blog entry that explained what happened without naming names or giving away information that might comprise the case at the trial. In the end, he'd settled on something simple.

'The person who assaulted Sherlock has been arrested. I hope things will start to get back to normal now.'

By the time John woke up in the afternoon, Sherlock seemed to be out of the danger zone. In the days that followed, however, he slipped into a sort of fugue that lasted for weeks. He moped around the flat, snapping at anyone who tried to speak with him, and refusing to eat. The breakdown that John had been expecting since Sherlock came home from the hospital seemed to have arrived, but he'd expected an angry outburst, not this morose sulking.

He didn't want to solve cases. He turned off his mobile, and, when that didn't make enough of a histrionic statement, he put it in the freezer. When Lestrade tried to get hold of him through John, he put John's mobile in the freezer.

“How to defrost a mobile” did not yield much advice on Google.

He didn't get dressed or leave the flat except to go to physio. John was relieved he was at least keeping those appointments, as well as his speech therapy sessions. It meant that Sherlock still wanted to improve—that however depressed he might be, he still had some motivation left.

That's what it was, really. Just pure depression. John remembered that part of his own recovery: those days when it felt like it was never going to get easier and it was simpler just to stay at home and feel sorry for himself. That was when he finally agreed to start seeing Ella—when he was so miserable even he didn't want to put up with himself. However, when John suggested to Sherlock that he get some help, first gently and then a bit more firmly, all he received was a cold glare in reply. Eventually, he gave up.

It was hard not to lose his patience. He knew there was no way to 'snap out' of depression, and he was sympathetic, but at the same time he couldn't feel too sorry for Sherlock if he wouldn't do anything to help himself. He would have loved to tell him to stop sulking and buck up, but that was the equivalent of telling a person with cancer to cheer up and stop growing cells. The only thing he could do was wait and hope that Sherlock would come to it by himself.

Even Violet, who had so far dealt with anything Sherlock had thrown at her without missing a beat, lost her patience with him.

John was downstairs with Mrs Hudson, pairing socks from a large pile of odd ones she had dumped into his lap. He was also watching Lydia, the Connie Price replacement, with her, and thinking that it might have been worth risking Sherlock's wrath by staying up in his own flat. Then he heard the sound of someone stomping down the stairs.

“Oh dear,” Mrs Hudson said, succinctly.

John unearthed himself from the sock pile and hurried out to the hallway.

Violet was pulling on her coat, looking furious. She had two little red spots on her cheeks and her lips were set tight.

“What did he do?” John asked.

“Mr Holmes has decided he doesn't feel like working today,” she said, her usual crisp vowels falling in on themselves in her anger. “He'd much rather spend his time seeing how far he can push me before I lose my temper. So I thought it best to leave before he succeeded any more than he already has. Please inform him that he has not driven me off. I will return on Friday as usual, and you can bet that an apology will be part of his exercises.”

“I'm sorry,” John said.

“It is very much not your fault,” she assured him. “Everyone has bad days. I have noticed that Sherlock seems to be having a lot of them lately, though.”

John nodded. “Yeah. Me too. I don't know what to do. He won't listen to me, or anyone, really,” he said.

“I find with people who've had life-altering things happen, like strokes or head injuries or illnesses, they tend to react like people who've lost a loved one,” she said. “They go through the stages of grief, like they're mourning their old lives. It could be he's just hit the sadness part of it. But, if I can make a suggestion?” John nodded. “Find someone he will listen to.”

“I don't even know if there is anyone,” John said. “But I'll think about it. Thanks. I'm sorry. He's an arse at the best of times.”

She nodded. “I like him, I think,” she said. “I don't know why. But he's not feeling it today and I'm not going to bash my head against a brick wall. It won't help either of us. I'll try again on Friday.”

“Let me pay for your cab or something,” John said, as she turned to go.

“No, don't worry about it,” she said. “Really. I've had a lot of abuse thrown at me in my lifetime. I can handle it.”

She left and John went upstairs, trying to keep his temper in check.

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, working on an experiment like nothing had happened. He flicked his eyes over to John when he arrived and the expression in them was that 'sod off' look he'd been wearing for days.

“Just so I know,” John said. “Are you making an effort to piss off everyone who's trying to help you or does it come naturally? Is it a game or something?”

Sherlock heaved a great put upon sigh. “She... sensitive,” he said. “Over... overreact.”

“No, Violet is not sensitive,” John said. “She's put up with your crap without flinching. So, I'm guessing you really tried to get to her today, for whatever stupid reason you have. Did that genius thing where you look for a weak spot and then step on it.”

Sherlock shrugged, uncaring. His eyes moved to John's hand, which was clenching and unclenching by his side. “Why... angry? Not, er, not your... problem.”

“I'm angry because you're acting like an arsehole to a person who has no reason to be treated like that,” John said.

“You... not here,” Sherlock objected. “Don't know what... what happens.”

“No, but I know that Violet has put up with a lot from you and you managed to make her so upset she stormed out...” John looked at his watch. “Ten minutes after she arrived. I thought you liked her, or at least respected her. I thought things were going well. So, do you really not see when you're going too far, or do you just not care?”

Sherlock shrugged again. John's fist clenched a little tighter.

“Listen, I'm not your dad, I'm not a relative, I can't tell you what to do,” he said.“But I am your friend, though I don't know if that actually means anything to you. So as a friend, let me give you some advice. You're entitled to be upset, you're entitled to be angry and scream and shout or lie around in your pants and stare at the ceiling. Whatever you want. But you're not entitled to piss everyone off. You're not entitled to treat the people who are trying to help you like crap. Be miserable on your own time.”

“Don't need help,” Sherlock muttered. “Fine.”

“Yeah, I know,” John said. “You're brilliant.”

“You not... understand,” Sherlock snapped. “You not... know.”

“Oh yeah, Sherlock, you're right. 'Cause what do I know about getting hurt over something you had no control over? Or losing the use of your dominant hand and wondering if you'll ever be able to do the only profession you've ever been good at again? Or walking with a cane? Or sitting around feeling useless?” John said. “What could I know about that?”

“You... talk,” Sherlock said. “You able.”

“Yeah, and I had no one to talk to,” John said. “And do you know what? It wasn't great. So just remember when you've driven everyone off and you're all alone, that you're fine and you don't need help. And you put yourself there.”

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows in a mocking expression. “Done?” he asked.

“Yeah,” John said. “Yeah, I'm done Sherlock.”

Sherlock made a shooing gesture at him. “Leave. I'm... I'm work,” he said.

John gave him a brisk nod and turned to go.

“Close door,” Sherlock added. “Want alone.”

“You don't need help, remember?” John said. “Do it yourself.”

It was a sign of how bad things were that Mycroft actually requested to meet John later that day, rather than yanking him off the street. Granted, he did it by hacking into a cashpoint, but it was the thought that counted.

“Do you have Violet on your payroll or something?” he asked, sitting in the side room at the Diogenes Club. “How do you know what's going on?”

“Miss Hunter was quite firm in refusing my offer for bonus pay,” Mycroft said, with a smirk. “She's a very self-possessed young lady. Whom, I understand, my brother has managed to drive off?”

“She'll be back, I think,” John said. “She's due back on Friday. Whether or not Sherlock is going to cooperate is another matter.”

“How bad?” Mycroft asked.

“Belgravia,” John said.

Mycroft winced slightly. “Better or worse than that?”

“'Bout the same, I'd say,” John said. “Violet said something about him grieving. I guess that's what he was doing then, too. Grieving for Irene Adler.”

“More the loss of a challenge, I'd say,” Mycroft said, with a small smile.“Sherlock has never been particularly good at handling his grief.”

John sighed. “I don't know what to do any more,” he said. “And I don't even know if it's my business. I can't force him to get help. He doesn't want it. Maybe it's best to leave him alone and let him...”

“Self-destruct?” Mycroft suggested. “It's not a pretty sight, John, believe me.”

John leaned forward and rubbed at his forehead, feeling as always like he was trapped between two Holmeses. Usually he was inclined to take Sherlock's side, but he and Mycroft were on the same page this time. Mycroft's methods were mental, but he cared about Sherlock. John wondered if Sherlock knew, or even cared, how many people were worried about him.

“I think he just needs to sort of accept what's going on,” John said. “He needs to admit that he's badly off and it's not going to get better overnight. I think that having the assault case hang over him was a distraction. He concentrated on that, so he didn't have to think about how bad things were. And now he doesn't have that distraction, or any sort of satisfactory answers for it. Not ones he understands anyway. And it's like he's just shut down—like he can't face it. He needs to get to the point where he can face the truth, and then he can start to really get better. I don't know how to get him there, though. He's not going to listen to me.”

Mycroft nodded, looking a bit grim. “Then it may be time for more drastic measures.”

Mycroft hadn't elaborated; he'd simply claimed he needed to make an urgent phone call and kicked John out. It didn't take long to figure out what he meant, though, as the next day, Mrs Holmes suddenly appeared at Baker Street. There was no warning. The doorbell rang, Mrs Hudson answered and a few minutes later, Mrs Holmes arrived at the top of the stairs.

“How nice to see you again, John,” she said, greeting him warmly as though this was a planned visit. “How are you?”

John glanced to Sherlock, who was curled up on the couch and did not acknowledge that his mother was there. Then he glanced around the flat, which looked as bad as it always did. “Er, good, thanks,” he said. “Sorry about the mess.”

“I raised Sherlock and Mycroft,” Mrs Holmes said, her eyes twinkling. “I cannot be fazed. By anything. At all.”

John believed it.

She turned and went over to the couch, frowning at the smiley face on the wall. She opened her mouth, but seemed to think better of mentioning it. “Move your legs, please,” she ordered.

Sherlock pulled his legs further into his chest and she sat down at the end of the couch.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” John asked.

“Yes, that would be lovely, thank you,” she said.

“Sherlock?” John said. He didn't get a response, only annoyed blinking in reply. Sherlock had given up even snapping at him. Now he just ignored him all together.

“John has asked you a question, Sherlock,” Mrs Holmes said. “Answer him, please.”

Sherlock made a face. “No,” he said, tersely.

John nodded and went into the kitchen to make the tea, keeping an ear out for the conversation in the living room.

“I have spent five hours on a train, stuck listening to the most annoying woman in creation,” Mrs Holmes said. “I believe I deserve at least a greeting, if not a medal for arriving here without blood on my hands.”

“Not... ask... ask to come,” Sherlock objected. “Made... you. Mycroft... made you.”

There was a light, lady-like snort. “Sherlock, I would hope you would know that there are very few people in the world who could get me to do anything I didn't want to,” Mrs Holmes said, sounding exactly like Sherlock when he made one of his boasts. “And Mycroft Holmes is certainly not one of them. Now, sit up and behave properly. You are not a child.” A shuffling sound could be heard.“Thank you.”

John stuck his head out of the kitchen. Sherlock was sitting up now, slumped in his seat with his arms crossed, and looking pouty. “What do you take?” John asked Mrs Holmes.

“Milk and one sugar please,” she said.

John ducked back into the kitchen. Mrs Holmes switched to French, and he couldn't follow it at all. He guessed that was probably her intention. Whatever she was saying, Sherlock would only answer with “fine”, said firmly. Then the fines took on a slightly less firm tone. Then there was a long string of French, during which Sherlock didn't respond at all, even though there were pauses there for him to fill in.

John was in the process of carefully bringing out the tea when there was a sudden odd choking sound.

The doctor part of John's brain connected this sound to a blocked airway and he rushed into the living room without thinking about it, ready to intercede. He stopped so abruptly that the tea sloshed over one of the mugs and burned his hand. It didn't even register in his mind, because the sight in front of him was so shocking.

There was no cardiac arrest, just Sherlock slumped forward over his knees, with his hand over his eyes and his shoulders racked with choked sobs. It was such a foreign concept that he could show that sort of blatant emotion that John momentarily thought he was having some sort of coughing fit.

Mrs Holmes cooed gentle words and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. He seemed to be trying to gather himself, but only managed to pause for a few moments before the sobbing started again. She wrapped her arm around him and pulled him in, rubbing his back. He stuck his face in her shoulder and the sobs softened, though John could see the tears dripping from his chin.

He realized he was standing there, holding tea and gaping, none of which was any help in this sort of situation. He hovered, feeling extremely awkward and then, being the brave soldier he was, turned, put the tea down and went to see if Mrs Hudson had any more socks for him to pair.

Chapter Text

“Good,” Mrs Hudson said, when John told her what was going on. She had his burned hand running under cold water. “He needs to do that.”

John was surprised that she wasn't more concerned about it. “But... it's Sherlock,” he said, as though she hadn't fully understood. “Sherlock. Sherlock is crying.”

“Yes, I heard you,” she said. “And it's a good thing. He has quite a lot of pent up emotion and he needs to let it out. We all need a good cry once in awhile. Even Sherlock Holmes. We should probably give him some proper privacy. Let's go out for tea.”

John accepted the towel she handed to him and patted the burned area dry. “Is that...will he be okay?” he asked. “I mean, he's really upset.”

“If you were that upset, would you want him hovering around you?” Mrs Hudson asked.

“No,” John admitted. “Yeah, okay. I see your point.”

“Besides, there's no one better than a mother for comforting,” Mrs Hudson said.

And as she rubbed aloe over the burn and put a plaster on it and pulled him out of the flat, John decided that he quite agreed.

They went to Angelo's for dinner, since Mrs Hudson fancied Italian and John fancied cheap. Angelo gave anyone associated with Sherlock a discount. He greeted them warmly and put them at the 'best table in the house, for the best friend and la padrona of Sherlock Holmes!'. This meant the table by the window. They even got a candle. John sincerely hoped that he didn't think he and Mrs Hudson were on a date.

The meal was good, as good as was expected, and he and Mrs Hudson ended up in a sort of philosophical conversation about Sherlock.

“He doesn't realize he needs people,” she said. “He thinks he doesn't, but he depends on us all the same. He's not comfortable trusting people. He's better since you came along. You've both changed, really.”

“I've changed?” John asked, surprised.

“Of course you have, dear. Everyone changes when they meet new people,” Mrs Hudson said. “You're calmer and happier than when I first met you. I thought you were a bit lost then. You've found yourself now. And Sherlock, well, he's better for having you around. And you're better for having him around. And I'm better for having you both around. That's how it works.”

John smiled a little at that. “We're better for having you around, too,” he said. She patted his hand affectionately. “What was he like when you first met him? You knew him before I did.”

“Oh, he was the same in a lot of ways,” Mrs Hudson said, with fondness. “But I liked him. I don't think he was used to that. Sherlock's spent his whole life with people hating him. They don't like him because he's smarter than them. So he hates people in advance and when he finds someone, like you or me, who likes him just as he is, with no conditions, it makes him very confused. He's so ready to fight with the world, he doesn't know what to do when it doesn't fight back.”

John tried to process this. He supposed it made sense. “Why do we like him?” he asked.

Mrs Hudson laughed. “Heaven knows, dear,” she said. “I suspect you and I like the excitement. He's a good boy, underneath it all.” John looked at her, sceptical. “He is. You'll see. He'll show it one day.”

John felt a little better for hearing all this, but he was still faced with the fact that he had a very depressed, at the moment somewhat hysterical, flatmate who didn't want anything to do with him. “I hope his mum helps,” he said. “I don't know what to do—if I should leave him alone or keep nagging at him.”

“I think you need a night off,” Mrs Hudson said. “You let someone else worry for you. His mum will take care of him. That's what mums are for. Now, I intend to order pudding and stop fussing, and you should, too.”

John grinned. “Yes ma'am,” he said. “You're a very wise woman, Mrs H.”

“I know, dear,” she said. “You're quite lucky to have me around.”

They'd given Sherlock about two hours to collect himself, but John still went upstairs apprehensively when they arrived home, peeking into the living room with one foot poised to retreat if necessary. Sherlock wasn't there, just Mrs Holmes who was reading a book on the sofa, as if she lived there.

“Hello,” she greeted him. “Sherlock's having a bit of a lie down. He's quite exhausted. How was your meal? Italian, was it?”

“Yes, how did you—?” John asked.

“You're holding garlic bread,” she pointed out.

John looked down at the plastic container in his hand. Angelo had sent it home with him for Sherlock because 'once he ate a whole slice of it' and that apparently meant that it was his favourite.

“Oh, right,” John said, with a laugh. He set the container down on the coffee table. “How's Sherlock?”

“He's fine,” she said. “I was just waiting until you came back, so there would be someone with him if he needs anything. I'm going to go in a bit.”

“How did you get him to lie down?” John asked.

She laughed. “Practice,” she said. “Thirty-four years of it. You can imagine what it was like trying to get him to nap as a child. He started doing flips out of his cot at thirteen months. He'd be so angry to be there, he'd start jumping up and down and then sort of somersault over the side, then he'd run to the door and open it, all before you'd taken two steps down the hall. The paediatrician insisted it wasn't possible for a toddler to do that, but he did.”

John grinned. “God, I can't even picture Sherlock as a kid,” he said. “What was he like? Was he always like this?”

“Always,” she said, with emphasis. “He wasn't too much trouble so long as you kept him busy. Take away his toys or stop playing games with him and he'd be finding something to get into within seconds.”

“Same as now,” John noted.

Mrs Holmes laughed. “He hit his milestones so early and he's so bright, he never knew what to do with himself,” she said. “Mycroft was always very... precise. He's as bright as Sherlock, but he was always aware of what he was doing and what he was going to be doing and how it should be done. Sherlock always seemed slightly surprised at how he'd arrived where he was. As though he was moving so fast, he couldn't keep track of everything. Mycroft always had a natural ability to focus his thoughts. Sherlock had to learn how to do that. I think he overdoes it now—he gets too absorbed and narrows in too much, sometimes to his detriment. My mother-in-law used to say he was like a dog with a bone. Just like his father, really.”

John felt like he'd learned more about how Sherlock Holmes' mind worked in the last few hours than he had in the entire year and a half he'd known him.

“I've invited him to come to a concert tomorrow night,” she said. “And I'm hoping he'll accept. I've planted the seed. We'll see what grows once he's had a bit to stew over it.” She put her book down and stood up. “I think I'll go. I've done what I can here. He'll get stroppy if he thinks I'm hovering. You can give me a ring if you need me.”

John thanked her and saw her down to the door. “Do you think he's all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, firmly. “Sherlock has always been very good about recovering after a setback, but sometimes he needs to break down before he can pick himself up again. He needs to open the wound and let all the infection out before it can heal. I have him sorted for the moment. Now I have to work on the other son. Mycroft is lamenting his lack of omnipotence. I have to go remind him he isn't actually all powerful, nor all seeing.” She gave him a critical look. “I'll remind you of the same thing.”

John squirmed a little under her gaze, and nodded. “I know,” he said. “Thank you for coming. I'll keep an eye on Sherlock.”

“I know you will,” Mrs Holmes said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

She left and John went back upstairs, hoping that she had done some good.

He decided to take Mrs Hudson's advice and try not to worry. He felt like he used to at the end of long shifts in med school or the army—like he'd been caring for so long that if anyone asked him to give one more fuck, he was going to lose it. The last couple of months had felt like one long shift, made even worse by how emotionally involved with it he was. He was sick of being frustrated and guilty and exhausted and angry. He needed a break, even a small one.

So he watched a few admittedly lowbrow sitcoms on the telly and got caught up with his blog and read for a while. It helped, a little. It wasn't enough, but it kept him sane for the moment. That's all he could hope for, for now.

Sherlock woke up around eleven-thirty that night—or he left his room at least. He didn't look very rested, if he had been sleeping. He was pale and haggard and his eyes were a bit puffy and had deep, dark circles underneath them. He wandered out to the living room, his eyes darting over at John a few times. He went over to his violin case and brought it back to the chair with him, playing pizzicato. John hadn't seen him go near the instrument since that disastrous first attempt to play. He decided to take it as a sign of hope.

There was a long, awkward silence, which John realized he was going to have to break.

“Hey,” he said, neutrally.

“Hello,” Sherlock said, neutrally.

“Your mum's left,” John said, unnecessarily.

“Ov-obvious,” Sherlock said, snootily.

John returned to his book. Sherlock plucked at the violin, his right index finger moving in small spasms, but with enough dexterity to keep the rhythm.

“You... garlic smell,” Sherlock said, after a bit. “Angelo?”

“Yeah, Mrs H and I went out for dinner,” John said. “He sent garlic bread, if you want some.”

Sherlock looked at the box on the coffee table like it was poison. “No,” he said.

John smirked down at his book. Sherlock returned to plucking. There was another silence.

“Mummy... music... er... billets... er... paper... paper—tickets,” Sherlock said, after a bit. He was looking down at the violin, but his eyes rolled up to watch John. “Yester—, no...er... er... night follows... tonight.”

“Tomorrow,” John supplied.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “That's why... er... London she comes. For... music and... visits. Check on me and... invite.”

John was more than happy to accept that slightly skewed version of events. Sherlock made it sound like the concert was her first priority and looking in on him was a side trip. If that made him feel better, John would play along.

“You gonna go?” he asked.

“I... think yes,” Sherlock said. “But... see have to. Will see.”

John gave an encouraging nod, but didn't want to seem too pushy for fear of Sherlock baulking on principle.

“She... invites same... you,” Sherlock went on. “Can... ticket get. Says. You can't... come if—if want.”

John tried to parse that sentence, wondering why Mrs Holmes hadn't invited him herself. Maybe she wanted to leave it up to Sherlock whether he wanted him along or not. “Do you mean I'm not allowed to come or I can choose not to come?” he asked.

“Second,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, then I choose not to come,” John said. “No offence, but your mum is scary.”

“Why... why you think... I... London live?” Sherlock asked, with a smirk. “And she... long train away.”

John laughed. Sherlock smiled down at the violin. John waited a bit longer, struggling with whether or not to inquire into how Sherlock was feeling. He seemed—well, he seemed exhausted—but a little less tense than he had been. John didn't want to pry.

“You...stare,” Sherlock told him. “Stop. Fine... me. I... fine. I...” he struggled with the words and John suspected it wasn't just the dysphasia at work. He was trying to decide how to express himself. “I... never... hard doing... doing things. Always... easy. All things easy. Yes?” John nodded. “Now... hard all things. I speech wrong and... hands and feet broken. I can't... approach. I don't... skills have for being... not good. I need better and... angry. So... my thoughts and... er... trapped? Very tired and... cross. I'm... cross.”

“I've noticed that,” John said. “I remember... I mean, it was different for me, because I wasn't... trapped, like you put it. Not physically, anyway. But I remember how it feels to be sort of... separate from what you want to do and what you can do. And being just... stuck. Stuck in place and not sure where to go.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. I... agree.” He looked over at John. “How... fix? How... not stuck?”

John smiled. “If I recall correctly,” he said. “This nutter asked me to be his flatmate and I started solving crimes.”

Sherlock didn't know what to do with that. He looked confused and maybe—maybe—a bit touched. “Oh,” he said.

“Look, I don't want to sound like a motivational speaker, but you have to look at what you can do, not what you can't do,” John said. “When you woke up at the hospital, you couldn't hold a pen. You can play the violin now—not play-play, but you're making music with it. You couldn't get two words in a row out, now you can do full sentences sometimes. You couldn't say my name and now you bellow it up the stairs when there's a crime scene to go to. Those are tangible things, things that you can measure. I mean, you're a long way from normal, not that you've ever been normal, but compared to how it was at the start, you're brilliant.”

Sherlock nodded, though he didn't look very convinced.

“And whatever you need to do to get better is what you need to do,” John went on, while he had Sherlock's attention. “And I know we're crowding you, because we want to help. So I can stop hassling you if you want me to, and leave you alone. Or I can help. Or if you need to get right away and take a holiday somewhere or visit your mum or have your mum around, whatever. But this sitting around sulking isn't going to accomplish anything. And maybe you're not ready to stop doing that yet, that's fine. But... you know... you aren't going to get better until you do.”

Sherlock nodded again.

“Okay, I'm done now,” John said. “Sorry. I just, felt like it needed to be said. I'll sod off. I have to work in the morning, I should probably get to bed anyway. And you should probably practice apologizing to Violet. She'll be back tomorrow.” Sherlock made a face. “You good?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. He searched for his words again, his eyes roaming around. “I... you're not... wrong.”

John laughed. “There's a first,” he said. “Thanks.” He stood up and headed for the stairs, but turned back at the door. “Sorry, just one more thing. I'm not a genius, so maybe this is a stupid idea. But if you're tired, maybe you should sleep.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Right you,” he said. “Not... genius.”

“Yeah, I know,” John said, with a grin. “Goodnight.”

“Good...goodnight.”

To say that Sherlock instantly was better would be a lie. Depression didn't work that way. What he was, though, was a little less grumpy and more open to communicating. He patched things up with Violet, though John wasn't sure if an apology ever took place or they just called a truce. He also went out to the concert with his mum and seemed to enjoy himself, though it took a lot out of him physically.

Mrs Holmes stayed in town for a week and did her best to cajole John into having lunch with the family, but all plans fell through, much to his relief. Thank God for crises in other countries that required Mycroft's urgent attention. John had no desire to try and sit in the middle of that mess. Sherlock was in no mood to forgive Mycroft, and Mycroft was in no mood to forgive himself. Mrs Holmes returned home and resumed her previous role of acting as though she didn't exist. Which was an odd way to parent, but seemed to work.

Sherlock still didn't have much drive to do anything without being forced, but he was starting to look less like death warmed over and behaving more like his usual self. John actually found himself mentally cheering when he opened the freezer to find a severed hand in it.

He had a very strange life.

Eventually, Sherlock hit what John thought was the acceptance stage of his grief. He seemed to be ready to acknowledge that he was not well and needed to get better. He started to sleep and, though it was nowhere near the ten hours a night he was supposed to be getting post-head injury, it was almost every night. He started to look less like a zombie. And, surprise, once he was sleeping, other things started to come more easily and so he was in a better mood all around.

He started to work on cases again, and they were still hard, but he pushed through and kept going, rather than shutting down. He seemed unusually unfocussed and taking longer to move from point to point. John assumed it was part of the head injury; that he wasn't as streamlined as before because of his mind palace still being 'messy', as he put it. He was trying to wade through huge amounts of information stored there, which was no longer in nice little compartments.

“I... can't... words,” he told John, after a particularly difficult case.

They were sitting in the living room, John trying to make sense of his case notes, so he could write a blog entry. It was harder to follow Sherlock's train of thought since his head injury, which made it harder to write about how the case was solved. A lot of it still remained trapped in Sherlock's head.

“Sorry?” John said, looking up from his notes.

Sherlock made a gesture of holding a book. “I can't... comprehension. I look and... not... remember.”

“You can't read?” John asked.

“No, can read but... not... absorb,” Sherlock explained. “I... not... learn very... much.”

John waited, not sure where this was going and not wanting to say the wrong thing. He wasn't sure if this was Sherlock venting, which was an improvement over sulking, or if there was more to it than that.

“You didn't tell me that,” John said, after Sherlock didn't seem inclined to continue. Sherlock shrugged. “So, you can understand the words but not follow the... story or whatever.”

Sherlock nodded. “When... drop,” he said, miming putting a book down. “And leave. All... gone. I... forget all. Or... I read and... have to... over and over again to understand. I can... newspaper and... short word stories, but... not more long. Can... function. But not... er... good function.”

“That's another head injury thing,” John said. “People with strokes have that problem. Sometimes they can't read the words at all. I think yours is probably more a concentration thing, though. I've noticed you're a bit... scattered.”

“Violet says... er... practice,” Sherlock went on, looking embarrassed. “But... can't, because... if not... remember... can't... I can't know... if right.”

There was another silence here, where John felt the only response was 'that's unfortunate'. Then he realized what was going on. “Sherlock,” he said, with a smile. “Are you asking for help with your homework?”

Sherlock shot him an annoyed look. “Not... child,” he complained. “But... yes.”

“What are we reading?” John asked.

Sherlock looked a little surprised. “Okay?” he said. “You... want to help?”

“Of course I do,” John said. “We all want to help, Sherlock. Give me something useful to do and I'll do it. So, what are we reading?”

Sherlock tossed a paperback his way. It was a copy of And Then There Were None, by Agatha Christie.

“You know... er... er... report-no, no, erm, writer?” Sherlock asked. “Violet says... I like her. Because mystery? But... never read. She surprised.”

“Me too,” John said. “You practically are Hercule Poirot. And you know, I'm pretty much Hastings. That's really weird now that I think about it.”

Sherlock gave him a blank look. “I don't know... them,” he said.

John shook his head. He sometimes wondered what Sherlock did all his life. If he ever did anything for fun as a kid. “I don't think they're in this one,” he said, scanning over the back cover. “This is a classic, though. You might like it. I think I read it way, way back. I don't remember much about it. It had a different name then. Ten Little Indians, I think. Anyway, I'm happy to read it again and ask you questions, or discuss it or whatever you need. We can just go a chapter at a time. I can get a copy for myself and keep up with you. Does that work?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Good. If you hear something read aloud, do you remember it?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Only... pen—wrote words, mind... wanders.”

“All right, well we can use that at crime scenes and stuff, when you really need it,” John said. “I can read whatever you need aloud to you, until your focus improves. That way you won't have to keep checking things.”

Sherlock nodded again. “Before, I try to... only solve cases,” he explained. “I try to... be well just enough for that. But now... I want all well. Want better, all better.”

John smiled. “Good,” he said. “Good. I'm glad to hear that.” He tossed the book back to Sherlock. “We'll start tomorrow.”

Sherlock threw himself in to his recovery the way he usually threw himself into cases. He worked so hard that John had to sometimes get him to relax a little about it. He locked himself in his room for hours at a time, and for a while John was worried that he was slipping into the depression again, or doing something not quite legal. However, when he stuck his ear to the door one day, he could hear Sherlock singing and talking to himself. John left him alone after that.

Once Sherlock started to properly recover, John found that under all the stress and guilt and frustration, he was just bloody tired. At first he tried to keep going and ignore it, but eventually he had to give himself permission to be tired. He took every opportunity to sleep, and once he started to feel rested, life stopped being such an overwhelming existence of trying to fix problems or prevent problems from arising or waiting for the next bad thing to happen. It started to feel less like one long shift and more like life. A life that he had enjoyed before the assault and could enjoy afterwards too, even if it was a bit different.

John did what he could to help Sherlock, but if he told him to back off, he did. There were still strops and fights and days when John wanted to leave the flat and possibly the city or the country, but he made it through. He and Sherlock worked their way through And Then There Were None, though it took ages to do. At the beginning, Sherlock had to read chapters over and over again before he could talk about what happened in them. He seemed to like the story, though, which kept him going and declared Christie to be an 'acceptable' author. By the end, Sherlock could remember not only what happened in that chapter, but the chapter before and the beginning and middle and criticize John for not putting the clues together himself.

The physio came along brilliantly. In addition to the constant ball throwing, Sherlock also took up crocheting, which, despite everything that John had seen since he'd met Sherlock, was still the weirdest thing he had ever walked in on him doing. He and Mrs Hudson were sitting on the sofa, both crocheting.

“Laugh and... die,” Sherlock told him, without looking up.

“After my friend had a stroke, she took up knitting to help with her hands,” Mrs Hudson explained, as John continued to gape. “I thought it might help Sherlock, but he didn't want to try before when I offered. He said yes today, though.” She was obviously very proud of herself for getting him to try. “The knitting didn't go so well, so we've gone with crocheting instead. He's doing very well.”

“Has... maths,” Sherlock added. “And... logic and... thinking. Pattern from... change wool loops.”

“Okay...” John said. “Whatever floats your boat, mate. If it helps, go to it.”

And it did help, though Sherlock lost interest in it after about a week. Still, by the time he was around the four month mark post-injury, Sherlock was pretty much fully mobile again. He was still a bit clumsy with his right hand and sometimes unconsciously swapped hands if he was overtired, but he was mostly back to his normal, agile self with ninja-like reflexes.

The speech was another matter. He worked at it with a will, but there was just no hurrying it along. He improved, slowly, and found his words more easily and with fewer pauses between them. His writing improved a lot as well, especially once he could write with his dominant hand again. But his grammar was still dodgy and when he was tired, it all fell to pieces.

He also went through an odd phase that John thought of as 'word salad', where he had all the words, but not in any sort of order. He would say things like 'Lestrade murder called crime scene now' and John would have to find the syntax himself. It was like he was so excited to have all the words, he ran ahead of himself and didn't care which order they came out in. That settled down after a while, and Sherlock continued to improve as the months went on. Violet worked hard with him and he worked hard for her, but John noticed that they seemed to have hit a plateau. He wondered if Sherlock was as good as he was going to get.

If that was the case, though, it was okay. Sherlock could solve cases and carry on conversations with enough fluency for people to understand him and that was really all he needed. If this was it, if he never improved beyond this point, Sherlock could live with it. John could live with it. And considering how bad it had been at the start, it was more than he could have hoped for.

And it was enough.

Chapter Text

It was eight months after the assault and John was, perhaps unwisely, having a Christmas party. He felt like they all deserved a party after a year of Irene Adlers and Baskerville Hounds and months and months of recovery. They deserved to celebrate that they were all still alive and mostly healthy. Sherlock didn't seem to care one way or the other, which was tantamount to enthusiastic approval from him.

John invited Lestrade and Molly (who was brave, considering what had happened last year). He also invited Violet who, he gathered from Sherlock's deductions about her, didn't have much in the way of family to spend Christmas with. Besides, she was such a fixture at Baker Street now that it felt odd not to include her. Even Sherlock seemed to regard her as some sort of friend, whatever he measured that by. She fit in well to the little collection of misfits who seemed to be drawn to 221. She'd accepted the invitation with enthusiasm.

“Oh, you look lovely, dear!” Mrs Hudson greeted her warmly, when she arrived at the top of the stairs. “That shade of blue suits you so well.”

Violet flushed and smoothed her dress out. “Thank you,” she said. “Hello, everyone. Happy Christmas.”

There was a chorus of Happy Christmases in return. She had spent enough time with Sherlock at the lab and Scotland Yard that Molly and Lestrade knew her almost as well as the Baker Street residents did.

“Hello, Sherlock,” she said, pointedly. He hadn't been in the chorus. He looked up from the violin he was tuning and nodded at her. “How are you?”

“Fine,” he said.

“Who's fine?” she pressed.

Sherlock glared at her and she grinned back. “I am fine,” he pronounced, clearly. “This is... this a party, apparently. I shouldn't have to... practice. I shouldn't have to... school.”

“Never the wrong time to practice,” she declared. She nodded to the violin. “Am I finally going to hear you play?”

“I still... I am still, I can't...” Sherlock said, struggling a little. He stopped and started again. “I'm not... perfect. It won't... it won't be important because... everyone has no sense of... art.”

“No one has any sense,” she corrected.

“Oh, God, I don't think I can take two pedants in the room,” Lestrade moaned. “Sherlock's bad enough on his own. Let me get you a drink, Violet. What's your fancy? We have cheap beer and wine worth more than my house.”

“I will warn you that I get more grammatical when I'm squiffy,” she said, with a smile. “So if you're trying to loosen me up, it won't work. But I would love some wine, thank you.”

Lestrade brought her a glass and Sherlock finished tuning up. He dragged the bow experimentally across the strings and did a few scales, his arm working agilely up and down. There was no screech, just beautiful, resonant notes.

“Requests?” he asked.

“Freebird!” Lestrade called.

The joke was lost on Sherlock, who simply went into 'O Come All Ye Faithful' of his own accord. Mrs Hudson was already a bit tipsy and she started to sing along, which prompted Molly to join in, so she wasn't on her own. Then Violet chimed in with her rather lovely soprano and John and Lestrade shrugged at each other and rounded out the chorus, both of them off-key and generally ruining the song. There was also a lack of consensus on how the second verse went, and four different sets of lyrics were being sung at the same time, prompting everyone to fall into hysterics and Sherlock to stop playing with an affronted look on his face. This made them laugh harder.

“I can't... art, with you... plebs,” he said, snootily. This caused more laughter. “Shut up!”

He tried to hold his annoyed expression, but ended up chuckling himself. He shook his head and started into a new song, playing over the laughter. John wasn't familiar with it, but it had a Spanish flair to it and once everyone had calmed down, a hush fell over the living room as he played it. There was a round of applause as he finished with a flourish.

“I've never heard that one before,” Molly said. “It's very pretty, Sherlock. I'm glad you can play again.”

Sherlock nodded a sort of thanks and played one more song, this one a lively 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen', before he lost interest. He settled in to a chair at the computer desk to be antisocial, and everyone ignored him while they celebrated and talked and drank.

“First year I don't have to do the in-law thing,” Lestrade noted, making a cheers gesture with his drink. “Can go to my sister's and watch all the sprogs open their presents for once. You doing the family thing tomorrow, John?”

John nodded, taking a long sip of his drink. “Yeah, I'm meeting Harry for lunch,” he said.

Molly cocked her head to one side in the universal gesture of sympathy. “How is she doing?” she asked.

“I think... better,” John said. “I mean, she sounds better. I don't know about the drinking thing, that's always hit-or-miss, but she's not as scattered as she usually is. She made the reservations this year. Ahead of time. That's... never happened. Anyway, what are you up to, Molls?”

“Dinner at my brother's house,” she said. “He's had a baby—well, his wife has, of course—and it'll be her first Christmas, so we're all going to spoil her rotten. I have the sweetest little outfits and I'm going to dress her up and it will be wonderful.”

“Nieces and nephews are the best,” Lestrade said. “You can wind them up and then send them home and let other people deal with the aftermath. What about you Mrs H?”

“I'm going to my sister's in Leicestershire,” Mrs Hudson said. “Though I don't know how I'm going to manage the train with all my parcels. I swear the next generation multiples by the minute. So many presents to keep track of for nieces and nephews and great-nieces and nephews and all those godchildren. I know I've forgotten someone, but I just can't remember who.”

Molly hastened to reassure her that it would all be all right. “Does that mean that Sherlock is going to be on his own?” she asked.

“Yes and he's thrilled,” John said. “Apparently his family 'find it difficult to coordinate their schedules', so he doesn't have any plans. He's dying to have us out of the flat for a while. He probably won't even notice we're gone.”

“We have stifled him a bit,” Mrs Hudson said. “You and I fuss too much, since his... incident.” She never liked to use the word 'assault'.

John noticed Violet had wandered off when the discussion of family started and she looked to have been attempting to engage Sherlock in conversation. Apparently she'd succeeded, as he was giving her an ear if not his full attention, nodding along to her words while he looked at the laptop screen.

“I know it's a stupid reason not to take the job, but it just seems weird,” she was saying, when John approached. “Plus, I can't really commute. I'd have to move.”

“You leaving us?” John asked.

“Maybe,” she said. “I've had a job offer, but I'd have to go to Wales and there are some conditions with it that seem a bit dodgy. But the money is... ridiculous. It's a stupid amount to pay for speech and language therapy and it all seems legit. I was just seeing what Sherlock thought. He sees things I don't.”

“Take the money,” Sherlock said, bluntly. “You need it. Look at your shoes. And if you need... er... if you get... if you worry, you can ask for mine—my help. I...owe you that.”

Violet smiled. “That would make me feel much better about it, actually,” she said. “Thanks. I can still work with you by Skype, so I won't be gone completely. I think you're about ready to move on, anyway. You're one of my most self-directed patients. I think I could give you tasks and check in once in a while.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock said.

“What you are you doing?” John asked, as Sherlock refreshed the BBC News web page for the fifth time in the last minute.

“I'm hoping for murder,” Sherlock said. “People get... get homicidal at Christmas. Families all... all together and...er... trapped. Should be starting soon.”

John rolled his eyes. “I bet you'll miss him,” he said to Violet.

She laughed. “I will,” she said, with a wink.

Molly tapped John on the shoulder, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “Presents?” she asked. “Should we do it now?”

He turned to whisper back. “Yeah. He's trolling for cases. We might not have his attention for long.”

She slipped down to the ground floor, where she'd left her bag of presents so Sherlock couldn't guess what they were before it was time. He was very fond of ruining surprises, even if he was begged not to spoil.

“We're going to do presents now,” John said.

“So?” Sherlock said.

“So, stop bah humbugging and pay attention,” John told him.

Sherlock made a bit of a fuss but came over to join the group once Mrs Hudson stepped in. He flopped on to the couch next to her and she patted his knee. John retrieved his own presents from the cupboard.

John and Sherlock had already exchanged presents, which was that they agreed to go halves on a new microwave that would be used entirely for food and never for experiments. Sherlock wasn't much for present giving—he simply didn't care. He was excellent at picking them out, though, because he knew what everyone wanted or needed or should have. There didn't seem to be any sentiment behind it; he just went to the appropriate area, pointed at something and said 'this one'. And it was always the right one.

They'd already given Mrs Hudson her present earlier, which was a digital camera. She was always lamenting about her lack of photos. A quick lesson was all it took, and now she was shooting like a pro, with a memory card full of pictures of Sherlock telling her to stop taking pictures of him. She prepared herself for photo taking now.

Molly had baked goods for everyone, except Sherlock, who didn't eat. They were little biscuits shaped like everyone's initials.

“I couldn't find the V,” she told Violet. “So I had to take the A and cut out the middle bit. Some of them are wonky because of that.”

Violet assured her that they were fine.

Mrs Hudson had scarves for everyone, except for Sherlock, who already had one.

Lestrade had various gift cards for everyone, except for Sherlock, because he didn't like anything.

John always gave with the understanding that it was from both Sherlock and him. Molly had a shoulder bag made up of recycled juice packets sewn together as part of a business project for women in the Philippines. Lestrade had a desk caddy to replace the one Sherlock had thrown out the window to explain his point during a fit of dysphasia. Violet and Sherlock had already exchanged gifts at their last session. Violet had a travel coffee mug—because every time John saw her she was always mainlining coffee, though that could just be because she was trying to keep up with Sherlock. She'd given Sherlock a pen with built-in callipers that had been a big hit.

John found it amusing that, for all Sherlock would decry gift-giving as sentimental and useless, he seemed to be very miffed that there was nothing for him. He sat in stony silence, looking very put out. Violet, who wasn't in on the plans, shot John a confused look and he tried to reassure her without attracting Sherlock's attention.

Finally, when all the presents had been opened and fussed over, Molly reached into her bag and pulled out a large parcel. It was wrapped with festive kitten-themed wrapping paper, which meant that Molly could only have done it herself.

“This is from all of us,” she said, handing it over to him.

“Molly did most of the work,” John said. “It was her idea.”

“But everyone helped,” Molly insisted. “They all chipped in.”

“I didn't,” Violet declared. “I have absolutely no idea what's going on. But if you like it, I will take credit for it.”

Sherlock looked bemused. “I don't... don't need presents,” he said, but looked pleased nonetheless. He opened it with surgical precision and stopped when the contents started to be revealed.

It was Sherlock's coat—or a replica of it. The original, even after the case was solved, was too mangled to have any hope of restoring it. He hadn't been too bad over the summer months, when he didn't really need it, but by autumn he was lamenting it like a lost loved one and went on a tear around London for a replacement; none had suited. The one he'd settled on was, apparently, extremely unsatisfactory, and John had been listening to him complain about it for months.

“It's not exactly the same,” Molly said, as Sherlock shook it out and admired it. “They stopped making the style, so I couldn't buy a new one. But I printed out pictures from the Internet—do you know there are whole blogs devoted to what you and John wear?—and your brother found a tailor to make it custom for you. The fabric is a bit lighter, but I think it's almost the same and I think the belt is a little wider and I'm not sure if the red thread is quite the right—”

“Fine,” Sherlock interrupted.

“What's fine?” Violet prompted, with a grin.

“The co-coat is fine,” Sherlock said, and that was about as close to 'wow that's perfect' as they were going to get.

“It better be fine, it was bloody expensive,” Lestrade declared.

“Gregory!” Mrs Hudson scolded.

Lestrade looked abashed. “It was,” he said. “I'm not saying I minded or anything. But I could have bought five coats for the price of that thing.”

“And all... all unstylish,” Sherlock returned.

He stood up and shrugged the coat on, his hands automatically moving up to pop the collar. It was indeed a really close match, and it fit perfectly. They were lucky that the tailor had all of Sherlock's measurements already. He twisted at the hips and watched the bottom swirl around. Mrs Hudson took a picture.

“Th-thank you,” he said to Molly, bending down to give her a kiss on the cheek. Molly flushed a red that John wasn't even aware a person could achieve. Mrs Hudson took another picture.

“Happy Christmas,” Molly said, her voice a little dreamy.

“We just need to get you a deerstalker and the look is complete,” Lestrade said.

“That is not... not my hat,” Sherlock said, firmly.

Lestrade's mobile rang and he frowned down at the screen, going in to the kitchen to answer it. Sherlock continued to admire his coat in the mirror, turning from side to side and scrutinizing it from all angles.

“The tailor said if you need it fit better, to come in,” Molly said. “There's some money left in the budget for that. Mycroft wanted to contribute, so we ended up with more money than we needed.”

Sherlock's nose wrinkled slightly at the mention of Mycroft, but even that couldn't dim his enthusiasm by much.

“I think you look very smart, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson said, taking another photo. “Stand still so I can take a proper one.”

Sherlock did stand still, not because Mrs Hudson had asked him to, but because Lestrade had exited the kitchen and Sherlock was frozen in place, like a hopeful puppy waiting for a treat.

“Triple homicide,” Lestrade declared and Mrs Hudson's flash went off as Sherlock was in mid-triumphant jump. “Must be big to call me in on my night off. Happy Christmas. Don't expect a birthday present.”

“Why... why would I?” Sherlock said. He climbed over Molly's legs and headed for the door, with an impatient glance over his shoulder. “C'mon, John.”

John sighed and got to his feet. “Yeah, m'coming,” he said.

Lestrade patted Molly on the shoulder. “Sorry to ruin your big moment, Molls,” he said.

“Oh no, that was better than I was expecting,” Molly said. “He really liked it. And now he'll be happy because he has a case. So, it's all fine really. Call me if you need me at the lab later on. I'm free.”

Lestrade said he would and wished her a Happy Christmas, following Sherlock downstairs.

“Do you want me to take you home?” John asked Violet and Molly. “All the drunks will be out by now.”

“You're welcome to stay here, too,” Mrs Hudson offered. “I think The Sound of Music is on and there's still nibbles and drinks.”

Molly and Violet both agreed that they would love to watch The Sound of Music and promised to be careful when they went home. Sherlock arrived back upstairs to yell at John. Since he'd been granted the right to do the stairs on his own again, he took every opportunity to use them, even if it wasn't necessary.

“Hurry—now!” Sherlock said, making a marching motion.

“They're not going to get up and walk away,” John said.

He found his keys and coat and went down with Sherlock, who gave an absent wave in response to the girls' goodbyes. Outside, Lestrade was bouncing on the balls of his feet against the cold, looking out for a cab.

“You look like you again,” he said, when Sherlock arrived next to him.

“That's what I was thinking,” John said.

“It's only a...a coat,” Sherlock said. His words weren't quite convincing, as he was hugging himself around the waist as though cuddling with the garment. “It's a... a... erm... good coat, but it's only a coat.”

“It's just nice to see,” Lestrade said, giving John an amused look behind Sherlock's back.

And it was. John found himself slightly emotional. Seeing Sherlock look like himself and bound around like himself and play the violin and insult people with near fluency was a lot to handle in one night. It was probably the wine or the cold or both, but John felt his eyes well up a bit and had to blink hard to prevent tears from forming.

“You...okay?” Sherlock asked, frowning at him. “If... sick, don't come. You'll be... be annoying.”

John found it amusing that Sherlock would assume a display of emotion meant illness. “Fine,” he said, throwing Sherlock's mantra back at him.”I'm fine.”

Sherlock grinned at the words.

“Me too.”