Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Scuffling. Muffled grunts.

A fist connecting with skin.

Crunching glass - Sherlock’s labored breathing. “Ah, you’ve - got him.”

No time for a response - a body is slammed into the floor. 

Watson’s shout of pain and irritation.

Someone gets to their feet, spits, swears thickly. 

Running footsteps. 

Watson standing, stumbling, grabbing a door frame. Running through it.

A door slamming shut at the end of a hall - the nail in the coffin. 

“Oh yeah, slam the door in my face, why don’t you-” 

A door knob turning, hinges creaking-

And Sherlock’s voice, seconds too late, “Watson, wait-!”

-

It was a simple encounter, though appealing nonetheless. 

The perfect recipe of inexplicability and intrigue. 

The perfect lure. 

Which, ever so slightly out of the ordinary, started during an outdoor market excursion Watson had insisted Sherlock join him in that day.

Something about some coupons Mariana had given him, a sale day, and needing to find a good gift for Stamford's birthday. 

(Which was entirely unnecessary, as they'd already missed the occasion by a week, having gotten caught up in a particularly infuriating case which Watson said "would do numbers for the podcast".) 

The shopping hadn’t been - bad, per say. He’d broughten his ear defenders and sunglasses, and Watson had spent an optimal amount of time browsing each stall’s wares - not too long, not too brief.

Though, truthfully, any time was too much time entirely for some of the shops.

It was during Watson’s perusal of one such shop that things began to go beautifully awry.

At precisely 12:41 PM, two shots are fired within one of the buildings lining the streets of the market. 

An apartment building, by the looks of it - complete with mould-rimmed window panes and mossy brick walls. 

Watson startles as if he’d been shot himself. 

He hadn’t. The shots had been fired from a revolver, indoors, and from a good distance away - by no means capable of hitting a man standing under a market stall awning in a crowd of people.

Screams fill the market, loud enough to be heard even through his ear defenders. Mercifully deafened, but loud nonetheless. 

People scatter. A woman slams into his shoulder, then keeps running. 

Watson grabs his arm. “That building, there.” 

Sherlock’s moving within seconds. Watson keeps hold of him, refusing to be dragged or pushed away by the swell of panicked civilians. 

The door to the building is already ajar - left open in the hurry of the attacker, perhaps.

His gun fits perfectly in the palm of his hand, retrieved from the holster hidden beneath his coat jacket.  

He pushes open the door with his foot. 

It’s dark - a simple hallway with doors leading off to apartments along the ground floor. 

There’s a staircase leading upwards on the right, and a beam of light reflects onto the wall. An open door. 

“Sherlock,” Watson starts. He sounds hesitant, alarmed - still on edge from the gunshots, and the silence that’s followed.

He doesn’t get a chance to finish. The line of light grows from a sliver to blinding, and footsteps flee from the open doorway, towards the stairs - and stop.

There’s a revolver in the man’s hand - no doubt still loaded with the remaining four bullets, the hammer already pulled back.

Sherlock raises his gun. 

“Stay where you-” Watson starts, and again is cut off - this time, by a deafening gunshot. The bullet, fired from the man’s revolver, hits the staircase’s railing and sends shards of polished walnut baluster flying in every direction. 

Sherlock fires, once, if only to stop the impending second shot in their direction - but the man has already turned to flee.

It misses. Sherlock doesn’t linger on it, already racing up the steps in pursuit. “Watson, find the victim!”

He says, and runs. 

-

“Shit. Right, yeah. The victim,” Watson says to himself, as Sherlock races after their suspect.

He’s - shakier than he’d like to admit. 

Blood streaks down his neck, the result of a loose shard of wood from the exploding baluster. 

He doesn’t pay it mind, doesn’t touch it, doesn’t wipe at it. He can’t even begin to imagine what seeing blood on his hands might do to his already shaken self. 

Which is just - such a great thought to think, before, y’know - walking into a room. 

With what will probably be a dead body. 

As he is currently doing. 

He pushes the door open, his heart racing in his chest like it does during Sherlock’s insane violin crescendos. 

Albeit, more scared.

And-

“Ah, shit, yep, that’s, ah. Dead body. Dead - dead, very much deceased body-” he stammers, hands clammy as he spins around, pressing his palms against his eyes. “Shit.”

So the two - gunshots, then, fired into this poor bloke - one, first, to the chest - and then another, just for good measure. 

He takes a deep breath, readies himself, and turns around. 

The body is fresh - colour still in his cheeks, probably still warm if not for the blood bubbling out of the two holes in his chest. 

It’s a man, probably in his late twenties. Young enough. 

He’s wearing a pristine white uniform - likely a maid of some sort. The place certainly looks tidy, if not for the blood pooling down perfectly bleached linen onto linoleum floors. 

“And…some sort of substance on the kitchen counter? Near-white, slightly yellowish,” Watson remarks, to the microphone, if only to distract from the body and the blood . “Sherlock would know what it was - any guesses? Drugs, maybe? Though…no odor.”

There’s a sewing kit set on the counter as well, a needle-filled pincushion settled amongst some sewing shears and several spools of thread. 

If only Sherlock hadn’t run off. Granted, of course he had to - gotta catch the murderer, and all. 

But, well, the police were coming here - wherever the suspect led Sherlock, he’d be on his own.

Plus, Watson didn’t think he was very good at any of this serious crime-scene detective work.

That was all Sherlock’s thing - his was more…media, and the like. Podcasting! Keeping up with the times!

And being entirely averse, to - well, dead bodies.

Other than the kitchen counter and the body leaking blood onto the floors, there’s not much else to note in the apartment.

There’s two windows in the main room - one out to the street overlooking the market (and, coincidentally, the booth Watson and Sherlock had been stopped at at the time of the murder - The Fresh Farm Goods logo is stamped on the top of the awning, just as it was on the coupons Mariana had given him), another out the side with a fire escape.  

There’s a long hallway past the kitchen, with a door at the end - no doubt the bedroom - as well as a bathroom branching out to the side, and what looks to be a closet. 

“It’s a pretty nice apartment, blood splatters notwithstanding,” 

…is the last thing Watson says before the side window explodes into a shower of glass - which he considers is decidedly worse than walnut wood shards. 

By the time he’s pulling his arms away from shielding his face, the man is already climbing through the window, blood on his face and clothes and without the gun he’d been holding so menacingly at the top of the stairs.

“You’re back-?” Watson splutters, before he registers the blood and the lack of gun and the no Sherlock. 

He’s killed Sherlock, and he’s back to finish off the last of the witnesses-

He’s punching Watson in the face.

“ Shit-! ” Watson spits, blood spilling from his split lip as he ducks a second swing. “Where’s Sherlock?”

The man grins, all yellow teeth and boiling hatred. So much hatred. “He ‘adda step away for’a minute, mate.” 

There’s a hand on Watson’s forearm, yanking him forward, and he trips, stumbles, braces - and then a blood-covered fist is punching into his kidney.

Bile, crawling up his throat. Maybe a little from fear - terrible, heart-burning fear. For Sherlock, at the fact he’s tussling with a stir-crazy murderer-

The rest from the damn horrible kidney jab. 

“‘Ow’s that on ya, ‘ey?” The man says, letting go and kicking him in the back. 

Watson stumbles forward, barely catching himself on the kitchen counter.

The sewing shears sit there so innocently, and footsteps grow louder, and there’s a horrible pain in his kidney and panic in his head and the shears are in his hands before he can really think about it. 

He's holding them, and spinning around, and burying them in the man’s shoulder. 

“Bloody - what's wrong with you?!” The man shouts, dropping to the floor and clutching his arm.

“Hey, mate, you attacked me-” 

His legs swipe out from under him, bloody linoleum floors rising as he falls.

“I’ll bloody kill you!”  

Hands around his throat, yanking his head upwards before slamming it back into the ground.

Stars, clouding his vision. 

Pain in his kidney, still. 

And the man on top of him, a pair of shears sticking out of his shoulder.

Blood drips onto Watson’s forehead, then his cheek, then just by his eye. His heart thunders in his chest, the cut off of air flow making the corners of his peripheral vision go dark. 

Shit.

His hand grapples on the cold tile, reaching out for anything. It finds the leg of one of the living-room’s corner tables, and with a strength he hadn’t known he had, he smashes the whole damn thing into the side of the murderer’s skull. 

Oxygen.

Oh, beautiful, incredible oxygen. 

He chokes on it for several seconds, and then, awareness returning to him, uses the opportunity he’d given himself to pin the asshole to the floor. 

A knee jabs into his back, and he punches the bastard in the face. 

Glass crunches behind him, and for a minute, his heart leaps into his throat. Another killer? He can’t handle two. He might not be able to handle one.

But it’s - it’s Sherlock.

Thank god. 

But then, he doesn’t look too good himself. His face is bruising, and there’s blood dribbling out of a wound in his side that... really might just be a gunshot hole. 

He’s out of breath. “Ah, you’ve - got him.”

And really, Watson’s pretty damn tired of getting cut off, but it happens again, hands slipping out of his pin before he can manage to respond - and then they're digging into the fabric of his shirt, pulling, and-

He’s slammed into the ground.

His kidney aches.

“Maniacs - screw you both, ” the man shouts, as if he hadn’t committed both murder and attempted murder in the past fifteen minutes. 

And then he’s running. The bastard is running. 

Sherlock tries to go after him, but within moments he's stumbling and holding his stomach. 

And shit, Watson doesn’t have time to think about why or how, nothing past the predominant fact that the wound didn't appear to be a deadly one. He doesn't have time to think about why the murderer would come back only to run away again.

He just moves.

He’s stumbling to his feet, slamming into the door frame, grabbing it for support. 

Steadying himself.

Running. 

Down a hall, past a closet and a bathroom. 

The bedroom door slams shut. 

“Aw, bollocks - yeah, slam the door in my face, why don’t you,” he spits, reaching for the doorknob, turning it quickly, hinges creak, and-

“Watson, wait-! ” Sherlock’s voice, at the end of the hall. Horrified. Panicked, in a way Watson had never heard him sound before.

There’s a beep, then two, and so on.

He’s in Ukraine. There’s a boy in front of him, a boy, so young but in military fatigues and bleeding, he’s just a kid-

The bomb explodes. 

Blinding light. 

He’s being launched backwards, the door flying back on it’s hinges as it shatters into millions of pieces. 

He’s slammed against a wall. 

Pain. 

Ringing. 

His whole left side - everything that hadn’t been covered by the door - burns.

And he’s on the ground, hands clawing at dirt wet with his own blood, screaming for help.

From someone.

Anyone. 

There’s someone saying his name.

He feels everything, every pain-filled second. 

And then, mercifully, he passes out. 

-

A torn envelope from an obscure ‘fresh farm goods’ shop, settled innocently in the bottom of Mariana’s office wastebasket. 

The stall Watson had stopped at, fumbling for something in his pocket moments before the gunshots. 

Fumbling for his wallet.

His wallet, and - and the coupons. 

The coupons Mariana had given him from an envelope placed anonymously into their mailbox with the shop’s logo stamped on the front. 

The gunshots. 

The timing.

The hints of yellow powder on the man’s jacket sleeve, and now, scattered across the kitchen counter.

How the supposed killer hadn’t shot to kill Sherlock, once he’d gotten the chance - only grazing his side, rather than hitting his heart. The jerk of the arm - an intentional miss.

And then how he’d looped back, returned to the original scene of the crime, even with the police arrival imminent. 

He’d let Watson pin him - he’d stalled until Sherlock was there. 

And then, so perfectly, the door at the end of the hall.

The yellow powder - trinitrotoluene. 

TNT. 

Most commonly used in shells, grenades, and-

A setup.

A bomb. 

“Watson, wait-! ”  

The bedroom at the end of the hall explodes.

Watson, though partially shielded by the door he’d only just begun to open, is flung backwards with enough force to dent the drywall. 

Smoke billows outwards, filling the hallway and setting off the smoke detectors of the apartment. Dust sprinkles from cracks in the ceiling. 

Sherlock’s already running down the hall, gunshot wound to his side utterly irrelevant, even as it weakly spills blood down his undershirt. 

Watson - slumped against the wall - is making the most horrible keening noise, holding his hands to his chest and sobbing.

His left hand - having been brought up to shield his face in the few seconds he’d had between seeing the bomb and it exploding - is burned, the sleeve of his coat no longer all there. 

Blood seeps from paper thin cuts and around shards of shrapnel - pieces of the door, pieces of the bomb embedded in his chest and thigh. 

And he’s saying things. Talking as if Sherlock isn’t right there, isn’t tearing off his own coat and pressing it to the most prominent wound, the one on his thigh that Sherlock is hoping and praying isn’t a severed femoral artery. 

“Help - help me,” Watson breathes, begs, eyes wild with pain and something else - he’s truly not all there. “Somebody help, ”

“I’m here, John. I’m right here.” There’s so much blood Sherlock can hardly tell where exactly the wound is, only that pressing down makes Watson wail and thrash and hit him with his one good arm. 

He straightens, whipping off his belt and lifting Watson’s leg to slide it underneath. Watson sobs. 

It’s so much. Sherlock doesn’t have words to say, can’t think of anything comforting that might get through to Watson’s panicked, pain-addled mind. 

He just needs to stop the bleeding.

At least until emergency services arrive. Someone in that crowd must’ve called the police.

He can hear the sirens in the distance, growing ever louder as his ears stop ringing and Watson breaks his sobbing for a gasp of air. 

Then Sherlock’s tightening the belt as tight as he can above the wound, and Watson’s writhing from the force of it before going limp entirely, slumping forward onto Sherlock’s shoulder. 

Unconscious from the blood loss and pain, Sherlock thinks, as he secures the tourniquet. 

Downstairs, doors are slamming open, officers are shouting and storming up the staircase. 

“In here!” Sherlock shouts, because Watson’s still losing blood, still unconscious, still in desperate need of medical attention. 

When the doors at the far end of the apartment burst open, letting in a swarm of gun-wielding officers, Sherlock can only feel relieved. 

When the paramedics take Watson from him, assuring him of his relatively high chance of survival, Sherlock’s nerves calm somewhat. 

And then he has to face the horrors of medical care himself, having been very much shot in the side. 

Really it’s less of a shot, and more of a graze, and he’s perfectly capable of stitching it himself - but nevertheless, he’s dragged into a hospital.

All fluorescent lights, overwhelming disinfectant smell, and loud, obnoxious waiting rooms. 

Needless to say, he’s relieved when he finally returns home to 221b Baker Street - if somewhat apprehensive of the silence that comes with Watson’s absence. 

“The shrapnel embedded in his thigh, miraculously, missed his femoral artery,” a doctor tells him, wiping sweat from his brow with a cloth before turning to a large sterile sink to wash his hands. “And his torso was largely shielded by the door, so his internal organs were spared from any serious damage.”

“So he’s alright, then? He’ll make a full recovery? He’ll be able to - walk?” 

“His left leg took the brunt of the explosion - much of his muscle tissue was damaged. Even with the assistance of a mobility aid, walking will be - difficult. But it’s early days yet. With…time, and lots of physical therapy, he’ll recover.”

And of course, Watson will stay firmly in the hospital, at least for now. 

By the time Sherlock had been cleared to leave, Watson hadn’t yet fully regained consciousness. 

The surgeries had taken a toll, and though he’d been in and out of consciousness, he hadn’t fully awoken. 

Though Watson's mother had arrived before Sherlock left, all teary eyes and hugs he wasn’t quite sure he could handle.

And now he was home, and Mariana was posting a message on Watson’s Twitter - er, X - page, some semblance of an explanation for their impending absence. 

John Watson @DocJWatsonMD • Jan 16

Hey all. Unfortunately, the podcast will be delayed in posting regularly for the foreseeable future, as Dr. Watson has been injured during a case. Not to worry, he is expected to make a full recovery!!  - Mariana

Ah yes. The podcast. 

It so happens that Watson had brought his microphone along to the market.

And it had been on throughout the entire event, from the gunshots forward.

And, though the microphone itself had been damaged in the explosion, its micro SD card - and thus the audio file of the entire event - had been preserved. 

Sherlock isn’t sure if he should leave the file as it is or delete it before Watson ever gets a chance to review the recording.

“Watson, wait-!”

Beeping, once, twice, three times, four - and a deafening explosion.

A slam, ringing, then Watson’s wailing, heavy breathing and sobbing and terrible keening noises. “Somebody - help-”

Sherlock’s running footsteps, then his breath hitching, a thump as he drops to his knees.

Clothing rustling as he takes off his jacket. 

Watson screaming as he presses it into the wound in his thigh. 

“Shit, shit, help, help me-”

Sherlock sniffing, grunting as he applies force despite the bullet wound to his side. “I’m doing my best, Watson-”

Sobs. “Help - help me, somebody help-”

“I’m here, John, I’m right here.”

Sherlock’s heavy breathing.

Watson wailing as the tourniquet is applied.

Sirens, doors slamming in the distance.  

“In here!”

A door, closer this time. Footsteps. 

An officer entering the room and gagging.

“Help him, damn it!” 

More footsteps, louder now. Heavier. The paramedics, carrying supplies.

“Sir, please step aside for the paramedics-”

In the end, Sherlock decides to keep the file, if only on a separate hard drive for evidence later down the line.

After all, it isn’t like they’d ever put it on the podcast.

Though, he would be pursuing this topic as a case.

The murderer had gotten away, after all.

And the poor man in the apartment - he’d been killed for what? Bait? 

In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say?

No doubt, the suspect had anticipated their arrival - even orchestrated it. The anonymous coupons, the stall’s positioning just below the window of the apartment, the timing of his exit from the apartment, just as they were coming up the creaky stairwell. 

The missed shots.

Indeed, the bomb had been constructed with the intent to kill both Watson and Sherlock himself. 

And yet, those few moments of hesitation, of consideration, of piecing together the puzzle that had been laid out so evidently in front of him-

Sherlock grips his head, sinking further into his leather lounge chair. It’s dark, in their sitting room, the curtains pulled closed. 

It had been so obvious. So simple. 

He should’ve been able to see. To understand. 

And yet, poor John-

There’s a knock on the door.

It opens moments later. 

“Sherlock? Are you in there?”

Mariana. 

“If only just,” he replies, bringing his hands down and folding them in his lap.

Light breaks into the dark room, and Mariana peeks in. “I made the inquiries you requested.”

-

In the end, after a short investigation of the flat and an inquiry with the Irregulars, Sherlock finds himself punching a man in the face.

The man in question is, of course, trying to kill him, for a second time.

And being an utter nuisance all the while. 

“Why couldn’ ya’ve just died in tha’ blasted explosion?” The murderer - Jack Oliver Bennett, a reporter from the south side of London that had recently been laid off - spits in Sherlock’s face, as he’s pinned to the ground. “But instead it got tha’ damned podcaster. ”

When the police finally come and take him away, Sherlock is left alone.

He doesn’t go home.

He goes to the hospital, instead.

Which, though possibly one of the worst places one could ever go, isn’t quite as unbearable with his ear defenders and Watson’s company.

“So you caught the bastard, then?” Watson had said, the minute Sherlock had stepped foot into his room. 

He was sitting up in his bed, his laptop settled on a bed tray over his bandaged leg. 

Sherlock nods. “He’s in police custody, now. There will likely be a trial at some point down the line, but with the audio evidence from your recording, I’m sure he’ll be convicted. ”

“Ah. Well, that’s nice.” 

There’s a bouquet of flowers on the bedside table - yellow tulips, sunflowers, carnations, and white chrysanthemums. Mariana had brought them the week prior, when Watson had finally regained full consciousness. 

“Listen to this,” Watson says, looking down at his laptop as Sherlock takes a seat in the chair beside his bed. “Hannah Wagner, from Heidelburg, Germany, sends, ‘Dear Dr. Watson, I hope this email finds you in good health, quite literally. Are you alright? What happened? Will it be covered on the podcast? Regardless, I hope you’re recovering okay. My friend group at school has pretty much become a Sherlock & Co club. We used to listen to the podcast every Tuesday, and we’ve really missed you since the start of the hiatus!! But not to fear. We’ve been relistening to each episode over the weeks (and okay fine, maybe The Blue Carbuncle more than all the others. ITS SO GOOD ITS SO GOOD ITS SO GOOD ITS SO GOOD). Please get well soon! We’ll be here when the podcast returns!!’ ”

Then, silence. 

Sherlock shifts in his seat. “That sounds lovely.” It really did. So then why does Watson have such a sour look on his face?

“A hiatus, Sherlock. And this bed- ” Watson cuts himself off. Then, “...it’ll be fine. I’ve done it all before, I can do it again. The physical therapy, the learning how to walk again. But it takes time. Time. Months. Months until I’ll be back out on cases with you, Sherlock.”

Something in Sherlock’s heart twists against his will.

“The podcast won’t last that long,” Watson says. It’s a sort of final statement, something decisive. “Not all of our listeners will be like Hannah Wagner - they won’t stick around. A triumphant return is bound to bring back a good number at first, but their interest will be gone, Sherlock. They won’t stay. Momentum is so, so important when it comes to social media, and-”

“So what’s the solution, then?” Sherlock cuts him off, ending the spiral. “You have one. What is it?”

“You run the podcast until I’m well enough to come back. You could record your cases and send the audio to me - I could very well edit them from bed, it’s not like I have anything better to do.”

“It won’t be the same. Your listeners like you, Watson. You make the mundane moments - entertaining. I don’t have that skill.”

Watson sighs in exasperation. “Oh, c’mon, Sherlock. They like the cases. It’s you they’re interested in - it’s called Sherlock and Co for a reason.”

“The microphone was destroyed in the blast.”

“I’ll order a new one.”

-

“This episode contains swearing, violence, and - uh, guns. Those are in this one. Also, an astounding lack of myself, as I’m still recovering from - bomb. But Sherlock does things. Investigates. For the case, I mean. Very interesting. So - yeah.”

- 

Hope you’re doing alright, @DocJWatsonMD. Much love!!!

Jones || Comms closed @4thelneyj0nes  • Jan 16

BLORBO GOT BLOWN UP AGAIN???!??? ON A CASE???

pepper @pepperpepperz  • Jan 16

WHAT

Romie H 🌻🇵🇸 🇨🇩 🇸🇩 @romjustgotstickbug  • Jan 16

Oh god

leap 🌿  @yurijohnlock • Jan 16

my head hurts i need some oxymorphone

Toaster  @resetoaster

😦

Tsuki (comms open!!) @tsukihasnolife  • Jan 16

Shit dude i cant imagine how crap that must be. God. no owonder theres a hiaturs

tea watson-holmes !! @teapartye • Jan 16

we wont survive 3gar i fear

               ↪ ramt 🎙️🔍 @ramteronk • Jan 16

                   what

                         ↪  tea watson-holmes !! @teapartye • Jan 16

                             what

-

“There, how’s that?”

Watson looks up at him, a smile on his face. “It’s - it’s good. I’m glad to be home. Thank you, Sherlock.”

He’s tucked in a comfortable spot of their sitting room, a whole couch to himself, the blankets from his bed piled on top. The TV is on, playing some obscure television show with Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman. 

Sherlock turns it off. “We made, ah, food. Enchiladas. Well, Mariana did. I didn’t. Couldn’t, that is. Cook.” A pause. “Would you like some?”

“Yes please, thank you.”

-

“Alright, uh, this one’s got - let’s see. Swearing. As usual. And - I think that’s it, actually. Still no me, I’m still getting used to walking again. Physical therapy, and all that. Sherlock’s ingenious in this one, though, as always. Enjoy! ”

-

Water streams down Watson’s back, the white noise of the shower filling the bathroom just as much as the steam. 

His leg aches under the stream of hot water - though not necessarily an unpleasant feeling. At first, the sensation of the hot water against the new scar tissue on his thigh had been…uncomfortable. Horrible, really. Unpleasant, the still-healing scar tissue - lacking the full sensation of regular skin - hypersensitive to the temperature.

Though, the longer he spends under the stream, the more comfortable he becomes, the hot water relaxing the damaged muscles in his leg. 

He stays in the shower until the water begins to run cold. 

-

“Watson. Watson. Wake up, Watson.”

When he opens his eyes, it’s to Sherlock standing over his bed, a cup of tea in hand. 

The blinds are already open, letting in the late morning sunlight. 

“Wh - Sherlock?”

He’s still wearing the same coat jacket he’d had on the night before, the new podcast microphone still secured to the collar of his undershirt. His hair is sticking up. He hadn’t slept. 

“Yes, quite. Listen, I need your mind. I can’t think, Watson, and it’s driving me mad.” Sherlock huffs, shoving the tea into Watson’s hands. “I’m on a case. You know this.”

“Yeah, mate, and the microphone battery is gonna die. That’s the red light, there-”

“Blast the battery!” Sherlock says, and rips the thing off, throwing it on the duvet. “This podcast business is your area of expertise, Watson, not mine . ”

Nodding, Watson sits up some. “Sorry. You’re right.”

“No no, don’t worry about that, Watson. I need your help on this case. ” Pulling out a phone that looks nothing like his own, Sherlock jabs at the screen, which shows - a series of tweets. In a thread. “ This is the Twitter account-”

“X account,”

“Of a man who’s recently been the victim of a breaking and entering-”

-

“See, look here. Private quote retweets on his tweet. Which aren’t usually accessible by a tweet author but, if we know who made them…”

A few moments of silence. 

“Aha, see here. Thank you, tweeter SaraV997. Now using an alt account - never your own - you request a follow on that account. And wait, until hopefully, it’s accepted - and bam, there’s your evidence.”

“Terribly convoluted, Watson.”

“You’re Sherlock Holmes, mate!”

-

“Archie - wait up, Archie-” Watson says, nearly losing his balance at the tug of Archie’s leash. 

They are on a walk. 

Just up and down the street, really - more than manageable. After all, Watson’s all but completed his physical therapy - that is to say, he’s reached a point where he thinks he’d improve more on his own.

He’s walking again, at least. Albeit slowly, and with the help of a mahogany cane. There’s still pain - there’s always pain when he’s standing, in some form - but it’s lessened over time, and he’s determined for it to stop holding him back, damn it all. 

And yet…he still can’t quite keep up with, quite honestly, a tiny overweight bulldog.

Archie runs ahead, sniffing at things, poking his head in the bushes lining the sidewalk and tugging on the leash to pull Watson along.

It’s helpful, in some regards - but perhaps just a little too quick a little too soon. Despite Watson’s best efforts, he still struggles to keep up.

Continuing to navigate the relatively even terrain, his strides are measured and deliberate, each step a testament to his determination to regain his mobility. 

But - even with his unwavering resolve, he can’t seem to match Archie’s boundless energy.

“Archie, hold on, boy,” Watson calls, his voice tinged with a mix of fondness and frustration. He tightens his grip on his cane, his hand trembling slightly as he comes to a stop. 

His leg aches as it always does.

Archie waddles back up to him, sniffing and prodding at his shoe.

A sniff and a bark, and then he’s back on the go, tugging Watson along.

And - yeah, he can’t help but smile at Archie’s infectious spirit, as mildly-inconveniencing as it may be. He admires the dog’s zest for life, a reminder of the simple joys he had fought so hard to regain.

Though he longs to match Archie’s pace, he knows that his recovery requires patience - patience that he’s swiftly running out of, but patience nonetheless. And perseverance.

So, with each labored step, Watson tries his best to focus on the small victories, refusing to let his limitations define him or dampen his spirit (as dampened as it already is). A few extra steps without the aid of his cane, an increase in stamina - and he celebrates each milestone as a triumph. 

“Archie,” he calls out, as the dog waits patiently beside a bed of flowers. “I’m coming, boy. Just - a little slower than you.”

-

It’s a Monday. 

It’s always Mondays. 

And, on this particular Monday, Watson finds himself sat on the sofa, his face etched with frustration and pain. Each movement requires immense effort - even rising from the comfort of the sofa was damn near impossible. 

Sherlock, ever observant from his leather lounge chair, had clearly noticed, though was trying his best not to show it.

And damn it all, Watson wants to get up, wants a cup of tea, wants to move around. 

And Sherlock is shifting restlessly in his seat. Finally, he sets his book down, looking up intently. “How is therapy going, Watson? Physical therapy, I mean.”

Something ugly twists in Watson’s gut, and he swallows a surge of frustration before responding. “It’s going bloody fine, Sherlock. It’s just…a bad day.” His voice wavers, carrying the weight of his exhaustion and disappointment.

Another effort to stand ends in bright white pain sparking up his leg, body trembling as he’s frozen in a half-stood position. 

Sherlock springs into action. Seeming to entirely miss Watson’s reluctance to accept help, he swiftly retrieves the mahogany cane (from where Watson had left it on the coffee table), and holds it out, his eyes filled with concern. “Here, Watson.”

Watson’s frustration only escalates further, his voice laced with bittersweet weariness as he sinks back into a seated position. “I don’t want to have to use the bloody cane, Sherlock. I don’t want to have to go to therapy - I don’t want to be unable to stand up from the sofa without help. I don’t want to have to go through all of this again.” His voice cracks, a mixture of anger and sorrow.

Tears well up in Watson’s eyes as he feels the crushing weight of his own emotions. The thought of having to endure another grueling recovery process was overwhelming. Every day of it was excruciating, a heavy toll. It was all so unfair, as if life was testing him beyond his limits. 

His breath hitches in his throat, and he buries his face in his hands, his body overwhelmed with silent sobs. “I’m tired, Sherlock - tired of having to fight for every step, for every inch of progress. It’s not fair - why do I have to go through all of this again? I thought I’d paid my bloody dues - I thought I’d suffered enough!” A sob tears out of his throat.

Sherlock, having set the cane aside, sinks into the couch beside him. Gently, he places a hand on Watson’s shoulder, offering a silent reassurance. He seemed hesitant to go very much further. After a moment of contemplation, he nods. “John,” Sherlock whispers. “You don’t have to face this alone. Not like before.” A pause. “I’m here for you, every step of the way.”

A lapse into silence, but not an uncomfortable one. 

Then Watson hiccups, nods, takes a shaky breath, then lets it out again.

“I can give you a hug if you’d like.” Sherlock offers. 

Watson nods again, and - things are just a little bit better, afterwards. 

-

“This episode features swearing - the F-bomb’s dropped a few times - drugs, and - er, what else?”

“Use of the word ‘moist’.” Mariana pipes up in the background.

“Ah, yes. That.”

“Also, Watson.” Sherlock adds.

“Yes, that too. I’m back, if only a little bit here and there. Not fully up and mobile yet, but getting there - slowly but surely.”

“It’s lovely to have you back, Watson. That microphone was driving me stark mad.”

Chapter Text

Feet hitting the pavement.

Shouting - not close, but ahead. Getting farther away with every passing moment.

Heavy breathing, sharp grunts with every third step. 

“Watson? Watson, keep up!” Sherlock.

“Keep going! I’m - just behind you-!” Watson’s strained voice. 

“He’s getting away!”

“I - I’m here, I’m here, keep going!”

A stumble. A body crashing into concrete.

Watson’s shout of agony. 

Sherlock’s footsteps slowing, then reversing, coming back.

A laugh of triumph from their faceless assailant, fading into the distance.

Sherlock’s heavy breathing as he returns to Watson’s side. 

He’s already talking, before Sherlock can. “I’m sorry - my leg, just… I can’t run. I’m sorry.”

“He got away, Watson.” Sherlock’s voice, bitter. Harsh. 

Then his fading footsteps.

Watson can’t stand, not on his own. He can’t stand up, can’t ebb the crushing pain in his leg. 

Sherlock’s left him. 

He almost wants to cry. He is already. Crying, that is. 

It’s unbearable, the pain. 

He can’t stand it. 

He can’t stand. 

Watson wakes up with a vicious sob - it tears its way out of his throat, horrible and desperate but real. 

It only takes a second of realization for his body to relax, tense muscles easing as he sinks back into the mattress and takes a deep, even breath. 

It’s still dark out.

Dim light from the streetlamps seeps in through the blinds of his window, and he tries to shift, tries to roll onto his side - onto his good leg, away from the light.

The stab of pain is blinding.

He shouts, the noise muffled by the muscles in his throat constricting all at once. 

Archie is sleeping on his legs. 

Perfect, adorable, admittedly overweight Archie. 

Watson almost tears up from the cruelness of it.

Archie, who, sensing his bad mood the night before, had snuck into his bed in hopes of providing some semblance of comfort. 

Archie, who, despite always seeming so inherently aware of Watson’s injury in the way only pets can be, had fallen asleep almost directly on top of his left leg. 

“Archie,” Watson whispers. It’s hoarse, choked, difficult to talk through his clenched teeth. “Archie, boy, wake up.”

It’s hard to sit up without pain, so he does his best to reach down and scratch between Archie’s ears. 

After a few moments, Archie sturs, then perks up, eyes blinking. 

“C’mere, boy.” 

The removal of weight as Archie moves towards him - climbing off his leg and maneuvering to curl into the slot above his shoulder (which isn’t very elegant at all, and succeeds only in pushing Watson’s head to the side) - is only as relieving as it is agonizing.

Pins and needles, numb scar tissue, horrible searing pain - is Watson’s world for several moments.

Once it recedes, he finds all of his muscles relaxing, sinking into the mattress from the relief of it. 

“Good boy,” he breathes, gently petting Archie. 

Sleep comes slowly, after that.

-

“Cereal,” Sherlock says, looking down into his bowl of Weetabix and milk. “Seemingly a humble breakfast staple, possesses a complex array of sensory elements that can be discerned and appreciated through a meticulous examination. How the combination of various grains in this cereal blend creates a symphony of textures and flavors, each element contributing to the overall sensory experience.

“The subtle crunch of the crispy flakes, the gentle resistance as they yield to the pressure of the spoon, and the smoothness of the milk, intermingling to form a cohesive whole - and one cannot overlook the visual appeal of the vibrant colours, the interplay of light and shadow as they dance upon the surface, adding an additional layer to the sensory tapestry-”

“Yeah, mate, I’m sure they do.” Watson says, wincing slightly as he settles into his seat at the table, his leg giving a twinge of discomfort. 

Sherlock appraises him thoughtfully for several moments. All thought of cereal is blown out the window, and he begins to stir it absentmindedly.

What should he say?

On one hand, he’d like to maintain some semblance of subtlety. 

On the other…it’s apparent something had happened the night before. For one, he’d heard Watson’s distressed cries echoing through the walls late at night. 

And…there are other subtleties, as well. 

His eyes flicker towards Archie, who sleeps soundly in his bed beside the sitting room cabinet. 

Archie, who had forgone breakfast in favor of sleeping late into the morning. Which, though not unreasonable, is entirely unlike Archie.

Not to mention Watson - the shift in his posture, the twinge of discomfort as he’d settled into his seat - more so than that of previous days. The yells and sobs, late into the night. 

Connecting the dots, Sherlock formulates a hypothesis. 

The previous night, his loyal companion Archie had inadvertently chosen Watson’s injured leg as a makeshift pillow, causing a jolt of pain in his sleep. It had triggered a nightmare, naturally leaving Watson unsettled and restless. 

“Quite a tumultuous night,” Sherlock says, his voice betraying him and carrying a hint of gentle concern. He keeps his eyes on his cereal. “Wasn’t it, Watson?”

Watson rubs his temples, exhausted. “Yeah, mate - Archie decided my leg was an ideal spot for a snooze.”

Sherlock’s expression softens, and he looks up. His hypothesis had been correct, then.

Silently, he rises from his chair and makes his way to the kitchen counter. With meticulous precision, he prepares a second bowl of cereal and adds just the right amount of milk. Not too much, not too little. Then, returning to the table, he places it in front of Watson, along with one of the good spoons. 

“Perhaps some breakfast will help,” Sherlock suggests, his voice calm yet filled with unspoken understanding.

Watson stares at the bowl of cereal for several seconds. Then, after a moment, he looks up at Sherlock, a grateful smile tugging at the corners of his tired eyes. 

Silently, he deeply appreciated Sherlock’s unique way of caring, often expressed through subtle gestures rather than overt displays of emotion. “Thank you, Sherlock,” he murmurs, trying to convey his appreciation through tone alone. Then he reaches for the spoon and begins to eat, allowing the familiar routine to sooth his frayed nerves.

The room falls into a comfortable silence.

Sherlock returns to his own breakfast, his mind already back to racing with thoughts of their current case. 

They share the meal in silence, quiet and comfortable and so inherently right in a way it never quite could be anywhere else.

With anyone else. 

And that, in that moment - was something they both, silently, recognized.

-

It’s a late case that does it. 

They’d spent the night in a shadowed corner of a tube station, waiting for the inevitable arrival of a suspect Sherlock seems entirely positive will show within the next hour.

To - dump a body. Onto the tracks. Before the morning train shows - and the police chalk it up to another suicide. 

And show the suspect does, hauling a large suitcase. Watson gags, likely from the thought of what must be jammed inside.

The guy runs, because of course he does.

Sherlock gives chase, and Watson - tries to follow.

But he can’t keep up. 

When it’s all said and done, and Sherlock comes back with bloody knuckles, disheveled hair, and a growing bruise on his jaw - Watson feels sick.

Sherlock helps him to his feet, never once mentioning Watson’s inability to continue the chase, never once mentioning how, had Watson kept up, he might not have had such a rough time restraining the suspect.

Instead, he discusses all the information he’d gathered before handing the man over to the police, and apologizes for taking a while to get back - though in truth, he’d been quite brief.

Brief enough that, quite possibly, he could’ve missed important details he may have gathered had he spent more time interrogating the man. The murderer (as their suspects so often are).

Or, as it would seem - from what Watson gathers from Sherlock’s rambling as they wait for their train back to Baker Street Station - the murderer’s accomplice.

Not the one doing the actual killings, but the one responsible for disposing of the bodies.

And a bloody good job he was doing, too.

With emphasis on the bloody.

But even as they step off the train - which Watson may never be able to see in the same light again - the lingering feeling of guilt remains.

And the pain in his leg lingers as well, just beneath the surface - a dull, nigh-unbearable ache that grows with each unassisted step.

He hadn’t brought his cane, after all.

Hadn’t wanted to.

And now, like before when he was running, like in his nightmare that had practically come true - he stumbles, his left leg giving way as he attempts to put pressure on the stiffened, weak muscle and unstable joints. 

Something in Watson’s chest burns as he watches the ground rise to meet him - frustration, furious disgust at his own inability to perform as he used to. 

He anticipates the impact against concrete, braces for it, imagines blood-soaked Ukrainian soil and worn linoleum floors.

But a solid grip on his arm stops his fall. 

Sherlock holds him steady, pulls him back upright, keeps his hand firm on Watson’s upper arm. 

He wears a blank expression on his face, perfectly blank, even as he tilts his head to the side in question. “Your leg is bothering you, Watson?”

Watson nods stiffly in lieu of a reply. Sherlock’s straightforwardness is something he’s gotten used to over time - but the blankness on his face is more of an indication of his worry than anything at all.

Of course, he’d rather mask his concern than allow Watson to fester in the guilt of knowing he’d been a distraction or inconvenience, especially considering the previous activities of the night, and how he’d no doubt pieced together the hints of Watson’s guilt already. 

Too bad Watson has grown to know him far too well.

“And your cane?”

“Propped up against the sitting room fireplace - if only we could torch the blasted thing.”

Sherlock’s lips press into a fine line. He takes a moment of contemplation, then nods, and loops his arm underneath Watson’s, firmly gripping his waist. “Ah. Keep my arm, then.”

Something - misfires. 

Watson nearly startles, if not for Sherlock already beginning to lead him through a first cautious step. 

His arm falls over Sherlock’s shoulders as he takes a step forward with his right leg, then settles, and takes another with his left.

Sherlock bears most of the weight of the step, allowing Watson to lean into him and put less pressure on his leg. 

They find a rhythm within the first two blocks, and Watson-

His foot catches mid-step once again, and he can already picture a horrible crash into the ground, and dragging Sherlock with him and-

Sherlock holds him secure, grip tightening on Watson’s hip as he holds him upright. “Steady on, Watson. Only one more block.”

They walk another two buildings in veritable silence, round a corner, and Sherlock lets out a heavy breath, likely from the exertion of practically carrying Watson.  “I’m not upset with you.” Sherlock says.

“I know that.” Watson hurries to reply, almost gaining the strength - and more prominently, embarrassment - to push away and run the last thirty yards home.

“Your heart rate is accelerated. You’re sweating, even in this chill, and you’re gripping my shoulder tight enough to bruise - you’re experiencing emotional dysregulation. From the events of this evening - you feel guilty, though you’re blameless. Another unfortunate effect of the pressure you put on yourself to perform higher than you’re currently capable of - and you assume others feel the same way towards you as you do towards yourself.” A pause, and then Sherlock continues. “But I’m not upset with you. We achieved all we intended to tonight - with the exception of a good night’s rest. But neither of us have been getting that anyway, have we?”

A beat.

“Your nightmares, I mean.”

Watson startles, because while he was perfectly aware there was a high chance Sherlock knew of - and perhaps had even observed - his nightmares, he wasn’t - well, he didn’t think he was ready to discuss them. 

“Ah. Right. Yes.” Watson manages, and does his very best to let go of Sherlock’s shoulder. He only succeeds in loosening his grip. "Those."

When they finally arrive at perfect beautiful show-stopping 221b Baker Street, Watson clumsily untangles himself from Sherlock’s grasp and locks himself in the bathroom.

Sherlock likely assumes he needs space for - his emotions and whatnot, after the train station stakeout and lingering pain afterwards. 

And - yes.

He grips the edges of the sink, putting his bodyweight into his palms rather than his feet, and stares into the mirror. 

Sherlock was - trying, even if unintentionally, to be a good friend. To help him home, when Watson couldn’t manage it himself, because god his leg still hurts. 

But in that moment, more than anything else - he’d felt… overwhelmed. 

When he finally leaves the bathroom, he finds Sherlock sitting at the dining room table, scrolling on his phone while eating a bowl of cereal.

It’s normal. 

Everything is - perfectly normal.

And Watson feels no sense of the fear and guilt from before. Just - regular. Comfortable, normal living.

With Sherlock. 

It’s right. 

When he rounds the corner to the kitchen, retrieving the box of Weetabix to prepare himself a bowl, he spares a glance at Sherlock’s phone - and immediately does a double take.

He’s scrolling through their Patreon discord, an apprehensive look on his face. “Watson, your viewers were impersonating you and eating rocks last night.”

Watson huffs, moving on to the cabinets. “They’re our viewers, Sherlock.”

“No, I don’t claim them. They’re calling me their father, and making vague allusions to murder.”

-

#general

ramtonk Today at 15:05 PM

hey ghuys its ok we needed a murder to get sherlock in here anyway ⭐⭐⭐⭐

RangerPip Today at 15:05 PM

What about no murder at all????????

andrew(onk) Today at 15:05 PM

everyday this sounds less and less like a joke

frink zonk (zac) Today at 15:06 PM

u cant just murder someone u have to make it fun for him

ramtonk Today at 15:07 PM

weve gotta come up with a good plot. plotting and scheming in the s&co patreon discord 

frink zonk (zac) Today at 15:07 PM

we gotta like, somehow murder someone w/ a potato or something and then use the potato to make mashed potatoes so the murder weapon gets eaten and disappears or something like that

Sherlock stares at his phone for several seconds.

He couldn’t decipher just how he felt towards the podcast’s - what, fans? - if he tried.

Briefly, he contemplates saying something in the chat.

Quickly, he disregards the idea.

Best to not encourage them.

-

It always comes at night. 

The restlessness, the frustration, the horrible thoughts of everything he’d lost in that damned explosion.

“I can’t bloody dance, ” He murmurs, an epiphany, and though he can’t quite cry, Watson pulls Archie closer, burying his face in fur. “I mean - I don’t - I don’t dance anyway, but if I wanted to…” the sentence trails off.

Archie licks his forehead, paws at his neck, offers consolation in his own Archie way.

Because it wasn’t just the fact that he probably couldn’t dance without pain anymore. 

It was about losing a part of something he used to be - a part that brought joy and freedom and now… is gone. 

He does cry a little, after that thought. Of losing something he had never properly appreciated and now couldn’t. Archie licks at his tears. It’s gross, but kind of comforting, in a way.

It’s special, the way Archie is so utterly there. There for him, even when he’s - like this. 

Even when he almost feels broken. 

Archie’s gaze mirrors a profound understanding, offering silent reassurance and empathy.

Watson takes a deep breath, his tears subsiding.

But the ache remains. 

-

Insomnia was a familiar old enemy to Sherlock.

He could adjust to the lack of sleep, of course. 

But it was undeniably a struggle, and one he couldn’t in good conscience wish on anyone else.

So when Watson’s nightmares began shortly after he returned home, leaving him restless at night and exhausted during the day - Sherlock felt.

He just felt. 

Unintelligible, indeterminate feelings that left him…distracted. Irritant. 

Bordering on aggressiveness, to anyone but Watson.

And Mariana, of course, who has never done anything wrong ever. Except tax fraud, Sherlock suspects.

Like at the train station, that night. The man with the suitcase - no doubt the next victim stuffed inside.

A gruesome picture, and Watson gags.

The man, likely a murderer, spooks, leaving the suitcase and running.

And Sherlock chases him.

And Watson tries, does his best until his leg protests and he has to pause. 

Sherlock can’t stop. He has to catch a murderer, and Watson isn’t gravely injured, only held up.

But the concern festers in his mind. When he does catch the man, and their inevitable tussle ensues, he’s hit hard - and hits harder.

Too hard, probably. Unnecessarily hard. 

When his knuckles bleed and the man’s nose snaps under his fist, he tells himself it’s alright. This man is a murderer. 

And, even when Sherlock finds out the man wasn’t actually killing people, only disposing of the bodies, he can’t really find it in his heart to feel bad about it. 

But he does feel bad about leaving Watson.

And even worse when he sees the guilt on Watson’s face. 

And then again, while they’re walking home, and Watson stumbles.

He tries to help.

And the whole time, Watson seems in near agony, sweating and bringing his shoulders up to his ears and keeping contact between them minimal. 

And when they get home, and Watson shuts himself in the bathroom, Sherlock wants to leave. Wants to throw himself back into the case, back into work. Wants to give Watson space, wants to help him every step of the way as he promised. 

Wants to be there, but is so entirely sure he shouldn’t be. 

Because, after all, it was his fault Watson was blown up again in the first place.

It’s a harsh truth, but one Sherlock isn’t going to hide away from. In all honesty, it was his fault.

He should’ve been quicker, should’ve stopped Watson before he opened that door.

Or, perhaps, he shouldn’t have let Watson join him at all.

Sherlock was perfectly comfortable leading a life of danger and intrigue - one that Watson likely hadn’t been entirely aware he was getting into prior to starting his podcast.

And now, he can’t rightly back out of it, can he?

And every night, Watson’s yells of awaking in terror and ensuing sobs echo through the apartment.

And every day, Watson fights to keep up with him, to recover, even to the point of pushing himself into unimaginable discomfort. 

The pain, the cane he’s begun to be so adamant to ignore. 

He should’ve been more careful with Watson’s life. 

He should be more careful with Watson’s life.

Watson’s a good man, genuinely caring for his listeners, dedicated to the podcast.

But Sherlock - can’t help but wonder if, perhaps, he should push himself harder, provide content that doesn’t endanger Watson. 

He should keep his promise. 

To be there every step of the way.

…every step.

Even so, later that night, when he goes to knock on Watson’s door and hears a muffled “I can’t bloody dance,”...

...he retreats.

He goes back to his room, shuts the door. 

Lies in bed, stares at the ceiling, and wonders how he’ll ever be able to bloody focus again. 

Chapter Text

In the morning, Sherlock wakes up to clattering and clamouring in the kitchen. 

When he walks out in his robe and slippers, he finds Watson on the floor by the sink. The kettle is on. 

Their dish strainer had been knocked off the counter, spilling plastic cups and bowls and shattering ceramic mugs. Watson sits with his back against the cabinet, his head tilted back. His eyes are pressed tightly closed.

“Watson,” Sherlock starts.

Watson makes a non-committal sound in the back of his throat. Dismissive, irritated. “Wasn’t using the bloody cane. Leg gave out. Tried to grab onto something for support, missed, grabbed the strainer instead. I shattered my favourite mug, mate.”

Shards of ceramic are strewn across the floor, and Sherlock realizes why Watson had stayed where he was. As unstable as he is without his cane - at least on bad days, as this one seemed to be - the chances of him falling and hurting himself on the shards were high. 

He wasn’t using his cane.

Sherlock approaches carefully, crouches beside him. “It doesn’t make you any less capable, Watson.”

The words are soft, but the way he says them is softer. Surely, this is how people show they care?

Watson shudders. “I shouldn’t rely on it. I should be able to walk on my own - I want to be able to walk on my own.”

“Watson,” Sherlock starts, as gently as he can. He thinks hard on his words, tries so hard not to be too blunt or abrasive. Really, really tries. “Using the cane doesn’t diminish your abilities. It’s a tool - a means to alleviate the pain and assist you in maintaining your mobility. You've always been strong and resilient - this is just another facet of your strength, is it not?”

Watson’s reluctance is evident on his face. “But it - I don’t want to - to rely on it forever.”

After a moment of thought, Sherlock reaches out and hesitantly places a hand on Watson’s shoulder. This should be comforting. This is meant to be comforting. He's comforting his friend. This is what friends do. “I can't relate to your frustration, John. But - strength isn't measured by independence. You're being - foolish.” Was that too blunt? It was too blunt, wasn't it. He should explain. "I can't understand exactly how you feel, even despite our rapport."

John smiles. This is good. A smile is good.

"But I believe the way you see your cane is not entirely unlike how I saw you," Sherlock continues. John narrows his eyes. Bugger. "Not that I ever saw you as a tool, or anything of the sort. I mean the way you - don't want to rely on it. Don't want to use it, lest you grow too fond of the relief it provides. That sort of thing. ...but it does provide relief, and it is a good thing - even if it's only temporary."

A beat of silence. 

Of significance.

Watson’s eyes widen, then soften. His voice is a whisper when he speaks. “I guess - yeah, you’re right. Guess I need to shift my perspective. I’m sure it’d hurt less, anyway.”

When Sherlock smiles, it’s real. It's genuine. “That’s the spirit, Watson. Use the cane! It doesn't define you; it's merely a companion on our journey.”

And when he helps Watson to his feet, he’s just…so strangely proud.

-

Insomnia is an old enemy to Sherlock.

And now, as he paces restlessly around his bed despite the late hour, undoing and redoing the ties to his robe, Watson’s muffled crying echoing through the flat-

He feels so horribly wrong.

Guilt. Such an unfamiliar feeling to Sherlock, but one that’s weighed on him so heavily as of late.

And when he tries to act on it, considers the possibility of being there for Watson like he promised he’d be - of going into his room and asking if he’d like a hug, or a cup of tea…

Sherlock just feels - a horrible, gripping sense of…inescapability. 

As if, whatever he does, however he tries to help, will change things irreparably.

It, strangely, unnerves him.

And it feels selfish.

And he feels guilt. 

He just feels. 

Until, after a little too much feeling and a little too little sleep, he finds himself knocking on Watson’s door before he can stop himself.

It’s a rational thing. It’s keeping his promise, and ensuring Watson’s okay.

The crying stops with a single hitched breath.

There’s silence.

A beat, and then Sherlock knocks again, slightly louder this time. 

He’s not one to retreat. He’s Sherlock bloody Holmes, whatever that means.

Another beat, and then Waston’s voice cracking as he speaks. “Come in.”

So Sherlock opens the door. 

“Sherlock?” Watson says. He’s wiping at his face. “Sorry, mate. I, uh - I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No.” He replies, standing in the doorway. 

“Oh.” Watson says. Archie lifts his head from his spot on the floor - Watson had recently moved the dog bed into his bedroom. “Do you - do you want to come in, or just - stand in the doorway?”

Sherlock nods. “Ah, if it’s alright with you.”

“I said you could, mate.” He says it gently. Somehow, it still makes Sherlock’s stomach twist with nervousness again.

He steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. 

John is sitting up in bed, his hair ruffled, face puffy. He's been crying. Not that Sherlock needed to see the scene to make that deduction. He could very well hear it from his room. 

Sherlock’s stomach twists again. “Are you alright?” It’s almost a whisper. 

There’s a pause, a silence that lasts too long to be right. 

Then Watson sniffs, runs a hand through his hair, wipes his eyes again. “No." It's said forcefully, obviously, and Sherlock would've withered if he hadn't known the frustration wasn't truly directed at him. "I want - I need to just… rest. I need sleep, not,” his voice hitches in his throat. “Not these bloody nightmares. I want - just one night of rest. ”

He’s crying again.

Sherlock aches - a full-bodied sort of thing, from the back of his neck to his chest to his wrists. 

He just aches.

And he’s crossing the room before he can think, pausing briefly before reaching Watson, his arms held out awkwardly.

Watson nods through his tears - his face is puffy and his tears catch on his moustache and it’s generally very gross and uncomfortable looking, but…for some reason, rather than drive Sherlock away, it only makes him more desperate to provide some semblance of comfort.

And so he climbs onto the mattress, Watson shifting towards the divot Sherlock’s knee creates.

And then he’s scooting forward, wrapping his arms around Watson, pulling him into a hug.  

Watson’s shoulder pushes into his chest, his forehead pressed against Sherlock’s neck, his left leg lying straight out.

He sobs silently for several minutes, his body trembling from the force of it, and Sherlock doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He's not good at this. He doesn't know how to provide comfort, only that deep pressure always seems to calm him during his own restless nights.  

So he leaves them as they are, clasped together over Watson’s forearm, and does his best to analyze the steadily calming beat of Watson’s heart rate. 

And, after a while, the crying calms, and Watson just breathes. 

Steadily, without difficulty, his chest rising and falling against Sherlock’s arms. 

It’s strangely - comforting, in the same way rhythms and patterns are. 

But more importantly, it’s comforting to Watson, as evident by the way his muscles lose their tension as he relaxes into Sherlock’s chest.

It’s an interesting sensation, to be so close to someone and not mind it. Immensely unfamiliar, yet not unwelcome.

And when Watson falls asleep, Sherlock feels content. 

He still can’t rest himself, his mind far too active to entertain the thought of sleep.

But he’d rather stay here and hold Watson throughout the night than return to his own empty comfortless room, as familiar as it may be.

Watson sleeps fitfully the rest of the night, and rather late into the morning as well.

And Sherlock dutifully stays as still as possible for as long as he can - which proves to be not quite as difficult as he’d thought it’d be, despite his rather frequent penchant for constant movement.

Rather, it’s easy to just be with Watson in his arms, all other thoughts and worries put on the backburner. 

It’s a drug.

Sherlock isn’t sure how to feel about it. 

And when Watson wakes up, all red-faced and stammering - clearly uncomfortable - he decides it’d be best not to dwell on it.

Rather, he sets the thought of comfort and consolation into the back of his mind and eats his cereal.

Chapter Text

It was a good day, that day. 

Watson’s pain hardly bothered him, though he still used his cane - he’d begun to recognize it’s practical purpose. When he used it, while it wouldn’t remove the pain entirely, it would delay the pain’s arrival.

That evening, as Sherlock’s getting ready for bed, reorganizing his pillows - he finds Watson standing in his doorway. 

He’s wearing an ‘I ❤️ London’ shirt and yellow duck-print pajama pants. 

“Watson.” Sherlock greets, as casually as he could.

He continues setting his pillows into their right positions. 

Watson continues to stand in the doorway, shifting nervously on the balls of his feet - or, rather, his singular right foot, less pressure on the left.

He’s worrying the sleeve of his top, looking rather uncomfortable in general, and he’s looking everywhere but directly at Sherlock.

And - ah. 

Yes, the drug from the night before.  

Appealing to Watson as well, then. 

“Yes, Watson.” Sherlock says, finally. “You may join me.”

Watson startles, shoulders rising up to his ears.

His lips press into a thin line - a sign Sherlock had long-since taken to signify his discomfort. 

“You sure, mate?” he asks, still not stepping foot into the room.

“Watson, if staying in with me will grant you a good night’s rest, I’d like to think I’d rather you did. You’re no use in a case half dead from exhaustion.”

A simple explanation. Blunt, perhaps, but a perfectly simple, concise reason nonetheless.  

Watson’s posture relaxes some, and he nods, a smile playing on his lips as he takes a step into the room. “You don’t have to invite me twice.”

“I quite literally did.”

-

The whole ordeal…is a bit more awkward and obnoxious than the night before.

Then, it had been more simple - Watson had an immediate problem, and Sherlock was the immediate solution.

Now, it was more…Watson wanted comfort, and Sherlock could provide it.

Simple enough in concept, except for the blazing fact that neither of them were sure their friendship was yet at this level. 

Or at least, Watson didn’t seem to be.

Sherlock was perfectly comfortable providing the solace Watson sought out - after all, he was responsible for his discomfort in the first place.

The bed was plenty large enough for both of them, but perhaps not quite as comfortable lying side by side as they were, blankets pulled apart between them.

Sherlock rolls onto his side, reaches for the lamp and turns the light off. 

Watson clears his throat. 

It’s practically pitch black in the room, their eyes not adjusted. 

Sherlock’s elbow jams into Watson’s cheek as he attempts to readjust.

Watson rolls onto his side, facing the wall.

It stings. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock offers, hoarse. 

“‘S fine, Sherlock.” Watson whispers back. 

He doesn’t turn around. 

Several minutes pass of uncomfortable, tense silence. 

Sherlock’s mind races all the while, until it’s likely been far too long to say anything on the matter now. 

He shifts. 

Watson coughs - so he is awake - then groans as the force of it rattles his leg. 

Another beat, and Sherlock shifts again. He’s restless - every position is uncomfortable.

“Alright, you know what?” Watson finally says, his voice broadcasting his irritation as he turns around. “Just - come here.”

A sense of rejection - from having perceived Watson’s irritation as being towards his constant shifting - quickly becomes realization as Sherlock takes in Watson’s open arms, the way he’s practically glaring.

He’s irritated at their stepping around the whole point of this situation, rather than Sherlock’s habits.

So Sherlock - well, he does his best. 

“Ow, mate, that’s my eye.”

“Your knee is in my stomach, Watson.”

“You’re crushing my arm. Get off. ”

Eventually, they find a comfortable position - Watson’s back against him, his arms wrapped around and entangled in Watson’s. 

And for the first time in a while, Sherlock sleeps soundly throughout the night.

And for the second night in a row, Watson rests without disruptive nightmares. 

-

Mariana knocks on his bedroom door at around ten AM. 

Sherlock wakes up at 10:01, untangles himself from the covers - and Watson’s limbs - puts his robe on, and opens the door. 

“Sherlock,” Mariana says. She’s holding her laptop under one arm, a folder in the other. Their budgeting folder.

God, he hates going over their budgets.

He never had to do any budgeting before Mariana came along.

That being said, his several bank accounts had been entirely in the red. In the thousands of red. 

Turns out, having hundreds of thousands of pounds in notes does not equate to his credit card being full and/or usable.

Yet, use it he had.

Mariana had spent a solid week stressing over which banking companies needed what money - demanding his tax paperwork and bills.

And, while he’d been perfectly content to allow her to sort out the mess, he’d begun to dread the weekly meetings they’d have going over just how much he could spend throughout the week.

If he wants a sleeve of biscuits, he’ll buy a sleeve of bloody biscuits, blast it all.

But Mariana had ensured the banks necessary had received what paper notes he had stored away, and though there was still debt left over, she was carefully working them out of it.

Bless Mariana and her inconceivable banking skills. 

And yet, perhaps not this morning. 

When he’s still in his robe, after a - quite frankly incredible night of perfectly uninterrupted sleep. 

“I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again, you can’t avoid meeting with me to talk about our budget.” Mariana says, almost - scolding him.

He’s Sherlock Holmes. He wouldn’t be scolded.

“How you managed to compile thousands upon thousands of dollars worth of debt is entirely beyond me.”

He’s Sherlock Holmes. He would most definitely be scolded.

“Biscuits, Mrs. Hudson. Biscuits. ” Sherlock says, as if it were by any means an explanation. “And also several thousands of dollars worth of chemistry equipment, but that’s entirely-”

“ Sherlock. ”

“Fine. We’ll go over the budget. ”

How and why someone so incredibly financially capable would commit tax fraud was beyond him - nevertheless, Sherlock was sure of his assumptions.

Mariana’s staring into his bedroom. Her eyebrows are raised in incredulity as she looks at him, then behind him, then back at him.

Ah yes. Watson. Still sound asleep.

“We discovered he’s able to sleep peacefully when he’s not alone - a damper on the more psychological effects of what the explosion did to him. This is the solution we came up with. It helps me sleep also, it would seem.” Sherlock explains, ushering Mariana outside and shutting the door behind them. 

Mariana’s face softens, and she nods. “I see. He’s doing better lately, then?”

Sherlock nods, making his way to the kitchen. Tea is in order. And perhaps breakfast, as well. “He’s more comfortable using his cane, anyway. He wasn’t seeing it as a tool, rather a testament to whatever weakness he believes he has. But he’s put that line of thinking aside, now.”

A moment.

“And he’s been able to rest, as well?”

“The last two nights, yes. Though I have yet to discover whether his lack of nightmares is merely a coincidence, or if we’ve discovered a potential solution. Tea?”

Mariana nods, taking a seat at the table. She sets her laptop and folder down, folds her hands. Watches Sherlock as he puts the kettle on. Then, after a moment, she speaks again. “And you?”

Sherlock pauses. Thinks. Turns the question over in his mind. “I’m as normal. Above average, in fact, after having a well-rested night myself.”

Mariana clears her throat. “Ah. I see.” She runs her finger along a coffee mug stain on the wooden table. “You’re not still blaming yourself for it all, then?”

Sherlock nearly drops the mug he’d just retrieved from the cabinet. It’s got a print on the front of some blue animated character with big purple ears and a giant dark blue nose. Some sort of alien, maybe.

Ah yes. 

The undeniable, inescapable truth - that the entirety of Watson’s pain and suffering of the past several months had been…his fault.

Because he couldn’t solve a case fast enough.

He remembers the weeks after the initial event - the weeks when Watson was still in the hospital, and the apartment had been so silent.

He remembers the solemn coldness of an empty sitting room, the warmth of the fireplace far from consoling his guilt-ridden nerves as he plucked wearily on his violin. 

And then the day Mariana had stopped by, brought him tea and a sleeve of biscuits and concluded that he was, in fact, blaming himself, as he should.

Guiltily, he’d brushed her off, and thrown himself back into the work of solving the case that put Watson in the hospital in the first place.

And now, here, in the kitchen - Mariana confronts him again. 

“Sherlock,” Mariana begins. “It wasn’t your fault.”

The kettle whistles.

He focuses on the tea. Fills the tea ball with leaves, closes it, sets it into the kettle. 

Mariana’s by his side, taking the kettle from his hands. The expression on her face is so, so gentle. “It wasn’t, Sherlock. You couldn’t have known.”

And that’s the crux of the matter. 

He could’ve. He could have.

He should have.

So he says it. “I should have.”

Mariana frowns. Ushers him to a seat. Sits him down. 

“The tea, Mrs. Hudson,” he starts.

“ Forget the tea.” She replies, firmly. “Sherlock, since the day this all started, you’ve done nothing but your absolute best to help John recover. And - it’s helped him, so, so much. You can see that. I can see that, and I’m sure he can too. You’ve helped him sleep, Sherlock, helped him rest, helped him start to find some sense of normalcy again. That’s - that’s so, so much. ”

“And yet, not even close to making up for the fact that I caused his pain in the first place, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock insists. He knows he’s right, he’s adamant about it - and yet…

“ You didn’t cause his pain. Jack Oliver Bennet did.” It’s firm. It’s final. It’s the truth.

“But I wasn’t-”

“Fast enough? Smart enough? Capable enough?” Mariana lists, and it’s - yeah. It stings. “Sherlock, there isn’t one person on this planet that would’ve been faster, smarter, more capable of stopping Watson from opening that door. It just - happened. You tried to warn him, you did all you could. You didn’t put that bomb there. You probably saved his life. ”

Sherlock doesn’t cry. He hasn’t cried since primary school, when Henry Thatcher stole his magnifying glass and used it to burn a hole through a woodlouse. 

But this - this feels… like a lot. Overwhelming, almost. It makes him uncomfortable, makes him shift in his seat from the inescapability of it.

Because it’s true. 

“You’ve made his recovery as easy as it could’ve possibly been, Sherlock.” Mariana says. 

Watson stands in the doorway. 

He’s still wearing that obnoxious “I ❤️ LONDON” shirt. 

He looks more rested than he has in days. And yet, his eyes hold such sadness. 

“You - Sherlock ,” he says. “I’m not - I don’t blame you. Not at all.”

Sherlock can’t breathe.

And then Watson takes a deep breath, pulls up a chair, sits down. “You feel guilty, though you’re blameless. Another unfortunate effect of the pressure you put on yourself to perform higher than you’re currently capable of - and you assume others feel the same way towards you as you do towards yourself.” 

He can’t. 

He really, truthfully, can’t. 

“But I don’t blame you,” Watson says. 

And months upon months of guilt and frustration - towards himself, towards his inability to perform when it mattered - begins to…unravel. 

-

It doesn’t just go away.

It’s not all as easy as that.

Sherlock doesn’t immediately stop feeling guilty, Watson’s bad days don’t go away.

But over time, they begin to heal. Recover.  

And every morning, Mariana comes over for breakfast and tea.

And every week, they go over their budget, and she knocks a little more sense into Sherlock’s stubborn mind.

And with every case, Watson becomes a little more comfortable working with his cane, and his pain is far more manageable. 

And the listeners?

Well, they’re bloody great, mate. 

They stick around through all of it. 

And it’s as simple as that, really. 

Though appealing nonetheless.

Chapter Text

It’s quiet. 

There’s an overbearing, present silence to 221B – such a stark contrast to what it had become over the months.

Sherlock hates it.

Sherlock can’t stand the change.

He plucks mindlessly at his violin, a discordant note that only serves to punctuate the quiet that presses in as its echo fades.

It’s a wretched, heartless thing, and Watson isn’t there to heal it.

Watson isn’t there to break the silence, to ease the tension, to provide the calm reassurance Sherlock had grown so fond of – though he’d never quite noticed how fond he had become until it was all very much gone indeed. 

It’ll be back. 

It will be back, with time.

Yet, in this moment, Sherlock can’t possibly fathom bearing the guilt the silence of 221B brings for any length of time at all.

He is a wretched, heartless thing, and Watson isn’t there to heal him.

Watson is lying in a hospital bed, burned and beaten and bearing it all. 

Sherlock plucks at his violin once again, and the sound shatters him.

Sherlock wakes up. His eyes slip open slowly, heavy and unaccustomed to the warm sunlight filtering through his bedroom window. 

He sees Watson.

Watson is – awake. He’s lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

There’s something to it.

Something in the way his legs have kicked the sheets back, yet with enough care to not pull them from Sherlock. 

Something in the way he just stares, a content look on his face – not a smile, not a frown, just a calm, peaceful expression.

Something in the way his chest rises and falls steadily beneath Sherlock’s forearm, healthy and strong and so very much alive.

It’s significant, a relief that pushes the dream’s lingering heaviness from Sherlock’s mind.

John is here. 

John is comfortable, content, and healthy.

The guilt drifts. 

And Sherlock sighs, the weight of darker moments slipping away.

“You know,” Watson says, his voice still thick with sleep. “There has got to be a correlation here.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, even as his eyes slip back closed. Sleep has not utterly evaded him – there is comfort and rest to be found in this morning yet.

Watson shifts slightly towards him, takes a moment to read his face. 

There is a lapse into silence, and Sherlock’s mind wanders, distant thoughts sinking into images that drift into motion across his vision. 

Calligraphy and characters and canes and codes, dancing men and ear defenders. 

“Between the sleep and the comfort of being close to someone,” Watson continues, seemingly so suddenly – and all of the images are chased away. 

“Mmm,” Sherlock hums, adjusting his pillow with his free hand. “Go on.”

He knows already, even in the throes of sleep, what he’ll hear, the comfort that John will describe.

Because, simply, he’s experienced it himself.

Of providing security, contentment, and that comfort being returned in full – with no strings attached, no expectations, no stress or tension pulled along with it.

He focuses distantly on Watson’s words. 

“Maybe it’s the knowing someone’s there - someone that I trust and feel safe around. I mean, I bloody well trust you, mate,” he’s saying.

Listening.

Hearing. 

“Whereas, by myself – it’s just the dark. And my thoughts. Not being able to sleep, even if I’m bloody exhausted. And the worst bit, not being able to stop thinking. And so much of it being so…” Watson’s voice trails off, a frown settling into his tone. A pause – then he’s continuing. “And when I fall asleep, I’m not…dreaming. At least I don’t think I am. My thoughts just…never stop. They keep going, and I don’t rest, I just - think, distantly, for hours and hours and – and I remember. And I don’t want to remember those things, to think the things I do,  they just come to me, and-”

“I understand.” Sherlock says, opening his eyes, looking into Watson’s. He does understand. He understands so utterly his chest aches. “I understand.”

Watson is tense under his arm.

“The restlessness. The pushing away a grievous thing – until the only chance the mind has to wander, to worry the thought into a terror…is in the night.”

A moment.

“Yeah,” Watson breathes, his chest falling. “Yeah, mate, exactly that. With this, though – with you, I suppose it just doesn’t…happen. It never comes. I’ll just…listen. To you. Until I fall asleep. I don’t think what you’re saying really matters as much as the fact that you’re there saying it, really - just knowing you’re there, and having the distraction of whatever you’re saying, whatever you’re doing. It’s a comfort. It’s…quieting. And I sleep. Bloody hell, I don’t think I’ve ever slept so well.”

Sherlock hums in agreement. That was the arrangement they’d ended up coming to, after a few weeks of trial and error.

Once they’ve settled into bed in the evening, Sherlock will get off on a ramble of some sort or another – the relationships of electrons or obscure locations across London and the most direct path to them – anything that’s caught his particular attention and focus that day.

And Watson will listen, giving input at first, then drifting off into silence. Sherlock will go on for some time, and once sleep comes, he’ll rest. 

In the morning, Watson will wake up first. Some mornings, he’ll get up and make breakfast before Sherlock stirs. Others, he’ll stay as he is, and just cherish the comfort of a lazy morning. 

It’s a routine. It’s reassuring.

It’s life. It’s living.

“Well,” Watson says, finally, waking Sherlock from a drifting slumber once again. “I think I’ll get up, mate.”

Sherlock nods weakly, eyes heavy again. He lifts his arm, pulling one of Watson’s pillows over his head.  “Mmm. What sort of day?”

Watson sits up, the mattress shifting as he pulls his legs to hang over the side of the bed. A moment of quiet, of stretching, and then he stands. “Mmm - good, Sherlock. Good day. Today will be a good day.”

Sherlock smiles.

John doesn’t know the half of it.

—

“Egg.” Sherlock says, looking forlornly down at his plate.

“Of the ranchero variety,” Watson adds, vigorously scrubbing his new mug at the kitchen sink.

“I don’t like the oil that’s always left on the tortilla.”

“There’s only oil left on when John makes them,” Mariana says, sipping her orange juice. “He doesn’t set them on a paper towel, after.”

“It would help if he didn’t use quite so much oil in the pan,” Sherlock continues, rolling his sleeves up above his elbows before taking a bite.

It’s good.

“Yeah, mate, at least I’ve tried to learn.”

“You burnt the oil in the pan this morning.” Mariana manages, through a bite of egg, salsa, and fried tortilla. “We’d not even added the eggs yet.”

“That. Okay, yeah, that happened. But I improved. I did improve.”

“Of course, John.” She says fondly, from her seat at the dining room table. Her laptop is set in front of her, though it’s evident she’s paying more attention to her breakfast and their conversation than anything on the screen.

Watson huffs, a smile plastered on his face as he sets the rinsed mug into their new dish strainer. It’s a fond thing, and Sherlock finds himself enjoying the sight of it.

John’s really begun to be like his normal self again, recently. 

Happier. Healthier. 

And, as it so happens, positively back into the hustle and bustle of their everyday professional lives.

So when a case comes along, of course Watson’s there.

And when Sherlock sets off to see to it, of course Watson is by his side, H4N hand-held recorder at the ready.

And naturally, when things begin to go poorly again, of course Watson is caught up in it.

—

Sherlock’s heart is in his throat.

It’s wet and uncomfortably warm in this alley, water slipping from leaky gutters lining the roofs above. A drop of water hits the ground beside him. It may as well have been a gunshot.

His head pounds. Darkness clings to the corners of his vision, deepening the late night shadows of their surroundings. There’s a lump on the back of his head, the product of a rather unfriendly clobbering that’d left him dazed for several moments.

And now, as he comes to his senses – he finds himself looking in on a scenario he should’ve been able to predict was coming sooner.

Watson stands face to face with a masked, knife-wielding opponent. 

His eyes are locked on the blade. He has no weapon to defend himself with.

He’s backed into a corner, leaning heavily on his cane.

Sherlock is moving already – yet there may as well be thousands of miles of distance between them.

The masked figure is lunging, knife outstretched, a speed unbearably insurmountable even by Sherlock’s panicked steps. 

Sherlock will not reach them in time.

Watson clobbers his opponent over the head with his cane.

The man ragdolls into the pavement, his knife clattering away harmlessly. 

He’s - out cold.

Watson is - alright.

He’s utterly fine. 

And not for the final time, Sherlock finds himself marveling at the man he’d come to know as his best friend.

“I knew it’d come in handy,” Watson manages, gesturing to his cane after a moment of terse, what-just-happened silence. “Best companion one could ask for – second only to the one and only consulting detective in the world.”

“I have a concussion,” Sherlock replies.

—

Sherlock does not have a concussion. 

He’d been caught off guard and knocked on the head with the knife handle, sure – but not quite violently enough to cause any serious or lasting damage.

The trip home from their local clinic isn’t terribly unmanageable – John hardly finds himself leaning any more heavily on his cane than he had on the trip out.

Their case was concluded with that final piece - the man and the knife, both crucial pieces of the overarching puzzle. A copy-cat killer and a weapon. Though not the man they’d originally been tracking down, the incident had managed to illuminate something or another in Sherlock’s mind – though, then again, perhaps that had been the not-concussion. 

In any case, the…case – was now thoroughly wrapped up – and they were finally, quite possibly, on their way home. 

It’s a bit late, yet John doesn’t find himself tired as they walk up the steps to 221B. He’s had more rest lately than he’d had much of his life before the market incident – so he’s not really all too surprised.

Sherlock’s acting strangely. 

Stranger than normal. On-edge, deeply aware, even in the wake of their newly completed case.

For a brief moment, John contemplates the idea of the clinic doctor’s prognosis being incorrect, and wonders if he should run his own investigation.

Then he opens the door to their flat, takes a step inside, and turns the light on.

Silence.

Sherlock stands, wordlessly, behind him.

Mariana is at the kitchen counter, standing in a similarly still manner, a bright smile on her face as she takes in John’s reaction.

To – their entire living room being – entirely rearranged. The couch and Sherlock’s armchair and the ottoman are pushed up against the walls, transforming the entirety of their living room into a large open space. 

There’s a small speaker set up on the counter, Sherlock’s violin lying not too far away from it.

John shifts on the balls of his feet.

There’s a beat.

“Well?” Mariana asks, intently.

Yet John – despite his eagerness to give a positive reply, as it’s evident they are hoping for one – doesn’t know what to make of it. “What’s – going on?”

“You’d wanted to dance,” Sherlock says, from behind him. The words are said with an overwhelming gentleness, and the realization hits John so stunningly he nearly sits down on the spot. “You were upset at the possibility of losing that opportunity, were you not?”

There’s a lump in John’s throat. Words won’t come. He nods.

There’s music playing. It’s a relatively gentle thing, but one with a catchy beat to it that has John’s heart swelling in his chest.

The amount of forethought and care that must’ve gone into this.

How much it means to him.

There are tears in his eyes by the time Sherlock finishes putting away their coats and returns to his side. 

“Thank you,” he manages. 

Mariana is pulling him into a hug within moments. “You’re immensely special, John. God, I don’t know how you’ve – just kept going, and stayed so positive. It’s so inspiring, and thrilling, and genuinely – just. Incredible. This is the least we can do to show how much we care.”

Sherlock lingers on the edge of it all, hardly moves, until John takes his hand and pulls him into the hug as well. 

They stay that way for several moments, and John finds himself wondering what he’d done to deserve this little family he’d grown to be a part of. 

How lucky he is to have this.

To have them.

Then again, maybe, quite possibly, after all he’d been through – perhaps John could find it in his heart to understand he deserved this.

That this was everything, and that it’d stay that way. 

As it had through so much, just when he needed it the most.

And as it would for years and years to come. 

—

“Life is precious – every minute, and more precious with you in it…”

“Back foot. Back foot, John,” Sherlock says, stepping forward with his left. 

There’s a soft song on in the background, slow and steady – a perfect pace to start with. Mariana had put it on a few minutes earlier.

Watson, for the life of him, tries to step back with his right to match – but the pressure put onto his left leg is unnatural now, unfamiliar and uncooperative. Nevertheless, he shuffles awkwardly, and after a moment of concentration, manages the movement.

Sherlock supports his weight throughout the transition, one hand clasped in John’s, the other firmly under his arm, settled on his back. “Good, now - to the side,”

“I’m glad I found you…”

“Ah, got it, got it,” John says, focusing on his feet.

“Now - forward,” Sherlock says, and steps back a little quicker, now.

John follows along. Forward is easy enough, as is side to side – it’s backwards and in circles that’s always a bother.

But Sherlock leads him through it gently, steady and reassuring, and – they manage.

And they dance.

—

By the time Sherlock pulls away, John’s legs are steadier, his confidence bolstered alongside an eagerness to improve. 

And when Mariana leads him through a faster paced Spanish dance of one kind or another, he manages to keep up. And it’s thrilling.

It’s everything. 

And when Sherlock settles into his relocated armchair, rests his violin under his chin, and begins to play – it’s easy to slip into the slower, softer sort of dance again. 

It’s different, with Mariana - their height difference is less drastic, though he doesn’t feel any less supported. She leads, and he follows.

Sherlock plays a Tchaikovsky piece, one of John’s favorites.

The moment lasts hours.

—

Eventually, they end up on the floor, lying lazily in the wide empty space. 

John is – tired, exhausted, thoroughly worn out. But it’s a content, joyful sort of exhaustion – rather missing the pain and restlessness he’d grown so used to.

He is rested, and though his leg is sore from the extensive use between the case and the dancing, it does not bother him. 

Mariana is snoring. 

And Sherlock is picking at his violin, quiet notes that fall in with the song playing quietly over the speaker.

“Don’t know where – don’t know when…”

“Sherlock?” John says, finally, after a moment. 

Sherlock turns his head, raises an eyebrow. 

“Thank you. For – everything. For all of it. Since the start.”

Sherlock stops picking. He stares, for a minute, but the eye contact isn’t unsettling.

Then he’s smiling. “You’re - welcome. Thank you as well, John.”

And the song in the background goes on. 

“But I know – we’ll meet again…some sunny day…”