Chapter Text
Three days, three long days. That is how long it took for John to be able to get his discharge papers, and that is how long he had Sherlock sitting in his room staring at him even though Lestrade (bless the man he showed up practically with the sun the day after he was admitted) had brought the usual sacrifices.
The ever annoying flatmate of his was still there keeping his mostly silent, deductions about his nurses aside, vigil and John resigned himself to the knowledge that he wouldn't have any time to himself anytime soon. Not if the man hadn't started to chant bored in a broken stream of thought, flinging himself about like a magpie before falling on the nearest victim. Instead of his usual answer to something Sherlock had chosen to just sit there, hands not even steepled together as if in prayer as he did so, though he had scarcely let go of the same patch of fabric for those three days.
John didn't know if it was because the genius thought that he was just going to vanish if he let go, or if there was a underlining worry there that kept the man planted as he was.
Each night after the first it seemed his brain had thought it would be a grand idea to just sit there and throw the same images into his brain, muddling everything there, every time it got to the point where he would claw at his leg, Sherlock would draw him out of the dream. Not that it didn't look like the detective wanted to examine his leg, not something he would ever let anyone do, it may not be horribly scared but all the same looking at it disturbed him.
There was no way he would ever, ever let Sherlock look at that part of his leg, and said detective seemed to know that he would never get a positive reply to his asking this. There was a moment when John was sure that his flatmate would start sulking but it never came so he was slightly worried about going back to 221b.
All the same it came as a relief that after asking, for the fifth time, he got what he wanted and with a minimum amount of fuss, read the kicking of Sherlock out of his room, John set about getting out of the silly gown he had been forced into knowing the moment he walked out of that door to his room Sherlock would swoop over and attach himself once more.
He hadn't been prepared to take his gown off to check up on his wound, something he had avoided doing while he was still in the hospital's care lest he agree with them on staying, to find that the gauze was still there, he didn't want to risk pulling it away to see how well it was healing. Though he did do a few twisting movements to see how it worked with his injury, and a few movements revealed just a slight pull, not what he was expecting at all after he had caught his own chart and started to peruse the information there.
Well...he had always healed quickly, at least he told himself this as he shoved his button down shirt on before throwing on a jumper, not because he was cold but because it was comforting and his favourite one. Even if Sherlock had once remarked it looked like overly soggy oatmeal, the man had asked Mrs. Hudson to bring it along when he called her up to bring them a change of clothing earning another "I'm your landlady not your housekeeper."
He could hear Sherlock standing by the door, most likely had his ear pressed to the wood there so he could swoosh in if there was so much as a loud hiss from John. Not that he would John didn't want to poke at it, that was unprofessional, and he knew what damage it could do if he gave into his urge.
Why should he when he had Sherlock around to do it for him? Not that he would actually let the man poke/prod his newest addition to a long stream of injuries, a good number coming from following the detective about. Though heaven forbid if the other male looked at his medical chart and saw that the hunk of metal they removed from him wasn't from his most recent brush with a gun but from his last.
It had migrated from his trapezius all the way to his latissmus dorsi, where in a stroke of fate the other bullet passed by, they hadn't known it was a migrating shard until they pulled it out. John wondered if that was why he had such a good range of motion in his shoulder, and the steadiness to go with it because it had migrated.
If it came to that in the oddly protective man would growl and spit at him for being stupid and not having it removed once he found out about it.. John didn't really want to put up with the prissiness that his flat mate could bring up with little to no effort. Actually he was surprised that Mycroft, the stubborn man, hadn't brought it up yet in his usual growling sections to try and one up his brother, and in this case divert the ire to someone else for a moment.
There was already encounter waiting for them when they got back to the flat, even with him staying to try and keep the peace by staying as long as he did.
Distantly he heard Sherlock all but pawing at the door almost containing the energy that was calling for him to go busting in the room. Impatience was something he had long gotten use to, there was nothing he could do for it just like there was nothing he could do for the black moods that stole over the man. Boredom on the other hand was something he could work with, but not right now with the other male having what seemed to be separation anxiety, and dimly he noted his thoughts once again started to circle. It was something that he needed to work on some time soon.
"Go ahead and come on back in Sherlock." John shouted over towards the door, and he was less then shocked when almost instantly there was another body in the room. Silver sheen like eyes watching his every movement and deducing what ever it was that brain could pin point. from the way he was holding himself. "What?"
"You're moving very well."
" Yes I am, now while I am moving well, why don't we move out of this room and get back to the flat? I could do with some tea that's not just water.” John said as he moved away from the slightly dazed looking detective, well dazed was not the right word, those sharp eyes watched his every move as he made his way towards the door to leave, his body shifting slightly towards the side as he tried to move quicker then his body wanted to, he wanted to get out of the room before a nurse spotted him and made him go back and be wheeled out.
Picking up his scripts would be a whole different matter but for now it was just escape from the place that had held him, not that there were any bad memories here it was just the fact that he had to be the one in the bed for once made him more then eager to get out of here.
The hospital felt strangely claustrophobic to him, it could just be the room and the odd thrumming need to anywhere but trapped in a room not able to really do anything but sit and wait for the doctors and nurses to come and check on him on their will. Having Sherlock just sitting there, quietly and almost like a statue seemed to add to his uneasiness, everything in him told him that the other should be swirling around like a storm with gale force winds as he swept through everything in his path, paying little to no heed to the victims of his path as they were thrown about drifting lost until the storm was abated and the detective had moved on.
Now he felt the full force of those silver blues watching his every move, and he could feel the calculations and formulas running through his flatmates mind. His own was whispering to him as well, telling him the medical facts of the wound on his side and the facts that went with his range of movement in relation to that.
The same whispers that had followed his mind after he had been captured and in a stroke of luck escaped, the one that told him his over all recovery was quicker then expected. It had been ridiculously easy to haul the other body along with him as he made his way back to camp. It was this fact that made being invalid back to London all the harder, his leg that had carried him over the sands to safety had buckled enough to keep him living. when the shot came.
But enough of thinking on that, John thought to him self fiercely pushing the fogged memories back as he watched Sherlock gracefully throw his hand up to hail a cab, that man had all the luck in summoning one even when it seemed none was about, and extend his other hand to grab a piece of his jumper. John was sure those long fingers were going to be something he was going to have to put up with for a while.
True to form a cabbie showed up in what seemed to be seconds, steering towards the walk that Sherlock was leaning over, his ever present and dramatic coat was even moving in the slight breeze adding to the over all picture, made John reach out and grab an piece of fabric himself, gently tugging the other closer away from what looked like an almost fall. Really that other man took no care of himself, and was being utterly reckless with his leaning frame, and with that he was swiftly reminded of his own recklessness.
Well, not so much recklessness as tying to keep his flatmate from causing a disaster, not that all Sherlock created around him was a disaster but it seemed to follow him around like a lost puppy. Worst still the other male seemed to dote on that lost puppy by feeding it scraps, John often wondered how he had managed to keep up with the gazelle like male for as long as he had, what with all the running involved and the height difference making it hell to run as fast as the other.
Hopefully there wouldn't be any running for a bit his side was still tender and there was no way he wanted to get a stitch in his side from running willy nilly all over the place. Even though the DI had visited, John didn't think any cases were going to go towards Sherlock for at least a week.
So a black mood plus clinginess, well if the confrontation in the flat he was sure was waiting for them, well that and repaired windows and sulking from a certain detective, along with the rather tortured strings from the poor violin made for a rather non relaxing recovery period. Not that he really expected anything else, there really was never anything peaceful around Sherlock.
But that wasn't something that bothered him about the man, no it was the lack of self preservation, John wouldn't always be there to put a bullet into the next weirdo trying to get the detective to take a poisoned pill. Though sadly it had been proven that it was also him that got the other male into trouble, Moriarty had targeted him to go after Sherlock, took him as an easy target to lure the other out and sure enough the man did come.
He was seen as the soft underbelly to the detective, something he would need to keep a watch on incase he really did become that and get his friend into even more trouble. Which was something that was really hard to believe seeing how much the man already got into on a regular bases.
If he thought it would help John would have tried to pull away from the detective and try and take away another point of attack but, it was already to late, there was nothing for it and he would just have to be twice as on guard.
First though he was going to have to wait out Sherlock and his insistent hanging, a hand once again woven into his sweater and holding on, this time almost absent minded in its place.
All to soon the taxi was pulling up to their stop, the brass knocker gleaming out mockingly to the two males in the cab, John didn't know if it was a sign that everything was about to go down hill again, Mycroft was not someone who had calm with him and there was nothing for it but to stomp forwards and face what ever it was down as quickly as possible.
Sherlock, as usual left him to pay the tab, long legs already guiding him towards the door, a frown etched deeply on his face as quick silver eyes darted about gathering any number of clues from the surroundings, his body tense and unhappy. John just walked past him and pushed the door open, by passing a Mrs. Hudson who was waiting off in her sitting room, half an eye on the door, another on the telly that was going off in a laugh track from some silly show or another.
Taking a deep breath in, his nostrils flaring slightly as the doctor tried to fill his senses with the sent of home, not catching the smoky hint that usually followed Mycroft around like a wet dog, nor the muted perfume that, what ever her name was today seeing as it changed so often that John had given up on keeping track of what it was at the moment, was not present. All there was to be had was the soft musty smell that came from neither of them being all to willing to clean, the chemicals from all of Sherlock's experiments, sharp and stinging those were, the fading sent of gunpowder, and ink.
Hell, John could even smell the experiment that Sherlock hid a few days ago, this side of turning truly ripe, a sure signal that he should tear through the flat and try and find it before the smell got much worse. But, all the same there was no sign of Mycroft.
He didn't know if it was comforting that the other man had not come into his home once again to confront his flat mate or, if he should be more worried, and looking for camera's again. Though it would keep Sherlock out of one of his darker moods he always went into because the other had come into his "space".
Taking a deeper breath, this time through his mouth, John smiled softly to himself and walked back into his flat, ready to relax and start forgetting the events of the Pool.