Archive of Our Own

"John!"  There was no answer.

"Sherlock!"  His voice was obscured amidst the rising water and the depth of the well, the hoarseness of calling out at intervals, fatigue, and the stress of treading water against the chain, of tipping his neck up as the well filled slowly, relentlessly, frighteningly, with murky, brackish water.

"John!"  His voice was desperate, panic-stricken, difficult to hear clearly with the exertion of the running he was doing.  He'd told the authorities where to find John, where the cistern was, and once he and Mycroft had settled the disposition of Eurus, they also headed that direction.  With longer legs, less body mass, and most critically, motivation to get to John, Sherlock was meters ahead of his brother.

Sherlock's chest hurt, his face tight, his head pounding, and his mind unhelpfully supplied imaginings of Victor, of their childhood friendship, of what Victor's last moments might have been. Truth is, he could hardly remember Victor's face other than in pictures, and even as he tried, it was only John he could see.  He replayed the last few sentences they'd exchanged with each other, wishing he would have had time and inclination to finally tell him after all these years.  As his mind wandered unhelpfully, his toe caught, nearly tripping him, and he gave himself a mental shake.  Soldiers today, remember?  He focused on John's resolve, on John, who even in the highest stressful situation imaginable would be trying not to display his fear.  In his mind, he could feel, sense, smell, and almost taste the rising water, of his sister's instability, of her absolute lack of any emotion.  Kill another of his friends?  Oh yes, of this, Sherlock knew that Eurus was completely capable of the treachery.  It was a race against the clock now, and he knew it was going to be tight.

++

Water came up John's body, slowly and without mercy.  He could feel effects of hypothermia, worsened exponentially as time passed, as he was forced to stand, then forced to cling to the well walls, then as his body stretched and twisted to attempt to avoid taking on water.  Every so often, he called out, alternating "Sherlock!" with "Help me!" and every so often he thought he heard a call in the distance, an echo across the tall well above him and the span of the field he'd been taken across, barely conscious at the time, chained and helpless.  But he also knew he was running out of time, running out of options.  And definitely running out of chain length.  

"Try as long as possible not to drown," Sherlock had told him.  Ha.

Unless something happened, something intervened, something divine, he was likely not going to be able to follow those final directions.

Just one more miracle.

The water crept up, his neck certainly submerged, occasionally a wave or slosh hit him in the chin.  His fingers were numb, feet had long ago stopped sending him sensations of cold.  His free leg scissor kicking as able, his body weighed down in wet clothing over working muscles, his arms tiring as they paddled side to side to keep his mouth and nose above water.  For the time being.  A shout, his name, good God was that Sherlock? and then John knew perhaps his mind had given in, delusional, cold, endotoxins from stress and likely hypoxic, a built-up lactic acidosis from hyperventilating and muscular exertion, he was hearing things now.  The shout came again, his name for sure.  He wondered if perhaps this was an angel sent to accompany him.  He recalled soldiers who had died in front of him from trauma or haemorrhage, had seen some of them talking to family members long since passed away, and thought mayhap this was his grand-da from beyond, that he would die soon and be escorted to the afterlife by this beloved ancestor.

Sherlock, I never got to tell you...  Oh god, what I wouldn't give for one more conversation.

++

A motor sounded, although water was continuously and completely in his ears and it could certainly have been vibrations from the earth, of the deep rumble of the column of water he was now very nearly submerged in.  Or hallucinations.  The scrape of metal then seemed nearby, the motor sounding, acceleration, deep sounds of a motor pulling against something, the stress of a big engine labouring, the metal groaning and humming with fatigue, resistance, higher pitched revolutions.  He thought it odd, even as his mind rambled off on an odd tangent, that the chain holding him could have sounds so deep and under stress - perhaps he was kicking harder than he'd realised despite the cold plaguing him.

The engine sounds suddenly went back to baseline, the groaning motor sounds a dull hum, and the metal sounds were absent as another wave seemed to bring the water level higher, higher, touching now his nose.  His mouth was completely submerged.

Not long now.  Please god, don't let this linger, make it fast.

There was a splash and a wave and a quick increase of the water level, and something hard and insistent poked at John, something in the water.  Someone in the water?  The last remaining oxygen available, John pushed at whatever it was in the blackness, his oxygen deprived brain wondering if this was truly death come to take him by force.

With his head almost submerged completely now, even in the water up to his hairline, John's limbs gave one more flail, thinking that he would resist just once more, a last hurrah, and then inhale deeply through his nose and willingly drown himself rather than be manhandled in the throes of actively dying.  Like a soldier.

++

Sherlock was winded, running on empty in both literal and figurative senses, overused muscles trembling as he came on scene.  A jeep, chain, grate, couple men standing useless, still, statuesque.  Sherlock pictured their stone forms crumbling like concrete as he contemplated bashing their heads in later...

No time for that, this is urgent, his brain supplied.  His voice was quiet, serious, and breathy from exertion as he asked the first responder he saw.  "John?"

The reply was grim, curt.  "Just got the grate off.  Water's over his head by now.  Just sent a diver down.  Only the one tank."

The day'd been long.  Stressful.  Full of lies, deception, repressed memories.  A lying sister, a brother withholding information, a brain that had locked away clues.  Sherlock's tremors and laboured breathing threatened to fell him.  Without food or water, with revelations that he'd walled off to deal with another time, and Sherlock would have denied even as he moaned that he was beyond overwhelmed.  He wanted John.  He wanted it all to be over.  Sherlock would wonder later where the blackness came from, the closing in of the night, palpable around him as he suffocated, himself, at hearing the water level, at John's predicament, his final moments.  Cold, damp grass met his face when his legs gave out, crumpled, an instant loss of consciousness.  

Bloody transport, indeed.

++

A hand was shaking him there in his watery tunnel, touching and feeling his jawline for the part of his lips, and a plastic mouthpiece was shoved inside.  John brought his hand up, mind barely able to sense, observe, or determine what could possibly be going on.  Feeling very much foggy and slow and unable to process his surroundings, his hand touched something near his face but not quite.  He came in contact with an apparatus held by another hand, could actually make out fingers, and there were bubbles.  The hand gripped his mouth, opened it, pressed his lips firm and then John felt a poke to his solar plexus.  By reflex, he inhaled and it was actual, breathable air.  His eyes opened, the water still dark, but he reached out to barely make out a person in the water with him.  What the hell?  A person, here?

Back in basic training, they'd all certified for SCUBA training, in water rescue, and John had thoroughly disliked it, the sensation of water all around, a narrow and artificial airway, the suffocating feeling of the breathing apparatus and mouthpiece, the exhalation and sensation of bubbles escaping.  But he recognised, as he could actually feel the lightheadedness leaving him, consciousness even though still altered returning, that he had for some reason, received an eleventh hour reprieve.  The mouthpiece, oxygen tank, and diver in front of him now offered him the very miracle he'd sought and prayed for.

Breathing quickly into the mouthpiece - breath, breath, breath - and knowing he would, at some point, need to slow down, he reached for and clung to the arm of the diver in front of him.  The wetsuit felt cold and artificial through his mostly numb fingers - breath, breath, breath - and he had no way of knowing how tightly he was actually grabbing.  A glove grabbed his hand, pried his fingers from the arm, and then contact was gone - breath, breath - only to be replaced by the heavy straps connected to a single oxygen tank.  Breath, breath, breathe.

The gloved hand grabbed the regulator from the fingers of John's hand, and he could sense the diver was still nearby.  Bubbles flowed again as John held his breath - not by choice, but necessity now - and then the regulator was handed over again.  Buddy breathing, then, John realised, identifying his own panic and that he needed to slow down on his own, grabbed at the mouthpiece.  The hand on the regulator pressed the purge button with John's own fingers, allowed John to take a breath quickly, in short order followed by two more, transitioning to John's determination, his domain, under his control.  In the darkness, the hand came back, the regulator again tugged as if John was to relinquish it.  Reflexively, John held fast, and the diver wrenched it easily from him anyway, John holding his breath, followed by another few breaths and then it was back.

The pauses in buddy breathing gave him a bit more control after those few passes back and forth, and at one point when the regulator was handed to him, he forced his body to stop struggling, accept the helpful weight of the tank, and breathe a bit more slowly.  Control, Watson, you must.  The pull of the chain on his ankle lessened, he knew as his body was no longer stretching out, although he couldn't feel his feet anymore in the frigid water.  Inhale, exhale, pause.  Just as he began to congratulate himself on the metabolic success of lessening his oxygen demands, the other diver was gone.

Breathe, pause, exhale.  Breathe, pause, exhale.  Inhale, exhale, pause - the cadence now seeming more natural, inspiratory-expiratory ratio 1:2, John knew, and for some reason the counting and awareness of each phase helped somewhat.  Minutes passed there in the cold and the dark, how many he couldn't tell, and then there was a dim and far away blue light, distorted, John could see it above his head and through the water.  The cistern, the pit of the well, Eurus' focus for Sherlock's final problem, was nearly full.  The column of water was far, far above his head.  Breathe in, breathe out, pause.

Moments later, while he was clinging to the regulator, purging, breathing, staring at the blue light, he became dimly aware of a rope in the water near him, so he let it wrap about his arm, a connection to the surface.  It wasn't useful, just something to hold.  There were voices high above, muffled and odd sounding, distorted pieces of speech, unidentifiable.  A harsh diesel motor, or something else large bodied, a truck perhaps, John wondered, also seemed nearby, and moments later the diver was back.  With the light now partially illuminating the area in front of him, he could at least see that the diver was without breathing apparatus, and he calmed himself, took two breaths, handed over the regulator.  The diver lowered himself, limited in confines of the tubing, to assess John's ankle, and John let his body sink down a bit farther to allow for inspection of the chain.  He felt adjustments to it, the application of a device, the attempt to employ a cutter of sorts, before the regulator was handed back to him.  Purge quickly, several breaths, and then John handed it over again, to the person who was going to free him from this deathtrap.  Further sensations of the chain moving, the attachment around the narrowest part of John's leg, was also unsuccessful.  The regulator was handed over again, and without further interaction the diver returned briskly to the surface.

John began to wonder how much air might be in the tank.  His teeth began to tremble in the cold, his hands fortunately only required gross motor muscle coordination in order to hold the mouthpiece secure.  He let his eyes close briefly, but then worried that he would be left there, underwater, alone as the air cylinder tank was depleted.  Steady on, Watson, no panicking allowed.  From there on, he kept his eyes open, floated close to the top of his chain allowance, angled just enough that he could watch the blue light above, wonder about who might be up there.

Specifically, he wondered about Sherlock.  Good god, a truer friend had never been, even with the recent personal developments, of their differences.  The words that hadn't been spoken, the hurtful words that had been, the damned DVD from Mary.  He'd watched it once and then never again, not knowing how much was truth, what exactly she'd intended, the ending in her most cold voice, go to hell, Sherlock.  While she'd stepped into the path of the bullet, sparing Sherlock, John knew it was not a completely altruistic gesture.  It was suicide, he was sure of it, and he suspected she'd done it to spare herself a worse fate.  The image of her cold, emotionless eyes as she told Sherlock to go to hell was imprinted in John's cerebral cortex, stuck on an indefinite loop.  He wanted justice, resolution, revenge.

Mostly, in that moment in the water, he wanted a few more minutes with Sherlock, wanted to speak his mind, wanted to end this ridiculous dance they'd been doing for years.  Wanted to declare himself, no matter what Sherlock's response might be.  He wanted, more than anything, to speak the words that had been engraved on the coffin, that Sherlock had spoken under duress to Molly, that Molly had uttered to Sherlock.  Senseless, those words, really.  Sherlock cared for Molly, they all knew, but as a friend and never more than that.  Molly knew it too, and John ached for both friends, little pawns, all of them, in Eurus' little torture chamber.

He pictured Sherlock's smile, the quirky one, imagined his pale eyes sparkling, yearned for the moment when they were together and could revel in the knowledge that they'd cheated death again.  He imagined taking Sherlock's face in both his hands - provided they ever thawed out, good god almighty, they were numb - and looking him deep in the eye as he spoke the words he wanted, 'I love you,' and the response that would determine his entire future.  His and Rosie's...

Dear lord, Rosie...

His musings were blessedly interrupted by the diver again, and there was more light this time, as a waterproof torch had been brought down.  A paper was held out in front, the light positioned so he could read on wet and slightly blurry ink, "Air tank - two hours total.  Awaiting bolt cutters and fire truck hose to drain well.  ETA 15-20 minutes.  Hang on."

Fifteen to twenty minutes.  John nodded, resolute.  The air would last, he would last, he reassured himself.  He would talk with Sherlock.  His head was cold, though, and his hands now completely numb to over his elbows.  The rope was next to him, a useless tool now, as he couldn't hold it, muscles and limbs barely functional.  His core temp was going to be perilously low by the time equipment arrived.  The regulator slipped from between his chattering teeth, began to float away.  The diver opposite him dropped the paper, which suspended, forgotten, as he helped reestablish John's air supply.  The diver patted his arm, made sure the mouthpiece was firm, and began to swim away.  Forgetting about the remaining chain, John, confused and disoriented, moved as if to follow, and was caught by surprise as the ankle restraint held him fast and upended him, causing him to lose both air cylinder and regulator.

Hypothermia was setting in, John knew in a brief burst of coherency, and he fumbled with the regulator that was again thrust at him.  The diver settled the tank around him again, both arms, touched him on the shoulder in a gesture of support, and kicked hard for the surface, out of air himself.

The blue light above him distorted and flickered, and John both sank and floated, held by the anchor of his lower leg and his own buoyancy, tipping askew in the cold water.  John's eyes fluttered closed, and the light went out.  His jaw clenched anew on the mouthpiece, and he was suddenly and inexplicably warm.  The shivering, the unstoppable trembling body, slowed over a period of time, gradually, and then was gone altogether.  That protective mechanism of shivering, the body's automatic response to extreme cold, stopped.

There was enough cognition left in the bright, medical, albeit hypothermic brain of Dr. Watson to realise things had just gotten much, much worse.  His body and mind were letting go.  And in his mind, numbed with both the cold and the deterioration of his mental faculties, he let go of everything but the two people he held dear - both curly heads, one tall, one small - and thought only of breathing.  Eventually, he knew, his mind would let go completely, unless they hurried.

++

Snippets of the next few hours penetrated not much of John's stream of consciousness.  He would later recall a diver in the water with him again, but it confused him because he thought he was at the coffee shop drinking through a straw.  He startled when a gloved scuba geared hand came at him, holding mouthpiece to jaw, the splash and sinking of large bolt-cutter and then bobbing on the surface of the water being held by a diver while the rope was secured around him.  He did not have any inkling that his addled, stuporous mind had futilely attempted to resist his rescuer attempting to pull the mouthpiece from his clenched jaws, as he was unaware he was actually out of the water at that point.  His sense of self-preservation was commendable if somewhat misguided.

He did not recall laying out nearly backwards, his body motionless, as he was harnessed and hauled to the surface, dragged out of the well, limbs stiff and straight and at odd angles to his body, the muscles contracted and unable to relax.  He remembered nothing about the hands that reached for him to draw him from danger.  He had no recollection of the moonlight nor the darkness nor the group gathered there.

Fortunately, he would not have any recollection of Mycroft standing, pained, by Sherlock, who was conscious now, awake but still on the ground, awaiting the bad news - steeled and braced for the worst news - nor the relief dripping from Mycroft's voice when he said, "They've got him out.  He's breathing."  The statement triggered something in Sherlock, a reaction, an uncoordinated, impassioned rise and sudden lunge toward the scene.  It had taken a few people to firmly grasp Sherlock's arms to prevent him from descending on the newly rescued man for fear he would topple them over and plunge poor John and whomever happened to be in the way, right back down into the water.

John also definitely did not remember the pained and terrified volume in Sherlock's voice as he was held back from attempting to get to his side, blissfully unaware of the way Sherlock's heart-broken voice kept calling his name - John! John! John!  He would never have memory of the cacophony of attendants helping him, nor the ones who rushed to Sherlock's side to hold him down, the panic attack and sheer uncontrolled drive, the terror, the desperation to get to John, keep him from getting thoroughly, unhelpfully, dangerously in the way of the treatment he needed.  Thankfully, John would never know that the tears and sobs from Sherlock are what finally crumpled Mycroft's typical aloof expression, both of the brothers wrung out, the pain and despair from everything that had happened that day, evidence of deep sentiment and feeling.  And brokenness on a level none would have ever suspected previously.

He did recall brief glimpses, flashes of being placed on an ambulance stretcher, rushed to the waiting rig, heavy blankets over wet clothing.  Motor running, heat blasting, he would wonder about the attendants who, once he was out of the elements, placed a soft cervical collar, who cut off his wet, clinging clothing, who wrapped him in the warmed waiting blankets, who attempted to towel off his face and hair that was plastered to his head before wrapping his wet head to prevent heat loss.  The warmth of the radiant hypothermia treatment wraps encased him, and the stretcher was locked into place as the medics evaluated his condition as they prepared for transportation.

He would recall a few unsuccessful IV sticks as they attempted to cannulate veins on the verge of collapse.  He would have vague recollections of warm air reaching his cold skin, but not the pronounced shivering and shaking, to the point of rattling the stretcher on which he lay.  Part of his muscle memory remembered trying to start IV lines in soldiers who were shaking, seizuring, dying.  He tried to hold still, was unable to quell the rattling of his body from within.

What he would remember most, however, there on scene, was the warmed, humidified oxygen that was held over his face.  Most of his mind believed he was being suffocated, leftover traumatic association from unwillingly being taken by force earlier in the day.  He called for Sherlock, or tried to through his oxygen-deprived disjointed brain, wanting to ask after him, to speak to him, find out where he was, but no words were formed, only guttural sounds of distress.  The paramedics held down his hands, prevented him from hurting himself further, effectively blocked communication, holding mask in place and gently shushing each attempt of John's to speak.  All John heard was noise, with no words making any sense at all.  His own voice was too quiet anyway, his throat raw and swollen and somewhat water-logged.  His mental processes were firing poorly, at any rate, and he finally succumbed to the insistent care.  He gave up, exhausted, fatigued, tired beyond belief, and his body wasn't responding well, anyway, cold, shivering, and numb.

He heard snippets of conversation of the healthcare providers as they attempted stabilisation:  "clothes are off" "the blankets aren't warm enough" "his sats are only in the eighties" "I can't get the IV line in, he's too clamped down" "might have to try peritoneal lavage in the A&E, they're setting up for it" "who the hell is that lunatic yelling outside?" "ready for transport in a couple minutes, need to place this IO line first, start the warm fluids, then medical command's good to go" "somebody should shut that guy up."

He would not have been privy to the presence of a mostly-recovered Mycroft Holmes speaking to Greg Lestrade, who had just arrived, outside the ambulance and the sentence that went something like, "You might as well let him through, to ride along.  He will otherwise find a way, and the consequences will be most unpleasant for all of us, for the rest of time."  Lestrade took in quickly the beaten look about both Mycroft and Sherlock, and he shrugged, pointed at a colleague.  There was a nod from the man in charge, and Greg approached Sherlock, grabbed his shoulder with a slight shake.  He got close enough to nearly snarl in Sherlock's face that John needed help without Sherlock getting in the way, that he was to sit down, shut up, and stay the bloody fuck out of the way or he would be thrown from the moving ambulance.  Sherlock had only eyes for the shivering man under the blankets, but managed to nod once and allow himself to be pushed onto the bench opposite where the crew sat.

John would later have awareness of cold fingers in his cold hand, gripping tight and squeezing painfully on his mostly numb digits.  He would somewhat remember the pain and odd sense of infusion from the IO line in his tibia.  The sensations were vague and somewhat obscured as the ambulance with lights and sirens began the trip to the nearest hospital.  The finger pain was later blamed by the person who had actually caused it, on his existing hypothermia, the moronic and unskilled paramedic responders, and the delay in rescuing John from the water. 

++

By the time they'd arrived in the A&E, John was breathing his heated oxygen, was on the heart monitor with bradycardia, hypothermia, but a good blood pressure.  He was very minimally responsive.

In short order, the A&E staff had a central line inserted, and more warm fluids began infusing, along with the Bair hugger.  John was incoherent, eyes open occasionally, the shivering seeming to occupy any mental faculties for the moment.  Sherlock, surprisingly, did not interfere, holding John's hand carefully under the covers, paying attention that cool air didn't come anywhere close to him.

Unfortunately John awakened when the staff asked Sherlock to step out so they could check John's core temperature and to place a thermister foley catheter.  From his vantage point in the hallway just outside the trauma bay, Sherlock listened to John's distressed moan, overheard the doc speaking to him, trying to explain he needed close monitoring.  When John's groan turned feral, Sherlock reentered the room, crossed to John's side, took his arm.  He turned John's head toward him, holding him secure, and ignored John's uncomprehending grimace, talking to him in confident tones that care needed to be rendered.  Nodding at the A&E staff, he continued, also ignoring John's shocked and confused eyes as he explained what was happening.  The catheter ended up in, his core temp barely 33 degrees which dropped slightly after they were done from additional exposure until he was fully covered up again.  The doctor came to John's head again, watched his breathing deep, knowing the altered mentation was likely going to continue for a while, but he tried to smile reassuringly as Sherlock and spoke anyway, "Doctor Watson, it's all right.  You're going to be all right.  Catheter, is all.  Nice warm blanket.  You're safe now.  We're going to get you warmed up soon, monitor your core temp for a while."  Had Sherlock believed it possible, he would have suspected that John's turning his head, as much as he could within the confines of the cervical collar, emphatically away from the doc was intentional.

The warm IV fluids, and warm blankets, and staying completely covered did eventually work.  That and the shivering.

Once John started to show signs of responsiveness, Sherlock realised that the true work would begin then, as pain receptors began to connect and function again.  He was unprepared for the cries of pain, the thrashing, the panicked attempt to pull at everything touching him as awareness marginally began to return.  John didn't hear the doctor educating some of the staff regarding paradoxical undressing, but Sherlock did, as they described the protective mechanisms of the hypothermic victim who violently attempts to remove anything touching their skin as sensation began to return in certain areas.  There was, the doctor said solemnly, terrible pain as the body rewarmed.  There was discussion of the bradycardia, of the anticipated hypotension that can be refractory as the patient begins to warm to a certain threshold, somewhere a few degrees in John's future.  The doctor expressed relief that they had not needed to implement the Hubbard Tank, submersion in water for extreme hypothermia, as it is a late treatment and often meant the patient may not recover.

Other treatments were carried out in short order - lab studies, chest radiographs, electrocardiogram, watching for acute pulmonary edema, aspiration pneumonia, hypoglycaemia, rhabdomyolysis.  Greg Lestrade arrived, and by that time John was given a dose of pain medication in order to tolerate the CAT scan that would clear his cervical spine, as well as his head to rule out possibility of trauma.  While John was taken for the imaging studies, Greg stayed in the room, demeanor quiet, and he closed the door when it was only the two of them.  Over time up to and including this day, he had seen plenty, and needed to speak his mind.

Sherlock stared a bit, wordless, having nothing to say, nothing to add, not wanting to put words to his fears and his terrors of his worst nightmares.

"Come here," Greg said, not unkindly.  Sherlock simply stood where he'd been.  "Now."  He had no intention of moving, no plans to obey anyone, was not inclined to let anyone other than John even remotely close to him.  But there was a time slide, the grabbing of his arm unexpectedly, and Sherlock found himself pulled hard against the DI.  He remained rigid, stiff, unmoving, unwilling on any level to show any sort of chink in his armour, to let his guard down for even a second.  "Sherlock," Greg protested, patting him about the shoulders.  It was like trying to hug a recalcitrant cactus.

"I can't.  Don't ask it of me."  Sherlock pushed back, eyes scanning through the clear glass window as he was anxious and eager for John to be brought back to the room, to him.  "I can't, don't you understand?  Not now."  Without Greg's closer proximity and the watching his expression, Sherlock was able to deflate a little, and say in a hoarse, emotion-laden plea, "If I let down a little now, I may never..."  There was a hard swallow and a raggedy breath, and he cleared his throat, stopped.

Greg let him step away, but kept hold of an arm and waited for Sherlock's attention.  "He's going to be all right.  Do you hear me?  He is. Because you idiots have put up with too much of each others' crap for something to split you up now."

The window to the hallway seemed to hold Sherlock's interest, and Greg didn't think he would answer at first, and then he finally said, "It's always been John."

Dismissively then, Sherlock folded his legs into the bedside chair and waited for John to be brought back.  He heard him before he saw him, the moans and attempts to speak, voice shaky and almost unintelligible. But his eyes were focused again, Sherlock was pleased to see when he dragged a chair toward the head of John's stretcher.  The warming blanket was still pumping out radiant heat and warm air, and John's head was still wrapped in a blanket.

"I'm sorry, John.  I had no idea, I didn't..."

John's mouth opened, jibberish and words came out too broken and jumbled to be understood, but he clearly was trying to respond to whatever Sherlock was saying.  Greg stood then, moved to stand behind Sherlock, a hand on his shoulder as he watched John's body shake, more intentional sounds as he tried to speak.  "John," Greg finally said, "just stop it for now.  It'll clear, but we can't understand you.  Just shut up and listen, all right?"

The jerky nodding of John's head was even hard to be sure about, as even his shoulders shook. But it seemed to quiet him down a little, and Greg poked at Sherlock, "Go ahead, then, he's listening."

Sherlock shrugged his shoulder out from under Greg's hand, turned a glare in his direction, and said, "Get out."  When Lestrade did not immediately move, he added, "Gavin."

A breathy phrase that may have included the word 'bugger' was audible as Greg strode to the door, exited.

"John, please, don't be angry at me."

"Not," John chattered.  " 'm not."  Sherlock's face was close to John's, hoping to be able to calm him, to hear whatever he could, and John stared up with a desperation and pleading.  "God," he gritted then, teeth clacking a bit as he added, "Fuck!"

"You should probably save your energy and effort on non-curse words, you know.  Those are clear, however."

"Shut up."

There was a lump in Sherlock's throat, and he could see the glimmer of John Watson in the words and expression and in the bright of his eyes.  He would be all right, he knew then.  Moistness started at his own eyes, building up, squeezing out, trickling down his cheekbones as John watched, saw it, and a whimper in response reverberated in John's chest, clearly an expression of sympathetic pain.  "Oh god," Sherlock breathed, "I'm so sorry."  Overcome, he wrenched away from the bedside, unable to get the words out, sorry for so many things - the fall, his sister, allowing his mind to repress data and facts that would have bloody prevented this nightmare. He stood, feeling short of breath himself, unable to stay there and show John the depth of his longing and terror, unable to do this one-sided, with John so unstable.

Greg was right outside the door, leaning against the door jamb as if he‘d known Sherlock would turn tail and his presence would be needed.  Greg moved quickly to accost him as Sherlock would have rapidly fled the area, grabbed his arm to halt his progress.  "Don't you dare walk away and leave him now."  Greg took in the tears even as Sherlock had tried to hide them, brush them away.  "Don't you fucking dare.  Get in there and tell him the truth."  When Sherlock stopped struggling, Greg pressed on, head bowed in close and his voice lowered to almost conspiratorial, "I've seen how he looks at you, you're not alone in this."

A monitor alarm sounded from within John's room, a low pitched sound, and a nurse passed by Greg and Sherlock standing in the hallway, entered the room.  Sherlock stood watching from the doorway as she silenced the heart monitor alarm, crouched over the man in the bed.  There were words exchanged - soothing clear ones and warbly distraught ones.  She glanced over her shoulder to the doorway.  "I think he's asking for you."  Greg gave Sherlock a nudge through the doorway even as he said goodbye and walked away.

A growl and another exchange between nurse and patient pulled Sherlock's attention back, and the nurse gently patted John's only visible skin, that of his face.  "I'll be back with pain medication before it gets worse."  Her smile lasted longer than her presence did, such was the attitude conveyed, and her eyebrow angled toward the bed as if to remind Sherlock that he'd been summoned there.

"Stop 't" John said as soon as he approached.  "J' stop."  It was difficult to be clear through the chattering teeth, but Sherlock understood, nodded, knowing his brow was furrowed and his mouth downcast.  He nodded then, again, stronger.  Time to suck it up, deal with it, John needed him to do this for now.

Dragging the chair close again, he sat, lowered the siderail, slid a hand under the covers to find John's hand, touched it lightly then backed off as John drew in a pained breath at the faintest contact.  Weighing his options, he chose instead to pick a more central place that would still give him skin contact, placed his hand over John's shoulder, and when John nodded, he made himself comfortable and began to speak.

"There's something you should know, John."  John's eyes were focused, intense, serious, and comprehending, and there was a pause as their eyes met, held, locked.  Sherlock breathed deep, ready to speak.  "I..."  The room was disturbed again, then, by the nurse who was returning with pain medication.

"Bit of dilaudid for you, Dr. Watson.  Should take the edge off, provided your blood pressure's all right.  Then we'll get that IO out and I think they're working on getting you a nice room for the night, should be almost ready."  She adeptly administered the medication over a few minutes, letting the IV fluids carry the dose in slowly, then smiled at them both. "That should help.  Warming up doesn't feel too good, and it's likely to get a bit worse before it starts to get better."  They both watched as John relaxed a little, the facial grimace sliding away, and the nurse looked over at Sherlock, said, "Could have been much worse.  There's no black skin or even blisters, hands or feet, which is good.  He'll be all right now," and she was gone.

John dozed for a few minutes, with Sherlock's hand still resting lightly on his shoulder.  Intermittently, they were interrupted for various tasks - another blood sugar to monitor for hypoglycaemia, the emptying of the catheter, the placement of an inpatient name band, and another physician who came to discuss the treatment plan and would enter admission orders.  The lights were finally dimmed as they waited for the admission process to happen, and Sherlock laid his forehead down against the edge of John's pillow.

Mycroft found them thus, with John's head turned toward Sherlock, nose just barely in the curly hair, and Sherlock actually asleep as he leaned on the bed.  Not wishing to wake either of them, but knowing he must, he touched Sherlock's back gently.

"Are you all right?" Mycroft asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"Are you?" Sherlock parried back at him, monotone, conveying clearly that he thought neither of them were anything remotely close to all right.

"Eurus has been secured. I have a few people stationed there now, and ..."  For all his brusque demeanor, his voice trembled and he had to stop, swallow, breath.  "... and I will be overseeing more of her care and provisions."

"She almost succeeded."  You almost let her win. Sherlock's brow raised.

"She did not, and will not win."  I may have made an error in judgment. Mycroft's mouth curved downward.

"She needs help."  I will not tolerate further harm against him. Sherlock's eyes flicked almost imperceptibly toward John.

"Indeed."  I will help you, brother, to atone for what has transpired. Mycroft's bland expression was back, and he glanced at John's form to see that his eyes were open.  "Dr. Watson, I am having yours and Rosie's things moved to Baker Street for all of your protection. Mrs. Hudson has been briefed, and ..."

"No."  The quiet voice spoke from the bed.

"It is for your safety."

"No."

"Short term. Until you are fully recovered."

John was ready to protest again, albeit weakly, when two people appeared in his doorway, rapping lightly on the frame, effectively silencing John's words.  One was carrying a clipboard, and they entered the room.  "Watson?"

John's voice was soft. "Yes."

"We're here to take you upstairs to your room."

"Non-negotiable," Mycroft intoned quietly, ending the discussion with a turn of his heel and abruptly leaving the room.

A short ride in a elevator and a brief jaunt down the hall was mostly the transport team trying to make light conversation.  Soon there was a nurse waiting for them outside a double door at the end of one hallway.  John had never seen it before, never had reason to notice this particular room, for the brief times he'd been in the hospital.  "Welcome to your rooms, Dr. Watson.  I'm Trish, and I'll help you get settled in, be here with you either in the room or at your call all night.  Someone will relieve me in the morning."

"What?  Why?"

"Special assignment. I'll be in addition to the rest of the staff."

From his vantage point in the bed, he took in the set of rooms, the state of the art monitoring, the posh decor, a small settee, chaise, small work table, technology center.  Despite the slow processing mind and the stress on his body, he realised where he was - a VIP suite, for god's sake - and sought Sherlock's amused expression.

"Of course, Mycroft, obviously," he said in a not friendly assessment of his brother, confirming John's assessment.

"Do you need more pain medicine? I was warned, Dr. Watson..." Trish began.

"John."

"... John, that you don't complain much, and that your comfort is very important."

A few other staff members came in then, helped John slide carefully into bed, maintaining the warming therapy and taking care not to jostle him, the central line, the warming blanket, and the catheter, more than necessary.  Despite their care, he still managed to be breathing hard and grimacing once they'd positioned him.  "Burns," he offered, when the question was posed again.  "Mostly hands."

"Burns?" Sherlock sought to clarify.

"Burning cold," he nodded, brows furrowed as he puffed out a breath uncomfortably.  To Trish, he simply said, "Yes, please," and they all understood he needed pain relief.

The night was disjointed, with getting him settled, further narcotics, the flush of his vasculature system with IV fluids, the emptying of the catheter, the positioning on the air mattress for comfort.  One of the nurses explained to John that his leg wound would be evaluated by their plastic surgeon in the morning, when he could tolerate the activity and being uncovered long enough.  It had already been cleaned in the A&E, dressed simply until it could be seen later.  By morning, the settings on the Bair hugger had been dialed down, and John's core temps were approaching normal.

The pain, however, had escalated beyond the intense shearing sensations of both hands and was now including his legs from the knees down.  Even the sensation of the air blanket was borderline overstimulating, the brief assessments of the nurses triggering pain reactions and each time he tried to get comfortable, just the simple act of moving making him wince.

Sherlock slept not at all, and John only dozed immediately after narcotic doses, and fitfully at best.  The day was interspersed by the visit from the plastic surgeon, who proclaimed the leg should heal fine, but that it would likely take a fairly long time, and he suggested several different types of dressing they could try as well as recommended they watch very closely for signs of infection, given the situation, the damage from the hypothermia, and the likely contaminated water he'd been submerged in.  A repeat chest x-ray showed that there was no sign of aspiration pneumonitis or any infiltrates, thankfully.  Mrs. Hudson brought Rosie by around mid-morning, but the visit was frustrating for her being unable to crawl all over the place and frustrating for John that he couldn't hold her, given the intense pain in both hands.

Lestrade dropped by, said hello to John, but then turned immediately to Sherlock and practically dragged him out of the room by his ear.  John could hear the voices but make out no words as they left the vicinity of his room, the door closing behind them.

Sherlock returned, face slightly red, a few minutes later, dismissed the nurse with curt instructions that they were not to be disturbed under any circumstance, and avoided looking at John until he had closed the door and taken a seat at the foot of John's bed.

"I tried to tell you in the A&E, John, but..."  

"Sherlock," John started.

"No, no interruptions, not again."

"Sherlock," he insisted.

"Shut up, John, and let me --"

"I already know." John waited until Sherlock looked at him, smiled, smiled broader when they connected, thinking that perhaps he did know.  "I know," he repeated, quieter, "and it's all right." John could feel the pressure easing in his head, thinking that at last they might actually be doing this, heading somewhere, at the start of a very overdue relationship, finally.  "And it's the same for me."

He could see Sherlock swallow from his end of the room.

"I need to say it," Sherlock began.

"No, you don't.  Not because Lestrade tried to force you, or because Mycroft apparently owns part of this hospital, or because you feel some odd sense of guilt over what happened."

"Mycroft feels the guilt, hence this room and the nurse and ..."

"Focus," John offered, raising an eyebrow that for some reason was threatening enough to get Sherlock back on topic.

"It's always been you.  And I'm not sure entirely what all this means, but I know what I want.  It almost took losing you again to realise how much."

John nodded, feeling the peace between them, finally, things still unsaid but they would get there.  He breathed out, then in, appreciating the act more than he'd ever before, when it was nearly too late, and cleared his throat.  "I wanted one more conversation with you, I realised this when the water was rising, bargained for it.  I really thought that I might not get another chance, that I'd waited too long. I told myself, if I got the chance, I wouldn't squander it."  He'd been contemplating his words while staring at his hands on top of the covers, the weight of the sheets too much for the moment, and he looked up with a smile of relief on his face, feeling as at peace as he'd been in a long time. "I love you."  The whispered words were affirming, the weight of repression finally leaving, the relief too much for words, and he could feel his chest, shoulders, head relax.  It had to be said again, and he was surprised to find that the moisture in his eyes was actually spilling over, a single tear down one cheek, and he uttered the words again, a faint whisper, in quiet awe, "Oh, god. I love you."

Sherlock's lips thinned, flattened, sucked between his teeth, and John could tell he was struggling with words, with likely a lifetime of memories and sentiment and feeling overwhelmed running amok in his brain.  "I..." and his voice cracked.

"No. No rush.  I'm not going anywhere," John offered gently. Then smiled a bit as he looked at his hands, his feet. "That's a certainty until the pain is better," and when Sherlock almost looked concerned, he amended, "and not even then.  Don't worry."

The smile on Sherlock's face started small but genuine, and developed into a rare burst of fireworks, of sunshine, of deep-seated pleasure.  The sparkle in his eye and the sweet crookedness of Sherlock's mouth did nothing but strengthen John's resolve to make him smile like that at least once every day.  "I need to tell you, I can't do this without you.  The fall-out."  John nodded, knowing Sherlock's road ahead, dealing with his family was going to prove unpleasant.

"It won't be easy," John admitted, agreeing.  "God, I wish holding your hand wouldn't be akin to dipping my skin in acid, because we've waited so long."  They shared a smile, and then John continued.  "But I'll share it with you while you get sorted. Heaven knows, neither of us is without complication."

"Uncomplicated is boring."  Sherlock was acting as itchy as John felt, restless, and he finally stood to approach John's side.  Without hesitation, he leaned in, pressed his lips against John's, quietly then firmer.  John's mouth opened without much conscious thought, his tongue sliding toward Sherlock's bowed lip, teeth just barely nipping, playing, teasing.  John's breath caught when Sherlock moaned slightly from deep inside his chest, and John felt bereft as Sherlock stood again.  "Have to stop, you know. Dangerous for you, I would reckon," and his eyes flicked to John's lap, pointedly, although he did not mention the catheter, he didn't need to.

"Oh, not a chance of anything happening there.  Kiss me again, though," John said, chuckling, "before someone else manages to barge in.  Because I'm sure Mycroft knows by now."  Sherlock obliged, gladly, touching his hands up along John's face and into his hair.

"I think everyone on the floor knows, I managed to elevate your heart rate by at least fifteen beats per minute," he quipped, checking the bedside cardiac monitor, "I wonder how high I could make it."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Predictable is also boring."  With a deep breath designed to ease the chemistry in the room, Sherlock let his hand trail along John's jaw again.  "But for now, I suppose we'd best be careful."

The caress along John's face affected them both, though, and there was an easy tenderness in the gesture, and Sherlock almost took a seat again, then paused to pull the door ajar in case anyone needed entry.  He fussed with his mobile a few minutes, with John watching him, eyes heavy again. He looked up after a bit to find John struggling to stay awake.  "Sleep, John. I'll be here when you wake up," he promised.

The assurance was all John needed, and he slept until the pain in his limbs awakened him again.

 ++

The following day, both John and Sherlock started making a fuss about getting John out of there, and a few texts exchanged hands, and before long there was a physician in the room to discuss management at home as well as follow up appointments.  The central line, catheter, and monitor were removed, and once John was able to prove he could pass urine, they were allowed to leave, armed with pain medicine prescriptions, a bagful of dressing supplies, and an employee of Mycroft's waiting with a car to take them to Baker Street.  John hadn't realised until trying it, that the mere act of walking caused shooting neuropathic pain that radiated the length of his legs just from the pressure on the bottom of his feet.  Manoeuvering the steps from the car to the door and then up the steps had him nearly bent double in pain, and once it was feasible, Sherlock partially lifted him to the couch, brought him a cup of Mrs. Hudson's tea and two pain pills.

One of the biggest challenges was keeping Rosie from climbing all over him, but finally Mrs. Hudson distracted her enough that she was better just being in the same room again, content with her few small toys and the occasional burble of sound to make sure the men were still paying attention to her.

A courier delivered a new mobile for John, his previous one having been well and thoroughly dunked in the well, ruined.  He stared at it briefly, then laughed out loud, drawing puzzled looks from Sherlock.

"What?"

"Umm, nice gesture, but," and he paused to hold up his hands, "my fingers are numb and fairly useless right now."

"You do know phones can be almost completely voice activated, right?" 

"Later, we can set that up."  John closed his eyes there on the couch, feeling pins and needles that were not at all numb, but prickly sharp and stinging, like bee stings continually, as he waited for pain relief.  "Right now, this is all I want.  Right here, with my two favourites."  His mind supplied, yes, pill one and pill two, meet stomach, where you will be decimated and absorbed.

Mrs. Hudson chimed in then, "Well, John, that's very nice, but Rosie and I think you should include Sherlock in that count, you know.  Three favourites, then."  All right, then, John conceded, two pain pills and one cup of tea then - also three.  Smiling, he turned his face in the direction of the pillow on the couch, enjoying the sound and the scent of being home right where he belonged.

++

"John," the voice called again, a bit more insistent.  "You should eat."

"You're one to talk.  I've nagged at you for years without effect."

"If you want pain pills, you have to."  From behind his closed lids, he could hear Sherlock shifting Rosie in his arms and she was patting him and blowing bubbles, likely wriggling as she was wont to do.

The sounds changed, and John opened one eye to see Sherlock holding Rosie, who was reaching out fat arms toward him.  "Here, give this to your papa," and they both watched her crumple half a piece of toast in her fist as she held it for John.  "I'm putting her to bed, so say goodnight," and he lowered her so John could nuzzle at her.

"Want help?"

"Exactly what are you capable of helping with?"

"Plenty of verbal directions.  Did you change her?"

Sherlock scowled.  "Of course."

"Have a bottle?"

Sherlock held it aloft along with his middle finger.  

"Nice touch," John said.

"Behave, I'm putting you to bed next, after a bath."

John's mouth was suddenly dry.

++

"It's not too hot, is it?" Sherlock asked, worrying again about John as he tried to ease into the tub while keeping the sorest part of his hands and feet out of the water.

"No.  And I can do this.  Get out."

"What if you slip and drown?"

"Then I'll start praying for one more miracle again and a diver with SCUBA apparatus and bolt cutters will appear."

"Not funny."

"I know.  Not meant to amuse you.  Get out."

The water made a few ripples as John shifted, letting his hands gingerly settle under the surface.  "John."

"So help me, I will drown myself intentionally if you don't get out."

Sighing heavily, Sherlock stood, irritated, and John could feel the slightest twinges of victory.  Sherlock set a soft flannel, soap, shampoo, and a fluffy towel within John's reach, turned on a heel and disappeared with a huff.

He was back in a few minutes, and John glared an excuse out of him, "Sorry, just had to brush my teeth."

"Fuck you."

"Lovely, John.  Simply lovely, your language out of that mouth.  Makes me want to kiss you more, the tender words and sweet things you utter."

"I'm fine."

"I'm just out there imagining... "  A flush crept up Sherlock's neck, and John could see the angle of Sherlock's jaw clench, frustrated.  "Never mind," he said then, but he hesitated again.

And John saw it.  The concerned look Sherlock was wearing gave John pause, and while most of him was spoiling for a small-scale fight, he tried to empathise.  "I suppose," he began, "if you would feel better, I could use company.  But just sit.  And then, maybe later help getting out."

A hopeful gleam was visible in Sherlock's eyes, and John was reminded of his fragility, both of theirs, actually, and he grinned.  "All right, if you insist."

"Maybe."  John's voice was teasing, and his mouth tried and failed to hold back the grin that was threatening.

"I'll help you here, but I am not helping you up another flight of steps."  If nothing else, Sherlock definitely had the pouting stubborn childish face mastered, but then as they stared at each other, it grew more serious.  John felt every inch of his exposed skin flush as Sherlock watched him, his face mostly, occasionally a heated look as he looked just briefly at his form sitting awkwardly in the tub, his shoulders.  There was a pause, a deeper breath when he looked at his arms, shoulders, the way the water clung to his chest hair.  It was truly a chemical connection, an unmistakable communication of need and want and desire and intimacy, was clearer than any words could be.

"All right," John said again, "if you insist," and his voice was low and sweet and raspy.

++

By the time John had washed everything he could reach, his hands and feet still very tingly and painful, but thankfully (and surprisingly, to them both) not much worse and not peeling after their submersion again, and Sherlock helped him (at John's reluctantly caving in to ask for assistance) with shampooing, rinsing his hair, and washing his back, he was fatigued.  He set his feet gingerly on the floor, wrapped the towel loosely, clung hard to Sherlock's arm on the slow trek across the hall to the downstairs bedroom.

"You want me to ..."

"Oh, god, Sherlock please shut up.  Stop offering, stop hovering, stop fussing.  I'm not shy, obviously, I mean I just washed everything I've got right in front of you.  I swear on all that's holy I'll ask if I need something."  Shuffle, shuffle, cling tight in response to each time his weight shifted onto his feet.

"You?  Mr. Independent, I can do this by myself, don't need any help?"  At least his teasing was good-natured.  "Mr. Stubborn to the point of self-harm?"

John grabbed a clean pair of pyjamas, dropped the towel, let his body roll onto Sherlock's bed, turning on his side and unwilling to move his sore extremities any further.  "That's Dr. Stubborn, to you."

Sherlock took the nightwear, and John could only watch as Sherlock cuffed up the legs and began to slide them up over one of John's calves, up over a knee.  He was looking unabashedly, then, quickly but caught, and John resisted the urge to cover himself, instead could feel himself thickening, hardening, a few twitches under the scrutiny.  Lengthening. "Seems a shame..." he said, forcing his eyes up to John's face, letting the apparel drop partially over John's legs, moving long fingers to John's jaw, face, fingers touching, exploring, cataloguing, wondering and wandering.

"Jesus, Sherlock.  I'm not sure tonight is..." and to shut John up, Sherlock descended with urgency to kiss John into submission.  "I can't touch you like I want."

"You're touching me here," Sherlock moaned in response, pressing his lips in again, "and here," he brought his chest over to John's, his buttoned shirt brushing over John's bare and slightly warm, damp chest, the texture and finish of the fabric as stimulating as Sherlock's mouth was, his breath warm over his neck as he nudged at John's body with his own, "and here."  John could only catch and then hold his breath as Sherlock's hand boldly slid down his ribs, over stomach, focused, on a direct path, a mission quest, to firmly encircle his erection.  When John sucked in a quick inhale, Sherlock took an immediate pause, "I'm not hurting you, am I?"

"No, god, kiss me again.  And if you're going to touch,  please."

"Like this?" Sherlock said, quickly coiling his palm tighter, using the wet bead at the tip to further slick his palm, then holding John again, snug, firmly, his hand tight and then the moving started, John's hips and Sherlock's hand, friction and sliding and moist and John pressed in hard, good god so hot.

John could only moan, "God yes, just like that," and his hips stuttered and shook in Sherlock's grasp, time passing either drawn out or rapidly, and before long he was moaning deep, crying Sherlock's name, arching his back and coming, coming, coming in long and almost violent spasms.  Sherlock held John, one hand firm and trying not to overstimulate, the other free to roam about John's trembling body, the shivers for an entirely different reason this time but the similarity did not escape either of them.  Gently, his free hand fluffed into John's trace damp hair, over his shoulder, touching lightly over scar, collarbone, angle of jaw in need of a shave, and lastly up against John's temple, the corners of his eyes, laugh lines and much-earned lines of life and living.  It wasn't until Sherlock's thumb came up damp that they both caught eyes again, held.  Deep in each pair of eyes was powerful acknowledgement of fear and pain and almost separation and loss, the realisation that they almost never got to where they were at that very moment.  And Sherlock, with the slightly roughened pad of his thumb, brushed at the tears, wiping them away, brushing them away, the feel of Sherlock's hand across the entire side of John's face.  It was tender and loving and friendship and I'm-never-leaving.

They lay there a few minutes, basking in the feel and contrast of skin and clothing, lean and sturdy, dark brown and light brown, pale and tanned, until John finally breathed.  "I'm in need of another bath or something."  Sherlock's head was close enough to John's face that he could feel the contour change as Sherlock smiled, "and I'm a mite chilly now."  Sherlock pulled back, kissed him on the temple, and John shuddered again, "Maybe more than a mite."

Sherlock breathed deep, then quickly swung his long legs off the bed, only to return a few minutes later with the baby monitor, which he set in place, the bottle of pain medicine, a bottle of water, the pain relieving ointment if John needed it.  He also brought along a towel, which he made use of across John's hips.  The pyjamas were quickly pulled up, the duvet following quickly, and then Sherlock donned his own lounge pants, slid in next to John.

"You want this side of the bed?" John asked.  "I can..."

"No, John.  This is fine."

"Are you sure Rosie is ..."

"Monitor.  Video monitor even, so, look, she's fine."

"Where'd you --"

"Mycroft, obviously.  You still ask questions like an idiot."

"I'm not that much of an idiot, obviously."

Sherlock's brows knitted, and he looked at John, wondering what he was missing.

"Two things, actually.  If we're together, when you insult me, you also insult yourself.  Might want to think about how it reflects on you.  And," and at this point, John tried somewhat successfully to keep the nervous laughter from coming out, "I managed an orgasm and you didn't."

A faint flush appeared, accompanied by a lopsided smile. "That might not exactly be the truth."

"What?"

"I got out of bed to get the towel.  Was pretty damned close already, didn't take much."

"Next time, don't do that alone.  I might have wanted to watch you."  The eyes that stared back at John were darker blue from underneath the curls as Sherlock laid down on his side, head on the pillow.  He reached out an arm, slid it under John's torso, careful to avoid anything that might have caused him any pain.  John figured his eyes were also somewhat darkened with desire, with fondness, and he leaned up on an elbow to reach Sherlock's face, kissing into his mouth, his own open and hot and seeking.  "Or maybe help you," and he took the edge of Sherlock's jaw into his mouth, laving it with his tongue, sucking gently, giving absolutely no doubt as to what he and his helpful mouth might be referring to.  "If you're interested later, after we recover."

Laying back, himself against the pillow, John could only smile at Sherlock's whispered words thrown back at him, "If you insist."

++

John's first follow up visit was scheduled for about a week after he'd been discharged, and they found it all kinds of challenging, but managed it after some creative dressing techniques and John finally agreeing that slippers without socks were going to have to be sufficient for the day.  Seated together in the back of the cab, Rosie safely in Mrs. Hudson's care there in 221B, Sherlock tried not to look at John's feet, tried not to snicker, failed on both accounts.

"Be glad I'm not reduced to wearing pyjama pants."

"Later on you can wear nothing."

The smile they exchange is one of gratitude and appreciation and longing.  John, again, had to resist the urge to reach out a hand, the burning and tingling and discomfort keeping him from expressing tenderness that way.  But his knee pressed against Sherlock's there and Sherlock tried to reassure, "It'll get better.  Hopefully soon."

Hopefully soon was repeated to John as he lay on the exam table, the doc having measured sensation in four extremities and evaluated the ankle wound with an expression John recognised but didn't like.  It was reminiscent of when his shoulder wound was evaluated and found not healing quickly enough.  "I think this might benefit from hyperbaric therapy, John."  He explained the process and rationale briefly, all of which John had heard but Sherlock listened intently.

"All right.  Whatever it takes."  He took the proffered treatment prescription, folded it, pocketed it.  "Will that help with the nerve pain?"

"Not directly."  He affirmed what John already knew, then, "It is helpful for chronic pain, in certain instances.  Your pain is residual from just localised tissue damage, as you know," and John did nod, as did Sherlock, "and it's just going to take time.  Hopefully soon," he concluded, and John could sense Sherlock's reaction to the statement as it was repeated, "you'll feel an appreciable difference."  Reaching an arm out to John, he assisted him to a sitting position.  "In the mean time, I'm going to write you for some gabapentin for the neuropathic pain."  He took a couple of minutes to finish things up, discuss the dosage for John's type of nerve pain, his own patient's experiences with it, his belief it would help.

Sherlock looked up from his mobile after a moment, a downward purse of his lips, "I'm not sure gabapentin is wise. The side effects ... "

"Sherlock," John breathed, trying not to show the pain elicited by the reflexive moving of his fingers as he sought clear words to respond with, "there are side effects to everything."  His eyes flicked intentionally to Sherlock's forearm where he knew a nicotine patch was.  At least one that he knew of.

"This one causes ED, John."  Had it been only the two of them in the room, John might have chuckled at the look of concern he was wearing.  "How bad exactly is your nerve pain?"

Making every effort not to establish eye contact, John turned toward the provider and uttered, low and calm, "Can you excuse us for a moment?" and the provider discreetly said nothing and left the exam room.  "Sherlock," John began.

"I didn't say don't get it, or don't take it."

"I know."

"Get it filled.  I know it's bad, that anything triggers it, that you aren't a complainer and that it must be god-awful excruciating at times."

There was a tone, a stress underwriting Sherlock's speech, something deeper, John could tell.  He waited, and when Sherlock stayed quiet, John prompted, "But."

Rather than speak, Sherlock stood up, an arm coming up behind his neck - stress relief - and he moved to the window to absently stare out and avoid John's discernment.  The silence was stony and heavy.

"Please tell me."

"It's terrible.  And awful of me," he said, a whisper of shame.  John rose to stand behind him carefully, slowly given the discomfort in his feet, and he slid close, his upper arm brushing against Sherlock's back, as he'd gotten accustomed to using those non-painful areas more often and desperately wanted the physical connection.  "We only just got here.  I never knew..." his voice trailed off.  "I just don't want you to have to sacrifice any more than you already have.  I mean, really, John," and there is a hint of Sherlock's eyes shining, unable to completely hide his emotional pain, being just a bit too wet as he looked at John, who was trying to hide the physical pains in his hands and feet.  "It has cost you -- I, I have cost you -- almost everything." Pausing, he looked away. "And now this too?"

"Stop it," he said, gently.  "Just stop it right now."  The softness about him is even gentler the second time, as if soothing a distraught and fragile child.  "We both have paid, you know, in various ways over the years.  And I have you, and Rosie."  There was a tremor now in John's voice, and both were silent for a bit, reveling in the touch of John's upper arm and chest against Sherlock's back.  "Right now, that's all I want.  My choice. I'm going to fill this damn med at the chemist's, for times when it's really bad, if it's unbearable, just to have available in case I can't stand it.  And then please take me home."

Resolutely, Sherlock took John's face between both of his hands, pulled them together, kissed him solidly, eyes squeezed tightly shut after a bit and they both ignored the reason.  After, he opened the door as a signal they were ready, and the doc re-entered.

++

Rosie was a tremendously easy baby, and once she was down for the night it was a fairly sure thing.  So one night shortly after his final follow up appointment, John put her to bed, said good night to Sherlock, and climbed into bed himself.  His skin was still over-sensitive, and they'd found that flannel or jersey sheets were much more comfortable.  Sherlock, however, he'd joked, had missed his 700 count linen, and John still smiled about the pouty face he'd made at the time.

For now though, he stripped to his pants, quickly changed the dressing on his ankle again, which the hyperbaric therapy was drastically improving, and climbed into bed, taking stock of the pins and needles that still bothered his feet.  He had developed a nightly routine of an emollient lotion before falling asleep, and it was while he was still applying this that Sherlock came into the room. The rest of the flat was dark, and he was carrying a bottle of water for the nightstand for either of them if it was needed, also a new nightly habit just in case. John no longer joked about having had enough water, thanks, as Sherlock still felt a degree of responsibility for the hardship and experience.

"You all right?" John asked, curious.  "Bit early for you."

"Lonely."  There were times, John knew, that the darkness and repercussions of the childhood events would still bother him from time to time. Survivor guilt and regret. He took the bottle of lotion from John, joined him in bed, and waited until John got comfortable. They hadn't done this yet, but John was certainly agreeable. "Tell me if this isn't good, or if I rub too hard."

"I'm sure it's fine.  Stay off the ankle."

"Obviously."  Sherlock's hands were gentle as they figured out what position was best for John to relax while Sherlock smoothed the lotion into John's skin.  His thumb worked the top of John's shin bone while his fingers slid and massaged the back of John's calf.  Enjoying the sensation and relaxing into the pillow, John let his eyes drift closed and only opened them again when Sherlock's fingers halted.

"You can stop anytime," John prompted, wondering what thoughts had derailed Sherlock's mind and hands.  "That was wonderful," he purred.

"I'm enjoying it too.  Just thinking while I rub.  What was this IV line called?"  His thumb brushed again at the remaining bump at the top of John's tibia just below his knee. It was not painful, but oddly, partially sensitive.

"IO. Intraosseous, why?"

"Just thinking about bones. Rather functional body parts. Did you know that the calcium concentration of your daughter's is vastly different depending on which bone we're talking about, and the location of the growth plates ..." and John let his eyes close again, his mind on a tangent, thinking of bones and Rosie, and Victor more remotely, but more than that, thinking as Sherlock's hands rubbed lotion on his still healing skin, that he was one of the luckiest people around. Sherlock's voice continued, waxing and waning and changing topics as his brilliant mind took one one subject and then another, until he could finally feel his body attempting to descend those final waking moments into sleep.

"Enough," he said gently, sliding his leg out of Sherlock's beautiful hands.  "That was wonnnnnnnderful, thanks."  Leaning up on an elbow, he kissed Sherlock, intending for it only to be a solid but singular meeting of lips.

Sherlock had other ideas, reaching both hands around John's face, then following him with his body as John eased back onto the pillows.  A guttural moan came from one of their throats, or possibly both, the pleasure and satisfaction and comfort in their presence a sure and appreciated thing.  Sherlock's hand slid from John's jaw to his chest, rubbing lightly over ribcage, feeling John's inhale, exhale.  Muscles were relaxed, soft and warm.  Sherlock stretched a long arm back to extinguish the bedside lamp, then tucked his long body up against John's, knee slotting, elbow tucked in, arm possessively across John's waist.

Inhale, exhale.

John tipped his chin to rest along Sherlock's curls, breathed deep of the hair product, shampoo, that innate scent of the best man he'd ever known.  "Love you," he said, another new habit that he didn't take for granted, the ability to say it aloud, the privilege of speaking it, the security of knowing it was returned.

He could feel the contour of Sherlock's face change, the smile that came easily when they were together like this, the togetherness, the intimate moment.  "I love you," he echoed, the words slow and deliberate, with the low baritone of sincerity.

John could feel the arms tighten, the slightest hitch of Sherlock's breathing.  "It's okay.  It's always been you for me too, you know."

++

Rosie burbled and batted at John's head as he kissed and tickled her chin with his face.  Standing upright again, then, John carried on a conversation with her about what they were going and what the rest of the day was going to be like, ending with "if I can ever get you into these blasted clothes, Rosie.  What do you think about a tee shirt and something stretchy, yeah?  Nothing that requires fastening."

A nose pressed into the top of John's shoulder, dark curls tickling at John's neck, and Sherlock's warm breath blowing just a bit.  It was an intimate and familiar gesture, tender in its own way.  "Just say the word and I'll help you."

Sigh.  "I'm not giving in yet.  I got the nappy already."

"I know, I wouldn't have offered if that was still outstanding."

"Gee thanks," John teased, although Sherlock had already changed plenty of nappies, complaining each and every time.  The shirt bunched up, slid out of his hands again, and he studied the opening intently, his fingers refusing to cooperate fully yet on the smaller item.

"Rosie, may I introduce you to the most stubborn, bull-headed, prideful man on the planet?"  Sherlock had left his head against John's shoulder, took the opportunity and nibbled just enough to be annoying over John's collarbone, earned him a squeeze between John's shoulder and neck.  "Seriously, John, I could finish in two minutes what it takes you ten to accomplish.  Does it really matter that you do it yourself?"

In a rare show of emotion, John gritted his teeth, muttering, "I hate this."

"It's better.  It's getting better."  The glare on John's face as he stared at Sherlock was not particularly threatening to Sherlock, who simply laughed, said, "You don't frighten me.  Not even a little.  It is getting better."  He sat down on the chair by Rosie's cot upstairs there at 221B while John continued to resist asking for help.  "You're just upset because I refuse to let you wear those stupid button-front shirts buttoned all the way up like an old man."

"I like my clothes and am not sorry they don't meet your fashionista standards."

"I like your clothes just fine, actually," he breathed, obviously irritated, "particularly once I've taken them off you and they're crumpled in a pile on the floor."

"Sherlock."  His glance at Rosie expressed his concern.

"She doesn't understand."

"Stop criticising my clothes.  And here, while you're at it," John said, stepping back slightly from his daughter but leaving a hand on her protectively to prevent sudden movements, "please will you help me with this?"  He moved, keeping his eye trained on Sherlock's face as he glimpsed the undershirt he'd chosen for Rosie.  It was a long sleeved one with snaps, silk screened with the periodic table on it, captioned 'I wear this shirt periodically' and Sherlock's laughter was so loud it actually startled her. 

"Oh, God, John, where did this come from?"

"Molly of course.  She wants to stop by later, I think she's bringing someone who wants to meet you."

"With any luck, he doesn't want to inflict bodily harm on either of us, for all that."

"I told you, she's all right."  They had discussed it, that Molly knew, and had known, exactly what was transpiring, that she was playing along.  She had come to see John very early in his recuperation, just a brief pop in.

Sherlock finished fastening the baby's clothes, picked her up and snuggled her close.  "There you are.  Ready for whatever the day brings you."  

"Sherlock," they heard.  There was a voice from the sitting room, a deep and somewhat nasal voice clearing his throat and then calling up the stairs again.  Mycroft.

Sherlock groaned.  "Anything except that."  He held Rosie up in front of them.  "Perhaps you can vomit on him today, eh Rosie?"

"What does he want now?" John asked.  The brothers had been awkward with each other since the deception had come to light, the pain and realisation of how deeply all of what had happened had affected them both.

"Probably food, Mrs. Hudson's been baking non-stop and he knows it, I'm sure."  He offered John the baby, "Here?"

"You'd better, the steps and all."

It was true that John's pain was better, but he still took his time on the stairs and was very cautious about carrying Rosie up or down, just with his feet pins-and-needles painful and his hands still a bit numb and tingly.  Before long, they were gathered uncomfortably in the sitting room, John in his chair giving Rosie a bottle while Mycroft and Sherlock talked a bit of some of the outstanding government issues that John tuned out.

Rosie fell asleep after the bottle and a few minutes of fussing, and Sherlock took her from John, eased her into the smaller cot they used during the day.

"I did actually come over for a reason today," Mycroft said, and there was an unusual nervousness about him that made both John and Sherlock take notice, pay attention.  "The well has been completely cleaned out, Victor's ..." and he paused, a sad smile in Sherlock's direction as he sat on the opposite end of the couch, then finished gently, "been returned to his family."

Sherlock was stonily silent, unreadable.  John wished they were next to each other that he could reach out a bit.  "Good to know," John said, quietly.  "I'm sure they knew, but to hear it for sure must have been a relief."

"They do want nothing to do with the Holmes' family, however," Sherlock deduced as he studied Mycroft.  "Understandably.  But you're here about something else."

A faint nod, and Mycroft slid a hand inside his vest pocket.  "There were some items found at the bottom of the well, buried underneath some of the silt and sediment."

He handed a clear plastic bag to Sherlock in silence.  Pensive, Sherlock turned the items a few times within the confines of the bag.  "It was my birthday, wasn't it?"  John looked over sharply, surprised, wondering at what else he didn't know.  "When he disappeared."

"It was a few days before, yes.  He'd brought your gift, apparently.  The wrappings had disintegrated of course."

Sherlock handed the bag over to John.  Inside were two engraved boy-sized pocket knives.  One said VT, the other SH.  Something they could use together, a gesture of friendship, a nice addition to the gift.

"We used to carve things," Sherlock explained.

"Is that what you're calling it?" Mycroft snorted.  "Expensive furniture.  The front door.  Mummy's favourite rose bush."  The side of Mycroft's mouth twitched, and John was glad to see it, hoping it meant that they were making progress.  "My pillow, as I recall, was mysteriously disemboweled."

Looking up from the bag to see Sherlock's impish expression at Mycroft's recollection, John chuckled.  "I can well imagine that."

Sherlock turned an eye to John.  "Careful, because I might have my eye on some of your clothing."

In response, John’s fingers silently moved to the top button on his collar as if to button it, and they smiled at the gesture.

There was still a seriousness to Mycroft, however, and he cleared his throat.  "I wasn't going to give them to you, but I have kept too many secrets already, over the years, and I," he let the sentence end there.  "I wanted you to know.  And I wanted to remind you that it doesn't always end badly for us.  It doesn't have to, anyway."

Standing, Mycroft shrugged into his coat, then turned to look intently at Sherlock.  "I brought you something else to make sure you remembered that.  Do with it what you will."  He tossed a plain envelope casually on the coffee table as he nodded then said goodbye, only to pause again at the doorway, looking first at John then back at his brother.  "Sometimes we are given a second chance.  Or in your cases, a third or fourth."

In the silence of the sitting room, they both looked pensive as Mycroft's feet grew more distant, then the outside door slamming, and finally John looked at the envelope.  "It won't explode, will it?" John quipped.

Grateful for the minor humourous distraction, Sherlock shot him a smile.  "I think, knowing Mycroft, that might actually be for you."

Eyeing the envelope skeptically, John squinted at it, then shook his head.  "Probably not going to be able to open it anyway.  Not without using my teeth, and I'm kind of feeling that might be a bad idea, seeing as how it's from Mycroft and all."

In short order, Sherlock had ripped open the envelope and emptied the contents into John's hand.  It was a brand new, sparkling version of the little pocket knives that Victor had apparently secured for Sherlock's birthday so long ago.

It was engraved, and Sherlock tilted it so they could both see:  JHW

++

"She's down for the night, then?" Sherlock worried.

"Sugar crash from the second piece of birthday cake you let her have."  The gathering had been small but fun, and Rosie put on a wonderful one-year-old cake smashing show.  John shook his head at Sherlock but was smiling fondly.

"That was my intent."  An eyebrow raised, questioning, and Sherlock grinned with his whole face.  Every now and again, John remembered the goal he'd wanted at the hospital, to make Sherlock smile every day.

"My, my, someone's anxious, it seems?" John teased as he crossed the room, discarding clothing, the button shirt joining the denims, the shoes, until finally he was joining Sherlock under the duvet.

"Of course I am, you've been teasing me all day.  Bending over to pick up Rosie's toys, fixing dinner, doing the dishes, good god, John, now that was hot."

"Right, and you eating that banana this morning was not teasing at all.  Licking your wine glass at the party, in front of all our unobservant friends, also not teasing."  John flung the duvet back to expose the alabaster skin, reached out to pinch a nipple between his thumb and index finger, then slid his hand down Sherlock's lean torso, flicking at his iliac crest before reaching hands back to pull his bum closer.

"Stop that, I'm too close already," Sherlock growled low, taking John's hand, then drawing one of John's fingers into his mouth to lick at it, sucking lightly.  They weren't quite as sensitive as they used to be, but certainly nothing hurt anymore.  He wriggled his finger, grateful for many things, as Sherlock nipped it slightly, letting his pelvis rock closer, in John's direction.

"Oh?  Is that supposed to stop me?"

In answer, Sherlock rolled them both over, digging into the mattress while grabbing both of John's hands in one of his to hold them over his head.  John dug in with his heels to align their bodies better, touching from shoulder to feet.  The kissing was heated, with tongue, teeth, hot breath, and Sherlock ended up brushing both hands down over John's chest, holding them together in one big hand.

Trusting, John left both hands right where they'd been placed, over his head, on the pillows, relaxed and safe.  There was a bit of a groan, a breathy "love you" and an answering echo.

"Please?"  Grin.

"If you insist."  Nod.

++     fin     ++