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[ John would say it had been a normal day, as far as days tended to go anymore. He was ever a man drilled into taking up a routine at the end of the day, and the past couple of years certainly hadn't been an exception.

Wake up, breakfast, work, lunch, work, home, dinner, telly, eventually bed. Maybe a date breaking it up a bit, a phone call to Harry, a cuppa with Mrs. Hudson. A drink out at a pub somewhere. There had been a very noticeable lack of insane runs across London or criminal rings to be broken up since Sherlock's death, of course, and he would be lying to say he didn't miss it (even worse if he were to say he never missed Sherlock- not that he really tried saying either). But at the same time he'd come around to a certain appreciation for the stability, the same vague sort of gratefulness he'd had when he first came home from Afghanistan. No real chances of trying to hold some poor bastard together with two hands and not enough bandages: no best friends jumping off of hospital roofs, except in the occasional nightmare (and those, at least, he could handle having).

And god, he hated it, hated everything dark and washed-out, hated having nothing worth doing when he'd been part of something that felt so important and lost it, twice in his life, but he was still here. He walked, he breathed, he talked, he could still smile and still laugh, because he was very much alive and planned on keeping it that way. He couldn't go back into the army, Sherlock Holmes was dead, and the universe didn't miss a beat because of it (the Earth kept going around the sun, the bills needed paying, he needed honest to god human company and to not drive himself mad thinking about why and how he could have stopped any of it).

People might say any number of less than complementary things about John Watson, for whatever reason they'd have, but they could never call him a coward.

It was hard. It slowly got easier. He held no expectations of getting fully over what happened, but he wasn't stupid enough to say his life was over. Less than what it was, maybe, but there was always a little something worth the effort (and maybe he went to bars a bit on the seedier side more often than he ought to, maybe he'd stopped a mugging or two as time passed, played a little bit of daring with London traffic when he needed to cross the street, but it was worth it. A little fresh air. Something exciting).

Today was not a particularly exciting day. The routine went entirely as normal, he spent his day looking over colds and ear infections with all good humor and patience. Chatted with a nice enough woman when he stopped to pick up milk- definitely wanted to call her this week, he feels like he'd like to get to know her. Steady routine, good old responsible John, coming home like he would on any other day. A few more grey hairs than he used to have, the start of shadows under his eyes from a bad night's sleep, but on the whole still very much as John Watson as he's always been.

This, of course, is typically where one includes "little did he know." ]

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_{[ Minutes pass and nothing of interest happens at all: Sherlock continues to hold John up, refusing to allow his grip to slip and at some point, he moves just so that his leg doesn't cramp up - but beyond that, he's still, he's quiet and he's watching. He can't even bring himself to look away, because it's John and he'll never know just how much he missed him, because there just aren't enough words in the English language, and there's not enough even in the French language or the German - nothing fits, because this is far beyond the puzzle pieces Sherlock has learnt to cope with.

All of this surpasses everything he's ever learnt, and he's not entirely sure what he might have been expecting - he'd never even allowed himself to think of this day, not when there was always so much left to do. Eventually the days blurred and it all ended with the last man's life ebbing away at his feet, and he gained all of his control back in one smooth motion and yet it still felt as though he'd lost everything, like he'd left it all behind.

And he realised that he had - but it was never by choice, that's something he'll always have. That's something he can explain and maybe, just maybe, if he's lucky, John will understand, John will accept him and let him back in.

But he knows he doesn't really deserve it, because it was so long ago and it still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth even now.

The moment John blinks away, Sherlock offers him a smile - it's sad and it's slow, but it's there, and it's genuine, because these past few years have been anything but genuine and if anyone deserves that, it's John. The moment he spots tears is when he moves, gently wiping them away. God, that's not fair, because he needs to look up and away to make sure that his eyes don't sting him in a similar way, and he hates that he has to avert his eyes at all.

The question is met with a laugh, quiet and hoarse. ]}

Yeah. Yeah, I'm all right. You?

[ John hesitates for a beat, which annoys him because he's hardly a swooning damsel and he can do whatever the hell he feels like- grown man, he's got the right of way. Or something. He feels like he can feel entitled. When he gets over it, he reaches up to take a very firm hold of Sherlock's wrist, and he's quick about getting to it. Part of it is to do with putting a stop to that tear-wiping business. Fingers around his eyes and really just preventing the inevitable, isn't it.

But it's mostly to do with getting his fingers in the right position and pressing and counting what he can. Pulse, respiration, doesn't seem like he has a temperature. Completely physically fine. John's grip tightens, just a bit. ]

Been worse. [ Floor's clean. Not concussed. Definitely Sherlock. He breathes in through his nose, clears his throat, tries to smile back. It's... about passable. ] Bit shit for a reunion, wasn't it? Sorry.

I was hoping for a parade.

_{[ The floor is very pointedly cold. Cold in such a way that his bones are beginning to ache, the way in which cold just seeps through your clothes and up into your skin, cold, so cold, but never enough to make him move. His wrist is caught and he makes no move to pull it free, though his hand is still poised, refusing to relax. His pulse is steady, his breathing is rhythmic. All in all, very much alive, very much there and very much with John's head in his lap.

Still, it's not as though he can even force himself to care, whether someone walks in or not (but they won't, no, Sherlock has back up and the CCTV cameras have been switched off and there are no footsteps echoing in the adjacent corridor. They are, for all intents and purposes, alone - which is especially impressive, given that this doctor's surgery is very much a public place). ]}

I suppose I'll settle for a cup of tea at yours.

_{[ Because he didn't answer, and the irrational part of his brain is telling him because it's possible John doesn't want him any more, can't stand him, moved on, has a life. Illogical with nothing to prove any of those thoughts as anything more than conjecture, the very thing he hates to do without evidence and yet here he is, doing it anyway. ]}

Nobody's worth a parade. [ Though really, if anybody...

John hangs onto his wrist for just a few seconds, just to be sure, before he's going ahead and moving to sit up. Not an uncomfortable lap to be in, but the longer he's on the floor the harder getting off of it is likely to be.

He expects someone ought to have checked in by now, but all things considered, he's fine that they haven't. To Sherlock he offers a slow nod, a searching look. Cup of tea. Fast, easy, more comfortable, more room to try to sort out what to ask first. ] Okay.

_{[ John's already thought it before Sherlock commits to say it. He'd deserve one, if only because he's Sherlock Holmes. Stopped death and oh so much more, but that's for later, that's not a thought to have when John is pushing himself up, and Sherlock forces himself to stay still.

The moment John says 'okay' is one that has Sherlock's shoulders slump, ever so slightly, relaxing enough to breathe but not enough to unwind the coil of uncertainty entirely. He's just been invited back; it doesn't mean anything beyond accepting an explanation, and god, all of these unhelpful thoughts will drive him insane; Sherlock Holmes, look at the facts, not at the possibilities. The possibilities are never ending, a layer of one thought on top of another, always more dramatic and always something soul crushing.

There's no sense in it. He pushes it down and away, brings himself up and forces more factual thoughts into his head. John's been going through the motions, it's clear - barely sleeping, going out when he's asked and living a life Sherlock knows he hates. His hand has stopped shaking for the first time in what must be two years to the day Sherlock stepped off of the building, he has a crutch to enforce the psychosomatic limp Sherlock made a point to get rid of. It's almost like he was never there, but he was, because he can see it in the way John looks at him. He was there and does he really deserve to be now? ]}

Good. Good.

_{[ Reinforced, because that's precisely what it is; it is good, it's brilliant, and it's offered him enough energy to push up onto his feet, offering John a hand in the process. ]}

Edited 2012-05-13 00:31 (UTC)

Good enough. [ John takes Sherlock's hand without any hesitation, using it to pull himself up with a grimace. Straightens out his clothes, runs a generally futile hand through his hair, gathers up the clipboard from where it was dropped and stares down at it. Which might be a better tactic if he were bothering to actually read what's on it. ]

I'll have to talk to the front desk about leaving. Reschedule my appointments. [ Certainly not going to be happy to hear that much from him. He debates sounding put-out about this fact, but in all honesty just sounds distracted. That's what the day is, mindless to distracting in five minutes flat, Sherlock Holmes walking in and John Watson dropping everything to follow him back out.

It's frustrating. It's annoying. He's still going to do it without shouting this one time because he needs answers. Because he can't say "this is where I'm staying now, go wait for me," because for all he knows he's hallucinating. Be a terrible day to go mad. ]

_{[ His fingers curl around John's hand and he holds still, acting as the weight that'll help him to his feet. He lets go fairly quickly - as soon as John's steadily on his feet, and not for the first time in two years does Sherlock miss the confines of his coat. The natural habit of placing his hands into his pockets is forcefully ignored, and instead he leans up against the bed behind him, patiently waiting on John. ]}

No, it's done. _{[ Outwardly, he's every bit as calm as once might expect, but inwardly, oh, now that was another story entirely. His heart beats as quickly as it did the day he left John behind, so irrelevant or so he'd like to hope; a distant past, something he's come back from and intends to try and fix, but it's not all up to him. ]}

Are you ready?

_{[ The answer is plain, Sherlock's read it several times over, so why did he even bother to ask? ]}

More or less- what do you mean "no, it's done"? How done is "done"?

[ Do I still have a job, Sherlock, and I don't suppose you can deduce where I put my bloody cane while you're at it.

John naturally takes to the more important questions when more than one elects to crop up.

He could have outright answered with "yes", which was more accurate, but he feels a distinct and childish urge to make himself not desperate. ]

It's been taken care of.

_{[ There's a very gentle tilt of the head, something that says come on without so many words. He scoops down and picks his cane up, holding it out without another word on the matter.

He even manages to keep his expression steady, despite how entirely unimpressed he is with John's returning psychosomatic limp. ]}

[ John will definitely award points in Sherlock's favor for that much- because the look on his face is one very shameless advertisement for not a word, please.

He'll follow along readily enough with that, of course, but questions are not out of the picture. ]

You do know you can't just pull someone out of work problem-free and only give a vague excuse?

Yes. I also happen to know that it takes a lot of persuading for someone to take over another GP's shift, not to mention a ridiculous amount of paperwork which allows you the rest of the week off. There are no strings left untied.

_{[ Sherlock takes his moment of explanation to lead John through the clinic, offering a quick smile towards the receptionist (practically works for him, like the majority of this clinic), until he barely pauses before the automatic doors. Once they open up, Sherlock marches towards the waiting taxi a few mere feet away. ]}

It helps when most of the people here owe me a favour or three. Do keep up, John.

Well, excuse me for falling out of practice. [ But he doesn't sound all that sore about it, not really. Not today. Today he just wants to get into a taxi, have tea with his dead best friend in his flat, pretend he doesn't feel like walking next to him with a cane officially removes most dignity from his person, and then very likely sleep it all off.

Which, apparently, he'll have the week to do around... whatever exactly Sherlock wants him for. ]

You're not excused.

_{[ It's shock. He's taken John into consideration this time - actually, he's done nothing but think about how this day might go, from John's reactions to the weather, of all things.

And perhaps it's not going as smoothly as it could be, but it's better than some of the scenarios Sherlock had thought up. Once John's in the car, Sherlock informs the driver of John's address (yes, he knows where you live, John) and then settles back into his chair. He finally takes the time to give John a proper once over. ]}

Shocking.

[ On the matter of John's proper once over there is enough to say. Military posture, tight hold on his cane handle, head turned to look out the window but all his awareness very focused on the car's interior. It was look out the window or blatantly stare at Sherlock through the whole ride, and he imagines he'll be doing enough staring over tea.

Lost a little weight, a bit more by the way of grey hairs, in the middle of one of those bouts of bad sleep nights that everybody comes by now and again. Does his shopping, does his work, hasn't been sick, not currently in a relationship, drinks but not heavily, on... moderate speaking terms with his sister. Uncomfortable and confused at current, which is probably to be expected.

Healthy and hodgepodged together into one working piece, on the whole. ]

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