After nearly a month of Sherlock fretting alone in Baker street at night John finally smilingly admits that he's coming home for the night. They have had outings… ghastly walks in the park and eventually visits to Angelo's and the Chinese a few blocks from their flat but always and invariably Sherlock has reluctantly returned John to the clinic before darkness fell.

John doesn't seem to find these instances particularly stressful. They tire him out yes, but no more so than the trips to the therapy room or the visits from his therapists. It is more a matter of John simply being easily tired these days. He smiles and if Sherlock is lucky he makes small talk and acts like at least an approximation of the old John Watson.

There had been one incident in the Chinese place in the first week of outings when John had started to hyperventilate for no apparent reason that Sherlock could deduce and had had to be brought back to the clinic but it had been an isolated event and since then everything had gone smoothly.

There were days when John wouldn't say much, when he refused to venture out of the wheel chair that came and went as illogically as the cane that he had carried when Sherlock had first met him. Sherlock didn't think it was much of a surprise if John had developed another psychosomatic ailment but the doctors assured him that John's pain wasn't psychosomatic. Apparently they couldn't decide if the pain was caused by nerve damage due to the broken knee or complications due to the stab wound but they kept insisting that the pain was in fact real and had, despite Sherlock's assurances that John didn't like painkillers, put him on rather a strong course of them.

That was possibly the most alarming of the developments concerning John's care. Never before had John not been active in the care of his own ailments. Strike that, John wasn't just active, he was aggressive in ensuring that he got just the care that he thought right. Now Sherlock wasn't sure quite what was holding John back but it was a fact that John did not protest when the doctors cancelled their outing because John wasn't feeling well John did not tell him so, the doctors did, and John did in fact not say anything that day other than 'Yes', 'No' and 'Please Sherlock don't'.

That had however been two weeks ago and today John was sitting on the side of the bed smiling, clutching his cane which suggested that he wasn't going to insist on the ghastly wheelchair and offering Sherlock a very enthusiastic 'home?'.

They took a cab despite Mycroft's offers of getting them a car. Sherlock suspected that even so it was for all intents and purposes Mycroft's cab seeing as it had arrived 0.4 minutes too quickly to really be a genuine cab and the driver seemed entirely to calm and collected upon seeing John hobble out of the clinic with bandaged arms and a very distinct limp.

The evening is wonderfully normal. They order Chinese and John writes something or other on his computer while Sherlock regales him about the case that Lestrade brought the other day. The odd thing is that Sherlock can't remember many of the details of the case, he hasn't really been paying attention.

When John looks at him and says 'Sherlock judging by your notes here I'd say it's the secon'd wife's brother' Sherlock knows that it's not just John who's is struggling with their separation because that deduction was all too obvious and how had he not made it on his own.

That is the point at which he decides to deal with the elephant in the room. Not because it is the right time but because he needs a distraction or he is going to get emotional and he does not do emotional.

'I had your room re-decorated. It was getting rather outdated.' Sherlock quips staring out of the window and pointedly avoiding looking at John who's expression passes through shock, gratitude, anger, frustration and fear in a surprisingly short period of time.

'Oh.' Is all John says in return. He doesn't ask why Sherlock chose to re-decorate his room without his say so, he doesn't ask what changes have been made. None of that really matters. They both know that the bed had needed to go. It had been badly blood stained and carried too many memories. At Sherlock's mention of the new décor John steels himself. Going back into that room had been one of the things he had feared the most about this visit.

He limps upstairs and stops in front of the closed door. Leaning his forehead against the solid wood he takes a few calming breaths. He can sense that Sherlock is behind him but he is keeping his distance, refraining from touching John.

Finally he opens the door and hesitantly steps into the room that witnessed his humiliation. He blinks in surprise. Sherlock had not been joking when he said that he had re-decorated. In fact John seriously doubted that Sherlock had been the one to do the re-decorating. If he had the design work had clearly involved a personality re-decoration because the room in front of them was not the work of a self proclaimed sociopath.

The bed was still practical and utilitarian. But the headboard with the bars had been removed in favour of a sleek smooth headboard in a dark wooden material. That John could imagine Sherlock picking for him. The rest of the décor was more of a surprise. The walls had been re-painted a pale blue colour and upon one of the walls hung insanely sentimental pictures from John's past. There were a few pictures from Afghanistan, two from uni, one of which had Mike Stamford in the background which suggested it might actually have been chosen by Sherlock seeing as John and Mike had not been close as students…. But the majority of pictures were of John and Sherlock… in all kinds of situations, laughing, scowling, even one where they were clearly arguing and for some reason they made John smile.

One wall was still taken up by the wardrobes and the remaining two were limited by the doorway and the window which opened onto the fire escape outside… What little space was left on these walls had been covered with framed prints, over Johns small desk his degree diplomas and two framed awards he had received for his blog and on the window wall a framed print of the periodic table… probably a replica of the one in Sherlock's room.

John stared in confusion and then turned to Sherlock who was looking strangely unsure of himself. Why the periodic table? I'm a doctor not a chemist?' John asked.

'It… I…. I didn't know what to put there. The periodic table, it…I…' Sherlock trailed off which was in and of itself a strange thing but John understood, even if he was fighting back panic just standing in the doorway of that room he understood. 'Because that wall, is where he entered and the periodic table is the closest to something safe that you could think of.' John stated calmly and then despite himself he backed out of the room and sank to the floor on the landing outside.

'I'm sorry.' John finally manages, ten minutes after they have settled on the staircase. 'I can't sleep there. Not yet. I can take the sofa, or you can take me back to the clinic but I can't.' His voice is disturbingly wobbly.

'I can't make you sleep on the sofa. Would you sleep in my bed, I can take the sofa, or your room?' Sherlock asks hesitantly.

There is a very long silence from John and a gradually growing blush on his cheeks before he answers. 'Back to the clinic or… or your bed… but you have to stay as well… in the bed… I mean not for sex… I'm not saying…' and to Sherlock's horror tears start to trickle down John's cheeks.

'My bed, together… I don't mind. John it's ok.' Sherlock is convinced that he has said the right thing until John starts to tremble uncontrollably and press his face into Sherlock shirt clad shoulder.

Half an hour later he carries, actually carries, with one arm under his knees and one supporting his back, John down the stairs and into his own room.

John wakes twice screaming at the top of his lungs and Sherlock is convinced that the visit has been a miserable failure. He is surprised therefore when John's therapist takes him aside and tells him with a soft expression that she wishes all of her patients had as supportive a partner as him.

Sherlock is confused, but then he has always been confused at human emotions. John unable to sleep in his own room, John screaming from horrible nightmares and sobbing into Sherlock's wet shoulder did not seem like good things, and yet they made his therapist smile brightly… they even had John smiling when Sherlock left him, back at the clinic for another few days of strict therapy before he would be let home again.