many more days

[063. conscience]

"all i wanted to be was your giving tree,
settle down, build a home, and make you happy..."
-the giving tree, the plain white t's

Note: Contains references to the short stories The Three Garridebs and His Last Bow. I have made changes, of course, and you don't need to have read those Holmes stories, but in case you were curious where certain aspects came from, it's those two stories of the canon of Sherlock Holmes. Cheers!

Doctor John Watson was broken, and this knowledge sat heavily on Sherlock's conscience.

It wasn't that he was emotionally broken—torn apart and shattered beyond repair beneath his skin, past his blood and muscles and bones and into his very soul (Though Sherlock reasoned he had already helped cause that long before—not that he wasn't a little battered or worse for wear when they'd first found each other). No, this was different.

Now things had made what could more or less be seen as a full circle, with the army doctor once again having to lean heavily on that bloody cane, only this time, the limp was definitely not psychosomatic; now the affliction was a physical scar, an angry red mark still being held together with stitches, indicating where the bullet from James Winter's gun had done irreparable damage to the area around the man's knee.

All that Sherlock could remember from the ordeal was blood—so much blood. He couldn't remember if John had said anything, if he'd even shouted out in pain from being shot, just that suddenly John was on the floor and he was bleeding, crimson seeping through his jeans. And then he'd taken the butt of his own gun and cracked it over Winter's skull, drawing blood instead from the criminal and rendering him unconscious until Lestrade and Donovan made it to the scene. He'd hastily gone to John to ensure that he was okay (Bleeding—still bleeding.) and the man had tried to assure the detective while firmly pressing his hand to the area to stop the flow (Oh John, sweet John, who cared more for Sherlock and his worry than the white-hot pain and the bullet in his leg). An ambulance for the doctor arrived only moments later, as Sherlock had shouted an angry threat at Winter, telling him to be grateful that Watson lived, or else he wouldn't allow the criminal out of the room unless he was dead, himself.

Sherlock had determinedly set his jaw and opted to go with Lestrade to work through the details of what happened. (Sitting in a waiting room while doctors removed the bullet from John's leg would not help him. Standing by John's bedside and waiting for him to wake up would not help him. Relaying the facts to the Detective Inspector to ensure that James Winter—or John Garrideb, or Morecroft, or Killer Evans, or whatever the hell he was called—would return to jail indefinitely... that would—comparatively—help John and ultimately ensure that other innocent people were not compromised.) Only when that was finished did he allow himself to relax.

However, when he later spoke to Mycroft, (Always Mycroft, with his hands in everything, his ears everywhere, always aware of everything going on, most of the time before Sherlock received any word.) he was told the facts about the doctor's condition (Mycroft, the only person from whom he trusted to hear the words truthfully, no coating of honey over them, nothing to soften the blow of just how bad things were.) and the tension returned. Sherlock could easily deduce just what it all meant—harm had come to the man's leg that could not simply be cured by a free dinner and the promise of danger. No, this had an impact that needed medical work, physical therapy, and, even then, the longterm effects would be permanent.

Up until that point, Sherlock could confidently say that John had always come out of their cases—at least physically—unscathed; of course, there were always the cuts and bruises, but those where mild and healed quickly. Sherlock himself was more likely to end up with the brunt of it all, and even he wrote off all of his injuries as 'just a scratch', an easy reflex, as it had become. (Plus, he had a doctor to take care of him, even if neither of them really ever addressed that fact.) But now, John had stitches and a new scar to add to his list of those he'd earned in Afghanistan.

And that cane—that bloody cane.

But Sherlock couldn't fix that. (Not this time.) Dwelling wouldn't do any good; it wouldn't change anything. (Stop thinking, store it away, move on.)

Still, in the couple of days that John had laid in the hospital and received treatment, really just wanting to be approved for discharge, Sherlock lounged in the sitting room at Baker Street, eyes closed and fingers steepled beneath his chin as he tried to come up with a solution to the problem that had now arisen. Now, after more than ten years (Ten years, eight months, two weeks, and three days.) of sharing the flat (The fall doesn't count—John never counted it, so neither should he.) there needed to be a change.

Sherlock mentally compiled the data, working out the best course of action from the list of sixteen options he could immediately come up with.

By the time John was finally back, sitting in his favorite chair, cane resting against the arm, his hand absently massaging the area near the wound, yet still smiling, Sherlock had narrowed the options down to one definite course of action. He'd weighed it out, mentally felt around it, trying to grasp exactly what it would mean. A small part of him wondered if his final decision was wrong, taking the voice of his brother, echoing the words that "caring is not an advantage"; but the rest of his brain easily overpowered that notion because, no, living without John Watson was a far worse disadvantage than caring for the man could ever prove to be.

He tried not to wonder how he'd ever come to this point, so vastly different from where he'd been not so long ago. But, well, when things involved Doctor John Watson, he supposed they didn't always make sense, and he was surprisingly accepting of that concept.

Sherlock waited three days (Enough time for John to begin to adjust, and to begin to feel just the edge of restlessness.) before approaching the doctor as he finished his breakfast.

"Get your coat," he instructed, providing no further details. He didn't get the man's coat for him, even if his hands itched to do so, knowing the doctor's determination to prove himself able despite his injury. He watched John's eyes shine with curiosity as he drained the rest of his tea, then stiffly got to his feet and retrieved his jacket and slipped it on. Then, he grasped onto his cane again and slowly made his way down the stairs of the flat, Sherlock awaiting him at the bottom.

John, by this point, had learned that questioning the taller man in times like this was useless. Instead, he quietly looked out the window of the black car they rode in, watching as the city of London disappeared, transforming into a beautiful country landscape. After some time, they pulled into the drive of a home, lovely and quaint; John quickly noticed that the house was marked 'for sale'.

"Sherlock?" he questioned, raising an eyebrow, but the other man did not answer, merely clambering out of the car and walking up the short path to the front door. Frowning slightly in bemusement, John pulled himself out of the car, leaning on his cane and following his friend up the path.

The doctor was quietly thankful for the lack of stairs; the roof of the house jutted out far enough past the front wall to create a covering for the porch, though it was at the same level as the surrounding land. Once he reached the front door, he watched as the taller man spun four numbered wheels on a lockbox until they provided the correct code; the box then opened, allowing Sherlock access to a key, which he then slipped into the lock and then pressed the door open. He stepped aside, letting John enter the house first.

The inside of the house was beautiful. Even though it was stripped bare, sparsely furnished due to its unoccupied status, it still had an inexplicable feeling of homeliness. There was a large sitting room, a comfortably sized kitchen and dining area, and a single bedroom and bath. To the right of the entrance was a flight of stairs, leading to a loft. Sunlight filtered through the numerous windows, giving the entire place a feeling that was bright and warm.

John couldn't help but appreciate the place; he could easily picture a finished product in his mind, mentally placing their furniture and belongings, imagining a well-lived in home much like Baker Street. And suddenly, the reality of it all sunk in.

"This isn't for a case," he said, realization striking him.

"No, it isn't," Sherlock admitted, and he slowly made his way into the sitting room, taking in every feature of the house.

John followed. He knew that Sherlock had planned for that—that John would blindly follow him anywhere, especially if he thought the reason was for a case, doing some research or following a lead or something else of the sort. But this served a different purpose. John was actually meant to be looking at the house as a potential buyer.

But as he tried to absorb every detail of the house, his face fell slightly; Sherlock noticed this, and furrowed his brow.

"Only one bedroom," John pointed out. "You want me to move here."

"I want us to move here," Sherlock corrected easily, and John raised an eyebrow at this. "The loft is easily converted into a living space—and some place I can work on my experiments."

"No more heads in the fridge?" John quipped with a smile.

"That would still remain a possibility," Sherlock responded, though it was only partially meant as a joke; he didn't want to make any promises on that matter, really.

John shook his head, silently chuckling as he glanced around. "This place is great, Sherlock," he sighed. "But it's hardly you."

Sherlock quirked a brow at this. "How do you figure?" he asked.

John shrugged, placing both his hands on his cane, shifting his weight to his uninjured leg (Proof, there, of the physical nature of the damage—he was still aware of the pain even as he stood, instead of difficulty merely while walking. And that wouldn't go away. It was permanent.) as he glanced around again. "Don't imagine there's much to keep your mind going, here," he commented, in an attempt at nonchalance. "'Stimulated', that is. Doubt it has the same sort of crime rates as London." Sherlock gazed at him as John continued to look around (But not at him, never at him... why?) and adjusted the weight on his uninjured leg once more. "I think you'd get bored rather quickly, and I'd really rather you didn't shoot the walls."

Finally, John looked at the detective, and Sherlock quickly took in as much information as he could. (His eyes, tired—so tired; could be from the medication, or from the pain keeping him up at night; maybe it has nothing at all to do with a physical tiredness, and it all was in his head, tired of years on the run, chasing after criminals and villains and Sherlock himself. Hair, greying; it was noticeable now, as were the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, becoming more prominent; he was aging, as was natural, but the change seemed so sudden, now, as though for years he'd been looking at the very same image of the man who had shot the cabbie through the window and saved the day—saved him. Now, John looked too old for his age, time accelerated by the war and, regrettably, Sherlock knew, by him, his lifestyle, his habits, always worrying the doctor because of his determination—determination to what? What was he really so determined to do? Determined to prove he didn't need anyone? He did. Determined to be consistently correct? He wasn't. Determined to show nothing, to always wear a cold, uncaring mask and pretend that he had no feelings, or that they didn't matter? John had cracked the facade wide open, pulled Sherlock out of the darkness, his savior, shining brightly and proving to him just how much it all did matter and how much Sherlock mattered, how much he mattered to John, and in turn, how much John meant to him—)

Sherlock blinked, glancing away from the doctor, sliding his hands into his pockets. "I've been reading," he said, and John cocked his head to the side, staring at the detective strangely, trying to mentally make the connection to the sudden admission.

"About?" he allowed himself to ask.

"Bees."

"Bees," John repeated, completely nonplussed, as though saying the word slowly would somehow make him understand Sherlock's thinking.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Quite interesting. Fascinating, really."

"You've been reading about bees," John said again. He furrowed his brow for a moment. "Yeah, that's definitely something you're going to have to clarify for me, Sherlock."

"I could have some here," he said plainly, but this only seemed to further the doctor's confusion.

"You want to be a beekeeper?" he asked with uncertainty, and just a hint of incredulity.

"I don't know," Sherlock snapped. "I could be one. Or I could continue my research and experiments, invest in some more specialized equipment so a trip all the way to St. Bart's wouldn't be necessary." He put a hand up, waving it as though he was physically grasping the suggestions out of the air. "I could write," he said, "something more substantial than my website, or your blog, revealing secrets to help people go beyond seeing so that they can truly observe, to understand how it is that I could successfully reach the conclusions in my investigations."

"You love what you do, Sherlock," John argued. "You said yourself that you consider yourself married to your work, that means—"

"I was wrong," he said, and the rarity of those words coming from Sherlock's lips silenced John. He huffed out a sigh of frustration as he eyed his companion. "Sit," he told him, his voice calmer, also with a certain sad gentleness to it. "You keep shifting, and you're gripping onto your cane tight enough to snap it. It's obvious your leg is hurting you."

John obliged, sinking into one of the few pieces of furniture, an armchair. He looked back to Sherlock to see the man watching him carefully, and again comprehension dawned on him. "This is because of my leg," he said quietly, glancing at the offending limb. "Because I was injured." He looked back up to Sherlock sadly. "You feel guilty."

Sherlock sighed again, crossing the distance between them and kneeling in front of the man; he then rocked back slightly into a crouch, sitting on his heels, his knees against the front of the chair between John's legs. John found himself simultaneously taken aback by the gesture, yet also not surprised at all because, well, this was Sherlock and he'd long ago accepted that the detective rarely did anything he found predictable.

"This has nothing to do with guilt," Sherlock explained evenly. "To act out of guilt would imply an attempt at changing past actions, and there is clearly nothing that can be done to prevent an injury that has already occurred," he said.

"Then what?" John asked.

"If nothing can be done to alter the past, then the only real solution is to take the necessary steps to secure a future that has taken these new facts into consideration," he continued. "I did just that; knowing that Baker Street and our current lifestyle isn't really a logical expectation anymore, adjustments had to be made: a one-story home with quieter days."

The doctor sighed. "Sherlock…"

"Even when reluctant or irritated, or when it was inconvenient, you have taken care of things since the day that we met, John," the other man cut across, staring intently at John. He placed a hand over the one resting on John's knee, stilling it over the still-tender wound. "This is my effort to return the favor."

John eyed Sherlock with a little uncertainty. (Trying to read between the lines, just as he always did so well—look beyond all of Sherlock's words and gestures to read into the deeper meaning, the emotion, which he always so vehemently denied having. But he did, and John needed to know, needed to see, to understand…)

"Sentiment?" John offered, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. It was a small, teasing gesture, but it helped Sherlock relax.

He allowed himself a small smile, and he shook his head, more at himself than at the actual statement. "I suppose, yes," he allowed. "Sentiment."

John regarded Sherlock carefully. "You want this." It was a statement, the comprehension finally setting in in its entirety. (At last.)

"Yes." One word. One nod. That was all he needed to respond.

The doctor continued to look at Sherlock for a moment longer, still crouched in front of him, as though he were still contemplating something. Just as Sherlock was about to question what other doubt the man could possibly have, he felt himself be jerked forward as John gently yanked on the front of his shirt. The hand that Sherlock had on top of John's flew forward, bracing himself against the doctor's chest and preventing him from colliding completely into him as he fell onto his knees, stomach now pressed against the front of the chair. His other hand fumbled for the arm of the chair to steady himself, but it was a needless effort because the moment that John closed any centimeter of space remaining between them with a meeting of warm lips, he felt his entire world tilt.

It was chaste, soft and sweet, the sort of kiss that gives promises of more in the future.

(There's time, now, so much time. Threats were gone, as were uncertainties and insecurities, just replaced with a calm and peacefulness. There was time for this, now: years, and months, and so many more days. Days with experiments and research and writing works; days with exploring new boundaries and definitions and routines; days with tea and jumpers and many, many more kisses like this.)