Author's Note: Life has been hard. Really hard. But I'm still here and hopefully so are you.

Chapter 6

Things had progressed slowly. So. Very. Slowly. It had been three weeks since he and John had reunited. Things were dreadfully quiet. Pros: his arms were no longer in slings, it looked like he would make a full recovery, and John didn't hate him. Cons: he still had limited mobility, he was still in a good deal of pain, and he was so terribly bored. John had started him on some mild physical therapy, but it was repetitive and tedious. He wouldn't disappoint him though. He wouldn't do anything even close to disappointing him ever again, even if it meant boredom, discomfort, and embarrassment.

Sherlock never claimed to be a modest man. He let himself be taken to Buckingham Palace in nothing but a sheet. It was different to be bathed by another person. It was different to be exposed because he had no other choice. It was different to be exposed to John. Every couple of days during the bed baths, Sherlock would just close his eyes and think of other things, cooperating when necessary. John was drawn to him for his cunning and strength, and he was ashamed of his current feebleness. Today would prove to be a mild improvement. No more bed baths. Really the bed baths had progressed to something more like chair baths, but it was only moderately better. He was itching to have a proper shower, or maybe even a normal bath.

They had just finished today's therapy, and John was looking over the healing scar on his left shoulder. His right shoulder would leave no permanent disfigurement. His injuries just needed time. Luckily, that time would soon be spent at Baker Street. Tomorrow, they were going home.

John looked up at him. "It should be fine to bathe properly. Well, more properly than before."

"Wait, wait, what do you mean more properly? Why not just properly?"

"Well, you'll still need help, Sherlock. I know you're out of the slings, but you don't have your range of motion back. I don't need you aggravating your injuries trying to wash your hair." That was one thing Sherlock hadn't minded about the bathing, John washing his hair. He hadn't had his hair washed by someone since he was a child, and it was deeply soothing to him. That comfort was currently being outweighed by his need for self-sufficiency.

"I'm not a child," Sherlock pouted, looking down and away.

"I never said you were. Come on, shower or bath?"

"Bath. It's easier isn't it?" he bitterly replied.

"Yeah, a bit. Try not to be so sour. Only a week more and you can bathe all on your own again," John said with a small smile. He hated to see his friend so uncomfortable, and he hated being the cause of that discomfort even more. At various times over the last couple of weeks, he questioned whether or not they should have hired a proper nurse. He started to the bathroom. "How hot do you want it?"

"The hotter the better. Please"

John looked up at the please, but didn't say anything. He just nodded and went to prep the bath. He had seen Sherlock pout and mope and whine. None of that was new. But he didn't think he had ever seen Sherlock quite so dejected. He started the faucet, and added a bit of the baby shampoo to the running water. Even just sitting on the couch and thinking, he radiated energy. John started to consider the possibility that Sherlock may be depressed. They were going home soon, and John hoped that would remedy the situation. "Sherlock! It's ready!" John yelled out, turning off the water. Unbeknownst to John, Sherlock flinched at the volume of his voice, and had to take a couple of steadying breaths before walking the few steps to the bathroom. Luckily, Sherlock had taken to wearing casual button downs and sweatpants to make changing easier. He didn't say anything to John as he began to unbutton his shirt. "So, I think you can do most everything on your own. Just holler at me, and I'll come do your back and wash your hair. Okay?" Sherlock nodded once. John left, but kept the door slightly ajar.

Alone for the first time since his arrival, Sherlock relaxed into the steaming water. The relief was palpable. He laughed at the absurd amount of bubbles. "Are you sure you don't think I'm a child?" he shouted. John poked his head in, concerned. He erupted into laughter at the sight of Sherlock's unruly curls hovering above a sea of bubbles. He had a point.

"I'm sorry. Baths and bubbles sort of run hand in hand to me." He was still chuckling. Sherlock wasn't helping; he was scooping up and blowing away the bubbles, some of them landing in his hair. "You look like you've never had a bubble bath before," John observed. Sherlock ignored him. "You haven't had one before, have you?"

"No," Sherlock answered indignantly.

"I should take a picture! This is a momentous occasion!" John elated, clapping his hands together.

"Either stop laughing or leave so I can enjoy this 'momentous occasion,'" Sherlock replied, sticking his tongue out.

"Fine, fine, I'm done." He didn't stop smiling though. How could he? His adult friend was having his first proper bubble bath.

"Stop thinking so loudly. You may not be laughing, but you're screaming amusement at me. You might as well wash my hair while you're here." John was surprised, but realized it was probably a good idea to get it out of the way. He sat on the edge of the tub, and squeezed the shampoo into his hand. Sherlock was elated when Mycroft retrieved all his usual toiletries. John was relieved as well. Sherlock had been obviously underfed when John arrived. His hair was shaggy, too. After a few dozen good meals, a haircut, and the use of his own shampoo, he was looking and smelling more like himself.

John started to lather the shampoo into his hair, carefully and thoroughly. Sherlock was genuinely relaxed, so he let himself enjoy it more than usual. He closed his eyes, this time out of pleasure and not the desire to disappear. John noticed he was leaning into his touch, but didn't say anything. Sherlock was never one for straightforward displays of affection, so John just gave a silent thanks. "Sherlock, I wanted to talk about moving back to 221B." Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. Was John rethinking moving back in with him? He just made a little humming noise, indicating that John should continue. "Well, I'll need to get my things from the bedsit, and-"

"Already done," Sherlock interrupted, relieved.

"What do you mean?" John asked, halting his hands in Sherlock's hair.

"Well, when you decided to stay, Mycroft had his men move it all back to Baker Street. I should also mention that because of this, Mrs. Hudson knows that we're moving back as well. As I understand it, Mycroft sat her down and broke the news of my resurrection. Pity too, I wanted to surprise her."

"That is invasive and presumptive and one hundred percent your brother," John laughed as he stood to grab the detachable shower head. He tested the temperature of the spray and leaned Sherlock back, holding the back of his neck.

As he was having the suds rinsed from his hair, Sherlock felt an unexplained heat spread over his body. He glanced down to see that his chest had gone all pink. He was blushing. Why was he blushing? He looked up at John to see if he had noticed. He hadn't. Sometimes he was grateful for John's lack of observation. It occurred to Sherlock just how intimate this was. Yes, John had washed his genitals, but that was part of routine hospital care. In the bathroom, with all the bubbles, being held like this, it felt almost… sensual? Sherlock was embarrassed to have even thought the word, and his chest went from pink to bright red. John was his friend, his best friend. He wasn't even interested in things like that. Even if he was, John was decidedly "not gay." He was just observing what the situation would look like from an outside perspective. That's all.

John turned the water off and returned Sherlock to his upright position. He ran his fingers through just a couple of times to shake some of the excess water out. John grabbed a washcloth and proceeded to wash Sherlock's back. Without realizing, John had started rubbing his thumb in soft circles on Sherlock's bicep, where he had grabbed for balance. Internally, Sherlock was preening. He had craved John's touch while he was away. He had underestimated just how much the two of them touched on a daily basis. Since coming back, there was no shortage of it.

"I think you've got it from here. I'll leave you be." The bubbles had started to disperse, and John was also noticing the intimacy of the situation. He didn't want to leave though. Sherlock was being playful and placid. It hadn't felt like this since before the Fall. One of them just so happened to be naked. He left.

Sherlock was grateful. He sank further into the bubbles and leisurely continued his bath. He underestimated how freeing it was to do something (mostly) on his own. He leaned his head on the edge of the tub and closed his eyes.

John thought about what it would mean to go back to Baker Street. He was oddly nervous. Like if he didn't tread lightly, it would all fall apart. He decided he might as well start packing what he could. Then he would make them dinner. He grabbed the duffle bag on loan from Mycroft. The posh bastard probably wouldn't mind if he took it home. He emptied his drawers, carefully folding everything except for his pajamas and his clothes set aside for tomorrow. He'd need to use most of his toiletries before tomorrow but there were a few things he could pack now. He rapped his knuckles against the door and poked his head around. His stomach dropped. Sherlock was completely submerged in the bathwater. There was no movement in the tub.

"Sherlock!" The name tore from John's throat. He ran to the bathtub, hooked his arms around Sherlock's waist, and pulled. The water had gone tepid, and Sherlock was definitely unconscious. He laid him unceremoniously on the ground and checked to see if he was breathing. He wasn't. Fuck, CPR was going to hurt his already damaged rib cage. He started compressions.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

He was desperately trying not to panic.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

Sherlock started to cough, water spilling from his mouth. The cough turned into a heave, and John drug the waste bin in front of him, knowing that he wouldn't make it to the toilet. John just knelt beside him, petting the back of his neck, and breathing heavily. When Sherlock's stomach seemed to settle, John grabbed the biggest, fluffiest towel they had and draped it around Sherlock's shoulders. He was dripping wet and shivering. John dropped his forehead to Sherlock's. "It's okay. You're okay. Just dry off. I'll get your clothes, and we'll get you warmed up." Sherlock didn't acknowledge him, but John went to get his clothes anyway. He picked out the thickest sweats he could find and a warm flannel button down with woolen socks for good measure. Sherlock hadn't moved. John dried his friend off, gently but quickly. He let John dress him. He let John lead him to his bed, layered with extra blankets.

Sherlock was still shivering. "Fuck it." John quickly changed into pajama pants and slid into Sherlock's bed. He drew his friend close, tucking Sherlock's head into his chest. He ran his hand up and down his back, trying to warm but also comfort Sherlock. "What happened?"

Sherlock sighed. "I must've fallen asleep."

"You can't be serious. So, that wasn't on purpose?"

Sherlock moved backwards, putting distance between them, and looked at him like he had spontaneously started doing the Macarena. "No, it wasn't on purpose. You think after trying so hard to keep you safe, to get back to you, I would leave you again? Of my own free will?" He was revealing more than he'd meant to. He was revealing more than he'd known there was to reveal. "I was feeling… calm for the first time since Moriarty threatened to blow your brains out, and I fell asleep."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." John brought Sherlock closer to him again. "It's just that drowning isn't a particularly pleasant sensation. It seems like you would wake up." He knew that their current position was more than what was considered okay between platonic friends, but he couldn't bring himself to give a single fuck, let alone separate himself from Sherlock.

"John," Sherlock was whispering now, "what exactly do you think they did to me while I was gone?"

They hadn't talked about this. John had specifically not asked about it. He wanted to wait until the wounds weren't so new, the memories so fresh. "I… I've seen the scars. You know I have." John dropped his voice to a whisper too. Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt, John helped him push it off of his shoulders, and he turned so that his bare back was facing John. He drew a sharp breath, and reached out. His fingertips brushed the edges of a few particularly angry scars. He had been whipped, that much was obvious. John cursed himself internally. As Sherlock's doctor he should've been seeing to a few of these, but he didn't want to cause him any unnecessary pain. Now that John was paying attention, it's obvious he should have. There were a few other scars whose cause wasn't so easily placed. There were even a few old ones that John recognized, that he had seen happen and heal in real time. A couple of them he had even dressed himself. "Oh, Sherlock." He turned back around to face John. There were far fewer marks on his chest. He started to pull at the hem of John's t-shirt. "Sherlock, what are you doing?" John's heart rate picked up, but he went with it, taking his shirt off so Sherlock wouldn't have to. He settled back down and Sherlock reached out, gently exploring the scar on John's shoulder.

"We match, John." Sherlock seemed to be in a sort of trance, tracing the outline of the mottled flesh.

"Yes, we do." But John wasn't just talking about the scars. Then he remembered why they were lying there chest to chest. "What does this have to do with what happened in the bathroom?"

"You've seen my injuries. You know I must've been tortured, most likely on several occasions. You're not that stupid. I trust that you're familiar with the practice of waterboarding."

John hugged Sherlock to him. He was mindful of his injuries, but he needed Sherlock in his arms. "So, you're saying that the sensation wasn't an unfamiliar one," John murmured sadly. Sherlock nodded.

"I was dreaming. Nightmares have not been uncommon for me since I left. There was no reason to think that because I was dreaming about being waterboarded that I was actually drowning."

"Sherlock, since you've been home, how common have those nightmares been?"

"Most nights. I haven't cried out since that first day though."

"You should have woken me," John insisted, running his fingers through Sherlock's damp hair.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, his eyes full of genuine curiosity. It broke John's heart in two.

"Because, if you're in distress, I'd like to comfort you." John kissed Sherlock's forehead. "Didn't your mother or father ever comfort you after a bad dream? Mycroft?"

Sherlock chuckled, seemingly unaffected by the small gesture. "Certainly not. I didn't have nightmares. At least, none that I can remember." If it had been anyone else, John would've called bullshit, but Sherlock didn't have any reason to lie to him. Especially not after what they'd just shared. He was still fiddling with John's scar. He seemed to be gearing up to say something. He opened his mouth, but closed it a second later.

"What is it?" John asked.

"Nothing."

"Yeah, sure. What is it? Just tell me."

"Well, as you can imagine, I'm not the biggest fan of nightmares. If you're not opposed, I think I'd like it if… No, nevermind. It's ridiculous." Sherlock had started blushing halfway through his rambling. John could feel the heat of it against his skin. It wasn't unpleasant.

"Sherlock, come out with it. What could be embarrassing at this point?" John tried to smile encouragingly at him.

"I'd like for you to sleep with me." Now it was John's turn to blush. "No! No! I don't mean like that. I mean literally sleeping in the same bed." Sherlock gestured at their intertwined bodies, and his voice dropped into a flustered murmur. "To try to fend off the nightmares." He paused, staring at John's dumbstruck face. John couldn't wrap his brain around it. Sherlock bloody Holmes was asking to be cuddled. "Forget it." Sherlock moved to get out of the bed.

John reached out, grabbing Sherlock around the waist and pressing him flush against him. "Of course I will, don't be ridiculous. I don't like the idea of being a flight of stairs away from you either, given your most recent near death experience." Sherlock wasn't quite sure how to respond. He let himself relax into John's embrace. He knew he would be safe with John. He was always safe with his blogger/doctor/soldier/flatmate/best friend. "Should we give it a go now? I'm knackered, and you should probably rest. When we wake up, I'll make some dinner, okay?" Sherlock just nodded.

As John was dozing off, he felt Sherlock breathe a soft "thank you" across his bare skin. He smiled drowsily at the bundle of consulting detective in his arms. He was so screwed, but that was an issue for a different day.

Author's Note: I hope you guys don't mind the time skip. Also, I don't know how realistic it is that someone falls asleep and almost drowns, but my mom was always scared of it happening to me. I went through a bath phase, and she always made me leave the door unlocked.