Day 36

The burns on the right side of his neck and his forearm are healing nicely. Not even the few spots that must have been blisters are likely to scar. The back of his hand is another matter – a thin layer of skin graft covers part of it just below the pinkie and ring fingers, and it's easy to recognize the signs of a recent infection. This will take a few more weeks to heal completely, and it's not going to heal well.

'One is third degree. Breadth and location both negligible.'

His torso is an array of colors, purples mixed with greens and yellows, all deep bruising at different stages of healing. The right shoulder has got the worst of it – it's a blackened mess from all angles, decorated with two tiny puncture marks at the collarbone and a thin line that used to be held together by five staples. Surgery incision.

There are mostly horizontal lines crisscrossing along his spine, some already scarring, a few still in the process of absorbing stiches. Knife cuts. Lash marks? A cigarette burn. Two. Not counting. That one looks like an old gunshot wound.

'…some cuts and bruises and a concussion.'

I need to pay Mycroft a visit.

I don't have much to clean besides the hand, so I give the remaining sutures on his back a cursory wipe and start on drawing him a bath. Waist height, not too warm.

Then I spend the next ten minutes dry heaving over the kitchen sink while I wait for him to get into the tub.

He places a hand towel over his lap, which is a better idea at preserving the tiny shred of modesty I remember him having than the bubble bath I forget to suggest. Better that way – his skin doesn't need the extra chemicals.

A green bottle with a handwritten label serves as the shampoo, but it appears to be more aloe than soap so it doesn't lather well, and I rinse it out of his hair with a plastic cup I don't remember procuring. I'm already standing in the living room, preparing the gauze when I realize he might need help washing his back and shoulders as well, but he comes out dressed in pressed trousers and a dressing gown before I could offer any more assistance.

He kept his right leg slightly bent in the bathtub. Not sure if it was an attempt to hide the reddened skin over his shin, or one to keep it out of the water, but in either case it didn't work very well.

My hands seem to find the places where antibiotic ointment should be applied without conscious though, which is good because the rest of my thoughts are busy picturing him huddled up in a corner, knees drawn up to his chest, shielding his head with his arm from the flames.

"John?"

No direct contact with fire, which is almost worse because the exposure to the heat must have lasted long enough to burn away the dermis. One minute? Three? Five? How long does it take for smoke inhalation to—

"John? Are you alright?"

There is a wary look on Sherlock's face, one that he has been wearing for the better part of the last hour, I think. I can't recall how well he handled being touched just now, but I hope it was better than how he did with the blond doctor. He never flinched away, that at least I am sure of.

"Yeah," I force a smile that may be more for my own sake than Sherlock's, and head for the door with my bag and cane safely tucked under my arm. "Yeah I'm fine, see you on Friday."

"Thursday."

"Right, yes. Thursday then."

I have every intention to go to Mycroft (wherever he may be) as I step out into the street, only if to update him on the proper definition of some cuts and bruises, but I don't get any further than the Gents' at the corner pub next to the tube station. Around the second hour the sounds of retching alarms the other patrons enough to notify the owner, who none too gently asks me whether he should call an ambulance or the police to get me out of there.

Would I still have a voice, I'd laugh.

Day 37

Received at 11:32
It looks worse than it actually is. -SH

Received at 20:48
John? -SH

Day 38

Two of the boxes are unpacked, but I can't tell whether that happened before or after the last time I was here.

Twenty or so books fill exactly one of the eight shelves that used to be dedicated to them alone: Industrial Chemistry, Mathematical Physics, a few volumes of Wild Flowers As They Grow. The smaller box must have held the display cases of preserved moths and butterflies, shadow boxes with poisonous flowers, a few paintings and the occasional antique map that are now stacked neatly in the corner of the desk, presenting an almost surreal scene compared to the clatter they used to create.

Two boxes that held nothing of true importance to their owner, and this knowledge doesn't make breathing any easier as I make my way to the kitchen that is still void of any sign of a tenant.

"Sherlock?"

There is no answer, just like there was none when I knocked a minute ago, but I hear a muffled voice coming from the bedroom. The door opens before I could decide how to proceed, and Sherlock walks into the kitchen with a phone by his ear, held there only by the very tips of his fingers around the black cast.

"No, what I'm saying is that he's not—" he cuts of abruptly when he notices me, eyes going wide for a second before he steal his expression into something more unreadable. "Never mind," is all the explanation the person at the other end of the line gets, and the call is cut off without as much as a goodbye.

"John. Hello."

A quick glance at the clock on the wall makes me realize I'm about an hour late, and that Sherlock was probably calling Mycroft to ask for his previous doctor back, because 'No, what I'm saying is that he's not coming'. Fuck.

I start to form my thoughts into an explanation I can actually voice, because being this late was not my intention, it's just that "I'm sorry, I was at work and there—"

"It's fine, John."

And that's that. No incessant questioning, no demands, not even a polite request to let him know next time if I can't make it on time. I don't have much of a chance to be discomfited by the very un-Sherlockian behavior though, because he quickly compensates by marching into the sitting room, stepping over the coffee table and flopping down onto the sofa. He's barefoot, which should look at least a little bit silly with the charcoal grey suit he's wearing, but the familiarity of those motions hits me hard enough that I feel no urge to crack a smile.

"Let's get this over with, shall we?"

His muscles are tense as I peel the gauze away from his back, but his breathing stays calm and even throughout the whole hour I spend at 221B.

Day 39

Sent at 08:02
I want his medical records.

Received at 09:30
I will have my assistant drop them off in the evening.
M. Holmes

Sent at 19:40
god mycroft! you should have told me these things earlier!

Received at 19:43
Are you sure you want to start that particular argument?
M. Holmes

Sent at 21:05
No.

Day 40

Three more boxes have been unpacked. Manila envelopes, printed medical journals, more books. Not enough to fill up the remaining shelves, or cover the desk even.

The lowest stiches on his back dip into the water every time he leans back so I can rinse his hair, but I don't mention how he shouldn't be taking baths so often. Showers would be more of a hassle with his hands, and given the still pristine state of the flat, cleanliness is probably not something he would be willing to part with for now.

He never mentions the way I stop using my cane the moment I step into 221B, so who am I to suggest sponge baths anyway.

Day 41

Mary takes notice within the first two minutes of entering my flat. Of course she does.

"What happened to your bedside lamp?"

"Knocked it off when I was reaching for the alarm in the morning."

"Uh huh. And what about that suspiciously lamp-shaped dip in the opposite wall?"

"…Coincidence?"

Mary laughs, I smile, and we leave it at that.

Day 42

Two more boxes. Still nothing of substance.

Day 43

Received at 15:09
Happy Birthday, John. -SH

Sent at 15:11
Thank you.

Day 44

"How are things going, John?"

Someone tried to burn Sherlock alive.

"Good. Things are good."

Ella doesn't wait for me to elaborate beyond giving a short pause – she knows very well that I'm not above wasting a full session on sitting in silence unless she prompts me to talk.

"What about Sherlock? Is he feeling any better?"

He can't lift his right hand above eye level.

"He… yeah. Yeah, he's healing up quite nicely."

Physio might restore eighty percent of his shoulder's range of movement , given a few months.

"How much longer is he going to need your help for?"

It might restore only fifty.

"Well… his cast is coming off in about… less than two weeks, so… not much longer."

I might have to keep his violin for good.

"And how do you feel about that?"

Bloody terrified.

"Um."

We don't get any further with the topic before I leave for Baker Street.

Day 45

"You didn't come to the florist," is the first sentence I hear upon entering Mary's flat, and the rush of adrenaline is instant when I recognize the potential magnitude of the error I just made.

"That was today? Oh god, I… Mary, I'm so sorry, I should have set a reminder, I should have—"

"Whoah there, slown down tiger, I'm not divorcing you before we're even married."

I hear the smile in her voice and my breathing slows down a bit at that. I hang up my coat and join her in the kitchen, inhaling the smell of lasagna penetrating air. She thinks Italian is my favorite – the result of a misunderstanding I'm reluctant to correct, especially since her ravioli is to die for.

"I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"Hmm, yes you will. But as a more immediate retaliation," she glances back at me over her shoulder, smirk softening the mock harshness of her words, "we are having pink peonies at the top table."

I grimace obligingly like I give a toss about the flowers or their color, and deliver the expected playact over dinner in which I try to futilely talk her into red roses or something that is apparently considered equally ludicrous for a wedding.

Our wedding. In five months. With blush pink peonies, whatever on earth those may be.

Day 46

"Sherlock, you should eat something before John gets here, you skipped lunch and— John! Oh dear, how good to see you! Here, have some biscuits, it's not like Sherlock is going to eat them all, you know how finicky he is about these things. How are you John? I haven't seen you in… gosh, months now isn't it? Oh how time flies! How is Mary doing? Is her neck still giving her trouble?"

All of a sudden it's extremely hard to imagine how I managed to avoid running into Mrs. Hudson during my previous visits, but hindsight is refusing to tell me whether that was a conscious effort on my part or completely accidental.

Sherlock gives the tiniest pause in unbuttoning his crisp white shirt (it's always white these days) somewhere at the end of Mrs. Hudson's rant, and I realize he might not even be familiar with Mary's name.

Mrs. Hudson makes up for all the lost opportunities to chat with me within a few minutes, asking about the clinic and Mary and supplying me with the latest updates about Mrs. Turner's knee surgery and gossip about her beloved tenants and their rumored plans of adopting a child. Sherlock is careful to keep his eyes on his phone until she leaves, but the tension in his muscles as I start on his back reminds me of our first encounter with the blond medic, and that makes me feel like we entered a minefield for more reasons than one. I clear my throat to catch his attention, but he doesn't tear his gaze away from the small screen.

"Mary is—"

"Your fiancé. Yes, I heard. Congratulations."

The words are entirely devoid of inflection, so I take them for what they are and resume peeling the gauze away with a somewhat muffled thank you.

If it's suddenly more uncomfortable to look anywhere near Sherlock when I have my fingers buried in his slowly re-growing locks and battling with shampoo that still refuses to produce enough lather, it's definitely not because of the oppressive silence gaining a different tang than before.

Day 48

No newly opened boxes today.

Day 51

"Have you thought about whether you want to keep in contact with Sherlock after next week?"

Ella asks the question as if she doesn't already know the answer. Everyone does. Even Mary knows it, for god's sake.

"Would be kind of pointless, actually, seeing how we don't even talk."

This earns me a raised eyebrow and a small pang of guilt, even though I haven't directly lied to her. She just assumed Sherlock and I engage in the occasional small talk, and I didn't see the point to correct her.

"You don't talk. At all?"

"Not besides the bare minimum. I tell him to move or turn when I'm changing his dressings, but that's about it."

"You seem quite angry about that."

"I'm not—"

I take a deep breath and count to ten because I just came this close to shouting at my therapist, and even I can recognize that as a bit not good.

"I… guess. Yeah. I might be, a bit."

She makes a noncommittal sound and scratches something down at the stack of papers in her lap. I hate it when she does that.

"You said Sherlock was very careful not to push you into a meeting when he came back. Do you think—"

I cut her off with a small huff, because yeah, even a small child would be able to tell where this is going and I don't have the patience to wait until we get there.

"Yes, he is waiting for me to… I don't know. To start… talking. It was me who made it clear I'm not there as a mate, but as a doctor. I'm not angry with him for that. I'm angry with him for a lot of reasons, but not because of the… silence."

"Why are you angry then, John?"

For a second I contemplate deflection, but I only have three more visits scheduled with Sherlock before his cast is gone, and then he will be able to change his own bandages on his right hand, and the dressing on his back is only there to prevent irritation now at most, and he will be able to use his stupid shampoo on his own and—

"We don't have anything to talk about."

Much to my surprise Ella doesn't press any further, despite it taking me a while to find my voice again.

"We don't… I don't really want to hear about what he did while he was… away. And I don't want to talk to him about what happened to me while he wasn't here."

"What happened to you while he was not here that you don't want to share with him?"

Mary.

"N-nothing specific, just… I just don't feel like we have any… common ground anymore. Nothing left to discuss."

And god, is that a terrible feeling.

Ella looks at me for a long minute, and I feel guiltily grateful for the sigh that means she is letting me off the hook.

"What did you two use to talk about before?"

Cases. Anderson. James Bond movies, medical procedures, books and the solar system. Thai food. Music.

"Alright, how about this. I want you to make a mental list of the things you used to have conversations about with Sherlock, and see if you can bring one of those topics up the next time you see him. Sounds alright?"

Yeah, because it won't be awkward to start talking about bees out of the blue after three weeks of total, near stifling silence.

"Yeah. Sounds alright."

I'm already in bed when the thought occurs to me that it wouldn't have been, two years ago. It wouldn't have been awkward at all.

Day 52

I don't want to talk about bees. So I don't.

Day 53

I know it's a dream, but there are people, people who are trying to rip Sherlock's arm clean off his body, so I scream because what else can I do, and it's Mary's startled cry in turn that brings me back to reality.

"Jesus, John! What… are you alright?"

The bedside clock reads only three a.m., and it takes me almost an hour to convince Mary I'm fine and coax her back to sleep before I dare to reach for my phone on the nightstand. Careful not to jostle her I type out a quick message I can't help but hate myself for just a little, and I wonder if I will ever be able to stop doing that, even knowing he's not dead anymore.

Sent at 04:35
sherlock?

Received at 04:36
John? -SH

Sent at 04:40
Never mind. Sorry if i woke you.

Received at 04:41
You didn't. -SH

Day 54

Music is out of the question, of course.

Day 55

"Shouldn't have the nausea passed by now? Is he still feeling dizzy?"

"Huh?" is my admittedly not too coherent reply as I look up from the process of repacking the medical bag with things Sherlock doesn't even need, but it's not going to be a previously undiagnosed allergy or a sudden spike of blood sugar level that sends him back to hospital. Not while I'm there.

Mary points at the half-empty bottle of Cyclizine on the bed, and I find myself completely unconcerned with the lie I'm about to deliver, having gained more than enough experience on how to sell it since Sherlock's return.

"He gets vertigo, sometimes. It's getting better."

Mary looks satisfied with the answer so I bag the bottle when she goes into the bathroom to prepare for bed, like the pills inside are really meant for Sherlock instead of me.

Day 56

There is an electric guitar in my chair.

It's a light, cream colored thing with a white part under the strings, a black neck and black buttons I never quite learned what were used for. There is a speaker on the ground that looks big enough to drive the neighbors into instant insanity, something that resembles a pedal, and an amount of cables that seems way too excessive for connecting these three items alone.

"Well, that's new," I say by way of greeting, visibly startling Sherlock with my voice. He's taken to waiting for me on the couch, nose buried in his phone, barely sparing me a glance before starting on ridding himself of his shirt. Greetings are usually optional.

"Mycroft's idea," he mumbles, immediately focusing his attention back onto the brightly lit screen. "It's the closest it comes to imitating the violin without a bow… or the tedious need for lung capacity."

Well, that's… he doesn't sound nearly as upset about this as I expected him to be.

"Your chances of playing the violin in a few months are pretty good, you know."

I try to infuse an air of certainty into that sentence, even though we both know his chances of raising a bow again are rather… medium. Not bad, for sure, but it's still a gamble.

Sherlock's answer is accompanied with a shrug that doesn't include his right shoulder nowhere near as much as it should, but his words make something in me uncoil nonetheless. Something rather enormous, apparently, if my chest's freshly regained ability to expand to its full extent is anything to go by.

"Perhaps. In either case, this would be an acceptable alternative, I suppose."

Well. Okay then.

"Do you even play the guitar?" I try to hit a light tone as I set my bag down onto the coffee table, and I sense Sherlock's eyes return to me – wary of the novelty of small talk, but not protesting.

"As of last week, yes."

I snort as I unpack the precious little stuff I still need to tend to his wounds, hoping to hide the tremor in my left hand under a million layers of nonchalance.

"Right. I'm not buying that. Not with your cast," I point to the offending item for good measure, and I catch his gaze not quite by accident, assessing me, head tilting a bit like on those rare occasions he forgets people are watching him when he's deducing.

"It's…" he pauses, waiting for me to cut him off. I raise an eyebrow just enough so it couldn't be misinterpreted for a signal to stop, and it encourages him enough to go on, albeit not with too much conviction. "It's true I cannot play most chords with the proper finger placement at the moment, but the presence of the fretboard alone makes the basics not at all dissimilar to a violin. Sustaining notes is a bit more tricky, but…" another pause, to make sure I'm still listening. "But I should be able to play at popular music level after I lose the cast. Mendelssohn in a few weeks, after I figure out a way for proper adaptation."

"Hmm. Pop music is not a synonym to the end of the world, you know."

"Not a synonym to the end of your world, perhaps."

I don't manage a full blown smile, but the corners of my lips twitch as I reach for his hand to untangle the dressing from amid his fingers.

"So… the fretboard is the long thing with the strings and the dots, right?"

"The thing with the… for heaven's sake, John."

During the next seventy minutes I learn that the white part of the guitar's body is called a pickguard, the speaker is an amplifier and not at all necessarily loud with the correct settings, and that the pedal is only one of the numerous available types Sherlock is planning to experiment with in order to get the most authentic violin sound out of the instrument. He tells me he also plans to learn a few guitar classics though, because it would be a shame to use an instrument only for imitating another and not for its original purpose, so I make a mental note to come up with a few suggestions later, seeing how utterly lost he is when I mention Metallica.

He stops speaking every few minutes while sitting in the tub, stealing a glance at my expression from the corner of his eye, but a small nod or a question is always enough to get him back into lecturer's mode, even if only for a short burst before the next minute gap.

Several hours later I have sex with Mary for the first time in almost two months, and manage to sleep through the night for the first time since one year, six months and twenty-four days.

Music is not so much out of the question, as it seems.