It took John a fair while to find Sherlock's doctor and then a bit longer to convince him to arrange for an x-ray of the detective's wrist, so Sherlock was done giving his statement by the time John returned to the room. Donovan had already left, but Lestrade looked as if he was purposefully stalling so that he wouldn't have to go. John hesitated at the door, torn between doing what he wanted to do (which was to get as close to Sherlock as he could physically manage, as soon as he possibly could) or wait by the door until Lestrade left. Sherlock just raised an eyebrow at him and John took it for the sign that it was, going over to sit on the edge of the bed and folding his friend's hand into his own. Lestrade coughed awkwardly, obviously unsure of how to respond to this new development; neither John nor Sherlock were inclined to help him. The inspector had finally opened his mouth to speak when a nurse came in to take Sherlock in for his x-ray and the man snapped it shut again.

When it was just him and John, Lestrade cleared his throat awkwardly. "So, you and Sherlock then. How long has that been going on?"

"About three months," John answered, his jaw clenching. "Sherlock would probably have a more precise count; sometimes I think he has it down to the hour and minute."

He chuckled. "That sounds like Sherlock. It is a bit surprising though; I mean I had heard the rumours, but I thought that they were just that. I'm happy for you two, though; you're very good for him."

"He's good for me too," he stressed, his fists clenching.

Lestrade nodded quickly. "Of course. We'll have to go out for drinks some time to celebrate, but let me buy you a coffee in the meantime."

"Yeah, that'd be great," John said, finally smiling, relieved that Greg wasn't going to be difficult about their relationship.

Sherlock spent four days in hospital, detoxing and recovering from severe malnutrition. John had insisted on the hospital stay until the iv line was no longer a necessity, but since John was spending as much time with him as he possibly could, Sherlock kept his complaining to a minimum; it was easier to keep quiet when he could see how stressed the entire situation was making him. Withdrawal was never fun, but the worst part was by far after John left at night. Unable to sleep, Sherlock spent hours lying alone, with only his cravings and his thoughts for company. When John was with him, he was able to distract himself from the doubts that he couldn't escape from in the dark. There were all of his fears of relapsing again, which were intensified by his very real memories of how hard getting clean was the last time; the worst part, however, was wondering whether or not John would be there through it all. He knew that the soldier had little patience for addicts normally, and even less when he had to live with them; after all, the man had chosen to live on his own when he could barely afford both housing and food rather than living with his alcoholic of a sister. He couldn't help but ask himself whether John, now that he was in a more secure place, would flinch away from taking the same measures with Sherlock?

John, of course, could tell that something was bothering Sherlock, especially as his love became quieter and quieter as the days progressed. By the time that they made it home, it was almost impossible to get the detective to engage in any sort of conversation. When he had first moved in, John had been warned that his flatmate would occasionally go for days without speaking,but he had not been any where near prepared for how worrying, or how painful, that inevitability would be. He wanted desperately to help his friend, not only as a lover but as a doctor as well. But you couldn't force Sherlock Holmes to do anything, so all he could do was wait and hope that, eventually, Sherlock would either come to him or work it out on his own.

Sherlock, in fact, was not making any progress on his own; he was struggling, and he yearned for John's help. Unfortunately, he knew that voicing his doubts would undoubtedly hurt his partner, and he wanted to avoid that more than he wanted comfort. And so he stayed silent, curled into as tight of a ball he could manage with cracked ribs on the sofa with his back to the world. He knew that his plan of evasion wouldn't work forever; he just hoped that he would come up with a better plan before John got tired of being patient.

As it turned out, John's patience lasted for a week after they got home, and Sherlock was still no closer to coming up with a better plan. The conversation, if you could call it that, devolved quickly, until both men were raising their voices to disturbing levels. It ended with Sherlock shouting that John was "fluttering around uselessly like a mother hen" and then retreating to his bedroom, slamming the door loudly behind him. He half expected the doctor to come and knock on his door like he usually did after a fight about Sherlock's health, but the knock never came and a cold helplessness seemed to settle in the detective's chest. He was more than a little surprised to discover that he was crying; not knowing what else to do, he buried his face in John's pillow and tried to stay as quiet as possible.

It was well after midnight when Sherlock finally left his room again, desperate for some form of hydration. He had assumed that, if he was still in the flat at all, John had gone upstairs to bed; instead, the soldier was was sitting on the floor directly across from his partner's door, his eyes shut and his head leaning back against the wall behind him. He looked as though he was asleep, but when he heard Sherlock come out, he opened one eye to look up at him before shutting it again in order to give Sherlock the opportunity to acknowledge or ignore him as he saw fit. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, frozen where he stood, before going to sit beside his friend; after another moment, he leaned down to rest his head on John's left shoulder. The two men were still for a few seconds before John sighed and moved to push himself to his feet. The rejection was what he had told himself to expect, but he had still hoped. An anguished cry escaped before he clamped his mouth shut, squeezing his eyes closed in an attempt to shut out reality. He couldn't breathe, but he promised himself that he'd lock himself back in his room just as soon as his body started working again. He choked out a whimper when he felt an arm drape over his shoulders, the doctor's heat emanating from his right.

"Hey, I just had to switch sides," he whispered, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's temple. "It's raining and my shoulder's been bothering me." Sherlock nodded but didn't say anything, and after a few more moments, he dared to let his head fall against his partner's shoulder again; this time, John just tightened his grip.

"John," Sherlock said a few minutes later. "Why are you here?"

John sighed heavily, shrugging his shoulders. "You're hurting, Sherlock. Where else would I be?"

"But what good does sitting out here do?" He asked. "All you've accomplished is bothering your shoulder and ensuring that you won't get nearly enough sleep, making you even more irritable and impatient tomorrow."

He sighed again. "Sherlock, can you not do this right now. I really don't want to fight with you again."

"I'm not trying to pick a fight," he answered quietly. "I just don't understand you sometimes."

The doctor pressed a kiss into his friend's hair. "I don't understand you either."

"Will you come to bed?" Sherlock asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "It'll be better for your shoulder to sleep on an actual mattress."

John smiled. "Of course. We have to talk tomorrow, though; you know that, right?" Sherlock just nodded, not bothering to lift his head from John's shoulder.