Author's Note: The usual eternal thanks to the brilliant MiyakoToudaiji for the beta! This work would have been very CUMBERSOME (get it? get it?) without her.

This story is a cleaned-up and slightly extended version of the fill I posted for a prompt on the kinkmeme, which can be found here: sherlockbbc-fic dot livejournal dot com forward slash 19743 dot html question mark thread equals 119301151 crosshash t119301151

Disclaimer: All characters and settings belong to Sir A C Doyle, the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, Martin Freeman, Benedict Cumberbatch, and Rupert Graves. Story is my own.

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John didn't know how Sherlock knew. He almost wasn't sure that Sherlock did actually know; it was entirely possible that Sherlock had simply forgotten about him. Again.

There was a police car parked in the street, just in front of the steps up to 221. John was sitting on the lowest step while Sherlock and Lestrade were standing just in front of the car's boot, speaking earnestly in hushed tones. Lestrade was facing away from John, his attention wholly on Sherlock. John decided that, right at that moment, Sherlock was either the best friend he had ever had, or the worst.

It was the second time he'd thought that tonight. The first time had been hours ago, with John sprawled on the floor in the suspect's otherwise empty flat, Sherlock standing a few paces away. John hadn't bothered moving, knowing that he wasn't in any danger and that the only thing he could do was make the pain worse. As soon as Sherlock ended the call with 999 he turned back to John, his eyes flickering over his prone form.

"Oh, John," he breathed in the tone he saved for particularly stupid people, "you would go and hurt your leg again, after I took care of it so neatly last time."

But then his face had broken into a grin, and John had giggled, and soon both of them were laughing.

"This time," John said, "I refuse a cane. They'll try to give me one, but it'll be a wheelchair or nothing."

Sherlock considered. After a moment he shrugged and said, "Challenging," and that set them both off again, and somehow having his leg broken wasn't quite so awful as it had been a moment ago.

Back in the present, John took advantage of Lestrade's distraction (whether Sherlock was causing it intentionally or not) and shifted his weight, gritting his teeth. He laid his hands, palm-down, on the step behind him, braced himself with his good leg, and lifted. His arse slid against the concrete, and he made a mental note to lift higher next time. If he slid his arse against every step his jeans were going to end up around his knees.

Sherlock kept Lestrade talking until John had made it up the steps and through the door (which had been tricky; he'd had to unlock and open the front door while sitting beneath it with his back against it, but he'd managed), and part of the way into the building. John hadn't quite reached the bottom step to the flight leading up to 221B when Sherlock and Lestrade's voices started drifting closer.

John hurried to drag himself the rest of the way across the floor, grimacing as his leg twinged even through all the painkillers, hoping no one would hear his cast as it rasped against the rug. He just barely managed to seat himself on the lowest step, pulling his legs up and leaning against the wall as though he were only resting, when the consulting detective and the actual detective appeared in the doorway. For a moment they stood, silhouetted against the damp London night, looking down at John.

"All right there, mate?" Lestrade asked, his voice filled neither with false cheeriness or pity.

"Just need a moment," John said, trying to make his smile happy but tired. He thought he succeeded.

"Need a hand up?" Lestrade asked.

"Don't be tiresome," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes before he firmly pushed Lestrade in the chest and slammed the door in his face.

At any other time John would have been indignant, but just then he was more than thankful.

His weary grin, however, slid from his face as Sherlock walked closer, awkwardly dragging the folded wheelchair with him. For a moment he stood looking down at John, eyes roving over his body, his face. John stared back, unblinking.

Sherlock was being a good friend, John realized. He'd kept Lestrade away on purpose, distracted him so John could get himself inside. He could tell from the way Sherlock shifted his weight, ready to lean the wheelchair against the wall in an instant, that he was more than willing to help John up the stairs. But Sherlock wouldn't ask. Wouldn't voice it.

Sherlock knew. John had no idea how he did, but somehow in situations like this Sherlock always knew exactly what to do.

"Don't worry," John said, smiling up at him. "I can handle this."

Sherlock didn't quite smile, but his face wasn't hard. He nodded minutely. "All right, then."

John was about to start up the stairs when Sherlock said, "No, wait."

Startled, John looked back at him. Was he. . . was Sherlock really going to ruin this? Ask John if he needed help? Try to help him without asking at all? John tensed, stomach clenching in anticipation of the crippling humiliation.

Sherlock hefted the wheelchair against his leg. "Let me go first. It'll be easier getting the wheelchair past you down here."

Instantly, John relaxed and nodded.

It took a bit of maneuvering, but not as much as John had feared, to get both Sherlock and the bloody great wheelchair up the first few steps, with minimal bumping of John, and not a single touch to his damned broken leg. Then Sherlock clumped up the stairs easily, hardly slower than normal, his steps just a little louder from the extra weight of the wheelchair.

Unfortunately, getting John himself up the stairs took about as much maneuvering as he had expected. By the time he'd gone up six steps (eleven more to go) he had to pause for a moment to get his breath back. He would have been able to make it up and down the stairs a dozen times by now if he were uninjured. Even with a broken leg he should have been up the steps by now; but a broken leg combined with less than one hour of the last (he glanced at his watch) twenty-three spent asleep, on top of a miles-long chase through London and hours at the A&E, served to make a simple trip up a short flight of stairs exhausting.

After six more steps (twelve steps down, five to go) he had to pause again, this time to massage his arms. He couldn't help but wonder: was that weariness, or was he just getting out of shape?

With a sigh, he started up again.

Two more steps (fourteen down, three to go) and he suddenly thought of the Dread Pirate Roberts, dangling from the Cliffs of Insanity, and felt himself empathizing with how the man's arms must have positively ached. Ah, but such was the cost of true love. . . John couldn't help giggling to himself, imagining Sherlock and he in Westley and Inigo's places.

(Sherlock would call down, "I do not suppose you could a-speed things up?"

John would reply, "I'd let you help, but I'm worried you'd suddenly think of an experiment and accidentally push me down the stairs."

"It would not happen! I give you my word as a Holmes!"

"No good. I've known too many Holmses."

That last one made John laugh aloud.)

When he finally reached the top of the steps he fell back dramatically, sprawling on the floor with his chest heaving, trying very hard to not let his mind run away with the image of Sherlock dressed as the Dread Pirate Roberts. No good could ever, ever come from such a thought.

After a moment to collect himself and get his breathing back under control (only because of crawling up the steps, he told himself firmly, certainly not because of any mental images of Sherlock and a mask and white skin against black leather and a gaping collar and. . . no. Just no), he glanced around to decide his next move. Going up to his own room was right out, so settee it was. Fortunately the settee was close to the door, so he wouldn't have that far to go.

The wheelchair was waiting for him, just within reach at the top of the stairs. It was turned so he could grasp the arm and pull himself up, and (he checked) the brakes were fully engaged.

He looked at the wheelchair. He looked at the settee. He judged the relative distance of everything, and decided that it would take more energy to get himself into the wheelchair than it would to just drag himself to the settee.

It took yet more maneuvering, but eventually John had dragged himself across the floor and up onto the settee. He just sat there for a moment, panting heavily, trying to adjust to the sudden sensation of actually sitting on something soft. It wasn't until his heart had slowed that he registered the noises coming from the kitchen. Clearly Sherlock was clattering around in there; which was odd, because John would have expected him to have retreated to his room. Not that Sherlock didn't care about him- that had, fortunately, been established at the foot of the stairs- but because John had no idea what else to expect from the man. Sherlock would hear if John needed help, and other than lending him a hand if John fell or got too tired, John knew Sherlock would have absolutely no idea what to do in this situation. Naturally, he'd expected Sherlock would therefore avoid the situation altogether.

Apparently he was wrong. John shrugged. No reason not to use it to his advantage, though.

"Tea," he called out.

There was a loud, very dramatic sigh from the kitchen, followed by both grumbling and the kettle clicking on. Eyes closed and head resting contentedly on the back of the settee, John smiled.

He must have drifted, because it seemed like less than a second later Sherlock was saying, "John," very loudly, and right above him.

John cracked an eye and glared. Sherlock thrust a steaming mug forward. John smiled, taking it from him, and opened his mouth to voice his thanks when Sherlock cut him off.

"I hope it's not to your liking," Sherlock said politely.

"Wait," said John. "Wait, what?"

"I hope it's not to your liking," Sherlock repeated. "You've asked for tea, I've made it for you. You never specified good tea. And if you don't like it I won't have to make it often."

His eyes stayed fixed on John as he raised the mug to his lips. John stared back, then grimaced dramatically and spit the mouthful back into his cup. "It's awful!" he cried. "This is disgusting! Never have I tasted worse tea in my life!"

Sherlock smirked and flounced back into the kitchen (and how did a grown man manage to do that and still look all manly and sexy and- nope), and John downed the entire mug in a single draw. Not to his usual preference, but bloody delicious nonetheless.

As soon as he'd finished his tea, he set about making himself comfortable. He knew he was minutes away from falling asleep, whether he was ready for it or not, and wanted to make sure that when he did he'd at least be comfortable enough to sleep for a while.

The one shoe he was still wearing took some effort. He spent so long bent nearly in half and almost unable to breathe thanks to the waist of his jeans that he was slightly dizzy and out of breath by the time he finally pulled it off and flung it in the general direction of the door. He debated whether it would be better to sleep with his injured leg against the back of the settee, or near the edge.

Before he could make a decision, though, Sherlock came back. He bent to pick up John's now-empty mug, straightened, and then hesitated.

John looked at him sharply.

Sherlock was standing straight, though his head was bowed, wind-blown curls falling over his forehead and failing to hide his face. His eyes were downcast, he was biting his lip, and he was twisting and turning the mug between his fingers.

This was what Sherlock did, sometimes, when he wanted something but didn't know how to ask (and John must be really tired if enough of his mental barriers had come down for him to wonder if Sherlock would look like this if he didn't know how to ask for sex, either, and stop right there Watson, before this gets out of hand). John thought fast. What could Sherlock want? What would he want that he wouldn't know how to articulate?

After thinking intently for a few moments, John reached some sort of conclusion: whatever it was, it had to do with John. Considering how careful Sherlock had been to do exactly as John needed him to since John had been injured, the fact that he felt unable to voice his desires now implied that whatever it was, John wouldn't like it. There were a number of things on that list, only the top two of which concerned John at the moment: either it was an experiment, or it was something that would go against the independence and normalcy John had been trying to maintain.

John considered carefully. If it was an experiment, he was sure A) it wouldn't be painful (because he knew Sherlock, and even though the genius might have intentionally hurt John physically occasionally, John knew that he wouldn't add to John's pain when he was already injured), and B) Sherlock would have taken into consideration the fact that John was about to fall asleep, so that wouldn't mess with the experiment.

If it was not an experiment, however, John had no idea what it could be. Something that was abnormal and/or seemed to take away his independence, to be sure, but how that could be done he didn't know. However. Sherlock had been wonderful this whole time, had treated John like he was still perfectly capable of taking care of himself and didn't need help.

John figured for that alone he would repay Sherlock by letting him do pretty much anything.

John cleared his throat. Sherlock stopped fidgeting with the mug and raised his eyes. John caught his eye, and held it, and gave the barest hint of a nod. Small as the one he'd given Sherlock at The Pool, and possibly with the same implications.

Sherlock instantly turned and walked away. He went to the kitchen, so John braced himself for an experiment. But then John heard the clink of the mug in the sink, and Sherlock kept walking, out of the kitchen and down the hall leading to his room. That was. . . somewhat worrisome. John stifled a yawn and decided he was too tired to care. Absently he undid the button and zip on his jeans, knowing from experience that while sleeping in his clothes wouldn't be entirely comfortable, it would be much more so without the restriction of a fitted waist.

A moment later Sherlock was back, dragging an enormous white feather duvet behind him, a few pillows under his arm. He flicked off the lights as he passed them, leaving only the small tableside lamp directly next to the settee on.

John was touched. Sherlock was bringing him blankets and pillows? Wonders would never cease. He almost opened his mouth to tease Sherlock about his sudden bout of sentiment, but quickly quashed the thought. It suddenly occurred to him that nothing about this was funny.

And then Sherlock sat down on the opposite end of the settee. He arranged one of the pillows from his room and the Union Jack throw pillow behind himself, propping himself halfway upon the arm of the settee, his legs pointing towards John. Then he placed the second pillow over his front, covering his groin and stomach, and stretched out his legs.

Only then did he finally meet John's eye. Sherlock looked. . . impatient. Glaring, defiant, daring John to comment or take too long to arrange himself.

John's throat felt oddly tight as he turned his back towards Sherlock, shuffling up the couch until he could stretch out his legs between Sherlock's longer ones, his back resting against the pillow, his head cushioned on Sherlock's shoulder. What he was feeling right at that moment wasn't lust, wasn't even desire. Quite aside from the fact that he would be too tired to get it up in the first place (even if Sherlock was dressed as the Dread Pirate Roberts), the situation was in no way sexual in the first place. It was just one person who cared about another person offering comfort, and maybe (though Sherlock himself probably didn't realize it) taking some comfort in turn.

Sherlock shifted behind him, bending backwards and reaching out to flick off the light. Darkness snapped down around them, and John leaned over the side of the settee to drag up the duvet. After a bit of fussing it was covering their feet, and tucked in around them, and pulled up to John's chin. He leaned back, nuzzling (accidentally) into Sherlock's shoulder. His breath hitched when he felt Sherlock's knees bend to cradle him, and Sherlock's arms beneath the duvet slip around his waist.

He could feel Sherlock's face tipped down towards his chest, his breath even but strangely deep.

John raised one hand slowly, tentatively, and laid it over Sherlock's hands where they rested on his stomach. There was nothing for it. John would have to say it aloud. Many times they could get away with just knowing, with not needing to say anything, but. . . quite aside from the fact that the light was out and John couldn't see Sherlock's expression, there were some things that simply should be stated aloud.

"Sherlock?" John whispered.

"Yes?" Sherlock answered.

"One last thing?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment. Then, "More specific."

"Can you give me one last thing? Can I give one last thing to you?"

Sherlock neither moved nor missed a beat. "Yes, John."

John leaned back more, trying to get the angle right, as he brought up his hand to rest against the side of Sherlock's face. He gently turned Sherlock towards himself, leaned in, and kissed him.

It was gentle, painfully gentle, slow and tentative and just exactly the way a first kiss in the dark ought to be. John worried for one fleeting moment that it would get passionate, and how the hell was he going to get over his disappointment if he fell asleep in the middle of that?

But then Sherlock sighed, and brought one hand up to carefully cradle the back of John's head, and he relaxed so entirely it was as though he melted. They continued kissing, soft and slow and so, so sweet.

There was no telling how long they lay together on the settee, kissing and holding, before they finally fell asleep. When John woke in the morning, his leg was throbbing in pain, his back was screaming, and Sherlock's sleeping face was pressed against the side of his own.

John kissed his face until he woke, and decided that on par it was the single best waking-up he'd ever had. Sherlock kissed him almost desperately, before suddenly pulling back and opening his eyes.

John smiled at him. "Not a dream," he said.

Sherlock huffed, but John could tell he was trying not to smile. "Obviously, John."

John giggled and made to get up, wincing when his leg shifted.

"Get off me, get up!" Sherlock said, pushing at his back.

John scowled at him. "Trying, git. Broken leg, remember?"

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. "I meant lean forward. Obviously."

John did so and Sherlock slipped out from behind him, immediately making John feel unreasonably cold and suddenly ruffled and uncomfortable after spending the entire night in a jumper and jeans. He was scowling down at his cast, debating whether he wanted to try for a shower or just put up with the grimy feeling for the rest of the day, when Sherlock flopped down on the coffee table in front of him, holding out a pill and a glass of water.

John took the pill, watching as Sherlock's brows knit together, flicking back and forth between the wheelchair, and John's leg, and the stairs, and the glass. Didn't take a genius to figure out what he was thinking.

John carefully put the water down on the ground next to the settee, leaned forward, wrapped his hands around the back of Sherlock's neck, and drew him in for a kiss. Sherlock looked surprised but kissed him back with alacrity.

After a moment John shifted, unable to stop the wince when his leg twinged again, but he didn't pull away from Sherlock.

Instead John smiled against his lips and whispered, "Totally worth it."

Sherlock chuckled, said "You're mad," but wrapped his arms around John and kissed him anyway.

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