John took a slow breath, let it out. “But now what? It's been, what, a week? The grey suits you, by the way. Makes you look like an actual adult. I've got this – memory issue,” he glanced at the words on the wall, “but as soon as that clears up – we go after Moriarty's circle? Together.”
He looked down at Sherlock's bleeding hands. “Oh, hell, what did you do? Shit. That might need stitches. Just wait right here, I've got some first-aid supplies – ”
He hurried to the bathroom, but looked down in surprise as his shoes crunched on the floor. “What the hell? Who broke glass in here?” He returned to Sherlock's side, bearing antiseptic and gauze and tape. “Here, give me your hands.”
Sherlock was looking at the magazine on the desk. It was nearly two years old, worn and ragged, but John had been reading it with as much enjoyment as if it were tomorrow's issue.
“Hold still.” With precision and a doctor's certainty, John dabbed antiseptic on the cuts, pressed gauze onto them. Wrapped tape around Sherlock's fingers and palm. “There, that should hold you for a bit. But … this is – ” His mouth tightened. “This isn't right. You're here, and we're talking, but you died, how can you be here? I was just at your grave an hour ago, you're dead! You're acting like you should be here, you threw yourself off a goddamned roof – ”
Sherlock fled.
* * * * *
“Few people visit him any more,” Mycroft said. “His therapist. His sister every month or so, very briefly. Detective Inspector Lestrade. But probably his most frequent visitors are Mrs Hudson and a Doctor Mike Stamford. He's … not unhappy, Sherlock.”
Sherlock stared at the image on the screen. John was pacing frantically across the room, occasionally making tiny furious noises. “What's he doing?”
Mycroft stood behind him. “The memories go, but the emotions remain. He's still upset, but he doesn't know why. It'll end in ten or fifteen minutes.”
Sherlock pressed his eyes shut, felt tears squeeze through his lashes. “And you can say he's happy, living like that?”
Mycroft's voice was quiet. “I didn't say he was happy.”
Re: 2/2
John took a slow breath, let it out. “But now what? It's been, what, a week? The grey suits you, by the way. Makes you look like an actual adult. I've got this – memory issue,” he glanced at the words on the wall, “but as soon as that clears up – we go after Moriarty's circle? Together.”
He looked down at Sherlock's bleeding hands. “Oh, hell, what did you do? Shit. That might need stitches. Just wait right here, I've got some first-aid supplies – ”
He hurried to the bathroom, but looked down in surprise as his shoes crunched on the floor. “What the hell? Who broke glass in here?” He returned to Sherlock's side, bearing antiseptic and gauze and tape. “Here, give me your hands.”
Sherlock was looking at the magazine on the desk. It was nearly two years old, worn and ragged, but John had been reading it with as much enjoyment as if it were tomorrow's issue.
“Hold still.” With precision and a doctor's certainty, John dabbed antiseptic on the cuts, pressed gauze onto them. Wrapped tape around Sherlock's fingers and palm. “There, that should hold you for a bit. But … this is – ” His mouth tightened. “This isn't right. You're here, and we're talking, but you died, how can you be here? I was just at your grave an hour ago, you're dead! You're acting like you should be here, you threw yourself off a goddamned roof – ”
Sherlock fled.
* * * * *
“Few people visit him any more,” Mycroft said. “His therapist. His sister every month or so, very briefly. Detective Inspector Lestrade. But probably his most frequent visitors are Mrs Hudson and a Doctor Mike Stamford. He's … not unhappy, Sherlock.”
Sherlock stared at the image on the screen. John was pacing frantically across the room, occasionally making tiny furious noises. “What's he doing?”
Mycroft stood behind him. “The memories go, but the emotions remain. He's still upset, but he doesn't know why. It'll end in ten or fifteen minutes.”
Sherlock pressed his eyes shut, felt tears squeeze through his lashes. “And you can say he's happy, living like that?”
Mycroft's voice was quiet. “I didn't say he was happy.”
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