Someone (who? Too many candidates to name) hit a Pause button on his life, putting its every aspect into what seemed like a single frozen frame, distorted at the edges (like morphine sleep) like an old VHS tape. Moving through every (same, repeating, dull) day in a slow motion was mighty irritating. It was perhaps the biggest source of irritation and restricted restlessness at this juncture in his life (the one he allowed himself, at least, if he was careful not to stray too far away with his thoughts and think about matters he resolutely did not want to (couldn’t) touch just yet, at least not all of them, not like this.)
Waking up was a painfully (literally and figuratively speaking) vague and evasive process, stripped of a clear line of awareness that divided dream from reality. If it wasn’t being horizontal and unconscious in his bed, it was certainly very taxing on his body, more taxing than Sherlock could have predicted. No injury has ever put him in a condition this disabling (he had a rather fascinating collection of wounds and illnesses and their lasting remnants to raise to this bullet wound.) Then again, he was never shot before, was he? Shot at? Grazed by a yet another “close one”? Sure. Taking a shot with his body opened up for a clear hit was a first.
Then there were people. People he knew, but more annoyingly people he didn’t know. An abundance of anonymous attention from faceless mob of strangers, cluttering his hospital room with obnoxiously smelling and looking flowers and balloons and some such. If he hoped his home would stand strong and untouched by this nonsense, he was in for a big and unpleasant surprise (Mrs. Hudson met him with another pile of flowers and “Get Better” cards and gifts at the door of 221b, chipper as ever.)
Even the tea was taking longer than usual to steep (which was not a case of tachypsychia, but the very dull hyper-awareness of the vacancy of his time, a skewed perception of it at its best.) Sherlock drummed the fingers of his right hand on the table top (bare, empty, cleaned), his left hand holding the sheet around his shoulders. Standing was not an option (even if John wasn’t there to bully him back to bed every time he tried to get up without permission or support), but sitting seemed like a good compromise. Whatever pain he was supposed to feel was eased away by the generous doze of morphine (made him loopy and slow, but was ultimately better and more fruitful than trying to function through pain.)
You should be in bed, you idiot. If you keep putting pressure on the wound before it heals properly, you’ll never recover.
Shut up John, I know. I’m not stupid.
Sherlock scowled at his tea. His feet were getting chilled by the linoleum floor (also cleaned) in their kitchen, the chair he sat on was solid wood and hardly comfortable even in his current state (or any state, for that matter), and his head was still foggy with morphine (which did not improve the sensation of flat hard wooden surfaces supporting his weight), though not to an extent where operating autonomously was not possible.
He looked out into the sitting room, which seemed undisturbed from its usual state of disarray. Nothing to betray another presence settling into the abundant (empty, cold, incomplete) space of the flat. Well, nothing that would tip off a regular person, at least. The signs were laid out in plain sight and obvious to Sherlock (tea mug, set and turned by left hand, laptop charger still plugged in, disturbance in the dust over shelves and coffee table, imprints on the carpet around John’s chair, creases in the fabric of the blanket thrown over the back of John’s chair, coffee table moved to the right, hit his foot on the wooden leg, second dent growing on the couch, the union jack pillow resting on the other side of the couch, John taking a quick nap.) Would’ve been obvious even if they haven’t previously discussed the matter (John merely stated it as a fact, Sherlock had little objection or strength to argue, though he did try to reason with the man, which didn’t change a thing, obviously.) John traveled with few and necessary possessions, his shirts being already packed and put aside into a bag long before the catalysis of the recent events took place (don’t think about it, don’t think about implications, not right now, not like this.)
The tea had finally steeped and Sherlock pulled the teabag out by its string, holding the paper piece with the label between his thumb and index finger. He let go of the sheet in favor of picking up a spoon, depositing the still damp and steaming bag in the deep of the utensil’s bowl, tying the string around the tea bag and spoon, and pulling the string, squeezing the remaining hard-steeped liquid into the cup. Discarding the teabag into the bin he’s previously moved next to his current seat, Sherlock kicked the plastic bucket under the table and focused on adding milk and sugar to his yet incomplete cuppa.
There were noises coming from outside, leaking through the slightly opened window in the kitchen. There were also sounds (and smells) coming through the ventilation, announcing Mrs. Hudson’s cooking project for that day. Then there were muffled sounds (no crude remarks, so far) coming from upstairs bedroom: closing and opening of the drawers and footsteps traveling around the small bedroom above. Suitcase, bed, wardrobe, desk, and then back to suitcase. John had more belongings to unpack than when they first moved in together, but it still didn’t show outside of John’s bedroom. John’s presence in the living space of 221b was marked by other little things, incorporated and integrated in the spaces between and around Sherlock. Things they shared sat squarely in the middle, space divided strictly between the two (it felt stricter than it used to be, product of accumulated and unresolved tension, probably years’ worth of words unsaid.) Sherlock looked at John’s chair (an inanimate object with no particular history or qualities, inherited with the rest of the flat. Its metamorphosis into “John’s chair” was something that happened outside of his notice and awareness. Associations, repetitive positive reinforcement) and saw an open book, turned to hug the armrest, but left too close by the edge (did not have time to find a bookmark, did not fold the corners, not his book, missing space on the shelves, a lamp moved from its place by the couch next to the chair, left side, John was reading at night, sitting in his chair, picked up a book from Sherlock’s library, was listening for any calls of distress from Sherlock, reacted immediately, responsible doctor, best friend, caring- Halt. Save for later.)
The shuffling above seized and Sherlock heard the squeak of the door from John’s bedroom, opening and closing, followed by steady, but quiet footfall heading downstairs, accompanied by the slow creak of boards under John’s weight.
John thought he was still asleep (even if he were asleep it would’ve been a morphine laced sleep, safe from any amount of noise John would make on regular basis. Habit?) Sherlock blew lightly on his tea and took a sip. Still didn’t taste like what John made for him. Pity, that.
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