A key turned in the lock of 221B. Two sets of footsteps echoed up the long flight of stairs, the creator of one set more shuffling than walking. John pressed a hand into the small of Sherlock’s back as a steady guide as the tall detective stumbled up the stairs. The heel of Sherlock’s shoe slid of the top step, causing the detective to lose his balance. If it weren’t for John’s shove forward, Sherlock certainly would have painfully tumbled down the stairs.
John opened the door to their flat, leading Sherlock inside by his elbow. The tall curly haired man ripped his elbow from his shorter companion’s grasp. “For God’s sake John, just because I can’t see doesn’t make me useless!” Sherlock stamped further into the apartment, promptly knocking his shins into the coffee table.
John sighed and rolled his eyes. For someone so bloody intelligent, Sherlock could be so childish at times. John tossed his jacket down over the arm of the sagging couch. Grabbing Sherlock by the elbow again, John led Sherlock in front of his fading sage green chair. The small doctor stood on his toes to remove Sherlock’s long coal black coat. Deciding to irk his colleague a bit further, Sherlock tossed his scarf in the direction of John’s footsteps, rewarded with a mumble expletive aimed back at him.
Sherlock’s long- almost skeletal- hands groped in front of him, searching for his chair that John had presumably lead him to. The tall and lean man crossed his legs after he sat and propped his elbows on his knees. John sat across from him in the doctor’s cushier velvet armchair judging by his footsteps. Now much more oriented to his surroundings, Sherlock painted a mental picture from memory. John would be leaning his left elbow on the arm of his chair, his fisted hand resting against his cheek. His brows would be furrowed and he would be opening and closing his mouth, thinking of something adequate to say to possibly the greatest mind in London.
A quick inhale of breath, finally John was going to speak. “Sherlock, you aren’t useless.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, and then promptly remembered that it was a painful action to complete at the moment. While working on yet another case that ended up in an all out chase across London, Sherlock had received a splash of chemicals aimed at his face. Sherlock was assured he wouldn’t lose his sight, but the sensitive skin around his eyes was seared. He had been directed to keep his eyes closed and bandage the area for a week time. Until Sherlock had regained his sight, John would wait on him hand and foot. Not that John didn’t do that already.
“Sherlock, are you even listening to me?” John tapped to fingers against Sherlock’s forehead, trying to bring the high functioning sociopath out of whatever little alternate universe he had dug himself into now. Sherlock swatted John’s hand away; he had a bad habit of not listening when John grew boring.
“John, I can manage on my own. You don’t need to coddle me.” What was he saying?! Sherlock was too lazy to get his phone for himself when he could see, let alone now. Why did he always dig himself into a deeper rut when he was with John? Why did he always feel the need to test his boundaries whenever he was with John?
John snorted with laughter. “Sherlock, you nearly fell down the stairs when we were walking in. You grabbed Anderson instead of me when we were walking out of the hospital too. You normally want to stay as far away from Anderson as possible.” John crossed his arms over his corduroy shirt; a smug little grin was probably on his face. Damn, Sherlock hated him when he was right. More or less, it bothered Sherlock because he was wrong. Sherlock was almost never wrong.
Sherlock shot out of his chair before John could continue in his little tirade. John took a small step back and tried to hold down a squeak. Sherlock had an awful definition of personal space to begin with, but this was a little too close for comfort. John could feel Sherlock’s warm breath against his forehead. They lingered there a moment longer than necessary.
“I’m going to the market. You always complain about not having milk in the flat.” Sherlock shambled his way to the door, hitting his shoulder on the frame on his way out. John could hear him half falling half running down the stairs, the front door closed with a half hearted slam. Did Sherlock even take his wallet? John wondered.
John set to making two cups of tea in the kitchen with the ridiculously cluttered table. Sherlock’s many experiments would have to wait until the consulting detective regained his sight. John pulled two mugs from the cupboard and set the kettle to boil. Sherlock would be back soon enough, it wouldn’t take him long to realize he had no idea where he was going.
John’s eyes widened when the realization hit him. Sherlock had no idea where he was going because he was temporarily blind, and Sherlock was stubborn as a mule. John grabbed his coat from the sofa where he had left it earlier and dashed down the stairs. Pulling open the front door, John called out Sherlock’s name in hope he hadn’t gotten too far. He hadn’t.
“No need to shout John, I’m right here.” Sherlock was standing with his back to the door, hands in his pockets, and shoulders slumped down. “I admit it. I need you, John, I’d be lost without my blogger.”
John took Sherlock’s hand, entwining his calloused digits with Sherlock’s dexterous and ebony white fingers. “Come on Sherlock, I’ll make you some tea.”
