memories.

Every night when he plugs in his phone and he can’t hit the damn point in the first go, he thinks about Sherlock, remembering how the man deduced that Harry was a drinker the first time they met due to those scoff marks and finally forces the plug into the socket on his sixth try, wondering whether he might have had a drink too many himself, since he actually can’t aim better than that. It’s pitiful.

Then, he curses (fuck you, Sherlock) and decides one more shot of brandy is in order before it’s time for another round of nightmares.

conversations with nurses.

They could have just gone with one of the nurses from King George’s or taken Mary up on her offer, but Mycroft intervened as Mycroft is wont to do and sent them Edward Spence, a recently fully-fledged nurse (though, very male, very young), to care for John’s leg wound. His credentials mysteriously appeared on John’s bedside table the same day he was to be discharged from hospital, though no affirmation required as Mycroft had noted on the final page in fountain pen, everything has already been taken care of. Down to payment and transport back and forth between the man’s current working place (London Bridge Hospital) and his private address (basement in Uxbridge) directly to their front door, 221B Baker Street.

British government sure had enough time on their hands these days.



-*-



If his papers hadn’t been clear enough on the matter, John would have discovered quickly how competent the young Mr. Spence was. The first time he visited Baker Street, at eight in the morning, the day after John had left hospital, finding both Sherlock and John himself still in bed (since he wasn’t actually supposed to move around without the assistance of a medical professional yet), he’d been entirely discreet while John fought a battle to get Sherlock out of the room. Finding themselves finally alone (after only fifteen minutes of Sherlock grumbling and moaning like a ten-year old), they’d looked at each other tentatively for a second, until the man had asked him to kindly remove his bottoms and gone to work.

John had been sitting with his back against the headboard while Mr. Spence had cleaned out the wound, packing the bullet hole with a efficiency that you had to be grateful for, gloves getting tinted red from blood as he’d pushed the gauze further and further in, John trying his best not to groan too loudly, tears gathering very much against his will at the corners of his eyes. Sherlock was probably doing some obstinate experiment in the kitchen in response to being banished from the bedroom or he’d gone to take a shower. Under any circumstances, John really didn’t want him to hear.

“This process is always that much worse around your spouse, Dr. Watson,” said Mr. Spence, smiling and packing the last roll of gauze in, closing the wound off with plastic on both sides.

“No, we’re not --” (Flashback to old times when he’d say gay or together, this time he stuck to:) “-- married.”

“Oh,” the nurse replied, frowning slightly. “I could swear your papers… Ah, well, sorry. My point was that partners don’t make it easier, do they?”

All John could think, though, was fucking Mycroft.



-*-



It took John two full weeks to realise that Mr. Spence was an avid reader of his blog, that all his peers and friends were, too, and that (apparently) Dr. John H. Watson had made quite the name for himself in the medical circles of London on that account. They were sitting in the living room during the fiftieth-something visit (four o’clock edition) while the man was running over some introductory notes by the physiotherapist who was to start the following Monday, John with his laptop open on a draft of his newest entry (the one about the Garridebs, took a lot of editing, of course, everything considered). Only after having finished his review of the physio schedule, did the nurse glance over at his screen, curiously.

“Writing up the latest case, Dr. Watson?” At this point, John had gotten used to the younger man acting with a maturity beyond his years, but the tone in his voice as he asked was not a day beyond twenty-five, possibly not older than fifteen. John smiled.

“A fan, Mr. Spence?”

“Everyone at the hospital is. I don’t know anyone who hasn’t at least heard about your blog.”

John’s smile widened.



-*-



As wound-packing went from a regular activity to a semi-regular one to eventually only needing done once a day, Edward (as he eventually started calling the younger man) and John found other things to do during the nurse’s visits. Mostly professionally relevant things (like stupid medical pop quizzes that they both aced without batting an eyelash or in time with his physiotherapy intensifying, they’d scale his improvement, one through ten), but once or twice during his noon drop-bys they’d eat together instead, if Sherlock wasn’t home, and just once a Monday evening when Sherlock was out on a particularly tempting case that had left John itching, they’d played Cluedo. Something that was indefinitely easier with someone who actually understood and accepted the rules.



-*-



After three months, John had gathered enough personal tidbits about the other man to piece together a picture of a sympathetic, hard-working professional who hoped to go to the absolute top of his field. Edward was engaged to a lovely girl by the name of Tatiana (half-Russian, from an Old Money family, she hated his damp basement flat), owned a cat called Rusty and suffered from an inconvenient seafood allergy. He didn’t want to work in the public sector, if he could at all avoid it and had for that reason accepted a part-time job at a private hospital that gave him much less in way of experience than a place like King George’s would have, not to say a clinic. In the end, the need for money had led him to accept Mycroft’s proposal -- it paid well and besides, your reputation sealed the deal, Dr. Watson.

“Where’d you like to see yourself, ten years from now?”

Edward looked up. They’d just gone over Helen, his physiotherapist’s recommendations for the next three weeks and although John felt fairly certain he could skip half her steps, he knew he needed to listen to her expertise on the matter. He was just getting impatient. Sherlock was out on a new case, one involving an entire swimming bath and therefore, the other man in swimsuit (though, he tried to get in without on the first day, apparently the chase ended in the children’s pool). That sight in and by itself could get John up and running soon enough.

He didn’t linger on the thought, instead meeting the nurse’s eyes with a neutrally interested expression.

“Surgery,” Edward replied after a couple of seconds. One of John’s eyebrows went up, though it wasn’t a mocking expression, rather he was genuinely intrigued. Having a nurse like Edward in surgery with you would be pretty much any surgeon’s dream. For a long moment he didn’t say anything in reply, then John got up, grabbing their notes and dumping them on top of the rest, he’d compiled a large file for his recovery progression at this point.

“I’ll pull a few strings for you,” he told him.

Edward lit up.



-*-



Eventually, the wound didn’t need packing anymore. It had healed almost without infective delays and closed up nicely over a period of a seemingly endless month, leaving John’s thigh to look largely like itself again, though there was, of course, a certain degree of muscle irregularity to be observed and an intermittent spark of pain from the slight nerve damage he’d sustained whenever he angled his leg in one particular direction. Nothing serious. Nothing that couldn’t have been much, much worse.

The first time he walked around the flat without crutches, Edward brought him a bottle of good wine the next day and told him to enjoy it with his partner once he returns to planet Earth again.

Two weeks later, it still hadn’t been opened.



-*-



After eight months, Edward told him that he was ready to entrust John to the care of his physio completely, their daily visits phasing out little by little, until the nurse asked John to drop his bottoms one last time, so he could examine his thigh for a final evaluation. For the paperwork. Neither of them said anything while Edwards fingers ran over his upper leg, pressing in here and there to feel for muscle mass and nerve response. Finally, he released John’s thigh and straightened up, smiling widely.

“As good as new,” he said.

“Please don’t put that in my papers,” John answered, laughing, “it’ll only give me problems later on.”

“Good to go, then.” A laugh.

“Much better.”