Sherlock Holmes in New York (pt 10)- Epilogue

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Title: Sherlock Holmes in New York

Rating: R for language, violence, allusions to sexuality, drug use

Pairing: Sherlock/ Irene Adler (past), Sherlock/ John bromance (or pre-slash, if you have your slash goggles on)

Warnings: Nothing extremely graphic, see rating.

Spoilers: All three episodes to be safe.

Wordcount: 24,400

Summary: When Sherlock tracks Moriarty to New York City, he's drawn in to helping an old friend. John isn't sure what to make of any of it.

Betas/ Britpickers: pantropia, herovillian, brewsternorth, marshmellowed


Author's Notes:  So this is the end.  There was just so much I couldn't fit in... I have copious notes.  And there really is a track listing for the mix tape, which I spent hours agonizing over.   The Sherlock/Irene epic teen angst prequel will most likely not see the light of day, but I've got loads of backstory.  If you've made it this far, thank you! 

 

Continued from pt 9

Epilogue

John checked himself out of the hospital against medical advice the next day. He still had a drainage tube near the hole in his back, but his condition was stable. He knew it could be potentially dangerous to move with the broken rib, but he'd seen the x-rays and was confident that the rib wouldn't shift and puncture his lung unless he took blunt force trauma to the area. He was perfectly capable of dealing with his own wounds. Irene and her son had stayed at the hospital the whole time, despite numerous protests. They'd all been questioned by the police repeatedly, until another FBI agent showed up and pulled rank, taking over jurisdiction of the case.

He'd found out from Sherlock that Moran had been found dead in a kennel behind the lodge along with six dogs. He'd been shot in the back of the head. Moriarty had escaped again. Irene's son had been kept locked in the nursery, but had only been bound and gagged for a few hours before they'd shown up. He'd been heavily sedated most of the time, so he hadn't known how long he'd been gone for. The boy was reluctant to talk about any of it. Irene had already made calls to secure him a therapist, and with luck, he wouldn't develop any lasting psychological scars.

John lay awkwardly, half curled on his side in the back seat of Irene's car. He was propped up with a folded blanket on Sherlock's lap in order to keep pressure off of the drainage tube. It would have been more humiliating if he wasn't half out of his head between the opiates and the pain they couldn't entirely block out. Sherlock had sat stiffly, unsure of where to put his arm. John had patted his knee and told him to relax. Sherlock had rested his hand gently on the curve of John's shoulder. Eventually, Sherlock's hand had drifted from John's shoulder to the back of his neck, where he toyed with the hair absently.

The ride back was quiet and uncomfortable. Irene and Nero bickered over what music to listen to, which eased the tension in the car a little. They settled on swing music, of all things. John drifted in and out of full consciousness until the car stopped outside Irene's house. Sherlock helped him up the stairs to Irene's guest room and helped him get settled. Before dropping off to sleep again, John gave Sherlock a list of supplies he'd need that they hadn't been able to obtain from the hospital.

Irene had insisted that they should stay with her until John could remove the drainage tube and would be able to fly. John had felt a little strange at first, especially in light of Sherlock's adamant protests that they would get another hotel room, but gave in eventually. He'd rather recover in a stranger's house than a hotel room.

John slept for the better part of three days, only getting up to use the bathroom and check his wounds. Irene helped him to change the dressings each time they needed it. Nero brought most of his meals, which were surprisingly good, if slightly unconventional. Irene confided that Nero had spent hours researching the dietary needs of someone recovering from John's various injuries. Sherlock had been conspicuously absent for the times John was conscious. Two new pairs of pyjamas and a pair of thick wool slipper socks that reminded him of his favourite jumper had shown up in his room at some point.

On the fourth day, Nero came in the room bearing Irene's laptop and a stack of DVDs. “Mom said you should watch these, even if you're not bored, because they're a vital part of of the history of American cinematography. Except for Heavenly Creatures, which is technically Kiwi, but doesn't count because Hollywood owns Peter Jackson now.” He spoke as though he were reciting a memorized speech, then broke into a small smile. He set everything on the bed, and then stood there for a minute looking uncomfortable. “I um, wanted to say thanks. For everything. You saved me and my Mom's lives. So thanks.”

John smiled, accepting his words as graciously as his modesty allowed. “You're welcome. I'm just sorry you had to go through all that.”

Nero shrugged. “I really don't remember a lot. It could have been worse.” Then he looked up with a wicked smirk that was the spitting image of Sherlock. “Chicks dig emotional trauma.”

John huffed a laugh. Nero left the room and John looked through the DVDs. He avoided the action films and picked High Fidelity instead. He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, the laptop was being gently slid out from under his hand. He looked up in time to see the startled look on Sherlock's face. John yawned and shuffled himself up the pillows a little. “Did you find the letterpress yet?”

“As I suspected, it was in the basement of the adjoining building, accessible by a false wall in the basement of Stark's shop. Stark owns both buildings and rented the top space to Hatherly Engineering Associates as a cover.”

“Any word on Moriarty?” John already knew the answer, but needed to confirm it.

“None.”

John made a non-committal noise and yawned again, wincing at the pull of his broken rib.

Sherlock grimaced, but whether in sympathy or his own discomfort at his role in John's situation was unclear. “Do you um, need anything?” Sherlock asked.

“Some company wouldn't bother me.” John shifted backward to make room for Sherlock to sit. “Irene sent Nero up earlier with a collection of films selected to educate me in the finer aspects of American cinema.”

Sherlock moved the pile of DVDs and lowered himself onto the bed tentatively. He flipped through the titles and loaded one into the tray. He settled himself back against the headboard, stretching his legs out on the bed and resting the laptop just above his hips. John had already seen Fight Club, and he wondered how long it would take Sherlock to figure out who Tyler Durden was.

On the sixth day of his convalescence, John judged that the drainage tube could come out. It was a relatively simple procedure and he talked Irene through it. She did a respectable job, and for the first time in a week, John could lay flat on his back. He couldn't do it for very long because of the exit wound, but he was glad for the extra range of movement.

He still spent a good portion of his time sleeping. Irene refreshed his pile of DVDs daily, and offered to go to the library to get him any books he might like to read. He declined, but she brought in some of her books. John found he liked On The Road, and thought of Sherlock when he read the paragraph beginning, “The only ones for me are the mad ones.”

Sherlock still wasn't around much, not that John expected a bedside vigil or anything. John refrained from asking him what he's been up to on the rare occasions Sherlock did enter the room.

On the seventh day, he got a parcel from Mrs. Hudson that contained a packet of hobnobs and a box of Twinings English Breakfast. There was a floral note card wishing him a speedy recovery. Sherlock must have contacted her at some point. On the ninth day, he got a care package of sweets and chocolates and crisps, along with a card signed by everyone on Lestrade's team. There was a tiny pocket field guide to the birds of Great Britain with a yellow sticky note on the cover. Try birdwatching. -Sally. John snickered.

After two weeks, John judged himself able to withstand the rigours of travel, even if it would still be excruciatingly painful to sit upright in an airline seat for six hours. Sherlock booked the tickets for the next day. Irene insisted on driving them to the airport. She hugged both of them, and Nero shook John's hand. He didn't touch Sherlock, but they had some kind of Holmes telepathic exchange, at the end of which, Sherlock gave a curt nod and Nero a half-smile. When they got to the gate, John found out their tickets had been upgraded to First free of charge. Sherlock muttered something about Mycroft, but it lacked the usual venom.

Upon exiting the plane, John received a text that a car was waiting for them. Too utterly exhausted to deal with a cab, he informed Sherlock that they'd take the ride offered to them. He was (pleasantly) surprised that Mycroft wasn't inside the car. Mrs. Hudson greeted them at the front door, giving hugs all around and scurrying off to make tea. Sherlock guided John to the sofa and immediately launched into a tantrum because while they'd been away someone had been in to tidy the flat. He stalked over to his skull and picked it up, complaining that it now smelled like Mr. Sheen and that it would take weeks for the shine to dull. John breathed in the familiar (and now cleaner) scent of 221B and felt happy to be home.