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John Watson felt like an absolute fool.
He was walking back from the shop, only half a block away from Baker Street, carrying a brown paper bag of milk and bread and several other essential items that Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to buy when a dapper-looking gentleman got into a rather old-looking car parked on the side of the street and started it up. The car must have been just as old as it looked because a loud violent popping noise immediately burst from the exhaust pipe at the back of it.
After the first few seconds, he realised that it was just a backfiring car - nothing to worry about. It made perfect logical sense. But at that moment, when that harsh sound reached his ears, it wasn’t the sound of a faulty ignition. It was the sound of gunpowder igniting in the cartridge, of the casing ejecting and falling to the ground, of the bullet flying directly towards his shoulder. And in that moment, as the adrenaline surged through his body, his instincts took over.
He whipped around to face the source of the noise and staggered back several steps - he didn’t realise he’d dropped the bag until he heard the sound of the glass mustard jar shattering on the sidewalk. His hand automatically flew to his hip, searching for the pistol in its holster, but he found nothing. His weapon was at home. He hadn’t brought a gun to the shops, of course he hadn’t. He was half a block away from his flat, there were no threats; it was just a backfiring car.
You’re safe. No one’s shooting at you today.
John forced himself to take a deep breath, and he bent down to pick the grocery bag off the ground, careful to avoid any shards of broken glass. Everything inside was probably covered in mustard now if the pungent vinegary odor was any indication, but that could be dealt with when he got home - maybe after he sat down for a few minutes and got his pulse under control. So he started forward for home again - and his right leg twisted under him.
He almost tripped and fell to the ground. It caught him off-guard; that leg hadn’t bothered him in over a year, since Sherlock proved that his limp was psychosomatic.
Scowling, John took another step. It happened again. He focused as hard as he could, trying to will the muscles to work like they always did, but it was like there was some kind of glitch in his mind - some old connections resurfacing. It just… refused to work. He gritted his teeth, the bitter taste of frustration creeping up like bile in his throat.
It took him ten minutes to walk that half-block to the flat; a distance that would normally have taken two. He had no cane to support him, so when there was no wall or railing or pole nearby for him to brace himself on, he was forced to hobble awkwardly along at a painfully slow pace.
With every step, he reminded himself that it wasn’t real. It was a psychosomatic limp, it was all in his head, he could walk. But it didn’t help. His brain stubbornly refused to cooperate. So he limped back to 221B, cursing his brain and his body every step of the way.
The stairs were a bit annoying, but there was a railing to hold onto, so he managed it well enough. Thankfully, when he made it into the flat, Sherlock wasn’t there - he didn’t feel like putting up with all that at the moment. He set the grocery bag down on the kitchen table, not caring about whether the perishable items needed to be refrigerated or not, tossed his coat in the general direction of the coathook, and dragged himself to the sofa, sitting down heavily and throwing his head back against the cushions.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath. “Unbelievable.”
At that moment, Sherlock swept into the sitting room like he’d been summoned, flipping through a manila folder with great agitation.
“You’re back,” he noted, casting a cursory glance at John. “It took you long enough.”
“Yeah, well.” John didn’t elaborate - Sherlock probably didn’t want a real response anyway.
Sherlock moved out of sight into the kitchen, and after a moment of silence, he spoke up again, his voice thick with disdain. “Are you going to explain why your purchases are covered in mustard, or shall I assume you’ve undertaken some campaign to render all of our food inedible?”
Oh. Right.
“Shit,” John mumbled. “I dropped the bag on the sidewalk on the way over here. I forgot to clean it up. I’ll deal with that in a bit, promise.”
“It can wait.” Sherlock reappeared in John’s line of sight, waving the folder dramatically. “Gordon’s sent us a case - one that promises to be at least mildly interesting. Get your coat.”
John hesitated. The last thing he wanted to do right now was stand up and walk around in front of someone. All he needed was to sit for a while, calm down, and get back to normal - maybe if he could just relax, it would fix his stupid leg.
“We have to go right now?” he asked.
Sherlock frowned. “Of course. What would we wait for?”
“I dunno. I’m just… a bit tired. I just got back from the shops. I’d rather not head out again straightaway if it’s all the same.”
It must not have been a satisfactory answer. Sherlock immediately fixed him with that intense searching glare that always made one feel like a bug under a microscope slide - unable to wriggle away or to avoid the impending examination. John fought the urge to squirm in discomfort.
“You’ve injured your leg somehow,” Sherlock observed finally. “You’ve been limping.”
John let out an exasperated sigh and held his head in his hands. “Should I even ask what gave it away?”
“There are new scuff patterns on your shoes,” he replied instantly. “You’ve been dragging your right foot behind you, scraping it against the sidewalk. It wasn’t like that this morning. But there are no other signs of injury - no indication as to what caused it.”
“Yeah, well, nothing caused it,” John snapped. “It’s not a real injury. It’s just - just my brain messing with me. It’ll go away in a minute, I’m sure.”
“What, it can’t be your old psychosomatic limp?” Sherlock sounded mildly surprised. “That hasn’t bothered you in fourteen months.”
John threw his hands in the air helplessly. “I’ve been thinking the same thing, mate. I just… a car backfired on the street. It startled me a bit. I guess it sort of- it startled my brain, too.”
“Sound association.” Sherlock’s face had that look about it now - the vaguely pleased expression that meant he’d put together the puzzle. “It brought back the memories of the event that caused your psychosomatic limp in the first place.”
“Right, I suppose.” John leaned back against the sofa and closed his eyes briefly. “Look, all I need is to sit for a bit. I’m sure once I’ve had the chance to calm down, I’ll be right as rain. But I sure as hell can’t get up again before that happens. It took me almost ten minutes to walk half a block, and I’m not particularly eager to repeat that. It’s a hell of a lot slower without a cane.”
Sherlock didn’t say anything for a moment. There was the sound of footsteps, retreating down the hallway and then returning. John opened his eyes. There, in Sherlock’s hands, was a familiar white collapsible cane.
John had to remind himself to close his mouth before Sherlock had the chance to tell him that he looked like a fish. “You- what- I thought I lost that! I left it in the booth at that restaurant when we ran off!”
Sherlock shrugged, unperturbed. “I retrieved it.”
“You… why?”
“In case you ever had need of it again.”
“But…” John shook his head to clear it and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and gesturing for emphasis. “My limp wasn’t real. It still isn’t. I ran without a cane that day, with no pain. Why would you go back for a cane that I don’t need?”
“Well, you need it now, don’t you?”
“No, that- no. I don’t need it. This is going to go away.”
Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, studying John with an undecipherable expression. “Well, until it goes away, this will help you to get around.”
Something about that suggestion made John’s stomach turn, and he shook his head vigorously. “But- this limp isn’t real. I’m faking it. It’s all in my head! I don’t need a fucking cane for a fake limp!”
His voice was louder than he’d intended it to be, and it startled him. Maybe it startled them both.
Sherlock leaned the cane against the arm of the sofa and sat down in his usual armchair, across from John - he moved slowly like he was trying not to set off an aggravated animal. The comparison was perhaps not unwarranted, but it still pissed John off.
“The limp is psychosomatic,” Sherlock agreed, in an uncharacteristically soft tone. “But that doesn’t mean that it’s ‘fake.’”
John pressed his lips together in a thin line. “I don’t see the difference.”
“Then you’re not paying attention. Yes, it’s in your head - that is where your brain is, after all. But it’s clearly affecting you. You’re not ‘faking it’ because you’re not doing it on purpose. It is a completely genuine physical expression of a mental process. And it is genuinely impacting your motor function.” Sherlock leaned back, steepling his fingers in front of his face in that spidery way he was fond of doing. “I think it’s safe to conclude that it is, in fact, real.”
“Well…” John floundered for a minute, searching for some sort of clever retort. “Well, I’m not using the cane. I don’t need the cane.”
“Why not?” Sherlock countered cooly. “It will help you to get around more quickly and easily until you regain full control of your limbs. I see no reason why you shouldn’t use it.”
“Because I’m not a- I’m not- I’m…” John cut himself off. He didn’t say the word he was thinking, but he got the feeling that Sherlock knew what he was going to say regardless. Shaking his head in frustration, he fell silent again.
“You realise,” Sherlock said after a while. “-that there is no moral failing in using a cane.”
“Yeah, ‘course.”
“And you realise that there is nothing shameful about it, either.”
“...Yeah,” John said again, but it was slightly quieter this time.
Sherlock rose from the armchair and picked up the cane, studying it as he spoke. “You’re under no obligation to use it if you feel so strongly. Perhaps the limp will already be gone by the time you stand up again.”
He propped the cane against the sofa again; close enough that John could reach over and grab it if he wanted to.
“Grover is waiting. I’m going to go outside. In five minutes exactly, I’ll hail a cab and head to the scene.” Sherlock paused. “You have three options - you can come along with the cane, you can come along without the cane, or you can stay here and sit for a while. Maybe clean up the mustard.”
He picked up the folder again and crossed the room to fetch his coat and scarf. “I believe I’ve made my opinions on the matter clear, but it’s ultimately your choice. If you’re not down in five minutes, I’ll go by myself.”
Sherlock hesitated for a moment at the door, as though he had something else he wanted to say, but the moment passed, and evidently he thought better of it. With a brisk nod, he stepped out, and the sound of his footsteps thumped down the stairs and out the door of 221B, leaving John alone with a cane sitting next to him and the faint smell of mustard hanging in the air.
He tested his leg, moving it around a little. It was perfectly healthy - he knew that it was. But somehow, he still felt the pain of an old injury that had long since healed. Healed injuries weren’t supposed to come back after so long. It wasn’t real… but he could feel it, couldn’t he? What did it matter, really, if it was ‘real’ or not. It was going to affect him either way.
Slowly, John stood. His stiff muscles protested slightly at the movement - they felt a little better than they had ten minutes ago, maybe. He wasn’t entirely sure.
He stood like that for some time, staring down at his feet on the floor.
The cane bumped against the doorframe as he made his way out onto the street.