A/N: This is set just following "The Space Around Me". It was supposed to be a one-shot, but it got away from me without me intending it to, but that means you all get more Sherlock & John, so I'd better not hear any complaining ;) As always: I do not own, nor do I profit from. Enjoy!

"I want to go home."

"Yes, I know. You saying it every five minutes isn't going to make it happen any faster."

"Presumably it will, since every five minutes must, by definition, be five minutes closer to going home."

John rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress the grin on his face or the light in his brown eyes, nor did Sherlock want him to. He drank it in voraciously, like a man lost a the desert being suddenly handed a cool canteen of water. He registered every flicker of John's eyelashes, every twitch of his lips, every tiny shift in small facial muscles that altered his expression, letting it flow from amused to lovingly tolerant to indulgent.

Sherlock reached out and touched John's face, from which John no longer recoiled, even though it had only ever been a rejection of the fact that Sherlock had done this when he could not see. Now, John closed his own eyes, expression transforming from that amused indulgence to relaxation, tinted with desire around the edges, in the curve of his lips. Sherlock ran his thumb over John's lips and John opened his eyes, which were now somewhat darker, and brighter.

"You trying to seduce me from a hospital bed is a: not going to work, and b: won't change the fact that I can't discharge you. And you're not leaving AMA, either, Sherlock."

"You're a doctor," Sherlock pointed out. "You could advise that they release me."

"I'm also your husband and am therefore not allowed to be your doctor at all."

Sherlock made a face, but kept his hand on John's cheek.

"But you could take care of me just as easily at home as here," he pointed out.

"I'm a doctor, not a nurse," John sniffed. "Besides, have you given any thought as to how you're going to get up the stairs to our flat?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Perhaps you can carry me," he commented. "You were a soldier – you should be trained in this."

"And you're half a bloody foot taller than me and you're still injured. Not until you're better on those crutches, which should give you some incentive to work harder when they take you for physio."

"I'm very committed to my physiotherapy sessions," Sherlock replied with feigned coolness.

"Only if I'm there to watch," John sighed.

"Incentive," Sherlock replied. "You were the one just commenting on that. If you could come to all of the sessions, I could leave sooner."

John leaned forward, resting one arm on the bed, tangling his hand with Sherlock's.

"You're not pinning this one me."

"Oh, fine," Sherlock huffed. "I bow to your obvious expertise and stubbornness."

"Sorry, I'm the stubborn one? You do remember who and where you are, right? How many fingers am I holding up?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Quit being insufferable," he said.

"Again, are we still talking about me?"

"If you won't free me from this tedious hospital room and these tedious doctors and these tedious nurses, you could at least convince them to let me have a decent shower. Is that within your power as a doctor-who-is-family and as my husband? I feel repulsive."

"You don't look repulsive, and they've been keeping you clean, Sherlock. You're still half-wrapped in bandages."

"First, I didn't say I looked repulsive, I said I feel repulsive. And second, I'm not half-wrapped in bandages, it's at best one third, perhaps more like one quarter. And you're a doctor, it's not as though you cannot remove or replace bandages when necessary. And I'm sure there's some implement to cover the cast. And I know they have those shower chairs, because no, I would not be able to stand on crutches and shower."

"And how did you know about the chairs? When was the last time you broke your leg?"

"Never," Sherlock replied. "One of the nurses told me."

"Which one?" John groaned.

"Sandra. Your girlfriend."

"She isn't my girlfriend," John said, grinning, his eyes gleaming brighter, dancing with laughter. "She's my mistress. It's entirely different. Please try to get it straight. Doctors and nurses are required to have torrid, illicit affairs. I'm sure I told you this when we got married."

"I recall no such thing," Sherlock sniffed.

"I'm sure I'd have mentioned it," John contended. "Anyway, she's not being a very good illicit mistress if she's taking your side on things. Did she plant the idea of going home in your head?"

"I'm perfectly capable of forming my own ideas without the help of your illicit nurse mistress," Sherlock replied, trying to keep a smile from his lips and failing. "However, since you are set against me leaving and I know you have influence on my doctors, regardless of what you say, you can at least let me have a decent shower so I can feel like a human being again."

"What's this?" John gasped, leaning forward. "The great Sherlock Holmes, admitting to being a human being?"

"To wanting to feel like one," Sherlock corrected, then shifted his position on the bed, using both hands to push himself up, grimacing slightly. He was stiff, all of the time, unused to such long periods of inactivity, and John was wrong about his dedication to his physiotherapy treatments – he approached them with as much energy as he could muster every single time, because the more he put into it, the sooner he could get out of this damn hospital.

The bland yellow paint in his private room was beginning to annoy him, despite how relieved he was he could see it. It was a good sign, he considered, that he was now getting tired of actually seeing something. Likewise, he was weary of being in pyjamas all of the time, although at least they were his, not the damnable hospital gowns.

Mostly, he wanted to be at home, where they had some privacy, particularly from Mycroft, who insisted on hanging about and sending people to keep an eye on him and John – no matter how practical and necessary that was. And where John could give him a really good shag. Since John was a doctor, Sherlock was confident in his husband's ability to do so without aggravating Sherlock's injuries. It may even require quite a bit of inventiveness on their parts, he didn't know. An experiment to look forward to, certainly.

"I feel disgusting," Sherlock continued. "Surely by now they can let me wash my hair." He paused a moment, then gave John a calculating look.


That worked.

"All right," John agreed with a wicked grin. "I'll go get a nurse."

"No!" Sherlock snapped and John started to laugh. He kept laughing, but held up his hands placatingly, shaking his head.

"All right, all right, all right. But I do need to go and get more gauze. Look, Sandra should be on duty now, since it's after eight, and she'll help us out. I'd rather not be interrupted."

"It's a shower, John, not a shag. And the bathroom door does have a lock."

John pushed himself to his feet and rolled his eyes, crossing his arms.

"I meant I'd rather not have to drag you out of the shower so she can do a routine vitals check. Showering with a leg injury is not easy, believe me, you move a lot more slowly. Plus I need one of those little shower stools. Why don't you grab some sleep until I get back?"

"So you have more time with your girlfriend?" Sherlock asked. "I think not. And I'm tired of sleeping."

"Have it your way then," John said, leaning down for a kiss.

"Finally, he learns!" Sherlock said, then kissed John back, feeling the doctor's grin against his own lips.

"I'll be back in a few minutes. Try not to get caught up in any international assassination schemes or political coups while I'm out, will you?"

"I'll do my best," Sherlock promised. "At the moment, a shower seems far more appealing."

John kissed him again, and slipped out of the door into the brightly lit hospital corridor.