With such new knowledge as I had, I decided that the only way to actually make my dreams come true was to go out and catch them for myself. We were in a stalemate now, John and I, and the only way to break such a terrible thing was to make a move of my own. Evidently the time spent moping around in our own solitary quarters was not going to be enough to get us closer together, for both of us seemed too much a coward to initiate things on our own. Therefore the only logical thing I could do was write up something of a poem, not an apology poem but something more about loneliness, and hustle off to the docks to meet john at our undesignated but quite official time. He would expect to see me here, I'm certain of it. It had been nearly a week since I had last sat upon this bench, though I was sure that every day in between he had checked to see if I as there. He was just as fascinated with me as I was him; I knew it had to be true! More than anything I wanted to see that poem of his once more, I wanted to understand it within the context of all known possibilities. As far as I knew there were only two possibilities as to who that poem could be written for. If I could understand it within the context of Mary Morstan than I would be able to douse my ambitions just enough to sit upon them some more, but if I could understand it perfectly well between the two of us then I would say what needed to be said. It wasn't a question of whether or not this confession was going to happen, it was instead a decision of when it would happen. And how. So there I sat on my bench, tapping my foot innocently against the ground as I scrawled around in my notebook, adding in lines where I saw fit and humming over top of my work. The poem itself was just a reflection of the past couple of days, a description of being stuck in a cage with the key in your hand, though not being bold enough to sneak your hand past the guard to unlock it. There was no option to distract the guard; the only option was to stall. And each moment you sat in that cage your pain grew worse, as there was no food or drink behind the bars. You had the key; you had the chance of escape! But was it worth the risk of being beaten, tortured, or killed if discovered? At this point I decided that it was, for the torture I was inflicted upon myself was certainly nothing worse than what would be done to me if I waited any longer. My life seemed to be crawling by, each day without his face growing more and more unbearable. I was ready...and here came my opportunity, strolling past the crowd of sailors who were headed towards the town instead of some silly bench alongside the docks.
"Sherlock, I didn't think I'd be seeing you around here anymore." John exclaimed with a laugh. "Thought those old sailors scared you off for good."
"Well...scared me off for a week at least. Not for good." I assured, tapping my fingers nervously about my notebook but not doing myself the liberty of shutting it. I almost wanted him to ask about it, it would be an easy way to begin the topic of bold leaps and unrequited love.
"Well that's good. It's good to see you." John muttered, sitting down next to me on the bench and taking a moment to stare off at the ships that he had become so familiar with. It was silent save for the sea birds, all of which were taking their own lunch break upon the docks, picking up various pieces of discarded fish and food from where they had fallen upon the wood. I looked over at him, finding him quite mesmerize with the view and rather unresponsive to my nonverbal approach.
"How is your poem coming along?" I wondered at last.
"Well you seemed pretty satisfied with it, so I figured I didn't need to edit very much." John admitted.
"You could start a career, you know. I could help you get started, get it published. You could write a book and never go to sea again." I pointed out, to which John just chuckled. He didn't seem to think that was a very plausible theory, though he shrugged his shoulders in some agreement none the less.
"That certainly sounds ideal." He admitted. "What are you up to there?"
"Oh just a little something." I muttered, smiling as his eyes focused on my lines. "See what you can make out." I handed the notebook to him, a very straight forward approach to be sure. Though he accepted it all the same, as if he didn't know that poem was part of a much larger scheme. For a moment he read, pausing only once to brush the long blonde bangs out of his face where they had fallen most inconveniently. He seemed to read it once, then again, and when at last he was finished with his close reading he looked up at me with an expression nothing short of surprise.
"You seem to have covered a much more complicated aspect." He admitted.
"You understand, then?" I commented. John sighed heavily, looking over it once more as if he knew only too well what my words meant.
"Oh yes, I understand." He agreed. "It's about love."
"As are all things these days." I muttered, my cheeks turning a bit red in my body's natural defense mechanism. It didn't want to be put under such pressure, my blushing was always a signal that the whole of my body wanted to flee and hide in the shadows once more, it was an early warning system for disaster. Oh but that was what any biological processes couldn't understand! They recognized danger, but not hope. That's where my brain came into play, keeping me glued to this bench whether I liked it or not.
"I don't suppose you've fallen in love?" John wondered at last, looking up towards me with a bit more confidence than I could ever have mustered. I hesitated, thinking quickly about the hundreds of answers I could give, all ranging from terribly indiscreet ("ya, with you") to perfectly avoiding the question ("never, but what about this weather?"). In the end I decided to go somewhere in the middle.
"I think I may have." I admitted at last.
"Okay. Well, I suppose congratulations." John muttered in response, kicking his heels against the pavement once more as if that was all he could find it within his power to do.
"Have um...well have you?" I managed stiffly; worried that such a question might be too forward. Maybe he would take that as what I intended it to mean...God forbid!
"Ya." John agreed.
"Oh." I nodded. "Well congratulations."
"Thanks." He whispered. I nodded back, really not able to come up with anything at all that would serve as a reasonable response. The only way to go on talking was to change the topic, any more mention of our conversation of love would be prying much too deep, it would be downright invasive. I couldn't do it, neither could he, and so we sat quietly once more. It took a good two minutes of silence before he spoke louder than words. I was busy entertaining myself by watching the seagulls entertain themselves along the docks, so tense that I almost didn't feel John's hand take my own. For a moment I was so afraid that there was nothing to be done about it, but when I looked over at him I saw his staring with the widest eyes back at me, terrified but determined all the same.
"Ya, oh." I muttered, opening my hand up a bit more accessible and allowing him to set his own inside.
"Good." John nodded, clearing his throat a bit nervously but nodding again in agreement to our mutual actions.
"Good." I agreed. Well that was it then? That was confirmation without any sort of word, that was a mutual understanding without the need for awkward conversation. It was quite satisfying, having his hand fit into my own so perfectly. And for a long while we sat in such a state, neither of us brave enough to move, for fear that a small interruption in what had become a practical oil painting might disrupt the moment. Well if his shifted I wouldn't let go, and I'm sure he felt the same. Though on the off chance that either of us broke concentration and realized suddenly what it was we were doing, well that could be the make or break moment of our entire relationship. Though I took this to be a good sign, in fact it seemed like a confession to me. We must have sat there an hour, for at long last the sailors began returning to the docks, all looking a lot more well fed than John but definitely not nearly as satisfied. He seemed perfectly content, even as he realized that he had skipped over his only opportunity for a lunch.
"That's my cue." John muttered, softly pulling his hand away from mine as if he was very reluctantly to leave it behind. I took this opportunity to stretch my aching fingers, he did the same. Though both of us were blushing, sign enough that there was no hostility in response to the moment. We both seemed perfectly satisfied, as if that was exactly the end result we were searching for.
"I suppose I better be off." he managed again, looking towards where the sailors were headed and nodding his head in farewell. My voice didn't seem to work, I was so mesmerized with the moment that it didn't seem right to say goodbye just yet. though he turned, obviously more motivated than I to get off this bench for good, and my reality snapped back.
"John!" I exclaimed, jumping off the bench so as to follow him the three paces he had already made.
"Sherlock?" he cried with a turn, as if anxious to hear my parting words, anxious to hear anything from my mouth.
"I don't suppose it's me you've fallen in love with?" I whispered, holding my hands up towards him but not to touch, more of a defense if anything.
"Well...well yes I think so." he admitted quickly. "And you?"
"Yes. Yes! Well not with myself, I mean I love you." I exclaimed, nearly jumping up and down with the new found freedom those words allowed me. Suddenly this weight was relieved off of my back; suddenly I was as free as a bird and quite prepared to take flight. I was worried that should I jump I would just float away into nothingness, leaving my love behind.
"Okay!" John exclaimed. "Good!"
"You go work." I insisted, pushing at his shoulders in some desperation as if that was what we should be focusing on, his silly little sailor work instead of this startling revelation.
"I'll work! You go home." John agreed.
"I shall indeed!" I exclaimed, now properly breathless. His face had become quite flushed as well, though we were both helpless but to smile. This was, if nothing else, the most beautiful day of our lives.
"Bye Sherlock, I'll see you later." John decided, nodding his head in a final farewell before turning his back and running off towards the docks, despite his being at least three minutes earlier than the hour. I turned around and ran as well, and while I had no place to be it just felt right. My body was filled with such energy, such relief, that I really had no choice but to work it off. I had no choice but to run." 

With a terrible turn in the war effort, the hospital began to flood with more and more patients demanding treatment and demanding beds. Before long Musgrave had gone two, maybe even three days without a continuation of Sherlock's delightful story as he was needed nearly all hours of the day tending to his patients. After a while he began to forget what he was missing out on, for each one of these grievous injuries demanded his attention in its entirety. One mistake would cost the life of each man who found himself on the operating table, and while Musgrave's record was not very good at the moment, well it was at least getting better. He had been saving more lives than usual, though with an increase in survival there was an increase in demand for beds. Each one of the men who was deemed healthy enough to leave the service of the hospital was instructed to contact their families for pick up, and until such a time they would be kept in a separate wing on spare mattresses, set up in one of the empty hallways. This way the nurses would not be confused with who needed bandaging, medication, and necessary treatment. Before long the hospital which was designed to hold about fifty men was now holding about one hundred, and unfortunately a good half of that number was composed of newly arrived men, all who were suffering the wounds that this terrible war effort had offered them. Well on the list of evacuees, for lack of a better word, was Sherlock Holmes. Obviously he couldn't stay here, considering he had admitted that his stalling was only for lack of a better option. The bed he was using was perfectly good, and if he didn't allow himself to be moved from it soon then he would find himself sharing with another man, perhaps one who would be leaking blood into the sheets or vomiting at odd hours of the night from his pain medications. Well, when offered the option of staying or leaving Sherlock had no choice but to leave. Though when at first approached with the situation Sherlock looked more crestfallen than ever, as if he was worried now not only for his own dignity but for his safety as well. The first question posed after the option was presented was simple, yet heartbreaking.
"Where should I go?" Sherlock whispered, working his worn hands about the edges of the bed as if to try to keep himself positioned there for a little while longer. He was quite content in his hospital bed, with no clear intentions of leaving without being moved.
"Well...well you can come and live with me. Perhaps then you could write to your brother." Musgrave suggested, standing in the day's bloodied garments, ready to go home for the night.
"I don't need his help." Sherlock insisted with a snarl.
"Well you need someone's help." Musgrave insisted. "And due to past resentments I'm sure Victor's arms would not be your first choice."
"I'd rather Mycroft. But who knows? He may very well be dead by now. Such a lifestyle he was living when I left, gluttonous without a step of exercise. He'd probably kneeled over with a heart attack long before this." Sherlock insisted, sneering with his rather foul impression of his brother.
"Come then, come home with me. I have a nice guest bedroom; you'd be at least comfortable there." Musgrave offered. "But I'm afraid we're going to have to teach you to walk, one way or another."
"I...well I'm not sure those crutches look very comfortable." Sherlock debated with a little snarl. "In fact they look perfectly dreadful."
"Sherlock they're your only hope for being mobile again." Musgrave reminded him, using that scolding motherly voice that he found so helpful these days. The more he learned about Sherlock the more he realized that the man had not evolved in personality since the day he was born. This childish personality that he was describing in his past, the personality that led him to such an unprofessional separation with his brother, the personality that fit him in so well with the pompous Victor Trevor, well it really hadn't faded away. And here he was again, not even considering his own mobility as he decided the crutches might be uncomfortable. Oh who cares if he was a crippled war veteran? The word baby came to mind more than once when in deep conversation with this poor, suffering soul.
"Does a stay at your home not include Victor? I suppose he is a rather usual house guest these days." Sherlock snuffed, crossing his arms but looking quite like an animal trapped in a corner. He didn't seem to like any of his options; however it was becoming ever apparent that he would have to move.
"I could keep him in a separate room if you wanted to. But I think, as a doctor of both body and soul, that reconnection between the two of you is necessary." Musgrave insisted.
"Oh so you're a psychiatrist now?" Sherlock chuckled.
"Well no, however I had a friend in medical school who was looking into brain science." Musgrave muttered.
"And that makes you an expert." Sherlock scoffed.
"Never mind my credibility..."
"And that's what you told them when you asked to run this hospital." Sherlock muttered.
"I'm looking out for you now as both doctor and friend. I want you to reunite with Victor, Sherlock he seemed so good for you. In all aspects." Musgrave insisted, nearly bringing his foot down to emphasize his point.
"We're getting there, Doctor. We're getting so close." Sherlock whispered. "Another bout of storytelling might ultimately bring my tale to an end."
"So soon?" Musgrave muttered, wondering now just when Victor's supposed crime fell within Sherlock's timeline. In all honesty he had expected John's character to last a little bit longer, though if he was doomed for death at Victor's hand then he ought to just get on with it. Surely the full story would either slice these wounds deeper or heal them in the end. It would be the breaking point, the deciding factor of whether Musgrave cared t stay with Victor or banish him away like Sherlock had. In fact, with some consideration about Mycroft's state of living, if Sherlock came to live with Musgrave he would be harboring all living members of the tale. At least all of the influential characters, at least. Well Musgrave had wanted to integrate him into this story, perhaps give it a happier ending than it would have had before, and never had he had a better chance than now. What an honor it would be! And with that Musgrave knew that he could no longer just suggest this move, he must instead insist.
"I will carry you to my car, if you so insist. Though you must promise to walk with them, or else I will decide on some silly way to torture you for lack of mobility." Musgrave decided.
"Torture methods? What are you, some war criminal?" Sherlock muttered.
"If you push me hard enough, perhaps." He agreed with a shrug. "Now come along, I will get you a wheel chair and we will go from there. My time at the hospital has expired, and now a comfortable bed awaits us both."
"And who else awaits us, within your comfortable bed?" Sherlock growled, frowning now as Musgrave blatantly ignored the question and called for a nurse to help with the relocation. The nurse agreed quickly, looking quite happy to get Sherlock out of that bed for many reasons. For one, of course, was the removal of the Doctor's top distraction. Without this beautiful thing sitting in a bed and talking Musgrave might actually do what he was hired to, instead of sitting around and listening to this story that never seemed to end. Another positive of removing Sherlock from his stagnation was the availability of another bed, one opened now for an ailing patient who surely needed the space. As the nurses removed Sherlock from the bed (lifting him up between two of them, as Sherlock didn't want to help the process with cooperation) Musgrave was almost surprised and appalled to see what his handiwork had done to the man. After listening to so many tales of running and walking in his youth, well Musgrave had almost forgotten that the blankets were hiding his amputated leg. It was a shame, now more than ever, to see such a pristine figure dismembered and crippled beyond repair.