Sherlock hates asking for help. He remembers receiving harsh or spiteful negative answers and the double amount of shame for not being able to do it alone and no one willing to help him.
He also hates being dressed. He remembers the rough and impatient hands of his various nannies and nurses in the rehab clinic and the humiliation that came with it.
Right now however, both things seem inevitable. Just because he got distracted by Mrs Hudson yesterday and spilled some of the chemicals over his hands. Now they are bandaged and useless. Stupid. Stupid.
John looks up when Sherlock enters.
“Mh. Oh. You need some help. Of course.”
He smiles and follows Sherlock back into his room. Sherlock is baffled. He didn’t even have to do the actual asking.
John undressing him is familiar. John dressing him is not.
Pants, socks and trousers are a bit awkward but John does it gently and without fussing. Sherlock relaxes and gives himself over to John’s warm and caring hands.
John helps him slide his hand into the shirt sleeves, then steps behind him to button it up. When he’s finished he smooths it down and tucks it in. Afterwards he rests his hands on Sherlock’s chest and presses his lips against his spine.
Maybe being dressed isn’t that bad.