Sherlock BBC fic: Comforter
Summary:
"If this is right, you'd have to have been dead for at least three hours," says John.
Sherlock just looks at him, steady and sorrowful, "I *have* been dead for at least three hours."
“It's the middle of the night, the graveyard hour. The chemistry sleeps on their kitchen table; the eclectic knowledge sleeps on the floor, the shelves, the chairs, the sofa; the weapons sleep in undisclosed locations.”
“All right," John says,” All right.”
He has both hands on his bent knees, and he appears to be weighing something.
“If I kissed you, would you come back?”
This must be a dream. (Pillow talk with the dead)
Comforter
"...it also includes an exceptionally clear doctrine of their dyadic bi-unity, bi-identity, bi-Comforterhood"--Sergei Nickolaevich Bulgakov, from his commentary on the Gospel of John, in The Comforter
“Just let me..." John says. He turns Sherlock’s head gently on the pillow, sets the thermometer in the shell of his ear.
Sherlock doesn't say anything, just looks away until John makes a frustrated sound and says, "what the...", and then he turns back to catch John with a sparrow's foot delicately imprinted between his brows.
“This thing is buggered,” John says.
Sherlock still doesn't say anything.
“If this is right, you'd have to have been dead for at least three hours.”
Sherlock just looks at him, steady and sorrowful.
"I have been dead for at least three hours."
John smiles, a sweet indulgent twitch.
"I'm sure it feels that way."
Sherlock watches as he crooks his left arm awkwardly, tilts his head so he can test his instrument on himself.
He hopes John doesn't wake up before he realizes that it's not his instruments that are off.
***
John is sitting on his chest; John is gripping both wrists; John is pressing fingers to his neck in what feels like an attempt to wring the life from him, but is the opposite. Rescue breaths and chest compressions aren’t going to do any good, not yet.
“John,” Sherlock says, end-stopping his hands, “it's time to call it.”
“No,” John says, “Because you're a fucking bastard.”
“I am,” Sherlock says, “but call it for now.”
“Why should I?” (John texts).
“Because I'm dead,” Sherlock says.
***
It's the middle of the night, the graveyard hour. The chemistry sleeps on their kitchen table; the eclectic knowledge sleeps on the floor, the shelves, the chairs, the sofa; their weapons sleep in undisclosed locations.
A flock of swifts cries overhead.
John sits on the end of Sherlock’s bed.
“I'm not a...I don’t think I’m a person of science anymore,” he says.
His face is in his hands; his voice is rough, his science fled with the flock.
“We're both...people of science,” Sherlock says. (Will that hold you? Will it do?)
“The body,” John says, “I took an oath to protect it.”
“Well yes,” Sherlock says, “Well of course.”
John makes a strange sound into his forearms.
“I know you did,” says Sherlock.
***
John touches Sherlock’s temples at four in the morning.
“You’re cold,” John says, glancing up at the periodic table. (Which element are you?)
He searches every cache in the flat, finds a blanket he didn’t know they had (Irish wool, midnight blue), carries it back.
“Here,” he says,”this’ll help.”
Sherlock is sleeping.
John pulls the blanket up, does something complicated with his hands; tucking, folding, turning, testing. He takes Sherlock’s face between his palms. He turns Sherlock’s hands over in his. He covers them up again.
“What's all that for?” Sherlock says. (Rare earths, iron oxides; I was sleeping.)
“You're my patient,” John says. (That’s what I do.)
“My patience,” Sherlock mutters.
“Go back to sleep,” says John.
***
They’re parallel under the blue blanket, a bedbound heaven clear of stars.
“I could ask,” John says, looking up at the ceiling.
His palms are pressed together; his pillow’s gone damp.
“Ask whom?”
“I don't know,” John says, “I think I left that sort of thing in the desert.”
“Hmm,” says Sherlock, “So ask the dust; ask the sand.”
***
It’s been quiet for awhile. The eclectic knowledge stretches, blinks, awakens.
“A sacrifice?” John whispers.
“What kind?” Sherlock says.
“Any kind you want; any kind at all.”
“What do you think this is, John?”
“Oh. Right.”
***
“Pleurisy root?” John says. “Mandrake? Serpents? Blood potions?”
“John, please.”
***
Outside, something dark forms in the street, lifts its head, slips away. The weapons stir in their hiding places.
Sherlock glances towards the window.
“I believe in crime,” he says. (A smile.)
“I believe in violence,”says John. (A smile; our mantra.)
“I was good with a gun,” says John.
“You were.” (You are.)
“We were good at it. “
“We were.”
“If I shoot something, will you come back?” says John.
“Someone,” Sherlock says.
***
“All right,” John says, “All right.”
He has both hands on his bent knees, and he appears to be weighing something.
He glances up at the periodic table. (Which element am I?)
“If I kissed you, would you come back?”
“To life?”
“Yes, Sherlock, to where else?”
“I know you wouldn't compare me to a mythological statue, or worse, to a fairytale princess,” Sherlock says. (Unless you were truly desperate.) “But all things considered, would that be such a terrible form of resurrection?”
“No, it’s just that...”
Sherlock puts his fingers together; the light comes into his face. (The way it will.)
“Ah, you don't want to waste that sort of thing.”
“Yeah.”
“You don't do that sort of thing lightly.”
“No.”
“If it didn't work, it would be too disappointing.”
“Right.”
The curtains move; it’s almost dawn.
“You don't want to squander that kind of power.”
“I don’t.”
“We need to keep it close.”
“We do.”
***
They’re in the kitchen; it’s near dawn. The chemistry is awake on the table.
“You'd make a bloody terrible teacher, you know.”
“Yes, John, that's why I chose another path.”
“This isn't going to work.”
Salt, sugar, water, organic compounds with their lovely rings, reagents, catalysts, solvents, carbon, water; all the building blocks of life, all spread out on their kitchen table.
The floor is rusty with their trials.
“This isn’t going to work,” says John.
“We need more ions,” says Sherlock.
***
They drink tea among the ruins of their experiments.
“No matter how it sometimes looks,” Sherlock says, “I really don’t enjoy needless suffering. “
Is there another kind? John thinks.
“But you’ve never done anything like this before.”
“John,” Sherlock says, “Surely I don’t I need to remind you that just because something has never happened doesn’t mean that it never will.”
“I…”
Sherlock says, “You were going to say that you thought I might run out of ways to amaze you?”
“No,” John says. “I really don’t think that you will.”
***
Sherlock has finished his tea. He’s putting on his coat in the raw light.
Glass shines underfoot. Sunrise washes the flat in pale calcites.
“Please,” says John, “please.”
(He doesn't beg; it’s not who he is.)
“Just tell me how to bring you back.”
Sherlock covers John’s eyes for a moment (I wish I could have.)
Sherlock looks round at the chemistry, the knowledge, the weapons, the skull. Sherlock touches the books, the table, the beakers, the mugs. Sherlock touches the laptop. Sherlock touches John’s hands.
“Your hands are warm,” John says.
John types: Sherlock Holmes isn't dead.
That's good John; that's good.
Light breaks through the windows. Sherlock isn't there.
John's fingers on the keys keep going, keep going.
Notes:
Inspired by this odd video of swifts in London, which, according to the poster, are "appearing to disappear": Swifts in London
And by this: "Asclepius , Greek hero and god of medicine and healing, also acquired the knowledge of surgery, the use of drugs, love potions and incantations, and according to Apollodorus (the Library), Athena gave Asclepius a magic potion made from the blood of the Gorgon. ...If taken from the right side of the Gorgon, it has a miraculous effect and is said to be able to bring the dead back to life.." (Encyclopedia Mythica)
And by this: "We do not get better with grief, but it gets better with us." (I think I may have made that up...or dreamed it.)