Fanfiction: Sherlock, BBC
Title: Fire Storm
Summary: "Do you regret it?" - A simple fall can change everything, but some things are always the same - and some are not quite what they seem. After all, no one said this would be easy. Sequel to my one shot 'Black Ice'.
Chapter Word Count: Approx 4,200
Notes: I do not own Sherlock. Apologies for the wait - my beta and I have both been busy!
Also, regarding medical detail since it was brought up by a reader (thanks, by the way, I probably should have done this earlier!) and I thought I should address it. Firstly, I’m not a doctor, so it’s likely to be inaccurate and you might have to just suspend disbelief sometimes I’m afraid. Secondly, I do at least know enough to realise that John’s actions in the taxi were inappropriate, but they’re supposed to be. Bear in mind he’s just been in an accident too - he’s probably got concussion, he’s definitely in shock, and he’s all but watching Sherlock die in front of him. Even doctors are allowed to go off the rails a bit sometimes.
As ever, thank you for all feedback, keep it coming it really is helpful, and thank you for your patience! I hope you like this chapter.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Sherlock is vaguely aware that something is wrong, but he isn’t quite sure what.
He’s on his own, he knows that - and it’s dark. Or at least...foggy. He feels like he is underwater. All his senses are muffled and he can’t figure out where he is or how he got here, or how to get out. John should be here and he tries to call out, but finds his voice isn’t working and neither are his limbs. Everything feels heavy.
His concentration drifts for a long time. Or maybe a short time, he can’t be certain. He thinks of nothing; an entirely new experience to him and not one he wants to repeat. He listens to the distant, unidentifiable sounds like waves, letting them guide his wandering mind until he comes back, and realises again the presence of something strange.
He must have hit his head, he decides. He can’t really think when, but he doesn’t think there can be another explanation for this situation. John ought to be here; he ought to be doing something about it. But maybe John is hurt too - for a moment he sees an image of John’s face; he looks afraid. What could John have to be afraid of? Sherlock tries to speak again, but he still can’t make a sound.
Sherlock runs around the corner too quickly, his arms windmill through the air and his feet slide from beneath him as he falls sideways -
He fell. He remembers falling on the ice - and the murderer, the murderer got away. Lestrade followed and John stayed...stupid Lestrade, he probably let the culprit escape...and John insisted they return to Baker Street. But that injury wasn’t this bad, surely?
John is resting his forehead against Sherlock’s and Sherlock is smiling...John’s hand on his face hurts and the doctor moves away quickly, apologising, but Sherlock doesn’t want him to move...then John is smiling too, he kisses Sherlock again, tells him to shut up...
No. Definitely not that bad.
‘JOHN!’ Noise and movement and pain - opening his eyes slowly, seeing John -
A car, he remembers a car - how long ago was that? He can’t tell. John was awake then, though, John must be okay...so why isn’t he?
‘Thank God, Sherlock - come on, wake up properly now. Stay awake, stay with me...’
But he is tired...
‘No - Sherlock! Don’t do that, you know you’re not supposed to do that. Just like before, okay? It’s nothing serious, but you need to stay awake.’
Did he fall asleep? He must have...John told him not to. This must be why. He wants to move, it’s very dull just being in here, in nothingness. But no matter how hard he tries he can’t make himself speak, he can’t do anything...
00000
John moves a dark curl from where it has found itself over Sherlock’s left eye before he sits down. His fingers ghost gently across Sherlock’s forehead, lingering against his skin moments longer than necessary.
It is thirty two days exactly since the accident. Every time someone dares mention the word coma, John either pointedly ignores them or leaves the room, much the same as when anyone dares bring up brain damage. Harry has more than once tried to tell him he’s in denial; he has more than once told her, quite colourfully, to drop it. He doesn’t care what they say. They don’t know. They don’t know Sherlock, not like he does.
‘That lead didn’t go anywhere,’ John announces without preamble. Sherlock cannot hear him and there is no one else in the room, but talking is better than just sitting. Maybe Sherlock is aware of his presence on some level. Even if the only result of this is that he is so terminally bored by what John has to say that he will wake up purely so he no longer has to listen. At least he would be awake. Talking helps, it makes John feel as though he’s here for a reason, not just to stare at Sherlock’s unmoving form and battle with the paralysing fear of Harry being right. Sometimes he even imagines Sherlock reacts - a flickering eyelid or a twitching finger - but when he looks again, there’s nothing there.
‘Epps is still on the run. Lestrade was convinced we had him this time...’ Epps is the killer Sherlock was chasing before his fall on the ice. John frowns with uneasiness at his statement - there have been no more murders, but he knows it is probably only a matter of time...they cannot deny they need Sherlock. John takes a deep breath, trying to convince himself it isn’t shaky.
‘But we caught the burglar - I was right after all...you’d probably have figured it out in about half the time. Actually no, you probably wouldn’t even have taken the case, but...’ but John doesn’t want to be doing nothing and Lestrade, most likely only to humour him or in some attempt to protect him from himself, has requested John’s presence at crime scenes several times over the last month. Much to the dismay of both Anderson and Donovan, ‘Anderson wasn’t happy - you should have seen his face...complaining about amateurs...I almost hit him. Don’t worry, if I do, I’ll make sure you’re there to watch. And speaking of watching, I haven’t forgotten the film deal. As soon as we’re back at the flat, okay? And you’re still not allowed to guess the ending.’
He rambles on pointlessly, aimlessly. His voice trails off and picks up again at entirely unrelated topics, just so he can continue an almost unbroken stream of nonsense sound to keep himself from going mad with the silence. There’s never silence around Sherlock, and there never should be. Even when he demands that no one speak or move or breathe, because he’s thinking. Around Sherlock there is always noise. His thoughts alone are loud enough to deafen innocent bystanders; his sheer intensity as he focuses, stares at some piece of evidence, a clue everyone else has overlooked, a fiery brilliance that leaves no room for quiet. Quiet is boring, so Sherlock banishes it just by being there.
‘I’m going to Baker Street later,’ John announces, making the decision suddenly and immediately regretting it. He hasn’t been to Baker Street since he smashed the glass and ended up sleeping on Mrs Hudson’s sofa - Harry has picked up whatever he’s needed, and he has stayed at hers. He doesn’t know why he’s avoiding the place, really. Maybe it’s the quiet. ‘I need to make it hospitable again before you wake up - Mrs Hudson’s going to kill me if there’s still milk in the fridge after a month...’
A month.
A. Month.
He holds Sherlock’s hand as he speaks, looking mostly at it rather than Sherlock’ face, unable to reconcile the image of the man before him with the man he knows, the man he -
He just wants Sherlock to open his eyes and speak, even if it’s to insult everyone within earshot.
Please.
0000
It’s an hour before John leaves, brushing his lips against Sherlock’s cheek before walking quickly away, not wanting to give himself a chance to change his mind about going to Baker Street. It’s snowing slightly, wispy flakes that flutter in the cold breeze and are only beginning to settle on the ground. Passing open shop doors, John hears familiar music filtering out from tinny speakers and scowls at the reminder that Christmas is only two weeks away.
As his cane more than once threatens to be more of a hindrance than a help on the frozen ground, John abandons his plan to make it on foot to Baker Street and hails a cab instead, struggling to maintain his resolve to return there.
Only one coherent thought reverberates around his mind as he travels; blank web pages.
Blank web pages, a limp, and intermittent tremors in his left hand; just some of the things that seem to define John’s life without Sherlock, he thinks, remembering the hours of staring at the laptop screen and willing himself to write something, anything, in the little white box in front of him. Just hit a key. Just type ‘hello’. Just say something. But nothing comes, nothing ever comes.
Besides, he tries to rationalise, his blog seems to be entirely made up of recounting their cases - so it’s just on a short break at the moment...no point writing in about nothing, after all...this just means there will be all the more to fill in when Sherlock wakes...
He hasn’t paused to consider the possibility of Sherlock not waking up, not really; he hasn’t let himself. He won’t let himself; there’s no point, because it isn’t going to happen. Sherlock will be awake any day now...by Christmas, at the latest, he’ll be awake...
0000
Time is slipping past in strange chunks, John thinks, standing before the door of 221b Baker Street. He barely notices sometimes when hours pass him by, or he can feel as though a minute lasts a day. It’s been like this for weeks now. Ever since those long hours in the hospital waiting room; he should be used to it, but he still finds it impossibly disorientating.
Leaning against the wall, laughing and panting after the chase after the taxi, turning at the sound of someone at the door - his cane - Sherlock’s warm smile - warm and genuine and brilliant...
He should be opening the door, rather than standing here thinking of anything he can to delay entry. He’s being stupid, acting as though Sherlock has - as though Sherlock is going to...he’s being stupid. He unlocks the door, and climbs the stairs heavily, gritting his teeth -
Following Sherlock to see the flat for the first time, intrigued by this strange man, curious, but uncertain -
Nothing has moved since he left. Harry has followed his instructions for once, to the letter; entering, picking up what he has told her to, and leaving, without touching a single thing.
Books piled everywhere as they try to decipher the sprayed yellow messages, a mess of paper and boxes, Sherlock’s frustration and focus. John is tired and he really should sleep but Sherlock isn’t stopping and John doesn’t want to, either -
The television screen is gathering dust. It’s thick with it now, and a layer covers everything else as well; more proof that the room has been abandoned for weeks.
Sherlock curled in the chair with his coat wrapped around him, shouting at the television about the turn-ups of someone’s jeans. John typing, oblivious to the deception, buying into the lie -
The first aid kit is still scattered across the floor. Mrs Hudson didn’t do much more than pick up what was needed when he kicked it there, not wanting to fuss over the room when he was so close to collapsing from sheer emotional exhaustion...
His thumb trailing across Sherlock’s cheek, Sherlock’s pale skin, leaning together, warm breath -
Everything seems to remind him. Nothing specific, no pattern to the flashbacks; they’re just there, popping up at the slightest suggestion of something that might jog his memory. Moments of the before while John struggles to comprehend there being an after. For now, he will resolutely remain stuck in the during, until he can stand the thought of what might follow it.
Suddenly, as though receiving an order, he straightens with a deep breath and walks through to the kitchen, looking neither left nor right as though he has blinkers on, grabbing a black bin liner from the drawer and pulling open the fridge door, all without a pause. He’s not going to stand around moping; he needs to sort this place out, ready for Sherlock. He drops the milk bottle into the bag without even attempting to open it, does the same for a half-eaten loaf of bread and the cardboard box containing a single, solitary egg.
Two empty pot noodle containers follow them, amongst other detritus littered around the kitchen. John moves carefully so that he doesn’t nudge or disturb any of Sherlock’s experiments, lifting the bag above his head so that it doesn’t collide with the array of delicate looking glass tubes and flasks.
Once he has swept all the rubbish he can find into the bag, he moves to the living room and throws most of the now dusty first aid supplies into it as well, packing what is salvageable back into the box and clipping it shut.
It takes him over three hours to completely raid both rooms, give them a cursory once-over with a duster and wipe the worktops in the kitchen down so they are at least approaching hygienic. By the end, he has a bulging, tied black bin liner and is feeling distinctly grubby himself, but much better for it. Cleaning has kept his mind busy and meant he’s had a break from the constant fight against what ifs. For a while, he has thought of nothing but what needs to be done. He’s been able to solve a problem, however minor, which gives him at least some sense of control. Now that he’s finished, though, he finds himself at a loss. The what ifs are returning with force, now that he no longer has action to drive them away; he finds himself drifting towards Sherlock’s room without thinking.
He stands in the doorway.
Most of Sherlock’s belongings are in the living room, so it’s relatively empty in here. Sherlock has few hobbies, few if any interests outside his violin and his work, so there is a distinct lack of clutter. His bed is unmade. John assumes Sherlock deems such things boring and unnecessary - much like doing the washing up or the vacuuming. His mouth tugs itself into a small smile without his permission, though he isn’t sure what about the thought is amusing...merely somehow...endearing.
Across the covers, thrown back messily on the bed, are Sherlock’s torn clothes from after his fall on the ice; John moves towards them dazedly and sinks onto the bed beside them. He realises numbly that the bag is still in his hand and fiddles absently with the knot. He feels a twisting guilt in his stomach as he picks up the ruined trousers, shirt and jacket, and places them almost tenderly on top of the rubbish already threatening to spill from the bin liner.
It feels wrong to be doing this but he reassures himself with the thought that were Sherlock here, he would be doing the same thing anyway. They’re just clothes, they don’t mean anything. There’s no use in keeping them in this state.
But when he picks up the coat, also ripped down the right sleeve, John can’t bring himself to even consider throwing it away. He lets go of the plastic bag and runs his fingers over the damaged fibres thoughtfully, feeling the material in his hands. The smell of the coat, faded but still completely, uniquely Sherlock, wafts towards him and he breathes it in deeply.
Sherlock running - it could be anywhere, he runs so much; after the taxi, after killers, just because he’s in a hurry...the coat flaps behind him, whirling dramatically when he turns -
He sits for a long while, perched on the edge of the bed with the bin liner slumped beside him and the coat in his hands, twisting the course fabric absently. He can’t throw it away. It’s a good coat, he tells himself, that’s why - he can get it fixed somehow, throwing it away would be a waste. He’ll get it mended, he promises himself; it will get fixed.
He isn’t sure what ‘it’ is referring to anymore.
00000
‘There are nine planets in the Solar System,’ John tells Sherlock’s hand quietly. He rubs his thumb over the back of it, careful not to touch the needle, thinking of delicate experiments and intricately played violins. He smiles grimly at the thought of what Sherlock would think of his ‘conversation’ topic; just something to say, anything to say. He remembers Sherlock looking up at the stars, and saying they were beautiful...he doesn’t want to know about them, but still...if John must talk about something, why not the Solar System?
Except, he reminds himself firmly, he’s getting it wrong already. Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate that.
If I must have these facts, give them to me accurately.
John can almost hear him say it, and quickly corrects himself. The imagined voice makes his chest ache.
‘Eight. Sorry, there are eight planets; Pluto was demoted. It’s a dwarf now apparently...all the planets orbit the Sun, and the Earth is the third out; Mercury and Venus come before it, then Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune. And then Pluto. Not a planet.’ He pauses and watches Sherlock closely, raking his eyes over Sherlock’s face, his hands, searching for any sign of life or recognition; a twitch, a flicker of his eyelids. His search is as fruitless as he knew it would be, but he cannot help himself.
Thirty three days. If - when - Sherlock wakes up...it is becoming less and less likely he will do so without any form of damage. What if he’s not the same? What if his mind...John thinks selfishly that he wouldn’t care, so long as he is alive and awake, but if Sherlock is no longer...no longer brilliant, what will that do to him? Would he be able to live like that?
What if something else is gone? His memory? What if he wakes up and does not recognise John?
It doesn’t matter now. John closes the thoughts out firmly and concentrates on what he has to say, determined to keep talking, keep Sherlock aware of his presence on whatever level. Sherlock should know he is here. Nothing else matters at the moment...just being here, and teaching Sherlock about the Solar System. That’s all. He takes a deep breath.
‘Some of the planets also have moons orbiting them. The Earth’s most recognisable satellite is The Moon, but it does have others...I can’t remember the names, and you aren’t interested, so let’s skip that bit,’
Yes, lets. Sarcastic. That’s how Sherlock’s voice would sound; sarcastic and bored, but he would probably listen anyway, or pretend to at least until something else caught his attention, even if he would simply delete the information or pick it apart afterwards...
‘Umm...Mars has two moons, Deimos and Phobos - that’s Greek for terror and fear, by the way. Saturn has seven, but I don’t know what they’re called...Uranus has five, Neptune has one and Jupiter has four...Jupiter is the biggest planet...’
He talks for over an hour, reciting everything he knows or thinks he knows about the Solar System and probably repeating some of it; by the end his throat is dry and his voice is hoarse from use, but he feels better, somehow, for it. It’s...cathartic. Maybe this is the same sort of idea as writing his blog was supposed to be?
Some ten minutes after he has exhausted the topic of the Solar System, a vaguely familiar doctor comes in and greets John automatically, running through the routine checks on Sherlock as John watches. The man is tall - possibly taller than Sherlock, almost bald and with a long nose and fingers. He has small, dark eyes and a constant line between his eyebrows; a permanent frown of concentration. He looks severe, though his voice is gentle, and his demeanour matter of fact and professional. John wonders when he became quite this observant...Sherlock must be rubbing off on him.
‘Any change?’ says John. He knows the answer will be no, of course, but can’t stop himself from asking the question anyway. He’s fully expecting the usual practised reply, possibly followed by gentle reassurances not to give up hope. The grave look on the doctor’s face makes John’s heart sink, and his chest contract with fear.
‘No,’ Doctor Beckett replies slowly, pausing as though carefully measuring his next words before he speaks them. He gives a small sigh and straightens to face John, whose hand reflexively tightens around Sherlock’s. He’s holding his breath, gritting his teeth, knowing that’s not all; he’s heard that every day so far, and never once with that expression on the doctor’s face.
‘What?’ says John eventually, fighting nausea. His eyes are fixed on Beckett. He refuses to let them lower themselves to Sherlock’s face; he knows he couldn’t stand it right now. ‘What’s different?’
‘Nothing, Doctor Watson,’ Beckett assures him.
‘Something’s different,’ John insists stubbornly, ‘there’s something you aren’t telling me. Say it.’
Beckett is silent for another moment, weighing his options and looking at John sympathetically. His eternal frown deepens. So does John’s concern.
‘Not that it necessarily need be a worry just yet...’
‘Just tell me.’
‘Well Doctor Watson, you are a medical man, I’m sure understand...it has been over a month since -’
‘Only just,’ John interrupts, for some reason needing to assert this fact. No, no, no, no - he’s not saying this, he’s not saying it, he’s not saying it, it’s not true -
‘Nevertheless,’ another pause. John hates how drawn out this is being made; part of him wants Beckett to turn around and leave now without another word. Another part wants it said quickly, so that it’s over and out. So they are no longer dancing around the issue, significant looks and unsaid concerns floating in the air between him and everyone else because no one dare say what they’re all thinking...
‘I think we ought to begin considering the possibility that Mr Holmes will not regain consciousness.’
And there it is. It’s said. It doesn’t echo in John’s ears; it falls flat in the air, and for all the reaction he gives John could be deaf to it.
But he’s not. Oh, God, he’s not, and he wishes he were. It settles like a rock, like a mountain, in his chest, compressing his lungs like an anvil. A complete dead weight stopping him breathing; he’s heavy with it, literally unable to do anything more than stare.
Mr Holmes will not regain consciousness.
‘You -’ John begins, but the word dies in his throat and all that comes out is a sort of incomprehensible squeak. He swallows and tries again, dizzy. ‘You don’t know that,’ he says. It isn’t what he planned to say. He doesn’t know what he planned to say, but it’s what comes out, and he finds himself desperately grasping at it as his only hope. It’s not true, it can’t be true...they can’t really be thinking...but hasn’t everyone been? Hasn’t he? Doesn’t he know, medically, the likelihood of every outcome already? Thinking the words in the back of his mind though, and ignoring them, is quite different to having to hear them out loud, hear them spoken in such grave tones. ‘People wake up after years sometimes,’ he insists dumbly.
Mr Holmes will not regain consciousness.
‘As I said, it’s not something you need to necessarily be concerned with precisely at the present time, but it should be remembered that -’
‘Shouldn’t you be having this conversation with his brother? He’s family, I’m just...this isn’t...it isn’t my place to discuss this.’ I don’t want to discuss this. I can’t. I won’t.
‘I have already spoken to Mr Holmes’s brother; he has told us in no uncertain terms that any medical decision regarding his brother’s treatment or welfare is to go through you.’
‘He didn’t say - anything else? He didn’t...’ didn’t argue? Didn’t tell you to stop being stupid; that of course Sherlock’s far too stubborn to let this happen? He didn’t even object? Somehow, Mycroft agreeing on the subject makes it even worse.
‘I was told simply that all information was to be passed to you, and that you were trusted explicitly to make any necessary decisions.’
Necessary decisions.
John looks towards the ventilator, just for a second. He knows what that means. He feels sick.
‘I’m not making any - you don’t know that he won’t wake up. You don’t know.’
‘Doctor Watson, I’m telling you that it is a consideration which needs to be made, not that you need to do anything yet. It has been over a month. You know the prognosis. You need to be prepared for the worst.’
‘Only a month,’ says John distantly. He realises that his grip on Sherlock’s hand is painfully tight and forces himself to loosen it, but refuses to let go. ‘You just said it. There’s still time.’
‘I know that,’ he assures John gently, ‘but please; be realistic. You are a doctor. You know the facts.’
But facts don’t apply to Sherlock - Sherlock doesn’t follow rules and predictions, he isn’t like other people. What is true for them is not necessarily true for Sherlock - he does nothing else like the rest of the population, why should this be any different to that? Predictability is boring and pedestrian; two things Sherlock could never be, even if he had the inclination to try.
‘I know Sherlock,’ he says, and understands now the position of patients in the face of medical jargon, prognoses, truths. They don’t always hold; they aren’t the whole picture. They can’t be, just because if they are, it isn’t only Sherlock who will not wake from this nightmare.
‘He may never wake up, Doctor Watson. I am truly sorry, but you need to face that fact. And even if he does...really I am sorry.’
‘He will wake up.’
‘Doctor Watson -’
‘He will.’
Summary: "Do you regret it?" - A simple fall can change everything, but some things are always the same - and some are not quite what they seem. After all, no one said this would be easy. Sequel to my one shot 'Black Ice'.
Chapter Word Count: Approx 4,200
Notes: I do not own Sherlock. Apologies for the wait - my beta and I have both been busy!
Also, regarding medical detail since it was brought up by a reader (thanks, by the way, I probably should have done this earlier!) and I thought I should address it. Firstly, I’m not a doctor, so it’s likely to be inaccurate and you might have to just suspend disbelief sometimes I’m afraid. Secondly, I do at least know enough to realise that John’s actions in the taxi were inappropriate, but they’re supposed to be. Bear in mind he’s just been in an accident too - he’s probably got concussion, he’s definitely in shock, and he’s all but watching Sherlock die in front of him. Even doctors are allowed to go off the rails a bit sometimes.
As ever, thank you for all feedback, keep it coming it really is helpful, and thank you for your patience! I hope you like this chapter.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Sherlock is vaguely aware that something is wrong, but he isn’t quite sure what.
He’s on his own, he knows that - and it’s dark. Or at least...foggy. He feels like he is underwater. All his senses are muffled and he can’t figure out where he is or how he got here, or how to get out. John should be here and he tries to call out, but finds his voice isn’t working and neither are his limbs. Everything feels heavy.
His concentration drifts for a long time. Or maybe a short time, he can’t be certain. He thinks of nothing; an entirely new experience to him and not one he wants to repeat. He listens to the distant, unidentifiable sounds like waves, letting them guide his wandering mind until he comes back, and realises again the presence of something strange.
He must have hit his head, he decides. He can’t really think when, but he doesn’t think there can be another explanation for this situation. John ought to be here; he ought to be doing something about it. But maybe John is hurt too - for a moment he sees an image of John’s face; he looks afraid. What could John have to be afraid of? Sherlock tries to speak again, but he still can’t make a sound.
Sherlock runs around the corner too quickly, his arms windmill through the air and his feet slide from beneath him as he falls sideways -
He fell. He remembers falling on the ice - and the murderer, the murderer got away. Lestrade followed and John stayed...stupid Lestrade, he probably let the culprit escape...and John insisted they return to Baker Street. But that injury wasn’t this bad, surely?
John is resting his forehead against Sherlock’s and Sherlock is smiling...John’s hand on his face hurts and the doctor moves away quickly, apologising, but Sherlock doesn’t want him to move...then John is smiling too, he kisses Sherlock again, tells him to shut up...
No. Definitely not that bad.
‘JOHN!’ Noise and movement and pain - opening his eyes slowly, seeing John -
A car, he remembers a car - how long ago was that? He can’t tell. John was awake then, though, John must be okay...so why isn’t he?
‘Thank God, Sherlock - come on, wake up properly now. Stay awake, stay with me...’
But he is tired...
‘No - Sherlock! Don’t do that, you know you’re not supposed to do that. Just like before, okay? It’s nothing serious, but you need to stay awake.’
Did he fall asleep? He must have...John told him not to. This must be why. He wants to move, it’s very dull just being in here, in nothingness. But no matter how hard he tries he can’t make himself speak, he can’t do anything...
00000
John moves a dark curl from where it has found itself over Sherlock’s left eye before he sits down. His fingers ghost gently across Sherlock’s forehead, lingering against his skin moments longer than necessary.
It is thirty two days exactly since the accident. Every time someone dares mention the word coma, John either pointedly ignores them or leaves the room, much the same as when anyone dares bring up brain damage. Harry has more than once tried to tell him he’s in denial; he has more than once told her, quite colourfully, to drop it. He doesn’t care what they say. They don’t know. They don’t know Sherlock, not like he does.
‘That lead didn’t go anywhere,’ John announces without preamble. Sherlock cannot hear him and there is no one else in the room, but talking is better than just sitting. Maybe Sherlock is aware of his presence on some level. Even if the only result of this is that he is so terminally bored by what John has to say that he will wake up purely so he no longer has to listen. At least he would be awake. Talking helps, it makes John feel as though he’s here for a reason, not just to stare at Sherlock’s unmoving form and battle with the paralysing fear of Harry being right. Sometimes he even imagines Sherlock reacts - a flickering eyelid or a twitching finger - but when he looks again, there’s nothing there.
‘Epps is still on the run. Lestrade was convinced we had him this time...’ Epps is the killer Sherlock was chasing before his fall on the ice. John frowns with uneasiness at his statement - there have been no more murders, but he knows it is probably only a matter of time...they cannot deny they need Sherlock. John takes a deep breath, trying to convince himself it isn’t shaky.
‘But we caught the burglar - I was right after all...you’d probably have figured it out in about half the time. Actually no, you probably wouldn’t even have taken the case, but...’ but John doesn’t want to be doing nothing and Lestrade, most likely only to humour him or in some attempt to protect him from himself, has requested John’s presence at crime scenes several times over the last month. Much to the dismay of both Anderson and Donovan, ‘Anderson wasn’t happy - you should have seen his face...complaining about amateurs...I almost hit him. Don’t worry, if I do, I’ll make sure you’re there to watch. And speaking of watching, I haven’t forgotten the film deal. As soon as we’re back at the flat, okay? And you’re still not allowed to guess the ending.’
He rambles on pointlessly, aimlessly. His voice trails off and picks up again at entirely unrelated topics, just so he can continue an almost unbroken stream of nonsense sound to keep himself from going mad with the silence. There’s never silence around Sherlock, and there never should be. Even when he demands that no one speak or move or breathe, because he’s thinking. Around Sherlock there is always noise. His thoughts alone are loud enough to deafen innocent bystanders; his sheer intensity as he focuses, stares at some piece of evidence, a clue everyone else has overlooked, a fiery brilliance that leaves no room for quiet. Quiet is boring, so Sherlock banishes it just by being there.
‘I’m going to Baker Street later,’ John announces, making the decision suddenly and immediately regretting it. He hasn’t been to Baker Street since he smashed the glass and ended up sleeping on Mrs Hudson’s sofa - Harry has picked up whatever he’s needed, and he has stayed at hers. He doesn’t know why he’s avoiding the place, really. Maybe it’s the quiet. ‘I need to make it hospitable again before you wake up - Mrs Hudson’s going to kill me if there’s still milk in the fridge after a month...’
A month.
A. Month.
He holds Sherlock’s hand as he speaks, looking mostly at it rather than Sherlock’ face, unable to reconcile the image of the man before him with the man he knows, the man he -
He just wants Sherlock to open his eyes and speak, even if it’s to insult everyone within earshot.
Please.
0000
It’s an hour before John leaves, brushing his lips against Sherlock’s cheek before walking quickly away, not wanting to give himself a chance to change his mind about going to Baker Street. It’s snowing slightly, wispy flakes that flutter in the cold breeze and are only beginning to settle on the ground. Passing open shop doors, John hears familiar music filtering out from tinny speakers and scowls at the reminder that Christmas is only two weeks away.
As his cane more than once threatens to be more of a hindrance than a help on the frozen ground, John abandons his plan to make it on foot to Baker Street and hails a cab instead, struggling to maintain his resolve to return there.
Only one coherent thought reverberates around his mind as he travels; blank web pages.
Blank web pages, a limp, and intermittent tremors in his left hand; just some of the things that seem to define John’s life without Sherlock, he thinks, remembering the hours of staring at the laptop screen and willing himself to write something, anything, in the little white box in front of him. Just hit a key. Just type ‘hello’. Just say something. But nothing comes, nothing ever comes.
Besides, he tries to rationalise, his blog seems to be entirely made up of recounting their cases - so it’s just on a short break at the moment...no point writing in about nothing, after all...this just means there will be all the more to fill in when Sherlock wakes...
He hasn’t paused to consider the possibility of Sherlock not waking up, not really; he hasn’t let himself. He won’t let himself; there’s no point, because it isn’t going to happen. Sherlock will be awake any day now...by Christmas, at the latest, he’ll be awake...
0000
Time is slipping past in strange chunks, John thinks, standing before the door of 221b Baker Street. He barely notices sometimes when hours pass him by, or he can feel as though a minute lasts a day. It’s been like this for weeks now. Ever since those long hours in the hospital waiting room; he should be used to it, but he still finds it impossibly disorientating.
Leaning against the wall, laughing and panting after the chase after the taxi, turning at the sound of someone at the door - his cane - Sherlock’s warm smile - warm and genuine and brilliant...
He should be opening the door, rather than standing here thinking of anything he can to delay entry. He’s being stupid, acting as though Sherlock has - as though Sherlock is going to...he’s being stupid. He unlocks the door, and climbs the stairs heavily, gritting his teeth -
Following Sherlock to see the flat for the first time, intrigued by this strange man, curious, but uncertain -
Nothing has moved since he left. Harry has followed his instructions for once, to the letter; entering, picking up what he has told her to, and leaving, without touching a single thing.
Books piled everywhere as they try to decipher the sprayed yellow messages, a mess of paper and boxes, Sherlock’s frustration and focus. John is tired and he really should sleep but Sherlock isn’t stopping and John doesn’t want to, either -
The television screen is gathering dust. It’s thick with it now, and a layer covers everything else as well; more proof that the room has been abandoned for weeks.
Sherlock curled in the chair with his coat wrapped around him, shouting at the television about the turn-ups of someone’s jeans. John typing, oblivious to the deception, buying into the lie -
The first aid kit is still scattered across the floor. Mrs Hudson didn’t do much more than pick up what was needed when he kicked it there, not wanting to fuss over the room when he was so close to collapsing from sheer emotional exhaustion...
His thumb trailing across Sherlock’s cheek, Sherlock’s pale skin, leaning together, warm breath -
Everything seems to remind him. Nothing specific, no pattern to the flashbacks; they’re just there, popping up at the slightest suggestion of something that might jog his memory. Moments of the before while John struggles to comprehend there being an after. For now, he will resolutely remain stuck in the during, until he can stand the thought of what might follow it.
Suddenly, as though receiving an order, he straightens with a deep breath and walks through to the kitchen, looking neither left nor right as though he has blinkers on, grabbing a black bin liner from the drawer and pulling open the fridge door, all without a pause. He’s not going to stand around moping; he needs to sort this place out, ready for Sherlock. He drops the milk bottle into the bag without even attempting to open it, does the same for a half-eaten loaf of bread and the cardboard box containing a single, solitary egg.
Two empty pot noodle containers follow them, amongst other detritus littered around the kitchen. John moves carefully so that he doesn’t nudge or disturb any of Sherlock’s experiments, lifting the bag above his head so that it doesn’t collide with the array of delicate looking glass tubes and flasks.
Once he has swept all the rubbish he can find into the bag, he moves to the living room and throws most of the now dusty first aid supplies into it as well, packing what is salvageable back into the box and clipping it shut.
It takes him over three hours to completely raid both rooms, give them a cursory once-over with a duster and wipe the worktops in the kitchen down so they are at least approaching hygienic. By the end, he has a bulging, tied black bin liner and is feeling distinctly grubby himself, but much better for it. Cleaning has kept his mind busy and meant he’s had a break from the constant fight against what ifs. For a while, he has thought of nothing but what needs to be done. He’s been able to solve a problem, however minor, which gives him at least some sense of control. Now that he’s finished, though, he finds himself at a loss. The what ifs are returning with force, now that he no longer has action to drive them away; he finds himself drifting towards Sherlock’s room without thinking.
He stands in the doorway.
Most of Sherlock’s belongings are in the living room, so it’s relatively empty in here. Sherlock has few hobbies, few if any interests outside his violin and his work, so there is a distinct lack of clutter. His bed is unmade. John assumes Sherlock deems such things boring and unnecessary - much like doing the washing up or the vacuuming. His mouth tugs itself into a small smile without his permission, though he isn’t sure what about the thought is amusing...merely somehow...endearing.
Across the covers, thrown back messily on the bed, are Sherlock’s torn clothes from after his fall on the ice; John moves towards them dazedly and sinks onto the bed beside them. He realises numbly that the bag is still in his hand and fiddles absently with the knot. He feels a twisting guilt in his stomach as he picks up the ruined trousers, shirt and jacket, and places them almost tenderly on top of the rubbish already threatening to spill from the bin liner.
It feels wrong to be doing this but he reassures himself with the thought that were Sherlock here, he would be doing the same thing anyway. They’re just clothes, they don’t mean anything. There’s no use in keeping them in this state.
But when he picks up the coat, also ripped down the right sleeve, John can’t bring himself to even consider throwing it away. He lets go of the plastic bag and runs his fingers over the damaged fibres thoughtfully, feeling the material in his hands. The smell of the coat, faded but still completely, uniquely Sherlock, wafts towards him and he breathes it in deeply.
Sherlock running - it could be anywhere, he runs so much; after the taxi, after killers, just because he’s in a hurry...the coat flaps behind him, whirling dramatically when he turns -
He sits for a long while, perched on the edge of the bed with the bin liner slumped beside him and the coat in his hands, twisting the course fabric absently. He can’t throw it away. It’s a good coat, he tells himself, that’s why - he can get it fixed somehow, throwing it away would be a waste. He’ll get it mended, he promises himself; it will get fixed.
He isn’t sure what ‘it’ is referring to anymore.
00000
‘There are nine planets in the Solar System,’ John tells Sherlock’s hand quietly. He rubs his thumb over the back of it, careful not to touch the needle, thinking of delicate experiments and intricately played violins. He smiles grimly at the thought of what Sherlock would think of his ‘conversation’ topic; just something to say, anything to say. He remembers Sherlock looking up at the stars, and saying they were beautiful...he doesn’t want to know about them, but still...if John must talk about something, why not the Solar System?
Except, he reminds himself firmly, he’s getting it wrong already. Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate that.
If I must have these facts, give them to me accurately.
John can almost hear him say it, and quickly corrects himself. The imagined voice makes his chest ache.
‘Eight. Sorry, there are eight planets; Pluto was demoted. It’s a dwarf now apparently...all the planets orbit the Sun, and the Earth is the third out; Mercury and Venus come before it, then Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune. And then Pluto. Not a planet.’ He pauses and watches Sherlock closely, raking his eyes over Sherlock’s face, his hands, searching for any sign of life or recognition; a twitch, a flicker of his eyelids. His search is as fruitless as he knew it would be, but he cannot help himself.
Thirty three days. If - when - Sherlock wakes up...it is becoming less and less likely he will do so without any form of damage. What if he’s not the same? What if his mind...John thinks selfishly that he wouldn’t care, so long as he is alive and awake, but if Sherlock is no longer...no longer brilliant, what will that do to him? Would he be able to live like that?
What if something else is gone? His memory? What if he wakes up and does not recognise John?
It doesn’t matter now. John closes the thoughts out firmly and concentrates on what he has to say, determined to keep talking, keep Sherlock aware of his presence on whatever level. Sherlock should know he is here. Nothing else matters at the moment...just being here, and teaching Sherlock about the Solar System. That’s all. He takes a deep breath.
‘Some of the planets also have moons orbiting them. The Earth’s most recognisable satellite is The Moon, but it does have others...I can’t remember the names, and you aren’t interested, so let’s skip that bit,’
Yes, lets. Sarcastic. That’s how Sherlock’s voice would sound; sarcastic and bored, but he would probably listen anyway, or pretend to at least until something else caught his attention, even if he would simply delete the information or pick it apart afterwards...
‘Umm...Mars has two moons, Deimos and Phobos - that’s Greek for terror and fear, by the way. Saturn has seven, but I don’t know what they’re called...Uranus has five, Neptune has one and Jupiter has four...Jupiter is the biggest planet...’
He talks for over an hour, reciting everything he knows or thinks he knows about the Solar System and probably repeating some of it; by the end his throat is dry and his voice is hoarse from use, but he feels better, somehow, for it. It’s...cathartic. Maybe this is the same sort of idea as writing his blog was supposed to be?
Some ten minutes after he has exhausted the topic of the Solar System, a vaguely familiar doctor comes in and greets John automatically, running through the routine checks on Sherlock as John watches. The man is tall - possibly taller than Sherlock, almost bald and with a long nose and fingers. He has small, dark eyes and a constant line between his eyebrows; a permanent frown of concentration. He looks severe, though his voice is gentle, and his demeanour matter of fact and professional. John wonders when he became quite this observant...Sherlock must be rubbing off on him.
‘Any change?’ says John. He knows the answer will be no, of course, but can’t stop himself from asking the question anyway. He’s fully expecting the usual practised reply, possibly followed by gentle reassurances not to give up hope. The grave look on the doctor’s face makes John’s heart sink, and his chest contract with fear.
‘No,’ Doctor Beckett replies slowly, pausing as though carefully measuring his next words before he speaks them. He gives a small sigh and straightens to face John, whose hand reflexively tightens around Sherlock’s. He’s holding his breath, gritting his teeth, knowing that’s not all; he’s heard that every day so far, and never once with that expression on the doctor’s face.
‘What?’ says John eventually, fighting nausea. His eyes are fixed on Beckett. He refuses to let them lower themselves to Sherlock’s face; he knows he couldn’t stand it right now. ‘What’s different?’
‘Nothing, Doctor Watson,’ Beckett assures him.
‘Something’s different,’ John insists stubbornly, ‘there’s something you aren’t telling me. Say it.’
Beckett is silent for another moment, weighing his options and looking at John sympathetically. His eternal frown deepens. So does John’s concern.
‘Not that it necessarily need be a worry just yet...’
‘Just tell me.’
‘Well Doctor Watson, you are a medical man, I’m sure understand...it has been over a month since -’
‘Only just,’ John interrupts, for some reason needing to assert this fact. No, no, no, no - he’s not saying this, he’s not saying it, he’s not saying it, it’s not true -
‘Nevertheless,’ another pause. John hates how drawn out this is being made; part of him wants Beckett to turn around and leave now without another word. Another part wants it said quickly, so that it’s over and out. So they are no longer dancing around the issue, significant looks and unsaid concerns floating in the air between him and everyone else because no one dare say what they’re all thinking...
‘I think we ought to begin considering the possibility that Mr Holmes will not regain consciousness.’
And there it is. It’s said. It doesn’t echo in John’s ears; it falls flat in the air, and for all the reaction he gives John could be deaf to it.
But he’s not. Oh, God, he’s not, and he wishes he were. It settles like a rock, like a mountain, in his chest, compressing his lungs like an anvil. A complete dead weight stopping him breathing; he’s heavy with it, literally unable to do anything more than stare.
Mr Holmes will not regain consciousness.
‘You -’ John begins, but the word dies in his throat and all that comes out is a sort of incomprehensible squeak. He swallows and tries again, dizzy. ‘You don’t know that,’ he says. It isn’t what he planned to say. He doesn’t know what he planned to say, but it’s what comes out, and he finds himself desperately grasping at it as his only hope. It’s not true, it can’t be true...they can’t really be thinking...but hasn’t everyone been? Hasn’t he? Doesn’t he know, medically, the likelihood of every outcome already? Thinking the words in the back of his mind though, and ignoring them, is quite different to having to hear them out loud, hear them spoken in such grave tones. ‘People wake up after years sometimes,’ he insists dumbly.
Mr Holmes will not regain consciousness.
‘As I said, it’s not something you need to necessarily be concerned with precisely at the present time, but it should be remembered that -’
‘Shouldn’t you be having this conversation with his brother? He’s family, I’m just...this isn’t...it isn’t my place to discuss this.’ I don’t want to discuss this. I can’t. I won’t.
‘I have already spoken to Mr Holmes’s brother; he has told us in no uncertain terms that any medical decision regarding his brother’s treatment or welfare is to go through you.’
‘He didn’t say - anything else? He didn’t...’ didn’t argue? Didn’t tell you to stop being stupid; that of course Sherlock’s far too stubborn to let this happen? He didn’t even object? Somehow, Mycroft agreeing on the subject makes it even worse.
‘I was told simply that all information was to be passed to you, and that you were trusted explicitly to make any necessary decisions.’
Necessary decisions.
John looks towards the ventilator, just for a second. He knows what that means. He feels sick.
‘I’m not making any - you don’t know that he won’t wake up. You don’t know.’
‘Doctor Watson, I’m telling you that it is a consideration which needs to be made, not that you need to do anything yet. It has been over a month. You know the prognosis. You need to be prepared for the worst.’
‘Only a month,’ says John distantly. He realises that his grip on Sherlock’s hand is painfully tight and forces himself to loosen it, but refuses to let go. ‘You just said it. There’s still time.’
‘I know that,’ he assures John gently, ‘but please; be realistic. You are a doctor. You know the facts.’
But facts don’t apply to Sherlock - Sherlock doesn’t follow rules and predictions, he isn’t like other people. What is true for them is not necessarily true for Sherlock - he does nothing else like the rest of the population, why should this be any different to that? Predictability is boring and pedestrian; two things Sherlock could never be, even if he had the inclination to try.
‘I know Sherlock,’ he says, and understands now the position of patients in the face of medical jargon, prognoses, truths. They don’t always hold; they aren’t the whole picture. They can’t be, just because if they are, it isn’t only Sherlock who will not wake from this nightmare.
‘He may never wake up, Doctor Watson. I am truly sorry, but you need to face that fact. And even if he does...really I am sorry.’
‘He will wake up.’
‘Doctor Watson -’
‘He will.’