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 3,800
Rating: Teen
Notes: I do not own Sherlock. As always, a huge thank you to everyone who has commented, and especially to prettybirdy979, who is an invaluable beta!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
John throws on his clothes without thinking and ends up with only one sock and his grey woolly jumper inside out, but he couldn’t care less even as he climbs clumsily after Mycroft into the waiting black car. Its sleek interior would make him feel out of place at the best of times, but it doesn’t even register now.
Less than ten minutes have passed since he opened his eyes to Mycroft standing in his bedroom at two in the morning but already John is more awake than he has ever been. He feels as though he has downed at least ten cups of coffee and cannot keep still, fidgeting constantly in his seat. His leg bounces jarringly and he taps his finger on the doorframe in time with its staccato rhythm, radiating impatience.
It doesn’t seem real, and part of John’s mind keeps telling him that it isn’t, and he’s still asleep. The rest knows better. His slumber never offers him anything like this, only nightmares and replays of hellish memories, but he still can’t accept it. Not until he sees Sherlock with his own eyes. Something is holding back relief until he does, but he can feel it pressing in on him. It’s suffocating; terrible and wonderful at the same time because he daren’t believe it, but he is desperate to.
Mycroft, by contrast, is so utterly still that John can barely see him breathing.
He’s awake.
No more talk of necessary decisions, no more swimming himself into exhaustion, no more choking back memories of Sherlock’s blood - no grey, monotonous streets. Even now in the mid-December pre-dawn darkness, everything is so much more alive than it has been in weeks. The decorations no longer look garish and ugly, but tasteful; the dancing colours cast a soft glow over his face as he peers out of the window at them. The ice is not bleak and black, but glitters like crystals under the twinkling decorations.
He doesn’t have his cane. He almost laughs at the thought; considering how much pain it causes when it decides to, he can forget about his leg very easily when the situation calls for it. He considers simply throwing the cane away, and sees for an instant the smile on Sherlock’s face when Angelo returned it to him -
Awake, awake, Sherlock is awake, asking for him - he is most insistent -
His manic, chaotic train of thought judders to a halt abruptly. His chest constricts with guilt like a physical pain; Sherlock, asking for him, Sherlock waking; alone in the hospital. Sherlock confused or disoriented or just plain annoyed to find himself confined to a single room; angry or afraid or any number of things. Suddenly, John realises that Mycroft has not given him any idea what to expect, and worry coils itself uncomfortably inside him.
‘Mycroft,’ he starts - it comes out as more of a croak and John clears his throat before trying again. ‘How is he?’ he manages to ask uncertainly, feeling that he probably should have spoken before now. They are almost at the hospital, and fear is overtaking relief in its battle to permeate John’s defences.
Mycroft turns to face John, his face unreadable, and affects his own version of a tiny shrug, which he manages to make appear as neat and carefully planned as everything else about his person. ‘There seems to be no permanent damage, if that is what you’re asking. He began to show signs of waking up not long after you left yesterday afternoon -’ he forestalls John’s indignant interruption with a raised hand. ‘You were not called because at that point it was far from certain he would regain full consciousness, which he has now had for just over an hour. His speech and movement are rapidly improving though still causing him some frustration. His memory seems almost intact, excepting a few understandable lapses. He’s very irritable, though I have assured the doctors that this is hardly something to be concerned over.’
‘That’s it?’ asks John, finding himself smiling - a little muddled, a little clumsy? He feels bad for the relief the news causes, knowing how infuriating these normal human inadequacies will be for Sherlock, but he can’t help it. ‘That’s all?’ His logical brain is demanding how how how? In a voice that sounds rather like Sherlock. His heart is screaming I don’t care! So loudly he’s surprised Mycroft can’t hear.
‘That is all, Doctor Watson,’ Mycroft replies, his expression softening, ‘Sherlock is as stubborn as ever, and I doubt he is going to let something like this keep him incapacitated for long.’
00000
Mycroft’s pace is quick, but to John every step seems to take an age. He forces himself not to start sprinting, maintaining a speed that keeps him level with the elder Holmes as they move through the near empty corridors of the hospital. John does not spare a glance for the few people they do pass, does not even register whether they are patients or doctors. He has to concentrate to keep his breathing level and prevent himself marching ahead of Mycroft.
After what feels like hours, John sees the now all too familiar door to Sherlock’s room (a private one; Mycroft’s doing, presumably. Why has it never occurred to him before?). He doesn’t realise he has broken into a run until he feels his palm make contact with it, hard, and hears it crash open, bouncing off the wall. Even now he doesn’t slow down, doesn’t even stop to really see Sherlock properly, he doesn’t even think. He just rushes forwards and crushes his lips against Sherlock’s.
‘You - if you -’ he mutters between kisses, both hands tangled in Sherlock’s hair and pressing him closer. Sherlock’s right arm curls automatically around John’s back as he reciprocates, the left one squashed between them strapped in a sling. John relishes the feeling of warmth the touch causes; the sheer, overwhelming reality finally washing over him in waves so that his knees literally go weak. He has to sit on the edge of Sherlock’s bed to prevent himself collapsing. It’s real, it’s real, it’s real - he’s awake; he’s here, alive and breathing for himself, moving, pulling John towards him...
It’s with enormous reluctance that they eventually give in to the need for oxygen and break apart. John keeps the distance between them to no more than a few inches as he whispers urgently, ‘don’t you ever - don’t you dare - do that again. Do you understand?’ and God he’s alive - not just Sherlock, but John, he’s alive, he’s awake, he’s not drowning anymore -
‘I’ll do my best,’ replies Sherlock in a low voice. It sounds like forming the words is an effort, as though it costs him more concentration that it ought to. His eyes are clear and focused, though; there’s no confusion in his expression, and so what if his speech is mildly slurred? The sound of it, the sight of his smile, almost causes John to lose the last of his composure.
There’s a noise behind them, and John glances around to see Mycroft nod politely at them as he pulls the door closed, after ushering the doctor out in front of him. John turns back to Sherlock and opens his mouth, but Sherlock gets there first.
His eyes travel intently over John’s face, taking in every detail and cataloguing them, drinking them in hungrily. ‘Oh, don’t be so predickable. Predickable. Pre - dic - ta - ble.’ He corrects himself slowly, scowling his displeasure at the mistake. John’s brow creases in confusion.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Guilt,’ Sherlock clarifies, ‘it’s pointless, un - unfounded and boring.’
‘Sorry,’ says John, and means it. Sherlock rolls his eyes, but there’s no real malice in the expression. There’s a long, uncomfortable pause, before John mutters ‘I just kept thinking...you know...if I had been sat in your place, then -’
‘Don’t,’ Sherlock interrupts forcefully, forgetting to concentrate on the word so it comes out even sharper than he intended, ‘just don’t.’
He wants to tell John, he needs John to know - he doesn’t even understand why John should know, he simply ought to...that now Sherlock has worked out what the sound was. The one that kept him tethered to reality and drew him back across whatever veil kept him lost before. He doesn’t know why he never realised because the answer is so painfully, completely obvious. Because of course it was John. It is always John.
But he cannot think how to phrase it, so he settles instead for raising his eyebrows and saying slowly, so very carefully, determined not to mess up any of the words; ‘did you know that there are eight planets in the Solar System?’
And he can tell, by the look on John’s face, that he understands, even when his only reply is to smile and tell Sherlock, ‘nine, if you count Pluto.’
00000
It’s a day since Sherlock woke up. Despite their apparent lenience when he first regained consciousness, the doctors are being frustratingly insistent about visiting hours. Much as he is loathed to accept Mycroft’s help most of the time, Sherlock wishes his brother would intervene.
It’s dark. And quiet; Sherlock doesn’t like it.
He can see vague shapes around him, but his surroundings are split into varying shades of grey, broken only by the little blinking lights of the machines that sit either side of the bed. One bleeps constantly. He can hear distant voices from outside of his room, but they are little more than murmurs. He can’t make out individual words, though he entertains himself for a while trying to work out what the conversations are about by the tones used.
Of course, it isn’t a very useful experiment, as he has no way of testing his conclusions, but it keeps him reassured that he isn’t slipping back into the nothingness again. It’s foolish, he knows, but every time he closes his eyes and feels the darkness pulling at the edge of his senses...it’s uncomfortably similar to before. He can’t even focus on improving his speech or dexterity; though he has been assured both will come in time he has never been very good at waiting, and why should he have to?
Blink. Bleep. Muffled footsteps; a hurried conversation. A phone ringing and something squeaking - a wheel? Someone in a wheelchair, then, or on a gurney, being taken past...a wheelchair, Sherlock decides, based on the pattern of the sound. It takes him much too long to work out, and his mind drifts vaguely in the meantime. He can’t quite seem to concentrate. One person accompanying them, elderly, judging by the slightly shuffling, slow pace - someone small, the footsteps are not heavy...
Blink. Bleep. More indistinct voices. A question; an answer. Buzzing silence...
Blink. Bleep. Laughter, somewhere. Clicking heels. An exclamation. Another phone call. A lull in activity then a baby crying, quickly soothed. The squeaking wheelchair on its return journey. A door opening nearby, then closing sharply. Hurried footsteps, and quiet again...
Blink. Bleep...
Darkness deepening...twisting somehow, shadows taking shape around him...
Blink...bleep...
Swirling...the noises of the hospital seem to fade, still there, on the fringe of his senses, but not registering as strongly as before...a drifting feeling; light, and not unpleasant...
Blink...
Emptiness.
He can’t take stock of his surroundings, because there are no surroundings. He doesn’t appear to be touching anything, even...doesn’t even appear to be a thing himself, he just...exists...as thought, or as...he doesn’t know.
Sherlock looks down, except he isn’t entirely certain what down is anymore, and sees...nothing. He tries to turn upwards, but might not move at all, his eyes are greeted by the same all around...not even shapes and outlines, not even darkness, just...a void.
He tries to move his arms and only now realises that he does have a physical body, and that it’s trapped, though he can’t feel anything binding him in place. There are no cuffs, ropes or restraints; he simply can’t make himself move. He tries to call out but his voice won’t work either and when he attempts to remember how he got here, he finds his memory a confusing jumble of images and sounds that don’t make sense.
He strains his eyes and still sees nothing, so listens hard instead...
There - there! There is something, there must be something, he can hear it - a murmur, somewhere close...but no, it’s too far away at the same time. Distance means nothing here, but Sherlock knows now that there is something there. If it’s there, he can find it, and if he can find it, he can get out of here -
Then the sound becomes louder, stronger. Still Sherlock cannot identify the words, but he feels warmer now...he hadn’t even realised he was cold. Suddenly the sound brings meaning with it, wafts through the non-space like wind and bathes Sherlock in the feeling of a presence, neither sight nor sounds nor smells but knowledge of a familiar identity. He latches onto it desperately, trying to call out, trying to scream for help…but he’s still trapped, stuck here. Stuck again. The presence is leaving - but no, it can’t leave, it mustn’t leave, he needs it, he needs it, he needs John...
00000
When John walks into the room and sees Sherlock sleeping, he smiles, knowledge that it is natural sleep quickly dampening the familiar heavy feeling that has accompanied the sight of the detective for the past six weeks. It’s good to see Sherlock rest and know that he will wake up.
But as he draws closer, concern rises in his chest - Sherlock is not twisting or crying out, but his features are set in a deep frown and a thin sheen of sweat coats his forehead. Belatedly, John notices the vice-like grip Sherlock’s right hand has on the sheets. Without pausing to think he rushes forwards to ease the cloth from Sherlock’s fist and replace it with his own hand, using the other to nudge the detective’s shoulder sharply.
‘Sherlock! Wake up, it’s okay -’
Sherlock’s eyes open abruptly and dart around the room for a split second before resting on John’s face. His whole body seems to relax, and his painful grip on John’s fingers loosens.
‘Are you -?’
‘I’m f - fine,’ Sherlock assures him quietly, stumbling a little over the words.
‘You were dreaming...’
‘And now I’m ’wake - I’m awake.’ He pushes himself clumsily into a sitting position, blinking and squinting against the light.
‘What were you dreaming about?’ John asks tentatively. Sherlock scowls.
‘Nothing,’ he replies,
‘Sherlock -’
‘Really, nothing,’ Sherlock assures him. Oddly he is being entirely literal, and yet John does not believe him, though he lets the subject drop with an exasperated sigh and sits down heavily in the plastic chair beside the bed.
‘So how are you feeling?’ John tries, deciding that the topic is best left alone for now.
‘Bored,’ Sherlock answers immediately, giving the door a venomous glare as though in the hope that a doctor might come through it and discharge him if he only wills it hard enough. ‘Hosp - hospitals are dull.’
‘And necessary,’ John interjects, failing badly at hiding his smile before sobering up and continuing quietly, ‘you’ve no idea how close you came to...’ he trails off, unable to complete the sentence. Sherlock sniffs impatiently,
‘Yes, well, I’m ’wake now, and I do wish the doctors would re - realise that I am perfeckly fine so I can get out of here and go back to the - to - go home,’ he finishes, frowning.
‘The flat,’ John tells Sherlock gently, well aware that he treads a fine line between being comforting and being patronising. It’s painful to see Sherlock, normally so articulate, struggling like this, but the knowledge of how much worse it could be keeps him from feeling too bad. Sherlock looks thoughtful. Or irritated - or both, it’s difficult to tell, then abruptly changes the subject.
‘So did Lestrade catch Epps, or not?’
It takes John, wrong-footed by the sudden change of topic, a moment to catch up, and the impatience in Sherlock’s face should irritate him but instead he welcomes it, revelling in its return.
‘What? Epps - oh! Not yet, no. But there haven’t been any more deaths either; he’s well and truly disappeared.’
‘Nobody just disappears...’ Sherlock mutters slowly. The chase on the ice seems a lifetime ago now. John finds himself watching Sherlock with a mixture of concern and the child-like fascination he still can’t help but feel every time he sees the deductive process in action. Concern overrides fascination.
‘Don’t even think about getting involved in a case this soon,’ John commands firmly, ‘you’ve barely woken up.’
‘I might just slip un - un - con - scious again from boredom if I don’t have work. Is that what you want?’ he whines petulantly,
‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll find something to do,’ a gleam enters John’s eyes, ‘I haven’t decorated the flat for Christmas yet.’
Sherlock groans.
00000
Despite his many obvious social inadequacies, it’s surprisingly easy to laugh with Sherlock. This is exactly what John is doing when Mycroft pushes the door of the hospital room open, but as much as his smile is contagious, so is the lack of it, and John’s face falls almost as quickly as Sherlock’s. Their hands are still casually linked, though - until Lestrade follows the elder Holmes into the room and John pulls away. Sherlock doesn’t stop him, but a tiny crease appears on his forehead.
Mycroft raises his eyebrows, and John, hoping he is not being nearly as obvious as he feels like he is, shoots him a look that says very firmly not to comment on it.
‘Lestrade,’ says Sherlock, pointedly ignoring his brother, who rolls his eyes.
‘Good to see you awake,’ the Detective Inspector nods politely, a small, genuine smile on his face. Sherlock is more interested in whatever he is holding, whether by chance or on purpose, behind his back.
‘Thank you - but what are you really here for?’ John and Lestrade exchange a look that lacks its usual exasperation as the latter moves forwards and hand Sherlock a thin, official looking file. Sherlock’s speech is even slower and more careful than has become usual, now someone other than John is listening.
‘Thought you might be interested in this,’ Lestrade says, ‘it’s the report on the crash. Nothing in there to suggest anything more than an accident, there’s no mystery or anything, but I figured you’d appreciate something to look over while you’re in here anyway.’ He casts a sideways glance at Mycroft, which if Sherlock catches, he ignores. Judging by the slightly wary expression on Lestrade’s face, John assumes the offering was Mycroft’s idea.
Sherlock is already flicking through the few pages present with an air of complete indifference. John can’t help but wince at the sight of the crushed, twisted metal in the photographs and averts his eyes, but glances towards Lestrade and mouths thank you all the same. He is fairly certain that for however short a time this keeps Sherlock occupied, it will be at least a few minutes less of them both being driven insane by the detective’s incurable boredom. Besides, Sherlock will probably demand to see it eventually anyway. They might as well get it over with.
‘And Mycroft, why are you here?’ Sherlock asks finally without looking up from the file, as though realising that simply refusing to acknowledge his brother’s presence is not going to make him disappear.
‘Merely to enquire after your well-being,’ Mycroft replies coolly, a mild expression on his face,
‘Why don’t you just ask one of your s - your surv - your people watching us?’ Lestrade’s eyes flicker momentarily to John, who widens his own in a silent plea not to mention the slip. Sherlock’s free hand grips the sheets tightly in frustration, but he gives no other outward sign of distress.
‘I am concerned, Sherlock. Why is that so difficult for you to believe?’
Sherlock huffs moodily in reply, still not looking up from the file on his lap.
‘I’ll - err - be going, then?’ Lestrade interjects uncomfortably, gesturing towards the door. Sherlock waves a hand impatiently and John smiles in gratitude as Lestrade starts towards the door, then pauses. ‘I am glad you’re recovering, Sherlock,’ he adds, almost as an afterthought. Sherlock glances up, seems uncertain what to say in response, and nods tightly.
‘Whether you choose to believe it or not, I hope you get well soon,’ Mycroft lingers for several moments, then with a small sigh of frustration, follows Lestrade. Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice their exit and remains focused on the file, having found a photograph apparently of particular interest to him, which he is now rotating and squinting at.
John knows better than to interrupt and waits instead for Sherlock to speak. After ten more minutes of closely scrutinising the file, he does.
‘Why did you do that?’ he asks absently, with only a quick glance upwards. His tone is off-hand, but John detects the genuine curiosity behind it.
‘Do what?’
‘Move your hand.’
For some reason, the question is unexpected; he had not thought about the action, and though he knows why he did it, explaining seems to be another matter. He frowns.
‘Are you embarrassed?’ Sherlock asks, still apparently only half interested, though the care with which he forms the words gives him away.
‘What - no!’ John exclaims, suddenly horrified. Surely Sherlock can’t think that he regrets -?
‘Ashamed, then?’ Sherlock looks up at last, with a guarded expression on his face. John shakes his head imploringly,
‘Sherlock, no, I just - I didn’t - look, Mycroft knows. Apart from the fact he probably worked it out weeks ago anyway, he was there yesterday when I saw you after you woke up -’
‘Yes,’ Sherlock interrupts, smirking, ‘not your most subt - subtle move, I must admit.’
‘Well, you weren’t complaining,’ John retorts defensively,
‘Did I say I was?’
John shakes his head, but he is smiling. ‘If I was going to change my mind I would have done it already. I’ve had plenty of time to think. And anyway, Lestrade doesn’t know and I wasn’t sure if - oh, I don’t know, I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t know if you wanted him to know, or...’ Sherlock shrugs, a glint in his eyes that is almost mischievous as he reaches forwards and takes John’s hand firmly once more.
‘I wish you’d stop worrying what other people think,’ he says.
‘Yes, well, some of us have a little thing called social skills. I know!’ he exclaims before Sherlock can reply, and then they both speak at the same time, and laugh, ‘boring.’
‘Well that makes two new things on the list of what Lestrade doesn’t know. It’s really getting quite long,’ Sherlock says, somewhere between thoughtful and incredulous.
‘What’s the second thing?’ John asks. Sherlock gestures to the crash report awkwardly with his strapped arm.
‘This wasn’t an accident.’
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 3,800
Rating: Teen
Notes: I do not own Sherlock. As always, a huge thank you to everyone who has commented, and especially to prettybirdy979, who is an invaluable beta!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
John throws on his clothes without thinking and ends up with only one sock and his grey woolly jumper inside out, but he couldn’t care less even as he climbs clumsily after Mycroft into the waiting black car. Its sleek interior would make him feel out of place at the best of times, but it doesn’t even register now.
Less than ten minutes have passed since he opened his eyes to Mycroft standing in his bedroom at two in the morning but already John is more awake than he has ever been. He feels as though he has downed at least ten cups of coffee and cannot keep still, fidgeting constantly in his seat. His leg bounces jarringly and he taps his finger on the doorframe in time with its staccato rhythm, radiating impatience.
It doesn’t seem real, and part of John’s mind keeps telling him that it isn’t, and he’s still asleep. The rest knows better. His slumber never offers him anything like this, only nightmares and replays of hellish memories, but he still can’t accept it. Not until he sees Sherlock with his own eyes. Something is holding back relief until he does, but he can feel it pressing in on him. It’s suffocating; terrible and wonderful at the same time because he daren’t believe it, but he is desperate to.
Mycroft, by contrast, is so utterly still that John can barely see him breathing.
He’s awake.
No more talk of necessary decisions, no more swimming himself into exhaustion, no more choking back memories of Sherlock’s blood - no grey, monotonous streets. Even now in the mid-December pre-dawn darkness, everything is so much more alive than it has been in weeks. The decorations no longer look garish and ugly, but tasteful; the dancing colours cast a soft glow over his face as he peers out of the window at them. The ice is not bleak and black, but glitters like crystals under the twinkling decorations.
He doesn’t have his cane. He almost laughs at the thought; considering how much pain it causes when it decides to, he can forget about his leg very easily when the situation calls for it. He considers simply throwing the cane away, and sees for an instant the smile on Sherlock’s face when Angelo returned it to him -
Awake, awake, Sherlock is awake, asking for him - he is most insistent -
His manic, chaotic train of thought judders to a halt abruptly. His chest constricts with guilt like a physical pain; Sherlock, asking for him, Sherlock waking; alone in the hospital. Sherlock confused or disoriented or just plain annoyed to find himself confined to a single room; angry or afraid or any number of things. Suddenly, John realises that Mycroft has not given him any idea what to expect, and worry coils itself uncomfortably inside him.
‘Mycroft,’ he starts - it comes out as more of a croak and John clears his throat before trying again. ‘How is he?’ he manages to ask uncertainly, feeling that he probably should have spoken before now. They are almost at the hospital, and fear is overtaking relief in its battle to permeate John’s defences.
Mycroft turns to face John, his face unreadable, and affects his own version of a tiny shrug, which he manages to make appear as neat and carefully planned as everything else about his person. ‘There seems to be no permanent damage, if that is what you’re asking. He began to show signs of waking up not long after you left yesterday afternoon -’ he forestalls John’s indignant interruption with a raised hand. ‘You were not called because at that point it was far from certain he would regain full consciousness, which he has now had for just over an hour. His speech and movement are rapidly improving though still causing him some frustration. His memory seems almost intact, excepting a few understandable lapses. He’s very irritable, though I have assured the doctors that this is hardly something to be concerned over.’
‘That’s it?’ asks John, finding himself smiling - a little muddled, a little clumsy? He feels bad for the relief the news causes, knowing how infuriating these normal human inadequacies will be for Sherlock, but he can’t help it. ‘That’s all?’ His logical brain is demanding how how how? In a voice that sounds rather like Sherlock. His heart is screaming I don’t care! So loudly he’s surprised Mycroft can’t hear.
‘That is all, Doctor Watson,’ Mycroft replies, his expression softening, ‘Sherlock is as stubborn as ever, and I doubt he is going to let something like this keep him incapacitated for long.’
00000
Mycroft’s pace is quick, but to John every step seems to take an age. He forces himself not to start sprinting, maintaining a speed that keeps him level with the elder Holmes as they move through the near empty corridors of the hospital. John does not spare a glance for the few people they do pass, does not even register whether they are patients or doctors. He has to concentrate to keep his breathing level and prevent himself marching ahead of Mycroft.
After what feels like hours, John sees the now all too familiar door to Sherlock’s room (a private one; Mycroft’s doing, presumably. Why has it never occurred to him before?). He doesn’t realise he has broken into a run until he feels his palm make contact with it, hard, and hears it crash open, bouncing off the wall. Even now he doesn’t slow down, doesn’t even stop to really see Sherlock properly, he doesn’t even think. He just rushes forwards and crushes his lips against Sherlock’s.
‘You - if you -’ he mutters between kisses, both hands tangled in Sherlock’s hair and pressing him closer. Sherlock’s right arm curls automatically around John’s back as he reciprocates, the left one squashed between them strapped in a sling. John relishes the feeling of warmth the touch causes; the sheer, overwhelming reality finally washing over him in waves so that his knees literally go weak. He has to sit on the edge of Sherlock’s bed to prevent himself collapsing. It’s real, it’s real, it’s real - he’s awake; he’s here, alive and breathing for himself, moving, pulling John towards him...
It’s with enormous reluctance that they eventually give in to the need for oxygen and break apart. John keeps the distance between them to no more than a few inches as he whispers urgently, ‘don’t you ever - don’t you dare - do that again. Do you understand?’ and God he’s alive - not just Sherlock, but John, he’s alive, he’s awake, he’s not drowning anymore -
‘I’ll do my best,’ replies Sherlock in a low voice. It sounds like forming the words is an effort, as though it costs him more concentration that it ought to. His eyes are clear and focused, though; there’s no confusion in his expression, and so what if his speech is mildly slurred? The sound of it, the sight of his smile, almost causes John to lose the last of his composure.
There’s a noise behind them, and John glances around to see Mycroft nod politely at them as he pulls the door closed, after ushering the doctor out in front of him. John turns back to Sherlock and opens his mouth, but Sherlock gets there first.
His eyes travel intently over John’s face, taking in every detail and cataloguing them, drinking them in hungrily. ‘Oh, don’t be so predickable. Predickable. Pre - dic - ta - ble.’ He corrects himself slowly, scowling his displeasure at the mistake. John’s brow creases in confusion.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Guilt,’ Sherlock clarifies, ‘it’s pointless, un - unfounded and boring.’
‘Sorry,’ says John, and means it. Sherlock rolls his eyes, but there’s no real malice in the expression. There’s a long, uncomfortable pause, before John mutters ‘I just kept thinking...you know...if I had been sat in your place, then -’
‘Don’t,’ Sherlock interrupts forcefully, forgetting to concentrate on the word so it comes out even sharper than he intended, ‘just don’t.’
He wants to tell John, he needs John to know - he doesn’t even understand why John should know, he simply ought to...that now Sherlock has worked out what the sound was. The one that kept him tethered to reality and drew him back across whatever veil kept him lost before. He doesn’t know why he never realised because the answer is so painfully, completely obvious. Because of course it was John. It is always John.
But he cannot think how to phrase it, so he settles instead for raising his eyebrows and saying slowly, so very carefully, determined not to mess up any of the words; ‘did you know that there are eight planets in the Solar System?’
And he can tell, by the look on John’s face, that he understands, even when his only reply is to smile and tell Sherlock, ‘nine, if you count Pluto.’
00000
It’s a day since Sherlock woke up. Despite their apparent lenience when he first regained consciousness, the doctors are being frustratingly insistent about visiting hours. Much as he is loathed to accept Mycroft’s help most of the time, Sherlock wishes his brother would intervene.
It’s dark. And quiet; Sherlock doesn’t like it.
He can see vague shapes around him, but his surroundings are split into varying shades of grey, broken only by the little blinking lights of the machines that sit either side of the bed. One bleeps constantly. He can hear distant voices from outside of his room, but they are little more than murmurs. He can’t make out individual words, though he entertains himself for a while trying to work out what the conversations are about by the tones used.
Of course, it isn’t a very useful experiment, as he has no way of testing his conclusions, but it keeps him reassured that he isn’t slipping back into the nothingness again. It’s foolish, he knows, but every time he closes his eyes and feels the darkness pulling at the edge of his senses...it’s uncomfortably similar to before. He can’t even focus on improving his speech or dexterity; though he has been assured both will come in time he has never been very good at waiting, and why should he have to?
Blink. Bleep. Muffled footsteps; a hurried conversation. A phone ringing and something squeaking - a wheel? Someone in a wheelchair, then, or on a gurney, being taken past...a wheelchair, Sherlock decides, based on the pattern of the sound. It takes him much too long to work out, and his mind drifts vaguely in the meantime. He can’t quite seem to concentrate. One person accompanying them, elderly, judging by the slightly shuffling, slow pace - someone small, the footsteps are not heavy...
Blink. Bleep. More indistinct voices. A question; an answer. Buzzing silence...
Blink. Bleep. Laughter, somewhere. Clicking heels. An exclamation. Another phone call. A lull in activity then a baby crying, quickly soothed. The squeaking wheelchair on its return journey. A door opening nearby, then closing sharply. Hurried footsteps, and quiet again...
Blink. Bleep...
Darkness deepening...twisting somehow, shadows taking shape around him...
Blink...bleep...
Swirling...the noises of the hospital seem to fade, still there, on the fringe of his senses, but not registering as strongly as before...a drifting feeling; light, and not unpleasant...
Blink...
Emptiness.
He can’t take stock of his surroundings, because there are no surroundings. He doesn’t appear to be touching anything, even...doesn’t even appear to be a thing himself, he just...exists...as thought, or as...he doesn’t know.
Sherlock looks down, except he isn’t entirely certain what down is anymore, and sees...nothing. He tries to turn upwards, but might not move at all, his eyes are greeted by the same all around...not even shapes and outlines, not even darkness, just...a void.
He tries to move his arms and only now realises that he does have a physical body, and that it’s trapped, though he can’t feel anything binding him in place. There are no cuffs, ropes or restraints; he simply can’t make himself move. He tries to call out but his voice won’t work either and when he attempts to remember how he got here, he finds his memory a confusing jumble of images and sounds that don’t make sense.
He strains his eyes and still sees nothing, so listens hard instead...
There - there! There is something, there must be something, he can hear it - a murmur, somewhere close...but no, it’s too far away at the same time. Distance means nothing here, but Sherlock knows now that there is something there. If it’s there, he can find it, and if he can find it, he can get out of here -
Then the sound becomes louder, stronger. Still Sherlock cannot identify the words, but he feels warmer now...he hadn’t even realised he was cold. Suddenly the sound brings meaning with it, wafts through the non-space like wind and bathes Sherlock in the feeling of a presence, neither sight nor sounds nor smells but knowledge of a familiar identity. He latches onto it desperately, trying to call out, trying to scream for help…but he’s still trapped, stuck here. Stuck again. The presence is leaving - but no, it can’t leave, it mustn’t leave, he needs it, he needs it, he needs John...
00000
When John walks into the room and sees Sherlock sleeping, he smiles, knowledge that it is natural sleep quickly dampening the familiar heavy feeling that has accompanied the sight of the detective for the past six weeks. It’s good to see Sherlock rest and know that he will wake up.
But as he draws closer, concern rises in his chest - Sherlock is not twisting or crying out, but his features are set in a deep frown and a thin sheen of sweat coats his forehead. Belatedly, John notices the vice-like grip Sherlock’s right hand has on the sheets. Without pausing to think he rushes forwards to ease the cloth from Sherlock’s fist and replace it with his own hand, using the other to nudge the detective’s shoulder sharply.
‘Sherlock! Wake up, it’s okay -’
Sherlock’s eyes open abruptly and dart around the room for a split second before resting on John’s face. His whole body seems to relax, and his painful grip on John’s fingers loosens.
‘Are you -?’
‘I’m f - fine,’ Sherlock assures him quietly, stumbling a little over the words.
‘You were dreaming...’
‘And now I’m ’wake - I’m awake.’ He pushes himself clumsily into a sitting position, blinking and squinting against the light.
‘What were you dreaming about?’ John asks tentatively. Sherlock scowls.
‘Nothing,’ he replies,
‘Sherlock -’
‘Really, nothing,’ Sherlock assures him. Oddly he is being entirely literal, and yet John does not believe him, though he lets the subject drop with an exasperated sigh and sits down heavily in the plastic chair beside the bed.
‘So how are you feeling?’ John tries, deciding that the topic is best left alone for now.
‘Bored,’ Sherlock answers immediately, giving the door a venomous glare as though in the hope that a doctor might come through it and discharge him if he only wills it hard enough. ‘Hosp - hospitals are dull.’
‘And necessary,’ John interjects, failing badly at hiding his smile before sobering up and continuing quietly, ‘you’ve no idea how close you came to...’ he trails off, unable to complete the sentence. Sherlock sniffs impatiently,
‘Yes, well, I’m ’wake now, and I do wish the doctors would re - realise that I am perfeckly fine so I can get out of here and go back to the - to - go home,’ he finishes, frowning.
‘The flat,’ John tells Sherlock gently, well aware that he treads a fine line between being comforting and being patronising. It’s painful to see Sherlock, normally so articulate, struggling like this, but the knowledge of how much worse it could be keeps him from feeling too bad. Sherlock looks thoughtful. Or irritated - or both, it’s difficult to tell, then abruptly changes the subject.
‘So did Lestrade catch Epps, or not?’
It takes John, wrong-footed by the sudden change of topic, a moment to catch up, and the impatience in Sherlock’s face should irritate him but instead he welcomes it, revelling in its return.
‘What? Epps - oh! Not yet, no. But there haven’t been any more deaths either; he’s well and truly disappeared.’
‘Nobody just disappears...’ Sherlock mutters slowly. The chase on the ice seems a lifetime ago now. John finds himself watching Sherlock with a mixture of concern and the child-like fascination he still can’t help but feel every time he sees the deductive process in action. Concern overrides fascination.
‘Don’t even think about getting involved in a case this soon,’ John commands firmly, ‘you’ve barely woken up.’
‘I might just slip un - un - con - scious again from boredom if I don’t have work. Is that what you want?’ he whines petulantly,
‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll find something to do,’ a gleam enters John’s eyes, ‘I haven’t decorated the flat for Christmas yet.’
Sherlock groans.
00000
Despite his many obvious social inadequacies, it’s surprisingly easy to laugh with Sherlock. This is exactly what John is doing when Mycroft pushes the door of the hospital room open, but as much as his smile is contagious, so is the lack of it, and John’s face falls almost as quickly as Sherlock’s. Their hands are still casually linked, though - until Lestrade follows the elder Holmes into the room and John pulls away. Sherlock doesn’t stop him, but a tiny crease appears on his forehead.
Mycroft raises his eyebrows, and John, hoping he is not being nearly as obvious as he feels like he is, shoots him a look that says very firmly not to comment on it.
‘Lestrade,’ says Sherlock, pointedly ignoring his brother, who rolls his eyes.
‘Good to see you awake,’ the Detective Inspector nods politely, a small, genuine smile on his face. Sherlock is more interested in whatever he is holding, whether by chance or on purpose, behind his back.
‘Thank you - but what are you really here for?’ John and Lestrade exchange a look that lacks its usual exasperation as the latter moves forwards and hand Sherlock a thin, official looking file. Sherlock’s speech is even slower and more careful than has become usual, now someone other than John is listening.
‘Thought you might be interested in this,’ Lestrade says, ‘it’s the report on the crash. Nothing in there to suggest anything more than an accident, there’s no mystery or anything, but I figured you’d appreciate something to look over while you’re in here anyway.’ He casts a sideways glance at Mycroft, which if Sherlock catches, he ignores. Judging by the slightly wary expression on Lestrade’s face, John assumes the offering was Mycroft’s idea.
Sherlock is already flicking through the few pages present with an air of complete indifference. John can’t help but wince at the sight of the crushed, twisted metal in the photographs and averts his eyes, but glances towards Lestrade and mouths thank you all the same. He is fairly certain that for however short a time this keeps Sherlock occupied, it will be at least a few minutes less of them both being driven insane by the detective’s incurable boredom. Besides, Sherlock will probably demand to see it eventually anyway. They might as well get it over with.
‘And Mycroft, why are you here?’ Sherlock asks finally without looking up from the file, as though realising that simply refusing to acknowledge his brother’s presence is not going to make him disappear.
‘Merely to enquire after your well-being,’ Mycroft replies coolly, a mild expression on his face,
‘Why don’t you just ask one of your s - your surv - your people watching us?’ Lestrade’s eyes flicker momentarily to John, who widens his own in a silent plea not to mention the slip. Sherlock’s free hand grips the sheets tightly in frustration, but he gives no other outward sign of distress.
‘I am concerned, Sherlock. Why is that so difficult for you to believe?’
Sherlock huffs moodily in reply, still not looking up from the file on his lap.
‘I’ll - err - be going, then?’ Lestrade interjects uncomfortably, gesturing towards the door. Sherlock waves a hand impatiently and John smiles in gratitude as Lestrade starts towards the door, then pauses. ‘I am glad you’re recovering, Sherlock,’ he adds, almost as an afterthought. Sherlock glances up, seems uncertain what to say in response, and nods tightly.
‘Whether you choose to believe it or not, I hope you get well soon,’ Mycroft lingers for several moments, then with a small sigh of frustration, follows Lestrade. Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice their exit and remains focused on the file, having found a photograph apparently of particular interest to him, which he is now rotating and squinting at.
John knows better than to interrupt and waits instead for Sherlock to speak. After ten more minutes of closely scrutinising the file, he does.
‘Why did you do that?’ he asks absently, with only a quick glance upwards. His tone is off-hand, but John detects the genuine curiosity behind it.
‘Do what?’
‘Move your hand.’
For some reason, the question is unexpected; he had not thought about the action, and though he knows why he did it, explaining seems to be another matter. He frowns.
‘Are you embarrassed?’ Sherlock asks, still apparently only half interested, though the care with which he forms the words gives him away.
‘What - no!’ John exclaims, suddenly horrified. Surely Sherlock can’t think that he regrets -?
‘Ashamed, then?’ Sherlock looks up at last, with a guarded expression on his face. John shakes his head imploringly,
‘Sherlock, no, I just - I didn’t - look, Mycroft knows. Apart from the fact he probably worked it out weeks ago anyway, he was there yesterday when I saw you after you woke up -’
‘Yes,’ Sherlock interrupts, smirking, ‘not your most subt - subtle move, I must admit.’
‘Well, you weren’t complaining,’ John retorts defensively,
‘Did I say I was?’
John shakes his head, but he is smiling. ‘If I was going to change my mind I would have done it already. I’ve had plenty of time to think. And anyway, Lestrade doesn’t know and I wasn’t sure if - oh, I don’t know, I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t know if you wanted him to know, or...’ Sherlock shrugs, a glint in his eyes that is almost mischievous as he reaches forwards and takes John’s hand firmly once more.
‘I wish you’d stop worrying what other people think,’ he says.
‘Yes, well, some of us have a little thing called social skills. I know!’ he exclaims before Sherlock can reply, and then they both speak at the same time, and laugh, ‘boring.’
‘Well that makes two new things on the list of what Lestrade doesn’t know. It’s really getting quite long,’ Sherlock says, somewhere between thoughtful and incredulous.
‘What’s the second thing?’ John asks. Sherlock gestures to the crash report awkwardly with his strapped arm.
‘This wasn’t an accident.’