(no subject)
Title(s): We Happy Few
Author: julia_dreamer
Fandom(s): Sherlock
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John
Length: 4270 words
Prompt: John's been captured and is drugged/injured/something and hallucinating. Strange things, horrible things, beautiful things - and through it all, there's a hallucinatory Sherlock keeping him company. Eventually, Sherlock rescues him, and he's recovering physically, but deep down he just isn't sure if Sherlock is real. Sherlock figures this out, as, of course, he would, and is determined to convince him. How successful he is is up to you, dear authors.
Note: Written for sherlockbbc_fic
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Part 1
The blackboard said, in rather effeminate script, “You’re Dramatizing, John. You’ll only be out of the way for a few hours.” He considered the words for a moment, wondering why they had that lilting Irish ring to them, why he could hear them slanting up as they were spoken - too high, too affected, nearly ridiculous. Sherlock was beside him, then. Sherlock was looking at the words, bright eyes flickering intently over every curve, every angle of chalk. And Sherlock was smiling.
London’s streets had never seemed so clean, so calm. It was almost night, the sky melting into that deep navy blue just before the sun fully set, clouds scattered soft across it like the cotton batting his mother had used to stuff the pillow she’d made for Harry when they were children, the one with the picture on the front of two princesses dancing. Sherlock’s steps are even and sure, as always, and John follows him without question, as always.
“We have a case,” Sherlock says, his voice too sharp, too real.
“Another murder?”
Sherlock doesn’t answer.
It is probably, John thinks, because he is distracted by the body at their feet. It’s Harry, and it’s Sarah, and it’s Mary but who’s Mary? And her eyes are as blue as the sky outside, staring up at the ceiling, and she’s just everywhere, blood and organs and skin and bone bled out of her and spread all across the room, only her face left, only her staring blue eyes. Sherlock’s deducing, but John can’t hear him, he can only watch. There’s red everywhere, absolutely on everything, still creeping across the floor, shifting and spreading, tiny insect legs carrying it closer and closer to him.
He glances at Sherlock in alarm but the world’s only consulting detective seems unconcerned, murmurs something John doesn’t hear to the man that’s either Lestrade or Dimmock or Anderson, and walks away. And John follows.
They aren’t in London’s familiar streets. The rows of suburban houses surrounding them, immaculate front lawns bright in the sunshine, are jarring in comparison to the darkening, fog-ridden streets they walked only seconds before. Sherlock was a few steps ahead of him, walking briskly, talking about a murder and a man and a place and how they were all connected.
The houses are distracting him, and he’s lagging behind. They look so nice on the outside, all freshly painted in whites and grays and pastels, electric green grass so freshly cut that the perfect lines of the mower still show, their hedges all flawlessly squared and rounded. Flowers line walkways in soft pinks and sunshine yellows, royal purples and delicate blues, creeping brilliant reds that slither off the petals and try to follow John as John follows Sherlock as Sherlock makes his way - calmly, intently - towards something beyond them. John realizes what’s bothering him about the houses, why their pretty bright outsides are so disconcerting, when the doors start to open. All of them, all at once, gaping wide to expose the deterioration inside, the mold and rot, the peeling paint and mud-caked carpets, spiders and rats and dust and decay.
And the people. The people clawing their way out of those festering holes, stumbling shambling crawling towards John and towards Sherlock and towards the middle distance where John can finally, finally see where they are going.
They’re following the man. The man is a shadow, hulking and broad, slim and fit, with an impeccably tailored suit or a cloak of darkness, and he’s ahead of them, walking down the road. The people do not notice him, John thinks. They don’t see him. They all see John, and John sees them. John sees that the decay extends to them as well, sees the skin blistering and peeling off their faces, the rot that makes their hair fall off in clumps, the desiccated limbs that snap and fall. They’re reaching for him.
He reaches for Sherlock’s hand, frantic, urging him to move faster - but Sherlock shakes his head. He’s in no mood to rush, will not be convinced to go any faster.
“Can’t you see them?” John asks, panic tainting his voice.
Sherlock looks around, takes in the houses and the horrid shambling creatures following them and says, mildly, “They’re none of my concern. Put them out of your head. We’ve got more important things to think about.”
And he turns, and he continues, and John can only follow - can only try to follow, the creatures that used to be might be human are catching up with them now, moving faster than he would have thought, crowding from ahead to reach for him. They’re clawing at him. One leaves jagged scratches on his upper arm that bleed weakly, the edges curling gray and green. Another paws at his wrist, dried fingers too brittle to break skin, and he feels skin tighten over bone until its flat and tight as leather, shriveled as mummy in a museum. Fingers press wetly against his thigh, wet flesh spreading and pulping against fabric until finally bone digs through into his skin like talons, and it’s like his limp coming back only immensely worse as the weight of wet decay slows his steps, the squelch of his foot in his shoe almost making him sick.
It’s crawling up to his shoulder, the old bullet wound opening up and oozing slowly - his shirt’s been torn enough now to see where the flesh curls back around the hole, charred and rotting - and he’s slowing down, being held back. The man has stopped ahead of them, at the end of the street. The man was turning to look back.
Sherlock looks back too, back at John, the tendons in his neck stretching just so, his skin pale and smooth, and John thinks now isn’t the time to be admiring how truly striking the detective is, really, not when he’s falling apart like this so literally, but Sherlock’s eyes aren’t bright or warm or considering or anything they’ve been before when he’s looked at John, no, now they are cold.
“John,” he says, and his voice has never sounded like that, has never been so sharp and uncaring, has never made John want to flinch back from him. “John,” he says, “We have to hurry. This is none of our concern. He’ll get away.”
John doesn’t answer. Sherlock is staring at him, eyes iced over. The man at the end of the road is grinning, a shadow in the shape of a man with its mouth stretched wide, almost comical but not quite enough past horrifying. Sherlock turns away from John. He’s walking again, walking towards the man with the grin.
It opens its eyes, and they’re like pinpricks of red against the inky black shadow of its face, glowing red spots in the distance, and Sherlock is hurrying towards him. John calls out for him, reaches for him, tries to follow, as he always does, but he’s weighed down and trapped. And Sherlock is hurrying, is running away from him.
And the thing grins.
Part 2
The hospital stay is relatively pleasant. The usual fluorescent lights are swapped out for something calmer when the light hurts his blown pupils, and the drugs keep him from dreaming too much - or at least from remembering - and Sherlock comes and goes as he pleases with little regard for the hospital’s visiting hours, and no one tells him he can’t.
They found him in an abandoned school building, Sherlock tells him. He shows John a few pictures he took with his phone - the writing on the blackboard, left by Moriarty; the bucket of red paint John tipped over when leaving a room; the hallway that used to contain the nursery school, where the walls had been painted to look like a country lane, with rows of pastel houses and pretty flowering gardens - and mentions in passing that John should be more careful about what he ingests.
Soon enough, the doctors are assuring him that the effects of the poison should be gone before he knows it, and he’s discharged into Sherlock’s care.
Coming home is much better. The flat is a mess, and Sherlock is almost too accommodating, but it’s home all the same, and that’s something John appreciates. But it creeps up on him, every now and then. His legs feel heavy still, colors are too bright… and then, there’s Sherlock.
At first, John convinces himself he’s being ridiculously paranoid. Lestrade visits him in the hospital - to take his statement about the kidnapping, clearly expecting the complete lack of memory that John admits to - and tells him how upset Sherlock seemed when he disappeared, how the detective would stop at nothing to find John. While he is in the hospital, it is very easy to believe this.
When he gets home, it becomes a nagging voice in the back of his head. Sherlock seems to be his usual self - but he’s so calm, so willing to do things he was never before willing to do, like get the groceries and clean the flat (at least, in a general sense), and not play the violin at 3am or shoot holes in the wall or leave severed limbs lying about. It’s different; not a bad different, at first, but it feels wrong, and it keeps feeling wrong.
John’s getting better, though, and it’s easier to ignore that little voice when he can take over the cleaning and the shopping and feel like they’re settling back into their usual routine. There’s nothing odd about Sherlock being nice to him, is there? Moriarty kidnapped and poisoned him - regardless that he remembers nothing but pieces of hallucinations - and Sherlock must feel some responsibility, even though that’s ludicrous. But he’s just being sweet, isn’t he? It’s nothing to worry about.
Part 3
In the third week since he brought John back from the hospital, Sherlock notices that something is wrong. The first week goes smoothly enough - John seems a little uncomfortable, but all together glad to be out of the hospital, and that is right enough. The second week, Sherlock puts it down to displeasure over the fact that John is still not well enough to go out - because when he mentions on Monday that he has a case, John scowls in such a peculiar way that it could be nothing but - and when he returns that night he’s happy to inform John that he found the killer in record time, and Lestrade has promised to try and not be utterly useless until John is better again.
But in the third week, when he cleans the flat - no more bowls of toxic mold on the kitchen table, vials of chemicals and various other liquids put in the cupboard John had cleaned out and ordered him to use ages ago, any and all body parts removed and hidden in Mrs. Hudson’s spare icebox in flat 221c, no guns lying about the living room, no used nicotine patches stuck to the underside of the table, all as spotless as Sherlock can personally stand to make it (so, not nearly as spotless as John would like it, certainly, but he can only stand so much cleaning) - John sits in the chair, and watches him. It is the watching that clues him in. John watches him often, of course, watches the way he moves, or the way his hair falls back across his forehead when he pushes it out of sorts in frustration, or watches his hands as he plays the violin or types or conducts silent symphonies of thought. Sherlock has always noticed, even though John is quite subtle about his watching. But then, he hasn’t yet realized that Sherlock watches him as well.
This watching is different. John’s eyes don’t linger on the details. He watches Sherlock, completely and without any pretense, and when Sherlock catches him doing it and their eyes meet John’s brow furrows in concentration, as if…
Sherlock isn’t sure. It makes him jumpy and irritated. He stops cleaning to pace the flat, to find his nicotine patches, to check his phone - no calls, Lestrade promised, why did he make Lestrade promise? - and flop gracefully onto his couch and stare at the ceiling.
John is still watching. He jumps back to his feet.
“I’m going to do the shopping. Anything in particular you’d like?”
The man doesn’t start; his gaze simply shifts from watching Sherlock to focusing on Sherlock’s eyes. John has been almost better since the week before, and he did the shopping quite recently. He doesn’t mention this, however. “There’s a list on the icebox,” he says mildly.
The world’s only consulting detective retrieves the list - milk, beans, tea, jam, boring boring boring - grabs his coat, and leaves.
In the store, staring at the jam and attempting to remember which flavor he himself liked best - he already has John’s favorite in his basket, but he recalls not liking it as much - it finally clicks.
You were there with me the whole time, John told him in the hospital, still distracted and sleepy from the medication. You were always there - even in the parts I don’t really recall, I know you were there.
Sherlock walks the rest of the shop in a daze, thinking too loudly to do much further than pick up the items on the list and pay for them - he short-changes the poor girl at the till by five pounds accidentally, but she doesn’t notice, she broke up with her boyfriend over her lunch break because he’s been cheating on her with the older woman who works in the produce department, he called her some very nasty names and implied she didn’t like men anyway, and she’s considering hooking up with his younger brother just to spite him - and wanders home without so much as considering the direction he’s going. He gets there just fine all the same.
He walks in the door, puts away the groceries, and John is still staring.
So, Sherlock devises a plan of action.
John has never had any particular difficulty in believing (nearly) everything Sherlock tells him is true, and he decides to rely on this particular character trait and hope that it hasn’t been compromised too much. Keeping this in mind, he endeavors to remind John every day that he is real and not, in fact, a hallucination. Sherlock does not do this in a subtle manner - part of him is just slightly put out that John would assume himself capable of conjuring an intellect such as his from the drug-addled recesses of his brain, and therefore he finds it a bit difficult to treat the matter with as much delicacy as is likely called for. However, his methods are not harsh - a text, a post-it stuck to John’s computer screen, a scribbled note at the bottom of the shopping list, I promise you I’m real, you’re not hallucinating anymore, everything’s fine now, John…
And it seems to be working. He’s wearing him down slowly, to be sure, but John is really starting to believe him. For a while, it seems that things will go back to being alright between them.
Things go well for one week, three days, seven hours and eighteen minutes, to be exact. And then Sherlock makes a mistake, and it all goes to hell.
Part 4
John comes home from work to find Mycroft in their flat.
Of course, this has happened before, so John shrugs it off and sits on the couch, picks up the newspaper and not at all subtly watches the brothers talk. It wouldn’t be any use to hide the fact that he’s watching - they would know anyway, after all, and he cannot, for once, hear what they are saying.
Mycroft is his usual self, his expression bland and condescending as he explains something to Sherlock in low tones. But Sherlock is not irritated and flippant, as he usually is when Mycroft deigns to visit, no, he’s focused, leaning forward just slightly in his chair, violin forgotten on the carpet beside him and bow across his lap. John takes the moment to look at him like he hasn’t in a long while, taking in the little details, the way the sunshine streaming in the window behind Sherlock throws his cheekbones into sharp relief, the intense focus in his eyes as he listens, the hard line of his lips - but they would still be so soft - his long thin fingers gripping the arm of the chair-
It is Sherlock’s other hand that arrests his attention. It flits from his collar to his phone, removes it from the pocket and turns it over, replaces it, slides absently along the hair of the bow before darting down to his wrist and the jagged scar there - only one of several “souvenirs” from their last up-close encounter with Moriarty, but certainly the most visible - then back to his phone again. John is reminded forcibly of Sherlock at the pool, tearing the semtex vest off of him with shaking hands, fidgeting, tapping the gun against his leg, using it to rub his temple, his hair, unable to cease moving. This moment is more contained, the movements are smaller but the implication is still there. They are talking about Moriarty.
Before John can ask, the conversation across from him abruptly ends with Sherlock picking up his violin once more and sawing out a rather violent tune. Mycroft’s expression becomes somehow more long-suffering, and he nods at John before he leaves. Sherlock stops playing just as the door downstairs clicks shut.
And then he is moving, muttering half to himself - something about a warehouse, several derogatory comments regarding Mycroft’s ability to track down the world’s only consulting criminal, and then he’s tugging on his coat and scarf, tossing John’s coat to him as he swings the door open.
“Mycroft told you where to find him?” he asks mildly, pulling on his coat and getting up to follow Sherlock, as he always does.
“No. Where he was. But he could have left something there.” It sounds like a long shot, but John can see that Sherlock is already miles ahead of them, his mind twisting down streets and alleyways to their destination, already contemplating the tiniest details that could have been left behind. That hunger is growing in Sherlock’s expression, that desire for the chase, the puzzle that really tests his intelligence, that thrill he only really feels when he beats Moriarty.
So when Sherlock turns and flies down the stairs, John picks up his gun from the desk and follows.
Part 5
The warehouse is empty, as expected, but Sherlock seems inordinately pleased by it, shouting comments back to John as he races about excitedly, remarking on the way the dust settles here, the hint of a poorly hidden shoe-print there. John stands somewhere near the middle of the building and watches him, until his enthusiasm runs its course, and Sherlock finally stops muttering and pacing and stands next to John with a disconcerted expression on his face.
“There’s nothing here.”
John glances over at him - the man’s hair is a mess, he’s run his hands through it so many times, John could just reach over and smooth it back into place, feel how soft it is - and sighs. “You knew there wouldn’t be, Sherlock. Why are we here?”
“Because there must be something. He wouldn’t be so lax as to let Mycroft get wind of him unless there was a reason. There must be-”
The pink phone rings. John knows it is the pink phone because Sherlock changed the ringtone to something shrill and startling even though it hasn’t rung since before the night at the pool. He pulls it out and taps the screen irritably, and Moriarty’s voice filters distantly down the line to reach them, full of lilting laughter.
“A bit late, aren’t you, Sherlock? But then, it seems to me you’re always just a little too late…”
Sherlock’s eyes have closed but he still looks hungry, consumed by that blazing intensity that only this man inspires, and John cannot look away from his face. His long fingers grip the pink rubber casing so hard John wonders briefly why the phone doesn’t shatter in his grip.
“Give me something, Moriarty, give me a hint, a puzzle, give me work, my mind rots, languishing like this…” He knows Sherlock can’t help it. That doesn’t make it less alarming to hear that raw edge of need creeping into the other man’s voice.
Moriarty hears it too, and he laughs. “Oh, no, I won’t be giving you any more hints, sexy. You’ll have to find me all on your own. That explosion at the pool was only a taste, you know. I’m going to destroy you.”
The line disconnects and Sherlock takes a deep, slow breath. He slips the phone back in his pocket, eyes still closed, lost in thought. John wants to tell him they should go home, it would be easier to think there, when Sherlock’s cell rings.
He shuts it off impatiently.
John’s cell rings next, and he picks it up. Lestrade says something about a double homicide and promises to text him the address before hanging up. Sherlock is still lost in thought.
“They’ve got a case for us.”
The world’s only consulting detective shakes his head. “He was a using a land line - distinct sound, not the same as ending a call on a mobile - he did it on purpose, didn’t filter out all the background noise. Oh, you said you wouldn’t give hints but there you went and left the bells in the back of your call, Jim…”
He winces; he hates it when Sherlock gets so caught up like this, and he hates it especially when he calls Moriarty ‘Jim’ like he’s just another guy, like he’s some twisted version of an old friend and this is all a big game to play when he’s bored. But Sherlock is far away now, muttering about bells and typing frantically on his cell and he makes for the exit. John doesn’t follow him this time.
“Sherlock. Sherlock.” He doesn’t quite raise his voice.
“Ah, yes, John?” The man doesn’t even turn around to look at him, but he does stop walking away.
“What about the homicide? Lestrade needs us.” He honestly believes Sherlock will snap out of it, will remember that playing with Moriarty is hardly fun and games.
The man turns and looks at him, and his eyes are more distant than John has ever seen them. “That’s none of our concern. Perhaps the police might do their jobs for once - although that is deeply unlikely. However, we have more important things to deal with right now. Come on.”
John feels hollow, frozen - distinctly, utterly incapable of movement - yet he moves forward. He follows Sherlock, because that is what he always does. Even this Sherlock, this clear hallucination that moves and speaks and thinks like Sherlock but could not possibly be him. They reach a busier street, and Sherlock hesitates before hailing a cab.
“…John? What’s wrong?” There’s something in his eyes - he’s coming back down to Earth now, the hunger is fading from his expression and he’s starting to look frantic, actually, as frantic as John has ever seen him, and he has to wonder if it’s because he himself has gone so uncharacteristically blank. He shakes his head though, murmurs something about not feeling well, and Sherlock attempts not to look concerned as he hails a second taxi to take John home.
The taxi is quiet - the cabbie doesn’t try to make conversation - but John is nervous, jumpy, expecting any moment for Sherlock to be in the seat beside him, drawling something sarcastic about leaving him behind, and he keeps mistaking brake lights - far, far ahead - for glowing red eyes. He is immensely grateful when they reach 221b Baker Street and he can retreat to the safety of the flat. Sherlock does not come home that afternoon, despite John’s nagging fears that he will appear out of nowhere.
In the morning, he makes tea and toast for two before realizing that Sherlock is still gone.
John sits quietly at the kitchen table, not really seeing the mess of chemistry equipment spread out in front of him. His thoughts are flying by so fast he can barely keep up with them. Sherlock must be a hallucination, certainly, he has established that. But the bounds of the original delusion have been broken - there, Sherlock was always with him; now, Sherlock is distinctly absent. Brought on, of course, by John leaving him behind. However - thinking faster now, his hand is shaking as much as it did on his first day back form the war - if Sherlock is part of the continued hallucination, and John is now rid of him, it stands to reason that Sherlock no longer exists within the delusion. What if, by trying to get away from the fear that his friend is no longer his friend but instead a figment of his own imagination, John had simply willed him out of existence?
Hallucinations shouldn’t work like that, he tries to reason with himself, but he has been trapped in this one for so long. Perhaps the rules have changed?
A sick feeling has settled in his stomach. As calmly as he can manage - which, by most standards, is alarmingly calm - he brings the tea and toast downstairs to Mrs. Hudson. Although she’s already had her tea, she smiles and nods and eats with him. He’s gone so pale and shaky that she simply can’t refuse.
[A/N] This is temporarily on hold. I will get back to it and finish it eventually.
Author: julia_dreamer
Fandom(s): Sherlock
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John
Length: 4270 words
Prompt: John's been captured and is drugged/injured/something and hallucinating. Strange things, horrible things, beautiful things - and through it all, there's a hallucinatory Sherlock keeping him company. Eventually, Sherlock rescues him, and he's recovering physically, but deep down he just isn't sure if Sherlock is real. Sherlock figures this out, as, of course, he would, and is determined to convince him. How successful he is is up to you, dear authors.
Note: Written for sherlockbbc_fic
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Part 1
The blackboard said, in rather effeminate script, “You’re Dramatizing, John. You’ll only be out of the way for a few hours.” He considered the words for a moment, wondering why they had that lilting Irish ring to them, why he could hear them slanting up as they were spoken - too high, too affected, nearly ridiculous. Sherlock was beside him, then. Sherlock was looking at the words, bright eyes flickering intently over every curve, every angle of chalk. And Sherlock was smiling.
London’s streets had never seemed so clean, so calm. It was almost night, the sky melting into that deep navy blue just before the sun fully set, clouds scattered soft across it like the cotton batting his mother had used to stuff the pillow she’d made for Harry when they were children, the one with the picture on the front of two princesses dancing. Sherlock’s steps are even and sure, as always, and John follows him without question, as always.
“We have a case,” Sherlock says, his voice too sharp, too real.
“Another murder?”
Sherlock doesn’t answer.
It is probably, John thinks, because he is distracted by the body at their feet. It’s Harry, and it’s Sarah, and it’s Mary but who’s Mary? And her eyes are as blue as the sky outside, staring up at the ceiling, and she’s just everywhere, blood and organs and skin and bone bled out of her and spread all across the room, only her face left, only her staring blue eyes. Sherlock’s deducing, but John can’t hear him, he can only watch. There’s red everywhere, absolutely on everything, still creeping across the floor, shifting and spreading, tiny insect legs carrying it closer and closer to him.
He glances at Sherlock in alarm but the world’s only consulting detective seems unconcerned, murmurs something John doesn’t hear to the man that’s either Lestrade or Dimmock or Anderson, and walks away. And John follows.
They aren’t in London’s familiar streets. The rows of suburban houses surrounding them, immaculate front lawns bright in the sunshine, are jarring in comparison to the darkening, fog-ridden streets they walked only seconds before. Sherlock was a few steps ahead of him, walking briskly, talking about a murder and a man and a place and how they were all connected.
The houses are distracting him, and he’s lagging behind. They look so nice on the outside, all freshly painted in whites and grays and pastels, electric green grass so freshly cut that the perfect lines of the mower still show, their hedges all flawlessly squared and rounded. Flowers line walkways in soft pinks and sunshine yellows, royal purples and delicate blues, creeping brilliant reds that slither off the petals and try to follow John as John follows Sherlock as Sherlock makes his way - calmly, intently - towards something beyond them. John realizes what’s bothering him about the houses, why their pretty bright outsides are so disconcerting, when the doors start to open. All of them, all at once, gaping wide to expose the deterioration inside, the mold and rot, the peeling paint and mud-caked carpets, spiders and rats and dust and decay.
And the people. The people clawing their way out of those festering holes, stumbling shambling crawling towards John and towards Sherlock and towards the middle distance where John can finally, finally see where they are going.
They’re following the man. The man is a shadow, hulking and broad, slim and fit, with an impeccably tailored suit or a cloak of darkness, and he’s ahead of them, walking down the road. The people do not notice him, John thinks. They don’t see him. They all see John, and John sees them. John sees that the decay extends to them as well, sees the skin blistering and peeling off their faces, the rot that makes their hair fall off in clumps, the desiccated limbs that snap and fall. They’re reaching for him.
He reaches for Sherlock’s hand, frantic, urging him to move faster - but Sherlock shakes his head. He’s in no mood to rush, will not be convinced to go any faster.
“Can’t you see them?” John asks, panic tainting his voice.
Sherlock looks around, takes in the houses and the horrid shambling creatures following them and says, mildly, “They’re none of my concern. Put them out of your head. We’ve got more important things to think about.”
And he turns, and he continues, and John can only follow - can only try to follow, the creatures that used to be might be human are catching up with them now, moving faster than he would have thought, crowding from ahead to reach for him. They’re clawing at him. One leaves jagged scratches on his upper arm that bleed weakly, the edges curling gray and green. Another paws at his wrist, dried fingers too brittle to break skin, and he feels skin tighten over bone until its flat and tight as leather, shriveled as mummy in a museum. Fingers press wetly against his thigh, wet flesh spreading and pulping against fabric until finally bone digs through into his skin like talons, and it’s like his limp coming back only immensely worse as the weight of wet decay slows his steps, the squelch of his foot in his shoe almost making him sick.
It’s crawling up to his shoulder, the old bullet wound opening up and oozing slowly - his shirt’s been torn enough now to see where the flesh curls back around the hole, charred and rotting - and he’s slowing down, being held back. The man has stopped ahead of them, at the end of the street. The man was turning to look back.
Sherlock looks back too, back at John, the tendons in his neck stretching just so, his skin pale and smooth, and John thinks now isn’t the time to be admiring how truly striking the detective is, really, not when he’s falling apart like this so literally, but Sherlock’s eyes aren’t bright or warm or considering or anything they’ve been before when he’s looked at John, no, now they are cold.
“John,” he says, and his voice has never sounded like that, has never been so sharp and uncaring, has never made John want to flinch back from him. “John,” he says, “We have to hurry. This is none of our concern. He’ll get away.”
John doesn’t answer. Sherlock is staring at him, eyes iced over. The man at the end of the road is grinning, a shadow in the shape of a man with its mouth stretched wide, almost comical but not quite enough past horrifying. Sherlock turns away from John. He’s walking again, walking towards the man with the grin.
It opens its eyes, and they’re like pinpricks of red against the inky black shadow of its face, glowing red spots in the distance, and Sherlock is hurrying towards him. John calls out for him, reaches for him, tries to follow, as he always does, but he’s weighed down and trapped. And Sherlock is hurrying, is running away from him.
And the thing grins.
Part 2
The hospital stay is relatively pleasant. The usual fluorescent lights are swapped out for something calmer when the light hurts his blown pupils, and the drugs keep him from dreaming too much - or at least from remembering - and Sherlock comes and goes as he pleases with little regard for the hospital’s visiting hours, and no one tells him he can’t.
They found him in an abandoned school building, Sherlock tells him. He shows John a few pictures he took with his phone - the writing on the blackboard, left by Moriarty; the bucket of red paint John tipped over when leaving a room; the hallway that used to contain the nursery school, where the walls had been painted to look like a country lane, with rows of pastel houses and pretty flowering gardens - and mentions in passing that John should be more careful about what he ingests.
Soon enough, the doctors are assuring him that the effects of the poison should be gone before he knows it, and he’s discharged into Sherlock’s care.
Coming home is much better. The flat is a mess, and Sherlock is almost too accommodating, but it’s home all the same, and that’s something John appreciates. But it creeps up on him, every now and then. His legs feel heavy still, colors are too bright… and then, there’s Sherlock.
At first, John convinces himself he’s being ridiculously paranoid. Lestrade visits him in the hospital - to take his statement about the kidnapping, clearly expecting the complete lack of memory that John admits to - and tells him how upset Sherlock seemed when he disappeared, how the detective would stop at nothing to find John. While he is in the hospital, it is very easy to believe this.
When he gets home, it becomes a nagging voice in the back of his head. Sherlock seems to be his usual self - but he’s so calm, so willing to do things he was never before willing to do, like get the groceries and clean the flat (at least, in a general sense), and not play the violin at 3am or shoot holes in the wall or leave severed limbs lying about. It’s different; not a bad different, at first, but it feels wrong, and it keeps feeling wrong.
John’s getting better, though, and it’s easier to ignore that little voice when he can take over the cleaning and the shopping and feel like they’re settling back into their usual routine. There’s nothing odd about Sherlock being nice to him, is there? Moriarty kidnapped and poisoned him - regardless that he remembers nothing but pieces of hallucinations - and Sherlock must feel some responsibility, even though that’s ludicrous. But he’s just being sweet, isn’t he? It’s nothing to worry about.
Part 3
In the third week since he brought John back from the hospital, Sherlock notices that something is wrong. The first week goes smoothly enough - John seems a little uncomfortable, but all together glad to be out of the hospital, and that is right enough. The second week, Sherlock puts it down to displeasure over the fact that John is still not well enough to go out - because when he mentions on Monday that he has a case, John scowls in such a peculiar way that it could be nothing but - and when he returns that night he’s happy to inform John that he found the killer in record time, and Lestrade has promised to try and not be utterly useless until John is better again.
But in the third week, when he cleans the flat - no more bowls of toxic mold on the kitchen table, vials of chemicals and various other liquids put in the cupboard John had cleaned out and ordered him to use ages ago, any and all body parts removed and hidden in Mrs. Hudson’s spare icebox in flat 221c, no guns lying about the living room, no used nicotine patches stuck to the underside of the table, all as spotless as Sherlock can personally stand to make it (so, not nearly as spotless as John would like it, certainly, but he can only stand so much cleaning) - John sits in the chair, and watches him. It is the watching that clues him in. John watches him often, of course, watches the way he moves, or the way his hair falls back across his forehead when he pushes it out of sorts in frustration, or watches his hands as he plays the violin or types or conducts silent symphonies of thought. Sherlock has always noticed, even though John is quite subtle about his watching. But then, he hasn’t yet realized that Sherlock watches him as well.
This watching is different. John’s eyes don’t linger on the details. He watches Sherlock, completely and without any pretense, and when Sherlock catches him doing it and their eyes meet John’s brow furrows in concentration, as if…
Sherlock isn’t sure. It makes him jumpy and irritated. He stops cleaning to pace the flat, to find his nicotine patches, to check his phone - no calls, Lestrade promised, why did he make Lestrade promise? - and flop gracefully onto his couch and stare at the ceiling.
John is still watching. He jumps back to his feet.
“I’m going to do the shopping. Anything in particular you’d like?”
The man doesn’t start; his gaze simply shifts from watching Sherlock to focusing on Sherlock’s eyes. John has been almost better since the week before, and he did the shopping quite recently. He doesn’t mention this, however. “There’s a list on the icebox,” he says mildly.
The world’s only consulting detective retrieves the list - milk, beans, tea, jam, boring boring boring - grabs his coat, and leaves.
In the store, staring at the jam and attempting to remember which flavor he himself liked best - he already has John’s favorite in his basket, but he recalls not liking it as much - it finally clicks.
You were there with me the whole time, John told him in the hospital, still distracted and sleepy from the medication. You were always there - even in the parts I don’t really recall, I know you were there.
Sherlock walks the rest of the shop in a daze, thinking too loudly to do much further than pick up the items on the list and pay for them - he short-changes the poor girl at the till by five pounds accidentally, but she doesn’t notice, she broke up with her boyfriend over her lunch break because he’s been cheating on her with the older woman who works in the produce department, he called her some very nasty names and implied she didn’t like men anyway, and she’s considering hooking up with his younger brother just to spite him - and wanders home without so much as considering the direction he’s going. He gets there just fine all the same.
He walks in the door, puts away the groceries, and John is still staring.
So, Sherlock devises a plan of action.
John has never had any particular difficulty in believing (nearly) everything Sherlock tells him is true, and he decides to rely on this particular character trait and hope that it hasn’t been compromised too much. Keeping this in mind, he endeavors to remind John every day that he is real and not, in fact, a hallucination. Sherlock does not do this in a subtle manner - part of him is just slightly put out that John would assume himself capable of conjuring an intellect such as his from the drug-addled recesses of his brain, and therefore he finds it a bit difficult to treat the matter with as much delicacy as is likely called for. However, his methods are not harsh - a text, a post-it stuck to John’s computer screen, a scribbled note at the bottom of the shopping list, I promise you I’m real, you’re not hallucinating anymore, everything’s fine now, John…
And it seems to be working. He’s wearing him down slowly, to be sure, but John is really starting to believe him. For a while, it seems that things will go back to being alright between them.
Things go well for one week, three days, seven hours and eighteen minutes, to be exact. And then Sherlock makes a mistake, and it all goes to hell.
Part 4
John comes home from work to find Mycroft in their flat.
Of course, this has happened before, so John shrugs it off and sits on the couch, picks up the newspaper and not at all subtly watches the brothers talk. It wouldn’t be any use to hide the fact that he’s watching - they would know anyway, after all, and he cannot, for once, hear what they are saying.
Mycroft is his usual self, his expression bland and condescending as he explains something to Sherlock in low tones. But Sherlock is not irritated and flippant, as he usually is when Mycroft deigns to visit, no, he’s focused, leaning forward just slightly in his chair, violin forgotten on the carpet beside him and bow across his lap. John takes the moment to look at him like he hasn’t in a long while, taking in the little details, the way the sunshine streaming in the window behind Sherlock throws his cheekbones into sharp relief, the intense focus in his eyes as he listens, the hard line of his lips - but they would still be so soft - his long thin fingers gripping the arm of the chair-
It is Sherlock’s other hand that arrests his attention. It flits from his collar to his phone, removes it from the pocket and turns it over, replaces it, slides absently along the hair of the bow before darting down to his wrist and the jagged scar there - only one of several “souvenirs” from their last up-close encounter with Moriarty, but certainly the most visible - then back to his phone again. John is reminded forcibly of Sherlock at the pool, tearing the semtex vest off of him with shaking hands, fidgeting, tapping the gun against his leg, using it to rub his temple, his hair, unable to cease moving. This moment is more contained, the movements are smaller but the implication is still there. They are talking about Moriarty.
Before John can ask, the conversation across from him abruptly ends with Sherlock picking up his violin once more and sawing out a rather violent tune. Mycroft’s expression becomes somehow more long-suffering, and he nods at John before he leaves. Sherlock stops playing just as the door downstairs clicks shut.
And then he is moving, muttering half to himself - something about a warehouse, several derogatory comments regarding Mycroft’s ability to track down the world’s only consulting criminal, and then he’s tugging on his coat and scarf, tossing John’s coat to him as he swings the door open.
“Mycroft told you where to find him?” he asks mildly, pulling on his coat and getting up to follow Sherlock, as he always does.
“No. Where he was. But he could have left something there.” It sounds like a long shot, but John can see that Sherlock is already miles ahead of them, his mind twisting down streets and alleyways to their destination, already contemplating the tiniest details that could have been left behind. That hunger is growing in Sherlock’s expression, that desire for the chase, the puzzle that really tests his intelligence, that thrill he only really feels when he beats Moriarty.
So when Sherlock turns and flies down the stairs, John picks up his gun from the desk and follows.
Part 5
The warehouse is empty, as expected, but Sherlock seems inordinately pleased by it, shouting comments back to John as he races about excitedly, remarking on the way the dust settles here, the hint of a poorly hidden shoe-print there. John stands somewhere near the middle of the building and watches him, until his enthusiasm runs its course, and Sherlock finally stops muttering and pacing and stands next to John with a disconcerted expression on his face.
“There’s nothing here.”
John glances over at him - the man’s hair is a mess, he’s run his hands through it so many times, John could just reach over and smooth it back into place, feel how soft it is - and sighs. “You knew there wouldn’t be, Sherlock. Why are we here?”
“Because there must be something. He wouldn’t be so lax as to let Mycroft get wind of him unless there was a reason. There must be-”
The pink phone rings. John knows it is the pink phone because Sherlock changed the ringtone to something shrill and startling even though it hasn’t rung since before the night at the pool. He pulls it out and taps the screen irritably, and Moriarty’s voice filters distantly down the line to reach them, full of lilting laughter.
“A bit late, aren’t you, Sherlock? But then, it seems to me you’re always just a little too late…”
Sherlock’s eyes have closed but he still looks hungry, consumed by that blazing intensity that only this man inspires, and John cannot look away from his face. His long fingers grip the pink rubber casing so hard John wonders briefly why the phone doesn’t shatter in his grip.
“Give me something, Moriarty, give me a hint, a puzzle, give me work, my mind rots, languishing like this…” He knows Sherlock can’t help it. That doesn’t make it less alarming to hear that raw edge of need creeping into the other man’s voice.
Moriarty hears it too, and he laughs. “Oh, no, I won’t be giving you any more hints, sexy. You’ll have to find me all on your own. That explosion at the pool was only a taste, you know. I’m going to destroy you.”
The line disconnects and Sherlock takes a deep, slow breath. He slips the phone back in his pocket, eyes still closed, lost in thought. John wants to tell him they should go home, it would be easier to think there, when Sherlock’s cell rings.
He shuts it off impatiently.
John’s cell rings next, and he picks it up. Lestrade says something about a double homicide and promises to text him the address before hanging up. Sherlock is still lost in thought.
“They’ve got a case for us.”
The world’s only consulting detective shakes his head. “He was a using a land line - distinct sound, not the same as ending a call on a mobile - he did it on purpose, didn’t filter out all the background noise. Oh, you said you wouldn’t give hints but there you went and left the bells in the back of your call, Jim…”
He winces; he hates it when Sherlock gets so caught up like this, and he hates it especially when he calls Moriarty ‘Jim’ like he’s just another guy, like he’s some twisted version of an old friend and this is all a big game to play when he’s bored. But Sherlock is far away now, muttering about bells and typing frantically on his cell and he makes for the exit. John doesn’t follow him this time.
“Sherlock. Sherlock.” He doesn’t quite raise his voice.
“Ah, yes, John?” The man doesn’t even turn around to look at him, but he does stop walking away.
“What about the homicide? Lestrade needs us.” He honestly believes Sherlock will snap out of it, will remember that playing with Moriarty is hardly fun and games.
The man turns and looks at him, and his eyes are more distant than John has ever seen them. “That’s none of our concern. Perhaps the police might do their jobs for once - although that is deeply unlikely. However, we have more important things to deal with right now. Come on.”
John feels hollow, frozen - distinctly, utterly incapable of movement - yet he moves forward. He follows Sherlock, because that is what he always does. Even this Sherlock, this clear hallucination that moves and speaks and thinks like Sherlock but could not possibly be him. They reach a busier street, and Sherlock hesitates before hailing a cab.
“…John? What’s wrong?” There’s something in his eyes - he’s coming back down to Earth now, the hunger is fading from his expression and he’s starting to look frantic, actually, as frantic as John has ever seen him, and he has to wonder if it’s because he himself has gone so uncharacteristically blank. He shakes his head though, murmurs something about not feeling well, and Sherlock attempts not to look concerned as he hails a second taxi to take John home.
The taxi is quiet - the cabbie doesn’t try to make conversation - but John is nervous, jumpy, expecting any moment for Sherlock to be in the seat beside him, drawling something sarcastic about leaving him behind, and he keeps mistaking brake lights - far, far ahead - for glowing red eyes. He is immensely grateful when they reach 221b Baker Street and he can retreat to the safety of the flat. Sherlock does not come home that afternoon, despite John’s nagging fears that he will appear out of nowhere.
In the morning, he makes tea and toast for two before realizing that Sherlock is still gone.
John sits quietly at the kitchen table, not really seeing the mess of chemistry equipment spread out in front of him. His thoughts are flying by so fast he can barely keep up with them. Sherlock must be a hallucination, certainly, he has established that. But the bounds of the original delusion have been broken - there, Sherlock was always with him; now, Sherlock is distinctly absent. Brought on, of course, by John leaving him behind. However - thinking faster now, his hand is shaking as much as it did on his first day back form the war - if Sherlock is part of the continued hallucination, and John is now rid of him, it stands to reason that Sherlock no longer exists within the delusion. What if, by trying to get away from the fear that his friend is no longer his friend but instead a figment of his own imagination, John had simply willed him out of existence?
Hallucinations shouldn’t work like that, he tries to reason with himself, but he has been trapped in this one for so long. Perhaps the rules have changed?
A sick feeling has settled in his stomach. As calmly as he can manage - which, by most standards, is alarmingly calm - he brings the tea and toast downstairs to Mrs. Hudson. Although she’s already had her tea, she smiles and nods and eats with him. He’s gone so pale and shaky that she simply can’t refuse.
[A/N] This is temporarily on hold. I will get back to it and finish it eventually.