Even the Limitless Have Limits
Every person has a Limit, John Watson knows. It's something that doctors know, no matter what their PhD is in. It can vary in form, too, those Limits; someone can reach their mental limit and come to a psychotic break; some can reach their emotional limit and shut down; some can reach their physical limit and become an invalid. It all depends on the person and their situation. But in the end, everyone has their Limits, and everyone reaches them if things go wrong enough.
And things have indeed gone horribly wrong.
#
For the longest time, John didn't think that Sherlock had a Limit. He thought that Sherlock was limitless, could reach any high and never come crashing down. He knew his body and when to give it nutrition or sleep before it reached its physical limit. He knew how to take care in a fight to do the same. And his mind was impossibly impeccable, so it could never reach any sort of end, either. And, of course, Sherlock doesn't have very deep emotions, so it was unlikely he would ever come to a Limit in that department, either.
So when Sherlock comes to his own Limit, John is stunned and appalled and concerned and overprotective and supportive.
He only wishes he needn't be.
#
It happens in a warehouse.
They are chasing a killer notorious for dunking his victims in acid and watching them bubble and burn. They have him on the ropes, and the police are going to arrive soon, and there's no stopping Justice.
But, sadly, Justice is merely human, despite how he depends to be otherwise.
So when the murderer throws some of the last of his acidic mixture up into the air, toward Sherlock's eyes, for a moment, John thinks it shouldn't matter because Sherlock is always prepared for basically everything and can never be touched, can never reach a Limit, and will be fine and tackle the murderer as planned and only acquire a few little burns, perhaps, just a few on his arms as he raises them to block the attack.
Except… he doesn't fully block it. His reflexes, normally so perfect, are worn due to days of lack of sleep and solid food. So he can't shield his face as well, not quickly enough. His eyelids clench, but the acid strikes them a bit anyhow. He howls in pain and falls to his knees. John whips out his gun and shoots the man, aiming for his legs to keep him from running. Out of spite for hurting Sherlock, the murderer may or may not have his kneecaps blasted through. But John doesn't give a shit about morality at the moment; Sherlock is down, and that's all that seems to matter.
#
In the hospital, the doctor is very sympathetic.
"What do you mean, he may never see again?" John lashes out. "I'm a doctor, too! I was there! It didn't get in his eyes, not very much, anyway! He should still have them, they should still be fine, no worse than having an eyelash in them that has just scratched the healable surface!"
"Unfortunately, that isn't the case," the other doctor argues softly. And he really does look very sympathetic. But John knows that act, and it sickens him. "Quite a bit of the acid has ruined his cornea and bled through to his lens. Surgery is an option, but there is no guarantee that it will give him back his eyesight. And if it does return his sight, he won't have 20/20 vision any longer; he will need glasses."
"Glasses are fine," John says immediately. "Glasses never hurt anyone. Glasses can be fashionable, even, and contacts -"
"He will have to wait a few years until he can wear those."
"Fine, whatever. Still. Glasses and contacts aren't bad, not bad at all, as long as he can see. Right, Sherlock? …Sherlock?" says John, and he turns 'round to look at Sherlock's face. There are white bandages wrapped around his head, covering his eyes. They are fresh and clean and make for the perfect image of a blindfolded patient, one John has seen many times in warfare, because shrapnel is a bitch and so is desert sand. He blinks back tears, faces the doctor again.
Sherlock says nothing, but he does reach out and fumble around until he locates John's forearm. He gives it a squeeze, and shit, is he shaking? That isn't a good sign.
"Right, so. Surgery, then?" John prompts with a clearing of his throat. His voice cracks anyhow.
"That's up to him," the doctor says almost softly, and John wants to deck him. Easy, Watson, easy, he tells himself as he breathes carefully. It's not very professional from one doctor to another to punch someone's lights out.
"Yes," Sherlock croaks, his voice hoarse from misuse. He clears his throat and tries again. "Do what you can to restore my eyes. I need them."
The doctor nods, so seemingly sympathetically. John's jaw clenches. "Yes, I daresay everyone does." And he turns and exits the room.
John places his hand over Sherlock's, which is still gripping his arm and trembling.
The consulting detective takes a quaking breath. His voice sounds resolute, perfectly firm, as he utters, "John, he better fix me. This won't do."
"No, it won't," John agrees quietly. He turns to Sherlock and looks at him, directly at the bandages wrapped around his head, and considers, "It won't do at all."
#
"I'm sorry."
Two words that John knows are the worst ones to hear from a doctor. He's had to say them himself, and he felt bloody awful about it every single time they've come from his mouth after trying to patch someone up who was too far gone before his aid did any good.
"His eyes will heal enough to look like a clouded version of their former selves, but this means he won't be able to see. Not even vague shapes or shadows for a long while, and even then, those might be all he will ever see, if anything. We did our best, but it wasn't enough. Those burns on his eyelids and cheeks should heal up without much scarring, and his eyebrows will grow back, but that's about all. Only a miracle over time will bring anything more back."
"Thank you, doctor. May I check out now?" Sherlock replies with a stiff coldness that should only belong on cadavers.
The doctor swallows and nods, and Sherlock takes his silence as confirmation.
Sherlock tugs at John's arm. "Come on, then, John; let's get out of this boring place."
#
John acts as Sherlock's guide and takes him where they need to go. They are told by a nurse when Sherlock can remove his bandages. They give them extra to change out. They inform John how to prevent pus and other infection. John reminds them that he is a doctor, too, and can handle it. They take the elevator down.
The woman at the front sees Sherlock's bandaged eyes and looks pained. She adverts her gaze and shows them where to sign out, and when to expect the bill. Sherlock says nothing; John does all the talking.
#
The cab ride is silent. John makes no effort to change that.
#
"They said there would be a chance I would see again, that I would only have to wear glasses," Sherlock remarks after four days of silence on his end.
John swallows hard. He nods, remembers Sherlock can't see it, and opts to whisper, "Yeah," instead. The anger has left him, now. Now there is only sorrow.
Sherlock seems to feel nothing. "They lied."
John's heart pinches. "I know."
#
"I feel dirty. How am I to bathe if I can't see what I'm grabbing to clean my hair? And I have stubble. How am I to shave if I can't see where I'm putting the razor? I could cut myself; nick my jugular, bleed out. -Solutions, John, I need solutions! Even for everyday things! How have I become such a pathetic weakling?"
"You're not pathetic and you're not weak," John answers sternly. He takes Sherlock by the shoulders and shakes him. "Stop talking like that. Have you forgotten that you can ask for my help? I can wash your hair in the shower or bath, whichever you prefer. I can shave your face for you. I'm not going to aim your prick for you when you pee, though, so you might want to sit down. It might feel humiliating, but at least you don't miss. And everything else is still within your ability. So don't give up so soon, yeah?"
"…Fine," Sherlock mumbles, and he turns out of John's grip and folds his arms over his chest. "Then help me draw up a bath, if you would."
"I will," John says. "See how simple that was?"
Sherlock only grunts in response.
#
Lestrade hasn't heard about the injury, exactly. He knows Sherlock was wounded from the last case, but he assumes it's like any other wound and calls with a case a week after the incident.
John breaks it to Lestrade that Sherlock can't see. He can't come. The case will have to be solved by the police alone this time.
When the conversation full of sympathies ends, Sherlock remarks flatly, "I can't make deductions without my eyes, John. I can't observe what I can't see."
John is washed with the sting of tears biting at his eye sockets and making his body feel a rush of coolness mingled with a flush of heat. He looks away. "I know."
#
"John."
"…John."
"…John?"
"John!"
"John!"
He enters through the main door and rushes to Sherlock's side. "Sorry, sorry; I thought you heard me. I went to Tesco for a bit; we were out of sugar. What is it, Sherlock? Are you all right? Does anything hurt?"
The panic recedes and Sherlock's bandaged eyes turn, following the source of John's voice, and land roughly where John's face would be. "My cheeks feel wet. Check my eyes?"
John quietly nods and brings his hands up to unwind the bandages and inspect the wounded area for pus or other signs of infection.
Sherlock's eyelids are closed and look angrily red. The blisters from the burns have long since burst and healed, and nothing seems swollen. But there is leakage of some sort, clean and dripping in trails. John touches a gentle fingertip to it and brings it to his lips. Salt.
"You're crying, Sherlock," John whispers. And that's the first sign, he realises, that Sherlock has reached his Limit and is slowly spiraling down. "You're crying."
"I don't cry," Sherlock answers in a hushed tone. "John, I don't cry. I only cry when I'm in disguise, when it's an act. I don't cry."
John feels compelled to comfort Sherlock. The covers Sherlock's ears with his hands and leans forward to press his lips to Sherlock's forehead for a long moment. When he finally ends the kiss and leaves the hot, smooth skin, Sherlock is making short, edgy breaths like sobs and his trying to remain calm.
"You're going to hyperventilate if you do that," John murmurs. "Let it out, Sherlock. You have to let it out."
"But I don't cry," Sherlock says, and it sounds like a child. "I don't cry!"
So John stands from his kneeling position on the floor before the sofa and moves to sit beside his flatmate. He wraps his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and head and brings him to his own shoulder. He rocks them back and forth, and Sherlock doesn't return the embrace, but he doesn't pull out of it, either, and soon, sniffles are heard along with more woeful breaths.
Sherlock lets it out.
#
"You need to always be here," Sherlock whispers when he finishes crying. "You can't leave. Pay Mrs. Hudson to shop for us, or get groceries online; I don't care how you do it. Just never leave my side again, John, unless I ask to be alone for a while in the comfort of my bedroom. But other than that, always be within arms reach of me. Understood?"
John nods and touches Sherlock's hair. "Understood, Sherlock."
Even if he doesn't know why, he at least understands that he must obey.
#
Mycroft wants to visit. He wants to speak to Sherlock.
Sherlock won't let him.
And finally, after two weeks since coming home from the hospital, and after two weeks of Mycroft ringing twice a day every day, Sherlock finally answers the phone.
He goes into his bedroom, where John can't catch the conversation as well.
There's the sound of a phone being flung against the wall. Then Sherlock's door opens.
"John, I need a cigarette. Only one."
For once, John obliges. He even places it between Sherlock's lips and lights it for him.
#
Months pass. Sherlock does little but play his violin, speak to John, sip at his tea and coffee, occasionally eat something light, and listen to the television when John has it on. He doesn't say much to much of anyone, even the people who are worth speaking to.
But he talks to Mrs. Hudson, and Mrs. Hudson pats his hand and shoulder and strokes his hair and cheek and says only good things.
John has never been so grateful for their landlady.
#
Lestrade doesn't call with cases. In fact, he doesn't call at all. No one from Scotland Yard sends their regards, their sympathies; John thinks they are too shocked to. He doesn't blame them. And maybe Sally and Anderson are even relieved, and John is glad they don't rub it in Sherlock's face, because then John mind commit a crime or two, and no one would approve of that.
#
Mycroft visits once a week. Sometimes Sherlock lets him inside. They never touch, not an ounce of sibling affection. But Mycroft looks genuinely concerned and Sherlock does talk to him a little, and that's enough, John thinks. That suffices.
#
Molly visits all the time, at least three or four times a week. Sometimes she only brings food and leaves. Sometimes she stays for a cuppa.
She never talks about Sherlock's blindness. She only ever brings good news or makes small talk.
John pulls Molly aside and takes her hands in his. "Thank you so much, Molly."
It's only then that she starts to cry and buries her head in the crook of John's shoulder that she asks, "Why him, John? Why did this, of all things, have to happen to him?"
He strokes her hair and shakes his head and holds back his own tears. "I don't know, Molly, and if I did, I don't think I would be able to cope half as well. I might kill something."
She nods, completely understanding. John releases her and says goodbye. Sherlock says upon John's return, "And I would let you kill something for me, John. I wouldn't even bat an eyelash at it."
And that twists something fowl in John's stomach.
#
"John, who am I if I can't make deductions? Half of my being is my observation and subsequent reasoning. Without that, I only have the lesser parts of my mind to think with. I can't even read, and audiobooks aren't nearly as satisfying because they are easier to drown out than words on a page. So what I am any longer, John? What have I become? I'm no longer Sherlock Holmes. Not the consulting detective everyone knows. I am someone else."
"No, no, no," John counters hurriedly, his brows upturned in worry as he drops what he's doing - typing in his blog that everyone should stop coming to him with cases because Sherlock isn't in the right mindset to solve them (and here, he is being delicate) - and moves to stand in front of Sherlock's armchair.
"You're still you, Sherlock, in every sense. This is just a setback, but you'll find a way to solve cases again. You can still hear and smell and feel and taste, and those senses alone can overcome a great deal of things. So don't worry, all right? Knowing you, you'll find a way to tell if a person is lying just by the wavers in their tone, or if a woman has been cheating because of how she smells. You'll come up with ways to inspect a body with your hands alone, even with the barrier of gloves, and you'll be right back on track with making deductions without your eyes." He grabs Sherlock's face, his eyes going from searching frantically to settling in one spot, and murmurs, "Do you hear me? You're still the great Sherlock Holmes, and don't you dare think otherwise."
Sherlock's eyes water but he doesn't shed a tear. Instead, he blinks, cloudy blue-green eyes focusing on a space just past John's face, and he nods. "Yes, John. I hear you." But he can't help but add bitterly, "All I can do is hear you." And he pulls away, standing up and feeling along the mantelpiece and wall until he's able to make it into his room.
#
"John."
The doctor jerks awake with a snort and sits upright on the sofa, rubbing his face. Yawning, he asks, "Yes, Sherlock?"
He looks up to find his flatmate standing over him, those cloudy eyes looking over the top of the sofa at nothing. "You have the beginnings of a sinus infection. I can hear it in your breathing."
John blinks. With a bit of awe, he confirms, "Yes."
Sherlock nods curtly. "I've made a deduction with sound, John."
"Yes, you have."
It's progress.
#
"I've been blind for a year now, John," Sherlock says one evening. John looks up from his book and realises he hasn't noticed the lack of violin song until now.
"Has it been that long already?" John frowns.
"Yes," Sherlock replies, "And I don't understand."
"What don't you understand?" he wants to know.
"I have been shot at, I have had bombs within the immediate vicinity, I have been drugged, I have been threatened, I have faked my own death, I have had enemies and allies alike, and I have chased criminals all over Europe and the States. How is it, John, that I have been felled by one moment of a non-lethal acid splashed in just the right place to hinder me for the rest of my life?"
John sits for a long moment in silence, gazing up at Sherlock, who has his head cocked down at John, but his eyes pressed closed and his prayer hands raised to his chin.
John sighs and stands, knees bumping Sherlock's. He lightly touches Sherlock's eyelids and the scars beneath them around his eye sockets, and he shakes his head vigorously. "That, I think, is the most pertinent question of all, and it's the one nobody can answer; except God, maybe, but you don't believe in Him, so even that's moot."
Sherlock inhales and exhales slowly through his nose, his eyes opening as John retracts his soft fingertips. They are even more unseeing than when John saw Sherlock lying "dead" on the ground, and it sends shudders down his spine, nearly shredding his skin open with gooseflesh.
"So it is," the taller man agrees, and he closes his eyes again. "Lead me to my bed, John. I wish to lie down."
And when Sherlock is settled into bed, he grabs for John's hand and doesn't let go.
"Stay." An unyielding command.
John stays.
#
"Do you know true irony, John?"
"How do you mean?"
Sherlock wriggles his feet against the side of John's leg where they are on the couch, John's laptop resting on the arm of the sofa, his body twisted toward it, clicking away at the keys. He pauses, looks at Sherlock, finds his eyes open and lifted toward the ceiling.
"When I could see, I was lost to what was right in front of me. Now that I am blind, it is perfectly clear."
John frowns. "I'm still not following."
"I mean you, John," Sherlock nearly whispers. "I see you. I finally can see what a dear friend you are. Before, I recognized that you are a friend, but now there is depth behind it. Meaning, purpose. You are not merely a friend, or even the friend I have; you are more than that."
Sherlock sits up, one leg hanging over the end of the couch, the other folded up along the width of the cushions. He extends his hands, the developed signal for John to take them, usually to lead him somewhere he wants to go.
John slips his fingers into Sherlock's grasp and watches Sherlock's face very carefully.
He goes on, "You could have been unable to bear me going blind; many people don't function well with illness, extended periods of recovery, or disabilities. You are a doctor, and that might pardon you from being like most people, but even then, doctors patch people up and send them on their way; they don't have to remain by their side as you have done for me. Because you could have left me with a seeing-eye dog or to my own devices. I could have been alone.
"In fact, I could have never met you. But I have, and you are here. You could be with a woman right now, married. You could be as distant as Lestrade or as occasional as Mrs. Hudson and Molly. But you aren't. You've stood by me, given me reason to carry on, helped me to adjust, and comforted and supported me when I needed it. You've always done this, though, even without the extra care I've needed this past year and a half; but it took me losing my sight to see it."
John swallows down a flood of emotions and offers a small smile instead, even if Sherlock will only see blackness. He prays it's evident in his voice. "I told you that you're an idiot. Of course I'll always support you and help you and be here for you. I wouldn't leave your side for a woman or the world. You're very important to me, Sherlock, even if I sometimes think you're completely bonkers and that I'm daft for being your friend. But that's a thought that's never lasted very long, because I know how much you need me, and in a bizarre way, I need you, too."
"I do need you," Sherlock confesses quietly. "I'll never say it again, but it's true. I need you to remind me of social conduct. I need you to protect me when I get carried away on a case. I need you to guard me when villainous people try to kill me. I need you to remind me to eat and sleep and drink more water. I need you to be there when no one else will come near me because I'm in a fit of rage or antsy boredom or hot on a case. I'll always need you, because even thought I've been rendered blind, I am still the same person, and I won't ever change, and because of all that, I will need you always."
There's sincerity softening Sherlock's angular features, and it's brings John to pull Sherlock's hands to his mouth. He brushes his lips over Sherlock's knuckles, and Sherlock follows the movement and presses his forehead to the backs of his own hands, breathing shallowly.
"I can't imagine how you even got on without me around," John tries to say lightheartedly, but his voice betrays him and sounds tragic.
Sherlock huffs a thin laugh, listing his head. "It was walking through mist, John, for many years after Uni. My life was something before then, but after then, when I was utterly on my own, it was just people passing in a fog, crime being the only thing stringing me along. You anchored me. Even now, in this pit of darkness I find myself in, I am tethered to the Earth by your doing, and without you, I become lost in the lack of solidity and color."
John can only pretend to know how Sherlock must feel. He closes his eyes and pretends for a moment that he can't open them. Ah, there: everything is black, intangible unless he is touching it directly, and it suddenly manifests into form. Sherlock's hands in his are real, it's there, and so is the sofa beneath his rear. But the space around him? It's all a black mystery. It could be anything. He knows this flat like the back of his hand, but not perfectly well enough to gauge exact distance to each item, and even then, the items are ever-shifting. One cup can be moved, one pile of papers knocked over, and suddenly the layout of the room is completely alien and just as unknown as the outside world beyond the flat.
John opens his eyes and thinks he finally understands Sherlock's true dilemma, not just the lost sense of identity that came with being so observant and logical; there is a loss of placement as well, and it's haunting.
"I get it now," John murmurs. "But you'll get used to it more and more over time, and eventually, I think the blackness will have some dimension to it, like the way sonar maps out the abyss of the ocean. It's only been eighteen months, Sherlock. Give it more time. I'll be here all the while. But don't you think we should go out some time? You haven't left the flat to do a single thing all this while. I'll be right on your arm if we go out, you know. I wouldn't take my hand off you for a second, so you will always have me as a rope to keep you from drifting."
Sherlock nods. "You're right; I have been terribly agoraphobic since I was blinded, and it isn't healthy. I should still be part of the world, and I need to learn how to walk to certain locations and back until I have the steps counted and memorized."
"Exactly," John agrees readily. He kisses Sherlock's knuckles again. "We can start tomorrow, if you like."
"Tomorrow," Sherlock nods. He slips his hands from John's and finds his way around until he's disappearing into the bathroom.
John resumes his blog post, clicking away. He hasn't had much to write about, and before he was simply answering e-mails, but now he can at least blog about taking an outing with Sherlock soon.
#
Sherlock jumps at nearly every sound, most probably feeling too loud to him. He clings to John the way a child might, both arms wrapped around John's arm and his steps throwing John off-balance every now and again.
They choose to take the streets that lead to Tesco, for starters. It isn't very far, and takes longer than it usually does, but Sherlock maps it out in his head and follows John back home.
#
The following day, they do it again, Sherlock slightly more relaxed, and they plot the course of what leads them to Molly's flat. When they arrive, she hugs Sherlock and tells him how proud she is of him, and they go in for tea.
When they leave, Sherlock leads the way back to the flat, John scrambling to keep up as Sherlock counts the steps and names the turns - "Fifty-three, fifty-four, left turn, fifty-six, fifty-seven…" - all the way back to Baker Street.
#
They spend a handful of weeks doing that, going to various locations of importance over and over again until Sherlock knows his way around the major points (for John and him) of London again.
After a small dinner one night, Sherlock announces, "I would like to try to go on my own tomorrow, try out the routes without you. Problem?"
"No qualms here, no," John replies cheerfully. "But you have your phone on you and I'm on speed dial number one, so if you get lost, phone me, and I'll find you with the GPS in your phone if you keep it on."
"Will do."
And it's the most progress in a long, long while.
#
Sherlock doesn't get lost. He even makes new routes by connecting a few of the studied ones in his head. He visits Molly, picks up milk from Tesco, doggie bags from Angelo's (who gave him the food for free out of pity for Sherlock's eyes), and all the way home again.
John takes the food, puts away the milk, serves it onto plates, and congratulates Sherlock repeatedly for his efforts.
Sherlock shoves aside his plate and braces his elbows on the table, fingers laced and folded in front of him. "Next, I want to try a case and see if I can deduce anything. I need practice in that area most, or I will have to sacrifice my title as the only consulting detective in the world."
John's food becomes unappetizing after that.
#
"Lestrade, I would like to try a case. Give me a case. Nothing with too many visuals; something I can feel or hear. Can you give me that?" John wakes up one morning to hearing Sherlock say into the phone.
John rubs his groggy eyes and stares at where Sherlock is swaying anxiously on his feet in front of one of the windows.
"Mhm. Mmhum. Yes. Alright. That works for me. Yes, thank you. Goodbye, Lestrade." And he hangs up the phone, leaning cautiously forward, finding the desk with his free hand, and placing the phone in an empty space. "John? John! Wake up, if you aren't ready."
"I'm right here, Sherlock," John yawns. "I came down a moment ago."
"Ah, there you are. Didn't hear you come in. Sit, sit; I have something to tell you," Sherlock relays excitedly.
His depression seems to be lifting considerably; he is almost himself again. "What is it?" John asks as he takes his seat and watches Sherlock do the same.
"We have a case from Lestrade. I asked him for one. He says that, were you keeping up on the papers, you should be able to tell me about the girl they found with her intestines removed. Can you?"
"Yeah, I've read about that earlier this week. Is she our case?"
"Indeed. Her body has already been autopsied, so we are permitted to inspect her all we like. I don't have to wear gloves, you see? I can make deductions best that way, through touch. And he's going to let me listen to the interrogation recordings of the known suspects, relatives, and witnesses who found the body."
"That's fantastic, Sherlock! I'm sure you'll crack it wide open. It's sure to get your confidence back."
"No more than you have done for me already," Sherlock replies in a murmur so quiet that if John hadn't been looking at Sherlock's mouth, he wouldn't have thought Sherlock said anything at all.
#
It goes well, not surprisingly, because even if he is blind, Sherlock has his methods and he is brilliant, and he has John to fill in for him where he can't do certain things any longer, like seeing the obvious or the details or looking things up on the computer.
"I am glad to have a trusted pair of eyes," Sherlock states upon closing the case and handing it over to the police to wrap up. "You were unimpeachable, John."
John rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "No, I wasn't. Shut up."
Sherlock smirks. "Flawless."
John feels himself blush a bit this time. "Was not!"
"No, you were. You did very well," Sherlock adds, and if there some sarcasm in there?
"I missed one thing that you wound up needing the most," John mutters.
"But we still got around to it, and you still spotted it in the end, even if it was something vital I would have noticed immediately. So it worked itself out," the detective points out.
John makes a scoffing sound. "Yeah, which means I wasn't perfect."
"But you were," Sherlock protests strongly. "You were perfect, John. As long as I have you, I can go on solving cases again. I don't have to give up being a consulting detective on account of my eyesight, or, rather, lack thereof. You are just as much a part of me, now, as you ever were, and even more so."
"I… I don't know what to say to that."
"Then don't say anything. Hail us a cab and we'll go home instead."
So they do. And John can't stop smiling all the way home. And for once, he's glad Sherlock can't see a bloody thing, because it might beg the question why he's grinning so hard, like a damned fool.
#
"I think you've told me that you love me a few times since you lost your sight," John remarks one night. "Especially some time during your breakdown, when you thought you weren't yourself any more, and you became the most dependent on me, unhealthily so."
Sherlock stiffens and bows his head. "Perhaps I have, in so many words."
"I want to hear the exact words," John says soulfully. "I want to know that you mean what I think you mean."
His voice is very reserved. "Aren't 'I need you' and 'You're perfect' enough?"
"Not for me, no. I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I'm only a man. Sometimes I need to hear it. Sometimes I need to make sure that your emotions are real, and that I'm not jumping to conclusions in my head." And John seems almost nervous, and it's makes Sherlock sigh.
"I love you, then. Are you satisfied?"
"Very," John says with a relieved smile. He exhales and his face relaxes. "I love you, too. Now, doesn't it feel good to hear it from someone?"
"…Yes, actually," Sherlock says after a pause, his voice full of mild surprise. "It does."
#
Sherlock reached his Limit, but unlike most, he was able to find himself again. He was able to regain his grip and fight the Limit-breaker, beat the odds, pull through, come back to sanity, to balance, to life. Many don't. Many reach their Limit(s) and collapse under the pressure of them.
But Sherlock isn't most people, is he?
And John has never seen a more shining miracle, because, for a moment, he did have doubt. But he should have known something else: he contributed to the miracle's progress, and that's something not many people are allotted in their own lives and trials.
And things have indeed gone horribly wrong.
#
For the longest time, John didn't think that Sherlock had a Limit. He thought that Sherlock was limitless, could reach any high and never come crashing down. He knew his body and when to give it nutrition or sleep before it reached its physical limit. He knew how to take care in a fight to do the same. And his mind was impossibly impeccable, so it could never reach any sort of end, either. And, of course, Sherlock doesn't have very deep emotions, so it was unlikely he would ever come to a Limit in that department, either.
So when Sherlock comes to his own Limit, John is stunned and appalled and concerned and overprotective and supportive.
He only wishes he needn't be.
#
It happens in a warehouse.
They are chasing a killer notorious for dunking his victims in acid and watching them bubble and burn. They have him on the ropes, and the police are going to arrive soon, and there's no stopping Justice.
But, sadly, Justice is merely human, despite how he depends to be otherwise.
So when the murderer throws some of the last of his acidic mixture up into the air, toward Sherlock's eyes, for a moment, John thinks it shouldn't matter because Sherlock is always prepared for basically everything and can never be touched, can never reach a Limit, and will be fine and tackle the murderer as planned and only acquire a few little burns, perhaps, just a few on his arms as he raises them to block the attack.
Except… he doesn't fully block it. His reflexes, normally so perfect, are worn due to days of lack of sleep and solid food. So he can't shield his face as well, not quickly enough. His eyelids clench, but the acid strikes them a bit anyhow. He howls in pain and falls to his knees. John whips out his gun and shoots the man, aiming for his legs to keep him from running. Out of spite for hurting Sherlock, the murderer may or may not have his kneecaps blasted through. But John doesn't give a shit about morality at the moment; Sherlock is down, and that's all that seems to matter.
#
In the hospital, the doctor is very sympathetic.
"What do you mean, he may never see again?" John lashes out. "I'm a doctor, too! I was there! It didn't get in his eyes, not very much, anyway! He should still have them, they should still be fine, no worse than having an eyelash in them that has just scratched the healable surface!"
"Unfortunately, that isn't the case," the other doctor argues softly. And he really does look very sympathetic. But John knows that act, and it sickens him. "Quite a bit of the acid has ruined his cornea and bled through to his lens. Surgery is an option, but there is no guarantee that it will give him back his eyesight. And if it does return his sight, he won't have 20/20 vision any longer; he will need glasses."
"Glasses are fine," John says immediately. "Glasses never hurt anyone. Glasses can be fashionable, even, and contacts -"
"He will have to wait a few years until he can wear those."
"Fine, whatever. Still. Glasses and contacts aren't bad, not bad at all, as long as he can see. Right, Sherlock? …Sherlock?" says John, and he turns 'round to look at Sherlock's face. There are white bandages wrapped around his head, covering his eyes. They are fresh and clean and make for the perfect image of a blindfolded patient, one John has seen many times in warfare, because shrapnel is a bitch and so is desert sand. He blinks back tears, faces the doctor again.
Sherlock says nothing, but he does reach out and fumble around until he locates John's forearm. He gives it a squeeze, and shit, is he shaking? That isn't a good sign.
"Right, so. Surgery, then?" John prompts with a clearing of his throat. His voice cracks anyhow.
"That's up to him," the doctor says almost softly, and John wants to deck him. Easy, Watson, easy, he tells himself as he breathes carefully. It's not very professional from one doctor to another to punch someone's lights out.
"Yes," Sherlock croaks, his voice hoarse from misuse. He clears his throat and tries again. "Do what you can to restore my eyes. I need them."
The doctor nods, so seemingly sympathetically. John's jaw clenches. "Yes, I daresay everyone does." And he turns and exits the room.
John places his hand over Sherlock's, which is still gripping his arm and trembling.
The consulting detective takes a quaking breath. His voice sounds resolute, perfectly firm, as he utters, "John, he better fix me. This won't do."
"No, it won't," John agrees quietly. He turns to Sherlock and looks at him, directly at the bandages wrapped around his head, and considers, "It won't do at all."
#
"I'm sorry."
Two words that John knows are the worst ones to hear from a doctor. He's had to say them himself, and he felt bloody awful about it every single time they've come from his mouth after trying to patch someone up who was too far gone before his aid did any good.
"His eyes will heal enough to look like a clouded version of their former selves, but this means he won't be able to see. Not even vague shapes or shadows for a long while, and even then, those might be all he will ever see, if anything. We did our best, but it wasn't enough. Those burns on his eyelids and cheeks should heal up without much scarring, and his eyebrows will grow back, but that's about all. Only a miracle over time will bring anything more back."
"Thank you, doctor. May I check out now?" Sherlock replies with a stiff coldness that should only belong on cadavers.
The doctor swallows and nods, and Sherlock takes his silence as confirmation.
Sherlock tugs at John's arm. "Come on, then, John; let's get out of this boring place."
#
John acts as Sherlock's guide and takes him where they need to go. They are told by a nurse when Sherlock can remove his bandages. They give them extra to change out. They inform John how to prevent pus and other infection. John reminds them that he is a doctor, too, and can handle it. They take the elevator down.
The woman at the front sees Sherlock's bandaged eyes and looks pained. She adverts her gaze and shows them where to sign out, and when to expect the bill. Sherlock says nothing; John does all the talking.
#
The cab ride is silent. John makes no effort to change that.
#
"They said there would be a chance I would see again, that I would only have to wear glasses," Sherlock remarks after four days of silence on his end.
John swallows hard. He nods, remembers Sherlock can't see it, and opts to whisper, "Yeah," instead. The anger has left him, now. Now there is only sorrow.
Sherlock seems to feel nothing. "They lied."
John's heart pinches. "I know."
#
"I feel dirty. How am I to bathe if I can't see what I'm grabbing to clean my hair? And I have stubble. How am I to shave if I can't see where I'm putting the razor? I could cut myself; nick my jugular, bleed out. -Solutions, John, I need solutions! Even for everyday things! How have I become such a pathetic weakling?"
"You're not pathetic and you're not weak," John answers sternly. He takes Sherlock by the shoulders and shakes him. "Stop talking like that. Have you forgotten that you can ask for my help? I can wash your hair in the shower or bath, whichever you prefer. I can shave your face for you. I'm not going to aim your prick for you when you pee, though, so you might want to sit down. It might feel humiliating, but at least you don't miss. And everything else is still within your ability. So don't give up so soon, yeah?"
"…Fine," Sherlock mumbles, and he turns out of John's grip and folds his arms over his chest. "Then help me draw up a bath, if you would."
"I will," John says. "See how simple that was?"
Sherlock only grunts in response.
#
Lestrade hasn't heard about the injury, exactly. He knows Sherlock was wounded from the last case, but he assumes it's like any other wound and calls with a case a week after the incident.
John breaks it to Lestrade that Sherlock can't see. He can't come. The case will have to be solved by the police alone this time.
When the conversation full of sympathies ends, Sherlock remarks flatly, "I can't make deductions without my eyes, John. I can't observe what I can't see."
John is washed with the sting of tears biting at his eye sockets and making his body feel a rush of coolness mingled with a flush of heat. He looks away. "I know."
#
"John."
"…John."
"…John?"
"John!"
"John!"
He enters through the main door and rushes to Sherlock's side. "Sorry, sorry; I thought you heard me. I went to Tesco for a bit; we were out of sugar. What is it, Sherlock? Are you all right? Does anything hurt?"
The panic recedes and Sherlock's bandaged eyes turn, following the source of John's voice, and land roughly where John's face would be. "My cheeks feel wet. Check my eyes?"
John quietly nods and brings his hands up to unwind the bandages and inspect the wounded area for pus or other signs of infection.
Sherlock's eyelids are closed and look angrily red. The blisters from the burns have long since burst and healed, and nothing seems swollen. But there is leakage of some sort, clean and dripping in trails. John touches a gentle fingertip to it and brings it to his lips. Salt.
"You're crying, Sherlock," John whispers. And that's the first sign, he realises, that Sherlock has reached his Limit and is slowly spiraling down. "You're crying."
"I don't cry," Sherlock answers in a hushed tone. "John, I don't cry. I only cry when I'm in disguise, when it's an act. I don't cry."
John feels compelled to comfort Sherlock. The covers Sherlock's ears with his hands and leans forward to press his lips to Sherlock's forehead for a long moment. When he finally ends the kiss and leaves the hot, smooth skin, Sherlock is making short, edgy breaths like sobs and his trying to remain calm.
"You're going to hyperventilate if you do that," John murmurs. "Let it out, Sherlock. You have to let it out."
"But I don't cry," Sherlock says, and it sounds like a child. "I don't cry!"
So John stands from his kneeling position on the floor before the sofa and moves to sit beside his flatmate. He wraps his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and head and brings him to his own shoulder. He rocks them back and forth, and Sherlock doesn't return the embrace, but he doesn't pull out of it, either, and soon, sniffles are heard along with more woeful breaths.
Sherlock lets it out.
#
"You need to always be here," Sherlock whispers when he finishes crying. "You can't leave. Pay Mrs. Hudson to shop for us, or get groceries online; I don't care how you do it. Just never leave my side again, John, unless I ask to be alone for a while in the comfort of my bedroom. But other than that, always be within arms reach of me. Understood?"
John nods and touches Sherlock's hair. "Understood, Sherlock."
Even if he doesn't know why, he at least understands that he must obey.
#
Mycroft wants to visit. He wants to speak to Sherlock.
Sherlock won't let him.
And finally, after two weeks since coming home from the hospital, and after two weeks of Mycroft ringing twice a day every day, Sherlock finally answers the phone.
He goes into his bedroom, where John can't catch the conversation as well.
There's the sound of a phone being flung against the wall. Then Sherlock's door opens.
"John, I need a cigarette. Only one."
For once, John obliges. He even places it between Sherlock's lips and lights it for him.
#
Months pass. Sherlock does little but play his violin, speak to John, sip at his tea and coffee, occasionally eat something light, and listen to the television when John has it on. He doesn't say much to much of anyone, even the people who are worth speaking to.
But he talks to Mrs. Hudson, and Mrs. Hudson pats his hand and shoulder and strokes his hair and cheek and says only good things.
John has never been so grateful for their landlady.
#
Lestrade doesn't call with cases. In fact, he doesn't call at all. No one from Scotland Yard sends their regards, their sympathies; John thinks they are too shocked to. He doesn't blame them. And maybe Sally and Anderson are even relieved, and John is glad they don't rub it in Sherlock's face, because then John mind commit a crime or two, and no one would approve of that.
#
Mycroft visits once a week. Sometimes Sherlock lets him inside. They never touch, not an ounce of sibling affection. But Mycroft looks genuinely concerned and Sherlock does talk to him a little, and that's enough, John thinks. That suffices.
#
Molly visits all the time, at least three or four times a week. Sometimes she only brings food and leaves. Sometimes she stays for a cuppa.
She never talks about Sherlock's blindness. She only ever brings good news or makes small talk.
John pulls Molly aside and takes her hands in his. "Thank you so much, Molly."
It's only then that she starts to cry and buries her head in the crook of John's shoulder that she asks, "Why him, John? Why did this, of all things, have to happen to him?"
He strokes her hair and shakes his head and holds back his own tears. "I don't know, Molly, and if I did, I don't think I would be able to cope half as well. I might kill something."
She nods, completely understanding. John releases her and says goodbye. Sherlock says upon John's return, "And I would let you kill something for me, John. I wouldn't even bat an eyelash at it."
And that twists something fowl in John's stomach.
#
"John, who am I if I can't make deductions? Half of my being is my observation and subsequent reasoning. Without that, I only have the lesser parts of my mind to think with. I can't even read, and audiobooks aren't nearly as satisfying because they are easier to drown out than words on a page. So what I am any longer, John? What have I become? I'm no longer Sherlock Holmes. Not the consulting detective everyone knows. I am someone else."
"No, no, no," John counters hurriedly, his brows upturned in worry as he drops what he's doing - typing in his blog that everyone should stop coming to him with cases because Sherlock isn't in the right mindset to solve them (and here, he is being delicate) - and moves to stand in front of Sherlock's armchair.
"You're still you, Sherlock, in every sense. This is just a setback, but you'll find a way to solve cases again. You can still hear and smell and feel and taste, and those senses alone can overcome a great deal of things. So don't worry, all right? Knowing you, you'll find a way to tell if a person is lying just by the wavers in their tone, or if a woman has been cheating because of how she smells. You'll come up with ways to inspect a body with your hands alone, even with the barrier of gloves, and you'll be right back on track with making deductions without your eyes." He grabs Sherlock's face, his eyes going from searching frantically to settling in one spot, and murmurs, "Do you hear me? You're still the great Sherlock Holmes, and don't you dare think otherwise."
Sherlock's eyes water but he doesn't shed a tear. Instead, he blinks, cloudy blue-green eyes focusing on a space just past John's face, and he nods. "Yes, John. I hear you." But he can't help but add bitterly, "All I can do is hear you." And he pulls away, standing up and feeling along the mantelpiece and wall until he's able to make it into his room.
#
"John."
The doctor jerks awake with a snort and sits upright on the sofa, rubbing his face. Yawning, he asks, "Yes, Sherlock?"
He looks up to find his flatmate standing over him, those cloudy eyes looking over the top of the sofa at nothing. "You have the beginnings of a sinus infection. I can hear it in your breathing."
John blinks. With a bit of awe, he confirms, "Yes."
Sherlock nods curtly. "I've made a deduction with sound, John."
"Yes, you have."
It's progress.
#
"I've been blind for a year now, John," Sherlock says one evening. John looks up from his book and realises he hasn't noticed the lack of violin song until now.
"Has it been that long already?" John frowns.
"Yes," Sherlock replies, "And I don't understand."
"What don't you understand?" he wants to know.
"I have been shot at, I have had bombs within the immediate vicinity, I have been drugged, I have been threatened, I have faked my own death, I have had enemies and allies alike, and I have chased criminals all over Europe and the States. How is it, John, that I have been felled by one moment of a non-lethal acid splashed in just the right place to hinder me for the rest of my life?"
John sits for a long moment in silence, gazing up at Sherlock, who has his head cocked down at John, but his eyes pressed closed and his prayer hands raised to his chin.
John sighs and stands, knees bumping Sherlock's. He lightly touches Sherlock's eyelids and the scars beneath them around his eye sockets, and he shakes his head vigorously. "That, I think, is the most pertinent question of all, and it's the one nobody can answer; except God, maybe, but you don't believe in Him, so even that's moot."
Sherlock inhales and exhales slowly through his nose, his eyes opening as John retracts his soft fingertips. They are even more unseeing than when John saw Sherlock lying "dead" on the ground, and it sends shudders down his spine, nearly shredding his skin open with gooseflesh.
"So it is," the taller man agrees, and he closes his eyes again. "Lead me to my bed, John. I wish to lie down."
And when Sherlock is settled into bed, he grabs for John's hand and doesn't let go.
"Stay." An unyielding command.
John stays.
#
"Do you know true irony, John?"
"How do you mean?"
Sherlock wriggles his feet against the side of John's leg where they are on the couch, John's laptop resting on the arm of the sofa, his body twisted toward it, clicking away at the keys. He pauses, looks at Sherlock, finds his eyes open and lifted toward the ceiling.
"When I could see, I was lost to what was right in front of me. Now that I am blind, it is perfectly clear."
John frowns. "I'm still not following."
"I mean you, John," Sherlock nearly whispers. "I see you. I finally can see what a dear friend you are. Before, I recognized that you are a friend, but now there is depth behind it. Meaning, purpose. You are not merely a friend, or even the friend I have; you are more than that."
Sherlock sits up, one leg hanging over the end of the couch, the other folded up along the width of the cushions. He extends his hands, the developed signal for John to take them, usually to lead him somewhere he wants to go.
John slips his fingers into Sherlock's grasp and watches Sherlock's face very carefully.
He goes on, "You could have been unable to bear me going blind; many people don't function well with illness, extended periods of recovery, or disabilities. You are a doctor, and that might pardon you from being like most people, but even then, doctors patch people up and send them on their way; they don't have to remain by their side as you have done for me. Because you could have left me with a seeing-eye dog or to my own devices. I could have been alone.
"In fact, I could have never met you. But I have, and you are here. You could be with a woman right now, married. You could be as distant as Lestrade or as occasional as Mrs. Hudson and Molly. But you aren't. You've stood by me, given me reason to carry on, helped me to adjust, and comforted and supported me when I needed it. You've always done this, though, even without the extra care I've needed this past year and a half; but it took me losing my sight to see it."
John swallows down a flood of emotions and offers a small smile instead, even if Sherlock will only see blackness. He prays it's evident in his voice. "I told you that you're an idiot. Of course I'll always support you and help you and be here for you. I wouldn't leave your side for a woman or the world. You're very important to me, Sherlock, even if I sometimes think you're completely bonkers and that I'm daft for being your friend. But that's a thought that's never lasted very long, because I know how much you need me, and in a bizarre way, I need you, too."
"I do need you," Sherlock confesses quietly. "I'll never say it again, but it's true. I need you to remind me of social conduct. I need you to protect me when I get carried away on a case. I need you to guard me when villainous people try to kill me. I need you to remind me to eat and sleep and drink more water. I need you to be there when no one else will come near me because I'm in a fit of rage or antsy boredom or hot on a case. I'll always need you, because even thought I've been rendered blind, I am still the same person, and I won't ever change, and because of all that, I will need you always."
There's sincerity softening Sherlock's angular features, and it's brings John to pull Sherlock's hands to his mouth. He brushes his lips over Sherlock's knuckles, and Sherlock follows the movement and presses his forehead to the backs of his own hands, breathing shallowly.
"I can't imagine how you even got on without me around," John tries to say lightheartedly, but his voice betrays him and sounds tragic.
Sherlock huffs a thin laugh, listing his head. "It was walking through mist, John, for many years after Uni. My life was something before then, but after then, when I was utterly on my own, it was just people passing in a fog, crime being the only thing stringing me along. You anchored me. Even now, in this pit of darkness I find myself in, I am tethered to the Earth by your doing, and without you, I become lost in the lack of solidity and color."
John can only pretend to know how Sherlock must feel. He closes his eyes and pretends for a moment that he can't open them. Ah, there: everything is black, intangible unless he is touching it directly, and it suddenly manifests into form. Sherlock's hands in his are real, it's there, and so is the sofa beneath his rear. But the space around him? It's all a black mystery. It could be anything. He knows this flat like the back of his hand, but not perfectly well enough to gauge exact distance to each item, and even then, the items are ever-shifting. One cup can be moved, one pile of papers knocked over, and suddenly the layout of the room is completely alien and just as unknown as the outside world beyond the flat.
John opens his eyes and thinks he finally understands Sherlock's true dilemma, not just the lost sense of identity that came with being so observant and logical; there is a loss of placement as well, and it's haunting.
"I get it now," John murmurs. "But you'll get used to it more and more over time, and eventually, I think the blackness will have some dimension to it, like the way sonar maps out the abyss of the ocean. It's only been eighteen months, Sherlock. Give it more time. I'll be here all the while. But don't you think we should go out some time? You haven't left the flat to do a single thing all this while. I'll be right on your arm if we go out, you know. I wouldn't take my hand off you for a second, so you will always have me as a rope to keep you from drifting."
Sherlock nods. "You're right; I have been terribly agoraphobic since I was blinded, and it isn't healthy. I should still be part of the world, and I need to learn how to walk to certain locations and back until I have the steps counted and memorized."
"Exactly," John agrees readily. He kisses Sherlock's knuckles again. "We can start tomorrow, if you like."
"Tomorrow," Sherlock nods. He slips his hands from John's and finds his way around until he's disappearing into the bathroom.
John resumes his blog post, clicking away. He hasn't had much to write about, and before he was simply answering e-mails, but now he can at least blog about taking an outing with Sherlock soon.
#
Sherlock jumps at nearly every sound, most probably feeling too loud to him. He clings to John the way a child might, both arms wrapped around John's arm and his steps throwing John off-balance every now and again.
They choose to take the streets that lead to Tesco, for starters. It isn't very far, and takes longer than it usually does, but Sherlock maps it out in his head and follows John back home.
#
The following day, they do it again, Sherlock slightly more relaxed, and they plot the course of what leads them to Molly's flat. When they arrive, she hugs Sherlock and tells him how proud she is of him, and they go in for tea.
When they leave, Sherlock leads the way back to the flat, John scrambling to keep up as Sherlock counts the steps and names the turns - "Fifty-three, fifty-four, left turn, fifty-six, fifty-seven…" - all the way back to Baker Street.
#
They spend a handful of weeks doing that, going to various locations of importance over and over again until Sherlock knows his way around the major points (for John and him) of London again.
After a small dinner one night, Sherlock announces, "I would like to try to go on my own tomorrow, try out the routes without you. Problem?"
"No qualms here, no," John replies cheerfully. "But you have your phone on you and I'm on speed dial number one, so if you get lost, phone me, and I'll find you with the GPS in your phone if you keep it on."
"Will do."
And it's the most progress in a long, long while.
#
Sherlock doesn't get lost. He even makes new routes by connecting a few of the studied ones in his head. He visits Molly, picks up milk from Tesco, doggie bags from Angelo's (who gave him the food for free out of pity for Sherlock's eyes), and all the way home again.
John takes the food, puts away the milk, serves it onto plates, and congratulates Sherlock repeatedly for his efforts.
Sherlock shoves aside his plate and braces his elbows on the table, fingers laced and folded in front of him. "Next, I want to try a case and see if I can deduce anything. I need practice in that area most, or I will have to sacrifice my title as the only consulting detective in the world."
John's food becomes unappetizing after that.
#
"Lestrade, I would like to try a case. Give me a case. Nothing with too many visuals; something I can feel or hear. Can you give me that?" John wakes up one morning to hearing Sherlock say into the phone.
John rubs his groggy eyes and stares at where Sherlock is swaying anxiously on his feet in front of one of the windows.
"Mhm. Mmhum. Yes. Alright. That works for me. Yes, thank you. Goodbye, Lestrade." And he hangs up the phone, leaning cautiously forward, finding the desk with his free hand, and placing the phone in an empty space. "John? John! Wake up, if you aren't ready."
"I'm right here, Sherlock," John yawns. "I came down a moment ago."
"Ah, there you are. Didn't hear you come in. Sit, sit; I have something to tell you," Sherlock relays excitedly.
His depression seems to be lifting considerably; he is almost himself again. "What is it?" John asks as he takes his seat and watches Sherlock do the same.
"We have a case from Lestrade. I asked him for one. He says that, were you keeping up on the papers, you should be able to tell me about the girl they found with her intestines removed. Can you?"
"Yeah, I've read about that earlier this week. Is she our case?"
"Indeed. Her body has already been autopsied, so we are permitted to inspect her all we like. I don't have to wear gloves, you see? I can make deductions best that way, through touch. And he's going to let me listen to the interrogation recordings of the known suspects, relatives, and witnesses who found the body."
"That's fantastic, Sherlock! I'm sure you'll crack it wide open. It's sure to get your confidence back."
"No more than you have done for me already," Sherlock replies in a murmur so quiet that if John hadn't been looking at Sherlock's mouth, he wouldn't have thought Sherlock said anything at all.
#
It goes well, not surprisingly, because even if he is blind, Sherlock has his methods and he is brilliant, and he has John to fill in for him where he can't do certain things any longer, like seeing the obvious or the details or looking things up on the computer.
"I am glad to have a trusted pair of eyes," Sherlock states upon closing the case and handing it over to the police to wrap up. "You were unimpeachable, John."
John rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "No, I wasn't. Shut up."
Sherlock smirks. "Flawless."
John feels himself blush a bit this time. "Was not!"
"No, you were. You did very well," Sherlock adds, and if there some sarcasm in there?
"I missed one thing that you wound up needing the most," John mutters.
"But we still got around to it, and you still spotted it in the end, even if it was something vital I would have noticed immediately. So it worked itself out," the detective points out.
John makes a scoffing sound. "Yeah, which means I wasn't perfect."
"But you were," Sherlock protests strongly. "You were perfect, John. As long as I have you, I can go on solving cases again. I don't have to give up being a consulting detective on account of my eyesight, or, rather, lack thereof. You are just as much a part of me, now, as you ever were, and even more so."
"I… I don't know what to say to that."
"Then don't say anything. Hail us a cab and we'll go home instead."
So they do. And John can't stop smiling all the way home. And for once, he's glad Sherlock can't see a bloody thing, because it might beg the question why he's grinning so hard, like a damned fool.
#
"I think you've told me that you love me a few times since you lost your sight," John remarks one night. "Especially some time during your breakdown, when you thought you weren't yourself any more, and you became the most dependent on me, unhealthily so."
Sherlock stiffens and bows his head. "Perhaps I have, in so many words."
"I want to hear the exact words," John says soulfully. "I want to know that you mean what I think you mean."
His voice is very reserved. "Aren't 'I need you' and 'You're perfect' enough?"
"Not for me, no. I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I'm only a man. Sometimes I need to hear it. Sometimes I need to make sure that your emotions are real, and that I'm not jumping to conclusions in my head." And John seems almost nervous, and it's makes Sherlock sigh.
"I love you, then. Are you satisfied?"
"Very," John says with a relieved smile. He exhales and his face relaxes. "I love you, too. Now, doesn't it feel good to hear it from someone?"
"…Yes, actually," Sherlock says after a pause, his voice full of mild surprise. "It does."
#
Sherlock reached his Limit, but unlike most, he was able to find himself again. He was able to regain his grip and fight the Limit-breaker, beat the odds, pull through, come back to sanity, to balance, to life. Many don't. Many reach their Limit(s) and collapse under the pressure of them.
But Sherlock isn't most people, is he?
And John has never seen a more shining miracle, because, for a moment, he did have doubt. But he should have known something else: he contributed to the miracle's progress, and that's something not many people are allotted in their own lives and trials.