John's Midnight Garden (4/many)
anonymous
November 3 2010, 14:39:20 UTC
“It’s not as fun as it sounds,” John says. The boy frowns a little.
“Most people don’t find explosions amusing,” he says. “Mummy doesn’t. She got really upset and I didn’t get any supper.”
“Supper?” It’s not the strangest part of this conversation by a long shot, but John does wonder why part of his brain has decided to talk like an Enid Blyton book. He watches as the boys face turns thoughtful for a second.
“Although that could have been because the oven wasn’t exactly working afterwards.”
“You blew up the oven?” John asks. It is peculiar, he thinks in the part of his mind that is not preoccupied with the pain, that this conversation is the least weird part of the last few days. But in John’s life conversations about the troublesome consequences of exploding kitchen appliances are part and parcel of everyday life. And, he thinks a little ruefully, he’s not really surprised that there is apparently a part of his brain that has started to act like Sherlock.
“Technically Mycroft blew up the oven…” the boy says and John’s mind sticks on that phrase, drowning everything else out. Technically Mycroft blew up the oven. Technically Mycroft blew up. Technically Mycroft. Mycroft blew up. Mycroft. Mycroft.
“Mycroft?” John echoes, unable to say anything else because his mind is not working, which he blames on his undoubted concussion but Mycroft.
“Mycroft.” the boy confirms in tones of loathing that, in a boy this young, can only be reserved for an older sibling.
John opens his mouth to say something, but suddenly the ringing in his ears is roaring back into his life, drowning out the sound of birdsong and the pain is rushing in more angrily than before. He closes his eyes against it.
Suddenly the ground beneath him is harder, less bumpy, and wetter. He opens his eyes to look up and nothing much has changed, but the quality of the light is different - electric and harsh - and the silhouette is larger, darker.
“John!” Sherlock is calling to him. John can’t think why for a moment, so he says the first thing that comes into his head.
“You’re inside my bloody brain.” Sherlock’s brow furrows, exactly as his younger self’s had done (and how did John not recognise that expression?) But the confusion passes quickly as Sherlock decides it must be the concussion talking.
“Are you alright?”
“I just blew up,” John says, with a hiccup of hysterical giggle. There is a momentary expression that shoots over Sherlock’s face, too quick for John’s addled mind to catch or understand it. It is gone as soon as it comes and replaced by concern.
“Are you alright?” Sherlock repeats.
“I think so,” John replies. It’s the best answer he can give at the minute. He tries to look around but Sherlock’s hand catches his chin.
“Don’t move.”
“Moriarty?” John wheezes out. His ribs feel worse now than they did in his dream world and every word is an effort. It feels like every time he breathes out he is emptying out the last scraps of air from his lungs.
The expression of disgust on Sherlock’s face says it all. He leans back so his shadow is no longer on John’s face, and John notices the dust that is spread over his shoulders and hair for the first time, making Sherlock prematurely grey.
“The ambulance is on its way,” Sherlock tells him. “Don’t even think of being stupid enough to die.”
“Never,” John tells him, but he can feel unconsciousness creeping up on him. And his eyelids are drooping shut.
“Most people don’t find explosions amusing,” he says. “Mummy doesn’t. She got really upset and I didn’t get any supper.”
“Supper?” It’s not the strangest part of this conversation by a long shot, but John does wonder why part of his brain has decided to talk like an Enid Blyton book. He watches as the boys face turns thoughtful for a second.
“Although that could have been because the oven wasn’t exactly working afterwards.”
“You blew up the oven?” John asks. It is peculiar, he thinks in the part of his mind that is not preoccupied with the pain, that this conversation is the least weird part of the last few days. But in John’s life conversations about the troublesome consequences of exploding kitchen appliances are part and parcel of everyday life. And, he thinks a little ruefully, he’s not really surprised that there is apparently a part of his brain that has started to act like Sherlock.
“Technically Mycroft blew up the oven…” the boy says and John’s mind sticks on that phrase, drowning everything else out. Technically Mycroft blew up the oven. Technically Mycroft blew up. Technically Mycroft. Mycroft blew up. Mycroft. Mycroft.
“Mycroft?” John echoes, unable to say anything else because his mind is not working, which he blames on his undoubted concussion but Mycroft.
“Mycroft.” the boy confirms in tones of loathing that, in a boy this young, can only be reserved for an older sibling.
John opens his mouth to say something, but suddenly the ringing in his ears is roaring back into his life, drowning out the sound of birdsong and the pain is rushing in more angrily than before. He closes his eyes against it.
Suddenly the ground beneath him is harder, less bumpy, and wetter. He opens his eyes to look up and nothing much has changed, but the quality of the light is different - electric and harsh - and the silhouette is larger, darker.
“John!” Sherlock is calling to him. John can’t think why for a moment, so he says the first thing that comes into his head.
“You’re inside my bloody brain.” Sherlock’s brow furrows, exactly as his younger self’s had done (and how did John not recognise that expression?) But the confusion passes quickly as Sherlock decides it must be the concussion talking.
“Are you alright?”
“I just blew up,” John says, with a hiccup of hysterical giggle. There is a momentary expression that shoots over Sherlock’s face, too quick for John’s addled mind to catch or understand it. It is gone as soon as it comes and replaced by concern.
“Are you alright?” Sherlock repeats.
“I think so,” John replies. It’s the best answer he can give at the minute. He tries to look around but Sherlock’s hand catches his chin.
“Don’t move.”
“Moriarty?” John wheezes out. His ribs feel worse now than they did in his dream world and every word is an effort. It feels like every time he breathes out he is emptying out the last scraps of air from his lungs.
The expression of disgust on Sherlock’s face says it all. He leans back so his shadow is no longer on John’s face, and John notices the dust that is spread over his shoulders and hair for the first time, making Sherlock prematurely grey.
“The ambulance is on its way,” Sherlock tells him. “Don’t even think of being stupid enough to die.”
“Never,” John tells him, but he can feel unconsciousness creeping up on him. And his eyelids are drooping shut.
There is no garden this time, just darkness.
*
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