Title: A Small Sacrifice Pt. 1
Pairing: Sherlock and John
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rated: T
Notes: The brain damage/speech impairment I use in this fic is based off of something one of my old teacher's brothers went through. He was in a car accident several years ago and what happens to John in the following story is exactly what happened to him (minus the limp). Reviews are love!
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He blames himself for it every day. Guilt was not a thing he ever experienced, guilt was just another useless human emotion that does nothing to fix what has happened, but what he felt now was heavier than any ghost of pain or remorse he's ever endured. It was a lead weight on his chest. It was a constant scratching in the furthest corners of his mind. It was his hands trembling when John refused to speak to him at all for days on end. It was a gasp of frustration when John pulled his old cane out again. It was a fist to the wall and a poorly suppressed groan when John started sleeping in his old room again.
Sherlock Holmes blames himself for it every day.
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"We could have just taken the tube, but no- nooo, Sherlock Holmes, prized wanker of London, England, wanted to take a bloody cabbie all the way out here because the tube would have been too fast and he needed time to think. What? Getting a little slow up there, are we? The cogs not as greased up as they used to be?" John had been stunningly silent for the last forty minutes or so, they both knew he'd been ready to blow at any moment. Sherlock has been playing games with him lately, testing his patience to the best of his unmatched ability.
"If you're quite done trying to get me flustered in offense, I am very busy." Sherlock never removed his eyes from the world passing outside the window.
"Oh, clearly, what's wrong with me? How could I not have noticed you so fervently staring out the bloody window?" Sherlock sighed dramatically, heaving his shoulders and rolling his eyes. The hand that was closest to John was casually extended without any other form of acknowledgment.
"John, would you like to hold my hand? That usually calms your nerves, which appear to currently be on some form of steroids." Very proud that he is containing a wicked smirk at the moment, Sherlock taunted and got the exact reaction he'd hoped for. John was so adorable when he got angry over silly things.
"Steroids!? Ha- okay, you kn- well maybe if someone hadn't pulled me from working three shifts this past week and cut my check short this month, I wouldn't be so pissy over the bills, which, by the way, now you have to help cover because I can't because of you!" John's voice shot up an octave towards the end, not taking a single breath during that little rant. Sherlock dropped his hand with a soft thud and gave John a disappointed look. He honestly doesn't understand the concept of quitting.
"You and your middle class worries. You know money isn't an issue. It's fine. You're upset about something else."
"Oh, I'm upset about a lot of things, Sherlly." John crossed his arms and Sherlock sneered at the name. The conversation dropped right then because both men knew the issue was a private one and they didn't want, well, John didn't want the cabbie listening to them talking about their love life. It'd been a tad chaotic as of late. Sherlock was right about one thing though, holding his hand did calm his nerves, and as much as he didn't want to give the bastard the satisfaction, the temptation of overwhelming ease was too much to pass up.
John glanced down at Sherlock's hand resting still between them. His own hand began to move to grab it, just as his eyes began to move up to watch Sherlock, and everything froze. In what was now the fourth most incredibly important split second of his life, the first being the shot to the shoulder, the second being Sherlock falling, the third being Sherlock at the door three years later, John had managed to notice the family sized van speeding right at them. More specifically, at Sherlock.
To John's irritation-gone-content, Sherlock doesn't wear his belt in cabbies. In such a short time, because of this, the fight-or-flight action he had picked up from the military saved his Sherlock's life. Hand already moving, redirected to his belt buckle, unlatched, belt zips back across his chest, he leans forward while yanking Sherlock down to the seat cushion by a fist full of hair, and he lunges to cover the other man with his body, his head taking the initial impact.
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John wakes up two weeks later.
Sherlock is asleep at his side and a heaping mess of ungroomed and malnourished.
Cards and flowers litter the hospital room.
John slithers his hand out of Sherlock's grip and rubs his fingers against scalp through the tangle of curls.
John goes back to sleep.
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The next time he wakes up, Sherlock is sitting up and staring at him with a plate of food in his hands, untouched. He cleared his throat and moved to prop up on his elbows.
"When was the last time you ate, love?" John's voice was course, his question was followed with a coughing fit and a dry swallow.
"Irrelevant." Sherlock lifted the plate as an offering to John with one hand and picked up the glass of water with the other, holding them out evenly. Sherlock's face remained stone, though it was hard to tell with all the facial hair. It wasn't incredibly thick or long, but it was unkempt and Sherlock never really grew much facial hair to begin with. John always considered it low testosterone, but with that damn voice and the size of his… Well… It wasn't the testosterone levels…
"I'm not eating until I see you eat something. I know how you are."
"Ah, um, see, there's the problem." John turned his head towards the familiar voice. Greg stepped up from his chair, stretching with a yawn, clearly waking up from a nap. John hadn't noticed him. "He's not going to eat until you eat, John. Mycroft had to blackmail him to eat what little he has in the time you were out." John smiled, he wasn't happy that Sherlock was starving himself for John, he just found it… Endearing… In Sherlock's special way.
"Well then," John attempted to sit up with Lestrade's aide and gladly took the plate and water from Sherlock's hands. His own were shaking slightly, he knew he'd been out for a while, just wasn't sure how long. After a long gulp of water, he lowered the cup, "while I'm eating, you won't mind if I as-" John paused and furrowed his brows, "uh, I mean I've got some…" Immediately, Sherlock's eyes squinted a fraction and John could practically hear the wheels turning. "How long was I out?" Greg pulled up a chair to the other side of the bed.
"Twelve days. Had us worried for a bit. Hit your noggin pretty hard, the doctors anticipated some kind of brain trauma. How ya' feelin'?" Sherlock scoffed and leaned back in his chair.
"Don't be daft, you don't feel brain damage, Lestrade." Sherlock's voice was humorless, as per usual, but at the same time it had a bit of a detached ring to it. His mind was already whirring like an old computer being overworked and it was plain as day in his voice. John swallowed a bite of food and chuckled.
"Would explain your heada- uh- the migraines around Anderson, though." Sherlock shot a pointed look at John again, even though the injured man continued laughing along with Greg. "So how about the people in the van? Was anyone harmed?"
"Luckily, no. Couple of scratches, nothing big. They're all fine. They left you those flowers and a card with their insurance information. Doesn't say nothin' else except 'Sorry'." John rolled his eyes and took another bite.
"Lovely. And the… the- uhhh… the driver… is he o… alright, I mean, is he alright?" Greg gave a glace to Sherlock who had gone completely silent by this point. Clearly the man was seeing something that they weren't.
"Uh, no, no he's fine too. Just fine- Sherlock? What is it?" John turned to his partner and placed the fork gently on the plate, giving his full attention.
"Sherlo…" His eyes darted away for a moment and then returned reluctantly to the piercing gaze. Just before Sherlock opened his mouth, his eyes winced just a fraction, as if he understood something he didn't want to suddenly.
"Ask, questions, headache, cabbie, okay, and Sherlock. What do they all have in common, John?" Greg squinted hard in thought, making that ugly face he does when his brain is hard at work. John simply looked down at his plate and blankets for a moment before shaking his head and looking back up to Sherlock.
"I don't know."
"I need you to repeat some words after me." Sherlock stood and began pacing in the small space they had, ignoring John's incredulous gaze. "Humor me. Lock." John sighed heavily and rubbed his temple out of frustration.
"Fine, lo-uhh… l… lo-" His hand moved away from his head and he stared at it like he couldn't believe himself.
"Vehicle."
"Vehi-" John paused again and stared at the wall in front of him. His jaw working to find the right sound, but nothing coming out… "Ve… what?" he whispered to himself under his breath.
"Quit."
John pressed both of his hands flat over his face breathing deeply, trying to remain calm as it slowly all came together.
"Killing. Quietly. Cat. Chemicals. Crystalline. Chimney…" Greg slipped his hand over John's shoulder when a quiet sob let out. John's hands pulled away from his face and were held out in confusion.
"I don't know… I don't know how, Sherlo… I don't understand. Oh, God… Oh, God… This… This isn't happening. This shouldn't be happening!" Greg leaned in to give John a proper hug.
"Jo-"
"Oh, calm down, John. Panicking won't fix what's been done." Sherlock stepped back up to the bed and bent over, gripping the railing for support.
"Sherlock! Give the man a break!" Greg shot a nasty glare to the man opposite of him and removed the plate from John's lap.
"The solution is simple enough, Lestrade! John, you are a doctor. You've seen this happen before. What do you tell your patients when they've received brain damage and are now speech impaired?" The D.I. let go of John and waited patiently for the doctor to collect himself. John took three deep breaths and closed his eyes.
"I'd tell them… I'd tell them to pra-"
"Practice daily-"
"Right… until it be-"
"Becomes natural again, yes?" John nodded quietly and sniffled. Was it going to be like this from now on? Sherlock filling in his sentences for him every other word? "So what are we going to do, Dr. Watson?"
"You'll try to help me, go over several words, get bored and frustrated and have miss Hudson do it for you while you run around London hunting down bad guys." He really hadn't meant to say those things. Really. Sherlock looked hurt for a moment, and John immediately regretted the words. But only John could tell of course, see the offence land it's sting the moment before Sherlock stood straight. After everything they'd been through, how could John possibly think that little of his devotion to his better half? Aside from the times that he's left John behind at a crime scene without a word or disappeared for days at a time without telling John where he was or what he was doing. But Sherlock would do anything for John, anything to help him in a time of need, anything to keep his John happy and not leave him hanging on a thread. He would never do that.
"That's-" Lestrade's phone went off before Sherlock could go any further. After answering and giving a few grunts and noises of understanding, he pockets the phone and pats John on the back.
"Looks like I need to head off, mate. Don't you worry about a thing, okay? Just give it some time, you'll be back to normal before you know it. And Sherlock, you heard what security said, if they find you in here after visiting hours and have to call me again, you're banned for good. I will put you back in the cell for the night again if I have to." John tried to suppress a chuckle and failed horribly. Greg waved off and walked out, leaving the room in silence. Sherlock sat back down and kept his gaze out the window across the room. John sighed heavily and palmed at his eyes.
"I'm sorry. I know you wouldn't leave me li-… that way… I know you wouldn't." Sherlock hummed and fiddled with his fingers, eyes still out the window. "You don't… I mean… I'm worried, I'm terrified that this will be permanent. When it's the brain, you just never know. What if it stays? What if we… What if I…" A large hand rested gently on his own in his lap, fingers curling loosely around his.
"It will be fine. You will be just fine, John. I promise."
"You don't do promises."
"Well I've changed quite a bit in these past two weeks." John didn't know what to say to that, so he didn't say anything at all. He just held on to Sherlock's hand and let the overwhelming ease take over, washing away the fear and stress of this new disability.
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Sherlock Holmes blamed himself for it every day.