Ink and Irritation
He was drugged. He had to be drugged. The room felt like it was spinning and all the sound he could hear was nothing more than gibberish underwater.
He felt ill and dizzy and uncomfortable on all accounts. And the room was annoyingly dark. He could feel himself bound by smothering blankets and if the increasing beeping was anything to go by he was hooked to a heart monitor.
Ghastly machine. He wondered why it hadn't woken him earlier. The dull throb at the back of his skull was the most obvious culprit. Concussion most likely. He would have to ask John. For once in his life he was protesting brainwork.
. . . wait. . .
Sherlock blinked with sleepy inquiry as his numbed mind tried to remember what happened. He could recall he and John fighting – arguing about something. John made it into something big and Sherlock pointed out that he was acting like a woman.
After that, not much of anything to go by. Pain . . . John's voice . . . flashing lights and then . . . nothing. In summary, Sherlock could remember nothing of any importance. These facts (or rather, the lack of them) irritated him more than the insistent beep of his own heart.
Where was the bloody monitor anyway? Even in the dark it should be visible as a lighthouse with its internal lights.
Sherlock refocused his energies to exploring the room around him. He found his limbs protested with dull aches when he tried to move them. Whatever drugs the doctors had mucking up his system was blanketing the more intense pain. Aside from the monitor and other doctoral noises, there were bird chirps from outside.
Early morning then. Early enough that the sun hadn't risen and late enough that the birds were going about their day.
Curious though. Even without the sun, light should still illuminate recognizable objects. Sherlock had grossly underestimated the quality of the blackout curtains hospitals used. He'd have to tell John about it.
For that matter, where was John?
Sherlock knew the doctor was with him when . . . when whatever happened to him to land Sherlock in the hospital with a concussion and enough pains to require heavy medication . . . happened. Sherlock could remember John's irritated face, the way the heavy-set wrinkle under his left eye would twitch whenever he was upset. Sherlock could remember his eyes, gaze furious and hurt. Sherlock could remember the steep frown on his face, hips lips pulled as tight as a piano wire to keep from betraying his more volatile thoughts. But most of all, Sherlock remembered the distance between the both of them. Though the back seat of the cabby provided sparse room as it was, the distance between them that John set was more than space between stars.
Sherlock said something, then. Something laced with ice – an emotional retort. John turned to him, eyes empty of everything but quiet rage – and then nothing.
Most infuriating.
Sherlock searched for the nurse call button with his hands. Because of the pain medication everything he touched felt fuzzy and exaggerated. A quiet curse slipped past his lips in his fruitless search for the button.
"Sherlock, you're awake," came John's voice from where Sherlock supposed was the doorway. He had been so focused on finding the call button he must have missed the sound of John entering the room.
Sherlock breathed with release, collapsing onto the bed. Pinpricks of embarrassment flushed the back of his neck. He blamed the drugs for his weakness.
"John, at last. I was starting to worry. What would I do without my blogger?" Sherlock grinned at his own humor as he settled into a more cool, relaxed position. "And could you turn on a light? I feel like I'm in the solitude ward of a prison."
He meant the remark to be offhanded, but the sigh John's sigh was anything but. There was a palatable tension – one Sherlock was sure he could string like his violin if he were inclined to such fantasy. Again, he blamed the drugs.
John approached the bed – Sherlock could tell from the sound of the doctor's shoes against the linoleum and the swish of his pant legs against each other. Sherlock frowned in thought. John typically didn't walk like that. As a military man each step had purpose to it. He walked with dignity, precision, and reason. None of that was in his walk now.
Sherlock observed that John hadn't slept well the in last two days, if at all. His steps were clumsy – not just from physical exhaustion but mental. The walk was common in the stride of a client involved in a missing-person's case. Hope for the best, but fear for the worst. It was an emotional drain far more dangerous than grief for the dead. At least in death, a person was allowed the freedom to move on. In a missing person's case, constant vigilance was required – and more often than not a resolution was never found (until the client asked for Sherlock's assistance).
Sherlock said nothing as John pulled over a chair. It scrapped against the floor with a squeak, like a plastic knife against a chalk board. Sherlock ignored the sounds, instead listening to John's breathing. Sorrow hung about him, but for the moment he was . . . happy.
No, relived. Lighter but still grounded.
Sherlock knew John must be smiling, that grin he made whenever they escaped certain mortality. He'd cock his head to the side and watch Sherlock, breath coming out in puffs with blush tinted cheeks. He'd say, "You're mad, Sherlock," but grin all the same.
Sherlock wanted to see the smile – to replace it with that expression John gave him in the cabby.
"John, turn on the lights. No reason to stumble around the room."
John sighed again – collecting or calming his breath. Both, Sherlock decided.
Then, something he wasn't expecting.
"I'm glad you're awake," John said, squeezing Sherlock's hand. He held the hand with delicate dedication; like Sherlock's hand was a fragile animal ready to scurry away. As John spoke his voice cracked. His words came out as whispers, but in the still of the room it sounded like a yell. "The doctors said you wouldn't . . . and when I saw how the car crumpled around you. . .I. . .They wouldn't let me. . .And after everything we said to each other, I couldn't. . ."
John sounded like he was talking through cotton balls. Nothing he said made any sense to Sherlock.
What had the doctors said?
What wouldn't they let John do?
How long had he been out?
Drops of warm liquid dribbled onto his hand. Sherlock worried that his IV had come out before he realized with John's raspy gasp that his flat-mate was crying. Must have been why John was yet to turn on the lights. He didn't want someone as "callous" as Sherlock Holmes seeing a military veteran like himself chocked up in tears.
"You've been gone for two days straight. I was worried you slipped into a coma – your brother – you should have seen him – he was furious! He nearly tore down the hospital when he heard about the accident."
"Mycroft was here?"
"Yeah. . .Yeah he came in when he heard about it on the news. I tried to call him as soon as I could but he was already here."
"Any other visitors I should know about?"
"Lestrade poked around . . . but aside from him, no."
Sherlock quieted as John calmed his breathing. The doctor was still holding his hand. Sherlock thought about pulling away but decided it would require too much energy.
"What happened?" he inquired, making a small hum of noise when John squeezed his hand. The doctor let go. Sherlock didn't rejoice at the loss of contact but neither did he weep. A friendly touch from a friendly flat-mate.
John breathed hard, like he was preparing for a dive. After a long moment, he explained.
"Our cabby was hit. Some maniac sped through a red-light. Both the cars were totaled, although I heard the driver from the other car is okay aside from having to wear a neck brace for the next two months. Both Harry and your brother want to go to court over this." John laughed and Sherlock found he liked the titter. Her grinned along, smiling at the thought of their two siblings joining in a crusade against traffic injustice. With Mycroft's cool intellect and Harry's gumption the pair was sure to take every cent to the driver's name.
"So, what injuries have you sustained, Mr. Watson," Sherlock asked with a grin. As soon as the question was out, Sherlock felt John's buzzing mood drop.
"I have a broken wrist – thankfully left, a broken nose, and a skin graph on my left leg . . . along with bruising and aches everywhere, but I'm fine." His voice was tight again – guarded.
Left. The car must have totaled the left side of the car, where Sherlock was sitting. That explained why he had more injuries than his partner.
"John, turn on the lights. I'd like to see my injuries now."
John stilled by him. Sherlock tapped his long fingers in impatience. A long moment passes before the doctor wet his lips.
"I want you to be honest with me, Sherlock. Can you see this?"
A frown creased Sherlock's face. See what? He couldn't see a thing in the dark.
"No, nothing," Sherlock answered with a sullen pout. He sighed with disapproval, crossing his arms.
"What about this?" There was a quiet urgency in John's voice now. Disbelief, but not surprise. He was expecting this. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Nothing but ink, John. Happy now? Turn on the lights."
"Sherlock, what do you see?" John asked again. Sherlock heard the doctor move from the chair. Air flashed across his face – a hand waving by it. Before Sherlock could say anything, John raced off the other side of the room. The muffled twist and click of blinds being opened muted any other noise. Sherlock realized he must be directly in front of the window because heat touched his face.
Sunlight? How could there be . . .?
"And this? Can you see any of this?" John rasped from the window.
Sherlock felt his blood run cold. None of this made any sense. Why couldn't he see anything? What time of day was it? Everything was so dark, but for sunlight to be this intense it must be the middle of the afternoon. It was already so hard to think with all the meds and the concussion –
– the concussion.
"God, I'm blind, aren't I?"
At his own words Sherlock felt a rush of emotion he'd never felt before; grief so strong he began to hyperventilate.
Blind.
He was blind.
Blind. Blind. Blind!
Sightless.
Invalid.
Inept.
Disabled.
Dead.
Sherlock was dead without his work – without his cases. To solve his cases he relied on his eyesight to observe. Without his eyesight he was nothing.
Sherlock felt raw with emotion. He had to get out of the hospital! He had to do something!
"Sherlock – Sherlock! Calm down! God – I'm sorry! Just – just calm down. I'm getting a doctor, okay?"
John's arms wrapped around him, and forced Sherlock back onto the bed with a gentle but firm pressure. Sherlock gripped onto his flat-mate, panic raging through his chest.
He couldn't breathe – he couldn't see!
"God, you pulled out the IV. Stay – say in the bed. I'll be back."
"John," he whined, hands clasping onto John's arms like a lifeline. If the grip hurt at all, John made no acknowledgement of it. "I – I'm blind."
"I know . . . I know." Sherlock felt John sit back in his chair, never relaxing his contact with the frightened man. "Just . . . take it easy. Breathe through your nose. That's it. I'm staying right here."
He leaned over Sherlock and pressed the nurse call button. John sat back down and began to rub small circles into Sherlock's forearm. The effect calmed the younger man. John's calloused fingers felt strange against his skin, but any other thoughts on the matter were thrown aside as Sherlock realized why he could not see the action.
Panic rushed back to him, clamping around his heart and making it hard to breathe.
Blind. He was blind. Damn it! What now? He was blind!
~O~O~O~O~
Hours later, John unlocked the door to 221 B and collapsed into his favorite chair – the old green one facing the telly. Exhaustion blanketed his soul as the tired doctor rubbed at his eye with the heel of his palm. He searched the nearby table for the remote. The telly woke into existence with a static hum. Reruns of a soap he liked to watch between cases played across the screen.
Sherlock would have disapproved of the show.
"You rot your mind with the dullest of things, John," he'd say as he fiddled with his phone or laptop.
John stared at the device in question. It sat on the far table, lonesome but collecting dust. Although the laptop belonged to John, Sherlock commandeered it on such a regular basis the "consulting detective" monopolized most of its files. All John used it for now was his blogs and a few internet sites Harry convinced him to sign away his life to.
John heaved himself from the comfort of the chair to retrieve the laptop. The next few minutes were spent searching for the power cable then an appropriate outlet. As the laptop flickered with light and began to reboot, John couldn't help but let his mind wonder.
Sherlock was a mess. After the nurse then doctor arrived at the scene he had a fit like a child. It took longer than it should have to calm him down, but John couldn't blame him. After everything they'd been through – gunfights, explosions, and that vertigo encounter with "the golem", a mere car accident robbed Sherlock Holmes of his eyesight.
It was horrific, and sad, and unfair, and . . . and it actually happened.
John returned his focus to the laptop when it finished loading. The wallpaper picture was one of those pre-set pictures the laptop came with, a colorful toucan in a drizzly rainforest. Sherlock complained about the picture all the time but never changed it because John once said he liked the colors in the bill.
Sherlock would never see it again.
John clicked for the internet and was met with another loading screen.
The doctor did all sorts of tests. John could see the wear it was causing Sherlock. The taller man displayed more raw emotion than John had ever seen – ever imagined he could have. It was heartbreaking to witness. By the end of the hour he just sat there on the bed like he had died, like he'd gone through so many negative emotions his body couldn't handle it anymore and gave up.
Sherlock asked John to leave, but he didn't. He repeated his demand over and over but each time John cut him off, reminding him that he'd stay by his side through and through.
Sherlock shouted then, and so did John. They shouted and screamed and bellowed their lungs out. Sherlock was vicious and feral like a wounded animal.
When at last he gave up, the tall man curled up on himself, pulling his legs tight against his chest. John felt like he looked so small in the bed, nested amongst the pillows and blankets like a broken kite.
He wept.
He wept and cried and cursed till John felt his own eyes stinging with tears again.
It was unfair. Too unfair.
John should have taken the left seat. If he had, Sherlock would have been the one with the broken wrist and skin graph. John would have been the one blinded – and he could live with that knowing it kept Sherlock from the pain.
This was unfair.
John rubbed his eye again as he looked over the page for a new blog entry. He sighed, and began to write.
Sherlock is awake.
He paused for a brief moment. Was it okay for him to do this? To write out Sherlock's injuries? But then again this was John's blog. He was ordered to but his physiatrist to write about his events. And besides, he'd already written about their other adventures together.
It was just . . . this one seemed more personal than anything else.
Ran motor function and memory tests. Memory a little faulty leading up to crash but otherwise okay.
John stopped again to scoff at himself.
Okay? What was okay about any of this? Sherlock was blind! The man would probably commit suicide out of boredom within the month.
As we worried, he's experiencing blindness.
God, that was hard to type. John gasped for air, closing his eyes tight to will away any leakage.
Hoping it's only temporary. Finger's crosses.
John looked over what he wrote, but sent it on the second run through. His stomach was flip-flopping up into his chest. He couldn't stand to look over the entry again. He felt physically ill at publishing it but a couple of people were worried about the both of them. John didn't think he could talk to anyone at the moment so this was the best way to tell them the news.
Nothing was fair about any of this.
~O~O~O~O~
About time. I was wondering when your sleeping beauty was going to wake up. He's blind? Are you sure? The doctors said it was temporary, right? - Harry Watson
Sorry, mate. But glade he woke up. - Bill Murray
Are you okay? Can I do anything to help out? - Sarah Sawyer
John, answer your phone! - Harry Watson
WARNING! PART 1 OF WHO KNOWS HOW MANY!
Wow! I wrote this when I was supose to be doing homework. Oops. . . meant to write at least a page of my essay and came out with six pages for a fanfic.
/sigh
This idea first came to me one dark night when my Dad was driving me to a church. The whole way, all I could think about was if we got into an accident, the airbags deployed, and broke my glasses into my eyes - thus robbing me of eyesight. I planned what I'd do with my life then (and sadly to say, it'd be better than the one I have now)
Sherlock and John have been on my mind lately, so I figured losing his eyesight would be the worst possible thing to happen to Sherlock. If this happened to any of the Holmes, it would be a cataclysm! (although i believe RDJ Holmes would survie with undergrownd fighting. but BBC Sherlock is too whimpy and twiggy to last in the ring).
Also, of all the things he's lived through, to be felled in by a car would be great irony.
Yeah, cars terrify me.
Took some poetic license about his blindness. Don't actually know if it would work out that way but let's just ignore my lack of medical skills.