Another short Fragile ficlet. In this one, I returned to writing from a perspective I haven't used in a while: Donovan (towards the end). Enjoy!
Since the final dose of maintenance chemo, cancer was almost never mentioned again in 221B Baker Street or Scotland Yard. There was no reason to bring it up. Everything about Sherlock that was a result of the disease was now just a part of life and unworthy of discussion. Everyone at Scotland Yard had grown accustomed, and Sherlock no longer feared being stared at when he went to work. However, meeting with new clients always caused some degree of anxiety. Fortunately, nobody they'd worked with had done anything more inappropriate than stare excessively. John couldn't blame them; he was jaded to Sherlock's somewhat startling appearance, but they were not. He once asked Sherlock how much the looks bothered him, and he'd replied with nothing more than a shrug. John could tell the stares made him uncomfortable, but if he chose not to discuss it with John, that was his business.
Of course, there was one incident at Scotland Yard that John wished he could forget. Lestrade had apprehended a suspect Sherlock wished to interrogate, so the two men made their way over to get him to spill. The routine was the same as it had always been even before cancer, and John relished every moment. When they arrived, Lestrade led them to the interrogation room in which the suspect was currently being held. John glanced inside through the one-way window at the suspected criminal. He was about Sherlock's height, but much bulkier. No matter how much food John managed to get Sherlock to eat, he never gained all the weight back from before he got sick. He definitely looked much healthier than before, but still frighteningly skinny. Where Sherlock was skin and bone, their suspect was sheer muscle. His face was fixed in an arrogant sneer, despite being handcuffed to the table. He clearly knew that the mirror in the room was actually a window, and he turned to glare at the three of them gathered on the other side.
"He's a mean one," Lestrade warned. "Do you want one of us in there with you in case things get out of hand?"
"Absolutely not," Sherlock retorted. He turned and strode into the room, his face plastered with the same look of confidence and barely-concealed excitement he always had when working on a case.
He'd talked to many members of the criminal class since the leukaemia, and while they all did a double-take upon glimpsing him for the first time, none had dared to comment. As John had told him long ago, they'd be too afraid to ask. This one was different. John was listening in to the whole thing, and he barely restrained himself from charging into the room when the man asked sarcastically, "What happened to you?" He could see Sherlock flush a deep red through the one-way window, and gnashed his teeth in hatred for the man's insolence.
Sherlock didn't respond immediately, he just froze like a deer in headlights, and John could see him already fingering the stumps of his fingers. Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, and then closed it again. He pondered for a few moments before looking the suspect dead in the eyes and firmly stating: "Cancer is a strange beast." John could have cheered, especially with the look on the suspect's face. He looked like he'd just accidentally poked a hornet's nest and was bracing himself for the imminent stinging swarm. John was right: even the lowest of the low didn't like to upset cancer survivors. Sherlock himself gave a small sigh of relief before steeling himself again and sitting down in the chair across from the suspect.
He plowed ahead with the inquiry as if nothing had happened. The other man answered his questions with as few words as possible, and John abhorred the way the man's gaze rarely flitted away from Sherlock's scar. Despite this, the detective continued to interrogate the suspect as he'd planned, but John could see him getting progressively angrier as he realized he was well and truly busted for whatever he'd done. John didn't know exactly what Sherlock had said to push him over the edge, but the next thing John knew he heard the metallic rattle of the handcuffs straining against the table. The suspect lunged violently across the table to head-butt Sherlock in the face, sending the detective reeling.
Lestrade immediately charged in and further restrained the man, and Sherlock turned tail and ran out of the room, straight to John. The first thing the doctor noticed was the first hints of red dripping from his nostrils. He was instantaneously catapulted back in time to the onset of leukaemia and the frequent nosebleeds Sherlock had been haunted with. The detective brought a finger up to wipe his nose, and John both heard his breathing quicken and saw the panic behind his gaze when he realised what had occurred.
"John?" Sherlock asked, his voice wavering with fear. "John, it's back. It's back." He wiped his nose again and stared at the smears of bright red blood now coating his fingertips. "No, this can't be happening. No, no, no." He glanced from his fingers to John and back again, panting faster and faster as he was overwhelmed by panic.
"No," John reassured. He embraced the taller man in a bear hug, despite Sherlock's usual aversion to physical contact. "Sherlock, you got hit in the face, that's why it's bleeding. It's not leukaemia, I promise you." Okay, maybe he shouldn't have promised, but Sherlock needed to know that he wasn't about to be hurled back into Hell. It was highly unlikely that a relapse was what caused the bleed, especially given the circumstances. They stood there for a while, locked in each other's arms. Between Sherlock's frantic breaths, John distinctly heard what sounded like sniffling. Had Sherlock really been driven to tears? A slow drip, drip of moisture on his shoulder proved this theory, and John felt pity swell up within him.
John was somewhat surprised at how quickly and firmly Sherlock jumped to the conclusion that it was the leukaemia returned. As a man whose life was so dictated by logic, it should not have been the first assumption. But John could understand why he'd instantly gone off the edge. The ordeal was relatively fresh in their minds, and they'd thoroughly discussed the potential for relapse. Sherlock had never talked to him about fearing a recurrence, but that didn't mean he wasn't haunted by the possibility through every moment of every day. As much as John had suffered during that time, Sherlock had endured infinitely more hurt and fear. This nosebleed was a poorly-timed reminder of how the whole odyssey had begun.
"Sherlock, are you okay?" John asked, when he felt Sherlock's breathing begin to return to a normal rate. They released each other, and John noticed the detective surreptitiously wipe his eyes with the back of his hand. Of course he'd try to disguise any display of weakness. But John would never be able to forget how viscerally he reacted to this simple nosebleed. Even though this particular instance wasn't leukaemia, what would they do if it did happen? John's emotions were still so fragile, he didn't think he could last another round. And Sherlock might fall to pieces even before any treatment could begin.
"'M fine," he mumbled. He bowed his head in embarrassment, knowing that Lestrade probably saw the whole thing, or at least heard pieces of it. John glanced over Sherlock's shoulder to see the DI looking wide-eyed in their direction. John would hold it against him for intruding on such an obviously private moment, but it was Lestrade's workplace, and they hadn't requested he leave. Besides, John trusted him to treat his knowledge of Sherlock's meltdown appropriately. Lestrade nodded knowingly at John before quietly sneaking out of the room.
John grabbed Sherlock a few tissues from his pocket, which immediately held to his nose. Some people would tilt their head back so the blood didn't continue to drip out of their nostrils, but Sherlock knew better by now; he'd done this more times than John liked to consider. Better out than in, where it could be accidentally swallowed or inhaled. Fortunately, the bleeding stopped relatively quickly.
"John, are you sure it's not back?" Sherlock asked pleadingly. He needed every confirmation in the world in order to rest easy. It certainly seemed irrational for someone to immediately attribute a nosebleed to leukaemia, but Sherlock was entitled to be irrational after everything he'd gone through.
"Sherlock, the bleeding's already stopped. Remember before, they took much longer because your blood was so messed up. You're fine," John assured, as much for his own sake as for Sherlock's. "But you might get a nasty bruise from the impact with that guy's head. What did you say to him to make him do that?"
"I told him his wife was cheating on him with his personal trainer. I guess he didn't like that idea."
"I can see why. You're not supposed to deliberately antagonize people with your deductions, or stuff like this happens."
"It was worth it to see the look on his face."
"I'm sure it was." John almost chuckled, but the forlorn look on Sherlock's face warned against it.
"John, what if it does come back?" Sherlock asked desperately. Of course, that question would plague him for the rest of his life. John wasn't sure what to say, since he feared exactly the same thing. Their energy reserves were so depleted, he didn't think either of them could last another round. But if it truly did come down to it, they wouldn't go down without a fight. John simply wouldn't allow it.
"Sherlock, you beat it once, and you'd do it again if you had to. You did it all before, and you made it out the other side. If you are forced to face it again, that would be awful. I would hate having to watch you suffer like that any more than you already have, but I would not leave your side no matter how bad it got. Whatever we face in the future we face together, whether it's leukaemia, cabin fever, or a serial killer. Understand?"
"Understood," Sherlock replied, wiping the last drops of blood from his upper lip.
"Now go get cleaned up, you smeared blood on your face when you wiped your eyes. And then we're going home."
"But I haven't finished with him," Sherlock complained, gesturing to their suspect in the room behind them.
"Yes you have. I'm sure that was ample time for you to get the information you needed. You are not going back in there with him."
"Fine."
The two men returned home to Baker Street and spent the rest of the afternoon in solemn silence. Fortunately, the emotional turmoil evaporated by the next day, and things returned to normal. The incident was not discussed by Sherlock ever again, but John noticed he sat a little further away whenever he questioned a suspect. However, they weren't the only ones to witness the unfortunate chain of events.
~0~
Lestrade never warned suspects beforehand if Sherlock wanted to speak to them. He preferred to let them form their own impressions. Additionally, they were always caught a little off guard. Sherlock knew this, and he typically used it to his advantage—it was a lot harder to lie convincingly when you were uncomfortable. That day didn't seem different than any other at first, but now Lestrade would never forget it.
Sherlock almost always managed to make people angry when he talked to them. He pointed things out, things that most would rather remain blissfully unaware of. Usually, he got away with it, but not today. Lestrade saw the man strike Sherlock as if in slow motion. He ran into the room just as the detective ran out. After subduing the raging suspect, he stepped back out and glanced back at Sherlock and John. The sight before him would haunt him for the rest of his life.
John and Sherlock clung to each other, the detective's head tucked onto John's shoulder. Lestrade was dumbstruck and found himself unable to move or avert his gaze. He'd never, ever seen such open desperation from either man. John clutched Sherlock like he was trying to prevent him from shaking apart, and Sherlock returned the embrace as if fearing he'd float away if he let go for one second. He heard Sherlock weeping, a sound he thought couldn't even exist in reality, and it frightened him.
It frightened him to see this evidence of just how deep Sherlock's wounds were. He'd healed physically, but he would bear the scars, both physical and psychological, for life. A simple nosebleed had driven him to a meltdown, simply because it reminded him of his initial symptoms. When John and Sherlock finally released each other, John looked up and met eyes with Lestrade for a brief instant.
John always remained calm in a crisis, but in that moment Lestrade saw for the first time a John Watson that had no idea what to do. He was flying blind, trying not to let Sherlock jump ship without a parachute. Lestrade also knew he'd just snooped on a very private moment, and felt instantly guilty. He should have left, but he'd been frozen with terror. Nodding knowingly at John, he snuck out of the room to leave the two men alone to sort themselves out. Lestrade shook his head, attempting to wipe the memory from his brain. The image of Sherlock and John locked in each other's arms was burned on the inside of his eyelids. He almost ran over Sally Donovan in his haste to get away from his own thoughts.
"Boss?" her voice penetrated his stupor. He glanced up at her face, and he immediately knew she'd heard everything. "Is that… him?" She didn't need to specify; he knew exactly what she was talking about. He nodded solemnly. Almost everything Sally knew about the cancer situation had come straight from Lestrade. He knew she'd watched him come in to work every day getting progressively more haggard and exhausted. He told her, Anderson, and a few others only what he thought they needed to know to understand the gravity of the situation.
"What happened?" Donovan asked sincerely.
"Our suspect bashed Sherlock in the face. Gave him a nosebleed," the DI explained. "He's fine, just shaken up."
"You sure? He sounds… distressed."
"John's got it under control." Lestrade hoped this was the case. But, if Sherlock refused to let John take him home, Lestrade would kick him out. He had no doubt the detective would want to go back and finish what he started, but he was in no state to do so. A part of him wanted to ban Sherlock from questioning people entirely for fear something like this would happen again, but he knew that was entirely unreasonable. He'd bounce back in a day or so. However, the incident would remain rooted in Lestrade's memory forever.
"Donovan, whatever you heard of what just transpired, I trust you'll be responsible with the information, yes?" Lestrade said. The last thing Sherlock needed was a running rumor mill about his mental state.
"Of course," she replied.
"Good. I'm assuming they'll go home soon. Just let them pass as if nothing happened, alright?"
"Yes." Lestrade was about to leave Sally to her work, but she stopped him. "Sir, are you sure they're all right?" He looked her in the eye and saw true concern for Sherlock and John's well-being. He remembered a time when Donovan assumed his every ailment was him secretly back on drugs. She'd wanted any excuse to be rid of him. But now, she understood. Not everything, but enough to treat him like a proper human being. And that was enough for Lestrade.
~0~
Sally Donovan had been searching for Lestrade to ask him a question about some inconsequential thing or other; she didn't remember exactly what. Just before she opened the door to the room, a conversation from the other side of the door stopped her in her tracks. She recognized the voices speaking as Sherlock and Dr. Watson's.
"John?" She'd never heard that tone of voice from the Freak's lips—never. He sounded afraid, but the Sherlock she knew had never feared anything. "John, it's back. It's back. No, this can't be happening. No, no, no." As he continued to speak, she could hear him deteriorate from fear into panic. This caused her worry, as nothing she'd ever encountered before had so much as made Sherlock bat an eye. What could possibly have him so frightened? What was back?
"No, Sherlock, you got hit in the face, that's why it's bleeding. It's not leukaemia, I promise you," John's reassurance answered her questions. Something had arisen to make Sherlock think he'd relapsed. She listened more closely, and heard sobbing coming from the other side of the door. Immediately, pity washed over Sally, nearly bringing tears to her eyes. Lestrade had told her the basics of what had happened to Sherlock and John at hospital. She saw him during the earlier stages of the disease, and he'd looked sick then. Apparently, it had gotten much, much worse. She knew he'd undergone chemotherapy and radiation for leukaemia, contracted some raging infection, fell into a prolonged coma, and went into cardiac arrest on two separate occasions. She couldn't imagine the stress of such an ordeal. Now, she knew Sherlock was so traumatized by everything that had happened to him that the slightest possibility of recurrence had him crying. She'd never seen him cry before. She never wanted to see or hear it again.
Sherlock wasn't supposed to be upset by anything. He was supposed to upset other people with his arrogance and rude comments without second thought. He was supposed to get overly excited about murder and come barging into their investigations, dragging John in tow. As much as she'd despised him, she wanted the old Sherlock back—the Sherlock who hadn't been dragged through Hell by some biological malfunction. She knew her place with the old Sherlock: insult him at every opportunity and expect her animosity reciprocated. Now, she never knew what to say or not say in his presence. Sherlock would probably want her to treat him as normally as possible, but how could she do that when their 'normal' was being mean to each other? Which traits were still fair game for poking fun at? Which would immediately brand her a heartless bully? Those were questions she'd yet to find the answers too, and trial and error was not a plausible method of testing. She knew better than to continue to call him Freak to his face. She tried not to use it with coworkers, but it was a difficult habit to break. Most of them still used the nickname simply because they were used to it and were unaware of the full scope of his illness.
For the most part, Sherlock acted exactly the same as before. His intellect hadn't been affected in the slightest, and neither had his brazenness or disregard for protocol. However, something about his demeanor had softened somewhat. It was as if he now recognized that other people had emotions, and that his actions could affect those emotions. Everyone at Scotland Yard noted that he now used Inspector Lestrade's real first name, and he was also more willing to bend to accommodate the needs and wants of other people. And of course there was the fact that he actually slept and ate almost as much as a normal person, though everyone knew that was mostly at John's insistence.
So maybe Sherlock was a better person for having gone through something so terrible. That didn't mean Sally was glad it happened, not at all. Nobody deserved that. Sally took a step back from the door, about to leave, when Lestrade burst through the door. She knew it would look like she'd been eavesdropping, and she panicked. She blurted the first thing that came to her mind, even though she already knew the answer:
"Boss? Is that… him?" Lestrade. nodded solemnly. "What happened?" Donovan asked, wanting to know exactly what had triggered such an episode.
"Our suspect bashed Sherlock in the face. Gave him a nosebleed," the DI explained. "He's fine, just shaken up." The look in Lestrade's eyes told Sally that everyone was far from fine. A mere nosebleed had driven their consulting detective to tears. Nothing about that was fine.
"You sure? He sounds… distressed," Sally mentioned.
"John's got it under control," Lestrade insisted. Of course, there was no one else Sherlock would turn to in a situation like this. Sally knew John had barely left his side throughout the entire ordeal. She knew no two men more in sync with each other than John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. "Donovan, whatever you heard of what just transpired, I trust you'll be responsible with the information, yes?" Lestrade added.
"Of course," she replied. What exactly did he think she'd do? Let all the Yarders know that they could make Sherlock Holmes cry just by bopping him on the nose? She wasn't Anderson, for goodness sake. He was still partially convinced that the whole thing was a scheme Sherlock planned to earn himself some sympathy. She would treat this knowledge respectfully, like any decent human being.
"Good. I'm assuming they'll go home soon. Just let them pass as if nothing happened, alright?"
"Yes." With that, Lestrade began to move on, but something compelled Sally to stop him.
"Sir, are you sure they're all right?" she reiterated. He stared at her for a while, as if confirming she was actually expressing concern for Sherlock. She knew she hadn't always been civil to him, but she truly had changed, and she hoped her boss could see this. Lestrade nodded curtly to reassure her, and they parted ways.
Sally wandered the halls for a little while, too distracted to do any actual work. At one point, Sherlock and John passed her on their way out. She could feel the palpable stress like a thick cloud surrounding the detective. She caught a quick glimpse of Sherlock's face as he walked by, the faintest stain of red still ghosting his upper lip. He almost seemed shorter, like he'd shrunk into himself a few inches. He didn't look up from the floor for even an instant, and Sally was afraid he'd run into something if John wasn't there to guide him.
As they disappeared from sight, Sally attempted to switch her thoughts back to the case she'd been working on before going looking for Lestrade, but it was no use. She couldn't stop thinking about Sherlock and everything he'd been through. She knew she hadn't been the greatest of support when he'd been sick—not that anyone expected her to be. She still felt that she could have done more even as just a colleague/acquaintance. She promised herself that if the unthinkable should happen in the future, if Sherlock did relapse, she'd try her very best to be a better friend.
My next work will take me away from the Fragile universe. It is unlike anything I've every written before, quite frankly it's the opposite of all my other stories. So don't be afraid to check it out when I publish it, you won't regret it ;)