[Please note: Although this story was Canon compliant when written—published well before Season 4's launch date of 1/1/17—this fic is now an AU .]

In the future…after Season 4.

9 May, 2017

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GIFT OF SILENCE

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Chapter 1: Attenuation

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"JOHN!" Sherlock's distinct cry from a great distance was the last sound he heard before the explosion.

The sound before that was of screeching brakes and the sickening noise of a car smashing into a streetlight pole. Bystanders immobilized by shock stood rooted to the pavement in Fulham Road outside the Royal Marsden Hospital, but when John Watson had arrived a bit earlier than expected to meet Sherlock Holmes, the emergency propelled the former army surgeon into action. His combat medical training, as quick as instinct, supported his decision to approach within the window of safety and focused him as he charged toward the scene of the collision.

A young child in a sky-blue jacket, screaming for her mother, had escaped the burning Volkswagen Golf just as the fuel leaked from the crumpled vehicle and caught light. Scant seconds before the car erupted in flames with a violent boom, John reached the girl at more than eight metres from the car, dropped them both low to the ground, and shielded her small body with his own. Hunched over her and using his body weight to keep her pinned beneath him, the former soldier covered his own head in clasped hands and endured the deflagration of the shock waves that followed the deafening blast. Burning particles of debris stung his head and hands, a strong force buffeted his body, and pressure seemed to suck the oxygen from his lungs. He gasped despite himself, tasting petrol and dry heat that evoked vivid memories of Afghanistan.

It was all over in a flash. Registering that the initial shock of the blast had passed, he felt relieved, but remained huddled. With his eyes still shut tight, he wiggled his fingers, feeling each move properly and lowered his arms to reach for the child squirming impatiently for freedom under the shelter of his body. Securing her tightly in his arms as he tipped onto his side, he experienced a strange reluctance to release her even in the aftermath. He found himself utterly exhausted and unwilling to open his eyes or respond to the prodding hands that urged him to let her go. His head ached. His ears were ringing from the sound waves. Feeling oddly distant, he wondered if he had been concussed by the blast that had blown over them with violent intensity. For the moment, he felt he needed to rest. Hang on, he wanted to say to those who were pulling and tugging on his arms. He knew he should release the little girl, push himself off the hard asphalt surface, and get back on his feet. Give me a minute.

Abruptly the child was torn from his embrace. Startled, his eyes flew open, although his mind struggled to translate the blurry images into something intelligible. Once his vision cleared he saw a fence of human legs penning him in where he lay. Raising his eyes he squinted for clarity and realized he was entirely encircled by unfamiliar faces above those legs. As they peered down on him their mouths moved, mimicking speech. Some of the onlookers were gesturing with their hands as if calling for aid, but John couldn't discern sounds as he fought through his confusion. On their own accord, his arms and legs lashed out defensively to keep the circle from entrapping him. Growing more disoriented by his sideways angle, his whirling vision, and his incapacity to lift himself, John struggled against both a familiar panic that gripped him and the sudden irrational fear he was surrounded by captors with no escape.

Sherlock appeared within the crowd of strangers, and everyone else stepped back, as if obeying orders to make room. Although the detective's chest was moving at a rate that suggested he had been sprinting a distance, Sherlock's face showed no emotion as he removed his black leather gloves, and gently cupped John's face in both hands in an attempt to lock their eyes in a reciprocal stare.

At first, John had trouble. His wild and rapid eye movement darted back and forth making it impossible for him to focus. At the same time, puffs of air wafted in pulses against John's face—almost certain to be words riding the breath of a speaker up close to his face. That sensation helped John focus on the warmth of Sherlock's hands surrounding his head—the reassuring human contact that grounded him in his vertiginous world. Finally Sherlock's presence calmed him down and helped him lie still. Except, there was an annoying buzz thwarting his attempts to hear what his friend might be saying, but even without verbal assurances, John relaxed and shifted his attention to Sherlock's moving lips.

John, … John…..

Frustrated by his baffling inability to hear, John shut his eyes. Instantly, he juddered with nausea, broke away from Sherlock's hold, and doubled up, retching and hyperventilating. Whilst spasms contorted his body, he was aware of a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder. Once the retching had settled, John collapsed onto his side, fatigued but grateful for the strong arms that had been supporting him. It took him a moment to register who…cautiously opening his eyes, he was not surprised to see his friend kneeling beside him.

"Sssherrrllkk…" Then almost as an afterthought, he quickly began patting down his chest and abdomen, arms and legs, just as he had done in Kanderhar, ensuring all of his limbs were present and correct. He was relieved to find his body parts appeared intact.

"Nothing missing. I'm all right." Giving a hand signal indicating he was uninjured, John tried to push himself up onto his elbow, but another assault of nausea overtook him, and he aborted the attempt to get up. Blinking repeatedly to clear his vision, John narrowed his eyes and looked toward his friend, the man with all the answers.

At first reassured, John began to see through Sherlock's attempts to be calm for him and realized those sharp eyes peering at him were perplexed, but John was more unnerved by the expressive mouth that shaped a variety of words he could not hear. Without Sherlock's voice supporting the fast movement of his lips, it was impossible to determine what his friend was saying. The only word he could make out with his basic lip-reading skills was his own name John spoken multiple times.

"What? Can't hear you!" Aware that he might be shouting, John forced a yawn and swallowed as if adjusting to a change in altitude pressure, but this didn't seem to clear his clogged ears. As the initial shock was wearing off, the clinician in John was whispering the inevitable in words that the rescuer in him was not prepared to hear.

"Sherlock?" He tried speaking again, knowing his mouth moved and his throat projected sound. "The little girl, is she okay? And her mother?" He did not hear his own words this time, only a constant ringing in his ears. John raised his head and forced one last test in words. "Did she make it out?"

With his vision swirling kaleidoscopically, John was in danger of passing out and lowered his head, just as Sherlock with one graceful tug had pulled his navy cashmere scarf free and stuffed it underneath him. It took John a moment to recognize the gesture for what it was, but by then John could only grin his thanks as he waited for the ground to stop spinning. "Need a minute." he managed to scrape out at last.

Exhaustion overwhelmed him. Weariness shut his eyes where instantly he had entered a silent world of frightening isolation. His dark blue eyes snapped wide open, and despite his discomfort, he angled his head to see better, discovering that he was at the epicenter of a throbbing swarm of activity—a routine he knew well enough with his eyes closed: The London Fire brigade was securing the scene, policemen had already cordoned off the area to keep the curious back, personnel with walkie-talkies lifted to their faces gestured as they reported, whilst paramedics attended the injured.

John realized the firefighters had made quick work to extinguish the vehicle. He also spotted with relief the little girl he had rescued. Still wearing her sky-blue coat, she sat nestled under the arm of a woman obviously so distraught by the incident she could not stop bestowing nervous kisses on her daughter's fair head and hugging her tightly. Both were wrapped in emergency blankets and seated in the back of the ambulance where the paramedics, kneeling behind them, checked their blood pressure and oxygen saturations.

Another paramedic team with a trolley was rushing in John's direction. Even though John understood why, he objected through gritted teeth.

"No! Wait!"

John clutched Sherlock's coat sleeve with both hands to pull himself up to a sitting position. Excruciating as it was, he stared into Sherlock's face; again his friend's lips were moving without sounds. John noted now that Sherlock's sharp-features failed to repress his growing concern and his eyes, darkening with worry, expressed a dismaying truth John did not wish to hear.

"I'll be all right!" John protested weakly, grabbing at Sherlock's upturned collar to keep his balance. "Give me time!"

Again, the clinician in him knew he should accept help. It all fit: the intolerable dizziness, the buzzing that smothered ordinary sounds, all caused by his proximity to the blast. Vertigo and hearing loss meant ruptured eardrums at best, but at worst he could have permanent inner ear damage. He swiped his ears and saw blood on his palms, confirming his suspicions.

Despite all his attempts to remain upright, the world whirled with maddening speed causing John to collapse against Sherlock's chest and slump slowly down. Covering his ears as he lay on his side, John curled into a fetal position, unable to control his trembling.

And while he could not hear what the paramedics were saying as they moved in to examine him, he did not need to hear the unspoken language of Sherlock's hand clasping his in a firm grip—assuring him: we will get through this as well, just before he passed out.

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More to come...

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Very special thanks to my Sherlockian Sisters—you know who you are—who have shared illuminating discussions through PMs and emails. A special shout-out to my dear englishtutor who is always my first sounding board, but I am greatly indebted to kate221b whose indispensable advice on all matters of med/picking and brit/picking strengthened this story with the authenticity it sorely needed. I couldn't have done that without her.