Hello again!
I can't seem to stop, apparently. Had to try another idea.
As always, I don't anything.
Enjoy.
The Curious Incident of the Detective on the Stairs
1
Stains on the Carpet
Maybe it had been the wrong thing to say.
"Is that why your girlfriend left you? Because you are an unemployed alcoholic with a tendency towards abusive behaviour and an apparent minority complex…" That had been as far as he had got.
Definitely not the right thing to say. John could have told him.
Why was the ground moving? Solid concrete, he registered distractedly, not supposed to be moving. Neither were houses.
Furrowing his brow hurt, oh. Stupid. And why was his hand shaking as he raised it towards his forehead, feeling something wet covering his skin.
Wet? Why? It wasn't raining, was it?
Stupid, Sherlock thought again as he staggered against a street lamp, clutching it for support. Head injury, obviously. Crashed against a... Funnily enough, he didn't remember.
It hadn't been the right thing to say.
He hadn't even finished his sentence when a fist had connected with his face, hitting his nose, causing it to spurt blood.
More blood. Oh, indeed, he noticed vaguely, bringing his hand to his nose. Broken? He didn't know. John would know.
John... Where was he, anyways? For a second, he felt panicked. Panicked, he?
John. Needed data.
Not here. At home, then. Home. Oh, he needed to get home. 221B. John.
Stumbling away from the street lamp, he suddenly became aware of a strange sensation in his insides. What was... Oh.
A wave of nausea hit him, and before he could do anything against it, Sherlock vomited onto the concrete, panting afterwards.
Maybe he had eaten something wrong... But no, his mind lazily corrected him as he tried to get rid of the sour taste in his mouth by spitting out saliva. Head injury. Concussion, maybe.
Why had he said that? John would chide him for it, saying: a bit not good. Rude.
But that was what he always did, wasn't it?
Oh, the street was still spinning.
A bit not good, Sherlock was fairly sure of, and not nice. Streets weren't supposed to do things like this.
Or maybe he was the one swaying?
It was funny that he didn't remember what had happened after the kicking. He had been on the concrete, yes, and then... And then... Oh.
They had left, apparently, leaving him, too, to his own misery. Although he didn't recall it too clearly, he must have got to his feet, scrambling forward, simply away.
There was something in his eyes. Sherlock blinked rapidly, attempted to blink it away, blink away what was making his vision so blurry. Why didn't it work? And why could he see close to nothing with his left eye?
Raising his hand a third time almost took too much effort. There was the moisture... The blood on his nose, then... Oh. Someone had to have hit his left eye. Swelling shut, quickly.
How was he supposed to work with his microscope if his eye decided not to function properly?
The sigh his body attempted turned into coughing. Surprisingly enough, it was rather difficult to breathe with his nose being clogged by dried and drying blood. And somewhere, somewhere below, there was something, another kind of pain. Ribs, probably. Cracked, if not broken.
John definitely wouldn't be pleased. Especially not if he continued bleeding at the flat, ruining their sofa.
Pressing his hand to his nose didn't help at all. It only made him cough again.
John...
Sherlock almost fell over his own feet. Stupid, stupid. How could he...? His mobile.
Still in tact, he found out as soon as his shaky hands - why were they, it wasn't even cold - had discovered the familiar form inside of his coat pocket.
Where was he, by the way? And why weren't here any cabs? After midnight, maybe... Rundown area or...
Not important now, Sherlock decided, holding the screen close to his right eye. It hadn't come out of this undamaged, it seemed, the screen being as wobbly and unsteady as the concrete. Oh, but then, this might not be because of his phone, but rather because of him.
Staggering forward, he managed to press speed dial, calling John.
John's voice answered, and it took Sherlock a few seconds to realise that he was listening to voicemail, not to John talking.
"Leave a message, I'll call back…"
Oh, brilliant, Sherlock's brain came up with. Was he supposed to talk to a machine voice now?
No, he decided. He would get home without John. Home and to bed. Sleep, he just needed a bit of sleep... And tea, or coffee.
The only problem was that he wasn't exactly sure of where he had to go if he wanted to reach 221B.
Left? No, right. No...
The world started spinning even more as Sherlock turned around, trying to find anything he might recognise in the dark, that might tell him where to walk next...
For the first time, it occurred to him that it wasn't the world's fault, but rather his head injury's.
Oh, there. Tesco. Closed, of course. How late was it? In the middle of the night... Or was it early again already? It was a tiny bit disconcering that he couldn't possibly fathom for how long he had been out on the concrete.
Maybe John was at Tesco's right now... But no, closed, he reminded his brain. Stupid. No John to pick him up.
Left, then. Left, and right, left again.
How far was it?
His legs were not complying properly, which was rather unhelpful. No matter how often he would tell them not to buckle, not to be wobbly, his body didn't obey his command. Transport it was, nothing more. Rather primitive one, too.
He made it. Somehow, he made it.
Arrived at the front door of 221B, staring at the numbers and wondering numbly when Mrs Hudson had decided to double them. Why should she? Reading 221B once should be sufficient, shouldn't it?
Oh, his brain caught up minutes later. His vision had doubled, not the sign. How intriguing. This had to be the reason why he was holding two keys in his hands, trying to determine which of the two locks was the correct one.
Never mind, he decided eventually, steadying himself against the door with one hand.
He should have known, of course, that as soon as he had the door unlocked, it would swing open - and of course send him falling, face first, directly to Mrs Hudson's carpet in the hallway.
Surprisingly comfortable. Sherlock's eyes closed on their own account.
The next thing he remembered was a thought, a thought prominent in the back of his head. Bleeding on the carpet. Stains on the carpet. Not good.
Getting up was exhausting. Had it always taken so much effort? He couldn't remember.
Oh, he probably ought to close the door. Door... He crashed against it, wincing, and slamming it shut, not caring that his keys were still inside the lock.
Sherlock stopped for a moment, breathing heavily, trying to fight back nausea and vertigo and stop everything from whirling around him.
The stairs. They were living upstairs, he had to get upstairs. Sofa. Bed. Couldn't stay here.
It turned out to be surprisingly difficult to differ between real steps and fake ones, and even the hand clutching the wall didn't do much to steady him.
He didn't remember their stairs to be so excrutiatingly long.
A break, he thought, out of breath. Where was that strange noise coming from, he wondered, frowning, having forgotten that this movement hurt. Oh, from him. He was wheezing, he realised distantly, spots dancing in front of his eyes. Wheezing... Funny.
A break. Just a few seconds. Then he could make for the rest and lie down. Just...
His knees gave way beneath him and took the decision from him. Just... need... to... catch... my... breath, he thought slowly, his mind foggy. Not good at all, some part of his brain registered, urging his hand to search for his mobile again. John had to answer the call, finally...
Before he could even hit speed dial a second time, his head slumped forwards, his entire body slackened and the mobile dropped out of his numb hands, toppling down the stairs.
Very not good, was his last thought before the world faded away.
Thank you for reading!
This originated from a silly little thought in my head... Sherlock sitting on some stairs, slumped over. So, well.
Let me know what you think.