My Light
…again.
"Sherlock, please don't give up, you have to come back to me."
And again.
"Please. All I ask for is one more miracle."
Why can't you just shut up? It's not helping. I know you are not him, you are not real. So why can't you just disappear. I'm trying to come back, ok? So shut up. I am trying to concentrate.
My consciousness is back. Back in the cell together with my wrists in chains binding me to the ceiling and the man who wants to break me. The man with the whip in his hand and the emotionless smile on his face, who is sending hot, red pain through my mind, every time the whip falls down on my back.
Darkness again. Sweet. Silent. Empty.
Until his warm and soft voice is back, through the darkness, calling for a miracle, just one more. And believe me, there is nothing more I would like to do. Give this man his miracle. But there is no way out from here. I am out of options, out of strength and nearly out of hope. How can I give him that miracle then?
"Sherlock, open your eyes, please, for me. Sherlock."
This time his voice is different, no not different, just not as clear as it always is in my head. It's as if he is calling me from a place far away, away from this cell and the pain and this darkness which is eating me alive. Am I forgetting how his voice sounded too? Even if it is only in my head? I miss his light. All the time I was in the darkness he was the light. No, wrong. Before him I was darkness myself. But he saved me; he brought light into my life. The light of hope. With his smile and the eyes who are able to see the real me. No mask can hide it; he always knows how I feel. He knows that I feel. He never once believed that "I am a high functioning sociopath". He knows I care and it's nothing he would ever use against me. For him it does not represent a sign of weakness.
"…open your eyes, it's over. I'm here to bring you home. But you need to open your eyes."
Home. Yes home, if this ever going to end well, I will go home. 221B Baker Street. London. England. To the flat I share with him. To playing the violin for him in the middle of the night to chase away his nightmares. To solving crimes and running after criminals so that the shaking in his hands will never return.
"Sherlock!"
This is his voice, louder now and so close, but it is not in my head. After all this time I can tell the difference. Could this be real? Is he really here? In this cell? In a country so far away from home?
"Please, Sherlock. For me."
With all my will, I slowly start opening my eyes, fearing that all I will then get in return is the man with the whip. But there is no pain. Ok, my whole body hurts but it is sort of a dull pain, not the red and hot pain of before. The first thing I notice is that I can't feel the chains and I'm not standing or better hanging from the ceiling. I am lying on the cold ground, a hand on my face. I try to focus my vision, but I fail. Someone is kneeling next to me. And I can hear that someone start talking to me.
It is his voice, not in my head or far away. In front of me now is my light, the man who has just saved me again. The man who will always come and save me. He has even come down to this hell I was living in, to rescue me.
"Hey Sherlock. Do you want to go home now?"
That is all he says to him. And for the first time in a very long time a smile appears on Sherlock Holmes' face, and a small nod of his head is all he was able to give back. But for now it was enough for John Watson.
