It started with fire. The flames spread with urgency through his body. It felt like shards of scolding glass that tore through his body,paralysing every nerve and sending pain sheering down every vein until it consumed him. With his body completely immobilised, his mind soon followed. He could feel his body contort involuntarily with every new wave of pain that coursed through him; his heart hammering against his ribs like a jackhammer. Above all, he could feel the build up of panic as his lungs restricted of air, the lump in his throat and his eyes clouded over as the darkness reached out to swallow him whole.
Then, as soon as it had appeared; the fire was extinguished. He jerked onto his side as he took a sharp intake of breath and took a few moments to settle himself. There was no denying the persistent tremor that rattled his lanky, exhausted frame or the sweat that soaked his dark, wild curls and caused his clothes to cling to him like a straight jacket. Every movement hurt; every breath agony. His head was pounding and he couldn't help the involuntary whimper that escaped his lips.
Something cold pressed against his forehead and his body automatically reacted to the touch. The wet rag combatted against his soaring fever and he sighed in relief as it trickled down his face and cooled down his burning skin.
He could feel the reassuring strokes against his head, brushing against his soaked curls in an awkward gesture of comfort. He almost sneered as an automatic reaction to such a sentimental action, but in his weaker moments he just couldn't deny the attempt of comfort. After all, it was these moments, brought out through the most monstrous of experiences, that allowed him to feel the littlest bit human.
Almost.
He slowly opened his eyes, blinking a few times to focus his sight at the man before him. The room was in cast in darkness, with the only source of light originating from the glow of the moon that shone through the window of their London flat. It caught the silver strands of hair, creating the illusion of a halo around his head. As he stared, he became aware that the other man's lips were moving slowly and his ears soon connected the muffled sounds to dialogue. He knitted his brow in thought and focused on the words while his body fought unconsciousness.
"You're okay, Sherlock. I'm here." He spoke softly, not wanting to startle the man. He offered a reassuring smile, the light catching the corner of his mouth as he sat on the edge of the bed and stroked his hair in a pathetic attempt of assurance. He knew that under any other situation Sherlock would be sickened by such an act, but he couldn't deny him. He couldn't just sit and watch him suffer through his condition alone; to lie in bed and hear the strained sounds of agony that would often emerge in the dead of the night.
So he often found himself going against his better judgement and staggering down the stairs into the other bedroom of 221B Baker Street, armed with only a dampened cloth and a half assed plan of action to calm the raging fire that pulled at the damaged strings of Sherlock Holme's humanity.
Their eyes met and he felt his heart skip a beat with what he saw before him. The normally stunning, piercing stare was clouded with pain and sickness. The eyes that could pick up on your life story with just a half focused glance, the eyes that were usually concealed to everyone were uncovered and fragile. He could see the agony and sadness. It made him feel physically sick, seeing the man that he had such respect and admiration for be reduced to a fragile shell behind closed doors. He was frustrated, seeing him suffer at the hands of his inner turmoil and all he could do was offer him a wet rag and feeble attempts of help.
He was helpless, and it left him disgusted. Sherlock trusted him and relied on him more than he would like or admit, and he was failing. Badly.
He was so lost in his thoughts that he almost missed the whisper that escaped Sherlock's lips. He was soft spoken; the opposite of his rather usual pronounced, confident self. He blinked, his brow knitted in confusion as he replayed the words in his head. Had he just said…thank you?
With that, Sherlock took a deep breath and let himself slip back into the painless sea of unconsciousness. However, not even the lure of sleep could compete with the persistent nature of his mind. With the vast amount of knowledge and intelligence harboured in the walls of his Mind Palace, Sherlock still couldn't fathom how he found himself in this situation.
How could he of possibly became the Best Friend of John Hamish Watson.
