Not So Blind
by Futile Devices
"My dear Watson," said the well-remembered voice, "I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected."
- The Adventure of the Empty House, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
I crack open one eye. At first all I see is light, painfully bright. There is someone standing over me. A pale face. A quiet voice saying my name.
"What... what happened?" I croak.
"You fainted, John."
"I what?"
"You fainted."
I blink blearily. This is clearly ridiculous. I've been to war, I've amputated limbs, I've been shot. I've never fainted in my life. I open my mouth to say this, but the words don't come. The fog is clearing from my head. I know that voice. I know that face.
It's him.
His cool blue eyes study me. I stare back at him, my mouth literally hanging open. He looks a bit thinner maybe, a bit tired. But otherwise he's completely unchanged. The same pale, sculpted face: sometimes so expressive, but now utterly inscrutable. The same shock of dishevelled dark hair. He's even wearing that bloody coat.
This is no dream. This is real.
He's actually here. He's actually alive.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, feeling another wave of dizziness.
The corner of his mouth tweaks. "Not quite, even if I did rise from the dead."
He is cracking jokes. He is cracking jokes.
I slowly sit up. "Careful," he says, taking hold of my arm. I shrug him off.
"I'm fine." I rub my eyes and look around, trying to pull myself together and anchor myself in the real world again. I am sitting on the couch in my flat. My small, cramped living room looks entirely normal. Dim morning light seeps through the half-open blinds. I see the empty bottle of cheap scotch on the coffee table, and wince. I can still taste the bloody stuff, and I can definitely feel it in my throbbing head and dry throat. I'd fallen asleep on the tiny couch without a pillow and my neck is stiff and sore. There is nothing out of the ordinary about any of this. Over the past few months, since... since, I'd found myself drinking alone sometimes. Well: more than sometimes. It wasn't a problem though, I'd been telling myself. It wasn't a permanent thing. Just one more, to help me sleep. One more, to dull the pain in my leg. One more, to get me through tonight.
This was like any other morning, then. Except Sherlock Holmes, my dead best friend, is standing in the middle of it. My eyes are relentlessly drawn back to him. He is hovering tensely, waiting for me to speak. There are a hundred questions to ask, a hundred things to be said.
But there is one pressing issue to be dealt with first: "I didn't actually faint, did I?"
"I was quite surprised myself." He perches on the chair opposite me. "I expected shouting. Questions. Some punching, perhaps. But you just went white as a sheet and then just sort of crumpled. I had to catch you," he adds. There's a gleeful glint in his eye.
"You're actually enjoying yourself here, aren't you?" I rub my neck, grimacing. It's coming back to me now. Waking to a brisk knock at the door. Dragging myself upright, still half-asleep and most definitely hungover. Opening the door and seeing him standing there, looking back at me, cool and expressionless but for one slightly raised eyebrow. "Hello, John." An endless moment of numbness... then a barrage of emotions hitting me in the chest like a bullet. A heavy blackness swimming up, pulling me down.
"It's nothing to be ashamed of," Sherlock says, "there's a perfectly sound biological explanation. A sudden shock or a period of intense emotional distress can cause an increase in heart rate, resulting in hypotension and muscle weakness which can cause a temporary loss of-"
"Yes, Sherlock, I'm a doctor. I know about shock." My initial feeling of stunned disbelief is fading, to be replaced by a churning mass of emotions. Joy. Relief. Pain. Confusion. And anger. Above all, anger.
His eyes are still on me. His brow is furrowed. "John, you look absolutely terrible."
I know he's right. I'd been avoiding mirrors lately, but when I catch a glimpse of myself I barely recognise the thin, hollow-eyed face staring back at me. I haven't shaved in days and my hair is a scruffy mess. I look like an old man, with a limp to match. I know he's right- but it still makes me even angrier, him sitting there, studying me like some kind of interesting scientific specimen. I know he's analysing me, gathering clues about my emotional state. Detached. Coolly pitying.
Suddenly I'm on my feet. I start pacing. He sits watching me, infuriatingly still and calm. "I expect you have some questions."
"Some questions?" I give a sharp, humourless laugh. "Sherlock, I don't even know where to start. No actually, I do. How did you do it? I saw you fall. I saw you dead on the ground, and the blood, and your face..."
He leans forward eagerly. "John, it was beautiful. My masterpiece; impeccably planned, perfectly executed..."
"Actually, no," I cut in, holding up a hand. "Shut up. I'm sure it was all very clever, but I don't want to hear it." I truly don't care. Right now, I don't even care why he did it. I'm sure I'll want to know later, but first, more than anything, there's only one question I need answered. "Sherlock, did you spare even a thought for what it would do to me, seeing you...?" My voice wavers. I take a deep breath. "Did you imagine what it would do to me, seeing you kill yourself?"
He suddenly gets to his feet and across the room to the small window. He stands with his hands behind his back and looks out across the street. His face is hidden from me.
"I ... I didn't imagine you would be so badly affected," he says quietly.
"What, you thought I'd just shrug it off? I watched you jump off a roof and smash your bloody head open!"
"Of course I knew you would be upset. But I thought you'd grieve for a while then... well, move on. I took care to convince you that I was a fake, that I had lied to you all those months. I thought that would help you to put it all behind you. "
Does he really understand so little? Was he really so blind to all human feelings? To my feelings?
I take a deep, ragged breath. "You were my best friend, Sherlock. We... we had a life together." This is a strange thing to say, but I don't care. He needs to understand. "Without you, I had nothing left. I was lost. Alone. I missed you more than-" my voice cracks. "And now I find out I was just your pawn in some... chess game with Moriarty. Damn it, Sherlock, look at me."
He turns slowly and my heart skips. His face is rigid with emotion. He opens his mouth to say something, but no words come. His fists clench and unclench at his sides. I've never seen him like this, not even when he was standing on that rooftop. I see in a moment of clarity that he's afraid; afraid that I will never forgive him and that he has lost me. He doesn't have the words to say it- he probably never will- but to me, who knows him best, it's as clear as day. And it scares him so much that he is speechless.
Sherlock Holmes, the man who will outlive God trying to have the last word, is speechless.
I still want to punch him. I still want to grab him by the lapels of that bloody coat and shake him until his teeth rattle. Instead, I find myself crossing the space between us. I open my arms and grab hold of him in a hard hug. I feel him tense, surprised. For a moment I think he's going to pull away. Then I feel his arms come around me, gripping me to him. My heart fills. We stand there for a long moment, holding each other silently.
"I'm glad you're not dead, Sherlock," I finally say into his shoulder, "even if it makes me want to bloody kill you." I suddenly feel light, as if a heavy, smothering weight has finally been lifted from my shoulders. Joy rises up inside me. He is alive, he is alive, he is alive.
Sherlock's laugh is full of relief. "I've missed you, John." His voice is muffled, but I hear the relief in it, the joy, the affection.
Maybe not so blind after all.
Author's Note: Well, I hope you guys enjoyed reading this little reunion one-shot as much as I enjoyed writing it :)
I'd really appreciate any feedback- please leave a review if you have a minute!