The Royal Road
sherlock & john/dreams/character studies/one-shot
a fic in ten acts
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1.
What kind of dreams?
He realizes he's answering a question he asked weeks ago, and in great figurative detail.
As one would do at three in the bloody morning.
It's all something to do with Freudian theories—but, no, not really—because Sherlock has never cared much for Freud. It's easier to explain it to John this way, because he's a doctor and—and John doesn't understand anymore than if he hadn't.
He wouldn't have understood if he used plain English (the kind people of this region generally use with one another) because Sherlock's brain doesn't work like everyone (or anyone) else's brain. Not even an electrified brain in a jar.
He takes long periods of decoding, an industrial dose of patience, varied levels of eye rolling, and painful teeth mashing. And these are things John does not currently have. Not even the teeth mashing. Not after tossing over to check his buzzing phone for the umpteenth time.
He has to blink and stare to read the words.
...wish-fulfillment.… unstable personality… depression… addiction….
John's eyelids flutter, cycle. Finally he drops his head back onto his pillow.
His door might as well be open and Sherlock might as well, over his all too broad shoulders, in his all too droning tone, be relaying this to him. John can soak up the information in his sleep, and still sleep. They used to do that with babies, right? Or did he read that somewhere? Either way, sleep. The damn door doesn't even need to be open.
He'll bring this up tomorrow like the conversation never ended, or he's confusing him with someone, but he's not, because Sherlock doesn't confuse people, and he wouldn't confuse John. And as John has come to learn, he's simply (simply could use an update) spacing out and picking up their past conversations, leaving him to reconnect like he's the odd man out.
Sometimes he thinks about a sane, sedentary partner and pastime.
He's only dying for a routine.
A tiny bit. A smidge.
A man's got to dream.
Everything else is fine.
Even the death and danger (of course the death and danger), and the sleepless nights, disturbing dreams, the anxiety, the grief. Sherlock would have a field day with his lot, that can't be debated. And will never, if John can help it, be brought to the table. But then, he should already know, shouldn't he?
His phone buzzes.
Are you awake?
SH
He quickly responds, no.
Wonderful. Tea?
SH
John sighs heavily. So much so Sherlock was bound to hear. And the fact that he's now, probably, grinning (in that truly impish way he does), makes John all the more annoyed.
He crawls out of bed and finds himself moments later, without much fuss, making tea, and listening to his dribble first hand instead of attempting to read it.
And John's comfortable with it.
He had said it was all fine.
"...Difficulty trusting. That can be confused with…."
John nods and sits in his chair. Sherlock has his tea, John his. When there's a break in the endless playback (footnotes, momentary divergences, musings), John takes the opportunity to make a comment, out of the sake of making it a real conversation.
"I find it hard to believe you dream, I never see you sleep."
"I sleep," retorts Sherlock. "Just not often."
John's eyebrows lift, he sips his tea. Sherlock carries on, lying reclined on his ugly leather sofa. His tea is untouched, steaming on the coffee table, robe's tassels looped on the carpet, hands gesticulating, dream ever unfolding but never fully divulged.
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2.
Fast forward a week to a cold night and there has been little to no action in the consulting detective business. No appealing cases, leads, or loose ends. Not even an ode to the holiday, it being mid October. And that's never a good thing.
To illustrate further: the night previous (a week from the start of Sherlock's dream dialogue) they both fell asleep in their respective chairs, waking very near the same time and acting as if nothing happened.
Sherlock is bristling and gnashing and throwing himself around the flat, present. Everything an annoyance, everything a target, a victim. He's like a temperamental child, or a frenzied cat. Something incessant and inconsolable, and fabulous at driving John mad. He was never good with children, and he never liked cats.
Go figure.
Sherlock would.
"Can you just sit and relax?" he tries.
He's gone back to smoking and the place smells of it. It will surely cock him up down the road, on a case, on the streets, when the stress is high and the edge needs dulling. You can't smoke out there, and stepping aside to suck on a fag (or three) while key information grows the colder is not the way to conclude a lead, no matter the argument.
No matter how many times he's tried.
He would still say you can't have any fun.
But for all his wit and brilliance, Sherlock can be a slow learner.
"Why is it that doctors are so quick to pacify?"
"Maybe because they're immune to bullshit?"
"I think that qualifies as the opposite…."
"Look—"
John hangs his head, defeated.
"I'm going out."
It's been hours, now sometime after 2pm, and he needs the air. Even if he can feel Sherlock's stare eroding as he grabs his coat, his keys, and his phone (and it's raining).
When he turns around at the door, he isn't expecting what he finds. There's the indignance, as to be expected, check, but there's something else too, not well hidden, half caught between his frenzy and his brooding—and it's supplication, pleading.
John is aghast.
He quickly composes.
"You should come," he offers.
Sherlock sneers, looks away.
"Outside. Around people. Deplorable. Unthinkable. Most likely a headache."
"I'll give you a cigarette."
John had to take them away.
He was hell bent on choking out every thought.
"You're a cruel man," Sherlock opines.
"Cruel to be kind."
John smiles.
Put on, highly brittle.
Sherlock gives it back, mirror image, but he's gathering his coat.
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3.
He doesn't bring his scarf.
It almost doesn't feel right to say he forgot, but he's still human, isn't he? He's stressed, strung out, exhausted, under fed, and whatever else he thinks he's clandestine at, and that would knock anyone off their stride. So, he forgot, and now he's paying for it.
"You're freezing."
"I'm fine."
But he is freezing. He's underdressed and his fingers around the cigarette are twitching, gloveless. His shoulders are hunched up, his lips pale. He's red around the eyes, cheeks, and on the tip of his nose. His abundant hair hangs heavier over his forehead.
A blind man would see.
"You're freezing," John repeats, monotone.
They're both wet. He forgot an umbrella, so they're even.
Sherlock ignores him to focus on his quickly dampening cigarette.
John is blocking his view from the street, standing half in the drizzle, half under the eaves. He's watching how Sherlock's bloodless lips meet filter, how his hair shifts, drips, how the curls are pulling out long, and tricking himself, at the same time, into believing Sherlock will interpret it differently.
They've been ducking into alleys whenever Sherlock decided he needed a drag, and it was often. More often than he actually desired because he knew John would say no, by default, by rule of John, of course. That's easy enough. As a result he'll accrue his right fix regardless.
He asks for one, more of a two-fingered signal, on their way out. The answer is a given. He motions again after their late lunch. This one another yes, albeit reluctant. He tries twice on the walk back. One is an outright no, the other easily swayed. He tries once more, just for kicks, outside of 221b. He is, unfortunately, denied.
John wonders, against his better judgment, if Sherlock knows he knows.
Obviously.
It's all fine.
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4.
It's not difficult to get Sherlock drunk.
One: he doesn't have the tolerance.
And two: his intolerable boredom.
John, his greatest threat as his greatest asset, files it under doctor's orders, and half an attempt to warm him up ("That's a myth," Sherlock chastising), half a shot in the dark to loosen him up.
So, he scoots the bottle towards him. It skids, tilts and almost loses balance, golden brown liquid inside sloshing, but Sherlock, some reflexes intact and in order, he manages to snatch it before disaster strikes. The prize won he brings the bottle to his mouth, knocking back a swig.
He grimaces.
John commiserates, scrunching up his face.
"Don' do that," Sherlock protests, wiping his mouth.
"Why?"
John gives him his best serious drunk face.
"Because… Because…."
Sherlock leans forward (leans and leans), hands waving, reaching for the words.
"It looks funny."
John frowns.
"I look funny?"
Sherlock nods sagely, and then takes it back, realizing what he'd implied.
"No, no, wonderful, silly John. Just that… horrible face."
"MY horrible face?"
John snatches at the bottle.
Sherlock gives it up easily.
"What about what your face does when you squint?"
"What," Sherlock hiccups, "does my face do when I squint?"
John graces him with his impersonation a second time.
Sherlock sputters laughter.
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5.
Chilled air.
A light mist.
Smoke curling.
He can taste it.
Very nearly.
Even though he's pressing much warmer lips to frozen cold flesh, frigid and stinging.
If he had licked them beforehand, or rain had wetted, his lips might have gotten stuck.
Warm, warming, bringing back from the brink.
Thrilling, chilling, just a touch surreal.
The bony knuckles of Sherlock's hand, smelling of smoke.
He breathes foggy breath hot over those knuckles, the back of his hands, his wrists, into his coat sleeve, and there, his inner wrists pressed together, facing one another as if in prayer.
Can feel a pulse there, quickening now.
Skin thin, near transparent.
Can see curious twisted lines forming.
Whispers.
Memories.
Scars.
They begin to pull and tear as he watches.
Skin opening, peeling apart.
Vital liquid leaks, now pours, dripping sticky, steaming.
Sherlock's hands, becoming slick, fall away.
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6.
John finds himself, with a start, in Sherlock's bed come morning. Halfway off the mattress, fully dressed, leg numb, arm following. Sherlock, also fully dressed, is prostrate but facing him, every breath he takes part of John's breath. A mess of hair and fabric and bone white skin, too close lips, the prominence of cheekbone. What he can see of his face is utterly calm, unmoving, unusual, beautiful.
John quickly removes himself from the situation, and just as quickly, comes to the morbid realization he's at half mast. Small favours in the form of jeans though, but not for long. No favours where his anatomy is concerned.
Dreams are the royal road to the unconscious.
Sherlock told him that a week and a half ago.
He shuffles to his room.
The collective hangover mutes conversation all of that day (whether Sherlock outwardly acknowledged his or not), and John is never more grateful. For the next ten hours Mrs. Hudson's voice is the only voice, or it's the telly, or a grumble. Silly questions and half-baked advice withstanding at least she makes them both tea and cleans up. And John's head pounds less and less.
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7.
"Two soot black earwigs, Dermaptera, locked in a death battle. A struggle pincers to pincers, neither having the leverage, neither the edge. They're evenly matched, they're mirrors, duplicates, giant, monstrous. This goes on for eternity, into oblivion. A recurring dream."
"You and Moriarty."
"Obviously."
John sighs, touches his forehead. Ruffled.
"You know, you don't have to be so…."
"Blunt?"
"You could be—"
Sherlock snorts.
"My point exactly," John bristles.
"I don't have time for pleasantries," Sherlock explains.
"God forbid you shaved off time for smoking," John snaps back, voice climbing into the heights of aggravation. He's leaned forward and everything, expression severe.
Sherlock shrugs and snaps his book closed (Freud or another dream thing).
He turns to face him.
"What did she call it? Are we having a domestic?"
John's mouth hangs mid interjection.
"A little. Maybe," he admits, suddenly uncomfortable.
Sherlock gives him this sidelong glance while turning back to his research. A little twitch of the lips and a glint in the eye, just enough, just right. It's so disarming because, at its most pure, its most genuine, just as it was there, right then, it's so rare.
Think white rhinos, cell reception, or good weather.
John warms absolutely.
He goes back to his book, his temporary distraction, looking near Japanese origami all twisted up and folded, limbs, cloth, hair and smoke. Adding, tone not dull or distracted but entirely there, "Just making sure, of course."
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8.
That night John dreams he's a pen that won't write.
Plenty of ink, but no words; no lines, dabs, or marks.
And where did all this paper come from? And why is it so important he try?
Does he try. Over and over, shredding, crumpling, ruining.
All for nothing. Not one stroke.
He's understandably agitated by morning, ready to snap and bite and storm, and oh. Don't they make such a pair? And, to compound things further, when he gets to the living room he knows, immediately, that the moron has been smoking.
Either it's freezing from the air coming in or smoky from it not going out. He can't hide it. Even if he went out he'd bring the smell in on his fingers, his breath, his clothing. He could wash, he could rinse, put away. On his hair, his skin? He could shower. And wouldn't that give it away more? A shower so early? A shower at all?
Good Lord, he's thinking like him.
Cue the incense.
"You better hope I don't find them. They'll all be flushed."
From across the room comes, "What a waste."
It's a surprising comment, given his past moods. He's been known to shut up for days.
"You're one to talk," John growls.
Sherlock scoffs loudly.
"Don't get melodramatic on me."
"You are the most…."
John stands rigid, fingers clawed, the image of fed up. He's not even in the damn room yet, not even mostly dressed or awake. And Sherlock is now watching, standing a thousand feet tall, interested, owl-eyed, revelling in the commotion, adding to vexation.
Don't you fucking smile.
"...The most irritating man I've ever known."
"But you love me despite."
It's a quick jab, a bad joke, and he does smile, beatific. It stings in the worst way, and John finds he has nothing for it. He visibly winces, must have, because Sherlock's demeanor alters, tectonic plates shift. He unfolds, actually attempts to soothe, as if he'd always been this compassionate soul.
"John…."
Another chance for air though. John makes damn sure not to slam the door.
Because he's not upset.
No, not upset, livid, disappointed, frustrated, sexually frustrated.
Sherlock follows.
He can't be sniffing for a cigarette, that's for damn sure, so it must be something else. Something John will not abide, something messy and a long time coming, and he's not about to do on the staircase. Hasn't even had coffee or a piss yet, for Christ's sake.
"John," Sherlock attempts.
"Don't. Just don't," John grits, pointing square at his chest, making him stall.
And Sherlock does, he stops. He appears out of place, he works his hands together, he shifts on his feet, avoids eye contact, but he stops. Not good with this, this relationship stuff, on any level, but at the very least he's listening. That's a start. He goes so far as to allow John to continue down to the landing, and even to the front door.
"John, I didn't..."
"You never do," says John, and he steps out.
Of course he forgets a coat.
How that man (boy-child-idiot) is still on speaking terms with his family is a full on miracle to John, and without a doubt all Mycroft's doing. A lifetime of wheedling attempts to keep his brother out of the coffin, the poor house, the drug house. Sherlock doesn't need a flatmate so much as a sitter, so much as a maid, so much as a wake up call.
When he comes back, temper cooled, extremities near frozen stiff, there's fresh tea waiting. Sherlock has his back to him but he turns subtly as he enters. He waits a short beat, choosing his timing and, inexplicably, begins. His voice is mellow and free of inflection.
"I should apol—"
"Silence," John intercepts, and sits moodily.
He recalls no dream that night.
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9.
Spin on another day or two (they had begun to look and feel alike by then) and they have a prospect, a suspect. Goodie, Sherlock had said. An actual case.
And John curses the day.
Butter knives might be blunt, yes, but given enough finesse….
John finds him writhing.
He'd only been minutes behind him, his stride not as wide, but it was enough. Things can happen fast. He should know. Change comes on like the shift of the wind. As soon as you feel it going it's already gone, too late. Everything in the moment of finding him on the floor, to reaching him, to assessing and getting a grip, that moment screams, you monster, screams for him to go against his better judgement and to pull the knife free.
Somehow, beyond doubt and training and experience, it will cure his state, his bleeding, God, the blood, and bring back normality. But, he knows better.
Instead, he tears his jumper over his head and presses it to the wound, right underneath the jutting utensil, right in his side, right where it shouldn't be. It's seeping through already. Ribs, lungs, muscle, bone. He tries not to picture them. He knows he has to calm him, has to secure the location, has to get help. And help isn't going to stumble upon them on the sixth floor of a dilapidated complex.
So, he also has to think.
While Sherlock hyperventilates.
Think.
While Sherlock groans.
Think.
"Sherlock…."
He attempts to soothe.
"Sher…."
But he's grabbing at him now, face a white veil, eyes crazed, hands clawing.
"He went—" he's trying to explain but doubles over, the statement dies.
John supports him as he faints.
"Whoa! Sherlock."
He holds him there, half kneeling, overwhelmed. The suspect's door is hanging open. It's lit inside, empty. He can see where they came together in a clash. The blood begins there at the threshold, three perfect specks leading a trail to a sudden splash, to bloodied, smudged footprints, to swiping fingerprints, to….
Think.
So, he does what he has to.
He takes the only clear action to him.
He calls it in, voice an unsteady tidal wave of octaves, and then he carries (drags, lugs, almost drops) Sherlock down six floors of stairs.
Every moment counting, every second precious.
They can't wait to be found, even if that instinct to stay put is good sense, he can't wait. The cavalry might take too long. They might fumble on the floors.
He manages to pull him out to the street, to the signs of life outside, absolution. His mobile gripped in his mit, smeared with blood, and his face, his hands, the entire front of his shirt.
People quickly notice.
The medics arrive a grueling time later. They find him propped against the suspect's building, Sherlock's head in his lap, crowd formed. He doesn't remember much else until after they get him to the hospital, but he does know he fought, he yelled, he made a scene. And he could care less. He really could, because he was dying.
Sherlock was dying in his arms.
"And what an obituary it would have been," Sherlock is saying now. "Death by butter knife. How dull…. Forgive the joke. I wouldn't admit to it. If there were an afterlife. Could you imagine?"
"No," John replies.
"Couldn't imagine an afterlife, or couldn't imagine me dead?"
John fidgets.
"Both? And don't make jokes. And... stop thinking," he demands. "You're lying in a hospital bed for Christ sake."
"And that makes a difference how?"
John draws close, but not to inspect.
He largely wants to stay out of the loop where his injury is concerned.
For now.
"How's your drip there?"
He pokes the IV bag gently, busying himself. And failing.
"Trying to knock me out?" Sherlock asks.
"I might want some, at this rate," he explains.
In the last hour both Mycroft and Lestrade have made their expected appearances.
Only Mycroft didn't look relieved.
That's not to say he wasn't, he just looked drawn out, stressed. That might have struck John more, as he never alludes anything, but he's stressed enough himself. Busy fighting off the rage, the need to sleep, the unholy washes of guilt to fully pursue.
He does silently commiserate.
"Write yourself a prescription."
John ignores him.
What he needs a chemist can't give him.
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10.
John finds Sherlock home, in his chair, coiled up, probably painfully so, half a day later.
His first impulse is to punch the daylights out of him but he also can't, being a doctor, bring himself to abuse the ill, no matter how deserving. So, he settles for scolding. Pointless, yes, but a good yell can have its advantages.
"You…."
"Come on, John," Sherlock goads.
"You…."
"One word after the other, John."
"You... stupid, irresponsible child."
"Good show."
"Shut UP," he roars.
Sherlock raises his arms in feigned defense.
"I can see, so clearly, why you don't have a boyfriend." He pauses too long. "Or girlfriend."
Sherlock's face becomes terrifyingly emotionless. He tilts his head just so, hospital gown sliding down a shoulder. He doesn't bother hiking it back up. He didn't bother dressing.
John braces.
"Because…."
He sucks in a shot of air, usually reserved for those verbal observational avalanches, so John prepares for the jabs, the dry quips, the write-off, and the dismissal.
"I already have one?" Sherlock shifts, thoughtful. "Well. Not traditionally, of course."
John gapes.
"What? What do you mean?"
Sherlock shrugs, winces, but he's also grinning.
For a moment.
Now he's introspective, eye contact voided.
"Oh, John. How do you get on?"
John comes closer, daring to fully realize the extent of his injury, the extent of his shame.
"I need someone to hold my hand, apparently. What do you mean?"
He sits in his chair, the one in company of Sherlock's.
He's all out staring him down, might not be blinking.
He is ignored.
"I dreamt of you," Sherlock considers, looking at the floor.
It's an indication, to someone who knows him well, that he's perplexed.
John is on the edge of his seat.
"You were…."
His brow furrows.
"What?" John pushes.
"...kissing my knuckles."
John leans back, far, far away, but he can't stop the nervous words, the verbal vomit.
"Like, you were royalty? Or? And why is it so… ordinary? You usually dream in confusing metaphors and bugs... and album covers. Why is it... so straightforward this time? Kissing?"
"My hands were cold."
John frowns.
"You were warming them, John. That's why I came home. And you're rambling."
John relents, merely being.
His frown eventually evaporates.
"Oh."
Because he missed him.
"But, let me get this straight…."
He does want it cleared up a bit, if he could, would, should be so kind.
"You said..."
"Yes," Sherlock finishes for him, curt. He adds, under his breath, "The Eros to my Thanatos."
"Okay then," and John stalls, taps out.
Still too unsure about giving it voice.
"Now that that's out of the way," Sherlock sighs, and begins the task of narrating all his findings on the present case and the man desperate enough to stab a detective with a common household kitchen utensil, and...
John soaks it up.
Sherlock missed him.
That's enormous.
In these occurrences of human tendency, of true human feeling in Sherlock, John has the revelation, that there is no choice but to accept defeat, celebrate, and take the hits, and the guilt, and the second guesses. Some with a limping stride. Some with a clenched fist.
He knows Sherlock will manage to find him at the end of each gauntlet, and they'll get through it, tough it out, to the raggedy end of whichever royal road together. He's too clever not to.
At least, that's what John was completely sold on before this case.
Sherlock spoke little of premonitions and shared dreams over his analysis dialogue.
Likely dismissal, and likely doubt. John can't say otherwise.
He knows of doubt though.
They have history.
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