Two weeks after their return from Dartmoor everything seems fine. John forgave Sherlock his deeply hurtful comments on the basis that he was drugged and terrified at the time, and when they got home Sherlock made it up to him properly, over a long weekend. Things are going so well, he can almost forget about anything other than their immediate existence together.
Almost, but not quite, Mycroft had released Moriarty the same day Franklin had blown himself to bits, things are in motion, it won't be long before something happens, he can't see all ends, but he's been preparing, it's possible he'll be able to contain the damage, that he won't have to scorch the earth, that he and John will be able to remain as they are without interruption, if anyone can manage it he and Mycroft together should be able to, it doesn't bear worrying about at this point...
It's the middle of the day on a Saturday and they've been following a uniquely nimble cat burglar who, in addition to jewelry and cash also takes old family photographs, even staying an unwise amount of time in the houses after he's found the valuables in order to locate them. Unfortunately, the man seems to have just gotten wind of them and is now running for it.
Sherlock breaks into a sprint and hears John do likewise. He can easily outpace John when walking, but at a dead run John is ultimately faster. He's not surprised, then, when John flies past him in only a few moments. They skid around a corner after the suspect, ending up in a wide alley. He's fast but Sherlock suspects he's lacking in stamina. They shouldn't have much trouble catching up.
John is indeed gaining on the man, with Sherlock just keeping up when everything goes dark. Completely dark, like a light switch being flipped in a windowless room. Before Sherlock can even fully register what's happened, he stumbles and slams into the pavement.
"Damn it, he went up!" He hears John curse from somewhere up ahead. "We'll never be a match for him on the roofs. Bloody acrobat."
Sherlock barely notices the words, dark, why is it dark, there is nothing, nothing at all, he blinks but it's all the same, he can't even see John, though he can still feel him at the back of his mind, blind, blind, how can he be blind with no warning, it's preposterous, and yet no matter how hard he looks he can't see anything, what if he never sees anything again...
He feels himself starting to spiral and grounds himself quickly. Pavement beneath his hands. The moist, acrid scent of London air after a first good spring rain. The sound of John's feet trotting towards him with urgency.
"Sherlock, what happened? You all right?"
He's stayed down just long enough to trigger John's concern. That won't do. He shifts just slightly so John can't see his face, and pretends to be inspecting his foot. "Yes, of course," he says calmly. "Uneven paving stone."
John mustn't know, not yet, not until Sherlock's thought it through, not until he understands what's happening to him, he has to think and he won't be able to with John worrying at him...
"Help me up, please. I believe I've injured my ankle."
John hauls him up and as he does so, Sherlock rolls his ankle, hard. John will insist upon examining it and there will have to be some swelling.
"The mighty Sherlock Holmes, taken out by a lowly paving stone...Can you put weight on it?" John asks.
Sherlock makes a show of trying and lets out a little grunt, calculated to convince John that it's giving him a great deal of pain but that he's trying be stoic.
"Christ, that's not good. Here, lean on me and we'll try and get a taxi home." John slings Sherlock's arm across his shoulder and helps him hobble towards the nearest main road.
Perfect, the less John sees of his eyes the better, now John's got a focus, he won't be looking for anything else, it gives Sherlock time...
In the taxi, Sherlock turns his head to the window and scans his eyes back and forth, unseeing. John assumes he is thinking of how now to trap their aerially gifted larcenist and lets him be. When they arrive home, John helps him up the stairs and to his chair. He examines Sherlock and pronounces it just a mild sprain, based mostly on Sherlock's faked reactions to his manipulations. He wraps it efficiently and orders him to keep it up with an ice pack on it for the rest of the day.
Sherlock is more than happy to comply. That will avoid him having to navigate the flat too much. He's memorized it well enough, but things do get moved and he wouldn't want to trip and give himself away.
He thanks John, with just enough of an edge of sarcasm to keep him from getting suspicious, and tilts his head all the way back, closing his eyes.
Now he can panic, John won't question him in this posture, as long as he doesn't move he can let it overwhelm him as it will eventually no matter what, let it cycle through as many times as it needs to until it subsides, like being stuck in a washing machine of fear, he hates the dark, so boring, so empty of data, he should focus on his other senses but the darkness keeps drawing his attention back, the void, the physical manifestation of something that has stalked him since he was a child, and he thought once he had John it meant he'd escaped it, it was unable to withstand John's brightness, but now here it is again and not even John has light to drive it off, he'd left it and it's come to claim him now, blindness is just not being able to see, he knows, but that's not what this feels like, it feels like being dragged back down to what he'd thought he was free of, he has no anchor when he's like this, why can't he see John at least, that part was always technically just in his mind, not through his eyes, it should still work even if his eyes don't, does this mean his brain is malfunctioning, what else might be wrong, what else might he lose, his reason, his intellect, would he even know it if they left him...
It goes on like that for hours, Sherlock trying to think his way out of the hysteria and almost making it. But the darkness is still there, no longer a thing that lurks in the back of his psyche, tightly under guard, but now literally surrounding him, fully manifested in a way he can't flee, ignore, or fight. What he wouldn't give for any kind of opiate right now, anything to slow him down. If there were some in the flat, he'd probably succumb, calling it medical necessity, but he can hardly ask John. Saying it was for the pain in his ankle would never work. John knows a junkie's gambit when he hears it.
Just when his brain seems about to literally tear itself apart, the thrall breaks. Not entirely. Just enough for him to get a foothold, to begin to force it back in the locked basement rooms where it belongs. It must take hours for him to get it under control, if not completely silent, because by the time he's back to himself properly, he can no longer feel the afternoon sun on him. Sometime after 6pm, then, although he can't be any surer than that. He loses time so easily.
John is in the room, typing on his laptop, and is probably distracted enough that Sherlock can risk moving. He gets up slowly and, being careful to limp a little, makes his way through what he hopes is the obstacle-free path to the bathroom. He reaches it without incident and splashes some cold water on his face. Now he has a dilemma.
Sherlock can feel the stubble growing in on his cheeks. It's like microscopic spiders crawling over his face. He shaves twice a day just to avoid the sensation, unless he's out on a case or undercover. Such activities make him forget about physical unpleasantnesses like facial hair, body odours, dirt, grime, and rough clothing against the skin, at least until they are over and his attention is no longer taken up entirely with the work.
He's always been like this when not high or working hard, sensory issues, some people call it, the seam of a shirt rubbing against him, dirt under his nails, grease in his hair, being touched with more than a handshake by most people, they all set up an unpleasant tingle in his brain, make his skin crawl until he wants to tear it off of himself, sometimes it's even physically painful, he's learned to cope with it through fastidiousness, keeping strong personal boundaries, avoiding certain textures and fabrics, it mostly works, and now he has John who never sets those sirens off, knows how to silence them for him, at least temporarily, but right now he has no way to distract himself from the itching and burning, he can't shave blind and he can't bear not to, he's only just gotten a grip again...
He'll have to tell John, he realises. He would have had to at some point anyway, and he'll need John to help figure out what's happened and why, and hopefully reverse it. It might as well be now and reduce the risk of his own nervous system pushing him over the brink as well. He's far too near it as things stands.
"John!" he calls calmly. "Will you come in here, please? I need your help."
He hears John get up and pad towards the bathroom, probably assuming Sherlock needs a hand climbing into the shower or something similar. Sherlock faces the mirror, eyes closed and hands on the vanity supporting his weight.
"Okay..." John says slowly, after assessing his posture. "What's wrong?"
"John, I am going to tell you something and then I am going to ask you to do something for me." He keeps his tone even. "It's very important for me that you not react immediately to what I'm going to say, however much you might want to, and just do as I wish without asking me any questions right away. I cannot process an emotional outpouring or speak at length right now. Can you do that?"
John instantly puts a hand on Sherlock's back. "Of course," he says, but in the voice he uses to keep others from noticing that he's afraid.
"John, I cannot see. Not you, not your light, not at all. My vision is completely gone."
John's breath catches in a combination of relief and shock. He swallows and Sherlock can hear him open his mouth with what are surely a dozen questions and exclamations, but he bites his tongue.
"It happened very suddenly in the alley. That's why I tripped." That's really the only information he can give John at the moment.
John takes a deep breath, like he's trying to hold everything in. "What do you need me to do?" he asks, his voice hardly wavering at all.
John, so reliable, so disciplined, his doctor self, his lover self must be screaming at him to fix it, to find an answer, to diagnose and to fuss over Sherlock but he stops himself, because Sherlock has asked him not to, he's making himself be the soldier for Sherlock because that's what Sherlock needs...
"Shave me."
"What?"
"John, I need you to give me a shave. I can't use a straight razor blind and your electric one doesn't cut close enough."
John knows why Sherlock needs this, but is still hesitant. "Sherlock, I've never used a straight razor before, much less on someone else. I might hurt you."
"Oh please, you're a surgeon. You have steady hands and you can handle a blade. Just do... the opposite of what you do when you operate on someone."
"Sure, simple," John mutters under his breath. "All right, well, sit down..."
John knows the ritual, even he doesn't partake himself, he's seen Sherlock do it hundreds of times, understands how important it is for Sherlock's state of mind. Especially right now.
Sherlock sits and waits patiently. John fumblingly whisks up the lather in Sherlock's shaving bowl, but applies it correctly in smooth, circular strokes and doesn't get any up Sherlock's nose. He wraps Sherlock's face in a hot towel and the scent of eucalyptus, combined with the sandalwood from the soap, is instantly calming. When it's time to remove the towel, John wipes the dirty lather off his face with it tenderly, and the touch of his fingers is instantly calming as well.
It's amazing how the right touch from John can dispel a thousand other busy thoughts, like how a stone dropped into a pond erases the reflections in it, all the voices and images flying about his brain stop and are replaced with a single word, a single thought, John...
John lathers him again and Sherlock can feel the tension in John's body against him as he approaches with the blade. Still, his hands are rock solid and confident when he starts at Sherlock's left ear and works down, shaving with the grain of the hair. He's working very slowly, but making no mistakes. He does across Sherlock's face and under his nose, then tilts Sherlock's head back and, with a deep breath, starts on his neck and throat.
Sherlock's been shaved by barbers and servants many times before, though most often these days he prefers to do it himself. Some might be surprised at that, he supposes, given his dislike of physical contact with all but his closest associates, surprised that he's comfortable letting a stranger hold a blade to his throat. But the distant professionalism of the situation reduces his agitation, rather than increasing it. And, Sweeney Todd always excepted, most barbers are motivated not to cut up their clients. This, though, is different.
So different, it's his friend with the blade to his throat, the trust required to allow someone you know to do this is far deeper than needed for a trained coiffeur somehow, and he trusts John completely, his hand sure and his touch tender, his breath sweet on Sherlock's neck, his thighs pressing against Sherlock's as he straddles him to get the right angle, no other shave has ever been like it, Sherlock keeps his eyes tightly shut so he can forget the reasons that John has to do this at all and focus on him, on the familiar yet unfamiliar rhythm...
John is meticulous, make sure he's not missed a spot before stopping, replacing the towel, then repeating the whole process, going against the grain this time. Then a final hot towel and the sting of aftershave. Sherlock hisses sharply, but is glad for the bracing shock to bring him out of his trance. Finally there is the soothing feeling of John's palms massaging Sherlock's musky-junipery lotion into his skin.
Sherlock reaches up and runs a finger across his cheek. It's as smooth as anyone's ever got it before. And not a nick on him.
"Thank you," he says, trying to convey his sincerity in his voice. "It's... very good."
"You're welcome," John says, but then tension comes back into his tone. "Now, Sherlock, please, I need to know-"
Sherlock holds up a hand. He can't think about it again right now. His mind needs a break. "Not yet," he tells John testily. Then he softens his pitch and speaks quietly. "Please, John, I know we have to but not yet. I need to rest. This...hasn't been easy. Tomorrow, I will make myself fully available for your inquiries and examination and anything else you deem necessary. Just let me rest for tonight."
John agrees, although Sherlock can tell that it costs him. He doesn't attempt to help guide Sherlock into the bedroom, although Sherlock can feel John hovering in case he should be in danger of running into something. Sherlock refuses to put his hands out and feel his way. He undresses, and then stands in the doorway facing where John should be. "Sleep with me," he says.
John's voice comes from the other side of the kitchen than where he'd calculated, and he feels a flash of frustration at his mistake. "Yeah. Yeah, of course. But in the morning, we really have to deal with-"
Sherlock turns away and climbs into bed before John can finish that sentence. John joins him in a moment, and it is reassuring. He expects sleep to be a challenge, but his mind and body are so worn out from the day that it takes him before he even has a chance to notice he is fading.