Only If For the Night
It was the cold that woke me. I had reached that annoying state when your body can't obtain enough heat from the bed sheets to keep you slumbering. Blearily I sat up and quickly realised the source of the problem. My sheets were tangled around my legs and the duvet had been kicked to the floor.
"Damn." Absently I kick and shuffle my legs about on the bed trying to get them free but they're stuck fast. "Bloody hell!" Growing both increasingly frustrated and more awake, I tug at the sheets to no avail. If anything the knots seem tighter. I feel my heart begin to race, surely I am capable of escaping a few tangled sheets, so why the feeling of panic, of hopelessness?
The tugging becomes clawing. I'm accidentally carving up the skin around the sheets. I ignore the pain and continue my struggle, desperate to free myself. Gritting my teeth I give an almighty tug causing me to lose my balance and fall to the floor.
Splat.
No. Not splat. It should be a thud. I'm meant to hit the floor. I look to my hands; they are covered in a thick dark liquid. Mud. And something else, something darker, almost the colour of beetroot. I swallow thickly.
I'm back in Afghanistan.
I inhale sharply through my nose, the air smells of dirt and sulfate. I dry heave but thankfully nothing more. No time to be sick. Have to move. Have to get back to base. Have to clean the wound. I drag myself forward on my elbows and collapse instantly as pain explodes from my shoulder. The wound is fresh. I opt to crawl, trying to lift my legs but they lay useless beneath me. This isn't right. My legs worked fine. It was only after I got back in London that my knee started acting up.
Pull yourself together, John. Get up.
I bite down hard on my bottom lip instantly tasting blood. With a guttural growl I heave all my weight onto my good arm and push up with my legs. I manage to right myself but only for a second. I don't even see the cyclist till they knock me down.
The asphalt rushes up to meet my head, I break the fall with my wounded shoulder. I see the wheels of the cyclist disappear out of view. I blink. There are white lights everywhere. Is this from the pain? From the shock of falling? From you falling…
You fell. I remember now. Quickly I push all the pain to the back of my mind. I get up, stumbling forward. I need to see if you're okay.
There is no way you could be okay, you jumped from the top of the hospital, but then I thought Irene Adler was dead so what would I know. I see the dark shadowy mass of the crumpled figure lying there. It's you. I grab at you wrist but there are all these hands grabbing back at me. Pushing. Pulling.
I felt no pulse.
It has to be a trick though. You were all about tricks. What am I missing? I glance around, more white lights, everywhere, blocking out the faces of the crowd. Blocking out the buildings. They're blinding me. I raise my hand to shield my face, your voice cracks over the intercom.
"Concentrate. John, concentrate."
You never spoke to me over the intercom at Baskerville's. I spoke to you in panicked whispers from a cage I'd lock myself in. You were there that whole time watching me, playing sounds over the speakers, playing games with my mind.
"Sherlock! Stop it!" I shout, feeling a mix of fear and frustration.
Suddenly you're standing beside me, spinning me to face you. "Shh! John, concentrate! I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes." Your hands are at the side of my face, I want to obey, to shut my eyes but I can't stop staring at the deep red that stains your forehead.
This isn't right. None of this makes sense it's all jumbled. Your dialogue. These events. You lean in closer, our noses almost touching, "If I were dying, if I was being murdered, in your last few seconds what would you say? To me?"
"Please God. Don't let him be dead." I can hear my own voice break as I say it.
This is mortifying, I am about to cry in front of you. I raise my hands to meet yours where they remain still clasped firmly on the side on my head. Where there should be contact I'm met with air. You're transparent. Intangible. A ghost. "What - - What is happening?"
You step away from me, a look of deep regret etched into your brow. You open your arms wide and for a fleeting second I think you're gesturing for a hug. But you're Sherlock Holmes, you don't do hugs. Except for Mrs. Hudson.
There's something clenched tight in your right fist, I can't make it out at first but then I see the tiny red button peeking out from under your thumb. It's a detonator. But for what? My chest suddenly feels heavy, I look down and there strapped to me are rows of semtex.
"Oh Christ, Sherlock. No. This isn't happening."
"It's okay." You state solemnly, I'm not even sure it's a direct response to what I said.
"HOW IS THIS OKAY!?" I spit angrily, gesturing to the vest of explosives.
I take a step towards you. Your left hand manifests a glass of wine, the one you threw on yourself at the restaurant the night we first met. You throw it at me but it's not wine I taste on my lips, it's brandy.
The detonator has been replaced with the lighter you got in Buckingham Palace, my eyes widen with the realisation of what is about to happen. Before I can react the lighter ignites and you press it to my clothes, the flames leap up my brandy soaked jumper, spreading from my hand up to my neck. I swat wildly at the flames. I should remain calm. I should stop drop and roll but this was so unexpected.
Eventually logic prevails and I hit the ground rolling around in attempts to extinguish the ever growing flames.
You're standing over me, back lit from some glow outside the window. You're looking down at me with intense curiosity giving me that "we both know what's going on here" face. I've come to know that look so well. The only problem is I haven't the faintest clue what is going on or how I'm going to get out of this alive. You squat down next to me, the flames continuing to spread across my chest. I feel as though I should be panicking but instead feel an odd sense of calm. You smirk at me. You're impressed, but by what?
"Everybody wants to believe it, John. They need to. That's what makes it so clever. A lie that's preferable to the truth. You're clever, work it out."
You stand, heading towards the door. As you're putting on your scarf I can hear you say one final word before the crackling of the flames consumes my face.
"Concentrate."
I shut my eyes tight, beads of sweat mixing with tears and brandy. "Stop this. Just stop this." I turn to look but once again the white light clouds my vision, only this time I think I'm fainting. From the heat. From the pain. From the heartache.
"Please…"
I sit bolt upright on the living room floor taking in large gulps of air. There's no fire, but there is pain. I've fallen off the couch and onto my brandy glass. The bottle sits nearby with barely a snifter left. My tongue feels thick and fuzzy almost as if I have been drinking from the rug. Maybe I did. It all seems a bit of a blur. That is the last time I drink spirits. Why was I even drinking brandy in the first place? I hate the stuff. Perhaps its genetics. No doubt everyone in my family will descend in to alcoholism. I can spend more family time with Harry at AA meetings. Brilliant.
Blearily I blink away the drunken haze. I've cut my arm from where I rolled into the glass, I can't tell if the glass broke when it fell or if it broke by me rolling on it during my violent night terrors. My body feels bruised as if I bumped into a great many things before winding up on the floor.
Sighing, I heave myself up, taking the weight on my good leg. In the back of my mind I wonder if I will ever forget about you enough to walk normally once more. Post-traumatic stress twice in one life, how lucky can you get?
As I shuffle my feet across the cool of the bathroom tiles I can feel my mind begin to sober up. Rolling up the sleeve of my t-shirt reveals a decent gash but no glass. Well, that's somewhat of a relief. Ideally it could do with a few stitches but I don't have the patience. I opt for make shift butterfly clamps out of plasters. I will bind it tight enough that the bleeding should stop in a matter of minutes. I've certainly survived worse. As long as I don't do anything too strenuous within the next few days it should be fine.
My shirt however is ruined; the blood is already turning a copper brown as it dries. No amount of soaking will save this and what does it matter it's just a crummy old t-shirt anyway. Gingerly I ease the fabric off and let it drop. I will deal with that in the morning or when I'm more sober, whichever happens first.
As I turn off the bathroom light I hear a click. Not the usual click of the switch but the unmistakable sound of my front door.
No one knows my new address except for Mycroft. I wouldn't even tell Mrs. Hudson, I didn't want her popping by all biscuits and sympathy. The front floor boards always squeak whenever anyone walks on them. I wait with baited breath for the squeak.
Nothing.
Either no one is there and I forgot to put the latch down or it's you. Only Sherlock Holmes would find my address, sneak into my apartment at some ungodly hour and know, somehow, what floorboards to avoid.
But it can't be you. You're dead.
I can't tell if it is the brandy clouding my sense of reasoning but every fiber of my being is humming. Despite what I've seen, despite what I've come to accept as truth, I know it's you. You were always performing the impossible.
I right myself, shrugging my shoulders, tensing every last muscle in my back. My breathing is steady. The initial shock aside, I'm not shaking, which is good thing, because when I punch you I want to make sure I give it my all.