No Knight Without a King
Quoth the author: Disclaim all!
When Sherlock went to bed that night, he had smiled before shutting the door.
John wasn't certain to make of the odd smile, save for the fact that it made him anxious. At the best of times, Sherlock wasn't the smiling type, and the bizarre closed mouth smile he had given before he disappeared behind his bedroom door was strange.
John's shoulder was acting up that night, and so he found himself in the living room, watching the crap telly on mute, and drinking a cup of dreadful cold coffee.
It was then that he heard a strange sound coming from Sherlock's room. Initially, he decided to shrug it off, as sometimes Sherlock would stay up all night with his chemistry set and explosives.
John cocked his ear towards the door, watching the coalescing lights from the ever-changing television set on the wall. He debated for a long while on going back upstairs, maybe knocking on Sherlock's door under the pretence of saying goodnight.
The noises abated, however, and John concluded that Sherlock had finally turned in for the night. Sighing, John stood up and stretched, and went back upstairs.
He paused for a moment in front of Sherlock's door, resting his hand softly on the doorframe. John remembered the soft smile Sherlock had given, just in passing as John went by.
It was unsettling.
Most things Sherlock did were unsettling, though. John shrugged it off again, and went to bed.
When John awoke again, he had a strange feeling in his chest; that fierce sense of anxiety that plagued him in Afghanistan. Instantly, he was on his feet, and wrenched open his door.
He leaned heavily on his door, when he saw that Sherlock's door was wide open. He stood still, listening for any movements downstairs, or within the dark hole of Sherlock's room. Squinting into the darkness, John took a quick look around Sherlock's room. The only thing that seemed out of order was the complete disarray of his bed. The fitted sheet had pulled away from the bottom corner, and the blankets draped halfway to the floor. John noticed the red blanket he had gotten for Sherlock on Christmas was missing.
Cautiously, John walked downstairs, guided partially from the light of the still-flickering television. As he reached the landing, a draft bit at his ankles. Furrowing his brow in confusion, John took a cursory glance around the living room, and then into the kitchen, before continuing down into the main foyer. The clock on the wall read 4:52, so Mrs. Hudson would certainly be asleep.
Taking great pains to be silent, John descended the last stair, and saw the light from the street filtering through the front door.
Some snowflakes wafted in, fat and wet. John made to shut the door, but stopped, the anxious feeling pulling him outdoors for a moment. He was glad of that moment, as his deduction skill had increased dramatically since moving into 221B Baker Street.
There was a footprint in the wet snow. A bare footprint. It had been there for approximately ten minutes, going by the snow accumulated on it and the rate of the snow falling. The footprint was obviously a man's, John reasoned, at least six feet tall. The footprint had a match, several matches, in fact, leading off into the silent street.
All at once, John jumped up, and put his shoes on, hurrying along the trail of footprints.
It didn't take much to deduce whose footprints they were.
"Sherlock…" John hissed under his breath, wishing he had grabbed a coat. It had been chilly in the flat, though, so at least he was wearing a sweater. His pajama pants flapped in the cold wind as he ran.
As he ran alongside the footprints, they became easier to see, which was heartening. They twisted in irrational routes, and zigzagged across the alleys.
God forbid that the trail should end without his treasure at the end of it. John swallowed, and followed Sherlock's footprints, his heart pounding madly.
He heard another shuffling sound, and dashed around a corner.
The trail continued down most of the alley, but seemed to disappear behind a huge pile of bins. John hurried to the bins, and called out Sherlock's name, skidding to a halt.
Sherlock was there, just on the other side of the bins, clumsily wrapped up in his red blanket. He was murmuring something, from his crouched position next to the bins.
"I'm lost…" Sherlock mumbled, placing his head on his knees. "All of the fire, and then that sound… John…"
"Sherlock…" John very gently touched the taller man's shoulders, making him jump.
"Don't touch me!" Sherlock gasped. Upon meeting John's worried gaze, Sherlock seemed to snap out of whatever delusion he was experiencing, and stood up immediately. "John." He said shortly, taking in the surrounding area. "Paddington…? What are we doing here, John? Where are my shoes? Where is your coat?" Sherlock shivered, and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.
"I don't know what you're doing, but I came to find you."
"You were asleep." Sherlock looked John over carefully. "But you weren't sleeping well, because of a disturbance. A disturbance in the flat… Is Mrs. Hudson all right?"
"I assume so." John slowly touched Sherlock's shoulder, this attention was met with a sharp glance. "Sherlock, what do you remember?"
"Nothing." Sherlock answered, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Nothing." He reiterated, in a more natural tone. "Shall we head back?"
John eyed Sherlock with suspicion, but followed him back, keeping closer to the taller man than he normally would have.
Upon arriving at home, John trailed behind Sherlock, taking a bit longer than necessary to remove his shoes and secure the front door. Sherlock wearily went up the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing.
John hastened to the living room, where Sherlock had settled on his favourite chair. His piercing blue eyes were fixed firmly on the bullet-riddled smiley face.
"Sherlock." John saying his name was enough to shake Sherlock from his meditation, and he slowly slid his gaze over.
"John." He countered, still clutching the blanket close to himself and drawing his knees up to his chest.
"What the hell was that, hm?" John sat on the edge of his own chair, leaning forward.
"It was…" Sherlock paused, and steepled his fingers over his lips. "I don't actually know."
John blinked, hardly believing he'd just heard those words. "You don't know?" Mildly amused, John sat back. "The great Sherlock Holmes doesn't know-?"
"No, I bloody well don't!" Sherlock snapped, slamming his hands on the arms of his chair. He immediately looked embarrassed, glancing at the floor. "It's late. I'm going to bed." Smoothly, Sherlock stood up, and swept the blanket around, striding forward.
"Sherlock, I'm sorry." John caught Sherlock's arm, standing up beside him. "God, you're shaking. Are you all right?"
"Knowing is all I ever had to go on, John." Sherlock said softly, allowing his voice to tremble a bit. "What am I supposed to do, or say, when I honestly don't know?"
"Sherlock… come on, sit down, all right? I'll make you a cuppa and we can talk about it. Just relax here and organise your thoughts."
Sherlock obliged, sinking back into his chair. John pulled the afghan off the couch, and dropped it in Sherlock's lap before heading to the kitchen.
As he prepared the tea, he watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.
The slender man seemed to be trying to talk sense to himself, with his eyes shut. He murmured unspoken words, his hands together again, as if he were praying.
John returned with the tea, and gently touched Sherlock's shoulder, causing the man to look up. He took the saucer, and John noted that his hands were still shaking.
"So…" John settled into his chair, looking at Sherlock seriously. "If you don't remember everything, tell me what you do remember."
"I've been trying to figure it out from the evidence I have. To begin with, I recall a dream, which is unusual."
"What was the dream of?" John held his tea, but didn't drink it, looking intently at Sherlock.
"There was a fire… and I had to save you." Sherlock stared into his teacup. "It was some kind of castle, and I had to cut the doors with my sword. I had some kind of sword, and armour."
"Armour? Were you a knight or something?"
"A knight. Yes, that's logical. When I found you… you were already…" Sherlock swallowed, and took a drink of his tea.
"What?"
"You looked dead. I tried to carry you, but something grabbed my arms."
John tried to catch Sherlock's gaze, but was ignored in favour of the surface of Sherlock's tea. "What then?" He urged, wondering if he should just let it be.
"I believe I woke up then." Sherlock put his tea on his endtable, and extracted his long arms from his blanket shawl. "I have these." He held his forearms out, and John nearly dropped his cup.
Angry red marks slashed through Sherlock's pale arms, some oozing tiny pearls of blood.
"Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" John hurriedly put his tea down, and gently held Sherlock's arms. "Why didn't you say so sooner?"
"They're superficial wounds. Barely through my skin at all."
"Still!" John ran his fingers over the ridged wounds. "What are these from?"
"I don't remember. From the angles and relative shallowness, I assume they are self-inflicted."
Self-inflicted. John mouthed, his mind automatically summoning up the terrifying image of Sherlock doing that to his own body.
"There is also a cut on my foot, but I attribute that to some glass or refuse from the streets."
"Sherlock."
"Really, I can't believe I forgot to put shoes on."
"Sherlock."
"I suppose the sanitation workers came on Tuesday, though, so a bit of sharp rubbish isn't unheard of, especially near Paddington at the wrong hours of the night, given that it's quite a shortcut to-"
"Sherlock!" John raised his voice, looking sharply at the other man, who looked down at him, alarmed.
"What, John?"
"Don't get all analytical right now! Can't you just be scared and confused, and let me look after this?"
"Surely you've seen worse than this, John. This will be fine."
"It's different from that." John's gaze darkened, and a brief barrage of memories of that place flickered over his minds eye.
"How?"
"It's you, Sherlock." Gingerly, John placed his warm hand over Sherlock's arm. "Even a scratch feels like a shot to the heart when it's you."
There was a long silence, interrupted by the snowbirds beginning to awaken on the street.
"I'm sorry I scared you, John." Sherlock said measuredly, as if he wasn't certain about which word should come next.
"Let me look after this, all right?"
Sherlock nodded, looking at John curiously as he went to get the first aid kit from the kitchen. When John returned, Sherlock touched his hand over the handle of the first aid box. "I appreciate you, John."
"You had better." John frowned, pulling a few pieces of gauze from the kit and some antiseptic.
As he began to apply the antiseptic, Sherlock hissed slightly. "That stings."
"Don't be a baby, you said it was fine."
"Of course it's fine. It's all fine."
John blinked, realising Sherlock was repeating words he himself had once said. "Sherlock… do you remember, the first time we had dinner?"
Sherlock seemed to catch on right away. "Of course."
"I said it was all fine, and I'd just like to… restate that. Whatever you need, I'm your man. For whatever, it's all fine."
"That's quite a grand statement." Sherlock said.
"It is what it is." John wrapped Sherlock's right arm, and secured it with a bit of tape.
Sherlock caught John's hand, and brought it to his lips, placing a soft kiss there. "You're my king."
"Wh-what?"
"My dream. I remembered now. I was a knight. You were my king."
"I'm not sure what to say to that."
"You needn't say anything." Sherlock released John's hand, and sat back, keeping his eyes shut, as John looked after his other arm.
"Sherlock…" John said softly, after finishing up and noticing he had started to drift off in the chair. "Why do you think you cut yourself?"
"Endogenous opioids." Sherlock replied, without opening his eyes. "I was upset. I suppose in my efforts to assuage those feelings, I came to this conclusion." Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, looking at the ceiling. "I just remembered. You were walking away from me, you escaped the fire. I chased after you."
"Explains the sleepwalking." John mumbled, and touched Sherlock's foot. "Can I?"
Sherlock waved his hand for John to go ahead. "You'd do it even if I declined."
"Of course I would." John smiled, and examined the wound. "This is pretty deep, but it's not bleeding very much. How are you going to jump across buildings with this, hm?"
"I suppose I'll need a… pogo stick or something."
They both burst into laughter, and just as quickly silenced themselves, lest they awaken Mrs. Hudson.
Sherlock yawned tremendously, and set his foot down slowly as John finished dressing it. "I suppose I should turn in."
"Lestrade said something about meeting him tomorrow, right?"
"Yes, I believe he wanted some consultation regarding dog hair, which I'm convinced that if the suspect was in the area, he would have left the dog collar behind."
"Okay…" John shut the first aid box, and returned it to the kitchen. As Sherlock walked past the door, he stopped at the kitchen entrance.
"John."
"Hm?" John stowed the first aid box away, and turned to Sherlock, rubbing one eye.
"May I sleep in your room?"
John paused, with his finger still jammed into his closed eye. "Um…"
"Forget it." Sherlock said quickly, scurrying down the hall and to the stairs.
John stood momentarily frozen in the kitchen, removing his finger from his eye as he contemplated the implications of Sherlock's request. Surely with Sherlock, it wasn't anything sexual. It must just be a security reason. Maybe to ensure he didn't wander off again? Sighing, John ventured upstairs once more, and opened Sherlock's door.
Sherlock was standing in the middle of his room, at the foot of his bed, staring at a smear of rust brown on his wall.
"There's blood here." Sherlock stated, an observation John thought to be obvious. "Blood is often used in rituals of rebirth, and to establish a connection between two people."
"That's… creepy." John said. "Are you coming to bed?"
Sherlock stopped, with his hand across the blood on his wall. He turned, his icy eyes wide. "What…?"
"Are you coming to bed?" John repeated. "There's creepy blood all over the walls in here. Surely you want to sleep in a mostly blood-free room?"
"John. I must assure you… I don't mean anything untoward…"
"No no, I got that." John walked closer to Sherlock, and readjusted his blanket, rubbing the taller man's shoulders. "It's just somewhere safe, all right? I'll keep you safe from the nightmares."
"You have your own nightmares to deal with."
"True, but you'll look after me, won't you?"
Sherlock's eyes sparkled. "Yes, yes of course."
"Come on then." John led the way to bed, and smoothed out the rumpled linens. "Sorry, I haven't done my laundry in a while." He gathered up a multitude of sweaters, and swept them into a pile, busily tidying up.
"John…" Sherlock stood on the threshold. "John, I don't mind the mess."
"I know, it's just-" John considered Sherlock, thinking of the customary state of the living room. "Right."
"I'm… I'm rather tired."
"Do you have a bedside preference?"
"I'd like the right side, I suppose."
"Right on, get comfortable."
"John…?"
"Hm?"
"My clothes… they're rather dirty. I don't want to track into your bed."
"Take em off then. It's always too hot in this room because of the heat registers." John proceeded to pull off his shirt, hoping to instill some kind of confidence in Sherlock.
"Take off… I've never really been naked around anyone before, John."
"Not naked. Come on. And what about Buckingham?"
"I was going to see the Queen. It only seemed appropriate."
"Right, well, I'm exhausted. Stay clothed, get undressed, stand there all night. I'm going to sleep." John settled into bed on the left side of the bed.
Sherlock smiled softly when he noted the tell-tale signs that John always slept on the right side of the bed, realising the extent to which John was trying to accommodate him.
After a moment's consideration, Sherlock slid out of his pajama pants, quickly getting under the covers.
"Skinny legs." John said, sounding sleepy.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Here." John fidgeted, and touched Sherlock's leg with his foot. "You've got skinny legs."
"I think you're over-tired, John."
"Could be. Your legs are still skinny."
There was along silence, and Sherlock finally relaxed, listening to the sound of John's breathing. "John…" he whispered, testing to see if he had fallen asleep.
"What is it…? What's goin on?"
"Thank you. I don't know what I would have done."
"You'd find your way back." John mumbled into his pillow. "Back to our castle, hm?"
"Our castle…" Sherlock felt his eyelids growing heavy, and slid further down into the bed, shrinking back at a cool spot in the blankets. He touched John's leg again, but left his own there, surprisingly comforted by the contact.
"Man's home's his castle." John mumbled. "You're my king. King of the castle, and there's a dirty rascal."
"Who's a dirty rascal?" Sherlock asked, confused.
"I dunno. Anderson?"
The both snickered, and Sherlock moved his arm under the blanket. "John… I'm not sure why… but I feel very comfortable here."
"Good, now go to sleep. I can hear people moving outside."
"Would you be embarrassed if I moved closer?"
"No… It's always smart to keep a knight close to the king."
Sherlock remained silent, allowing John to finally fall asleep. He lay in bed for a few moments, and tentatively touched John's hand, curious.
He nearly jumped out his skin when John grabbed his hand. "Don't you go anywhere." John mumbled. "Doctor's orders."
"Yes, doctor." Sherlock smiled, and then drifted away to sleep.
xoxoxo
It also occurs to me now that Sherlock was in shock, he had a blanket.
Yeah! This is my first fanfiction in… years at least. I've been busy with my novels and stuff, they're boy's love, fantasy set in the afterlife. Tombstone digs, google it if you want! Haha!
Thank youuuu!