A Portrait of a Broken Mind:
-Chapter 1-
John is a complete basket case and more than okay with it. Mary's cruelty was enough to drive any nostalgia that remained for her clean from his mind. Forget his heart. It was dead on arrival to her arms.
He shrugs his coat off, smiling at the smell of tea and a burned stack of crumpets. Mrs. Hudson's cards friends are over again. They laugh and talk like the world is going on swimmingly. Never mind that Sherlock just returned revenant from his understood grave. Never mind that John had nearly been mutilated only days ago by his bride.
John ascends the stairs, fancying a shower. He allows a smile. Everything will be alright. Mrs. Hudson is happy. He's home now, after his little misadventure with love. Home with the dear matriarch of Baker Street.
He pauses at the stairwell landing realization pervading him. He's home with the man he has come to love as his brother. Yes, and more than a brother. Sherlock is the entire family tree to John. A flourishing vine of platonic affections in his blood. He is every love language purified to one fraternal expression. To say that he's grown to adore him is an understatement.
John listens to see if Sherlock is using up all the hot water in their shower. He smiles, the smell of cinnamon wafting from their living room. Probably those cookies Mrs. Hudson was trying out. So Sherlock had attempted to eat today after all. John chuckles.
Say, why not pass by his mate's room? See if he's awake still. The lounge area is decidedly empty even though it's still rather early, for Sherlock anyway. He knows that he's home though. He saw his scarf on the coat rack.
John steals to the doorway of Sherlock's room and leans against the jam. It's a bit awkward, this. Peering in on a 33-year-old as if he is a child that John is responsible for. John sniffs back a soft laugh. Sherlock may not like it but he is a bit like a child in some respects.
The moonlight pours from the window panes like cream over Sherlock's tea brown bed sheets. He lays on top of them. It takes the moon's eclipse for John to realize that Sherlock is only half dressed. He is wearing a pair of lounge pants over his lower half. His upper half is…
John feels something cold go over his skin that he hasn't quite registered yet. He creeps closer. Yes, he's standing over Sherlock's bed. Yes, he understands that this is a violation of the young detective's privacy, but still, this is important, isn't it? Because something is wrong with Sherlock's back. It doesn't take medical expertise for Doctor Watson to see that.
Christ!
John is praying now to that same Messiah he's wrestled with since Afghanistan. He covers his mouth to keep from crying out and waking Sherlock.
Sherlock shifts a bit in his sleep, turning his face away from the moonlit window. That one motion highlights the grotesque web of scar tissue that lines his shoulders. Some of them pinch together, at last forcing up blood. Sherlock groans in his sleep. His hand goes up to scratch at the base of his shoulders. He sits up with a hiss, as a piece of stainless steel sticks in his fingers.
He pants. Then, trembling, he bows over his bed and vomits in a tiny rubbish bin.
It takes a moment of heaving and holding his stomach, rocking back and forth from the intense pain, for Sherlock to realize that John is here. His face contorts in confusion and then his eyes are wide with unexplained sadness and shame.
"Oh! Oh, my God! I'm so sorry! I had no idea you were...What are you doing home so early?" Sherlock reaches for his dressing gown and scrambles to pull it over his bleeding shoulders.
"Stop it." John reaches out and presses a hand to Sherlock's chest. Sherlock stops and looks down, using the hem of the garment to dab sick from his lips. John follows his first natural reaction and hugs Sherlock from the side, even as he pulls the dressing gown away and lets it slip to the floor.
"Why were you in my room?" Sherlock's voice is lacking its usual bite, genuinely curious. John isn't aware until he speaks that he's been crying into Sherlock's hair for a while already.
"Ahh…? Honestly, I just wondered why you were in bed so early? I came by to see if you were awake, I was going to ask you...I think I meant to ask if you'd used the shower and all the hot water. Honestly, I don't remember what I wanted to tell you now." John lays his face deeper in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock takes John's trembling hand.
"Um...It's...It's alright. I'm very sorry that you had to come across them by accident like that. It was...I suppose it was a bit not good?" Sherlock swallows as John lifts him to sitting and takes his face in both hands.
"For God's sakes, really, Sherlock? A bit? A bit?! My God...How did...How did they…?" John is weeping completely unabashed now, tears spilling to his lips as a little clicking sob escapes them. He realizes now that scars exist on Sherlock's bare chest as well. A sinking feeling overtakes John. Every inch of Sherlock that clothes normally hide is a complete network of mutilations, isn't it?
Sherlock smiles sheepishly.
"You've got questions, mm?" He cups John's cheeks in his hands as John bows his head to his chest and sobs wretched, gutted sobs.
"Oh? Please...Um...Please don't cry. It's not so bad, is it? It doesn't hurt that terribly. Not like it used to." Sherlock ruffles John's hair a bit with his fingers. John lifts his head, takes a deep breath. He reaches up and kisses Sherlock's forehead in a silent expression of gratitude that the dear man is even still alive. Sherlock's eyes go wide, expecting John to speak now.
"Okay. Mm...I'll ask my questions later. And I'm sorry to upset you, but you've got to let me be a bit weepy, eh? Can't help it at all. This...What they've done to you...It'd bring Satan to tears, mate." John shakes his head, noticing the sick expression washing over Sherlock's wan face. He cups his neck in his shaking hand again and smiles.
"I'll ask you later. Come on. We're going to use the shower to catch your blood instead. I need to examine this. I don't know why you didn't tell me sooner? This could turn into a permanent handicap if it goes untreated long." John stands up and beckons Sherlock out of bed with shaky hands. Swallowing, Sherlock takes John's hands and allows himself to be pulled to his feet.
"Come on...Let's...Let me have a look this, okay? Think you'll need to be sick again?" John cringes as Sherlock presses his face into his upturned palm groaning morbidly from a bout of pain that has set his knees to knocking.
"I'm...alright." Sherlock shivers. John wraps an arm around his shoulders.
"I know. You will be when I'm done. Come on then." John wraps one of Sherlock's arms over his shoulders. They take a shaky path to the shower room, Sherlock stumbling several times on the way. John is crying with every step, biting his lip to keep from losing his breath from the sobs he's choking back so as not to startle Sherlock. He's been in heavy firefight combat. He's still never seen anything with this amount of gore to it.
How the hell is Sherlock even alive?!
