"Hello, John."
Sherlock faintly heard Mycroft greet John as he bustled through the familiar halls of his brother's flat. Lavish flat. Expensive flat. Stupid, posh flat. It was a fusion of modern and classical furniture, clutter-free and completely spotless, with pale gray carpet that showed his ash-outlined footprints as he headed back to his bedroom.
His bedroom at Mycroft's flat. Unfortunately, yes, he did have one. He had stayed with Mycroft after his apparent suicide and some times since, because of experiments gone wrong, but he hated the place. It was too... neat, almost so that it stifled him to death, and he was already having a hard enough time breathing as it was.
He had some clothes here, and a burner phone in case of emergencies, and high-quality satin sheets on the bed that were calling his name relentlessly.
Sherlock set his laptop and violin on the dresser before peeling his coat off, glass fragments falling down harmlessly onto the plush carpet, overlaid with soot and ash as he shook the coat out. He found a hanger in the small closet and hung the coat on the doorframe, kicking off his shoes afterwards and then traipsing to the bathroom to lock himself in and have a long, hot shower.
The cab ride from Baker Street to here had only taken a handful of minutes, but it had felt like an eternity. Silence was louder than words right now. Sherlock didn't want anything to do with either of them, so he was doing what he had perfected so many, many years ago: he was switching off. It was so much easier to deny facing it than to face it and writhe in pain.
The shower was hot, although not entirely relaxing, as the scalding water bounced off his skin and washed the ash and soot down the drain filtered through only the barest level of his consciousness. He washed off methodically, washed his hair, rinsed, and turned the water off. His body was exhausted, mentally and physically. Add in emotionally compromised, and Sherlock stood, dripping wet in front of the mirror for a few, long moments before remembering: towel off, dressing gown, walk to bedroom. He couldn't fall asleep standing up in the shower.
He dried off with the thick, plush towel and pulled a neatly-folded black dressing gown from one of the drawers, shoving his arms through the sleeves and clumsily tying the sash. He cracked open a new toothbrush from another drawer, and a new tube of toothpaste, brushed his teeth, and shuffled his way back across the hallway into his room.
He closed and locked the door behind him.
Nostrils flaring with a soft sigh, he went to the bed and shoved the blankets aside only enough to crawl between them, curling up beneath their soft embrace with tense shoulders and a headache.
Some very vague, uninterested, wanting to be distracted part of his mind wondered if this was like what John had felt like when Mary had died. Or maybe even after he had been shot in Afghanistan. Time was floating and thoughts were scattered like sand particles, shifting. The weight on his chest pressed too hard, over his heart and lungs, and made it impossible to draw a full breath. How long had he been here at Mycroft's already? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Everything was smothered in the face of the reality that had happened and...
Sherlock hated to admit it, but it was mind-numbing.
He closed his eyes.
He must have been dozing, sometime, somehow. The exhaustion was hanging over his body in heavy layers, but sleep wasn't coming like it should. Maybe it never would. Maybe he would just die of exhaustion.
At some point, Sherlock heard his bedroom door crack open. It was John, because it was always John, locked doors not a hindrance, but Sherlock didn't move from his spot on the bed. He had feigned unconsciousness time and time over - he did a lot of it when he was a kid - so he knew how to keep his breathing, how to feign unconscious movement by clumsily moving his arms up around his head, sighing softly for effect. His throat was killing him.
John didn't say anything, though, just stepped into the room silently and went to the windows to close the blinds and pull the curtains. Darkness as an escape from the mid-evening glare of sunshine immediately settled around them. Sherlock would have thanked him if it was other circumstances; the light killed his head when he was trying to work through 'human emotions'. It was like having a bad migraine that wouldn't go away, emotions.
When consciousness swam back to him again, Sherlock was having nightmares. One minute, he had been in a soft, warm bed with his curls splayed out against the pillow, staring at the ceiling, and the next, he was surrounded by flames and burning furniture, case files, and the maniacal face of a now very-much dead James Moriarty staring out at him from the ashes.
He woke up with a shuddering gasp, the thick scent of smoke deep in his nostrils and strangling him. No, no; this was all in his mind. There wasn't smoke in the flat. This was Mycroft's house. It wasn't on fire.
Rationally, he knew his mind controlled the vivid almost-hallucination, but his body failed to realise it. His heart was thrumming beneath a sweat-soaked chest, lungs aching for oxygen as he curled around his pillow in a hopeless attempt to smother his coughing. His lungs felt like they were on fire, his throat was charred raw from the smoke he'd inhaled earlier. He had only been in the flat for fifteen seconds longer than John, but that was like a lifetime in a smoke-encased building.
He coughed until his coughing turned to gagging, his stomach rebelling. He kicked the blankets away and scrambled out of bed, crossing the room in a few short steps. He ran down the hallway with his hand clapped over his mouth, bare feet more or less muted by the thick carpeting on the floor. He didn't bother to close the bathroom door behind him; it was roughly four in the morning and tasting the burning avid of bile on the back of his tongue did very little to persuade him to take the few extra seconds to close it.
Crashing to his knees in front of the toilet, he threw up violently, never-mind that there was hardly anything in his stomach to bring back up. He hadn't been eating because of the case and their dinner had been spoiled by the fact that their flat was on fire. Remnants of tea and toast and cups of coffee made up his vomit, he noted idly; those were luxuries that he'd never experience in his own flat again and yet, there they were, half-digested in the toilet basin.
Sherlock coughed weakly and swallowed against the burning ache in his throat.
It seemed like it took every ounce of energy in his body to reach back and flush the toilet and then push himself to his feet. His entire body was shaking. He was getting too old for this. Or maybe the mental strain had him feeling a bit older than forty-three... but no matter the reason, he didn't want to end up in front of the toilet, vomiting up meagre suppers any time in the near future again.
"Hey..."
Sherlock flinched from the voice - John's, hesitant, half-asleep - his nerves shooting taut before unravelling again, the invisible rubber band snapping and his stomach reacting again. He spun for the sink this time to cough and retch, knowing that nothing else would be coming back up except bile and saliva. He put things into his mouth he shouldn't for the sake of science - two week old pasta or not washing his hands after rooting through skips - so he knew what he was going to cough back up. That was the only reason he went for the sink. As amusing as the thought of throwing up all over Mycroft's penthouse would, he wouldn't actually do it because... yeah, he had standards.
"... You okay?" John murmured, stepping into the bathroom.
Alarms went off in Sherlock's mind - boundaries - as John stepped closer, too close in Sherlock's peripheral vision, and his head snapped up with what he could only describe as anger. He didn't know why, and he didn't want to be angry, but he didn't want John around. He wanted to be alone now, and maybe for the indefinite future, but, despite John's best intentions, he didn't want to talk.
"I'm fine," he bit off, holding up his hand to stop John in his tracks. His voice was hoarse. He didn't really sound fine, but it didn't matter. A hoarse voice and raw throat just gave him reason not to talk. He turned on the tap, washed his hands, and splashed some water on his face. "Go to bed," he continued, knuckling the tap off again and drying his hands on his dressing gown.
He pushed past John and strode back into the hallway, padding towards the kitchen instead of the bedroom. He desperately needed some tea.
John followed him. Sherlock knew he was there, he knew that too well, actually, and, for once in his life, he wished he'd leave. Because the ghost-like behaviour was irritating beyond belief. With any luck, if he didn't talk to him, he'd go away. Unfortunately, he knew John well enough to know that he wouldn't. And that just made him angry.
There was a tray sitting on the kitchen island, gold and shining even in the darkness, holding a teapot, two sturdy mugs, several flavours of tea in a small woven basket, an ornate glass jar of honey, and a lemon sitting on the counter next to the kettle. Sherlock tried not to think about it too much. Mycroft had clearly been expecting Sherlock to be awake in the middle of the night, but if Sherlock dwelled on the fact that someone else was trying to help when he didn't need it, his irritation level would fly beyond the rails.
He knew the state of his nerves and he knew that he was toeing danger level, as far as how much he could handle. Rarely did he have so much to swallow that he ended up erupting in a rush of ill-wishes and shouting. It took a lot to make him raise his voice, but his entire life burning to the ground kind of seemed like a good reason for being pissed off at the world.
Instead of focussing on all of that, because he couldn't, not right now, he just made himself a cup of orange spice tea and took it back to his bedroom. He crawled back into bed and sat back, leaning against the headboard. He drank his tea slowly, breathing in the steam, the scent of black pepper and nutmeg and the sweet, calming smell of oranges. He was trying to relax. Unfortunately, a cup of tea wouldn't be able to help him do that right now. He knew that, but yet, he was hanging onto forlorn hopes that it would anyway.
Talk about the volume of actions in silence.
Sherlock is not 'fine'.
I do not own Sherlock. Thanks for following; I'd love to know your thoughts!
