Lessons in Friendship 9 - Rhythms of the mind

Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

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The events of this chapter take place somewhere between TBB and TGG.

Since I was nicely asked, I just wanted so say: I am not a fan of Zimmer, not a fan of any singer, band, orchestra, or whatever kind of musical artists there are. I really love certain songs, though.

I might add that I highly admire Zimmer's ability to choose and compose the right music for the right pictures, with a sensitivity and precision that gives me goose bumps sometimes, how he amplifies good film editing is awesome. But the few songs I like I prefer to watch the music with the footage of the original orchestra playing it, their movements, hive-mind-actions and silent communication is what really makes me shudder in awe. Oh, maybe I should add a chapter about that :)

There is one of his pieces though that causes me kind of ecstasy, but since there will be an entire chapter about that kind of music later I won't reveal too much about this.

So, just in case I didn't make that clear enough - there was a review explaining to me that Sherlock would not go for this kind of music, and I was a bit surprised, because I didn't even try to imply he's a fan of anything or likes something in particular, he just uses this music for a certain purpose because it happens to fit a need.

So, there are already nine chapters for this roughly written, it's not really about music, more about perception of sound. To underline this I decided to publish this chapter earlier than originally planned, it was originally numbered part six.

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Loud noises

The first time John was confronted with Sherlock's aversion to loud noises he didn't think much about it, in fact, he forgot a few moments later about it, until it happened a second time. Only then did he remember.

The first time they had hunted down a man who had robbed schools of their newly installed computers.

When Sherlock had held him down on the ground after they both had toppled over down the last few steps of a stairway that led into a cellar floor, Lestrade cuffed the man, who then started yelling into Sherlock's ears. Screaming at the top of his lungs obscenities and insults directly into Sherlock's face, simply to be an annoyance.

Sherlock winced and tensed up, and with disgust on his face, was a bit harsher than usual in movements and handling the man and what he said.

The doctor had thought is must be about the things the man said or his rude behaviour, but in hindsight he realised it was the pure volume next to Sherlock's ears.

The second time it happened was when they were at a steam locomotive event. It was a nice sunny day and they were following someone through large crowds of visitors passing by big black old steam engines.

That was until one of the monstrosities blew it's whistle, right next to them.

Sherlock was walking in front of the doctor, three metres ahead and suddenly he stumbled, right into an attendant who stood nearby. The first moment John thought he had been shot or stabbed or something.

Alarmed, he started to ran and when he reached his flatmate saw that his face was quite pale.

"What is it, Sherlock? Where are you hurt?" he lifted away Sherlock's coat to look for bleeding.

Sherlock looked disoriented and didn't even insulted the attendant who had steadied and touched him without asking first. The man let go, asking repeatedly what was wrong and was reluctant to let go.

"Hey, answer me, are you hurt?" John raised his voice.

The consulting detective winced and shook his head.

John took over, knowing how very much Sherlock didn't like being touched.

"It's okay, I'm his doctor, he's fine," he assured the surprised man, just to make him leave them alone, not because he believed it himself.

"Come on, let's sit down over there," he suggested and started to lead his friend towards a wooden bench a few metres away.

Sherlock shook his head once more, vehemently this time.

"What? You need to sit down, you're barely able to stand," John tried to convince him.

"Get away from the noise… the people," Sherlock muttered.

"What?…" the doctor didn't understand. "Are you about to get sick? Will you make it that far? I mean, it's a few minutes walk to get away far enough."

This time Sherlock nodded.

They made it, although Sherlock did lean onto the doctor now and then.

As soon as they had found a spot in the back of the area Sherlock sat down on a large stone. He still looked ill and was dizzy.

"So, what was this about?"

"Shut up, John," Sherlock said in a defeated and low voice, no spite in it, more a plea than an order.

John did, sensing the distress the other man was in.

The consulting detective needed almost ten minutes until his breathing slowed down and his face started to get some colour back. Finally he spoke.

"The noise caused… kind of… pain."

"What does that mean exactly?"

"It really hurt… and I would be tremendously grateful if you could lower your voice."

"Oh," John just made, reminded once more of how sensible Sherlock's hearing must be.

"Happens sometimes, nothing to worry about, it just caught me off guard, which is stupid, considering I should be well aware steam engines produce those sounds every now and then."

"Are you telling me it wouldn't have hurt that much if you expected it? Because that makes not a lot of sense."

"Er… No."

"Does this happen often?"

"So, we lost him," Sherlock looked disappointed with himself, maybe even angry. "We'll never find him again with so many people. We could stay at the entrance, hope that he'll leave soon."

"Are you changing topics?"

"Yes."

They did survey the exit, but the man didn't leave, or at least they didn't see him leave.

It took another week to solve the case.

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Aftermath of another explosion

The first time Sherlock was caught in an explosion John was not present to witness the aftermath. He had hurried home after spending the night at Sarah's when he had seen the news. Sherlock looked fine at his arrival, plugging the strings of his violin and kind of hugging the instrument in a posture he sometimes used while attuning her, but only for the few moments it usually took, that he held her longer that way should have told John he was not fine at all, but back then he hadn't given it any more attention.

The next time there was an explosion he was there to experience the aftermath.

The case had been quite boring over all, even when it came to John's standards, but the end turned out to be action-loaded.

A kiosk owner, a middle aged woman, had been killed by a gang that collected protection money from small businesses in the area. Lestrade and the Yarders were still securing the scene, which was about two hundred metres away from her kiosk and across a large parking area in an industrial zone. It was Sunday morning and due to the weekend the place was deserted.

John, Sherlock and Lestrade were about to inspect the small over packed cabin and headed across the parking space when suddenly an explosion disturbed the silence of the morning.

The shock wave almost blew them off their feet.

The kiosk was transformed into an house-sized ball of fire momentarily, before debris started to rain down around them a few moments later.

John had reflexively turned away from the explosion and the blow made him land on his hands and knees.

He bit his teeth, concentrating to prevent a flashback, he was still prone to them.

Then he turned around to check for his two companions.

The blow had not been forceful enough to cause serious injuries by itself, and the larger debris rained down halfway between them and the explosion.

Though smaller pieced might also cause gashes that could be dangerous at the wrong places.

Lestrade was also getting to his feet, looking dishevelled but unharmed.

Sherlock stood with his back to the fire, as if he had just turned his back and not deemed it necessary to take cover, or he had just been faster to straighten up again.

John stepped over to Greg, who was closer to him, and looked him in the eyes, the DI nodded an, 'I'm okay,' into his direction and John turned to his flatmate.

When he had stepped in front of him so he was able to see his face he realised, to his surprise, that Sherlock's eyes were closed tight and he was quite pale.

"Sherlock?" John asked, now worried.

Sherlock's posture screamed 'pain', he was tense and barely breathing.

"Sherlock?" John tried again, louder this time.

Was he hurt? Could he hear him? They weren't close enough to suffer even temporary hearing damage, though it was certainly unpleasant and John's ears were ringing.

"Hey, you're okay?" John reached out and touched the other man's shoulder briefly, aware he didn't like to be touched, but also aware sometimes he alone was allowed to.

Sherlock didn't react immediately, it took more than five seconds until he laboriously drew an deeper breath and then let it out through his closed teeth.

"Where do you hurt?" John looked up and down the tall figure, but there was nothing except the now slowly sinking down dust. Maybe Sherlock had fallen and sprained his ankle or something?

"I'm fine, John, thank you for your concern, but I'm not in need of any assistance," Sherlock said when he finally spoke, his voice hoarse.

"Cut the crap," John snapped, very aware that this kind of politeness and over-kindness was only used by the detective on rare occasions. This was not normal, Sherlock was trying to hide something, barely holding it together, as it seemed.

He did not react to the curse for another ten seconds.

"John, please ignore this. I have no problem a physician could help me with. Look for people that might be actually injured," he gulped several times and John could not ignore the fact that Sherlock looked like somebody who felt sick.

The consulting detective started to walk and headed back towards the small group that was still gathered around the body, some had ran towards them after the explosion, but Lestrade had waved them back. John and Lestrade followed the other man.

When they reached the agitated chatting police staff Sherlock seemed to have battled whatever was bugging him and looked a lot steadier and normal again.

It didn't last long, because when moments later two large fire trucks with blazing sirens rushed past them John saw Sherlock cover his ears, and then pant with an open mouth and his eyelids flattered, this looked like he was in serious pain.

Sherlock turned away and started to run into the opposite direction.

John and Lestrade shared irritated looks.

Was he about to leave?

John hurried after him.

After about two hundred metres Sherlock turned into the shadow of a back street that was not illuminated by the bright early morning sun.

John followed him and had to blink about the sudden change from brightness to what felt like half-darkness.

When he heard the obvious sound of retching he hurried to catch up with his friend.

It took some moments until his eyes had adjusted to the dim light but then he saw Sherlock, leaned sideways against a wide concrete pole, hunched over and bringing up his morning coffee.

John stopped a few feet behind him, making sure he was okay but also giving him some privacy.

It was over fast and John spoke.

"Can I do anything?"

"Go away."

"That's the one thing I won't do, so don't waste your time."

"Shut up, then."

"No need to be rude."

Sherlock groaned softly.

"I'm not. All sounds hurt right now, so please stop making any."

Sherlock had let his head sink low and was softly panting.

When John's phone suddenly rang, it was not a loud or particular annoying sound, Sherlock winced and covered his ears again.

When he saw it was Lestrade, John hurried to pick up, the man was probably worried, too.

He straightened up and turned away to step out of Sherlock's hearing range, but it was obviously too late, Sherlock gagged again.

John was not sure what was happening and told Lestrade to keep his distance and give him the chance to sort the situation out.

He hung up and waited.

And waited.

Sherlock didn't move.

He was like a statue, only minutely shifting his weight from one leg to the other from time to time.

After almost fifteen minutes John once more dared to step closer.

"Sherlock, do you know what caused this? " he asked in a low voice.

Sherlock nodded.

"What can I do? Call a cab?"

"No. No cars yet."

"Want to go home?"

"Yeah," Sherlock breathed, "but…"

"What can I do, Sherlock, tell me."

"Go, find a store and get cotton wool or ear plugs or any other kind of ear protection, otherwise I'll be stuck here for at least another hour… and could you try to find some water?"

"Okay," John agreed, glad Sherlock had for once managed to utter what he needed. But the doctor decided he wouldn't leave, so he only moved out of the small street to call Greg again.

The DI agreed to send someone to the nearest drugstore or ask the ambulance crew, who must have arrived silently some time ago.

Sherlock had straightened up when the doctor returned and was now sitting on a low wall. John watched him from a distance for any sign of more problems, but Sherlock seemed to just breathe and keep his eyes shut.

Only three or four minutes later a young medic came around the corner and handed him a bottle of water and a package of disposable earplugs, then left again.

Sherlock gratefully took the bright orange plugs and - with practiced ease - formed them and put them into his ears, then washed his mouth with the water.

John automatically spoke louder, knowing he was wearing the plugs, and Sherlock winced once more.

"John, yelling at me totally counteracts what the plugs are supposed to do. Could you please speak in a normal intensity, I'm not hearing impaired wearing them, in fact I might now hear as a normal person does," Sherlock explained, a bit unnerved, as if he was implying John should be able to figure out that much on his own.

They headed home some time later and Sherlock wore the plugs for the rest of the day, he once more refused to talk about how he experienced auditory signals and John dropped it because Sherlock seemed ashamed or unnerved or whatever.

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A few days later John bought a large pack of separately packed disposable earplugs and put one package in every jacket he had.

A few weeks later John came home and Sherlock almost jumped him with a request.

"John, I need the precision of your hands."

"Oh?"

Sherlock hovered while he got rid of his coat, then held out a small package.

"What is it?" John wanted to know.

"Silicone plastique."

"Okay, what do you want me to do?"

"You need to fit this into my auditory canal and my auricle."

"What?" The doctor stared at the box Sherlock had just handed him. It said 'Custom moulded earplugs', "All right."

"I bought earplugs, why this?"

"You did?" Sherlock looked almost appalled.

"Yeah, figured you might need them."

"Really, that's…"

"Nice of me?" John suggested.

"…awkward," Sherlock finished.

"Why? Because I decided to respect your need or be prepared for emergencies?"

"…" Sherlock just took air, but then shut his mouth.

"Because that's what I did, I wanted to be prepared, to spare you pain."

Sherlock's gaze wandered around the room in head-spinning zick-zacks, the way he did when his thoughts were chasing each other faster than he could express.

"What do you need me to do?" John tried to make the situation less tense.

"Ehm… Mix the white mass with the blue compound and then form a… thing that fits into my outer ear… Read the instructions… I want this for… for emergencies."

John realised this was a tremendous prove of trust he was just granted, to touch Sherlock in such a way.

If he wanted, John was sure Sherlock could have done it alone, but his friend had included him in the process.

"Okay, what do I have to do?" John agreed.

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Half an hour later Sherlock was sitting on the kitchen table and John was leaned over the instructions for use while he pugged the two materials into each other.

Sherlock suddenly disappeared into the living room.

"Where are you going? This needs to be done quite fast, it will set within a few minutes."

"Therefore I'm already here."

"What?" John followed him.

Sherlock had lain down on the sofa, a throw pillow under his neck, his left ear accessible and well lit by the standard lamp. A paper towel with tools was on the coffee table, several ball-shaped pluggers, that were obviously from a dental practice, and various other forms of modelling tools were ready to use.

"Right," John said and while continuing to knead he sat down on the table.

"Have you put in some cotton wool to protect your eardrums?"

Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes, though his jaw was clenched.

"Proceed, I trust you."

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A/N:

Before anyone asks, yes I always carry earplugs in my backpack.

I have heightened senses, and to be honest it's no fun at all, it really sucks!

The few good things that come with this are meant to be the topic of this fic, but therefore I need to describe the bad side effects first.

Thank you for reading.

Please give me some feedback.