Disclaimer: same as chapter 1.
Author's notes:
- Sorry for the lack of updates... I was in a relationship with a guy but he soon turned out to be a big fat waste of my time!
- The idea of John sending a silent Morse message to Sherlock by blinking his eyes during the pool confrontation is of my own creation.
- The rod of Asclepius is the symbol of the Greek god of medicine. Later, it became the symbol of medical professions (from Wikipedia).
Chapter 2: Mmm, there's always the sun
Another low wail escaped from John's lips and his head went back and forth against the pillow. Yes, the dream had definitively taken a nasty turn. Concerned, Sherlock walked towards the bed with the intention of waking up his flatmate but the doctor suddenly stilled, as if nothing had happened.
Sherlock sighed, and then he quietly sat on the edge of the bed. John was entitled to have bad dreams, after that ugly business with Moriarty and he couldn't help but feel responsible for his friend's predicament: the bomber had clearly implied his unhealthy interest towards Sherlock. God, how could he have missed this clue? On the very first call, the bomber – via the voice of a crying woman – had called Sherlock "Sexy". The second time – through the sobs of a young student – he had confessed his boredom, so similar to the detective's. On the third – by the trembling voice of an elderly woman – he had told about his amusement watching Sherlock running through London to solve deadly riddles. And then, the bomber had gone silent – apart from forcing a terrorized little boy to count from ten to one, giving the younger Holmes time to find the missing Bruce-Partington plans for his lazy brother.
How many times have the weathermen told you stories that made you laugh?
Y'know it's not unlike the politicians and leaders, when they do things by half.
Politicians and leaders may do things by half according to Hugh Cornwell, but certainly not Moriarty. During the confrontation at the swimming pool, the wretched man had showed his true colours: an arrogant cold-blooded murderer both annoyed and amused by Sherlock's cleverness. He would have loved to play the deadly game some more but Moriarty was the leader of an organization – an empire of crime – and he couldn't risk the safety of his plans on a whim. So Moriarty had grabbed John just to make a point: "Stop interfering in my business or I will hit right where it hurts".
And it had hurt. Moriarty would never know the amount of pain Sherlock had felt after seeing John showing up at that pool, acting as if he had been the mastermind behind those bombings all along. John, mocking his flatmate's intelligence, taunting about such a twist in the situation would never have been imagined by the world's only consulting detective... Sherlock remembered too vividly the blood draining from his face as the word "BETRAYED" had burned inside his brains with the violence of a red-hot iron. And then, his clever clogs had turned on full force, making him realize that:
A) John was wearing a bulky winter jacket that he hadn't had on when he left the flat.
B) John was talking with a mechanical voice like he had wanted to imitate a robot.
C) John's eyes were blinking furiously.
D) John would never, ever betray anyone, not in a million years, and certainly not someone he considered a friend.
The conclusion came in a flash: John had been coerced to wear this jacket, to talk like this, and the blinking of his eyelids was actually a silent message... in Morse alphabet.
Three short blinks: "S"; three longer ones: "O"; three short blinks again: "S". S-O-S.
Sherlock's brief fear of betrayal had instantly been replaced by righteous anger, which had increased until it had reached the stratosphere after John had opened the bulky jacket, revealing packets of Semtex tied around his waist. Moriarty had then showed up, dressed to the nines and nonchalantly boasting with his singsong voice about his consulting criminal career. Sherlock had wanted to tear the man from limb to limb. Moriarty had captured the light of his life!
Who gets the job, of pushing the knob?
That sort of responsibility you draw straws for, if you're mad enough.
Moriarty had pushed Sherlock's buttons, and it had ended with an explosion.
"N... No...," whimpered John. Tears were escaping from the corner of his eyes; he had grabbed handfuls of earth-toned bed sheets, threatening to tear the linen with a force equivalent to the one Sherlock had wished to employ on Moriarty. The hem of the doctor's white T-shirt was damp, John's breathing had become too rapid and the detective had had enough. He placed his hand on the sleeping man's shoulder, shook it lightly.
"John, wake up."
"N... No... Sher-lock...," muttered John. It made the detective's heart twist inside his chest in a strange way: his friend was having a nightmare involving him?
"John, you need to wake up now. Please, wake up!"
Sherlock shook the shoulder a bit stronger, but there was still not reaction from the doctor; it was as if the poor man was trapped inside the labyrinth of his dream, desperately searching for an exit that had ceased to exist. The younger Holmes was considering going downstairs, grab his violin and play a melody that would appease his friend's disturbed slumber, but all of a sudden John bolted upright in his bed, his arms extended outwards and screaming at the top of his voice: "NOOOOOOOOOO!"
"John!"
Sherlock grabbed the shorter man and held him firmly, afraid his distressed friend might hurt himself or even fall out of bed. Battlefield reflexes kicked in and John struggled against the embrace with all his might, but to no avail: wiry as he was, the detective had large resources of nervous energy added to genuine concern about his sun's well-being. He started murmuring calming words at John's ear without relinquishing his hold, telling over and over again that the doctor was safe, they were at the flat, nothing threatened them, they were secure within Mrs. Hudson's household, their home and everything was all right; after a few minutes, John's body started to relax and the furious fight ended as quickly as it had started.
"S-Sherlock?"
"Yes, it's me. Are you alright?"
"Y-Yes..."
In fact, John had a difficult time to gather his thoughts. One minute he was lost in a terrifying dream and the next he was held against Sherlock, who was... rocking him gently.
For an outside observer this caring would have looked absurd but John couldn't possibly care less. He had lived too many traumatic events to look down at fraternity shown between two grown-up men; he knew it was a precious and rare thing. Besides, the soothing movement was much welcome to calm down his pounding heart and his shallow breathing, not to mention the sweat still running down from his forehead. A long moment passed before he could actually realize he was indeed in 221B Baker Street and not in the middle of the desert.
The younger Holmes waited until he was sure his friend was truly awake, and then he asked: "Do you think I can release you without risking a punch on the nose? I'd hate it if my handsome nostrils were damaged by the training of G.I. John".
Sherlock smiled after hearing John's giggles resounding against his chest. It felt as if his friend's laughter went straight to his own heart – an organ neglected for years – and made it pump blood more freely, almost joyfully. No wonder Moriarty was insanely jealous of the friendship between the detective and the doctor: it was special, the kind that happened only once in a century. Moriarty had mocked John by comparing him to a "touchingly loyal pet" but the crime-master with the oversized ego was nothing compared to Sherlock's only ray of light.
Finally, John nodded and the younger Holmes slightly relinquished his hold; indeed, his flatmate seemed to be better after a firm hug and a little joke, making Sherlock unabashedly proud: John could quickly recover from any stressful situation!
"I woke you up, Sherlock? I-I'm sorry..."
"Don't you worry about it, I wasn't asleep. I was thinking about… Well, all kind of things and then I heard you moaning. I figured a nightmare was on the way so it was better to go take a look; I didn't want you to knock down things around – Mrs. Hudson would blame me for the mess!"
A gentle smile graced John's lips, telling he wasn't buying his friend's attempt to appear more concerned by the furniture than to his state of mind. He knew Sherlock was far more human than he wanted to show the world, and John would smile every time his flatmate would get frustrated by the absence of cases, or by an experiment involving human body parts had made the microwave oven explode. Inexorably, Sherlock's anger would melt (like ice under the heat), making him act almost tolerable again. The detective would have resented this disarmament of his trademark sociopath tendencies but John had adamantly stated this diagnosis was erroneous: his friend was asocial, but certainly not a sociopath and no amount of rudeness would make him change his mind.
Sherlock had found this fact fascinating: how come an ordinary-looking, average-intelligent and soft-spoken man could read him so well? No one, not even the battalion of expensive psychiatrists hired by his parents, had ever managed to unveil the mystery that was Sherlock Holmes and John had done it in a snap!
"But average intelligence doesn't mean stupid", thought a frowning Sherlock."John may not be a genius but he is a conductor of light: he is channelling my hunger for crime-solving by keeping me grounded and I cannot thank him enough for this. Otherwise, I would still be this sociopath shouting his deductions in the middle of the desert. People have been avoiding me at all costs for years, except John: he has this natural empathy that allows him to see much farther than the common idiots inhabiting the planet."
"Sherlock?"
"Mmm?"
"You can release me now, I'm fine."
The younger Holmes then realized he was still holding his friend and he ended the embrace, suddenly embarrassed at the thought John would compare his actions to those of a psychiatric hospital attendant?
"Er, sorry about that, I was lost in my thoughts again…"
"You are always thinking, Sherlock, and that's what makes you unique."
"Maybe but my vast intellect makes me perceive that you are not feeling comfortable in your bed for the moment."
John could hardly say otherwise: the sheets and covers were in total disarray, his T-shirt clung to his sweat-covered torso and his voice was hoarse from the screaming: the once-tidy bedroom certainly hosted an agitated tenant! Sherlock got up, walked towards the cupboard and rummaged inside it before pulling out a clean T-shirt – dark green, probably an old Army-issued one – while taking a mental note to buy new shirts for his friend the next time he would do some Internet shopping. Then Sherlock handed out the garment to John, who accepted it gratefully.
"Why don't you change while I get you a drink of water? Your throat must be aching."
"That would be great, thanks," said John with another smile – the glowing one, which could illuminate even the gloomiest day. The detective quickly headed downstairs to collect a reasonably clean glass in the kitchen.
There's always the sun.
Mmm, There's always the sun.
While filling the glass with tap water, Sherlock grinned as he pictured in his mind the look on his brother's face if he had caught him doing something so domestic: the lenses of Mycroft's spying cameras would probably crack out of shock. Well, it would teach him a lesson: the elder Holmes was overconfident and he too often thought any problem could be solved with threats, money or a bullet. Psychiatrists would have a field day trying to analyze Mycroft!
Sherlock ripped a few paper towels from the roll on the counter before he climbed up the stairs and went back to John's room; the doctor had indeed changed into the clean T-shirt and he was trying to straighten the bedding, but the wrist cast made his movements clumsy. Sherlock presented him the glass of water and, while John was gratefully gulping down the liquid, the tall detective quickly rearranged the sheets and covers before his flatmate had the time to protest. Then he grabbed the paper towels and dried up John's hair and forehead.
"Sherlock, what are you…?"
"Hush," was the laconic answer. Knowing it was useless to argue, John let his friend wipe away the drops of sweat running down his face – amongst with a few tear tracks. Only when he was satisfied did Sherlock put away the paper towels and John was finally allowed to relax against his recently fluffed pillow.
The detective casually sat on the edge of the bed, neatly arranging the folds of his bathrobe like a king would do to his ermine-trimmed cloak before resting on his throne, and then he asked:
"Feeling better?"
"Yes, thank you."
"You're welcome. Considering the screams, it must have been quite a dream. Do you want to talk about it?"
John sighed, and then he shook his head: "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I can't. It was about Afghanistan and I am not allowed to talk to anyone about what happened there…"
"Honestly, did you think a menial thing such as Army classified information could escape my spying brother's inquisitiveness?"
John's dark blue eyes widened at those words: "What? You mean… Mycroft has access to my file at the Ministry of Defence?"
"I've told you once that Mycroft is the British government all by himself, and also the British Secret Services and the CIA on his spare time, remember? It was right after the cabbie serial killer case, when he showed up with his ridiculous iPhone-obsessed PA. Well, after we walked home that night, Mycroft realized you weren't going to rat on me or pack your bags anytime soon, so he figured a thorough investigation of your past was in order. He couldn't resist showing me a copy of the file of RAMC Captain Watson of the Fifth Northumberland fusiliers, precisely on the day you were out of the flat for some paperwork about your pension."
"Holy God, but why did he do that?"
"Mycroft used his usual excuse, namely his concern for me, to make sure my future flatmate wasn't a psychopath in disguise. But the truth is, he just wanted to brag about his efficiency in front of his baby brother."
John inwardly cursed Mycroft Holmes to a very long stay in Hell.
"So, did you like what you read?"
"Actually, the only thing that interested me was your education but I was disappointed: the file contained a long list of your impressive medical skills, unfortunately you had already told me all about them. Therefore, no new data could be collected about that subject."
"Oh, shame," answered a sarcastic doctor.
"I closed the file and handed it back to Mycroft, asking him to come back only when he would have something new to tell me, but he insisted that I should read the documents about your career at the Royal Army Medical Corps."
"And, did you?"
"No. I knew you would tell me about your army experience sooner or later – confidentiality be damned – and also, you trust my discretion as much as I trust yours. So I told Mycroft to get lost, and to not address this matter again. The pompous idiot has forgotten one detail: you and I are friends, and we help one another in time of need, including during nightmares. My brother can't comprehend this because he is incapable to confide to anyone."
"Not even to you?"
"Especially not to me!"
A long silence followed Sherlock's words, and John pondered about this revelation; he knew the Holmes were at odds but, after the Bruce-Partington inquiry, he thought the brothers had finally reached a common ground – Mycroft asking Sherlock to do the legwork on cases, feeding his younger sibling's craving for mysteries at the same time – but he hadn't imagined they would be arguing over his military past.
"I'm sorry you had an argument with your brother about me."
"Bah, Mycroft has never learned to mind his own business. I had deduced the main lines of your experience in Afghanistan the day we first met, and I absolutely don't need his poking around to get confirmation about your medical talents, your fighting abilities and your sense of honour. I had kind of hoped our inquiries would keep your nightmares at bay, though, because you haven't had a rough night for two months now, but I suppose our recent business with Moriarty may have triggered some bad souvenirs, yes?" asked Sherlock with a hint of worry in his voice.
John was left speechless for a moment, stunned by the facts that his flatmate had been keeping a record of his dream-free nights but also because he had openly talked about their nemesis. Sherlock had refused to utter a word about Moriarty after the hospital had released them under strict conditions, and John had thought this silence had been caused by the detective's fury about being forced to spend their convalescence at home instead of running after the criminal.
"Sherlock, do you want to talk about the Pool?"
"No," answered the younger Holmes, his dark curls flying as he shook his head negatively. "I would rather you tell me about the nightmare you've just had. It would help you to talk about it."
John sighed, knowing it would be useless to insist when his friend was in a stubborn mood.
"It is really of no importance, Sherlock..."
"I beg to differ! Those images rattled your nerves of steel, so conclusion: they were quite frightening, and thus of importance."
"You never give up, do you?"
"Why should I?"
Always, always, always the sun.
That last comment earned a chuckle from John Watson, and then his expression turned serious as he fiddled with a fold of bed sheet. Sherlock waited patiently until his friend spoke again:
"It happened in the province of... Oh, never mind, the name won't help you locating the place on a map and I don't know the correct pronunciation, anyway. It was in desert country, just before some mountains and information came that rebels were lurking about in the area, so a few men of my unit were sent on a simple reconnaissance mission in a village. Of course, as a doctor, I was to accompany them. We thought the village was way too small to hide rebels, but it turned out they were actually there; they were heavy-armed and extremely resolute in gaining their share of enemies' blood. We were outnumbered, a real butchery and, while I was tending to a wounded soldier, I was shot from behind and the bullet shattered my left collarbone."
"Shooting a man in the back... how courageous," muttered Sherlock.
"Enemies grabbed me and I must have lost consciousness for a minute, because the next thing I know I was kneeling on the ground with two men holding my arms as if they wanted to torn me apart... The pain was unbearable, but it was nothing compared to the horrible scene displayed before my eyes: the unit was lost and the rebels were killing my comrades one after another! The wounded pleaded for mercy, some of them begged me to help them and I struggled to break free, but to no avail. I had to watch it, Sherlock. I... I had to look at my friends being murdered and I couldn't do a thing. I yelled, I screamed, I even insulted the rebels and one of my captors punched my wounded shoulder to keep me quiet. The feeling of powerlessness was terrible: being so close, wanting to help those poor boys but being unable to do it... I thought I was going mad from the pain, in both body and soul."
"The anger of the chained Samson," thought the detective.
"The last soldier had been murdered and one of the rebels was coming for me with a Jezail gun and a horrible smile on his face; he looked like the guy in charge but one of my captors suddenly started to talk very animatedly... apparently, the badge sewn on my uniform's vest had drawn his attention."
"He recognized the rod of Asclepius?"
"How did you...?"
"Elementary, my dear John: this ancient Greek symbol is internationally known as a symbol of healing, and I have learned from Mycroft's file that it figures on the RAMC's insignia."
John sighed, and then he nodded: "I should have known... Well, yes, the man realized I was in the medical field and a doctor is always useful, even as a prisoner. So my captor started arguing with the leader, pointing frantically at my badge and then at some of the rebels who had been wounded in the battle, back and forth. He was probably trying to keep me alive so I'd heal their wounded. But the leader was clearly frustrated to be deprived of a prize and he shouted like crazy. My captors hauled me on my feet and I almost passed out from the pain; the leader tried to grab my hair but it was slippery from blood and sweat, so he lost his grip and somehow I managed to... head-butt him."
"Well done!" exclaimed Sherlock.
There's always the sun.
Mmm, There's always the sun.
"Believe me I truly don't know how it happened... A stroke of luck, that's all, but my forehead had connected with his nose. He started to yell like a madman, holding his bloodied face with both hands and one of my captors kicked me in the right leg to make me kneel again. The other one twisted my arms in the back and I screamed out in pain. My only consolation was that I would faint in a few seconds so I wouldn't feel whatever they had planned to do to me, and then salvation came in the forms of two RAF Tornado GR4 planes. They shot their missiles and the world went up in flames. The last thing I saw was the Jezail gun broken in half and flying in the air like a mad helicopter's blade... and then nothing."
Sherlock gently laid his hand on John's good shoulder and squeezed it gently, inwardly thanking the higher powers who had saved the life of his friend on that fateful day. What would have become of Sherlock Holmes, if Doctor Watson had been killed in action in a remote part of Afghanistan? The answer was simple: the detective would have remained in his cold, lonely world, because the sun would never have barged in his life.
Always, always, always the sun.
TBC...