Through Your Eyes: Part 2

You could argue that it was the acrid smell of vomit that woke him, or even the growling stream of swear-words that were bouncing around the room in a very familiar tone. Yet neither of these things bothered him enough to knock his body back into consciousness. No; it was the silence. Someone or something had switched his brain off, and Sherlock could hear nothing but the confused and whimsical thoughts of a person who had just revived after an explosion. He groaned audibly; everything hurt, he had a headache the size of Mount Everest, and a dull sense of aching discomfort in his left shoulder. Sherlock was reminded forcibly of the time Mycroft had goaded him into downing half a bottle of scotch in his early teens; waking up naked and ill in the middle of the grounds to fuming parents. Had that happened again? A slight uncomfortable wiggle told him he was at least wearing some sort of clothing, but he had no idea where he was and didn't quite have the energy to open his eyes yet (nor could he be bothered). Every thought that slowly meandered through his mind was selfish, sluggish, and mundanely curious. But none were deductive; the silence was beautiful. Still, the theoretically hung-over Sherlock thought that he should at least make an effort to work out where he was.

He was lying face down on something squishy but firm, feeling somewhat like a starfish hanging off a rock. There was something wet and sticky on his face, trickling down his cheek, and also a cool stinging sensation which flared up with the breeze. Moving his heavy head a fraction created a tinkling noise and also more scratches; ouch! So, he was lying sprawled and bleeding on something mildly comfortable with glass embedded in it, and he may or may not have been outdoors. That was as far as Sherlock got. What on Earth was going on? Someone had stolen his racing engine, and he didn't even care. The last time that he had felt anywhere near this peaceful was at the height of his heroin addiction (that was until some government lackeys dragged him away to some hellish cell they called rehab), but even the smack hadn't completely switched off his hyperactive brain. Sherlock wasn't on drugs now; he knew what that felt like, and what he was experiencing now was a completely different shade of exquisite. Just like before, the word beautiful danced across his mind in tiny little fairy lights.

'Sherlock!'

He was being shaken. It was rather abrupt and painful, jolting more tiny scratches into his nose. Also, Sherlock felt it was a little bit rude, given how he was otherwise content just to lie here; all he wanted was to sleep this fug off, then overdose on the bacon that was currently living next to the small intestine in the fridge. He really couldn't be bothered to speak, so decided to convey his disgust using the universal noise of protest.

'Mmmmffffff!' Sherlock briefly entertained the idea of flipping his attacker off, remembered that Mummy thought it the height of bad manners, and reconsidered. Then he also remembered how much it would irritate Mycroft, so generously decided to do it anyway.

'Seriously, Sherlock; wake up! Get the fuck up now!'

Why did it sound like he was shouting at himself? It was definitely his voice, but it wasn't him using it. That would have necessitated the opening his mouth which, aside from him being unaware that his mouth was moving, would require more effort than he could be bothered to give whilst indulging in his newfound bliss. Still, curiosity got the better of him and the only way to get rid of the voice was to find out where it was coming from. Slowly, his head pounding, Sherlock rolled his body towards his voice, tilting his head up in childlike fascination as he opened one eye. What he saw gave a new name to outer-body experiences.

'Whatever you've done, Sherlock, we need to fix this now. What were you working on before the explosion?'

His own body was looming over him, with an unusual and uncharacteristic expression of concern crossing his face as longish hair tickled Sherlock's nose. His black Versace suit was stained with something that smelt a lot like stomach acid (oh, so that's who had vomited) and his other self seemed somewhat unsteady on his feet, grasping the remains of a bedframe (indoors then; John's room , judging by the remains of the hideous wallpaper). A localised explosion did make sense, given the amount of damage that Sherlock surveyed when he finally deigned to open his other eye and prop himself up in an awkward sitting position, but it didn't answer the question. Given how trippy this whole experience already was, Sherlock's confused brain thought that he should answer his own question with an equally clever and quirky answer. Well, as close as he could muster.

'I dunno. You tell me. You're the smart...one.'

That sounded like John's voice. But John wasn't in the room; there weren't many places to hide under broken glass and burn floorboards, and Sherlock was definitely speaking this time (his mouth seemed to have moved). Simultaneous to this vocal discovery, Sherlock had also realised that he was wearing a rather unflattering grey cardigan. Some sort of truth was dawning upon Sherlock, stamping out his unadulterated happiness as a rather horrible idea came stampeding towards the front of his mind. Sherlock's next move resulted in him tumbling off the bed whilst his body struggled to keep up with his brain, adding to his bruises by face-planting the floor. His other self snorted ruefully as Sherlock crawled towards the mirror.

'Finally caught up, have you?' he watched himself purr in the mirror reflection, as he prodded and poked the squashy parts of John's anatomy in shock. 'Yes, you're me. Unfortunately, I'm you. Now sort this shit out!'

Sherlock walked slowly back to where not-Sherlock was standing, his new stature forcing him to address the taller man in a humiliating role reversal, like a schoolboy awaiting punishment from a particularly irritable headmaster.

'John?'

'Yes, well done. I see that your cognitive powers are limited to the body rather than the personality, evident from the length of time it took you to reach that relatively simple conclusion. Wasn't it evident from the way I carry myself differently to you? Didn't it occur to you that I was the only option for the transfer, seeing as it wasn't long-distance and that we were the only two people in the room? Because it did to me, along with ninety-nine other possible pieces of evidence. As you can see, I am already very annoyed with the amount of intellectual crap in my head, and am especially sick of being you. Now, sort this piece of shit out before they make another Freaky Fucking Friday film out of it!'

Sherlock tried to raise an eyebrow at John's tirade, but he was pretty sure that the expression just came off as despondent and deadpan. 'I'd thank you not to fill my mouth with profanity whilst you are in my body, John.'

'You flipped me off not five minutes ago!'

'That was different. You woke me from a situation of which I was most happy in. Besides, I didn't actually speak and your body is used to making rude gestures.' The smugness of this response was enough to redden his counterpart's cheeks.

'How is this an ideal situation, Sherlock?! We are standing in my burnt out room, literally not ourselves, and I feel like I've swallowed the Encyclopaedia Britannica! Fix. This.'

'I can't.'

'What?'

'Or rather, I won't. You see John; I quite like the fact that you've borrowed my brain. It is nice not being me. For once I can switch it off, have some tranquillity for the first time since my family forced me to get clean. And given that, whilst you are currently in possession of my deductive powers, my knowledge of the chemical sciences has evidently been transferred with me and incidentally compliments your surgical skills, which are still in here.' Sherlock tapped the side of John's head. 'So in order to correct this mistake we would have to do it on my terms, and I don't want to do that just yet.'

'Git. What if I make you?' It was odd seeing himself snarl.

'Given that any reasonable man would rather not harm his own body, I hold all the cards don't you think? Now if you'll excuse me, I am taking a holiday from my life.' Sherlock allowed that warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest to turn into a Cheshire Cat smile. 'Try not to get any more vomit on my suits in the meantime.'

Sherlock turned heel and made for the door, stumbling as he misjudged the stride required for a shorter, stockier man. He wasn't even planning his next move, which felt pleasantly odd, and all the while John was cursing and shouting at him in baritone.

'SHERLOCK HOLMES! Get your – my – arse back here right now or I swear I'll….! John was cut off by a sharp knock on the sitting room door; Sherlock froze mid-flight across the kitchen.

'Ooo! Ooo!' Mrs Hudson's little coo rang through the flat. 'Boys! Is everything okay? I heard noises. I'm coming in; if Sherlock has damaged anything again, it's coming out of the rent this time!'

John had joined a stunned Sherlock in the kitchen. 'Act normal!' he hissed. That much was obvious, but an unanswered question hung in the air between them. Normal for whom?

Again, reviews are loved and con-crit is welcome. Also what would you like Sherlock to do as John? I've got a rough idea of what I want John to put Sherlock's body through, but the other way around is proving a little difficult. MC. :) xx