Chapter 2
Sherlock woke up to a screaming ringing in his ears. It pounded at him, the pain setting him to rolling over, reaching to pull away whatever was gripping at his head. Fabric, slightly rough, slightly wet beneath the pinna, pressure almost equally applied around his outer neck, over his ear, to the opposite side of his head. Copied almost equally on the other side. Bandages, a weird pair of earmuffs, a misused headscarf, hat or veil – likely to use as a makeshift bandage or that weird pair of earmuffs. Bandage was almost a given, then.
He was on his back. His hands caught on something before he got them more than six inches toward his head – a different kind of fabric, softer, slightly fuzzy but worn with use, only slightly elastic as they caught against something on either side of him. Hospital bed cuffs, he was sure of that. He'd felt them before. The smell of alcohol-based cleaning products, cheap detergent, stale air and flowers was only redundant, he already knew for sure. He was in the hospital again.
With ear damage, apparently, as a likely corollary. The ringing was internal then, nothing to be done about it. Sherlock let his arms drop. The fact that it was sudden-onset narrowed the options considerably; Autoimmune inner ear disease; noise-induced hearing loss; Physical head injury. Three options then, and autoimmune diseases were relatively rare.
He remembered running in the forest out into the field, John's warning shout, the minefield, the sound of plastic clicking in but not it releasing, nothing after that at all. So, he was either experiencing amnesia or had been rendered unconscious after that point and he'd woken up in a hospital wrapped in head bandages. That made the hearing loss almost undoubtedly noise or injury induced, though it was impossible to speculate on which without further data. And who brought him flowers?
It was hardly John – the man would be rushing to the hospital, too preoccupied to concern himself with trivialities like the infernal smell of a hospital room, at least if any past evidence was valid in his specified case. He saw no reason it wouldn't be, now that it'd been confirmed that he counted as a friend. Mrs. Hudson was more likely but much the same. Lestrade was possible – he'd only visit to smooth his misplaced guilt in only engaging with him when he needed help in a case, but he'd be calm enough to think of the gesture. Molly was a possibility, she was socially inept enough to always be unpredictable. Mycroft was likely – he'd want to show off his immense 'concern' as visually as possible.
Sherlock opened his eyes and let pain spike into his head, beside his temple. Dehydrated, slightly concussed, exhausted, underfed, or a result of the obnoxious ringing. A combination of all of them, Sherlock thought. He ignored it. John was asleep in a chair beside him, his arms crossed and pillowed under his head on the bedspread by his arm. He wore the same outfit Sherlock remembered, creased, wrinkled and sweat-stained with what looked like a day and a half's use – it could have been longer and he'd changed out of and back into that outfit only to wear it for more time, but that was hardly a common practice. So, unconscious since that time in the forest, only a few hours ago, and John hadn't changed out of his stained clothes. Three possibilities -they'd lost all their other clothing, John hadn't gone home, or he hadn't bothered changing. The last wasn't likely – John hated to wear the same outfit for more than a day.
It wasn't likely that their flat had burned down – the most likely cause of the loss of their clothes – John didn't smell like smoke and that at least, he'd have left the hospital to go see. Would he? Sherlock doubted himself and cursed emotions again. Either way, it was unlikely the place burned down on the same day he was hospitalized. No, more likely was they were still in the surrounding area to Baskerville, no more than a few hours away from that wonderful crime scene and John had not changed because he hadn't left the hospital.
Sherlock glanced down at himself. He was in a clean hospital gown. No further information. Mycroft was sitting by the window, holding his umbrella out in front of him in his favorite dramatic gesture. No doubt he'd had pictures taken of this, in case he ever needed them for a political campaign as the doting brother.
"Molly, you, or Lestrade?" Sherlock asked, doing his best to modulate his tone without the help of his hearing. It felt bizarre, feeling his throat and skull vibrate with sound and hear nothing but the chronic ringing. He could hear himself in his own skull – his auditory nerve was intact. That, at least, was helpful and likely a good sign for future recovery but he'd have to confirm with John.
Mycroft pulled a whiteboard up from next to his chair and started writing, looking annoyed at the pace of it. He held it up expectantly.
Which? The flowers or the blame?
Sherlock grimaced in annoyance. How could it have been Molly's fault that he'd been close enough to an explosion in Baskerville to cause hearing loss? Mycroft smirked slightly, acknowledging the point and wrote instead:
I was concerned
He didn't bother to consider that one. He'd run 27 different scenarios where Mycroft's concern was a possible motivator and he'd only ever ended up concluding that his brother had been driven by a rational purpose. The subject was fairly well researched, he figured, and certainly tedious. John stirred, possibly awake. Hopefully; Sherlock had questions.
"So, an explosion, probably a landmine, within the last six hours, enough to cause skull or acoustic trauma," Sherlock confirmed. Mycroft smiled tightly, looking vaguely like he was trying to swallow something bitter. Unlikely, given his tastes and no evidence of chewing. So, acknowledging Sherlock was right again.
John sat up, rubbing a hand over his eyes before he seemed to come to. He pulled his hand away from his face and stared in shock. The man mouthed something. Sherlock blinked, trying to think of the possibilities. What would make that motion?
Bore/Core/Door/Fore/Gore/Her/Lore/More/Pore/Roar/S oar/Tore/Wore/Whore/Your/ You're; all possibilities for what looked like the first word. Then: awake/ a fake/ a rake. Unless he'd gotten the word break wrong – her mistake? Whore relate? - no, it'd definitely ended more open-mouthed than 'relate'. The first had to be 'her' or 'your', to have any proper syntax at all – which was likely, given how John did, in fact, speak English correctly the vast majority of the time. Had to be 'your' or 'you're', then. You're awake/a fake/ a rake, or 'you're her mistake' then. 'You're a rake' made no sense. Unlikely. So either 'you're awake', 'you're a fake' or 'you're her mistake'. Which given that he'd just woken up in a hospital.. he'd like to believe John hadn't said something so benign, but he didn't.
"Perfectly sound analysis but I was hoping you'd go deeper," Sherlock joked. John's eyes widened, his face brightening. Mycroft flicked his eyes at the ceiling, his mouth pursed to 'tut' in that way he did when someone was about to say something stupid. Which, granted, was perfectly possible but Sherlock was still glad to be deaf at the moment if it let him miss out on Mycroft's mannerisms.
John spoke and Sherlock wanted to growl at yet again needing to go through the damn process.
Boo/Coo/Do/Goo/Jew/Knew/Loo/Moo/New/Poo/Rue/Sue/Tw o/Too/To/View/Woo/Who/You/Yew/Zoo. An/And/Ban/Can/Can/Dan/Fan/Hand/LAN/Land/Man/Pan/R an/Rant/Sand/Tan/Tan/Van/. Beer/Deer/Dear/Ear/Fear/Gear/Hear/Here/Jeer/Leer/N ear/Neil/Peer/Queer/Rear/Seer/Sear/Tear/Veer/Wheel . Bee/Be/Ee/Fee/Glee/He/Jee/Lee/Me/Pea/Pee/Sea/See/T ea/Tee/ We.
No questioning verbs in the first option except 'who'. If who, than a verb next. If not, than the first would need to be a subject or an adjective for one. So: Who can fear me? Who can fear Lee? Who can fear Tea? Who can hear me? Who can hear Lee? Who can hear tea? Who can wheel me? Who can wheel Lee? Who can wheel tea? Who can sear me? Who can sear Lee? Who can sear tea? Who can fear me? Who can fear Lee? Who can fear tea? You can hear me? You can hear Lee? You can hear tea? You can wheel me? You can wheel Lee? You can wheel tea? You can sear me? You can sear Lee? You can sear tea? You can fear me? You can fear Lee? You can fear tea? Unless he'd gotten the word separations wrong, still perfectly possible. He had to ignore that possibility; it opened too many options.
They didn't know anyone named Lee. There was no tea visibly nearby. He wasn't in a wheelchair to use 'wheel' as a verb. And John wasn't likely feeling violent enough to be talking about searing anyone. Which left 'who can hear me' and 'you can hear me'. Tedious. Sherlock sighed heavily, heard the strange hiss in his ear canals beneath the ringing. Dull.
John's face fell slowly, apparently figuring it out. The man glanced over his face quickly, saying something Sherlock mostly missed. There were too many options, and none of them sensible. Options flew through his brain, senseless possibilities, - pubeye heart few cuplet? Hut fie mart dopeset? Bowtie cart percoset? - but it was useless, he'd only caught part of the sentence and he hadn't enough data. Obviously he was going to need to get better at lipreading or he'd be bored out of his skull in approximately ten minutes – maybe less depending on who held Mycroft's whiteboard.
"I have no idea what you just said," Sherlock replied, pretending not to notice that Mycroft was halfway through a sentence. From Mycroft's pinched expression, he knew. John reached for a pad of paper left beside his hand on the bed – the nurses, then.
Are you okay?
That didn't match with what John had seemed to say at all. He'd changed it, then. Sherlock growled to himself, frustrated. He didn't want to get everything filtered first.
"I am fine, other than the obvious. Do you know if the hearing loss is permanent?" Sherlock replied, fussing with the bedcuffs to see if they were done correctly. They were. Damn.
It's not certain. A Deaf Lifestyle Coach is going to come speak to you.
Sherlock nodded. Well, that sounded like a colossal waste of time.
"When can I leave? I'm bored," he complained and Mycroft looked up, presumably making that 'tut' sound again.
Why aren't you upset? John wrote, looking concerned.
Ah. 'You upset', not percoset. That made far more sense.
"Wouldn't that be premature? I do not know how this will affect me. At the moment it means I am not distracted by the normal hospital din and I cannot hear Mycroft tutting about, which is certainly an improvement," Sherlock replied. John gaped at him, glancing over his face to find some sort of clue. Whatever he was looking for, he didn't seem to have found it, as he looked to Mycroft in turn.
"Sign me into your care. I want to go home," Sherlock told him, grateful again for his forethought in moving in with a licensed physician.
~~/~~
John didn't think he'd ever seen his flatmate look so bloody inhuman. He'd seen the man skip happily around a body, praying to the sky in thanks for the puzzle, seen him insulting Molly without a second thought, seen a man's body tossed out a window onto Mrs. Hudson cans three times in a row, but somehow that all looked positively normal to seeing Sherlock in a hospital bed, apparently utterly unaffected by the loss of one of his major senses. He sat grumbling about the bedcuffs John had insisted on, apparently blaming Mycroft for it all, until the lifestyle coach arrived.
She was a portly, kind-looking woman with an easy smile and a birthmark on her cheek. She carried a whiteboard and a pile of pre-made signs. John rubbed at his eyes. This was not going to go well. She shook his hand and Mycroft's before turning with her signs to Sherlock.
"Hello, my name is Shandra Hallock. I am here to -" she started, holding up her first sign. John read it quickly.
Hello, my name is Shandra Hallock. I am here to talk to you about living with a hearing disability in the case that it is permanent.
"I know who you are," Sherlock interrupted her. "No pets, no husband, single for what? 5 years? Never married, probably because you are overweight and overly accustomed to controlling your own lifestyle – not to mention the fact that you clearly have channeled your loneliness into what appears to be a charity vocation but is really a marketing scheme for the local sign language education businesses." Sherlock glanced down at the pile of papers she was carrying, apparently not done. Of course not. "City Lit and School of Sign Language, is it? Both for-profit businesses, I see. Not surprising, there isn't enough money in deaf-centric charities to pay for a marketing scheme and they hardly need to outsource to find more poverty-stricken students that don't pay for their own coursework. You are going to talk to me about options, how reading lips is effective but only at close distances and takes an inefficient level of concentration to achieve. Sign language is faster and better at distance and in groups. Oh, and you're going to give me some bullocks about deaf culture and how sign language will be an important part of joining into it. Well, don't bother, I'm already sold on learning to sign and I have no interest in the so-called 'culture' you so desperately want to be part of but haven't the correct disability to achieve. It's a shame the auditory nerve doesn't require any degree of intelligence or you'd be granted your wish and I'd never have had to waste my time reading your bloody sign. Why don't you do something actually useful and get. me. my. release. form," Sherlock snarled, before leaning back and closing his eyes, apparently deciding he was, at last done.
The woman stood, blinking at him, looking unsure of where to put her sign.
"Nice to meet you," John added, smiling slightly, attempting to look friendly. She raised her eyebrows at him, apparently not impressed.
Okay, so it did sound like a dismissal, he accepted belatedly.
"Let me leave you with the brochures. There are some very nice programs," she said, and gently laid a file on the table beside Sherlock's bed.
"Yeah," John agreed, nodding.
Awkward, Sherlock. Thanks.
"He'll probably be easy to startle for awhile," she told him softly, like she was trying to be easy on his feelings too. John ran a hand down his face. Shit. Sherlock had almost died.
"Not Sherlock, he'll be too busy reading shadows or … something," he replied, shaking his head as Sherlock opened his eyes, glaring at the woman now.
She smiled at him slightly, nodded to Mycroft, and left. Sherlock glared at the door after she was gone, only to flop his head back onto the bed. Apparently, thank god, the man was alright. A few lacerations on his arms from the debris and bruises from the fall; otherwise Sherlock had walked away scot-free. And shockingly, almost creepily, unaffected.
John was called away from Sherlock's bed by a pretty nurse with three earring holes and a tattoo on her hand – not his type – and asked to sign the release form Sherlock had demanded.
Why me? He wondered, guessing this was yet another gay-couple misunderstanding, but not really bothering to care if it meant Sherlock would be released from the place. Every time Sherlock spoke his voice was becoming higher pitched, more of a hiss, signs that the man was rapidly breaking down to being an absolute horror to live with.
"How's he holding up?" the nurse asked kindly, handing him the clipboard.
"Remarkably well," John replied honestly, wincing slightly at the crash that sounded behind him. The nurse's eyebrows rose slightly at the sound.
"Well, I'm sure it's difficult news to bear," she said kindly, glancing around his shoulder at Sherlock's room.
"You'd think so," John replied, unsure what to say. The truth was Sherlock was acting like there was nothing more to deal with in the situation than the fact that he was strapped to a hospital cot, which if it were anyone else John would attribute to denial but with Sherlock? For all he knew, the man was perfectly unaffected by it all, beyond inconvenience. John hated reminders like these, that taught him how little he really understood the man.
"John! I'm bored, how long could it possibly take to sign two sheets of paper?" Sherlock shouted from behind him. The nurse's eyebrows rose more at Sherlock's shout but she didn't look particularly surprised.
"An orderly should be in to release his cuffs in a moment," she said calmly. John sighed, flipping the transfer form over to see its second page releasing the man into his care. Right. How did Sherlock know ..? John shook his head, signing the form and sliding it across the blockade around the nurses' station. The nurse slid a ziplock holding Sherlock's phone, keys, wallet – complete with nicotine patches hanging too far out the top – and toolkit back at him, followed by his folded-up coat. John smiled and took the pile. He turned toward Sherlock's room to see the man striding out of it, apparently seeing no reason to delay to adjust to the trauma of it all.
"My phone," Sherlock ordered as he passed him, heading toward the stairs. John caught up to him and handed him the baggie. He passed Sherlock his coat without prompting as they got to the hospital exit and tried to process the fact that, other than the bandages wrapped over Sherlock's hair, it felt like any other day. Sherlock stalked out of the hospital, reading his texts on his phone, coat swirling around in the wind as he crashed into someone on the sidewalk and by all appearances didn't notice at all. The woman blinked at them for a moment, looking incensed before her eyes caught on the bandages. Her eyes softened and she walked around them both to go on her way. Sherlock, meanwhile, was grinning like a lunatic. Appropriate, considering how that night had gone.
"We've got a case. Scotland Yard. Shall we?" Sherlock said, already stepping into the street and raising an arm for a cab.
~~/~~
"I need to improve reading lips," Sherlock announced, interrupting the cabbie halfway through a story about his daughter.
"Sorry, he's deaf," John said rapidly, unsure he should be apologizing for the injured man. It felt somewhat dishonest, when Sherlock surely would have interrupted the man regardless.
"Look at me," Sherlock demanded and John obeyed. They were too close in the cab to be two grown men staring at each other. He glanced away rapidly, at his clasped hands, only to have Sherlock grab his chin and force him to look back at him.
"No face only me and make all of the alphabetical sounds, in order, starting from 'ay'," he ordered, sitting back and twisting in the cab to face him fully.
Oh, okay, that actually makes some sense, John figured, obeying as well as he could, though he couldn't help glancing at the cabbie on occasion in his embarrassment. He sounded like he'd suddenly gone completely mad and the cabbie's story hung in the air, awkwardly unfinished.
"Say 'Sally sells sea shells by the sea shore," Sherlock ordered seriously and John wondered how on earth Britain had produced a grown man who could say that without blushing.
"A quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog," Sherlock ordered next, "that does all sounds but the fricatives and a hard 'ay' and 'ee'."
"A quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog," John obeyed, blinking rapidly.
"She, saves, sells, fee, faves, fells. Zee, zoo."
John obeyed again and Sherlock nodded, releasing John's chin and clasping his hands under his jaw, his eyes fixed on John's face. It still felt remarkably good, albeit unnerving, to have that genius so entirely captivated by him, if only for his own purposes.
"I cannot determine the difference between 'f' and 'v' or 's' and 'z' from afar. It's a matter of vibrating vocal cords," Sherlock complained, as if this were any other problem in a case that needed to be rectified, if convenient. John nodded.
"Right. Of course, yes. I'll just let you know, shall I?" he said, trying as ever to keep up.
"Likely there won't often be a need," Sherlock replied, leaning forward again as he refocused on John's lips.
A little awkward, John acknowledged, feeling himself start to blush and brutally trying to suppress it.
"Ab, bab, cab, dab, eab, etc," Sherlock ordered with a dismissive wave of his hand. John sighed, and returned to the exercise. Anything to keep from actually thinking of Sherlock as deaf now, Jesus.
"Aock, bock, cock, dock, fock gock, etc," Sherlock ordered.
Great. There was no stopping his blush now. Sherlock leaned further forward, looking interested as John tried to obey with a straight face.
I know, I know, I'm an idiot.
"Aenis, beenis, ceenis, deenis, feenis, etc," Sherlock ordered, his eyes glowing mischievously and John threw his head back, laughing at his utterly ridiculous friend. Sherlock's laughter joined him, but a little...off, in its tone, not the same and he wanted Sherlock ears to heal already.
"We're idiots," John said, straight into Sherlock's face and the man smirked slightly.
"True," he said, grabbing the door handle. The cab started to slow down at the kerb. Sherlock handed the cabbie money before the man told them their bill. He was right, apparently, for the cabbie said nothing as Sherlock pulled himself out of the cab. John followed, hissing at the cold and glancing around to confirm that the cab had taken them to Scotland Yard before he closed the door behind himself. Sherlock was already halfway up the steps to the station, apparently having utterly moved on from their impromptu lesson in lip reading.
~~/~~
"Out of the hospital already?" Greg asked, looking shocked as they walked into his office. Donovan and Anderson were already inside, arguing about something and didn't bother to stop for them. Sherlock blinked, looking confused, and glanced at John before his face brightened in recognition.
"Oh, right, you don't know. I seem to have lost my hearing. What's the case?" Sherlock demanded, striding up to stand too close to Greg's desk.
"Lost your - ? And you came here?" Donovan asked, turning toward them suddenly, but she was standing off to Sherlock's right and slightly behind him, and John knew there was no way Sherlock had caught the rhetorical question.
Probably just as well.
"Well?" Sherlock demanded, holding out a hand, presumably for whatever evidence Lestrade handed him.
"How are you not upset?" Greg asked, pulling a file off his desk and out of the man's reach. "Is it permanent?" he asked, glancing between him and John. Sherlock peered at the man's lips, looking frustrated before he stood up fully again, apparently having narrowed it down.
"Sounds are rarely relevant for my work. I deal in the past. If the ringing would stop I suspect this particular affliction could even be considered convenient, but of course it is too soon to judge," Sherlock rattled off, even as he turned to face John. "Why is that question so important to everyone?" he asked, but he turned away immediately when Lestrade moved to hand him the file. Sherlock buried himself in studying it, effectively dead to the world.
Okay...
"So, just like that, total loss of hearing?" Anderson scoffed out, sounding vaguely like he didn't believe the story, "and then he gets out of the hospital and comes here?"
"I told you, he's a freak," Donovan replied, her mouth pursing.
"He's just-" John started but Sherlock was talking again.
"You said you had a case. This is just a suicide faked as a murder, and a very similar, utterly unrelated homicide. Where's the puzzle?" Sherlock demanded, sounding utterly annoyed as he stared into Lestrade's face.
"Suicide?" Lestrade asked, reaching for the file and Sherlock handed it back.
"Yes. Look at the contents of his wallet. He was divorced, recently so, most likely had just gotten word that he'd lost custody," Sherlock replied, turning around to walk past John out of the office. Lestrade was staring at the photos and looked up at the man's words.
"Oi!" he called after Sherlock, sounding angry.
"Uh...deaf," John reminded him, gesturing at the doorway.
"I'll confirm the custody proceedings," Donovan replied, sounding resigned as she headed out after him.
"Yeah," Lestrade replied, his head falling back on his shoulders. John nodded awkwardly and turned to follow his flatmate. He caught up to the man outside as a taxi pulled up to the kerb. Sherlock stepped back to let John in first, by all appearances knowing exactly where he was.
~~/~~
John practically collapsed against the brick outer wall of 221B while Sherlock unlocked it, trying not to think of the last time he'd really slept, after the night with the Hound and the laboratory and the landmine. Hell, he was tired. Sherlock pushed the door open and strode inside, leaving John to close and lock it behind them. He caught up to Sherlock at the top of the stairs. Sherlock stripped off his coat, threw it over the hook on the wall and started toward the waiting experiments in the kitchen as he did almost every time they returned to the flat. As if there hadn't been three days and a near-death experience between now and the last time he'd looked at the mold growing on the fingers in the fridge. He heard the sucking sound of the fridge getting opened and winced, not wanting to know what it looked like inside.
"Christ," John cursed, catching a wiff of the smell that wafted out, turning back around to ask Mrs. Hudson for the hoover. He'd at least clean what he could of the place.
~~/~`
Sherlock watched as John pulled the infernal machine into their apartment, smiling to himself. He had nothing but the ringing and the motion of the hoover to distract him. The ringing, at least, was constant and almost certainly temporary. Part of him hoped the hearing loss was not, but he'd yet to do a comprehensive study on how often it slowed him down and to what degree vs. how much faster he thought without the auditory distractions which were so rarely useful. He turned back to his microscope and noted the additional bacteria growth.
~~/~~
God, but it was a bit scary. John cleaned up the flat carefully and couldn't help glancing constantly at his flatmate, sitting at his microscope, calm as ever with bandages covering half of his head. Bandages which really needed to be changed, he realized, noting the time as he put away the cleaning chemicals.
He approached Sherlock at the kitchen table and somehow knew that he would startle the man. Well, shite. He walked back a bit and stamped the floor heavily as he approached. Sherlock glanced up, looking confused for a moment before his face cleared.
"Thank you," he said. John nodded and gestured to Sherlock's bandages.
"We need to change those," he said and Sherlock paused, eyes clouded again before he shook his head, exhaling rapidly. John tried again and Sherlock grimaced, pointing to the pad.
"Write it down," he ordered and John obeyed, showing him the note and wondering why lipreading seemed so difficult for the brilliant man.
We need to change those.
"Ah," Sherlock said, pursing his lips. "Why 'we'? I can -" Sherlock started, reaching for his own bandages. Oh god forbid the man try to replace them himself. John caught his hand quickly.
"No, seriously, let me do it," he ordered.
"Later," Sherlock replied, turning back to the microscope. John growled and grabbed the damn pad back.
No. Sherlock – now. Infection could permanently deafen you. John wrote and shoved the note into Sherlock's workspace. Sherlock finished examining something, to all appearances ignoring him and scratched something down in his own notes. John pushed the pad again until it ran into Sherlock's arm. The man finished his notes and skimmed his eyes over the pad before going back to the microscope.
John scoffed out his annoyance, though no one was listening and went to get his kit. He checked his supplies of disinfectant, bandages, swabs and medical tape and headed to the kitchen, not willing to take any of it out until as much of the table as possible was disinfected of whatever the hell Sherlock had recently put on it. Apparently he was doing this from the kitchen. Though, he supposed as he cleaned the table, it did at least give him some chance of his absolutely mad flatmate actually staying still.
"Jesus," John cursed as he peeled away the last blood and pus crusted layer, revealing the lacerated, bruised face beneath. He pulled his kit closer to himself and reached for the disinfectant. Sherlock switched to looking something up on his phone, apparently unperturbed by what was certainly a painful procedure. Still, it meant he didn't move while John dealt with the fluid still dripping from Sherlock's ears.
"We need to learn BSL," Sherlock said without looking up from his phone, as John started on rewrapping his skull.
? John scrawled quickly, before quickly grabbing the untaped bandage on Sherlock's head. If it loosened he'd have to start all over and there was no way he was dealing with the man's curly hair again. Sherlock's hair was deceptively silky beneath his hands, that beautiful look women loved and physicians hated because it always frigging slipped.
"British Sign Language. It's got a variety of course materials – which by rights should be irrelevant but may come to be helpful in your case," Sherlock replied, oblivious to the ongoing battle with his hair.
"You want me to learn sign language," John said flatly before growling and reaching for the pad. A bandage slipped slightly and he almost smacked Sherlock across the head grabbing for it. He replaced the fabric gently and gratefully started to tape it up. It was a 'cling' bandage but he knew better than to bloody trust them, especially when he knew for a fact he never wanted to look at Sherlock's gorgeous hair again, much less deal with it.
"Why sign language? This works," John scratched out before going to the sink to wash his hands.
"This is tedious, John, and only works in close quarters. And lip reading is hideous," Sherlock snarled from behind him. John turned back and saw the man actually watching him, apparently waiting for an answer.
"How's that?" he asked, starting to pack away his med kit.
"Rouse hat, cows sat, cow's fat, how's that? - likely, but there's no way to really know, too many options," Sherlock spat, his whole face contorting in disgust and frustration.
Maybe this does bother him after all, John wondered. He really couldn't tell, Sherlock complained about a lot that got in the way of his work.
"Jesus, Sherlock, you don't have to think of all the options. Just watch my mouth and make a guess. Harry and I used to do that all the time," John replied, mouthing the words slowly. Sherlock growled at him and went back to his work, apparently deciding it wasn't worth the effort. John wrote it down.
"How can you discard an option before you've even acknowledged it?" Sherlock asked, blinking at the scrawled note. John shrugged slightly and clicked his med kit closed.
I don't know, you just do. You use context, I suppose, John wrote. Sherlock only looked more confused.
You don't have to think of every possible option. I guess we'd just predict what we expected the other to say and see if it fits -" John wrote.
"I never predict what people are going to say," Sherlock replied. John felt his eyebrows furrow.
What?
You are constantly, constantly, telling people how boring they are, he protested. Sherlock smiled slightly.
"They are boring, John. There are just an almost infinite number of boring, meaningless responses a person can give. I get more proof of that daily," he said, turning back to his microscope only to apparently remember that he couldn't get John's response that way. He leaned away from it again and refocused on John, looking frustrated.
Even with context, you think of every single damn word my lips could be forming? John confirmed, flummoxed.
"I can't analyze possible conclusions I haven't gathered, " Sherlock repeated slowly, like he was talking to an imbecile. John tried to fathom thinking of every damn combination his last sentence could be mangled into and shook his head.
Okay, fine, we'll learn sign language. But this damn hearing thing better last long enough to make it bloody well worth it," John scrawled before throwing up his hands in defeat and turning to put the kettle on. He saw Sherlock smirk before he turned away and ran his words over again in his mind.
Yup. I'm a bastard. Just requested my flatmate remain deafened to validate my time, John thought, sighing to himself as he started the stove.
~~/~~
BSL was, apparently, a bitch to learn. John spent his every free moment at the clinic – which was a lot of time, given a particularly slow Thursday – attending the damn internet programs Sherlock had so mockingly pointed out to him. .
He had barely stepped into the flat before Sherlock was symboling to him wildly, his arms waving around like a madman.
"Uh-" John started before sighing and lowering his briefcase to the ground. Sherlock waited for him, glowering. John took the time to take off his coat and move to the kitchen to get the kettle started. Sherlock walked up to him, shoving himself in John's space and tried again, slower now. Meaningless. John slowly signed out the phrase he'd learned that day.
"I – Learn – BSL," he said. Sherlock groaned loudly and signed back something unintelligible. John shot him a rueful smile.
Yup. That's it. He'd spent all damn day at work and had gotten through just under two BSL online lessons, barely more than twenty words.
"-How -feel -you? I -feel -happy. I -feel -sad. -Please. -Thank you. -Blue, -Green, -Yellow, -Red, -Pink, -White, -Black, -Gold, -Silver, -Cat, -dog, -fish, -bear," John signed and Sherlock groaned again, stalking away. John heard a heavy thump and guessed Sherlock had thrown himself onto the couch to sulk. He brought him out his tea and the man twisted on the couch to face him as he put it on the coffee table.
"Of all the inane statements to learn, John, really," he growled, "What is the likelihood you were going to come home and need the phrase 'Please, how is the pink fish feeling?" Sherlock turned his back to roar suddenly at the ceiling. "God, I'm bored!"
Well, I'm sure someone else will be murdered for you to puzzle over soon, John thought, but it wasn't on and he walked away to get his laptop. He'd barely turned it on before he realized that he couldn't possibly practice in front of the man, and he grabbed the computer and his tea and started for his room, ignoring how Sherlock stared after him, looking curious.
The next day passed disturbingly similarly. John got up and went to work without seeing Sherlock at all, studied BSL, and got a spree of nonsense symbols as soon as he walked in the door.
"I -like -learn BSL. -Father. -Mother. -Boy. -Girl. -Son. -Daughter. -Grandmother. -Grandfather. -Marriage. -Aunt. -Uncle. -Baby. -Single. -Divorced. -Home. -Work. -Store. -Church. -Come. -Go," John replied, nodding firmly at Sherlock's disgusted snarl. "Yup, I really am that stupid," he said aloud, but Sherlock had already turned away to hide himself in the couch. John went and grabbed the take-away menu and poked the man in the back to get his attention.
"I don't want dinner or tea, if it's anything other than a case go away," Sherlock grumbled. John nodded and grabbed his phone, laptop and tea, piling them on top of each other to head up the stairs to get back to signing.
John had barely started in on his BSL clip when Sherlock's head burst through his bedroom door. John jerked, his knee slamming into the desk and sending his laptop skidding toward the back wall. He caught it carefully and turned toward Sherlock, who was looking rather disappointed.
"Ah," the man said and moved as if to withdraw.
"What the devil?" John cursed and threw a pen at the closing doorway to get Sherlock's attention. From the light smacking sound, it'd landed, and Sherlock pulled back into sight. John just gestured 'what?', an open, easy gesture that fit pretty close to his actual question.
"I couldn't determine if you were embarrassed to learn in front of me or if you simply fancied a wank," Sherlock replied easily.
"And if I wa-" John stared and cursed, trying to remember the damn signs. "-If -I -want -past?" he asked. Sherlock blinked, apparently not having considered that. "-And," John started, struggling to remember the word before he just grabbed his spilled teacup and pointed to it. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed again.
"What's wrong with the tea?" he asked. John wrote it down on the pad beside him quickly and flashed it at the man.
I wouldn't bring tea!
"Am I supposed to know these things?" Sherlock asked, blinking. John gestured 'no' rapidly.
Uh... really really not.
And of course Sherlock looked incensed like he'd just asked for something utterly ridiculous.
Everyone knows that! John added, glaring at the man.
"Why does everyone know that?" Sherlock asked, glancing over John's frame like he'd miscalculated something about him.
Oh...hell.
Not about me, you idiot. As a norm. You don't bring tea, John wrote instead. Sherlock glared at him again.
"I can hardly be blamed for not knowing that," he protested.
Well. That answers that question.
Just don't barge into my room, Sherlock, he wrote, resigned, and Sherlock started back down the stairs, still looking hateful. John turned off his clip, moving to learn what Sherlock would no doubt consider 'actually useful' words – all the different terms for 'idiot' he could find.
~~/~~
John woke up that night to a horrible, ear splitting screech.
Christ. He'd sat up before he was fully awake, before he'd processed that it was not, in fact, a human scream. He waited a moment, one foot out of bed, as the sound kept screaming out from downstairs, until he'd blinked and it settled into being just the sound of an extremely ill-played violin.
Sherlock was trying to play. John felt his heartrate slow and his mind slowly start to shift away from combat prep toward trying to decide whether or not he was going to go shout abuse at his flatmate for his latest late-night hobby. As pathetic as it made him, he didn't have the heart for it. John flopped back onto the bed and pulled his foot back under the warm comforters, wincing at the screaming downstairs and trying to decide how on earth he was going to get back to sleep.
~~/~~
He could apparently get away with more when deaf, Sherlock mused, not pausing in his playing. John had never given him more than five minutes of bad playing before he stomped down the stairs to roar at him, and it'd been a half an hour now. That marked another point in favor of re-causing the disability if his ears healed. How had he never thought of this before? It was a deceptively simple solution.
John dragged himself out of bed the next morning, when his body refused to get back to sleep despite his brain half begging for it. And thank god it was Saturday. He wandered down the stairs for the shower, walking into the kitchen from the hall and grunting at where Sherlock was holding his violin up without playing a note, his entire body utterly still. He apparently had a wax sculpture for a flatmate today. John didn't ask.
He came out of his shower, towel wrapped around his waist and headed for the upstairs, carefully not looking at where he'd seen Sherlock balanced in an odd half-squat on the easy chair, playing the violin. He hadn't liked having his scar just there for Sherlock to make his bloody ...deductions from when he'd moved in but using two towels to cover himself like a bloody dress was hardly on so he'd gotten used to it. By now, he figured, trying to ignore the twinge of self-consciousness that still hit him as he walked almost naked past the man, Sherlock had deduced all he was going to. He'd gotten shot and pushed back onto something scalding and it looked like shite; hell, Sherlock probably knew the tank model number.
John exhaled slowly and headed for the hall, until he registered that Sherlock was playing the violin. John had no idea what the composition was but the point was it was music and John stopped, one leg out the doorway and spun around slowly. He stomped on the floor to get Sherlock's attention and the man stopped playing to look up.
"You figured it out," he said slowly when Sherlock's gaze focused on his lips. Sherlock blinked.
"No idea what you just said," he replied, refocusing on the instrument in his hands like that clearly ended the conversation. Ghah. John stomped again and signed.
"-You -learn -" and that was the end of his illustrious signing ability. John mocked playing the violin and pointed to the bloody thing. Sherlock smirked and went back to his playing. John had almost turned around entirely before he realized. Oh, damn it. He stomped again and Sherlock didn't look up, though John would swear he'd felt it. He walked up to the man and shook his shoulder, allowing the violin to screech angrily at the motion. Sherlock glared at him and John glowered back.
"-You," damn it. Stupid symbols. He mocked playing again and added the sign for 'yesterday', touching his cheek and throwing his finger over his shoulder. "-You-" uh. Bullocks. John just mouthed 'test' and Sherlock grinned, apparently catching on.
"Well, obviously the boundaries of our relationship have changed. It's only natural for me to reevaluate them," Sherlock replied, stepping back out of John's hold on his shoulder and replacing his violin.
Ghah. John threw back his head and tried to rediscover his patience. Sherlock promptly started his violin screeching and John pounded toward the stairs to go get dressed.
"No, no, our boundaries remain exactly where they were," John swore, banging up the stairs though intellectually he knew Sherlock could not hear him. He was going to spend the whole damn day looking up BSL words for Sherlock-specific words. Violins, guns, science equipment, body parts, and all the curse words he could get his hands on.
~~/~~