LTW- Chapter 3
Sherlock had curled in on himself tensely, his body shuddering and his eyes darting swiftly about under his eyelids. It was so familiar that John felt as though he could be watching himself, during another nightmare of Afghanistan. He would wake up sweating and shaking, alone in his bed with his heart pounding its way into his throat until he could no longer suppress the tears that had been threatening to fall.
It moved him forward and made him shake his flatmate's shoulder. He suddenly couldn't bear the thought of Sherlock screaming himself awake to emptiness, no other sounds but his own harsh breathing and the steady pat of the rain against the window. He didn't have to be alone. John was there.
"Sherlock. Sherlock, wake up. It's John, you're safe. You're home!" Sherlock woke with a start, his arm automatically lashing out towards John and he felt the crushing impact of a fist into his jaw.
He groaned as he picked himself up off the floor, rubbing gingerly at his face. Sherlock sat there, looking terrified and bewildered, his eyes wide and his brow slick with sweat. "Don't touch me…don't touch me…" he whispered like a mantra as he slowly came into awareness, "…John. John, is that you?"
"Yes, yes it's me." He stood beside the bed, fidgeting and not knowing if he should sit down or leave.
A combination of relief and embarrassment crept over Sherlock's face in the light from the open door but it soon vanished as if he had wiped it clean. Blank. "Thank you for checking on me," he said in a quiet monotone, "I'm fine now, obviously. Dreams can't hurt you."
"Not physically, no…"
The muscles of Sherlock's jaw clenched and he lowered his eyes from John's, "I'm fine. Go back to your tea."
"…How did you…never mind. Goodnight." He rose his hand in a parting gesture and left, closing the door gently behind him.
…
When John was awakened, it was 4:06 in the morning. The steady hiss of the shower had finally roused him from dark, twisting dreams and he lay there, listening. The shower continued for half an hour and he started to feel concerned.
First off, it was an ungodly hour for bathing and secondly, it wouldn't be good for Sherlock's wounds to be exposed for so long. He lay fidgeting for another ten minutes, wondering if he was alright but felt it would be a major intrusion to go and knock on the bathroom door. After all, he had undergone a traumatic experience in which he had been invaded in the worst of ways and it would not be conducive to interrupt his privacy.
Then again, his doctor's instincts continued to worry about the stitches and bandages getting saturated in the hot water. He waffled back and forth for a long while until the shower suddenly stopped. He waited, listening for the bathroom door.
…
Sherlock woke with a start from the nightmare, trembling in the dark silence of the room. He had the childish feeling that shadows were creeping in on him from every angle. Snapping his eyes shut, he waited for sleep to return. It did not. Every time he felt himself start to drift, he could feel hands on him, everywhere, and the ghost of hot breath on the back of his neck.
He felt dirty, used, like sweat still clung to his skin. He knew in the back of his mind that this was completely illogical but he was overwhelmed with the desperate need to be clean. He carefully swung his legs over the side of the bed, every movement like fire and sandpaper. It took him ten minutes to make it out the door and into the hall. He opened the bathroom door slowly so the hinges wouldn't creak and edged inside.
The two and a half foot step it would take to get in the tub loomed ahead of him like an impossible task. Slowly, he stripped himself of the clothes that Mycroft had surreptitiously delivered to him at the hospital, and then his pants. He felt a faint flicker of relief when he discovered no blood on them; his stitches were still intact.
Lifting a leg, he placed his foot on the edge of the tub. He let out a breath and gritted his teeth as he placed it inside the tub. He burned and he ached so he did the other leg faster, like ripping off a bandage. Big mistake. Huge. His vision blacked and he felt himself sway, his arms reaching out to hold himself on the wall. He pressed his face against the cool tile, waiting for his head and his stomach to catch up with the rest of him.
When he felt steady, he turned on the faucet, twisting the knob until the water was as hot as it could be. It ran over his fingers, hot, sterile. He pulled the shower plug and the burning, blessed heat was all over him. He stood still under the stream until he was soaked, his hair hanging down about his face, drenched and curly before grabbing the soap. He passed it over his skin, expecting to feel clean, but he did not.
He could still feel fingers on him; the sweat. He scrubbed harder, everywhere. He ripped off the plaster that covered the bite mark and rubbed vigorously, pain stinging all the way into his shoulder, then the scratches and the bruises on his hips. 'still filthy, still used...'
He stopped abruptly when he noticed the red tint of the water pooling at his feet and rushing down the drain. His chest was smeared with blood and he could hear the faint remnants of malicious laughter ringing in his head. Trembling in the now cold stream, he turned off the shower, silence enveloping him once more.
…
John woke the next morning to find Sherlock, not in his room, but standing in the kitchen, calmly drinking his tea. As far as he could tell, his presence had not yet been noticed. His flatmate stood with an air of quiet dignity, his demeanor contrasting sharply with the darkness under his eyes.
"Good morning," John said quietly, and he noticed a slight flinch; a twitch of the eye and a minute jerk of the shoulder which bespoke Sherlock's inner unease. "Sorry."
"Not at all, John," he replied, his face slipping back into his mask of constant composure. John must have been staring because Sherlock eventually turned his face away from him, favoring the company of the countertop.
The movement however, displayed the angry red marks on the side of his neck, newly clotted. John's sharp intake of breath brought Sherlock's hand to the wound, covering it as if doing so would make John forget it was there.
"What happened to the bandage?"
"It…got wet in the shower. It was doing no good so I took it off."
"Hold on, I have some more upstairs," John said, before disappearing up the staircase. He rummaged through the bags of unpacked clothes and toiletries until he located his first aid kit and hurried back to the kitchen.
Sherlock eyed the kit apprehensively and John told him to lean down. He noticed this particularly because normally, doctors would ask their patients to have a seat. That meant John was still thinking about it and how Sherlock wouldn't want to sit and this irritated him.
"Something wrong?" John asked innocently, antibacterial wipe and bandage poised.
"Why did you ask me to lean down?"
"Well I don't know if you've noticed but our height difference happens to be quite significant and it would help a great deal if you were to lean down a bit."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the evasion but he silently complied. John's fingers made him jump at first but he halted, making sure it was okay before continuing to sterilize the wound. He liked that, he enjoyed the burning of the antiseptic and the idea that it was working. John's touch wasn't as bothersome as the nurse's had been but the close proximity made him a little anxious.
He finished quickly, declaring that Sherlock was "all patched up" and then busied himself with a cup of tea. Sherlock watched him, observed him for a moment more before grabbing his netbook from the desk and retreating to his room.
(A/N: Thank you again for all of the wonderful reviews and I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter!)
