Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.
Author´s notes: A merry belated Christmas- thank you all for reading and of course to those who gave feedback, it´s much appreciated! I should probably be a little intimidated by the number of people who´re on alert for this story, but frankly I´m much too excited about updating. I love writing this story so much!
Enjoy!
o o o
Hazard Control
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Part 4: Shifting Perspectives
o
A few days go by. Sherlock´s strength gradually returns; he´s awake more often and for a little longer.
One night John is being woken by Surinder: "Mr Holmes has woken up from a nightmare," she says, obviously upset, "I can´t calm him down."
John scrambles into his dressing gown and follows her into Sherlock´s room. Sherlock is cowering in one corner of the room, wide-eyed and trembling. His hands are batting at something in the air in front of him, and he´s ripped out the cannula from his hand, which is bleeding. Clearly he´s not entirely awake.
John approaches him slowly, not wanting to alarm him further:"Sherlock?" His friend looks at him, but his eyes are unfocused and he is panting: "No..."
"It´s okay," John tries to soothe him, but Sherlock doesn´t appear to hear him: "No," he repeats, "No!"
John manages to catch Sherlock´s hands in his own, ignoring the blood: "Sherlock, it´s okay, you´re dreaming. It´s not real, it´s long over already." Sherlock struggles to free his hands; a tiny part of John is glad that his friend isn´t up to his usual strength at this; he has a mean right hook. But he won´t last long like this, and John would prefer him to be wake up before he collapses. He tries to speak calm but firmly: " Sherlock, look at me! It´s John! You´re safe, no one is going to hurt you."
It takes a moment, but then Sherlock lets out a strangled gasp and stops fighting John. He seems to sag, shrinking back into the corner. "John," he breathes, barely audible. "I was..." he breaks off, exhausted and probably dizzy. John gingerly reinforces his grip around Sherlock´s wrists: "It´s okay," he repeats, "you had a nightmare."
Wordlessly and gently, he pulls Sherlock to his feet. His friends tries to cooperate yet staggers, as he is barely able to stand, but John already has one arm around his midriff to support him, and they somehow make it back to the bed. Sherlock is still trembling.
John sits down with him, never letting go of him completely while he turns to the nurse: "Thank you, Surinder, I´ll take it from here." he gives her a smile. Blushing but visibly relieved, she leaves. John turns back to Sherlock, eyeing him sympathetically. The tremor is still there; after a few minutes, it begins to cease gradually.
Sherlock´s gaze is trained on John´s shoulder. "It seemed real," he whispers when he finally raises it to meet John´s.
"I know." John is, after all, no stranger to night terrors. "It´s okay, no need to explain."
Sherlock´s expression is still full of trepidation, but at least he seems steadier now, the tremor has completely subsided.
"Let me have a look at your hand," John says quietly.
It is tremendously reassuring to have John taking care of him, and Sherlock keeps completely still while the doctor cleans and bandages the newly-inflicted wound, even when it stings and especially when John runs his thumb over Sherlock´s skin and says he´s done. He inserts the cannula into the other hand and checks the drip, then he disposes of the bloodied tissues. The stained bed linen and Sherlock´s shirt will have to wait till the morning.
o
With a glass of water John sits down again: "Here."
Sherlock takes a few sips; his throat indeed feels parched. He can´t recall what exactly he´s been dreaming of, though he remembers trying to shout and being unable to produce any sound, his throat constricting. He was suffocating among dark shapes, and there was an overall sense of menace. Nothing out of the ordinary, he thinks bitterly, he really needs to leave the past months behind. He´s very likely not able to do so until he talks about it. To John, preferably. No one else needs to know; not in detail, anyway.
In an involuntary imitation of The Woman, he has saved his memories on his phone, along with a few pictures. He is going to show all of it John, which is going to be easier than telling him. The talking can start afterwards.
Not yet though. Sherlock doesn´t think he´s ready for all that it entails, and he really wants to wait until he´s recovered enough to at least sit up for more than ten minutes; he will need to organize his thoughts, to enter his mind palace if need be. He´s not up to it yet, as much as he loathes it.
John takes the glass off him: "Do you think you can go back to sleep, or would you like me to give you a mild sedative?"
"No, thank you," Sherlock murmurs, "I´ll be fine."
They both know that it´s not entirely true.
The following nights remain calm, however. Sherlock doesn´t remember his dreams in the mornings, but he´s quite certain there haven´t been any more nightmares. Other than asking whether he´s okay on the morning after, John doesn´t mention it again; there´s no point in blowing it out of proportion.
But the doctor ponders the matter nevertheless; he´s determined not to ask Sherlock about the past months; in due time, Sherlock will tell him of his own volition. John thinks back to the last few days before the fall with him and wonders how deep the scars go.
o
Sherlock must have napped a little, because all off a sudden he is aware of John sitting next to him, studying him. Sherlock blinks, trying to discern whether John´s expression is worried or something else, because he certainly looks serious as he beholds his friend.
"I´m sorry I called you a machine," he says.
Oh.
"John, don´t." Sherlock doesn´t want him to apologize. If anything, it´s Sherlock who has made him react like that, had to have him believe that Sherlock really didn´t care about their landlady´s fate in order to make John leave.
It seems an eternity ago but Sherlock can still smell the chemical cleanliness of the morgue, can still feel the small ball bounce off his palm, can still feel his own tremor and apprehension which he had hidden from John. He regrets the way it had to be done, but there´s no way to change it now.
"Why not." As ever, John doesn´t give up so easily.
"Because there´s no need. I wanted you to think I was. A machine, I mean."
"But you´re not."
"No. I´m not."
He slowly turns onto his good side, facing away from John; he is feeling like an old man, not at all in sync with his body. On the contrary, it feels alien to him. He´s always been thin – he prefers the word lean- but strong nevertheless, and now he´s weak as a kitten.
John stares at Sherlock´s back; he´s concerned about the lack of impatience in his friend, who has apparently resigned to the fact that he´s bedridden for the time being. As he lies there, bony shoulder drawn up into a defensive hunch, he looks so vulnerable that John wants to hug him. Protecting Sherlock clearly hasn´t worked before, but he´s already made a vow that he will not fail his friend again, so he doesn´t let go on this one.
He clears his throat: "Sherlock?"
Sherlock doesn´t reply.
He is perpetually tired these days, even upon waking, and spends a lot of time just looking at the canopy of the bed or the dragon or the slow drip of the IV-line, allowing his thoughts to stray. Because that is what they do if he isn´t careful; memories, some welcome, others unbidden and unwanted, keep popping up and occupying his mind, and he mostly lets them. He doesn´t have the energy to do much else anyway, so why bother. Part of him is aware that his nightmare has sprung from the same source, but he doesn´t care. Sometimes he lies with his eyes closed, trying to listen into his body, willing it to heal faster.
He´s relieved to be back in London, and he knows he´s finished his task: Moriarty´s web is completely and utterly destroyed. He cannot be glad about it, he has yet to comprehend this new reality: as his subconscious has only just proven, the fact that he doesn´t have to hide anymore hasn´t quite sunken in. He can´t simply stop, though; he needs to talk to some people first. And he really has no idea how.
All these things assail his weary mind at once as soon as he starts thinking about it, and he still doesn´t feel up to it. It tells him that he´s getting better however; he can barely recall the first week, but now that the fever has receded, his mind seems much clearer in comparison to how woolly it was initially.
o
John however does bother, and he won´t allow Sherlock to withdraw like this. He is too aware that Sherlock is still fragile after all that happened. He´s been rather quiet ever since he has begun to stay up, and John inevitably worries. A complaining, irritable Sherlock he can deal with. A Sherlock who´s quiet even though he´s not thinking about a case is distressing. He needs to know what is going on in his friend´s head.
"Sherlock," John leans over and puts one hand on Sherlock´s shoulder: "Tell me what´s wrong?"
Sherlock remains silent, so John waits.
"I want to go home." Sherlock´s voice is soft when he eventually answers. "I want to feel normal again. This is not me."
John´s heart aches at this; he can imagine exactly how Sherlock feels. His own body had felt alien to him after he had been wounded, and recovery had been a slow process. After nearly dying, all the perspectives shift significantly, leaving the one who´s affected without the familiar boundaries.
"I know," he murmurs, gently squeezing his friend´s shoulder. "I know how that feels. But you´ll get there. Eventually."
Sherlock remains silent, though he draws comfort from John´s words and the hand on his shoulder, leaning into its support ever so slightly. He´s glad John stayed.
John can feel it and is relieved that Sherlock accepts the little he has to offer; he waits for a few more minutes during which neither of them speaks, then says "I was going to take the cannula out today, which will give you much more freedom. Maybe it´s a start."
Since Sherlock´s visibly improving and seems stable, John wants to begin tapering the medication by gradually reducing the dosage, and the IV-feed is no longer needed.
Wordlessly and as slow as before, Sherlock rolls onto his back. John reaches for his hand and disconnects the IV-line. With skilled movements, he then removes the tapes which have been holding the cannula in place, and pulls it out, immediately pressing a piece of clean gauze on the spot and securing it with fresh tape.
"Let me have a look at the stitches, while I´m at it." John says after he has disposed of the cannula.
With gentle fingers, he removes the gauze: "Healing nicely," he murmurs when he redresses the wound and pulls Sherlock´s shirt down again.
Sherlock makes a non-committal sound and doesn´t return John´s encouraging smile, but stares at his hand, slowly flexing his fingers, then he gingerly turns onto his side again, huddling in on himself.
Clearly, he´s not doing well, and John is running out of things to say. The common phrases he uses when dealing with his patients simply don´t apply to Sherlock; neither does small-talk. And John is not so sure which topics should be momentarily avoided, or whether they should be avoided at all.
After a while, John gets up and walks around the bed, then sits down on it, pushes off his shoes and stretches out next to his friend, turning onto his side to be able to look at him.
Sherlock seems wary, but at least he doesn´t turn away his gaze. Silently, they behold each other.
John´s familiar, dear features look exactly like Sherlock remembered them while he was away: that serious face which always seems to be hiding a laugh somewhere. John can turn his expression into stone if he wants to, but when he smiles, his humour and kindness are unrivalled. Just looking at him is giving Sherlock a sense of extreme safety.
John is probably the one person in the world who is not intimidated by Sherlock´s scrutiny. His features are tense while his pale eyes slowly wander over the other´s face, taking stock. When he seems satisfied that John hasn´t changed and that the other´s eyes are still twinkling when alighting on the world´s only consulting detective, he relaxes visibly.
o
"Who cut your hair?" John eventually asks, lifting one hand and gently running his fingers through Sherlock´s curls. They are much shorter now, making him look younger and infinitely more vulnerable.
"I did." Sherlock´s eyes are serious as he says this, for the memories which are connected to those haircuts are not exactly pleasant. "I don´t like it."
John hums: "I do." There´s his smile again, a little mischievously. "I´m glad you didn´t change the colour. You could have gone blond."
The ghost of a smile tugs at Sherlock´s mouth: "Please." But he seems amused, if almost against his will.
"I mean it," John is warming to the topic, "it´d have brought out your light side. In fact, you should try it."
"I´m not going blond," Sherlock says firmly. "Imagine what Mrs Hudson would say."
"Yeah," John grins, "I can see it before me. Oh, Sherlock, have you completely gone off your rocker now?"
Even Sherlock is chuckling at this, but he soon turns serious again, a little frown settling on his brow: "John. Would you... could you tell her for me? I know this is a big favour, but... you´re probably the only one who can without giving her a heart attack."
John is not surprised about this rather quick change of topics; he knows that Sherlock´s been thinking of Mrs Hudson a lot during the last days.
"Sure," he says, "I will. I can do it today, in fact; I need to go home and get a change of clothes anyway. I can make a detour."
The frown deepens: "But not yet. It´s still early."
"No," John gives a minute shake of his head. "Not yet."
Sherlock exhales and as he closes his eyes, the frown disappears. John takes in Sherlock´s now slack face and feels relief. He has never found it difficult to talk to the detective and often wondered why others were so incapable of reading him. Of course he could drive everyone up the wall if he intended to, but it partly depended on how people reacted to being provoked. Once Sherlock got past that stage with someone, they were good. And if Sherlock liked someone, he was loyal, even though he showed it in rather unusual ways sometimes.
He had meant it when he had said that he didn´t have friends- John thinks about Baskerville with an involuntary smirk- but that he had one friend. Mrs Hudson doesn´t count as friend, she is more like family. Lestrade´s a... colleague. Has been. Whatever. Not important now.
Part of John undertands why Sherlock doesn´t have more friends, but the other part doesn´t. It took so little to appease him just now, there must be other people who can manage to be close to him, care about him other than from a distance. His grandmother has, apparently, and Mycroft, once. But now Sherlock´s mostly alone. Not that John isn´t glad to occupy the former vacancy, but still he wonders.
o
Later that day, he knocks on the door of 221B. Why the B is on the front door has always been a mystery to him, since there are also the flats A and C, but he never got round to ask Mrs Hudson. Whom he has called earlier to announce his visit; she seemed fragile lately, and he didn´t want to scare her. So what am I doing here, he asks himself, but right then the door opens.
"John," she breathes, smiling and opening her arms.
He steps into the embrace: "Mrs Hudson. You´re looking well."
She beams at him once they´ve let go of each other: "You, too, my dear. Come on, the kettle´s just boiled."
Arm in arm, they walk inside.
John waits until the tea´s ready and Mrs Hudson has sat down with him. They´ve exchanged what little news there are and John suddenly feels nervous.
"So what have you been up to?" the old lady asks, stirring her tea. "I have been meaning to call you."
"Well... I´ve got to tell you something," he says, "and it´s got to do with what I´ve been up to, incidentally."
She looks at him expectantly, and he feels a lump in his throat. You´re a doctor, he berates himself, you can do this- but somehow, it still is much harder than telling someone about the death of their loved one, or that they have been diagnosed with a life-threatening illness.
Mrs Hudson´s expression turns a little anxious at his obvious struggle for words, so he hurries to begin. He tells her about Mycroft´s car and what happened ever since he agreed to accompany the older Holmes. He leaves out a few details, but apart from that, he basically tells her the whole story.
When he finally falls silent, Mrs Hudson sits with both her hands in front of her mouth; her eyes are huge and brimming with tears.
"Are- are you all right?" John asks.
Mrs Hudson´s voice is trembling: "He´s... not dead?"
"No, he isn´t." John eyes her attentively, ready to jump in case she faints. But she just sits there, laughing a little hysterically while a few tears are running down her cheeks: "I don´t- I´d never-"
The rest of her is trembling now as well. John watches as she tries to comprehend the news; both of their teas are getting cold, unnoticed.
"That silly boy," Mrs Hudson finally says. "That dear, silly boy." She snuffles, pulling a handkerchief out of her sleeve, and wipes her eyes and her nose. "Can I see him?"
"Now?"
She pauses: "Yes, now. It´s already been too long, hasn´t it?"
"But he´s not expecting-"
At this, Mrs Hudson crosses her arms in front of her chest and sticks out her chin: "Under the given circumstances, I really don´t think I need to be considerate of what he expects."
John purses his lips: "True," he concedes. "All right, let´s go."
o
To distract himself from the more unwelcome thoughts which have been crowding him, Sherlock has been counting prime numbers until he fell asleep, curled up on his good side. He half-wakes when he hears the door to his room open but doesn´t bother to look, he´s sure it´s John.
He hasn´t seen Mycroft in days, and Surinder is sitting in the armchair next to the bed, having dozed off earlier. Sherlock however notices that there are two different kinds of footfalls, and he strains to listen, making it into a game rather than simply turning around. Whoever has been approaching the bed has stopped, and now nothing happens.
Curiously, Sherlock does begin to turn around; it´s still slow-going and makes him feel like an old man, but at least he´s not restrained by the IV-line anymore. There, frozen to the spot, her handbag hanging from the crook of her arm and her hands covering her mouth (just as before, though Sherlock can´t know that), stands Mrs Hudson. She is making a small mewling sound as her eyes meet his, and then she all but flies towards him and he feels himself pulled into a surprisingly strong hug: "Sherlock!"
Befuddled, he returns the embrace, never minding the handbag which is digging into his hip, fortunately on his good side, and for an unaccounted amount of time, they just cling to each other while Mrs Hudson sobs.
"Don´t snivel, Mrs Hudson," he says affectionately and very softly, eliciting a gasp and a small-fisted shove against his arm: "Sherlock! I have every right to snivel after what you did! And I have half a mind to thump you for good!" But she can see that he´s not well yet, as well as she can feel that he´s beginning to tremble from the strain of keeping himself upright, and lets it go for now.
She gently presses him back down into the pillows, just looking at him while one hand touches his cheek and the other one searches for his: "You´re really here," she whispers, fresh tears threatening to spill.
John has meanwhile explained the situation to Surinder, who has been startled out of her nap to see a small old lady all but tackling her patient, and they both withdraw to give the two some privacy.
o
Half an hour later, he returns to the room with a tea tray, much to the butler´s chagrin, who´d rather have carried it for him. "But I´m headed there anyway," John said, ending the discussion; he´s probably never going to get used to having servants around.
Mrs Hudson and Sherlock are talking quietly when he enters the room, the old lady is still holding Sherlock´s hand in both of hers.
"...seen it in Hampton Court Palace," Mrs Hudson is saying, "though that´s a long time ago."
Ah. They´re talking about the painting.
John notices at once that Sherlock seems in much better spirits than he has been before; something about him has changed very subtly.
Mrs Hudson looks up at John, smiling, and his heart suddenly feels very light.
"We´ve come to an agreement," she says, cheerfully. "There´ll be no more shooting at walls or body parts in the fridge when you move back in."
Sherlock doesn´t look like he´s voluntarily given his consent to those terms, but he seems amused nevertheless.
John sets the tray down, whistling a little as he pours the tea: things are suddenly not looking so dreary anymore.
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To Be Continued
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Feedback welcome!
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Additional author´s notes: I didn´t manage to update before Christmas, obviously. The muse went back and forth between this story and two others, one of them being my first venture into Cabin Pressure fanfic, the other a Christmas story.
It has kindly been pointed out to me that it looks as though I´m spacing between apostrophe marks, but it´s actually not me who´s doing it, it´s my keyboard which does it automatically. When I write with ten fingers (which I usually do) it´s the normal apostrophe button I´m using (European keyboard with Umlaute). I have noticed that those apostrophes dispappear sometimes, e.g. in the summaries of the stories. There´s another one I could use (' instead of ), but for writing fast it's too inconveniently placed on the keyboard. Just in case someone else noticed it too.
I wish you all a Happy New Year and the best of luck!