It was easier than Sherlock had expected to get into 221B Baker Street. For starters, he had managed to make it all the way up to the door without anyone noticing the fact that he was carrying an unconscious man in his arms. Sherlock wasn't sure to what higher power or twist of chance he owed the temporary blindness and distraction of neighborhood busy bodies, but he was grateful for it. Odds were that there was some brilliant new show on the telly.
The real problem had arrived at the front door. Oh, Sherlock still had his key - and failing that he had a small kit of lock picks tucked into his jacket pocket - but it was the actual act of getting the door open without causing John any more discomfort and injury that posed a dilemma for Sherlock. It had taken more than a few minutes of maneuvering John's body before the two men ended up in a position that allowed Sherlock to fish his key out of his trouser pocket and start fiddling with the door. Another precious minute was lost to getting the key in the lock. A different position would have been less awkward but this one let him keep John cradled to his chest with one hand, the older man's diminished weight half supported by the knee that Sherlock had raised and braced against the frame of the door. It was a position that kept John steady and safe but it also meant that Sherlock had to some creative maneuvering around the curve of his thigh to unlock the door.
"Finally," he muttered as the lock clicked. He kept the key gripped between his fingers and carefully returned his arm to the purpose of supporting John's body. When he was sure that his blogger was secure he carefully lowered his leg and nudged the door open with his shoulder. He took the stairs one at a time. It was more important that John be kept still than it was for him to get into the flat quickly.
Of course, in the interest of being honest with himself, he was unsure if he would have been able to move up the stairs with his former quickness anyway. He had not been back inside 221B since the day of his suicide. More than once he had been tempted to slip back in and check on John, especially in the beginning when his compulsion was almost irresistibly strong. He had managed to control himself. Barely. Returning to Baker Street would have been disastrously dangerous: for Sherlock that he might be seen by the Met or by Moriarty's flunkies, but more even more dangerous for John. Emotional damage to John aside, for Sherlock to have been seen around Baker Street would have drawn the rest of Moriarty's sharks like proverbial blood in the water.
Sebastian Moran had watched John through the sights of his gun twice before. Sherlock wasn't going to give him the chance to do it again.
Sherlock had been forced to jump from that building, yes it was true, but he had done it on his terms. He had survived. He had beaten Moriarty. His friends had survived. John had survived. Moriarty had not come out of the encounter so lightly and Sherlock knew, even more so now after all these months of meticulously, painstakingly hunting down thread after thread of the mighty web James Moriarty had spun, that those whom Jim had bought and paid for tended to stay bought. It was almost admirable in a senseless sort of way. Loyal beyond death they hated Sherlock for causing Moriarty's death. They despised Sherlock for killing him - never mind that the mastermind had pulled the trigger himself. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, John… they were all still alive because Moriarty's agents believed that Sherlock really had lost his life there on the cold pavement. They knew the deal that Moriarty had offered him: Sherlock's death in exchange for the lives of his three friends. As long as they still believed Sherlock to be dead then Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and John remained safe from vengeful actions.
There's no stopping them now.
Sherlock shivered as Moriarty's voice ran the length of his spine.
I am you – prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. Sherlock's own voice whispered back, a tiny little spark against the darkness that clouded his brain. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you.
"I've spent a lot of time in hell, John," Sherlock murmured as he let himself into the living room of 221B, his face practically buried in the soft, short strands of the doctor's hair. "So much time and still it has not been enough."
For a moment he debated about taking John into one of the bedrooms - surely a bed would be more comfortable for him – but in the end he ultimately decided that the sofa would probably be better. He could always move John later but for now the sofa provided him the best opportunity to get a look at the other man's injuries and take a look around the flat that they had once shared.
John whimpered a bit as Sherlock set him down, his fingers convulsing around the damp fabric of the younger man's coat. "Shhh… John," Sherlock soothed, the words falling unexpectedly and unbidden from his lips. "You are safe. You are…" his voice trailed off and he sank to his knees beside the couch. "I'm here, John," he finally whispered, covering John's hand with one of his own. "I'm here." Beneath his touch the doctor stilled and tension leaked out of his form as he slipped back under.
John's medical kit was where he had always kept it. Sherlock collected it, a small pile of washcloths, and a bowl of warm water and brought them all back to the living room. He took off his coat, still damp from the rain, and laid it gently over one of the kitchen chairs so that any moisture might fall to the floor where it could be wiped up instead of dripping onto the sofa or one of the upholstered chairs. He made note of interesting details as they popped out at him but for once in his life he had no interest in observing. Taking care of John took priority over everything else, even the chorus of voices in the back of his head that clamored in their curiosity to read the past months of John's life as it was written here in the heart of their existence.
Sherlock sank but to heels at John's side and watched the unconscious man closely for a moment. He was torn between worry and gratefulness that the doctor had yet to truly regain consciousness. As far as he could see, and remember, John had not received any blows to the head during the brief assault. Sherlock stripped off his gloves and checked John's pulse again. It was still a little on the slow size but it thumped with a solid steadiness and strength beneath his feather touch. A few seconds of careful search found the small light in John's kit and Sherlock gently raised John's eyelids one by and one and shone the light in them.
Appropriate pupil dilation. Tracks light. No visible head wound. Sherlock gently ran his hands over John's head, his fingers combing through the strands of wheat-and-gray to verify. No head wound. State of unconsciousness likely brought on by a combination of shock and poor physical condition. Sherlock felt something tight ease a little between his shoulder blades.
In the golden glow of the table lamp Sherlock continued his evaluation. Cheek bruised. Cut. Attacker wore ring. Jaw intact. Bloody hell of a black eye in the morning. "Jesus, god," Sherlock found himself swearing with uncharacteristic vehemence for the second time that day as he peeled back John's coat to reveal the mark across the pale skin of his throat. Within an hour it would be an angry purple mark: a slash of inky darkness across veins and pipes. For now, though, it was an intricate scarlet pattern against the warmth of John's skin. If Sherlock cocked his head just right it even looked a little like the paisley print of the wallpaper that Mrs. Hudson was so fond of. Sherlock forced himself to swallow past the sudden choking sensation that burned in his throat and leaned forward to study the pattern.
Men's military boots. Size ten. Deep treads. New. Sherlock pulled a small magnifying glass from his pocket and leaned forward, studying the imprint of the man's shoe intently. "Ahh," he breathed a moment later. He plucked the small particles of dirt from John's neck with tweezers retrieved from the bathroom and dropped them into a plastic bag he nicked from the kitchen. They would be studied later. Weight distribution uneven. Inner marks deeper. Possible weak arch. Skeptical. Assault position could negate observation.
The image of the man, his foot pressed down on the expanse of John's exposed neck flashed before Sherlock's eyes. Why… stop? John's words replayed over the image, his strained efforts interwoven with the picture until Sherlock was unable to separate sound from sight. Let… me… die.
Sherlock threw himself to his feet and stumbled, going down again halfway across the living room. He made it as far as the waste basket tucked underneath the desk before he lost control. He clutched the basket to his chest like it was the last solid thing in the world and retched, repeatedly, into it. Everything he had eaten in the last twenty-four hours… God, everything he had ever eaten came back up and set up residence in bottom of the trash. He retched until his jaw ached and his throat felt like he had seared it with a hot poker. Every time he made the mistake of thinking that his stomach was through with him John's voice danced softly across his vision.
Please finish.
With every echo of John's voice the panic hit him, thick and blinding. With every realization that John had wanted to die, that he had tried to commit suicide-by-mugger his stomach heaved with enough force that Sherlock would not have been surprised to look down and see his digestive system dangling out of his mouth in limp, glistening ropes.
By the time Sherlock managed to calm himself and regain control of his body there was nothing coming out of his stomach and there had not been for a while. He held position, draped over the waste basket, for several moments and let saliva pool in his mouth until he had enough to swish and spit. He repeated this procedure several times. It wasn't particularly effective but it did give him time to steady his breathing and let his muscles begin to quiet.
"Get up," he whispered to himself, throwing a look over his shoulder at the couch. John lay where he had left him, still unconscious. Sherlock sighed heavily and braced his shaking hands against the floor. He held that position to the count of ten and then forced himself his feet. Once upright his knees tried to buckle and he caught himself on the desk.
Get a hold of yourself. You don't have time for this. On unsteady legs he staggered to the bathroom and leaned on the sink while he rinsed his mouth and splashed cold water on his face. John, he reminded himself as he stared at the pale reflection of his face in the mirror. He was pale, even for him: borderline translucent like a white rose beneath the moonlight. Focus on John.
He rinsed his mouth again and helped himself to some of the mouthwash that was sitting next to the sink.
In the living room he took a few moments to clean up the waste basket and straighten the mess he had made in the efforts to keep himself upright as he had staggered to the bathroom. Once he had managed to regain enough control of his body that he could stop worrying about causing more harm than help to John he sank back to the floor beside the couch and resumed his ministrations.
He was able to remove John's jacket without issue; the jumper and the shirt underneath it, however, were another story. Both would have required near acrobatic feats to pull them off the smaller man's shoulders and over his head and frankly, especially after the amount of time he had spent puking into a trash can, Sherlock didn't have the patience or time for such feats. He cut the clothes off. The shirt, another in an endless line of undershirts, was no loss but Sherlock felt a physical pang like a bolt to the heart as he destroyed the soft oatmeal jumper. It was a great deal more worn than it had been the first time Sherlock had seen it, but he would never forget this jumper.
John had been wearing it when he shot the cabbie.
"Oh, John," the soft exclamation left his lips in a weary sigh. Suddenly, sitting here looking at the physical evidence of John's self neglect, he didn't have the energy to swear anymore. His hypothesis that he would be able to see John's ribs was, sadly, proven correct. They rose from his flesh in a ribbing of pale mountains, the legs of a giant spider reaching around to dig into the doctor's chest with a stark and brutal efficiency that caused Sherlock to amend his record of John's probable weight loss. Three stones. Plus. Hidden by bulky clothes and bone structure. More than anything else they spoke of what John had undergone. Sherlock could practically feel them staring at him. They didn't clamor; they didn't speak. It was just a silent, unrelenting judgment:look at what you have made me become.
Heart in his throat, Sherlock forced himself to examine the doctor's ribs. The attacker's kick had taken him fairly centered in the torso and just a little to the right. Seventh rib definitely broken. Likely fractures in the eighth and possibly the ninth. Sherlock concluded as his fingers explored the explosion of purple and red blossoming across John's chest. It clearly hurt because even bereft of his consciousness John's flesh flinched and pulled away from Sherlock's touch.
"Oh, John," Sherlock repeated after checking to make sure that the ribs and impressive bruising on his torso were the extent of his injuries. "I'm sorry," he whispered, suddenly feeling it with every cell in his body.
There had been many times in the months between his suicide and now when he had felt badly for leaving. He had laid awake every night since he had plummeted to the cement outside of Bart's and asked himself Could I have done this differently? He had replayed every step, every move of the game between him and Moriarty in his head a thousand times. No matter how many times he tried, no matter how many times he replayed the game he couldn't think of another way for it to end.
At least, not another way in which he and John both survived.
Sherlock shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He needed to think.
He gently washed the cut on John's face before dabbing on peroxide. He combed the dirt and gravel from his blogger's hair. He found some ice in the freezer and let it sit on John's ribs while he disposed of the rags and tools he had used. He helped himself to a glass of water and then poured one for John and set it, along with a dose of paracetamol and a sleeping pill at the side table near John's head. He left the scissors there as well and tossed the ruined shirt and jumper in the waste basket, posing it near at hand. It was an outstanding display of will power on his part. A little voice in the back of his head was screaming that he keep it; demanding that he bring some part of this night – of John away with him.
There you go… AGAIN! Getting SOOOO sentimental about your pet! Sherlock could practically see Moriarty, smartly dressed in his tailored Westwood with his hands shoved deep into his pockets: the picture of a perfect gentleman if one ignored the murder in his eyes and the fact that he was prone to throwing fits like a small child.
Obviously not that voice, his own commented sardonically.
He left the jumper in the waste basket and surveyed the scene. It passed; or rather it would pass for John. He left the medical case open on the floor and traced his steps back to the bathroom to leave the cupboard door open. Best to make it look like John had stumbled home on his own and managed to care for himself a bit.
After removing the ice pack and returning it to the freezer Sherlock found himself once again standing in the living room. John had shifted slightly in his moment of absence. He had twisted his upper torso towards the back of the couch, his head dipping to nestle between the curve of his own shoulder and the cushion of the arm of the couch. There were lines of pain around his lips and eyes but his breathing had deepened a little. Beneath his eyelids his eyes flickered back and forth. Once again Sherlock felt an unbearable tightness ease between his shoulders.
Still, just to be sure, he reached down and for the third time in less than three hours he laid his fingers against the pulse point on John's neck. Just as his breathing had deepened so had his heart rate increased and now it pulsed along at an acceptable resting rate with the same steady, unyielding force that it had exhibited all evening in spite of its owner's desires.
Sherlock shut his eyes and allowed himself just a moment. For a moment, a single blip in the entire vastness of existence, he stood in the living room of 221B Baker Street and felt John's pulse shiver up his fingertips and through his arm until it melded with the steady thump, thump, thump of his own heart.
For just that moment everything was right.