"Sherlock."
"Sherlock."
Sherlock is in hour twelve of rebuilding his mind palace, having found a proper reconciliation between the old palace and the new cathedral. He is faintly aware of John calling his name, probably wanting him to do something tedious like eat food or throw away his mould collection or buy milk.
A hand presses against his cheek, and the sensory intrusion is an electric shock to his spine, jerking him from his reverie. His eyes flutter open.
"Are you all right, Sherlock?" John pushes a platter of Mrs Hudson's biscuits toward him along with a cup of Darjeeling. John is wearing the same shirt from yesterday, having formed an emotional attachment to it, although he has shaved, no doubt hoping for more physical contact from Sherlock.
Sherlock takes the smallest bite he can without being accused of faking. The sugar burns on the way down his esophagus. It was meant to be delicious, but his transport is not eager.
"I know your brain doesn't work that slowly, so I have to assume you're avoiding me. Time to talk about it."
Sherlock scowls and stares into his cup. The liquid ripples, and he can see a dim reflection of the sun in the amber liquid. It would be an interesting way of viewing an eclipse.
John moves over to his armchair across the room. "Let's say I'm not home and you're talking to me anyway?"
Sherlock grunts, takes a sip of tea. It's tepid, which is revolting, but his throat feels like he has swallowed a dessicant, so he continues drinking.
"I know you've been thinking. It's impossible for you to stop. Here's a challenge. Tell me in five words or less."
Idiot. Sherlock raises his eyes to the ceiling and enunciates, as if to a small child, "You don't take me seriously." He turns to John and glares, willing him to understand without hours of boring explanation. Fortunately he does, because he is John, and when Sherlock is feeling at his most desperate John always understands.
John crunches a chocolate biscuit. The crumbs on his shirt show he has already had three while waiting for Sherlock to awaken. "Because I don't buy into your 'high functioning sociopath' self-diagnosis?"
"There was a so-called professional involved," Sherlock refuted.
"Then he was a bloody idiot. I'm quite certain since you appended 'high functioning' to it, you know the truth."
Sherlock stares, mind whirling. Mycroft had told. Mycroft said he would not tell. No, John was a bit observant in his own way. He had been respectful of Sherlock's sensory needs, most of the time, and tolerant of most of Sherlock's interests. He had been gentle when correcting social gaffes. He hadn't told everyone, or that look, that pitying look would have replaced the disgust and fear on Donovan's face. "Autism has nothing to do with this conversation," he says, redirecting.
"Sherlock, I've never told anyone you aren't a sociopath, but other people have figured it out."
Sherlock bites down hard on a peanut butter biscuit. Lestrade. It had to be Lestrade. John and Lestrade had lunch together last month, and Sherlock had noticed Lestrade regarding him silently in a peculiar way afterward. At the time, Sherlock had blamed it on the ligature marks on his wrists from the bondage experiment, but perhaps there was more to Lestrade's expression. "Fine."
"Don't worry. Your reputation is safe. I know you're a mad wanker and a dick. I've never felt sorry for you for an instant."
Sherlock groans and throws himself back on the sofa. He presses the Union Jack pillow over his face and punches it repeatedly.
"Oh," the doctor says, cottoning on to the point of the conversation.
He groans and inhales a wisp of low micron recycled polyester fluff. It is pleasantly dark beneath the pillow, and the rustle of John's trousers is muffled. He presses harder and seals the pillow around his mouth, coarse against his lips. Sherlock really should have followed through with his plan for penance. Why had he condemned himself to a lifetime of "talking about relationships?"
The sofa cushion dips disconcertingly as John sits next to him. A cold waft of air leaks under the pillow as it tilts slightly from the motion. John, for his part, does not attempt to peel the pillow away from Sherlock's face. Sherlock would rather have this conversation without looking him in the eyes.
"I felt we had this settled. It appears I was wrong?"
Sherlock turns his head to a more optimal angle for speaking and grits out, "Penance. I told you everything, and I owe you penance, and you don't want it."
John rests his hand on top of Sherlock's. The pillow compresses slightly. "That's because I trust you."
"As I've said, you really shouldn't."
He can visualize John's frown, the thoughtful crease between his eyebrows as he works it out at dull, typical human speed. "You don't trust yourself."
John does not prattle on as expected. John rises with care, jostling Sherlock again but in a minimal way. Sherlock hears the weight of John's feet on the stairs, hears the squeak of John's unoiled bedside table drawer.
For a moment Sherlock's heart stops beating. He knows what lies in that drawer.
John returns with a crinkle of a plastic bag and a soft rattle of a pill bottle. A deeper thud as a steel object is placed on the table.
Sherlock, absolutely riveted, removes the pillow and turns to look at the coffee table.
John has pushed aside the tea and biscuits. Now he is recreating Sherlock's display of earlier, taking care to replicate the ordering of the objects—clearly the emotional impact has sharpened his memory. On the plate of biscuits, John places his gun. The bits of food Sherlock has eaten roil in his stomach.
John regards him with a slight frown on his face. "I don't think you want to talk," John says. What John does next is even more unexpected and brilliant and terrifying.
John opens the pill bottle, removes a handful of white tablets of zolpidem tartarate, and he swallows them with Sherlock's tea.
Sherlock leaps up, lunges at John and the rest of the pills scatter across the floor in his haste. "What are you doing?"
John sits down, his face grim. "I'm trusting you."
Sherlock feels like a fish gasping in the air. John is absolutely mad. John could not have been this mad before he met Sherlock. This situation is entirely Sherlock's fault. He's contagious.
"I'm not upset with you, Sherlock. This is to get the idea out of your system."
Sherlock wrenches John's wrist, too disoriented to know how many minutes it has been already.
"I'll probably be out within fifteen minutes." John gives a little laugh. "Assuming I don't sleepwalk. I've never taken Ambien before. I don't generally prescribe it either, due to all the side effects and potential liability. Sarah had one of hers write a terrible email to his boss-probably no worse than what you say on a daily basis- but he got fired, and another was in a car accident from sleep driving."
"And if I take some as well and go to sleep with you?" Sherlock asks hesitantly.
"You won't be able to make sure I don't do anything dangerous, should I not stay asleep, or monitor any negative effects to my respiratory system," John says. John has thought this through. John has taken a minor overdose of a hypnotic sedative for Sherlock. John is always doing stupid and dangerous things for Sherlock.
"I'm at your mercy," John says, far too lightly, and it sends a chill through Sherlock. "Do you want me down here, or should I go to my bed?"
Sherlock is still gaping. "Stay here," he manages. "In case the drug affects your balance."
John shrugs, but he is crossing his arms tightly. Sherlock glances at the gun as if it could go off on its own. He tears his eyes away and lets out a shaking breath. He puts the pillow back on the sofa, finds a blanket for John, cerulean crocheted afghan, fine microfiber acrylic wool, not cheap discount stuff, from Mrs Hudson. iAfghanistan,/i his mind begins to recite, and he forces himself to focus on the moment. John, his face strangely sad, allows himself to be tucked in. Sherlock moves to put all of the offending items back in the plastic bag, but John grips his arm. "No, they have to stay right there until I fall asleep. Those are my terms."
Sherlock feels like he is about to cry. John's face is set, resigned, and he does not react. Sherlock says, his voice gravelly, "I had only wanted you to perhaps hurt me a little. Because I deserve it. This hurts too much."
John's face breaks, and he reaches for Sherlock. Sherlock presses his face against the other man's chest, is held tighter than he can ever remember. John lets out a little gasp and pets Sherlock's hair, hard. "I trust you," John says again, and no, Sherlock does not trust himself. Why had John brought down the gun and put it on a fucking platter? Why make it any more frightening than Sherlock had already imagined?
For a moment, he sees a flash of John's head burst open, crimson soaking into his matted hair, brains splattered upon the wall, and he holds John tighter, fearful that he is saying goodbye. John's eyes shut, his breath slows, as he falls asleep.
All Sherlock has to do is stay close. All he has to do is ignore the items on the coffee table. He must become calm and avoid impulsive action.
He is reminded, ever so vividly, of a time when all of his considerable self control was directed toward avoiding looking at a syringe. He finds himself again longing for morphine with passionate intensity. He has none; he cannot leave.
Sherlock leans over, picks up the fallen pills, because he needs something to do. Several have rolled under the sofa. He finds two dead dermestid beetles and acknowledges that John was correct to spray insecticide after all. Sherlock picks an eyelash off one of the pills, John's, follicle missing, puts them back into the prescription bottle, counts them carefully. John has swallowed seven, rather more than necessary to get his point across. He places the eyelash on the table.
This is not what he had planned. John is never what he had planned. John will be fine.
Sherlock wonders how long John will sleep. A minimum of four hours. No more than eight. He sits on the hard floor next to the sofa and tries to visit his mind palace. He fails. He stands and paces. He relents and finishes the biscuits, carefully avoiding touching the pistol. Stupid to be fearful of a familiar object. Idiotic and weak. He picks it up, sets it to the side, just to prove that he can, and he throws the plate of biscuits at the wall. The shatter is satisfying. Sherlock observes the pattern of the china shards, mentally reassembles it. He steps over to the mess, grinds a large piece with his heel, estimates the percentage that has turned to fine dust. He picks up another shard, pokes at the skin of his fingertips with it. He regards the drop of blood darkly, when John makes a small sound from the couch.
Sherlock rushes to his side, heart fluttering in his throat.
John has merely shifted in his sleep, is perfectly fine.
Sherlock paces again. He googles to see if any drugs will counteract the zolpidem, considers how long it would take to procure various stimulants, discounts the idea as altogether too risky. He starts to send a text to Lestrade, to see if any interesting murders have occurred, remembers that he can't leave.
After seventy-two minutes, Sherlock is thoroughly bored. It really is rather longer he would he would have lasted in the past. He sits next to John, shoving his left arm aside, and begins to speak. "I am not sure what you intended me to do during this time. If you can hear me, I would appreciate some advice."
John does not stir.
"John, I have already passed from the feelings of anxiety to anger to boredom. I even ate. I moved the gun. I have not hurt you. You can wake up now."
Well, it was worth a try.
He watches the slow movement of John's chest as his lungs expand and contract. He takes John's pulse, notes it. Tedious. How John can stand to work in such a dull profession is beyond him. He watches John's face, every expression already so carefully committed to his memory, and his heart aches. He presses a kiss to John's forehead.
Other than his respiration, John is so still. Sherlock looks at all the fine lines of his face. He has time to catalog every faint scar of John's childhood. He unbuttons Johns sleeves and discovers a rather interesting one, self inflicted with a dull knife, in the crook of John's left arm, which oddly mirrors one of his own from childhood. He counts every remaining eyelash and places his hand over John's heart. The tightness in his lungs eases. He presses his ear to John's chest, closes his eyes and lets the sound of John's heartbeat fill his world.
After a time, he realizes he is avoiding his fear. Sherlock scratches at his scalp, swallows hard and he looks at the objects on the table. The pillow is already set to its proper use, cradling John's head. The pills are already acting in John's bloodstream. He picks up a 25 cm nail, detects a burr near the point. Cheaply made iron, but they would do the job. He turns over John's limp wrist, caresses the blue blood arteries for a moment, follows the ulnar up to that curious scar on John's elbow. He drags the nail back down, leaving a faint pink trail. Sherlock takes in a shaky breath, presses the thick nail point in the vulnerable hollow of John's wrists, between the scaphoid and lunate. He finds he can't bear the idea of breaking the skin. He replaces it on the coffee table, trembling.
He refuses to put the bag over John's head. He replaces the three nails inside, deliberately punctures the corner, so that is no longer airtight, which curiously calms him. He picks up his leatherman multi-tool knife next, flips open to the clip point blade. His hands are still shaking as he touches it to John's radial artery. He has a new, vivid and three dimensional understanding of the concept of hesitation cuts. He leaves the blade there for the count of thirty then presses it to his own wrist, where it feels more at home. He counts, tips the blade to leave a little nick behind, just enough to remind him. He replaces the knife in its notch on the mantle.
Sherlock puts on his black gloves, tries the synthetic gut core A string around his own neck, finds the tension adequate but lacking in length for proper leverage and a bit slick unrosined. John has already settled the strangulation issue with his highly effective headlock, at any rate. As the string has already been replaced, he throws it away in the kitchen. Touching it makes him want to play his violin, but he is in the middle of something fucking critical, and he must not distract himself. He tosses the gloves at the front door.
And there sits the real issue on the table, the gun. What had John imagined Sherlock would do with it? Is he meant to scoff and ignore it? John knows Sherlock is proficient in its use. Sherlock regards the pistol, Sig Sauer P226R.
"How many people have you killed, John?" he whispers, and his breath stirs the other's hair. He fancies he can see John breathing in the same air, swirling like the mist at the base of Sherlock's palace, that had just escaped Sherlock's own lungs. "Did you grieve for them?" John was good, of course he did. Every one of them, even the ones who were not very nice or not good cabbies at all.
He grips the gun. It's entirely too easy to press it to his own skull, cold hard pressure against his temple. Of course, that method is not guaranteed, hands shake, as his are now. He sniffs the scents of gun oil, metal. He opens his mouth and finds he cannot place it inside, cannot even touch the tip of his curious tongue to it.
Now for the truly difficult part. He points it squarely at John's forehead. He forces himself to look directly at the prone figure, vulnerable. "I trust you, Sherlock." What had he ever done to earn that trust?
He truly allows himself to imagine the loss of John. It rushes in, fills him until his eyes are burning and his shoulders are shaking, and the sound of water rushes in his ears. His heart is shattered into painful pieces that insinuate themselves in his lungs. He cannot breathe. His fingernails dig into his palms. A spasm folds him in half, and he stays there riding waves of nauseous fear. He pushes the pistol under the sofa next to the dermestid beetles.
He finds himself begging John to wake up. He sobs until he falls asleep on the other man's chest.
John stirs, yawns, and smiles at Sherlock.
"You look terrible," John says. "I'll make some tea."
"I ate the biscuits," Sherlock says automatically.
John glances around, squints at the shattered plate against the wall. "Yes, I see that." John observes that the table has been cleared. He observes that he is unscathed, the faded pink line on his right arm imperceptible to the average naked eye. John observes the small cuts on Sherlock's fingertips from the broken china. He observes the small nick on Sherlock's wrist over the radial artery, the crescent gouges in his palms, and waits for Sherlock to speak.
Sherlock swallows, his voice coming out stiff. "It appears I was quite wrong. You will be the death of me, John Watson. I deeply apologize for my cavalier attitude about your life. You are infinitely precious to me, irreplacable-"
John cuts him off with a bone-crushing hug. "I know that, you idiot. I feel the same way about you."
After a long moment, Sherlock wonders why piecing a broken heart back together is as painful as rending it apart.
"Now," John says. "What did you do all this time? You stayed right here?"
"I didn't leave for an instant."
"I appear to be whole and intact," John observes.
"You are the most cracked doctor I have ever laid eyes upon," Sherlock says.
John bursts out in laughter, and his face crinkles beautifully. "Thank you. That's the finest compliment you've ever paid me." He notes his mussed shirtsleeves, sees that his trouser zipper is untouched. Sherlock had examined his arms, chest, and lower legs but had avoided his more private areas.
John teases, "I didn't forbid you from having any fun with me."
Sherlock stutters, "That hadn't occurred to me at all."
John covers his laugh by pinching the bridge of his nose. "Right. Are you sorted now, or are you still feeling guilty and contrite?"
"John..." Sherlock begins, then regards the other man. John Watson is a madman of a killer and healer made just for him. He starts to babble an apology but settles with, very cautiously, "Did you have any other ideas?"
John goes upstairs, returns with another assortment of items, just as riveting. Sherlock's riding crop-that's where it had gone to!- a boning knife of Middle Eastern origin, curiously well used, a padded blindfold, a ball gag, zip ties, and a length of hemp rope. How he located these items so quickly is surprising to Sherlock. He has clearly prepared in advance for this as well.
Sherlock removes his shirt and kneels on the floor and looks up into John's eyes. "Fine. We'll start with the riding crop." he says.