Buzzing.

Vibration?

Where?

His hip hurt.

No, it was the vibration.

Phone.

Answer the phone.

Fumbling, where had all this fabric come from? Fingers were slow, unresponsive.

Buzzing.

Something between his fingers and the phone. His phone. His coat. Buzzing. Silence. Buzzing. No, not silence. Music, there was music. Why was there music? Darkness, so much darkness.

Buzzing. Vibration against his fingers. Move, move, he told himself, against the strains from distant violins, cellos.

Cellos?

What about those? It was important.

Breathing, so was breathing. Breathe. Your phone, turn it on. Answer it.

His thumb slid across the tiny screen, so bright, too bright, his eyes hurt looking at it, but he couldn't, couldn't see it properly, couldn't read the words, only make the motion, so familiar, so easy but so very hard, leaving him exhausted, panting, gasping, his hand slumping against the thick fabric, his coat.

"Oi, Sherlock, there you are. Been working, have you? Listen, Doctor Richardson told me about a new Indian place in our area, I was thinking of picking some up for dinner. I know it's not the usual fare, but want to give it a try?"

John, Sherlock thought dully, staring at the darkness. At the little light, in the darkness. Such a familiar voice. Warm. Comfortable. His.

"Sherlock?"

John.

"Sherlock, you there? Hello?"

Licked his lips, painful, it was painful, breathing was painful. Closed his eyes.

Someone was beating his head with a hammer. In time with the music. Against the floor. His head was so hot against the cold floor.

Blinked.

Dark behind closed eyes, dark in front of open eyes.

"Sherlock?"

His arm was heavy, so heavy, as he tried to raise it, to bring the phone to his lips, to say something. He moved his lips, whispering a word, but the sound was too soft and the music was too loud and it was so hard.

"Hello? Sherlock?"

"John," he managed. Voice ragged, too quiet, hoarse. Pain flashed down his back as he swallowed and he groaned, faintly, trying to resist darkness.

"Sherlock!"

"…John."

So hard to breathe, to focus, to stay awake. He closed his eyes, wanting sleep. Why had he not wanted sleep recently? Something about John telling him not to. But not now, not now.

The little patch of light. Focus. On John.

"Sherlock, are you all right? Where are you?"

He shook his head, once, then moaned, the sound tearing out of him, nearly dropping his phone, fingers holding on somehow, instinctively.

"Hhh…" he said, breathing hard, chest heaving, he was going to throw up, no, not on his back, he'd choke and die. Roll over, but he couldn't and the darkness swam, pressing in, receding, pressing in, like tides, making the nausea worse.

"John. Help."

So hard.

"Sherlock!"

His fingers loosened on the phone and he heard John yelling at him from the other end and wanted to stop the words, he hated John yelling but the phone wasn't in his hand when his fingers twitched and there were no more words, no more breath for them, anyway.


Lights.

"Hey, hey, can you hear me? What's your name? Wake up, wake up. Can you hear me? That's it, that's it. What's your name?"

"…John…"

"Good, John, good. How many fingers am I holding up?"

Lights.

In his eyes.

"Do you know where you are?"

No.

"His name isn't John, got his wallet."

"Listen to me, what's your name? Can you tell me your name?"

"John–"

"Who's John? Can you tell me who John is?"

Fingers curled over where John's hand should be. Curled over nothing.

John.


White.

Lights.

Sweet air.

Brown eyes.

"Can you hear me?"

More lights, in his eyes, he pulled away, pain flaring again, but so comforting, now, so normal.

"No, no, I need to check your pupils. Can you hear me? My name is Doctor Babnin."

Fingers on his skin, latex. Something on his face, restrictive.

"You're all right, you're all right, hold still. Can you tell me your name?"

John.

"Your name, can you tell me your name? Can you tell me where you are?"

Home.

Violins.

Cellos.

"You're all right, we're going to take care of you. Can you hear me? Nod if you can hear me."

Whimpering. Muscles flared with pain, coursing down from his head. One nod. Too much.

"No, no, no, stay with me now. Stay with me. Focus on my voice. You can't sleep. I know you want to."

"…John…"

"What's that?"

"John…"

"John? Who's John? Can you tell me who John is?"

Everything.

"Sherlock?"

OhGodJohn.

Footsteps, fabric moving, footsteps. Shifting shadows, shifting light. He moaned against the brightness, fingers twitching.

Something wrapped around them.

Something warm. Familiar.

John looked down at him.

"Thank God," John murmured, voice was so loud and Sherlock winced, trying to turn away, but he was heavy, all over, and movement was pain and his eyelids dropped closed.

"You can't sleep!" John said but it didn't matter.


Sound.

So loud.

He couldn't move.

Couldn't see, couldn't move.

But it didn't matter.

Drugged. He'd been drugged. Morphine? Yes. John had said– something. Years ago. About morphine. Who cared?

The sound was familiar.

Cellos.

No, too loud. Resounding. He turned the word over in his mind. Re-sound-ing. Resonating. Sonar. Solar. Sun. Strum. Strings.

Cellos.

Remember. Cellos.

He tried. But he played violin. Certain about that.

Magnets?

Oh yes. Magnetic– something. MRI. Em, ar, i, he thought and wanted to laugh. For no reason.

The sound went on, and on, and on, until it was the only thing, that and John.

John.

Then it stopped. He stopped. Slept.


A phone call to Mycroft had Sherlock in an MRI almost before the police had arrived, dislodging the female detective John had never seen before and who was trying to ascertain what had happened, as if John knew. Sherlock had drifted in and out, struggling to hold onto consciousness, John could see, and had said all of two things: "John" and "cello".

Neither was very helpful.

And John wasn't certain at all about that last one, although Sherlock had inexplicably been at the Barbican when they'd found him, having apparently broken into one of the LSO's rehearsal sessions, so it might have made sense from the context alone.

He had ruled out "Jell-o" because he knew for sure that Sherlock didn't know what this was, especially since John himself kept it out of the flat. If his husband ever got hold of it, for experimental purposes, there'd be no end to the disasters.

The detective quizzed John, who knew nothing past what the paramedics had told the doctor. Yes, he'd called 999 and had them trace Sherlock's phone and stayed on the line, heart pounding, lightheaded, in a cold sweat, until they'd found him and told John, via the emergency operator, where they were taking him. He relayed this to the detective, who seemed stuck on why Sherlock was in the Barbican in the first place, and John had snapped at her finally, wishing, for once, that it was Donovan, who would at least listen to him. More or less.

She was displaced by the arrival of Lestrade and Sam, who came in together, and John wanted to groan at the presence of more police, even though he'd called the DI himself and fully expected him to haul out their Interpol connection. When Lestrade was uncertain, he liked to spread it around and make as many other people as uncertain as possible. John wondered if this pooled uncertainty could then be recombined into something that made sense.

"Where is he?" Lestrade demanded, casting a quick and expert glance around the tiny curtained room – Mycroft would get them relocated to a private room, but Sherlock still needed emergency care. "What the hell happened?"

"I don't know," John replied. He'd been repeating this at regular intervals to the detective and the doctor and wondered if anyone might start to believe him anytime soon.

He relayed what he did know – what was pieced together from a patchy phone conversation and information from the paramedics via the 999 operator: Sherlock appeared to have been attacked, and whoever had attacked him had either known or realized that he had a healing head injury and had hit his head repeatedly on the arm of one of the auditorium chairs before leaving him there.

For dead?

John shuddered.

"John. You should sit."

John blinked, remembering Sam was there, and noted the lack of agent-on-duty expression on his face. He was letting Lestrade sort things out with the detective, insofar as they could be, and John listened as she told him that the Barbican was being combed and the crime scene was secure. It was the first he'd heard about that.

Sam was wrinkling his nose, which John found odd.

John sat down, repressing an inward groan of relief. He hadn't realized how shaky his legs were. He rubbed his face with his hands, waiting for a moment to catch up, for everything to catch up with him, for things to start making sense. Lestrade and the detective had stepped outside, at least, so it was less crowded in the tiny room and the gurney was missing, too, since they'd taken Sherlock on it.

"Do you need something? Water? Coffee?" Sam asked.

Coffee. That sounded brilliant. Even the thought made John's mouth water, but before he could reply, the curtain was twitched aside and the orderlies were wheeling a sleeping – or unconscious, because he was drugged – Sherlock back in, followed by a doctor and a nurse and Lestrade and the detective.

Now it was crowded. It put John in the mind of a field operating theatre.

"Who are you people?" the doctor demanded.

Both police officers and the Interpol agent drew their badges and the doctor raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"It was my understanding that he was the victim," the man said.

"He is," Lestrade and Sam said at the same time.

The doctor – Babnin, John thought – looked at John and raised his eyebrows.

"We need to stitch and bandage him, then I've been told he's being moved to a private room until they get the MRI results."

The tone of his voice told John that Babnin did not like that. The order had come from higher up. Much higher up.

"Right," John agreed. He should disagree – Sherlock should stay in the A&E, but John didn't want to. Mycroft would ensure that things got done, that Sherlock got the best treatment. John, as a doctor, would effectively be Mycroft's man on the ground. He knew the system, and knew how to bully it into working for him. He wasn't sure he liked being roped into working for Mycroft though, even if it was necessary.

He wondered where Mycroft was. He would normally be there by now.

Edinburgh? John wondered, then shook his head.

Sam wrinkled his nose again and John wondered if he had a cold or allergies, but it was the wrong season for allergies. But the younger man frowned, turning slightly toward Sherlock, and did it again. And again.

Not wrinkling his nose, John realized. Sniffing.

John sat up straighter.

"Everyone stop," Sam said, quietly, calmly, without trace of urgency, so that everyone did, turning to look at him. He held up a hand, ignoring the gazes directed at him, and sniffed again.

"What is it?" Lestrade demanded.

"I smell something familiar," Sam said. "John. Where's his coat?"

It had been bundled into one of the white hospital bags and put under the gurney. John pulled out the bag, passing it off to Sam with a questioning look. The agent only nodded thanks and opened the bag, pulling out a bit of Sherlock's coat and smelling it carefully. He pulled away with a frown, then did this again.

Then he glanced at Sherlock, frown deepening.

"What is it?" Lestrade repeated.

Sam ignored him, stepping one step closer to the gurney, dislodging the nurse from her position. He sniffed the air again, then shook his head, twisting a bit to glance back at John.

"This is going to sound weird. Can I smell his hair?"

"His hair?" John asked.

"And his hands."

Everyone resumed their stares, only the tone of their expressions changed. Sam disregarded this as well, keeping his gaze fixed on John. John frowned, but if Sam of all people was making the request, it probably meant something.

"Um, all right," he said.

Sam nodded and stepped all the way up to the bed, evaluating Sherlock, then lifting his right arm from the wrist carefully and turning his palm up, sniffing it carefully. He blinked and drew back, then did this again before stepping up to the head of the bed and leaning over, inhaling when he was close enough to Sherlock's head to smell whatever it is he was searching for.

John thought it looked strange, but it was really not such an unreasonable request. He'd smelled his fair share of victims, for alcohol, vomit, other drugs, even perfumes or soaps. Sam wasn't a doctor, but he was an experienced agent.

"He's not been smoking, has he?" he asked, straightening again, looking at John.

"No," John replied, shooting him a puzzled look. "I'd notice that. Why?"

"Because he smells of cigarettes. Only faintly. But not typical ones. I recognize this smell. It's a French brand, Gitanes Brunes. Only they don't make them in France anymore, only in one place in the Netherlands, so they're not especially easy to get. Whoever did this was smoking these, probably right before going inside."

He almost smiled at John's stunned and questioning expression, but the light didn't quite reach his green eyes.

"It's the same brand and type Veronique smokes," he said. "You work with her for eight years and you see if you can ever shake that smell from your memory."