A/N: Bolded words are what's written down instead of spoken.
Italics are...the new form of communication.
Something is wrong. John isn't sure what it is, but his sidekick senses are tingling as he stands guard over Sherlock who is kneeling next to the dead body.
"No, it doesn't make sense," Sherlock mutters in frustration as he pushes up off the ground with his hands that healed months ago.
"What?" John asks.
"It's a cadaver," Sherlock says as his eyes scan the surrounding buildings, looking for a sign.
"It's…of course it is," John says in confusion.
"An old one," he stresses, "she's been dead probably a week or more."
"But that's not possible," John shakes his head, his sense of foreboding increasing as he too begins to eye the buildings around them with suspicion.
"Unless…" Sherlock trails off, sounding as though he's spotted something. He begins to move towards an alley about 20 feet away and John makes to follow him, "No," Sherlock holds a hand out to stop him, "stay here."
"I'm not just letting you walk in to an alley by yourself," he lets the words clearly say how idiotic of a plan that is.
Sherlock finally turns and locks eyes with him, and John is caught off guard by the concern within them, "Stay here. Please."
John grits his teeth in frustration at the request, pleading with his own eyes for Sherlock not to make him do this. Before Sherlock can abide the plea or John can speak, Sherlock turns and makes his way swiftly to the alley. John curses under his breath, making to follow him but then stopping, remembering that look. Instead he paces, eyes not leaving the entrance of the alley as his unease continues to grow.
The force of the sudden explosion knocks John off of his feet, still near the cadaver. He's dazed but unharmed, so once he gathers his wits again he rushes to the alley, screaming for Sherlock.
The destruction is not as extensive as he was imagining it would be. It appears that a single bomb went off near the middle of the alley, and Sherlock is lying on his back closer to the entrance.
"Sherlock," John whispers in shock and worry, the wind being knocked out of him again from the mere sight of him: clothes a bit singed and blood coming out of at least one of his ears, which is, of course, a universal sign for Not Good.
He rushes to him, staggering a bit through the rubble and kneels next to him, searching for a pulse and crouching close to his mouth to look and feel for signs of breathing. He finds a faint but rapid pulse and shallow, even breathing. He sighs in relief and fights the tears as he pulls his mobile from his pocket to dial emergency.
Once the call has been placed, John stays vigilant, crouched over his friend as he does a secondary assessment. He doesn't appear to have any major bleeding, but John pushes aside the coat and unselfconsciously runs his hands down Sherlock's torso that he became so familiar with while the man's hands were injured.
"John," Sherlock whispers.
John looks at his face in surprise, hands pausing on his chest where they lie, but is able to quickly assess that Sherlock is still unconscious. Despite the dangerous situation they find themselves in, John performs a solitary chuckle and quirks his mouth in an affectionate smile.
"I'm here," he says in case the other man can hear him on some level, "I'm not going anywhere."
This time it's the smell that wakes him.
He groans at the smell of cleaner and antibiotics, and the sound reverberates eerily inside his skull.
He slowly blinks his eyes open in confusion and then turns to the left to look at the machines that are surely there, but they aren't making noise this time around. Why aren't they? He was under the impression that they don't turn off. Then he feels movement on his right bicep that makes him jump slightly before turning his head towards the feeling, finding John's hand there.
His eyes portray his confusion as he glances from the hand to John's face, "John?" The name echoes in his mind the same as the groan.
John smiles reassuringly and says something, but no sound leaves him. Sherlock's confusion seeps deeper in to his psyche as he tries to comprehend what's wrong with the other man.
John's smile fades and he says, "Sherlock?" the other man can recognize the familiar movement on his lips, but still no sound.
The pieces begin to fit together, but Sherlock is experiencing an intense sense of denial that he has never felt regarding anything before. He looks around the room in panic, cataloguing how many things are making sound: a sink to the left dripping slowly in the basin, a clock on the far wall in front of him, the open window allowing the shades to flutter, the machines to his left are beeping, he just knows it, but he can't hear it - he can't hear any of it.
"Oh my God, I'm deaf," he says out of reflex, wincing now at the slight pain in his ears that accompanies the echo.
John's hands are on his face, forcing Sherlock's frightened eyes to meet his own frightened gaze, "You can't hear me?"
"I can't read lips, John!" He says loudly, angrily in frustration.
"Shhh," John tells him, "You're talking really loudly."
"What?" Sherlock asks just as loud, just as angry.
John removes his left hand from Sherlock's face and places his pointer finger against his own lips in the universal sign for 'quiet'.
"Are we in danger?" Sherlock whispers, only vaguely registering that whispering doesn't cause a painful echo, just a low one, as his eyes dance around the room in search of the threat.
John's left hand returns to his face, drawing Sherlock's attention back to him. John merely shakes his head with what is surely meant to be a reassuring smile but instead looks more like he's trying to be comforting while he freaks out on the inside himself.
John finally stands from his chair and releases Sherlock's face, "Wait," John tells him, while giving him the 'wait' finger signal, then opens both hands and signals for him to stay in the bed, "Stay."
Sherlock swallows his fear and nods once to acknowledge that he understands. He watches John walk out the door, his eyes never leaving it while he awaits his return.
John comes back in to the room a couple of minutes later with what appears to be a doctor in tow, as well as a legal pad in his hands.
The doctor takes the legal pad and writes a note on it.
"Hello, Sherlock. I'm Dr. Stanton. The explosion ruptured both of your eardrums which is what caused the loss of hearing." He shows it to Sherlock.
"Is the hearing loss permanent?" He asks calmly at a reasonable volume, forcing himself to stay in his investigative mindset to get all of the facts. Then he can freak out.
"Hearing will typically restore itself during or after the healing process."
"And how long does the healing process typically take?"
"6-8 weeks."
Sherlock growls in discontent as he closes his eyes for a moment to gather himself.
"Is there any way to speed it up?"
"No, but I will give you some antibiotics to fight off any possible infection that might occur."
"Kind of you," he says sarcastically with a scowl.
"Sherlock," John admonishes out of habit. Sherlock sees it and knows immediately that he's been scolded because it is a familiar look of exasperation.
Sherlock chuckles self-pityingly, "Now that I understood without needing to hear it."
John rolls his eyes and fights a smirk.
Under an hour later they're allowed to leave the hospital, prescription for an antibiotic in hand as well as stern instructions to see their GP in a few days. Seeing as John is the only GP that Sherlock will agree to let examine him, this isn't an issue.
It's already 9pm by the time they make it home, but John makes them tea anyway. They sit in their chairs facing each other, just staring at the other as though they'll develop the ability to read each other's minds if they try hard enough.
"Stop looking at me like I'm broken," Sherlock tells him.
John pulls out his pen and writes on the pad of paper, "I'm not because you're not."
"Eloquent as always, John."
John makes a humorously disgruntled face which only increases Sherlock's amusement, "Are you doing okay? Do you need anything?"
Sherlock considers carefully before responding, "It's very frustrating - not being able to hear the things around me - but I'm still able to do everything myself, unlike when I burned my hands. So this is…okay."
"Your hearing will come back. It won't be like this forever."
Sherlock reads the words and fights back the wave of fear that that might not be true. What if this is how things are for the rest of his life? Instead of dealing with the thought, he responds testily.
"No, I changed my mind. This," he gestures to the pad of paper in John's hands, "is infuriating and unmanageable."
John looks grumpy, "This is the best way."
"No, I can't accept that to be true. There has to be something better."
John stares at him, puckering his lips in outrage but obviously trying to control his temper. After all, he's dealt with Sherlock becoming unbiasedly defensive when he lost his senses before, so it's nothing new or surprising. He quickly downs the rest of his tea and stands, taking the cup to the sink. He rinses it out but leaves it in the sink to wash tomorrow before making his way back to the living area. Sherlock has not moved, but his eyes have tracked every single one of John's movements, waiting for him to explode.
John picks up the legal pad but does not sit, "Fine, genius; you think of a better way for us to communicate and I'll go to bed."
"I'm communicating just fine," he stresses crossly.
John's eyes flash dangerously at the implication, "God help us if you'rethe better communicator."
His jaw drops in indignation, "I'm very articulate!"
"Articulation and communication are not the same thing." He writes before dropping the pad and pen to the chair and walking away to get ready for bed. Sherlock makes no move to stop him.
Once changed and calmed down a bit - reminding himself that this is the defensive mode Sherlock gets in to when he's worried that his current state of limitation will become the norm - he returns to the living area to find Sherlock in the exact same spot and position as he left him 15 minutes prior.
John picks up the paper, "Do you want me to call in to work tomorrow and ask for a few days off?"
Sherlock does honestly seem to consider it but then dismisses the offer with a wave of his hand, "Unnecessary. As I stated previously, I am able to do all the same things, I'm just easier to be snuck up on."
That brings a previously unconsidered concern to light, "You'll stay in the flat while I'm gone?"
He sighs, "If there are no cases."
"No, Sherlock. No cases without me or until "we" figure out a better way to communicate."
"Don't be tedious, John, I can still solve crimes!"
"But you could also be injured further or abducted."
"John…" he says as though he's being very tedious indeed.
"Please, Sherlock. For me. Stay inside while I'm gone."
Sherlock's eyes soften, understanding how John worries - how badly Sherlock must have scared him today - and nods, "Agreed, as long as you will consider letting me still work on cases while you are present."
John smiles, "Agreed."
"Goodnight, John."
"Goodnight, Sherlock."
The nighttime is more difficult for Sherlock than he originally anticipated. It's not that quiet is anything he's unaccustomed to - which is what led him to foolishly think that this would all be fine - it's that the oppressive silence of having lost his hearing is so intense. When he enters his Mind Palace to think of new communication options, he finds himself as scared that John is not real as when he lost his sense of smell. The realization is both unexpected and loathsome.
Instead of retreating to his Mind Palace to think, he makes the conscious decision to stay aware of his surroundings. It doesn't allow him to think as well or as quickly because he keeps getting distracted by the most random of things (like where exactly did the marks on their desk legs come from, for example?), but it's worth it for the sense of peace.
By morning's light, Sherlock has made two decisions: the first is that he will commandeer John's dog tags from their box again when John has left for work, and the second is how he and John can communicate easier.
John comes down in the morning, dressed for work, and stops in his tracks to see breakfast already sitting on the table for him. He reaches for the pad of paper and pen that are sitting next to the plate.
"You made breakfast?"
"I've made breakfast before," he says indignantly.
"No you haven't."
"Well I've made you tea."
"Not actually a food, Sherlock," he smiles and then adds, "It's not poisoned is it?"
"The incident to which you are referring was a harmless experiment for which there is no need to repeat at the moment."
"So that's a no then?" John is still smiling.
"That's a no," Sherlock confirms, a smile of his own appearing on his face.
When John leaves for work, Sherlock waits an hour before making his way up to his room to find the box, now feeling secure that John will not be back until after work. The sense of relief that washes through him when he wraps his right hand around the tags is so overwhelming that he closes his eyes.
He knows John is real – he just walked out the door – so why in God's name is he so affected by the tags right now this very moment?
Sherlock turns his head to the side, eyes closing and face scrunching in pain as he swears to himself that emotions are the worst thing imaginable. He was right to avoid having them for so long.
With a large exhale, he replaces the box exactly as he found it and leaves the flat to go do some shopping. Just as he's about to walk out onto the street, the promise he made to John not to leave the flat echoes in his mind. He briefly considers ignoring it and going out anyway – he's an adult, dammit! – but instead goes to request Mrs. Hudson's company. She has an extremely difficult time remembering that Sherlock can't hear her, and he doesn't mind not reminding her (though he does try a few times). In truth, he actually likes to watch her face light up as she rambles on about things that he would never stand to let her say in his presence if he could hear them.
Once back, Sherlock spends the rest of the day studying the new books as he waits for John to come home.
Sherlock is so engrossed in them, in fact, that he doesn't register that John has been home long enough to have written him a note.
"What are you doing?" John asks after gaining Sherlock's attention.
"Studying our new form of communication."
"Sign language? We're going to learn sign language?" John asks, face incredulous.
"Better than writing," he explains with a shrug.
"Writing's a hell of a lot simpler than learning an entirely new language," he insists.
"Not once we've mastered it. I've already got most of the basics down, and you're smart enough to catch on quick enough."
John is thrown off by the praise of his intelligence, but then something registers about the situation, "We don't own books on sign language."
Sherlock gives him a look that clearly states he's thinking of taking the compliment to his intelligence back, "We do now; I bought these today."
John's eyes harden, his jaw clenching, "I asked you not to leave."
"I took Mrs. Hudson with me," he assures, suddenly unaccountably glad that he's able to say that truthfully, "She seemed rather pleased to yammer on without me telling her to stop being annoying, with the whole not being able to hear her thing and all."
John can't help but laugh and smile at the mental picture. Once he stops, he asks, "Alright, where do we start?"
Sherlock smiles, excited for the challenge of teaching John and also continuing to learn himself, "Names first."
"Should we use codenames?" John suggests facetiously.
"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock admonishes, but his lips twitch up at the right corner of his mouth betraying his (not quite) attempt at belittling.
They sit on the couch facing each other as they begin to learn a new language together. It only takes about a week for them both to become pretty proficient since Sherlock does nothing but practice it all day and then keeps John focused on advancing every evening when he comes home from work.
They settle in to a routine. Sometimes there are curses, threats, or insults hurtled at the other (mostly from John, but Sherlock performs his fair share, of course), but generally there's laughter and even some tender moments shared between them.
While at home they both vocalize as they sign – even if Sherlock can't hear the words – to reinforce. When at crime scenes, however, they tend to simply sign to each other in silence and leave John to translate. This is partially so that Sherlock doesn't insult anyone, but mostly because they just like being able to have their own conversations in front of others that no one else can understand.
It's selfish, really, how both of them cherish the way that it makes them indispensable to the other: they both need the other for this to work and, for once, absolutely no one is able to take either's place.
About four weeks in, Sherlock – who has since been granted freedom to leave the flat on his own as long as he turns a tracker on his mobile on – returns home to find a very old looking book sitting on the desk. On its cover rests a note:
Sherlock,
I saw this in a shop and it screamed of you to me. I don't even know if you enjoy Shakespeare, but here's a collection of his poetry anyway.
John
Sherlock places the note to the side before reverently picking up the brown leather book and opening to the front. Published in 1895, making it far from a first edition, the illustrations and slightly worn gilt edges are remarkably beautiful. Without looking from the book, he sits on the couch and begins to read. It's not until John's hand lifts his chin to look him in the eye - as has become the accepted way for John to gain his attention - that he even realizes that the other man has returned home.
"Found the book, I see," John signs, an uncertain look in his eyes as he takes a few steps back now that he's got the man's attention.
Sherlock picks up a random piece of paper from the coffee table, marking his place before signing back, "It's wonderful. Thank you," he says sincerely.
John blushes slightly, a bit of his nervousness draining from him, "I wasn't certain you would like it. Like my note said: I didn't even know if you like Shakespeare."
"He was one of my favorites to study in school, and the book itself is a beautiful edition."
"I figured, if nothing else, you'd appreciate the details of the artwork in it."
"I appreciate it for far more than that," Sherlock says honestly, unsure where the boldness comes from.
John flushes again and turns away, trying to make his way to the kitchen to make some tea.
"John," Sherlock calls after him.
John stops his progress and looks to the left slightly, acknowledging but not facing.
"Why did you buy this for me? It must have cost a fortune."
John turns towards the kitchen again but does not make to move further away. He looks at his feet and whispers, "I think that possibly, maybe I've fallen for you."
Sherlock doesn't hear it, of course, but it makes John's heart race to have finally said it aloud in front of the man. To put voice to the thought that has been steadily building over the last year and a half.
What Sherlock does get when John turns around is: "It wasn't that much, actually, and I thought you'd appreciate its beauty," before John turns back to the kitchen and moves to make the tea, not waiting for Sherlock's reply.
When John is in the next room where he can't see him, Sherlock signs: "There's a chance that I've fallen quite hard over you."
I think that possibly, maybe I've fallen for you
Yes, there's a chance that I've fallen quite hard over you
is from "Falling In Love At A Coffee Shop" by Landon Pigg and in no way is meant to imply that Sherlock heard John since his line follows that one John quotes…I just…I found it fitting for some reason.
A/N: "I think that possibly, maybe I've fallen for you
Yes, there's a chance that I've fallen quite hard over you"
is from "Falling In Love At A Coffee Shop" by Landon Pigg and in no way is meant to imply that Sherlock heard John since his line follows that one John quotes…I just…I found it fitting for some reason.
