I'm so so very sorry about the ridiculous delay for this chapter - finished now! Things have been unbelievably busy but here's the fourth and final installment. Hope you enjoy, and please please R&R :)
~butterflying
He is still trying to pull his hand out of John's grip and the doctor is finding it difficult to tie off the ends of the gauze.
"Where would you like me to start? A general medical overview, or do you want to just tell me yourself?" John forces out from gritted teeth, succeeding in wrapping the cut.
He stands, hands clasped in the small of his back. Sherlock's pupils are dark pinpricks against the coloured irises, flitting restlessly from John's face to his own cut hand to all around the flat.
"I – what?"
The detective is searching for words, a rare occurrence.
"See?" John says drily.
Sherlock glares at him for a moment, then –
"Nothing," he manages quietly.
He curls himself into a ball, somehow folding himself into the small space the armchair is providing. John laughs, incredulous, and strides into the kitchen to check on the casserole which is now belching steam from the pot.
"I have finally found something the great Sherlock Holmes can't do," he calls back over his shoulder.
Sherlock grunts.
"Lying," John clarifies, rather defiant, as he spoons the redeemed casserole onto two plates. "You're hopeless."
"I know," Sherlock snarls rather suddenly, then coughs.
John frowns, staring down at the plates, then turns on his heel to walk back into their sitting room.
"Oh for heaven's sake, Sher–"
The world's only consulting detective has slipped from his chair onto the floor, his back against one of its arms. His hands are clawed, scratching against each other and he is staring wide-eyed at – apparently – nothing. He appears to have forgotten about the cut on his hand. John freezes in the doorway, his mind searching frantically for the catalyst to whatever the hell is wrong with him. He is coming up blank.
"Sherlock," he says again, rather forcefully.
"John," his friend replies automatically, then blinks and looks across at him. "John," he says again, and it is almost a question.
"Care to explain?"
"What?" Sherlock says coldly.
He hoists himself up from the floor and frowns at his injured hand. John resists the urge to roll his eyes.
"Hurts," he adds again, swaying slightly as he straightens up and wanders into the kitchen.
John cannot work out why his friend sounds short of breath.
"Hopeless," Sherlock adds, very quietly, as he takes up one of the plates from the kitchen bench.
You are constantly amazed at people's stupidity at regular intervals, but John is taking human incapacity to a new level. You would laugh but breathing is a struggle. The casserole is burnt and you are staring vaguely down at the plate in your hand. Your other one is throbbing but all you can really hear over the cacophony of observations is hopeless hopeless hopeless and you're not quite sure if John will murder you for doing what you are about to do.
Clunk and the plate is on the kitchen floor, helped by more than a healthy dose of non-gravity force. You bite back a curse as John yelps and casserole oozes over the linoleum. Great invention, that product, perfect for impersonating a lab floor, a 'home away from home', so to speak.
"Sherlock? John?"
Mrs Hudson, the Queen of both England and of astounding bad timing, pokes her head around their doorway from the stairwell.
"Dinner's on the floor, Mrs Hudson, nothing more," John says wearily.
"Sherlock, dear, are you alright? Looking a bit peaky if you ask me, better keep an eye on him, John –"
"I'll be doing very much fine on my own," you spit out, but the room has started to wilt to the right.
Frowning, you realise you've forgotten to breathe and the chorus is louder – HOPELESS, HOPELESS – and perhaps it would be better to just acknowledge the damn –
"Panic," you manage in a low voice, before staggering into the kitchen doorframe with a crack, your skull colliding with the join of brick and timber.
Mrs Hudson lets out a slight scream. You slide down onto the carpet, hands shaking, the cut throbbing mercilessly.
"You're a doctor, what's going on?" she squeaks at John.
"Nothing – to do," you manage between careful breaths.
"Breathing's a good start, though."
"Shut up," you snap, but John's right, of course.
A glass of water is being forced into your hands but you can't hold it still, so the edge is being forced against your lip. You would like to swear and storm out of the place but you aren't quite sure if you're capable of standing, never mind cursing, and it seems like an awfully teenage reaction. Mycroft would be proud, but in the mean time you have gulped down the water like a starved child.
It takes at least ten minutes, by your reckoning, for you to register that you are still slumped in the corner of the living room. John is crouching beside you, rather determinedly not staring at you, though it's evident he's trying to watch you in his periphery. An empty glass dangles from his fingers.
"So, wasn't a headache, was it?"
"Shut up," you say again, sitting up against the wall and scrubbing at your eyes, trying to clear them.
"Why'd you say it, then?"
Hopeless, but it is a little quieter than it was, and less oppressive. You manage a dry chuckle.
"Nature of the beast," you say shortly.
He doesn't push for details. PTSD is the likely reason and you're not going there. Emotions are difficult.
"Bit not good," he agrees, standing up.
Mrs Hudson has disappeared back to her own flat, not without first tidying your mess from the kitchen floor. You stare at simple unassuming idiotic John, who, it appears, has retrieved the second plate of casserole.
"Burnt," you warn him, but he appears not to care.
"We aren't all good at everything, Sherlock. I certainly didn't expect culinary expertise from you, even if you understand the chemistry behind it."
Fair point, you note to yourself before realising what the hell you've just done – agreed with John. When you roll your eyes he chuckles and shovels down more of the casserole, leaning against the kitchen bench.
"It's not that bad," he adds.
"I'm flattered," you snip back sardonically, but you are pleased. "Carcinogenic, probably, with all that carbon in it. As a qualified doctor you shouldn't encourage that sort of attitude."
"As a qualified idiot you shouldn't give me advice – go dissolve another rat or something."
"You'll do nothing of the sort," calls your housekeeper-convinced-she's-only-a-landlady from the hallway.
"Dissolving was the wrong verb, Mrs Hudson, don't worry at all," you murmur, pulling yourself from your seat on the floor.
"I think there's some leftover Chinese, Sherlock, so you didn't have to cook – have that for your dinner, if you're still hungry," John says over the top of your mumbling.
His fork is scraping loudly against the plate behind you as you open the fridge for the third time today.
"Oh shut up," you say, scowling over your shoulder at him.
"Touchy, touchy," he grumbles, but puts the plate down behind him.
You can't see any of the clear containers in which the fried rice usually lives after John finishes his lemon chicken and doesn't leave room for it. The shelves are all melding together in your vision. It is quite sickening. Pointedly ignoring the crisper drawer, from which the half-face is still staring, you glare for another moment or two into the fridge before slamming it closed. You stride into the sitting room and throw yourself into your chair, tapping your fingers against the arms.
"Dinner?" John reminds you.
You press your lips together and ignore him. Your stomach gurgles just to spite you, and your flatmate folds his arms from his place beside the kitchen bench.
"Sherlock," he warns.
"Shut. Up."
"Not happening. What's wrong with the Chinese?"
He turns and pulls the offending box of rice from between the jam and the jar of eyeballs that has relocated to the fridge since Lestrade's 'invasion' back when they were new to Baker Street. Why you know that you aren't sure aside from the fact that the eyeballs haven't moved and the butter never goes anywhere else. You can barely distinguish the fridge door from the kitchen wall beside it.
"Nothing," you say but you're still tapping your fingers.
John's outline is still blurry, and so is the chair and the fireplace and the bloody Chinese food container and the kitchen doorway and –
"Sherlock?"
"Couldn't see it," you mutter.
"Sorry?"
"Nothing."
"Liar," John says as he puts the container back in the fridge.
"You say that like it's a new thing – no deduction brownie points for that one, I'm afraid, John."
The Union Jack pillow is swimming eerily in your periphery.
"Damn you," you tell it, before resorting to much more colourful language.
"What the hell is going on, Sherlock?"
John has stopped joking. You look over at what of his expression you can make out, which is very little.
"Can't see you properly."
He raises an eyebrow, or at least you think he does, before going back to the sink and filling another glass with water. Well, you can hear the tap and the water and the glass clunking against the stainless steel. You close your eyes, leaning back into the couch. Its springs creak.
"Shut up," you say again.
"Drink up," John's voice corrects you from your left.
You accept the glass of water and down in before your shaking can get bad enough to prevent you from holding it. The cut on your hand is twinging again.
"Do you take anything for any of this?"
John's voice is quiet. You close your eyes again and massage your temples as you answer.
"Not anymore."
"Illegal?"
"Mm."
"Thought about any alternatives?"
"Wouldn't be as good," you say, and you know he knows as well as you that it's true.
The springs groan again as you feel him stand up again, but he doesn't move. You look up at him.
"Don't have to lie about it," he says, not looking at you.
You don't reply, closing your eyes once more, and he takes the glass back into the kitchen without saying anything more. Five minutes later he has settled into his chair with a cup of tea and yesterday's paper, leaving a cup beside the couch on the coffee table for you. You are sure he isn't paying attention to you anymore.
"Thank you."