Hi. Once again for the record; I don't own and don't make a profit from.. etc., etc. Please PLEASE read and review, I'm needy and found this chapter really hard to write. Also, this story hasn't been Beta'd so apologies for any anoying mystakes J
Jess X
Chapter 7
"Come on with you, let us leave now before my brother hears of this and has security pick me up at the door."
Sherlock is sat next to me with his coat and scarf hastily donned; skimming the front of the paper he has just taken from my lap. He's not reading it properly; I can tell it's just for effect. He looks at me with what I call his 'hurry up and get your brain in gear' expression, but his eyes aren't as sharp as I am used to.
"They can't be letting you go already? That's ridiculous. There must be a mix up, let me go and talk to your Doctor."
I hurry to my feet, but without rising from his chair he grabs my arm to stop me. He looks guilty.
"Don't bother. I self-discharged."
He carefully reads the look on my face.
"Oh John, stop being a Doctor for once will you" -he says in that overly familiar flippant tone of his. He then struggles to his feet and I have to steady him as he stands.
"On second thoughts don't, I need you to remove this."
He lifts his sleeve, unperturbed by his weakness and shows me a large intravenous line in the crook of his elbow.
"For Christ's sake Sherlock, do they even know you've gone? I'm not being party to you absconding; your brother will have me up on kidnapping charges."
"Relax Doctor, I left them a note. Now, are you coming or are you making your own way home?"
"Is there anything I can say that will change your mind?" -I utter, not bothering to hide the worry in my voice.
He doesn't answer and I have the moment to take in his face and remember that I have to be thankful we can even be here debating this at all. He looks at me expectantly and I sigh; half in frustration and half with relief. Giving in, I pull his coat properly around his shoulders. As I turn, he slows me and takes my arm out of necessity. He's still quite uncertain on his feet. We walk in silence and by the time we reach a taxi out front, he's visibly drained by the short walk. As we sit in the black cab, I think of the task ahead of me and make a mental list of all the tactics I have used in the past to make him, eat, sleep and generally take care of the things he classes as 'dull'. I know I'm going to need to use them all and probably find some new ones. His head lolls on my shoulder and I suddenly can't remember my own name, let alone give the cabby our address.
When we've completed our journey, I have to wake and guide him up the steps. Mrs. Hudson is in shock and looks at me questioningly over his shoulder as she gives him a huge hug, almost knocking him off of his feet. She's been shopping and has tidied the flat. I could kiss her. As I go into the kitchen to start unpacking, Sherlock heads slowly into the living room and when I turn next he is stretched out on the sofa pulling his coat up over him as a makeshift blanket. I abandon the unpacking and take over a glass of water, setting it on the coffee table next to him.
"Sherlock, why don't you go to bed? I'll bring you in some tea."
"No, I've just spent 5 days in bed John; I just need to get warm. Why aren't you at work?"
His eyes are already closing and he fidgets, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable. I ignore the last statement as I know he means to say I'm fussing and I've already told him that Sarah gave me some holiday. His memory isn't quite back to normal yet but I refuse to dwell on it too much. I make my way up to my room; the only one with a proper duvet on the bed and when I return he's shivering a little. He watches me with heavy lidded eyes as I remove his shoes and take his coat, throwing the duvet over his form. He seems to thank me with his eyes and I chance my arm by handing him the glass of water. There aren't the protests I expect and he watches me with intrigue as he drinks. As he hands back the glass I feel his icy skin like a stab in my heart and I get the need to touch him.
"Okay, budge up."
"Why, what are you doing?"
The annoyance in his voice is that which I have heard many times before, born usually of his frustration or lack of understanding of the situation in front of him. I get to hear it when I tell him I'm going out after he's had a meltdown about something ridiculous like me 'caring'. It always awakens the authoritative side of me that I reserve for him when he's in this mood.
"Calm down, I'm warming you up. This is more effective."
Knowing that the logic would lullaby him, I place my hand behind his neck and down between his shoulder blades; guiding him to sit up. I remove the sofa cushion he was leaning on and slide in behind him, pulling him back on to my chest. I hear him exhale and I pull the duvet up and easily wrap my arms across his chest. He relaxes readily with his head resting back, finding the crook between my neck and right shoulder. I notice how much weight this situation has cost him already and the old familiar guilt stirs in my stomach. To see him pliable in this way feels somewhat against nature, but beautiful none the less. He suddenly stirs as if he's forgotten something.
"Wake me if you get uncomfortable."
I take a second to register what he has just said and can't help laughing quietly to myself that it takes a near exhausted Sherlock to voice a concern such as this. If it weren't for the situation I would remind him that that is indeed 'caring'.
"I won't get uncomfortable."
I whisper this with resignation into his ear and he leans into my words, although I am sure he hasn't stayed to hear them. My lips brush his hairline and I tighten my arms around him. This is my new strange home and I never want to leave.
To say the following week is a difficult one would be an understatement and I dread that our previous sentiments are somehow lost to him. He refuses to go to his bed, leaving me to sleep in the chair to keep an eye on him. Mrs. Hudson scolds me, for my shoulder is evidently complaining about it.
One thing I had been afraid of when he had left the hospital had been 'ITU syndrome' and it became apparent very quickly that he had not escaped it. I'd seen it before, mainly in patients who'd had a stay in Intensive care and were unknowingly affected by their experiences. It results from the fact that they can often be subconsciously aware of the things going on around them whilst in the' coma'; the noise of the monitors, the breathing tube, the perpetual lights. Even being touched and prodded. Despite having no recollection of this 'trauma', the anxiety of this will then manifest itself in the form of nightmares and agitation once recovered. It was an odd reversal of roles, but luckily I felt better equipped than Sherlock had obviously felt with me.
"It's your brain just trying to make sense of what you've been through." I say softly to him one night as we're sat on the floor with my arms clamped round him holding him tight. His breathing is erratic and he's wet through with sweat, his eyes not focusing properly.
"I have to get you out John, he's here. He has a bomb."
"We're home Sherlock, it's just us. This will pass, I promise you."
To see him like this is fire to my soul and not long after, the caged animal comes to stay. His strength is returning, but he's fighting something and seeing as he won't disclose it to me, it becomes me. His mood is thunder and rain and I am once again glad I've hidden the gun. The words that he does offer me are bitter and spat and the lack of 'him' is stifling. He won't eat, won't sleep and won't leave the sofa and when I feel like I may lose control I call Mycroft in desperation. He arrives in half an hour with a car to take him to 'a facility' and I immediately panic and change my mind. It doesn't matter anyway; he of course refuses to go. When he sees my face once I've sent Mycroft away, a strange calm descends upon him and he sits on the sofa with his hands peaked under his chin studying me intensely. He's processing something and then seemingly makes a decision.
"May we take a walk around Regent's park?"
It's cold, but he doesn't appear to feel it which pleases me and I try hard to ignore the part of my brain that's warning me not to let him abscond and end up back 'there'. However, I am glad that the inertia has dissipated and that the contemplative Sherlock is back. The ambition in his walk suddenly turns to desperation and he pulls me from the swarming path and into the small gathering of trees. He looks at the floor, his hands back in the pockets of his coat.
"I told you that night John. You should get as far away from me as you can. I don't want you to feel like you should stay out of some misguided sense of guilt or pity."
The anger that has been building up in me for the past few days suddenly needs an outlet.
"You Bastard."
A woman pulls her little boy by the hand, glaring at my outburst. He's visibly shocked at the anger in my voice and I can't help but enjoy the confusion on his face.
"You think I'd stick around through the crap you've just put me through just to bolt now? I mean, do you even know me at all Sherlock?- and I'm not talking about deducing what I had for breakfast, or whether I slept on the chair last night; which incidentally I have done since you got home. I mean, do you know ME. Talk to me. You have to talk to me Sherlock."
He looks as if he is searching his own soul, then gives in to my request
"I can't seem to predict you John, I can never tell what you're thinking. There are too many variables and I can't seem to make my brain work."
His hands grip his skull as if this will help him in some way and then goes to turn away from me. I remove his hands from his head, remembering the same gesture I made that first night. I move ever closer and I am glad that he puts no effort into ignoring my advances as he has done lately.
"Have you any idea what you've been through?" I say to him, the anger gone from my voice. There's a long pause.
"Only what I see in your eyes."
He takes a hand up to my face and I lean into his touch, feeling all the curves of his palm.
"I am sorry" he says eager to let me know.
"For which part exactly?" I say. He thinks a long while about what he wants to say next.
"For whom I am and for whom I am not. This isn't going to be easy John."
"One thing I never expect from you is 'easy' Sherlock and for the record- it's all of you I take. Okay?"
He studies me and then looks past my shoulder, suddenly aware of our open surroundings and so I guide him round to the other side of the large tree behind us, obscuring our view to the London crowd. He is eager to have me close and I feel the weight of his hands on my waste and round my shoulders and pulling at my neck, the rest of his body pressing me against the tree. I feel I may disappear into him.
"I listened to the message you left on my phone" he whispered into my ear. His breath makes me shiver and I have to grip on to him to steady myself. He laughs a little at my response and it tickles my neck. All I can say is a slight "Hmmm?" in response.
"It was a very…good …message …..John" -He says, kissing me between each word.
I take his face in my hands as he kisses my neck and I am so close to pushing him through the bushes to the left of us and being done with it there and then. I draw his face to me and kiss him slowly. He returns it with more strength than I have felt from him in a week and I want to bask in it.
"Back to the flat?" He says with his voice that suggests he's not sure whether he's said the correct thing.
Okay, who wants one last chapter of complete fluff? I promise…no angst , Please R and R.
