Of Why The Sea Is Boiling Hot
SHERLOCK
Pain. A lot of pain.
"Come on, Sherlock. For me. Please. I can't…do this much further."
John's voice strained through his ears, words mangling of their own accord. But he heard all he needed to: a tone that was quiet and desperate. Afraid. John Watson was afraid. On a list of things Not Good, this had a separate list and a set of emergency instructions to accompany. Sherlock blinked away the white noise, the white room, and the nausea to find himself being half carried, half dragged, bullets cracking like lightening all around them.
"Sherlock?"
Number thirty one, was his first thought. How does Mycroft manage it that every plan of his goes so spectacularly to hell?
"Sherlock!"
He answered with a hiss that rattled through the cartilage of his mess of a nose. John was asking him? The storm continued and he could discern nothing, rapidly falling back into insensibility.
"Sherlock, I need you to move your feet! I'm trying to get us to a house – near here – but you have to help me!"
"I thought…medics were trained to carry people…"
For that he received a sharp tug into John's side that yanked him unpleasantly back to the agony he'd just left. John was breathing hard, pausing every few steps to stare through the trees and pull them on.
"They are. And I was. Then I was fucking shot. And spent…five years not being a medic. And another fucking word Sherlock – another fucking word – and I will drop you and continue on to the house myself!"
A completely empty threat. Of course it was. But unpleasant, nonetheless, for his battered brain when the irrational panic slugged around it like a rogue tentacle.
"Sherlock! Feet! NOW!"
Supporting his own weight was a gargantuan effort, but he bore it with more groans of pain and a fist somewhere in John's collar. The world spun. He retched before he could stop himself, and uttered an undignified whimper, but it would seem simply taking a portion of his own burden had done the trick for John. The doctor continued to haul them, jamming Sherlock into the light armour vest and bringing them at a snail's pace towards…somewhere. Clearly evacuation had already been ruled out and the forest was too thick to do much more than try scramble out of the way of the vicious skirmish happening all around them.
He leaned his face as far into the join of John's shoulder as he could stand it, trying to put the strain on his bruised zygomatic arch without knocking his nose. Which would have worked had John not had to abruptly shove him from under his arm to a painful landing on his tailbone – the only part of him that wasn't in some pain or other, thank you very much – so as to hit the unfortunate Estonian they'd nearly tripped over with his rifle. The man thankfully went down without much noise, but him standing again was more of a problem.
Oh for all the joys of a head trauma. Perhaps continual disruption to his vision and balance were the least problematic right at this precise moment (temporary paralysis and memory loss springing instantly to mind) but they were decidedly disagreeable. How John got him again under his wing was for a later deduction, and how he barely reacted to a stray bullet nearly hitting his shoe was another. John swore violently and attempted to pull them faster, but it was a lost cause. They were already at maximum speed. Sherlock also didn't have the heart to tell him that he was close to passing out again.
"Just…a…bit longer."
No. No, leave me. Make that decision, John, however much it would hurt me. Do it. One or both of us is going to die if this goes on much longer.
"Stay with me! Motherfucker!"
"John!"
"Sorry."
"John…"
"Oh thank Christ!"
The shadows rolled back. There was still mist curling around them, but it was a marginally lighter shade of black. Something silvery seemed to flow like water around the souls of his feet, making his pupils jump.
"Come on." John grunted, clearly reassured by the clearing. Sherlock wasn't. It was easier to see them. Easier to find them. They would find them. They would find John.
WE-OO WE-OO! PANIC TIME! PANIC TIME!
"SHUT UP!"
"Sherlock please! Just…just a few more –"
"LEAVE ME!"
There was a bang somewhere (in front? Behind?)
"Yeah. That's right. You tell him."
"Jooohn…"
And then it was totally dark, and the air changed completely.
"Fuck. Over here – come on. No! Not on your face, just –"
"'s not safe. Go, John. GO! Don't let them find you here!"
"They won't."
He didn't understand; wasn't GETTING it.a
"They'll hurt you."
"Yeah, I'd already deduced that one for myself, thanks, now." A light flickered like a needle into brain. "I need you to open your eyes, Sherlock."
"No, they'll –"
"Shhh. It's okay. They haven't got you. You're here. With me. But I need you to open your eyes, can you do that for me?"
For John? Even for John it was…hard. And it hurt. It hurt a lot.
"Damn it." He felt something pass his brow with more than a little sting for the lesions dug there. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I can't let you sleep. I need you to stay awake until I can be sure there isn't more damage than what I'm seeing."
He repeated himself until the words made some bare amount of sense, fiddling with something he'd apparently brought with him and finding water to wet the fabric ghosting above his eyes.
"You…can't…be…HERE!"
"Yeah, well, you're stuck with me for the time being, so…deal with it."
Deal with John being there? Being there when they used the meat hook? Or the live wires? No. No no no – and…on John –
"Woah, WHOAH! Stop! Sherlock!"
"No –"
"Shit!"
"NO!"
Sounds, touch, emotion – it all blurred beyond comprehension, and as annoying as it was to have his transport take such sudden control over him, the annoyance itself was secondary to the kaleidoscope of terror. Also the knowledge that he couldn't breathe, that was an issue. Fuck. Really, fuck. Because that couldn't happen – Sherlock would die before he'd let John to the mercies of the people he'd left behind who wanted – wanted to take him back – wanted to cut –wanted to put the sparks under John's skin –
He was screaming again, only, this time, the nightmare was his waking world. He wanted to climb out of his own body – anything to get away GET AWAY – and find John, cling to him like he'd done in the tunnel. Keep him there. Keep him there – keep him safe. But for now there was nothing. There was nothing, and he was compromised: there was NOTHING HE COULD DO – NO NO NO NO NO –
"Hello."
Sunlight streamed improbably through cracks in filthy curtains. The wooden walls rattled, a few stray sunbeams breaking through there too, spilling over the floor. John was there. At the side of his…lumpy sofa. Days old stubble clung to his upper lip and he looked tired. But, somehow, satisfied. Like the light, in that respect.
"John."
He tried to move, only to find that the smelly blanket covering him was also knotted over his chest and restraining his arms. The same purpose was served by the belt around his legs.
"You were delirious for a while there, but I think that had more to do with your overall condition than it did your brain. I'll want to take you in for a proper look when we get back, book you a scan for your head. But, once I got you tied down – and you stopped having your panic attack – you went on to sleep and woke normally. Your pupils are fully responsive again and your breathing's back to normal."
"I have a headache."
"Well, that was to be expected."
John smiled in that way of his that usually worried people – because it meant he was perfectly calm at a time when other people thought it was more appropriate to be running around uselessly, expending energy on going to pieces. He smiled easily back.
"You look terrible."
Also to be expected, Sherlock thought with a grimace. It was his face that had taken much of the damage this time. It felt like it had been remoulded by someone who thought he had a bigger face than his skull actually scaffolded.
"Lucky thing I carried some basics with me, knowing you. I cleaned out the worst cuts and bound your wrist – just badly sprained by the way, not broken. Your nose, though…"
John's sympathetic grimace met a low groan.
"I'm afraid I had to improvise. After you calmed down though. Heh. Had a bit of a scare, there, just trying to get you into a position where your airways were clear. But I…managed."
The smile slipped, and for the first time Sherlock saw exactly how strained John was. He was on the precipice himself, held together only by sheer stubbornness. That unique streak of Johnness:a little known phenomenon, but one which deserved further study and which was the only explanation of the 'how' questions pertaining to John Watson. For example 'How did John Watson stand to live with Sherlock Holmes for more than a month?' 'How did John Watson's mental capabilities and reasoning accelerate with the presence of a tangible enemy?' Or even 'How did John Watson maintain being a man of healing and destruction without breaking some, if not many, fundamental laws of the universe?' Not that Sherlock knew what those laws might be. For all he knew, there was a loophole involving just this situation.
"John. I –"
His chest tightened. What? What was this: he had something to say, after all. It took a moment to identify, and in the end he concluded through process of elimination (not guilt – not yet – not unbearable pain, emotional or otherwise, not loss of cogency). He was…shy. Feeling shy. He never felt shy! Not once in his life! Uncertain, maybe, wrong-footed, perhaps, out of his depth – but not ever shy for god's sakes!
"Thank you." He ground out, wishing that John would stop looking like he was thirty seconds from shouting loud enough to bring the militia back down on their heads (wishing that he could, that he was allowed, to reach out – just a little touch, nothing more, honest!)
"You're welcome." John replied woodenly.
They stared at each other continuously until John looked away, fists clenching and unclenching rhythmically. He wondered if it was subconsciously in time with his breathing.
"Do you need the bathroom?"
"No..?"
"Good."
Oh.
John's jaw tightened. His eyes cleared decisively.
Not Good.
John was about to…give him a Talk. He knew it. Just knew it. Knew the signs. Knew the air of self-certainty. And knew that he was, for the minute, unable to go anywhere to flee from it.
Would it be the recklessness? Or the leaving or the not telling him or the not eating or –
No. That didn't bear thinking about. Not yet. He wasn't ready. Not yet!
"Sherlock!"
"What?"
"Stop…doing that! Christ, I'm not the bloody bogey man! And I'm not –"
Sherlock stared at him as he seemed to look suddenly again over his beaten face, eyes glittering alarmingly.
"John?"
"Don't. Just –"
Sherlock was equally horrified and disturbed to find he couldn't read John's intent through the emotions chasing themselves over his friend's haggard face.
"What John?"
"I –"
JOHN
John tried with all his might to embrace the stress – the way his mind and body were trained to do. It wouldn't happen. Wouldn't calm. This was possibly the most important conversation of his life because what he said right here, right now, would stick. Like that one step over the threshold of the recruitments office. Not the sort of thing that in hindsight changed his life: getting a coffee with Mike, all those years ago, in hindsight changed everything, but at the time it was just coffee and a stab at the whole 'getting out of bed in the morning and doing something other than staring at the wall' thing. No. This was one of those conscious, defining moments that eluded capture or planning.
And for the life of him he couldn't think of what to say.
"Sherlock…goddamn you! I can't…I don't –"
"Can't what?"
"Watch you die." The words crawled out of the recesses of his tattered chest. "I. Can't. Do that. Get it? Because I don't think you have. All these months. And years. And you still don't get it."
He slouched to the floor as a clearly confused Sherlock went through the motions of trying to understand where John was coming from. When he inevitably failed (and John waited patiently for it) the doctor leaned forward and forced his words to come out without shaking.
"I don't want you to die, Sherlock Holmes. I want you to come home." And then, almost as an afterthought popping into his head: "Because I love you."
Error.
Mind Palace is not responding. A solution to the problem is being attempted. Do you wish to terminate the application?
"Sherlock."
Blink.
"Sherlock…"
He leaned forward, fighting the sudden visceral instinct that something should have happened (someone laughing, a crude comment, something along the lines of 'and now the punchline') and stopped, caught cruelly between the desire to sweep Sherlock's hair out of his face and the desire to keep his distance; keep some semblance of a way out. In the end, while Sherlock's glassy eyes still moved blankly with his, he did something worse, fishing a hand out of the tangled blanket and clasping it gently.
"I don't know what I want, or…who I want it from anymore. But. We have this. And. I want…I want you to stay with me." He felt his fingertips slipping over callused, delicately scarred skin, stretched smoothly over muscle that belayed the artist, even as the pale surface told otherwise. Most people didn't even see the scars. It wasn't as though strangers looked closely at someone's hands, after all. Just the long, clever fingers.
"I don't want to leave. I don't want you to leave. Okay? And did I say I love you, because that's, um, that's important." It was amazing, unbe-fucking-leivable, how easy it was to say those three words the second time.
I love you.
I bloody well love you. Prick.
"Sherlock?"
The man still wasn't responding. His hand in Jon's was still, and he was utterly silent. If it hadn't been for the slightly open mouth and rapid rise and fall of his chest, John might have panicked that the great genius had literally forgotten to breathe. He had remembered though. John realised, for only the third time in history, that the redness in the sclera was more than the result of injury, and watched the moisture slide over one cheek.
"Oh, Sherlock,"
He shook his head, but the detective suddenly came to life and looked away, cheeks colouring in embarrassment.
"Don't be so foolish, John." But the words wavered and more tears escaped.
"Jesus – oh no, don't sniff!"
The reflex rippled painfully across his face and John sighed, renewing his grip on Sherlock's hand.
"Yes, about your…improvising…"
"I took advantage of you being out of it to have a go at getting the dirt and blood cleaned up. You'll be in dire straits if that gets infected and I had to check if there was anything broken off inside. Then it started bleeding again, so…"
The detective certainly seemed unhappy at the gauze blocking up his nostrils, but it was loosely holding his nose in position. John wouldn't know more without an x-ray – whether it was a fracture or worse – but at the very least nothing was shattered and everything seemed to still line up.
Sherlock shook his head, a wry, watery smile twitching his lips.
"Sherlock…it's okay…"
"Oh for god's sake!"
He was still trying to twist away, almost comically given that his words kept breaking. And he hadn't so much as tried to take his hand back.
"I'm here." John tried haltingly. He felt stupid for saying it, but they were the right words. Sherlock rolled his overflowing eyes, not looking at him, but the violinist's fingers tightened in his.
"You induce such…emotion in me." He sounded nearly confused. John sighed.
"Most people feel vulnerable in situations like this."
"I don't feel vulnerable –"
"Yes you do."
"Only with you." The silver-green discs turned suddenly to stare right at him. "Only you have ever…managed such things. And perhaps father, but otherwise there is no one else for whom I –"
John watched his teeth grit, staring back in a daze of his own. Had he truly been so ignorant? It was all there, plain as day, and yet he'd spent five years of his life on a quest to ignore even the possibility. He rubbed absently over scratched, smudged knuckles, thinking of the warm pulse racing wildly in Sherlock's thumb.
"Look –"
"I know, John, I know."
"No, just – hear me out, okay?"
The detective gave him a look that was clearly 'well you have me here for the time being anyway, do you not?' John fought down giggles at the realisation. Finally, he'd managed to force Sherlock down for a proper conversation, and he didn't even feel like having one. Crap. Well, he could always tie him back down at a later date –
"I don't know what I want."
"So you keep saying, John."
"Yes, yes I know –" suddenly he couldn't stand the look of resignation bleeding into the bloodied cracks of Sherlock's expression. "But you are a constant. Right? Always. And you and me…I just need time to think about it, okay Sherlock? Just because right now's not exactly the best time to expedite an identity crisis." He jabbed an eyebrow at the crumbling shack. "And in the meantime, I'm not losing you. So just…be patient. And I swear, I'll sort this out. Sound fair?"
The world's only Consulting Detective regarded him with knotted brows and bright eyes, suspicion winning out over upset. But he trusted John – and John would not betray that, not purposefully and not in this. He nodded, leaning wearily back into the mouldy cushions.
"Okay. I'll see about finding some food to get in you."
Which was more of a problem than it sounded. As was their position. But honestly? As he eventually found the dusty box of half-rusted tin cans in the rotted cupboard under the sink, he realised that for all that they had both nearly died multiple times in the past twelve hours alone, he now felt more calm and composed than he had all fucking week.
A.N: So, I started trying to write this of an evening, not expecting to get very far, and stopped at about 3am with over half of it done and edited. Funny how it strikes you like that sometimes. Anyway, I tried to make this as genuine as possible and continuing on reflection of John's personal inability to resolve how he feels. The title is from the poem as opposed to ACD, but I rather liked it and it's surrealism kinda appealed to me given that the lives of the two protagonists are insane and that, in the end, every emotional crisis seems worse than it really is when you finally get around to talking it out. And as to my return to writing...well, I'm working on that (clears throat uncomfortably).
