AN: Hey friends! Sorry it's been a while on this one. I was in the middle of finishing up my other piece because it was burning a hole through my computer practically begging me to be done with it. So yes. This chapter is a bit short, but it's Sherlock's POV so wahoo!
Additional tags: it's like the mother of all migraines, quintessential John, Sherlock is a prat, bffs!
It was like the dials in his head were turned all the way up.
Everything was too loud, too bright, too hot and cold at the same time, just too…much. He felt as if he was about to burst into flames while simultaneously drowning in frigid water. It was bloody fucking awful.
He had found John though, and he couldn't help the insane amount of joy pounding through his veins, threatening to cause his heart to explode. It wasn't a lie. He wasn't dead, and better yet, he was real. He wanted to laugh with bitter hysteria, but the pain wouldn't let him. He had won. He had managed to keep that part of himself away from them. All of the things they and tried to strip away — he had held on with raw, bleeding fingers to the very core of his being while they laid to waste the sharp, well-oiled workings of his mind. So far, only John Watson remained, clear like a note of crystal illuminating the dark he had been trapped in for so long.
Although, darkness was rather appealing right now.
He lets himself sink under the benevolent vigil of his one and only anchor amidst the swirling chaos of overload and sensation…
.
Wasteland. (Wasn't there a poem on the subject?)* That's what his MindPalace was reduced to. Howling emptiness on the threshold while god knows what was trapped beyond that menacing, and hopelessly shut, Door. At least his subconscious was literal in this existential metaphysicality he suddenly found himself in. (Was metaphysicality even a word?) (Probably not.) He stretches out a pale hand and examines how it practically glows pearlescent in the sucking black. He smoothes his palm over the dark mahogany wood of the Door, and he can feel the vibration coming from the other side, warm and alive. His fingers curl around the doorknob, before he jerks it back with a startled cry. It burned fierce and bright. Cold snap of electricity. It made him feel nauseated. He looks at it with determination, and balls up his fist.
Just before he can reach for it again, a still small voice alights like softly fallen snow.
"Don't," it whispers. He can't be sure if he actually hears it or if the Voice is in his mind. It sounds familiar… heartbreakingly so.
Sherlock looks around then regrets it when he catches a glimpse of the vast expanse behind him. He whips back around and presses into the Door, his forehead against the wood trying to calm the sudden terror that grips him. The nothingness frightens him to his core. He doesn't know how, but he knows it wants to claim him; swallow him whole. He's stuck on the threshold, and has no options so his hand makes its way tentatively back towards the obsidian knob.
"Don't," the Voice insists again.
"Where are you?" Sherlock asks. His words seem to fall from his mouth and splash apart like drops of water. It doesn't sound like him, and the tingling sensation in his chest is unpleasant. The Voice doesn't answer, but Sherlock can still feel its presence fluttering feather-light on the edges of his mind. He looks at the door knob again, and he can feel the hum of disapproval. "Well I don't have much choice do I?" he addresses the presence snappishly. "Unless you have a better way of getting me out of here?"
He brushes the tips of his fingers just barely over the dark metal, and he feels needle like jabs shoot up his arm.
"It will hurt you," the Voice finally answers. There is sadness in the tone, and Sherlock feels a sense of longing and protectiveness wash over him. The humming feels warm and comforting and causes the numbing cold in his arm to fade.
"Who — what are you?"
"You know who I am," the Voice nearly laughs, an airy tinkling sound. Sherlock can't deny the truth in these words, but he can't place where's he's heard it before.
"Tell me," he grits out. The stinging in his arm is starting up again and his hand hovers over the knob once more. It crackles its way across his chest and up the side of his neck.
"I can't, Heart. You have to remember on your own."
Before he can even speculate what this means, his hand is jerked towards the door knob and his fingers wrap around its icy exterior of their own volition. Sparks go off behind Sherlock's eyes, and he tries to take his hand back, but it's stuck, and the pain causes his knees to buckle until he falls to one of them. He's not sure if he's screaming, but he sure wants to.
The Door groans inward as if holding back a torrent and Sherlock bangs his shoulder against it trying to break through even though it sends spikes of iron through his head. Memories of blood and rage and fear tumble before him, and his throat constricts painfully. Deep in his chest something knots and writhes, and when that dark, sickeningly familiar face contorted in malice rushes up to meet him through the haze, it's too much and his rips himself away from the threshold. He half expects to be swallowed by the emptiness as he arcs backward from the Door, but he lands hard on his side on solid ground.
It's cold, as if the warmth is seeping out of him, but he can't bring himself to get up. He stares at the Door to his MindPalace with an abject sense of loss.
Like a warm breeze, Sherlock feels that gentle presence like fingers caressing the nape of his neck. It's not a solid or physical presence, but he feels the tenderness nonetheless. It makes him shiver and close his eyes briefly; he feels less alone.
"What do I do?" he asks in a small voice. Here with the presence he doesn't feel humiliated at how diminished he sounds. He's just honestly at a loss.
"You can't open it yet," the Voice says, and he imagines lips pressed to the shell of his ear, and fingers brushing back the hair at his temple.
"But why?" he snarls with frustration. He tries to get up, but the hands stay him gently but firmly. He can't bring himself to fight them.
"Because it would be too much. Too soon. Trust me, Heart."
"How can I trust you if I can't see you? Why can't I see you? Are you real?"
The Voice seems to give an exasperated little sigh. "I promise you I'm real," it says, and Sherlock can't explain the relief he feels or why. "But for now you need to trust me. Okay?"
Sherlock frowns into the dark. He's always been rational, relying on empiric data and physical evidence to tell him what's real and what to trust. But for some reason, he finds that his trust in this strange presence is given in earnest, almost like it was when he first met John.
"All right," he relents swallowing a few times against the swell of gratitude that overwhelms him. The taut pressure eases in his chest. His eyes feel heavy all of a sudden, and the ground doesn't feel quite so cold any more. "What do I call you?"
That tinkling sound — like wind chimes or glass test tubes — bubbles up again, a comforting and familiar cadence. "You don't need to call me anything it's just us. I'll know when you're talking to me."
"But…" he trails off as his eyes close at the feeling of fingers twining in his hair.
"Rest now. When you wake up you will be with John back at Baker Street. You're safe."
He hums lightly, and he imagines his cheek pillowed on soft, smooth skin before he tumbles down into oblivion.
…
Sherlock surfaces from unconsciousness to the feel of a damp cloth on his forehead. He sighs. It feels good against his skin that feels hot and papery.
"Sherlock?" John's worried timbre intones quietly.
He cracks his eyes open slightly and sees that he's on the sofa, the light shining through the room telling him that evening is just beginning to settle in. John's anxious and pale face hovers over him.
He licks his lips, and swallows painfully a few times against the aridness of his mouth and throat. "John?"
"Here budge up a bit," John says and helps him scoot up so his head is resting on the arm of the couch. His whole body aches, and he groans with weariness. John grabs a cup from the coffee table he's perched on, and brings a straw up to his lips. "Drink this. Slowly, though,"
The water is deliciously cool as it slides down his throat, and he has to restrain himself from guzzling it out right. John takes the cup away, and rustles around in his bag. He pulls out a digital thermometer and takes his temperature. He murmurs that Sherlock's fever is finally breaking, relief washing over his face.
"Safe," Sherlock says with a small smile. Just like the Voice promised. He could trust it after all.
"Yes, Sherlock. You're safe now. You're in the flat and your safe," John says in a placating manner. Sherlock manages what he hopes is a decent scowl.
"I'm not a child John. You don't need to coddle me. Save your 'I'm-a-doctor-here's-a-lolly' drabble for your patients," he snaps, but it comes out weak and raspy. It's hateful and completely undermines the supercilious tone he was aiming for.
John laughs at this, running a hand over his face and shaking his head. "I never thought I would miss your snark, you arrogant prat."
In spite of himself, Sherlock chuckles too, and it's such a good sound — them laughing together like old times, and Sherlock can't help but reach out and squeeze John's shoulder. John's breath hitches at this, and his laughter takes on a slightly more breathy quality. He stops suddenly and stares out the window, eyes shining, jaw clenched. He takes a few breaths through his nose to steady himself. Sherlock swallows, his mouth dry and bitter again.
"I'm so, so sorry, John," Sherlock says. John nods and faces him, ghosts clearing from his tired eyes.
"I know. You didn't have a choice," he says. It sounds like he's more trying to convince himself than anything.
"I wanted to tell you. Bring you along, even. You know I'm lost without my blogger," he smirks.
"I know," John says again, the tension leaving his shoulders. He looks down at his tightly clasped hands. Sherlock drops his arm like a dead weight. He knows guilt when he sees it.
"Do you remember the last thing you said to me the night before I died?" John winces horribly, and it's only then when Sherlock realises that might have been Bit Not Good.
"Yeah I called you a machine then stormed out. Not one of my proudest moments," he says still not meeting his gaze.
"No, not that. The thing after. You told me it was friends who protected each other, and you were right. And that's exactly what I did because it was necessary. I will not take guilt or pity from you, John Watson, because I know wholeheartedly you would have done the same for me. You have done on several occasions…" he trails off. He closes his eyes briefly berating himself. He really wasn't good with sentiment. He opens them again and looks at John squarely trying to convey what he can't say with his leveling (and patronising) gaze. After all John was being an idiot.
"All right," he chuckles and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Can you sit up?"
Sherlock winces as he lets John help him sit properly back against the couch. "How long have I been incapacitated?"
"Nearly sixteen hours. Mycroft will be pleased you're awake; I should probably let him know — Sherlock? What is it?" John asks, suddenly alarmed at the rapid paling of Sherlock's face. He feels as if the air has been sucked out of his lungs. John's hands rest on his shoulders and his friend peers anxiously into his face. "What's wrong?"
"Did you say…Mycroft?"
"I did. Yes. Mycroft."
Images of his brother's broken body rush to the surface of his mind: images of blood so dark it's almost black, sallow carrion skin, and wide eyes staring into nothing, and of his hands, his own hands as they —
He bolts up from the sofa, ignoring the sharp pain in his ribs, and runs in what he hopes is the direction of the loo. He gets half way before he slips and lands hard on one knee before scrambling up again and all but throwing himself into the bathroom. He makes it, but just barely before he retches violently into the toilet. John hovers anxiously in the door way as Sherlock ejects the contents of his stomach until he is reduced to heaving. Finally, the nausea lets up, and he sinks back against the side of the tub, limbs trembling and sweat pouring down his face. John leaves briefly, and comes back with water. Sherlock sips it gingerly, and manages to gather himself up and sit on the toilet seat. John doesn't say anything, he just waits, and Sherlock is immensely grateful. When he feels like he can manage without his voice breaking, he looks up at his friend.
"I need to ask you something, John, and you have to be completely honest with me."
"Yes of course," John says immediately, a wary confusion on his face.
"Mycroft…is alive?"
"What?"
"Answer the question, John!" he barks, the vice in his chest is back.
"Yes! Of course! Why wouldn't he be?"
Sherlock stares at him, his mouth agape. If he had anything left in his stomach, he would probably be sick again. Instead he tamps down the strange fluttering in his gut and rises shakily to his feet. He walks over to the sink and splashes cool water on his face before looking at himself in the mirror. He looks almost unrecognisable to himself: his hair a dirty matted mess, still bloodied from the gash (now stitched) at his temple, his face pale with dark circles under his eyes, his lips cracked and dry. He locks eyes on John's as he moves in behind him. A thousand questions play across his face, and Sherlock is almost positive he doesn't have the energy to answer them. It's an impressive feat as it is that he's still standing at this point. In the end John only asks one question:
"Do you need anything?"
It's so quintessentially John, that Sherlock can't help the sudden emotion that overtakes him.
"I need a shower," he rasps, his throat raw.
"All right. Hang on a tick," he says and leaves for a moment. He comes back with a clean set of pyjamas and his favourite blue dressing gown. He looks a John with a puzzled expression.
"After you…died, I had some of your things packed up. I was going to give them to charity. Mycroft promised he would take care of it," at this he hesitates, seeing the tension in Sherlock's mouth, but presses on, "Between the two of us, we apparently kept everything. Sentimental lark, that, but well, if it's any consolation it's all here. The rest of it was brought over early this morning."
"Thank you…" Sherlock says, suddenly feeling dizzy.
"I'll be right out here if you need anything." He turns to leave, but before he does he turns around once more. The sincerity on his face causes Sherlock's heart to thud painfully in his chest. It's been so long since he's seen kindness aimed in his direction. "What ever all this is, we'll figure it out together. I promise. Oh and welcome home Sherlock, I really mean it."
* Yes it is a poem by T.S. Eliot and it's fantastic. Here is the mood I was going for:
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.