A/N: Bet you almost didn't recognise me, huh? I am so sorry to all of you wonderful readers out there who were waiting patiently for this update; I've been so bogged down! I know it's no excuse, but I've transitioned from compulsory school to Sixth Form and GOD was there a lot of drama! There's also been personal stuff going on, but I won't bore you with the details. Here's another fluff filled chappie for our favourite detecting duo! I'm back on track now and should be starting to update all the fics on here, so please, don't give up on me just yet!
PS: This isn't what you were expecting, oh no. TIME JUMP! =] It's also in third person, so I can get both viewpoints across better, because this right here is a turning point. Lads and Lasses, enjoy. Amelie x
It was always dark, always black. After a month Sherlock's vision had not returned, not improved, despite his pleas to whatever God didn't exist. John had not left him, even though that was what the dark haired man had anticipated, but there was the nagging feeling that he was a burden. The depression, although illogical, had set in while John had been recovering from his bruises, born of guilt and the sense that if he hadn't dragged John out on that first case, the 'Study in Pink', he wouldn't be trapped here with a blind man. This depression rendered him unmoving for hours, weeks, not talking, not sleeping, not eating, just trying with all his might to regain his vision for the good of the people of London… Who was he kidding. It was all for John.
They were behind on the rent now because their sole breadwinner had been forced to quit work, lumped with a crippled sociopath, and they had no more favours coming in through Sherlock's work. Mrs Hudson didn't mind, she didn't say anything to them or bring them up on the sum they owed; she thought it wasn't their fault. Well, it wasn't John's fault.
It was one of those days where Sherlock had been reduced to a comatose state and John was pacing in the front room. He was going out of his mind with worry for the lanky detective and just knew that their already dysfunctional pairing could not continue this way; he felt ill whenever he saw the weight loss, the sallow, pale complexion that covered Sherlock. It was up to the short doctor to get him up and back onto his feet, back out into the London network where he belonged. It was a fact that John had observed on the news that the street children of London were suffering without him, and so was the crime rate. But Sherlock had become adamant that they stay in, and not go 'cavorting around the streets' any longer. There must be another way to occupy that mind…
As he thought of the various different adventures they had been on together that Sherlock seemed to now resent, he was reminded of the text that Lestrade had sent: Sherlock can come and get his wages if he wants… Sorry, insensitive. You both can come and pick up the money the Yard owes him at any time for all the work he's done for us. John was getting worried about the rent that they owed Mrs Hudson and asked for an approximate amount, and was no less than astounded at how much Sherlock had done for the police without even thinking of charging them. The man could try denying his human traits as much as he liked, but John knew that he was a good man for these acts alone.
It was the only solution for the debt they now found themselves in, and although they both knew that Mrs Hudson would never bring it up she couldn't go without so much money without it having an effect on her life. John couldn't work, because he was too concerned that if he left, Sherlock would end up hurting himself, or worrying too much. He had done so when John had suggested one morning that he return to the clinic, and completely lost track of where he was. He ended up with home-sewn stitches down his thigh for managing to catapult a knife off the kitchen work surface. They didn't have free favours from new people because Sherlock was no longer helping people with their problems. They were suffering, and the only way that they could afford to keep living in what John now thought of as their home, was if they collected the generous figure from Lestrade; it would keep them comfortably in 221B for the next year, plus a home delivery from Tesco's of ever-essential milk for the same amount of time. It was also two birds with one stone; if Sherlock went to Scotland Yard to get the money, their rent would be back on track and Sherlock would be out of the house. It was a plan of action.
John headed out of the lounge and across the hall to Sherlock's room, taking a deep breath before pushing open the door. The room was swathed in darkness and had a suffocating stench of sweat and tears and the doctor instinctively knew it was only because the detective was trying so hard to regain the sight he lost. It was the fifth day of the silence from Sherlock and apart from breathing, he did nothing, and even then John knew he wished to remain perfectly still at times. It was clinical depression, and pained the blonde greatly that he couldn't stop the madness that consumed his closest friend. It broke his heart.
"Sherlock?" Tentatively John neared the bed, weaving through piles of books and papers to reach the bed. "Sherlock, get up." No answer, though it didn't surprise the doctor, who had tried before to get the man up. Coaxing him never worked. "Sherlock, we're going to the Yard, so up. Up!" He shouted before poking the youngest Holmes in the ribs. It wasn't what he wanted to do, to touch without warning, but he had to shock the man into moving. True to tried and tested methods, Sherlock yelped and skidded away, trance broken. "Good, you're up." John tried to remain cool and not envelope the vulnerable young man in an embrace, to reassure him once again that everything would be okay, but his voice wavered and his hands twitched. "Jump in the shower whilst I get your favourite suit. And don't touch the razor; it's Movember." John opened the blinds to show a rugged, red-eyed Sherlock, weak but beautiful, blankly gazing at the wall, unaffected by the sudden bright light hitting his face. John winced at the lack of pupil contraction and knew from the medical knowledge he yearned to forget that this wasn't a good sign. Sherlock nodded mutely and shuffled into the ensuite, slowly counting the steps and measuring his pace to ensure he avoided any obstacle in the room, and John could not help but marvel at the mind of the man in front of him. But he shook his head and busied himself in finding the suit he had sent to the dry-cleaners that Mrs Hudson had picked up. It would not do to dwell on things that would make him hope, he reminded himself.
It was five minutes later when the damp Sherlock emerged from a steaming bathroom, towel wrapped loosely around his waist. It was such an appealing sight that John almost whimpered, but forced it down as he got up from the newly cleared desk chair. The dark-haired man looked even more alluring now that he was freshly washed and refreshed.
"John?" His voice was small and afraid, causing the doctor to rush to his side. "Can you… can you guide me? I… I'm disorientated. And tired." It was a mixture of adoration and concern with which John took the trembling hand reached out into the space in front of Sherlock, and helped him navigate the treacherous room. "I may have to get this place sorted out, John," the detective joked weakly, fumbling on the bed for his suit.
"You might just, Sherlock. I've only said that to you since I moved in here, idiot," the blonde replied fondly, whilst subtly shifting the suit into the space near Sherlock's hand, instead at the other end of the bed. "We're going to get the money Lestrade owes you so we can pay Mrs Hudson her rent, okay? We'll take a cab and then have a walk along the Thames. It's been too long since you got out." He tried to sound firm, but faltered when panic spread across Sherlock's face at the mention of the walk. He really didn't seem to be nearing thirty now; he seemed so young, so innocent and defenceless without his sight.
"I won't let you! You are not allowed to be outside for exposed amounts of time! What if Moriarty abducts you? What if he has snipers trained on us, or a bomb planted? No, John, no!" Tears welled up in Sherlock's eyes and he turned, trying to find the man he was so worried about and gripping the woollen jumper harshly. "We can't go out until Mycroft finds him, John. We just can't." So that was the idea that Sherlock had. That his big brother would sort everything out. It was almost endearing that this tragedy had brought the brothers closer together, but John was too concerned about Sherlock to reflect on how accidents affect families. He wrapped his arms around the skinny man and allowed Sherlock to bury his curly head in the crook of his neck, seeking contact for comfort. These rare acts had stopped after the 'incident-where-Sherlock-had-cracked-his-ribs' as John so fondly called it, and it was a relief to feel the lean arms around his muscled body, to run his hands up a slender back to reassure Sherlock.
"Okay, Sherlock, we won't go for a walk. But we're too indebted to Mrs Hudson to not go and collect the wages you earned so rightfully with the work you've done, so we're going to Scotland Yard, and will come straight back here afterward, okay?" John soothed, and was rewarded with a small sniffle from the man pressed timidly against him.
"Okay," Sherlock conceded, drawing away. "But Lestrade has to get me an ice-cream, John, because his team will be mean to me." John laughed. He's such a petulant child, he thought, murmuring his agreement anyway.
"No baiting them, though. That would be breaking the rules. Only if Donovan and Anderson are mean to you, and if you don't react, then you can have sprinkles." A smile graced Sherlock's chiselled face, and he held his hand out for his coat and scarf.
"Well then, John, I believe we are due to be somewhere. Let us go!" There he was – the real Sherlock.