Damaged Heart
Chapter Eleven
Revival
Author's Note: Before we start I have to apologise for the delay in updating this fic. Unfortunately real life intervened and circumstances drove writing straight out of my mind. I have also just given up smoking which has made me intensely irritable and unable to concentrate! However, the fic is almost finished – this may in fact be the penultimate chapter. I hope you enjoy and apologies again for keeping you waiting.
There's a drumbeat pounding somewhere. Sherlock blinks in the darkness, trying to ascertain its location. If it's a song, it's not one he's ever heard before, the beat is monotonous and boring, keeping a steady unchanging rhythm.
Before it started he'd been alone in the silent dark. Now he calls out, his voice hoarse and rough to his ears.
'Hello?'
The word reverberates around him and echoes. He takes a few shaky steps forward. Suddenly there is a flash of light, bright enough to almost blind him. Instinctively he closes his eyes and throws a hand up in front of his face. There's a crackling, electric sound and his limbs jerk as if controlled by an unseen puppeteer. The noise is harsh but there's no pain. Rather he feels vitality surging through his body, giving him strength and energy.
'Hello?' he calls again, noting that his voice sounds stronger.
The beat in the background picks up to a more lively rhythm. There is another flash of light, and then another.
In the distance, very faint, he can hear... is that rain? Confused he glances around at the unchanging darkness. But now he can see a very faint line of light. Quickly he blinks, lest it just be a hallucination brought on by his fevered mind. But when he reopens his eyes it's still there, an unchanging pale yellow line.
Slowly he begins to walk towards it. His legs feel stiff and un-cooperative but he forces them to move, one foot firmly placed in front of the other. The light draws nearer and nearer and lower and lower until finally he's reached it and it's right by his feet.
Confused he tries to cudgel his tired brain to work properly. The sound of rain is louder now, as is that strange beat which reverberates all around him.
'Hello?' he tries again but again receives no answer. Carefully he reaches out a hand and brushes at the darkness in front of him. Much to his surprise his fingertips encounter a solid surface. Exploring further he realises it's wood. Allowing his questing hand to drift lower there's something else. A cool, smooth globe of metal. Reflexively his fingers grasp it and as he does so the pieces fit into place. This is a door. The light is coming through a crack in the bottom. This is his escape from the darkness.
He twists, pushes and bright light streams through.
When he opens his eyes again he's no longer in that darkness. He's no longer standing upright. Above him is a ceiling painted in a rather boring cream colour. There's a light hanging from it but it's not switched on. The light is coming from somewhere over to his right.
He blinks a few times and then twists his head. Sure enough there's a lamp glowing softly on a bedside table. The sound of the rain is still present but the thundering beat has disappeared. Memories begin to rise up through the churning, muddied waters of his mind. John leaving to help his sister. His swift and inevitable decline in health. That man, Moriarty and a balcony. And then nothing. He frowns, realising that he must have fallen unconscious at some point.
And now he's here, wherever here is. Does this mean he's not dead? Did John come back and...? He stops that thought cold in its tracks. He can't allow himself to hope that John had a sudden change of heart. Perhaps Mycroft found a cure after all.
After a few minutes of simply lying still and allowing his mind to come to terms with this new situation he feels strong enough to swing his legs out of the bed and get shakily to his feet. There's a mirror on the other side of the room, just above the dressing table and he crosses to it, unsure of what he'll see in the reflection.
It's his own face staring back at him although he's fairly sure he's never looked more unwell. His skin is papery white but there is a hint of some pink dusted over his cheekbones as if some natural colour is struggling to come back. Much of his hair is sopping wet, lying flatly against his skull but there are some sections where it seems to be drying and the curls making themselves known again. Hesitantly he runs a hand through his hair and stares when it comes back stained with red. Blood. He'd assumed the dampness was just water but it seems that assumption was wrong. Head injury then, somewhere towards the back of his skull.
His white shirt is ripped and stained with more blood, mud and gravel. Gravel? The only gravel around the Manor is on the driveway... why on earth would he have been lying there? His arms, chest and certain parts of his face are littered with scratches and bruises. Frustrated beyond belief at his absent memories he slams a hand down on the dresser, wincing at the slight pain in his palm. There's something different about him, something important, but he can't put his finger on it. He moves back to the bed and sits on the edge of the mattress, trying to think.
He's feeling a lot better physically since he first opened his eyes on the bed. He knows that now his limbs will obey him unquestioningly and not let him down. His mind is beginning to clear as well, those muddied waters ebbing away leaving his brain the cool, precise gleaming machine it's always been. Yet there is something. Biting at his lower lip he concentrates hard. His eyes suddenly widen. Of course, that's it! Previously, ever since the curse had been placed upon him, he's felt his heart in his chest. A withered, damaged, poisoned excuse for an organ which kept his blood pumping around his body but did very little else. He'd always been able to sense its ragged edges. Now there's none of that. It feels like it'd done when he was a child, full and glowing with health.
Experimentally he thinks back to his beloved Gladstone's death and this new heart in his chest constricts painfully where his damaged one had remained completely indifferent. He remembers standing at Gladstone's grave, unable to cry or show any sort of emotion and now he feels a tear slip down his cheek. One single tear; such a simple thing and yet to Sherlock it means the world. He's cured. He allows the memories to come to him, the loss of his mother and his father, the pain of his isolation during childhood, the bereavement he was unable to feel when his brother abandoned him to go off around the world.
And John. John. The tears slip down his cheeks faster and faster as he thinks of the crippled doctor who, without even trying, had managed to bring life back to the Manor.
Making no effort to check the streaming tears, each one is a prize now, Sherlock crosses to the door and pulls it open, intent on finding out exactly where he is.
What he's not expecting is to see a very familiar hallway right outside the door. He's... in the Manor. No wonder he hadn't recognised the room, as far as he can remember he's never even been inside it. It's always just been there, a small, nondescript guest room set just to the left of the main staircase.
Tentatively he moves in the direction of the kitchen purely because in his experience that's where all the servants tend to gather when not attending to their other duties. Sure enough as he draws closer he begins to hear the low mutter of many voices. Standing quiet and motionless in the corridor he identifies them all, although he's not close enough to understand what's being said.
Mrs Hudson. Anderson. Chip. Sally. Lestrade. And Mycroft. No John. So his brother must have found a cure after all. His new heart clenches once more. Despite his best efforts it seems he still had clung onto the hope that it may have been John who'd cured him. But it's very obvious that John isn't here.
Not wanting to make his presence known just yet he slowly makes his way towards the West Wing. He's in no mood to hear his brother's boasts about how he saved his life.
As he enters his rooms everything appears to be as he remembers. The shattered glass from the patio door still lies over the floorboards. The pouring rain driven by a high wind is blowing in through the panes of the ruined windows soaking everything in its path. It's cold, bitterly so, and Sherlock turns instinctively toward his bed.
Which already has an occupant.
'John?' he whispers, almost unable to believe his eyes.
As if in answer the shape shifts and groans. Sherlock treads softly over to stare down at the figure tangled in the blankets. It is indeed John but it doesn't look as if he's having a pleasant night's sleep. His handsome features are drawn in a frown and his fists are clenching in the rumpled sheets. As Sherlock watches he tosses and turns, his head thrashing from side to side on the pillow.
'Sherlock... no... please, I... no... Jim, you...'
'John!' Sherlock whispers urgently, shocked out of his stupor enough to reach out a hand and gently shake John's shoulder.
After that events happen so fast they're a bit of a blur. Moving astonishingly quickly John grasps Sherlock's wrist and propels himself off the bed, taking Sherlock down with him. Sherlock's back hits the wooden floor with a crack and he winces. John lands heavily on top of him, straddling Sherlock, his hands reaching automatically for Sherlock's throat.
Due to the surprise nature of this attack Sherlock reacts slowly and is unable to prevent John's questing fingers from finding a tight grip around his neck. Slowly the pressure increases on his throat and he begins to gasp for breath.
Staring up into John's face, he can see nothing of the man he knows. The dark blue eyes are glazed and filled with hatred.
'John,' he croaks, and raising his hands he pushes against John's chest. He might as well have tried to move a block of solid concrete. 'John, it's me, stop. It's Sherlock.'
The last few words come out as a wheeze and Sherlock realises he's swiftly running out of air. Black spots begin to dance across his vision as he shoves ineffectually at John's chest and straining shoulders. How stupid, he thinks. He should have known better than to abruptly try and wake someone up who's in the grip of a nightmare.
'I told you I'd kill you,' John mutters, his eyes flaring with intense hatred.
Sherlock doesn't have the air to form words anymore. His sight is greying and going black around the edges. His hands drop from where they've been pushing at John's shoulders and fall limply against the wooden floor. He relaxes his whole body. This is his last defence, to try and make John aware subconsciously that there isn't anybody resisting him.
Amazingly it works. John's grip loosens on his neck and then suddenly awareness is leaking back into his dark blue gaze.
'What?' he asks dazedly, sitting back on his heels and staring at Sherlock who automatically raises his hands to his throat to massage the tender skin. 'Sh-Sherlock?'
Sherlock can do nothing but cough. Twisting, he rolls to the side, effectively dislodging John who stares at him, disbelieving.
No words are spoken for quite awhile as Sherlock attempts to gather his composure, and his breath, and John merely sits gazing at him.
'I thought you'd left,' Sherlock rasps eventually, still rubbing at his throat.
Suddenly John appears to regain his wits and scrambles in an awkward shuffle across the floor to where Sherlock has collapsed against the side of the bed. Tentatively he reaches out a hand and touches Sherlock's cheek. Bemused, Sherlock stays still.
'You were dead,' John whispers, his eyes darting all over Sherlock's face. 'You were dead and I was too late.'
'I'm not dead, John,' Sherlock says (despite his dislike for stating the obvious), his mind racing. Too late? Did that mean... could he dare to hope...?
'You were dead and...' John's gaze wanders down to the red marks around Sherlock's neck which will surely bruise in the morning. 'Jesus... I almost killed you.'
Sherlock frowns. 'You do realise those two statements are contradictory?'
'Sherlock,' John says wonderingly. His fingers rub against Sherlock's cheekbones and unable to help himself Sherlock leans into the touch. There's too much data and it's being lost, his mind feels muddled. He needs to ascertain what happened after he fell unconscious.
'John, you came back?'
'I did,' John says quietly. 'It took Jim tying me up in my own cellar and explaining the curse to me to make me realise what I'd known for some time. Something I should have told you and admitted when you asked. I was stupid and a coward.'
'You could never be a coward,' Sherlock says instantly.
'I was. I knew what I felt but I couldn't admit it to myself. I thought I'd killed you. You went over the edge and Jim... and then Mycroft gave you the vial but it didn't work. You were dead. You had no pulse. There was blood and you fell and you were dead.'
Sherlock has to fight not to roll his eyes. 'I think we've established I'm not dead, John.' He lowers his gaze to the floorboards and murmurs quietly. 'Do you love me?'
'Yes,' John replies. 'God, Sherlock I've loved you since you saved me from that gang. I thought I was too late. I thought you were gone and I'd run out of time.'
'Say it,' Sherlock begs. 'I need to hear you say it.'
'I love you, Sherlock.'
John's eyes are clear and truthful. Sherlock feels his new heart almost physically leap in his chest at the words and something in his stomach coils into a new tension as he lowers his gaze to John's mouth.
'I want...' he begins and then falters.
'Take it.'
There is no more hesitation. Sherlock leans forward and their mouths fit together as if they were puzzle pieces slotting into place. John's hand winds its way into Sherlock's long curls and he scratches lightly at his scalp as he shuffles himself closer without breaking contact even for a second.
Their lips part and then John's tongue is reaching into Sherlock's mouth, searching and teasing and exploring. Sherlock groans, low in his throat and clasps both hands onto John's hips as he returns the favour.
After a few seconds they break apart for air and John touches his forehead lightly to Sherlock's, his hands still cupping Sherlock's face.
'I still can't believe it,' he whispers.
'I'm alive, John,' Sherlock responds. He takes one of John's hands and places it against his chest. 'You can feel it.'
John draws in a shaky breath and then pulls Sherlock into a full body hug, his arms wrapping tightly around the other's narrow back. There is silence for a few minutes while the rain continues to drum against the flagstones of the balcony and blow in through the shattered windows. Then John begins to laugh. Sherlock pulls away from him, confusion creasing his brow.
'John?' he asks, wishing to be in on the joke.
'Trust me to fall in love with a cursed madman,' John chokes out eventually. Sherlock chuckles and winds his arms back around John.
'I can see it's a unique sort of situation,' he replies dryly which only makes John laugh harder. Eventually John manages to calm himself down and gets to his feet. Sherlock gazes up at him from the floor. John inclines his head at the bed.
'Come on. We both need to sleep.'
Sherlock grasps the offered hand and together they slip beneath the blankets. John turns on his side to face Sherlock and tentatively runs a finger over the marks on the other's throat. Sherlock frowns uncomfortably.
'That was my fault. I shouldn't have been so stupid.'
'I prayed and begged for you to still be alive. You come back and I almost kill you all over again.' John smiles slightly but there's no real humour in it. Sherlock clasps one of his hands and raises it to his lips, kissing the knuckles lightly.
'You didn't kill me the first time, either.'
'Well, I think I might have done,' John says, averting his eyes.
'Look the disease was a result of the curse, how could you possibly have known without anybody telling you...'
'No, not just the disease,' John mutters, a flush stealing its way up his neck. Sherlock stares at him.
'Not the disease? John? Explain.'
'I might have knocked you off the balcony.'
'What?'
'To be fair I was going for Jim,' John says hastily. 'He just happened to have a hold of you at the time. And I'm fairly sure you were only unconscious before you went over the balustrade. On the drive you were definitely dead.'
Sherlock shakes his head slightly. 'Wait, let me get this clear. You tackled Jim off the balcony and we all went over?'
'Yes,' John says, still not meeting Sherlock's eyes. 'Me and Jim managed to land on the lower ledge. You weren't so lucky.'
Sherlock nods thoughtfully. 'That would explain the gravel in my hair,' he says eventually. John gazes at him, dumbstruck, and then they're both laughing again.
XXXXXXXXXX
The storm blows itself out during the night and the next morning dawns bright and clear. The sun streams through the broken windows, highlighting the shining puddles of rainwater on the hardwood floor and the tousled bedcovers under which are two hunched shapes.
Sherlock is using John's broad chest as a pillow and has one leg thrown over John's thighs. John meanwhile has one arm wound around Sherlock's shoulders, holding him close while his other rests lightly on Sherlock's waist. This is how they wake as the sun's rays hit their faces. John opens his eyes first and can't stop the smile which crosses his face. Sherlock's pale skin is glowing softly in the sunlight, looking healthy and pure rather than ashy and corpse-like. Certain strands in his dark curls are shining auburn and his eyelashes flutter against his cheek as he yawns, showing pristine white teeth. John searches for any sign of the scratches, bruises and lacerations that had marred his skin last night but there are none. It's as if the man before him has literally been reborn.
Slowly Sherlock's eyes open and at first the flickering green/grey irises are cloudy with sleep. John can see when awareness filters in and Sherlock moves his head so that he can look up at John.
'Good morning,' John says quietly, running a hand through Sherlock's dark curls. His fingers are unstained when he glances at them. Apparently Sherlock's head injury has also healed itself.
Sherlock hums lazily and stretches out. 'I feel incredible,' he announces, sounding slightly surprised.
'You're looking so much better,' John replies, sitting up against the headboard. 'Everything's healed itself. There's no head wound, no scratches... nothing.' Sherlock blinks at him and then sits bolt upright, examining himself intently. His eyes grow bigger and bigger.
'They're all gone,' he says wonderingly. 'Even the scar I got from falling off Prince when I was seven.'
'That enchantress knew what she was doing,' John comments, raking a hand through his hair. 'Come here.' He opens his arms invitingly and, looking a little unsure, Sherlock shuffles into his embrace.
John kisses him thoroughly, paying no mind to morning breath, relishing it in fact. Sherlock moans a little and presses himself closer against John's body, feeling the heat from John's sleep-warmed skin melt into his own.
'We should probably go downstairs at some point,' John says as they break apart.
Sherlock groans. 'Mycroft's going to be insufferable.'
'Why would you say that? I imagine he's going to be over the moon that you're alive!'
Sherlock snorts. 'Doubtful. Being an insufferable git is my brother's default setting.'
'You didn't see him Sherlock. After the cure didn't work he was devastated.' Sherlock looks disbelieving but doesn't say anything further. John gets up and stretches, yawning as he does so. 'You're going to have to get changed,' he says eventually. 'That shirt's virtually in tatters.' His expression turns vaguely lascivious. 'Not that I'm complaining, mind.'
Sherlock flushes slightly and pads over to the large wardrobe. Once he's dressed they make their way downstairs together, John occasionally glancing over at Sherlock with a happy, amazed sort of smile on his face. Halfway down the main staircase, Sherlock reaches out a hand. John doesn't hesitate to take it.
They pause in the foyer, both looking at the small blood spatters still staining the floor. John's hand grips Sherlock's a little tighter.
'I couldn't go through any of that again,' John says softly.
'You won't have to,' Sherlock replies, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the soft skin in between John's fingers. 'It's over now.'
The sound of muted voices drifting from the direction of the kitchen reminds them both why they left the comfort of the room in the first place. Tightening his grasp on Sherlock's hand John leads the way down the corridor.
As they get nearer it becomes evident that there's an argument going on. Mrs Hudson's voice is raised as John draws to a halt by the doorway.
'You can't go barging in there to turf the poor lad out. He's just had the worst day of his life, give him a little time at least Mycroft!'
'Delaying his departure will not help him in the long term, Mrs Hudson,' comes Mycroft's wearied voice. 'I have no doubt you mean well but I am putting this house up for sale this afternoon. Arrangements have been made for yourself and all the staff until you find other positions but Doctor Watson must leave today and return to his village.' There's a pause. 'It's for the best.'
John flashes a quick grin at Sherlock and squeezes his hand briefly before letting go and moving toward the door. Sherlock gets the hint and keeps out of sight as John enters the kitchen, making sure to leave the door slightly ajar.
'Oh, Doctor Watson. You're awake.'
'Yeah,' John mutters, obviously trying to pretend he's none the wiser about Sherlock's recovery but Sherlock is sure he can't be the only one who can hear the obvious joy underlying John's words. 'I couldn't help overhearing. You want me to leave?'
'We were just thinking it would be better for you,' Mycroft says smoothly. 'This place is bound to hold bad memories for you after all and…'
'Why?' John interrupts and Sherlock smirks.
'Why what?' Mycroft responds, puzzled.
'Why does this place hold bad memories for me?'
'Well, because of Sherlock of course,' Mrs Hudson replies, sounding on the brink of tears.
'Oh that's right, you don't know,' John exclaims, 'Sherlock's alive.'
