Part Twelve: To Hell and Back

In the end, the staff was amazingly efficient. John had time to remove the restraints completely and help Sherlock to a chair. He took the opportunity to turn on some good light and perform a more thorough exam, all the while speaking quietly and soothingly to his friend and patient. Sherlock stared straight ahead the whole time, haunted eyes fixed on some distant point, clearly awaiting the comforting veil of darkness.

Bruises around the neck were consistent with the story of the hanging attempt. John traced them sorrowfully with his fingers, but there was nothing to do except wait for them to heal. He heard a slight hiss of pain from Sherlock as his finger brushed against the worst patch, under his left ear. Must have been where he had the knot. He felt his own throat tighten slightly, and veered quickly away from that mental picture.

"Let's have a look at the wrists," he murmured. He carefully unwrapped the bandages and inspected the wounds. Healing well now, despite the damage that Sherlock had done with the paper clip a few days earlier. But the original cuts had been deep; John was shaken at the size of the wounds. These were not the tentative scratches of an adolescent 'cutter'; these were the residua of a clear and purposeful attempt of a grown man to end his life. Sherlock would bear the scars for the rest of his days. He replaced the bandages with fresh gauze and ointment, and straightened up.

"Dr. Watson?" He heard a low and respectful voice, and turned to see the red-headed maid. "We're all finished in here. I've brought your luggage and placed it in the sitting room for now. Is there anything else you need?"

He turned to look at the bed. Big enough for two to sleep comfortably, but small enough that he knew he'd wake up at any attempt of Sherlock to get out of bed, and pushed up against the wall, just as he'd specified. "No, that's perfect, thank you. Stay here just a moment, please."

He dashed into the sitting room, rummaged until he found pyjamas and dressing gown, then returned to the bedchamber. Sherlock was still in the armchair. "That will be all, thank you," he said somewhat awkwardly. She nodded and left silently.

John changed into night attire, then put a hand under Sherlock's elbow. "All right. Off to the bathroom with you. I'll let you have some privacy, but leave the door open a few inches. If this was a psych hospital I'd be in there with you... or someone would ... but we'll try this for now."

Sherlock was in and out of the bathroom quickly and gave John no cause for alarm. He breathed a sigh of relief; bathrooms, even with all of the obvious dangers removed, were full of ways for a patient to harm himself. He walked Sherlock over to the bed and helped him in then made a flying visit to the bathroom himself, leaving the door slightly ajar so that he could listen to Sherlock. His safety is going to have to trump my modesty, and his.

Finally he approached the bed. Sherlock was all the way over on the far side, pressed up against the wall. John lifted the blankets and slid into the cool sheets.

"Are they all gone?" he heard softly.

"There's no-one here except you and I, Sherlock."

He felt motion next to him, and then the pressure of a head on his shoulder, of a forehead coming to rest against his ear. Instinctively he slipped his arm around those too-thin shoulders and gathered his friend closer.

"Is that better?" he whispered.

He felt Sherlock nod against him in the dark. "Yes, much better. Thank you." John smiled in spite of himself.

"So formal. Is this the same man who used to order me to pass him his mobile phone when it was in his own pocket all the while?"

"I'm not sure, John. I'm not sure I am the same man. I've been to Hell and back."

John felt tears sting at his own eyes. "I know you have. And I'm here to help you now, to take care of you."

"Do you... can you forgive me? For leaving you, for tricking you?"

"I forgave you before I came into this room, Sherlock. Your brother explained it all, even before you tried to." He thought for a moment. "That's not to say that the subject is closed; I've still got questions. But they can wait until you're better."

"I'm so glad," whispered Sherlock. He moved his head so that now it lay on John's chest. "I spent a lot of time worrying about that, while I was gone. That you wouldn't be able to forgive me."

Silence for a few minutes. John rested his own chin on the head of dark curls, trying to get his mind to quiet and relax. It had been admittedly, a most tumultuous sort of day.

"John?"

"Mmm?"

"Forgive me... but there are still some things I don't remember. I have to ask... were we lovers?"

John almost choked at the blunt question, but tried to hide his reaction. "No..." he said slowly. "No, we weren't. We were flatmates, of course, and we were - are - very close friends. You've saved my life and I've saved yours. We've helped each other through some rough times."

He could feel Sherlock nodding again. "That's what I thought, but it seemed so natural to curl up with you like this. I had to be sure." A very faint chuckle. "Will you be offended if I say I'm relieved?"

"Not at all. You're not my type."

"Who is your type, John?"

"Any woman that will put up with having you around, apparently. Now go to sleep."

He heard Sherlock chuckle slightly, then felt his friend's skinny arms both come around him, tentatively. "John... I don't know how Mycroft found you, or brought you here..."

"The usual. He kidnapped me."

"But I need to thank you. I feel... better than I've felt for days. There's still something going on with my mind, my memory. It's not right. But I feel like I can face it now."

John turned on his side, returned the embrace. "You're going to be okay, Sherlock. You will. It's just going to take some time. And I'll be here with you, every step of the way."

They fell asleep that way, both giving and receiving much-needed comfort.