CHAPTER 21. A Brief Interlude
John heard someone talking; he wanted to turn his head in the direction of the soft words. Words can be like pillows sometimes, or soft and surrounding like a blanket.
I'll keep you close. I'll never let you go.
Mummy loves you.
I'm always here if you need anything mate.
You are not pathetic.
My brother is selfish and unworthy of someone like you.
Then there were the days when words cut deeper than any knife, tore into you faster and with more devastating results than any bullet.
Maybe, little brother, you should consider. It's not us! It's you!
Come here son! You worthless little bastard! I said come here!
You can't save me! Who do you think you are to give me an ultimatum? You aren't anyone! If you think I'll plead with you to stay you are wrong John Watson and you can leave.
John you've disappointed me. I thought you were stronger than this. I see my first notion about you was in fact very accurate. I don't expect to be seeing you again. Have a wonderful life.
Those voices started to mix and jumble together, threatening to drown and smother. Then the deeper voice cut through, the chaos of conversations never forgotten. Some are fresh open wounds or warm soothing offerings of hope.
The baritone voice was different more closer than far, less of an echo and the words. John tried to catch them but he felt so slow and groggy.
These words were insistent, pleading and resolute. John forced heavy eyelids to open. A deep breath caught him off guard and a heavy weight held him in place. He needed it off, something was choking him, drowning, uncomfortable, his mouth and throat fought against the intrusion.
Panic sheer panic, eyes wide, nothing, it was blurred and dark.
Where did the light go? Soft hands, lots of hands more than one set, touching, reassuring him, instructing him to calm down. Easy for them, they weren't drowning in sand, deep breaths the voice said. Didn't they know it hurt? He hurt everywhere? So much pain, this was hell wasn't it?
Hell, his skin was hot, or was he sunburned; oh the desert sands could rub skin raw.
More words, and finally he could breathe, the pain in his throat the pressure in his chest somewhat relieved.
Blinking, lots of blinking, the sand must have gotten into his eyes.
Oh, hello. John tried to focus on the figure hovering over him. The one with the deep voice, pulling him from the dreams that were both pleasant and unpleasant. A life he no longer could go back to, except like this, in dreams. Hands again, touching, petting his head, that was nice. The pounding in his ears and chest lessened and he could almost hear more. He wanted to hear more.
Another voice a little higher was tugging at his consciousness to focus, to focus and come back. Where was he? In the desert? He had a job to do he couldn't just abandon his men. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell that voice he would be back after his tour. Another touch on his cheek, cool against his fevered skin.
Desperately he tried to make out a face, but everything was so dim, where was the light? His body threatened against coming out of this half awake half sleeping state.
Pain, great pain lingered around the edges of his vision if that was possible. Blinking slower, and the camera lens focused a little sharper more voices.
This one was deep, calm and collected, the hot sun could be blocked out by such an umbrella. Why did he just think that? This voice silenced the others but a hand the welcomed soft pressure and contact so very welcomed.
Oh, the deep baritone is back, one that smells of coffee and mint gum. Why did the gum seem out of place?
He's speaking and John can do nothing but turn into the hand caressing his cheek.
"John I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." But John's heard this before, back when he believed words easily. Took them, as they were, face value, back when he belonged to someone. I'm not yours anymore. Stop haunting me. John wanted to move away from this dream. It was cruel, even his eyes decided to join in on this mean game.
He made out the dark curls, soft despite the desert heat. Was he still in the desert? Fair skin like that would burn so easily and it would be painful. Tears, gray eyes, gray like winter like cold and ice and frozen dead things. Like heart ache and pushing. Like I don't love you. Feels. No, these eyes are different, because it's the dream, it's always a dream when those eyes could mean anything different.
John turns away, he can barely move his head and when he does it feels like the world shifts with him. Someone is sitting quietly watching him in a chair, long legs elegantly crossed. John could make out the gray expensive business suit and familiar blue tie.
The desert sun can be hot and burning, but the winter in this man's gray eyes was freezing and cruel. A different kind of winter, freezing rain that chilled you through to the bone and with just a single word a nudge you would fall and shatter into a million little pieces of ice. Ice and flesh and chunks of heart. Melting in the desert sun, melting back into a mess of a man, less willing to welcome the winter, ice or snow.
There is more talk nervous quick talk, clumsy drunken slurs would not be able to keep up. This is clear, clean, sober. What a nice teasing dream, the brink of a nightmare. This is not his sister, she doesn't know how to say; I'm sorry.
Doesn't know how to mean it, to feel it. Blood does not make you a priority, it does not make you easier to be loved or love. No entitlement. No disappointment. She's confessing, she's pleading her hands are holding one of his. He can feel her chilly fingers curling around his own. Maybe looking for a watch or a wallet. Go ahead take it.
He doesn't want to look at her, this version of his sister would never exist. Just as the image of Sherlock could never be. He wouldn't say words like that, heavy with regret laced with concern, concern that bordered on love. He wanted to push this away this whatever it could be.
A deep breath, it hurt, and his body cried out when he tried to move. Trying to turn away and not have to face these walls, made of things that would not be, and these shadows closing in on him. The pain, his chest, something heavy he needed it to go but his hands wouldn't lift, he had arms, he could see them.
Make them leave. Make it stop. This teasing and taunting. These things that will never be mine. Never be mine. Stop it. Stop all of it.
Another voice interrupts the others and even his own inner voice. The chaos doesn't notice this new voice. They are arguing louder and louder their words aimed to hit and take, too much. A gentle touch smoothing the throbbing in his forehead. Sleep it says, sleep and it will be better in the morning. Isn't it always be better in the morning? And a curtain falls over everything. How nice, gentle fingers comb through his hair, and a deep baritone eased him back into a sleep. The rush of liquid through an IV straight to the source of pain and lights out for the host.