Define Vulnerability

Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made.

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Chapter 59

Unknown date, unknown place

He was padded at the cheek - quite painful, someone was not fond of him - but he couldn't manage to open his eyes, not even move away from the unfond touch. "Come on, wake up."

More tapping.

Sherlock sucked in air in surprise.

And suddenly the control over his limbs was back, he needed a moment to actually realise they were responding.

His hands flailed aimlessly through the air, then one made contact with a painfully solid edge and the other was caught by something warm.

Only moments after he had rediscovered freedom of action it was taken away again… but now he was immobilised by warm foreign hands instead of his own weakness.

Had his pursuer finally found him?

He felt the weariness swapping over from his body into his mind, infected him with the idea to just give up, just give in, let them kill him, it would mean the end of all this suffering.

So easy, get it all over with.

Several hands pressed his arms into a hard surface.

"Come on, don't do this."

The voice was familiar but his panic floored any ambition to find out why... he struggled to get free and the sound level around him rose significantly.

Then hands grabbed his head, holding his face. He felt hot palms at his jaws and fingers behind his ears and at his cheeks.

"Oi! Sherlock! Look at me!"

John!

His voice was loud and very firm.

John was there…

Since when could hallucinations touch him? But if he imagined a person he'd probably also hallucinate their touch.

After what felt like minutes he finally succeeded in forcing his eyes open and the doctor's face was hovering above. A red aura surrounded him and he seemed worried, but overall he seemed fine and alive - and currently not wearing the jacket with the bomb vest.

In fact he was not wearing any jacket, just that odd thin cardigan.

With a gasp he found he was in a semi-dark 221b kitchen, which disoriented him even more. Was he now even fabricating his surroundings?

Was he in his Mind palace again?

"Hey, can you hear me? Are you with me?"

Sherlock just stared up at the imaginary doctor, frozen in not-understanding.

Then his transport decided once more it was all too exhausting.

Trembling from fatigue he allowed his head to sink back against the floor and when he let his arms go slack the grip around them lessened slightly.

"Look at me."

He met John's gaze and the other man had an odd expression on his face.

Was he sorry for something?

Definitely, that aspect he was able to recognise, but the other one…

"You're with me? You were dreaming or reliving a memory, can you remember what it was?"

What was he talking about?

Then he saw someone else… they were not alone.

He blinked.

Mary…

The fact that this therefore was reality hit him like a punch in the face. He fought for air once more when his universe shifted into place with a painful mental iron jolt.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

A thumb moved over his cheek, prompting him to pay attention.

Sherlock nodded.

He was safe.

… and felt he had a splitting headache.

His jaw was clenched with the intensity of what he had just lived through.

Keeping his horror in check was difficult.

"You need to be honest with me, Sherlock! Did you take something?"

He continued to concentrate on breathing, it was hard.

It took a moment until the meaning of the question sank in, before Sherlock managed to remember what exactly had happened today and why he was on his kitchen floor.

Today was so unbelievably long ago.

But John was not that patient.

The pressure on his skull intensified and Sherlock wondered why John was still clinging to his head. He made a feeble attempt to free himself from the grip, but was not released, as he had expected.

"Come on, you need to stay with me. What drug did you take, Sherlock? Answer me, for god's sake."

"John, hey, calm down," Mary was the one holding one of his wrists and the other elbow.

"Nothing, let me go," Sherlock's voice was hoarse and rough, the words slightly slurred.

He suddenly realised it was anger John broadcasted - although his touch was not angry, just immobilising. And he himself felt some resentment now too, for being doubted, but only for a very brief moment, until he remembered he had indeed brought drugs home and the first emotion was replaced by guilt.

"Sherlock, what did you take? Come one, be honest with me."

"Nothing. I need… let me go. I feel sick."

Only after he had said it, he realised how very nauseous he was. His speech centre seemed to be connected to his body, bypassing his brain.

Being held down woke new terror and carefully buried memories.

"Then where's that coming from?" John let finally go of his skull and not too gently took Sherlock's left arm out of his fiancée's grip and moved his elbow pit into view.

He winced; Molly was more skilled with corpses than with living tissue.

"Blood donation," he managed.

"Oh, you made someone else do it after I refused?" Mary chimed in a tone that - according to Sherlock's point of view - was not fitting the situation at all.

"What?" John spit, staring at his future wife for a change now.

"Calm down, John. He said he needed half a litre of blood for an experiment and asked me to take it. I said it was too much in his state and only took a few millilitres. He must have asked someone else then," Mary briefly explained what had happened and let go of him.

"Why should I believe that? He could have asked to…"

"Ask Molly… 's in the fridge," Sherlock murmured and rolled onto his side. The dim light above him was getting on his nerves.

John finally allowed the movement but kept a hand on his shoulder, held him in place.

It was odd, this contact.

For a brief moment it felt safe, protected, held together, before it returned to be a nuisance and made him fight against his instinct to blindly lash out.

He barely heard the next words over the struggle to keep his impulses in check.

"He put something in the fridge earlier, check it out," John asked Mary and she stood up.

Sherlock tried to sit up, but instead of allowing it John tightened his grip.

He only now realised his chest was bare and the touch of John's hand produced a new wave of hot panic rush over him.

"Stay put. Settle down."

"John, please, let me get up."

The doctor had no trouble restraining his weak movements.

This was John, he tried to remind himself, it was okay to be touched by John. Only this one person was allowed to do so, but his mind's logic failed to convince the aspect that was firing waves of trepidation into his consciousness.

"Easy. You're safe… Do you understand me? You can't get up already, you just collapsed and I need to know you are clean."

"Let me go…" Sherlock pleaded, becoming more and more desperate, though some different argumentative voice told him that the more agitated he appeared the smaller the chances his former flatmate would let go.

"Tell me where you've just been, what did you remember?" John urged him, pulling a blanket over his torso.

It felt bad. His skin didn't like it. Where did it came from? How long had he been out? What had really happened? Why was this so agonising? Why didn't they leave him alone?

"Darling, may I remind you how eager you are talking about flashbacks right after you resurfaced? You might want to give him some space," Mary was rummaging in the fridge now.

But Sherlock needed to figure this out for himself, too.

What had happened after he had hidden in the roof niche?

The only way to find out was he needed to go back there and see, because his mind didn't seem eager to recall the events from here.

When he tried to push it he only found only blank spaces in his memories.

He needed to go back...

Better do it now while the situation was… fresh.

He relaxed and tried to concentrate.

Then he let his eyes fall shut again and tried to blend out reality, John's careful but firm immobilisation actually helped to kick him right back into the past.

The feeling of being held down was unsettling and his freezing did the rest to bring back the sensations that were hiding behind a brittle barrier in a not too far away corner of his mind. He felt he was starting to shake with reaction once more.

When the surrounding of the ruinous building rushed back into his reality immediately - and with full force - he flinched.

It was much more intense than he had expected.

He was not ready to tell John how dreadful the fact of being literally in the hands and at the mercy of a stranger had been, or even talk about anything that had to do with his soul or state of mind, especially not while Mary was listening.

He was limp, boneless, hidden away inside a heap of rubble in a plant in the middle of nowhere.

Through the staved wooden door he could see a part of the mouldered stairs in the distance, those that led down to the ground level of the plant.

He blinked to clear his distorted vision.

Carefully, he wound out of his tight and dirty bolthole, it took quite some time.

In disbelieve he stared at his footprints and the stirred dust on the ground, he groaned inwardly.

Not the brightest idea to leave hints like that before hiding, but he had a high fever… stupid nevertheless.

"Shit, he's slipping back into… Dammit, Sherlock, don't do this! Stay with me," a yelling voice whispered in the distance.

But Sherlock ignored him, turned down his perception of hearing reality as far as he dared, he needed to know what had happened without any disturbance.

Now, he was aware that he was wandering in a memory. If he wanted to, he could just open his eyes and see John and Mary, could turn up his hearing and listen to them. This was like using a normal memory, just a lot more intense… and not knowing the output, which was odd. But less unsettling, safe - a bit at least - like having an anchor to a safe environment.

It had been horrible to feel the weakness weighting down his limbs, he remembered that he had been aware that he needed to get somewhere safe to gather some strength.

He realised the fever had risen and that the homeless man might be his last chance to survive, he should go downstairs and talk to him.

It was as if he was an observer in his own body, but at the same time had the impression he was making decisions right now.

"Hello?" he called hoarsely, through lips that felt thick and stiff, but his voice was almost not present, it was barely a whisper. He didn't try again.

Carefully, one step at a time, he descended down the rotting stairs on shaky legs.

Some difficult smell was gaining intensity.

It took quite some time to make his way down.

But what he saw when he neared the last seven steps from the bottom made him frown, several steps had collapsed.

It was quite messy, this had not been there when he had made his way up. Someone must have stepped onto it and then it had given way on the fourth or fifth steps, which had taken the one's beyond it down with the person.

Had the homeless man searched for him and destroyed it thereby?

Was that the noise he had heard, had the man fallen?

There had been cursing.

Had he himself lost so much weight that he had been able to step on that fragile wood without damaging it?

Sherlock avoided the broken wood by stepping on the metal base of the banister and headed slowly back to the fireplace, it was a bit of a balancing act.

Uh, the smell was getting worse.

A figure lay on the ground by the fire and some daft aspect of Sherlock was glad he wasn't all alone.

He cleared his throat to make himself heard and not startle the man but there was no reaction, so he tried to speak.

"Hello?"

No reaction.

Had he been hurt in the plunge?

The man was wearing Sherlock's high tech slender winter jacket and his woollen hat.

Only fair, he had allowed Sherlock to use his bedroll.

When he finally rounded the stranger an ominous feeling had started in the area of his epigastrium.

He tipped the lifeless figure at the shoulder when the smell hit him full force.

His stomach turned and he knew what he'd find before he could see it.

Blood.

He stepped around the heap of person.

A large pool of it on the ground under and around the man's front.

When he turned him and the man's head rolled back it revealed a brutally cut throat, very deep and messy.

The sight of the large wound burned into his memory and he suddenly felt his blood pressure fall significantly, nausea accompanied the uncomfortable sensation, though it all was very distant, like behind a veil.

He fell to his knees, gasping in horror and distress. Then, like an echo, the nausea returned and he threw up bile into the dirt.

What stunned him the most was his body's reaction. He had seen cut throats before, had seen beheaded copses… handled heads who's bodies were missing without any problems - things that were considered far worse than this.

Why was this giving him so much distress?

He had recoiled a few steps but was still on all fours, then he ducked away, more in reflex than with a decision, crouched down behind some rubble.

Was the killer still here?

Adrenaline kicked in viciously.

"Sherlock!"

He is slapped again and it reminded him that he could just get out of his mind! Use the easy way out, he had almost forgotten.

Does he want to get out?

But the decision was made without his consent and he resurfaces violently, it feels like being cut off in mid-scream.

His eyes are wide open for a second, while he fights his way back into reality.

"Don't try to do anything, just breathe," John advises, holding onto his upper arms once more, he is in a half sitting, curled up position.

His face crumples in desperation and pain, as his body sags backwards - like all strings cut - all fight leaves him, relief making him weak.

Someone catches him.

John.

He's fighting for control over himself.

Someone is speaking in an agitated voice.

He can't answer, feeling suddenly even more drained.

Dimly aware, he senses he is still on the blanket, on the ground, in the kitchen.

Someone touches his neck, holds his shoulders.

He fights the hands and rolls onto his side, trying to battle the touches away.

Why couldn't they leave him alone?

The memories of how he had fought to return to John, and how he had clung to life, and the thought that he needed to survive to get back to London, they seemed to taunt him now. He wished he had died back then and not lived through this.

The homeless man had been slain by the chaser he had barely managed to escape from by jumping into the river. He must have followed him and found their camp.

Had he slain his saviour because he thought it was him?

Very unlikely.

Or because he was frustrated about not finding him?

Probably.

It seemed the broken stairs had saved his life, assured Moriarty's man - who was quite a bulldog he remembered now clearly - that he couldn't be up on the second level because the steps wouldn't have carried him.

Luck, dumb luck, had saved him.

It was a concept he had severe difficulties to grasp, it left him aghast.

So… uncontrollable.

Being out of control was the most horrible thing that existed.

He should be dead.

Someone was still taking hold of him and it was getting far too much.

He tried to roll to his stomach once more to get better leverage.

He needed to get up and away.

They needed to leave his presence, he needed to be alone. But the most urgent: he didn't want to be seen by Mary, he felt his privacy invaded by her presence for the first time.

Alone protected him.

The hopes he had had, when he planned his faked death, and what he had aimed for that night when he had said those words to John, mocked him - and that was when something boiled over somewhere in a deep cavern of his mind.

Once more he felt paralysed, this time by the intensity of his emotions.

His face was buried in the messed up blankets and he felt his hands were gripping the soft fabric desperately, as if they were operating on their own.

"Stop it," he moaned.

He couldn't even move when a touch returned to his shoulder, couldn't hear what was said.

Something hot and wet was on his temple.

Enough of being seen in his anguish and of being pitied.

Someone tried to roll him back into a supine position and at first his body followed, until the eruption that boiled over in another orange black wave expanded from his mind to his body.

He violently flinched away from the physical contact and finally managed to roll over, hid his face and managed to get on his hands and knees, the adrenaline from moments before still in his system.

"Shit, sorry…?"

"No!… Go away!" he realised he was screaming, with all his frustrations and anger at the world, all the misery present in his voice.

If he was going to have a meltdown - which had probably already started, if his shaky hands were any indication, so he knew it was a distinct possibility - he'd rather endure it alone, away from anybody's sympathetic looks.

His senses grew more and more agitated and were heading into an overload. He clenched his teeth.

"It's okay, I'm sorry… Calm down."

"NO! GO away!"

"Sherlock, it's totally normal to feel…"

"I don't want to feel any longer, go away!"

John didn't move, Mary was nowhere to be seen.

He managed to stagger to his feet and with the aid of the wall stumbled into his room.

"Stay were you are!" he yelled, when he heard movement behind him.

"Alright, just calm down… It's all okay, whatever you need," John said, not moving, but probably staring at his back.

Sherlock was glad it was dark because he felt his face was wet with more desperation and disgust.

He kicked the door shut, then locked it with shaking hands.

The heap of blankets on the floor another reminder of his weaknesses.

He headed for the bed, but the adrenaline that had sustained his escape drained away abruptly, leaving him dizzy.

Before he was able to reach the bed his knees gave way and he sagged to the floor in front of it, merely successful slowing down the fall by holding onto the mattress.

Silently he allowed the dam to give way and a storm of unknown hideous emotions washed over him, accompanied by intense nausea.

He surrendered, the only thing he could do was ignoring them, not knowing or understanding what was happening.

He retreated into a black tight safe space in his mind palace, he had found as a child, even before he started to discover his mind palace.

With a courage born out of desperation he dragged his mind to a meditative state that was close to sleep, but where he remained in control.

Only then, he let his body deal with the storm. If it wanted to throw a tantrum it was on his own, he wouldn't reward such allures with his presence.

The sentiment rocking his body was obnoxious and hard to ignore but after a few tries he managed to push away sensing it.

Much later, he fell into an exhausted deep sleep, another decision his body made without him.

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Hours later when he resurfaced again, his mouth was parched and his mind dizzy.

He climbed into his bed, huddled into a large pile of warm blankets and thought about the memories he had found.

Swallowing was a struggle and he had an immense headache.

Ignore transport.

Sherlock remembered what he had forgotten, suppressed memories then. He was also aware that at one point he had realised that he was missing the memory of how he had escaped, but had no time to care about it back then. He had just assumed he had deleted them.

But now they were back.

He could analyse them - maybe that would make them less awful.

After he had made sure he was alone with the tramp's dead body Sherlock sorted through the man's meagre belongings and his own few water-damaged goods that were spilled around the cold campfire.

He covered the body, packed some things into the man's old army backpack and then waited until noon before he headed out. He hoped that if someone was waiting for him out there, he'd think he'd leave in the dark of the night.

He walked through the wilderness for two days, seeing no one.

His condition made him slow, as did the fact that he was overly careful, moved as silent as possible, walked on socks through the under wood, did not sleep.

Finally, he reached a small village with a port and hid aboard an old sailboat, on which he also spent the night.

The following evening he took a taxi to the next bigger town, spending the last few Russian roubles he had. From there he called Mycroft, barely able to speak.

The memories were very misty, like having done it all under the influence of drugs… or in a dream. His brother had provided transport to a safer location, a hotel room, medical supplies and a new mobile phone.

Sherlock was forced to pause for two weeks to recuperate and gather some strength, and to battle the beginning pneumonia before it incapacitated him even more.

He didn't leave the hotel even once.

Now - in hindsight - he understood he owed the homeless man quite a lot, his life… and his life again a few days later.

He had no idea how long the man had taken care of him, and what his name was.

Probably his body was still rotting in that hall.

It made some aspect of him anxious and another one swabbed him with sudden… was it grief?… or guilt?

Probably both.

When were those sentiments about to leave him alone?

He just wanted rest and peace.

Where had the backpack gone?

Had there been anything in there that could be used to identify the man?

It took some time, but finally he managed to slip back into sleep.

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A/B:

So, here is a very long chapter, because I didn't want to leave you hanging with another cliffhanger. This was hard for me to write and I hope you like it.

Please review.