Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability

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

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I am not a native speaker and this will get beta-ed some time in the future, but until then please try to ignore my grammar mistakes… or tell me where they are :)

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Chapter 25

Still late Saturday morning

John was quite angry about the breach of privacy but the fact that Sherlock had seen it suddenly fitted several things together about the previous events.

He needed to hear how Sherlock had reacted to the recording, therefore he suppressed the anger and the shame, opening and closing his fists repeatedly.

"What happened then, when he saw the footage?"

"Er…"

"Mycroft, tell me!"

"As I said, he was emotionally distressed."

"Yes, and?"

"I think this was the moment where he first saw and realised that he had almost destroyed the thing he wanted to protect the most, by ignoring what impact grieve and sentiment would have on you. It shook his very core…" Mycroft hesitated, maybe because John buried his face in his hands in desperation.

The doctor understood what kind of a shock if must have been for Sherlock that all he had endured to make John safe again had come so close to be lost and in vain because the detective had underestimated a tiny thing he had not deduced correctly or failed to consider: John's platonic affection.

"Eh, there is another thing I might want to add, but don't get it wrong… When he first introduced me to the plan to fake his death and I told him it was a bad idea to keep certain people out of the loop he said something like 'no one would really miss him'."

When John took breath to say something Mycroft raised his hand.

"Let me finish. I don't say this to disparage your grief or insult your feelings, and neither did he. I believe he was sure no one would ever like him or really want to have him around… or as a friend. He never had friends before and being rejected had been his normal social state of being for almost his entire life. Well, at least outside of his family… I think he didn't dare to believe that anyone really wanted to have him around. It's not hard to guess that

when he saw the footage he finally understood the true depth of your friendship and it… shocked him."

John once more swallowed the rising emotions when he understood something else.

The violin had witnessed his desperation and the almost-loss, it was kind of Sherlock's emotional voice, was it - no, she - now muted because of that?

It was a bit diffuse, but John started to guess this might be the connection to the present issues.

"I also want to point out that he didn't watch the videos with my approval," Mycroft switched back to the original topic. "I thought he was resting, but he sneaked into my office. Although I had prohibited it specifically and locked it well… and the recordings were in the safe! I tried to prevent him watching it because I anticipated it would do him no good. God knows how he even knew they were there…"

"Go on," John said when Mycroft stopped.

"He missed turning off the alarm and I was notified that someone was in my office. I surprised him. He was angry at me, he yelled at me and a few seconds later he was a bit out of it."

"And then?"

"I tried to help but he yelled some more and I yelled back and he collapsed."

"Collapsed?"

"Regrettably, he blacked out in front of me."

"What did you do?"

"Checked his vitals, made sure he wouldn't choke. Anthea and I tried to get him into the recovery position, but he regained his senses fast and fought us, barely conscious. My PA called my physician, he arrived a few minutes later. He had to sedate my brother because we could not calm him down. He was not listing to me and we were afraid he'd hurt himself."

"Jesus, I need to know exactly what happened to him… he's quite bad at the moment and he needs… help… and I need to know what happened in order to help him."

"So why don't you ask him what happened?"

"You know your brother… Of course I bloody asked him. I think his answer is quite obvious, you of all people should know."

"I know, and I agree with you, really, I do. He needs help. I can provide a good therapist, but you know chances are high he wouldn't see her."

"No he won't. That's not what I meant though."

Mycroft ignored John's remark, "Even if we managed to drag him there for an appointment it will not help him because… Well, you know my brother."

"My point… because simply pouring out his woes to somebody won't help. He doesn't need a therapy where somebody just listens. And even if he decides to talk, a normal therapist won't understand a single thing he says and then tries to help him doing things he does not understand, or if he does, doesn't accept, or is too stubborn to use… Or, probably the most important reason: things that work with the rest of mankind just don't work with him and he knows that, and he won't let someone experiment on him for months until they finally come to the same conclusion he had known from the start, and that I can understand perfectly. It would be hell for him and the therapist and he'd be only more frustrated in the end. Not an option."

"I see we agree on the problem… at least at the moment. Hm… I have an important meeting in twenty minutes, I'll send you all the information I have. I don't need to say it's top secret, don't leave it lying around… besides, he won't like it."

"Well it is a breach of… something. But he won't like me probing even less and in the past he was okay with me knowing… stuff. I'll tell him that I have it… Hang on. So what do we do now?"

"We wait. Sounds like the only option right now."

"What for? Until he decides to self-medicate?"

"I don't know, John… I honestly don't know. Keeping him busy usually helps, let's hope it will this time, too."

"Yeah. Right."

"Good evening, John… I'm quite grateful for the fact that you try to help him, and that you decided to forgive him, he's much better… with you. Well, I have to hurry, we'll discuss this further at an other time. I'll send Anthea."

"Oh," Was all John could manage after that utterance of approval. After their last confrontation he had feared the 'British Government' might hold grudges. But this was quite the opposite.

"Good evening," And Mycroft was out of the door.

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Anthea arrived at the flat an hour later, softly calling his name from the living room.

She smiled at him; she had not only a phone in her hand but also a large envelope… and a set of keys that were labelled 221b.

"Were you there, when they were in Serbia?" John asked her, although she was typing on her phone again.

"I was there when they arrived in Bari, before that, no."

"What happened before?"

"They were secretly flown out of Serbia, with a small private plane."

"What happened in Bari?"

"We loaded them into the jet and left."

"Loaded… How was Sherlock then?"

"Unconscious. I didn't recognise him right away."

John frowned, "What happened to him?"

"You better look into the files for details."

"Was Mycroft also hurt?" John asked when he remembered the older Holmes movements were a bit stiff and the hiss of pain when he had stood up earlier.

Anthea didn't answer and was already heading towards the stairs.

"This is for your and Sherlock's eyes only, don't show it to anybody else," she said without looking back. This was one of the most detailed and longest conversations John had ever had with that woman.

"Thank you," He said after her.

She briefly turned around to answer with one of her professional smiles and then hurried down the stairs.

John went back to Sherlock's room and sat down on the floor, leaning his back against the bed, in this position he could see Sherlock's face and was next to the sleeping detective.

He opened the file. The first thing he saw was a picture of a wild haired person's face who looked a bit surprised and a bit out of it, the picture was clearly taken without the person knowing it.

John needed almost ten seconds to realise it was Sherlock.

Chin long unkempt brown locks and a beard that was at least two weeks old partially hid his face.

John raised his eyebrows. He wouldn't have recognised him on the street, at least not immediately and not from his face. Now that he looked closer, it was clearly Sherlock, but it looked… somehow horrible and also a bit funny, but only because the contrast to his normally so accurate and genteel appearance was so enormous.

The doctor could clearly see pain in Sherlock's eyes.

John continued to go through the file while Sherlock slept next to him.

The things he learned were intense, and he paused several times, to bite his lips or lean his head back against the mattress and close his eyes for a few moments to get his reactions, to what he had read, under control.

There had been several close calls and several injuries in the past two years and John felt the more lucky that he had the man back, maybe a bit worse for wear but back and alive.

Sherlock slept and John just appreciated his presence, they'd manage everything else over time.

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Saturday afternoon

Head hurts, no, everything hurt.

He felt air going in and that hurt, too, and when he breathed out it produced a moan. The ground was hard.

Where was he?

He blinked.

Hilarious, eyes hurting, too.

The surroundings were hidden in semi-dark.

Lying on his side, blurry mass of short dark blonde hair in direct line of sight.

John?… who was lying on the ground with him.

He tried to focus.

…. in his bedroom?

Sherlock frowned and even that hurt.

How did they both end up here? Had there been an attack?

Adrenaline started to rush through his system.

"John?" He whispered, his hands carefully moving around.

John lay on some blankets, as did he.

Pillows were spread around them.

The top of John's head towards him, the doctor's feet almost under Sherlock's bed.

His own back was facing towards the window.

What had happened?

His mind was unusually bleak… wiped clean…. He felt drowsy, heavy and... medicated?…. Concentrate!

Then the memory hit him…. he had slid down that wall…. He had panicked… passed out.

Embarrassing.

John seemed to have stayed with him… if the pillows were any indication the doctor had tried to make them comfortable and provided company.

Sherlock lifted his head. Sharp pain spiked through his neck.

John jerked upwards, alarmed.

"Sherlock?"

He must have made some noises then.

John turned towards him and looked right into his eyes.

"Hey," John lifted himself onto his elbows.

Sherlock tried to do the same but something was off.

"Shhh… Easy… stay put." John soothed. "You passed out and after you briefly returned to consciousness you slept for about four hours. This level of exhaustion might make you dizzy and maybe clumsy. How do you feel?"

"…." Sherlock tried to say something but his throat was not agreeing with him, he sucked in air in annoyance.

"John…" Sherlock managed to whisper finally.

"I'm here, Sherlock… How do you feel?" John did something next to him.

Rise of pressure on his arm… John was pumping air into a the cuff on his arm, to take his BP.

"Embarrassed," even his dumb eyes felt sluggish.

"No need… And besides I thought we were beyond that. You'll be okay in a few hours… At least if you start eating and continue to take the antibiotics regularly… You want to try to sit up?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded and very slowly sat up with John's help.

John assisted, but as soon as Sherlock was in a half sitting position the pressure on his head rose and his vision was disturbed by huge amounts of black areas.

Stay conscious!

"Okay, lie back down," John suggested before Sherlock remembered that possibility might existed.

"No…"

Nausea rose.

He let himself sink back down again. John had put a large pillow behind his back and he gratefully sank into it, came to rest with elevated shoulders and head this way. Less embarrassing than lying down while someone else was leaning over.

Why were his thoughts so one-dimensional?

It was disturbing.

"Rest some more before we try any exercise… Stay this way for a minute… Just catch your breath."

His breathing was indeed fast.

John vanished into the kitchen. It felt not good.

John was out of the room for what felt like an eternity and Sherlock felt his heartbeat so intense it was quite unpleasant. He concentrated to slow it down.

John returned with bottled sweet drinks and another round of painkillers.

"Could you… please…"

"Yes?"

He needed John to be safe… he needed him to be near to know that he was safe.

"I…"

And he wanted him around… he felt more safe when he was around… This was all quite embarrassing… he didn't dare to utter it.

"What's wrong?" John leaned over him, "Sherlock, tell me what's unsettling you!"

He wasn't unsettled!… Well, then he felt the trembling and the effort it took to get air and he frowned, it hurt.

"I really need to know you are okay and…"

John was so good to him, he didn't deserve to be burdened with Sherlock's problems.

"Don't… leave," he finally managed to get out. As soon as his lips had formed the word dark yellow-ochery shame rolled through his mind.

He had said it, it was a moment of severe weakness because he didn't know how to get through this night without getting insane, especially not alone.

John fetched another blanket from the bed and sat down next to him, his elbows resting on his raised knees, hands hanging lax between them.

Sherlock could not identify his expression, but the posture was a relaxed and waiting one, like sitting in the meadow, watching the wildlife.

They were kind of camping here, on the floor of Sherlock's room.

A memory of playing with Mycroft brushed through his mind, when they had built dens and booths in the living room. He had done that outside when on the run or nothing else was available. It was uncomfortable, little creatures crawling around everywhere.

The association to the memory made something dark green grow in his chest and it expanded slowly all over his body.

Better, this felt better than camping while he was on the hunt… Safer. John was a genius, building a nest to make him feel better.

"Relax, I won't go anywhere."

Sherlock tried to relax, he felt his whole body was aching with tension.

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A/N:

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