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. I am really glad Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gatiss created and own them, and that they made this terrific show. Thank you so much!
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Chapter 86 – Sherlock's POV
Tapping on his collarbone, it was shaking his core.
"Sherlock?" John's soothing voice.
A taste of anguish on the tip of his tongue. It made his breath burn in his lungs with bitterness.
He felt awful.
"Can you get out of you head and join us for a change?"
Right, he was at 221b, no longer hunting people and being hunted by them in return.
Home.
What was happening?
Had he taken drugs?
A gentle and calming touch on his head. The hand felt good, better than anything in the past years, so safe, it was almost like a dream.
Probably this wasn't reality, too good to be true.
Was he imagining things?
Water – warm water.
He felt encapsulated in something safe and in warmth, but something that reminded him of utter desperation and panic, was still looming in a dark corner of his existence.
Must be reality then.
Then it came back: Blood, it had been all over him.
He jerked and anxiously breathed through his nose, checking for the smell of fresh blood.
None.
Only the smell of the shower, the detergent Mrs Hudson used, he was wearing clothes, which were currently clinging to him, and he smelled John's shampoo.
A massaging kind of touch on his hair, slick and gentle, followed by soft warm rain falling onto his head.
Right, the shower.
It was hard work to open his leaden eyelids, dark green pressure tried to prevent him from doing so.
"John?"
The orange light that hit him was quite a shock. And… what was Mycroft doing in his bathroom?
He couldn't see properly, everything was blurred and… out of sync.
"Hey…" John moved into his line of sight, "You spaced out. You with me now?"
He tried to nod, but his body was not cooperating.
"Where have you been?" Mycroft was indeed there, he could hear him.
"Don't remind him just now," John warned his brother.
Right, he had been in Serbia. But as soon as he had remembered he tried to shove it away, he didn't want to remember.
Mentally, he tried to turn away from the presence and the memory, not knowing what it was, just sensing something bad was creeping up on him; physically he tried to curl into a ball.
"No! Don't you dare to go back there," John gently gripped his right upper arm and a warm hand stayed on his shoulder.
"Stay with me," it was an order.
Sherlock smiled inwardly.
How much he had missed these… It was good to hear some.
A bit shocked about himself, he realised, that he had never thought it was even possible to be so vulnerable in front of anybody. But right now he was, in front of John, maybe even Mycroft if this was real, but he just didn't care. He had no energy left to care.
Up to now John hadn't left, he had witnessed so much disgusting weakness in the past weeks and yet, he was still here. Accepting and maybe even liking him without question, unconditional love in a platonic way.
That fact somehow frightened Sherlock, but he was not sure if frightened really was the right description for the horrible sensation of dread - or anxiety - about the future he experienced.
It was just more than he deserved and could handle.
Then it gained so much intensity that it overwhelmed him, he couldn't grasp the concept.
His mind was so strained; all it wanted was to shut down.
"Hey..." John's voice was soft and… distant.
Headache.
"How do you feel?"
Ugly, it felt ugly… he wanted to not-feel.
A shadow of a memory passed the backside of his mind, he flinched.
"Mycr'ft?" he managed.
Suddenly the memory of stumbling through a forest in the dark - with his brother - came back full force.
He now remembered the smell of Mycroft and of blood, it must have been what triggered the episode.
Before, in his room, Mycroft had confronted him with the smell of blood, and up to a certain point he had been able to catalogue, store the chronology of his body's reactions, his mind's panic and his progress into stress.
It had been horrifyingly interesting, at least to a certain point; when he hadn't been able to control it any longer he had freaked out.
Suddenly, his breathing once more became more difficult. The reminder of the situation in which he had been when Mycroft smelled of blood and where they had been threatened to draw him back into the maelstrom.
"Sherlock, are you with me?" John asked, sounding confused.
Of course he was.
No, he wanted to be, but the forest was gathering, becoming more dominant, creeping up on him.
It wasn't a forest - details formed, protruding out of the dark - it was the terrain surrounding Baron Maupertuis' stronghold.
He could smell the moss and the fir trees.
Feel the undergrowth beneath his thigh.
Life was just so surreal.
He wondered which reality was real.
A hand touched his brow and water moved, caused little splashing sounds.
The intensity of both realities and the question what of it must be real life made him gasp.
"Sherlock, can you hear me?" Mycroft's voice.
Good, his brother sounded okay so far.
It was just overwhelming, the small boundary between life and death. Between being in a life threatening situation and being safe. They had both been almost killed during their ordeal in Serbia.
Had – they weren't there any longer, right?
The concept of life felt just so unreal right now.
His mind got stuck in it its own personal horror about the cruel concept itself.
It took more energy than he thought he had to stir away from staring at the cruelty.
He just wanted the agony to stop!
STOP!
Nothing stopped, his mental voice echoed through emptiness.
Then it came back to him that he had felt like this before, detached and desperate.
Then he suddenly returned to the layer of reality that happened during their escape, in more detail and a jolt of fear made him suck in air.
Mycroft was hit by a bullet from one of the guards, to their luck the shooter had been very close and they had neutralised him before he could raise an alarm.
Hand to hand.
He didn't want to be in that particular forest.
He wanted to be with John.
John's warm hand returned.
So very soothing and safe.
He forced his eyes open and stared at his friend, who was right next to him, so very close. He could just reach out and touch him if he wanted to.
But he was afraid, he had tried this during his time in the plant, but had just touched nothingness, just air.
Emptiness.
Was John really there, or was this just another fever dream?
Would he ever find his way back into what he had thought was life?
Life as it had been?
As it should be?
Reality had changed into something unpredictable, something odd... nothing felt truly real any longer, at least not while episodes like these where happening.
"You are home, Sherlock. Safe and sound. You and your brother were in your room and you became... unsettled, can you remember?"
John providing a reality check.
How did he manage to just know what he needed so often?
He remembered now, he had tried to minutely catalogue his reactions to the confrontation with the smell of blood. But instead of his intention to analyse and store information he had been helplessly dragged into it - again. He needed to concentrate on that knowledge, mark it as reality.
This was… hell.
He didn't believe the concept of hell existed, but now he wasn't sure any longer.
Where was the use in trying to keep track?
People where dying, why was he suffering life?
The homeless man had passed the state of being alive, why was he still here?
He needed to safe John… and Mycroft was now wounded, too.
"Hey, come on, look at me."
John was there, intact and beautifully naïve.
Or wasn't he?
Was this the decision John had made when he had prayed 'dear god, let me live?'
How had he gathered the courage to go on with this madness called life?
Would he be able to protect the lives that mattered to him?
Under his hands Mycroft was gasping in pain, Sherlock felt the jerky movements of his ribcage. The cold… He was trembling, although Mycroft had given him his coat.
The wet smell of nature and decay enclosed him once more.
Then he felt euphoric relief when his brother rolled away and stumbled to his feet, pain in his features but alive and walking.
They supported each other and went ahead.
Both their hands were covered in blood and they both were in agony.
"Sherlock, I know you are quite bad right now, and I want you to get some relief, gather some strength…" John's voice echoed through the dark.
It was good; the speech anchored him, though he couldn't make out the meaning of the words.
Please, continue to speak.
Something cold and hard was pressed against his lips and then a cold liquid touched his tongue, the bitter taste reminded him of something not-good and he struggled to sit up and shove the hand with the cup away; spit out whatever it was.
The good thing was the unwelcome action provided another brace to reality.
The taste was nasty and the hands on him that tried to keep him from moving were firm and steady.
The odd tugging sensations the water caused on his shirt and trousers were also stealing their way into the forefront of his perception.
Awareness of his body came back with an intense dark blue rush.
Not good.
Too much input. He felt suddenly every pore of his tired and aching transport.
Pain rose.
The air felt thick and hard to breathe.
Too much.
Too much!
He wanted his socks off, his damaged toes hurt, as did his back.
The waistband was pressing into his guts uncomfortably.
When he sat up again the hands came back, but after a moment of hesitation helped him to get rid of the socks and then someone opened his shirt and the belt.
He was pressed back against something soft… a wet towel.
Something cold on his chest.
A stethoscope, John was examining him.
A BP cuff on his arm.
He managed to open his eyes again.
"John…"
Was this the mind palace version or the real John?
The doctor looked down at him, eyes full of worry.
"I'm here, Sherlock."
He finally managed a tired smile.
When Sherlock tried to speak his voice was gone, he cleared his throat.
"Don't stop."
"What?" John's face showed irritation or amusement or disbelief.
"Just found out… physical sensation… grounds me."
"Oh, good. It was meant to be."
Several moments later someone lifted his limp hand out of the water and placed a soft bath sponge into it.
He opened his eyes once more.
"Come on, get out off your head. Concentrate on your surroundings. It'll help. Wash a bit."
Hadn't Mycroft been here a moment before? Where was he?
"Mycroft?" he asked John.
"Getting some dry trousers and needing a minute I guess."
"I had a… flashback."
"Looks like it."
"How do I know for sure?"
"Sherlock, don't. You just managed to get back here. I don't think it's wise to reconnect to the memories just yet, you know it could start another episode."
"I need to figure this out… 't was nasty. Need to store it somewhere safe."
"All right… But be careful."
"Describe it?"
Instead the doctor asked, "Was it intense? Were you aware of your real surroundings?"
"Yes. No. Only in the beginning. I needed to wash it off."
"What exactly?"
"The smell. I…," he panted with an open mouth, the terror of the past minutes suddenly resurfacing, his body reacting to the mere idea of the smell of blood. Pain became more prominent, especially from his back.
"See, that's what I meant! Don't go there! It's a fucking awful idea. You'll trigger it again!" John gently scolded, "Stay with me. This is reality. You are here with me. Don't go there."
Sherlock swallowed and accepted the bottle of shampoo John held out, then started to over accurately focus on washing his hair a second time.
Feel the plastic bottle in his hands, the dollop of shampoo colder than the water.
Concentration wavered but he managed to stay in the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, when he tried to sit up, John held him down again.
"Wait, let us help."
When Mycroft came back they lifted him out of the bath together, he felt shaky and unsteady.
Sherlock squinted his eyes shut when nausea hit him, black spots appeared in his sight.
"It's okay. We've got you," the voice came from a great distance and the grip around his elbows and on upper arms tightened.
Within moments he was wrapped in a towel and held upright, his legs not able to carry his weight.
His mind must have skipped the disgusting procedure of getting peeled out of the wet clothes and into some pyjamas, because the next thing he knew was he was moved up and forward.
"Let's get him to bed."
"No," he protested hoarsely.
"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. You need some rest."
"Sofa then," he insisted.
They wrapped more blankets around him.
The touches were not as awful as expected. These were not the sterile impersonal touches that were inflicted in hospitals, these were careful tender ministrations.
For the first time in his life he registered the difference between being vulnerable and being taken care off.
He was tired, which manifested in a grey fog-like pressure around his head, it gained overwhelming intensity.
Since he had resurfaced in the bathtub droning speech had surrounded him. John, Mycroft and Mary were talking, but he had a hard time following it. He was still unable to conceive the meaning of most utterances. Understanding was switched on and off, it was quite annoying.
Also, he was too tired to focus and try to understand.
He felt trapped in a semi permeable bubble that had its own will.
Still disconnected.
When they moved him towards the sofa he was trembling with exhaustion and cold, his mind was once more forcing his transport to surrender into submission.
Before they reached the seat the world suddenly dropped away without a warning.
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