Counting droplets
John held his breath counting the seconds. Sherlock hissed again. His heel had dug a trench into the linoleum. They had fallen here, in front of the fridge. They were always falling. They and this house, falling down around them. Suffocating.
John felt his eyes, ears prickling, threatening to burst, but never detonating. They built up like the pressure inside IEDs. He'd only felt like this once before. Once when he'd lost his head, a new recruit in Afghanistan.
He'd only done it once. Never again would he lose his way, his head. He had to be the one with a brain now. He was holding Sherlock around the trembling shoulders, leaned against his chest.
Sherlock gasped. A choke or an exhale sound mixing in confusion. Oceanic exhale followed. Pain barely suppressed. Pain so desperate. It was a body on fire, but not burning, Moses' bush to the flames of God.
"Alright. Hey, alright." John pressed his hand to Sherlock's heart and pushed him against his chest. He was afraid to let him go. To let him slip into this splitting floor. Sherlock hissed, legs coiling up, legs become serpents betraying his body, kneading and slithering on the floor. Pain enough to break a person. If this person still could break.
John let his hand wander to his coat pocket. He always had a few medical supplies hanging around him. Was there anything to mask or dull the pain of this gripping electric reminder?
Sherlock made a sound like a bird falling out of a storm. His hand shot out, reaching for the roof, the stars, the God that might show mercy. His hand came back down. Landed on John's knee. Twisted viciously in John's jeans, ripping the knee seam out a bit. He wadded the denim around his shaking fingers.
"Hey? It's alright." John let his hand wander the counter. He was fresh out of medicine. But, if he could push off the counter, he could push them away from the fridge. Maybe then, a bottle of water, or something with a cooler surface. Electrocution mostly caused painful burns. Water sometimes helped the pain of burns.
John's phone rang. His last girlfriend. Camille. He let it go to voicemail. He'd meant to let it go to text.
Honestly, John, if you stood me up for that Holmes bloke! A bleeding parasite_You deserve each other!
The receiver clicked. Echoed in the room.
Sherlock was too far from consciousness, orbiting himself, to have perceived that_or so John prayed. He wrenched away from the fridge. They landed against the counter instead. A hard thud against John's back. Sherlock gasped, the other hand shooting out, grappling John's other knee cap and ripping the denim from the seam. His clothes would look like a punk band mate soon if this kept up.
John ripped the fridge open. There was a single bottle of water in there. One with enough condensation to make this work, even if it wasn't all that cool.
"Hey…"John pushed Sherlock's hair off his face. Sherlock thrashed again as if this was a fight of sorts. John reached and unbuttoned his shirt, easing it down around his shoulders a bit. He'd have to free his knees of Sherlock's force grip hold on his jeans before he could pull the shirt's sleeves down and the shirt all the way off.
John counted the droplets. They bled slow, steady, as dew gathers to grass. Sherlock hissed the first time one droplet encountered the viney purpling shapes that were his scars.
After three, his grip let up a bit. John eased the shirt all the way off. Five droplets later, he poured some of the water onto the shirt and wrapped it back around the wound on Sherlock's wrists.
At first, Sherlock screamed. Hollow, a bird lost in the lightning that carved this enigma into him. John closed his eyes. This was the best he could do for him, for now.
But after a moment, the water had its way. Sherlock passed out, slouching over, all rigid and tin.
John eased out from behind him. He felt the gasp like a jolt through the top of his palate. Those scars were menacing. Sinister. Cruel. Beautiful, as only the damned can be.
"She's wrong, you know…We don't deserve each other. If you did this to...keep me out of it…"John held his mouth to keep from shrieking. Sherlock looked like he was sleeping now.
"I'm...I'm going to save you, yeah? Come on." John went for a sheet. The room's only bed. He made a litter of it and drug Sherlock to the couch. It took him 3 hours and a series of house methods to bring the pain levels down and get him to wake.
"John? That woman...on the phone. Maybe you should_" Sherlock blinked as John slipped another shirt over his shoulders.
"Shh...I won't leave here. I won't. Not until Mycroft gives permission and you can leave as well. This...No more of this. No more fighting your demons in the dark. We are going to fix this. Until it becomes a story only." John nodded. Then, he sat down on the end of the couch, putting Sherlock's feet in his lap to get them out of the way.
Sherlock blinked a few times, a bit perplexed. John switched on the telly set dismissively. It was a few moments of shopping network later, but Sherlock was asleep.
After which, John counted tears as droplets soft as sheep until he too fell back on the couch exhausted.