Dear Reader,
I very much hope you enjoy reading this first part of my story. It took me around 6 weeks to write, on and off, as well as many slightly dubious Google searches. I started this as a writing exercise, not really expecting to write more than a few lines, but as always, I got sidetracked and ended up writing around 3,500 words as well as a part two. However, before you proceed, Dear Reader, I must give notice of some Content Warnings for this story: this story is based off of my own experiences with autistic meltdowns and I have not shyed away from the reality of them. The first half of this story has graphic descriptions of the effects of an autistic meltdown as well as self-injurious stimming - if this is something you know will affect you, Reader, please proceed with caution. As well as this, this is my first attempt at writing a neurotypical character, as well as a cis man. I hope you will forgive any OOC moments. This story is not BETA'd, although I am British and have tried to include some references to British culture in my story. Lastly, I own nothing. I had so much fun writing this, and so I hope you will have as much fun reading it,
Yours in writing until 4am,
VA
It had been a long, adrenaline filled day. John could see that Sherlock was exhausted, mentally as well as physically, but it wasn't until the detective stopped in the middle of the dark alley, his face half in shadow, and started talking until the extent of his exhaustion became clear.
'J, J, J, John' he stuttered, his face screwed up, 'he w, w, w, went that,t,t,t way.' Sherlock's arm stretched up and out to his side, up a rickety set of stairs.
Mentally, John swore. He leant back against the red brick wall of the alley, clutching at his side. He knew that the chase had been tough on the both of them, more so him than Sherlock, but John hadn't once stopped to think about the effect that a chase through London in the height of rush hour would have on Sherlock. And of course, Sherlock would never tell him if something was wrong. Looking down, John adjusted his aching wrist in Sherlock's scarf that his best friend had given him for the purpose, in the process letting out a grunt of pain.
'J, J, J, John?' said Sherlock, startling him out of his thoughts.
'Nope, we're not doing this' John surprised himself with the harsh tone of his words, so he tried to make it gentler before continuing, 'use another way of communicating that's not your voice. '
Sherlock slid down the wall, the heavy wool of his Belstaff making a grating noise against the old brick of the building behind him. He flinched at the noise. He tried to mutter something that sounded suspiciously like 'go fuck yourself'.
John sighed, 'you can use any other type of communication to tell me that, otherwise I'm calling Mycroft.'
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but, thankfully, thought John, no words came out of his mouth.
John crossed the alley in two short strides, careful to avoid the piss that had been so kindly left there by someone. He gently lowered himself down next to Sherlock, trying to avoid jogging his wrist but failed at the last moment, causing himself to hiss in pain. He revised his earlier diagnosis of 'sprain' to 'definitely broken'. He faced Sherlock, who had his head on his knees. John was scared for a minute that he'd gone into his Mind Palace, but Sherlock eventually raised his head and looked at him with pained eyes.
'Ok', John kept his voice calm and quiet, 'here's what we're going to do, you're going to choose a method of communication, that's not your words, I'm going to call Lestrade and tell him where we are, he's going to pick us up, and we're going back to Baker Street, OK?'
'D-d-d-u-u-u-l-l-l.' It was completely dark in their little alley by now, but John could almost hear Sherlock's eyes rolling.
'Nope, Na, Non, Nyet, No, Nein, I can go on if you want.'
Sherlock huffed a laugh. There was a pause, then a robotic voice said, 'didn't realise you spoke Welsh.'
'There you go' John giggled, 'apparently all I need to do to get you to listen to me is to say no in every European language I know.'
Just then, a car alarm went off and Sherlock whimpered, covering his ears.
'Shit' said John under his breath.
Being this tired, Sherlock was extremely sensitive to noise, so a car alarm would be just about unbearable.
He fumbled in his pockets, becoming more panicked as the pain in his wrist got worse by the minute. This really won't do, he thought, but just as he thought that Sherlock would end up having a full-blown meltdown in a tiny, piss scented back alley in the middle of the city, John found what he was looking for. He handed the earplugs to Sherlock, who took them, shoved them in his ears, and curled his knees up to his chest.
'Right, Sherlock, I'm going to call Lestrade, I'll be not 5 feet away, if you need me, shout, ok?'
John checked to see that Sherlock had made some signal to show that he'd heard. Sure enough, a fleeting thumbs up came from the ball of wool that was his best friend.
It only took him a few seconds to find Lestrade in his contacts, but he berated himself for being so slow, he only had a few minutes away from Sherlock until the detective began to panic. Although it was late, Lestrade picked up on the second ring.
'Hey mate, how's your night going?' John felt forced to begin the phone call with pleasantries.
Lestrade's voice came out from the speaker phone, 'Alright, stopped at Tesco's for a meal deal, but other than that just waiting for you to call'
'Look Greg, Sherlock' s exhausted, the cock didn't tell me that he was so tired until it became impossible for even him to hide' John sighed.
Lestrade chuckled, 'I seem to remember him saying that he can't tell that he's tired until it's too late, or something like that.'
John's patience was wearing thin and although he didn't mean to, he snapped 'I couldn't give a toss whether or not he did actually say some shit like that, the fact is that I've got a bloody broken wrist from hurdling a ticket barrier, and Sherlock is on the verge of having a fucking meltdown in a piss filled alley in Brixton.'
There was silence from the tinny phone speakers for a moment, but then Lestrade said, 'Ok, on my way, was it Brixton you said?' Without waiting for John's confirmation, he carried on, 'ETA 10 minutes.'
By way of a goodbye, John said,' For God's sake don't use your sirens.'
John turned towards the alley entrance, and towards his best friend. Or what he assumed must be his best friend as all he could see was a mound of dark fabric backlit by the streetlights on the main road.
'Sherlock', he called gently, making his way around the puddles on the ground, 'Lestrade's coming in a bit, he says ETA 10 minutes. I'd like a sign that you understand please.'
John waited for any clue that Sherlock was even alive under his coat, but he had to settle for a movement of fabric and a small 'humph'. The blogger smiled and lent gently against the wall, careful not to move his hurt arm too much.
'In answer to your statement, I don't, but I've hung around you long enough to pick up a few phrases.' John shifted against the wall, the jagged bricks were poking his back, and continued, 'by the way, Sherlock, how many languages do you actually speak? Cos I've counted English, French, Spanish, German, Dutch, Russian, Welsh, Pashto, and probably some that I don't even know exist.'
The blogger purposefully didn't say Serbian, those were not memories that Sherlock needed to bring up right now.
There was a pause, some shuffling from inside the mound of wool and then the end of a phone came out the side of a sleeve,
'Enough.' said a robotic voice.
John laughed outright, then regretted it when his wrist protested.
'Arse, enough isn't an answer.'
John's back was aching from leaning against the wall, so he moved to stand in front of the mound of wool that was his best friend. He didn't dare touch him, knowing that touching Sherlock in this state could have some really bad consequences, but he had to check that the detective wasn't hurting himself under there.
'Sherlock' he said in his Doctor voice, 'I need you to come out of there now.'
A small movement came from within the mound, and his best friend's hand came out, palm facing away, two fingers up, pointed at him.
John sighed, 'Behold the alley in which lieth my fucks, look upon it and see that it is barren, come on Sherlock.'
There was a pause and then the end of Sherlock's phone came out and a robotic voice said,
'Go away.'
'Nope. ' Said John, popping the 'p'.
'Arsehole.'
'Yes, but if you don't come out, I'll take the coat off you.' sighed John.
After a moment, the voice from Sherlock's phone said,
'Don't you trust me?'
'Not in the slightest, now remove your coat.' Captain Watson commanded.
There was a mutter from Sherlock, then the detectives pale face appeared, lit up by the light from his phone.
John squatted down in front of Sherlock, across the alley, hissing in pain as he went.
'Arms out too please.' It wasn't a request.
Sherlock rolled his eyes but complied awkwardly. John looked down at his friend's bare arms, the shirt sleeves had been pushed back to reveal where Sherlock had been scratching at himself while John had been talking. The insides of both his forearms were red and raw, with scratch marks criss-crossing the detective's pale skin. John looked up to see Sherlock's frightened eyes looking at him.
'Is it not good?' came the robotic voice.
John attempted to keep his voice even despite the annoyance that bubbled up inside him and replied, 'bit not good, yeah.'
There was a pause, then,
'You angry at me, John?'
'Not angry, just frustrated.'
'Didn't mean to.'
John sighed, 'I know you didn't mean to; I just wish you wouldn't.'
The blogger tried to put his hands by his sides, forgetting the reason they were across his chest. He cried out in pain.
'You're hurt' came the voice from Sherlock's phone.
John lost his patience, 'no shit, ' he snapped.
Even by the dim light of Sherlock's phone screen, he knew he'd fucked up. His best friend had closed in on himself, trying to make himself as small as possible, John guessed.
'Yes, Sherlock, I am hurt. You remember earlier when I made a mess of jumping over the ticket barrier? I thought it was a sprain, but apparently I was wrong.' John tried to keep his tone calm, but the worsening pain in his wrist meant that he sounded a little more impatient than he'd have liked, he tried not to dwell on it when he had more important things to do so he said, 'Lestrade should be here any minute now.'
'Don't want to go home' said Sherlock, who was still using his phone.
'Tough, we're going' said John 'the case will still be here tomorrow.'
Luckily (according to John at least, who was not looking forward to spending any longer fighting his best friend on a point that he knew was already won) Lestrade turned up, his body blocking the light coming from the street into the alley as he walked towards them.
'Fancy seeing you here' he greeted them.
'Very funny Greg' said John tonelessly.
He walked up the alley to meet Lestrade and began talking in a lowered tone,
'Sherlock's exhausted, so he's using that app on his phone to communicate.'
'Yep, cool, I'll drive him back to Baker Street and drop you at the A and E on the way then?'
John sighed, which he noticed he seemed to be doing quite a lot of that evening,
'Nah, I'm good thanks, he needs me more than I need the hospital right now.'
John guessed that Lestrade was rolling his eyes,
'Don't care, you're going. I can see why you two became friends by the way, same utter lack of self-preservation.'
Lestrade started walking down the alley towards Sherlock.
'Wow, thanks' laughed John, immediately regretting it when his wrist complained. He let out a small cry of pain.
'And that is why you're going' Lestrade said over his shoulder.
Lestrade crouched down next to Sherlock, saying something, John couldn't hear what due to the background noise of the traffic on the road. It was so quick that John missed it, he turned around to see Lestrade stumble back, pressing his back hard on the brick wall of the alley and Sherlock running in the opposite direction. John pressed his sore arm to his chest with his good arm and ran towards Lestrade,
'What happened?' said John breathlessly to Lestrade.
'I accidentally touched him, he punched me hard in the face and took off.'
'Any immediate injuries?' asked Doctor Watson.
'None that I can't deal with myself, go, he needs you more than I do.'
'Shit.'
John swore under his breath as he again pressed his bad arm to his chest and took off running down the alley, chasing his eloping best friend. Every stride moved his wrist and he knew that whatever break he may have had before, it would now be much worse.
John thanked whatever deity he may or may not believe in that Sherlock running in this state was like a newborn lamb taking its first steps - very unstable. He found the detective against a wall at the other end of the alley, eyes glazed and dilated, breathing heavily.
He stopped a couple of feet away from Sherlock, not wanting him to run away again, he made his presence known by saying,
'Hey, Lestrade told me what happened, are you alright?' He kept his tone light and calm, or at least he hoped he did.
Sherlock turned away from him, almost instinctually, and John knew they'd be in the alley for quite some time.
--221b--
John knew from the timer he'd set on his phone that it had been around 20 minutes that Sherlock had stayed there, leaning against the brick wall of the alley, mind trapped inside his uncooperative body. The position, John knew, would be excruciating. Lestrade had left a while before then, coming back five minutes later with a two cups of coffee he'd gotten from a machine in the little Tesco down the road. He'd handed one to John who'd taken it with a nod. They'd been texting back and forth, knowing how much Sherlock hated being talked about as though he wasn't there. At around 22 minutes, John saw Sherlock move to stand up from the wall, instinctually he moved forward to help his best friend up, but he stopped himself, knowing that moving any closer towards the detective could result in similar consequences as before, leaving them stuck in the alley for even longer. He settled on quietly calling his name instead.
'Sherlock.'
He wasn't quite sure that Sherlock had heard him until he saw his best friend's eyes move in his direction.
'We need to get home, Lestrade's car is at the other end of the alley, so you're going to have to walk there, ok?'
By way of reply, Sherlock began to walk slowly to the other end of the alley. John was afraid he would fall, being so unsteady on his feet, so he walked behind him, his good arm half out to catch his best friend. Obviously, Sherlock noticed this, earning the blogger a dirty look. The detective stopped against a wall about halfway up the alley, pulled out his phone and typed into it. He turned the screen around so that John could read what he'd written. 'I don't fucking need help' he read.
'Course you don't, but I'm not leaving you here and waiting for you in the car.' John realised his voice was raised, 'sorry, didn't mean to shout.'
Sherlock raised himself off the wall, closed his ears with his fingers, and carried on down the narrow alleyway. John was still following him, but kept his distance, knowing that his best friend needed space.
Lestrade had gone ahead while they were talking, so when they got to the car, the DI was already sitting on the drivers side. John realised that Sherlock had frozen and it took him a moment to understand why - Donovan was sitting in the passenger seat.
John took a step forward so that he was level with Sherlock. He turned to look up at his best friend, Sherlock's face had gone blank, his previously terrified eyes betrayed no emotion. Although John had seen this happen before, it never ceased to scare and amaze him how quickly Sherlock could go from absolutely distraught to looking 'perfectly fine' so quickly. He knew the detective would pay the price later.
'Sherlock' he whispered.
'Je vais le tuer' came the answer.
John nodded his head, 'quite.'
He only briefly registered that the words came from Sherlock's mouth.
Sherlock set his face in a neutral expression, only the creases in his forehead betrayed his true feelings, and even then John could only understand his best friends true mental state through experience. With any luck, Donovan wouldn't know the difference. If Lestrade hadn't told her.
--221b--
However, as John sat in the car next to a sleeping Sherlock, he had to give Sally credit where credit was due. Although Lestrade had told her about what had happened, he didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to work that out, she hadn't mentioned it once. Granted, she was simply ignoring them, but it was far better than antagonising Sherlock as she used to.
It took them 15 minutes to drive to the closest A and E where, despite John's protestations ('I'm a fucking doctor, Greg!'), he was dropped off so that he could have his definitely broken wrist checked out. After a suspiciously short wait of just under an hour, which he more than suspected was down to Mycroft's involvement, he was seen to by a nurse, sent for an x-ray - which just confirmed his suspicion that the jog down the alleyway had made what was probably previously a fairly clean break into a more complex one - and was put into a temporary cast with instructions to come back in a week to see the fracture clinic.
He went outside to hail a taxi from the stand a little way up the road when he saw Lestrade's silver BMW parked across from the hospital entrance. Crossing the road, he rolled his eyes and cursed his friend's stubbornness. Upon reaching the passenger side door, Lestrade noticed him and leant across to open it.
'Alright?' Lestrade greeted him with a smile.
John got into the car.
'I've been better, mate' said John, trying his hardest to keep a straight face, 'were you just going to wait here until I showed up or what?'
'Maybe'
'Great, you know how over stretched the NHS are at the moment, that could have been closer to tomorrow morning.' John could feel the conversation slipping towards an argument, and quite honestly, he was too tired to care.
'And I'm guessing Big Brother Holmes had a hand in making sure that it wasn't?' Lestrade handed John the seat belt after noticing him struggling, 'at least it's not your left, right?'
John grabbed it from him, 'ta, mate'
As Lestrade drove away from the curb onto the road, John said 'I really am going to have to talk to Mycroft about interfering with the NHS, they're already overworked and underpaid as it is without them having to deal with him poking his nose into it every time Sherlock or I get a minor injury'
Lestrade nodded and said, 'good luck with that, mate'.
It didn't take them too long to reach Baker Street. Lestrade pulled up to the curb and turned to John as the blogger released his seat belt.
'Small warning, Mrs Hudson immediately went all mother hen on us when I dropped Sherlock off, chances are she'll do the same on you if you're not careful'
John laughed, 'I'll be careful'
John stepped out onto the pavement and bent down to talk to Lestrade, 'thanks, Greg'
'No problem, anytime, really.'
John turned his key in the lock as quietly as he could and let himself into 221 Baker Street. He took a quick glance at the door of 221a and thanked the fact it was closer to early morning than late evening that it was dark. Climbing the stairs that lead to 221b, he hoped that his flatmate would be - if not asleep - then certainly not carrying on with the case. He turned the door handle gently and opened the door, happy to see the scene in front of him. Sherlock was asleep on the sofa with a weighted blanket over him, 'The Beekeepers' Bible' open on his lap, and headphones on his ears. For once, he was grateful for Mrs Hudson's fussing, as he knew that this would never have happened had Sherlock been left to his own devices. The next few days would be hellish, he knew from experience, but for now he could relish the rare peace and quiet in 221b Baker Street.
Part two, Sherlock's POV, will be up when I've finished writing it. I want to thank you, Reader, for reading this and I ask you to please review if you liked it.
Cheers
VA
