Emblazoned
CHAPTER FOUR
Within the next few weeks, Sherlock had made a good enough recovery to leave the hospital and return to the flat, which was good news for both Sherlock and the hospital staff, who had had quite enough of their eccentric patient's massive complaints of boredom and his constantly trying to sneak out of his room to explore or creating experiments out of his pills and food.
Mrs. Hudson was elated to see Sherlock return, and upon their entry, she had flown out of her own living place with a good sized plate of freshly baked biscuits and had planted a fond, loving kiss on Sherlock's cheek, to which Sherlock responded with a small, secret smile and a quick, uncomfortable hug that seemed to want to last longer than it did.
Afterward, John helped Sherlock up the steps at 221B, despite Sherlock's constant refusal, and opened the door. John walked in, but Sherlock stood in the doorway.
"Coming in?" John asked, turning to look at him. Sherlock stood there, almost uncomfortably, and breathed slowly. He was looking around.
"Everything alright?" John asked, walking up to him and putting a hand on his arm. Sherlock flinched slightly. John sighed and closed his eyes.
"Just...feels odd to be here," Sherlock said. He walked in, looked around, and then turned to John.
"Thank you John," he said quickly. Then he dashed off towards the bathroom. John stood and listened. He heard the door slam and the shower turn on. Glancing at the blaring red numbers on the clock, John saw that it was almost three in the afternoon. He sighed and collapsed on to the couch. He fell asleep instantly.
When he awoke, John was slightly disoriented. The shower was still going. John looked at the clock. Six in the evening.
"Sherlock?" John called. No answer. He grumbled and stood.
"Idiot's going to waste all the hot water."
He wrapped on the bathroom door. There was steam seeping through the bottom of the door, and when there was no reply to his knock, John opened it.
"Sherlock you've been in here for hours," John said frustratedly, squinting in the dim light and the foggy steam. "Jesus, it's hot in here. Sherlock?"
John waited outside of the curtain, and flicked it once.
"Sherlock are you even in here?"
He pulled the curtain back just a bit, and Sherlock was there. He was looking down, his pale skin now reddened from the heat, his forehead pressed against his arm. He was leaning above the faucet on the wall. John looked down.
"Christ Sherlock you've got it scalding hot," John said, scowling and reaching in to turn the water off. Sherlock didn't move. When the water went off, John nudged Sherlock's bare shoulder. Sherlock flinched and seemed to awaken from his trance.
"John," he said, looking alarmed. "I thought you were taking a nap."
John narrowed his eyes.
"I was. Three hours ago," he said. "You're going to use all the hot water, you git."
The look on Sherlock's face then made John think he should take him to the hospital again. He was so...stricken. His sharpened eyes searched John's face almost frantically, and his mouth was slightly agape. The hue of red that was nearly airbrushed on his face from the heat of the water made him look feverish, and John realized that Sherlock wasn't just being himself, selfishly doing exactly as he pleased.
He was thoroughly, truly, and helplessly confused.
John sighed and softened his own expression, and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
"Well come on then," he said, handing him a towel. "Finish up in the next half hour and I'll take you out for dinner."
Sherlock took the towel and stood there, looking at it as if it were a cadaver. John turned to the mirror, wiped off the condensation which fogged the glass, and examined his reflection while Sherlock stepped slowly out of the shower and began to dry.
"Where are we going," Sherlock asked in more of a declarative tone than an inquisitive one.
"Well, I really liked that one place you took me a while back. The first night we met I think, " John replied, trying to sound calm and cheerful despite the building concern within him.
"Angelo's?"
"Yeah. Good pasta."
"Mm."
"That sound good? Or are you not in the mood for Italian?"
There was no reply, and John turned to see his friend almost directly behind him, the towel wrapped around his waist. He was staring into the mirror. John looked up at him.
"Sherlock?" he said, perhaps quieter than he intended.
The detective was staring pensively into the glass, and tentative hand hovering over his collar bone. His fingers barely grazed his own skin as they trailed down from his collar, between his pectorals, down his abdomen, skimming gently over the bruises and tiny marks on his otherwise flawless skin. This had been Maxim's trail.
John watched him, a lump forming in his throat.
"Sherlock," he said finally, taking the detective's hand, which had stopped just above the towel line. Sherlock shook his head and blinked. He looked away from the mirror and down at John.
"You ok?"
Sherlock licked his lips, as if about to say something, but as he opened his mouth to speak, John's phone went off in his pocket. John sighed and reached into his jeans to retrieve the noisy device.
"Restricted," he said, reading the caller ID. He looked at Sherlock, who shrugged and looked at the phone.
"Answer it," he said. John did so.
"John Watson," he said.
"Evening, John."
Mycroft. John gave a quick look to Sherlock, who simply narrowed his eyes in question.
"Is Sherlock around?" Mycroft asked. His normal tone of authority was lost. There was something else.
"Why didn't you call his phone?" John said, more irritably than he anticipated. He cleared his throat. "And yes, he's right in front of me."
"I'd like to speak with him," Mycroft answered, disregarding John's previous question.
"Well...he may not want to-"
"It's imperative that I speak with him, John Watson."
There it was. The commanding voice that Mycroft seemed to bend reality with. John sighed.
"Hang on," he said. He took the phone away from his face and looked up at Sherlock, who was waiting patiently.
"It's your brother," he said delicately. "He said he needs to talk to you."
Instead of the normal protest that John expected, Sherlock merely held out his hand and muttered a monotonous "alright." With some confusion, he handed him the phone.
"Mycroft," Sherlock said, turning away from John.
John watched Sherlock's back, sculpted and toned and damn well near perfect, sans the traces of bruises and a slow healing shallow stab wound. His skin was pulled taut across his frame, as if it were pale tapestry. The last traces of moisture that were speckled onto the canvas of skin made him glisten just so, and John's eyes traced the outline of Sherlock's body over and over again.
Ravaged.
John shuddered.
"Yes, I am," Sherlock said almost weakly after a beat of silence. "Is there anything else you needed?"
John went back to looking at the mirror, though he still could see Sherlock's reflection out of the corner of his eye.
"Alright."
That silken voice, now course and strained.
Ravaged.
John ran a hand through his hair.
"I know...good bye, Mycroft."
Ravaged.
John swallowed, composed himself, and looked back at his friend.
"What was that about?" he asked. Sherlock turned and handed John his phone.
"Nothing," he said dismissively. "I'll go get dressed, and then we can leave."
John nodded once as Sherlock left the room. There he was. He was putting up his walls again. He was letting his logic mask his emotions. He was forcing them down, deep down to wherever Sherlock Holmes kept them, in that deep-set reservoir of humanity and feeling. But his eyes, filled with pain, emblazoned with the brand that he had forgone receiving.
Ravaged.
John turned to the mirror again. He sighed heavily, harshly, and then he angrily swiped the toothbrushes and soap and anything else that had had the misfortune of being on the mantle of the sink that day clear off the ivory surface, and the items clattered haphazardly onto the tile floor.
Bracing himself, with both hands gripping the edges of the sink, John glared into the mirror.
"God," he ground out. "Why...?"
A knock interrupted him.
"John?" Sherlock said from the other side of the wooden barrier. "I'm ready when you are."
John sighed deeply.
"Coming now," he said. He hastily cleaned up the small mess he made and glanced over the room once more before he walked out of the door. He met Sherlock in the living room.
"Alright," he said with a smile that he knew Sherlock noticed was false. "Ready?"
Sherlock looked at him. He was on his phone, texting.
"Yes," he said before looking down to finish the message. When he finished, he reached over to grab his wallet off the mantel. John opened the door.
"I'm buying," he said. Sherlock shoved the leather case into his back pocket and grabbed his coat and scarf off the chair.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Consider it a celebration of your return."
Sherlock donned his signature get up, pulling the scarf around his neck slightly tighter than normal, and shoved his phone into his deep pockets. He gave one nod to John, and the two walked out the door.
The dinner carried on in complete silence. Sherlock, surprisingly, actually ordered some food and ate it with a newfound eagerness. John watched him. He was intent on the plate, eating hastily but delicately. It was only when John spoke that he looked up and seemingly realized he was there.
"Lestrade said we should take a holiday."
Sherlock cocked his head.
"Why?"
John sighed and took a sip of wine.
"He said it might be a good idea if we stayed away from cases for a while," he said as nonchalantly as possible. Sherlock seemed to think hard about this, chewing rather deliberately on a piece of broccoli.
"I'm fine," he said finally. "I'm absolutely fine. I can work."
John chuckled.
"I know you can, Sherlock," he said. He looked at him. "But I think it might be a good idea anyway. It might be...fun."
Sherlock scoffed and sat back in his chair. He wiped his mouth, laid the napkin down, took a drink of wine. John devoured these simple movements, his eyes watching the man before him so intently that he was afraid people might find it odd.
"If you wanted a break you could have just asked," Sherlock said finally. John cocked his head.
"No," he said. "Lestrade actually told me not to even let you work on cases. And that he'd pay for a holiday, wherever we wanted."
Sherlock looked up and sighed before looking back at John. He looked at John with a hard but heartfelt stare.
"I need to work, John," he stated. "I can't take a holiday. Ever. I have to work."
John looked down at his food, defeated. He knew the answer would be as such. He knew that Sherlock could only stay sane if he had something to do, and taking a holiday would mean not doing anything. It wouldn't be a relaxing retreat, it'd be torture.
"But," Sherlock said. John looked up. The detective's face was softer, thoughtful.
"But?" John encouraged.
"I suppose," Sherlock began. "I suppose if you would like to take a holiday..."
He trailed off. John watched him, waiting.
"It'd have to be a place where I could do something," Sherlock said finally. "It can't be some place...with things like...carnivals or...pointless things..."
"No place fun, got it," John said with a smile. Sherlock sighed, but it was also through a smile.
"And I have to be able to work from there," Sherlock said. "I um..." He looked away from John then, and he laid his hands flat on the table cloth. "I've had a case in mind that I would like to work on."
"Oh? Already?" John said with a twinge of concern. "When'd you plan on telling me about it? What do we need to-"
"I'm doing it by myself, John," Sherlock dead panned. John sat back. "I've got to just work on it by myself."
"Alright," John said finally after a brief pause. There was silence, except for the clatter of silverware, the idle chatter, and the occasional throat clearing from Sherlock after he took a sip of wine.
"So where did you have in mind?" Sherlock asked. John had since commenced to finish his meal of chicken marsala, and he said with a full mouth.
"I've never been to Ireland."
"Boring," Sherlock said off handedly, but upon seeing John's defeated reaction, he added. "But it's very beautiful."
"So I've heard," John replied. He dabbed at his mouth with the napkin. "But really, I don't care where we go. Just need to get away for a while."
Sherlock was resting his head in his palm, his elbow at a perfect angle with the table. His eyes were stone, searching the dining room for nothing in particular. He was lost in his mind. John sighed. He knew that Sherlock had virtually no idea how to deal with all the things going on within him, and quite frankly, John himself wasn't sure how he should deal with them either. All the same, the detective's normal reclusive attitude was only further exemplified by the deep pain that was so glaringly apparent in his eyes.
"Sherlock," John said gently. He put a hand on Sherlock's arm, to which Sherlock responded with a light flinch.
"Yes?" he said hoarsely.
"Please talk to me," John said. It was like trying to find hay in a needle stack when it came to getting Sherlock to talk about his feelings. He learned that he could tell by Sherlock's body language whether or not he could pry and get somewhere, or if he should just drop the whole thing. He was praying he wouldn't have to.
"What's there to talk about?" Sherlock asked honestly.
"Sherlock," John said, moving his hand up and down Sherlock's arm once. "I know you're...overwhelmed. I can tell. Talk to me about it, Sherlock. Please. Maybe I can help you."
Sherlock seemed to deliberate over this. He looked at John, jaw set firmly in place and eyes giving way to nothing. John felt as though he would get nowhere, since he knew that when Sherlock got tense the matter was over, but as he took his hand away and continued to fumble with the rest of his dinner, Sherlock said, in a heartbreakingly sad voice.
"I'm sorry, John."
John looked up, nearly astonished, at his friend. Sherlock's eyes were rimmed lightly with red and pink, and they shone more prominently than usual. His cheeks were flushed. He had his hands clasped firmly together on the table.
"Sorry for...?" John asked, knowing full well now that Sherlock was on the verge of losing it.
"I...I..." the detective's voice was brittle and weak.
John watched him as his glassy eyes darted this way and that, searching for something that couldn't be found. He was making observations, studying every detail, clinging to the only things that made sense to him. Logic, reason, explanation. John reached over and grasped Sherlock's tense hands.
"It's alright, you're alright," he said gently, his thumb stroking Sherlock's pale, cool skin. Sherlock looked up forlornly at him, a single tear breaking free and trickling down his face. John sighed through a sad smile.
"Ireland sounds nice," Sherlock finally squeaked. John chuckled and pat Sherlock's hand.
"Alright," John said. "Do you want to go now?"
It was like a parent asking a shaken child. Sherlock nodded, sniffing and wiping hurriedly at his face. John stood and reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet while Sherlock composed himself. John watched him.
"You ok?" he finally asked after Sherlock had taken a few deep breaths and a few more sips of wine.
"Yes," he said quietly. "I'm fine." He took a slow breath and looked up at John, who had lain a reasonable tip on the table.
"Do you have a cigarette?" he asked innocently, as if he were asking the time or how his sister was. John sighed.
"Sherlock..."
"Just tonight, John. Please."
John sighed heavily.
"Fine. I don't have any, but we can buy you some on the way home."
"Thank you."
The two walked out of the restaurant, and down the street in silence. Sherlock's hands were shoved deep into his pockets, and he had nestled his mouth and nose into his scarf. John walked beside him in the quiet, squinting in the bitter cold night air.
"Feels like it might snow," John said. Sherlock glanced at him and nodded once. John watched him. He was receding again, shrinking into himself, like he often did when Mycroft chose to scold his little brother in front of John. He would use that tone, that accusatory, all-knowing tone, and Sherlock could do nothing but sheepishly coincide with his brother's demands, embarrassment and anger seething and swirling within him. John knew how much Sherlock hated it when Mycroft chose to demote him in front of others, and he also knew how much Mycroft loved it.
John reached over and put an arm around Sherlock's mid-back, since he was admittedly too short to reach around the man's shoulders. Sherlock looked at him with confusion at first, slowing his pace to a brief stop. John smiled at him, a smile that said "just let it be," and the two continued on down the sidewalk towards the drug store, John's strong, protecting arm tight and snug around Sherlock's rigid frame.
And as the clock sounded, echoing deep into the abyssal night, snow began to fall over London.