Sherlock had told me once that when you step off a building, you don't fall right away.
That day, I discovered he was right.
As he teetered, I leaped forward to close the gap between us and clutched a handful of his dressing robe. For a millisecond, he hung in the air, his balance irretrievably lost. And then he was falling.
Falling forward.
We both hit the ground, Sherlock sprawling on top of me for a moment before he rolled away, his eyes wide and terrified. He crab-walked backward until his back struck the wall with a thunk. His bloodshot eyes darted from side to side as he tried to take in his surroundings.
"Sherlock!" I crawled closer to him, trying to ground him with my voice. When he focused on me, some of the terror drained away from his eyes. "Merry?" he questioned shakily.
"Yeah." I scooted to sit next to him and lay my hand on his forearm. "I'm here, Sherlock."
He glanced around at his surroundings. "Why are we on a roof?" His eyes widened then. "Why are we on this roof?"
"I don't know," I breathed. "I think you had a bad dream and started sleepwalking."
He covered his mouth with his hand, and for a moment I thought he was going to be sick. I closed the space between us and held out my hand for him to take. "It's okay," I said. "You're safe now. It's okay."
He clutched my hand with both of his; I was his human lifeline. Despite this, his eyes held so much confusion. "What happened?" he repeated. "Merry, I don't remember what happened."
Often, a person suffering trauma will ask "What happened?" over and over as their mind tries to recover from the shock their body has suffered. Sherlock was no exception, and I was about to explain the circumstances again when I noticed the band of security guards still stood at attention, holding guns aimed at us. Obviously, they were adding to Sherlock's distress. Their weapons weren't doing much for my rattled nerves, either.
"Put those away," I ordered. I struggled to my feet and held up my identification badge. "I have visiting privileges here," I said. "This is my patient."
The guards relaxed, lowering their weapons, but they didn't fall out of formation. Humiliated, Sherlock covered his eyes with his hand.
"They're staring at me," he mumbled. "Can we go back inside, please?"
"Yes." I stood up and tried to pull him to a standing position. He struggled to his feet and swayed as soon as he was upright. I circled his waist with my arm, slinging one of his arms over my shoulders. "Go slowly," I ordered. "Can you walk?"
He tried, but groaned with his first step. The soles of his bony feet were still bleeding freely. No wonder; there were bits of broken glass littering the roof. I shucked off my own shoes and tried to cover his feet as best I could.
He was shivering so violently that I took off my coat and draped it over his shoulders; just as I was holding on to him and urging him to walk again, we heard a dull roar above us.
A helicopter.
It seemed to be descending from heaven itself, swooping toward us. I could see a news channel logo on the side of the aircraft.
They must have been nearby, listening to the police frequencies, and had heard a report of a man on the roof of St. Bart's. Fortunately, they were still a good distance away; if we hurried, we could make it inside without blowing Sherlock's cover.
Then the pilot caught sight of us and bore down.
Sherlock, in his fragile state, cowered, wrapping his arms around his head.
The guards were still standing there, unsure what to do. One of them was barking into a radio, but no one was doing anything helpful.
"Do your job, and protect us!" I shouted. I grabbed Sherlock's head and led him to press against my shoulder, hiding his face from the prying eyes of the media. I yanked my jacket up over Sherlock's head as the same guards who had been aiming weapons at us five minutes earlier now clustered around us, shielding us from prying eyes.
Once inside the building, I led Sherlock to the service elevator, praying no one would be using it. Mercifully, we made it back into the flat without encountering another person.
As I was arming the door behind us, Sherlock whispered, "Merry. Did I almost.. did I almost.. jump? Again?"
I didn't want to tell him the truth. I came close and lay my hands gently on his shoulders, and as quietly as I could I said, "Yes, Sherlock. It was an accident. It's all right now."
But it wasn't all right at all. He may not have fallen physically this time, but the trauma looked just as it had the day he'd jumped, and the PTSD symptoms were close to the surface.
Sherlock was falling apart right in front of me. His legs were shaking so hard his knees were buckling. He was gasping for air, his mouth downturned as he choked, "Why? Why would I do that? Why?"
I tried to explain, but my words were lost when he doubled at the waist, clasping his hands over his mouth.
The bathroom might as well have been a mile away; there was no way he'd be able to walk that far. Just as I had done the first day we'd met, I grabbed up a waste bin and carried it- and half-carried him- to the sofa. We sank down together and because his hands were trembling violently, I held the bin for him this time, using my free hand to stroke his back as he threw up.
I remembered the first day we had met, when he'd been covered in blood that wasn't his. This time the blood was his own and trickling from his poor torn feet.
That day, he'd ordered me to go away when he'd been so terribly nauseated. Today, he seemed to take comfort by my presence, leaning against me after his stomach had emptied itself. For long moments, he rested against my shoulder, listening obediently as I coached him through a deep breathing exercise.
As soon as I was certain he had finished throwing up, I cleaned out the waste bin and found our first-aid kit. I took a clean washcloth from his bathroom and soaked it in warm water and added a dab of soap. Stepping into his bedroom, I spied that ugly, incredibly long and thin scarf between the sheets and picked that up as well.
Returning to kneel in front of him, I pressed the scarf into his hand. Instinctively, he lifted it to his cheek, breathing in John's scent. His eyes fluttered closed as I removed my shoes and cleaned his feet, checking to make sure he was free of glass shards. Thankfully, the cuts were many but none were deep enough to require stitches. I bandaged them instead.
By the time I had put away the first aid kit, wiped up the bloody footprints from the floor and washed his blood from my own hands, Sherlock was starting to slump on the sofa.
I sat down in the chair beside him. "Are you all right?"
"Mmmm," he agreed. "I can barely keep my eyes open. It's pathetic."
"That's the adrenaline wearing off," I said. "And you must admit, Sherlock, you have every reason to be exhausted. This has been a rather difficult week."
He nodded and even managed a small smile at my gross understatement. His eyes were growing droopy, but he fought against sleep; every time his eyes drifted closed, he'd force himself to open them again.
He was making me tired just watching him. Finally, I roused him enough and sent him to his bedroom for a nap. It was still daylight, but in our windowless world night and day made little difference.
He went willingly, and I listened to the now-familiar sounds of his mattress creaking as he lay down. It would creak a few more times as he found the right position- on his stomach, with one leg crooked and one foot free of the duvet.
I'd seen him fall asleep a few times now, and I knew he would wrap the scarf around his wrist and press it to his cheek before he closed his eyes. On every other occasion, this had soothed him to sleep.
This time, I hoped the scarf would be enough.