Title: A Small Sacrifice Pt. 2
Pairing: Sherlock and John
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rated: T
Notes: Sorry this chapter is a tad short. I've been busy. Enjoy the angst, my darlings!
Edit: Honest human error! I let John say something he was technically not able to say, but it was fixed! I was being bugged by my roommate last night, so please, if you see any other errors, let me know! I've reread it several times and haven't spotted anything else so far...
:
"This would be so much easier if you weren't speech impaired." Sherlock sighed and flicked the flash card down on the floor. John didn't know if he should scoff or laugh, so he combined them and rolled with what came out.
"Wow, really? You thin…" Sherlock gave a sideways glance, nibbling on his fingernail in frustration. It's become a habit as of late. "Thin…"
"Come on." John's jaw worked, he slid the back of his tongue against the roof of his mouth and let it fall a few times as Sherlock had explained and demonstrated several days ago. They had found that the only syllable he could not produce was that of a "kah" sound. Naturally, any word that started with or possessed a C, K, Q, and sometimes X was next to impossible to spit out. What it boiled down to was that the part of his brain that pertained to speech had received the blunt of the impact. All knowledge of the sound of "kah", how to produce it and what it sounded like, had completely vanished and needed to be relearned. So, the doctor and the consulting detective sit here in their fifth day of practice, frustrated and confounded and not willing to back down. They have a rule now, too: If John Watson begins a word, or intends to use a certain word with "the sound" in it, he must finish the sentence without replacing the word unless absolutely necessary. Which… Unfortunately, was the most case. And what was more unfortunate: John's had just about enough.
"I hate this, you know? Witty banter is even totally out of the idea." John rubbed at his temples, his face growing red and crooked in irritation. "I'm- I'm tired of having to tip-toe around the damn syllable, reword every little thing I say so I don't stutter and stop mid-sentence to endure the most- th- the most awful unbearable silences I've ever had around other people! I mean- I just- God, I might as well stop verbalizing all together! I'll bloody learn sign language if I have to! It's not happening, nothing we've gone over is staying!" Sherlock propped his elbow against the kitchen table, chin resting on his knuckles.
"You just went on an entire rant without needing to use the syllable once."
"And it's driving me insane!" John threw his hands out as if to emphasize the insanity part. "I wasn't even able to say your name when we made love after I was released from the hospital. Do you know how deeply that… I mean that's just absurd! I want to say your name, that's all I want! Why is that too-" It didn't take much for John to shut down since the accident. Sherlock knew the signs by heart now.
=Brows furrowed stiffly
=Hand in the general area of his mouth
=Face turning red
=Voice slowly rises in volume and becomes shaky
=Hands start to tremble
=Hands fidget to cover trembling
=Stops talking completely
=Holds head with both hands (not crying) keeping face down and out of sight
When John shuts down, Sherlock is lost. His John is hurt, his John is losing control over himself, his John is unhappy and angry and frustrated, his John is silent and won't speak to him or laugh, his John won't look at him, and worst of all, his John stops all physical contact. Sherlock had learned that he disliked his John shutting down quite a bit and makes sure to jump in and stop the shutting down before it is too late.
Sherlock stood abruptly from his chair, the wretched sound of wood screeching against the floor unfazing to the doctor who slowly dipped his head down. The taller managed to squeeze in and kneel down between John and the table with the angle he was positioned in relation to the table itself. Large hands tentatively rested on John's knees and slid up his thighs. One rested calmly on his hip, fingers pulling at the hem of his jumper, while the other lifted to the back of John's neck to pull him closer. John sighed and let his head fall carelessly against Sherlock's shoulder.
"Breathe, John. Deep breaths."
John closed his eyes.
Sherlock was holding him firmly, but gently, and let his fingers rub and twist at the short blonde hair at the top of John's neck. He'd had much practice in the arts of comforting his John recently. It wasn't perfect, but it was close.
John did his best to focus on Sherlock.
Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, fuck he just wanted to say his name. Breathe.
Sherlock was warm and firm and strong and tall and majestic and brilliant and quite honestly the best hugger John's ever had the privilege of hugging. John turned his face slightly into the skin of Sherlock's neck. It was so soft right there, so pale. Breathe. He loved the smell of Sherlock's skin, most of the time anyway, not so much after smelly experiments. Then again, he's been taking daily showers since the accident for John's sake. He's also been eating regularly. And sleeping. Sherlock's actually been sleeping in bed with him every night since they've returned home. John opens his eyes. Breathe. Sherlock's hair is tickling his eyebrow and forehead. There's a freckle on his neck just beneath his jawline. His eyes are closed. He's so beautiful.
And John is damaged goods. Breathe.
:
"Mrs. Hudson, where is John?" Sherlock had arrived back from Tesco not even a minute ago and there was no sign of John what so ever in the flat. No clues as to where he could be, no notes lying about, nothing in the mail, the bedroom was empty, John's old room was empty, the thin layer of dust on John's laptop hadn't been disturbed, so no emails, and the bathroom door was cracked open with the light off, so he wasn't in there. There was nothing. Oh, and John had stopped speaking completely, as promised, two days prior, so he didn't have anything to go off of there either.
"He never left, I've been home all day, he hasn't come down once. Never heard the door open or close either. Did you check the loo?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Did I check the loo? Are you even listening to yourself? Of course I checked the loo, the door was ajar and the lights were off. He had to have left. He's not here. You're certain you heard nothing?" Mrs. Hudson scoffed and placed her hands on her hips like the sassy little old lady she was.
"You were hardly gone for thirty minutes, Sherlock. There was a bit of shuffling about upstairs after you had left, but it was completely silent the whole while you were gone. He's still up there, you're just getting rusty." With that, she tilted her chin up haughtily and walked away. Ignoring the old bat's attitude, Sherlock took a moment to process the information he was given. If John hadn't left and has been completely still in the twenty six minutes that Sherlock's been out, if John was not in their bedroom, his old bedroom, the kitchen, the loo, or the sitting room, the only option remains that he'd been abducted somehow without Mrs. Hudson hearing a thing. As old as the woman is, her hearing is much better than he and John agreeably would like it to be, so abduction is out of the question. Processing, processing, processing…
"I can't have…" Sherlock looked back up the stairs in the contemplation that he had made an error in the most basic of observation. Slowly, he makes his way back up the stairs. He walks to just before the bathroom doorway and pauses, giving it a quizzical look. He takes another step and gently pushes the door open with his knuckles, flipping on the light with his other hand. His gaze immediately falls to John sitting on the floor, arms folded over propped up knees, back against the wall, eyes straight ahead to the cabinet before him. Sherlock says nothing. John says nothing.
Several moments fleets by before the doctor finally sighs and pushes himself up, brushing himself off calmly. Sherlock notes as John avoids all contact on his way out that there is the lightest limp in his step.
Sherlock's blank expression falters slightly when he finally feels it. The guilt. Something completely foreign to him. A pain that doesn't actually physically hurt.
John won't touch him or talk to him, John won't even look at him, John's even going so far as to hide from him in plain sight.
And it hits him.
John blames Sherlock.
John blames Sherlock and John hates Sherlock.
And if John blames Sherlock and John hates Sherlock, then Sherlock blames Sherlock and Sherlock hates Sherlock.
Sherlock is the reason John is hurt. Sherlock is the reason John won't speak. Sherlock is the reason John is suffering. Sherlock's sole purpose is to protect John no matter what and Sherlock failed John.
And Sherlock is damaged goods. Breathe.
:
A good point was made that the 'kah' and 'gah' sound are produced in very similar ways, so if John cannot use K, C, Q, or X, then he should not be able to use G. This is all very true, but keep in mind, as I mentioned in the notes on the first chapter, this is all based off of the experience of a living human. This man absolutely could not produce the 'kah' sound for the life of him, 'gah' and 'ch' were, for some reason, not a problem for him what so ever. Also, as a side note, the only reason it's so difficult for John to relearn it all when it shouldn't be that much of a problem is because the brain is a very fragile, mysterious thing. The blunt of the force from the accident damaged the speech area of his brain and knocked a syllable completely out of existence, and as I will come full circle to in the next chapter, because of this brain trauma, he is also incapable of relearning the syllable at the normal rate, if at all. See, I never found out if the man was able to relearn it all, so honestly... John's future is my fuck toy and I intend to use it, lawllawllawllawlz.