Chapter Two:
It took him a full minute to remember that Sherlock was dead. Within those first sixty seconds, John pulled his covers back, sat up, rubbed his eyes vigorously, and tried to think if he had bought more of Sherlock's favourite coffee. By the time he remembered that there was nearly half a bag of the smoky grounds left unused on the top shelf of the leftmost cupboard, he had stopped caring because he had also remembered that there was no longer anyone left to drink it.
He peeled his shirt off, then his pants, and made his way slowly to the shower. His steps were deliberate but still awkward – he'd left the cane by the door, determined not to use it around the flat. He wasn't particularly surprised that he'd begun to require its assistance again, but he'd be damned before he used the thing to get from the sofa to the stove. Reaching into the shower to twist the handle, he pulled back quickly to avoid the icy jet that always proceeded the warm cascade. He moved his fingers back to the water tentatively, testing the temperature. The light, varied pressure formed a meaningless pattern against his fingertips, and he allowed himself to focus on it, shutting down his brain before it could find its way back to anything more than simple sensory reception.
By the time the pain registered in John's fingers, the now scalding water had begun to pool at the bottom of the tub. He stepped into the shower, gingerly introducing his shoulder to the increase in temperature. The heat seemed to intensify the ache, which had reappeared to plague him for the past eight mornings. He sighed, adjusting himself to expose as much of his body as he could to the water. The pressure, now evenly distributed, proved to be a much poorer distraction. John's mind shifted, he willed it to stay blank, but it was futile.
Sherlock.
One name, one word. It was all it took, but John knew by now that once he let himself think it, the excruciating reel of memories would play on repeat all throughout the day, and well into the night until he finally managed to keep his eyes shut for long enough to be overcome by the sheer exhaustion.
Sleep. Something happened – sleep, Sherlock. Angelo's. Stars.
Last night's dream came back in fragments, each vivid moment causing John to physically flinch. He kept his eyes pressed firmly shut, tilting his face up to towards the downpour, as if the spray might be able to drown the neurons that kept firing away, writing new pathways and sculpting new memories. He wanted to be left empty, utterly vacant – anything was better than the relentless playback, always Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock.
And now, new material to loop back through the torture circuits. The dream had been so detailed, so accurate, so happy. John paused, frowning at the empty bathroom. The whole 'dinner at Angelo's' bit had been common enough between them – it was the only restaurant that Sherlock would never be thrown out of no matter how many inappropriately timed deductions he spewed, and the delicious free food didn't hurt either. John supposed they'd always looked a bit coupley when they'd gone round, but the dream had had a certain quality to it that amounted to more than other people's insinuations. The dream itself had been, well, romantic.
John felt himself twist the water off violently as he jumped out of the shower. With a towel around his waist, he limped to the kitchen and threw the kettle on, glaring at it as he waited for it to boil. He was furious - at the kettle, at the lack of bloody milk, and most of all at Sherlock.
Romantic. As if the man was even genuinely thoughtful with any kind of frequency.
John shook his head, trying to clear the space between his ears. He wasn't entirely sure why the dream had gotten him so worked up – it wasn't as if he really objected to the idea. He was straight, so there was that, but he was also aware of Sherlock's ability to effortlessly rewrite all his rules, no matter how fundamental he considered them to be. The implication, though it had been suggested by John's subconsciously rendered version of Sherlock, was bothersome primarily because there was absolutely nothing John could do about any sort of feelings for his dead flatmate he might unearth now, and the idea of coping with a new and complicated twist was unbearable. As it was, he was averaging three and a half hours of sleep per night, his appetite had become downright Sherlock-esque, and every old army ache was back with a vengeance.
The high-pitched whine of the kettle broke his reverie, demanding his attention. He shuffled into the kitchen and flicked the stove off, then reached for the kettle. His shoulder screamed in protest as he extended his arm towards the far back burner and his teeth ground together in an angry grimace. His fingers finally closed around the kettle, but his shoulder quit as his arm was halfway back, and the kettle fell back to the stovetop with a resounding thud. John swore loudly, before picking the kettle back up with his right hand and shakily pouring himself a cuppa. With the tea clasped tightly in the same hand, he made his way laboriously over to Sherlock's chair, and sank down into the welcoming leather.
Fucking absurd. You're an army man; you invaded bloody Afghanistan but you can't even walk to the kitchen to make a proper cuppa without one limb or another giving out. Psychosomatic, that's what he'd say if he were here. You're a fucking doctor; it's what you should be saying. Buck up and stop gimping about, what good does it do anyone?
That, of course, was the problem. The limp and the shoulder were pointless, but Sherlock pitching himself off a roof had been even more pointless. Now Lestrade, Molly and Mrs. Hudson were constantly coming round at all hours, trying to coax him out of the flat and feed him. Mycroft was incessant with his ridiculous texts, of course John didn't need anything from him, what could he possibly have to offer? All of it – pointless. Afghanistan had stripped John of purpose, cut him to pieces and stuck him back together with his parts out of place and a huge hollow inside where he vaguely remembered something else. Sherlock had taken one look at the broken shell and seen something, God knows John had no idea what, but whatever he'd recognized had been John's cue to stay.
He hadn't realized he was coming back to life until he woke up one day and that was it, he was living. All his individual parts slowly readjusted themselves, migrating back to their original locations. Bits got stuck along the way, and even when he felt his best he knew there was a difference, knew he wasn't the same man that he'd been when he'd first left England. It was enough though, this new version, more than enough. The legs that carried him were strong; no need for a cane. Behind his tanned face was a mind that had handled unspeakable atrocities and come out tough, come out morally sound. John had been a new man after only a few months with Sherlock, and he'd be damned if he hadn't been a better one.
But then the Fall, the pointless, excruciating, stupid Fall, and John had found himself shattered into more pieces than he'd imagined possible. When he wasn't too busy remembering to breathe, and occasionally even to eat, each cruel emotion came crawling back, finding it's way under the covers and into the fridge and between the stacks of jumpers. The sadness was to be expected – that didn't make it any more bearable, but he wasn't surprised by it. The anger, too, was textbook, and sometimes John felt that it was as close too happy as he was ever going to come. The shame, though – that had been a surprise. Every time he stepped wrong, every pang from his shoulder served to remind him how well he'd done, how he'd been put back together, and how he'd become broken again so easily. He was a soldier, he'd fought to save countless people, seen the death of those he'd tried to save and witnessed the all-encompassing destruction of war, yet he had come out the other side. This was a single death, and he was fairly confident that the rest of his days would be spent coming to terms with it. John didn't doubt it for a second; that was something to be ashamed of.
The day went by discreetly – he felt the hours passing but wasn't entirely sure where they were going, or how. Mrs. Hudson came up at two to force some biscuits on him, which he ate obediently but barely kept down. Lestrade called at six asking if he'd like to go round to the pub, and he gave a pathetic excuse before hanging up. By ten o'clock John found himself back in Sherlock's chair – had he even gotten up? – and decided that he'd given consciousness an impressive sixteen hours and he was ready to quit for the day. He set his tea down, then turned his face back in towards the chair allowed himself a quick moment burrowed in the soft leather. He was fairly certain leather didn't retain scent particularly well, and besides, it wasn't as if he wanted to smell Sherlock or anything. The thought reminded him of his dream, obnoxiously pointing out that maybe that wasn't so true after all. John grumbled wordlessly into the chair, trying to supress the smile that was threatening to cross his face at the thought of smelling Sherlock. Ridiculous, absurd, totally out of line, thought John was fairly certain Sherlock's face would have been priceless if he'd had ever tried such a thing.
Maybe he'd dream about it.
As John lay awake that night, eyes stubbornly refusing to stay closed, he found himself desperate for sleep. Not the usual oblivion, though anything was a welcome respite from the hellish mental circus that his days had become. No, this time he was almost hoping for a little more action.