BROWNIE POINTS TO EVERYONE! Wow, you people are spectacular, you really are :)
Yes, Hardwicke was named after Edward Hardwicke, who played Watson in the fabulous Granada series. I feel the need to point out that the two characters share name only. If I call him 'fat' or 'stupid' it's Dr Hardwicke, and I mean no disrespect to Mr Hardwicke.
Just needed to be said :)
Oh, I recently bought a copy of 'A Study in Emerald' by Neil Gaiman, I wholeheartedly recommend it! Sherlock Holmes meets Lovecraftian horror with a real golden twist at the end :D
...
This was annoying. He kept floating in and out of darkness, only to be met with a slightly noisier darkness. It was like tuning in and out of a radio, with snatches of sound which sounded a lot like speech. Every now and again the high pitched bleeping cut through the silence, but then the voice would return. Faint odours wafted about; clean and sterile. Sometimes he could detect a faint smokiness when the voice was near but found he couldn't quite place it. He began to try and piece things together when he could think clearly.
My name is John...John Watson. I can pretty much recall everything up until I reach the blank spot. Not surprisingly...ow, this hurts.
You need to wake up now John.
Oh not this again. I can't okay!
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't obey the voice, however much he wanted to. He struggled to lift his eyelids, but nothing he did could make him move. He felt useless, trapped in his own enclosed form. He dearly wanted to do what the voice told him, every time he heard the command, the request, the begging...
Please, open your eyes for me.
...
'You really are worried about him aren't you?'
Sherlock glanced up blearily to see Anderson leaning against the doorframe, arms folded. The ususal sneer was gone, but Sherlock could still see immense dislike gleaming in the shrewd eyes.
'Friends and family only in here Anderson, go away.'
'I'm not in the room,' Anderson countered, raising his eyebrows slightly, 'Therefore I can stay here.'
Sherlock rolled his eyes and swivelled round in his chair as to get a better view of Anderson.
'What do you want?'
'Hang on, I thought sociopaths didn't have friends.' Anderson cut in, rubbing his forefinger along his jawline in contemplation. 'A normal person hanging around their mate's bedside I'd understand, but I thought Freak's didn't care.'
Sherlock glared daggers at him. All these bloody emotions, they were making his brain completely illogical, this wasn't the normal cold dislike, it was red, hot and angry.
'How's the wife?' Sherlock asked nastily, relishing in some small sadistic pleasure as Anderson shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably.
'Listen, I'm not gonna get into this with you. Not now.' Anderson murmured and cast a brief, pity filled glance at John on the bed. 'Back to my original question Freak, you're really worried aren't you?'
Sherlock said nothing, and Anderson's face twisted into a wry smile. 'See? You're just as fucked up as the rest of us.'
The voice was all wrong. It sounded...sad.
Sherlock flared his nostrils and returned to his first posistion, sat rigidly in the chair. The desire to throw something large and heavy was nearly overwhelming. Since the only thing remotely handy was the bedside cabinet (which was inconvieniently too large to hold) he curled his hands into tight fists in his lap. So what if he cared for John? What did it matter to him what Anderson thought about him? The man at the door seemed to take his silence as a concrete answer, silently Anderson changed his stance and tossed something at Sherlock from one hand.
'Here.' He said simply.
Years of playing cricket with Mycroft had helped refine Sherlock's reflexes. Even so, he had to lean forward slightly to catch the object with one hand. He could feel something spiky poking his palm.
'I found it on the street outside,' Anderson mumbled, 'I think some kid probably dropped it.'
Sherlock opened his hand, revealing the small object.
It was a small soilder, made of dark green plastic. The minature man was crouched on one knee, pointing a gun forwards. Scratches around the oval base indicated that it had probably been on the street a while before Anderson found it. His mind flitted through a storm of questions; Why did Anderson pick it up? Why did he give it to Sherlock? What was this supposed to mean? Was it some kind of sick joke about John's military history?
Sherlock lifted his gaze to the man in the doorway, suspicion clouding his expression. His brow furrowed, silently demanding an explaination. Anderson blinked and cleared his throat uncomfortably.
'I-I just thought he'd like it. Sort of a good luck charm...thing.' He stammered lamely whilst thrusting his hand into his trouser pockets.
Sherlock frowned again, incomprehension about sentimentality radiating off of him like a cloud. He wasn't sure what Anderson's reason was, it was only a lump of plastic. Nevertheless, he placed it on the bedside cabinet, positioning it so the soldier was facing the door. It looked like a tiny green bodyguard, keeping the monsters at bay.
The two men looked at each other, Sherlock was about to let out a reluctant 'thank you' but Anderson got there first.
'Hey now don't get all soppy. This doesn't make us friends.' he said, a ghost of the old sneer returning. Sherlock felt his mouth pull into a tight-lipped smile and he gave a short nod.
Anderson's sneer vanished for a split second whilst he glanced back at John, the turned and let them be.
...
Why hasn't he woken up yet?
Be patient, he'll come out of it in his own time.
You told me that if I talked to him he'd hear me.
Every person's different sweetie-
I told you not to call me that.
Sorry Sir, but there's nothing we can do, he'll come round when he's ready.
He listened to the conversation, concentrating on every word, every syllable. The deep soothing voice was back, but it had a bite of worry in it. The other voice was a light, warm tone, a woman's probably. He didn't recognise the woman's voice but the male's was irritatingly familiar. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't place it.
It wasn't until the sound changed that he realised he'd been out again. There was no new voices this time, just the heart monitor's incessant beeping.
After a while, he heard a faint mumbling which faded into soft breathing, and was 75% sure it wasn't his own. It was a heartbreaking sound, full of isolation and concern.
There was a silence, then another whisper, slightly louder than the rest, giving the impression that the speaker was closer than before.
The world's not ready to give you up just yet. Come back to me John.
Oh God he wished he could. If he could, he'd wake up, tell the voice everything was fine, it's all fine...it's all fine...
A newer voice cut in softly. Sherlock?
Sherlock! That was him! The voice, the tall, thin maniac who dragged him all over London to catch the bad-guy. The completely insufferable genius who could just as easily murder a violin just as he could coax a sonata from it. He held onto the revelation as he felt heavy once more. No, he couldn't fall asleep again, not now, not when Sherlock was waiting for him. He tried to call out, he tried to open his eyes, to move his hands, do something.
The noises distorted and faded. Bollocks.
...
Ever since John and Sherlock shacked up together, Lestrade noted, trips to the hospital were occuring with a frightening regularity. It seemed about every three or four cases where one of them needed some sort of medical attention. He shuffled his way down the corridor, having asked directions to John's room. It wasn't often Lestrade had called in at Baker Street and Sherlock Holmes not been there. He'd also tried some of his haunts (the pathology lab for starters) until he'd almost smacked himself on the forehead for not realising sooner than there was no other place he would be. The hospital seemed dead set on making it difficult, Lestrade was convinced the labyrinthine hallways had rearranged themselves once his back was turned. It had taken him twenty minuets to find the right ward for Christ's sake.
However, find it he did. He paced nervously along, peering in different rooms for anybody familiar.
About seven rooms along he saw them. A sandy haired man lying battered and bruised -Oh God his eye- on a clinical bed, fed through and IV line and attached to a bulky heart monitor. Maybe it was the machines, the bandages and the plaster casts around him, but the man looked smaller somehow, the military air had gone, it was a shell, sleeping the time away.
Lestrade shook his head and focused his attention on the other, dark curls falling into intent eyes. Lestrade wondered at Sherlock's ability to look suave and elegant whilst obviously sleep deprived and looking like hell. Lestrade noticed Sherlock seemed to be talking, almost as if by default. Now, Lestrade wasn't exactly an idiot, so it didn't take a Sherlockian thought process to clearly see he was speaking to John. Lestrade had no knack for lipreading, therefore couldn't make out the words. There was, however, a sheen in the tall man's eyes Lestrade couldn't place. It was a strange intensity, like he was trying to singe a hole in the bedsheets. It wasn't anger, or fear or any kind of emotion Lestrade could easily recognise, he wasn't sure if it was any kind of emotion normal human's had.
Lestrade was reluctant to open the door, and hestitated by the window. So intense was Sherlock's concentration on John that Lestrade felt he was intruding by just being in the same building as them.
Sherlock's head suddenly bent a lot closer to John's. Lestrade watched as the consulting detective's mouth hover mere inches from John's ear. The younger man whispered something to the unconsious one. The moment seemed so innocently intimate that Lestrade cleared his throat and averted his eyes for a second, but he couldn't wait for Sherlock to finish whispering sweet nothings or whatever. He needed to talk to him.
Softly knocking on the door he entered, 'Sherlock?'
Sherlock's reaction was instant. In one swift movement he withdrew from John's bed, unfolded himself from the chair he was sat in and stood up. Lestrade couldn't help but be impressed, he'd have tripped over his own feet, but Sherlock made it look so goddamn easy.
'Lestrade.' Sherlock nodded, the skin over his cheekbones and the tips of his ears the palest pink-was he blushing?
'Did you manage to find any of them?' Sherlock asked, straightening his collar. Lestrade cleared his throat and rubbed his Adam's apple.
'No, they were gone long before we could find any trace of them.' he confessed, avoiding Sherlock's eyes, instead, he looked at the man on the bed, 'How is he?'
Sherlock turned away, 'He'll live but I don't understand why he's not awake.' he pouted. Despite himself Lestrade hid a smile, Sherlock could be such a dimwit at times.
'Yeah well, these things take time Sherlock.' He offered, walking around so he was stood the other side of the bed, facing the pale man. Sherlock frowned at him.
'He's a soldier. He never sleeps in later than 8 o'clock. He's always ready for action, why isn't he ready now?'
Lestrade supressed the urge to roll his eyes, it was a rather admirable effort he felt. How the hell was he supposed to explain to a genius that sometimes you just had to wait. Although to see the arrogant man a little unsettled was the teensiest bit satisfying. But at the same time he felt a twinge of pity for the consulting detective, watching him fret over something.
'Sherlock I need you to go home.' Lestrade said bluntly, no point beating about the bush and all that.
Sherlock looked up at him sharply, 'What? Why?'
Lestrade met his eyes 'Because not even you are unlimited. You need sleep, food and a shower because, quite frankly mate, I can smell you from here.'
After a few owlish blink Sherlock's glare became a dry smile, then became an expression of worry once again.
'I can't' he spluttered, 'I-I don't want...'
I don't want him to wake up alone.
The unspoken confession lingered in the air between them. Lestrade took a few deep breaths and shrugged off his jacket.
'Any developments and I'll call you first.' He offered, seeing Sherlock's nod as permission he dragged up another chair and was about to sit in it when he hesitated.
'When you're ready to come back, bring some stuff.'
Sherlock peered at him through eyes that somehow happened to be bleary yet penetrating at the same time. This time, Lestrade really did roll his eyes.
'Clothes, books, you know, stuff he likes. Something to keep yourself occupied as well. And stop worrying, I know what it's like to be concerned over loved ones.'
The throwaway comment had an unexpected physical effect on Sherlock, who stiffened and widened his eyes quite comically. His mouth parted and he gaped at Lestrade, who fought valiantly to keep his laughter in check.
'How did you-'
'Please Sherlock I'm not blind!' Lesrade snapped, instantly knowing he'd gone too far. Sherlock winced at the word 'blind' and his eyes darted back to John's mutilated face. Lestrade let his expression soften.
'He's still got one, see? This is why we're born with two, just in case we have mishaps.' It was a sign of his respect that Lestrade tried to inject a little humour into the situation, hoping he managed to convey that he considered both of them as friends. Sherlock lowered his gaze and thrust his hands into his pockets, slowly, almost shyly, he looked at Lestrade. His cheekbones and the tips of his ears were a deeper pink than before, he was definitely blushing.
'Does anyone else suspect?'
'Oh Donovan and Anderson have a bet going on, but no, I don't think so.'
'What kind of bet?'
Lestrade chuckled, 'Donovan thinks you'll be a couple within a year. Anderson thinks you're already together though.'
Sherlock smiled 'Oh really? How did he deduce that?'
'Well, his reasoning was, and I quote: How can two people be that close, bicker that much and NOT be shagging behind closed doors?'
For the first time in quite a while, Sherlock snickered. Lestrade felt his own mouth twitch into a laugh, for a while both of the did nothing except grin at each other like schoolboys sharing a dirty joke. Minuets later the smirking died down, replaced an awkward silence. John made no response to the noise above him, and for a second both men looked at him sadly.
'Oh God I hope he didn't hear that.' Sherlock said, blushing again. Lestrade cleared his throat and finally sank into the hospital chair.
'Go home Sherlock.' He repeated. Sherlock nodded and, for once in his life, obeyed without so much as a glare. Hovering in the door way he turned to Lestrade.
'Thanks for this Lestrade.' He said, Lestrade chewed his lip and sighed.
'Sherlock, it's been nearly six years. You can call me by birth name you know.'
Sherlock stared at him for a long time, a void of silence broken only by the heart monitor.
'Thank you. Greg.' He muttered, and left.
Lestrade watched the tall figure sweep off down the hall, a small worry for Sherlock's health nagging at the back of his mind. Switching his attention back to John he sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose.
'Listen John mate, you gotta wake up soon, you're breaking his heart. Can you hear me in there you lazy bastard? You're gonna be the death of him.'
He smiled softly, at no-one in particular. Somewhere in his mind he heard a quote from some old literature he studied at school, William Shakespeare probably:
The course of true love ne'er did run smooth.
Lestrade chuckled. Way to go Bill.
...
Sorry for the long wait, had to compile my portfolio...no mean feat I can tell ya.
Apologies for the really stupid Shakespeare thing, I just wanted to say 'Way to go Bill' in SOMETHING I write :3
Next chapter: Sherlock weighs the pros and cons of 'Wuthering Heights', and John becomes a tad confused.
See ya next time :) x