Disclaimer: I don't own it, just the plot bunny
SORRY about the kerfuffle over chapter updates, I have no idea what's going on, hopefully fanfiction will get itself together soon lol… Felt awful about all the messages saying the alerts weren't working!
Thanks for reviewing, and for the constructive criticism and general enthusiasm this story has been received with. I do welcome any tips you might want to offer :)
Also, special mention to LunarBlade Valentine who drew an awesome image for this fanfic, you can find it on deviantart under the same name - lunarblade. Name of the drawing is 'Tears of the Violinist'. Check it out :)
Warning: includes whump, violence, blood, some violence, and no slash
"Sherlock? God, Sherlock, please, say something..."
John could hear his own voice shaking wildly as he tightened his grip on the detective. Sherlock's head lolled lifelessly against his arm, and John could feel the heat radiating off him through his shirt. An unhealthy splash of color had flushed his cheeks and sweat had soaked his fringe through... but if John didn't know better, he would say that there was a wetness on Sherlock's face that suggested tears. Except, Sherlock never cried, so that was impossible. His breath was too loud, rasping through his lips, taking far too much effort to drag in and out. John placed a hand on his face, grimacing at the burning skin, and propped one eye open with his thumb. The whites of Sherlock's eyes flickered blindly under his touch. John's stomach flipped over and he felt his heart thundering in his throat - he fumbled for his flatmate's pulse and had to force himself to stop trembling before he could feel the weak, thready thump under the skin. He pushed Sherlock's damp hair back, his mind strangely blank. Every instinct was screaming something different, his mind panicking. In the depths of Afghanistan, working under heavy fire, John had one clear task in mind - get the soldiers away from the conflict, get them calm, get them treated, get them back to base. But here... now... his brain wouldn't work.
"Sherlock," he said again, nudging the other man slightly. "Sherlock, come on, don't do this..."
His eyes moved downwards, saw with a jolt the blood staining the arm of his dressing gown. He lurched forwards, scrabbling to pull the sleeve back, his mind filled with horrific images of razor blades... but instead, he found himself examining a long, fine, slightly curved slit travelling across the palm of Sherlock's right hand. He spread the curled fingers, trying to see through the thick blood crawling from the wound. His mind was a blank, until he caught a glimpse of part of the broken violin out of the corner of his eye. He imagined the tiny, silver e string springing violently apart from the violin, whipping across Sherlock's tearing, destructive hands. A definite possibility, and a far more preferable one to the dreaded phrase 'self harm'. But no, Sherlock would never be so ridiculously predictable and dramatic... Although considering their current situation... John lifted his head, mentally kicking himself, knowing he had to act at once if he didn't want things to get worse.
"Mrs Hudson!" He rose to his feet, bellowing at the top of his lungs. "Mrs Hudson! Mrs Hudson!"
There was no reply. He remembered the thick silence he had encountered upon his arrival - Mrs. Hudson must indeed be out for one reason or another. Realizing he was going to have to handle this on his own, he bent down and tapped Sherlock's cheek gently.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?"
Sherlock's face remained lax. Giving up, John gathered his strength and awkwardly took hold of the detective under his arms, lifting him upwards and heaving him towards the sofa. Sherlock's weight dragged him down; he barely made it to the sofa before his hands began to slip. There was no chance of getting him to a bedroom. He managed to lay the limp body down on the sofa, pulling a pillow behind his head. He dashed across the room, searching for his first aid kit he had left somewhere near his armchair, and, punching on the corner lamp, discovered it on the floor beside the fireplace. Scooping it up, he returned to the sofa and perched on the edge of it, hurriedly unbuttoned the damp nightshirt, pushing it aside. He saw blood spotting through the bandages and suppressed a groan of despair. Snatching up a pair of scissors, he began to cut through the untidy bandages over the shoulder wound and peel them away as quickly and gently as he could. They came free reluctantly, fused to the skin with dried blood in some areas, and John winced as they eventually pulled away.
It was the first time he had seen the stab wound properly, and the sight of it made him feel sick. It was a messy, torn job, as if Moriarty had twisted the blade - letter opener, Sherlock had said - around before dragging it out. The wound wept yellowish fluid and watery blood, the edges of it ragged and vibrantly inflamed. His shoulder was swollen too. John forced himself to take a steadying breath, reminded himself that he was a doctor, for god's sake, he was supposed to be used to this sort of thing. It was just that, when 'this sort of thing' was applied to Sherlock, things became more complicated... but Sherlock didn't have time for him to dither over his emotions.
John made his way into the kitchen and put the kettle on, then began rooting around in the cupboard for a bowl and clean tea towel. It took him a long time - although he did more domestic work than his flatmate, Mrs. Hudson was the one who usually supplied him with the means to do it. As he managed to root out a small tin dish and turned towards the table, he caught sight of a small note lying there. He blinked at it in confusion - how long had that been there? Had it been there that morning? Could he have been so distracted that he hadn't even noticed it? The kettle was beginning to boil, and his wild eyes couldn't take in the words. Deciding to come back to it later, he grabbed the kettle and half-filled the bowl before finally discovering a tea towel in the cupboard under the sink and dashing back over to Sherlock, who hadn't stirred. Telling himself that it was simply exhaustion coupled with a nasty infection, John returned to his seat on the edge of the sofa and wet the tea towel through, then pressed it against Sherlock's shoulder. The pressure earned him a small moan, and Sherlock's skin twitched beneath his touch.
He washed the wound out three times, desperate to be completely thorough, before he set the dish down and reached for the first aid kit, pawing through it for his little bottle of iodine. He dabbed the solution gingerly over the whole area, and Sherlock let out a hiss of pain. John glanced up to find his eyes open a crack, glazed and barely focusing.
"Hey," he said softly, stopping his hands, ready to back away should his patient panic. "You alright? Just fixing up the mess you made, might hurt a bit. "
Sherlock's eyebrows pulled together, and for a second John thought he was going to push him away, but then his eyes slid shut again and his chest lifted in a heavy sigh. Surprised but certainly not complaining, John finished applying the iodine and, trying to move Sherlock as little as possible, wrapped a fresh bandage over the would as carefully as he could. He glanced at his watch, deciding to check on it in a couple of hours - he didn't want to think about what would happen if he let the infection get any worse. He wiped the dried blood away from the area with some of the lukewarm water left over, and then went over the graze on his ribs for good measure. It didn't look infected, but John was taking no chances. He then turned to the cut hand, which was now trailing on the ground, and carefully took it in both of his own. It had stopped bleeding, and he could see that it wasn't too deep, no real concern… just in an awkward place. Sherlock wouldn't be playing for a few days. Not that he would have anything to play with… Shrugging the thoughts away, he pressed the wet tea towel over the bloody palm and then smoothed a large, padded plaster over the cut before laying Sherlock's hand down by his side.
Finally done with his work, he placed the first aid kit on the floor and then strode back into the kitchen, emptied the dirty water away, left the tea towel in the sink. He filled the dish again, this time with cold water, and retrieved another tea towel from the cupboard. He hesitated, and then hurried out of the kitchen and into Sherlock's room, punching on the light switch. He found the antibiotics from the hospital under Sherlock's bed, untouched, sealed. Scowling, he snatched them up and returned to the kitchen, took up the dish and returned to the sofa.
"Okay, Sherlock," he said, sitting down once more. "This is your own fault, you know? Being a genius, you should know that when a hospital gives you antibiotics, you take them, you don't throw a temper tantrum and chuck them in the bin."
He balanced the box of pills on his knee. He felt surrounded by medical equipment, back in the medical tent in Afghanistan - first aid kit at his feet, dish and cloth in his hand, antiseptic in his pocket... all he needed was a stethoscope around his neck and he'd be back at work. Carefully, using slow, gentle dabs for fear of aggravating the head wound, he began to clear the sweat off Sherlock's face.
"So unnecessary, all of this," he muttered, pushing the wet hair back from his flatmate's burning forehead. "Just you, hmm? You can't ever do stuff the easy way. It always has to be... I don't know."
He ran a wet hand through the mop of curly hair, trying to tame it, and then gave up as it simply sprang back into place. Sherlock's eyes remained closed, veins forming a delicate web beneath the lids, lips parted as if he was about to speak. John immersed the tea towel in water, wrung it out, then folded it into a rough strip and laid it across his flatmate's brow, giving up on his task to move his unruly hair out of the way.
"It's just attention seeking, you know," he threw over his shoulder as he crossed the room and caught up a blanket from the window seat. He returned with it, spread it over Sherlock's motionless form. The detective's breathing had eased slightly, no longer as loud or as laboured. John checked his pulse again before placing his injured hand on his chest and trekking across the room once more.
"Showing off," he added with a grunt, gripping his own armchair and heaving it with some difficulty over to the sofa. The rug on the floor caught under its legs and he muttered a curse. "God's sake… Showing off, that's all it is… come on… You just couldn't stand that you were starting to get better, right? Needed to draw out the drama a little longer?"
He finally made it back to the sofa for the final time and dropped into his armchair, positioned directly beside the sofa facing Sherlock, close enough to check the shoulder wound after an hour had passed. He slouched down in the chair, massaged his aching eyes, imagined how nice it would be to just fall asleep. Maybe he should make some coffee.
"Mrs. Hudson will throw a fit when she gets home," he observed, smirking dully. "Blood-stained towels in the sink, mess in the living room, wood chips in the carpet. She won't like it, not one bit."
He paused. The room seemed very dark. The lamp in the corner, although it had illuminated his work well enough, now seemed nothing more than a dim glow across the room. The orange glare of streetlamps tumbled through the window, catching on Sherlock's hair. John closed his eyes for a few moments, heaving a sigh. Silence stretched across the flat like some great dark hand, broken only by Sherlock's quiet breathing. John suddenly found himself longing for the dulcet, sweeping voice of the detective's violin, and realized with a strange swell of grief that he wouldn't be hearing that noise for quite some time, if ever again at all. To his surprise he felt a lump rising in his throat, and hurriedly opened his eyes, trying to distract himself from the thought. And, with a cry of shock, found two pale green eyes staring back at him.
He didn't speak at first, gripping his armchair tightly. He wasn't exactly sure what he was afraid of. Was he expecting Sherlock to suddenly leap up, accuse him of being a back-stabbing, disgusting human being, and order him out of the flat? Perhaps not. The detective's cool, clinical stare pierced straight through John's skin, rifled casually through every thought that skated across his mind, and then withdrew with a slow blink. John wet his lips, but it was Sherlock's voice that crossed the void first.
"You stopped talking."
John's eyebrows jumped. "I thought you were uncon… asleep."
Another slow, heavy blink. "I went to my mind palace."
"Oh."
John wasn't sure what Sherlock was expecting, or what to expect from him for that matter. Sherlock's eyes closed for a few seconds, and then moved hesitantly across the ceiling. John could almost see him establishing where he was, what had happened, exactly how much time had passed since he had last been awake. But his gaze seemed slightly clouded, as if the cogs were turning slower, the calculations stuttering. John was about to speak when there was a loud clatter from outside. John started; Sherlock nearly leaped out of his skin, scrambling upright, his breath catching in his throat. John lurched forwards, pushing the other man back down as he grimaced in pain.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, just take it easy, you," he said, fixing Sherlock with a rebuking stare. "You're supposed to be recovering. Wait there, got it?"
Sherlock was gripping the sofa tightly, his jaw clenched, his wide eyes riveted on John's face. John pretended not to notice his fear, and held his head high as he crossed to the window and pushed the curtains aside. He watched as a drunk stumbled into another set of bins, sending them flying, and then swayed around the corner and out of sight. Relieved, John pulled the curtains closed and returned to his arm chair.
"It's nothing," he said. "All fine."
Sherlock looked at him for a while longer, as if trying to pick John's words apart, scanning each letter for a lie. Then, slowly, he eased himself back down and pinched the bridge of his nose with a shaking hand. John watched him, reaching for the box of antibiotics at his feet.
"How was the mind palace?" he asked, lightly.
"Very dark. The lights weren't working." Sherlock's voice was flat, devoid of emotion, but John could hear a soft tremor beneath his tone, barely noticeable. John rested his elbows on his knees, holding the box between his index fingers, trying to think of a good way to say 'I'm not trying to drug you again, but…' Before he could get the words out, Sherlock drove the heels of his hands into his eyes and let out a strangled, twisted sound that tore at John's heart.
"Sherlock?"
"Will you just talk, damn it?" Sherlock hissed, still clutching his head. "I can't… He's always there, right there, I just need you to… to…"
John could see the trembling start in his arms, see his shoulders jolt as his breath hitched, see every muscle begin to tense up. He hastily shifted forwards and took hold of Sherlock's arms, squeezing him gently, his voice loud enough to break through the mumbling but quiet enough to ensure calm.
"Sherlock, it's fine, okay? It's fine, I promise. I'm right here, there's no one else, there's just us. Just calm down-"
"I – can't," Sherlock snarled, his eyes flying open and fixing on John's face. There was an edge of wildness in them, the beginnings of hysteria in a self-proclaimed sociopath. John met his terrified stare and held it, maintaining physical contact, remaining calm.
"Yes, you can," he said steadily. "You're having a panic attack, Sherlock. Just like earlier, you remember? But it's just your body, just those chemical reactions ticking away, and you can stop them. Just take some deep breaths, hmm?"
Sherlock shook his head, but lowered his hands. He tried to breathe in but the effort caught in his throat and his face turned pale with panic. John folded his hands over Sherlock's, forcing the other man to look at him once more.
"With me, Sherlock, breathe with me. In – and out. Yeah? In – and out. That's it, that's good."
Sherlock held his gaze like a lifeline, his wiry fingers clenching beneath John's. Gradually, minute by minute, his body began to relax and his breathing even, the blood began to return to his face. John fluffed the pillow up, guided him to sit back. Sherlock struggled to suppress a groan and John cast a glance at the vibrant bruising still covering his side - all that movement couldn't be helping his broken ribs.
"Really good," he said again, squeezing Sherlock's hand one last time before letting go and attending to the rumpled blanket. "You've got it. You've got this. You don't have to be embarrassed, it's perfectly natural, perfectly logical."
Sherlock jerked his head in a small nod, formed a steeple with his fingers. John excused himself to get a glass of water, giving Sherlock a couple of minutes as he did so to compose himself. He was careful to whistle softly as he put the tin dish away, tided the abandoned tea towel, filled the glass up. He kept his ears pricked for disturbances, but when he returned Sherlock was still quiet. John picked up the antibiotics once more, waited for Sherlock to notice them before speaking.
"Sherlock, listen… earlier, I was… I'm so sorry, you can't imagine how sorry. But you need to take these now, or you're going to feel worse. I promise that they're fine, they're just antibiotics, there's nothing-"
He broke off as Sherlock took the water from him, held out a trembling hand for the pills. John blinked in surprise, and then quickly popped out two of the pills and handed them over, watching in disbelief as Sherlock washed them down.
"It's alright," Sherlock said at last, his voice quiet again. "You were trying to help."
John sat down before he fainted – not only had Sherlock just done as he'd asked, he'd even come closer to an apology than John had ever known him to. They sat in silence for a few minutes, Sherlock staring into space, his mouth a firm line.
"Feeling any better?" John asked.
They both knew he wasn't talking about the fever. Sherlock swallowed hard and said nothing, holding the glass so tightly that John wondered if he was trying to break it. Somewhere downstairs, Mrs. Hudson's grandfather clock chimed faintly. John was too tired, too absorbed in Sherlock, to even count the bells. It was very, very late, he knew that much. Sherlock was pressing his lips together.
"When I got back, I mean, with Afghanistan, with me, it was easier once I started talking about it," John offered. "I mean, not saying it'll make it all better, and if you don't want to that's fine too. Just… you know, if you feel… well, I'm not going anywhere. Basically."
He felt stupid saying something like that to Sherlock Holmes of all people – Sherlock, who talked only to spout a witty come back or to flippantly uncover someone's life history. And yet now, after everything that had happened, everything that was still to come, something of Sherlock's armour seemed to crumble before John's very eyes. It wasn't much; the way his mouth opened but spoke no words, the way his eyes blinked rapidly, the way he suddenly didn't know what to do with his hands. But it was enough. And just when the silence had lingered for long enough for John to give up, just when he was about to order Sherlock to simply get some sleep, Sherlock took a breath and spoke in a hoarse, halting voice.
"That… It was how… How they got me. In the coffee. Something in the coffee. Put it in when I was watching the one across the street… Reckon they'd got him to… Distract me, or… And then when I left I just couldn't…" He made an ambiguous gesture with the flat of his hand. "I couldn't… And next second, in the car, big black car, and there was…" Another gesture, sweeping inwards this time. "Chloroform."
John felt a wave of guilt rush through his chest. No wonder Sherlock had panicked earlier. He had mirrored Sherlock's kidnappers perfectly. He opened his mouth to apologise, to never stop apologising until he ran out of breath, but Sherlock wasn't listening. His eyes were distant.
"Woke up around two hours later, going by the light. Inside, in a disused office belonging to a woodchips factory, long since closed down, I guessed Northbank from the smell. Couldn't be sure though, I was still… foggy. I was alone. Hands tied with a jamming knot, professional job too, because I couldn't get free. I tried but…"
He came to an abrupt halt. John couldn't believe he'd even got this far – Sherlock wasn't the caring and sharing type. He didn't dare push him for more, especially now, while he was in this state. John shifted forwards a little, reaching for the glass.
"It's alright, Sherlock, we don't have to do this now. We can wait until-"
But Sherlock shook his head, running his tongue across his lips, fingers flexing. His hands were shaking. John hesitated, uncertain as to whether he should force Sherlock to get some rest, or just let him get it all out now. The whole business would have to be done again with Lestrade eventually.
"I couldn't get free," Sherlock said suddenly, his words hard. "Twenty three minutes passed. There was a camera in the corner. I waited. There was a letter opener on the desk, silver, expensive, glamorous. But the previous owner had left it behind, along with several files and other items, despite the fact that the office had clearly been abandoned for some time. So the occupant had been evicted suddenly, possibly publically. I thought I could kick the letter opener off the desk, maybe get hold of it, cut myself free. But then…"
He stopped again, lost in the image. John sat beside him, waiting, debating whether Sherlock would appreciate some kind of sedative, but he quickly dismissed the idea. He cleared his throat.
"Then…?"
Sherlock frowned slightly. "Then he came in," he said simply.
John could almost see him, clad in that immaculate suit, framed in the doorway. He could feel cords cutting into his wrists, smell the sawdust thick and dry in the air. Dry in his throat. He could even believe, for one second, that he could feel Sherlock's cool, calculating mind slowly processing Moriarty's curved smile, bright eyes. He could feel the long limbs, coat gone – in a corner, in fact, thrown to the floor. He didn't like that. They could have hung it up at least, Moriarty should know better, should appreciate how hard it was to get dirt out of a coat like that. The tall, thin, leering man stepped into the room, pushed one hand deep into his pocket, cocked his head to one side.
"Sherlock's burning, Sherlock's burning, fetch the engines, fetch the engines, fire, fire! Fire, fire!"
Moriarty's fingers pulled the top button of Sherlock's shirt open. The grin grew wide.
"Pour on water, pour on water…
You never did call me back, you tease."
Nasty cliffhanger, I know… Angsty Sherlock is hard to write... Hope you enjoyed it.
Plus... flashback on the way in the next chapter, as is obvious :) Will include lots of violence probably, so if you don't like that kind of thing I'd advise skipping the next update.
Reviews are welcome, thanks for reading.
SUPRNTRAL LVR.