As always: thank you.
Light
The next day, Sherlock began to make small movements. It started with a twitching finger, a frown, an arm flexing and extending to the side. Soon, the movements were more frequent and less erratic, then almost fluent until he hardly ever held still at all.
He became agitated when nurses and doctors touched him, rolling away, kicking and lashing out. It was the first time he showed intense and deliberate activity after the episode with the bed bath, and he seemed just as unhappy about being touched as he had back then. The doctors considered restraining him, afraid he might hurt himself, but John forbade it, only putting up the side rails to prevent Sherlock from falling out of bed.
John was thrilled but did not show it, knowing it was too early to get his hopes up. He noted, however, that Sherlock never flinched away from him and certainly never lashed out at him, but John did not dare to touch him, afraid he might perceive the sensation as pain, which was not uncommon at this stage of the coma.
Mycroft came in and stared at his brother. However, he did not even address Sherlock, bluntly refusing Nurse June's request to talk to him. "What makes you think he will listen to me when he's never done so in his entire life?"
Sherlock's eyes opened for a few minutes, but he seemed to be unable to see anything – he neither reacted to light nor to commands. John instantly worried about blindness but kept his mouth shut. No point in worrying big brother.
But Mycroft took him aside before leaving, his brows drawn together in a deep frown. "John, is he blind? If so, why?"
For the first time, John heard naked fear in Mycroft's voice. He couldn't alleviate it, not entirely. "It's too early for a prognosis," he said calmly. "Unfortunately, with a comatose patient there's always the danger of the eyes getting damaged – they are extremely sensitive. Eye care is very important and we've done everything we can, but there are no guarantees – lack of oxygen is the biggest problem. But, Mycroft, it's not definitive yet."
"Lack of oxygen," Mycroft repeated. "As in cardiac arrest."
"We have to wait," John just said.
A few hours later, Sherlock did indeed react to light – or rather, he lashed out at the doctor who shone a pen light in his eyes, sending the instrument flying.
John rejoiced; the doctor scowled. Nurse June grinned behind his back.
Sherlock frowned, rolling his head from side to side, and finally, after hours of just moving his lips, he uttered a sound. A sound, that bore a striking resemblance to John.
John admitted it might have been nothing more than a very vocal sigh, but he cooed over Sherlock, exhilarated; the nurses smiled at him, but rolled their eyes at Sherlock, since their patient quickly became surprisingly accurate in his movements, using his new ability exclusively to obstruct their work.
When John took out the phone and began reading aloud, Sherlock stopped moving. It was impossible to say whether he listened or had simply fallen asleep. Despite his uncertainty about what effect the revelations in the diary might have on Sherlock, John continued. He knew Sherlock needed facts desperately, regardless of what they might reveal.
And fact was: Sherlock had spiralled downwards in Russia while trying to obtain information on the Russian businessman. John's heart clenced at the words.
John,
I'm in a truly black mood. I'd love to say I'm boooored, but the problem is more severe. I'm failing at everything, I'm no closer to going home despite having eliminated a number of Moriarty's henchmen, and I can feel my mind sinking deeper and deeper into depression. I don't want you to see me, therefore no picture. I have a beard, can't wash regularly, and my clothes are not worth the name. My hair is hidden under a cap plus a hood. It's greasy. Ugh.
I'm stuck in a mouldy high-rise flat the size of a rat cage and smelling like one, too, with no proper heating; prostitutes are prowling the street, wearing shabby fur coats and impossibly short skirts with insanely high heels at freezing temperatures, putting on display all you never wanted to see. The noise of the drunks' quarrelling echoes all the way up here, and every night they find at least one homeless frozen to death in the cold.
There are old people, perfectly normal people who worked all their life, victims of this new era of capitalism, who have lost everything, home, family, pension; they sleep in the central station, always at the mercy of both criminals and the police. No one cares.
There was a series of murders among the prostitutes during the last couple of weeks, but the police is as ineffective here as everywhere else. The evidence was glaringly obvious, but the police deduced absolutely nothing about the killer. I couldn't resist, I figured him out and secretly passed the police a profile and information on where and when he was most likely to strike again. Needless to say, I was right. The next corpse turned up exactly as predicted – and who was not there? The police.
They completely ignored the information! I spent an hour ranting and raging in this rat hole until my neighbour threatened to blast the door away with a shotgun to shut me up. Well, what can I say about the magnitude of ignorance in this country … seriously, I have to grant Lestrade that, while he never understands a thing I explain to him, he does act upon my advice. When I come home, I might actually feel obliged to throw him the occasional word of praise.
When the police here finally heeded my advice (I had to bribe the pimps to get to them!), it took them three more murders to apprehend the serial killer. Three more corpses, John! I did not dare to catch the killer myself – too much risk of injury and subsequent discovery. As idiotic as they are here, they might have arrested me instead!
I have to deny myself every pleasure here, everything that offers release from the misery – and it would be so easy to go down to the corner and get some cocaine.
God, I want to go home. I don't know what's worse, the squalor, the stupidity, or my failure to achieve anything.
A shower, clean clothes, and London's imbecilic police seem like heaven now.
Though I wouldn't mind the appalling situation so much if you were here.
S
PS: Stop worrying. I didn't shoot up.
"Jesus, Sherlock," John exclaimed. "Jesus. It must have driven you up the wall. God, if I had known you were so close to drugs …"
The infusion system beeped, and John quickly attended to it. He looked around, at the sterile environment, the spotless glass panes, the shining floor, and the immaculately white sheets. Despite Sherlock being bedridden, John had insisted on the ordeal of washing his hair every second day – getting plenty of raised eyebrows for it. Now he was glad he did.
He ran a hand through Sherlock's curls, soft and clean now. Sherlock huffed out a breath – impossible to say whether it was acknowledgement or rejection. John just smiled.
He continued with the diary and groaned when he realised that Sherlock had not been doing better several weeks later.
Guilt about the failed mission in Helsinki still haunted him, and the Russian, which he simply called Michail, was much harder to tackle than Sherlock had anticipated. He seemed to be as slippery as an eel and virtually paranoid about spies and traitors trying to get to him. He was also utterly ruthless, disposing of anyone whose loyalty he doubted in the least. Lives were cheap in Russia.
Whatever Sherlock did, he could not get closer to the Russian, and there was no way into his villa, where he kept all the records on his business dealings. The place was a veritable fortress with every state-of-the-art security system one could possibly imagine; worse: Michail trusted no-one, least of all his minions, so Sherlock could not worm his way into the place, neither by blackmailing the staff nor by plain house-breaking. He could not even get close to the place since the Russian had surveillance on the surrounding area as well, plus, he hired no new servants. After another fruitless effort to gather information, he turned to Mycroft for help.
What annoys me most, John, is Mycroft's snide comment. He said in that smug tone of his, "What did you expect Sherlock, not a single secret service agent has ever come close to him, he owns most of the Duma and is best friends with the political leaders. What makes you think you can do better then the professionals?"
As if these idiots who call themselves spies could compete with me, John.
Or maybe Mycroft only said so to spurn me into action. He knows how to push my buttons, John, and since you are not here to caution me, I am seething with anger, plotting impossible break-ins.
I will prove Mycroft wrong: I am better than any of his 'professionals'. Why? I am more determined. Michail was a close associate of Moriarty, I have proof of that now. These months of patience are finally paying off, and there are clues that suggest something big's coming. Bigger than that blasted Jumbo Jet.
I deserve a reward for my patience, a bit of motivation, I want to indulge in the illusion of going home, I need to know what I'm doing this for, I need – need to see you, need to know you're still there and not just an illusion.
I pestered Mycroft to update me on you; he refused. I threatened to break into his security system – he knows I can – and retrieve all the information I want. He still refused, even when I threatened to steal the latest video of a member of the Royal family fornicating at a sex party to give it to the Sun. He just twanged 'even the tabloids have better taste than to publish such a poor performance, Sherlock.' Hmpf.
He did relent, however, when I announced I would go down to the street corner and get some cocaine. It's a matter of five minutes, here, John. (Don't worry; I wouldn't have done it: I know how much you loathe it. But that jolted him out of his complacency.)
Mycroft told me you were in a relationship with one Mary Morstan; and that you smiled – at least briefly – for the first time since the fall.
Now I know why he didn't want to update me. He thought I might be pushed over the edge by the girlfriend. He's wrong, of course. I'm glad.
Naturally, I harassed him into giving me all the information he had on Mary Morstan. He did, and he assured me she was perfectly acceptable, though he provided no picture. I couldn't find anything on her on the internet. She's careful, your girl; or utterly boring.
I am NOT jealous. But I envy her.
Whatever, as long as she makes you smile again. If she doesn't, I hope she's at least good in bed. (Please tell me she is; I can't bear the idea of having been replaced by unalloyed mediocrity.)
S
"You weren't replaced, you clot," John growled, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. This sounded so much like Sherlock, bored and annoyed, driving Mycroft up the wall. Yet he pictured him in that filthy flat, lonely and torn by impatience, plotting, but struggling with depression. John had not known that his influence on Sherlock extended beyond his presence – but clearly he had refrained from taking drugs because of John's disapproval. And what was Mycroft's role in this?
John leaned over Sherlock and studied his face, now not so still anymore: his brows were furrowed into a frown, and the corners of his mouth were twitching up and down, but never into a smile. His hands clenched and clawed into the blanket, just short of tearing the fabric.
John sighed; he looked more haunted than ever. "We'll get through this, Sherlock," John reassured him. "I promise."