Nightmare ahead. Second part is harmless.
Deep Blue
Trapped in the prison of his mind: a nightmare.
Sherlock knew that he was no longer in a coma; he was dreaming, was even aware of it, yet it didn't make it less terrifying.
He was back in the cave, in utter darkness. If he stretched out his hands, he touched rough stone, walling him in, forcing him to crouch. The rock was cold and wet; icy drops fell on his back, running down his skin, chilling him to the bone, and creating a sensation of being cut with a knife.
Sometimes, blood dripped from his eye, but unlike the water, it felt hot and singed his skin. If he put a finger to his eye where the ice pick had left an entry wound, the tissue felt pulpy and scrunchy, small bits of bone grinding against each other. There was a chest injury as well, but with a sort of canal in the centre into which he could insert his finger, making a squelching sound accompanied by searing pain. The rest of his body was completely numb, and he couldn't even tell where it began or ended.
Inching forward, he felt the edges of the hole in the ground – it was filled with water and just wide enough for him to fit through. Underneath, and all around him, was the ocean. Tons and tons of water, miles to the surface, a black infinity full of monsters, eyeless creatures with razor-sharp fangs and poisonous stings, waiting for him to brave the abyss, to tear him to pieces, strip away his skin, gnaw the flesh from his bones, crack them to pieces and suck out the marrow, obliterating him.
Some of their bodies emanated a faint glow, the only source of light in the darkness of the ocean – a cold, treacherous light, promising death, not salvation. The monsters slid through the water hungrily, curling around each other, snapping and biting, rippling the oily surface. Sometimes, a ghost-like face would stare up at him, mouth agape, rows of sharp teeth displayed, waiting to devour him.
If he wanted to go home, he had to brave the abyss. There was no other way – he could not stay in the cave for ever, it was growing colder, the rock was pressing down on him, and breathing was a painful ordeal. His chest seemed to be in a vice, and soon, there would be no air left.
But diving into the water meant death.
Death was better than being trapped in the cave. He'd grit his teeth and close his eyes and let them feast on his flesh, their fangs boring into his muscles and their flabby bellies pressing against his skin. He'd do it – if it weren't for the demon lurking out there.
The monsters were mindless beasts, driven by hunger, but there was one among them who was clever, always hovering in the distance, ever-vigilant; a malicious creature with a sharp mind and a plump body, solely waiting to feast on his brain. That was how it thrived: it fed on the intelligence of others, devouring minds. It's body was almost translucent – the stomach crawling with worms, and its blind eyes glaring at him full of hatred.
If he entered the water, it would attack instantly, and while the others savaged his body, the demon would rip off his face and eat away his eyes to sink its teeth into his brain and gorge on his mind. It would incorporate him, enslaving him forever and growing stronger until its malice spilled out into the entire ocean.
He was trapped.
Until the light appeared. A tiny spark, glowing not unlike a firefly, but golden. Suddenly, it was hovering in his cave, giving off warmth and humming into his ear, telling him to follow, to brave the abyss.
And he did. He slid into the water, the spark held tightly in his hand – and its light drove away the monsters and kept the malicious demon at bay. He swam towards the surface, with mighty strokes, leaving behind the horrors of the deep sea.
Slowly, black turned to deep blue, light glittering above, until he broke through the surface, seeing the sun and the shore. The spark still in his fist, he swam towards the land and walked out of the water, straight into the ruins of his Mind Palace.
"John!" Sherlock's eyes flew open. Sweat was streaming down his face, he was panting heavily and his chest ached with a stabbing pain.
There was a face right above him, vaguely familiar – Mary.
"It's alright," she said calmly.
"Where's John?" he immediately asked, looking around, confused.
"Asleep," she replied and sat down next to him. "Here," she held a glass of water to his lips. He tried to grab it, but his hands were shaking too much. "Just drink," she said, holding it patiently, and he complied, glad to quench the raging thirst. Once finished, she handed him a flannel to wipe the sweat from his face, and it filled him with a ridiculous sense of pride that he could do this without help.
Slowly, he became aware of his surroundings.
The Kensington home, he realised: living room, cream-coloured sofa and chairs, plenty of bookshelves, paintings and photographs on the walls, large French windows leading into a garden, now in darkness. Flowers on the table, plants in every corner, a fireplace with knick-knacks on the mantelpiece, a few antique pieces among them; the kitchen was right opposite, bright colours and modern equipment, but also old copper baking pans and traditional pottery.
He was lying on a sofa bed, propped up and almost walled in by pillows and folded duvets; the dreadful hospital gown had been replaced by a silk pyjama – undoubtedly courtesy of Mycroft – and he was tucked into a duvet, covered by a pale blue cashmere blanket. A reading lamp cast a warm glow over the room; basic medical equipment was lined up alongside the bed – an infusion system, the inevitable heart monitor, and even a portable ventilator, stowed away in the corner. Someone was clearly worried.
He noticed the nasal cannula only now and pulled it off his face.
"John is upstairs, in our bedroom," Mary explained.
"Clearly," Sherlock rasped. He sat up slightly, wincing.
"He was pretty knackered," she continued, "and I was worried about him, so I convinced him to lie down a bit after you had fallen asleep."
Sherlock looked around. His lips curled into a wry smile when his eyes fell on a device next to him. "And he only did so after setting up a baby monitor, plus leaving you to watch over me. Undoubtedly, he kept the bedroom door open, but you have closed it now, and the baby monitor is unplugged."
Mary picked at her dressing gown, looking a bit guilty. "This whole thing has taken its toll on him as well. I hope you don't mind."
"I never said that I disapprove."
Mary got up. "I had to promise him that I would take your temperature regularly," she explained and fetched a thermometer. "He's terrified that you might get another infection."
"I'm fine."
"Sure." She held out the thermometer.
Sherlock frowned at it, but eventually took it and put it under his tongue. It read normal.
"That must have been the hell of a nightmare," Mary remarked quietly when he handed back the thermometer.
"Hm." Sherlock just shrugged.
"You were … mumbling something about a cave and an abyss."
He looked annoyed. "It was less a nightmare and more of a flashback to the coma."
Mary gave him a long look. "John told me, when you woke up from the coma, you said you were trapped, and you made your way up here, following his voice."
"And so I did." He tried to sit up, but failed miserably: he was too weak, his muscles were trembing uselessly, and the slightest exertion made him break out in a sweat. It seemed, the final hunt for Moriarty had drained him completely.
"I can help you, you know," Mary offered cautiously, watching him with raised brows.
Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh, infuriated by his weakness. "Then by all means do so."
Mary chuckled, but bent down and raised him by the shoulders; Sherlock realised that the blue cashmere blanket had to be hers – it carried the same faint sandalwood fragrance he detected on her. To his surprise, he didn't mind it.
Mary stuffed two pillows behind his back and shoved another one under his knees. Sherlock leaned back, stifling a groan – every single bone and joint ached from being bedridden, and any change in position brought both pain and relief.
"Do you think you can manage some food?" Mary asked quietly.
He thought about it. He needed to eat eventually, but he wasn't sure whether anything he ingested stayed where it belonged, and he would not endure the humiliation of being cleaned up like a baby.
Mary tapped a wide plastic bowl with her foot, half-hidden under the bed. "Shouldn't be too difficult to aim, in case, I mean."
He sighed. "Some porridge, maybe."
Mary gave a wry smile. "I thought chicken soup is the typical comfort food."
Sherlock thought of oily liquid and bits of pale meat sloshing around in a bowl, and went even paler.
"Porridge, then," Mary grinned. "Slightly sweet, with a bit of cream in it? Okay." She got up, walked over to the kitchen and prepared the porridge with the efficiency of long habit.
Sherlock watched her from narrowed eyes, fatigue tugging at him, but he refused to give in. When she returned, she spread a napkin across his chest and placed a breakfast tray with a steaming bowl of porridge in front of him.
He eyed it carefully, one eyebrow raised. "Peter Rabbit," he stated and tipped his finger against the dish.
"Wedgwood," Mary replied. "Sorry. Part of my christening set. I only have either small bowls or large ones. Well, I can get you a plate if it's too -"
"It's fine." Sherlock sighed. "I had the same nursery set."
She smiled. "Fond memories?"
Sherlock scoffed. "Mycroft taught me to read the sentence on the rim. Peter, who was very naughty, ran straight away and so on. Said this was the reason why my great aunt chose this set, and not Jemima Puddleduck." He tried the porridge – it was surprisingly good.
"Did you run away?" Mary smirked.
Sherlock snorted. "Everyone ran away when my aunt came. Even her horse. Buttercup. Jumped the fence at the sight of her car. No one blamed him."
Mary giggled; they remained silent until he had finished eating. Mary cleared away the tablet and the bowl, then sat down next to him with a book, trying to watch him unobtrusively.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Stop trying to be furtive. It doesn't work. And I'm not nauseous anyway."
"Sorry," Mary smirked. "I'll watch you openly, then." She put the book away.
"Do as you please." Sherlock touched the bowl under the bed, making sure he would be able to reach it quickly. "I don't think I'll need it," he muttered, "would have happened after the first two spoonfuls." That, at least, he thought, was an improvement. He looked up at her frowning. "Are you planning on sitting here all night, staring at me?"
"Yes." She grinned.
"I can't sleep if you do that."
"Why?"
He frowned. The truth was: her gaze was surprisingly intense, if not to say unsettling. She was clearly trying to read him, and whereas he didn't care at all about people staring at him, it unnerved him to be scrutinised by someone who had read him quite successfully before.
"It's distracting," he said instead. "I cannot simply shut out information flooding in." Which was true, in fact.
Mary pouted. "John said you used to lie on the sofa like a sloth for hours, no matter what happened around you – he even said Mrs Hudson once got scared out of her mind, thinking you were dead, when she was hoovering the carpet, accidentally running into you, and you not moving at all. You had tuned her out completely."
Sherlock gave her a withering look. "Familiar surroundings," he corrected her. "People I know. No new or important information."
"You mean you felt safe."
The withering look turned into a black scowl. "Well," Sherlock sighed, putting on a fake smile. "If you refuse to go away, you shall have to endure me watching you just the same."
"Oh." Mary baulked a little at that. "I can't imagine I'm much of a mystery to you. Ordinary people, you know. Boring."
"Not at all," Sherlock snapped. "There is one thing that keeps puzzling me," he huffed, sitting up.
Mary blinked, genuinely surprised. "And what's that?"
Wincing from pain, Sherlock pressed a hand against the wound, but drew a deep breath anyway. "A conundrum. From what Mycroft told me, you were originally hesitant to enter into a relationship with John – no, your outright refused him." Sherlock stared her down, his eyes suddenly glittering with interest. "But then you changed your mind. And once you started dating him, you pursued the idea of marriage with single-minded determination – hence the sudden wedding."
"So," Mary began, hesitating slightly. "What do you make of it?"
Sherlock looked around, then tilted his head to the side. "People usually marry that quickly for a reason. Money, pregnancy, social advancement, silly infatuation." He shrugged dismissively, but the effect was somewhat ruined by another wince of pain. "John was not the one pressing for marriage, in fact, it was the other way round: you married him."
"True," she softly said, pulling the dressing gown closer around herself.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, then launched into his deductions. "This is your home – a fully renovated house in Kensington, not grand but still worth a fortune, probably inherited from your parents, both killed in a car crash, according to Mycroft – so possibly the house came with the moderate amount of their lives' savings, plus you have a decent income as a university academic, no overly expensive hobbies, and you clearly prefer quality over designer brands, so let's assume you are financially independent and not prone to living beyond your means. You have plenty of photographs on the walls, showing your parents and you as a happy family; you even have pictures of your childhood pets on the mantlepiece, plus a photograph of a rather fat horse – but not a single picture indicating any other relatives. Therefore, if anything happens to you, John as your husband will inherit everything. So, there was no financial incentive for you to marry John. More so, this explains John's initial reluctance to marry you, old-fashioned as he is in his belief that he, too, should contribute financially to a partnership. So, money doesn't come into it."
Mary straightened imperceptibly under his scrutiny.
Sherlock dissected her with his eyes. "Social advancement? No, you're an academic. Pregnancy? Neither, both of you would have been careful, John in particular, and even if it were a planned child, unlikely as it is that early into a relationship, there was no hurry to marry – no nagging parents, no traditions or conventions to adhere to. Leaves infatuation." He pursed his lips.
Mary exhaled slowly. "Silly infatuation, you said."
"That depends on the point of view," Sherlock corrected. "In any case," he drawled, his gaze travelling all over her, "your feelings for John are genuine, you obviously do love him, there is no ulterior motive – so he himself is the prize. But why the reluctance at first? You are an exceptionally perceptive person with an above-average intellect – you must have read his character in an instant, realising that in terms of personality he is a big catch. So why the reluctance? Not for selfish reasons, then … there is something …" he frowned, hands coming up to meet in his trademark gesture of prayer, pain forgotten. "There's something you're afraid he wants and you can't give." His eyes widened, and he whispered, "How did you meet him, Mary? You said to me I know a walking suicide when I see it. Takes one to know one. So, you are familiar with emotional extremes of that kind – did you meet him at his therapist's?"
"Yes." Mary did not avoid his relentless gaze.
"So, depression, I reckon, or at least grief over something – not your parents, long dead by then – could have been the loss of another partner, yet nothing here indicates the presence of another man in your life – trauma from being a crime victim is another option, but this does not explain your reluctance to date John – more so, most of Ella's patients are either veterans with PTSD or they're referred on to her by a university friend working in palliative care. Illness it is, then."
He drew a shaky breath and continued without giving her the chance to either confirm or contradict. "You're not ill, though, regardless of the fact that quite a few illnesses cannot be detected from the outside. However, if you were ill, Mycroft would at least have alluded to it, which he did not. This does not exclude the possibility that you may have been ill, since a healthy lifestyle is apparently of importance to you as one look into the kitchen suggests – hanging vegetable rack, organic fruit by the look of it, electric juicer, wholemeal bread, no alcohol in sight, and the state of the stove is proof that you prepare your own meals, plus there are running shoes next to the entrance door as well as a complete set of riding gear – doing sports, then." He blinked. "You're healthy by all accounts, yet this does not exclude that you may think you are defective in some way. Probably … ah." His eyes widened. "Only one likely solution, then."
Mary sat stiffly, her face a pale mask.
Sherlock's lips were slightly parted and he was panting from exertion, but all weakness was gone for the moment, and even the pain was shut out. A slow smile spread across his face. "That's it, then. You can't have children." He narrowed his eyes. "Probably due to some aggressive treatment such as chemotherapy or surgery. My bet is on the latter. Am I right?" He virtually glowed from inside, vibrating with excitement.
Mary swallowed, all colour drained from her face. "John said you do that."
"Do what?" he started back, looking nonplussed. Slowly, his beaming expression turned into a self-conscious frown. "Not good?"
She huffed out a laugh. "Bloody brilliant. It just feels rather harsh to be taken apart like that." She looked away, plucking at the sleeve of her gown.
"I don't understand," Sherlock said, sounding deflated. "Did I get anything wrong?"
"No, you're absolutely right," Mary sighed, giving him a sad look. "I've had both my ovaries removed. Cancer, stage I. Pure luck they discovered it that early. Chemotherapy wasn't necessary."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "But you still think the cancer might reappear."
"I don't think Sherlock – I'm afraid."
He blinked. "Statistically-"
"I know," she cut him off, looking squarely into his eyes. "The statistics are in may favour. Doesn't help, though. Sentiment, you see. Irrational."
He considered this for a moment. "You are an academic, you understand the mathematics behind the statistics, yet you are still afraid. Why?"
She chuckled and bit her lips. "You don't understand that at all, do you?"
"No," he admitted.
She scrutinised him, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Lucky you."
He frowned but eventually smiled as well. "Hm. I guess I am."
Mary raised her brows, still smiling, though a bit wryly now. "I was rather depressed after the diagnosis and didn't know how to handle the fear, so my doctor recommended Ella as a therapist."
Sherlock pouted. "Was she any good?"
"No." Mary snorted. "She means well, but she got it wrong."
"Hm." Sherlock just smirked. "But you met John."
"Exactly."
His face lit up again, sparked by keen interest. "And you were reluctant to date him for three reasons: you didn't know whether you would overcome the depression, you were afraid the cancer might reappear, and you assumed John would want a family. But he fell in love with you and convinced you that he wanted to be with you come hell or high water – so consequently, you soon pressed for marriage to ensure your relationship would be both financially and legally secure. Your fear of the future is also one reason why you were glad instead of jealous when I returned – so John would not be lonely in case anything happened to you. "
Mary raised her brows. "Bloody hell, you are good."
Sherlock grinned.
She cleared her throat. "Thanks for not assuming I wanted him committed to me in case I fell ill."
Sherlock frowned. "Why would I do that? You clearly never-"
"Sherlock," Mary sniggered, "that was a joke."
"Oh."
Mary abruptly straightened her back, smiling. "You got one thing wrong, though."
"What?" Sherlock scowled.
"I don't ride anymore. The riding gear is just there to be picked up by a colleague who wants to give it a try and doesn't know yet whether this is the right hobby for her."
"Oh." Sherlock frowned at the horse photograph, as if it were to blame. "The horse does look rather old. It is not dead, though?"
"Nope," Mary quipped, "just old, fat, and lazy. But lovely. A show hunter, I inherited him from my grandmother. The two won quite a few medals in their time, though he's always been a gobbler who hated legwork." She grinned. "His name's Mycroft, by the way," she smiled cheekily, "and that's not my fault."
Sherlock burst out laughing, instantly wincing from the pain. When they both stopped giggling, he raised his voice and said: "John, you can come down now. There's no point in hiding on the stairs."
An annoyed groan was the answer.
Mary turned around in surprise and watched her husband shuffling down the stairs. "Should have known you'd hear me," John grumbled at Sherlock.
"Then why did you bother to hide?"
"Thought the drugs in your system might have slowed you a bit. That was very unkind, by the way."
"What?" Sherlock frowned.
"Your deductions."
"Truth is neither kind nor unkind."
"Right. But the way you present it is."
Sherlock just glared at him.
John sat down next to Mary, tying the belt of his dressing gown. She patted him on the knee and said, "You look rotten. But I guess sleeping is off the agenda now?"
"I want to have a word with him," John confirmed.
Mary smirked. "Good luck." She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, winked at Sherlock, and left, retreating to their bedroom.
"A word with me," Sherlock repeated, sounding bemused, with just the slightest trace of contempt.
"Yes, a word with you. First of all, I'm not sure you understood anything a few hours ago, since you were high as a kite and not on planet Earth."
"That was neither my fault nor did the drugs inhibit my intellect."
John just rolled his eyes. "I just want to make sure you know the plan for tomorrow so that I don't have to fight you every step of the way."
Sherlock tilted his head to the side, curious.
John looked at him squarely. "You can't stay here, you know?"
"Why?" Sherlock objected.
"You still need medical care."
"I'm fine."
"You're not." John rubbed his eyes and sighed. "I can't take care of you here, you need regular check-ups, inhalation therapy, physical therapy, antibiotics – argh," he broke off, "why am I even trying to explain it, you won't listen anyway!"
Sherlock just looked back innocently.
"Okay." John took a deep breath. "Frankly, the idea of having a bedridden and bored-out-of-his-mind Sherlock in the middle of our living room scares me to death."
Sherlock smirked. "I admit my foreseeable boredom might be a cause for some concern. I do have a flat, though, if I may remind you."
"Yes." John nodded. "221B is currently being refurbished, thanks to your brother, so that you can move in again and do all the experiments you like. But it's not ready. You're not ready."
Sherlock scrutinised him like a big cat about to pounce.
"Which is," John continued, unfazed, "why we will all be picked up tomorrow by your brother. And we will all go to his country house, where he will undoubtedly provide all the necessary resources to ensure the best possible care for you, including a helicopter to take you to the next hospital in less than an hour in case you develop complications. You'll have every treatment available a hospital could possibly offer, in the comforts of a country house, plus fresh air, fine food, and long walks on quiet country lanes."
"You want me to stay with my brother?" Sherlock blurted.
John drew back. "Is that all you got out of what I said?" He groaned, then put his head in his hands, pressing the thumbs into his eyes. "Sherlock, it's the best solution, you can recover, I can watch over you, and Mary can have a few days off."
"You're staying with me, then."
John looked up, confused. "Of course I'm staying with you. What else would I do?" He frowned. "I said we'll all go to-"
"John." Sherlock looked him straight in the eye.
John stared back, blinking, then it hit him. "Argh! You're having me on … haha, very funny." He exhaled a deep sigh. "So it's all right that we stay at your brother's?"
Sherlock settled back into the pillows, folded his hands, and closed his eyes. "I don't care where we stay."
"Right. OK." John nodded, and rose to fetch a blanket for himself.
"… as long as you're there," he heard Sherlock add. Surprised, he turned around, but Sherlock gave the perfect image of a man fast asleep.
~ 0 ~
Still two chapters to come. The action is over, but I didn't want to leave John and Sherlock just like that – I simply had too much fun writing them, and anyway, I was yearning for a bit of domestic bliss. Sort of.