Oh my gosh, the response for this story is fantastic, thanks to everyone.
Dudes, I totally have the next three chapters already written and ready to go. I'm on fire. I'm going to wait a day for each chapter just to span it out, unless your reviews persuade me different.
Reviews are loved.
Peace&Love.
John is in darkness. It is consuming and, frankly, terrifying. He is fully aware of being unconscious, it's the only time where he cannot read thoughts or hear the white noise of London, but nothing can save him from tactile touch.
The doctor loses track of how long he is left in the darkness. He is only able to measure time passing is when flashes of memories would hit him without notice.
The thoughts hurt, his mind is in constant turmoil. John wonders if he is remaining stoic externally. He struggles to break the links but it's useless. After many tries at breaking the connections, John gives up, instead he focuses on trying to break the links safely so they don't do any damage.
The first connection memory is of a woman, red hair, definitely Irish by her accent. She is getting ready for work, her uniform is white and pristine, a medical patch on her arm, she's a paramedic. She flattens and straightens her uniform with pride and a smile. John feels the warmth and pride radiate from the memory. It soothes him. Then the link is gone abruptly, sending waves of suffering through the blackness. John can't see straight, he can't feel his body. Its like his mind is separate and in pain.
Memories flash through his brain at random and painful intervals, a woman holding hands with a man, a mother scolding a teenage girl. A man meeting up with another man at a hotel. The pictures go on and on. He tries to break the connections carefully, only some work, other links sever too quickly and leave him trapped in his own pain.
The next burst of memory is a man, he holds his medical degree certificate with pride. He is smiling, holding his diploma in a robe and graduation cap. More memories shift with the man, following through his life, his marriage, his patients and their smiles. John works at severing the link carefully and internally sighs with relief when the memories stop and the pain subsides temporarily.
The memories flash intermittently for a while and John muddles through his darkness in confusion and boredom, nothing to differentiate between the pain and dull throbs. Suddenly a very strong, very immobilizing single image jump starts his brain.
A man, early forties with graying and receding hair is standing over a woman. The woman's eyes are lifeless and blank, her dark hair a direct contrast to her bright blue blouse. Blood trickles from her head and down her neck, creating a pool of crimson around her, staining the pavement. John doesn't struggle, he can't, the link is strong, stronger than usual and it immobilises the doctor for a split second. The memory must be fresh or particularly daunting. He tries to focus on the man, his eyes are stressed and rimming with red. However, what really worries John is the bat in the man's hand, it's wide wooden edge dripping with blood.
Just as quickly as the memory came, it leaves and without any preparation on John's part.
John's head explodes. He knows that this episode won't go unnoticed. He mentally writhes and fights against the pain. The murdered woman still stays in his mind, torturing him.
Abruptly, all thoughts cease and John finds himself in a deep slumber, where no thoughts can penetrate. For the first time, he actually sleeps.
John awakes to random memories surfacing in his mind. He mentally tenses at the images. The doctor doesn't recognise them at first. The memories are jumbled together, like on string of very different memories playing in fast forward like a movie. John starts to prepare himself, somewhat groggily and it takes a little longer.
The movie slows down significantly and a single memory stops John's thoughts. A man sits in a kitchen, his short blond hair wet and his lips curled up into a smile. John immediately recognises himself. The doctor is eating jam on toast at Baker Street. He doesn't remember this particular event, but then again this is routine for him. Get up, shower, eat, read the paper.
The memories suddenly speed up again on fast forward.
John feels confusion in the darkness, as he watches the blurred line of the memories stroll by harmlessly.
Another pause in the thoughts shows John again, this time leaning against the wall smiling, breathing heaving.
A thought clicks, these are Sherlock's memories. Once John realises he automatically curses himself for not deducing the information earlier.
John has never touched Sherlock without a layer of gloves or clothing between him. The doctor is apprehensive of what he would see, not the memories he is sure those would be pleasant and explain a lot of Sherlock's quirks. No, the doctor is afraid of the connection itself. If Sherlock can push his mental boundaries without realising it, what would happen if John made a tactile connection. The doctor fears for his control of the bond.
Once John realises that he is seeing Sherlock he wonders why the memories don't hurt him, even when they abruptly stop and start as if someone is removing their hand and then replacing after a certain amount of time. He prepares himself for a careful break, but sometimes the touches stop so abruptly that John hadn't gotten the chance. Pain, however, doesn't follow, instead a feeling of cold drifts through the darkness, unpleasant and uncomfortable yes, but not painful. "Why?" He asks himself over and over with no response.
John laughs internally and bitterly at the random thoughts caused by Sherlock. The memories are scattered and speedy, just like Sherlock himself, he should have guessed how jumbled and disbanded his thoughts are.
John sits in the quiet, dark space, waiting to wake up. Sherlock's thoughts haven't come around in a while and John feels lonely.
Suddenly, he feels a physical pull, his mind reels and he feels like his has been flipped upside down.
A string of memories rapidly blur his mind. Sherlock's warmth is back, something is different this time. The physical pull is beckoning him. A sudden jolt of ice cold water pushes the darkness away and John opens his eyes in a gasp, sitting upright in his bed and drenched in water.
"You dumped what on me?" John asks incredulously, sliding back into his now dry and warm hospital bed.
"Ice water." Sherlock adds, sitting in the hospital chair next to John, his legs crossed and his expression smug.
"What? Why?" John sputters laying comfortably, his hair still damp from the warm shower he took.
"It's perfectly logical, when patients are comatose in order to get them out, one dumps a bucket of cold water on them to break their reverie." Sherlock states matter of fact, inspecting his cuticles shamelessly.
"Yes, I know." John snaps. "I wasn't even technically in a coma. I've only been out for a day." John continues looking at the detective, his voice firm and tetchy.
"Well, I was bored." Sherlock remarks like it's the simplest explanation in the world. John stares back incredulously.
"I wondered if it actually works." Sherlock states looking up at John innocently, "Besides, you were taking to long." He adds with a smirk. "I was right."
"Of course you were bloody well right." John states, shivering silently at the memory of the ice cold water soaking him, and the nurses rushing in when his bed weight was suddenly gone. They came in to see John out of bed, dripping onto the floor, glaring at Sherlock who was trying to not laugh at the soaked puppy in front of him.
"Well, I don't know what you are on about," The detective huffs. "You woke up, didn't you?"
"It wasn't about time too, there was no reason for you to be unconscious." The genius comments, looking at the doctor suspiciously.
Of course, John knows there was nothing wrong with him, he is in the hospital because of his gift. It knocked him unconscious while his body recovers from the mental trauma.
"You gave the hospital staff a scare when they couldn't find damage." Sherlock states, "You looked like you had been stabbed." John continues to stare into the gray eyes. John winces slightly. For a split second, a flash of a bloodied John escapes Sherlock's mind and crosses mentally into the doctor's thoughts. He can feel the terror and concern from the image. John sighs and casts he eyes downward.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." John states, looking at his hands sheepishly.
"What?"
"It's not your fault." Sherlock states simply, frowning, his face confused.
"Shite. Get it together." John thinks to himself.
"But I'm sorry. It was just a nosebleed." John states. Sherlock adds an image of his stained shirt to John's thoughts.
"I know...it was...a bit..terrifying." Sherlock struggles to say, vulnerability in his voice. John is mildly surprised at the declaration and his face doesn't hide his surprise.
"Oh, come on, you know I'm not good at," Sherlock starts, "feelings," he scrunches up his noise as he says the word like it physically reeks of the Thames. John chuckles. "Dull."
"All the same, it's nice to know you care." John says, lightly.
"I do care, you are my best friend and I couldn't...wouldn't be able to.." Sherlock stammers, his eyes looking at his hands.
"Hey, it's okay, I'm not hurt. It's all fine." John comforts, reaching a hand out for Sherlock without thinking. The detective eyes his hand thoughtfully and then smiles. John doesn't see any of this, he is too distracted by his own thoughtlessness, he starts to retract the hand subtly but Sherlock latches on almost instantly. He looks down at their connected hands.
The connection is strong, but not unpleasant. The fast forwarding thoughts are present but comforting. John remembers the darkness and how soothing the thoughts felt when he was all by himself. The string of thoughts add a warm comfort to John, who is momentarily caught up in the new sensation of this pleasant touching.
Whenever he has had tactile responses they are always uncomfortable and displeasing. Even when he initiates contact, there is always a level of distress. He ignores it usually, because when he instigates, it's for a reason. When the contact is unwelcome, he always feels the same unpleasant feeling but if the connection is broken safely, the feeling disperses with the memories.
He feels none of these troublesome feelings with Sherlock, instead the opposite, he feels warm and safe. The feelings are intriguing and tranquilizing. Without warning, the flashes stop, but their hands remain connected. John frowns and stares down at their hands, then up at Sherlock who is staring straight at him.
"John."
He involuntarily blinks at the thoughts intrusion, Sherlock's thought is a little bit more forceful than normal. Why is he not seeing Sherlock's memories? John probes slightly, he tries to bring up memories from within Sherlock's mind but nothing comes up. "Shite," John thinks to himself. Sherlock frowns and John stops probing, he subtly breaks their hands apart, shifting to make it look unmotivated.
The pair sit in silence, John wonders at the bizarre connection. They were touching but John couldn't pick out the thoughts he wanted. Why?
"John. I know you can hear me." It takes everything in John's power to remain still and not twitch slightly. The doctor remains austere, but his mind is freaking out.
"How does he know? I knew I was being to obvious. Maybe if I don't acknowledge it." John rambles to himself, cursing and mentally tearing his hair out.
"John. Answer me." The command in Sherlock's thoughts is unmistakable, but John forces himself to not give anything away.
"Stay strong, Watson." John thinks to himself.
"It's a bit too awkward of a silence for you not to be hearing me." Sherlock says smirking.
"Don't answer, don't answer." John repeats to himself.
"Fine," He hears Sherlock in his mind. John sighs thinking that the detective gave up, he opens his mouth to ask about the events leading up to the attack, because he suddenly finds himself without the recollection and truthfully, the doctor is looking for a subject change.
However, a warm hand falls firmly on the doctor's cheek.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John manages to gasp out as thoughts invade. These thoughts are slower, more deliberate. They fade in and out with enough time for John to analyse them. Memories of the two of them fighting criminals, walking into NSY, talking to Mycroft (whose is sitting in John's chair, which sends waves of anger through Sherlock and into the blond man). Another image of John complaining about body parts and heads. The memories are massive and complex, nothing like John has ever witnessed before.
Why is this stream of thoughts different, how is Sherlock slowing them down? And why, why are they slow now? This isn't how the detective's brain works, it's more muddied and rapid. This is slow and languid.
"Are you controlling that?" John asks before he thinks. He gasps at his own question. He is screwed now. The doctor sees Sherlock smile and the thoughts stop, but his hands remain flush against his face. John stares wildly into Sherlock's eyes. John pulls the detective's hands off his face and tries to get away. John wants to jump off the bed, run out of the hospital, hide in a hole, anything, he just needs to get away.
Hands clasp onto his bare forearms, trapping the doctor. John instinctively tenses at the contact, but nothing comes. John stills. He can feel the connection but there is no thoughts, no memories, not even London white noise.
John is overwhelmed, he starts to breath rapidly. He pushes Sherlock's hands off and gets off the bed. He starts pacing the hospital room at this conundrum.
"I knew it." John ignores the thought, his own mind racing in confusion, he doesn't need to add Sherlock just yet.
"John." Why didn't he see anything when they touched?
"John." Why does Sherlock ceased the white noise?
"John." How can the detective control his thoughts, control what John sees and what he doesn't see?
"John." The doctor is becoming agitated, How can Sherlock know?
"John." Why doesn't the connection hurt with Sherlock?
"John."
"For Christ sake, Sherlock, what?" John screams, irritation and annoyance evident in his pacing form. When Sherlock doesn't answer, he looks up and sees the devilish smirk.
"Shite." John says out loud. The detective crosses the room, around the bed and stands in front of John, careful not to touch him.
"I knew it." He states, his eyes alive. "I knew you were interesting."
"You never thought like this though," John states and Sherlock's eyes light up in, dare he think it, glee, utter glee. "Not dull."
"Yes, definitely not dull." John states defeated, not even bothering with pretenses, he knows, why hid it now?