Chapter eight
"chlorine"
The darkness overwhelms him and it's too frightening to open the eyes on the spot when nothing but grey after-taste of it is everything that remains. Colours are flashing blindly through his closed eyelids, whispers just above his head misting his thoughts over, blending into the dull echo of the siren or some breath, metres if not miles away from his grasp. There's something cool being pressed against the side of his chest, sticky and smelly in its fluffy roughness. Sherlock isn't sure where his body begins and where cold hands of the paramedics end. Everything is liquid in action, one second he hears a creak of the car's doors being opened and then almost makes out the outline of a well illuminated building. Sounds are cascading too fast, too illogically down that awful headache blooming slowly in the background, an anxious, freezing him in-between the breaths thought echoing, forming and then dying over and over again.
The smell of chlorine sooths him into oblivion too quickly to have the heart beat slower in agony.
"Sir, wake up" Pain, agonizing pressure on his hand, too strong smells. Greyness once again. Everywhere, lights too bright onto his lifeless face. "Sir, come on. You can't lie here for eternity, we need you this instant, come on!"
Someone pinches him on the hands hard and, even if not done maliciously, it does hurt. Not badly enough to make his eyelids any lighter though, and so he tries to snuggle into the fingers he can blurrily imagine being closed firmly on both of his wrists, leaving bruises the size of a small plum. "Sir, please, I know it's hard but come on! Come on... come... co... me... oooooo..." A blur, a void, an echo slowly disappearing within the quiet whizzing wind he hears pounding in his ears.
Darkness.
Nothingness.
Coldness.
He dreams of being carried somewhere, arms dangling uselessly, everything flickering steadily, torn words humming monotonously in the background. His body feels so heavy and faces flash in front of his eyes, a kaleidoscopic mosaic twisting and growing with each second. Then there's their room on Baker Street and he can almost taste the bitter aroma of coffee and see that blasted dark wallpaper. He can almost hear the distant pitter-patter of rain onto the window-sills and a steady rhythm of fingers hitting keyboard. Laptop... John.
John.
"Sir, please! God, somebody help me with this guy, we need him because of that robbed marra this instant. Johnny, be useful for once and get something smelly instead of wandering like always!" Something cool is being pressed onto his face, moving lightly from his forehead onto the cheeks. The voice is strained and breaking at some points, too tired of screaming to sound elegantly.
Johnny.
Johnny boy.
He feels his eyes twitch involuntarily. "Guess he's coming round, doctor. Johnny! Johnny, don't look for those smelling salts any more, they ain't needed now!
Moriarty.
Sherlock opens his eyelids slowly, sleep still misting his eyes. The corridor is painfully white, fluorescent lamps pulsing with yellow and green undertones, dark points fluttering in front of him. There's that girl with a messy pony-tail once again, kneeling and whispering something he can't understand. With a stoic expression fixed once again onto his face, he soon finds himself being led up the stairs and many hallways, asked thousands of questions he can't really force himself to answer. His tongue is wooden-like, the inside of his lips awfully sandy and dry. City echoes on the outside with sea-like mass of blinding lights, the whole ripping muscles noise of a breaking at hand sunrise.
Everything feels too unreal to even breath properly, memories swimming in and out Sherlock's outstretched in vain hands, his shoulders bumping from time to time painfully onto the walls and the girl's as lanky as his own frame.
"Sir, please. I need to fill in the folders, who's that guy to you? Is there any blood relation between the two of you? Sir, please" she tugs at his elbows relentlessly, blinking those big doe eyes and Sherlock vaguely tries to think whether he's seen such a kind of irises already or not. It's the only logical thing now and his mind stirs, desperately trying to get back on track, to let the thoughts flood him once again, just like in the old times. With each silent minute, with each tentatively taken step, the mist quietly leaves him unmasked and bare under all of the damp clothing and bruised sense of rightness.
There are no heroes, so why should any villains exist?
He glances absent-mindedly at her warm flesh and wonders if his hands are as lifefull and real. Her neck is swan like, hair cascading gently down some other uniform onto a stained, old jumper. It seems woollen, with a few crystals reflecting the hallway in a tiny universe of its own. It feels wrong to stare so intently but he can't really help himself, hands clenching around damp with sweat air. Moans echo poisonously from small rooms, mixing up and Sherlock gets the horrible after-taste of not remembering something important, way more important than just some musings onto human's body.
The girl glares at him, not really looking angry. He feels like panicking the moment she suddenly leaves his side just to come back a few seconds later with a cup full of liquid golden life. Coffee smells oddly fantasy-like, its bitter aroma clashing viciously with the sterile air surrounding her. She smiles at him shyly, sipping onto her own black tea quickly. "You'll feel better after it, I assure you. No wonder you've withdrawn, they were quite surprised themselves at seeing such a peculiar sight." She gestures lightly with a flicker of her hand towards her bright irises, giggling nervously when no reply comes. They still walk, a slower pace this time, the halls inviting them with darkness being slowly hushed away with at least a dozen of new lamps.
"Sir," she stops in front of him, hands reaching up his face and just as expected he flinches, blinking hazily. "if you don't answer my questions now, you won't be able to see him until well past next week."
He glances at her through the lashes, looking lost. "As far as I know," he begins, his voice hoarse and far too loud in the corridor "nurses can't do anything of the sort, even if pressed with charges."
"You don't look like an immediate relative of his," the girl mutters unabashedly, not tearing her eyes from his. She smiles, taking quick steps and soon opens a dark wooden door "and thus we don't have to let you see him any time soon, sir. More work for us means only less time for treating him and being so stubborn isn't the wisest thing to do now, sir, believe me."
Sherlock isn't sure why, but her eyes seem as cold as an ocean the moment he takes a calming breath and staggers into the room full of cotton-candy coloured pillows and mythical plush toys. It all feels wrong and blood flows freezingly in his veins, once again misting things over.
Everything glitters before his eyes just like those ice flowers in the cab.
A/N: you tube . com /watch?v=AtZyXnfvaXs&feature=related
Something additional. Mail me if you want to get a translation of the lyrics or links to other songs I gave to each chapter of this story on dA.