Sherlock story
Deleted Memories, Chapter 37
Warning: post Reichenbach spoilers. Hope you enjoy
*As always thanks for reading, a special thanks to all of you who take the time to review, comment, and favorite :)
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"We shall draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival." ~Winston Churchill
Present Day
A half hour after falling asleep, Sherlock thought he heard his name being called. The sound was far away and muffled. He felt something, a touch. Fear filled Sherlock, like water filling in a cup. It poured itself into him until it ran over.
Not again, he had to get away, he had to get away, he had to get….
"Sherlock!"
The room faded in and out of focus. Sherlock's heart was beating wildly; beads of sweat ran down his forehead and soaked his neck, back, and collar of his dress shirt. The face of a madman shifted in front of him, and then melted away. The room started to come into focus.
Sherlock felt his lungs burn, he did not have enough air. He took a moment to concentrating on breathing, and tried to focus his mind.
Someone was calling his name again. No… not someone… John.
"John?" Sherlock's voice was raw as if he had been screaming.
Sherlock shook his head.
Sherlock was crouched in a defensive position on the floor with his back against the wall. One hand was bent at the elbow in front of his face as a shield. His already injured body felt sore, as if he had been fighting.
Sherlock looked at John who was kneeling beside him, John managed to say "It's alright Sherlock, you're safe, no one is here Sherlock, no one's crying…," John repeated words of comfort in the voice he usually reserved when he spoke to fragile victims of a crime.
Is that what he had become, Sherlock wondered, fragile… a victim?
"John," Sherlock said again. He looked across the room trying to make a deduction.
Think, Sherlock told himself. Why was it so hard to concentrate? He noticed that his breathing was coming much too fast, so did John.
"Sherlock, slow down your breathing." John inched his way with both hands raised up in a non-threatening gesture. "Your breathing Sherlock, remember your breathing. One... two... three... four...in, one...two... three... out…."
Sherlock nodded woodenly and locked on to John's voice, concentrating on breathing.
He felt himself starting to relax. He looked around now, collecting data mentally. The lamp was overturned and rested next to the sofa on the floor. A teacup set was displaced on the floor, sharp shards of the broken cup were scattered near the lamp. Also, on the floor were a knife and a broken biscuit.
Sherlock closely observed John for the first time.
John's shirt was pulled out on one side; his hair was a bit disheveled. One side of his face was red. His eyes stopped traveling when it reached John's right arm… his shirt on that arm was cut, and a small stain of blood appeared and was spreading slightly.
Sherlock frown and looked down at his hands that were now clinched into fists.
Did he hit John, hurt him in some way? Sherlock's eyes shifted to the knife.
"Nooo," Sherlock whispered, as his eyes grew wide.