Sherlock story
Deleted Memories, Chapter 38
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.
A very special thanks to LePetitErick who is voluntarily rereading Deleted Memories from the beginning to point out typos, you are amazing! Four eyes are much better than two.
"Our greatest glory is not in never falling but in rising every time we fall." Confucius
Present Day
John frowned in confusion and followed Sherlock's gaze to the knife.
"No...No, it's my fault Sherlock. You had your eyes opened but you were unresponsive, I tried to get you to respond." John's voice broke; he put his hand to his mouth and cleared his throat before continuing.
"Fifteen minutes Sherlock. You were catatonic and completely unresponsive. Sherlock, you were gone. I panicked; it was never this bad before. I was about to call Mycroft."
John took a shaky breath.
"Usually, when I call your name you… snap out of it, and within a few minutes, fall back to sleep. This time…."
Sherlock looked at the cut on John's shirt and back into John's eyes.
John understood and answered his unasked question.
"Your eyes finally started blinking. I touched your shoulder. I should have known better. You started fighting and screaming for me to get away and not touch you. I was startled and fell against the table hitting my face. The cup broke and must have nicked me."
Sherlock visibly relaxed and exhaled loudly.
John raised himself up and put a hand out.
Sherlock after a moment's hesitation took John's hand and allowed his friend to pull him up.
Sherlock leaned against the door. His suit jacket was neatly on the back of a dining room chair. He considered getting his jacket; his body was chilled from the air that met damp skin. His shirt was damp with sweat. He shivered more. Must be the cold he decided.
"You should take care of your arm, John," Sherlock spoke so quietly it was a strain to hear.
Sherlock walked over to the chair, picked up his jacket then put it on and buttoned. He considered going to his room to change but his feet felt heavy, and the walk too far. Instead, he turned and stared out the window.
John looked toward the bathroom, thinking of the first aid kit under the sink; but felt uncomfortable leaving his friend alone even for a short amount of time. John stayed. He always stayed.
The room seemed to be closing in on Sherlock. He pushed the feeling down, somewhere deep and dark and locked it away. At least that is what he hoped he did.
The younger man heard John's voice coming from behind.
"Sherlock, you've had a flashback, and it's getting worse. Bloody hell I knew it, you've been hiding it from me…"
John was furious.
"I have not heard you the past few days because you haven't been sleeping the past few days. I thought the nightmares had stopped. I should have known: the excessive yawning, falling asleep in the chair and odd places, it's not like you. I thought it was because you were recovering." John's voice was full of emotion, barely contained.
"Sherlock, will you look at me?" John pleaded.
Sherlock turned around and faced John.
"After everything we've been through; as long as we've been together, don't you trust me?" Hurt and worry replaced the anger in John's voice.
"You were tired John; I noticed the dark circles under your eyes. You couldn't go around staying awake all night trying to take care of me. I didn't want to become some pathetic joke." Sherlock seemed lost, childlike.
Instantly it changed. Sherlock blinked several times as his mask fell in place. To look at Sherlock now, one would have never known that the last twenty minutes had occurred.
Sherlock started to collect the items that had spilled on the floor, and the lamp. He replaced them on the side table, with the exception of a teacup that was broken. Sherlock frowned, and put the broken pieces in the bin. He then picked up his violin and played. The bow moved against the strings of the violin in long jagged strokes producing an oddly sad, strangled sort of a sound.
Sherlock's face was expressionless.
Sherlock never put his mask on when it was just the two of them. Although Holmes was a very private man, he and John had gotten very close. He allowed John to see a bit of his soul. The former army doctor saw and knew things that no one else knew.
He knew that Sherlock laughed a lot, especially the last six months before… the fall.
He knew that Sherlock had a wicked sense of humor. He still remembers the severed hand in his bed when he woke up, all because he said that no one read Sherlock's blog. It took three washings to get the smell off his sheets.
He knew that Sherlock cried, not boohoo crying. But a tear ran down his face when a little girl, a recovered kidnap victim scream; all because Moriarty had a look alike kidnap her, and her brother, in an attempt to frame Sherlock.
Sherlock could not stand the fact that a child, any child would think that he would hurt them.
John knew his friend's secret: Sherlock was an arrogant bastard, but an arrogant bastard with a big heart. He understood John and knew him better than anyone, and now Sherlock puts on a mask? Why… something was very, very wrong and this terrified John.
"Sherlock, you have to speak to someone. Talk to a professional, talk to Mycroft, or how about you talk to me," John pleaded.
John had given up on trying to keep his voice from breaking.
Sherlock was as silent and as still as a stone.
"So… you're just going to pretend that this did not happen…. because let me tell you… that plan is working well, isn't it!" John was dumbfounded.
"John," it was a warning, he had stopped playing but still had the violin under his chin.
"You have to talk about it; you talked to me when I had night terrors about the war, it helped."
"John stop," now it was a plea, the violin fell from his hand as Sherlock started breathing harshly.
Practically shouting John said, "I'm not going to stand by and watch you fall apart without a fight. You do remember how to fight, don't you Sherlock!" John spat out sarcastically.
John's fear, and anger, were like bullets in a gun. Fired, they found and pierced their target.
John closed his eyes. His hands were crossed around his chest protectively. He knew immediately he had gone too far, but he was worried, and damn the man was stubborn.
"Dear God Sherlock, I'm so, so, sorry." John whispered an apology.
"Get out," Sherlock whispered, but John still heard it.