Autor's note: No warnings this time. Well, no warnings regarding violence or stuff. I've been told that you need one or two handkerchiefs for this chapter. But then, you are all rather used to that by now, right?
When the night nurse has looked after us one last time, I carefully sneak into John's bed. His body is hurt, just like mine, and I try not to cause more pain. But there is no way I can abstain from feeling his body heat for one more second. John doesn't lean into my (soft) embrace the way he used to (probably because he doesn't want to hurt me), but he doesn't reject me either.
He falls asleep soon, and after an hour he turns around in his sleep, facing me. This is the first time I really observe. There are dark circles underneath his eyes. Wrinkles on his face that were not there two weeks ago. The broken nose is already healing, and it will remain slightly crooked. He is pale.
I place my chin on his head, carefully avoiding touching his nose with my chest, and close my eyes. His breath tickles my skin, and I fall asleep within seconds.
###
When I wake up again, it is dawning outside. John has moved away from me as far as possible and is watching me concernedly. "Good morning," he whispers, "are you all right?"
I think I am, so I nod.
Something in his face changes, and his eyes show (concern? disappointment? sadness? I don't know.) It disappears as fast as it came.
"You still don't feel like talking, do you?" he asks gently, and I shake my head. It is difficult, even though I do not understand why. It makes him (sad? hurt? impatient?).
Apparently there is something wrong with my deduction skills as well. I hate to admit, but I will need Mycroft's help to ... But he won't help me, of course. He is dead. Just like Harry and Emmi and …
No, not Emmi. Not my parents.
I need to close my eyes to get it together. Too much pain, too much worry, too little hope for far too long. Too many lies, too many mind games.
My head is swirling, only John's hand on my back stops me from falling into the abyss that is waiting inside my mind. I lean against it, heavily. We remain that way until a nurse comes in to check on us. I hope that John's hand will return to my back once she is gone, but it doesn't.
###
Later, a psychologist comes to see us. She tries to talk to me. It only takes five minutes until I am soaked in sweat. John drives her away.
###
Later, another doctor comes and talks to John who instantly tenses. I try to glare at the young doctor to make him leave. I think it works.
###
Later, another doctor comes. She tells us that we need to go to an examination room so there can be more tests. When we both stand up, she informs us that John needs to come with her first and that I will be examined later. I panic. John makes it clear that we are leaving immediately.
###
A cab takes us home. I am holding John's hand. He is looking grim.
###
When we enter our flat, my parents are there. Mrs Hudson sitting together with them (has been crying). Emmi is on mummy's lap. She smiles at us when we come closer. I step closer to pick her up. John doesn't.
All of them react differently to us. Mummy is all fussing worry. Daddy is calm sadness. Emmi is cooing happily. Mrs Hudson is pretending not to cry and pets my head constantly.
John, on the other hand, is strangely reserved. (Trying not to lose control?) I try to take in all of their reactions at once. It is overwhelming. I have to stop before it becomes too much to stand.
###
They ask me things and I can't bring myself to answer.
###
Later, we are alone.
(I don't know how long they stayed. I lost complete track of the time. I was too busy trying and failing to deduce the easiest things while trying to communicate without talking.)
When John brings Emmi to bed, I pick up my violin …
and then I am just standing there. I cannot bring myself to play a single note.
In my mind I can see John being sad for me. Unbearable. I put the violin away and pretend I have been sitting in front of my laptop the whole time.
###
The next day starts with early crying by Emmi and the eerie feeling that things are almost back to normal. Only that I don't speak, of course. But all the rest is strangely normal. Feeding Emmi, changing her nappies, John in the kitchen, preparing tea and breakfast.
When he says "Good morning, you two" Emmi smiles at him, and so do I. He waits for a moment and then nods. Claps my arm lightly and goes on talking to Emmi and me, as if one of us could answer.
This is how we go on for a few days.
###
After two days and one serious misunderstanding, he places a sheet of paper and a pen in front of me. "I know you have trouble talking, but what about writing?" he asks.
When I just stare at the sheet, he goes on, "Write down what you'd like to eat tomorrow. I'll be right back."
I take the pen and want to start, but my hand somehow gets stuck right above the paper. Because down at the core of it, isn't writing just like speaking? Would it be cheating if I wrote down something?
Well, but it doesn't matter. Mary is dead.
My hand refuses to move. After a few minutes, I am soaked in sweat and my hand is shaking. There is still not a single word written down on that blasted sheet of paper.
When John returns from the loo he looks at me and fights hard not to be disappointed.
I can stand his sad eyes for three seconds. Then I grab my coat and leave the flat.
When I return several hours later, the sheet has disappeared.
###
John quickly comes up with a sophisticated way to ask me for my opinion. He reduces everything down to yes and no questions, sometimes a lot of them. When he wants to cook, for example, he lists up a huge number of things ("Do you want rice or noodles? Rice? No? Noodles? Yes? Noodles with mushrooms, salmon or bolognese? Mushrooms? No? Salmon? Yes? Good.") It is rather tiresome, and I start wanting the first or second thing he suggests, no matter what.
###
In the beginning, some people drop by to visit us. Lestrade, Molly, Yasmin. Janine.
There is always pity leaking from them, so much that it is always close to drowning me. Luckily, they always feel so uncomfortable in my (silent) presence that those visits stop after a while.
###
When I accidentally choose rice with prawns John understands what I am doing. He gets angry. All I can do is look at him apologetically. Which is stupid, really. I am the one who would have been forced to eat something he doesn't like, not John.
But somehow my being sorry makes him even angrier. He starts yelling at me, and when I fail to defend myself he leaves the flat. On his way out he bangs the door close so hard that Emmi wakes and throws a tantrum. (Good girl. That way I have to concentrate on her. Less time to think about this stupid fight.)
When John comes back after more than three hours, his eyes are red. He embraces me (shortly) and apologises. "I just cannot stand seeing you like that," he explains later on, Emmi on his lap. I think he wants to say more but doesn't. Not sure if it's just my defective deduction skill or if there is really more on his mind. Annoying.
###
More often than not I wake up in my bed alone. We always go to sleep together, me leaning against any part of John I can get hold on, but when I wake up he is always gone. After the first time I looked at him questioningly, and he told me that he woke up way too early and didn't want to disturb me.
I wish I could tell him that I'd prefer to be woken by him rather than waking up alone.
###
Emmi is the only one who doesn't seem to mind my silence. She spends hours in my arms without feeling pity for me. John must know how much that means to me, for he lets me take care of her nearly all the time.
###
When I try to find some sleep, my exhausted mind sends me to my mind palace instead. I am standing in front of the door that has always been leading me to my sanctum, to my very own place of tranquillity and peace. Until, of course, until I opened the door after being shot, trying to calm down to avoid dying from shock. That day, Mary had been waiting there, dressed up as a bride, weapon pointing at me. I have never been able to open that door again.
That memory makes me stop in front of the door now, hand resting on the handle.
"She won't be there," a voice from behind me says. My inner Mycroft. I am torn between happiness about being with him and annoyance at his arrogant tone. "Actually," he goes on, "you will find that she has left your mind palace for good the moment John cut her throat open."
Can I believe that? Of course. It's Mycroft. He knows things. That's what he does. Did. Anyway. She is gone for good. The enormous amount of relief is overwhelming. But my hand is still stuck on that door handle. I try to open the door, but it is locked. I let my hand sink down and turn away.
"That is how you handle things these days, isn't it?" Mycroft states. (I almost forgot how arrogant he could be.)
Before I can give his comment any thought, he goes on, "You cannot open the door, so you simply turn away. You cannot play the violin, so you simply let it rot in the corner. You cannot speak, so you simply remain silent. You cannot stand to think about how broken John is, so you simply ignore it. When did you become such a coward?"
Hearing this hurts (because it is true). But John is not broken. He cannot be broken. He saved us and is trying to fix me now. How can he be broken? I try to deduce from memory (but fail again).
"You cannot deduce how broken John is, so you simply stop thinking about it at all," inner Mycroft chides coldly. I try to will him away (no matter how happy I am about his company), but he stays. "You don't have to deduce that hard to find out what is wrong with him, " Mycroft continues, "Just think, Sherlock! For once just think."
When I fail to come up with a helpful thought, he sighs (quite histrionically) and asks, "Why don't you talk?"
Easy. Because Mary messed up with my mind.
"How so?"
That one is easy, too. She demonstrated how people get hurt when I speak.
"Did she tell John the same?"
No.
"What did she tell him instead?"
That people get hurt because …
Oh.
That people get hurt because he loves them, and they love him.
And all of a sudden, my mind delivers several observations from the last few days. John doesn't touch me when he can avoid it. He leaves bed when I have fallen asleep. He lets me handle Emmi as often as possible. He stopped himself from saying "I love you" at the cellar when forcing me to promise.
The smile Mycroft gives me now is a sad one. "Do you still believe it is possible that John made it out of that cellar unharmed, little brother?"
I wake up with a start. I am afraid I might have woken John, but the space next to me is empty (once more). When I sneak into the living room, I find John sleeping on the sofa (once more). It is crystal clear now. John is not sleeping there to avoid disturbing me. He is sleeping there because he cannot stand the fact that I love him.
The urge to reach out and touch him is overwhelming. When I softly stroke his cheek, he sighs in his sleep and turns away from my touch. Even in his sleep he cannot allow himself to be loved.
Inner Mycroft was right (of course). John, my John, stubborn, sturdy, strong John is damaged. Strongly bent, if not broken. And I myself am so broken I cannot even think of a way to fix him.
I sit by his side (undetected) for several hours and ponder our desperate situation. One thing is clear to me now: We are destined to fail, but too stubborn to give up.
So when he is close to waking up, I sneak back into my bedroom. The next day, we stumble on, pretending that we are both carrying on, pretending that there is a chance we will make it against all odds.
Knowing that we won't.