Chapter 2: Darkness
"Sherlock…Sherlock?"
A familiar voice seeped through the black unconsciousness, dragging Sherlock out of the nothingness. His mind was numb, a strange sensation for the man who's mind could never stop running. He was vaguely aware that his body was moving, rolling along on a smooth surface at a quickening speed. A fog surrounded his general consciousness; nothing was clear except for the voice, a voice that never stopped calling his name.
Suddenly, he was aware of something foreign under his skin. There were tubes in his arms; generally not a good sign. He could feel a number of hands on his body, each coming and going without any warning. Another needle was pricked into his arm. Sherlock hated it, the feeling of claustrophobia starting to suffocate him. It was one thing to have a person touch him; it was a whole other to have multiple unknowns contacting him all at once. He wanted to scream, to tell everybody to move away from him, far away. But each effort to do so was rendered useless; his vocal chords refused to cooperate. He tried to move his arm to dislodge the needles, but they were held down by some sort of restraint. As were his legs.
The claustrophobia was getting worse, a mild panic setting in over his disoriented state. Control; he needed to regain control somehow. He couldn't breathe. He felt his chest heaving, a dry gasp escaping from his throat (now he could make a sound…still useless). Something was slipped over his mouth, a rush of oxygen flooding through his trachea and into his lungs. Relief, for the time being. But at least the new source of air allowed him to think more clearly about the situation.
Rolling motion…IV tubes…arm restraints, and restraints over my chest now that I think about it…breathing mask…I'm in a hospital, and from the smell of it, St. Bart's.
Hazarding a look, Sherlock opened his eyes, a white light stabbing his vision. Instantly, he realized his mistake: a throbbing in his head suddenly took control, the pounding becoming too painful to ignore. Pain pierced his forehead, stabbing through his skull with agony. Through the haze of the neon lights above him, Sherlock saw a face looking over him with immense worry. Large hazel eyes; those familiar eyes gleamed at him from above. It was a hazy image, but the sound of the voice filled in any doubts about the person's identity.
"Sherlock, you are in St. Bart's emergency ward," John said, his voice trying to remain steady. He was breathing heavily, his mouth panting as he moved with the bed; it was obvious that he had run from Harry's to be by Sherlock's side. The lines on his face were creased with a concerned disposition.
"Everything's going to be alright," he said quickly. "Jesus, what happened to you?"
Sherlock was about to make a cynical remark, something to prove to his friend that he was quite alright and that there was no use in putting him in the hospital, but the blurriness in his vision worsened. Suddenly, Sherlock could not remain awake for any longer. He struggled violently against the fatigue, trying to call out to John, cursing his body for its uselessness.
The pounding overtook everything; his eyes closed and his thoughts were paralyzed. The last thing he heard was John's voice desperately calling his name: "Sherlock! Sherlock…"
The darkness of his subconscious pulled him back in, wrapping his reality in silence.
Sherlock felt smothered in the darkness, the nothingness holding him captive. Struggling for what seemed like an eternity, he fought his way forward, trying to reach out and grab anything that would let him hold up, that would stabilize his spinning mind. But it was like swimming in the middle of the ocean in the middle of the night; no matter how far he went in any direction, there was no end to the silence. The black went on and on and on for what seemed like forever. If he didn't watch himself, he could feel himself slipping away, fading off into some oblivious nature. So he kept fighting, pushing his way around the boundaries of his mind until something would give. He had to keep fighting; he didn't know why, but he had to keep going. He just had to get out of this darkness.
Because the darkness scared him. The darkness scares everyone, even the great Sherlock Holmes.