Sherlock wakes suddenly and tries to open his eyes. It takes him a moment to understand why he can't seem to manage it, and isn't quite able to suppress the sharp intake of breath the momentary panic causes.
John is with him, instantly, hand on his arm. "It's okay. I'm right here."
John, it's so unnatural to have him near, to think of him, without the accompanying glow, the aura that assures him everything is all right, even when John's gone it's still in his mind, but now there's just nothingness...
Sherlock sits up, slowly swiveling his legs over the side of the bed, acclimating himself to the darkness once more. He feels John get out of bed too and hears him rummage through his wardrobe.
"I'm going to examine you," John's voice says firmly, from immediately in front of him.
He is not asking for permission but Sherlock nods anyways, and submits coolly to the standard poking and prodding, the cold stethoscope, the thermometer in his mouth.
"Well?" he demands impatiently when John is done.
"Well, you didn't have a stroke..."
"If you thought I had we'd have been in the hospital yesterday."
John sighs. "There's nothing wrong with you."
Everything's wrong, doesn't John realise that, he can't have found nothing, this doesn't just happen...
"Of course there's something wrong me, I can't see!" Sherlock shouts, agitated.
He feels John's hands on his thighs. John is kneeling before him. "I know, I know. Just... you're in perfect health. Your vitals, your reflexes, all as they should be. Your eyes look completely fine, they're responding to light stimulus normally."
"What does that mean?"
"It means we're going to have to get a look at your brain. I'm afraid it has to be something effecting the visual cortex. You need an fMRI so we can see what going on up there."
Sherlock had suspected as much, at least that some kind of scan would have to happen. He didn't know of any diseases of the eye that would cause instant blindness like that, although he'd rather been hoping John did. "You do it."
"Me?" John gives a nervous laugh. "I'm not a brain specialist and I certainly don't know how to run an fMRI machine! Of course I'll go with you, and I know just the doctor you need see, she's completely brilliant, you can trust her-"
"No. I don't want anyone else knowing," Sherlock says urgently. "You know what enemies I have, John. It will have to be you."
If Moriarty were to find out about this, how helpless and vulnerable he is, how long would they last, what if he took John again, Sherlock couldn't get him back, Moriarty could kill Sherlock easily like this but what's worse he could torment him, reducing him to begging, tricking him into hurting someone, many people would love to take advantage of his situation now, but Moriarty is the only one he fears...
John takes his hands. "I understand, okay? I do. And I'm flattered that you think so much of me, but I can't do everything. It's impossible. And if you want your sight back, you need to be seen by people who know what they are doing."
"Unacceptable," Sherlock snaps. "I'll be a target, instantly. I already am."
John jumps to his feet in frustration and Sherlock can picture him clenching his fists at his sides so as to not say something he'll regret. "How about Molly?" he asks after a few seconds. "Can Molly know?"
She'll probably be unbearable, fussing over him, being upset, emotional, far worse than John, at least John knows how much it bothers him, shows restraint, and even when he doesn't he's not as bad as her, but she's trustworthy and loyal and that's the important thing...
"Does she know how to run the scanner?"
"I doubt it, not very much cause to look at brain activity in dead people. But she can probably find a technician who has no idea who you are and schedule it at time when no one will be around. I won't put your name on anything. Molly can run the blood tests through the lab anonymously and I'll show Caroline the scans after you've gone. You'll be my Patient 1, that's it. And no one who knows you will think anything of you being at Bart's at odd hours. Good enough?"
Sherlock consents, reluctantly.
"Good. Okay. I'll make some calls. Do you... need help with anything?" John asks delicately.
"You won't have to bathe or dress me, if that's what you're asking."
"Hey! Don't start that," John barks. "This is. Not. My. Fault. If you can't accept help, this will not work. Got it?"
Sherlock sniffs, but murmurs his acquiescence. It takes him longer than usual to navigate his ablutions, but it's doable. He tries to seem more grateful when John helps him with shaving again, without being asked. John doesn't say anything either, but ruffles his hair affectionately when he's done. Sherlock does feel a bit of satisfaction when he goes to dress, that the sock index and alphabetized wardrobe are useful for more than just taming his compulsive side.
White shirt, third from left, second best trousers, lower bar, centre, charcoal jacket, top bar right, matching socks, second row back, fifth from the left, shoes, matte black leather, wardrobe floor...
Just trying to do simple tasks without fumbling about suddenly takes up so much of his concentration that when he's done he's shocked to realise he hadn't thought of anything beyond what he was actually doing. It's disconcerting, but before he has time to worry about it, he find he's got the opposite problem. He can't think of anything to do but think.
Can't read, can't work on his website, can't take cases - even if he could do casework like this his condition would get out - can't watch telly properly, can't run his experiments, can't research, can't defend himself, can't protect John...
John interrupts this depressing string of can'ts. "We'll go in tonight, at 11 pm. Molly knows a guy and the place will be all but deserted."
"What I am supposed to do till then?"
"Oh, you're welcome," John says irritably. "I don't know, Sherlock. Organise your mind palace? Listen to the news? Play your violin."
"I can't read the sheet music."
"Yes, and you've memorised nothing and never compose!" John shouts, then falls quiet. After long moments of silence he comes over and puts his hands on Sherlock's hips, sighing deeply. "I'm sorry. I know this is devastating for you. The truth is, I'm afraid too. But we will figure this out. Until then, how about I try not to take it out on you if you try not to take it out on me?"
"I...suppose..." Sherlock agrees. He finally works up the courage to ask what's been eating at him since yesterday. "John... could this be... something worse?"
Is he dying...
"Sherlock, we can't know–"
"Don't lie. Tell me."
He can feel John fidget uncomfortably. "Yes. There are a few things it could be that are serious. I mean, more serious than losing your vision permanently."
"What are they?"
"It could be a tumour. I'm sure you've thought of that. It could also be an aneurysm or a blood clot. You travel. It could be a parasite or virus causing encephalitis." John adds quickly, "But you haven't had any other symptoms so I really don't think–"
"I see. Thank you for telling me. Will you please hand me my violin?"
John does as he asks. "If you like, I can read to you later."
Sherlock nods in acknowledgement, closes his unseeing eyes, and tries to lose himself in the music.
At the hospital John takes him to a private room and orders him to change.
"I am not wearing a hospital smock," Sherlock declares. "They only need to look at my head, anyway."
"And if I could cut it off and stick it in the machine, we'd be in business. It's a giant magnet, Sherlock. And your shirt has metal buttons. Not to mention your trousers. As entertaining as that would be, I feel the hospital smock is probably the path of least embarrassment. Change, I need to go talk to Molly."
Sherlock does, with bad grace. He's freezing and the smock was clearly not designed for a man of his height.
Alone, in a strange room, no context, just draughts of recycled air and the smell of antiseptic, it's silent and still and artificial, it throws off his whole sense of his surroundings, things are okay in his flat, and okay when John is there but now he's just untethered, at the mercy of his environment…
He's ashamed of how relieved he is when John returns.
"All right, they're ready. Don't say anything, she's told the tech you're some kind of American bigwig, and that's why you don't want anyone to know about this. Also, be nice to her – I think she's taking one for the team."
"What?" asks Sherlock, confused.
"She agreed to go out with him."
"That's enough inducement for him?"
"One: Don't be an arse. Two: If you could see him, you'd understand."
That sobers Sherlock quickly and John takes him into the fMRI room. Sherlock keeps pace with him, letting John's shoulder touch his arm just enough that he can follow John's movements without the humiliation of public guidance. The room feels big and empty, with a loud, low electronic hum pervading it. John shows him to the table and has him lie down, face up.
Vulnerable, cold, like a corpse on a slab in the morgue…
"Now, you have to stay completely still. No talking, no moving. I'm not supposed to stay in here, but if you want…"
Sherlock shakes his head, even though for once he'd really prefer John stay.
"Okay, well I'll be in the booth then. I'll be able to hear you if you need me." He hears John walk out of the room and the door close. It's even more discombobulating to be lying mostly naked in the centre of an empty space like this, not allowed to move around, to speak, and he tries to focus on something else.
Presently, the machine starts, a deafening but smooth whir, so deep that it feels like it's vibrating inside of his bones and teeth. John's voice comes over the intercom, audible but muffled by the noise of the scanner. He's telling Sherlock exactly what's happening. It's reassuring to have his voice, but too much work to pay attention to. Trusting that John is watching out, he turns inward, returning to the case of the cat burglar.
The problem was predicting when he'd strike, they'd tried tempting him with high profile jewellery purchases, profiles of homes full of antiques, but he never took the bait, no, too smart for that, they'd wasted nights lying in wait for him, it had to have something to do with the pictures, but what, and how to turn it against him…
He manages to successfully block out the noise of the spinning magnet, the emptiness of the room, and finds himself startled when a cool hand touches him on the arm.
"Sorry, my fingers are always freezing," Molly says, her voice oozing pity. "John's making copies of the scan and then is going to consult with his doctor friend. Can't imagine she's thrilled at being dragged down here this time of night. Anyway, do you want to wait in the lab… or I can take you home, if you like?"
He seethes at the necessity for this, the total dependence on others, being shuffled around like an extra piece of furniture…
"Clothes," he says curtly. "Then lab."
He gets to his feet, hoping the hospital smock hasn't revealed too much in the process. He's casual about nudity in general, but here he already feels too exposed, and he tends to modesty in front of Molly, if only for her own sake.
"Uh…right…" Molly stammers and grabs his hand. "Um. Are you… are you okay? Because if you want to… talk about… I mean, I just know it can be quite… um…"
Sherlock shakes her off. "Perfectly fine. And I don't need to be led around like a feebleminded child. I remember the way, and even if I didn't I could easily follow the sound of those ridiculously painful shoes you're wearing because you think they make your rather flat bottom more attractive and the smell of your over-applied chemist shop perfume."
"Right. Right. Of course. I… um… came from a date. Not the technician. A nice guy…"
"Clothes!"
She scurries and he follows as sedately as he can manage.
He does remember the way, at least back to the first room, from there he could probably get himself to the lab, he's walked these halls enough, but he couldn't do it without fumbling for a door handle or the curve of a wall at some point, if he made a wrong turn he'd be done for, unmased, but he doesn't want to be seen to be led either, even if he hates it having Molly as a beacon, showing the way, opening doors, is probably the least invasive form of assistance he's likely to get…
At last he is back in the lab, which provides a modicum of familiarity even if the equipment in it is largely useless to him. He waits, silent and straight-backed, for John to return. After a few attempts Molly eventually gives up on conversation and goes quiet to wait with him. He finds himself unexpectedly relieved she doesn't leave, wanting privacy but still averse to being left alone. As thanks he refrains from shouting at her for the irregular finger tapping she's unconsciously engaging in.
It must be more than an hour before John finally arrives, his restrained, almost stiff-gaited footsteps a welcome sound and his voice even more so.
He sounds tired, and like he wants to rush over and take Sherlock in his arms, but he won't do that here, probably wouldn't even at home because he knows Sherlock might not be in a place to accept that right now, and it's true, but the thought that John wants to do helps, even though he knows before his friend says a word about it that it's not good news…
Sherlock waits for John to speak. He does not say any of the things Sherlock expects.
"Your brain is fine," he tells Sherlock, standing close enough the Sherlock can just detect the warmth of his body. "No damage, no tumours, no swelling. You're not… well, nothing obviously structural seems to be amiss."
John's relieved, he'd thought Sherlock might be dying too, he'd thought they might find out the worst, but he'd hid it cleverly, only been able to because Sherlock wasn't able to detect the glitches in John's glow that would have alerted him, now that there is no glow, but John can't hide it any more, doesn't need to, still he's not happy, he's frustrated, reluctant to say more…
John pauses too long. "In fact… your visual cortex is responding normally."
"I don't understand," Sherlock says flatly.
"In the scan… it was lighting up just like it would if you were receiving visual input. Caroline said—"
"Oh, Caroline your ex?" Sherlock asks nastily.
"Sherlock…"
"No, really, if it weren't obvious enough from the fact that she was willing to run down to the hospital after midnight just to do a favour for you, I know what you smell like when you've been around a woman you've shagged."
He's being unnecessarily cruel to John, he knows it, but he doesn't know what else to do when everything is so completely out of his control, upside down, incomprehensible…
"It was medical school. She's married. And she's the top rated neurosurgeon in London," John says coolly. "Caroline says your brain scan is indistinguishable from that of a normally seeing person. There's absolutely no detectable reason you should be blind right now."
Sherlock leaps up and steps back from John until his back hits the bench behind him. "You think it's psychosomatic, don't you? Like your sham limp. You think I'm… what? Losing it, finally! Psychologically crippled. Damaged. Hysterical blindness, isn't that what they call it? I'm just hysterical!"
He's breathing hard and his voice does have a hysterical edge to it. He knows he should calm down, but to not be believed like this, it makes him feel trapped, helpless, more so than just not being able to see.
"No." John steps aggressively toward him. "No, Sherlock, I do not think that. There was a reason I had that limp, you know what it was, and I was damaged, crippled. Unless there are things relating to this you haven't told me, I can't see why this would be psychosomatic. Are there things?"
"No…" says Sherlock slowly.
There are things he's not told John, probably too many, things that worry him, things that he fears, things that might happen that he's not sure he can prevent, dark things from his past, but none of them seem to have any connection to the loss of sight…
"Good," says John. "Then we're going to continue on the assumption that this is a medical condition. Not everything shows up on a scan. Blood tests will tell us more. Now, let's go home."
Sherlock nods, slowly returning to a state of equilibrium. He hears Molly stir, and wishes she hadn't seen that. She's got his coat and helps him into it. He cringes when she opens her mouth to speak, but instead of sympathy she just says very quietly, low enough that John can't hear, "You're still yourself, you know. This doesn't change that."
"What?" His head snaps sharply in her direction by reflex, but she doesn't say another word and slips quietly out of the room.
It's two in the morning by the time they get back to Baker Street and neither of them are in the mood for sleep. John insists on picking up some takeout. "I'm not letting your starve yourself until we figure it out. If you have some kind of disease, not eating will only make it worse."
Still, neither manages to do much more than pick at the food. They sit in silence, lost in their thoughts until finally John slams his hand down on the table. "Enough of this."
Sherlock runs his hands through his hair, tugging on it, and tries to give John his attention. "Enough of what?"
"This. What to do we do? We solve mysteries. This is just a medical mystery. You're a detective, I'm a doctor. Who better to solve this one? Let's get to work."
"I'm really not in the mood—"
"In the mood to what? Get your sight back? Now, work you stubborn arse."
John's right, he's not been thinking about it at all, he's been avoiding thinking about it, allowing other people to do it for him, hoping for a quick fix or at least a diagnosis, letting himself be made irrelevant to his own problem, but now it's clear it's not going to be simple, not going to just go away, he can't leave it in the hands of others…
John gets up from the table and Sherlock hears his chair creaks as he settles in it. Sherlock follows suit. The ritual helps.
"First thing," says John. "Have you ever had any problem with your sight before?"
"No."
"Did you have any symptoms or feel unusual leading up to this?"
"I told you I didn't."
"So what do you we need to look for?"
John treating him like he's never deduced a thing before, but he can't quite resent it, his brain is shying away from this, away from what it all might mean, he needs to be forced to do it, to solve it, because maybe no one else can…
"New factors."
"Okay. Let's start with the past few weeks. What's new? Everything. List it."
"I changed tailors, Mrs. Hudson got a new cleaner for the floors, we ate at that Irish pub with the filthy toilets, you went to Paris to visit your old professor and came back with that knock-off watch and Italian leather shoes, nice choice by the way, perhaps some sense of style is finally rubbing off on you, that miserable potted fern finally expired, I had two cigarettes while you were gone and they weren't my usual brand, we met three new clients, we staked out two mansions unsuccessfully, one of which was unusually musty, you switched the brand of coffee you buy us, which you should definitely switch back immediately, I was sneezed on by a music student on the tube, I changed my violin strings, the firewood Mrs. Hudson bought was fruitwood instead of walnut, one of the corpses at the morgue I was experimenting on had died of unknown causes, and Lestrade forced an unknown brand of whiskey on me after I solved that brank fraud case from Chessington."
Sherlock says of this very quickly in a single breath, before he's even consciously put it together in his mind. He takes a large gulp of air and allows himself a moment of happiness that his brain still appears to be in working order as far as memory goes.
"Right…" says John slowly, taken aback. "Well, some of those could be worth looking into…The violin strings are probably fine, but maybe the dodgy food or an allergic reaction to the cleaner? Mould in that house?"
John's reaching, but they don't have much in the way of leads. Sherlock nods in what he hopes is an encouraging manner.
"What about…substances?" The slight hesitation makes it clear to what John is referring.
"I told you that was done."
"I know… Just… people have relapses. I won't be angry, but you have to be honest with me. You've scrambled your neurons enough, who knows what a bad batch of something could do?"
"It's. Done."
And it is, although so many times it's nearly not been, he's ashamed to admit he was thinking of it as recently as yesterday, still he hasn't succumbed so it doesn't count, and something he almost but didn't take isn't relevant to the investigation…
John appears to accept that. "Anything else? Anything biological or chemical either of us has been exposed to? I mean, you did point out you have enemies… could this be intentional…?"
Intentional, maybe, it wouldn't be that hard to poison Sherlock, it's not like he has his food tasted, but he'd like to think he'd notice something was off, biological, London's an international city and he's out in it, in its guts, who knew what was floating around there, exotic diseases, recombinant viruses, impossible to track them all down, but he didn't feel sick otherwise, unlikely, as for chemical…
"John!" he practically shouts, getting out of his chair and in one smooth move jumping on to the seat. "Chemical!"
"Chemical…" repeats John pondering. Then Sherlock hears his breath catch and they say it at almost the same time.
"Baskerville!"
"Obvious!" Sherlock curses.
"Wait, is that possible?" John asks. "I thought it didn't stay in the bloodstream long at all. Plus, I'm fine."
"You tell me," Sherlock says. "You're the doctor."
"You're the chemist," John mutters. "Well… everything has a half-life, so depending on what it was, small amounts could still be in your system. They could have been lying about how long it persists so we would leave and forget about it."
"Likely," Sherlock agrees. "However, as you pointed you're fine and I'm not hallucinating, fearful, or aggressive."
"Well… perhaps it's having a sort of aftereffect on you. Your brain is… different."
"Drug addled?" Sherlock snaps.
"Occasionally," John replies calmly. "The drugs could have done some reorganising up there. But I was actually referring to your extreme intelligence, powers of memory and observation, your synaesthesia, and all the other things that make your mind unique. Sherlock, your brain isn't like anyone else's in the world. There's no reason to think it would react like it. The Baskerville drug… it's a possibility."
John's made him do it, helped him work as he always does, they've found a lead, he's so grateful, he doesn't even mind John harping on the drugs or hinting at his supposed mild autism, he wishes so badly he could see John now, see his kind face, see what colour he is, how bright, how strong, but even the lack of all that can't dim the warmth he feels right now…
"So, now what?" John asks, shaking him from his reverie.
"We'll need a sample."
"How are we supposed to… Oh. Mycroft."
"Mycroft," Sherlock confirms grimly. "He's going to want to know why."
"Hmmm," John considers. "Do you want him to know?"
"I really don't. He'll only meddle."
"Well, if you like I can try asking him?"
"You?" asks Sherlock incredulously.
John shrugs. "It won't be coming from you that way. I think I have some ideas on how to talk to him…"
