Sherlock slams face first in to the hardwood, like his strings have been cut. His chest constricts and waves of nausea crash over him.

Spinning out of control, an astronaut flung from his ship, not weightless but not obeying any laws of gravity he's familiar with, the darkness lurches and flips around in his head, or he does around in it, like he's walking down a lightless hallway that keeps rotating, and so quiet, quiet like death, like the universe before the universe was, like he's the only thing in all of existence, or maybe he doesn't exist at all anymore…

Distantly, he recognises that he is being touched, but he barely feels it. His skin is numbed, his body a shell with no connection to his self any longer. His self is reeling off into the void. The only thing that registers is the floor beneath him, or is it a ceiling or a wall or perhaps just an untethered board tumbling through space with him.

Sherlock's body's reflexes take over then, making him lift himself up enough to vomit without drowning himself in it. He feels hands on him again - John's hands, his brain tells him vaguely - but it doesn't mean anything to him. John, the person, is remote from him, an abstract, without a way to experience him. He exists now only as the plane where his skin meets Sherlock's, two dimensional and mute, lacking any frame of reference. There's no comfort there, no depth, no substance.

Sherlock shakes and tilts his head violently, trying to make a sound, trying to find an angle to orient to, any noise, any sense of direction. Slowly he realises that there is a rhythm in the dark. Something pressing on him, tapping.

Not a sound, a feeling, it won't stop, what fresh torment is this, poking at him, unceasing, on the inside of his wrist, getting stronger getting faster, activating his nerves, taking them from almost insensible to blazing stabs of not-quite-pain, raw stimulus, the only stimulus, and there's a pattern, repeating, zero/one, on/off, fast/slow, long/short, he knows it, if only he can remember what it is, point point point pause point point point point pause point pause point line point pause point line point point pause line line line pause line point line point pause line point line pause point point line line point point, and again…

S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K-? S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K-?

He jumps when his brain forms it into a word at last. Morse code. John is speaking to him in Morse code. In an instant he snaps back to his body, jarringly returned to all his remaining senses. He fills his lungs with air. He can feel John's fingers on him and can again imagine the man behind them. He can feel John, and smell him, and smell his own sick, taste it on his tongue. He exists once more. The world exists, though it is greatly diminished.

Pain radiates from various parts of him where he hit the floor. Everything is still silent and dark, his head still spins and his stomach still turns, and fear is rooted in in his mind, but he's a person again. At least he thinks so. He's Sherlock Holmes, isn't he? And John Watson is with him. Frantically trying to speak to him.

SHERLOCK? SHERLOCK CAN YOU UNDERSTAND THIS?

Sherlock licks his lips and says dryly, "Yes." Thinks he says. Has any sound come out of his mouth?

YOU CAN'T HEAR CAN YOU?

Sherlock hopes he replies calmly. "No, John. It would appear that I have lost my hearing in addition to my sight."

Instead of an immediate reply as he expects, suddenly bare arms are thrown around his torso. He feels the stubble of a cheek against his, hot breath on one of his useless ears. John is holding him very tightly, and John is trembling although he seems to be trying not show it. Sherlock feels John's fingers on the nape of his neck, tapping again, fast but lightly, like a whisper.

I'M SO SORRY. SO SORRY. WE'LL FIX THIS. I PROMISE.

Sherlock inhales and smells John's hair, John's shampoo in his nostrils. The realness of him helps. Sherlock still feels disconnected, disoriented, but John is a locus point. It's something. He feels John swallow against him, and there's a slight sensation of moisture on his face. It's too much for Sherlock then, and he extricates himself from the embrace.

"Am I speaking normally?" he asks, attempting to sit up straight. It's difficult, his balance is all wrong, but he can manage.

BIT LOUD, John answers, back to his wrist now.

Sherlock modulates. "Better?"

John seems to have composed himself, which is more than Sherlock can claim. He had thought blindness alone had made him helpless but that was blissful independence compared to the state in which he now finds himself.

So completely shut inside, taste and touch and smell all work but they can't make up for it, not even close, he's lost his agency, he waits in the dark for what will happen, he's a reactive creature now, his other senses poor and underdeveloped comparatively, even his keen sense of smell, you can't read a book with your nose however good it is, can't hear music with your tongue, can't read John's aura with your hands, whatever else they might do, he can feel his way around the flat still but with vertigo it won't stop him from ending up on the floor again, even his sense of space and direction betraying him now…

John helps Sherlock to get up and sit on the bed, and examines him once again. As much as he can, he keeps his fingers dancing over Sherlock's skin, telling him everything he's doing and why, and Sherlock is grateful for the input, any input, any connection to the world and to John. John is quick with his cipher, surprisingly quick, the words pop up in Sherlock's mind almost like a text. It helps to imagine them that way, on a screen in his brain, and pretend that they're talking over text and everything is normal.

When John is done, his news doesn't surprise Sherlock.

PHYSIOLOGICALLY THERE STILL ISN'T ANYTHING WRONG. YOUR HEART RATE IS ELEVATED AND YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE, BUT THAT'S TO BE EXPECTED AFTER YOUR FRIGHT. I'M SORRY.

"Stop apologising," Sherlock snaps at him. "It doesn't help."

He instantly regrets it. What if he angers John? What if John withdraws, stops speaking to him? He'd be utterly alone.

John doesn't withdraw, but Sherlock can feel his fingers tense and knows he's not entirely unaffected. He makes no comment about it, though, and chatters on about what they have to do now, going to hospital, more tests, as he helps Sherlock to the bathroom, to get cleaned up and to dress. Sherlock's sense of balance is improving, but not enough to do so many complicated tasks by feel alone.

He resents how much assistance he requires, but mustn't let it show, he resents how pathetically grateful he is for John's constant presence too, the stream of information, inane though most of it is, and so meagre, like surfing the internet on dial-up after you've been using fibre-optics, like an IMAX movie described in a tweet, but without it he'd have nothing, not even his lingering sanity…

The day plays out very much as the one after he lost his sight, although managing to be both more incomprehensible and even more dull. John takes him to hospital, he has another scan, they wait for results, they find nothing wrong with his auditory centre, they find nothing wrong with his ears, they take more blood, they run more tests. And Sherlock tries not to scream with anger and frustration and hate at everything around him. It wouldn't be satisfying anyway. He couldn't hear it.

And John talks to him, John tells him everything he can think of, on his wrist, on the back of his hand, on his forearm, on the small of his back, on his calf while he's in the scanner, John never stops touching him, John never stops giving him data, John knows somehow without being told that if he stopped it would be like he didn't exist and maybe like Sherlock didn't exist either, and he owes John everything, and he wishes that he didn't, he wishes that there was no John with his steady hands that must be cramping by now and his unthinking devotion, because then this would all be very simple…

The only thing close to a breakthrough comes after hours – or is it days – at the lab when his most recent blood tests come back.

THERE'S SOMETHING.

"Tell me! Quickly!" Sherlock demands.

John raps out the chemical formula in shorthand they've hurriedly devised.

NOT MUCH OF. A FEW PARTS PER BILLION. IT'S NOT A METABOLITE OF THE HOUND DRUG IS IT? THEY LOOK SIMILAR BUT IT'S OFF ISN'T IT?

Sherlock is surprised John was able to discern that much. "Yes. It shares a basic structure but there are sulphides not present in the original. And there's mercury."

MERCURY CAUSES SENSORY DISABILITIES. BUT NOT IN THESE AMOUNTS. YOU'D HAVE MORE IN YOUR SYSTEM AFTER BINGING ON SUSHI.

"And this is bound up in a complex molecule. You did test for free mercury and its simple compounds?"

ALL THE HEAVY METALS, YES. DO YOU THINK IT'S A POISON?

"Possibly," Sherlock says. "Or it could be a chance combination of unrelated toxins. There's no way to be sure unless we find more of it."

BUT NOT THE HOUND DRUG.

"No," says Sherlock, grimly. He falls silent. Talking without being able to hear is exhausting and frustrating, and this new discovery only makes him feel further away from the answer. The Hound drug has been their only lead and there's so little of this new compound in his system that either it's not actually the culprit itself but just a byproduct or, worse, it is the cause of all this and his body has already metabolised most of it. If that the case, if it's leaving his system but his symptoms are worsening, then that would mean its effects are mostly likely permanent. And quite possibly degenerative.

John thinks it too, Sherlock can tell, his hands are shaking just a bit and he starts to talk about how they should go home, get some rest, come at it tomorrow, maybe Sherlock will feel better. Sherlock barely registers his words. As soon as he thinks it, permanent, degenerative, it's the only thing in his head and he knows it to be true. He's tried so hard not to think it, to do as John's asked and stay hopeful, but he can't any longer. The words echo and grow within him.

He follows John docilely out of the hospital and on to the street, that thought choking out all other thoughts now. It's busy and it takes a little while to get a taxi. The street is strange and daunting in this state, just walking, even with John's aid, seems as treacherous as crossing the Himalayas on foot with a murderous horde at his heels.

He can't anticipate, he can't prepare, he can only respond, and poorly, slowly, clumsily, the smallest sensations now huge and ominous, every brush of a passerby an attack, every vibration the start of an explosion, every current of air a bullet whistling past him, every unfamiliar smell toxic gas, even when they get in the car it's not much better, every lurch and turn the prelude to a smash-up, how could he possibly persist in this state, at the mercy of everyone and everything around him, especially when there is so little mercy in the world, he doesn't even have any himself…

Sherlock tries to hide his thoughts, his near frenzy but he knows he must be betraying his reactions to John however hard he tries to keep them under control. John's fingers feel worried and he's talking about open cases now, trying to get Sherlock to work, to deduce, to be himself. But it's not going to help this time, because he's not himself any longer. How can he possibly be Sherlock Holmes like this? How could he ever be again?

He holds it together until they reach the relative safety of the flat. But once he's inside he can't contain it any longer. He shakes John off him and lashes out, aimlessly, full of rage and despair. His fist connects with the wall and he feels the crash as the steer skull falls from its mount. His hip bangs painfully into the sharp corner of the desk and he pushes it, overturning it, before spinning around and grabbing the lamp, smashing it into another wall. His hand feels warm and wet and he realizes he must have sliced it up, but it doesn't seem to matter.

The darkness, the void, it's inside him and all around him, how could he think to ever escape it, because it is him and he is it, he is the darkness, how could he ever have a real life, ever be whole, ever be happy with John and clean and free and live in his light and warmth, this is his punishment for trying, he sees it now, because he's always been dark and cold, a creature like him can't live in the sun, not really, he might orbit it briefly and try to stay, a comet captured by a star's gravity, but he belongs to the void, to its freezing depths crystalising within him, and he must always return there, there's nothing more to fight, there's no more pretense, no playacting at living as others do, the void is calling to him, singing to him, and it offers the only kind of relief left, the only answer to the Final Problem which he can no longer escape and doesn't really want to…

A hand grabs his bicep and he pushes John away again, but John's not having it. Sherlock fights, but John tackles him, knocking him to the floor and straddling his chest, holding his wrists tight above his head, pinning him.

"Let me go," Sherlock demands, struggling.

John shifts so he can keep Sherlock at bay while still being able to tap on his forearm.

NOT UNTIL YOU TELL ME WHAT IT IS YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING. I KNOW YOU'RE FRUSTRATED BUT YOU'RE ONLY GOING TO HURT YOURSELF. YOU'RE ALREADY BLEEDING.

"It doesn't matter anymore. I can't live like this."

YOU WON'T HAVE TO. WE'RE GOING TO SOLVE THIS.

"You don't believe that," Sherlock growls. "Despite your determined attempts to appear otherwise, you're not stupid. You know what's happening to me. This won't get better. It will probably get worse. This is all there is for me now."

I DON'T AGREE. BUT EVEN IF YOU'RE RIGHT THEN YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE TO LEARN TO DEAL WITH IT. DESTROYING THE FLAT, HURTING YOURSELF, IT'S NOT GOING TO HELP.

"No, it's not," Sherlock agrees, feeling suddenly very calm. "Like I said… I can't live like this. I can't work. I have nothing. I can't be me like this. You know I can't. It's best if I go now. Before it gets worse."

There is a long pause while John puts it together. Sherlock's not sure what he expects but it isn't the stinging slap to the face he gets.

He can feel John's anger in it, not just anger, anger is a punch, there's respect in a punch, man to man, striking with an open hand is disdain and betrayal, and that hurts more than the slap, he'd thought John would understand, at least a little, John knows him like no one's ever known him, knows he needs to work, knows he can't exist apart from the work, how can he explain to John now, about the darkness, about where he really belongs, what he really is...

COWARD. His nails dig into Sherlock's flesh with every letter.

"John," he pleads. "You know I can't go on like this. It's cruel to ask me to."

John's released his wrists and is keeping him in place through bodyweight and sheer force of his rage, coding now on Sherlock's sternum with his whole hand, not taps but blows, reverberating through Sherlock's whole body.

YOU WANT TO SPEAK TO ME ABOUT BEING CRUEL? HOW DARE YOU? AFTER ALL WE'VE BEEN THROUGH HOW DARE YOU. YOU ALWAYS ARE IN SUCH A HURRY TO LEAVE, TO DIE, AND YOU CALL ME CRUEL. YOU LIE HERE AND TELL ME TO MY FACE THAT YOU HAVE NOTHING AND I'M THE CRUEL ONE.

"And you? You could live like this? If you couldn't work, if you had nothing else, only me, but none of the elements of the life we've made together, just endless dependence and idleness, that would be enough for you, if you were with me?"

IT DOESN'T MATTER IF IT WOULD BE ENOUGH. IT WOULD BE SOMETHING. AND I WOULDN'T GIVE UP ON US, ON YOU, ON LIFE, OVER IT. I WOULDN'T DO THAT TO YOU. WE MEAN MORE THAT.

"I'm not trying to do anything to you, you just don't understand. It would be better for you, for both of us-" Sherlock's words are cut off by John's mouth suddenly on his, hard and bitter and determined.

John breaks the kiss after long seconds but leaves his face right there; Sherlock can smell John's breath and feel spittle fleck his face as John speaks with mouth and hands at the same time. He's yelling, screaming at Sherlock, uncaring that his friend can't hear him.

DON'T YOU TELL ME WHAT'S BETTER. YOU DON'T HAVE THE RIGHT, YOU SELFISH FUCKING CUNT! YOU DON'T GET TO DECIDE WHEN YOU'RE DONE, BECAUSE YOU'RE MINE, REMEMBER? IT'S NOT UP TO YOU ANYMORE. AND I SAY YOU'RE STILL SHERLOCK FUCKING HOLMES WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT. I DON'T CARE IF YOU HAVE TO CRAWL ON YOUR HANDS AND KNEES TO THE NEXT CRIME SCENE. I DON'T CARE IF YOU HAVE TO LEARN TO SOLVE CASES BY SMELL ALONE AND BECOME THE WORLD'S ONLY BLOODY SNIFFING DETECTIVE. I DON'T CARE IF I HAVE TO STAY WITH YOU EVERY SECOND OF EVERY DAY AND BE YOUR EYES AND EARS AND YOUR GUIDE DOG AND YOUR SLAVE. YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO LEAVE AND YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO DIE AND YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO GIVE UP. AND IF I HAVE TO BEAT YOU BLACK AND BLUE TO CONVINCE YOU OF IT, I BLOODY WELL WILL, YOU WRETCHED, HEARTLESS ARSEHOLE.

John kisses him again, even more forcefully, and Sherlock responds despite himself, pushing back up against him, biting at John's tongue and feeling his lips bruise beneath John's. John keeps talking, his fingers to Sherlock's throat as they kiss, like he'd rather be strangling him than speaking to him.

SO IS THIS THE ONLY THING YOU UNDERSTAND? he demands, plunging his tongue down Sherlock's throat. VIOLENCE AND SEX, IS THAT THE ONLY WAY I CAN GET THROUGH TO YOU? THE ONLY WAY I CAN MAKE YOU UNDERSTAND ANYTHING, THE ONLY WAY TO GET YOU TO CARE AT ALL?

No, thinks Sherlock, but he's not sure it's true, he doesn't do feelings, especially not other people's, physicality translates, it always has, he can read John's heart in his body sometimes, is that synaesthesia too, emotions only registering when they come in the form of caresses or blows, in the blood and sweat and skin against his, no matter the words that are said, even now, he doesn't understand, John's right, he knows John must be right, John's usually right about these things, but he can't feel it, doesn't understand why he should stay when it will only hurt them both, when he doesn't belong, when he can only bring obliteration to what's around him, it's his nature, always has been and now it's been revealed and why doesn't John see it too...

FINE, John says, the impact of it enough to leave a mark. IF I HAVE TO FUCK SOME SENSE INTO YOU I WILL.

John tears himself away and for a moment Sherlock thinks he's letting him up, but instead he flips Sherlock over, roughly, keeping a hand on his neck like he would a dog and holding his wrists with the other. Before Sherlock's quite registered what is happening, something is tightening around his wrists, binding them tightly behind his back. John's belt.

"John, I… you don't understand," he protests.

John shoves Sherlock's shirt halfway up his back, one hand fisted tightly in Sherlock's hair and the other gripping his waist and tapping furiously with his thumb.

YOU BET I DON'T. AND I DON'T WANT TO UNDERSTAND. BECAUSE WHATEVER IT IS INSIDE YOU THAT MAKES YOU THINK THAT ENDING YOUR LIFE IS A VIABLE SOLUTION TO THIS PROBLEM FOR EITHER OF US DOESN'T DESERVE UNDERSTANDING. IT DESERVES TO BE DESTROYED. IT DOESN'T GET TO HAVE YOU. IT DOESN'T GET TO WIN. YOU THINK I DON'T KNOW, BUT I CAN SEE IT THERE, IN YOUR EYES. YOU THINK IT'S YOU BUT IT'S NOT, IT'S LYING TO YOU AND YOU BELIEVE IT. YOU BELIEVE IT MORE THAN YOU BELIEVE ME. AND I'M NOT GOING TO PUT UP WITH IT AND I'M NOT GOING TO LET YOU GO, AND IF THIS IS THE ONLY WAY TO KEEP YOU PRESENT, THEN THAT'S WHAT I'M GOING TO DO, BECAUSE I'M OUT OF GODDAMN IDEAS.

John's unbuckling Sherlock's trousers, now, yanking them down harshly until Sherlock is exposed, arse in the air, head on the floor, completely at John's disposal. John is stronger than Sherlock is, he couldn't get away if he tried, and it sinks in for the first time that John is serious, that they have reached the point where they have run out of words for each other in a way that is more final than it's ever been and this is all John can think to do. And for a moment Sherlock feels afraid. Afraid of John, of how far he's pushed him and what he's about to do. Afraid of John's desperation and anger and fear.

And he doesn't want it to happen, but he does, he does more than anything, to feel something in his whole body that supersedes sight or hearing or anything else, something raw, something consuming, maybe it will be strong enough to chase away the void, to keep it from seducing him, this more brutal seduction, but John's never been like this before and it's frightening, he could stop it, couldn't he, if he wanted to, John would stop if he asked, there's a word and if he used it John would stop, wouldn't he, or is he too angry, has it gone even beyond that word, does Sherlock even want to say it, does he dare to and then find that John won't stop, or worse that John will, has he said it already, it's so hard to tell whether he's speaking, he must not have because John hasn't stopped and that's good because he almost definitely doesn't want him to, because if he stops Sherlock's brain never will, not until the darkness take what belongs to it and that's what John is trying to prevent…

He doesn't say it. He's almost sure he doesn't. He can't fight the void and he doesn't want to fight John, but maybe John can fight it for him. Maybe John can explain everything to him.

John pushes inside him with no warning, merciless, slicked only with saliva, and it hurts but it's also like sparks going off inside his head, the closest thing to light he's had for days. And John is so warm, he'd forgotten how warm. John's heat warms him from the inside, melting away the pain. John's hand on his hip is digging into Sherlock's flesh and his other twists tighter into Sherlock's hair, as John begins to move, thrusting slowly at first, but hard and deep, as deep as he can go, like he's trying to exorcise whatever demon is within Sherlock.

And Sherlock feels John's fury and John's terror and John's devotion in every movement, he feels the abandon, that John is giving Sherlock everything, every bit of him, even now, even when John could easily lose it all, lose Sherlock and everything he's given Sherlock, still he gives more. John is claiming him this way, John is trying to hold on to him, trying to keep him here the only way he knows how. John won't let the void have him, he won't let anyone have him, not even his own fickle mind.

He's John's, how could he have forgotten, John saved him and keeps saving him, and the darkness has no place in him, he let it in and let it stay and that was wrong of him, how could he have thought of leaving John, he'd felt at peace when he'd first decided and now the thought of what he'd nearly done, what he'd been so sure was the thing to do, makes him feel sick, weakens him so that his knees nearly buckle under John's battering, he'd been so wrong, he'd almost ruined everything, he'd almost destroyed the only person he cares for, he can't exist without John, even non-existence without John is just as unthinkable, can he ever be forgiven, he must be, he must find a way to live, to atone, to be Sherlock-and-John again…

And John is thrusting harder, rougher, and it's pleasure-pain together, and so fierce. It makes him ache from the inside out yet Sherlock finds himself growing hard beneath the onslaught. Every nerve is alive, all his remaining senses engaged, overloaded, and his mind finally quietens. John is still furious, but there's so much than that, and Sherlock wants to feel all of it, to understand, to take it into himself and let it scream through his veins and cleanse him of everything dark and bad inside of him. When Sherlock responds to John's savage rhythm by rutting back into him, he can feel John's relief, though he doesn't relent in the least. John lets go of his hair to wrap his hand around Sherlock's cock, leaving Sherlock's face pressed into in the rug as he fucks him within an inch of his life.

That's what it feels like, such utter ferocity, like John is forcing him right to the edge, forcing him to look at the abyss, off the cliff face, to see not the cool release of non-existence but the sharp rocks below, waiting to shred him and bleed him, making him face the truth so that he will never come near the edge again, so John can resurrect him and know that Sherlock really does belong only to John, not even to himself, not even to his own mind, or to anything that lies beneath it, and it's true, of course it is, he'll never let anything else have him again...

"John," Sherlock cries as his climax builds almost against his will, hoping to be heard. "John."

John speeds up, ruthless, his hand around Sherlock like iron and his cock burning within Sherlock's thawing body. But then John he leans forward and puts his mouth to the small of Sherlock's back, using his tongue flick out the letters, wanting to make sure he's in Sherlock's head, too.

SHERLOCK, he says and it's tender and sensuous and mournful, completely at odds with his physical actions yet somehow both make sense together. MY NIGHTMARE. DON'T EVER MAKE ME WAKE UP.

"Yes, John," Sherlock whispers. "Yes, I'm yours."

And they plunge off the edge, together, coming as one, and Sherlock isn't sure which body is his or even where they begin or end and it's like the universe has just been reborn inside of him, the light and heat and infinite mass, and it's so bright in his head it's like daylight on Mercury, and John is his and he is John's and that's all he needs to know, and it will never be dark or cold again and he will never be alone and he will never heed the void again and he will never try to leave as long as he can be with John, as long as they have this…

They come down like a plane crash, and John releases him, too soon, but a thousand years would be too soon. Sherlock rolls on his side, hands still bound behind him, gasping for air, all his thoughts still irradiated, his body on fire, bliss and agony mingling under his skin.

And then John is with him again, loosing his bonds. He covers Sherlock in kisses, soft ones, all over his throat and shoulders and face, winding his arms around him and talking so incredibly delicately into the soft skin behind Sherlock's ear.

SHERLOCK, SHERLOCK, I'M SORRY, I WENT TOO FAR. I SHOULDN'T HAVE DONE THAT. NOT WHEN I WAS SO ANGRY, NOT LIKE THAT. DID I HURT YOU? I WAS WRONG TO HAVE. I'M SORRY.

Sherlock lets his lips rest lightly at John's temple, unnerved by this regret. John had known what to do, and it had worked. Why does he doubt now?

"No. I was… You were right. I didn't understand. I'd got… I'd got lost. I needed you to find me. I needed you to feel for me, to show me how. I'm back now. I promise. I won't try to leave again. I never want to leave you. Not really." He butts his head gently against John's, like an apologetic kitten. "Sometimes the darkness drowns out everything else. Even when I can see and hear and worse when I can't. But I won't go back there again, I won't listen."

He feels John's curt nod, not truly understanding but accepting. I STILL SHOULDN'T HAVE. I WASN'T. I DIDN'T. John pauses, swallowing something back. IT WAS NOT GOOD OF ME.

Now Sherlock 's confused, because of course it was good, it did exactly what it was supposed to do. But he doesn't press John about it because he's suddenly distracted by the fact that it's still bright behind his eyes. It's not just the fading afterglow in his mind. He can see something. There's a shape to it, areas of brightness and darkness.

"John, move away from me a bit," he says slowly, pushing him off. John does as he's told and Sherlock tries to focus.

It's there. It's real. A halo, a photonegative, a brilliant ghost. It burns into his retinas, glowing comfortingly. He watches, fascinated, as the figure of light reaches out to touch his forearm.

WHAT IS IT? WHAT'S WRONG?

Sherlock looks into the yellow orange embers of John's face and smiles. "I see you."