Sherlock can sense John's disappointment when he has to clarify that his sight hasn't been fully restored, just that he can see John again, or at least a projection of John from his own mind. Still, it's a vast improvement.
SO IT'S JUST ME, NOTHING ELSE?
"So far," Sherlock admits.
WHAT DO I LOOK LIKE?
"Like... Like a cut out of yourself. But fluid. Like molten gold. I can make out your features, faintly, your expressions, when you're close."
John hauls Sherlock to his feet and Sherlock tries not to let on how stiff with pain he is. He's covered in bruises and cuts, not all of them John's doing, and he's sore inside and out. Walking normally will be a trial.
But he doesn't mind, the pain, the aches, the marks on him, they make him feel, they make it clear that he's alive, that he can still experience the world, they remind him John will never give up on him, no matter what it takes, and they remind him who he is...
They do some experiments and discover that Sherlock can reliably see John's form in a radius of about four feet. He is most visible and defined when he is closest and when he is moving about and speaking. Beyond four feet he wavers in and out of existence, depending on how active he's being. Within that space if John picks something up, or puts his hand on a piece of furniture, Sherlock can see it faintly, just the bit that John is touching, as if it's illuminated by him. When John stands very still he becomes faint, but doesn't go out.
MAYBE THIS MEANS YOUR BRAIN IS REWIRING ITSELF. MAYBE IT'S LEARNING HOW TO CONVERT INPUT FROM YOUR OTHER SENSES INTO VISUAL DATA. YOU'RE "SEEING" MY BODY HEAT, VIBRATIONS OF MY MOVEMENTS, MOTION OF AIR, THAT ARE TOO SMALL FOR YOU TO PICK UP AS WHAT THEY ARE, BUT YOUR SUBCONSCIOUS IS PUTTING THEM TOGETHER FOR YOU TO MAKE A PICTURE. WE ALREADY KNOW YOUR BRAIN IS PRONE TO MIXING UP SENSORY DATA.
Sherlock considers this. "Perhaps. But why just you? And why just visual?"
The golden god that is John shrugs. YOUR MIND IS ALREADY ACCUSTOMED TO SEEING IN A WAY THAT INVOLVES OTHER SENSES, SO IT WOULD HAVE BEEN THE EASIEST CONNEXION TO MAKE. SAME WITH ME – THAT PATHWAY WAS ALREADY THERE AND NEVER REALLY HAD MUCH TO DO WITH YOUR SIGHT. MAYBE IT JUST NEEDED TO BE REACTIVATED. SEEING OTHER THINGS MIGHT FOLLOW AS YOUR BRAIN ADJUSTS. HEARING TOO. YOU MIGHT HEAL YOURSELF IN TIME.
" 'Reactived?' Is that what we're calling it now?" Sherlock asks, teasingly, feeling optimistic for the first time in days. To his surprise John doesn't retort, but shifts from foot to foot and looks at the floor.
LET'S GET YOU CLEANED UP, he says, taking Sherlock's hand. Sherlock looks down.
He can see his own body too, he should probably mention that to John, but it's not glowing, it's like a pencil sketch, a first draft of a cartoon, no light or colour, still it's much less disorienting being able to tell where he is in relation to John, and he'd forgot about the lamp, about his outburst, about the cut on the back of his hand that is now throbbing violently, blood smeared like charcoal, what else had he got blood on, it does need tending, he knows that much...
He lets John lead him to the bathroom and peel off his stained and torn clothes. John starts a little when he sees the state of Sherlock's body but doesn't say anything. He fetches his bag and carefully cleans Sherlock's cuts, then takes Sherlock's hand and begins to stitch.
I'M SORRY IF THIS HURTS, IT REALLY NEEDS TO BE CLOSED, John tells him, tapping his foot against Sherlock's to keep his hands free.
Sherlock pays no mind to the pain, he's too fascinated by the information his brain is feeding him, by having something to look at in what seems like an eternity. Especially when that something is John Watson.
John is sewing him up, drawing the rent halves of skin back together with needle and thread, and his own two hands, for all their minor and major catastrophes John's never had to do this before, it's so intimate, more intimate than shaving, more intimate, somehow, than sex, having someone working beneath your skin, even though the wound is relatively minor it still feels like his life is John's hands, and it is, of course it is, John is always putting him back together, literally, figuratively, in all ways, doing whatever it takes just to keep him in one piece...
WHAT? asks John, after long minutes of staring. DOES IT HURT TOO MUCH?
Sherlock shakes his head. "Not at all. It's just pleasant to be able to see you again. That's all."
John gives what appears to be a weak smile and finishes quickly.
"Thank you," Sherlock tells him. "I'm going to bathe now and then we'll go to Bart's and you can scan me again. More blood tests as well." Now that he has even this tiny portion of his senses back, he's hopeful again, certain that they can find a cure or at least a cause. He feels motivated, invigorated. It feels good.
John agrees that they should definitely retest everything after this new development but points out a flaw in his plan.
IT'S TWO AM, SHERLOCK. WE CAN'T JUST SPONTANEOUSLY POP IN FOR A QUICK ONE. NO ONE WHO CAN HELP US WILL BE THERE. I'LL SEND A MESSAGE TO MOLLY AND CAROLINE AND WE'LL SET SOMETHING UP FOR FIRST THING IN THE MORNING. OK?
Sherlock agrees, a bit deflated, but knows John's right. John turns to leave the bathroom but Sherlock stops him. "No. If you go, everything will be dark. Shower with me. You need one anyway."
John demurs, which is strange because showering together is one of his favourite things, but he consents to stay in the room. He's still and quiet, obviously thinking about something, but Sherlock can still make out his comforting glow through the shower curtain, even if it is dimmed. To add to the strangeness, once Sherlock is clean, he immediately finds that he's exhausted while John insists he's not tired. Sherlock flags this additionally as extremely odd, but is too worn out to ponder it and ends up collapsing on the sofa, dead to the world in mere minutes while John sits up and reads, still near enough to be seen. His embers warm Sherlock's mind as he sleeps.
When Sherlock wakes John is no longer in range, but has covered him with a blanket and is, by the smell of things, making Sherlock's favourite blend of coffee. Sherlock fumbles his way to the kitchen until he's close enough to perceive his friend, who presses a steaming mug on him. Sherlock wraps both hands around it and perches on one of the chairs, blanket still around his shoulders.
Something's wrong, he's sure of it now, John is quiet, too quiet, some of that can be excused by the fact that Sherlock no longer needs his constant stream of consciousness in order to know anything at all, but it's more than that, he's distant, touching Sherlock only when he has to relay something, hovering at the edge of Sherlock's ability to see him, where his expressions and emotions are nearly impossible to detect, even his light is wrong, less golden than tarnished bronze, has Sherlock done something wrong, has something happened and John doesn't want him to know...
"John." Sherlock says and John reluctantly comes sits across from him, obediently placing fingers on his wrist. "Have I missed something?"
Sherlock can feel the sigh in John's body. There is a long pause.
SHERLOCK. WHAT I DID YESTERDAY. THE PERSON THAT I WAS YESTERDAY. IT WASN'T OKAY. IT SCARED ME. I DON'T EVER WANT TO BE THAT PERSON AGAIN.
Sherlock is even more bewildered now but decides to address what has been presented to him. "You won't have to be. I'm better now. You fixed me."
John shakes his head, violently. IT WASN'T OKAY. I'M GLAD IT CAME OUT RIGHT, THAT YOU'RE DOING BETTER AND NOT. NOT LIKE YOU WERE. BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN WHAT I DID WAS RIGHT. I DIDN'T ASK, I JUST TOOK.
"When have either of us had to ask? We belong to each other. Don't be stupid. Besides, we have the word, remember? You insisted we have it. I could have said it, but I didn't. I could have tried to stop you, really tried, but I didn't. It– you– were what I needed, even if I didn't know it right away. It's fine, John. It's good."
IT'S NOT FINE, John retorts and if Sherlock could hear him he knows it would be a snap. AND IT'S CERTAINLY NOT GOOD. NOT SAYING NO ISN'T THE SAME AS SAYING YES. WHEN THINGS ARE GOOD, WHEN WE'RE BOTH INTO IT, WHEN WE BOTH KNOW WE'RE PLAYING, THAT'S ONE THING. THAT'S NOT WHAT THIS WAS. I WAS SO SO ANGRY WITH YOU. I WAS FURIOUS. WHAT YOU WANTED DIDN'T MATTER TO ME. AND YOU WERE INJURED, SUICIDALLY DEPRESSED, AND DISABLED, IN NO SHAPE TO DEFEND YOURSELF AND NOT THINKING CLEARLY. I VIOLATED–
Sherlock starts before John can finish, bridling at this. "You didn't violate me. Don't use your misplaced guilt to tell me I'm not capable of making it clear when I want something to stop. Or that I don't know my own mind. If I tell you that it was good for me, it was."
BUT I HAD NO WAY TO KNOW THAT AT THE TIME! YOU COULD HAVE BEEN HATING ME FOR EVERY SECOND OF THAT AND I WOULDN'T HAVE KNOWN. I DIDN'T WANT TO KNOW. I WASN'T IN CONTROL.
Sherlock finally starts to understands why John is so upset, even if he still finds the reasoning ridiculous. He tries to be gentler. "You would have known, because you know me. Even when you're angry and you don't think you care, you do. You still know me and know what I need. Does it matter if it's sometimes for the wrong reasons? And if I'd wanted you to, really wanted you to, if I'd said the word, you would have stopped."
WOULD I THOUGH? I KEEP ASKING MYSELF THAT AND I DON'T LIKE THE ANSWER I GET. I'M AFRAID OF THE MAN I WAS YESTERDAY. AND YOU SHOULD BE TOO.
"You would have," Sherlock insists. "I know it."
HOW?
He takes John's hand and puts it to his lips. "Because I know you. You're John Watson. And I'm Sherlock Holmes."
I THINK WE BOTH FORGOT THAT YESTERDAY.
Sherlock nods. "But that doesn't mean it wasn't still true."
IT ALSO DOESN'T MAKE THE THINGS I DID RIGHT. EVEN IF THEY JUST HAPPENED TO WORK OUT.
"They didn't just happen. You knew. Even if you didn't know you knew. You didn't hurt me."
Not in any way that mattered, John hasn't hurt him, but it feels like John had somehow hurt John, and he doesn't understand how that's possible, can something have been right for Sherlock and wrong for John at the same time, morality is confusing at the best of times, and this feels like completely new territory, he would just ask John to explain it to him but John seems to be having his own difficulties with it...
I'M GLAD I DIDN'T HURT YOU. BUT I STILL DON'T FEEL RIGHT ABOUT IT. I GOT A GLIMPSE OF SOMEONE INSIDE ME THAT I DON'T LIKE. THAT'S SOMETHING I JUST HAVE TO DEAL WITH I SUPPOSE.
"Well do it quickly, John, you're no good to me like this." Surprisingly, this seems to help, jarring John from his painful introspection.
John nods curtly and his fingers twitch like he's going to say something but he doesn't. He settles back in his chair and they drink their coffee in silence. John seems to relax and by the time they reach Bart's yet again he seems almost back to his usual self.
This time they take the scan with John first out of view and then where Sherlock can see him, to compare his brain pattern when he's "seeing" and not.
I'VE ALWAYS WONDERED WHAT WAS GOING ON IN YOUR BRAIN WHEN YOU SEE ME GLOW, John comments as they both put street clothes back on. ALTHOUGH I SUPPOSED IN THIS CASE THERE MIGHT BE SOME CONFOUNDING FACTORS.
"You can scan my brain whenever you like," Sherlock says earnestly and John gets gratifyingly brighter, like turning up a kerosene lantern. Unfortunately Caroline can't review the results until a little later and Sherlock doesn't want any one else seeing them. "Bad enough she has to," he grumbles and John ignores it.
LET'S GET BACK. SHE'LL CALL AS SOON AS SHE'S REVIEWED THEM. MIGHT BE TRICKY GETTING A TAXI THIS TIME OF MORNING THOUGH.
Sherlock shakes his head. "Let's get breakfast first. And then take the Tube."
THE TUBE? John asks, uncomprehending. BREAKFAST?
Even though the new partial sight might be the key to a cure or the beginning of recovery, he can't get his hopes up too much, he can't put everything on hold waiting to find out, he's got work, he's got to figure out how to live like this, he can't fall back into despair, if only for John's sake, he can't do that to John again, can't force him into that position again, he's got to act like this is permanent and figure out how to work around it, that's what Sherlock Holmes does and he can't stop being Sherlock Holmes again even for a second...
They find breakfast in the form of greasy egg sandwiches at a cafe not too far from the hospital. On the way Sherlock practices using John as a guide to navigating the street traffic, and judging air currents and paving stone vibrations to determine the distance and number of other pedestrians.
"Four people. Passing us," he tells John.
FIVE. BUT YES. John's caught on quickly.
"There's a bus on the street. Ahead of us." He can smell that one, and felt the warm gust of air as it stopped.
WHICH SIDE OF THE STREET? John demands.
"Near side," Sherlock smirks. Easy.
WHICH IS WHAT?
Sherlock quickly reviews the turns they've take. He's pretty certain they went out the main doors of Bart's. "North. The north side of the street. We're walking east towards... Noble Street." He's less confident this time, but John squeezes his fingers, pleased.
EAST SOUTHEAST, BUT CLOSE ENOUGH. PERHAPS I SHOULD START ASKING FOR ANSWERS IN DEGREES.
Sherlock smiles privately at that as they reach the cafe and sit down. John's not going to give him any slack now, which is as it should be. After they eat John makes him give the route to the nearest tube station before they set out.
He's getting better, he can feel it, the information is there, it's just a matter of learning to apply it in new ways, to listen to his other senses and not let them be weak anymore, he can feel his mind palace reconfiguring inside his head to suit these new needs, maybe his brain will start converting that data in sight or even sound someday, like with John, but John's special and he can't count on that, has to make do with what he's got, he kind of likes it now, he can pretend it's a game, it's certainly challenging and so few things are...
It's surprising how exhausting thinking like this is, though. It requires all of his focus to interpret what's going on around him, and most of his energy. Eventually it will become second nature but now it's all consuming, leaving no room for anything else. He's almost relieved when they get on the crowded, standing-room only tube carriage. The press of people is unsettling, but at least he's stationary and so are they, so it's easier to deduce individuals, and almost relaxing after trying to keep himself oriented on the street.
Female on his left, her body spray says young adult, she has a dog, is listening to music judging by the way her to is tapping, male behind him, tall, taller than he but only just, halitosis, the part of his suit that brushes Sherlock is wrinkled but he's carrying a briefcase, late for work after a night out...
It's not as much as he could get with his full senses, but even having to have a raw sketch of those around him make everything a little less intimidating. And of course he has John, his beacon, right in the center.
HANG ON PHONE John taps into his hand and fishes his mobile out of his pocket. Sherlock can't make out what he's saying but he turns animated and his brightness increases and changes colours, going from yellow to red to a low burnt orange.
"What? What is it?" Sherlock demands before he's even hung up.
John steps close to him, close than he would ever normally be in public, practically within the folds of Sherlock's coat.
CAROLINE FOUND SOMETHING. SOMETHING WE'D ALL BEEN MISSING.
"Well?" hisses Sherlock in a low whisper.
REMEMBER EVERY TIME WE TOOK A SCAN, YOUR AUDITORY AND VISUAL CENTRES SEEM TO BE WORKING NORMALLY, OVERACTIVE EVEN? WELL THAT WAS THE CASE THIS TIME TOO, EXCEPT THAT WHEN YOU SAW ME, CERTAIN ACTIVITY IN YOUR FRONTAL AND TEMPORAL LOBES DROPPED OFF, AND ACTIVITY IN YOUR VISUAL CORTEX DECREASED SLIGHTLY TOO.
"Dropped off? Why?"
John shakes his head. IN ALL THE OTHER SCANS YOU SHOWED EXTREME ACTIVITY IN THOSE AREAS, BUT WE THOUGHT THAT WAS JUST NORMAL FOR YOU. YOU'RE ALWAYS THINKING, VISUALISING, IMAGINING. I'D EXPECT YOUR SCANS TO BE OVERACTIVE IN THOSE AREAS. BUT IF THE ACTIVITY DECREASES WHEN YOU ARE CONFRONTED WITH SOMETHING YOU CAN ACTUALLY SEE... SHERLOCK, THOSE ARE THE AREAS OF THE BRAIN THAT ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR HALLUCINATIONS.
"Hallucinations..." Sherlock breathes. "So you're saying I haven't been unable to hear or see anything but you just because of some strange twist in my circuitry..."
John nods. YOU'VE BEEN ACTUALLY SEEING ME AND HALLUCINATING THAT YOU CAN'T SEE ANYTHING ELSE. OR HEAR ANYTHING.
Sherlock has to stop himself from yelling. "The HOUND drug!"
IT MUST BE. John agrees. WE MUST HAVE MISSED IT SOMEHOW.
Sherlock grabs John's hand and starts dragging him to where he hopes the doors are. "We have to go back, we have to work on this right away."
John doesn't move. IT'S AT HOME. I DIDN'T FEEL SAFE LEAVING IT IN THE HOSPITAL, IT'S LOCKED UP AT HOME AND I WAS GOING TO SEND IT BACK TO MYCROFT.
Impulsively, Sherlock grabs him and kisses him, not caring who sees, and nearly lifting the doctor off his feet. "Brilliant!" he says gruffly, and John straightens his clothing sheepishly, but looks pleased.
WE'LL START WORK RIGHT AWAY. NOW WE KNOW WHAT TO LOOK FOR.
Sherlock opens his mouth to reply but is stopped by a cold spray right by his face. It hits John too and John sneezes.
BLOODY WOMAN JUST PUT ON HER PERFUME IN THE TUBE, TOOK OUT HALF A DOZEN PEOPLE. John tells him. SOME PEOPLE JUST HAVE NO–
"Shut up," Sherlock whispers, harshly. He's trying to think. This means something, he's sure it does, he just has to put it together and for that he needs no distractions. Out of habit he squeezes his eyes shut and puts his hands to his temples.
Perfume, it is, the sickeningly sweet smell is all around, it's not cheap, it's good stuff, French, but over-applied and it's blown out his sense of smell completely, there's something about the aerosol, something about dampness, now he remembers, he remembers three days ago, being sneezed on in the street and nearly killing someone because he'd thought he'd been attacked, it was disgusting, another kind of aerosol, and then before that four days, he'd been in the tube again, a student had sneezed on him that time too, right in the face, he'd listed it for John as one of the things that was different but neither had taken it seriously, yet 12 hours after each he'd started to lose things, or hallucinate that he was, oh it fits together now in his head coming together with a satisfying click...
"John," he says very quietly, "I think that–"
John jumps at his voice. WHAT? DON'T SCARE ME LIKE THAT!
"I think that..." he pauses. John doesn't look right. He's flickering and has taken on a defensive posture, his eyes darting around as if expecting danger. "John, how do you feel?"
TO BE HONEST LIKE I JUST DRANK A POT OF COFFEE. I'LL BE GLAD WHEN WE'RE OFF THE TUBE, I DON'T TRUST ANY OF THESE PEOPLE. AND THERE ARE SOUNDS. LIKE WINGS.
It's just like it was before, back in Baskerville. Whatever it's done to Sherlock is different this time, but John's reacting exactly the same. And Sherlock suspects it's not going to improve. No odd movements that would indicate any effects on those around them. It's not the drug itself that's been sprayed.
He grabs John's arm, not daring to say as much aloud, not with the perfume-sprayer still on board. He taps the letters out hurriedly.
JOHN. LISTEN TO ME. DON'T SAY A WORD. IT IS THE HOUND DRUG AND IT'S AFFECTING YOU. THERE'S A CATALYST, BUT THIS TIME THEY GOT YOU TOO AND NOT JUST ME. YOU'RE GOING TO START HALLUCINATING AND FEELING AFRAID, JUST LIKE BEFORE. REMEMBER IT'S NOT REAL. YOU HAVE TO CATCH THAT WOMAN AND GET HER PERFUME BEFORE THE DRUG REACHES PEAK STRENGTH OR I DON'T KNOW WHAT WILL HAPPEN. WE HAVE TO GET IT HOME SO WE CAN FIND OUT HOW IT ACTIVATES THE HOUND DRUG AND STOP IT. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?
John takes all that in, wide eyed, and Sherlock starts to worry he's too far gone. But then he nods sharply and, without warning, dives away, out of Sherlock's range of him, and Sherlock's world plunges back in the complete darkness and the swaying of the tube car. His lifeline is gone and he's alone on the speeding train.
