Hey, guys. I hope everyone's having a nice weekend. Warning: this chapter is angsty. Like, really angsty. [Trigger warning for depression, suicide, and drug references.] Please leave a review. Love you guys! (^3^)
Mrs. Hudson was lying in her bed, floating in a wondrous sleep, when her telephone rang, in the sitting room, rudely jarring her awake. Sighing – and quite upset with being so rudely jerked out of her dreams – she padded into the sitting room and answered the phone.
"Hello? Oh, Mr. Hammond! It's half two in the morning – is everything alright? ...Why, yes, I know that they're playing; it's quite lovely, I – …. Pardon? ...Yes, I am aware of the time. It's for some case Sherlock is on. They're going to – …. Well, there's no need to be so rude. Mr. Hammond. Let me remind you that I live under the same roof as these men, and not once have I ever been called at all hours of the night about fighting or music or anything of the like before. Maybe later on in the day, but never this – …. Excuse me!? Where exactly are your manners, young man? ... Well, the next time you decide to rouse an old lady from her sleep you'd better think twice about where you put them!"
And with that, Emma Hudson banged the phone on the receiver and stalked back to her bed. She knew perfectly well that hanging up on Mr. Hammond wasn't polite at all, but she didn't honestly care at that moment. She was tired and did not feel like dealing with complaints so early in the morning. The nerve of some people!
She settled herself among the now-cold sheets, tossing and turning, and fluffing her pillow up but, after several minutes, she decided that sleep was a lost cause. Her hip hurt too much to sleep anyway.
She propped herself up against her large, plush pillows, turned on her bedside light, took out a bottle of Paracetamol from a drawer, and took two with the glass of water she had set on her bedside table. Since she knew she wouldn't be sleeping for a while, decided to finish reading the book that she'd started the previous week.
While she read, Mrs. Hudson could hear the sounds of Sherlock and John rehearsing from the apartment below her, with some brief exchanges of disagreement. For the most part, though, the sounds of tinkling piano music, accompanied by the melodious strains of Sherlock's violin, were very soothing. How Mr. Hammond called that beautiful music noise was beyond her reckoning.
Mrs. Hudson smiled to herself and nestled deeper into her pillows. She thought about her boys and how lucky she was to have two wonderful men to care for and for them to protect her. She loved them as her own sons and fully supported them in the decisions they made – even the idiotic ones, she mused, thinking of a few choice things Sherlock had done over the years.
Mrs. Hudson yawned a bit and listened to the soft melody of Sherlock's violin. It really was quite lovely.
Three pages into her book and Mrs. Hudson was sound asleep, the paperback folded across her chest and piano and violin compositions floating around her.
John stared at the sheet music propped against his piano with heavy eyelids, his brain fuzzy, and his responses were sluggish.
They'd been at this for hours.
The only breaks he got were those to the loo and back. Earlier, John had almost had to pick Sherlock up, sling him over his shoulders, and pry him from the room so they could get dinner into both of their bellies. Sherlock's single-minded determination concerning their practice was, quite frankly, scary and manic. John was exhausted.
Now, after hours of trying out different scores, his mad genius of a boyfriend was pacing around the room, tossing sheet after sheet of inadequate music over his shoulder, muttering to himself. John knew better than to offer his own input, having been so rudely snapped at for suggesting they stick to the third piece of music they'd played.
"No, no, of course not." Sherlock muttered, tossing another sheet to the floor. "Useless." Another toss. "Flourishes, flourishes- disgusting…No…"
John groggily thought maybe he could rest his eyes…for just a moment…
Sherlock was startled out of his elimination process by the discordant bang of piano keys behind him.
He turned to find John had fallen asleep, passed flat out with his face on the piano keys. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stalked over to him – they needed to finish this up tonight – but was stilled as he looked down at his exhausted lover.
John looked completely and utterly knackered. Sherlock sighed and put his stack of papers down before walking over to John and tenderly sliding his arm around the doctor's waist. John woke up as he was hauled up from his piano bench by Sherlock and he made a vague noise to convey his irritation at being moved.
"I know, love. We're going to bed now." Sherlock spoke quietly to John. There was nothing that Sherlock would do to upset John at this point; a tired, disoriented, and irritated John was truly a fearsome sight, and not one that Sherlock particularly cared for.
As they made their way up the steps to their flat, John tripped and banged his shin on one of the steps.
"Ow! Ah, fuck…" he swore sleepily,doing an odd, hopping jig as he bent to massage the throbbing bone. He almost overbalanced but caught himself at the last second by grabbing at the bannister, saving himself from falling backward and breaking his neck. John swore again.
Sherlock sighed and moved in front of John. He crouched a bit with his back turned to John and his arms spread out at his sides.
"Sh'lock? What're you doing?" John mumbled, confused.
"You're almost dead asleep on your feet, John. It'll be easier if I carry you to bed. Get on my back." Sherlock explained softly, but couldn't help sounding just a bit irritated.
John, not partial on being picked up, but really not partial on taking another step further, complied and draped himself across Sherlock's back. Sherlock hefted John up and situated them for a moment before turning his head to see John's closed eyes and slightly parted lips. A small smile graced Sherlock's features as he restarted their climb and, after a bit of puffing and heaving (John was more solid that he looked- Sherlock made a note to hide the chocolate biscuits for the next few weeks), finally got to their room.
It took a while, but Sherlock eventually got John, who had flopped onto their bed and gone deadweight, undressed and tucked under the covers. After deciding that he didn't feel like continuing the music selection without John's input (however ill-informed and distasteful it was), Sherlock took off his own clothes off and slid under the covers, turning the lights out.
He turned towards John and softly pulled him closer, allowing the sleeping doctor to be snuggle into his arms.
It was almost an hour later, just as Sherlock himself was about to drift off, that John started talking in his sleep.
Sherlock's ears perked up from his half-asleep state and he listened closely.
"No, that's not the right note. You need to play the blue one after the yellow one." John mumbled.
He was dreaming about music. Sherlock smiled. He was this close to discovering John's secret. Sherlock waited with baited breath and focused on his lover.
"I don't want to...the jammy dodgers will be watching. Jacob, no."
Jacob? Who was Jacob? Jammy dodgers? Sherlock's mind whirred with possibilities, a sinking feeling forming in the pit of his stomach that John was having a simple, regular, boring dream after all.
"Could you not play so roughly? It sounds like you're banging on drums, not playing Minuet."
Sherlock smirked. John had mentioned that he hated it when people banged on keys when the music didn't call for it.
"Oh my god, Jacob. That's amazing. Show me how!" John cheered in a light, sleepy tone. "Jacob, no. I don't like my hands in that position. I'll do it my way."
Apparently, John had fought this Jacob about the piano on several had probably been histeacher. Sherlock was snapped out of his amused state when he noticed John's breathing had picked up and his heart was thudding against Sherlock's chest. It was easy enough to read the well-known signs in the man he was closest to: a nightmare was coming on.
Sherlock carefully untangled himself from John in case things got ugly.
"Harry, you're lying. That's not...he wouldn't." John's face bunched up in confusion and hurt, "No...'s not true."
John's hand reached up and gripped the pillow he was laying on. Sherlock turned his lamp on and watched him. John wasn't roused by the sudden wash of light – this was not good.
"Jacob...Jacob no! Don't!" John curled in on himself and was heaving with deep, labored breaths. "JACOB!"
Sherlock decided enough was enough. Discovery of information he couldn't normally get from John was important… but not as much as John's mental well-being.
John let out a terrified scream and his entire body clenched in on itself.
"John!" Sherlock called out, "John, wake up!"
John turned on his back, and was his eyes still closed, breathing so heavily he was almost choking. Sherlock, knowing that he would most likely be attacked (it had happened in the past before he learned the correct way to handle such situations), maneuvered himself to a prime position for escaping a punch and commenced with calling out to John as loudly as he could.
"John, you're having a nightmare. Wake up! Come on, love, you're alright. Wake up, John!"
After a few moments of Sherlock's desperate pleas for John to bloody wake up, John's eyes flew open as he gasped for breath before slamming his hand over his mouth. Before Sherlock could react, John had pushed off of the bed and was sprinting for the loo. The door slammed behind him and Sherlock sat still in his place on the bed, gripping the sweat soaked sheets as he listened to John's body revolt against him.
The look that had been on John's face frightened Sherlock. He'd only seen that look once before, when they were in Baskerville, and had hoped to never see it again. The look was pure terror, a panic so profound and severe it was almost uncomfortable to witness.
Sherlock waited for the flush of the toilet before slowly getting out of bed and stripping the sheets to replace them. He didn't go directly to John, instead giving him some space, the memory of the last time John was ill fresh in his mind. No one wanted to be around John when he was ill, not even John himself.
Once he'd fixed the bedclothes, Sherlock walked quietly to the loo and slowly opened the door. The sight before him broke his rumored non-existent heart.
John was curled up against the bathtub, shaking and panting from the aftershocks of his ordeal. His face, almost as white as the tiles he leaned against, was covered in a cold sweat. He guiltily glanced at Sherlock who hovered in the doorway, unsure of his welcome. John managed a very shaky smile and, with great effort, succeeded in slowing his breathing.
Sherlock gave John a sympathetic look and knelt down beside him on the icy tiles. John hadn't had dreams that violent since he'd stopped dreaming of Afghanistan, when he and Sherlock started sleeping in the same bed. Sherlock had flattered himself that he was the cause of the disappearance of John's nightmares. It seemed he had been wrong.
Sherlock's heart broke all over again because he knew that this entire plan of his was the cause for John's horrific nightmare. If he hadn't pushed his love into the music competition and forced him to play for hours on end, John would be sound asleep in bed, dreaming of nothing, rather than on the floor shaking from his body's purge.
The doctor shakily sat up and leaned into Sherlock. His head was spinning and he wanted to go back to bed, to warm sheets and a hopefully dreamless sleep. Without a word, Sherlock carefully helped John up so he could sit on the toilet lid.
After John was situated, slumped forward and still shaking, the detective poured up a cup of water for John to wash his mouth out. John accepted the cup with a tremulous hand and swished the water slowly. Sherlock silently took the cup after John was finished and led them back to the bedroom.
As John crawled into the bed and pulled the fresh sheets up to his chest, Sherlock walked over to the windows and stared down at the street below, keeping his back to John.
Sherlock was mentally kicking himself. All while he should have been focusing on the bloody case, he had been pushing John too hard. Something needed to give. He couldn't give up the case, and he couldn't get out of the competition even if he wanted to – John would throttle him for spending the money. Not that Sherlock was intimidated by John (maybe a little; only on the really bad days). But they didn't need any more rifts in their relationship as it was.
As Sherlock was delving deeper into his mind palace in search of a solution, John laid on his side and breathed slowly, keeping his eyes open to fight the sleep that was threatening to take him back to his nightmares. He could tell from the pounding of his heart and the nervous energy twitching through his body that if he dropped off to sleep now, he was in for another nightmare. He couldn't go back to that. He didn't want to think about that.
After a few moments, John found his voice and softly called out to Sherlock. "Love..?" he rasped, "What're you doing?"
"Thinking. Go back to sleep, John."
"No, I can't. Come here, please."
Sherlock's heart broke afresh at the plea and as he turned to see John's haunted eyes gazing up at him expectantly. The detective walked slowly back to John and carefully curled up beside him. John softly took Sherlock's hand in his own and ran his thumb up and down, back and forth.
"Talk to me. I don't want to sleep."
Sherlock sighed and laid his head back.
"What do you want me to talk about?" he asked, not really caring to talk at the moment but he would do it for John. He would do anything for John…except not push him apparently, he thought sardonically.
"What were you thinking about so loudly over there?"
After a pause, Sherlock turned on his side and faced John.
"John, I realize that you've had a terrible ordeal with this whole piano situation," he spoke softly, in hopes that he wouldn't distress John further by bringing the topic up, "but I need to know so that I can help you. After what happened tonight, I don't want to do anything that may upset you or induce another nightmare like that again. Please, love. Let me know what's been locked away in that weary mind of yours for so long."
John sighed and didn't speak for several moments. Sherlock thought he'd upset John again and was about to move away when John squeezed Sherlock's hand and brought it to the bridge of his nose. Sherlock stayed still – John was absorbing comfort that he obviously needed before explaining the details of his experience.
"Harry and I weren't the only children in my family. Growing up, we had a cousin named Jacob; but he was close enough to be our brother. Hell, I claimed him as my brother more than once. He was only four months older than me, but we were practically twins."
John paused and let out a breath of laughter as he remembered times that he'd become frustrated with Jacob after the same old lame excuse of "oldest first" for every family event.
"Harry and I loved him, Sherlock. He was my closest friend and he was bloody brilliant. He was the smartest of the three of us and could easily out-wit us in any problem. Jacob was also talented. Musically, you know. He could play almost anything you could imagine a kid could play. And he was good at it. Really good."
"One day, I stumbled across him playing on the piano in my uncle's sitting room. The song he played was so beautiful; I couldn't tear my eyes away, I was frozen watching him. I realized…that was what I wanted to do. I wanted to play like that…like he did. After I bugged him about it for a few weeks, Jacob finally agreed decided to teach me. You can imagine how surprised we were when we learned then that I was fucking fantastic at the piano- it was just like…like a gift I had…and he knew it. I'll never forget the look on his face."
John cut off for a moment, choking with raw emotion. Jacob's proud smile flashed back at him and he internally reached out to him. After steeling himself against his subsequent emotions, John let out a breath and pulled Sherlock's closed hand to his fast beating heart.
"We were sixteen at the time, and Harry was eighteen. We all spent most of our afternoons at Jacob's house, playing music and talking about everything. I mean…everything. We were so close, Sherlock. Like I said, he was like my brother…the twin I never had and…" John huffed out a breath, trying to control himself. "Harry and Jacob brought their girlfriends over all the time and I stayed steadily single through the whole ordeal. I was this short, kind of nerdy kid who could play the piano…but they never made me feel like a third wheel or anything. It was us…together."
"One afternoon, Jacob starting acting different. We'd noticed a change in his behavior before but…we never said anything. We figured it was just a bad week, maybe he'd had a fight with his parents or girlfriend or something. We just thought it'd pass. Later…later, he stopped bringing girls over. He only played the piano when we asked him to, avoided it if he could at all and made up all sorts of excuses why he couldn't play…which was out of the ordinary. We usually fought each other for a turn to play…then all of a sudden he didn't want to? Then he started getting aggressive for no reason…just really angry all the time… but after he noticed this, he would become so depressed. Then he just stayed that way. We didn't know what to do until we found out that..."
John paused. He remembered all of the confusion that he felt over the discovery. Harry had been devastated and John remembered yelling and doing everything he could to help Jacob.
"He'd got into drugs to distract himself from depression."
Sherlock's stomach dropped.
"We tried everything to bring him out of it, but there was no stopping his addiction." John's voice sped up, as if he wanted to get the information out as quickly as possible, as if that would make it less painful. "He was addicted to heroin and cocaine, and smoked anything he could find. His decline was fast and deadly. After about five months of that, we found out that he had clinical depression, but we couldn't afford any medication or therapy for him. Jacob was really low; too low for even me to pull him out. And I tried. Christ, Sherlock…I tried. He quit talking to me. Later, Harry and I…we...he...what he did was..."
Sherlock flattened his hand over John's heart in a futile effort to somehow slow his rapid pulse. He didn't say anything, knowing that if he did, John would close himself off again. Sherlock would let John finish this out on his own terms.
John breathed with Sherlock's hand pressed against his heart; a comfortable pressure that reminded him that he lived in the present and the past was over. It didn't have the power to hurt him anymore. After a moment, John spoke again.
"He offed himself a few days later...while he was on the phone with me and Harry. We tried to stop him." John's voice broke and he had to hold his breath to stop the onslaught of tears.
Sherlock said nothing, nor did he offer any type of comfort – he didn't know how. Had he known that this was behind all of John's ranting and ravings, he would have never touched the subject of the piano playing.
John wasn't finished, though.
"I had to play at his funeral. There were so many people there. He never understood how many people really loved him... I managed to get about halfway through the song before I dropped my hands and just fucking bawled right there."
"Your grief overtook you and you couldn't play anymore." Sherlock said quietly.
"Yeah..." John shakily sighed, "I couldn't finish it and had to be led off the platform. After Harry gave her eulogy, I had to play one more time. It was his favorite song; Candle In the Wind. We used to laugh at him for playing it so passionately. He said he'd be as great as Elton John one day."
A tear dropped down the side of John's face and ran into his hair. Sherlock hesitantly wiped it away and rested his hand in John's hair, stroking through the greying strands. John choked back a sob and put his arm over his face with his fist clenched. He had to finish the story so he could move on. He was so tired of this.
"It was ironic that I played that song, you know." he said to try and lighten the mood.
"It was written in honor of Marylyn Monroe eleven years after her death." Sherlock interjected. John seemed slightly shocked that Sherlock knew that bit of trivia.
"Yeah…yeah it was. In any case, when it was finished, and the funeral was over, Harry and I were wrecks. Physically and just…emotionally. I promised myself that I wouldn't play the bloody piano again after that. I couldn't handle it."
John took his arm off of his face and turned on his side to face Sherlock wearily.
"John..." Sherlock whispered. He wasn't entirely sure what to say to make his little love feel better. Emotions weren't his area, and he had no idea how to comfort someone who'd been through something so traumatic.
John shook his head and curled into Sherlock's body.
"Don't worry about saying anything, Sherlock. It's okay."
Sherlock sat up and took John's tear streaked face into his hands.
"No," he said firmly, "no it's not okay. I pressed you into this. John, I'm sorry."
John turned his face and pressed his lips into Sherlock's palm. Sherlock wasn't entirely forgiven for his actions, but John was glad for the comfort provided. After a few calming breaths, John snuggled back into Sherlock and looked out the window. He was tired and his body ached. John felt Sherlock's lips press against his head and they both came to the silent conclusion that the discussion was over for the night and they were both due for more sleep – however unwanted it was.