A/N: Still setting this one up. Hopefully it pulls through. Like for all else, long term plans are useless these days. -csf
One.
I sit up with a jolt, springing up from the hard mattress, encumbered by the damp, burdensome bed sheet. I fight its hold frantically, feeling trapped, vulnerable to attack, damaged from the ongoing war, as my fading nightmare still overlaps reality as I see it. I stop suddenly, putting all my conscious effort into convincing myself I am awake now, I am safe, I am at Baker Street.
A disembodied voice beckons me from the walls, or the stairwell, or outside my window:
'John, in your own time, come downstairs. Do get dressed, we're going out.'
Paranoid, I'm still looking left and right in the room, checking the shadows after the wardrobe, the blind spot behind the chair, even pondering checking under the bed for hidden monsters.
That was Sherlock. I'm half sure of that, about as sure as I'm awake.
Sherlock's quiet input – a command, in essence – helps focus the military man in me. It's easier to focus on marching orders than it is to accept the feeling of shame and lack of control drenching me as I realise Sherlock will have heard me. Gosh, did I shout out loud? I must have, whilst trashing on my bed, or he wouldn't have been roused by it.
How on earth can he keep his cool when I'm a frigging shivering mess right now? A loud one just moments ago too!
Damn it, what I lack at rational cold headedness right now, Sherlock compensates it. I just wish he had pretended he couldn't hear me.
I hope it wasn't as bad tonight that he had to stop pretending he couldn't hear me... how many other nights?
A shiver runs down my back, and I'm not entirely sure if it's only the sweat damp t-shirt cooling on my skin that brought it about. I sigh and let my face fall hidden between splayed hands; no, not enough, I bring my knees up and hide my face there as I hug my legs. I realise I started sobbing quietly at some point.
I would give anything for Sherlock not to know of this. Not just yet. My strengths will return with daylight as it lifts the shadows from my mind. I will know then that I'm alright, this is alright, and Sherlock knowing is alright. Before then I just want it all to go away.
'John, I don't take kindly to being ignored', the upper class tone returns then.
'Shut up, Sherlock!' I shout reflexively to somewhere in the bedroom, somewhere by the old chest of drawers, the one I'm quite sure Sherlock can't have fit into like a contortionist.
'John...' It's a quiet admonishment; and I can almost hear him tut away and look conspicuously at his wristwatch.
'Go away', I groan, not shouting anymore, and recuperate my former stance, hiding childishly in those shadows that accompany me. Giving in to their oblivion.
'John. John. John.'
I look up sharply, glancing around in the empty room. I'm not hallucinating this conversation, am I?
'Sherlock, where are you?'
'Oh, hello there, John!' There's newfound triumph in my friend's voice as he finds me engaging at last. 'Do come down. Your stiff shoulder will be hurting by now. Soon it will seize up unless I provide you with a distraction.'
'You're not here', I surmise, with a heavy weight dropping on my stomach.
'Oh.' It's a gasped exclamation, laden with shock and guilt. He stumbles on his words to quickly relay: 'Air vents, John. 221 Baker Street is an old construction. There are disused air vents carved into the walls. Great places to hide a gun or disperse a toxic gas, but more significantly to have a chat with a friend closing up on himself after a night terror, one that he suffered as a legacy from his heroic deeds in the war. A friend as such should not be lonely. I shouldn't have to be crouching by a metal vent near the floor in order to have to talk to you. On your own time, but fairly quickly, my knees are bruising due to all this kneeling.'
I chuckle in the darkened room. Reaching out a trembling hand I turn on the bedside lamp. The switch clicks into place, and my friend relishes that sound.
'Good, John. Very good. Come down now.'
'Where are you?' I ask.
'I will not tell you. You'd block the vents in a misplaced and futile attempt at keeping your privacy. Dignity is not measured on the unconscious responses to trauma, John. I will keep track of your nocturnal disruptions–' is that a notebook snapping shut I hear? '–and would not dream of judging you... Oh, "dream" was not the best choice of word, granted, I was not trying to rub it in!' It's an awkward turn to the eloquent speech, reminding me Sherlock is not just the voice of rationality permeating my reeling mind, but he's also my friend, waiting downstairs.
'Alright, Sherlock, I'll get dressed first, don't spoil it all with a peek show after such sage wisdom, wait downstairs for me. I'll be down in two.'
'Got it, John. Over and out.'
I chuckle some more, forcing my cramping legs to swing over the mattress' end and put my feet on the hardwood floor.
My right leg buckles at the first attempt to get up, and I crash down, knees first.
A quizzical silence echoes from downstairs after that.
Slightly humiliated – drop it, John, you're a doctor, you know some disorientation is absolutely natural, considering – I force myself up and shuffle my feet to the limping rhythm of the next couple of days to come. Downstairs, Sherlock resumes an imaginary battle with fine china dragons, or so I can deduce.
.
'Anyone with a middle name initial on the first half of the alphabet will have a cup of tea waiting outside their bedroom door', Sherlock says, quietly, from the living room.
'Yeah. Seen it. Good thing I did, or I would have kicked the cup and spilt the tea all over', I retort, juggling holding the cup and saucer on one hand and using the railing to support me as I come down, one step at a time.
'My bad', Sherlock comments, accepting mysterious responsibility. He comes out of the living room with huffed impatience, meets me halfway up the steps, takes hold of the teacup and snakes an arm around my waist to steady me for the last steps.
I'm past shame now. I'm thankful. My right leg still feels wobbly.
'Sherlock, that was some neat trick with the air vents, but I'm afraid you've shown your hand. I will block any vents I find in my room.'
He hums in agreement, making me the more suspicious. Was his voice emanating from the old porous floorboards? Was he actually hiding in my bedroom? No, he said he wasn't, he wouldn't, he knows I'd punch him.
'John, I am a magician with a good trick. I will never reveal my secrets.'
Just give me time.
'You say the vents are part of the house? Because it's an old house?'
'Naturally, John, much like the coal shaft in the basement, the cat flap at Mrs H's, and the secret passages.'
'No, I installed the cat flap when she kept that client's missing cat that wasn't bothered to come collect. By the way, how's the kitten?'
Sherlock blinks.
'Happily growing up, but still fits the cat flap you installed.'
'Nice to hear that. No, wait. Did you say— "secret passages"?'
'Finally', he huffs under his breath.
'Secret passages!' I'm baffled. Really?
'I'm a detective, John. It's a basic requirement when searching for a flat if you're in my line of business, why else would I choose Baker Street?'
'Because of Mrs Hudson, I presumed.'
'Yes. Her too. She was a basic requirement too.'
I take a heavy seat by the kitchen table and recuperate the teacup offer. He politely pretends not to notice the thin clatter of fine bone china cup and sauce together. Honestly, couldn't I have a mug? Are midnight cuppas fancier than regular ones? Or did he break my RAMC mug again? Because I know he keeps spares...
'Seven.'
'Excuse me?'
'You are excused, but do pay attention, John. Seven. Going by the severity of the aftershocks rattling the porcelain set, your nightmare was a Seven, in a scale of 1 to 10, naturally.'
I sip a bit of the soothing, fragrant tea – for once it's alright, Sherlock works best under pressure as Jim Moriarty found out – and defend: 'You need to adjust your scale. A Three at the most.'
'Don't lie to me, John. You are the worst liar.'
'Lie?' I hiss behind my cup, for confidence. It doesn't come out as outraged as I had rehearsed in my mind.
He gestures vaguely at the clean t-shirt and same pyjama bottoms I went to sleep in. 'Why won't you ever make an effort to look good at my side anymore?'
I catch the humour in his eyes and chuckle. We're like an old married couple.
It's as if the fluorescent ceiling light in the kitchen had become stronger and warmer. Light returning to my world.
'Sherlock, we're not going anywhere. Lockdown, remember?'
'Whilst I understand your concern and raise an objection due to the deserted streets in the middle of the night—'
'You're not risking it because of me.'
'Whilst I understand that', he starts over, 'I have an alternative, John. Have you been paying attention?'
No. I'm in no fit state to pay attention.
'An alternative provision, you say? Have you got a gigantic hamster ball to keep us encased in a plastic bubble?'
The detective blinks, as if actively storing the idea for further reflection. Don't you dare, Sherlock. I squint remorselessly.
'You said', I recall, 'secret passages.'
Eyes now twinkling, my friend nods, waiting eagerly on that last bit...
'Well, show me them!' I add.
His smile widens.
'If you insist... Here.'
'What's this?' It's a brown paper bag he hands me.
'Packed lunch. You might get peckish.'
.
Sherlock Holmes has made it his job to know London's ins and outs. Show him a picture of a random front door and in 7.8 seconds he can successfully place it in its street and borough, using his incredible mental repository of information, aka his mind palace. Play him a recording of traffic at rush hour and he can tell you the approximate width of the street, the time of day, the weather, and might even pick up on a distant train passing – the 4:17 from Paddington – or the noise of school children with their specific sub-regional dialect specificities. After all, the detective is also an accomplished musician with a fine tuned ear. But for all his achievements, and the hard work he has put into them, Sherlock has also used his vast knowledge of the busy city to disappear from it at will. Sherlock knows the best bolt holes, how to avoid the CCTV cameras and dive into the quirkiest hideouts, away from a demanding world.
I half though he was about to try to persuade me to take refuge in one – here, John, we'll both sleep undisturbed if you keep in this one – akin to the room behind Big Ben's clock face (I think the ongoing repairs have taken that one off the list) or the leaning tomb one (a Halloween favourite of Sherlock when he feels the party revellers, that never even dissected a body, are mocking his work).
Yet this seems to be something new. Sherlock is convinced there are secret passages, leading directly to an old forgotten part of London, unpopulated, straight from 221 Baker Street. Sounds improbable and downright ridiculous, just the setting for our best adventures we have ever shared.
I gladly give the rest of my night to my best friend.
.
TBC
