Sounds of an Artist
Warnings: Mild insinuations of past drug abuse. Part Five
Sherlock’s POV
Even though his eyes were still hazy and his mind was bogged down with fatigue, Sherlock could see quite clearly that, number one, John was not all right, and number two, that there was more to this than the other man had let him see before. He disregarded the fact that he hadn’t seen the signs sooner, deleting it from his Palace under information that will never be used, ever, and tried to concentrate as he watched John move through the fallout that the music had inspired.
‘Evanescence, song titled ‘My Immortal’, lyrics denote someone special leaving the singer, possibly dead; someone close to them given lyrical choices. Violin music, artist unknown, overall tone of strings suggests intimacy, closeness, possible romance.’ He watched the way John’s hands shook as they gripped the sides of the table, both hands, not just his left, the only visible sign of his distress. John’s voice had been soft but not anxious, his breathing was even and slow. Measured.
‘He’s controlling himself, controlling his reaction around me.’ Sherlock frowned slightly with this train of thought. Having John try to shield himself from Sherlock had never happened before, not to this extent at least, and to have it happen now…
It could possibly mean that John didn’t trust him, which, Sherlock reflected, would be completely understandable, having deliberately misled John into believing what his eyes could see happening rather than having the other man using the clues that he’d tried to give him during their last phone call. For all his attempts to try and make John see from his perspective and understand how his mind worked, scotoma was a tool that he was not above using to his own advantage and in this case it had saved John’s, Lestrade’s and Mrs Hudson’s lives.
‘I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think for one second that I am one of them.’ Quite.
If he was completely honest with himself, John’s reaction to his return was very much the opposite of what he had expected. Admittedly, the only time John had punched him was because he’d struck first, forcing the dormant soldier in his doctor to react to the threat he presented to his safety. He had got quite the reaction out of John that day, a bit over-zealous perhaps, but it had provided him with the results he needed that had propelled him into solving the case that
the woman presented to him. John may have been suffering from a lack of sleep due to his constant violin playing the night before that incident but he had not been in any way, shape or form been as distressed as he was now.
Emotions had always been a source of contention for Sherlock, fiddly things that got in the way of the truth, blinded one to the facts, like wearing rainbow tinted lenses and trying to discern something’s true colour; your perception would be irrevocably altered once you let them in. There wasn’t a single body that they’d looked at that John hadn’t been able to see without a flicker of sympathy crossing his features; to notice the person that they’d been before, not just a corpse, but a transport for a consciousness who had thought and, perhaps the most important, to John at least,
felt. For themselves and other people, animals, things. The list was endless.
Mycroft had been right, partially, that day when he’d given Sherlock his first smoke in months, although he would never admit that to his brother out loud. Caring was not an advantage. Hearts were indeed broken. All life resulted in the same consequence, no exceptions. Still, despite the logical side of his brain agreeing with and fortifying these facts, concern was not something he was unfamiliar with, had certainly felt before when he’d thought John was leaving him during the Baskerville case outside the church and was now something that was running through him in spades.
He remained silent, watching as the shaking in John’s hands lessened and then ceased altogether, the man releasing a small sigh of relief as the tension ebbed and bled from his body. Sherlock had correctly deduced that his presence in the flat had yet to come to a crescendo between the two of them; the fact that John was fighting his emotions now was testament to that and it did unnerve Sherlock slightly. His skills as a consulting detective hadn’t waned in the least but his illness made his usual knife edge dull, making clean cuts harder to achieve. Snap decisions felt drawn out, stretched thin until they literally snapped in two, sending out shockwaves that could be felt deep in the core of the people concerned.
Sherlock wondered idly whether they would both be flung back from the force of it or whether, as the old adage put it, his absence would bring them closer together, make them stronger as a result.
A wave of nausea bloomed in his stomach, halting any further musings on the matter, and he moaned deeply when the nausea was followed by a painful twisting in his guts. His body curled in on itself reflexively, as if to ward itself from the pain that had no external influence, and John was there almost immediately, encouraging him to sit up properly and reduce the pressure on his abdomen. A bucket was pushed under his chin and Sherlock had a moment to wonder exactly when John had got the bucket (he hadn’t seen it in the living room last night) before violently throwing up what little he had managed to eat that morning. His hands clutched the sides of the bucket with no small amount of desperation, eyes watering at the clenching of his muscles, still spasming even though his stomach had nothing left in it to expel. His gag reflex made him dry-retch a few more times before his body finally gave in and relaxed, feeling a little better now that the twisting had stopped and the room ceased to spin.
He felt John’s hands in his hair, which had been holding it back for him while he was sick, now running calloused fingers across his scalp and rubbing absently at his temples, stalling the headache which was undoubtedly heading in his direction. The human body never dealt well with vomiting after it was finished, the locking up of all those muscles creating unnecessary tension so that when it released them it was usually accompanied with pain, especially with vomiting that was induced due to influenza. To say that he was grateful to John for making the transitions easier was an understatement.
Sherlock felt John’s hands stop their ministrations and remove the bucket from his lap, John’s voice telling him not to move, need to empty it so it can be used again later. Sherlock knew that, once started, the sickness was going to continue until the virus had run its course but it didn’t stop him feeling indignant about it, even though it heralded his return to recovery.
John returned after forty-two seconds, far too long by Sherlock’s reckoning, with the now clean bucket and the equivalent of two handfuls of tissues so he could wipe his mouth and dry his eyes. Sherlock took the tissues, muttering a quiet, “thank you,” before trying to make himself feel more comfortable, watching as John took his own seat and set the bucket down next to Sherlock’s chair.
“I know this might sound strange but I’m relieved that this has happened,” John said, waving his hands in placating manner when Sherlock gave him the best glare he could manage under the circumstances. “I’m not saying that I’m happy you’re ill, idiot. Now that you’ve started being sick it means that your body is finally doing what it’s meant to be doing. This might last for the next forty-eight hours but thankfully it means that you should start feeling better now. Am I right?”
Sherlock nodded his head fractionally, not trusting himself to speak just yet, knowing that Dr Watson would be able to work it out for himself anyway. John was apparently happy with Sherlock’s answer as he went to the kitchen and pulled out the salt and sugar before mixing a little of each in a glass of water and bringing it back, placing the cup in Sherlock’s hand. “Here. Drink this, it should help. Only sips, mind.”
The luke-warm water was mostly sweet with the faint briny taste of the salt and he swilled each sip around his mouth to remove the taste of bile from around his teeth before swallowing. Although he had never eaten much in John’s presence, he was pleased John remembered that his own tastes ran to the sweeter side of what he ate, savoury very rarely making an appearance on his menu. After all, ‘where has my strawberry jam gone?’ was a question that he was often asked until John had sussed it and started buying two jars of the Robinsons brand, found to be their favourite (after a heated argument over which was the best and further tests of different types had been completed). Although his taste-buds came to life at the thought of the sticky, fruity treat, his stomach gave a warning lurch and Sherlock focussed on his sugar/salt water again, trying to keep his thoughts as bland and non-food related as possible.
“I take it you haven’t told anyone else about you coming back.”
John hadn’t phrased it as a question, more a statement, but Sherlock nodded anyway. “No, besides Mycroft and Molly who knew about my plan to begin with, you’re the first.”
John looked away from Sherlock for a moment, pushing out his bottom lip as he processed this new information. Sherlock could see the cogs turning in John’s mind as the knowledge that Molly and Mycroft already knew wormed its way into memory, giving new insight into conversations spoken, gentle words and hugs of comfort taking on a new meaning. “Should’ve guessed really,” John said, smiling with the revelations. “Molly was far too composed at your funeral. I wondered what was wrong with her.”
“Molly was excellent at helping me fake my own death but decidedly inept at faking her own grief,” Sherlock replied softly.
“She loved you, Sherlock.” John shifted back in his seat, resting his arms on the armrests and putting his right foot over his left knee. “I mean, out of all the people that turned up, she wanted something more with you. I didn’t believe that your death would finally be enough to convince her that girlfriends were not your area.”
Sherlock knew this to be true; the time when she had asked him whether he wanted to go out for coffee had not been lost on him but he had brushed it aside, the concept of dates and feelings entirely foreign and unwelcome when the game was afoot. Yet that hadn’t stopped him from deciding to take John on as a flatmate within the first two minutes of meeting him and propelling them headfirst into dangerous situations that he knew they both craved. That day, Sherlock had met the ying to his yang, the steady base that allowed his rocket to launch into the sky without tearing itself to pieces trying to leave the launch pad. Obviously that didn’t stop them from arguing like cats and dogs when the opportunity arose but they inevitably gravitated back towards each other, addicted and needing their next fix, the next case pushing them ever onward.
‘Better than cigarettes and heroin combined.’ He felt water splash over his fingers suddenly and when he looked down at the glass he realised his hands were shaking again. The shivers had returned, but they weren’t cold shivers like the last time.
‘Likely a result of the sickness from earlier.’ John’s hands took the glass from him and set it down somewhere before lifting those hands to his face, gently turning Sherlock’s head towards the light to check his skin pallor and his pupil dilation. He tried not to wince at the light streaming in through the windows but failed miserably when his temples throbbed in response. “Hurts, John.”
“I know.” John turned Sherlock’s head back away from the light which helped with the aching behind his eyes and placed one hand over the top of them, making them close. The relief Sherlock felt was immediate, the darkness soothing and stilling him while the warmth of John’s hand on his face distracted him in a pleasant way. It was completely unfeasible to think that John could keep his hand there for the rest of the day purely for Sherlock’s own comfort but the idea held merit.
"Better?” John’s voice was softer now, more calming. Sherlock nodded once, slowly so as not to dislodge John’s hand from his face, reaching up with his own hand and resting it lightly atop the one shielding his eyes. His fingers curled around the ones resting against his temple; John was using his right hand,
‘dominant side,’ while his left was stabilising him on the chair. He could feel the heat from John’s body chasing away the shivers and for a minute all Sherlock wanted to do was curl up against the other man and leach that heat from him, the idea of cold sheets and a colder mattress making him frown.
“You know, I didn’t believe you before when you told me you’d never been sick before,” John murmured. “But you really meant it didn’t you. You’ve never been ill.”
Sherlock wanted to say something like, ‘of course not,’ in the tone of voice that suggested that he was insulted by the insinuation, but the best he could manage was a shake of his head.
‘God, I don’t want to throw up again.’ He felt John’s hand move away from his face, unable to stop an undignified whimper at the loss, before John’s hands slid under his arms and pulled him to the edge of the chair smoothly. Sherlock’s head came to rest on John’s shoulder, his own hands naturally finding the curve of John’s waist and curling around his hips, seeking the stability that was being offered. They didn’t remain in that position for long and while John’s left hand curled around the centre of his back, his right slid underneath his legs. Sherlock still had the presence of mind to move his hands to around John’s neck for balance before he was lifted from the chair with an ease that bellied the strength of the man carrying him.
It shouldn’t have been an easy feat for John to pick Sherlock up and carry him to his room, he knew, but any concern he should have felt over the whole thing was filed away for later. For now, all he could focus on was the fact that he was being taken care of, something that he’d never experienced in his life to this extent and certainly not something that his parents had ever done for him. Arguments with Mycroft were a common occurrence, his relationship with his mother strained to the point that getting anything more than a ‘hello, Sherlock,’ was like trying to get blood from a stone and his father… well, some things were best left unsaid.
For the short time that he found himself cradled in John’s arms, Sherlock was rapidly cataloguing the experience in his Mind Palace in the entire west wing that John now occupied. The natural gait of the man’s walk provided a lulling back-note against the strength he could feel in John’s arms and hands, supporting him and encouraging him, subconsciously, to give in to the moment, to the strength and safety that a soldier could provide. The heat that he’d sensed from John when he was in the chair was burning him now, his eyes pressed against the flesh of John’s neck and his nose filled with the scent of home.
‘Tea, medicinal gel, warm toast, John…’ The journey to his room felt like it had taken a lifetime and yet no time at all. When John shifted the weight in his arms in preparation to lower him to the bed, Sherlock tightened his grip around John’s neck, his body pressing into John’s own with an unspoken plea to not leave him alone. The child that Sherlock so desperately tried to banish was raging in his cell, demanding to be let loose, the struggle with his logical mind and his human instinct making him shudder. John was making gentle sounds with his voice; meant to pacify those in need, reassure them that everything was going to be ok and that they wouldn’t be left alone.
When John felt that he’d relaxed enough, Sherlock was lowered to his mattress and settled against his pillows, the quilts tugged up from underneath him and pulled over his body. Sleep called to him, his body making its need for rest known with the constant drooping of his eyelids, but it didn’t stop him from reaching a hand out and grabbing one of John’s, wordlessly asking for him to stay.
He had his answer a moment later when John retreated from the room to get his bucket and his drink before returning and placing the bucket near Sherlock’s head on the floor and the water on his bedside table. He heard John walk around the bed until he felt the mattress dip on the other side, the quilts pulled up and another body easing itself into bed beside him. His clock, he could see dimly, hadn’t gone past eleven in the morning, yet John clearly had no compunctions about climbing into bed with his flatmate at this hour purely because Sherlock had asked him to. When he felt John’s arms wrap around him from behind, Sherlock fumbled for one of John’s hands, clasping it firmly in his own so when sleep finally claimed him, the child in him was quiet.
To be continued
