Sounds of an Artist
Warnings: Slight dismissal about suicides/attempted suicides from Sherlock.
Part Two
Sherlock chose to take another sip of tea to hide his reaction to John's statement.
'Doing? What does he mean by that?' If John was as good as he made himself sound (and he did sound very confident of himself), then Sherlock knew that John had already seen his reaction by deciding to take more tea; a seemingly innocent gesture that spoke volumes of unease in a man who ultimately tried to hide his vulnerabilities from everyone around him and deny that they ever existed in the first place.
And was shocked again when John chuckled underneath his breath.
'Dammit.' "Sherlock." John was leaning forward in his chair, placing his tea on the floor close by so he could clasp his hands together. "I hope you're not thinking that I'm suddenly going to become another self-proclaimed consulting detective who's going to try and usurp you. Because that's not what I'm thinking at all." His eyes lost their focus on Sherlock for a moment, making the other man wonder exactly where John had disappeared to for those few seconds. "I'm not going to become your arch enemy either." A snap of the flames in the hearth. "The world doesn't need another … Moriarty."
His name, almost a whisper but still too much to bear, like picking the scabs off of old wounds that would never heal.
'Ah,' Sherlock thought. "Well, as much as I value your opinion of yourself, John," he began, "you really would just be the first
amateur consulting detective in the world. And the police don't consult amateurs." That earned a wistful look from his old blogger, both of them remembering the taxi ride on their way to that first crime scene where John had found out exactly how good Sherlock was. Is, as a matter of fact. He knew that he hadn't lost any of his old touches. He wouldn't have come back if he had.
John settled back in his chair, crossing his ankles with his hands now clasped in his lap, looking at Sherlock with his lips slightly pursed.
'Thoughtful,' Sherlock remembered.
'Ankles crossed right over left indicating comfort, no unease. Left hand steady, clasp is loose on the fingers. Shoulders relaxed; no tension in the neck or spine. No emotional trauma indicated through physical review. Further analysis of subject required.' "So… you never did answer my question," John said, and gestured to the wall at Sherlock's back. "Do you like them?"
Sherlock didn't bother turning around to look at the pictures again, for the moment at least. He finished his tea and also set it on the floor beside him before resting his arms on his knees and clasping his hands together, deliberately mimicking John's position earlier. The small smile on John's face told him that it hadn't gone unnoticed. "You of all people know, John, that I've never been forthright with my feelings. That isn't about to change anytime soon." He swept a hand across his face, rubbing at his eyes when they lost their focus as a result. God, he was so
tired. "Feelings certainly haven't been at the front of my mind for the last two and a half years."
John hummed without commitment at Sherlock's last sentence, looking down at his hands where he was rubbing his thumbs together. "And what about before that?"
"Before what?" Sherlock removed his hand from his eyes, blinking them to adjust to the light as he looked at John again.
"At the hospital. ‘That's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note.'" John paused for a moment with his eyes shut against the light and Sherlock realised that even now the memory was still raw, still painful, for the other man to recall. "You said that on the roof before you… before you jumped. People don't usually leave notes at their suicides unless they care about the people that they'll be leaving behind."
Sherlock scoffed at this. "If they really cared about the people they'd leave behind they wouldn't do it in the first place.
I had no choice, John. If there had been another way to stop him, to sa-," he clamped his lips shut, fighting what had been about to come out of his mouth. He wasn't ready to divulge the reason why he had faked his own death, not out of disrespect to John, who he considered a very close friend, but because of the acts he had been forced to commit afterwards to ensure the deceit remained intact. Sherlock had his own share of scars to bear and the time spent apart from John and the others had not been kind.
John didn't ask Sherlock what he had been about to say, sensing that it wasn't the right time for it, this conversation, and Sherlock was relieved that, for now, the matter had rested. There was still so much to do and his analytical mind, both a blessing and curse, constantly reminded him of that fact. So much left to say, to justify. He took a shuddering breath, the second physical reaction that exposed his exhaustion in John's presence, and it wasn't long before he felt hands tugging at his coat and removing his scarf from his body.
"Let's get you out of these, Sherlock," John was murmuring. "You need to rest, ok, before you make yourself ill. Doctor's orders."
A short laugh escaped Sherlock before he could stop it, looking up at John through weary eyes. "It feels like it's been so long since I've done that. Thank you, John."
With his coat and scarf off, John helped Sherlock to his feet, placing Sherlock's arm over his shoulder when it became apparent that his legs weren't able to support his bodyweight anymore. They made it with little hassle to Sherlock's old room despite the feeling that he had lead weights for feet and wasn't able to coordinate his movements, relying on John for more than balance. He was happy to see that his old bedroom had not been changed for the most part, but he did notice that his bed had a fresh set of quilts and blankets spread over the top of it which had been recently laundered.
Sherlock was about to jokingly ask who else John had had in the apartment since his fall but decided against it. It wasn't the time.
He was pushed back so he was leaning against the wall closest to the door and felt more clothes being removed with the same unhurried efficiency he had seen John make the tea with. The jacket, shirt and trousers were folded neatly and placed on his beside cabinet, the comforter and quilts pushed back from his pillows, and all too soon Sherlock felt himself being lowered into the bed. Shoes and socks swiftly followed, his legs lifted up and lowered under the quilts on sheets that were cool against his body. The mattress hadn't been changed, still fitting to the contours of his form, and his head rested snugly into the pillow underneath him, eyes closing unbidden at the relaxation that flooded him.
The quilts were pulled back up over him, warding off the chill that had crept up on him when John had removed his clothes (leaving his underwear on, of course), hands pushing the fabric close to his body so Sherlock felt he was like in a cocoon made of his own sheets. He heard John leave the room for a minute, half conscious of his movement in the apartment, and opened his eyes again when he heard the sound of a glass being set on his bedside table next to an alarm clock. Water, in case he woke up thirsty later on.
"I'm not going to set the alarm," John said softly, leaning over the bed slightly so Sherlock could see his profile against the light that came in through the open door behind him. "I need you to sleep until you wake up naturally, not just because you're bored." The last said with that half-smile again that Sherlock still secretly liked, relishing the care that was being taken over his welfare when he felt that he didn't really deserve it. Even if his choices had been made to save the people closest to him.
"Good night, John," he mumbled as sleep finally took him, smiling a little when thought he heard the other man wish him pleasant dreams. For all he knew, he could have imagined it.
John's POV
John closed the door quietly to Sherlock's bedroom, his movements slow and precise. The other man looked dead on his feet and John didn't want to take the risk of waking him again when Sherlock had had trouble sleeping beforehand anyway. He regarded the closed door briefly before walking back to the living room and sitting in his chair, a quiet huff escaping him. He looked at his bare feet for a second, skin warm on the floor beneath him thanks to the fire, and then remembered his drink. The tea had gone cold now but it didn't stop him from picking the cup up and draining the rest of the contents, even as he winced slightly. He never had liked cold tea.
In the last hour, John had lost count of the amount of times he'd been forced to question his sanity, something that even a good old cup of tea couldn't cure. He wondered if it was possible that he'd somehow dreamed it all, that soon he would wake up in his bed, drenched with sweat and gasping, reality slipping through his fingers like fine, dry sand. John shook his head slightly to dispel the thought, chucking under his breath. No, he didn't know that he hadn't finally lost his mind, but at least in this reality he was still able to question it, still had the presence of mind to be open about it.
It didn't mean that the idea hadn't scared him though.
John looked towards the window overlooking Baker's Street, rising from his seat to go towards it and pushing the curtain back so he could see the road. Memories most recent dashed through him, seeing the profile of a man walking up the road, his gait long with his coat flaring behind him, hands buried in his pockets and scarf wrapped snugly around his neck to keep the heat in although his hair, slightly longer with curls, was being buffeted by the wind. He didn't know how he'd known who it was, couldn't possibly have guessed that Sherlock was still alive, but he'd hurried to the table with his sketch pad, quickly drawn an outline of what he'd seen on the page with a few alterations, before walking quickly to Sherlock's room just as he'd heard the front door open to the building itself. No doubt the man had used a lock-pick as John hadn't heard the sound of a key being entered into the door, just the faint clicks of metal working their way around the lock, searching for the placement of the base pins that would release the cylinder.
'It only took him seven seconds to work out the shear line on a new lock. Amazing.' His thoughts that had swiftly moved on from that when he heard the footsteps on the stairs and focussed on the task at hand, his military training making it an easy job. If the man himself was really back, even in his own head, John wanted to make him feel welcome in a place that he'd not seen for a long time.
He'd heard Sherlock enter the apartment, listening to his movements even as John finished smoothing the quilts over the mattress and fluffing the pillows, the scent of orchids breezing around him from the cloth that had only been cleaned that day. It was when he heard the movements stop that he counted the seconds, waiting to give Sherlock time to adjust to the changes before he moved, standing in the doorway of the living room and watching Sherlock's face as he took in the pictures on the wall that John had taken under two years to complete. Even then, it wasn't completely finished. There was still room on the wall after all.
He moved away from the window and turned towards his – Sherlock's – desk. He still couldn't call it his, especially when the man was a scant few metres from him in the same apartment. Hell, not even after Sherlock had died. Nevertheless he took the seat, switched on the CD player and settled down to the paper in front of him, the violins from Battlestar Galatica's 'Roslin and Adama' gently filling the air around him.
Sherlock's POV
When the sun finally rose that morning, it was apparent that Sherlock was not well. He felt wakefulness drift over him slowly, like a fog that had seeped through his skin and into his bones, infiltrating, possessing him. Opening his eyes was much harder than he remembered and he was thankful that his blinds were closed, shutting out the light while he waited for the bleariness to pass. His body moved automatically into a stretch to ease tired muscles into the day and he groaned in his throat when they protested the action, bones clicking in their joints from being held in one position for too long.
'Six hours, at least.' The water that John had left him the previous night beckoned to him, his throat feeling dry and sore, but he noticed with a quiet huff that the sheets were tangled in his legs and around his body, preventing any easy movement. A hot, sticky sensation accompanied his throat and eyes, the sheets glued to his skin with sweat that seeped from every pore on his body to chill him from a heat that he didn't feel.
Sherlock felt a smirk play on his lips for a second, his very often black sense of humour finding the whole situation ridiculous and not altogether unpredicted. It wasn't a revelation that he didn't take care of his body while his mind received all the nourishment he could provide it. It hinged more on the fact that he simply forgot to look after the machine that housed his brilliance, his thought process not allowing for natural things like food and sleep when there were cases to be solved and serial murderers to play with.
His attention diverted when he heard the footsteps coming to his door through ears that felt like they'd been stuffed with cotton wool and shut his eyes quickly as the door opened to the light that he'd been trying to avoid. He let out a pained groan as the light stabbed behind his eyelids, body turning away to shield himself from it, and he heard a muffled curse from behind him before the door was closed again.
A hand settled on his arm closest to the edge of the bed, gently pressing so that Sherlock lay on his back again, blinking up at the person standing next to him. "Jesus, Sherlock, I'm so sorry," John was saying. "I just came to check up on you, I didn't think you'd be awake, I-"
"For goodness sake, John, do shut up," Sherlock muttered, stopping John in his tracks. He pulled a hand from under the sheets to cover his eyes. "I'm in need of a drink … but I don't think I can move without assistance." His next words galled him. "I don't think I'm feeling well," and then his body seemed to seize up all at once, his lungs stalling on his next inhale before ripping the breath from him, violent coughs shaking his frame. He felt the sheets being pulled away from his chest to give him room to breathe, hands working their way underneath his body to gently pull him into a sitting position to aid the coughing to recovery. His skin felt clammy now without the warmth of the sheet and his hair stuck to his face with the cold sweat that made him shake where he sat.
"That's it," John's words filtered through to him, "just breathe, Sherlock. Slow, deep breaths with me, alright. Relax, let it happen, it'll pass."
His arms were like warm iron bands around Sherlock's chest, steadying him, urging him to lean back into John's body that was now behind him, providing support and comfort while he tried to get his breath back. Sherlock felt briefly ashamed for the weakness, the sounds of his gasps loud in the still air of the room, his chest aching, and then reprimanded himself. He wasn't
that sick, not really. Right? "What's wrong with me, John?" Dear God, he sounded so pathetic.
"Sounds like a respiratory infection, maybe a mild case of the flu," John murmured, gently rubbing his hands across Sherlock's chest and rib cage to ease tired muscles when he saw his patient was struggling. "We'll know for sure in a couple of hours, but we can try to stall it with medication if we need to. Probably brought on from your exhaustion yesterday, you know. These things have a habit of creeping up on most people."
"I've never," gasp, "been sick … in my life, John." Another breath, this one smoother. "I'm not about to … start now. I'm not … most people."
"Well a positive frame of mind certainly does help the healing process so at least you're half way there," John retorted softly. Sherlock could almost hear the sarcasm and decided to give John points for holding back when he himself wouldn't have done. "Do you think you'll be ok now? Can you move?"
Sherlock turned his head slightly towards where John's face was, lifting his eyes to the other man's and a little taken aback by the concern he saw there. "Water please," he rasped. "Need…"
"Ssshhh," John soothed him. "Just wait there, ok, don't try to move." Sherlock felt the body behind him shift slightly, leaning across to his bedside table before returning, a slightly callused hand holding the glass in front of him. He hadn't realised his head was leaning back against John's shoulder until a hand slid to the back of his neck to encourage him to tilt his head forward slightly, the glass pressed to his dry lips. The water was still cool when it hit the back of his throat, little sips sliding down a throat that felt like sandpaper, scorched and raw from the infection rooted inside it. John's hand still remained on the back of his neck, providing comfort and stability in a world that appeared dull and listless. How was he supposed to work like this, under these conditions? Then again, being dead did have its problems. He could practically imagine the headlines…
The water was taken away when he motioned that he'd had enough, the coughing threatening to start up again if he took too much too soon, and titled his head back against John again, eyes closed, relieved that the water had helped a little with the ache in his chest. John's hands returned to their previous positions on his rib cage and chest, feeling the motion of his breathing to evaluate his condition, making sure the movement was slow and even. "I know this probably isn't the best time," John mumbled from behind him, "but … is this it now? Are you back? You know, for good this time? Is it finished?"
Sherlock kept his eyes closed, concentrating on his breathing while he figured out how to sum up in one sentence what John had asked in several questions. "Yes," he whispered finally, the weight on his shoulders floating away with the outcome that had taken so long to come to completion. "It's finished."
To be continued
