Sounds of an Artist
A/N: A big thank you to everyone who has read the story, rated it and of course thank you to my lovely reviewer for your comments! :-) I hope you enjoy this installment! No warnings for this chapter. Part Three
At some point during the morning, Sherlock realised that his breaths were in unison with John. He tried not to think about it too much, keeping his body relaxed and his breathing light, using the link with John to keep him distracted from the illness currently coursing through his body. His water was nearly gone through John's encouragement, claiming dehydration would only make him feel worse than the pain in his throat and chest combined. Medication had yet to be retrieved from the bathroom but neither man seemed to want to move, although Sherlock had no idea what John's motive was other than to provide the care that a sick person needed. Yes, that was more than likely it.
John's hands had moved from his chest and ribcage to around his waist, keeping the pressure light to prevent any discomfort so that he could keep providing Sherlock with the warmth that his body both craved and shunned at the same time. Occasionally he would feel John's breaths against his hair, across his temple, on his neck, each one different as John moved his head around to stretch out neck muscles that had become tense. Despite John's increasing discomfort, Sherlock was very much disinclined to move. Having never
suffered with anything like this before (and he was, indeed, suffering), the last thing he wanted was to be left on his own, his sickness making him feel weak and vulnerable.
It was one thing to be left alone when one needed to think, to work out, to puzzle over. It was quite another to be left alone when control was a distant memory and misery was the reality.
Misery that was only going to increase, it seemed, when John let out a pained grunt from behind him and shifted with an apology that he had to get up and that Sherlock was, as he put it, no lightweight. "Do you actually know how heavy you are?" John moaned as his got up from the bed, turning back to look at Sherlock while he worked out the kinks in his neck and back.
Sherlock was now resting against the headboard of the bed which was considerably colder than his previous spot, making his response a bit gruffer than he'd intended. "I'm assuming that that is a rhetorical question … as you are more than adept at working out … how heavy I am, John." John rolled his eyes in the way that Sherlock remembered so well and he couldn't stop the smile that broke out on his face in answer to it.
John finished stretching out his body with a just a few winces and sat back down on the edge of the bed, near Sherlock's legs this time so he was facing the detective. "How does a hot bath sound and maybe some breakfast?" he said gently, searching Sherlock's face for discomfort.
He didn't have to search very hard, Sherlock reflected, when his own face twisted at the mention of having to move his body to another area, the tender areas already protesting the thought of having to move without actually having done so. His throat closed up at the word 'breakfast', regardless of what it would consist of, as the water he'd drunk (which was as smooth as anything could get) had done nothing to soothe the blades that he was sure were buried in there somewhere. In sharp contrast though, his mind desperately wanted to get out of bed, wanted to be back where it belonged, solving cases, bright as ever and alert to the point of being physically detrimental.
'Well, maybe not the last part…' he thought with his own wince, his body only too happy to remind him why allowing his mind to override his basic needs was a bad idea.
"I know it hurts," John said, giving Sherlock a look of sympathy, "but having a long soak and getting some food down your neck will make you feel better. And we'll get you some pain meds too, that should help with the muscle fatigue for a bit until we get you settled again." He was already moving, clasping Sherlock's old glass in one hand while giving his hand a brief squeeze of reassurance with the other before leaving the room, keeping the door slightly ajar so that Sherlock's eyes could begin to adjust to the light just behind it.
The short time John was away allowed Sherlock to do some reflecting, his mind switching between several different things at once. Of course there was the matter of his current status within the General Registrar Offices of England and Wales, not to mention HM Revenue and Customs. How else was he meant to be a law-abiding citizen and pay his taxes if he was still classed as deceased? Mycroft would be horrified, which tempted him for a moment to do just that if it weren't for the fact that he'd probably be arrested for it. That had never stopped him before though…
There was also the matter of his reputation. It had been sorely tarnished before he died and he couldn't go exactly come clean with his whereabouts during the last two and a half years. It wasn't even a question of keeping quiet about his actions during that same period but he grudgingly gave some credit to the public masses. They would want answers, just like he would have done, although they would have both come to very different conclusions. He couldn't put his friends through that, not even dear Molly who had tried to keep him updated during those lonely months at the cost of making everyone around her believe his deceit. And especially not John.
For once in his life, Sherlock was unsure where his path was currently headed and whether or not there was a way back towards his obsession as a consulting detective.
His thoughts were pulled from him when John came back with a fresh glass of water and two pills, one paracetamol for the pain and one ibuprofen for any swelling caused by the infection. He also had a thermometer pinched between the fingers of the hand that carried the tablets and Sherlock allowed John to place the tip into his mouth as the water and pills were placed on the bedside table. Apparently the test was quicker to yield results than even John had anticipated as the thermometer was removed and the resulting tut had Sherlock smiling again. "I'm assuming that it's bad news."
"One hundred and two degrees Fahrenheit, Sherlock, which is way too high. Here, take these, they should bring the fever down." John helped him take the pills before pulling the covers back from his body and tugging him out of the bed to the bathroom where the air was already warm with steam from the water flowing in the tub. For one horrified moment, Sherlock thought John was going to take off his underwear himself, but the retired army-doctor merely shut the water off and told him to get into the bath, pants and all, because "you're not actually having a bath. We're just trying to keep you warm for the moment. Yes, yes, I know you've got a fever, but your skin temperature is freezing and it won't do you any favours if you remain that way. Now get in the bath."
Oh, but the water felt so
good, sliding over his body and persuading all those aches to go away, to give his body some peace and a chance to recuperate. Sherlock was pleased that John's medical training hadn't left him at that point, the little details flashing like neon signs behind his eyelids; the way the water came up to just over his sternum when he was sitting up, leaving his chest bare so that he didn't feel compressed, whilst the rest of him was subjected to the heat and gentle rolling waves of the water around him. A towel was placed at the back of his head, rolled up to provide a make-shift cushion so that he could lean back against it without hurting his neck or shoulders and a cool flannel had been placed over his forehead to help bring his fever down. Even the coughing which had so crippled him earlier was held at bay, the steam loosening the phlegm in his throat and encouraging him to swallow rather than heave it back up. Who needed a GP's Practice when you had your own live-in one?
Sherlock's eyes had drifted shut during those small details, lulled by the peace and security that he felt around and inside him. Yes, he was sick. Yes, it would take time to heal. But now it felt like he had time, all the time in the world, to do so. Still, the atmosphere felt fragile, the relationship he now shared with John brittle and scarred. Having so recently returned, he still unsure of his reception with the other man, had yet to see how John really felt about him returning to a life that should have, by all accounts, been moved on from.
His eyes opened again as another memory pushed to the forefront; John standing next to his grave, asking for one more miracle, to just stop it,
stop this. He'd stood beside a dead person and asked for that person to come back, to not be dead. Why?
"Why, John?" he murmured, turning his head to look at the other man who was leaning against the sink, dosing with his eyes closed and head drooped down onto his chest.
"Hmmm… what?" John jolted himself awake, rubbing at his eyes and yawning deeply before looking at him directly. "Sorry, Sherlock, what was that?"
"At the grave," Sherlock said, "when you thought I was dead. Why did you ask for one more miracle?" He looked away from John, gathering his composure before making eye contact again. "Why did you want me back?"
John pushed his bottom lip out in a look of puzzlement before frowning a little. "Well, uh… Why
wouldn't I want you back, Sherlock?" He crossed his arms again, tilting his head to one side. "I mean … you heard what I said at the grave, right? That you are the most human, human being I'd ever met. That I owed you so much." He went to the bath and knelt beside it so he met Sherlock's eye level. "Why do you need to ask the question when you already know the answer?"
Sherlock looked at John's face, searching for something that he wasn't even sure about, for some clue, a twitch, an pupil dilation, anything to explain why he felt the way he felt.
Nothing.
Nothing but truth, honest, vulnerable truth. John had meant every word he'd said that day and it appeared that nothing had happened to dilute the way John felt about him, had only made it stronger as time passed. Something had happened…
"May I ask you something, John?" Sherlock didn't allow his unease to show on his face, kept his eyes focussed with what was left of his concentration on his flatmate. John looked surprised at the question; Sherlock very rarely asked for information, had grown into a habit of finding out himself and if that didn't work, demanding it, but nodded an affirmative, leaving Sherlock to gather his nerve again. "During the time I was away, why did you draw pictures of me? On the wall?"
John blinked once, twice, breaking eye contact briefly before looking back and clearing his throat. "Do you know what people used to do during the nineteenth century, Sherlock? When photography was invented?"
Yes, of course he knew, especially given the context of their discussion, but he didn't say it quite so abruptly, choosing instead to nod, encouraging John to continue, to explain.
"When people died," John began, "they used to take photographs of them to try and keep them alive, as though their souls were in the portraits." He closed his eyes and laughed quietly. "The only pictures I had of you were the ones in the newspapers with that stupid hat and … the others. Sure, they were pictures of you, but that's all they were. Just pictures."
Sherlock didn't say anything, waiting to hear what John had to say.
"If it really was real, you know, about keeping people alive in portraits, I didn't think the pictures that we had were enough. You despised having your picture taken, being on the news. You were… Are a very private person. If you were to survive as the person I knew and understood, I knew that they wouldn't be enough." John took a deep breath. "I believed, for a moment, that if I could keep you alive, just as you were, the only way I could do it would be to create images of you that I had seen and experienced.
"You asked me last night whether I was trying to deduce the world's only consulting detective and I told you that I was doing it. The only reason I was able to see it was because I have been
seeing it. In my head. All those things you used to do. I thought that if I could get them on the paper quick enough … it would be enough to save you." That half smile appeared again, John eyes lightening with warmth that Sherlock had only ever seen directed at one person – himself. "So, in light of this new information, how well do you think I did?"
To be continued
