Sounds of an Artist
No warnings for this chapter. Part Four
John's POV
The minute he asked Sherlock the question he immediately wanted to snatch it back from the air, turn back the clock, anything so that he could actually
think about what it was he wanted to say before he actually said it.
'So how well do you think I did? Yeah right… Way to be subtle, John.' It wasn't that he wasn't genuinely curious about what Sherlock had to say, but it was an almost harrowing experience telling the other man why he had created them and the artist in him craved feedback on the pictures that, until now, had been only seen by Mrs Hudson and Molly when they popped in to check on him.
Well, it was too late now. He remained kneeling by the bath on the mat beside it and tried not to let his unease show on his face, which was impossible really because he knew Sherlock had already seen it, sick or not. He just hoped he hadn't made too big of a prat of himself.
He startled when the water shifted in the bath but a quick "relax, John, I'm just getting comfortable," from Sherlock stilled his thoughts. The water had to be getting cold now but Sherlock made so sign that he wanted to get out yet, instead releasing an audible sigh when the desired position was achieved.
"John." His name, breathed, bringing his attention back to Sherlock, the other man relaxing marginally when John met his eyes. "Isn't it time you asked me the question you really want to ask? You don't want to know whether or not I like the pictures, not really. You're curious, yes; you want me to give you feedback as every aspiring artist does, but that isn't what's concerning you." Sherlock chuckled in his throat and closed his eyes briefly before opening them again, fixing John with a stare that always made him feel like a deer in the headlamps of a car … no. A train was more apt. A two hundred mile-an-hour speeding train that he had somehow got in the way of, didn't even see coming though every instinct was screaming at him to run.
He knew Sherlock had an answer when the connection was broken, that train suddenly following the tracks round a bend and averting him from disaster. "If you must know, I don't
dislike them. Happy now?"
John released the breath he didn't know he'd been holding and a small part of him laughed inside with relief. There was the Sherlock he knew. He might never know how the detective felt about his drawings but he didn't need to. Right now there were more important things to focus on. "I suppose that'll do, yes," he replied. "Can't have you deciding to tear them down when I need to pop out for a bit."
Sherlock scoffed. "Just because I don't care about them doesn't mean I can't appreciate them."
John smirked. "No, but I don't think they'll be as useful in a case, do you?"
For once, Sherlock didn't have a response to make and John decided it was time to move things on. Although he seemed to be much better, the infection would still be strong in Sherlock's system unless they took steps to counteract it. He knew that eating would be difficult due to Sherlock's, no doubt, sore throat and complete loss of appetite, but he had to make him eat. John knew the maxim was to feed a cold and starve a fever according to the old wives tales, however, if Sherlock's eating habits hadn't changed, John was concerned that his body wasn't getting the level of nutrition it needed to fight off the invaders currently battling inside it.
This led to John helping his patient out of the bath amidst a mixture of grumbles and huffs, all of which he took in his stride as he wrapped Sherlock in a towel and sat him on the toilet seat with firm instructions to dry himself off. He would have started to do it himself when he saw how weak his old friend was but decided against it; Sherlock never had been a fan of physical contact, not with living people anyway, and it didn't look as though that had changed in their time apart, despite the incident in the bedroom just now. Instead he waited patiently, draining the water from the bath and generally tidying up while he gave Sherlock the illusion of privacy. When he turned back Sherlock was wrapped up in the towel again, the warmth from the water leaving his skin a light pink colour from where the blood had rushed to the surface and his eyes a lot more alert than they had been before John's care.
A trip to Sherlock's old room was next. The bed was still unmade but John sat Sherlock on it anyway while he rummaged in the man's drawers, pulling out a loose top, some combat trousers and underwear. He also grabbed the old blue dressing gown from the back of the door and passed these to Sherlock. He turned his back again while he waited for Sherlock to dress himself and concentrated on what needed to be done next. Obviously medication would need to be administered regularly and John didn't think he had enough in the apartment to last the next couple of days it would take for Sherlock to heal so a trip to the local chemist was in order. He also had to go and buy more food for them both, grimacing at the reminder of the state of his own body. He knew Sherlock had seen it, his own loss of weight, but eating during the first six months after the fall hadn't been wholly important. It was to keep him alive; there hadn't been any taste, any enjoyment. Just a means to an end.
He had noted the state of Sherlock's body when he'd undressed him before the bath. Sherlock had been lean before, but that had been with muscle, needed for chasing the bad guys in London's underground and outrunning taxi cabs. From the look of it, Sherlock's body had started to give in only recently, maybe the last two months. He would need to question Sherlock on it later; he didn't want to wake up one morning with a flatmate who now had a chronic eating disorder.
'Wait, didn't he have that before? No, that was insomnia.' There were also other telling indications of what Sherlock had been up to – an old scar on his left hand side, just underneath his floating rib. Looked like someone had tried to cut him open and he'd managed to deflect the blow, leaving him with a long, thin scar. That one stood out amongst the other little scars dotting Sherlock's frame. If that one had done what it was meant to do…
"I'm finished, John," Sherlock said, sitting on the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest and his hands resting on the tops. John nearly laughed at the image; Sherlock looked so much like a child then, waiting calmly for his next instruction. Go brush your teeth and then I'll read you a bedtime story. The look Sherlock gave him was anything but childlike though and John knew he hadn't fooled anyone. They both knew what he'd been thinking, each in their own way and John was suddenly glad for it. To have someone again who could tell what he was thinking by the little things, clues in his body language, in his face. He'd had to do so much
explaining, to Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, the press when they'd managed to get hold of him, cornered in the local shop when someone had tipped them off and leaving him wasting no small amount of time trying to escape them. To not have to say anything and yet say everything was something that he had missed dearly and he let himself smile, knowing that Sherlock had already seen the relief that he felt.
John didn't have much in the way of proper food. The kitchen was still mostly a no-go area since he still hadn't packed up Sherlock's equipment and didn't want any article of food coming even close to something Sherlock may have used. He did have the basics though and decided some lightly buttered toast couldn't hurt. If Sherlock was feeling up to it later he would make some scrambled egg on toast for him, a somewhat bland meal, but a little more substantial than toast on its own.
He busied himself with the task, using the familiarity of the situation to settle his frayed nerves. Making tea and something to eat for the detective hadn't been a onetime occurrence during their time together, Sherlock usually too wrapped up in his Mind Palace to think about catering to his body's needs and needing John to remind him. This time it was just the toast and another glass of water. He didn't want to introduce too much to Sherlock right away in case his body rejected it. They still didn't know how much further the illness could go and he really didn't want to have to hold Sherlock's hair back for him while he had his face buried down the toilet.
When he went back into the living room Sherlock was curled up on his old chair with his dressing gown wrapped tightly around him; the warmth had left him and he was shivering a bit when John ushered him to take the plate, placing the cup on the floor next to the chair. "If you're feeling a bit better later I'll get you some tea," John said, taking the chair opposite and watching as Sherlock took small bites of the toast. "We'll take it steady for now but you need to let me know if you start feeling worse."
Sherlock swallowed the bite he'd taken and regarded John with a scowl. "How can I possibly feel worse than I already feel?" he retorted sharply. A pause. "Wait, don't answer that."
John shrugged in a guileless way before laughing when the act prompted another glare from Sherlock. "I'm a doctor and you're a high-functioning sociopath. I think it's safe to agree that we'll be following my advice until you're better, agreed?"
The "Hmmm" he received was more than worth it in his opinion. Still chuckling, he made sure Sherlock finished his meal before walking over to the desk and switching on the CD player, intending to play some music to fill the quietness of the room. He had a mixed CD that he usually played on repeat but decided to skip to one track in particular, hoping that the sound would sooth the tension that had started to creep up on them. The strings of 'Sad Romance – Violin Version' gently emanated from the speakers, John turning down the volume a bit so that it wasn't intrusive and sat back down in his chair, closing his eyes for a small reprieve. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock watching him but for that moment he couldn't bring himself to care what the other man thought, escaping to his own Mind Palace and bringing the music with him.
Already his mind was working, various moments throughout the morning flashing before him; seeing Sherlock for the first time in the apartment, watching him drink the tea and helping him to bed. The trust shared between them when Sherlock had allowed John to support him after his coughing fit, the weight of Sherlock's body on his own still vivid, though strictly platonic. He could feel his fingers on his right hand twitching slightly, committing to memory the materials he would need for his next design, comparing the differences between pen, pencil and charcoal for the picture he wanted to create. A pen would be too harsh for the softness of what he was seeing, the charcoal too soft. He needed the harshness of blunt lines to blend, to allow smoothness and character without it looking distorted at the end.
Sherlock remained silent throughout the process, even when the music changed tempo, 'My Immortal' with its piano and Amy Lee's voice influencing the design that John was finishing.
I'm so tired of being here, suppressed by all my childish fears
And if you have to leave, I wish that you would just leave
'Cause your presence still lingers here and it won't leave me alone*
John felt his calm shatter for a moment as the words, sung in the hauntingly beautiful way that only Amy could produce, bit into him.
These wounds won't seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There's just too much that time cannot erase*
He was thrust out of his Mind Palace so quickly that he remained frozen for a moment before jerking towards the CD player and stopping it, vaguely realising that his hands were shaking although his breathing was steady.
'Not now, John. It's not the time, don't you even think about it.' "John?" Sherlock's voice sounded behind him, still in the general vicinity of his chair and John waved him away for a moment while he gathered himself.
"It's ok, Sherlock. Just the wrong music for what I needed, that's all."
Both men knew he was lying but Sherlock didn't say anything. Somehow, to John, the silence that fell over them felt even worse.
To be continued *Song: First verse of 'My Immortal' by Evanescence
