Sounds of an Artist
Warnings: Some graphic imagery described. Part Six
John’s POV
Out of all the experiences he’d had in the flat with Sherlock Holmes (and there had been a lot of them), watching the notorious consulting detective sleeping with his hand holding John’s wasn’t one that he could say had ever come to pass.
John thought back to the first time he’d been to visit the grave with Mrs Hudson, when he’d told Sherlock’s headstone that there were times when he wasn’t even sure that Sherlock was human, and compared the memory to the man resting beside him.
Sherlock’s hand was loose around his own now, conscious thought no longer aware enough to keep his hand clenched. The normally tight curls of his hair were strewn about his face and across his pillow, giving him an oddly childlike appearance. His face was no longer held in the composed mask that he showed to the people around him, meaning that the mask (that even John had very rarely seen behind) was gone, leaving just a man who presumably felt things, emotions, just like every other person John had met.
Or as much as Sherlock was capable of, at least.
If Sherlock’s family life was anything like his relationship with his brother, John knew there would be little love lost between them and that traditional family ties just wouldn’t apply here. Sherlock’s own behaviour to other people exemplified that fact, even going as far as to insinuate that Mycroft was an enemy first and a blood relative second. The problem John was facing now was that the Sherlock he thought he knew and the Sherlock sleeping beside him were vastly different people and he was having trouble consolidating the two. A normal person would never request help from an enemy to hide for the last two and a half years doing God knows what, but, then again, Sherlock wasn’t exactly a normal person.
The bottom line was that John had never seen Sherlock look so
human. When he had drawn the pictures of Sherlock they had only ever been of the person that he had experienced, had fought beside and ultimately grieved for; a person that he was now beginning to re-evaluate his stance over considering the Sherlock he’d seen in the last two hours.
It was perfectly reasonable to assume that Sherlock’s illness was the root cause of his personality change. John had seen the same things happen when he was treating wounded soldiers in Afghanistan. A General would keep a brave face on for when his leg was blown off while he was in front of his men but inside the surgery tent an altogether different man was often on the table. He honestly couldn’t count the number of men that he’d seen cry during his time there and it lent credit to the way he was thinking about Sherlock now. Yes, having the flu wasn’t as bad as losing a leg, but, to Sherlock who had never been ill before, it was enough to loosen whatever knot was inside of him, made him open up just a little bit to ask for help. To ask for the comfort of another human being when everything hurt and only the presence of another person would be enough to keep it all at bay.
If anything, John was mostly flattered that it was him Sherlock had chosen first, both for help with his illness and for coming to see him after his ‘death’. Not very many people could say
that when it came to the self-confessed sociopath.
The sound of his mobile going off, a text, sounded abnormally loud in the stillness of Sherlock’s bedroom and John couldn’t stop himself from flinching slightly, watching Sherlock to make sure the noise hadn’t woken him. Thankfully the other man was fast asleep, so much so that John chanced easing his hand from Sherlock’s so he could retrieve his phone from his back trouser pocket, the screen lighting up and displaying who had contacted him.
Text from: Mycroft To: John Date: 13/12/2013, Time: 11:36 Hello John. How is my little brother doing? John frowned at the message, not because it was Mycroft contacting him or the fact that Mycroft had known Sherlock was alive, but because it was the last person he wanted to speak with, text or no. Of course the infuriating man would know that Sherlock had turned up last night at stupid o’clock in the morning; Mycroft had ears and eyes everywhere in London when he wanted to. The only thing Mycroft couldn’t know was exactly what had happened in the flat in the last twelve hours since Sherlock’s return, purely because, once they knew about them, both John and Sherlock had scoured the entire apartment to remove the cameras that had been placed there.
A small, smug smile curved John’s lips, just imagining the frustration that it must have caused Mycroft not being able to spy on them anymore.
Text from: Mycroft To: John Date: 13/12/2013, Time: 11:37 I know you never stay in this late on a Friday, John. Would you like me to send for you so we can have a more personal discussion? No, John did not want to have another ‘personal discussion’. The last time he’d seen Mycroft before Sherlock’s funeral, he’d wanted to put his fist through the other man’s face when he’d found out that Mycroft had sold out his own brother to Moriarty for information. The actual day of the funeral was no better, John keeping at least an arm’s distance away from Mycroft when they met to give each other their condolences. Trust was hard to give, even harder to give again when it was broken, and Mycroft had managed to fill a hole the size of Sherlock’s grave with distrust.
Reluctantly, he texted back.
Text from: John To: Mycroft Date: 13/12/2013, Time: 11:40 Hello, Mycroft. That will not be necessary. Both Sherlock and I are fine, thank you. Another smirk crossed John’s face before he added another line.
To make yourself useful, could you please deliver the following: He proceeded to list the items he’d need over the next couple of days, including a food run and medical supplies, knowing that Mycroft would oblige the message and have the courtesy not to tab it for him to pay later. He figured that the other man owed him that much by keeping Sherlock’s plan a secret, whatever the reasons Sherlock had for making his brother abide the order. As unlikely as it sounded, a small part of him knew that Mycroft would have told him what Sherlock was planning unless Sherlock had ordered him otherwise, but he had yet to find out the reasons behind it.
It would need to wait until Sherlock was better though and patience was something that John had never had any trouble keeping.
Once Mycroft had texted him back with the affirmative he was hoping for, delivery pending one hour, John turned his attention back to Sherlock, carefully easing his other arm out from beneath the man’s weight when he found that it had gone to sleep. Sherlock did move then, reaching up with both hands to clasp his pillow and drag it down so he was hugging it, murmuring quietly before stilling again, disappearing back into his slumber. Watching the entire action made John want to wrap his arms around Sherlock again, made him want to take the place of the pillow that Sherlock was clinging to, and that thought on its own was enough to give him pause.
‘Certainly not something I’d have thought before.’ He didn’t let himself worry about it too much, putting it down to the fact that, like this, Sherlock was nothing less than adorable, or at least that’s what John thought one of Sherlock’s fans might say if they were here, and John’s own fascination with the sleeping detective was enamoured with the sight of a comfortable Sherlock, something that he hadn’t seen before.
It was an easy decision to make, wanting to see Sherlock like this again when he was feeling better. He looked so much more at ease with himself and his surroundings, more natural, and John couldn’t help but wish that perhaps, if Sherlock’s childhood had been different, maybe his life as a whole could have been happier, if not as completely dull when work was quiet or as interesting when a serial murderer was on the run. The only thing that stopped John from making that wish a reality was one that was purely selfish and one that Sherlock was probably approve of.
Before he’d met Sherlock, he’d told his psychiatrist that nothing happened to him. Certainly nothing worth blogging on the Internet about for people to read and, at the time, going into any detail about the war and his injury was too personal, too close for comfort. He’d still had his psychosomatic limb on a leg that hadn’t been touched down to being shot in his left shoulder and was trying to find a way to live in a city that he had no sure means of being able to.
Until he met Sherlock Holmes.
Whether he liked it or not, Sherlock had blazed into his life from the moment he met him, with barely five minutes passing until the other man was comparing personal habits and arranging times for them to go and look at their, now current, flat.
The next twenty-four hours were at once a blur and the clearest moments he could remember. His limp was cured when they’d chased the taxi driver through London, he’d found the danger he craved from the war with the consulting detective, and, most importantly, something was now
happening to him.
John hadn’t been lying when he’d told Sherlock’s headstone that he was alone and that he owed him so much. Sherlock had brought him to life, shown him the excitement that could be found in the everyday world and he was hard-pressed to find it anywhere else. Having the other man appear on his doorstep last night had been both surreal and the best moment of John’s life since the Fall and the child in him was jumping up and down with excitement, already waiting for the next case, the next big adventure that they could solve.
He just wondered whether the Sherlock he was seeing now would be up to it.
Happy with his own deductions, and feeling a bit of flare for the new side of Sherlock that had made an appearance, he decided it would be a good idea to grab his sketch pad and a pencil so he could draw what was in front of him. He’d never had the opportunity before, what with Sherlock being dead and all, so he wanted to make the most of it while the other man couldn’t berate him for doing so.
John carefully eased his way from the bed, making sure to tuck the quilt down after him so Sherlock wouldn’t feel the chill, and scarpered quickly to the living room where his drawing materials were. The ones on the table already would be enough, folding the A4 sketch pad under his arm and grabbing a sharpened pencil and rubber with one hand before heading back to Sherlock’s room. Sherlock hadn’t moved from the last position John had seen him in, which pleased him immensely, and he inched his way back around the bed until he was seated cross-legged next to Sherlock, his pad balanced on one knee and his pencil thoughtfully having the end of it chewed while he considered his subject.
From this angle, John could see the way Sherlock’s fringe rested partially over his eyes and how his hands had a hold of the pillow he was wrapped around, so he decided to start there. The HB pencil allowed just the right amount of smoothness he wanted for the picture but also rubbed out easily, allowing him to use his vertical, horizontal and contact lines to get the proportions of Sherlock’s face and hands right. These were done quickly and soon John was in the middle of finishing the guidelines he would need so that he could add more detail later.
Throughout the planning stage Sherlock remained motionless, a perfect study, and the drawing was coming to life as surely as the person it was portraying, beautiful and effortless. The pencil was working on the curls of Sherlock’s fringe, emphasizing the twists and darkness of his hair, Sherlock’s eye (that could be seen from John’s angle), closed with his eyelashes seeming to almost rest on the man’s prominent cheek bones. A few alterations were made to the hair to balance the overall tone that could be seen in the light of the room, still mostly dark from where the blinds were closed, and once that was done he started working on Sherlock’s hands.
Hands are resting, cold, hard pavement underneath them, no pillows to be wrapped around. His hand jolted, a line jarring across the page, and John swore quietly, using his rubber to erase the offending line before starting again.
Hair across his face… Can’t see his face… Can’t see anything. Another line. His lips pursed, John again rubbed out the unwanted line, forcing himself to concentrate.
A splash of crimson on the floor, around his head, in his hair, sticky, clinging. Eyes are open now, not asleep. The pencil stopped.
Not asleep. The page was blurry in front of him, fuzzy, he couldn’t focus.
‘Why can’t I see anything?’ Dead. Sherlock’s dead. A full body shudder wracked its way through him, the paper under his hands becoming wet, small drops landing on his fingers sporadically.
‘Crying. I’m crying.’ The tears morphed into sobs all on their own, his hand dropping the pencil so he could press it over his mouth, keeping them inside, trapping them. He couldn’t let them loose, not here, had to escape, retreat to a safe place, where the bad thoughts couldn’t reach him. The pad was flung to one side along with the pencil and rubber but the noise they made hardly gave him pause as he rushed from the bedroom and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him and locking it.
The door had a comforting solidness against his back as he slid down it, his hands reaching up to his face to hide his eyes as the shaking began anew, the sobs forcing their way past a throat that felt blocked. He couldn’t breathe with it, this pressure in his throat and behind his eyes, choking, silenced, but inside his head, he was screaming.
‘Sherlock!’ To be continued A/N: Inspiration for part six came from ‘The Scientist’ by Coldplay, featuring Sherlock and John’s relationship ‘from the start’ (YouTube). Warning: you may / will need tissues if you watch it.
