Sounds of an Artist
Warnings: Past drug abuse. Part Seven
Sherlock’s POV
The noise of a door slamming wasn’t the sort of thing Sherlock was looking for in a wake-up call but the sound of the bathroom door when it was forced into position and locked shocked him from what little sleep that he’d managed to get. Blearily, he wondered whether or not they were under attack, but the lack of noise from the rest of the apartment disproved the hypothesis (added with the knowledge that he knew he’d covered his tracks
very carefully so no one could have followed him back here to cause any trouble anyway), making Sherlock question exactly what it was that had caused such an outburst.
The residual warmth behind him told Sherlock that John was no longer beside him, the feel of the quilts against his back telling him that John had the forethought to tuck him in before leaving. His clock on the bedside table showed that the time was twenty-six minutes past twelve, almost an hour and half after Sherlock had succumbed to his tiredness, so it was reasonable to assume that John needed to relieve himself and thought the best time to do it would be when Sherlock was asleep. It didn’t explain why John had slammed the door with so little apparent care for his welfare though, having taken so much time to get him comfortable in the first place and leaving him to rest when the need presented itself. The situation was therefore urgent and took precedence over whatever Sherlock was feeling at that point; a deduction that did not please him in the slightest if only for the emotions that it made him feel, his own insecurities taking the opportunity to belittle and degrade him whenever possible.
He rolled over on his mattress, carefully listening to his body’s signals in case he needed to make use of the bucket next to his bed, wincing only marginally when muscles overworked from his sickness responded to the movement. The feel of something sharp dug into his left hand side, stalling his roll while he shifted his left hand underneath him to fish out the cause of the discomfort. Although the light in the room was shaded and his eyes still hurt from his headache, Sherlock could see quite clearly that it was John’s sketch pad, the one that had been on the table in the living room, and that it was turned to a page that he’d seen before. Resting the pad on his legs for a moment, he slowly eased himself up into a half reclining position on his pillows, trying to keep himself from jolting around too much, before picking the pad back up for a closer look.
The picture Sherlock was looking at was the one that he’d seen roughly drawn out by John last night, except that it was now fully completed, signed the twelfth of December with John’s signature in the bottom right hand corner, the same signature as the ones on the wall. The view was from the left window in the living room, the detail of the net curtain being pulled back to the right on the page showing John’s location as he watched Sherlock walking up the street towards the flat. Even though the night had been dimly lit with the street lights at the time, John had still managed to capture a surprising amount of detail whilst keeping a dreamlike quality to Sherlock’s form as it made its way to the front door. He assumed that the blurriness around the edge of his frame was intentional; there was no way that John could have known that what he was seeing wasn’t a product of his own imagination and, like the good artist that Sherlock was beginning to understand, he’d kept his state of mind a prominent feature of the drawing, a perspective that allowed a glimpse into what had inspired him at that moment.
Sherlock felt conflicted when he saw just how human John had made him look; the way his hands were bunched up in his coat pockets, avoiding the bitter cold of a December morning, his chin tucked down into his scarf to avoid the wind, his coat blowing out behind him with the force of it.
There wasn’t anything in the picture that showed him as the consulting detective that he’d once been, Sherlock realised. The man in the drawing was just a man trying to keep warm whilst making his way home, just like any other normal person would have done. Somehow, even after all that Sherlock had put him through, John was still able to find the humanity in him and he didn’t know how to feel about it, his own memories of recent events making him feel decidedly less human and more animal, where each day was a test of survival and each emotion was securely locked away lest it became a weakness, a distraction from his goal.
Sherlock set the pad down on his lap, tracing his right index finger over John’s signature twice, measuring the flow and pressure of the pen that John had used before setting the pad to one side and looking, unfocused, at the ceiling in an attempt to still his mind. Which was impossible really, given the circumstances.
Sherlock had never experienced a moment of silence in his life; his very nature wouldn’t allow it, his own curiosity working against him and making any sensation of peace both illusive and frustratingly outside of his reach. When times were quiet, times were dull; he’d said the same to Mrs Hudson on the night when John had left him to sleep on Sarah’s sofa. Dull and hateful. That had been before Moriarty though, in all his insane glory, and, as much as Sherlock thrived on the challenges set by the twisted consulting criminal, he wasn’t sure that the victory he’d achieved was worth the choices he’d had to make in order to reach it. It wasn’t just the influenza, as inconvenient as it was, but a myriad of other consequences that he hadn’t had the sense to foresee when he’d jumped off of Bart’s roof. Assumptions had been made, yes, about what would happen to the people that he left behind, but they were poor excuses when you had the real thing in front of you and he didn’t let himself entertain them any further.
Especially when it came to John.
He couldn’t hear any noise coming from the bathroom even though he knew John was still in there, deciding to take it as a good sign that he couldn’t hear the sound of any retching on John’s part which would have been an pressing matter indeed. Sherlock knew that the first thirty-six hours after any flu-related sickness meant the individual in question was highly contagious, so the odds of the doctor catching it were high at this point. Although he didn’t understand why John didn’t just use the bucket if that were the case. He didn’t have any particular claim to it and, at present, he had no need for it, so why had John fled to the bathroom like the Hound was snapping at his heels?
When the bathroom door was unlatched and opened he didn’t hold out any hope that the answers would be given to him out of choice, and when John appeared in his bedroom doorway it seemed that he had guessed right. Although the light in the room had increased in the time that he’d slept, all he could make out was the puffiness around John’s eyes that hadn’t been there before and the deep blush on his cheeks. The tell-tale hitch in his breathing. He couldn’t tell whether or not John’s eyes were bloodshot from the distance between them, but the physical signs were certainly pointing him in that direction and his instinct was quick to conclude that John had rushed into the bathroom because he’d been crying.
Still, it seemed rude to point it out so he didn’t make any such attempt, even though the way John was holding himself meant that he thought Sherlock was going to do just that. If John had any sense though, he would have realised by now that Sherlock had changed in some fairly fundamental ways. One of them being that once you made friends you had to work hard to keep them that way and keep them safe, something he knew he’d been abysmal at considering the position he’d inadvertently put John in previously. Sherlock also knew that he had his own share of flaws and while most people were more than happy to point them out to him, John had only ever done so under duress when Sherlock’s own attitude and actions had forced the issue. John hadn’t gained anything from the confrontations they’d had and Sherlock would be damned if he was going to start up any now. Patience was often rewarded, a hard lesson that had been drummed into him when he’d been hunting what remained of Moriarty’s network, and now he wasn’t under any pressure, any time constraints to get a job done. When John was ready, he’d open up all on his own.
Or at least Sherlock hoped that he would.
Still standing in the doorway where Sherlock could see him, John cleared his throat and used his right hand to wipe his eyes, the after-effects of overpowering emotions taking their toll on any composure that he was trying to grasp. A welcome distraction was provided when John’s mobile flashed, the noise of the text alert breaking any tension and prompting John into action. The walk to Sherlock’s bed was steady; the hand that reached for the mobile resting in John’s jean pocket was free of tremors, so when John announced that Mycroft was approximately two minutes away from the flat Sherlock didn’t find it hard to bristle at the mention of his brother’s name.
“Why is Mycroft coming here?” he grumbled, frowning when John didn’t respond to him right away. “John?”
The other man looked up from where he was responding to the message. “He’s bringing us some supplies, Sherlock. I asked him to before you get that look on your face.”
The look on John’s face told him that he’d not succeeded in trying to hide his own displeasure. “I was going to say that I don’t need my brother looking after me, but as you’ve gone ahead and requested his assistance there is very little I can do about it.”
John laughed. “There’s very little you can do about anything at the moment anyway. Don’t worry though. I won’t let him come in here.”
“And who says I’m staying in here?” Sherlock found that manoeuvring his way to a sitting position was easier when he was already half reclined, although he couldn’t stop his hands straying to his ribs when they pained him.
“Sherlock, what are you doing? No, don’t try to do it on your own, here, let me help you.” Trying to persuade John he was all right and could manage on his own was futile when the army doctor was in charge, but he did find that he was grateful for the assistance even though it didn’t help John in his cause to keep Sherlock bedridden. He’d just made it easier for Sherlock to swing his legs from under the quilts and into a proper sitting position, the motion slowed down when his head spun alarmingly. The bucket was pushed between his thighs without him asking and once again it served its intended purpose despite Sherlock being certain that there was nothing left in his body for him to give.
He spat into the bucket, once, twice, grimacing at the ache in his teeth where the stomach acid reacted with them before handing John the bucket to dispose of the contents. His water was pressed into his hands before John left, a reminder to keep his fluid levels up, small, careful draws of the liquid soothing the burn in his throat. He almost whimpered when he realised he was running out, the last few drops still sweet on his tongue as the glass was held loosely in the clasp of his right hand. He would have to ask John for more later.
The sound of the bucket being placed on the floor next to him almost made him jump; he hadn’t heard John come back into the room and he tried not to let it bother him. The constant chasing and hiding that his life had revolved around for almost three years had ended but old habits die hard deaths; Sherlock didn’t think he would ever get used to anyone managing to sneak up on him now. John’s smile did wonders for his nerves though, even with the evidence of his tears so close that Sherlock could reach out and touch them if he wanted to. Petechial had appeared just under John’s eyes where he had closed them, clenched them, the pressure around his temples and in his eye sockets causing small blood vessels to burst until they left dark half circles underneath them, like someone had tried to punch him in both eyes and only managed to hit him with one half of their fist.
‘Also a symptom of more virulent conditions; Vasculitis, Ebola, Scarlet Fever, Typhus. Unlikely given patient’s medical history.’ “If you’re so adamant about getting up now, which I completely disagree with by the way, are you able to walk or do you need me to carry you?” John had his hands on his hips, completely in character with the fussing mother hen that Sherlock now envisioned John to be given the way he was acting towards him. Yes, he would just need an apron around his waist and a tea towel slung over one shoulder to complete the image. Despite his humour at that moment, he kept his features carefully blank to hide the physical reaction that John’s question had prompted; his pulse had elevated, his breathing had become shallow until he corrected it and his eyes were on the cusp of widening; all involuntary responses that showed him just how much he liked the idea of it, John’s arms wrapped around him again, keeping him safe.
It also spurred him into making the decision to try and walk for himself, which he knew was an entirely illogical idea given how weak he felt in both his mind and body, but his own stubbornness and self-sense of pride wanted to prove to John that he wasn’t incapable, that he could still look after himself, and one little bout of influenza wasn’t going to change that.
He saw it on John’s face when the other man knew he was going to try and walk to the living room on his own; John had pursed his lips, his eyes focussing on Sherlock’s movements and keeping his hands close by just in case he had to stop him from falling. Sherlock felt his own jaw clench with determination, telling his body to wake up from the hunched position he was in, his hands keeping hold of the mattress in a white-knuckle grip to keep himself from pitching forward onto the floor.
Even though his body knew what was going to happen, and John obviously knew what was going to happen, it didn’t stop his brain sending the electrical signals to his legs and arms that made him stand up, the muscles bunching and flexing as they fought to carry Sherlock’s mediocre weight while also fighting against the aches and pains of flu. It was a battle that was short-lived and as his knees buckled beneath him John’s hands caught him around his waist, pulling his body flush against John’s for support while John sat him on the edge of his bed again. Frustration was an angry wave in Sherlock’s blood; he could feel it behind his eyes and in his hands, consuming him until the tension released him with a choked sob, his fingers scrabbling at the body in front of him for purchase while he buried his face in the crook of one elbow where John’s arms were still wrapped around him. He could feel his body shaking, the effort required to stand clearly too much to for him to handle right now, and his mind rendered useless under the emotional barrage he was being flooded in.
“I hate this, John. I really, really hate this…” Sherlock kept repeating himself, over and over while John remained silent, quietly soothing him by wrapping one hand around the back of his neck and gently rubbing. Careful not to dislodge John from his attentions, Sherlock rubbed his eyes against the jumper they were pressed against, huffing. “And I’m bored.”
John’s chuckle vibrated through the tips of Sherlock’s fingers where they were pressed to John’s back, the fibres of his jumper catching on the rough calluses on Sherlock’s hands and making them twitch, irritated. “I’m not telling you where the gun is,” John said quietly. “I still haven’t finished paying Mrs Hudson for the damage you did to the wall yet.”
Sherlock huffed again. “How can you
still be paying for that? I thought it was dealt with before…”
“No, it was added to the list of damages done to the building and furniture not owned by us and caused by you,” John replied. “Thankfully it’s the last thing on the list and, as I’m not paying Mrs Hudson any rent right now, any money I give her is going towards the cost of the repairs.” John paused. “If I let her take down the pictures to repair it, that is.”
Sherlock smiled, bringing his hands down to wrap them around John’s waist. Nothing further was said and he felt John’s attention shift to other priorities when the man straightened in front of him, his hand remaining on the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Did you still want to move to the living room?” John asked. “Does the sofa sound good?”
“At the very least I’ll be able to keep an eye on my brother there,” Sherlock replied, smirking. “I’m surprised another world war hasn’t broken out since I left actually; that little red button must taunt him endlessly.”
“The fact that a world war hasn’t erupted in the face of your demise just proves why I am in charge of it in the first place,” Mycroft drawled, stepping into the bedroom, his umbrella making a customary appearance even though the weather was dry and his keen gaze taking in the scene before him. “Well, isn’t this heart-warming. You are aware that John is your doctor first and foremost, aren’t you, Sherlock. Although I might be wrong.”
“Very wrong, Mycroft,” John bit out, shifting away from Sherlock so that the detective could see his brother.
Mycroft’s face lit up and the younger of the two siblings knew that that was just what the other had wanted to hear. “Ah, of course. Might I enquire as to what is first then? Blogger, perhaps…”
“Stop fishing for information, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped, his patience stretched thin. “You’ve never been any good at it.” He looked up at John. “And how exactly did he get into the flat?” When John didn’t answer him but instead gave him a grave look, Sherlock’s eyes hardened, his own calculations coming to an answer he didn’t like. “Oh no. You didn’t… You let him have a
key!”
Mycroft chuckled, both John and Sherlock turning to glare at the older man as he swung his umbrella in one hand and shuffled where he stood. “Dear brother, do you honestly believe that our John would let me have a key, of all people. No, it was much simpler in fact. Both John and Mrs Hudson agreed that their safety had been compromised and I offered to change the locks for them, free of charge of course. It was an easy affair to order four keys instead of the three requested. One can never be too careful these days.”
“Evidently not,” Sherlock said, his voice stern, uncompromising, bristling at the tone in Mycroft’s voice.
‘John is not ‘ours’.’ “I would rather say that, given the circumstances, me being in possession of a key was more of a help than a hindrance, wouldn’t you say? It does appear that John is going to have his hands full of you, Sherlock, do forgive the pun, so who else is going to unpack the items that John so eloquently requested?” Mycroft’s smile was smug, gloating, and Sherlock couldn’t help but feel that his brother was lucky in this instance. If he’d had the strength he would have been up already and slapping the offending look off of Mycroft’s face.
“Not you I gather,” John said, moving away from Sherlock to turn and face Mycroft directly. Sherlock lamented the loss of John’s hand on the back of his neck and added it to the list of grievances his brother had caused him. “Why don’t you make yourself scarce for two minutes, Mycroft,” John was saying. “I’m sure-”
“John.” Sherlock reached out and touched John’s arm, stopping the other man mid-sentence and making John look at him, surprised. He knew what John was trying to do, to spare him showing any emotion in front of his brother and to keep him comfortable, but he knew what he had to say and getting the words out was more difficult than he’d anticipated. “If Mycroft was going to use my weakness against me he would have already done it by now and with something far worse.” He paused and looked at Mycroft, the silent communication between the brothers an acceptance of what was going to pass. “Mycroft was there during my addiction, John.”
“Your, wait, what… Your
addiction?” John’s tone was incredulous. “I thought it was just recreational, your past drug use. I’d been with you for eighteen months, Sherlock, you never used anything during that time and I never saw any signs that you’d been using.”
“In this you are correct, but when I was still living with my family the drug habit was less recreational and more … escapism.” Sherlock steeled himself. “I almost OD’d, John, when I was sixteen. Mycroft found me in my bedroom; I was unconscious and I’d stopped breathing. He revived me and took me to hospital.”
It was obvious that John wanted to say something but when he opened his mouth nothing came out of it, the shock of Sherlock’s statement immobilising any words that were there. Sherlock expected that John would start to rant now, telling him how stupid he’d been, that there were other options even if he hadn’t seen them, anything to rewrite a history that could not be undone. So when John turned from him towards his brother and said, “thank you,” in a tone that underlined his gratitude and praise for Mycroft, he was more than surprised. And relieved. No arguments today.
Mycroft inclined his head in acceptance of the praise and looked at Sherlock again, the memory of the event still sharp, focussed between them like the knife edge they’d both danced on for years now. As much as Sherlock belittled his brother and would often see how far he could push Mycroft’s seemingly boundless patience, a connection had been undoubtedly forged and strengthened that day, vaster than the blood they shared and the mother that had given birth to them. Love had always been there, Sherlock had never doubted it, but it was still possible to love someone and not bond with them. This was something different. Always there, just under the surface, underneath the rivalry and the scorn that flew across the miles. A thread, small and thin, but unbreakable and completely underestimated. He could almost see it shimmering between them, reflecting the light and gleaming, like a single strand of spider silk.
When he broke the eye contact to look at John again, Sherlock could see that John could feel the tension between them; no, not tension. It wasn’t accurate. But he could certainly feel
something and Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder if the bond he shared with Mycroft could be easily translated to other people, obviously without the need of him almost overdosing to create it. When John looked at Sherlock again and he felt a shift in his body at the eye contact, in his awareness, he wondered if it hadn’t been there already.
“As much as I appreciate the sentiment, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, keeping his voice low, “I have other matters that require my attention just now. You will keep me appraised of his condition, won’t you, John.”
“Of course,” John replied, looking back at Mycroft. “Is the shopping still downstairs?”
“I believe that one of my men has already unpacked and stored the items for you both,” Mycroft answered. “Just in the normal places of course.” He swung his umbrella up once so that it now rested on his shoulder, regarding them both for a moment before nodding his goodbye and leaving the flat, the echoes of his footsteps receding after him and leaving silence in their wake.
“Well,” John said with a half-smile on his face. “Now that’s over and done with…” and motioned towards Sherlock’s body, asking permission to enter his personal space.
Sherlock nodded his acquiescence, shifting his arms around John’s neck again so that when he was lifted up into John’s arms he was stable. He immediately pressed his face into John’s neck, breathing in his scent and making his body as small as possible to ease the load on John’s shoulders and back. The walk to the living room was short and Sherlock released his hold on John when the other man lowered him to the sofa so that he was lying facing away from the windows, a small detail that showed John understood how the light was hurting Sherlock’s eyes and was trying to shield himself from it. He’d closed his eyes when he was being carried to the sofa and he could hear the sounds of John in the flat, moving around and checking the location of the supplies that Mycroft had delivered before he returned, a glass being placed on the coffee table within easy reach of Sherlock’s hand if he needed it.
“John?” The word was small, about as small as Sherlock felt when John stopped what he was doing and gave him his undivided attention, but he had to ask. “What were you doing before, when I was asleep?”
He hadn’t asked John why he’d been crying and knew that the other man would pick up on the difference. Sherlock had meant it when he said he wouldn’t pry and John had been with him long enough that he knew Sherlock liked direct answers to his direct questions. There never were any subtitles involved. “I was drawing you,” John answered, perching on the edge of the sofa with his body turned towards Sherlock. “You were curled up with your pillow and I… I couldn’t let the moment slip by. You looked so peaceful.”
“Can I see it?” Sherlock asked, his eyes pleading with John, wanted to see himself the way John saw him, had never had the opportunity to observe himself as such, his mind was so busy.
Disappointment flared in him when John shook his head, but was quickly quietened with John elaborated. “It’s not finished yet.” He looked away from Sherlock for a moment, a resolution being made before turning back to him. “Did you want to watch me finish it? I can go and get it now if you like and we can finish it together.”
Sherlock’s breath stalled in his throat, the offer touching some unknown place inside him and making him happy and sad all at once. He curled up his legs beneath him and shifted sideways on the sofa until he was facing the coffee table, murmuring, “please,” watching as John smiled again before bounding to the bedroom to retrieve his things.
John didn’t take long; bringing the bucket back with him and placing it close by before sitting on the floor between the coffee table and the sofa with his knees drawn up so he could rest the pad on them, the pencil and rubber on the floor beside him. Sherlock drew himself up slightly, pressing his upper body against John’s upper back so he could rest his chin on John’s right shoulder, giving him an unobstructed view when John turned the page from the picture of him walking outside to the one where he had been asleep.
A small gasp from his mouth told John all he needed it to regarding what he thought of the image thus far. He could still see the planning lines John had drawn to aid him but they didn’t detract from the effect that he could see John had been going for. His hair had been completed, strewn about his pillow and across his temple, his face and hands being the last things that needed further detail added until they too were finished. Sherlock’s eyes lovingly traced the lines that made up his image, absorbing them until they were imprinted on him; even the one line that jarred across the page didn’t take anything away from its beauty, only showed the depth of emotion John must have been feeling at that moment for it to affect him enough to make a difference.
The difference was easily rectified, the rubber erasing it until it was as though it had never existed, and when John began to finish what he’d started both men were quiet, still, the sound of the pencil and their breathing binding them together in a way that words never could.
To be continued A/N: Inspiration for this part came from the ‘In Time’ soundtrack by Craig Armstrong. The strings and piano of this music really fitted what I was going for in this chapter so please do listen to it if you wish; then maybe you can find out how my mind works :-)
