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 Posted: Sun Apr 28, 2013 11:06 pm
 Hello everyone!
This is a private roleplay between PrinceBloodElf and TheNumberThirteen.
That means if you are not one of us please do not post! Thank you!
You are welcome to read along.
Pairing:
Sherlock x John
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Posted: Thu May 02, 2013 4:06 pm
(ooh, this is going to be fun! Shall I begin?
...I suppose I shall.)
JOHN WATSON
John sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he reached for his cell phone. 5:39 AM. Still early, he thought. I bet Sherlock isn't even up yet, but then again, it's Sherlock. Who knows? John feel silent, listening to the sound of his heart beating and the breath whooshing in and out of his lungs, the silence providing him with nothing but his own thoughts and feelings to bounce around the walls of his skull.
Ah, let him sleep in. Christ, we all know he spends his nights doing all kinds of odd experiments... Always grumpy and tired and dependent on nicotine patches in the morning. Oh Sherlock. Argh, I feel like I'm his mother, or worse, Mycroft. Always looking after him and such... If I'm not his mother, what am I? His friend? His flatmate? Hmm. John sighed, seemingly deafening in the otherwise silent room. He slumped back onto his pillows and closed his eyes.
Perhaps... Perhaps I should get up now, make breakfast now, read the paper or something. After all, I can't sleep at all anymore.
He swung his legs off the mattress, groaning quietly as his joints cracked and popped. Urgh, getting old, are we now, John? he thought, remembering the days where getting up in the morning wasn't such a literal pain in the neck. Walking over to the old, faded wardrobe, Join picked out a wide striped black and white jumper, a pair of freshly ironed black pants, and slipped his feet into a soft pair of slippers Mrs Hudson had gotten him for his birthday.
John dragged his feet down to the kitchen, yawning as he hunted around in the cupboard for coffee beans. Not being able to find them, he figured a cup of microwaved milk would have to do, and perhaps some orange juice as well. Being half awake, John reached for the area where the milk usually was. Instead of the glass bottle, he felt a bag of something watery and slightly squishy find its way between his fingers.
"Oh, bloody hell. Sherlock! You left your damned eyeballs in the fridge again! They're staring at me! How many times have I told you not to keep human samples in the same place as our food?"
Them it hit him. Like someone had dropped a pile of bricks on his head, and John literally staggered from the suddenness of it all, the shattering of the false world he tried to create for himself, a world to help him leave his shock behind. He sank to the floor and watched the fridge door slowly swing shut, closing gently. The salt stung his eyes as the stream of iridescent tears trickled out, no matter how much John tried to keep them back, blinking over and over and over again.
"Dammit, Sherlock. Please.... Please, just come back..."
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Posted: Thu May 02, 2013 6:41 pm
It wasn't as if Sherlock wouldn't want to return. He'd want absolutely nothing more than to stroll into 221B Baker Street and bark at John to make him a cup of tea. Not that he ever meant to be unkind to John. It was just the detective's nature. But no, he couldn't go back, not when it wasn't yet safe. See, Moriarty may have been dead, but his hitmen were not. If Sherlock were to suddenly announce himself alive to the world, there was nothing to stop them from returning and killing their original victims. So, for the past year, he had spent all his time tracking them down, as well as anyone would could possibly have any knowledge of the plot. Sherlock had blood on his hands, but it was alright, because it was all for John. Everything was for John.
It was finally at five thirty, on that cold January morning, that he returned. Sherlock appeared in the window of John's room, having climbed the fire escape up to the third floor. The front entrance just wouldn't do. He still wore his familiar black coat and blue scarf, though both were crumpled and smelly, having not been washed for months. He, who was always so neat and trim, had dirt caked onto his face and his black hair until it was almost brown. Despite the dramatic change of appearance, his piercing eyes scanned the room, and he was very much comforted that it hadn't changed nearly as much as he had.
With a slight flick of the wrist with a little contraption, the lock on the window was broken with a slight click, and he slowly slid it up, and darted his head inside. Leaning just a bit too far forward, he fell to the carpeted ground with a loud crash. Moaning slightly, Sherlock held his head, and struggled to stand, pushing himself up onto the bed. From his sluggish movements and general lack of awareness, it was clear he was either drugged or extremely tired, most likely a combination of both. He hadn't slept for weeks, literally. It was only thoughts of his friend that filled his mind, however, as he searched through the sheets for his small figure.
Sherlock frowned, trying to comprehend the situation. No John? Thoughts flashed through his mind, however unalert. Did he leave? Did Moriarty's men get to him after all? Did he die of natural causes? Had he finally married and moved into a proper home...? A crash downstairs relieved him of his worries, as he would assume dear old Mrs. Hudson couldn't bear to rent the apartment out to anyone else if John had left. That crash was enough to release all the stress of his mind, all the worrying, the anxiety. His blogger was alright, he was alive, and that was good.
His mission now accomplished, Sherlock stood up, intending to make his way towards the window again. He needed to leave John alone. A year and the detective had become obsessed with seeing him again. A year and the doctor had likely long gotten over his supposed death. Meeting him again would just reopen old wounds. He couldn't do that to John, not again. However, fate had other plans. Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, and despite himself, fell back towards the bed. Weeks of sleep, and anxiety now relieved, had the effect of knocking people unconscious, he assumed. Fighting his instincts but finding himself the loser in the battle, he found himself falling into a deep, peaceful slumber.
The last thing he recalled was whispering a word, a small, very meaningful word.
"John."
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Posted: Fri May 03, 2013 9:48 pm
 JOHN HAMISH WATSON
Former army doctor
"My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead...?"
John gritted his teeth. Stop that, he told himself. Stop weeping and man up a bit. He wouldn't have wanted you to cry for him... and anyway, its a bit overdue, isn't it? I'm surprised it took a year. I really must be getting slower.
Suddenly, John heard a quiet click from upstairs. It sounded like a switch or lock breaking. His heart sped up, and John looked towards his room. Intruders! John crept over to his desk, unlocked and slid open one of the bottom drawers. He drew out something black and slick and shiny left over from his army days. John had never planned to use his Sig Sauer again, but it was intimidating and imposing. Perfect for scaring off a thief. And if a few shots were fired, Lestrade would understand, wouldn't he?
John inched up the stairs one at a time, making sure that there was absolutely no sound coming from the worn creaky floorboards. Suddenly aware that all sound had stopped, John approached even more carefully, removing the gun's safety. He pushed his door open slowly.
There was a lump under the covers. John could not even begin to guess what it was, until he saw a flash of familiar blue yet worn fabric. And the mess of dark-near-black brown curls, albeit slightly oily, could have been recognizable anywhere.
John's mind completely went blank. All the battle instincts from Afghanistan vanished, every last sense of logic and clear thought dispersed. John's mind could not even bring itself to voice the name, the name of the person who was currently lying in John's bed, sound asleep, yet couldn't be because John hat clearly seen him fall, felt his pulse, seen the glassy eyes...
John's mind lost control of the hands first. The gun fell with a muffled thump on the carpeted floor. Next was the jaw. John was uncomfortably aware of his mouth hanging open, yet he didn't seem to have the power to close it. And finally, the knees.
"Sh-Sherlock? I-is it really you?"
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Posted: Sat May 04, 2013 5:30 am
And then he opened his eyes. John's figure swarmed into his vision, and he blinked, surprised. Then he realized where he was... And whose bed he was sitting on. Sherlock let the revolver fall onto the bed and ran his fingers through his hair, letting some of the dirt flake off. He rubbed his eyes, trying to make a bit of sense of the situation. It was a bit ironic, in a way: the last time he had been so vulnerable like this was the last time he had seen John. John... Sherlock's eyes flickered up, quickly scanning over his old friend. Were those.. tears? Oh, of course. Undoubtedly tears of hate, or misery, at seeing the detective alive once more. If he'd known his return would cause John so much grief... He would never have...
"I'm sorry," he whispered. He had been practicing that line over and over since he had decided to come back. "John, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, I had to, I'm sorry." He might have kept repeating that phrase forever, but violent coughs shook his body and he doubled over. He felt blood in his mouth and he struggled to compose himself. He must have looked so pathetic in front of John... The great detective, reduced to nothing.
When Sherlock had recovered, he slouched back on the bed, and picked up the revolver, turning it over in his fingers. The gun made him feel safer, more secure, but from what he didn't know. Did he still have this irrational fear of Moriarty's hitmen coming to take out John? The logical parts of his mind told him he had already eliminated them all, but there was still this worry, this nagging in the back of his head. And now John here, crying for God's sake. A year, and he was obviously no longer welcome at 221B Baker Street.
Sherlock never did look up from the gun in his lap. Thoughts swarmed through his head. There were so many things he wanted to tell John, to explain to him, to blame for his disappearance. But it looked like he would never get to say those things, for he would have to leave before he'd even come. "Do you want me to leave?" he questioned quietly.
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Posted: Sat May 04, 2013 8:52 pm
JOHN HAMISH WATSON Former army doctor Utterly overwhelmed John couldn't help but stare. He watched, kneeling at the foot of his bed, as the familiar silhouette of his friend who was logically dead sat up and pointed a gun, slightly swaying, right in his face. He saw the blurred eyes clear, though still glazed over with exhaustion or pain or drugs, and the gun fell out of the slender hand. The hand moved to Sherlock's hair, the silky dark curls that John had often been so mesmerized by, and then Sherlock Holmes said something that left John speechless. He apologized. And without looking up, he asked,
"Do you want me to leave?"
John was utterly confused. What? He's supposed to be dead! I-I saw him! I felt his wrist, held his cold hands! I saw all the blood, saw him leap off and f-fall... How can this be...? Have I died and gone to wherever Sherlock is? Am I dreaming? It bloody well better not be a dream.
Then his mind registered Sherlock's whispered question.
Leave? Do I want YOU to leave? You, who gave me everything I could ever ask for in a friend, no, a best friend? Sherlock, I'd always want you by my side, in my life, somewhere near me, anywhere. When you left, I... I... I was lost. So lost, and so confused, and so, so sad.
John's mouth refused to function. He opened it, the closed it, then opened it again. All the came out was a squeaky sound, like a mouse crying, and he decided to let his actions speak for himself.
John sprang onto the bed, straight at Sherlock, and in the same moment that his arms wrapped around his friend, John burst into tears for the second time that day. How could someone as brilliant as Sherlock not understand how deeply he was embedded into John's life, thoughts, memories, everything? How could someone so clever and observant not be able to see that John would remember Sherlock to the end of his days?
But Sherlock was back. Back, and though tired and not in seemingly good health, he was at home, in 221B Baker Street, the place where they, Sherlock-and-John belonged. Together. John didn't care; he vowed that they would never be separated again. Ever. No matter what.
John leaned in closely to Sherlock's ear, barely able to make an audible sound. His breath rustled the dark curls as he whispered, "Do I want you to leave? Sherlock, why the hell would I want you to leave? I've missed you every single day, died a bit inside everyday trying to live with the fact that you wouldn't be here with me anymore. I've never come to terms with your.. death... And I'm so glad that I won't have to. Sherlock, if you had died, I... I... I don't... I wouldn't have known what to do anymore. I was so alone, Sherlock. Please..."
John's voice trembled as he fought to keep it from dissolving completely into sobs of relief and joy. He took a deep breath, breathing in Sherlock's scent, the warm and crisp smell that permeated the flat and had been fading away for the past year, as though Sherlock's memory itself was disappearing.
"Please, don't ever leave me ever again."
The seemingly unfinished thought floated in the air between then, and John desperately wanted to finish it with the the simple three words that would lay all his feelings bare in front of them, but he didn't dare. What if Sherlock doesn't feel the same? I won't say it. I won't ruin this for either of us by saying it... but do I even feel that way? Do i really love him that way? I'm just so confused. John sighed, burying his face into Sherlock's hair.
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Posted: Sat May 04, 2013 9:48 pm
Suddenly, his friend's sudden action threw him off guard, and he felt himself being pushed flat against the bed. John's sobbing figure. John's figure. Slightly shuddering, he tried to push the army doctor away, but couldn't find the physical strength to. The man just cried and cried, Sherlock wasn't exactly sure what to do but awkwardly return the embrace. By old habit, he gently pressed his fingers to the underside of John's hand, checking his pulse level. Elevated. Associated with situations high emotional effects, although the tears streaking down his face could have told anyone that. Surprisingly enough, Sherlock did not cry, but simply sat there. John was currently spurting out enough emotional distress to make up for the both of them.
Sherlock listened carefully as he was finally given an answer to his question. He let out a small sigh – was that of relief? – and allowed himself to hug his friend a bit tighter as a slight reward. And then he muttered that strange-sounding phrase. "Please, don't ever leave me ever again." Despite himself, he found the statement was.. incomplete. The tone of John's voice indicated he wanted to add onto the thought, but decided against it. It was odd. No matter: for now, at this moment, he honestly couldn't care.
Sherlock gently pushed away his friend and scooted a few feet away on the bed. After an entire year, physical contact in itself had become.. alien. It was welcome, but not quite yet. He wasn't ready for it. He groaned, rubbing his hair again, before his eyes flickered back to John. "The socially acceptable period of grieving has long since elapsed," he stated. It wasn't meant to be cold, but that was how it came across. Grimacing, he shifted his position on the bed.
"I realize certain.. explanations are required. I will do my best to answer any questions you may have," Sherlock added, though a bit quietly. The fall wasn't exactly a jolly memory. Adjusting his position as to sit cross-legged, he arranged himself to sit opposite John, and began to patiently wait for his responses. Mycroft had spent awhile coaching him on things to say and how to act to lessen John's pain. Although Sherlock didn't agree with many of the suggestions, he certainly would try them out if it meant to help his friend.
He would have requested they move the conversation downstairs, where he yell to get a cup of tea, perhaps wake Mrs. Hudson while he was at it, explain the more gruesome details of that fateful day through bites of breakfast. Ha, food. Food was for weaklings. Apparently he was a weakling. No, the reason why he wanted to stay in John's bedroom was for the simple reason that he didn't know if he could make it downstairs. Sure, he had climbed the fire escape, but that was a few minutes ago, before he had fallen asleep and relinquished his senses.
He took the time to study over John. Surprisingly, the doctor didn't look much better than he did. Bags around eyes. Severe sleep deprivation. Three to five hours a night, six days a week. Estimated habit development period post-incident: one week. Red slimish liquid on left coat sleeve. Right hand is used to open refrigerator door, left to retrieve item. Note to self: glass of stolen eyeballs from the morgue in red salve solution for testing prior to incident. Conclusion: lack of removal of decaying body parts from fridge, high anxiety, dependency on routine, difficulty moving on. Oh, John.
Sherlock stared deeply into his friends' eyes, this newfound data swarming in his mind. "John," he stated plainly. "You are not alright."
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Posted: Sun May 05, 2013 6:48 am
JOHN HAMISH WATSON Former army doctor Utterly overwhelmed
John felt the shudder ripple beneath his body, and the shock was a blast of unpleasant cold, stiffening and immobilizing at the thought that perhaps Sherlock didn't want to touch him, to even see him. Perhaps he just wanted to rest, and John had disturbed him. By rights, it was Sherlock's flat, and he did look awful. Probably worse than I look now, and God knows I haven't been getting any sleep at all lately. What had Sherlock been up to? John thought miserably.
Despite the shudder, John breathed a sigh of relief when he felt a quick reassuring squeeze. Maybe Sherlock did want to see him after all. The thought alone was able to lift up John's spirits, and he sat back on his heels when Sherlock gently pushed him back, realizing that Sherlock had never really been at peace with any sort of emotions. Especially affection. That was always a challenge.
"I realize certain... explanations are required."
Oh, hell yes. John would do his best not to ask stupid questions that would certainly piss Sherlock off. There was no way to guarantee, though. John's mind was bubbling over and frothing at the edges with questions and in his baked and mindboggled state, there was no way the ex army doctor could tell which were stupid and which were good.
However, John himself was a doctor. He could see the effects of drugs when he Dawe them. Brushing off Sherlock's statement about John's own health, he said, "Never mind me, Sherlock, I'll be fine. Just...lack of sleep is all. You look awful. Like you're... dying." John winced at the accidental pun. "I think you've been drugged. It doesn't smell like cocaine or marijuana or heroin... And you never do heroin, anyway... Sherlock, your eyes are dilated and you're burning. The explanations can come later. You're getting some sleep, fever medicine, and then once that goes down, you're going to take a bath."
John pushed his friend back to the pillows gently, sighing and giving him a tired smile.
"Welcome home, Sherlock."
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Posted: Sun May 05, 2013 7:40 am
"It was Mycroft. Something about for my own good," he added, before rubbing his temple. It was for his own good, really. He felt quite a bit calmer than he had in awhile, and it was a welcome relief. Besides, John was here with him now. That was worth every last bit. When he mentioned sleep, he instinctively started to yawn. He didn't realize he was so tired. He supposed John was right, he was a doctor after all...
"I don't need sleep. Sleep is for..." he tried to say, but John pushed him back against the bed. Despite himself, he sank into the mattress as a welcome relief. His eyelids fluttered closed, but not before he heard his friend's last statement. "Welcome home, Sherlock." The detective smiled again. "Home. Home..." Then he finally fell asleep.
•••
By the time he awoke, the effects of the drugs had evaporated from his mind. Fully alert, he shot up, gazing around the room, as the events of his return flooded back to his mind. John was gone, but there were no signs of a struggle, no fingernail marks on the walls, and he knew as an ex-soldier John would have certainly put up a fight. Looking to the window, the sun was now high in the sky, and judging from the angle the ray hit the floor, and which direction the window faced... Math problems buzzed through his head, and he realized the time. Almost ten o'clock. He had been asleep for four hours. So much could have happened in four hours.
Jumping out of the bed, Sherlock staggered towards the door in an attempt to make his way downstairs. He had to grab the door frame to steady himself, and he fumbled at the door knob. His hand kept slipping, and it was so hard to open... So hard... It wasn't locked though, that was the problem. What kind of a useless man was he that he couldn't even open a godforsaken door?
"John," he spoke loudly through the door. His breathing was getting heavier and he could feel his heart rate starting to beat within his chest. Had something happened to John? Perhaps the detective had been held at gunpoint, forcing the doctor to go with them? He started to pound on the door. If Moriarty's men were back he would never forgive himself. He wanted to blame it all on Mycroft for giving him the drugs, but he knew it wasn't really his brother's fault. It was his own stupidity...
Finally Sherlock managed to open the door, and the once-familiar smells and sounds of their apartment filled his nose and ears. And the most important among them, the sound of someone shuffling around, someone short, with a large build... He sighed deeply when he realized this description fit John. His panic now lessened, he sat down on the top step, and closed his eyes.
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Posted: Sun May 05, 2013 1:59 pm
JOHN HAMISH WATSON Former army doctor Very much smitten
John sighed once Sherlock fell back against the pillows, and he gently got off the bed, staring down at the figure fast asleep on the bed. I'm so happy he's back, and I just want to sit with him and talk forever... But he needs to sleep. Ha, isn't that ironic? Sherlock being the one to need sleep... I'll leave him be for now.
John quietly retired downstairs, and he poured himself a cup of green tea and sat down on the armchair, staring at the faded smiley face on the wall with the bullet holes puncturing its features. His gaze drifted to the knife imbedded in the mantel, and the piles and piles of endless papers stacked atop Sherlock's old desk. Everything was where it was before he left, he realized with a flush of happiness. It's almost as though we're back to normal...
He fetched his laptop and opened it to his blog. Tracing his fingers over the keys, John sat wondering for a long time about what to write.
"Sherlock has returne--"
Suddenly, John stopped, staring at the words that had stopped mid sentence and were now blinking impatiently on his screen. What if Sherlock doesn't want people to know that he's back? After all, there must be a reason for his late and sudden return... And I should protect his, our privacy. Nope, won't type a word today, he decided, erasing the words and shutting down his laptop, setting it aside. Now what?
John spotted a velvet covered book sitting in the far corner, and he walked over to retrieve it. Hmm. The Art of Horticulture. Well, that couldn't be too boring, could it?
Wrong. After an hour of testing his patience, John stood up, threw the book back to its corner, fuming at the seemingly endless pages of a gardener's drone. Hell, John didn't even know why the book was there in the first place. He opened the window and looked out at the street below, breathing in the city air, which was to say, not the freshest. It was strange, for when he looked back from the window, interrupting the stream of thoughts and memories that were running through his mind, an hour and a half had passed. 8:34 AM.
The short blond man suddenly felt extremely tired for the first time since Sherlock's disappearance. As though his knees were going to shatter, John staggered over to the soft armchair and slumped into its cushions, almost instantly falling asleep. When he woke up, it was to the sound of a tired but panicky voice calling his name. "John?" He heard footsteps overhead through the veil of semi-consciousness and stood up slowly, walking towards the stairs. "Sherlock?" He called. "Is something the matter?"
He saw the figure sit down heavily at the top of the stairs, and John quickly joined him, sitting at his side but careful not to make contact, just in case the detective didn't want to be touched. "What's wrong, Sherlock? Do you feel sick? And -- what's this? Sherlock! One... Two... Twenty three nicotine patches? Are you trying to kill yourself? I'm guessing the effects have worn off..." John, spying the edge of something round underneath Sherlock's clothes, moved the sleeve up and spotted five nicotine patches, feeling with a sense of dread that they weren't done. He pulled up each trouser leg and sleeve, counting under his breath. God knows, there were probably more in... Other places.
John sighed again, but a hint of a smile appeared on his face as he gently helped Sherlock to his feet, letting him lean on his shoulder as he walked him towards the bathroom and ran a warm bath.
"Get in," he ordered, though smiling. "You've got a lot to explain," he said as he turned around and waited for Sherlock to strip off his dirty clothes and get into the water. Hopefully, it would make Sherlock feel better.
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Posted: Sun May 05, 2013 2:44 pm
John helped him to his feet and down the stairs to Sherlock's room. He had to admit, the effort was a lot easier since he had someone helping him. He hobbled into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub as John ran his bath. Looking down at his feet, he started to busy himself with removing all the nicotine patches, working in silence. The boring chore occupied his hands, but his mind was on other things. Namely, why John was smiling so hard. He'd imagined the doctor to be sad and angry at his return, perhaps throw a few punches, but not smiling. It was strange. He felt odd at not having been able to foresee it, and odder that he didn't know what it meant. By the time he'd run all that through in his head, he'd just about finished with his patches, now all thrown in the little trash bin beside the sink. Thirty-six. He'd counted thirty-six patches. Damn it, Mycroft.
John had finished his task as well. The bath was ready, but Sherlock raised a silent eyebrow at his friend. Was he going to leave, or...? To his surprise, the ex army doctor simply turned around and told him to get in the tub. The lack of privacy was a bit unnerving, after having been alone for so long. Sherlock hesitated for a few moments before stripping down and stepping in, however unsteadily. John certainly wasn't going to leave, so he quickly pulled the shower curtain closed, forming a small barrier between them. He was naked, for goodness sake. If it didn't make him physically uncomfortable he didn't know what would. Contact was something he had to work on, but letting John see him naked? No, sir.
Sherlock splashed some water on his hair, and felt the drops trickle down his back. Little bits of dirt were now floating on the surface, and he stared at them in a semblance of an interest. What he really wanted to do was say something, anything, to John. His mind searched for tips Mycroft had given him, and he finally settled on: 'make dull conversation'. Fine. "How is Mrs. Hudson?" he asked, before splashing around a bit more in the water. No, that wasn't right. He groaned and sank further into the tub. "You know what, don't answer that. I already know she's fine."
John's words came back to him all at once. 'You've got a lot to explain.' Yes, yes he did. He supposed it wasn't any use to stall it any longer. He wanted this one to be a conversation that would be over.. quickly. "I want you to know," he started, "that I only did it as an absolute last resort. It wasn't fun, it wasn't games. It wasn't an experiment." He said the last word with a bitter tone. Mycroft had oh so often accused him of not making himself known to the doctor as some sort of sadistic psychological test. Well, it wasn't, absolutely not.
Sherlock let out a sigh. He didn't want to have to explain everything all at once. He was likely to leave out details that mattered to John but he had deemed as unimportant. What John asked, he would answer, no lies, no cover ups. That was all. "What – what would you like to know?" he asked quietly.
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Posted: Sun May 05, 2013 4:41 pm
JOHN HAMISH WATSON Former army doctor The past is very much alive.
John didn't know where to begin. He could just make out Sherlock's silhouette behind the shower curtain, and he put the toilet seat cover down and sat on top, letting his head rest in his hands as he looked over at the waste bin, filled with one... two... thirty-six nicotine patches. Good god. "If you feel uncomfortable or want me to leave at any point in time, just tell me. Or if you want me to shut up, that's fine, too."
When Sherlock asked him "What would you like to know?" John caught the stutter in his friend's voice. Where had their trust, their bond, where had everything gone? Was Sherlock somehow afraid of him? Hell, John would be absolutely at a loss at what to do if that happened. Please, please let the old Sherlock be under there, somewhere, under that skin of... I don't know, scars? Pain? Fear? Please, let him still be there, John prayed to no one in general.
"Well, er," John opened his mouth awkwardly, "I want, no, I need you to know that I trust you. I believe that you wouldn't have done it unless you had to. Sherlock, there's just so much I want to know, and I don't want to overwhelm you, but..." he wrung his hands in his lap, scratched at his head, twiddled his thumbs as he spoke.
"I'm sorry if you have to go back to this day, but, I want to know... how? How did you survive? I saw you, Sherlock. I saw you jump, I saw your body on the pavement, I saw all the blood and your eyes... Sherlock, your eyes were open, and they were empty. And your pulse... I-" John's voice suddenly cracked, and he had to look away for a moment. "I felt your pulse, a-and there was nothing. Nothing. H-how?"
John sat silently, eyes glazing over, almost in his own little world, barely breathing as he watched Sherlock's shape behind the curtain, occasionally moving to wash his hair. He relived every moment of that fateful day in his head. He remembered reaching out towards Sherlock as he watched him throw his phone away and spread his arms, falling over. He watched his best friend's body fall, fall so far down, and break and shatter on the pavement below. He remembered screaming soundlessly, because there was nothing he could hear except the trapped, frantic pounding of his blood inside his ears.
When he snapped out of it, he realized he was rocking back and forth on his perch, his head held tightly between his hands, repeating Sherlock's name over and over again in a hoarse whisper-scream that got loud with each syllable.
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Posted: Sun May 05, 2013 5:28 pm
Sherlock sighed softly. Of course, John would want the jump explained first. It was the most trivial part of it all. He was staring at his friend's figure through the shower curtain, but now he looked away, back at the water in front of him, and waved it around a bit with his hand. He started breathing in and out, in and out. God, he was a wreck. What did John think of him now?
Suddenly, the doctor began muttering something, and Sherlock had to strain his ears to listen. He began to speak louder and louder, until it was finally clear he was saying a word, over and over again, almost in a chant: 'Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.' This completely unraveled the man in question. He pulled the curtain back a few inches to stick his head out and stare at the man in front of him. John, sitting on the toilet seat, was rocking back and forth, his head in his hands like a whimpering child. It seemed Sherlock's return had severely affected both of them.
"Please, John, please," he tried to say, but the doctor would have nothing of it, and continued to whisper his name. It got louder and louder, and quickly Sherlock became very uncomfortable. "John!" he almost shouted, trying to raise his voice above John's. Finally, the latter seemed to come back to reality, and the chanting ceased. Sherlock let out a small sigh of relief. He didn't know if he could have taken it much longer.
He continued to stare at John from the sliver he had opened in the shower curtain. Back to the original point, the explanation of his fall. He didn't want to, but it knew it had to be done, regardless of opening old wounds. The detective took a deep breath, and started his narrative.
"Yes, I did jump. But did you ever see me actually hit the ground? No. Your view was obstructed by a conveniently placed truck just in front of my landing zone. A conveniently placed truck containing mattresses, may I add. It took only a few moments for me to land on top of said truck, then for me to jump off and lay flat on the pavement." He paused to run his hands through his hair. "The biker. He ran into you as you were making your way across the street. You didn't notice, as it was quick and painless, but he also injected you with some recovered hallucinatory pathogen from our exploits in Baskerville, though only a minimal amount, enough to do the job." Sherlock now took his eyes off John, and retreated back behind the curtain, staring at the wall of tile. He didn't have enough courage to look his friend in the eye if he wanted to finish the story.
"Even in front of a hospital, it took a surprisingly short amount of time for the medics to arrive, don't you agree? And that crowd of people... All under my employ. Not the homeless network, mind you, you couldn't pay me to be crowded in with those people. So, anyway, you stumble over, you see the medics, and the people, and you see me on the ground... The pathogen kicks in and you see what you think you should see... Blood all over, my eyes glassed, and no pulse when you check. There was no blood, John, and I most certainly had a pulse."
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in the water, and looked down. "The effects of the drug wore off in about twenty minutes. Think back John, think hard. As I was being taken away, you were yelling something about blood on your hands, all over your arms. Did that blood suddenly disappear after twenty minutes, John?"
He closed his eyes painfully, preparing for the next question. Reliving the events of that day was too painful, too real... He didn't know if he could handle explaining everything in one sitting.
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Posted: Sat May 11, 2013 4:48 pm
JOHN HAMISH WATSON Former army doctor Always believed.
John nodded slowly. Thinking back, the blood really had disappeared after a short while. The paramedics had claimed he was in shock, and John figured that they had wiped off the blood and that the shock had simply given him amnesia... it was still strange at the time, since he could remember everything else, but everything was explained clearly now. "You're right..." he voiced slowly, "it did wear off after twenty minutes, but the paramedics didn't mention anything... I thought I had a concussion and amnesia from falling down and knocking my head against the ground."
He saw his friend's lanky silhouette almost deflate in front of him and the water swished around in the tub. John got up from his perch, walking forward until they were only separated by a the shower curtain. John could practically hear Sherlock's breathing, but he made no motion to look him in the eye. Even John had noticed the detective's new discomfort at close proximity and contact.
"Sherlock, please. If you don't feel comfortable telling me, I won't force you. All that matters now is that you're back. I'll ask later, and you just sit here, and er, relax. Bathe. Be clean. Tell me what you want me to do." He got up from his kneeling position on the floor, sitting back on the toilet seat, waiting to see if Sherlock wanted him to leave or not.
"I guess you heard me, Sherlock," he murmured quietly when no reply was forthcoming, half to himself, but just loud enough so that both could hear, "You heard me when I prayed for you to not be dead. Do you remember that, Sherlock? I remember the exact words. I said, 'one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be dead.' And I thought back, all the way back to that day, when you gave me your 'note.'
You told me that you were a lie. You told me that you made Moriarty up, that Rich Brooks was real. You told me that the newspapers were right all along, and that I should tell Greg and Molly and everyone about what you called 'the truth'. And not just that day. You told me that you weren't a hero, that heroes didn't exist. But you know, I never believed those words. Never. Not for a second. Do you know why, Sherlock?"
John cleared his throat. "Because you came back. You came back to me. I hoped, no, I knew you would. Just a gut feeling, but I knew you were a hero, or, well... at least... at least my hero. And I never got to say it to you in person, Sherlock, but I'll say it now. Thank you."
John stared at the silhouette for a few seconds, then lowered his gaze, blushing. "I, er, sorry. Sorry for the long speech, I... that must have been embarrassing. Really sorry, I'll just, er, leave now," John said, getting up and walking towards the door, turning the doorknob.
OOC: Hey, I just kind of want to know how you're liking it/my posts... is it a little too cheesy for you? Or do you like it the way it is? :3
Lemme know, cause I want you to enjoy it as much as I do!
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