Chapter Text
I'm so tired, my eyelids droop everytime my attention wanders away from the monumental task of keeping them open. The office chair I am sitting in suddenly feels like the most comfortable place of repose ever designed by human hands as my body looses all muscle tension. My higher brain switching of and relinquishing control to the primitive hind brain to carry out its caretaking role of making sure that the important things like breathing carry on. Giving the keys to the designated driver.
"Sherlock?"
I try to open my eyes to see who is calling me. Sounds like John, but my brain is fuzzy so I can't be sure. My eyes open a crack, but the small sliver is instantly filed with tears from my overtired tear ducts so all I can see is a wavering kaleidoscope of colours. The lids feel like they are pulled down with the weight of too many hours awake. They flutter between open and closed a few times before sliding down one final time. The shutters are down, the shop is closed. My ears strain for another piece of evidence as to the identity of the man calling me, but suddenly my lungs need more air, a large yawn overtakes me and by the time I have done that I have forgotten about the voice.
My head tips to the side to rest on my shoulder, and my brain resumes its task of closing down. Piece by piece I relinquish control, my breathing becoming slower and deeper. I gradually become aware of pressure on my upper arm, a monumental effort of will forces my eyes open a crack, I stare at the hand. It squeezes gently and says "We need to get you home."
Ahh, little hand, what a lovely idea, to be in my own bed, but this is where I live now, here in this chair, that I am vaguely aware belongs to Lestrade. Well he will have to find somewhere else to sit, there is no force on earth that could move me now. I can feel myself sinking, down, down, into the chair, my body melding with the faux leather to become one, irreversibly joined entity. No purpose remains other than sleep. Nothing else could possibly matter. Even if the room were aflame I would not move, would welcome the lack of oxygen stealing the breath away from me and deepening this sleep into the repose of the dead. I feel the hand squeeze again, can not see it as my brain has now closed the visual centres. A small sleepy smile tugs my lips and a tiny groan, more a large puff of air than anything, escapes from the confines of my chest.
A slow gasp, an inhalation of air, stretching my lungs once more, then an equally slow exhalation, my lips and vocal chords forming around the single word John, which comes out as an almost silent whisper. Then one more yawn, a last attempt to obtain oxygen to wake my mind, but it is for naught, my head lolls to the other shoulder, away from the hand which must surely be attached to that most precious of humans.
Then there it is, complete shut down. No further communication with the outside world, I rest in the fluffy cocoon of my mind. Hazy with fog, and for once free of the nightmares that normally plague me, it seems even the monsters that lurk inside are too tired to come out to play tonight.
I feel gravity shift, suddenly everything is flipped, risking a peek out of my sanctuary through a keyhole I spy a blue checked shirt tucked into the waistband of a pair of sturdy jeans. My view is of the rear of the waistband, shirt at the bottom from my point of view, waistband above, and topped off with a pair of lovely buttocks, upside down. John's buttocks, I should know, I have surreptitiously studied them often enough. I move away from the keyhole to settle back into the marshmallow pillows in my mind. Any world in which my eyes are mere inches away from John's arse is one in which John is with me, and he can take care of any troubling problems with gravity that we should encounter. I should be safe to stay here for a little longer.
A small voice in the corner of mind, one which until recently had been shoved into a dungeon but since John's arrival in my life had been allowed out more regularly, is trying to get my attention. It is trying to point out the advantages that could be conferred by my eyes, and by extension presumably my mouth, being so close to John's behind. If the fog in here was not so dense perhaps I would pay attention, but it is thick and becoming thicker, whiting my vision and deadening sound. Any activities necessary or allowed can be handled by John, or can wait until the weariness has passed. Everything goes black and I enter oblivion.
-----
A sudden jolt and a loud bang make my eyelids jerk up a fraction before slowly descending once more. "Car!" a distant voice inside declares, then gives up providing more conclusions due to lack of further visual input. I crack my eyelids once more, tears forming as my eyeballs protest, they have no desire to come out of hiding. The tears run down my cheeks as my eyeballs are forced to work, dragging slowly over the car interior "Taxi" the voice inside proclaims, proud of this tiny feat of deduction. As I force myself to swivel my eyes to the extreme right I catch a glimpse of a knee and hand. Someone is with me. I allow my head to drop to the right, onto my shoulder, which affords a much better view. I can see John's trousers, John's jacket, John's hand. I can't see his face, not without further movement, and now that my head is pillowed on my shoulder, as bony as it may be, it has no inclination to move anywhere. However the way that John's fingers are moving, just small movements but there nonetheless, and the lack of blood all over his clothing, suggests that his head is still attached to his shoulders just as it should be.
I hear him say to me through a wall of cotton wool "Are you back with us? Sherlock, are you in there?"
My lips tug into the tiniest smile "Still here John." I think, as I allow the darkness to claim me. John is here, I am safe.
-----
Giggling. Giggling. I can hear laughter. I am at school and as the teacher explains the workings of the heart I tell everyone how I had dissected a dead mouse I had found and looked at its tiny, tiny heart. I called it cute. Then it started. Everyone laughed, said I was a freak. Always wary of laughter since then. Risk a peek, no, eyes won't cooperate any more. We've done our part they insist, let one of the other senses take over for a bit. Ears are good. Listen. Who is laughing? Why? Laughing at me?
A yawn followed by a yawn deep inhalation through my nose provides olfactory evidence. Try to analyse all of the scents but all that comes back from the deduction centres is "fuck off, we're closed" followed by a much quieter response of "home."
Home. Baker Street . Is John still here?
Words, there are words, gibberish, can't understand. Then the laugh again and a high pitched twitter in response. I curl inward, shame, laughing at me, hide, hide myself, keep safe. Then pressure against my scalp, even as bone tired as I am I tense, expecting the hand to tighten in my hair, pulling, wrenching, holding me, and then the blow will follow. Punishment for being wrong, being bad, being a freak. I tense but cannot wake enough to move away, cannot crack an eyelid, cannot escape, body still sleeping even as my mind trembles. Then the pressure against my head becomes a gentle rub, a hand cupping my skull, holding me, cradling the most precious part of me. Fingers are scratching gently through my hair, it feels like protection, worship of my brain that is encased within. The small amount of tension I had been able to coax from my muscles dissipates.
The words again, a deeper voice, I still cannot understand, but the speech pattern, the intonation, John, here still. Then the higher voice, a teasing tone even if the words elude me, but not harsh, gentle teasing, Mrs Hudson. I am safe. The laughter was not cruel, for they would never treat me so.
I relax further, sinking away from this reality as the fingers continue to card through my hair. I do not know which of them is caressing me, but it feels like love.
------
Wet, why is there wet? Cool liquid sloshes against my lips, the hard glass containing it pressed against my lower lip. An arm is holding me up into a seated position. A voice through a fog, I listen, I try. John.
"Please drink just a little Sherlock, then I'll let you sleep. I don't think you've drunk anything all day."
I manage to open my visual centre, my eyes flutter open, it hurts a little, the light stings and my lids have crusted closed, the skin pulls as I force my eye lids up. There he is, full of concern, tired eyes, his lids sagging almost as much as mine, a faint smile on his lips as he sees I am awake.
"Hello. Just drink a little and I'll let you sleep."
I smile against the glass and a rivulet of water escapes past the rim and dribbles down my chin.
"Shit!" He withdraws the glass and uses the sleeve of his shirt to mop up the spill from my chin and throat, although most has already soaked into the collar of my shirt.
My doctor, looking after me still, even in his own exhaustion. My smile widens and I reach out a hand, fasten around his wrist, to still his movements. I will survive a few drops of water, he need not be concerned. I try to talk, but he is right, haven't drunk in so long my lips feel sealed together, and even when prised apart only a croak will emerge. I release his arm and the glass returns, I eagerly swallow a few mouthfuls. I want more but it is withdrawn.
"Take it slow yeah, have more in a minute." That beloved voice murmurs.
This strikes me as unaccountably funny and I try to laugh, all that emerges is a huff. I am an expert after all at taking it slow. Too slow, too long.
He lowers me back onto the coach, leaning over me as he does so. My eyes are threatening to close again, My fingers return to his wrist. I tighten my grip, and my other hand comes up behind him and clutches his shirt. He cannot leave. Too slow, it's been too slow.
He tries to pull away, to return to kneeling next to me on the floor instead of being draped over me as I recline. I hold fast, my arms tense with the effort of keeping him. It is hard, my tired muscles protest, if he was not so tired, if he was really trying to leave, I could not prevent it, but I hold on, my chest aches with the ghost of loneliness that will join me if he goes.
He sags, giving in. It is a hollow victory. A surrender against a force that he did not have energy to fight, rather than enthusiastic reciprocation that I long for. Hollow, but victory nonetheless. I am not alone as I have been for almost every other night of my whole life.
My eyes close, I sigh in contentment, but he fidgets above me. Does not want to be here. Hot tears prickle, I must let go, it is wrong to make him stay, and I haven't the strength to hold any longer in any case. My fingers release, he is free. I do not even try to watch. I don't want to see him move away.
He is gone, the coldness seeping into my chest where moments before his warm mass had warmed me. A sob escapes, just one. Then suddenly I am lifted, I am seated again, then the glass is back against my lips.
"Just a few more sips. I know you can do it."
I do. For him. Just a little more.
"Well done Love."
My brain freezes.