AN: Okay this prompt is eating my brain. I have to be on a flight in 4 hours and I'm not even finished packing. Next part will come when it comes. Major angst warning. ***
John always comes in the room with new bits of information (“The doctor said he’s going to try to wean you off the sedatives.”). It’s always good information. He saves the depressing bits for later in the visit (“Your brother said he’ll by stopping by later today.”).
He’s aware that this is a new personality trait. Whether it is brought on by his extended absence (How long was it? …three years. Yes, he knew that) or by his compromising position, there’s no way to tell. He needs more data.
“Okay. We are finally getting the hell out of here.”
That’s the best news he’s received in a while. Forever (no, no three years. He knows it’s been three years) actually.
He looks up to see John holding a set of his clothes and his Belstaff coat. Clothes that must have been saved. Clothes that John couldn’t bear to discard in his absence. He looks at John’s cleanly shaven face and he feels a slight smile tug at his lips. How could he have ever forgotten this?
John sets the clothes down and helps him to his feet.
He immediately foregoes the clothes for the jacket. He slowly slides himself into it, leaning away from John when he tries to help. The warm weight on his shoulders feels (almost) like home.
He sees John starting to roll a wheelchair toward him. Immediately, he balks, refusing to look at it as he walks (shuffles) past.
John sighs, “You know, Sherlock, not everything needs to be a challenge.”
Eyes rooted to the floor several meters ahead, he continues his shuffle towards the door. He soon feels John’s presence beside him, a warm arm wrapping around his back for support. Besides the initial flinch, he welcomes it. Anything to help him get out of this hellhole faster.
Within seconds they’re at the doorframe. John continues his step through, never even falters.
His eyes widen at the space beyond. The openness of the ward. The people milling around. A sinking feeling of dread sits heavily in his gut. This is wrong. He can’t (shouldn’t, couldn’t, won’t) do this.
Immediately he places his hand on the doorframe and pushes himself backward.
The force rips himself from John’s arm and he’s falling backwards. Backwards, where he belongs. Never forward, he can’t go forward.
He’s waiting for the sudden force of the floor against his back when strong hands pull him up.
Immediately, he’s fighting, punching and kicking without any aim. They aren’t following the rules. This wasn’t part of the deal. He won’t be forced beyond the door. That was made clear from the beginning.
The pressure on his arms disappears, and he finds himself sitting on the floor, staring at the washed-out, grey tiles.
“I’m sorry. So sorry, Sherlock. Just look at me. It’s John. You’re safe. Breathe, just breathe”
The words filter through, but there’s still an ache in his chest. Did he mess up? He was never supposed to (always supposed to but never should) leave his cell. He can’t believe it took him so long to realize that he failed. He failed miserably and others will pay. John will pay.
“Sherlock, you have to relax. Focus on my voice. Just breathe.”
John will pay. G and M and H will pay. The shapes are slowly coming back, soon they will expand beyond the letter. G is being particularly tricky. Now, it’s all useless. He’s lost them again. And it’s his fault.
“Nurse! I need a nurse I here! …Sherlock, please. Don’t you want to go home?”
He frantically nods. But it will all be for naught. He will be home, but John will be gone. And without John, it’s just a place, not a home.
“Then you have to calm down. Breathe with me.”
He tries, he really does. But the pressure on his chest refuses to release. Soon the voice drifts away. He can feel tears prickling down his cheeks. He didn’t expect to lose John so soon.
There’s a slight pinch in his arm. Then there’s nothing.
Re: The Lockless Door (2a/?)
***
John always comes in the room with new bits of information (“The doctor said he’s going to try to wean you off the sedatives.”). It’s always good information. He saves the depressing bits for later in the visit (“Your brother said he’ll by stopping by later today.”).
He’s aware that this is a new personality trait. Whether it is brought on by his extended absence (How long was it? …three years. Yes, he knew that) or by his compromising position, there’s no way to tell. He needs more data.
“Okay. We are finally getting the hell out of here.”
That’s the best news he’s received in a while. Forever (no, no three years. He knows it’s been three years) actually.
He looks up to see John holding a set of his clothes and his Belstaff coat. Clothes that must have been saved. Clothes that John couldn’t bear to discard in his absence. He looks at John’s cleanly shaven face and he feels a slight smile tug at his lips. How could he have ever forgotten this?
John sets the clothes down and helps him to his feet.
He immediately foregoes the clothes for the jacket. He slowly slides himself into it, leaning away from John when he tries to help. The warm weight on his shoulders feels (almost) like home.
He sees John starting to roll a wheelchair toward him. Immediately, he balks, refusing to look at it as he walks (shuffles) past.
John sighs, “You know, Sherlock, not everything needs to be a challenge.”
Eyes rooted to the floor several meters ahead, he continues his shuffle towards the door. He soon feels John’s presence beside him, a warm arm wrapping around his back for support. Besides the initial flinch, he welcomes it. Anything to help him get out of this hellhole faster.
Within seconds they’re at the doorframe. John continues his step through, never even falters.
His eyes widen at the space beyond. The openness of the ward. The people milling around. A sinking feeling of dread sits heavily in his gut. This is wrong. He can’t (shouldn’t, couldn’t, won’t) do this.
Immediately he places his hand on the doorframe and pushes himself backward.
The force rips himself from John’s arm and he’s falling backwards. Backwards, where he belongs. Never forward, he can’t go forward.
He’s waiting for the sudden force of the floor against his back when strong hands pull him up.
Immediately, he’s fighting, punching and kicking without any aim. They aren’t following the rules. This wasn’t part of the deal. He won’t be forced beyond the door. That was made clear from the beginning.
The pressure on his arms disappears, and he finds himself sitting on the floor, staring at the washed-out, grey tiles.
“I’m sorry. So sorry, Sherlock. Just look at me. It’s John. You’re safe. Breathe, just breathe”
The words filter through, but there’s still an ache in his chest. Did he mess up? He was never supposed to (always supposed to but never should) leave his cell. He can’t believe it took him so long to realize that he failed. He failed miserably and others will pay. John will pay.
“Sherlock, you have to relax. Focus on my voice. Just breathe.”
John will pay. G and M and H will pay. The shapes are slowly coming back, soon they will expand beyond the letter. G is being particularly tricky. Now, it’s all useless. He’s lost them again. And it’s his fault.
“Nurse! I need a nurse I here! …Sherlock, please. Don’t you want to go home?”
He frantically nods. But it will all be for naught. He will be home, but John will be gone. And without John, it’s just a place, not a home.
“Then you have to calm down. Breathe with me.”
He tries, he really does. But the pressure on his chest refuses to release. Soon the voice drifts away. He can feel tears prickling down his cheeks. He didn’t expect to lose John so soon.
There’s a slight pinch in his arm. Then there’s nothing.