He opens his eyes to his bedroom. His bedroom. Complete with periodic table and overly supple mattress. His eyes drift over to see John staring back at him with a sad smile on his face.
“How are you feeling?”
The question is obvious and ridiculous.
He hears John chuckle and realizes he must have made his thoughts clear. Probably rolled his eyes, that sounds like something he would do.
The last thing he remembers is panicking in the hospital. His brow furrows. He’s fairly (98.6%) positive patients in need of sedation don’t get to leave. The whole thing reeks of M. And not the kind M with the bright eyes and thin lips. The tedious M with the stupid smirk and presumptuous umbrella.
He rolls away from John with an annoyed sigh.
“Yes, we can thank Mycroft for your homecoming.”
He can almost hear the bemused smile in John’s voice. It does nothing to sway his mood.
He keeps firmly still. He doesn’t want to betray the fact he’s rolling the name around in his head. He’s heard it before. Recently. Tried planting it in his brain a week ago. Clearly he was unsuccessful. The variations make it difficult to stick. The high vowel with a rounded middle and hissing end. It can morph. Change shape to slip through a sieve. Mycroft. How detestable.
It’s nothing like John. Firm and consistent. Genuine.
*
He’s been standing at the doorway for just under twelve minutes when John approaches with a tray full of food.
“Sherlock! You shouldn’t be out of bed.”
John’s right. The thought tastes bitter in his mouth, but he’s right. His legs are straining with effort.
“What do you need?” John asks as he places the tray on the floor.
He glances directly at the loo down the hall and looks back at John, hoping the message is clear.
A slight blush rises to John’s cheeks. It’s enough to make Sherlock roll his eyes. “Oh, right. Okay, let’s go.”
He shakes his head, shifting away from the wool-clad arm moving towards him. The hand immediately disappears.
“Okay. Okay. We can take it slow.”
He shakes his head again. Slow is agony and typically a lesson in futility. Slow is for dismal masses. Unacceptable.
“Okay…”
He watches as John sighs and runs his hand through his hair.
“What do you suppose we do?”
His gaze hardens. If he knew that, then he wouldn’t be standing in the bloody doorway. Jesus Chirst, John, think for a moment. Frowning he goes through the possibilities.
Knocked unconscious…unlikely. And it would probably end with him wetting himself.
Drugged…just as unlikely.
Carried…never. Would rather wet himself.
Bed pan…no. Just no.
Catheter…see bed pan.
He takes a deep breath before slowly lifting his arm. He pauses a moment (1.2 seconds) before reaching past the doorway. Locking eyes with John, he waits. One…two… It will happen. They always kept their promises. No, no that’s not true. He’s out now. He’s out.
A persistent thought invades his mind in the same lilting voice that makes him cringe (and scream and beg). Maybe it needs to be more than an arm.
It was never clarified what constituted as leaving. It seems like an erroneous error on their (his) part.
His thoughts are interrupted with the suddenly feeling of a hand in around his. The warmth is unwelcome and its intention is terrifying. He quickly snatches his hand back into the safety of his room.
“Sherlock. If I knew what the problem was, I might be able to help.”
He nods, even though he has no idea how to provide that.
It’s simple. He must decide. Who does he trust more? John or size nine. A familiar (annoying) M invades his mind, but this one is twisted an ugly. Unhinged. He pushes it aside. There are too many M’s when all he wants is John.
Once again, he raises his arm. Closing his eyes, he nods for John to take it. He ignores the slight pressure on his wrist and begins to recite the periodic table in his head. By the time he reaches argon, he has wool beneath his fingertips and the warmth of tea infiltrating his thoughts.
He opens his eyes to see John’s face close to his. He doesn’t need to look to know the doorway is a meter behind him. He clenches the wool of John’s sweater and smiles.
The Lockless Door (2b/?)
“How are you feeling?”
The question is obvious and ridiculous.
He hears John chuckle and realizes he must have made his thoughts clear. Probably rolled his eyes, that sounds like something he would do.
The last thing he remembers is panicking in the hospital. His brow furrows. He’s fairly (98.6%) positive patients in need of sedation don’t get to leave. The whole thing reeks of M. And not the kind M with the bright eyes and thin lips. The tedious M with the stupid smirk and presumptuous umbrella.
He rolls away from John with an annoyed sigh.
“Yes, we can thank Mycroft for your homecoming.”
He can almost hear the bemused smile in John’s voice. It does nothing to sway his mood.
He keeps firmly still. He doesn’t want to betray the fact he’s rolling the name around in his head. He’s heard it before. Recently. Tried planting it in his brain a week ago. Clearly he was unsuccessful. The variations make it difficult to stick. The high vowel with a rounded middle and hissing end. It can morph. Change shape to slip through a sieve. Mycroft. How detestable.
It’s nothing like John. Firm and consistent. Genuine.
*
He’s been standing at the doorway for just under twelve minutes when John approaches with a tray full of food.
“Sherlock! You shouldn’t be out of bed.”
John’s right. The thought tastes bitter in his mouth, but he’s right. His legs are straining with effort.
“What do you need?” John asks as he places the tray on the floor.
He glances directly at the loo down the hall and looks back at John, hoping the message is clear.
A slight blush rises to John’s cheeks. It’s enough to make Sherlock roll his eyes. “Oh, right. Okay, let’s go.”
He shakes his head, shifting away from the wool-clad arm moving towards him. The hand immediately disappears.
“Okay. Okay. We can take it slow.”
He shakes his head again. Slow is agony and typically a lesson in futility. Slow is for dismal masses. Unacceptable.
“Okay…”
He watches as John sighs and runs his hand through his hair.
“What do you suppose we do?”
His gaze hardens. If he knew that, then he wouldn’t be standing in the bloody doorway. Jesus Chirst, John, think for a moment. Frowning he goes through the possibilities.
Knocked unconscious…unlikely. And it would probably end with him wetting himself.
Drugged…just as unlikely.
Carried…never. Would rather wet himself.
Bed pan…no. Just no.
Catheter…see bed pan.
He takes a deep breath before slowly lifting his arm. He pauses a moment (1.2 seconds) before reaching past the doorway. Locking eyes with John, he waits. One…two… It will happen. They always kept their promises. No, no that’s not true. He’s out now. He’s out.
A persistent thought invades his mind in the same lilting voice that makes him cringe (and scream and beg). Maybe it needs to be more than an arm.
It was never clarified what constituted as leaving. It seems like an erroneous error on their (his) part.
His thoughts are interrupted with the suddenly feeling of a hand in around his. The warmth is unwelcome and its intention is terrifying. He quickly snatches his hand back into the safety of his room.
“Sherlock. If I knew what the problem was, I might be able to help.”
He nods, even though he has no idea how to provide that.
It’s simple. He must decide. Who does he trust more? John or size nine. A familiar (annoying) M invades his mind, but this one is twisted an ugly. Unhinged. He pushes it aside. There are too many M’s when all he wants is John.
Once again, he raises his arm. Closing his eyes, he nods for John to take it. He ignores the slight pressure on his wrist and begins to recite the periodic table in his head. By the time he reaches argon, he has wool beneath his fingertips and the warmth of tea infiltrating his thoughts.
He opens his eyes to see John’s face close to his. He doesn’t need to look to know the doorway is a meter behind him. He clenches the wool of John’s sweater and smiles.
“That’s it?”
All he can do is nod.
John’s smile in return is brilliant.