Nocturne in Tempo Rubato
part two
The onyx stone in his palm was cold and sharp, baring the broken engravings of a partial S and H from the ruins of the well trod grave site. There was no body there as the world now knew, nothing sacred to desecrate. The unlikely Christ figure had risen again and as proof now the stone that marked his grave was cracked, all the pretenses of death abandoned with a heavy heave of something blunt and unyielding. It wasn't someone's idea of a tasteful homage or beautiful metaphor for the return of something wonderful, though. It was vandalism. Hate and misunderstanding had turned the polished black cenotaph into large chunks of rubble left crumbled on the lawn. John wondered vaguely if anyone had seen the person responsible. He wondered if anyone who had seen had thought the act unjustified or if they had looked on with a proud, understanding nod. At Mary's grave John laid a small handful of flowers amongst the large crowds of standing arrangements, wreaths and bouquets. At Sherlock's he took a piece of stone that had once borne his name. The cab ride was quiet and long.
Seated in his chair, John's thumb traced the broken engraving--the first two letters in his name, his initials, a command for silence, all of them acceptable meanings. It would look nice along the mantelpiece next to the ashtray from Buckingham Palace; another souvenir. There was so much stuff. Mrs. Hudson had been a saint for all her help in picking up the throws and pillows and extra things that Mary had stored in his home. It was much easier to put her in a box and store her away than it had even been for Sherlock's things. Mary was only human, whereas Sherlock was a force of nature. John could interact with and touch the things that Mary had left; what Sherlock had left had touched him. John felt he liked the way the flat looked without the more feminine touches. It didn't hurt to see the couch bear or the chair that had always belonged to his best friend. His flat in all its mismatched, unbalanced, eclectic furnishings were part of what John knew as home and he hadn't been satisfied until he could walk through the room with his eyes closed and feel the spaces where Sherlock would inhabit like movable objects. He hated in some ways how the man's presence was still something instinctive rather than remembered. Sherlock had gotten deep under his skin. With a sigh of half defeat, thumb resting in the curve of the engraved S, John had to admit he'd more than let him do so. He felt as much whole as he did empty.
The fire was nice. Mrs. Hudson was home, then. Not their housekeeper but always making sure they were well taken care of. There had been dusting done and though he hadn't checked John was half certain there would be food stocked in their fridge beyond which he had bought himself. He wanted to believe it was simply special preparation for Sherlock's homecoming. It sounded much better than round two of taking care of a wounded soldier. She needn't worry. He was fine. Mary had been working for Moriarty, she was aligned with the man who had threatened John's life twice and taken from him three years of happiness. She'd met him because of some order handed down from which all else was based on. Everything they had was built on a foundation of lies. No, he was okay. No tears at the grave, no long speech towards goodbye. Life went on, as it always did, as it was wont to do.
John looked at the clock, sighing restlessly at the hands which spread out in semaphore. Still hours till dinner and a listless companion. He'd need to think of something to help take Sherlock's mind off boredom and discomfort; a game, a book of puzzles, maybe give him a go with Guess Who. Sherlock would eat and sleep and obey so long as there was little else to do. Lestrade was already eager to consult the detective, however. John could see it in his chin the way it dimpled in thought as he pulled in his bottom lip. There was no doubt Sherlock was up to it but his body needed so much more of the peaceful times of sloth and gluttony. Half a carton of curry was hardly gluttonous for anyone other than Sherlock but it made such a difference when healing to be rested and fed. Not that Sherlock would care beyond the scope of how his transport got his mind to where it needed to go. There was a whole conversation left to be had in that. John switched off to something else, standing with the stone in his hand, destined for the mantle, to try and save such thoughts for a different day.
He stood at the mantle and placed the broken engraving on top of a book, facing the lettering out. It fell at an odd height compared to the skull which John lifted to place on top of a disused copy of Moby Dick. He almost missed the little black box that waited underneath as he shifted things with both hands full; a small, square, black, hinged jewelry box. His eyes tripped and fell over it, his breath suddenly caught in his chest with his heart in his throat. He put the book down and hesitantly wrapped his trembling fingers around the soft, fuzzy case. The sob surprised him and sent the skull skittering to the floor as his hand fell hard over his own lips. He felt ill. His stomach was cold and sour making the taste of his own tears almost sweet in comparison. He breathed deep, the breath shuddering over his tongue as it failed to swallow. No rational thought could stop the sudden sweep of feeling. She had been working for Moriarty's men from the very beginning and he had loved her. And she had loved him.
His legs felt weak. John leaned heavy against the mantle, biting hard at his hand to stall the embarrassingly raw, tortured whimpers that ripped through him. He was shaking, face to the books and carved wood warmed by the fire with a white knuckle grip digging in to his palms. It hurt. It hurt and no amount of medication was going to settle the pain while it healed. No food or rest would cure it. It was a life changing disease transmitted from person to person by the heart and twice now he had been stricken with it, as close to vomiting as he was to screaming. He could feel the stinging rake of bile in his throat as his whole body convulsed in keening. He wasn't sure he could move. He'd just clean it up if he couldn't settle himself. The way his breath continued to hitch and buckle against his throat and the pitch of his nearly contained wailing made it seem quite likely. His body wouldn't listen, his entire self suddenly just transport for everything in him that was broken and drowning in the tears he hadn't shed.
He'd rather a hundred gunshot wounds to another moment in mourning.
So engrossed in his own convulsions and bawl was he that he did not hear the creak on the steps. It was far too late to wrangle his grief into something less naked when soft footsteps crossed through the open door into the room. "Oh, John...," Mrs. Hudson sighed, not the first time she'd found him doubled over in bereavement but that fact neither proud nor comforting.
John pressed his palms to his eyes, the heels of his hands forced to push back everything that was spilling over. "I'm okay; it's fine. Just..." he forced a smile, the expression lacking in all but pain. He held out the ring box now spotted in tears. "You want a ring? I don't think it's my size."
Mrs. Hudson frowned, giving the back of John's chair a pat. "Have a seat, dear. I'll make you a nice hot cup of tea." She didn't wait for him to sit but went straight into the kitchen to set the kettle on. John was thankful. He wasn't sure how sturdy he could walk with all his feeling trapped in his head. His feet felt numb and brick-like at the end of thick, stalk legs like rubber bands. He tumbled as much as walked his way back to his chair, flopping into it bonelessly with his treasure clutched in his hand.
Just like old times.
So very tired of misery.
John stared at the ceiling, concentrating on air. He was going to make himself sick if he didn't calm down and breathe. It was hard to be rational and intelligent when everything else said 'fuck it'. This was why he hated crying. Laughter was really the only expression of emotion he didn't mind taking over and failing to stop.
"Bless. Running around with those reporters around, watching over Sherlock, dashing here and there. No wonder you're in this state. Looking after everything without a soul to look after you."
"Please," John squeaked, ashamed of the sound. He left it that for a moment. Mrs. Hudson understood well enough. He gave himself the space of several more even breaths before speaking again. "Look, I'll... I'll go see my therapist if it gets too much but I'm fi-.. I'm fine," he assured her.
Mrs. Hudson looked over, smiling gently with years of experience behind her eyes. "I know you are, dear. We all are."
It was never as comforting as people thought it was to know other people could feel this way.
John slowly felt his pulse fall even with his breath, his clammy skin no longer pulled to tight across his face. His head hurt from the pressure. His skin felt raw along his cheeks.
"How was Sherlock today?" she asked from the kitchen, the clink of cups punctuating her call.
"He's fine. Bored. Going to be a lot of trouble for them until he's finally discharged. Can't even dope him into complacency." John welcomed the change in conversation. He and Mrs. Hudson were old hats at working around each other's blues. She liked to be comforted; John liked to be left alone. "Not going to help his public image to have him lashing out at the medical staff. Not sure what else to do for him, though."
Mrs. Hudson walked in with a cup and saucer, passing them off into John's somewhat still shaky hands. He nodded to her, a small word of thanks shared as he brought it close to him.
"Why don't you stay here tonight. Get some rest. Sherlock will be fine without the company this once."
John somehow doubted that. He sipped his tea, warmed by it where crying had left him cold. "It's not an imposition. I like seeing him."
"I'm sure you do, dear." Mrs. Hudson took a seat in Sherlock's chair, her own cup now in hand. The ruffles of her burgundy blouse fluttered as she shifted to get comfortable around her hip. She winced just slightly. "Look at you, though. You haven't had a moment's rest. And that's even with having taken time off from work and all."
John pursed his lips, clearing his throat as he looked down at his tea. "Not.. time off. Just... off."
"Oh, John. Really? Oh, but things were going so well!"
"Yeah. Well... doctor on staff caught up in a murder investigation and appearing on the front page of half the local newspapers and even some of the national... Just say they felt it wasn't in the surgery's best interest to be associated with me right now." John tried to hide the bitterness in his voice. He'd never lied, never said he was anyone but himself. Suddenly, though, he was that John Watson. Years of ass kissing and networking destroyed by one revelation. He hated to admit Mycroft had been right. No hint of exaggeration, John had lost everything the night he got inside that car--everything but what he already had lost, now returned.
And part of him was not just happy to be back to the way things had been but joyful. The same heart that mourned one life was exuberant with the return of another. It hurt his head to be conflicted. Everything hurt.
"I am sorry about the job. They don't know what they're losing. Don't you worry about the rent for now. Mycroft's already offered to pay the full amount until Sherlock is back in stride."
He shook his head. "No, I'll find a job."
"You have a job. You're Sherlock's assistant." Mrs. Hudson's raised pinky waved slightly with her smile, as though connected by a thin wire. "And there's the blog. And you being his primary physician. How much more can one man do?"
John wasn't sure if she was trying to make him feel better or simply placating him. Somehow her words sounded uncannily like many doors slamming shut.
-+-
John's mobile chirped from his nightstand beside an alarm clock proudly boasting 3:17 A.M.. He glared at the dull lights in their almost random patterns, his eyes unadjusted to even their dim reading. Very few good things happened before eight in the morning, lesser and lesser good the further back towards midnight one went. His mind went to Harry first and whether or not he could get bail money second. With drunk-like efficiency he fumbled for his phone, turning it over to check his new message.
Get on. -SH
He groaned, holding the phone to his face as though it could transmit his desire for sleep and bloody revenge. Three in the morning--three in the morning!--and Sherlock was already making demands. It was either the perfect ending to an already stress-filled day or the early reprisal of another. He rather liked to imagine the closer quarters equivalent of Sherlock standing outside his door, beating on it furiously, if only because it gave him the opportunity to imagine himself throwing the door open with a pillow ready to smash into the inconsiderate ass's face. Maybe something harder than a pillow. Maybe a fist. In both the real and imagined scenario, he was going to end up complying anyway.
John sat up, feeling tired and nearly sick to his stomach. He dragged himself out of bed and back out to the living room, pulling the laptop off its table perch without the sense to care as he yanked the cord out of the wall and dragged it back towards his room. He fumbled with the outlet as the laptop booted, muttering to himself for motivation. So tired. The mobile chirped again but John ignored it, knowing instinctively that it foretold of little more than his friend's impatience. He pulled up the application and logged in, seeing all sensible people were no longer connected and longing to me among them. Instantly he received Sherlock's request and accepted it and with little further delay the screen grew large and full of the darkened hospital room and Sherlock's disheveled form in bored repose.
He didn't have to be a doctor to see that something was wrong. Sherlock's curls were sticking to his forehead on the damp of his sweat, his eyes narrow, the skin between them pinched across the bridge of his nose. He looked ashen and cold despite the sweat, though John told himself it was from the light cast by the screen of his laptop in the darkness and not his true pallor.
Sherlock smiled just slightly at seeing John's face and fell back against his pillow. "Good Morning, John."
"It's not morning till the sun comes up," John corrected, setting the laptop down on the bed so he could rest against his pillow as well. "You do know what time it is, yes?"
"To the second, I can assure you." He licked his lips, eyes glossy. He looked off to left--his right--towards an out-of-frame something that held his rapt attention. "John, I need the override code for the morphine. I'd figure it out myself but my mind can't focus right now."
John shook his head, effectively nuzzling his pillow. "You know I can't give you that. I should know better not to mess with it where you can see me, even. Try thinking about something else."
"Can't. I can't even sleep. I'm bored out of my mind and all I can think about is how much this hurts."
"Call a nurse, then. Don't call me; I can't do anything."
"I have been. At decreasing intervals since you left this evening. I'm down to hitting the call button every two and a half minutes. I'm beginning to think they've disconnected it." Sherlock punctuated this with a stab at the call button which, after a few minutes' pause, resulted in nothing. He gave the camera on his laptop a deadpan look of discontent as his temples pulsed from a set jaw.
Regardless of his behavior, John didn't like to see any patient ignored. At three in the morning, he could think of very few reasons why there wasn't at least one attendant able to pop in and see what was the matter. John pulled his phone towards him and called the hospital's main line, being transferred to Sherlock's floor by a nice young woman with a slight stutter. The answer was almost immediate. So much for excuses. "Hello, yes, this is Dr. John Watson, I was in there this evening to see a patient you have there: Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He's called me because no one at the nurse's station is answering his call button. He's in a lot of pain and I think someone should go in and give him a bit more for the night." John kept his eyes on Sherlock, watching the hopeful twitches of his eyes as he stared with inhuman interest at the one-sided call going on between several miles away and just a few feet out his door.
The woman on the other end sounded tired with little effort put forward to mask her exasperation. There was a hesitation of button taps at a keyboard. "Sorry, I have here that his doctor is a Dr. Kimberly. Who did you say you were?"
"I'm his friend." John gave Sherlock the benefit of a slight roll to his eyes, a gesture meant to convey the tedium of the process. "Look, I know his brother's put in some stipulations about addiction prevention but you know how it goes. He's a little drug resistant so what you probably think is enough isn't really doing enough good for him."
"Sorry, only his doctor and close family can make patient decision."
"Well I'm closer to him than his family and I know him better than I know medicine and that's saying something because I'm a damn good doctor." Not that he expected her to be impressed. John propped his head up off the pillow onto his fist, unable to sound stern and important enough with his cheek cushioned on faux down and cotton. "He's drug resistant and the levels you have him at aren't cutting it. This is the third time today he's complained to me. Can you please just put in me contact with someone who can make a decision here; his doctor preferably."
Another static hesitation. "Sorry, we can't give that information out."
John pinched at the bridge of his nose, not wanting to look at the screen though he could imagine his friend's expression as he deduced the type of news he was hearing. "So he's supposed to just deal with it until tomorrow morning when I go in there? No one is going to give him anything?"
He heard the bang twice--once through the computer and almost simultaneously through the phone. He opened his eyes in time to see the follow through of Sherlock's throw though he could only guess what it had been which had made the unlucky trip across the room. His face highlighted the additional discomfort the motion had caused.
"Jesus," the nurse half whispered in surprise. "Yes, I'm afraid so. I'm sorry, I have to attend to something."
"Hold on, I've got it. Sherlock," John tipped the phone from his lips, giving his friend an unamused look and raised eyebrow frown. "Don't throw things at the door. You've already pissed off just about everyone there and it's not going to help things." Sherlock's petulant stare failed to put him in his place. John gave him one last warning look before setting his mobile once again close to his face. "Right, sorry. Look, can you please jot down that I want to see his doctor first thing in the morning or ask him to call me? I'm listed in his file as an emergency contact. I'll do what I can to keep his mind off it for tonight."
"Are you- How are-," she seemed confused at his earlier admonishments but not enough so ask. "Okay," she said with a long suffering sigh. "I'll let Dr. Kimberly know your concerns. If you could just have him lay off the call button unless it's an emergency?"
"If that means you'll stop ignoring it, yes. Deal."
"We're not..," she faltered for a moment then settled again for a sigh. "We'll see you in the morning, Dr. Watson."
"Yes, you will. Thank you." While hardly the response he wanted, it was better than nothing. John hung up and stretched over the laptop to put the phone back on the nightstand. His friend's angry face was turned away from the camera, looking off towards the morphine drip with the fixed attention of a cat. It was of some small consolation to not have to break the news so much as reiterate it. "Okay, Sherlock. No more call button and sorry but no morphine until I get in tomorrow."
"You know the code, John. If you told me I could fix it myself."
"I can't give you the override, Sherlock."
"Hell, you're just as bad as he is! I'm not an addict!" His voice cracked just slightly, making the angry outburst far less intimidating. His arms rose up over his head, a wall of triceps and armpits blocking out his face as he awkwardly hugged his own head.
John swallowed, fighting the impulsiveness that said to trust him. With his life, he trusted him implicitly. With this... No. "Mycroft's gotten me permission to visit anytime between nine and nine and I promise you I'll be standing at the kiosk at 8:30 in the morning waiting to get this all sorted."
"And what about now?"
"Now, ideally, you go to sleep."
"I can't sleep, John."
"Just stop fixating on it. Think about something else."
"I can't. Don't you think I've been trying?" There was pain even in his voice and John had to purse his lips hard, teeth stamping them together, to keep his heart from blurting out what his head knew to keep secret. Sherlock was a master manipulator with the ability to cry on command. John didn't doubt his sincerity but entertaining the idea of crocodile tears helped keep him cool and steady. Sherlock pulled at his hair, breath suddenly shallow as tangible anxiety wound around him. "God, it's all I can think about! Everything in my head keeps screaming to do something about it and I can't because it's like white-noise running through my mind as a constant distraction from anything that actually matters!"
John nodded slowly, readjusting the laptop on the bed as his fingers slid across the touch pad. "I'll do a share screen and we can watch a movie together, how about that?"
"How about you break into this hospital and give me some morphine. Or, easier still, tell me the override!" He dropped his arms finally, face redder than before and eyes practically brimming with the moisture of tears. It hurt but it wasn't hurting him. It was an important distinction to John as he took two deep breaths, unwilling to look away from Sherlock's nearly honest eyes. Sherlock would be fine. John had been there, exactly where he was only thousands of miles away. Unhappy times, those, but nothing more than an inconvenient memory.
"If you're going to act like a child, I'm going to sing you to sleep like one and none of us want that," he teased, trying to bring him around.
Sherlock scoffed, eyes rolling, a better sign but still halfway up the grumpy tree. "No, please, go right ahead. Maybe I'll laugh myself into a coma."
"Sherlock, it's late. Early. It's three in the morning. I want to help but there is only so much I can do."
Sherlock rolled his head back, neck stretched as he looked towards the ceiling. He still hadn't rage quit their conversation, allowing the program to continue to stream his miserable performance across to the flat they both had shared, but his hope was dying and John was certain he'd share his despair in much the same candor. John wasn't sure he needed to remind him of why things were the way they were or that it was just as hard for John to deny him as it was for Sherlock to be refused by him. It wasn't often he had to put his foot down. Generally Sherlock, in his own strange way, seemed to know best. But not this time.
He wasn't exactly sure what prompted it. The quiet had stretched out too long, perhaps. He had watched Sherlock swallow, seen him hide his upturned face behind his hands, heard his breath shake through his nose as he watched his chest expand with every hitched inhale. One moment it was quiet, the next his lips were moving, his voice uncertain and rather hushed but no longer carrying across words of sympathy but lyrics. He hadn't picked any one song for any particular reason. "In My Life" by the Beatles just sort of popped into his head and motivated his mouth to move with the calming melody of ageless pop.
Sherlock stilled, his breath quieter or maybe even held as he caught on to the sound through his laptop speakers. After a moment, not but a few lines into the first verse, his lips spread into a smile with a hushed chuckle parting them. He turned his face back to the screen, an almost embarrassed expression of amusement lighting it with cheer. "Are you actually doing this?"
"You laughed at me. I had to defend my honor. I can carry a tune."
"Noted." Sherlock rolled his shoulders, sinking deeper into his pillow as he continued to smile, the occasional breathy laugh escaping him as he shook his head, pleasantly surprised by the randomness. "Well, don't stop on my account. Please continue."
John scoffed, rolling over onto his belly in his own bed, adjusting the screen to angle down further to keep Sherlock's face in the right rendering beside him and himself still in line with the camera. "No."
"Please?"
"Are you serious?"
Sherlock shrugged, his hands resting on top of the blankets and folded over his stomach. "It's something to focus on that isn't pain," he said, looking less frustrated already with the slight reset the unpredictable had lent him.
John tapped his fingers against the laptop's flat surface where one's wrists floated. "I can pull us up some music," he offered.
"No. I... like that it's you."
John rolled his face into his pillow, trying not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the request though the feeling was much closer to awkward than embarrassment. He gave Sherlock an incredulous smirk, finding his earnest return just as bewildering. "I expect you to close your eyes and try to sleep if you're seriously requesting a lullaby."
To his surprise, Sherlock closed his eyes as prompted, blankets already pulled up to his chest. He sighed as he found his final posture, a signal he was ready for the song to resume.
"I can't believe...," John didn't bother. It was Sherlock--everything fell into that category. "Right. Well, you're stuck with Beatles songs but I'll resist the temptation to throw in a 'Hard Day's Night'."
Sherlock chuckled, eyes still closed as the short laugh left a smile on his face. "Thank you, John. I'll see you in the morning."
"Yeah, you will." John cleared his throat, trying to think of it all as just another joke, another side gag that they would laugh about later. They would anyway. It still felt incredibly awkward, even with Sherlock's eyes closed. He knew not to wait too long least Sherlock peek and guilt him with his hesitancy. John had only ever really sang love songs to his girlfriends, though. He'd stopped singing in the shower in the military. He only sometimes hummed or whistled. It felt ridiculous to pull up random songs from memory with any expectations to be appreciated for the effort of providing a soothing melody.
But it seemed to help. And tired as he was, it was a simple request at least and one with which he could absolutely give in to without failing him as a friend. And he knew the songs well. He didn't even really have to think about the words as they left him, his own eyes half lidded and weighed down by exhaustion. He continued on automatic, watching Sherlock breath as he searched for unfeeling unconsciousness. "But of all these friends and lovers, there is no one compares with you, and these memories lose their meaning, when I think of love as something new, though I know I'll never lose affection for people and things that went before, I know I'll often stop and think about them. In my life, I...." John hesitated over the line, licking his lips in the pause. "I... forget the rest," he lied.
"Mm. S'fine. Next."
John chuckled, feeling like a worn-out jukebox. He searched his mind for something that wasn't a love song, finding his selection much smaller than he had thought when looking for those which were peaceful and practical for a lullaby. He settled for "Across the Universe", laughing when it was made clear he'd started too high and jumping an octave lower mid chorus. Sherlock's laugh was subdued, his smile more clear on the tilted screen as sleep began to win. John finished with "Hey Jude", continuing on a bit even after he felt sure the other man was asleep. Waking him would have been a crime.
The task-bar warned of four o'clock approaching, the minutes ticking by towards the early dawn. Still plenty of time to sleep before visiting hours. Not that the hospital could keep them from visiting as much as they liked. John let his hand rest on the touch-pad, considering what to do now. Signing off would make a disconnect sound making it a non-option. All things considered, John was fine sleeping next to a computer. He put his mic on mute and picked the laptop up, turning it on its side against the mattress to keep the air vents unrestricted. Sherlock's face was horizontal on the bed at that angle, as though he was there as much in body as in mind. It was strange but not unwanted. John pulled the blanket up under his chin, rolling over to face away from the screen and the sleeping man shown on it.
"G'night, Sherlock," he whispered; mute, sleep and distance making it all the more pointless than each fact alone. He smiled all the same.