Pantomime
part elevenJohn sat in the cab with his arm around his best friend, holding him to his side as the dead weight of the man rested exactly as he bade him. The smell of smoke had permeated everything on their persons and the fog of it still clung to his eyes. John held his hand, finger against Sherlock's wrist, monitoring his pulse, and titled his friend's head to his shoulder, letting the unconscious man's breath fall against his neck. There was a bit of drool but it didn't bother John. He counted his pulse in even intervals, keeping track of the breaths in the tempo. He caught the cabby looking back at them and offered him a small, wincing smile. No questions were asked. John doubted any needed to be. For once he didn't mind.
He was proud that he managed to keep the panic from his face. He'd had a gun pointed at it not long before but the sweat from that encounter had dried. His thoughts were focused on the man beside him who still had not regained consciousness and who could not be taken to a hospital with a criminal syndicate now aware of his return. John tapped his foot on the cab floor, willing it to go faster. He considered calling Mycroft but thought better of it immediately. He wasn't interested in hearing how Sherlock had gotten hurt because of John or how this surely proved that they could not handle the dangers involved in Sherlock's return. They would and they could because they had to. The sooner John got Sherlock in bed and could properly examine him the better.
Carrying Sherlock was as hard as it was easy. His weight was hardly the problem, though for a thin man he was still heavy enough to be inconvenient. It was the length of him, trying to sort out the arms and whether to go for the fireman, drunk pull, army shrug or honeymoon carry that was the troubling part. John settled for the fireman as he dragged him from the cab and made it the short distance to the door with his hands holding firm to his thighs. He was glad to have prepared the key before leaving the cab for their stoop. He opened the door quickly and quietly, closing it much the same. Mrs. Hudson was tucked away in her own room, necessitating quiet as John creeped up the stairs under the weight of his burden. Sherlock's arms bounced against his backside as he shuffled with the wall to counter up the two flights to their home. A groan, a moan, some evidence of stirring would have made him feel much better than the absolute quiet from his possibly concussed friend. It made him worry as his own heart drummed hard against the warmth of his legs. He took the corners carefully so as not to swing Sherlock's head or hands into walls as he finally found the sanctuary of the bedroom.
John dropped him on the bed with as much care as he could manage, kneeling there himself as he tipped forward, trying to catch Sherlock's head as he rolled him from his shoulder onto the made mattress. He released him gently, watching as his head rolled to the side, eyes closed to the world as his chest bowed with each breath. John checked his pulse one last time, finding it still to be even and strong, then left him for a moment to grab a medical kit and assorted supplies, carrying it all back to the room. He locked the door once inside. This required no audience.
John sat on the bed, detaching himself as best he could before moving forward with his exam. He checked the cut on his head first, examining the severity of it and finding it to be mostly superficial; not a stitch required and well scabbed. The quick clean up job he'd done on the street corner with spit and fingers had done a fine job of erasing most evidence that there had ever been an injury save for the clumps of hair stuck with blood. Cosmetic, unimportant, John remained happy with the cut and continued. He pulled open his eyelids, watching the jerking motions of his iris as his eyes darted sightlessly; REM, normal. He patted him on the cheeks, trying not to jostle him too much.
"Sherlock? Wake up, okay? For me. I need you to wake up."
Sherlock stayed still and silent. John bit his bottom lip, looking for his friend's hand to grab his wrist and pull it towards him. He held on to Sherlock's index finger and dug the fingernail of his own thumb into the nail bed. Sherlock did not flinch.
John cursed and let his hand fall. He gently pulled him to sit, removing from him his coat which John tossed to the opposite corner of the bed. He returned him to the mattress to deal with the shirt, occupying himself now with the buttons as he undid them one by one, tugging the cloth up from under Sherlock's trousers and belt to pull it open and fully expose his chest and abdomen. No abnormal discolorations. The skin was smooth and pale, incapable of hiding injury. Each contour of shadow defined his naked ribs, accentuating the dip from his diaphragm to the hollow of his belly. John winced, detachment failing, as he let his fingertips trail over the exposed skin, not trusting the light to tell him what touch could prove. Far too thin, unhealthy, possible signs of Axis II comorbidity with anorexia nervosa. Not his current concern; John made himself ignore the unrelated symptoms as he pressed the cold flat of his stethoscope to his chest and listened for a healthy heart beat. Fine, all fine, no arrhythmia present were it there before. He let the tool hang from his neck as he pushed the shirt off Sherlock's shoulders and pulled it down and off his arms to expose his back.
Before John could even turn him on his side to listen to his lungs, his eyes had found a new place to linger, a new distraction to catch his breath. The inside elbow of his left arm was pricked in track marks. John knew the scars, had seen them before, had engaged in long conversations about recreational drug use and the dangers to his friend's body and mind. He knew the scars very well, their color and pattern, from casual glances and meaningful stares he'd graced them with as both a reminder of the man's imperfection and warning of the limitless destructive power of his boredom. These were not all old scars. A relapse. He ran his fingers against the thin skin, feeling the pits and bumps. Not exactly recent but clearly not a lost habit. John squeezed his arm tight, hoping he could feel the pain and would open his eyes on his own.
"You... damn fool. The hell am I-" John stopped himself, his insides freezing over.
No, not him. Not this time.
Someone else.
Everything felt much more mechanical with that final realization. He rolled Sherlock over, lungs sounding fine, and repositioned him on his back. It was the last of what he could think to do. He put the stethoscope down on the bed, no other tools or tests prepared for an unconscious man. It was his limit. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number he'd only saved so he knew which calls to ignore. His hands were shaking--why were they shaking?--as he held the phone to his ear.
It didn't ring for long despite the hour. "John?"
"Mycroft." John heard a weakness in his voice he despised. He didn't want to sound choked. "I need you to come get Sherlock."
"What's happened?"
John sat on the bed, one knee up which he rested his body against, head heavy and hanging. "Can't trust a hospital right now but he's a 3 on the GSE. His vitals are fine, though. He went from standing still to laying on the floor and hitting his head so I'm thinking this is drug induced but I'm not sure what they gave him. Probably concussed but I can't wake him up. Someone needs to keep an eye on him." John took a deep breath, hating the way it trembled against his tongue. "I...I have to go to work in the morning. I can't stay up all night and I can't... I can't be here tomorrow to make sure he wakes up and eats and doesn't hurt himself. He needs someone. He's a damn idiot and he needs someone and I just... can't."
The other line was silent for longer than was comfortable. So many times in the past Mycroft's answer had been for John to simply throw everything else away and devote himself to Sherlock; nothing was more important than his brother and he could make John accept that it was true for his best friend. He didn't want to fight that now, whether or not he had to.
"I'll be right there." The line went dead.
John put his phone down like a lead ingot heavy in his hand. He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling, loving the pain that made the tears in his eyes mean something else entirely. He breathed in deep, forcing a mirthless chuckle as he shook his head. "You... damn fool." It didn't matter that Sherlock couldn't hear him. This wasn't about him. "This isn't even primary-- Everyone knows they have to eat and sleep, Sherlock. Everyone. It's hardwired; how the hell do you just delete that?! You're not only hurting yourself you... fucking... prick, you... bastard, you really have no concept of what it's like watching you destroy your own brilliance. You are going to kill yourself, you are going to fucking kill yourself."
He turned his head, looking at his unobservant audience who's mind was so resplendent all tucked away in the shadows of mental illness. Not a sociopath, never a psychopath, almost certain autistic, possible NPD; a psychoanalyst's dream to profile and dissect but never understand. Flawed, human and often trying his best to not be everything that's wrong with him. John looked away, falling on his back beside him with his eyes fixed solely on the ceiling.
"This isn't my fault. I told you it couldn't be like before. I told you I have obligations. It's not my fault you can't eat so much as a slice of bacon unless I force it on you. It's not my fault you can't just shut down and sleep. I want you back, I want you back so much but this... Fuck, Sherlock. Fuck. I can't. I'm not giving up but I have to draw a line and I can't handle this. Not anymore." He felt Sherlock's hand resting motionless on the bed beside his and slid his own against it, palm to palm, his fingers and thumb clasping around the limp, warm hand. He bent his elbow, bringing both hands to his chest. He squeezed hard. "It's not my fault, Sherlock. But I'm so sorry." His voice caught. He squeezed his eyes tight. He was not going to cry, he wasn't; he didn't do that sort of thing anymore.
He brought the hand to his lips and kissed it, feeling grateful no one had seen him with no reason available for why he did it. "I am so, so sorry." He left the warm hand to rest against his lips, his breath rushing from his nose over his knuckles. Everything about his hand was the story of Sherlock from his callouses to his smell to his pulse to his warmth. Holding his hand to his lips was like seeing him with his eyes closed. He didn't say another word. He had already said and was still in his own way saying everything he needed to.
Mycroft had his own key to the flat having rented the room upstairs. His knock on the bedroom door was expected but still jarring as John bolted up, hand forgotten, and rose to let him in.
Mycroft didn't bother with smiles or other needless pleasantries. He entered and looked down at Sherlock, somewhat repulsed but generally despondent. "I'm sorry for my brother's... well. For my brother." He took a seat on the bed and very gently began redressing him, pulling the shirt back in its proper order as he carefully lined the buttons up once more.
John swallowed, leaning against the door. "I'm thinking it may have been Flunitrazepam. Easy enough to come by; would explain any dizziness or sudden loss of consciousness which would have precluded the head wound. Would mean his continued state was drug induced and unrelated to the concussion so... It's the most plausible. If you can find a hospital that's safe for him I'd recommend it. Otherwise it should be out of his system tomorrow evening."
"What happened, John?" Mycroft didn't look at him as he addressed him. He was still occupied with the buttons.
John breathed in deep, his mind stuck on autopilot for so long that he'd nearly forgotten how they'd come to be back at their flat. "We went looking for Sebastian Moran at a card hall. Some assassin pulled Sherlock aside and that's when it happened. I went over, he lead me out at gun point, I managed to shoot him instead and we got away." John rubbed his face, feeling old. "Someone saw, though. Saw Sherlock. Moran's going to know he's back and Sherlock said you'd be there to help when the time came so please. Help us."
Mycroft nodded slowly, the last of the buttons fastened as he stood up, hands in his pockets. "I can assure you, John, that the only danger you are in is from Sherlock himself. You have no reason to fear Moran otherwise. You will be perfectly safe tomorrow and every day after so long as Sherlock is away. I promise you and swear it to you."
"This isn't- I'm not- I mean, he can come back. I just-"
"I know." Mycroft sighed, looking down at the bed with hardly a hint of sympathy. "However, I advise you to reconsider."
John worried his bottom lip, brow pinched and eyes searching. "Why? What is so bloody awful about him being back? Why do you keep saying that?"
There was another long minute's hesitation. In his suit, with all his stature, Mycroft seemed otherworldly in the ordinary bedroom in Everyone Elseville. He smiled, knowing and hateful, and shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not at liberty to say."
"Mycroft!"
"Sherlock has sworn me to secrecy."
John didn't bother hiding his confusion, not from a Holmes. He looked back to the bed, his patient unchanged. "What are you talking about?"
Mycroft shrugged again, bending down at last to scoop Sherlock up into his arms, his head falling against his shoulder while Mycroft's arms supported his knees and shoulders. "Evening tomorrow he'll be awake, was it? Call tomorrow. I think it's about time Sherlock explains this little game of his."
Mycroft's words made John shiver, suddenly cold from the tips of his toes to his fingertips. "What game?" he asked, knowing there would be no answer but sickened by his choice of words.
"Tomorrow, John." Mycroft walked past him, tender of step as he made his way carefully back out into the night with his life-long burden curled against his chest.
John stood back and watched, not sure what to think or feel anymore. The only thing that seemed certain was that he was certainly not going to be getting much rest.