Fragile
Written for this prompt on the meme.
Mrs. Nancy Smithers had contacted Sherlock through Mrs. Hudson, an old friend. She had reported a burglary to the police several days ago, but she couldn't interest them in the matter that the burglar seemed to have rifled through her pantry before making off with various valuable items. The old widow kept a very tight house, and she knew something was amiss. This suspicion was confirmed when a series of tests revealed lethal levels of Amatoxin mixed with the baking soda. Sherlock suspected the middle-aged step son, who's father's capitol was tied up until the death of the old woman, and he had instructed Mrs. Smithers to very casually let drop the information that the baking soda, for whatever reason, had been discarded - a spring cleaning, a baking accident, anything. The step-son had recently taken to bi-weekly phone calls, so this was easily arranged. Having analysed the step-son's schedule and habits, Sherlock had deduced Thursday to be the best evening for Mrs. Smithers to spend with a friend, while he and John staked out the house. It was because of this deduction that Sherlock was dialing Scotland Yard with one hand while pressing three edges of a sheet of clingfilm over a sucking chest wound which John had sustained apprehending the intruder. The intruder now lay in a puddle of reeking arterial blood, worked into a froth where Sherlock had nicked the trachea. His dead eyes stared ahead blindly as John gasped the instructions which would save his own life.
An ambulance had arrived and whisked John away. Sherlock stood numbly behind, issued a perfunctory statement, and Lestrade had driven him home. There, he stripped out of his coat, his shirt, his blood-matted blazer, tied everything he'd been wearing into a plastic bag and threw it away. He showered, he dressed, and then decided to check his email. He had two new messages via his website, but they were trivial. He solved both cases within a span of minutes, and sat tapping one finger against the J key. It had a little nib on it which enabled the better versed of typists to find it without looking. There was a stack of documents on the table, notes from old cases. He and John had been sorting leisurely through them because John was interested, and if he had nothing better to do, Sherlock didn't mind narrating. A cup of tea had been weighting them down, and Sherlock idly examined it. It had been left long enough to garner a spotty coat of grey-green mold. Sherlock looked at it for a long time before he rose, and then that too was thrown away.
It had been a curious moment, in Mrs. Smithers' darkened kitchen. John had been doubled over, nearly kneeling. One hand was pressed to the deepening stain on his jumper, and one was gripping the edge of the counter. His assailant had turned frantically on Sherlock, and without thinking, almost, Sherlock had grabbed his wrist, twisted it, and plunged the knife into the man's neck. It seemed almost as though he had died by his own hand, and the blood pooled black around him, whistling through the hole in his throat. It had been Mrs. Smithers' kitchen knife, ordinary, and for some reason that one fact fluttered uselessly through Sherlock's mind. The weapon had been so ordinary.
John was home after two days in the hospital. Sarah was over, helping to set him up on the couch, and Sherlock eyed her from his seat at the table. He didn't like her touching the blanket, or the pillows, or that her shoes were touching the carpet, or that she was there at all, really. John of course had to be there because he payed half the rent and 221B was his home, but when Sarah made her way to the kitchen and began rifling through the cabinets, Sherlock drew the line.
"I'll take from here," he told her. "Thank you." He had risen to follow her to kitchen. Quailed, Sarah set down the box of tea and returned his look with one of brief consternation.
"Oh," she said. She took the hallway route back to the sitting room and said to John, "Your flatmate's had enough of me, so I'll be going." She kissed him briskly on the forehead and was gone.
When she had left, Sherlock could feel John watching him, poised to speak, but Sherlock settled back behind his laptop, buried in the minutiae of his clients' trivial concerns and "mysteries." John decided against whatever he had been about to say, and eventually he dosed off. His breath relaxed into a hitching snore, and Sherlock's left eye ticked as he suppressed a grimace.
John was barely mobile for several days, but once he was, he started moving things, as usual. Being left handed, he tended to leave things on the left: knives, milk, magazines. Sherlock never used the dish soap, so it had never bothered bothered him, but recently he had decided it belonged on the right. When Sherlock came home to find that John had started clearing the table, organizing, he nearly lost it.
"What are you doing?" he demanded. John startled at the vehemence in Sherlock's voice, an expression which waned into mild confusion.
"Just tidying up a bit."
Sherlock fought to control the tide of irrational panic which was sweeping through his system.
"No," he said. "No. No, no, no" He was across the kitchen, snatching the vinegar away from John. It went back on the table. The letters, the letters had been sorted and stashed in corner. They went back on the table. Everything had been exactly how he wanted it. John had had the fortitude to leave the chemicals alone, but the old shopping bag - that went back on the chair. The blind was raised - Sherlock drew it down.
"Don't. Touch. Anything."
"I've nothing else to do, Sherlock. This place is -"
"Don't touch anything in here, John!" Sherlock glared at him now. John's expression slowly settled into that grim, tight look he had when Sherlock was being either irritating or unfathomable. Or both.
"Fine," he said, after a pause. "Fine." He lifted his hands in surrender and made his painstakingly slow way back to the couch. Past the couch. Up to his room. Sherlock reigned in a tremulous breath and surveyed the damage around him. He checked the buttons on his blazer. They were still there. He began putting everything in the kitchen back where it belonged.
There were no cases that week. All that came through were the woefully inadequate problems which trolleyed in through his website. Sherlock attended to each of these with meticulous detail. He brushed his teeth. He put things back which John had moved. He drew the blinds to hang precisely one quarter inch above the window sill. He went out and checked his homeless network to see if anything was afoot. When he returned there was a coat hanging on a peg near the door. It was his coat, except Sherlock didn't have a coat anymore. John was sitting in the chair near the window. He never sat in that chair, he always sat in the one with it's back to the kitchen. Sherlock's teeth pressed reflexively together.
"Mycroft was here," said John. "He, um, brought your coat. Or a coat. Have you been going out without your coat, Sherlock? It's freezing."
Sherlock was aware that John was speaking, but he was taking careful inventory of everything in the room. His computer was on the table. The stacks of papers were there. One pencil, two pens. Scissors, coffee table. Skull, string, on the mantle. Books? Books. Mycroft had touched them, had thumbed through the Fieldbook of Larvae and put it back. Sherlock picked it up now to make sure it had not been damaged.
"Sherlock? Are you alright?"
Sherlock settled the book back onto the shelf and glanced into the kitchen. Fine. John had put the dishes away, that was alright. That was fine. He went to examine the coat Mycroft had brought. A scarf was there too, just like the one he had had, knitted blue silk.
"Sherlock - "
"What?" he snapped. "Good God, John, you can be so tiresome." Finally there was silence from John's corner of the room. Sherlock inspected the coat's lapels. Definitely new. It smelled new, it smelled like the store. Sherlock couldn't wear a coat that smelled like the store.
"Just wash it, then," John said. Sherlock whipped about to face him.
"What?"
"Just wash it out, for Christ's sake. Is everything - "
Sherlock held up a hand to silence him. His fingers were red and raw. Sherlock noticed that his nose was running. Dear God, he must look a mess. He went to the toilet to run his hands under the tap. His fingers hurt, actually. They were quite cold. Unfortunately his foray into the bowels of London hadn't turned up anything of interest.
"Have you eaten anything?"
Sherlock jumped. John was standing in the doorway, he hadn't even heard him come up. He was standing there with his brows drawn together, a look of nannyish concern etched into his features. Repulsive, frankly.
"Really, John, is there nothing on the telly? Some other simple minded pleasure in which you care to indulge? Another beer, perhaps?" Having been laid up for over a week, John seemed to have taken to drinking to pass the time. "In any event, your concern is quite misplaced. I neither need nor desire it."
In the mirror, Sherlock watched John cross his arms over his chest.
"Don't need it?" he scoffed. "You haven't eaten, or slept, or so much as looked me in the eye all week. You're having fits about, about the butter. Somehow in the dead of winter you've managed to lose your coat, you're half frozen right now, you look distinctly ill, and it's not a case because you haven't got any, so. What is it?"
The water was quite hot now. Sherlock could tell from the steam, but his fingers could perceive only an aching sting.
"Do you know what your brother brought? With the coat?"
"I have no interest in anything Mycroft has said, brought, done, will do - "
"Flunitrazepam. Your brother brought me roofies to slip into your tea. Does that - I mean, what, Sherlock? What is going on?"
Sherlock's shoulders were so tense they nearly vibrated. Or he was shivering. It was awfully cold. John just wouldn't stop talking.
"Is this because of what happened at Smithers'?" John asked. "Sherlock, if you hadn't - "
Sherlock straightened up quickly. "I've seen a great deal of bodies in my line of work. Having created one is hardly enough to set me off." He shut off the tap and rounded on John. "If my behavior disturbs you, then please recall that you agreed to our present arrangement when you moved in, and are free to leave if that arrangement no longer suits you."
John's mouth snapped shut. He stood aside when Sherlock left the loo, and the look on his face was not something Sherlock wanted to consider. John's behavior of late was far too pathetic to warrant attention. Sherlock's phone rang, and it was Lestrade. Thankfully, someone had been killed in a suspicious car accident, and as Sherlock settled the familiar weight of his coat over his shoulders, he was able to ignore that it smelled new. John tagged along, as always, and Sherlock said nothing. The aluminium cane had made its reappearance. Sherlock thought about walking to scene of the accident in order to wear John out and leave him behind, but in the end the cab was far quicker, and the entire ride John said nothing, and didn't even look his way.
It had been a rather gruesome wreck. The female driver had jumped the curb and plowed directly into a lamp post. A male passenger had been propelled through the windshield and onto the sidewalk, Lestrade told him. Both victims had been removed before Lestrade had arrived. The man had died in transit, and the woman was in critical condition. Lestrade stepped back as Sherlock surveyed the scene, unmoving, both hands in his pockets. The man had evidently bled a great deal. When the smell of it hit him, Sherlock flinched.
This was a traffic accident. There was no reason for Lestrade to be there at all. This was further evidenced by the fact that he had stepped back to speak with John, and neither of them were examining the blood-soaked pavement, or the shattered windshield. Their voices were deliberately low, and it was clear to Sherlock that he was the topic of their discussion, though he couldn't make out what they were saying. Obviously Mycroft had been after Lestrade as well, making sure he gave Sherlock something to do. Sherlock processed the distant, clinical realization that he should be irritated, but it went no further than that. His eyed felt gritty and he closed them briefly, hard.
The hole in the windshield indicated the passenger had been in the back seat at the time of impact. The woman's seat belt had been cut away to remove her from the vehicle, but the man had not been wearing his. Sherlock felt John move to stand behind him, just off his left shoulder.
The passenger side air-bag had deployed. The driver's had not. Unlikely that it had been tampered with; probably a malfunction. The steering wheel was tacked with congealing blood, a few straggling blonde hairs where the woman had hit her head. Sherlock took a slow step forward. John was right behind.
Judging by the severity of the impact and the angle in relation to the road, the woman had picked up considerable speed before turning sharply, and most likely deliberately, into the post. She had been wearing a seat belt, the man had not, and she had crashed her car into a lamp post assuming (mistakenly) that she had the additional protection of the air bag. The scenario indicated carjacking and abduction, but there was no finite piece of evidence to tie it all together. Where was the weapon? An assailant would have had a weapon.
It was bitterly cold. All of London seemed to be tilting to one side, and suddenly Sherlock was torn between the desire to go home, and the need to see the case through to conclusion. He felt very fragile, and for a moment he was thankful for John's presence. He immediately quashed that feeling without knowing why.
The man had been propelled through the windshield, had hit the lamp post himself before landing a slight distance to the front left of the vehicle. He would have held the knife in his left hand to threaten the driver discreetly. The police had not found it in the car, which meant it had left the car with the attacker. Sherlock gave the wreckage a broad berth as he walked to the other side. His gaze drifted, then he paused and crossed the sidewalk to the adjacent building. It was lined with a low hedge, and beneath it Sherlock spied the glint of metal. With one toe he trundled it out of the mulch. It was a plain steel blade with a plastic handle: you could buy a similar knife at any grocery store. It was unremarkable. Ordinary.
"Tell Lestrade it was a carjack," Sherlock said. "This was the assailant's weapon." He nudged it again with his toe. He had intended John to walk back to Lestrade, then he would have given him the slip. Instead John pulled out his mobile. Ten yards away, Lestrade's ring sounded, and Sherlock began to walk away. He thought maybe he would go to the Thames.
"We're heading out," he heard John say. "No, he says it was a carjack. The weapon's over there. Where we were, yeah."
There was a quickening clack of the cane and John's labored breathing as he hurried to catch up. Again, he didn't come abreast, but kept just a pace behind. He could be so stubborn, like a little dog that wouldn't stay home. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to leave him behind, but if he tried to outstrip him now, John would only kill himself keeping up. Sherlock buried his nose in his scarf, then stepped out to hail a cab. The scarf also smelled new, like fabric sizing.
Again, the ride was silent. John hadn't even asked how he had known about the knife, and he always asked. He always liked to listen to Sherlock's deductions, that's why he kept that bloody blog. This time he said nothing, keeping one eye all the time on Sherlock, fretting. It was unnecessary and annoying. Sherlock's irritation mounted throughout the duration of the ride, and when they pulled up outside 221, he quickly got out of the cab and let John handle the fare. He fished around for his key, but it wasn't in his coat pocket. Nothing was in his coat pockets. By the time he remembered that the key was in his blazer, John had joined him on the step and had already unlocked the door. Sherlock followed him inside, and John turned and faced him. Sherlock's eyes narrowed involuntarily and his whole body went rigid. An agonizing stillness settled over them, and Sherlock broke it with a snarl. He moved to push past John, up the steps, but was stopped by a firm grip on his arm. John had him backed against the wall, his expression a mixture of confusion, concern, and frustration.
"Sherlock, what have I done?" he demanded. "Why are you so angry with me?"
All of Sherlock's emotions solidified into a cold, cruel knot in his stomach. He looked into that earnest face and said, "You've done nothing at all, John. How touchingly pitiful that you believe your actions to be of any consequence to me."
John didn't step back. He didn't say anything. He hadn't even let go of Sherlock's arm.
"So as soon as you're gotten over that pitiable notion, you can trot off to the pub and leave me in peace. That is what alcoholics do, isn't it?"
John dropped his hand now. He didn't step back, but he withdrew slightly. Sherlock pressed his advantage with spiteful glee.
"You have been hitting the bottle rather hard these days, haven't you? Of course, it runs in your family. That must have been terribly traumatic for you. It would account for your utterly baseless and yet unflagging loyalty, or your oppressive need to mollycoddle. Did your parents find you tiresome, as clinging, as pathetic as I do?"
John dropped his eyes, his lips compressed. Anything John Watson ever thought or felt would scroll through his face and posture as clearly as words on a page. He looked fixedly at the bottom stair for a long moment. Inside his pockets, Sherlock's hands trembled. He tried to stop it, and clenched his fists, but it must have been something to do with the cold. John's face ran through its visible series of emotions, from pained to considering, then, curiously enough, to categorizing, rationalizing, and finally he looked back at Sherlock with that frank and careworn expression he had which make him seem so much older than he really was. Sherlock looked steadily back, but the cold knot in his stomach began to unravel and spread through his belly, a cool, liquid feeling that left him light-headed and a little bit queasy. The trembling in his hands had traveled up his arms, had reached his shoulders, and Sherlock found that instead of at John he was looking at the dust in the banister moulding, at the hallway table, the imitation Murano vase. Above the door there was a dusty, dead house spider; Mrs Hudson really ought to take care of things like that. He felt the wall flat and solid at his back, and John standing before him with that horrible look on his face, even worse than the hurt, because it was forgiveness.
It didn't feel as though there were any oxygen in the room; a gas leak, perhaps. Sherlock's nose was running again and before he could think about it he reached up and wiped it across his sleeve.
The world stopped. Sherlock stared at the clear film of mucus stretching across the crisp blue fabric of his immaculate coat. What was left of his reason warned him that he had begun to hyperventilate. The trail of mucus blurred in his vision, and he heard John curse, felt him seize his arm, and with the cuff of his jumper wiped it onto his own sleeve. Sherlock suddenly discovered he was quite close to the floor. With a litany of curses John grasped him by both arms and manhandled him up the stairs to the flat. He was dizzy, sick, and suffocating, and when John clapped a hand over his mouth and nose he struggled violently to get away. They were somehow now sitting on the couch and John had one hand firmly behind Sherlock's head, the other covering his mouth, pressed along the bottom of his nose, effectively cutting off his breath. John was saying something over and over, but Sherlock couldn't hear what it was. In his panic he knew he was crying, and he knew that he couldn't stop.
For a moment John loosened his hand from Sherlock's nose and allowed him to suck in a quick, wet breath. The hand tightened again and Sherlock closed his eyes. What was John saying? He was saying "Stop. Stop, Sherlock." He loosened his hand, allowed one more breath, shook Sherlock gently. "You have to stop."
Sherlock's eyes opened, darted about the flat before he locked his frantic gaze on John. John was steady. John was his friend. Sherlock wanted to breath, and he tried to twist away again, but John held him firm.
"Are you going to stop?"
Stop. He had to stop. With the last vestiges of his control Sherlock stilled, and when he was able to, slowly nodded. John let him go. His hand was slimy now and Sherlock saw him wipe it on his trousers. As Sherlock turned away, John rose and said "I'll make tea." Sherlock closed his eyes and concentrated on regulating his breathing, a five count each way.
Nine days ago Sherlock had exsanguinated an utter stranger, a down and desperate man. His final breath had whistled through his punctured trachea, and even when he was dead that sound kept coming, that sick, wet, sucking sound. Sherlock had stood, matted with blood, with two crumpled bodies at his feet, and one of them was gasping his name. When John had tried to stagger to his feet, Sherlock had simply looked at him, horrified. The sound was coming from him, and Sherlock's mind did something it had never done before: it went completely blank. John was scrabbling after the clingfilm on the counter, and he was going to die because Sherlock couldn't think.
Sherlock didn't realize John had returned until he placed the cup and saucer in his hands. Actually, it was a mug and a dinner plate. John seated himself in the nearby chair, favoring the side on which he had been stabbed. Wrestling his psychotic flatmate up a flight of steps certainly hadn't helped matters. Oh God, and Sherlock had dribbled on him. Exhausted, possibly traumatized, and now he was also hideously embarrassed.
"This doesn't usually happen," Sherlock offered. He glanced quickly at John, who held his mug gingerly by the handle, waiting for the tea to cool. No saucer for him. He wasn't in danger of spilling it all on himself. A fair amount of Sherlock's tea was already puddled on his plate.
"So," John said, "why did it?"
Sherlock didn't answer. He had meant it as a sort of apology, and now John was going to turn it into therapy, some sort of talk it out he had learned from his therapist. Next thing, he would be asking Sherlock to keep a blog.
"Look," John sighed. "This didn't start until after the Smithers case." Sherlock stiffened slightly. "I know that what happened that night was violent, it was unexpected. You don't have any experience with that...particular sort of thing, but it's fine, Sherlock. Alright? It was self defense - "
"No." Sherlock shook his head. He leaned tightly over his tea. "No. Wrong." His mug began to rattle against the plate and he slammed the two together with startling vehemence. "You scared me."
John froze, regarding Sherlock, his furious, accusing glare. For a moment the fret was back, then the furrow, and finally John leaned back slightly, processing.
"You..." he ventured, "were angry with me. Because I scared you."
Out loud, it sounded so utterly childish, so juvenile and pathetic. It had none of the control which Sherlock so cherished. He had been angry with John.
"Is there flunitrazepam in this?" Sherlock's tea had sufficiently cooled, and it would have certainly been validated if John decided to take a leaf out of Mycroft's book.
"No," John said. "Not unless you want it."
"I don't."
Sherlock willed his hands to move, to raise the tea, but he felt as though he were constructed of loose loops of string, not even knotted but taped together.
"Are you going to be alright?" John asked.
"I'm tired," Sherlock tried to say, but his voice had dissipated to a noiseless rasp. He was aware of John rising, setting his own mug down, and gently prying Sherlock's from his hands.
"Okay," John said. "Okay." John had a regular iron intake and no history of substance abuse, so his hands were always warm. Sherlock's were always cold. "I'll let you get some sleep, then."
Sherlock slumped sideways onto the couch, barely noticing when John slid off his shoes. He curled up his knees and huddled deep into his coat, listening to John's uneven gait as he walked away, keeping nearby but not too close. There arose from the kitchen a comforting clack and rustle as he washed the dishes and tidied up, putting things in order.