asgardmeridiem | wakey wakey, rise and shine, it's on again off again on again [CLOSED]

Entry tags:

wakey wakey, rise and shine, it's on again off again on again [CLOSED]

Who: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson
What: Up and at 'em.
When: Following Sherlock's return to the land of the waking
Where: Home.
Rating: PG-13 to be safe.

[John hadn't quite outlined it. Not precisely. This... blending of real and not-real, places bleeding in great, vital gouts into one another, and Sherlock can still taste it in his mouth, feels the impact with his sternum and the slow, too slow, too fast collapse into unconsciousness is mirrored with an uncomfortable perfection by his abruptly being flung back into it elsewhere, still feeling as though he's been kicked in the chest by a horse but left with nothing but the trembling in his limbs as he tries to make his way to his feet to walk, to reconcile home with home, to dig up from where it (he) lays buried the one thing present here that remains notably absent in his new recollection.

You won't--

But she did, and Sherlock intends this time to do as he's told. You won't... she did, but he won't, he won't tell, because that would involve telling that there's a trigger to be pulled in the first place, and a finger to pull it, and lightning only strikes twice if you invite it into your home like any other manner of bloodsucker. It's possible it's all twisted up. All the more reason to find John, and then satisfy the parch in his throat.

It's always you; John Watson, you keep me right. And the whole situation is very much left, isn't it, veering sharply, or maybe he's just about to fall over. Either way he's not keen to carry on playing the king of misrule (though really, if he's honest, it's the only time he'll ever get to be any sort of king at all, the only time he can make a grasp at pretending he's really any sort of important and not just the cardboard cutout of a man, best or no, propped up where he looks best and put to not much other use; that's why the chair was gone, it would have been wonderful if John would just stop staring at him when he's not even there). So find John it is, get your head on straight, Sherlock Holmes, or at least not upside-down -- we can deal with backwards, always have dealt with backwards -- and figure out why your brain remembers how to walk but your legs don't. Figure out the aches and the pains. Figure; it's all you've ever been good for. That and being murdered.

In the end it isn't even that difficult. Doesn't, it turns out, make him any less wobbly. I meant to save you. Not John Watson, the idiot, who wouldn't know saving you from throwing the both of us under a bus, but me, saving you, not because it's owed to you, nothing's owed to you, nothing, but because if I didn't he'd never forgive me and I still don't know why that matters to either of us for a moment; we're not like that, you and I. The world was already upside-down; maybe this is just what happens when it goes back right side up. Sherlock sits down hard at the edge of the bed, his bed, the bed, and puts his face in his hands, sucking in a breath and flexing his calves. Wake up. Wake up. Please.]

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

[ John's checked on Sherlock every day, of course. While he's heard of this sleep thing and how it's not supposed to be anything dangerous, it's so unnatural that he can't quite trust it. And he is Sherlock's doctor. It's just what he does. His job.

Make sure he doesn't go and die.

After days go by without Sherlock's health changing in any way, he started to think there was something to the "not dangerous" thing, of course. And by now he's more willing to believe it. He still goes to check, though, because he can't not. He tried once, and spent all day worrying.

So. Here he is. Stepping into Sherlock's room and coming to an abrupt stop when he sees Sherlock's sitting up. Oh. Maybe he should have gotten into the habit of knocking. ]

You're awake.

[ And looking ... worse for wear. But god knows what it feels like to sleep for that long. It's confusing enough to go home and return here and have all memories flooding back. So sleeping and waking up and no doubt having that mess of memories in your head?

Who'd envy that? ]

[Sherlock actually starts, sucking in a gust of air with a visible of expansion of the ribcage and lifting his head to aim red-rimmed eyes in John's direction. The room is bigger than he remembers. The space between them seems impossible to bridge. At the moment he's not even certain how he'd start.

Your wife shot me.

After entirely too long, after a silence filled in with a wounded, half-vacant stare, the corner of Sherlock's mouth turns upwards and he huffs with dry humour. No. There's too much time; hardly about bridges anymore. Sherlock is very clever but the past few years have proven he can't turn back time.]

Suppose so.

[In truth it's difficult to say. One of his hands drops to press against the entry wound that isn't, and his eyes follow, expression turning thoughtful as his fingers come away clean. I suppose it's appropriate. You came into my life with a gunshot and it's good and well that you should depart it with finality by the same mode. I didn't expect it to hurt so much, though. You didn't tell me about that. You didn't warn me.

Sherlock sighs, closing his eyes.]

It's a work in progress. Tell me what I missed.

[Anchor me here. He keeps his eyes shut, sitting with back straight and hands fallen to his lap, palms up and pathetically empty, fingers lightly curled, in a sort of resigned expectation.]

[ It hits John that it's as thought Sherlock has aged several years. He doesn't know if it's because of the long sleep, or if it's something else, but it's jarring because it's only been a week. And add a couple of days. But there's a difference there that he can't quite place. Something off.

Maybe that's just what happens when people get ahead of you. Come from a time further on. He supposes people are always changing.

He's not sure if it's good or not, though. And then there's Sherlock's hand pressing against his chest, and him looking at his fingers, and that can't be good. John doesn't know if he should ask anything about it, though. Isn't sure he wants to know.

He swallows. Licks his lips. ]

Well ... Our powers went mad and turned on us for a couple of days. Baldr fixed it. Somehow. Odin's asleep until further notice, so Thor's in charge now, god help us. Or maybe not.

[ He snorts. Gods just tread with care and try not to blow up the city. ]

Then we got some guests called ... Storm Spirits? They wreaked havoc for a day, and then they were gone, just like that.

[ And he's not fully sure how. ]

[Sherlock gives a heavy sigh. Baldr, Thor, Odin. Names, concepts, realities. And the rest. The pleasing texture of shadows. Here and now. Yes. Good? Not quite, but better than the alternative. He opens his eyes just enough to glance over at John.

Do I blame you?

Yes. No. Possibly. It doesn't matter. Not here and now. He gives another sigh, short this time, almost irritated, and stretches, ruffling his hair.]

Boring. No, not boring. Don't care. None of them are precisely helpful.

[It's coming back, his distaste for the gods. For the people who have decided it's good and right to help them without much thought, instead of doing it because the alternative is dangerous and perhaps they want to get on living, thank you very much. Sherlock hasn't lost sight of the fact that he's a captive. It falls to the wayside here and there, in the moment, because as always the alternative is in its way worse. He won't delude himself though: the gods aren't on the side of the 'travellers'. It's meant to be the opposite, and expecting reciprocity is foolish regardless of who's in charge.]

How long was I asleep?

[A vastly more important question. All of that... he'd wager at least a week. Only a week; it's been years in his head. Hardly a wonder he's tired.]

[ There it is. More of the Sherlock John's used to. Maybe Sherlock's just tired, then?

His shoulders relax visibly and he tilts his head, scratching idly at his eyebrow. ]

A week, uhm ... Eight days. This would've been the ninth.

[ It's been very troublesome, honestly. He never really notices Sherlock's presence in his life - anymore - until it's not there. ]

[Sherlock gives a snort to demonstrate exactly what he thinks of that. It says enough -- it's been a lot more than a week for him. He runs a hand over his face and pushes himself upright again. This time his legs feel more steady, if just vaguely. The memory of falling backwards is less insipid, less inclined to chew at the edges of his consciousness or lurk, predatory, in the shadows of muscle memory.]

Could be worse.

[Could've been... well. Could've been. Was. It becomes immediately clear that it isn't just reconciling the time that's going to be difficult, but reconciling what has passed between them as well. The space, mutually imposed, that grew between them. The changes both had undertaken. The things for which Sherlock cannot apologise and John wouldn't be apt to think to apologise, even if he did know. There's no chair to shove out of sight here, no imagined accusing stare -- it's all real, only now Sherlock knows he can't trust it. Can't let himself be as close as he has been. It isn't safe. That's been proven. Not at all safe, and the contradiction is making his head reel.]

You've been... alright?

[You didn't leave, is what he wants to say, but no, why would he? Where would he go? Different. It's all different. Sherlock will have to remember. It won't be easy.]

Yeah, yeah.

[ He nods. ]

Fine.

[ Speaking of what Sherlock's missed, though. ]

I think Moriarty might have ... taken an interest in Ellie.

[That catches Sherlock's attention. He looks sharply over at John, eyes narrowing.]

I hope you've told her not to mention me.

[It sounds like self-preservation, or it would to anyone not familiar with Moriarty's particular methods where manipulating Sherlock is concerned. People close to him tend to end up not simply caught in the crossfire but actively targeted, and he won't have that happen to her again, not if he can help it. Even if it weren't for the fact that they both of them owe her that, inaction would leave a bad taste in his mouth. That alone proves she's at risk if Moriarty should get it into his head to try to rile Sherlock up again.]

I assume you've told her not to play the game, too.

[As they've both discovered, it isn't worth the trouble. Not for anyone involved. He wonders what the man would do if he knew.]

And you're not going to tell him I've survived. Obviously.

[His gaze is almost accusing. You'd best not have told him.]

If he asks, we don't know or we make excuses.

[ It's more the expression on Sherlock's face, but the combination it makes with what he says is really what makes John frown deeply, straighten his back and square his shoulders. He can't believe Sherlock thinks he has to say that. Can't believe that Sherlock thinks he doesn't know. After everything he's gone through because he happens to be connected to Sherlock? After Moriarty strapping him in bombs and making him into insurance?

He knows how this works, and it's unbelievable that Sherlock seems to have forgotten. ]

You honestly think I'd tell him? Of course I haven't, of course I won't. He has to believe it, I know.

[ Moriarty could do whatever he'd like and he wouldn't say a thing. He'd give his life for Sherlock. He thought that was known by now.

He looks away. Glares out the window. ]

I told her to stay away from him, and that as long as he doesn't know you care about her, he's less of a danger.

[Angry. Of course, and what right does John have to be angry? He's not the one Moriarty is targeting, not for any reason except his ongoing association with Sherlock, which is fine for now, isn't it, now that it's exciting but as soon as it stops being something risky, something not worth keeping--

Sherlock sets his jaw sullenly.]

Oh, don't fuss, it's been--

[Ages. It's been ages. Years. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, letting out a low noise of anger. The sort of anger he only directs at himself, the sort which only arises when he's confused, or when something else has gone wrong in his head that he can't sort out. Which he can't, of course he can't; how do you squeeze three years into a week?]

Forget it. Fine. Good. I'm--

[Sorry. A bit lost. Confused. In need of help. Shot, I've been shot. Just now, it seems like just now.]

Thirsty.

[ So they're both angry then. Great.

He takes a deep breath, counts to ... three. That's what he manages before Sherlock speaks again, and he glances over. Relents.

This would mean Sherlock's from his future. Again.

He's not sure he wants to ask this time. ]

I'll get you some water.

[ And he turns. Disappears out the doorway. ]

[Sherlock stands, silent, a ball of pent-up energy with nowhere to release it to. A second passes, then another, creeping past him from the direction of the empty doorway. He waits. One moment more, and then as though he's been slapped he sucks in a deep, shuddering breath and is almost surprised when it isn't agonizing. From the direction of the kitchen, sounds of activity, far enough away and early enough in the process that he knows he has time to tug up his shirt and press his fingertips almost desperately to the place the wound should be. The dissonance is almost electrical, like biting into tinfoil. What doesn't surprise him is that his palms are faintly sweaty when he raises them, hem of his shirt dropping, to scrub at his own face.

It's awful, unfair; wasn't I mad enough before?

And now, entirely without meaning, he's been insulting, apparently. It's worse now, even worse; Sherlock can't begin to make heads nor tails of the reasoning. He can't work out where John gets off thinking he has any right to be offended about anything at all, except perhaps that bit in the underground, which is another of those things he quite simply isn't mentioning. Which is going to be awful, he knows it; John can be an idiot but he's not completely stupid; he'll sort it out eventually, render the elephant in the room starkly manifest -- and not the fun sort of elephant either. And so an attempt, when John returns to find him standing in the doorway.]

Thank you.

[And as nobody has ever expressed such frank gratitude over a glass of water, least of all Sherlock Holmes, there must be more to it, but he's not remotely inclined to say what it actually is. Wouldn't know how to, for one, how to say best man without having to explain what that's about, who, why, when, and how he hopes, really does hope, that it lasts, that John doesn't get bored. Again. Not again. Not with her, not with their child, because as much as Sherlock would rather have John home again he doesn't think he could bear the blame. Nothing would change; that was obviously bollocks, and now that it has, Sherlock can't think of a way to wish for things to be back to normal that would be anything but Not Good.]

[ And now Sherlock is saying thanks. For a glass of water.

John hands it over slowly, an incredulous expression on his face. So this is what people coming back after going home - or dreaming of home - feels like? This jarring feeling of time having passed when it hasn't really at all. Not this much time. ]

Bit better now?

[ Whatever it means. For Sherlock to be better. He doesn't know exactly what's wrong, just that something is. It bugs him, but he doesn't yet know if it's worth asking. Too soon?

This isn't normal. Isn't something anyone should have to deal with. Wrong.

But could he stand just ignoring it? ]

[And isn't that The Question? The Question to End All Questions? Laughably impossible to answer, if nothing else. Sherlock presses his lips together as he takes the glass, irritably fending off that look of incredulity. Hardly the only thing you wouldn't believe.]

Better requires a frame of reference; better is...

[He makes a vague gesture. Out of reach. Or he'd not know it if things were otherwise, anyhow.]

An artificial construction used to express degrees of preference; have to know where you started to know where you are, scales require--

[And I don't have that. Not at the moment.]

Three, roughly. Years; even I can't smash all that into a week in one go. So.

[So indeed. Thirsty. He sips gingerly at the water, grimacing at the reminder of the stale taste of his mouth.]

[ And at that John's eyes go blank. That's one way to answer it, he supposes. He was mostly referring to the fact that Sherlock's at least standing up now, so maybe he's feeling less sluggish, but--

Oh.

His expression clears, mouth opening just so and eyebrows raising. Three years? That ... That is. Wow. ]

Right. Three years.

[ He clears his throat. Presses his tongue to his lower lip. ]

Have you ... gotten back to London yet?

Mmm.

[Sherlock nods, burying his face in the glass for another sip before rolling his neck. Best not to talk about it, best not, but that's an easy question with an easy answer. Yes. Yes, he has. Leave the hum at that.]

In one piece. Mostly.

[And leave that there, too. He hadn't even told John about Serbia then, at home, when it would have been of immediate value; he's certainly not inclined to say anything about it now. Or about the rest, about what it had been like, what he'd done to survive and why he'd done it in the first place. Why he'd come back, when maybe it would've been best for the both of them if he simply hadn't bothered.]

Nothing else of any particular importance, really.

[The careful nonchalance marks it as a lie, probably obvious, but that's still better than you weren't particularly happy to see me and yards improved over your wife tried to murder me and I think she might've succeeded.]

Quite a lot of time to be working with, is all.

[ Mostly. John would rather that wasn't there at all, but he supposes leaving London to go hunt down all traces of Moriarty's web wouldn't leave someone entirely intact. Not even Sherlock Holmes. Or maybe especially Sherlock Holmes.

But at least Sherlock returns. He survives and returns. Really, that was the most important thing John wanted to know. The rest ... Maybe he should just wait to find out for himself.

Ugh. He really doesn't know. ]

Yeah, yeah. Of course. Good. I mean, not really about the ... time thing, but. You get what I mean.

[ Waves. Hand. Whatever. ]

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

wakey wakey, rise and shine, it's on again off again on again [CLOSED]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject