#ive been awake for nearly 36 hours and this came to me in a vision

[mama-orion]

Sacre Coeur, chapter 7

Chapter one + chapter two + chapter three + chapter four + chapter five + chapter six   (Or subscribe for updates on A03)

John drops his fork into the dish and flops back onto the couch with a contented sigh.

“I’m stuffed, you finish that.” He rubs his stomach absently, grimacing. “I should start slow with this rich food after living off of your concoctions.” Sherlock moves the half-eaten pie to the coffee table.

“Tea?”

John balks at him, grinning. “You sure that drug didn’t rewire your brain?”

Sherlock returns the grin and rolls his eyes. “I… like taking care of you, John.”

John watches him quietly for a moment.

“Tea would be. Good. Ta.” He hugs the union jack pillow to his chest, watching with a sleepy, fond grin as Sherlock putters around the kitchen, uncovering the kettle from a disorderly pile of lab equipment on the counter. The trip to and from the bathroom has alarmingly drained him. As he listens vaguely to the sounds of Sherlock filling the kettle, the traffic on Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson’s hoovering below, his eyelids droop.

…

“John?”

Startling awake, John finds Sherlock sitting close, a hand on his shoulder. The kettle is hissing on the burner. An array of basic medical equipment is spread out on the table, Sherlock smiling apologetically.

“John, before you sleep, I’d like to have a new data set to compare to your resting state. If you’ll just allow me, it won’t take but a few minutes.” John nods, bemused. Sherlock shines a light in his eyes to check his dilation, then pulls out a stethoscope. John chuckles.

“So, I take a nap for a week and you suddenly earn your medical degree?”

“Really, John. Basic procedures,” he says, half-distracted by his checkup. “I observed your doctors. And I’ve watched you for years. I did my research, I know what I’m looking for.”

“Clearly.” He watches with a small, surprised smile as Sherlock checks his reflexes and takes his blood pressure. Popping in the earpieces, he presses the stethoscope to John’s chest.

“Wait,” John says quietly, “like this.” He gently shifts Sherlock’s hand holding the stethoscope to rest slightly higher. “So you can hear the superior vena cava.” He lets his hand stay on Sherlock’s a moment and their eyes catch, sparking. They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment. A bright, snapping heat smolders in John’s chest, his accelerated heartbeat pounding through the stethoscope.

Sherlock sucks in a breath, eyes averting and brow furrowing as he tries to focus. After listening to heart and chest and taking John’s temperature, Sherlock sweeps the equipment into a vinyl bag and becomes absorbed making notations in a little blue book, comparing and cross-comparing rows of data.

“Well, doctor,” John says into the silence, still a little wobbly from the wave of volcanic activity in his chest. “Your diagnosis?”

Sherlock responds in the distracted way John knows indicates he is deeply in thought.

“The persistence of the headache is an anomaly I need to track. We’ll monitor it hourly with a basic pain scale. Your blood pressure is still too low, pupil dilation normal. Pulse a bit erratic, though that may be expected given our… circumstances.” He twitches his eyes up to John’s and gives him a small smile before returning to his book. “Appetite and excretions normal. I trust that in another 24 to 36 hours your strength will begin to return.”

“Ah, good, so I’ll live?”

Sherlock focuses on his notebook, eyebrows scrunched in thought, but smiles.

“Yes, to a ripe old age if I have anything to do with it.”

John hugs the pillow again, smiling sleepily, watching him work. His eyes slide to Sherlock’s jaw and the smile drops. Sitting up quickly, he gently tilts Sherlock’s face toward the light.

“John? What– don’t–”

“Hush. Sherlock, how did you get that bruise on your chin? I can see it under your beard.”

Sherlock tucks his chin, pulling away.

“It’s nothing.”

John lets him retreat into his notes, considering him.

Oh. Oh, no.

“When you tried to administer the IV. You said… Oh God, Sherlock– I’m so sorry–”

“You were deeply asleep, John, no need to apologize. You weren’t aware of your actions.”

Wasn’t I? Dream shadows crowd his mind, chest clenching with a deep ache. John watches him hunched over the notebook. He’s pulled away from him.

“Maybe not here. But. In a nightmare. I hit you. Many times.” They had been in a morgue. Sherlock was high, brandishing a scalpel for some reason. John had been so angry, couldn’t stop hitting and hitting him. He can remember Sherlock’s battered face, the bewildered, broken trust in his eyes. John shakes his head to free himself of the awful vision.

“As I keep saying, John, not your fault. I’ll be fine. I’m sure I had it coming.”

“Don’t,” John says, with heat. “You didn’t. Sherlock.” He pulls the book from Sherlock’s hands and sets it firmly on the table, swivels to face him. Sherlock’s eyes dart to his, wary. He forces his voice to be calm. “Look. Things have been… more than confusing. And. We’re in a new place, you and I. So let me be perfectly clear. This,” he gently touches Sherlock’s chin, “is not okay.” John bites his lip. “It’s not like it’s the first time. When you came back...”

“You were angry. I gave you a terrible shock. You felt I had…abandoned you.”

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John snaps. “That doesn’t justify beating you. Yes, we’ve been through hell. But I never get a pass for hurting you. Let me save that for any bastard foolish enough to threaten you.” He presses his lips together tightly. “I have… too much anger. I’ve been working on it. In my therapy. But it’s one thing to grapple with it when I’m awake.” He sucks in his breath, looking up at the ceiling, a blush rising up his neck. “I mean… what if I have a nightmare while I’m in bed next to you. I could hurt you in my sleep. Again.”

Sherlock’s cheeks redden, his scowl falling away. He blinks rapidly.

“You. Really want to sleep. With me?"

John’s stomach flips.

“Course I do,” he says softly. “Honestly, starting today I don’t ever want to sleep without you.”

Sherlock sways as if by the force of John’s words.

“If­—” John falters, “you want that, too, I mean.”

Sherlock stares at him for a very long moment, his face a perplexed mask. John feels like he’s crumbling inside. Idiot. Too much. Too fast. But suddenly Sherlock startles, expelling a huff of breath he’s been holding.

“Sherlock, look, I’m sor–”

“–I do.”

“Oh. Um. Right. Good.” Relief floods through him.

“John, if my limited experiments indicate anything, it is that your close proximity to me was very effective in reducing your agitation during REM sleep. I should like to test this hypothesis further.”

“That, Sherlock, was almost romantic.” He shakes his head, chuckling. “I suppose we’ll need to keep a chart by the bed to track how often your spooning soothes me.”

“I’m a bit out of practice.” Sherlock’s hands fidget.

“You mean… sleeping next to someone? Or, other bedroom… activities?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Well. That’s alright.” John blushes crimson. “I am, too.”

Sherlock gives him an incredulous stare. “John, you’ve been married for two months, a baby on the way. Had a string of relationships. I don’t think our levels of expertise can be fairly compared.”

“Well, that was with women, wasn’t it?”

They startle as the kettle begins to whistle in earnest.

“I’ll just. Um. Tea.” Sherlock darts to the kitchen, casting a look back at John as he goes, tripping on the carpet. He fumbles through the dishes in the sink, extracting two mugs, and busies himself washing them.

So much for taking it slow, John marvels. This side of Sherlock, it’s still so mysterious to him. What is he comfortable with, what questions should he be asking? But something keeps pulling his thoughts away, nagging at him like a burr.

Sherlock making tea… When did he last see him making tea?

His head pulses with a fierce ache. He winces, frowning, and rubs at his temples.

Sherlock has frozen at the kitchen counter, watching John intently. His hands hover over the steaming teapot, dangling the teabags.

“You’re remembering.” Sherlock’s voice is a quiet rumble. John nods, looking pale and stricken. Sherlock steeps the teabags, adds milk, and brings their mugs to the couch. John takes his gratefully, cradling the hot mug as if it could keep him afloat. Sherlock sits close, watchful, taking careful sips.

…

Long moments pass. Steam wafts up from their mugs. John stares into the milky swirl slowly spinning on the surface of his tea. He huffs a sigh.

“Some things have come back. But, I don’t know where the holes are, what else could be missing.”

“We’ll go through it together, John. Are you rested enough for this? We could wait–”

“No.” John juts his chin. “I want it clear. I’ve been too long in the dark. God, it was awful, waking up in the hospital like that, no earthly idea how I’d gotten there. My heart nearly stopped when I looked over and saw you in the bed, so pale, all hooked up and dead to the world.”

Sherlock studies him intently, monitoring the direction of his gaze which indicates in which lobe the memory he’s accessing is stored – imagined or recalled, emotional or visual. He notes the building tension of the muscles around John’s eyes, nostrils flaring, the tendons of his neck straining sharply. The old tremor rattles his hand and nearly spills his tea. Sherlock deftly takes John’s mug, sets them both on the table, and folds John’s hands into his own. They’re warm from the mug and tremble in his grasp.

“Take a deep breath, John. Twice you’ve been prevented from facing these memories. We do this together now, as we should have from the start.” John nods tensely. Sucks in a deep breath, visibly relaxing his shoulders. When he can speak again, his voice is calmer.

“A nurse was checking on you, when Lestrade woke me. She came and held my hand, said you’d pulled through, long road ahead and all that, and I was…” he laughs bitterly. “I was a lucky man to have my partner still alive. Said I should take you on a proper holiday. She thought…”

“Yes, I’m sure she did.”

“Course she did. Everyone does.” John glowers.

Sherlock peaks his eyebrows at John, whose scowl warms into a sheepish smile.

“I got there, eventually.”

“You always do.” Sherlock takes John’s hand, trembling less now, and brings it to his lips to brush with a kiss.

“Unfortunately, I didn’t take too well to hearing it, then. I started to yell a bit. Wasn’t good for me to wake up, finding you like that, without any idea of how it had happened....”

…

Bart’s, 1 month ago

“John, look at me, John.” Greg is peering into his face, hand on his shoulder. John’s chest is heaving, he’s got the bed sheet clenched in his fists. He’s vaguely aware the nurse has fled. “Right, now just calm down, John, you’re at Bart’s, Sherlock’s been shot, touch and go for a bit, but he’s okay. You can see, right there, he’s breathing.”

“Shot? Jesus, Greg, who?” John shakily releases the bedclothes and folds his arms tightly to control the tremor in his hand. Lestrade considers him, confused.

“See, John, I was rather hoping you’d be able to tell me, seeing as you were there.”

“What? Christ Greg I…” John looks from Sherlock to Lestrade, bewildered, and thumps back into the chair wearily. “I remember going to Magnusson’s, trailing Sherlock there. Something he was doing for a case, said I mustn’t come, so I…”

“Went anyway. Right, ‘course. Not like Sherlock to leave you behind.” Greg leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyebrows knit. “Can you remember anything from when you were at Magnusson’s?”

John stares into empty space, eyes darting rapidly as he searches desperately for something in his memory, but a dense fog has filled his mind obscuring every landmark. He squeezes his eyes shut and bends almost double in the chair, fingers raking his hair as if he could pry the thoughts out of his skull. He groans, long and pained. Lestrade watches, eyes wrinkling with concern.

“John, mate, what is it, what do you remember–”

John pushes himself up with a sharp intake of breath. His eyes settle on Sherlock. When he finally finds his voice, it’s barely a whisper.

“That’s just it. There’s nothing. I...it’s just. Gone.”

“What’s gone?”

“The whole bloody night.” John flops back in the chair, shaking his head slowly. “It’s there, and then, it just stops. Like an eraser worked on my mind. I walk up to the security monitor at Magnusson’s private office. Janine rings me up, I go up the elevator. She gives me a peck on the cheek and tells me they’re upstairs, go on up, thinks I’m part of it, heads back to her desk. I walk through a big sitting room. There’s this awful red rug on the floor. Then… I wake up here. But, Jesus, Greg…” He squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them they’re wet. “Something horrible happened. I can feel it in my gut.” He struggles to hold back his tears as he watches Sherlock, unconscious. “What in God’s name happened to him, Greg? Why can’t I remember?”

Lestrade puts a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. John doesn’t shrug it off.

“Likely the shock’s blocking it, seen it before.”

John’s face twists into a defensive scowl.

“Greg, I never had shock amnesia in Afghanistan, and I saw some truly grisly things happen to people I cared about. I’ve seen Sherlock plummet off this bloody rooftop, and I remember. Every. Damned. Detail. Much as I’d like to erase them.”

“All of it, ‘cept for the bit when you say you got knocked out.”

John’s eyes snap to him suspiciously,

“Are you implying you think this has happened before? I got knocked down and bloody hit my head, just blacked out for a minute. The rest of it’s all still there, Greg. Horribly so.”

“Alright, alright, just trying to find some kinda pattern, that is my job, you know.” Greg holds up his hands in surrender. “See, the paramedics say when they got there, Magnusson was out cold on the floor, holding a gun, same one that shot Sherlock.”

John blinks rapidly as he digests this information.

“You were with him,” he points at Sherlock with his chin. “Doing your best to keep him alive. Came with him in the ambulance.” He gives John a quizzical smile. “You really don’t remember?”

“I… I don’t. What about Janine?”

“Doesn’t know a thing. Said she let you in, went back to her desk, played a few rounds of Bubble Quest – timestamps on the door’s security camera and her mobile record confirm it – then next thing she knows, you’re yelling for her, call 999 and all that. I tell you, John, it looks to me like Magnusson had a row with Sherlock that ended rather badly.”

“Greg, hang on,” John wrinkles his brow. “If Magnusson was unconscious, how could he have shot Sherlock?”

“Judging by his bruising, I’d say he was hit in the head with the butt of a gun. Your weapon was found nearby, but not fired. I’m going to guess that since you weren’t exactly invited, you may not have been directly involved. Maybe you were out of sight, heard things get rough, maybe even heard Sherlock get shot, then jumped in. I imagine you came up behind Magnusson, gave him a good whack, and went to see to Sherlock.” Lestrade shakes his head ruefully. “Pity he’s the victim. He’d have loved sorting this one out.”

Lestrade shuffles his feet, looking awkward.

“Look, John, there would usually be more… questions round something like this, but what with you and Sherlock being so tight, well, I’m just saying. If it weren’t me on the case, if it were some wet behind the ears detective, they’d probably be digging into your amnesia with more… suspicion.”

“Jesus, Greg, you don’t think I–”

“Course not. But it’s a bit dodgy, you must admit.” He gives John a critical once-over. “Look, you’ve just woken. Terrible shock. Take a bit of time, things might start to get clearer.”

“Believe me, Greg, if anything comes back, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Might want to get a doc to have a look at you while you’re here.” Lestrade grips his shoulder. “Don’t expect you’ll be going home anytime soon.”

John nods, then jolts as a realization hits him.

“Christ, Mary.” He gropes frantically in his pocket for his mobile. He finds that she’d texted around 1 in the morning, after he’d fallen asleep at Sherlock’s bedside. He thumbs through them, the texts progressively evolving from worried to furious. “Jesus, I’ll catch hell,” he whispers, getting a sympathetic look from Greg. “We’d had a row, yesterday. She thinks I was out getting drunk.”

“We can vouch for you, mate,” he stage whispers as John thumbs her speed contact, then walks to a far corner of the small hospital room, fumbling through a lame apology.

“Mary, I can explain, well, no, actually I can’t. Something… something terrible happened. To Sherlock. I’m at Bart’s. He’s been shot.”

There is a quiet space as Mary reacts with shock and horror at this news. Sherlock’s monitors quietly beep and hum.

“I know, it’s awful. But, he’s okay, they say he’ll pull through…. Yea, if you want to come, that’d be… good. I need to stay here a while, you understand…. yea. …. Yea. Love you, too.”

He pockets his mobile with a huff.

“Well that coulda’ gone worse,” Greg grimaces a smile and claps him on the shoulder. “You look twice done in, mate, let me bring you a coffee, maybe it’ll help things clear up.” John nods absently, arms folded across his chest, staring hard at Sherlock as Lestrade goes in search of caffeine. John’s left hand clenches against his chest.

“Bit not good, Sherlock.”

…

221B, the present

Sherlock has swiveled to face him on the couch, his attention completely focused on his words. He still loosely holds John’s hands.

“Remind me to commend Lestrade on his unusually perceptive observations. But as usual, he failed to notice the greatest feature of interest. Shock amnesia in a danger-addicted war veteran, really.”

John smiles a little abashedly. “I didn’t want to admit it, but it seemed like the only plausible explanation.”

“He should have at least entertained the possibility that another had been there, seen the traces of multiple footprints in the carpet. But of course, he doesn’t notice those things. He did the best he could with the available facts, for an average detective.”

“That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Honestly, John, I was glad of the conclusions he reached, or rather didn’t reach. I didn’t want Scotland Yard knowing anything about my…intentions for visiting Magnusson that night, not while you were under Mary’s watch.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, to think I invited her to the hospital, after what she’d done… that she came.”

“It wasn’t her plan that I should live, John.” Sherlock’s voice is a growl. “She had to make certain her investments were…secure.”

John’s eyes snap up to meet Sherlock’s, stricken, pieces clicking into place.

“I left you alone with her. When I was speaking with your doctor. Jesus, she could have finished you off.”

Sherlock squeezes John’s hands.

“Could have, but didn’t. Might have attracted suspicion if I suddenly died after my promising recovery. I’m still not completely certain she didn’t try – I am known to be indestructible.” John huffs without humor. “It was confusing, then. The morphine made it harder to think. But I could hear her, leaning over me, telling me very clearly that I mustn’t breathe a word of anything to you, to the police. The usual threats. She only turned my morphine pump down a few points just to make herself clear.”

“Christ.”

Sherlock locks eyes with him, grips his hands for emphasis.

“John, it is imperative that I understand how your memories began to return and what you recall.”

John returns Sherlock’s squeeze then reclaims his hands, reaches for his tea and sips it for a while, eyes unfocused, gathering his thoughts.

“It was that feeling in my gut. That something truly horrible had happened, but I couldn’t see the details. I couldn’t shake that feeling. And. It got worse around Mary. Much worse. I mean… things with us had been tense before. We’d had a terrific row the day I went to your flat, when you were preparing to go to Magnussons’. You deduced it the moment I walked through the door.

“John, the signs were rather obvious. Even Mrs. Hudson would have noticed.”

“Yea well, I’d had, um, something on my mind. To say to you that day. Begged off work. Rode the tube round for ages just trying to get up the nerve.”

“But then you got here, and I was rather an arse.”

“I lost all my nerve,” John grimaces. “It had been weeks since I’d been by, and you were… well, it seemed like you were unhappy I’d come. You were so distant, so cold. I… just questioned everything. Again. Didn’t think you could possibly want what I wanted. So I didn’t say it, pushed it all down.

“Then when you said I couldn’t come along on the case that night, I just saw… rejection. You’d moved on. Nothing was supposed to change, but it had, and I didn’t know how to get it back. So.” John shrugs, a smug smile blooming. “I followed you.” He sips his tea, the smile dropping. “In hindsight, not the most brilliant of ideas.”

“John, it was,” Sherlock says quickly. “When you came here that day, I admit, I wanted to drive you away. For your safety.” John huffs at him. “But then I saw the opportunity. I took a chance. I hoped you would follow and witness the exchange, but not by my invitation. If Mary found out…”

“Yes, yes, I know that,” John says testily. “Now.”  He sighs heavily, takes a long drink of the cooling tea.

“You were describing the return of your memories. A feeling of unease, discord with Mary.”

“It drove me up a bloody wall. Couldn’t maintain a civil conversation with her. Couldn’t sleep in the same bed. I felt a revulsion for my life in that house. I just wanted you to recover. It helped, having that to focus on. When you invited me to stay here after you left hospital, taking leave from work, well, that was, good. Very good.” Sherlock nods.

“It was risky, but as long as your amnesia held and I was weak, I felt she would allow it. You were infinitely safer out from under her roof. And I wanted your presence and your skill as a doctor while I recovered.”

“Right, so it was during one of those days I was here, hooking you up for your IV antibiotics, bullying you to eat. We’d been rubbing each other up the wrong way all morning, so I retreated to the kitchen for a bit, waiting for the kettle, reading the papers. I saw the story about Magnusson on trial for your shooting. I was thinking about that slimy git, how much he’d hurt you, how much I hated him…

“And then it just slammed into me, this flash of Mary all decked out in black James Bond gear, aiming a gun, a strange looking thing, right at me. I felt utterly panicked. Betrayed. Just that flash, nothing else. It shook me, terribly.”

Sherlock watches him very carefully.

“Was it just the image? Did you also remember voices? Smells? Sensations?” John quirks an eyebrow at him, considering this.

“Funny question. But now that you mention it, yea, I remembered her voice, too. Things she said. Horrible things… and I could smell her perfume.”

Sherlock nods, as if recording this information on a chart in his mind palace lab.

“Every few days, another one would hit me. I’d be standing on the corner waiting to cross with a bag of shopping. And bang, you’re falling to the floor at Magnusson’s, hit with a bullet. I’d be in the shower, bam I’m in the ambulance with you and you’re not going to make it. I’m just drifting off to sleep, wham I’m running behind as they wheel you off for surgery, left to pace the corridor. Each one came with a vicious headache. Bit like this one.”

“But you didn’t tell anyone.”

“No… I couldn’t make any sense of all the little parts. Sounded crazy, worse than amnesia.”

“I observed you were becoming increasingly troubled. I anticipated the amnesia would deteriorate, but I had no idea how long it would take, or in what manner.” John studies him.

“You have more to tell me about that. Much more.”

“In time, John. I will not hold anything back. But first, your memories.”

“Right…so it was… what day is it? Last Thursday? Your last IV antibiotics session. Mary was due to pick me up afterwards for an obstetrician appointment. I was nervous as hell. The longer I stayed here, the more my convictions returned, but when I thought about the baby, I’d get so confused.

“We were just finishing up lunch. We’d ordered in Thai to celebrate the end of your treatments. I was going back home for the weekend and wanted to see you well fed before I left. I remember you were... making tea. Which was bloody strange. Mary walked in, and it was like a gale blew the fog away from my mind.”

…

221B, 6 days ago

Mary gives John a quick peck on the cheek as he tidies up the last of the home-rental medical equipment. She watches him for a moment, then drifts into the kitchen to greet Sherlock. John can hear them chatting amiably, Mary asking after his treatments, how he’s feeling, is the pain very bad these days?

He watches Sherlock pass her a mug of tea. She takes it, laughing. “You? Make tea? Well, you must be on the mend. This is an honor.” And though he’s given Sherlock hell before about the damn tea, he can’t stand that she’s mocking him. He bristles, but catches himself. God, he’s been so tightly wound lately. He watches her sipping the tea, his wife, this woman who had once seemed so charming, so intelligent, so funny, had looked at him and seen a person worth healing...

She... she’s a liar.

John sinks heavily to the couch as the vision of his wife disintegrates. The memories rush into his mind so violently that he cries out, catching Mary and Sherlock’s attention. His head thrums with pain.

In the span of the mere moments it takes them to find him crumpled on the sofa, John remembers. ________ Sorry for the cliffhanger! Chapter 8 should be posted on Sunday. Message/comment if you’d like to be notified when new chapters post. Always happy to add tags. Thanks as always! @pinkrose423 @brilliantorinsane @ineedhugz @sherlockisnolongeravailable

[gay-jewish-bucky]

so bestie @mieczyhale is making me (even more!) amazing art, and i just had to make some quick edits for him too (this time matching their blog title, with a fun pun❤️)

untitled goose game: the reliable mace

if you come near the people they love, be prepared to lose your kneecaps to this bad boy (gender neutral) and his melee weapons

and i would be remiss without adding a pride icon variation that truly captures their wonderful chaotic` essence❤️