Chapter Text
“To die, to sleep – to sleep, perchance to dream – Ay, there's the rub! For in this sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil..."
- William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 1602
- - -
The place was a mess. To be fair, Baker Street 221B often looked as if a tornado had struck the inside, but after the whole affair at the lighthouse, we returned to find it in even greater disarray than that of Sherlock's customary chaos. Our footsteps sounded too loud in the small place, as if we walked in an empty cathedral, or a cavernous hive far beneath the northern sea.
"At least the post is still here," my friend observed, fondly patting the dagger-hilt with a tired sigh. Most everything about him was tired these days, and pale, and far too thin. "What is it they say about death and taxes?"
"Nothing surer." I gave him a smile, which he returned, though it looked too strained, too much of an effort. He was trying now, and that was how I knew he was still with me. Without a spark of interest, Sherlock Holmes wouldn't spare a breath. When he cared, he always, always tried.
And so, I did what any sensible man would do in the face of trauma and horror: threw myself into giving the place a good thrashing. A real, deep cleaning, for once in our checkered flat-mate pasts! Sherlock was, to put it politely, never one for tidying up, and I certainly did not expect it now in his condition - but to my joyous surprise, he actually helped in this endeavor! He mopped the floor like a champion shipmate, even accepting my requests for some sort of intelligible system.
"It does a body good," he'd said, tone cavalier. Deceptively light, but once again, he was trying. "To keep one's mind and hands busy. To let them lay idle for too long is to open the door to... to uninvited..."
I cleared my throat as I saw his eyes cloud over. Sometimes the best thing was to simply interrupt when he began to wend along a dark path. Silently, I held out a dust-rag, which he took with a lively flick of the wrist.
"Yes, yes!" He brightened, giving a nearby pile of papers a sharp pat. Dust rose at the impact. "That's that, then! We'll go together!"
And so we did.
In the process of excavating our possessions from the layers of accrued dirt and salt-rime, I unearthd a treasure trove indeed. After allowing ourselves a break and starting a small fire to stave off the incoming chill, I perused my find. A leather-bound journal, stuffed with nearly more papers and notes than its poor bindings could handle. It was worn smooth on the corners, its spine cracked, showing its many years of use and love. A repository of an entire lifetime, simply filled to the brim with notes in a familiar scrawl, observations and case-notes... And something else, something even better.
"Well now this is remarkable!" I said aloud, and my friend looked up, still disheveled and be-aproned, elbow-deep in costumery and disguise makeup. Resting truly was not his strong suit. "These drawings - are these yours?"
"Ah, I see you've found it," he said with an uncharacteristically humble, tentative nod as I beckoned him over. He moved with a careful step, eyes oddly wide, as if I held a gun in my hands instead of a journal. But still, he came. "I'm afraid so. Rough and untrained though they are."
"Never taken an art class?" I was unable to keep the incredulity entirely out of my voice. "Not once?"
"I never saw the need," he said, with the very beginnings of a cocksure smile breaking through the fatigue. "In any case, I'm not the best student."
"Well, yes, that's to be expected, I suppose," I muttered, distracted by the latest page's wonders. "This house on a hill, this tropical bird? The rigging of this ship - I say, this is an elephant, large as life! You've certainly gotten on well enough on your own!"
"Well, I only drew from life, you see," he said, despite his effacing words, there it was! A smirk, a glint, just a touch of the aggrandizing Sherlock Holmes pride in his work. An aggravating, infuriating swagger infinitely preferable to his shaking breaths and fever-bright eyes. I'd never been gladder to hear it, and shamelessly egged him on.
"You mean you really saw all of these magnificent things? This colorful getup - the vibrant pink and blue, and matching hat?" I marveled at the finely recreated fabric, and jaunty cut. Yes, I was puffing up his ego, but in truth, not very much! His talent deserved respect, and sometimes this was the easiest thing for me to give. "Is this the usual clothing style in Cordona?"
"Oh no, not quite! That would be the guise of a gelato man, peddling his sweet and cool wares in the sweltering summer sun!"
"Ah yes, I see the little iced-creams now. How dashing a fashion statement!"
"It's all very practical, I assure you!" Sherlock actually chuckled, and it sounded to me like that self-same sun emerging from beyond a thunderhead at some poor, Leviathan-doomed lighthouse. "You'd be surprised how many different folk are willing to speak freely to the iced-cream boy!"
"I can only imagine!" I laughed myself, the first time in what felt like years. A welcome lightness, a relief blooming in my chest instead of its customary ache of constant worry. I turned the page and was delighted once more. "Ah! And this lively sketch of a young lady?"
"A young..." His study-creased brow furrowed in confusion. "Surely you jest."
"Well, she's got a lovely red dress, and a very stylish, matching hat ensemble? It's quite striking."
"Ah." I turned to look and his face had gone a brilliant crimson, quite similar to the dress itself. "No, I'm afraid that this particular piece, as most others in there... Is a self portrait."
"Really? Well, now that I look more closely-" I held it up before him for comparison, eyes flicking back and forth in a theatrically emphatic way. He always seemed to have such fun playing to a crowd, and now I could understand a bit why! "Yes, it's quite the excellent likeness, in a humble doctor's opinion."
"You laugh! I bare my artist's soul to you, and you laugh!" he accused, one hand flying to his chest. He looked and sounded absolutely scandalized, though he was laughing in earnest himself now. Face red as the sunset, plainly embarrassed, but the friendly kind for once instead of frightened or ashamed. Suddenly he looked so young.
"No, no I'm terribly serious!" I replied, my own mirth growing, but not nearly as much as my relief to see his face for once not poisoned by doubt or old dreams. "This little study in scarlet, it suits you down to the ground. You wouldn't happen to have it still somewhere?"
"No, I..." His smile froze. Then, slowly and painfully, faded. "I left it behind. In Cordona, in the - in that house. As I did many things."
His gaze clouded over once more, and I sensed the distance between us grow; not quite a canyon, but too far to reach across.
"Why do you ask?" he said in a hard, defensive voice, and suddenly it felt more like an interrogation than... Whatever we'd had a moment ago.
"Well, I suppose..." I heard the wistful note in my own, honest voice. "Simply because you seemed... Happy in it."
"I was," he said, sounding a bit surprised himself. "I suppose, in rare moments, I was. And I must say, that red number in particular was surprisingly comfortable."
I huffed out a quiet approval and continued leafing through the pages, hoping to find some other treasure to rekindle that life-light in his eyes once more. And once more, my prayers were answered.
My careful fingers unfurled another portrait - and oh, it was the best of all so far. My own face lit up in a replying smile; I simply couldn't help it.
"You've such a gift at capturing the very essence of a person," I said, resisting the strangest urge to stroke the lines on the page. "I suppose that's your observations at work. This young man, with his modern haircut! His bright eyes, his mischievous twinkle. You've captured the very nature of him, I feel as if I know him already. Quite a Puck-ish character, isn't he? But a kind sort, not a mean thought in his head. Was he a friend of yours?"
Nothing answered me but a sudden silence. I should have noticed the danger sign then; red skies take warning. But I was too charmed, too excited at this rare and precious window into my friend's storm-clouded past.
"Hello, now what's this? Is this someone else's writing?"
"Someone else?" The confused furrow was back, a line appearing between my friend's quite untamed eyebrows. "There shouldn't be."
"Yes, right here. Oh. Oh my." I hesitated, studying the name. Thinking back, this is when I felt it first, but could not stop. The silence, a calm before the storm. "It says - well, it says 'Jon's Diary.' I'll go no further, and I do apologize for digging about so. But I say, Sherlock - I simply must ask. Is that who your brother meant when he--"
"Let it alone!"
I jumped, as Sherlock suddenly snapped out the words, flying across the room and snatching the journal from my hands. All levity gone, his face suddenly twisted, like something belonging to a sharp and feral creature, one that had never felt a single touch of human kindness.
"You never saw this, do you understand? Let it be forgotten!" he shouted, startling my poor heart into a nearly painful staccato. "Cast it into the fire along with that accursed manuscript of yours, let it burn away like so many, many of my life's mistakes!"
"Sherlock, no!" I cried, rushing forward to catch it midair as he flung the precious book--for it was, I could see that as easily as I saw his agony--into the irrevocable flames.
I held it close to my chest and gasped for breath myself, shielding it from the fire and his hands both, having the most peculiar feeling that it was Sherlock's own heart I was protecting, and nothing less. To do otherwise, I realized much later, would be to allow him to destroy himself. To harm him beyond all healing - and had I not taken an Oath to the contrary, with all my heart and soul, as doctor and friend?
"It's no matter," he said, with a sudden flatness. If I'd been startled before by his fury, this was somehow worse. As if a switch had flipped, his struggles ceased, hands falling away.
I blinked in confusion, heart still hammering and began: "Are - are you cert -"
"Keep the thrice-damned thing, if it means so much to you! I assure you it means infinitely less than nothing to me." He growled, nearly beast-like, turning away from me, and from any hope for further understanding. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, Doctor, I think I'd find a swift and dreamless sleep far preferable to any more words on the subject."
"I think you've had quite enough sedation today," I said carefully, performing quick mental measurements, his condition dancing nearer to a cliff-edge every day. "You're already at the highest dosage I feel comfortable administering."
"You would deny me, then? Withhold the relief and healing I so desperately need, allow me to sink, helpless until the waters close over my head? Yes, I am aware of how far I've sunk, Doctor! Nobody knows it, nobody despises it more than me, I assure you!"
"Sherlock, I simply don't want to see you -"
He threw up his hands, letting out a frustrated burst of sound and fury. "It hardly matters whether I close my eyes or not. Awake, I remember! Asleep, I relive it all! Every smell of rotting flesh, every sting of salt, every drop of brackish, garden-pond water in my lungs, every word she said, and every whisper and bruising finger, all of them grasping, grasping and pulling me down into Hell and deeper! Beyond prayer, beyond help - God! Sometimes I fear the only relief I might find would be that final sleep from which none returns."
I felt cold. Sudden and shocking as if I'd plunged through the surface of a frozen lake. "Surely you cannot mean that!"
"Oh I do! I do and yet - I don't!" He paced, slow at first but gaining speed, taking only a few long-legged steps to cross the room and back. "I fear sleep! I fear to wake! And worst of all, I fear to die! For that is the final problem, the equation unsolvable, even to me! There is no evidence, no answer as to what lies beyond, only nightmare-guesses. Would I be free? Would I be at all? Would I see his blessed face, or would those cold hands around my throat simply take me at last?"
"I believe we live beneath the eye of a kind God," I said slowly, fearing I was losing any tenuous grip on the situation I'd ever had. "And no God of goodness would damn such a bright soul in such pain -"
"Christ!" Sherlock burst out, and I wasn't sure if it was an answer or exclamation of further agony. "No, no I'm far beyond any heavenly help. I meant him, would he be here? And no, no, I fear that even he couldn't save me. That I wouldn't deserve it even if he could."
I held my breath. Waited, thumb running across the name on the page of the book I still held. Jon's Diary, Jon's ghost, Jon's specter, hanging over the both of us, always. Would the shadow in our lives finally be addressed?
"I called for him, you know?" Sherlock said, breathless, not looking at me, or at least not seeing. "In the caves. Under the harbor. On the lighthouse. So many places, so many times, I screamed his name until my throat went raw. Begging him to come save me, hold the pieces of me together until the daylight, as he did so many times before!"
His voice cracked into a sob he didn't even bother to suppress. Under most circumstances, I remembered in myself and other shaken soldiers, this would actually be a strange but definite sign of recovery. To let one's pain out meant clearing skies ahead. Now, I feared this may be precursor to a much worse storm.
"Always, always he was there. To protect me, precious company to keep my rattled, feverish, lonely brain from devouring itself. To make me laugh with some foolishness, when I'd forgotten how. But not now! Not when I needed him most!"
I caught the flash of tears in my friend's pain-reddened eyes, and felt a pang so sharp in my chest that I clutched the book closer to ease it.
"He didn't come!" Sherlock cried, eloquence forgotten and etiquette damned. "I called, and he left me!"
Now I dared to speak. To ask, though I knew the answer. It was always the same, wasn't it? The boy in the journal, smiling up at me with the promise of such fun and adventure... And leaving nothing but the wreckage of a human life in his wake. Leaving my friend as he was now, shipwrecked and broken and empty.
In that moment, I knew not whether I longed to embrace this shadow, or hated him to the very depths of the Earth.
"Speak to me, Sherlock," I said as softly as I could, as loudly as I dared. "Tell me what's hurt you so deeply. Let us put a name to it, and thereby begin to ease its power over you."
"Hurt me? Why, he'd never hurt me, never dream of it! But you're right, you're right, Doctor!" He was babbling now, words falling out of his mouth almost too quickly for his tongue or my ears to follow. "It's always been him, the only him, the only he. My partner in crime and life, tears and joy, in s-sickness, but no, not health! Closer and truer than any brother on Earth! My anima - my Yorick! I knew him, well! A-aha! Ha!"
His voice grew thin, pitched brittle-high, hysteria growing with every word. I could do nothing but hold the rescued journal closer, finding it nearly a lifeline myself, as I felt that cold and tempest-tossed ocean filling the room and my brain once more, threatening to steal both of us away with it in its dark current.
Sherlock told me once that the book we'd found, the one filled with symbols, had been bound in human skin, still warm, still breathing. At the time, I'd chalked it up to another of his terrible nightmares or visions or whatever madness had taken hold of him. Then I thought nothing more of it.
But oh, in that moment, I swear to God on his throne and all His angels, I felt that journal in my hands breathe its own breath, driven by a heart whose rhythm beat as frantically as my own.
"To be or not to be, to live or not to live, Ay!" Sherlock gasped, arms flying out in a jerky movement, casting strange and disjointed shadows upon our walls. "There's the rub! For in--in that sleep of death, what... What dreams..."
His frenetic pacing ceased at last and I saw his knees buckle moments before he fell. Just in time, I myself awakened from my terrible stupor to rush forward, catching his too-light, too-slender form up in my arms, cradling both him and his book to my chest. I guided him to the fainting couch he seemed to favor as he listened to the clatter of my keys and scratching of my pen, lowering him as gently as I could, fearing that even the impact of a pillow would only bruise his sharp, battered bones.
"There, there, you're all right now," I gently lied, as I lay him down to rest. And then, I told the truth, with all my heart. "And it will be all right. The room is dry, Sherlock. The waters are far, far from you, and they will not enter as long as I am here. Now rest. I will only be a moment."
"Promise, John?" he asked, voice still high, faint, brittle. It was my name he'd said, I insisted to myself, most firmly. Mine.
"I give my word," I said. "I will be right back."
Shaken and numb, I went about securing the book behind my own bedroom's door. There would be time to process this, analyze my own mind, the Hows and Whys of every stab of pain I'd endured just now, but not yet. Not when I still had work to do.
When I emerged moments later, true to my word, Sherlock was still prone upon the fainting couch, one forearm flung over his red, exhaustion-shadowed eyes. The other, bare and extended, awaiting my tender ministrations and the needle, his delivery to that which his bruised body and heart craved most.
I was helping him, I reminded myself; perhaps convinced myself. Not poisoning him further, not harming, healing. He did indeed desperately need sleep, swift and dreamless, and with the wonders of modern medicine, this at least I was able to give him. The smallest bit of respite he so deeply deserved.
Gentle sleep fell over him, smoothing the pain from his gaunt, young features. And along with it, a silence fell over us and 221B. A stillness that still rang with shouts over ocean waves, and sobs, and cries in the night of "John, Jon, John, Jon..."
I knew not which he wanted, nor needed, anymore. At least now, with my troubled companion sinking deeper, deeper down, to a place far beyond light or pain, beneath my shaking hands... Perhaps he was right. Perhaps it hardly mattered at all.
"Yes, yes, thank you," he murmured as the elixir went to work. At least one of us would sleep tonight. "We'll go... We'll go to..."