Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Of course.” The blood is pumping through every vein. His heart can be heard beyond just his jugular, his entire body racing with the adrenaline. John walks over towards the door. The script, he remembers. Stick to the script. He turns away from the door. “If you need anything else please do just give us a tinkle on the telephone. Have a good day Mr. Slaney.” 

“HI- how do you know my name” 

Now. 

Sherlock reveals himself from under the trolley. “We know plenty about you Abe.”

“Holy f-”

And everything is moving and everything is silent and still at the same time. Time has frozen in place, a snowglobe, and John can only observe, as Sherlock takes out his gun, and says “Don't. Bloody. Move.”

Abe shouts. The panic is settling into him now. “Where- WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH HER!”

John reminds himself to remain calm. He has the power. “Where's the gun, Abe.”

“Go fuck yourself” Abe spits. Anger. After the denial.

“Where is it-” The whirring of the helicopter outside. It reminds him that they are not alone. He takes a breath.

“Doesn't matter Watson. He won't be needing it.” Sherlock says, an air of fake confidence leaking out of him. He, too, was running on the adrenaline. And then, a movement.

The gun.

It’s in his hand.

Abe has the gun. In his hand. And John can feel his pulse pick up.

Abe has a cocky smile.  “Oh I wouldn't be so sure about that buddy- Here's a tip: next time keep your eyes on your target and not out the window.”

An air of panic stills the room, and makes everything race yet again. “Put the gun down now Abe! Or he'll shoot you!” The shaking has gotten to his own hands now. 

“You're not gonna shoot me” Abe stands, one hand on the gun.

“And you're not gonna shoot me.” Sherlock stands, both hands on the gun.

“Maybe not you? But what about him-”

And then, time stopped to let everything race. He hears the shot. He turns. The bullet, he can see it, he sees, he sees, he sees, and then.

He sees the red before the black. It races through his eyes. Bloodshot. He brings his hands up to his face and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t see them. He can not see his hands, and he hears a voice, and he doesn’t register who is screaming until his throat is burning. He is screaming. Someone screams his name. He can’t see who. The voice sounds, alien, foreign, hoarse, panicked, surely that wasn’t Sherlock. Sherlock was monotone. Sherlock was not this voice. Surely not, this voice sounded panicked, psychotic, angry-no, furious. But it is his name all the same. And it is not the name Watson being screamed, it is his name. 

Another voice. It is blurred. He catches the tail end of “You're not gonna shoot so put the gun down-”

“Shut up.” The air stills. Every object in that room knew better than to move. Every person in the room knew better than to question. 

Sherlock's breathing is heavy. It’s never heavy.

“Sherlock…” John attempts to croak out for him. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t see, 

“Look at you.” Another voice. Not Sherlock’s. 

John attempts to wipe the blood from his eyes, he tries, he tries, he tries to see again, he just wants to see , and instead he sees sparks and black and red and white and there is a figure. And it is Sherlock, and it is heaving, and it doesn’t look like Sherlock, but rather a monster in his clothing. It is the look of a man with the intent of murder. The Helicopter is loud. The movement is loud. But it’s compensation for the fact he can. Not. See.

Open fire, glass breaking, touching the floor, he tries to stand, he can’t see his feet, he can’t call out, he can’t do anything, Surely Abe is dead, surely he is too, surely Sherlock is going to help him, surely, surely, surely he will see and he will be able to see Sherlock again and he will be able to go back home and they can have tea and he will go to sleep and wake up and see again and-

“JOHN!” The voice is panicked. It hurts John to hear it. 

His voice responds, surely it is his, but it doesn’t sound like him. He can’t, he “can’t, I can’t, I can’t see, I can’t see anything, Sherlock, help me, help me, help me ,” And he feels the burning in his throat travel to his eyes, and his voice turns into broken sobs. The helicopter is gone. It is silent. Abe Slaney is groaning. He hears Sherlock get up. He hears him pick up something heavy, something metal, something…

Sherlock picks up the gun .

No.

No way. He isn’t going to- 

“Sher…lock….” He attempts to speak.

Sherlock, he can’t see him, but he can observe him. his breathing heavy. His breathing has sound. It sounds like a bad dream. It sounds like a Hound. 

Footsteps. 

A monster speaks. Something foreign to him. 

“ You killed an innocent man. ”

He croaks out Sherlock’s name again.

“ You almost killed my best friend.”

He hears the sound of a gun being cocked.

“I meant what I said, John.”

“I am going,”

“To kill.”

“Him.”

And all John can do is wait for the gun to go off. It doesn’t. He hears a sound. A man yelling. Metal hitting skin.

He hears it again. The scream. Again.

He hears it again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

“You BASTARD!” Sherlock’s turn to scream this time. The gun is dropped. He still hears it. The sound of a fist hitting a face. The sound of blood, gushing, through him, through Abe, through Sherlock, a heartbeat in his ears, a dread in in his stomach, not to be mistaken for anxiety, not to be mistaken for relief, but fear. Fear, that is what he felt. Fear. He can not see, but he can still observe. Suddenly he wishes he was shot in the ears. 

“Ack-AUGH-AHCK” the sounds appear every 3 seconds. Sherlock is punching him to death. The sounds stop. It smells like blood and ash and gunfire and smoke and blood, blood, blood, oh he is glad he can’t see it now.

A croak.

Abe is still alive.

A cock of a gun.

BANG.

reload.

BANG.

“Sher…”

BANG.

“Sherlo-”

BANG.

BANG. 

BAN-

“SHERLOCK! HE’S, STOP IT H-HE’S DEAD! HE’S DEAD!”

BANG!

BANG! 

Reload.

There is nothing to reload.

There is nothing to see.  

There is no air to breathe.

There is nothing to speak. 

The room goes quiet, as if there was nobody ever in the room at all. All that is left is the ghost of 3 people. No. Two people. No. One person, One murderer,  One…he does not know who Sherlock is anymore.

What Sherlock is anymore.

He wished he could see his face, he wished he was mistaken, he wished that he could make sure that he did not turn into something that was not a human being. But all the same, he is sure it would hurt him to see his face. It must be covered in blood. It must look inhumane all the same. John is scared.

“John.” His name. It sounds like Sherlock. The Hound is gone. Now it is just his best friend. His fear doubles. It all comes crashing down on him. And he feels an air of relief when he feels, he feels, he feels a hand on his face, and he feels everything, Sherlock dropping to his knees, holding him, he feels his breath, it’s all so grounding, for a moment, and John can’t help but try to open his eyes, to see, to see, to see him, but-

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t see-Sherlock I can’t, I can’t see you-” his voice becomes choked sobs. He tries to open his eyes, he screams. The pain, his eyes are on fire and still he can not see, he can’t even keep them open. “I can’t SEE, I CAN’T-SEE YOU, SHERLOCK! WHERE ARE YOU! SHERLOCK, PLEASE-HELP-I CAn’t-”

“I’m here. I’m right here. John.” A hand in his. The fingers are grounding him. A hand on his hand, a hand on his face, he comes back. It all comes back. The room is silent. It is not a rushed silence. It is an affirming silence. It is a silence he has been waiting for his whole life. The silence of death, surely that is what this is. Surely he is going to die. 

“I’m here.” 

He is going to live. 

“I am right here, John.”

He needs to live. 

“You will not lose me.”

Who else will buy Sherlock biscuits.

“Even if you can never see again.”

Who else will cook him pasta.

“I will be here still.”

Who else will help him, when he gets overstimulated.

“I will open your eyes for you.”

Who else will be there, when nobody has ever been where Sherlock needed them to be.

He will live.

“You will live.”

He will see.

“You will see.”

“And everything will-will be alright.” John smiles. The last thing he feels is Sherlock’s hand on his, squeezing, before the pain finally goes away, and his vision is not rocking back and forth.

The world goes still.

His mind goes still.

But it is okay.

Because he will live.

Chapter Text

beep. 

beep. 

beep. 

beep.

He knows this sound all too well. The sound of a steady heart. A heart monitor. He hears the thrum of machinery, feels the surgical stickers monitoring his heart on his chest and ribs. He can even hear morning birds from outside. He opens his eyes, and he sees, he sees, he sees the morning sun. He can’t help but smile. Almost dying really changes everything. He lets his face bask in the sun and thinks how lucky am I to be alive right now. And immediately, he remembers. Where is Sherl-

“Watson?” 

He turns. And oh my god, is he so lucky that he can see. Sherlock looks tired, he is leaning on John’s bed, heavy bags under his eyes. His eyes, glistening with hope. His eyes have never looked so…full. So weighed down. He must not have slept. But he looks so soft and he looks so real and he looks so there and John is just so happy that he can see him again. That he can see he’s alright. His smile reaches his eyes. He speaks.

“Sherlock.” Still drowsy. The anesthesia must still be wearing off, then. He was definitely in surgery.. “What, uh, what happened to me mate?” He asks. He wasn’t quite sure what he was in surgery for. But judging by the way his eyes still slightly burned and the way that his nose ached, he could take a wild guess. He wanted to hear it from Sherlock himself, though.

“You needed surgery to repair your nose.  The bullet just nearly grazed your skull, Watson.” Sherlock looked away, dipping his head down. Something filled the silence. Something heavy. It spoke before Sherlock did, it spoke for him. But he said it anyway. “You..could have died.” 

And John knew this. And the thought that he could have died makes his heart oh so subtly sink. But he’s alive. And that is good. That is very bloody good. He just smiles, looks down, admires the scars on his hands from the glass shards that impaled his skin. He remembers that he is supposed to be the funny one, as he says “Well, bloody good thing I didn’t, isn’t it mate?” He playfully punches Sherlock. “Who else would stop ya from blowing up the kitchen, eh?” He lets out a chuckle. God, is he happy to be here. To be sitting next to Sherlock. Sherlock smiles, and as he does John swears he lights up the entire room. Or maybe a cloud just passed out of the sun’s way. Sherlock was the sun at that very moment. Maybe the anesthesia is talking.

Sherlock studies him, smiling. There is an earnest look in his eyes. “I am glad you are still here, Watson.” They sat again, in that same silence they would comfortably sit in during breakfast at Baker street. He would be able to go home. He would be able to see Archie, and Mariana, and everything was…okay. 

He sighed, relieved. “Me too, mate.” He said. “Me too.”

A doctor walked into the room, John already knew half of what he was going to say. Surgery went well, his nose would recover in two weeks time, but what he did not expect the Doctor to say was, “you will gradually lose your vision. It is estimated that you will be completely blind in around a year’s time.”

John’s eyes widened. His heart dropped. “What…” a moment. “What do you mean, ‘gradually’?” He asked. Clarification. Though he knows what gradual blindness looks like in the medical world. First it would start as-

“Not being able to see things from far away. It will progress to nearsightedness. These you can manage with glasses. Eventually everything will be blurry. You will start to see black spots in the corners of your vision. One day you will wake up.” And this last part had Sherlock suddenly on edge as well. “You will not be able to tell when you have woken up. It will be as if you didn’t open your eyes.”

A moment to process. Doctor’s typically need to allow patients at least that. “Just…complete darkness?” John felt the anxiety build up in the pit of his stomach. He never liked the dark. He always slept with a nightlight, for crying out loud. And he wasn’t even much of a late-night person. A life in darkness. At that moment, just for a moment, only for a moment, he secretly wished the bullet went through his skull instead.

The doctor was moving his mouth, but there was no sound. John was in a trance. He allowed himself to focus on the bad. But his eyes wandered to Sherlock. He brought him back. Focus on the good, not the bad. The good. His eyes wandered to Sherlock’s. The good.

He had to stay in the hospital for a few more days, to be observed by the doctor’s and nurses. Mariana came to visit, she brought flowers. An array of yellows, purples, oranges, greens. He took in every single color. Ingrained them into his mind. Mariana was all sobs and messy kisses on the cheek and smiles and awkward laughs and a ray of light in his dark room. 

Sherlock, he never left. He stayed the entire time. He was there when John had woken in the middle of the night, panicking. He was there to remind him he could see. That it was just dark in the night. And John eventually calmed down, and was lulled back to sleep by the sounds of the machinery, whirring through his room, through his heart. He caught the eyes of Sherlock. He looked…guilty. Ridden with guilt.

The next morning his mother came to visit. Told him all about what was going on back at home. Brought him some chocolates, the ones he liked from back home. A kiss on the forehead before she left.

Later, Mike came to visit. Some books to keep him busy. He appreciated the notion.

And Sherlock left, only to return 15 minutes before sunset. He was holding a nightlight. 

John couldn’t help but smile. He took it in his hands. It was shaped like a star. He smiled up at Sherlock. This was Sherlock’s way of caring. “Thank you.” He said softly. Sherlock’s state of mind was a lake and he was trying very carefully, not to be a rock and disturb it, but to be a light ripple. 

The way he said thank you, rippled however, throughout Sherlock’s entire body. He felt tingly. Warm. He responded, stuttering over his words. “You’re welcome.” He plugged it in next to him. “It is a reminder. That you can and still will be able to see.”

John smiled. “You know, maybe we could go traveling this year. I want to see a lot. And there are a lot of places I haven’t seen yet.” Sherlock dwelled on the thought. He smiled back.

“Yes.” He responded thoughtfully. “Perhaps that wouldn’t be too bad.” And it was funny, how they were already focusing on the future, and how John had seemingly put the past behind them. 

Sherlock had not put the past behind him. 

He blamed himself.

He blamed himself, every night that John woke up in the hospital, turned to the nightlight in a panic, studied Sherlock’s face, smiled and sighed before going back to sleep with a smile on his face. 

He blamed himself.

He blamed himself, because if only. If only he had shot Abe earlier. If only he went in alone. He should be the on in a hospital bed. He should be the one blinded-no. 

He would stab out his own two eyes if it meant John was never screaming out his name. 

He deserved to be blind. If it meant John would be able to see all he desired. As he leaned over John’s hospital bed, he found himself frowning. It was all his fault, his fault, his fault, his. Fault. He had endangered his best friend. The only person he cared about in the entire world. The only person who had cared about him. And he felt beyond awful about it.

If only he had just put the gun down. 

If only he hadn’t rushed to the scene like a fool.

If only, if only, if only he was better . If only he wasn’t such an idiot, a reckless, stupid idiot. 

He felt an unfamiliar knot in his throat. It immediately came undone when John woke up again, gasping for air, screaming, “SHERLOCK!” and Sherlock shielded his face. John’s breathing evened. He looked to the nightlight. He looked to Sherlock. His hands in his face. He tried to stop the tears, he tried, he tried, he tried and he failed. A sharp intake of breath.

“Sherlock?” John asked. No. They are coming back yet again. 

“Sherlock, I want to see your face.” John reached his hands up to Sherlocks, that simple contact, electricity sang, it sang through both their bodies, as John recalled the look of the morning sky. He took his hands in his. Just as Sherlock had a few days before. And he said, “there we go.” John smiled. Sherlock smiled, too. He prayed John could not see the redness in his eyes, but then again he prayed he could see everything still. And John could. He reached his thumb up to Sherlock’s eye, rubbed away a tear, and he had a look on his face that said I know, Sherlock. I know. And it’s alright. And then it was alright. And John was wisped away to sleep, and when he woke up, Sherlock’s hair was in his hands and he didn’t push him away. 

It nearly hit him like a train.

He cared for Sherlock more than anybody else in the world.

Whatever that meant.

Whatever that looked like.

And then there was a silent understanding, because John knew he would kill for Sherlock, and John felt like breaking when he realized that Sherlock felt the same way, and he understood. He killed Abe Slaney, because he had hurt him. He killed for John. Which is a bit romantic, and a bit crazy, but John just felt a sudden surge of warmth and a sudden urge to just hold Sherlock and never, ever, ever let go . And he didn’t know where to put all of his love, so please, could someone show him what table to place it on. Because he wasn’t sure he could bare to see it stay hidden so much longer.

He wasn’t sure he would be able to bare seeing Sherlock, knowing he can not touch. Can not hold. Can not…love.

But maybe that would change.

That became his goal.

To make this

All

Change.

To see,

To see,

To see again.

Chapter Text

A holiday. A very much needed holiday at that. They were off to

“Swindon!” John narrated into his microphone, as he went over the details of what they had hoped would be somewhat of a rejuvenating holiday. Sherlock was staring into a microscope attached to his phone, observing-glue? Something that looks like glue? John wasn’t paying much attention. He had just silently hoped there wouldn’t be any chaos on this holiday. He wasn’t too sure he was up for another case just yet. He hoped Sherlock didn’t find the lack of adventure to be dull. Maybe they didn’t always need a case to enjoy each other’s company. He could only hope.

As John narrated to the listeners how he grew up there, Sherlock took in the sights. Waterfalls, trees, nature on every corner. It was rather nice, he had to admit. They wandered to the festival, John sharing anecdotes of all the times he would go with his mother, Sherlock trying not to mind the loud noises, and eventually the night came. Tents set up and sleeping bags adjusted, John fell asleep. Sherlock did not. He hardly ever slept.

A rustling. He went outside, to investigate. It was just the wind. But as he looked up, he saw a sea of stars and colors and the night sky had never looked so beautiful and oh. He thought, silently. He nearly spoke it aloud, into the night, out to the moon, he nearly told the stars. But that would be spoiling it. He had an idea. He needed to properly execute this idea.

The morning came. A cramp in John’s back, a leaf in his hair, he looked to his side. “Sherlock?” He wasn’t there. He tried to call him, no cellular. He worried, for a moment, he saw Sherlock’s life flash before his eyes without being there. But then he saw a shadow, and it was him, and he felt the comfort wash over him like a refreshing warm shower. “Sherlock, what are you doing?”

Sherlock peeked into the tent. “Foraging.”

A blink, from John. “What?” He heard him. He was not too sure Sherlock heard himself. He looked down at Sherlock’s hands, and in them was a basket full of, oh my god were those berries?

“Foraging. I have come to realize that this forrest is an ample place for foraging. Mushrooms, berries, nuts, I even found a few animals. What you cease to understand Watson, is that this is how human beings have prevailed for many a year, and I am deciding that, because this vacation is meant to be about embracing the nature, we too should-”

“Sherlock.” Sherlock looked up, forgetting his lecture.

“Yes, Watson?”

Suddenly all of Sherlock’s attention was on John, and that was…unusual. Normally he would lend half an ear. But maybe it was something with the passage of time, that made Sherlock more attentive. The walking reminder that these moments would not last forever, a reminder that he should not waste them by speaking of himself. Because who enjoys listening to Sherlock speak, anyway?

But John’s passage of thought was quite different. Because he was looking into Sherlock’s eyes, and Sherlock was looking into his, and he wanted to memorize this sight forever. The sight of early morning light turning his eyes gold, like the deepest richest golds only found at the bottom of the sea. He wanted to remember how the wind sounded, and how it felt. The dirt he had on his hands, itching him. He wanted to remember Sherlock’s nearly stunned look, like a lost cat, and he wanted to memorize those eyes, like a favorite song, like a scripture, like something to worship.

But instead, John smiled, and he said “Come here”, and he held Sherlock’s face. Suddenly the birds were not the only ones singing that morning, their hearts sang too. He felt Sherlock warm under him, because now they were nearly inches apart and John was looking at him with so much earnesty. So much forgiveness. How could he forgive me? He thought. But he didn’t think very long, as John spoke again. “I want to remember your eyes.” He said, wearing the softest look on his face. Sherlock felt it like a smack to the head as his heart hammered in his chest.

“Ah.” That’s all he could say. No clever solution, no informative background, just a sound, a word of confirmation. As he sat, and as John’s eyes traveled from his, to his eyebrows, to his hair, to his ears, to his nose, to his lips. He lingered on every single feature of his. Sherlock had never felt so…beautiful. He actually felt beautiful. For someone to observe him like he was a suspect, but with no intention to do harm. This surely must be what beauty is. John’s eyes went back to his eyes. He smiled. Sherlock’s heart grew fonder.

“Gonna miss seeing that.” John said.

“Seeing what?” Sherlock asked, though he knew. Or so he thought he knew.

“You, getting all flustered whenever I…do stuff like this.” The human body, his human body, betrayed him once again. If only human beings didn’t flush up at the contact of other human beings, gods sake, but now Sherlock was flushing up even more, and John memorized, silently, the way his pupils expanded and his pulse raised and the dusting of pink turned into a deeper red. It was John that pulled away. Sherlock would never stop him from doing anything he wanted to do.

“Right! Let’s get washed up, yea?” John fully got out of his sleeping bag and did a morning stretch.

“I presume we shall go to the lake?” John froze, nearly choking.

“What? Why?”

Sherlock tried to resist, he really did, but he just had to explain. “The lakes here are full of freshwater. Suitable for drinking, bathing, cooking, and this area is not native to any fish, so long as we were to stay in the shallower parts of the lake, which should not be an issue, I think. I understand if you are not comfortable with-” And John laughed. Sherlock’s favorite melody was his laugh.

“You’re telling me, you, the great Sherlock Holmes, wants to go play in the water?” Sherlock’s body betrayed him again. Yes, he did. He nodded, looking down. John smiled that sweet smile again. “Well then! We’d better get a move on, shouldn’t we!” He stood up and pet Archie awake, barking and licking him. He had memorized Archie last night, staring at all his features before falling asleep.

As they walked, it was Sherlock’s turn to tell anecdotes. “I didn’t always want to be a detective.”

John took a bite out of his protein bar. “What did you wanna be?”

“A pirate.”

John played Sherlock’s favorite melody again. His eyes crinkled up as he laughed. “You wanted to be a pirate?”

“When I was seven, yes. I always had a thrill for adventure I suppose.” He looked to the lake, as they had approached, Archie leading insistently ahead. “I always liked the water. When I was younger, I would stay past curfew, on the shore, collecting sea shells and telling stories to crabs. One day a crab pinched my face. My brother scolded me for hours.” John looked up, his eyes widening.

“Brother?” Sherlock felt his eyes roll.

“Yes, my dear brother Mycroft.” He said sarcastically. John was stunned.

“YOU NEVER TOLD ME YOU HAD A BROTHER, SHERLOCK!?”

“Yes, I suppose he never came up. I’d like to keep it that way-” A hand on his shoulder.

“No. You will tell me all about your brother, and I will listen, and we will eat the berries and other stuff you found in the forrest later and watch the fire crinkle.” John had a determined look to him. “Okay?”

And Sherlock knew how to disobey everyone, everyone, every authority figure, every authority member, everyone. But not John. Something stopped him, and something else made him open his mouth and repeat, “okay.”

They had made it to the lake. John took off his shirt first, as if to say ‘it’s okay, you can as well.’ Sherlock followed. They did not look at each other’s bodies. They only looked at eachother. John took off his pants as he dipped his toes in the water, allowing himself near the shore. His body tensed, then relaxed. Sherlock watched. Smiling. He walked over, feeling the water on his feet, looking down. He was taken back to his beach house up north, and suddenly he was running around the shore playing pirates with his older brother. He smiled further. When all of a sudden,

“HAH!” John splashed water all over his body. And then Sherlock pushed him into the water, to which he failed, and John pushed him under the water. They wrestled with each other, all arms and legs and splashes of water, all laughs, smiles, “oh, you’ll pay for that one, you will!” John shouted as he pushed Sherlock by the chest and into the water, nearly landing on top of him, before regaining his balance. Sherlock had never laughed so much in his life, he didn’t think. He felt like the water, the sun, the sky, he felt perfect, as there are hardly any flaws in nature.

As the laughing died down, John only stared in awe at the sun rising, the clouds, it all looked like a painting. He memorized the sky. Sherlock memorized him. John breathed deep, but not heavy. A light sigh as he said, “I really am going to miss this.”

They sat in silence, observing. Sherlock spoke. “A sky like the sweetness of candy.”

John looked at him.

“Clouds like the feeling of waking up in the morning, your duvet covering your entire body.”

John didn’t look at him,

“A sun like the warmth of a hug you have been waiting for all your life.”

John admired him.

“Water like a state of mind; relaxed, eased, patient.”

And Sherlock didn’t speak,

“Birds singing songs they have known for years, songs to the sun, and the clouds, and the water, and the sky.”

Sherlock painted a damn picture.

John damn well could have closed his eyes and seen the same thing. In fact, he did. He let Sherlock’s words echo in his mind for several minutes before finally speaking.

“That was beautiful.”

Sherlock smiled, and John smiled, and Sherlock was beautiful, and John was beautiful, and the sky was beautiful and everything was beautiful.

And John did not want to stop seeing the beauty that was Sherlock holmes.

So Sherlock holmes would learn to paint the beauty for him in words.