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The cold numbed his fingers, but the burning of his lungs kept him present. Every breath ached the longer he ran, a stabbing pain infecting his ribcage and threatening to drive out all the oxygen from his body with harsh insistence.
Sherlock hid eventually; he had to. He couldn't run forever and the agonizing wheezes spilling from his mouth warned him that if he dared to push any further, he'd never draw another gasp again.
Once behind a tree, he felt his body give way, collapsing onto its bark with shaking legs. His eyes gazed intensely out into the dark woods, straining to see flickers of movement and flashes of eyes.
He saw small glints in the grass reflecting the moonlight. His skin prickled. Fourteen twinkles, one hundred and twelve eyes. Fourteen spiders, not counting the ones which simply faced away from him.
And certainly not counting the unforseen spider—the one which ripped him out from behind the tree and clasped a cold, wet hand over his mouth. Sherlock let out a gasp, feeling his body get drawn into the tight arms of a very, very forceful man.
His knees buckled, exhaustion polluting his body's adrenaline as he sank down into the icy grass, struggling against the man's grip against his mouth which only grew more angry. The man loomed overtop him, pinning him down, his figure adorning an unkempt suit but dressed fully with a toothy smile.
The man's long, wiry fingers hungrily found Sherlock's neck. The forest spiders drew closer, fourteen glints encroaching rapidly as if chasing the vibrations of their little webs. And perhaps they were.
Because it wasn't long until Sherlock couldn't find his breath, the hands on his neck constricting with fervour. He felt his eyes begin to itch, his jugular pulsating desperately against Moriarty's palm. His fists beat weakly at the man's sides, scratching, clawing, pleading in action to tear him away.
His vision was speckled with sparks of white, consuming his sights to the point he couldn't differentiate where the twinkling of spider eyes remained. It was all the same—blinding and confusing. The numbness spread, the motion of spiders crawling along his chest and face a simple echo. Moriarty pressed harder.
Drowning again, but without water. Drowning again, but hugged by tiny legs. Drowning again, but his ears heard ringing in place of rushing water. Drowning again, but his body lacked buoyancy. Drowning again, but kicking didn't save him. Drowning again, but Moriarty hasn't lost. Drowning again, but Sherlock couldn't escape. Drowning again, but he'd never return to John.
Drowning again, but John would die.
All at once, he regained his breath. Sherlock lurched upward with a choked heave, no longer surrounded by eyes, but surrounded by familiar walls, a door, a dresser and a dimly lit window. The dream had dissipated, leaving him alone in his bed, but tearing away the covers from his body in an effort to free himself from the clutches of what ceased to exist.
Even still, his lungs betrayed his sobs. Strangulation left a ghostly impression to his throat, his respiratory system taking in as much oxygen as it could in short rasps to ensure it couldn't possibly drown. His eyes stung with tears, his head whirling with an overwhelming dizziness which threatened to purge everything in his stomach.
He tugged at his shirt, tugged at his collar. He couldn't breathe and the numbness worsened. Hundreds of spiders crawled through his veins, buzzing sickeningly within his aortic arch and to his heart, causing it to thump nauseatingly quick against his ribs.
He began to softly wail, scratching at the veins which twinged the most beneath his skin—the places the spiders were rampant and infinite, spreading and engulfing, burning and gnawing. He started biting, locking his teeth to his forearm and sinking until the numbness faded, replaced by throbbing, splitting skin the deeper he clamped. The soft taste of salt invaded his tongue, his tears seeping their way into the gap of his hissing teeth.
Pain was unimportant as long as the spiders were dying.
John awoke uneasily in his bed, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He peered at his ceiling, hands absentmindedly searching for something to busy his fingers. He inhaled sharply, his fingertips coming into contact with something fuzzy, something warm. He turned.
Archie-boy. Of course. He smiled weakly, scratching the dog's ears. Archie seemed to snort, leaning into John's fingers with a satisfied grunt. "Hiya, buddy," John murmured softly. He took a deep breath, rubbing his eyes with his other hand sleepily and sitting up.
Back to his routine—the one he developed after... everything. He never liked saying it. Sleep until you're no longer tired, but not enough to be well-rested. Sleeping too long just led his mind back to that waterfall, back to that spider. The constant exhaustion couldn't have been worse than the blistering regret and grief, no matter how close his dear detective was.
His chest tightened. John shook his head. On to better things. He shifted his body out from the covers, his feet meeting the cold, hardwood floor. The groggy cogs in his head slowly began to spin, sorting through his thoughts. Tea, water, coffee, nothing. His eyes trailed to the window, as if expecting an answer in his reflection. He swallowed when just a tired husk stared back at him, eyes empty and hair ruffled. Him, unfortunately.
John didn't get what Sherlock saw in him. A conductor that guided his light directly to its demise—twisting him in a web for years, alone: prey to venomous fangs which longed to puncture holes in his being until nothing remained. John's stupid podcast was nothing but a target with Sherlock at its center.
Then Archie joined his reflection in the window. And John huffed softly. "What d'ya think, Arch?" John began to murmur, turning to face the half-awake bulldog. "Tea, or coffee?" Archie responded with a sniff to John's elbow, then shifted his damp nose up to John's fingers, licking away the self-consciousness. John returned his licks with well-deserved pats. "...Good boy."
Archie proudly basked in his caresses, but seemed to retire awfully quick, ears distracted by something faint. John cocked his head, watching as Archie peeled away and jumped from the bed toward the door.
Then John heard it, too. A muffled, high-pitched whine through the walls—the ones nearest Sherlock's room. His brow creased. He was quick to stand, following Archie out his door and down to the living room. The sounds grew louder, unmistakably pained and unmistakably Sherlock's. John quickened his pace, unintentionally mumbling "Sherls, Sherls, Sherls," under his breath until his hand found Sherlock's bedroom doorknob.
His stomach dropped.
"Sherlock?" The door was cautiously opened, a worried John standing in the doorway. He felt his blood chill, his heart beginning to race in sync to Sherlock's own anxious rhythm. His detective was writhing, crying intensely into his forearm, teeth sunk into his skin without abandon. The blankets were kicked away, his body curled and small as if the pressure of existence was too much to bear.
"—Oh, mate," John closed the distance in an instant, set to disengage Sherlock's teeth from his arm with a nervous tremor. His fingers carefully glided across Sherlock's wrist, his other hand finding his cheek, encouraging him to let go. "Hey, hey, hey, c'mon, Sherls. C'mon, Sherls, hold on—"
But his prodding was met with a violent jerk. Sherlock released his teeth from his wrist, only to shove John's hands away in haphazard swatting. "M, M, M, M, M..." he repeated distraughtfully, feeling the pulsing pain in his arm, the bite mark fresh and reddened amidst his harsh sobs.
M.
John knew, his heart panging inwardly. He pulled away quickly, watching as Sherlock stared him down through tear-stricken eyes, his brow furrowed in a fierce need to guard himself. "Okay, okay," John breathed out, finding the bedside lamp. He switched it on, the dim light illuminating the darkness and chasing away the remnants of prying spiders.
Sherlock's hands busied themselves with his shirt, pulling at the fabric desperately around his neck. Even with the light, he tossed, eyes darting everywhere except John. "M, M, Mm...Mmm—" he hummed hurriedly. The dots in his vision were returning, the glints of spider eyes as he failed to catch his breath. It took every ounce of control not to claw out the arachnids eating at his insides. "Mm... Moriarty. Moriarty, Moriarty."
John tried not to pay attention to the bleeding bite and scratches. He just tried to catch Sherlock's eyes. "No, no, breathe for me, Sherlock, mate. It's John. Moriarty's gone, it's John." His voice was soft, but firm. Present, despite the conjoined loud breaths and Sherlock's sobs. Admittedly, John did speak with a waver. But he tried his best to steady himself. He knelt by the bed, watching as Sherlock turned toward the lamp, eyeing the light as best as he could without burning his retina. Sherlock could feel his tears wetting his cheeks, his hands beginning to ferociously swipe them away.
The light.
"J-John," Sherlock cried out softly, eyes fixed intently on the lamp. John nodded in his peripheral vision. "Yeah, yeah there you go. Nice and easy, that's it. Deep breaths, Sherls, can you do that? Good ones." Sherlock rubbed his eyes, the nausea wracking him in a disgusting hug. He shook his head vehemently."I cannot breathe."
Archie whined by the bed, nudging John's hand. John ushered him away as he spoke. "Yes you can, mate. Yes you can, c'mon. It's alright. Big and deep, yeah?" John nodded reassuringly, drawing in a big, tall breath and exhaling for twice as long. He repeated his rhythm, watching Sherlock's shoulders tremble unsteadily as he followed. He drew in large, gasping breaths which ached his lungs, rattled his ribs, then let each one out in precarious keens.
His sobs eventually just turned to soft cries, his sharp breaths turning to calmed hiccups. The ghostly hands choking his throat slowly dissolved, the spiders crawling beneath his skin finding rest at last. Sherlock just dazed tiredly at the light, shivering against his pillow.
John kept his knees to the floor for as long as it took, even if breathing so animatedly was a little dizzying. He let the silence return peacefully, letting a pause grip the air (thankfully undisturbed by Archie, who was more than content to plop against the floor). When the room was only disturbed by the periodic sniffles of a very unsure detective, John spoke quietly. "Can I... can I touch you-?" he asked gently.
Sherlock shook his head no against his pillow, the thought shrinking his arms closer to his chest.
John nodded softly. "...Do you want to be alone?"
And Sherlock's eyes seemed to glisten again with a thin layer of tears after a moment. His lips became a line, his throat bobbing with a tight swallow.
He shook his head no again.
And John nodded again, too. He shifted off his knees, pulling his back to the bed frame and sitting as close to the bed as he could... as close to Sherlock as he could. "Alright," John whispered, letting a sigh wash over him to mingle with the serenity.
Sherlock didn't want to speak, didn't dare disturb the silence. And neither did John. But eventually, the soft ruffling of fabric followed—the sound of Sherlock reaching his hand over the edge of the bed toward John's hair, gently wrapping his fingers with loose strands. Firstly timid, then lovingly running his hand through it, feeling as much of the comforting texture as he could.
John let out a humoured huff, leaning his head back for Sherlock to reach with better ease. He felt the mattress cradle the back of his neck, staring up at an upside down Sherlock, who gazed just past him with watery eyes. John's eyes flicked to the scratches, the blood beginning to dry. He winced quietly.
"Do those sting?" John asked. Sherlock slowed his fingers in John's hair, responding with shrug. And just like that, his focus was back on the lamp. John tried to nod, but gave up when he realized nodding while tilting your head back against a bed was... a bit difficult. "Can I look at them?"
Sherlock hesitated deeply, but finally settled with a nod. John grinned. "...Alright. Two secs."
He began to sit up, reluctantly feeling the pressure of Sherlock's fingers leave his hair. His joints creaked in protest, ensuring every opportunity to display John's age wasn't missed with a crackle. God, his knees. But the work wasn't done. John left the room, leaving Archie against his spot on the floor and Sherlock to pick at his thumb instead.
Though, he returned quite shortly. Sherlock eyed John's entrance, noting the partial shine of clean hands and a well-practiced doctor sporting their small first aid kit and a damp cloth. He sat up against the headboard, scooting back until his knees rested against his chest, giving John room.
John sat on the edge of the mattress, feeling the slight dip beneath their combined weights. He turned in toward Sherlock, who seemed more keen to welcoming touch than earlier. His knees fell to a criss cross, his arms dangling loosely in front of him. John set the kit aside by the lamp, carefully offering his open palm to Sherlock.
Sherlock reached his arm up, gently resting it against John's warm palm. He stared down intensely at the scratches, the deep and corroded layers of skin—the way the newly formed trenches puffed up with inflammation, his stomach churning at the thought of the spiders trying to crawl their wretched way out.
Spiders don't reside in his body.
It was only rational.
But still, he grinded his teeth. He twitched in John's grasp and let out a trepidatious shudder. John looked up, afraid his touch was still unwelcome, but only found Sherlock's eyes desperately scanning his arms, searching for something indescribably nonexistent.
John caressed his wrist. "God—the lighting you have in here is so much better than mine," he began softly. "I mean, look at it. All soft, yeah? Complete bliss on the eyes, let me tell you." Sherlock followed John's gaze to the lamp on the bedside table. John carefully brought the damp cloth closer. "Might be a bit unpleasant-? Sorry."
He gently massaged at the scratches, cleaning away the blood and dust clinging to the sticky residue of a disturbed skin barrier. Sherlock seemed to mind little, eyes never leaving the lamp. "I've thought about changing mine, actually. My lights, I mean. You've inspired me a bit." John moved to the other arm. "Honestly, when I first moved in, I thought the fact you never used the overhead lights was dumb. Which—okay, judgemental, whatever. But, like... I've been thinking. The institutional lighting in my room makes me feel like Im scrubbing in. But I'm actually just editing out Archie's farts."
He swiped over the bite mark. "I alsoo... don't wanna fall asleep, though. That's a big 'un. Movie night is bad enough. If I'm stuck in my room with nice lighting and all that, I'm just gonna pass out at my desk! Y'know... drool everywhere and be disgusting."
"Like Archie," Sherlock mumbled at the light.
"Yeah-! Like—wait. Aw, what?" John looked to Sherlock, hiding a smile behind his playful offense taken. "Don't say that! He's not disgusting and drooly. He's—special and handsome."
Sherlock smirked.
John giggled and rolled his eyes. "Don't smile like that, you git." He set the cloth on his lap, leaning over to the kit on the nighstand. He opened it, looking for the antibacterial ointment, retrieving the tiny solution and returning to Sherlock's arm. "This might also be, um... yeah, unpleasant. Double sorry," John warned awkwardly, dabbing the ointment against the scratches lovingly.
Sherlock creased his brow, a distant sting gnawing at his wounds. They went quiet again, John working through the silence as Sherlock basked plainly in the light.
Sherlock held his breath at some point.
"...Do you see him?" he asked John quietly.
John finished cleaning the bite. "S-See... who-? Sorry?" he questioned, knowing full-well who.
"...Our spider."
John's heart quickened. All the time. "...Sometimes," he lied. He put the antiseptic away.
Sherlock blinked rapidly, going silent again. John thought he wouldn't continue, his chest heavy and circling bandages over the scratches too deep to leave open.
He felt Sherlock's arms shake in his hand. He looked up, watching a wetness overcome the detective's cheeks, his jaw tight and lip quivering.
"He haunts me, John," he murmured. "He's watching me."
The bite mark was soon concealed in white, Sherlock's arms striped and cleansed. John returned the bandages, quick to find Sherlock's hands and hold them tightly, earnestly. The way he wanted to at that waterfall. "I... I know, I know," John began. "But he's gone, right? He can't reach us here, Sherls. He... he can't." John spoke like he was trying to convince himself, too. "And I wouldn't let him."
Sherlock shook his head, swallowing back the sorrow thickly. "Why won't he release me?" he asked, his voice a campfire. John looked to him with lost eyes, afraid if his grip didn't maintain the tightness, Sherlock would slip away right then and there. "H-Hey, he will. It's just—"
"—Can I hold you?" Sherlock interrupted with strain.
John's breath hitched. "...Hold me?" he repeated softly.
Sherlock tore his eyes away from the lamp, nodding sincerely. "Please," he quietly begged. "I'm... I'm horribly, horribly convinced he'll still take you from me."
John felt Sherlock's hands tighten in his, the tremors palpable and unending. His thumb glided against the skin of Sherlock's hands, feeling the small ridges of each tiny scar which decorated his fingers and palms—spots that used to be smooth and untouched by spiders. John nodded slowly. "...'Course," he carefully agreed, setting the cloth by the kit.
John climbed into the bed, and Sherlock worked to collect himself, to stop the tears before they inevitably made everything unbearably damp. They were close, gravitating toward one another as they settled down onto the sheets. John stilled himself against the pillows, awaiting for whatever position Sherlock found most comfortable, staring at the ceiling.
It was colored like butterscotch—nothing like the black licorice that was John's ceiling. Warm and undoubtedly sweeter.
Eventually, he felt the heat of hands grip tightly around his chest. Sherlock's head joined atop his shoulder, followed by a snug, longing pressure consuming his ribs, boney arms squeezing with love and endearment.
He wrapped his arm loosely around Sherlock's back, soft at first to test the waters of physical contact, but firm and secure when he knew it would be okay. His fingers rubbed carefully at his back, Sherlock's shirt creasing beneath his palm.
He clumsily lobbed the scrunched blankets over them both, not exactly finding the coverage its most optimal, but chose to leave it be for the sake of minimizing his jostling. The blanket covered Sherlock enough, anyway.
Sherlock let out a sigh through his nose, holding John impossibly close, ear pressed to his heart—determined despite fatigue to chase away prodding fangs and lingering webs.
"You okay-?" John asked after a moment.
"...Improving," Sherlock muffled into his chest.
John was actually intending to ask whether the lamp was staying on. But he could already guess—and not one part of him paid any mind.
Sherlock already closed his eyes, so he did, too.