We're falling
Mar. 26th, 2012 03:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
solrosanNotes: Fourth part of Eating us alive, again, following John through Sherlock's ED for the second time. The title for this chapter is inspired by Faller by Lars Winnerbäck.
A special thanks to Laura who has been an amazing support during this journey.
Summary: John finds Sherlock in the bathroom again.
-x-
John took a moment in the doorway to look at Sherlock on the floor, to take it in. It was a far too familiar sight but something fundamental had changed. The lingering smell of vomit was just one of the things that gave it away, but it was the only one John could put his finger on. The rest was just…there.
Damn it, Sherlock.
With a deep sigh, John sat down on the floor and pulled Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock’s head fell down on John’s chest and to John’s surprise – and startling fear, to be honest – Sherlock began to cry. A desperate and inconsolable cry that made the rest of the world disappear.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Sherlock, I’m sorry,” John mumbled into Sherlock’s hair when he regained the use of his voice. They had both lost and he was so sorry it had come to this; he had actually thought they wouldn’t have to deal with this part this time.
Strangely enough, John didn’t feel the need to cry – at least not now. The only thing he needed was to hold Sherlock until all the hurt went away. Or at least the tears.
“I’m here….” he whispered, “I’m here now…. You’re not alone…. I’ve got you. It’s okay….”
He remembered that he explicitly had promised to always pick Sherlock off the floor, but there was no strength in his body to do so right now. He would pick him up, as soon as he possible could. Just…not now. Instead he stroked his hair, and held him, and whispered low words of comfort. The words might seem empty, and John wasn’t sure Sherlock heard, but he meant them – every single one of them – and if Sherlock listened to just one….
Since nothing existed besides the two of them – and the painfully hard floor – John lost concept of time and couldn’t possible say how long they sat there, but when Sherlock’s crying past in to trembling sobs, every part of John’s body hurt. He had lost the circulation in one arm, his neck ached from the terrible position it was in, his legs were numb and it felt like someone was sticking needles in his back, but at least it became easier to breathe as Sherlock’s tears subsided.
They remained on the floor in silence for another eternity, the only sound being the infrequent dripping from the shower and the distant sound of the fridge’s humming in the kitchen.
“Sherlock?” John finally whispered.
“Mm?”
“We should try to get up.”
Sherlock nodded and pushed away from John, obviously being just as stiff after an even longer time on the floor, and turned the other way to dry his eyes. John reached out for the toilet paper and handed him the entire roll. Then he forced himself to his feet with the help of the toilet and the sink while Sherlock blew his nose.
“Do you want anything?” John wondered when they had managed to get Sherlock on his feet as well, “Water? Tea?”
Sherlock nodded.
“The water or the tea?” John asked again with a weak smile.
“Tea.”
John nodded, he could make tea and ignore that it was diuretic. It was a problem for tomorrow, it was just a cup of tea and Sherlock had never been hard to hydrate anyway. He directed Sherlock out from the bathroom with a hand on his lower back, leaving him in the sitting-room as he pottered about in the kitchen. It was pleasant to move around and do the completely mindless task of making tea; it put the tile floor in another perspective and created a distance to what had happened there. The tears and snot on his jumper were painfully hard to ignore though.
In the same cupboard as the teas he found a box of saltines and took it with him as well when he walked out of the kitchen. Sherlock wrapped his hands around the mug when John gave it to him and looked between John and the box of saltines.
“Take a cracker,” John said, shaking the box as an invitation, “Someone told me it’ll make you feel better.”
“I highly doubt that,” Sherlock answered in a hoarse voice and they shared something that probably would have been a smile during different circumstances.
“Eat the bloody crackers,” John ordered in a soft voice and sat down on the coffee-table in front of Sherlock, who obeyed – or at least took two saltines out of the box.
Sherlock scrutinised the saltines and bit off the tiniest bit possible. John couldn’t help that he studied Sherlock’s pale face and puffy red eyes with the same intensity as Sherlock looked at the crackers. Never had he heard Sherlock cry before, the closest had been sobs and tearstained cheeks. He wondered if this was a good or a bad development.
“Can you…not look at me…when I try to eat these?” Sherlock wondered with some frustration and held up the saltines.
“Yeah….” John closed his eyes and got one of the crackers thrown at him.
“Idiot,” Sherlock muttered, but they both smiled when John opened his eyes. It was soothing and comforting in a weird way and Sherlock finished the cracker he hadn’t thrown at John.
Maybe that was why John dared asking: “Why today?”
“Why not yesterday? Why not the day before? Or the day I told you?” Sherlock reached out to take another cracker. It was a strange pleasure to see Sherlock eat, even if John tried to not look at him.
John nodded and took the answer as if Sherlock had no idea whatsoever what had driven him to this today. That it was just an accumulation of events that finally had been too hard to stand up against and this time, calling for help had not seemed to be enough reinforcement.
What had gone wrong?
John took a cracker too, they were old – if crackers could ever get old – but he hadn’t been keen of the idea of stock up on ‘purging-handling-supplies’. It had felt a bit…ominous. Now he had to reconsider and the shopping list consisted of crackers, rehydration solution, vitamins – they had been hard to convince Sherlock to take – antacids and maybe new toothbrushes and some gum. It could be the most depressing shopping list in the world, at least when you know what it should be used for.
Or maybe his imagination was just bad.
“How do you feel?” John asked when Sherlock had finished half the tea – probably just enough to get the bitter taste out of his mouth and no more crackers.
Perhaps mouth wash should be added to the shopping list as well?
“Empty…. Nauseous,” Sherlock admitted.
A lump formed in John’s throat, had he forced Sherlock to eat when he wasn’t ready to again? Did he make everything worse? Was there really nothing he could do right? Situations where there were many things you could do wrong, but hardly anything you could do right were terrible.
“It’s not because of the saltines or the tea,” Sherlock assured him in one of his more mind-reading deductions; not that it could have been all that hard to read. John felt a smile tease at the corner of his lips and like so often before, he chose to believe Sherlock because he said what he wanted to hear.
“Let’s get you to bed,” John said as he let the smile come through and he carefully removed the mug from Sherlock who nodded. John offered his hands to help him off the sofa and lead him to his bedroom. It was more of a rule than an exception that they both slept there now.
“Sherlock, the suit…” John started when Sherlock curled up under the covers without even removing his shoes. The only response he got was a headshake and he didn’t have the energy or motivation to argue. There was no point in forcing Sherlock to get undress to save the suit. Not like it would be completely ruined this way either.
Couldn’t be comfortable though.
Well, maybe compared to the tile floor?
John changed into his pyjama bottoms before joining him, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close to his chest.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, repeating what he had said earlier, hoping that Sherlock would hear him now and maybe even listen, “You’re not alone, I’m here.”
Sherlock found his hand and squeezed it once. John took it as proof that he heard him and repeated the short sentences again. And again. And again. Until he noticed that Sherlock had fallen asleep, then he placed a kiss just above Sherlock’s shirt collar and closed his own eyes.
After lying with Sherlock sleeping in his arms for almost to an hour John got up again, restless and unable to sleep. It was too late to go out and do the shopping, but there were other things he could do and armed with a bucket full of cleaning supplies he went back to the bathroom. He got down on all four and started to scrub the floor; it was long over-due, with or without Sherlock enforcing vomiting.
It took half an hour to take out all his frustration; he hadn’t even known he had it before he had started but it was more than satisfying. The result was satisfying as well, but it was hard not to manage to make the limited floor space spotless when you scrubbed it for 30 minutes.
He sat back on his heels and wiped the sweat from his forehead before dropping the dirty cloth in the bucket. Tomorrow he’d do the tub and sink…and the dreaded toilet. A sob left him but he refused to let it become more and forced himself up from the bathroom floor for the second time today. He really hoped he didn’t need to revisit it anytime soon.
He didn’t dare believing he’d be that lucky.
-x-
Part V: Told you so
A special thanks to Laura who has been an amazing support during this journey.
Summary: John finds Sherlock in the bathroom again.
-x-
John took a moment in the doorway to look at Sherlock on the floor, to take it in. It was a far too familiar sight but something fundamental had changed. The lingering smell of vomit was just one of the things that gave it away, but it was the only one John could put his finger on. The rest was just…there.
Damn it, Sherlock.
With a deep sigh, John sat down on the floor and pulled Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock’s head fell down on John’s chest and to John’s surprise – and startling fear, to be honest – Sherlock began to cry. A desperate and inconsolable cry that made the rest of the world disappear.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Sherlock, I’m sorry,” John mumbled into Sherlock’s hair when he regained the use of his voice. They had both lost and he was so sorry it had come to this; he had actually thought they wouldn’t have to deal with this part this time.
Strangely enough, John didn’t feel the need to cry – at least not now. The only thing he needed was to hold Sherlock until all the hurt went away. Or at least the tears.
“I’m here….” he whispered, “I’m here now…. You’re not alone…. I’ve got you. It’s okay….”
He remembered that he explicitly had promised to always pick Sherlock off the floor, but there was no strength in his body to do so right now. He would pick him up, as soon as he possible could. Just…not now. Instead he stroked his hair, and held him, and whispered low words of comfort. The words might seem empty, and John wasn’t sure Sherlock heard, but he meant them – every single one of them – and if Sherlock listened to just one….
Since nothing existed besides the two of them – and the painfully hard floor – John lost concept of time and couldn’t possible say how long they sat there, but when Sherlock’s crying past in to trembling sobs, every part of John’s body hurt. He had lost the circulation in one arm, his neck ached from the terrible position it was in, his legs were numb and it felt like someone was sticking needles in his back, but at least it became easier to breathe as Sherlock’s tears subsided.
They remained on the floor in silence for another eternity, the only sound being the infrequent dripping from the shower and the distant sound of the fridge’s humming in the kitchen.
“Sherlock?” John finally whispered.
“Mm?”
“We should try to get up.”
Sherlock nodded and pushed away from John, obviously being just as stiff after an even longer time on the floor, and turned the other way to dry his eyes. John reached out for the toilet paper and handed him the entire roll. Then he forced himself to his feet with the help of the toilet and the sink while Sherlock blew his nose.
“Do you want anything?” John wondered when they had managed to get Sherlock on his feet as well, “Water? Tea?”
Sherlock nodded.
“The water or the tea?” John asked again with a weak smile.
“Tea.”
John nodded, he could make tea and ignore that it was diuretic. It was a problem for tomorrow, it was just a cup of tea and Sherlock had never been hard to hydrate anyway. He directed Sherlock out from the bathroom with a hand on his lower back, leaving him in the sitting-room as he pottered about in the kitchen. It was pleasant to move around and do the completely mindless task of making tea; it put the tile floor in another perspective and created a distance to what had happened there. The tears and snot on his jumper were painfully hard to ignore though.
In the same cupboard as the teas he found a box of saltines and took it with him as well when he walked out of the kitchen. Sherlock wrapped his hands around the mug when John gave it to him and looked between John and the box of saltines.
“Take a cracker,” John said, shaking the box as an invitation, “Someone told me it’ll make you feel better.”
“I highly doubt that,” Sherlock answered in a hoarse voice and they shared something that probably would have been a smile during different circumstances.
“Eat the bloody crackers,” John ordered in a soft voice and sat down on the coffee-table in front of Sherlock, who obeyed – or at least took two saltines out of the box.
Sherlock scrutinised the saltines and bit off the tiniest bit possible. John couldn’t help that he studied Sherlock’s pale face and puffy red eyes with the same intensity as Sherlock looked at the crackers. Never had he heard Sherlock cry before, the closest had been sobs and tearstained cheeks. He wondered if this was a good or a bad development.
“Can you…not look at me…when I try to eat these?” Sherlock wondered with some frustration and held up the saltines.
“Yeah….” John closed his eyes and got one of the crackers thrown at him.
“Idiot,” Sherlock muttered, but they both smiled when John opened his eyes. It was soothing and comforting in a weird way and Sherlock finished the cracker he hadn’t thrown at John.
Maybe that was why John dared asking: “Why today?”
“Why not yesterday? Why not the day before? Or the day I told you?” Sherlock reached out to take another cracker. It was a strange pleasure to see Sherlock eat, even if John tried to not look at him.
John nodded and took the answer as if Sherlock had no idea whatsoever what had driven him to this today. That it was just an accumulation of events that finally had been too hard to stand up against and this time, calling for help had not seemed to be enough reinforcement.
What had gone wrong?
John took a cracker too, they were old – if crackers could ever get old – but he hadn’t been keen of the idea of stock up on ‘purging-handling-supplies’. It had felt a bit…ominous. Now he had to reconsider and the shopping list consisted of crackers, rehydration solution, vitamins – they had been hard to convince Sherlock to take – antacids and maybe new toothbrushes and some gum. It could be the most depressing shopping list in the world, at least when you know what it should be used for.
Or maybe his imagination was just bad.
“How do you feel?” John asked when Sherlock had finished half the tea – probably just enough to get the bitter taste out of his mouth and no more crackers.
Perhaps mouth wash should be added to the shopping list as well?
“Empty…. Nauseous,” Sherlock admitted.
A lump formed in John’s throat, had he forced Sherlock to eat when he wasn’t ready to again? Did he make everything worse? Was there really nothing he could do right? Situations where there were many things you could do wrong, but hardly anything you could do right were terrible.
“It’s not because of the saltines or the tea,” Sherlock assured him in one of his more mind-reading deductions; not that it could have been all that hard to read. John felt a smile tease at the corner of his lips and like so often before, he chose to believe Sherlock because he said what he wanted to hear.
“Let’s get you to bed,” John said as he let the smile come through and he carefully removed the mug from Sherlock who nodded. John offered his hands to help him off the sofa and lead him to his bedroom. It was more of a rule than an exception that they both slept there now.
“Sherlock, the suit…” John started when Sherlock curled up under the covers without even removing his shoes. The only response he got was a headshake and he didn’t have the energy or motivation to argue. There was no point in forcing Sherlock to get undress to save the suit. Not like it would be completely ruined this way either.
Couldn’t be comfortable though.
Well, maybe compared to the tile floor?
John changed into his pyjama bottoms before joining him, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close to his chest.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, repeating what he had said earlier, hoping that Sherlock would hear him now and maybe even listen, “You’re not alone, I’m here.”
Sherlock found his hand and squeezed it once. John took it as proof that he heard him and repeated the short sentences again. And again. And again. Until he noticed that Sherlock had fallen asleep, then he placed a kiss just above Sherlock’s shirt collar and closed his own eyes.
After lying with Sherlock sleeping in his arms for almost to an hour John got up again, restless and unable to sleep. It was too late to go out and do the shopping, but there were other things he could do and armed with a bucket full of cleaning supplies he went back to the bathroom. He got down on all four and started to scrub the floor; it was long over-due, with or without Sherlock enforcing vomiting.
It took half an hour to take out all his frustration; he hadn’t even known he had it before he had started but it was more than satisfying. The result was satisfying as well, but it was hard not to manage to make the limited floor space spotless when you scrubbed it for 30 minutes.
He sat back on his heels and wiped the sweat from his forehead before dropping the dirty cloth in the bucket. Tomorrow he’d do the tub and sink…and the dreaded toilet. A sob left him but he refused to let it become more and forced himself up from the bathroom floor for the second time today. He really hoped he didn’t need to revisit it anytime soon.
He didn’t dare believing he’d be that lucky.
-x-
Part V: Told you so
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Date: 2012-03-26 01:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-27 05:53 am (UTC)