BBC SH - Unspoken Truths

There is no terror comparable to a nightmare.

Certainly, terrible things happen in the waking world and they shatter your heart into glassy shards of pain. But after a while the feelings become too big to comprehend. You just feel numb. You tell yourself that you must be asleep, that none of this is real. A simple act of kindness from your brain in an attempt to deal with the dreadful reality. Shh, it says, it's alright, you may be asleep. You may wake up yet . . .

Of course you never do, but you can cling to that tiny little notion and use it as your lifeline until your heart settles enough to process the truth. You see that the horror is real. You waver but stand tall. Then you gently let go of the comfort of delusion and take your first step on the road to acceptance.

Nightmares have so such sense of mercy. Nightmares worm black tendrils deep into the heart of you and find the piece that hurts the most, curling around it and whispering treacherously that this is your reality now.

Reality makes you believe that nothing is real.

Nightmares make you believe that everything is.

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It was cold. Surprisingly so for September.

The slickly-varnished floorboards were chill against Sherlock's bare feet and his back and arse were objecting to his current posture, sat leaning against the unyielding wall outside John's room with his arms wrapped around his legs.

The salty damp beneath his eyes had the same icy burn as menthol, glimmering softly in the moonlight.

Menthol. C10H20O. Local anaesthetic properties, used as a topical analgesic and counter-irritant. Triggers the cold-sensitive TRPM8 receptors in skin.

But Sherlock's attempt to distract himself with details failed when he realised he was focussing primarily on the medical applications of menthol and his thoughts were dragged back to the nightmare from which he had just escaped.

Sherlock always prided himself on his poker face however; he knew it was not infallible. Those who paid attention noticed slips of the mask. John. Molly. Occasionally even Lestrade. However, he was alone now and there was no call for stoicism.

That didn't mean he wouldn't try though.

He rolled his head forward to wipe his eyes on the sleeves of his dressing gown and tried not to think when last he had sat like this.

He had been seven. Not long after a violent encounter at the hands of older children which left the detective with a deep scar across his skull, concealed by his mercifully plentiful curls.

Waking in the middle of the night, he had cut off his cry of fear before it had even truly left his vocal chords, recognising instantly that he was safe in his room and not reliving the event as his dream had led him to believe.

His heart was pounding, drenched in cold sweat as though he had just emerged from a shower and, despite berating himself for his illogical craving, desperate not to be alone.

What would being with people achieve? They couldn't remove the injuries inflicted and the memories embedded in his sore and damaged skull? It would be meaningless.

But that didn't stop him from wanting it with every inch of his seven year-old soul, eyes terrified wide and face sodden with stinging menthol moisture.

So, he crept from his bed and went and sat outside Mycroft's door, listening to the snuffling breaths of his sleeping brother.

The vast emptiness of the night shifted to accommodate this lonely little boy who sat on his own on a cold, unforgiving floor, its harsh edges filed away by the gentle rhythm of Mycroft's exhalations. And Sherlock now didn't feel quite so alone in the dark expanse of waking hours before the rise of the dawning sun.

It was 4:37 now. Ordinarily Sherlock would distract himself from wakefulness by delving into a case, new or old, start the daily trawl through the newspapers for anything of interest or force John into keeping him company by waking him up with his violin.

But tonight Sherlock wanted to wait for the sun. Sherlock needed this time alone in the dark.

John generally got up at a half six, getting into the habit of rising early is one that is hard to break. That gave Sherlock one hour and twenty three minutes to stop the tears.

Echoes of nightmare began to whisper behind his eyes and Sherlock closed them, dislodging more tears in his attempt to block the images rising in his mind. This nightmare had felt so real that it had been several minutes before the blurred lines between sleep and waking became defined and Sherlock had realised his mind'sdeception.

The most truly insulting thing about the nightmare was its kindness. There was no blood. No monsters. No cold gut-wrenching fear. There was no darkness. It was soft, and light.

Just a situation that Sherlock knew he could possibly face himself one day.

One that he would give his very soul to avoid.

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The hospital is clean and bright. Spring sunlight making the spotless surfaces glow like they were built of solid magic.

The room is not far from the chapel. They can hear distant men's voices singing but cannot make out the tune.

Sherlock feels like he has swallowed a chunk of lead as he looks at the man sat in the chair in front of him.

John is staring out the window, face drawn and pale, but smiling. "The doctors say it won't be long now, Sherlock. The tumour's gotten too big. Spread too much."

Sherlock stares at him numbly. How could he smile?

"They say I will not feel anything. I suppose it's not a bad way to go. They say I will slip into a coma and then it will all wind down from there. There are many not as lucky as me. At least I know where and when and how. And I get to say proper goodbyes. And you are here with me." And then those eyes are turning on Sherlock and God damn it, God bloody damn it, there is such tenderness in those eyes, and those eyes are sick and it isn't fair because soon those eyes will close for the final time and then Sherlock would lose the best man he had ever known.

How could he be taking this so calmly? He was dying. He should be raging, raging against the dying of the light!

This is CAPTAIN John Watson! He has survived Afghanistan and everything that Sherlock's cases has thrown at them over all these years. And now a pathetic, mundane tumour is to be the end of him? John deserves better than that! John deserves something amazing . . . No, John is perhaps the one person who Sherlock had met who truly deserves immortality. Death is too petty, too ordinary to take this extraordinary man from him.

This is not death. Death is just. The final page in a complete book of a life.

THIS is theft!  A story ended before its time.

Sherlock's ears are ringing numbly and he tries desperately to focus as John speaks again because now every word was precious. And just think of all those wonderful syllables that passed this man's lips over the years that you did not listen to, Sherlock Holmes . . .

John is leaning forward, body emaciated from the treatment, but voice still strong. "Now, you're going to promise me you will look after yourself."

Dying and he's worried only about other people. John Watson, why did you never understand how extraordinary you are?

"And you WILL promise me because if I will come back and haunt you if you don't. You are to eat TWO round meals a day, I would ask for three but you're you so I'm not going to push my luck and ask for the impossible. You are to sleep at LEAST four hours a night and NO smoking."

And Sherlock's eyes are welling up because John's using humour to help but it isn't helping.

"I'm serious Sherlock, one puff of nicotine and I will be in that skull and talking to you in funny voices when you're trying to concentrate on a case."

"Please do." Sherlock's voice is barely more than a whisper.

John's face falls as he realises his mistake. "Sherlock . . ."

"Please don't go." Surely this weak, pleading voice was not his brilliant friend, the cold automata of deduction? "Please don't leave me . . . please . . ."

Now there are tears on John's face and Sherlock hates himself for making John cry but he can't stop, his natural diffidence thrown aside because what's the use of illusions of dignity when he is faced with the prospect of losing his John? The list of entreaties falls from his lips like leaves from a dying tree. "Please . . . I don't want to be alone . . . I don't want to miss you . . ."

He's falling to his knees in front of John's chair, trembling fingers curling possessively into John's clothing as though if he could just hold onto him he could keep him here with him. "You belong here with me . . . I don't . . . c-can't . . . without you . . ." Sherlock's face is pressed to John's knees, his words barely more than gasps now. "John . . . Please . . . I'll do anything. I'll never smoke again!"

John's laughing tearfully at this irrational behaviour but Sherlock's rasping voice was running away with him, trying to bargain away the tragedy. "I'll eat whatever you tell me. Sleep as long as you tell me. I'll stop leaving body parts in the fridge. I won't steal your laptop. I won't explode things on the kitchen table. I'll be nicer to people. I'll take fewer cases so you don't have to strain yourself so much. No! I'll give them up all together. I can get by on people watching. W-We can go somewhere quiet in the country and keep bees and tease all the locals and it'll just be you and me, just like it's always been and we'll never be alone because we'll always have each other and please don't go, John . . ."

Gentle hands are stroking at his curly hair as he pleads with John's patellae. Then they are tugging lightly and Sherlock finds himself coaxed upward until he is curled in John's lap like an enormous child and he must be crushing the smaller man but John would never admit it even if he is . . .

John rocks the catatonic man like an infant and Sherlock's hiccupping gasps are all that break the silence for a long few minutes. Then, softly and honestly; "You know I'd stay by your side forever if I could, Sherlock."

Sherlock's tears are damping John's shirt but he won't move because in the many years of his life he has never felt more at home than he does in John's arms and cruel, cruel fate to only let him discover this when it is to be snatched away so soon.

But, if this is to be it then there is one thing that Sherlock needs to say, because some things should never go unsaid.

He turns his head ever so slightly so that his nose was buried in John's neck, wrapping himself completely in the feel, the smell, the everything that was his friend, Dr. John Hamish Watson. Marking this moment on his memory forever. Because soon a memory is all it will be.

His words are barely audible, but they are heard nonetheless.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Sherlock?"

Slowly, the detective blinks and turns his head.

And John was standing in front of him. In his reverie, he had not heard his approach. "Sherlock!" Finally noticing the tears, John squatted and thumbs one away before he can restrain the impulse. "Sherlock, what's the matter?"

Sherlock tried and failed to stop his lip from spasming treacherously because he hadn't lost John tonight. He was here with him now.

But there will come a day . . . And what's the point of happiness now if there will only be sorrow later?

More tears fell and John's alarmed expression would be comical under any other circumstances.

Sherlock finally remembered that he is the world's only consulting detective and has not been a child for a great many years and grown men do not sit outside their friends bedrooms and cry. After a truly titanic effort he managed to bite back the tears swelling up his eyes and whispered; "Sorry John. It's nothing."

He had to swallow hard before forcing out the next line, because it was such a ridiculous lie to describe the feeling of having all that's good in your world torn away from you.

"It was just a nightmare."

John's face instantly softened, knowing full well how bad nightmares can be. "Why did you sit out here crying on your own then, you bloody fool?" He asked, his voice gentle. "Why didn't you wake me if it was so bad?"

Sherlock said nothing. Because how do you explain that you awoke just after mentally attending your best friend's funeral and believed that it had not been a dream. That you had got up to go for the gun so you could join them in death and only realised halfway there that dead men don't snore? And that you had tiptoed up to sit outside the door so that you could listen to their breathing because, at the minute, that simple automatic reflex of the respiratory system was all that was keeping your heart from breaking?

John looked at him for a long moment, before getting to his feet and going downstairs.

Sherlock didn't move, to be honest, he wasn't sure if he could. His arms and legs had seized slightly from being in such an uncomfortable position.

A few minutes later and John returned with two cups of tea which he placed on the floor in front of Sherlock before disappearing into his room.

A moment or two later and he emerged with his pillow and quilt. "Head forward." He said and Sherlock obeyed.

The pillow was wedged lengthways behind Sherlock's head and John sat next to him, his head resting on the section of padding which extended to Sherlock's side, throwing the blanket over both of them before reaching for the tea.

Sherlock found himself wrapped in a soft cocoon of warmth and softness and tea and John and it felt like home like nowhere else ever had.

The tea was hot and milky with just enough sweetness. A little mug of pure comfort, cradled in Sherlock's trembling fingers.

John took a sip and sighed in relief before leaning his head back against the pillow. "Do you want to talk about it?" He asked.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Thought as much." John admitted. "It's fine, Sherlock . . ."

And Sherlock's eyes are closing, a few final tears spilling over but he's smiling now because this is exactly what he needed to hear.

"It's all fine." He finished, his emotion-strained voice hoarse.

John huffed a tiny laugh and they sat in silence for a long few minutes.

But, Sherlock found he needed to break the silence because, as perfect as this moment was, he had a new determination never to waste a single moment with Dr. John Watson.

Yes, he knew there may come a day when Sherlock was standing alone in front of a slab of black marble. But until then, Sherlock would listen and Sherlock would talk and Sherlock would stand there when that day comes, knowing that he did not squander precious time, ignore precious words.

Sherlock ran his finger gently down the warm, smooth porcelain of his mug. Not five minutes ago he had been cold, crying, heart-broken and alone. Then John Watson came along and he was warm, comforted, and instead of going back to bed the man had abandoned all plans for sleep in favour of sitting in silence in the dark on an uncomfortable floor just so that he knew the man would not be left in solitary tears.

Sherlock Holmes' mind cast back to the words he had spoken to dream-John when he had been curled up in his chair with him.

Because sometimes some things should never go unsaid.

Sherlock turned his head slightly and pressed his forehead to John's temple, his eyes falling closed as he savoured the feeling of closeness.

He had never understood the value of this feeling as a child. Maybe he would have woken Mycroft up that time had he known.

"John?" He whispered into the dark.

"Yes Sherlock?" John responded, voice even and familiar and wonderful.

Sherlock bit his lip but continued, his lips forming the words that his sleeping mind had written for him.

"Before you . . . I was so alone."

He paused, swallowing to ease his painful throat.

John's face went soft as understanding began to dawn and he gently pressed his head against Sherlock's, attempting to reassure him as the detective repeated the words said to his gravestone all those months ago. Those words which John didn't realise applied as much to him as they did to Sherlock.

"I was so alone . . . And I owe you so much." Sherlock whispered.

John closed his eyes, moved more than he could ever possibly vocalise by the sad little admission.

And Sherlock Holmes felt his heart lighten ever so slightly as he finally said what needed to be said.

"John . . . Thank you . . ."