entrancelogs | The Adventure of the Impulsive Partners

John breathed out deeply, the exhale tinged with a half managed sad laugh at the typical Sherlock attitude shining through even at moments like this. "The part about everything being alright might be hard to believe at the moment." He reminded softly, tugging Sherlock even closer but making sure his hold was gentle on the detective. "Nothing about this is alright." John whispered to himself, not able to believe he was in such a position again. The doctor turned his face to slide their noses against one another so their lips brushed as they spoke in a sort of farewell kiss.

No, not farewell. Goodnight. That's all this would be. That's all he could tell himself if would be. The sluggish pulse he could track in Sherlock's wrist made his own anxiously fluttering heartbeat seem all the faster by contrast. "But the 'I love you' part... No, that's not stupid nor redundant. Never." John tried on a smile halfheartedly. "Honestly, I could listen to you say that all day and never be bored of it."

Sherlock smiled slightly, far too comfortable and really not caring anymore so long as John was near. The darkness felt deep but everything would be fine. Just a nap and he could take care of things. He'd fix them so John would be okay and they'd lay like this and John's laugh wouldn't sound pained and everything would be better and like it should be.

"Good. Good. I’ll fix this when I… I do love you, John. Only you. I won’t make the same mistake twice. Maybe I have already but when this is over… never again. I’ll walk through hellfire first.” His limbs felt very heavy. Very heavy. He couldn’t fight off sleep anymore and the ache of his body warned him not to. It wasn’t that easy to just shut his mind off, though. It could make his body turn off into slumber but his lips kept rattling off words as he felt himself slipping into sleep. “Crazy as Wonderland is, this is the only place where we can be together. But I wonder sometimes if it is worth putting you through these horrors just for the times of happiness in between. We could live here forever, never aging, only having to fear of what events could bring. I could be a drain on your heart, use you up till there’s nothing but resentment left and then miraculously we’d return to a time and place where we never even realized this was possible. And then we’d be friends again. And maybe, when we died, we’d end up back in Wonderland. And you’d tell me about whatever wife you’d last loved and I would tell you the finer points of apiculture. And I’d be loved by you again. The occasional horror is worth that much, I think. But that’s my own selfish opinion. And I’m beginning to see very clearly that selfishness has no place in these matters.” He let his voice trail off, presuming each word as crystal clear though he had no real recollection of when his lips stopped carrying on with his mind or when his mind finally halted and stilled with the silence of rest.

John pressed his eyes shut as Sherlock's words faded away, clutching the unconscious younger man closer to him with a ragged breath, rocking desperately. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. Even if Sherlock were to survive through this, the drugs would still wreck his insides and make him very ill. And John was to blame. He should have protested, should have sought reason rather then falling back on his habit of just trusting whatever came out of the detective's mouth if it seemed logical enough.

He didn't realize the time that had gone by until the layer of sweat building between his body and Sherlock's (luckily still warm and alive) one became uncomfortable and his leg cried out in lingering phantom protest. A couple of hours, maybe even three? John reluctantly laid his best friend out as comfortably as possible, lingering to brush a hand through those wayward locks and caress the sharp lines of that slack face. "Never again," He told himself, as he stumbled away to the bathroom in a daze. "How could I have even... I'm never allowing him to do this again."

The cold water was turned on to a noisy blast, and John dunked his head under the spray, ignoring the bottles still littering the floor with limited strength. This was where Sherlock had swallowed all those pills in a twisted way to save him and then the detective had dared call himself selfish...

John ripped his head up, slamming the still open medicine cabinet shut with vengeful force, as if it's very existence had caused these events to happen. It was only then that he noticed that the mirror wasn't reflecting properly. He couldn't see his own face. He didn't even get look himself in the face and see the guilt lingering there.

The shattering of glass made him jerk out of his thoughts like bursting out from underwater. Like a ringing in his ears that he'd grown used to and started to ignore, John was suddenly aware of the oppressive atmosphere suddenly vanishing. John calmly noted that his fist was now planted firmly in the bathroom mirror, the shattered remains scattering out from the circle of impact. His breath, even and schooled, was the only noise in the room save for the random tingle of a shard or two falling destroyed surface. Eventually, he drew back carefully, the destroyed knuckles not making a pain in protest for the moment, though the shock of seeing the blood and a few large glass splinters embedded in his skin told the doctor that he was due for some later. Truthfully, it was all superficial, and though he was thorough with picking out the cutting pieces, John's mind was steadfastly directed towards what had just happened. The influence was gone. Even if he could never define exactly what it was, John could tell that whatever had been whispering in his mind had fled the moment the mirror was shattered.

So Sherlock's sacrifice would be for nothing, in the end. John was fine. Was going to be fine, had they explored other options.

The doctor cleared his throat roughly, tugging a bandage around his hand a little too tightly before meandering back to the room to sit on the floor amongst the strewn pillows and watch over his detective.

Sherlock didn't dream. Dreaming was when the mind filtered out all the useless bits of information that clung around after a long day but to a genius mind, details were best sorted through and deleted by a conscious mind. So when his eyes closed into darkness, darkness was where he stayed. Warm, safe, comforting darkness that was as old a friend as the skull on his mantle and as welcome as John in the hours of sleep.

It was his body that finally said to wake with the cessation of the sedative's effects combined with bodily discomfort. His posture was more than acceptable, the warmth of John nearby making for the best of conditions. But his body still hurt from the intentional poisoning and the need to excrete what the charcoal had absorbed was nagging at his brain. It hurt to move, though. He curled in on himself before rolling over on his knees, hating to lose contact with John but dimly aware that that was all it was now--no longer a desperation or instinctual depravity. He just missed the comfort of his touch.

Something had changed. Things were fixed.

Sherlock chuckled dimly as he remained curled for a second more, his forehead to the floor. No more madness. John was safe. They were both safe.

"...Sherlock..."

John had been awaiting his friend's fate beside him,braced against the bed. But as Sherlock awoke and rolled over, John jerked up onto his knees, hands hovering over the curled back, trying to assess his newly awakened friend.

"...Are you okay? Is anything numb or painful?"

The chuckle was disconcerting, but in the normal way Sherlock's odd reactions caused, and something in John's gut unknotted just a little bit. His hand brushed feather light against the detective's shoulder, but didn't linger.

"I... honestly didn't think you would wake up." He admitted to the other's back, an apology hidden between the words.

Sherlock turned his head towards John, offering a weak smile. "Wouldn't want to disappoint my hard working doctor." Pushing up, Sherlock rose to a sitting position, one arm still wrapped around his stomach as he took a deep breath. "I'm fine. Mind's clear. Feel awful but that's rather to be expected. No numbness. Just pain. Nothing debilitating just... unpleasant."

He pushed up to stand but his muscles were screaming for him to stop. He needed to use the toilet, though, and he was not going to crawl there is possible.

John was on his feet in a second, sliding one of Sherlock's arms around his shoulders and holding the lean detective up with his other hand.

"Easy does it." He muttered gently, assisting the other man to the bathroom as he knew the charcoal was probably doing it's job. Sherlock felt a little warmer then usual, but nothing that indicated serious ills or reactions. Still, John's gaze was ever weary even as he helped Sherlock into the small room, only stopping when he remembered the shattered glass littering the floor. "Oh. Hold on a tick."

Bracing Sherlock against the door frame, John ran over to the closet to get a pair of hard bottomed slippers, crouching wordlessly to help slip them onto his friend's feet upon returning.

"Sorry about the mess." John finally said as he stood again.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the glass, taking in John's hands at last as the doctor knelt before him.

"You punched the mirror," he said, feeling even less proud of himself. "You could have punched a wall. Less damaging. Why the mirror?"

"...It made me mad." John said, throat working down any other explanations and settling on the simplest. "Luckily, that seemed to be an off switch for whatever was messing with our heads earlier.

"You fixed this?"

It was hard to sound both impressed, incredulous and proud in the same three words. But somehow it worked.

"John, you're a genius." He smiled, wanting to give him a kiss but thinking it just as well that wait for now.

"It was more an accident then anything else." But still, John preened subtly under the praise, a smile lingering on his lips as he lead Sherlock into the bathroom properly, toeing aside medicine bottles and the larger shards of glass so it was easier for the detective to reach the sink and toilet. Dispensing the other man there, John shifted his way towards the exit in awkward steps, not taking is eyes away from his friend.

"So, uhm, let me know if you need anything..."

Sherlock nodded, gesturing outside the room. "I'm sure I can handle things from here. Go unwind. Lord knows you need to. You've been holding it in all this time. I'll be out in a minute to try and make amends."

Which wouldn't amount to much effort. A kiss, a hug, and his hand held tightly in his. It was something Sherlock was already looking forward to, though. Not everything had to be complicated and clever. Some things were best in their simplicity.

John licked his lips, nodded, and left, closing the door behind him. But he didn't relax. He lingered outside the bathroom, sorting the bedding on the floor, cleaning, pacing, mind and body not allowing themselves to stop until Sherlock was in front of him again. This event had been far too much, and it wasn't leaving his thoughts easily.

Sherlock opened the door and stood leaning in the frame once he was finished, a sad sort of adoration in his features as he watched John fret.

"You haven't exactly slept, have you? Or eaten. You should eat, John. And rest. Everything is going to be fine." He wasn't used to being the voice of comfort beyond 'It's alright now' but John deserved far more than that flippant phrase.

John froze mid-step, having been too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice the other man until he spoke. Sherlock was okay. He was standing right there and talking to him. The doctor ran a hand down his face, cupping over his mouth as he collected himself.

"Right. Uh, yes, of course you're right. Everything's fine now." Normally, he would make a crack about Sherlock being the one insisting on sleep and food, but he couldn't focus on making light of the situation when it was still looming in the back of his mind. "...I'm not really hungry at the moment." John said softly, gaze finally making it's way to Sherlock's face, lips going in as he tried to determine the damage the drugs had done.

Sherlock slowly made his way back over towards the bed, nodding at John's admission. No, John's belly was probably in as many knots as Sherlock's. He could understand the disinterest in food wholeheartedly.

Not a mind-reader, Sherlock still had little trouble working out John's thoughts by the expression he wore. "My kidneys and liver surely aren't happy with me but I'm not a heavy drinker so I think it should be okay after some time. Just feel raw on the inside. No blood, though, so.. well, that's always good."

He took a seat on the floor, making himself comfortable and motioning for John to come close.

John frowned at Sherlock's prognosis, wishing he had the proper equipment to make sure it was true. Nevertheless, the doctor shuffled his way over to where his friend was sitting, expression uncomfortable as he finally stopped near enough to feel Sherlock's body heat.

"You," John said slowly, crouching so he could see Sherlock's face better. "Are never, ever doing anything like that again."

Sherlock nodded, following John's arm from shoulder to wrist as he slipped his palm again John's, holding his hand tight.

"It's not a lesson I need to learn twice. Some ideas will always be bad ideas."

John laced his fingers between Sherlock's, gripping back with equal strength, breathing heavily through his nose as his lips pressed into a thin line to hold back the emotions racing through him. He focused on their hands, the contrasting pale and faded tan stripes, and the curve of their knuckles showing the force they clung to one another. It should hurt, but it was only reassuring.

"... Unfortunately it looks like we'll be stuck with that ruddy bed until this event is over, though." John finally said, a carefully bemused tinge to his voice.

"I don't mind."

Sherlock didn't bother with a reassuring smile. Smiles weren't reassuring things coming from him. Just blunt, unadulterated honesty.

"You should rest. And though the water bed may prove a bit too soft a surface, it's much more inviting than the floor. Help me back up and we'll call it a night."

John huffed, standing and tugging the long, lean man to his feet by their joined hands. His other hand came up and cupped the detective's other elbow to make sure that he didn't topple over or stagger.

"I think in light of the circumstances any jokes about you insisting we rest will be avoided." John said softly, sliding his hand up from Sherlock's elbow to cup his neck, thumb stroking with reverence on the pulse point there as his eyes fixed on it with a concerned frown.

Sherlock leaned down, kissing him softly as he stood firmly in place.

"There's plenty to giggle about later."

He kissed him again then pressed him to moved to the bed before the doctor simply fell asleep standing from an exhaustion both physical and emotional.

John hummed, the kisses goading the exhaustion into his awareness and making him malleable, pressed back into the ridiculous waterbed and the far too comfortable bedding over it. The mattress rocked lightly as the doctor sat down, dropping his head against Sherlock's chest and sighing shakily.

Sherlock stroked the short hairs of his head, trailing his fingers down his neck and over his shoulders. He left him to calm and be calmed for a few minutes before pulling back enough to gently press John to lay back, keeping his hand held in his as he crawled in after him, trying not to disturb the bed more than necessary. The sloshy, unsteadiness made him crack a smile though, a light chuckle escaping.

"I'm not complaining, but this bed truly is impractically designed."

John giggled back, body rolling a little as Sherlock settled in beside him, their hands joined in a way that implied they didn't know quite how to let go. His other hand came up to stroke Sherlock's waist as they both settled in.

"What, don't tell me you don't want a 'sexy' waterbed after this."

"I'm not certain there are too many things which can cause motion sickness and be considered 'sexy'." He leaned his forehead against John's, smiling with the broken tension.

"It's fine, though. It's not ours but it's fine."

John's smile faded around the edges with exhaustion, but it didn't quite leave his face as his gaze darted over the one pressed close to his. His hand slid up from Sherlock's waist, over his chest and up to cup a cheek, drawing a line with his thumb along the prominent cheek bones and the corner of upturned cupid bow lips.

He'd almost had to see that face in the stillness of death again.

John squeezed the hand still clasped with his, the cool, calm grip reassuring as he closed his eyes, brushing his nose with Sherlock's.

"Are we referring to my bed as 'our' bed, now?" He said softly, the smile retuning.

Sherlock chuckled softly. "Not intentionally. But I suppose it is ours as you were the only one with the sense to have a bed in his room. I don't exactly hear disagreement in your voice."

He turned his face, holding the hand still to kiss John's palm.

"My practical John."

The kiss and warm press of the detective's other hand made his eyes flick partially open, lips parting to let out a soft breath as he raised his gaze up to meet the other man's.

"My Sherlock." He murmured back, bringing their other joined hands up to his own mouth and smiling against the long fingers intertwined with his own. "Whom I am very, very happy to be sharing a bed with."

Sherlock smiled, leaning a kiss to his cheek.

"You sleep, now. I'll keep the nightmares at bay."

Almost on command, John's eyes slid shut, relaxing against the younger man as the emotional and physical strain finally set in. His bandaged hand twitched in Sherlock's grip, hold ever vigilant even as the doctor began to dozed off.

"...Should rest, too... 'r body needs t' recover." He muttered with a tired slur, eyebrows twitching in temptation to furrow but not quite having the motivation to do so.

Sherlock hummed his agreement though he kept his eyes open, watching his John sleep for a moment to be sure he was and that he was doing so soundly.

He was not going to hurt this man in this way. Never again.

He owed John so much.

He slept eventually, not a super man any more than he was a hero. Sleep was nessessary and John's hand in his made it a comfort as well.

The Adventure of the Impulsive Partners

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