(A/N- I had a second story and a different end to this "Consciously Drawing You". While I'd still like to do a follow up of this story line, I didn't like where the other was going. I'll be reworking it eventually and for now we'll just keep the ending of Psychosomatic universe as is in this chapter. Also, lyrics in this belong to Mumford and Sons)
Sherlock looked in at John tied to the bed, sitting up and running his hands frantically over his chest. John called out for him and Sherlock froze. He thought he'd been making such great progress but here was his John Watson, in a state of chaotic panic.
Going to the edge of the bed and sitting down, Sherlock gently shushed him, putting a hand to his head and running his long fingers through John's hair. "John, everything's alright. You're here and you're still mine."
He settled down, easing back into the headboard, mouth still open with breath slightly quick. But at least he was settling. Sherlock leaned closer breathing in the warm scent of John and ever so slowly put his lips to John's ear. "You're a good man, John Watson." Sherlock's fingers danced their way up his arm to the base of his thumb, stroking it like he would when picking at his violin strings. John's hand was twitching, jumping, and he pulled away slightly.
"I can't see you, Sherlock." John sounded close to panic once more and Sherlock pulled back.
The point wasn't to push him too far. "Yes, just feel."
John's breath stuck in his throat for a moment at the raspy sensual tone from Sherlock's voice. He'd often thought of him as a non-sexual being; to hear such lust dripping from each word he spoke to John had the doctor twisting in ways that were not unpleasant.
Sherlock watched John for minutes, a silence of breathing resting between them. His mind was racing with this sick closeness between them and with what he was going to ask of John and himself. Kneeling on the bed once more, he put his lips to the satin blindfold just over John's eyes, planting soft kisses on each on. He moved down, their breath mixing tangibly with not but milimetres between them. "John…" He was asking.
It was John who closed the distance, seeming to look for that comfort of touch that would distract from the loss of his sight. Sherlock pressed his lips back and brought his fingers back up to John's gun hand, dancing across his calloused skin- a glide of silk over practiced skin.
Sherlock pulled back and away, breaking their mixing of sensitive skin and wet caress. He climbed from the bed and went back to the iPod, hitting play.
Rip the earth in two with your mind
Seal the urge which ensues with brass wires
I never meant you any harm
But your tears feel warm as they fall on my forearm
John tilted his head and Sherlock watched as John listened to the lyrics of the song. He didn't stay away for long, re-perching on the bed and reaching up for the blindfold. He tugged it slowly, letting the silk slip away from John's eyes. They were closed and John looked content in such a way that Sherlock had to stare for a few heartbeats. This was his John- the one under control and safe here with Sherlock.
"You're a good man, John Watson."
But close my eyes for a while
Force from the world a patient smile
John's eyes slowly peeled open and dull-hazel blinked lazily at Sherlock. "You kissed me."
Sherlock frowned, that upside down twist of annoyance when someone wasn't seeing what was 'obvious' to him. "You're aptitude at pointing out the completely obvious and least helpful details has remained with you, dear Watson."
If he hadn't been chained to the bed, in a mix of content and rushing feelings, John would have laughed. "Thank you. How about we let me go now? Surely you're done with your experiments?"
Sherlock looked at him flatly and reached up, grabbing the hand that had been tortured with needles and knives, the hand that John so religiously lived by, and it jolted then shook. "I want to fix you, John, don't you see? It was my fault that he got his hands on you and I want to fix it all."
John gasped from the shock of the grasp and panted, watching Sherlock's face turn from serene concentration to something primal and dangerous. John thought at first that what was suddenly in him was fear but that quickly was replaced by some other feeling he couldn't quite place. "Sherlock…it's not your fault."
"Sure it is. I made you 'not good', didn't I? Perhaps they were right." Sherlock let go of John's hand and sagged away.
Pulling against the rope that held him to the bed, John tried to get closer to the man. "Sherlock, it's not your fault. I don't blame you."
Sherlock moved before John could do much more than gawk and then his bonds were loose, his hands falling back to his sides.
Awake my soul
Awake my soul
How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes
I struggle to find any truth in your lies
And now my heart stumbles on things I don't know
This weakness I feel I must finally show
John sat there, watching Sherlock leave the room, and leave John. Sherlock was right- John wasn't back to normal yet and his leaving hurt in a way John knew it shouldn't. He got up and shut the iPod off, not caring for the lyrics to be playing in his head.
Standing in the middle of his room, John settled his weight between his two legs, a little shaky without his cane. He outstretched his hand before him and watched it in the dusty sunlight from his window. It was shaking and faint scarred pricks shone whitely before his eyes. He flipped it over so he was looking at the back of his hand and it still shook. Grimacing, he limped over to his desk and grabbed the cane that leaned against it. He needed to get to his gun but the panic in his chest was making his leg hurt worse and he wouldn't make it across the room to his bedside table without the damned cane. Getting tight in his other hand, he wiped the shaking gun hand down his hip and thigh, as if he could rub the tremor out of it.
Cane-ing his was to the bedside table, he pulled open the drawer and looked down at the black gun sitting tightly inside. It was loaded, he knew that much. Lifting it up he felt that familiar weight, the bulk that sat neatly in his hand, he held out his hand once more. Still it shook and John let out a hiss of annoyed air. Shaking his head and dropping his arm he was about to put everything away and go for a walk when Sherlock came bursting back through.
"We've got a case, doctor." His eyes went to John's hand. "Oh good, you've got your gun. Let's go." Sherlock turned without a word of explanation and left John's door open.
Eyes wide with surprise, John stood dumbly for a moment until Sherlock yelled from downstairs. "Hurry, John!"
Stuffing the gun in his waistband at his lower back, John limped out, leaning a little less heavily on his cane. Going down the stairs at so quick a pace had John's leg thrumming with an aching pain. Sherlock was already in his coat and holding out John's. Taking it and slipping it on swiftly, John followed the detective out of the flat and onto the walk. John glanced both ways for a taxi or for Lestrade. Seeing neither he noted that Sherlock was already rushing away.
Picking up a quick pace to catch him, John was shortly beside him. "So, where are we going?"
"Client. Few streets down." Sherlock, hands tucked in his pockets and pulling the jacket taut across his chest, looked at John's leg. "It's alright?"
John looked at it as well. "Uh, yeah. For now." He looked up at Sherlock with a pursing of lips that drew neat lines around the sides of them. "What client?"
"Just a client. Come on, she's expecting us." Sherlock pulled out his phone and passed it over to John. "Send something for me?"
John took it in the hand that was not holding the cane, not noting how still it was. He clicked it on, watching the screen brighten to a new text area. "Alright. What should I write?"
"Stay put. He may have a gun. Bringing some help." Sherlock didn't look at him though John had paused in his walking at the words and stared daftly at his back. "Keep up, John. This could be interesting."
Coughing and walking quickly to catch up, John typed out the words with one hand and handed it back. "Here, now mind telling me what we're about to just stroll right into?"
"Not particularly. Just pull the gun if someone tries to shoot me." Sherlock turned down another sidewalk and stood in front of a new set of apartments. "Ah, here we are. Let's go, Doctor." He climbed up the steps and into the front door.
John followed after, shaking his head. He put the cane down solidly and stepped up without regard to pain his leg. Shutting the door behind him, his hand shook slightly. Sherlock was already up another set of stairs and opening the door to an apartment. He stepped in, leaving the door wide open. John went up the stairs, slightly out of breath from the effort he hadn't put on his body since the war. The most recent trip to the war. He sighed and halfway up the steps froze.
"John! Your gun!" Sherlock yelled from the flat and something loud and heavy crashed from that room.
The cane fell from his hands and his gun hand wrapped around the hard metal, fingers grasping in a familiar way around the butt end. His forefinger lay across the trigger lightly but still ready to pull if he needed. Jogging up the stairs, fire running through the veins in his leg, John entered the room gun first. He held out his hands, eyes searching and a hand came down atop his and the gun. A familiar hand with long silk fingers. John looked over into silver eyes and raised an eyebrow, breathing heavily. "The hell was that, Sherlock?"
"Your hands are not shaking John." Sherlock looked down at them and so did John.
He was right, the hands wrapped around the service piece were still as stone and the pain in his leg had not stopped him from getting here. "You…and your brother…" John took in a deep breath. "All of it, London…I don't know what I'm going to do with all of you. By all rights, I should be damned well dead." John put the gun away and turned to go out of the room. "You owe me dinner, Sherlock. And a proper date if you think you're going to kiss me again."
Five months later
John woke up with a start and a yelp, glancing around a dark room and feeling panic rise in his chest, blocking his throat. He couldn't see. He couldn't tell where he was. What if he was back there, with…
"John. Come here," Sherlock said from next to him, reaching a hand up to caress his shoulder. "It's cold, please come back down here."
Easing back, John curled back into Sherlock, his voice chasing away another night mare. "It's getting better. First one in weeks, Sherlock."
"Mm, I know. If they go forever does that mean I have to stop sleeping here?" Sherlock's breath danced over the little hairs on the back of John's neck.
"If you stop sleeping here, I'll have the dreams again." John turned around so he could look into the eyes of silver and get a gentle kiss from a sociopath's tender lips. His sociopath.
They'd beaten the odds, John figured. Whatever those odds were exactly. They'd beaten them and gone against the "they", not matter how people may have looked down on their methods.