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The sound hits the walls.They move.The windows tremble,the lights are too bright.They scream.The floor gets softer and softer, moving under his feet, making them tremble.They get weak.His arms have to hold on to something, he falls and there's no one to hold him.His heart is pounding, he can't breathe, his heart is beating arrhythmically.He's dying.
-Holmes?
The voice sounds calm and somehow he can feel it on his stubble-covered skin.
-Sherlock? It's...
Strong fingers touch him, somehow the floor gets harder, the walls widen, the windows don't shatter. He's alive.
-Oh, my God, Sherlock... it's OK, it's OK, I think we've gone too far.
Holmes denies, but not in his voice, the very head that's about to pop off his neck.
What were they arguing about anyway? It was something about courage and unrequited love. Or maybe not - going to such lengths just for the sake of it was hardly like him.Frankly, it was impossible that such a trifling subject could have stirred him up, stirred his feelings, which was only possible in situations that really demanded it, in this case he could hardly find anything. Glancing at Watson, he wondered how true that could be.Nothing was easy with this man.As pathetic as it was, even a silly argument didn't help.
-Come on, come on, you've made your bed today, haven't you? It would do you good to lie down.
Holmes tried to refuse his touch, but the floor still trembled and there was occasional pain in his skull, his brain expanding and contracting in an erratic rhythm.
Watson used those fighting hands with that soft practicality that people in his profession are so good at. He laid him down as soon as he had thrown back the blankets, closed the curtains and hurried back to him to unbutton his shoes. The constant vertigo prevented him from seeing rather than understanding Watson's actions. It was not the first time Holmes had wondered why Watson's touch did not make him feel uncomfortable or how it was that his manners were not repulsive.
-You know, I... -Holmes listened attentively, not even poking his head out from under the pillow and blanket. However, he pushed everything aside to look at the doctor. He paced back and forth, the window may have been closed along with the curtains, but light still streamed in through the wide-open door, observing every detail of him, from the concerned gesture to the clenching of hands that tried to push aside all the words that were useless to him at the moment.
Watson's voice soothed him, behind each spoken word he felt the floor, walls and glass fall into place, the confident, albeit hurried, steps were precise, millimetres in their distance and rhythm. Perfect.
-I... You are a good man, Holmes, you know that, but if it's my bad temper and my stupidity, that I cannot even have a discussion without going so far, perhaps... - Holmes shuddered. Watson wanted to go away.
-I should think of finding another place. You may not believe it, but I care for you very much, and if the only thing I have to do to keep your peace of mind when you are not playing for your life is to go away. I shall certainly do so - he concluded, standing up before Holmes like a good soldier.
-If that's what you want - said the detective, struggling to ignore the faint tremor shaking his back, "I won't stop you," he watched as the doctor swallowed, clenched his fists and snorted softly. In fact, it wasn't so much that he wanted to leave as Holmes would have prevented him, and he stopped him before he saw him turn away.
-But before you start packing, John, let me tell you something: it's the stupidest thing you've said since we've known each other." - he almost smiles as Watson snorts and leans back in the chair next to the bed. -You can go - he laughs haughtily, intent on making Watson talk. He needs to hear it.
-I am not a toy, Holmes, you cannot behave like this, insulting me and at the same time, ah! You piss me off, I don't even know why I demand anything of you! - he growls, raising his hands until his palms crash into his face, cupping his eyes and hiding, resting his elbows on his knees.
-I don't even know why I think I can walk away. Obviously there's no way out, that's why no one leaves, that's why Mrs Hudson hasn't chased you away. We belong to you completely, Sherlock Holmes. he finishes, his voice as tired as a man who has resigned himself to the storm flooding his house, no matter how hard he tries to avoid it.
Holmes can only breathe a sigh of relief, he wants to consume John Watson, wants to possess his voice and his soothing footsteps, the strength with which he struggles, and every attempt to learn the science of deduction.
-Are you staying? -He asks, because even if he knows the answer, it is necessary, absolutely inevitable, for him to be listened to.
-Yes.
John belonged to him, and the very thought, under strange and uncharted circumstances, reassured him.