He lets you wipe up after he washes and looks at you every now and then as he hands stuff to you. He's still rather careful as he remembers you dropping the milk but your hands seem steadier now. A little.
He detests the silence. It's like you're not here at all.
"Nothing good on T.V tonight from what I know." he speaks up, as casually as he can; "How about we just sit on the sofa for the rest of the night and I read you the rest of that book. Sound good?"
He gives another nod. "Yes, John. That does sound good."
There's nearly no enthusiasm in it. As though he'd lost it. He attempts to smile at you, but it seems to fail him.
The fact his Owner has allowed him to stay here this long with you is unusual, really. Which only is going to make the part when he takes his Zero away more painful.
John goes to fetch the Count of Monte Cristo. He comes back, Mrs. Hudson has already lit the fire before going back into her own flat. John sits down on the sofa and beckons you to sit beside him.
"Right. Same chapter with the pirates again?" he asks as you sit down.
He smiles and positions himself so he's laying on his back against the armrest. He gently pulls you up so you're tucked between him and the back of the sofa, resting on his chest, before he pulls the quilt over the both of you. He holds you to him with one arm as the other holds the book for both of you to see. Everything seems to fit just perfectly.
"Right. You want Dantes escaping from the prison then, yeah?" He asks, rubbing your back.
With most of the lights off just the light of the fire illuminates them but the lamp in the corner gives enough to see the book. Otherwise the scene is just perfectly cosy.
[[ooc: Now THIS I want someone to draw! Like...right now.]]
He tells you about Dante's last moments with his best friend the priest before the older man passed away. How even in death his friend helped Dantes by giving him the opportunity to escape at last. He's on the last two pages of the chapter when he puts the book in your hand.
"Why don't you read the last bit to me?" He asks, moving both his arms around you now, holding you close. Secure. He hopes you can still read...
John gently prises the book from you hand and puts it on the floor. He then lets his arms resume their previous positions of holding you against him, your curls cushioning his chin. The comfort is so overwhelming it's almost easy to forget how very Not Good you are at the moment and that John has no idea of how to help you.
This is a start, he reckons. No more hospitals or tests or letting anyone mess you up. Just some T.L.C as Mrs. H puts it.
He whispers, hoping you haven't fallen asleep yet to miss it;
"You are Sherlock Holmes. You are amazing. You are fantastic. You are brilliant. You are loved. You deserved to be love.
...I love you." He closes his eyes and kisses your hair again.
He feels your tear fall onto his hand and he shifts so he can look at your face. He tilts your head up and his heart breaks for the fiftieth time in a week to see tears in your eyes.
"No matter what anyone has told you. No matter what you've been conditioned to believe - this is the truth, okay? You are the best man that I've ever known. The most human human being, not a machine or an object. And I love you. And I'm never leaving you or letting you be taken away from me again. Because this is where you belong. Right here, right now, with me. Safe. I'll kill anyone who tries to ruin that." He leans down to kiss your forehead before settling you again; "Sweet dreams, Zatarrah."
"No, no, no." He shakes his head, so resolute; "Not again. Never again, I promise. I know I've not done a good job of it so far but I'm going to protect you. Properly."
He pulls the quilt up more around your shoulders.
"But you need to trust me. You need to have faith that I can protect you. If you're ever scared or worried or you think someone is trying to get to you - you come to me. Straight away. And you tell me the truth. Is that understood?"
He tells you the truth. "Wasn't safe in the hospital. Not safe anywhere. Always there. Owner. Belong...not supposed to be on furniture, call you Sir...nothing...Zero...always Zero. Worthless Zero..."
He caresses your cheek; "You're not in the hospital anymore. You're here and you're safe. Your owner...Moriarty, he's not your owner, nobody is your owner. You own you. And you can sit on whatever furniture you want. You're not a pet. And you call me John like you always have. Last but not least, your name is Sherlock Holmes and you are the complete opposite of worthless. Are we clear?"
He's been captured and broken too many times to believe you now. But at least he can still tell you. "Everytime I think I've gotten away he burns me. Not safe. Not ever, ever safe...burned til I passed out. Always there when I wake up...always... Can't sleep. Not safe."
He's not quite frantic, he's very, very still. Almost leans into the caress. Wanting, needing, the love - and yet so afraid to accept it.
He can't help but let his own tears fall. How he could have failed you this badly? After everything you did to save him. And Mrs. Hudson and Greg. How could we have let this happen to you?
He doesn't know what to say other than promises he's made a thousand times already.
All he can do is hold you tight, hoping that the embrace alone will be enough of a shield even though every rational part of his brain says it wouldn't be. He sniffs and shudders tiny sobs into your hair, one hand moving up your back and gripping your shoulder blade.
He whispers through his tears; "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I'm so sorry."
He grips your hand. He shouldn't have told you. "D-don't cry. Please don't.. It's-it's alright. One of these times he'll get careless and kill me. Or he'll burn out my last brain cell, and I won't feel anything else. Either will do. Hope he kills me, so you don't have to s-see me..."
From his tone, it's clear a part of him wishes it's true.
You're just making him cry harder to the point he's practically bawling.
"Just shut up, Sherlock, just shut up, shut up, shut up," He whimpers between violent sobs as he squeezes you, kissing your head every now and then; "You can't d-die, do you hear? You can't ever die a-again. I can't do it a second time...You need t-to live. You need to WANT to live and n-not lose hope, ok? Because if you lose hope...if you give up then what am I gonna do? I'll end it Sherlock. Properly this time. If I lose you for good then nothing will hold me back, do you understand? So...fucking live. Live for me!"
"Shhh, shhh, it's okay. It's okay," He holds you in an iron tight grip; "He can't take you away. He's powerless. He can't do anything to you because he's not really here. It's just your mind messing with you and I know that doesn't make things any better but it means he can't take you away from me."
He holds your head to his chest; "Just relax. Close your eyes. Listen. You use your senses, unlike other people, remember? So trust what you're sensing now. What you're feeling, what you're hearing, what you smell. Right?...I'm here. It's just me and you...it'll always be me and you, always." He buries his lips in your hair; "Don't leave me, Sherlock, don't ever leave me alone again."
His breathing slowly quiets. It takes a long time, he has to force himself to inhale properly.
Somehow the words get through. "Can't ...can't last much longer. N-no ch-choice. Might be nothing...nothing left. Again. Just ...shell. Nothing... P-poor Sh-Sh-Sherlock. No- no more c-cases. Br-brain rots." His own name sounds so strange. As though he's forgotten it.
At last, exhaustion takes over his battered mind and he sleeps, clutching tightly to your jumper, straining to listen for your heartbeat even in sleep.
He doesn't loosen his grip even as you fall into sleep.
Your words keep going round and round in his head like spinning razorblades. He's terrified. He knows maybe he should be calling an ambulance. You might have an aneuryism. Or a tumour. They might have fried your brain to the point it can't repair itself and just keeps dying off.
He let's that horrific thought overwhelm him. No matter what is happening he can't bring himself to let you go. Not even to reach his mobile and dial 999. He can't call for Mrs. Hudson. All he can do is lay there. Because if these are your last moments then he's not leaving you alone for the world.
And it won't be too long until he joins you, wherever it is you go.
Somehow either the exhaustion or the fear itself causes him to pass out, head rolling against yours, arms still not loosening.
His mind lets him rest, lets his brain slowly piece what it can back together. Without nightmares. The cells can't focus to repair with blood rushing through at such a frantic rate when his heartbeat increases.
He sleeps, his brain shuts off mostly the audio, the cells aware that the audio is his greatest trigger. Shuts off all noise other than the steady heartbeat that isn't his, the voice that isn't his. The mumbles in sleep.
[[ooc: up to you if he has a good deep sleep or goes into a coma where he can only hear John's voice.]]
listless
Comments
He detests the silence. It's like you're not here at all.
"Nothing good on T.V tonight from what I know." he speaks up, as casually as he can; "How about we just sit on the sofa for the rest of the night and I read you the rest of that book. Sound good?"
There's nearly no enthusiasm in it. As though he'd lost it. He attempts to smile at you, but it seems to fail him.
The fact his Owner has allowed him to stay here this long with you is unusual, really.
Which only is going to make the part when he takes his Zero away more painful.
"Right. Same chapter with the pirates again?" he asks as you sit down.
"No, um...the previous chapter. Please."
At least he wasn't alone...or maybe he was.
Shakes his head. "No...um. The previous chapter. Please."
At least he wasn't alone.
Nobody loves you, Zero.
"Right. You want Dantes escaping from the prison then, yeah?" He asks, rubbing your back.
With most of the lights off just the light of the fire illuminates them but the lamp in the corner gives enough to see the book. Otherwise the scene is just perfectly cosy.
[[ooc: Now THIS I want someone to draw! Like...right now.]]
Suddenly he feels safe, securely wrapped against your heartbeat.
His Owner can't find him here. He closes his eyes briefly, emblazoning this image into his mind.
John's warmth, John's heartbeat. The scent of the old book. The sound of the fire giving a pleasant crackling.
Safe. If only he could stay here forever.
[[ooc: YEAH :D I wish I could draw :sadface: I wonder who I dare ask to do this :O]]
He tells you about Dante's last moments with his best friend the priest before the older man passed away. How even in death his friend helped Dantes by giving him the opportunity to escape at last. He's on the last two pages of the chapter when he puts the book in your hand.
"Why don't you read the last bit to me?" He asks, moving both his arms around you now, holding you close. Secure. He hopes you can still read...
Edited at 2012-04-07 03:24 am (UTC)
Which he is. He hasn't actually read a book in...he blinks, continuing to read. Not going to consider it.
He's going to remember this. He can't let anyone delete this.
He finally finishes the chapter as Dantes celebrates his freedom. He doesn't close the book, though he is tired and just wants to sleep.
With John's heartbeat as the rhythm.
This is a start, he reckons. No more hospitals or tests or letting anyone mess you up. Just some T.L.C as Mrs. H puts it.
He whispers, hoping you haven't fallen asleep yet to miss it;
"You are Sherlock Holmes.
You are amazing.
You are fantastic.
You are brilliant.
You are loved.
You deserved to be love.
...I love you." He closes his eyes and kisses your hair again.
Edited at 2012-04-07 03:51 am (UTC)
You are filth.
You are nothing.
You are stupid.
Everyone hates you.
Why would anybody love you?
A tear leaks out of his eye. Can't cry. Not supposed to cry. He doesn't feel amazing or fantastic or brilliant. He doesn't feel like Sherlock.
But he feels loved. And that, for now, is enough. He clutches your hand, bringing it to his lips. Because he can't speak right now.
"No matter what anyone has told you. No matter what you've been conditioned to believe - this is the truth, okay? You are the best man that I've ever known. The most human human being, not a machine or an object. And I love you. And I'm never leaving you or letting you be taken away from me again. Because this is where you belong. Right here, right now, with me. Safe. I'll kill anyone who tries to ruin that." He leans down to kiss your forehead before settling you again; "Sweet dreams, Zatarrah."
Edited at 2012-04-07 04:02 am (UTC)
There's no reason for me to hope. I can't. His eyes might tell you that much.
Edited at 2012-04-07 04:08 am (UTC)
He pulls the quilt up more around your shoulders.
"But you need to trust me. You need to have faith that I can protect you. If you're ever scared or worried or you think someone is trying to get to you - you come to me. Straight away. And you tell me the truth. Is that understood?"
He's not quite frantic, he's very, very still. Almost leans into the caress. Wanting, needing, the love - and yet so afraid to accept it.
He doesn't know what to say other than promises he's made a thousand times already.
All he can do is hold you tight, hoping that the embrace alone will be enough of a shield even though every rational part of his brain says it wouldn't be. He sniffs and shudders tiny sobs into your hair, one hand moving up your back and gripping your shoulder blade.
He whispers through his tears; "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I'm so sorry."
From his tone, it's clear a part of him wishes it's true.
"Just shut up, Sherlock, just shut up, shut up, shut up," He whimpers between violent sobs as he squeezes you, kissing your head every now and then; "You can't d-die, do you hear? You can't ever die a-again. I can't do it a second time...You need t-to live. You need to WANT to live and n-not lose hope, ok? Because if you lose hope...if you give up then what am I gonna do? I'll end it Sherlock. Properly this time. If I lose you for good then nothing will hold me back, do you understand? So...fucking live. Live for me!"
You can tell, he tenses. Begins to tremble a little.
"H-hurts...so m-m-much. Can't leave. C-c-c-can't st-stay. W-want to st-stay, J-john. Want t-t-to f-forget. C-can't f-forget. H-hurts...b-burns...j-just...m-make i-it st-stop. M-make hi-him st-stop."
He sees only what he can - you can't see it.
Even if you are holding to him, protecting him.
He points at his Owner.
"Ple-please d-don't t-take m-me aw-away. Pl-please. Don't l-let him t-take y-you away...I'll -I'll be g-g-good. I - I swear."
"Shhh, shhh, it's okay. It's okay," He holds you in an iron tight grip; "He can't take you away. He's powerless. He can't do anything to you because he's not really here. It's just your mind messing with you and I know that doesn't make things any better but it means he can't take you away from me."
He holds your head to his chest; "Just relax. Close your eyes. Listen. You use your senses, unlike other people, remember? So trust what you're sensing now. What you're feeling, what you're hearing, what you smell. Right?...I'm here. It's just me and you...it'll always be me and you, always." He buries his lips in your hair; "Don't leave me, Sherlock, don't ever leave me alone again."
So alone. Owe you so much.
Somehow the words get through. "Can't ...can't last much longer. N-no ch-choice. Might be nothing...nothing left. Again. Just ...shell. Nothing... P-poor Sh-Sh-Sherlock. No- no more c-cases. Br-brain rots." His own name sounds so strange. As though he's forgotten it.
At last, exhaustion takes over his battered mind and he sleeps, clutching tightly to your jumper, straining to listen for your heartbeat even in sleep.
Your words keep going round and round in his head like spinning razorblades. He's terrified. He knows maybe he should be calling an ambulance. You might have an aneuryism. Or a tumour. They might have fried your brain to the point it can't repair itself and just keeps dying off.
He let's that horrific thought overwhelm him. No matter what is happening he can't bring himself to let you go. Not even to reach his mobile and dial 999. He can't call for Mrs. Hudson. All he can do is lay there. Because if these are your last moments then he's not leaving you alone for the world.
And it won't be too long until he joins you, wherever it is you go.
Somehow either the exhaustion or the fear itself causes him to pass out, head rolling against yours, arms still not loosening.
He sleeps, his brain shuts off mostly the audio, the cells aware that the audio is his greatest trigger. Shuts off all noise other than the steady heartbeat that isn't his, the voice that isn't his. The mumbles in sleep.
[[ooc: up to you if he has a good deep sleep or goes into a coma where he can only hear John's voice.]]