He is absolutely, breathtakingly gorgeous. The bastard.
my heart doesn’t race when you touch me
livestream sketch for credence
The light eyes stayed fixed in the void, staring at nothing.
Mycroft leaned over his right shoulder from behind the wheelchair. He tried again, louder.
The young man finally turned his head towards his brother, his eyes scanning his face. The elder noticed the knit of his brows as he searched in his so few memories.
“Yes.” he answered finally.
“We’re arrived, you can get up.”
Someone knocked at the door and a sandy haired head popped in the door frame.
“Oh, hello John.” he said with a smile. “Just at the right moment.”
“Need to dash ? A new war to start, I suppose ?”
“Yes, I am fifteen minutes late already. Oh, you know me so well dear John.” He chuckled. “I leave him to you then, goodbye.”
It became a routine over the time, this joke, whenever they met here.
Mycroft reached for his coat, carefully folded on the back of the only armchair of the room then walked to the door.
John was hanging up his own coat on the hook but let it drop on the floor. Mycroft turned on his heels, his face showing he clearly didn’t expect an answer. Not from his brother. Sherlock was dead to the world, locked in his own mind the major part of the time. The few rare moments when he chose to talk were the ones with John, the only person able to free the man from his stupor. He was far less responsive to Mycroft’s presence.
Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on his brother, gaze still a little distant though. Aknowledging someone else’s presence aside from John’s was something utterly new. Mycroft cleared his throat.
John smiled as the door closed behind the man of the government.
“Well, it’s a progress, isn’t it ?”
He walked towards the wheelchair where the detective was still sat. He stopped few steps away and held out his hands.
“Come on, get up Sherlock.” he said, encouraging.
The tall man slowly pushed himself from the back of the chair. John noticed that the tremor of his pale hands seemed to disappear gradually, with each passing day. A ghost of the man few weeks ago flashed before his eyes, paler and weaker. His members trembling. It took him five goes to finally get up and stand on his feet, unsteady. This time, Sherlock managed to stand up with less effort and in one try. After what he slowly made his way to the bed, with little steps, one after the other.
John hated how fragile he looked, how frail he was in this gown that was too large for him. He stayed near him, in case his legs gave out, lips pursed in a thin line.
“You seem in good form today.” he said with a soft smile while he made Sherlock turn around to sit on the edge of the bed.
The answer took some time to come, flat.
“How so ?” John frowned, holding him with one arm around his waist. “Do you still have headaches ?”
Sherlock simply nodded and John began to rummage in the night stand’s drawer. He read that the next series of exams where scheduled in two days, mainly blood and endurance tests.
“I’ll try to see if they can add a brain scanner, just in case.” he said thoughtful, putting Sherlock’s medical file aside.
Mycroft had given him clearance to access it. He wasn’t a specialist, and it really wasn’t his role, but he was by far the closest person to the detective. If anyone had the ability, held the key to all these locked memories, it was him.
Sherlock was staring at his feet: one of his slippers fell on the floor and somehow it seemed to bother him. John couldn’t stand it, all of it. Sherlock Holmes wasn’t even a ghost of himself. He was a just a shell made of flesh, blood and bones and nothing else. He slid his arms around him and pulled him close, ducked his face his neck. All John wanted was Sherlock to be back. Nothing more. Just the friend, the insufferable flatmate, a man he loved. He grabbed the gown, the fabric crumpling in his hands.
At first, he was so focused on the pain stinging in his heart that he didn’t noticed it. But there was a hand petting his head, gently ruffling his hair. John pulled back: Sherlock’s gaze was focused on some undefined point in the room but it was the tall man who was reasurring him. It felt strange but John somehow found the strength he needed. He kneeled down and put the slipper back on Sherlock’s foot. There was hope.
“So how was the walk ?”
AFEJKHGEK this is amazing and totally different from what I was thinking, but wow
;A; Oh Sherlock, I hope you get your memories back!!
Rivers and roads.