Chemical Disaster {JOHNLOCK}

Shards Of Glass

   
   "Sherlock?" John said tenderly as he lifted his hand to cup his cheeks. He smiled his softest smile, but Sherlock didn't return it. His expression was pure terror.

   "Sherlock? What is it?" John asked, voice trembling with doubt. His fingers brushed his face like the slightest breeze. Eyes bored into Sherlock's, he let the question that had been taunting him escape from his closely guarded lips. "Don't you love me?"

   Sherlock didn't answer.

   Blood started seeping out of his cadaverously pale skin.

   "NO! SHERLOCK!" John screamed. He held Sherlock's face with both of his hands.

   What John saw next was the literal embodiment of horror itself. His hands weren't made of skin and bone. They were five transparent sharp pieces of glass, one for each finger, hitched together around a larger one. His palm. They were coated with a viscous carmine substance.

   Then the atrocious reality hit him like a bus. He had done this to Sherlock. He had cut him with his monstrous fingers while trying to caress his cheeks. John's legs threatened to give out under the weight this realization brought upon him.

"Sherlock, I..." his voice broke.

"Don't be sorry." Sherlock said clinically, looking at John with an eerie air of tranquility. He slid his right hand into his coat pocket. "Because I'm not."

    Sherlock leveled the pistol he had just pulled out at John's heart and fired.

  
*

    
     The door swung open so fast it nearly smashed into the wall. John had just awoken, and the thunderous boom was like a tormenting echo to his nightmare. The vivid image of Sherlock shooting at him still straggled behind, accompanied by the gunshots reverberating in his mind.

    "John?"

    Like a residue of his nightmare, John's reflex was to recoil.

    For the briefest moment, hurt reshaped Sherlock's features. "Are you alright?"

    "Of course," his voice wobbled dangerously, "Why would you think otherwise?"

    Sherlock looked at John. Really looked at him.

   John shut his eyes. Why? Why did he even bother crafting preposterous lies when he knew very well Sherlock could tell truth and false apart with a blindfold on his eyes.

     "You called me." Sherlock finally stated.

     Called was a bit of an euphemism. John had  literally screamed Sherlock's name on the top of his lungs during his sleep.

     "Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up." John got out of his bed awkwardly.

     "Don't be."

    John was struck by a nauseating sense of déjà vu. Don't be sorry. Because I'm not.

     "You didn't wake me at all." John was hauled back to reality. Sherlock offered a weak smile. "I never sleep until this late."

John turned to his nightstand, where an alarm clock was sitting, indicating 9:04 AM.

"Shit! I'm late!" An hours behind schedule, John hurried to the kitchen and tuned the kettle on. He must have been in really deep sleep when he had his nightmare to not hear his alarm.

"Oh you're going to work today?"

John wasn't used to Sherlock asking stupid questions. At the same time, using sarcasm in this type of small talk wasn't quite his style.

" 'Course I'm going to work. It Thursday."

"Thought you'd take a day off after such a turbulent night."

John had an uncanny impression Sherlock was referring to his nightmare rather than their misadventure at Montague Street, regardless of how he had procured himself the notice. His brushed it away, sure he was overthinking.

A day off. That sounded like a brilliant idea actually. It had just entered his mind when John felt soreness permeate his excoriated arms, lassitude crashing him like a stack of books falling from a bookshelf.

"Yes. And that is exactly what I'm about to do! Thanks for the suggestion."

John called the secretary at his office then sent a text to his colleagues to signal his absence. When he finally looked up from his phone, John caught Sherlock's gaze. His face pinched into a grimace at the sight of Sherlock's bandage-covered cheeks, and the memory of last evening resurfaced, interwoven with shreds of his nightmare.

   Sherlock averted his eyes. John's uneasy expression made him self-conscious. Did his wound make him unsightly? Would it leave a scar, marking him as forever hideous? Sherlock hadn't ever had this kind of thoughts. Being aesthetically pleasing had always been the least of his worries. It was a foreign thing to him, a man whose entire career and existence had been built on his wits.

"We should change your bandage." John observed. Before Sherlock's lips even parted to let out an answer, John went to the bathroom and rummaged through the drawers for a first aid kit. Coming back in the living room with a bottle of rubbing alcohol, some gauze pads and surgical tape in hand, he sat on the couch, facing Sherlock.

John removed the bandage then cleaned the healing wound with much dexterity and care. The ethanol-imbibed gauze pads sent a series of stings around Sherlock's damaged skin. John felt him inhale a sharp breath and interrupted his movement.

"Hang on, we're almost done." he encouraged.

During the whole process, John kept an eye on his fingers, convinced they would spontaneously turn into bloodstained glass fragments.

The little physical distance brought nervousness upon the two men. John's fingers diffused numbness everywhere they touched, masking Sherlock's pain in a surprisingly efficient way. They both wanted to stay this close for eternity, but too soon, the wound was cleaned and the bandage changed.

John poured them two cups of tea and went to cook some eggs. He placed both plates across the kitchen counter.

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest.

"No. You are going to eat. Period. End of discussion." John said before Sherlock had the time to utter a syllable.

Sherlock slumped down on his chair and began poking his food with his fork, his lips forming a childish pout. John ate silently, occasionally glimpsing at Sherlock to check if he was eating.

"Eat. It's going to be cold." John said after seeing Sherlock push his scrambled eggs to the right of the plate, then to the left, and back to the right again for five minutes.

Sherlock ignored him.

"I'm not going to heat them for you. You'll have to use the microwave yourself." John warned.

Sherlock finally looked up. "Fine," he stuffed a spoonful reluctantly in his mouth.

John waited until Sherlock swallowed the last bit of his breakfast before asking the question that had been burning his lips ever since the police miraculously arrived at Montague Street last night.

"So. How did the police just appear out of nowhere? I don't believe in divination or coincidence, but I believe in Sherlock Holmes."