Sherlock... God, Sherlock, it wasn't. I would've- we would've- [His voice cracks, and he has to take a moment, turning his face away from the camera and raising an arm to cover it. He takes a few seconds, shoulders shaking as he pushes it all down. This isn't the time. This isn't the place. It never will be, either. He has his friend again, but there's a future beyond Norfinbury to look to if they all get back. One where Sherlock isn't there, and John still is.
He wipes his eyes surreptitiously with his sleeves.]
M'hands. You wanted to see them.
[Let's focus on that because this is far too much emotion right now. John turns back to the screen and sits forward, holding up one hand as close to the camera as he can get. It hangs limply on his wrist.]
It's not numb, no unusual sensations or pain. [He tries to fall into a clinical drone.] Paralysis extends up past the wrist, but doesn't affect any higher. Sensations are felt when applied, including cold and hot water, and force enough to cause pain.
John is suffering, and he may well even believe Sherlock is still suicidal as he is feigning coming from that moment on the roof. But nothing more will be said. Sherlock cannot risk the truth coming out and he finds he doesn't have the stomach for perpetuating this lie more than necessary.
His eyes drop from the camera to focus on the room beyond for a moment, pretending he cannot see John struggling not to cry. He only lifts his gaze again when that hand flops into frame looking perfectly healthy.]
Do you have gloves?
[Focusing on the clinical is much easier.]
With a lack of movement possible, your circulation will be compromised and it will be far easier for you to get frostbite.
I have gloves, yeah. I'll have Kid help me put them on.
[It's intensely humiliating to have to ask for something like that, but John's practical enough to know that will be far faster and far less frustrating than doing it himself.]
Building 52 on Dr. House's map. It's the clinic. I can probably meet you near the entrance to the ice tunnels. Did you find anything you wanted at the hospital?
[Why Sherlock wants to meet in 'mostly a ruin,' John doesn't know, but it's Sherlock. He's not going to question it all that much.]
All right. How many days? I can be there soon. I might be a little slower. Sorry. I just... I woke up last night. I couldn't-I couldn't get... [There's a catch in John's voice before he swallows and clears his throat.]
Kid helped me get out of the body bag this morning. Not in the best shape just at the mo.
[He means emotionally, but that works for physically, too.]
In retrospect that shouldn't surprise him, it merely adds to the suggestibility and illusion of a death, but it's so needlessly cruel. He's almost angry.]
Elevated and erratic breathing, heightened emotional state, fractured sentence structure; you may be on the verge of a panic attack. Take deep breaths, John.
I am not on the verge of a panic attack. [That's snapped, John visibly bristling on the camera. Now that Sherlock's said it, though, the symptoms he's called out are in the doctor's head. He can feel his heartbeat picking up, breath becoming shorter.]
I'm not. I... I'm not! [He closes his eyes tight shut and breathes deeply, dropping his head down. Breathe, just breathe. Please don't let this happen again. He can't stand panicking twice like that in one day. Sherlock's seen him in a state before, but John had been under the influence of hallucinogenics. Emotional distress like this is more humiliating.]
I'm not panicking. I'm not going to panic. [It's repeated like a mantra under his breath as he breathes deeply, counting to eight each time.]
You are not going to succumb to a panic attack, open your eyes and look at me. Don't fall for such an obvious psychological trick; you're patently not dead, and so a body bag should hold no fear for you.
[John forces his eyes open, forces himself to focus on Sherlock, his face, his voice over the tablet. Logic isn't an especially powerful defense against a panic attack, but here we are. Sherlock's never been terribly good with emotional outbursts. But if he just thinks of it like the lab, like Baskerville. Focus on Sherlock.
The doctor takes deep breaths, eyes fixed on his friend--a friend who is impossibly alive and real here, whom he needs to be ready and able to assist for any of the challenges of this place. It's a half a minute later that John's breathing starts to even out, some of the panic abates, or at least gets pushed further down inside of him to be dealt with later. He's a military doctor. None of this should faze him. It's just so many things all piled one atop the other.]
[He has a small smile at his lips when John does open his eyes again. Probably not the most appropriate of expressions when your best friend is suffering a panic attack, but Sherlock doesn't seem to notice.]
Perhaps okay is overstating it, but your pallor is improving.
[John can't help mirroring the smile. All right, this is stupid, but it's helpful. There's a part of him that wishes the people snarling about Sherlock being nothing more than an arrogant prick could see him when he's like this. He takes one more deep breath before relaxing, sitting up a little more. The panic's abated for the moment. It might come back, and his heart is still running faster than it should be, but he's off the edge now.]
You're a bloody menace. Thanks, Sherlock. I'll try to keep it together. Just been a rough little while.
Then I am sure you will thrive, adversity is your bread and butter.
[That, and danger. More danger. But John doesn't deal well with a boring life, it's why his best friend and his eventual wife turned out to be the people they were.]
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He wipes his eyes surreptitiously with his sleeves.]
M'hands. You wanted to see them.
[Let's focus on that because this is far too much emotion right now. John turns back to the screen and sits forward, holding up one hand as close to the camera as he can get. It hangs limply on his wrist.]
It's not numb, no unusual sensations or pain. [He tries to fall into a clinical drone.] Paralysis extends up past the wrist, but doesn't affect any higher. Sensations are felt when applied, including cold and hot water, and force enough to cause pain.
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John is suffering, and he may well even believe Sherlock is still suicidal as he is feigning coming from that moment on the roof. But nothing more will be said. Sherlock cannot risk the truth coming out and he finds he doesn't have the stomach for perpetuating this lie more than necessary.
His eyes drop from the camera to focus on the room beyond for a moment, pretending he cannot see John struggling not to cry. He only lifts his gaze again when that hand flops into frame looking perfectly healthy.]
Do you have gloves?
[Focusing on the clinical is much easier.]
With a lack of movement possible, your circulation will be compromised and it will be far easier for you to get frostbite.
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[It's intensely humiliating to have to ask for something like that, but John's practical enough to know that will be far faster and far less frustrating than doing it himself.]
I'll head down to the hospital tomorrow.
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[He hasn't even looked at the morgue drawers for days, but he wants to be moving.]
Where are you? I'll meet you halfway.
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[He barely remembers being here.]
Head due south and I shall meet you at the house which is described as mostly a ruin, that seems an equidistant location from us both.
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All right. How many days? I can be there soon. I might be a little slower. Sorry. I just... I woke up last night. I couldn't-I couldn't get... [There's a catch in John's voice before he swallows and clears his throat.]
Kid helped me get out of the body bag this morning. Not in the best shape just at the mo.
[He means emotionally, but that works for physically, too.]
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In retrospect that shouldn't surprise him, it merely adds to the suggestibility and illusion of a death, but it's so needlessly cruel. He's almost angry.]
Elevated and erratic breathing, heightened emotional state, fractured sentence structure; you may be on the verge of a panic attack. Take deep breaths, John.
[This is him helping.]
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I'm not. I... I'm not! [He closes his eyes tight shut and breathes deeply, dropping his head down. Breathe, just breathe. Please don't let this happen again. He can't stand panicking twice like that in one day. Sherlock's seen him in a state before, but John had been under the influence of hallucinogenics. Emotional distress like this is more humiliating.]
I'm not panicking. I'm not going to panic. [It's repeated like a mantra under his breath as he breathes deeply, counting to eight each time.]
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[It's rapped out.]
You are not going to succumb to a panic attack, open your eyes and look at me. Don't fall for such an obvious psychological trick; you're patently not dead, and so a body bag should hold no fear for you.
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The doctor takes deep breaths, eyes fixed on his friend--a friend who is impossibly alive and real here, whom he needs to be ready and able to assist for any of the challenges of this place. It's a half a minute later that John's breathing starts to even out, some of the panic abates, or at least gets pushed further down inside of him to be dealt with later. He's a military doctor. None of this should faze him. It's just so many things all piled one atop the other.]
I'm okay.
[Said after a minute or two.]
I'm... I'm okay. Sorry.
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Perhaps okay is overstating it, but your pallor is improving.
[That smile grows wider.]
Continue to breathe, John.
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But there's the smallest smile quirking his own lips now as he breathes deeply.]
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[His eyebrows rise, just as his smile grows even more.]
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You're a bloody menace. Thanks, Sherlock. I'll try to keep it together. Just been a rough little while.
[A rough several months, and not just here.]
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[That, and danger. More danger. But John doesn't deal well with a boring life, it's why his best friend and his eventual wife turned out to be the people they were.]
I will see you in a few days, John.
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[He feels marginally better as he orders his tablet to hang up and turns his attention to the other conversations here.]