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John Watson was used to being woken up. He was used to midnight, he was used to 3:00 AM, and he was used to 5:30 AM. The usual culprit was the violin, but sometimes a call from Lestrade might come in at 2:00 in the morning and he'd have to practically roll himself down the stairs into a taxi to go look at a decapitated corpse in the park. Twice in a row last week, Sherlock had been so eager to get to a crime scene that John hadn't even had the time to put on shoes; he'd had to wear his slippers. The indignity still smarted, but these were the sort of sacrifices one had to make with Sherlock Holmes.
This morning, however, it was neither the violin nor the phone that woke him. It was a yell of pain.
The sound reached him dimly in the middle of a rather odd dream about his childhood pet, a Corgy named Marty. For a moment, John thought that the dog had made the noise, but then he awoke with a jolt. It took him several seconds to remember that he'd heard a noise at all, and several more to process that it'd been a scream. He sat up sharply, cursing under his breath, and scrambled frantically out of bed. He was halfway down the stairs when he started to feel dizzy as the blood rushed to his head, but he only clutched the bannister harder as he hurtled into the sitting room. He looked around wildly, still in a sleep-induced haze, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps he'd only dreamt the sound.
Just when he was starting to feel rather foolish, he turned and saw Sherlock bending over the sink in the kitchen. John could hear the tap running
"Bloody hell, are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine," Sherlock said in a taut sort of voice
"No, seriously, are you okay?" John walked forward and nearly slipped on the kitchen floor. "Jesus, it's wet! What've you been doing?
There was no reply. Sherlock seemed to be splashing water on himself. He finally turned the tap off, but stayed bent over the sink, his hands over his face.
"Are you all right?" John repeated. He stepped gingerly towards Sherlock, scanning the floor for broken glass. There didn't seem to be any — just a lot of what looked like water.
"I'm fine. Just…a miscalculation," Sherlock said, his voice muffled by his hands.
"What kind of miscalculation?" John asked cautiously.
"It doesn't matter."
"Yes, it bloody well does matter," said John. He was resisting the urge to grab Sherlock and spin him around and make him show him his face — he was having rather terrifying notions of Sherlock turning round suddenly to reveal his face had been suctioned off, or his eyes gouged out — but he instead contented himself with using a more forceful tone of voice. "Are you injured?"
"No, no, it'll all clear up in a few hours. Or eight."
"What?"
There was a pause, then Sherlock straightened up and groped for the dishtowel. He began to dry his face. His eyes were shut.
"Lestrade called while I was in the middle of an experiment," he said in a rather bored, matter-of-fact tone. "Double murder, death by asphyxiation. I was boiling some tropicamide — "
"Some what?"
"It's the chemical opticians use to induce pupil dilation. I was boiling it to check to crystals that formed, Lestrade called, it was a longer and duller explanation than usual, the solution overheated while I was occupied, and once I returned my attention to it, it was boiling over and I got a face full. The effects should wear off in about four to eight hours," Sherlock rattled off. "Now come on, we've got to get to East Finchley."
And with that, he turned, eyes squeezed shut, and walked confidently into the sitting room, where he promptly ran into an armchair. John stared after him in disbelief.
"You don't actually think you can solve a case while you're like this?" he said incredulously.
"I'm not going to let a minor setback like this impede my work," said Sherlock, feeling his way to the table.
"Minor setback? You're blind, for god's sake."
Sherlock simply snorted, and began to towel his hair dry.
John scowled. Then he turned on his heel and pounded up the stairs, returning moments later with his own pair of sunglasses. He knew Sherlock didn't own any, the arrogant sod. Sherlock was still standing by the table, the towel pressed to his eyes.
"You should at least put some sunglasses on," John said, trying to sound as calm as possible. He held them out.
Sherlock grimaced behind the towel. "Yours? They'd look ridiculous."
"This isn't really the time for vanity, Sherlock. And you don't have a pair of your own, do you?"
"No." Sherlock dropped the towel on the floor and rubbed his eyes. "Can't see a thing," he muttered.
"Then put the damn sunglasses on," said John, and thrust them at Sherlock's chest.
"I'll be blind anyways," said Sherlock disdainfully, grasping the glasses and holding them up to squint through the dark lenses. He winced and squeezed his eyes shut again.
"You might be able to see a little bit," said John. "Besides, you run a risk of permanently damaging your eyes if you overexpose them to light while you're like this."
"I don't need them." Sherlock threw the sunglasses on the table with a clatter, groped for his scarf (which he found after knocking over a half-drunk cup of tea) and blindly looped it around his neck. "Where's my coat?"
"Yes, you do need them. And let me get it." John strode over to the kitchen table, on whose cluttered surface Sherlock had unceremoniously dropped his coat next what looked like a beaker of antifreeze. He pressed the coat into Sherlock's outstretched, expectant hand. Like some bloody servant, John thought. Sherlock was needy at the best of times, but John hadn't really fancied spending the whole day waiting on him hand and foot. "Just will you please put on the glasses?"
"No," Sherlock said, pulling his coat on in a slightly clumsier manner than usual. "They won't do any good. I got a face full of tropicamide; sunglasses will still let too much light through. I'd rather keep my eyes closed and not divert my attention from my other senses. Come on, we've wasted enough time." Sherlock started to walk towards the general direction of the door, but ended up smacking into the coffee table instead.
John didn't move, since the coffee table was obviously doing a better job at proving his point than he was. "And how are you possibly going to investigate a case if you're walking into tables?"
"You're going to be my eyes," said Sherlock, massaging his shin.
"Come again?"
"You heard me." He straightened. "You'll be my eyes."
John stared at him incredulously. Did tropicamide affect the brain as well? Sherlock's face was turned slightly away, presenting John with a three-quarters view of closed eyes, damp hair and red-rubbed cheeks. There was something disconcerting, almost reptilian, in the way he tilted his head slightly to listen to John speak, chin dipping diagonally, jawline rising, neck lengthening. Blindness was forcing him to use his senses differently, working by instinct instead of the usual calculating precision.
"Me be your eyes?
"Yes."
John was a bit flattered, and more that a bit peeved.
"This is ridiculous," he sighed. "Can you please just take a day off?"
"Why should I take a day off?" Sherlock flipped up his collar, and John let out a growl of exasperation.
"Because you're blind, Sherlock!" he snapped.
"And you have a perfectly functional, if not nearly as perceptive, pair of eyes, and as your language is usually precise, I will trust your descriptions and guide you through the specifics of what I'm looking for. I think that will be a good enough method to be going on with." Sherlock had inched around the coffee table and found the door. He waited there expectantly, as though there were nothing at all out of the ordinary, just another crime to be solved in the middle of the night. Well, John thought, that depends on your definition of "ordinary."
John took a deep, steadying breath and rubbed his face with both hands, pressing on his eyeballs with his fingers. The scent of kitchen soap filled his nostrils. There was really nothing to be done, because once Sherlock Holmes set his brilliant, infuriating, sodding mind to something, there was no deterring him.
"You know what? Fine," he said, letting his hands fall to his sides. "Fine. I will…be your eyes and…let you tell me what bloody details to look for. But please, please, for your own sake…just wear the glasses."
As they drove through London, John could almost sense Sherlock recalibrating himself beside him, like muscles shifting under skin, adjusting his focus to make the best of his remaining senses. Scent, touch, sound, taste…yes, those were all well and good, yet none of them was as important to Sherlock as sight.
He had to suppress a chuckle as it dawned on him that this temporary handicap had made Sherlock practically ordinary — in fact, it might have evened the playing field quite a bit. But even a blind Sherlock in too-small sunglasses still possessed that intricate maze of fatty tissue and nerve and synapse that made him, well…Sherlock. John had dissected enough brains in medical school to know that the brain alone, a white-pink blob of soft, layered mater that could somehow produce the human psyche, was remarkable; but it was when it was put to use by Sherlock Holmes that it truly became extraordinary. Nonetheless, Sherlock's brain was in high sulk mode because of the sunglasses. John supposed he thought of them as an impediment to his sensory perception, or perhaps they were just extremely unfashionable. John didn't think so, but then again, John didn't wear Armani shirts and tailored slacks to crime scenes.
He looked out the window at the lightening sky and the black city-shapes. London was dark and quiet and secret. A battlefield. Suddenly, a terrible thought struck him: what if he needed to analyze a living person, a suspect? John couldn't possibly describe a person to Sherlock with them present, and he wouldn't remember enough to do it afterwards. And unless the crime scene was unbelievably simple, he would surely miss something…
This whole thing was looking like a worse and worse idea.
They arrived at the tape-shrouded townhouse just as dawn broke over the horizon. The night had retreated into the shadows cast by lamp-posts and buildings, and the cloud-filled sky was tinged with pink and gold above the rising sun. John paid the cabbie as Sherlock fumbled with the door and got himself out of the car, where he stood with a rather dour expression until John had gotten out as well and the cab had driven away. His eyes were still tightly closed underneath John's sunglasses.
"So, how are we going to do this?" John asked. He shivered slightly in the wind and zipped up his jacket.
"You can guide me," Sherlock said, lifting his arm listlessly.
"What?" John asked in mock surprise. "Me, guide the great Sherlock Holmes?"
"Shut up," said Sherlock sourly. "Just grab my arm."
Chuckling slightly, John grasped Sherlock's upper arm tightly and walked him, not without some difficulty, towards the townhouse ringed with police tape.
"You really should cheer up, though," John said, pushing slightly to the right to avoid a pothole.
"Whatever made you think I'm not cheerful?" muttered Sherlock sarcastically. John resisted the urge to push him back towards the pothole.
"Well, I'm just saying, it's not all bad, because — curb! — you've got a case, remember? And you're also looking about ten times more mysterious because of those sunglasses. You're setting a new trend, Sherlock. Might even get bigger than the deerstalker."
"Joy," said Sherlock.
The whole guiding thing seemed to be going well, until Sherlock tripped on the front steps just in time for Lestrade to see them from the open doorway.
"Jesus, is he all right?" said Lestrade, gaping at Sherlock.
"Yes, yes, he's fine, just — Sherlock, Sherlock! Step up, there's four stairs — over here, easy does it." As they mounted the steps, John tugged at Sherlock's arm at the last minute to keep him from slamming into the door frame. Sherlock resisted.
"Get off me, I'm perfectly fine — "
"Nooo," John growled, and propelled him past Lestrade and into the building. If Sherlock was going to put himself in John's care, he was sure as hell not going to let him go. The last thing they needed right now was a broken nose, or broken anything, for that matter.
"Whoa."
John's first impression was that they'd walked into Buckingham Palace, and he actually stopped pushing Sherlock for a moment to look around him. They were in a rounded foyer whose ceiling arched high above their heads, lost in blue gloom. On either side were shining mahogany tables with candelabras. Creamy white baseboards lined the joint between floor and wall, and, above both side tables, mirrors in golden frames reflected their own faces back — John looking slightly stunned, Sherlock looking sullen and pale, grimacing slightly with his eyes squeezed shut. A gigantic chandelier dangled high above their heads, casting everything in a warm golden glow. John resumed pushing and planted Sherlock firmly inside the door. "Now stay here," he said.
"We're in the foyer," said Sherlock.
"Yes."
"I'll assume they're wealthy, since you're obviously gawking."
"The Queen probably comes here on holiday."
Anderson and Donovan were standing at the foot of a magnificent curved staircase, both staring slack-jawed at the spectacle (and spectacle they were, John was sure). Sherlock sniffed loudly.
"Anderson, please do your best to stand downwind. I can smell stupid on the air."
"Nice glasses," sniggered Donovan.
"Oh, and you smell good, too, Donovan," said Sherlock testily, but before Donovan could do anything but scowl, Lestrade entered the foyer behind them, talking loudly on his mobile.
"Right. Right. Yes. Right. Thank you." John turned to see Lestrade pocket his phone and eye Sherlock, who had turned slightly towards the sound of Lestrade's voice. He was doing the reptile thing again, and it gave John the willies. He looked back at the Detective Inspector.
"So what happened to you?" Lestrade asked. He seemed to be fighting the urge to grin.
"Temporarily blinded," said Sherlock.
"How?"
Sherlock pursed his lips stonily and was silent.
"Experiment gone wrong," John cut in. Sherlock flashed him a dirty look, then winced and squeezed his eyes shut again. It was obviously an indignity to have his failed experiment made public. "He was, ah, heating up some of that stuff opticians put in your eye — "
"Tropicamide," said Sherlock in a resigned monotone.
"Yes, that, and had a bit of an accident. Pupils dilated, extreme mydriasis, it'll all clear up in a few hours," said John. "In the meantime, I'm his eyes." Anderson gave an audible snort.
John smiled, though it felt more like a grimace, and raised his eyebrows at Lestrade. "Shall we?" he said.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" said Lestrade.
No, it's a terrible idea, thought John.
"Yes, can we move on?" said Sherlock. "I was under the impression that this was a crime scene, not the girls' lavatory."
Lestrade shook his head bemusedly and started up the great spiral staircase, bypassing Donovan and Anderson.
"Wait!" Anderson spluttered. "You don't actually expect him to…he's blind, for fuck's sake!"
"Anderson, if we wanted your opinion, we'd have gone to the British Museum and asked one of the Neanderthals," said Sherlock.
And with that, John deemed it best to grasp Sherlock's arm firmly and steer him past Anderson (who was doing an excellent impression of a guppy fish) to the stairs, which Sherlock began to climb with one hand on the bannister.
"Was that fun?" John asked, amused in spite of himself.
"Moderately," said Sherlock.
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Positive." Sherlock seemed to have regained some of his usual energy after abusing Anderson, and was smirking slightly.
"Are the glasses all right?"
"They're too small. You have a small head."
"But you know you need them, right?"
"Hmm."
That "Hmm" — both ingratiating and irritated — made him realize something: he, John Watson, was the only person in the world for whom Sherlock would've put on those too-small sunglasses.
He didn't know whether to be pleased or scared — it seemed an awfully large responsibility to be the only person in the world with an ounce of power over a man whose brain ran at the twenty times the normal speed.
But, as they leveled with a sumptuously decorated sitting room ("The stairs stop here," he told Sherlock), John realized that it was less power than it was simply reciprocity; the trading of one affectionate indignity for another.
Because there are only so many times that John Watson can be woken up in the middle of the night to inspect a body in his slippers without expecting a little indignity in return.