Old Dreams

A gift from Jezebel Goldstone to marsdaydreams

Chapter 1

Rating: M (violence and sexual content)

Genre: Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Romance

Disclaimer: All characters and settings belong to Sir A C Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, Martin Freeman, Benedict Cumberbatch, and the rest of their respective actors. Dedicated to marsdaydreams; story is my own.

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Helpless, now, I stand with him

Watching older dreams grow dim

-Far From the Home I Love, Fiddler on the Roof

What got to John later, what really killed him about the whole thing- - - killed him mentally, that is, since it was the car that almost killed him physically- - - what really got to him was the fact that it was the definition of an accident. It wasn't some criminal, it wasn't because of a case. Hell, it wasn't even during a case. He was just walking.

Walking down Baker Street with Sherlock. He'd finally convinced the lazy git to come to Tesco's with him, so that maybe once in a blue moon when John was unquestionably unable to go himself, Sherlock could do the grocery shopping. They hadn't made it halfway down Baker Street when there was a screeching of tyres behind them.

John had a soldier's and a doctor's instincts; probably someone else wouldn't even have had time to turn before it hit. John, however, could move like lightening when he wanted to, and at the screech of tyres behind them he immediately whirled, his thoughts jumbled images of villains and assassins and the words 'protect Sherlock.' But even with lightning reflexes, there was nothing he could do.

Tyres screamed against the pavement.

John whirled.

He had just enough time to catch a blinding flash of green before the car slammed into him.

John floated. Everything was calm, and quiet, and a dark, murky grey. He spun lazily, dizzily, through the haze. There were no shapes. There was no up, no down, no left or right or past or future. There was no time. There was just. . . nothing.

The grey pressed closer, and John began worrying. Where was he? What was going on?

There was no time, so there was no telling how long it took, but eventually he was scared. He was terrified. What was going on? Was he dead? Why couldn't he stop floating?

It felt like falling, only worse. Falling, blindfolded, cocooned in something close and familiar-smelling, something that felt safe but really wasn't. Falling and he couldn't stop himself, couldn't save himself, falling and he was going to be sick and then he was going to hit the ground and die and. . . and. . .

His hand stopped falling. He'd forgotten that he had a body, but once his hand was anchored and stopped spinning he remembered.

The rest of him was still spinning and floaty and nauseous, so he focused on his hand. His right hand. It was warm, and something was moving, and- - - oh. Sherlock was holding his hand.

That realization brought him a giant step towards reality. He began feeling out the rest of his body, and once he put his mind to it and started trying to find it, his body settled around him heavily. Before he was floating, but now he was crushed, smothered under the weight of bone and muscle and sinew, and he found he couldn't move. He wanted to open his eyes, move his legs, do something, anything, to prove he could, and to run away from the grey haze that still surrounded him.

Sherlock's hand tightened on his. John calmed. It would be okay.

Sherlock's hand? Sherlock's? What was Sherlock doing here? Why on earth was he holding John's hand? He was certainly more tactile with John than he was with anyone else, and if John was being honest with himself then he'd admit that he was more tactile with Sherlock, too, but they had only held hands once. And that had been. . .

"Full circle, John," Sherlock's voice rumbled.

Sherlock was right. That had been right before Sherlock. . . left. There was no need to remember that time, or what came immediately after, or what came months after that. No need to remember that at all. Because Sherlock was holding his hand again, the same hand, only now there were no handcuffs. Now he didn't have to hold John's hand, but he was, and he wasn't pulling away.

Slowly John was coming back to himself, and he knew that if he started thinking of running down damp alleys, handcuffed to the man he was about to loose and grasping his hand like somehow they both already knew what was coming, he would have a panic attack in a hospital bed. While theoretically a hospital was the best place to have a breakdown, it was also the last place John wanted that to happen. So he held Sherlock's hand tight, tight, and tried to relax as whatever drugs had been keeping him knocked out slowly wore off.

Apparently he wasn't quite as with it as he had thought, because after a moment he heard voices. Thought they had been going on for a while. It was hard, for a bit, to make out the words, but eventually he managed.

"- - -and sod off. We don't need you." That was Sherlock.

"You may not, but that is beside the point at the moment, Sherlock." Ah. John knew that voice. That'd be Mycroft.

"He's asleep, now," said Sherlock. John could almost hear the glare. "I don't- - -"

"He's not asleep, Sherlock, he's in a drug-induced coma. Legal drugs, I might add."

"He was, but he woke up for a moment. Now he's asleep, and I don't want him having a heart-attack on top of everything else when he sees you. Leave before he comes to, Mycroft, or I won't be responsible for my actions."

"You rarely are," said Mycroft, but John could hear him sigh, and then a rustle of fabric.

There was a pause. John held his breath.

"Sherlock, I- - -"

"Don't." Sherlock hissed the word with such vehemence John reflexively tightened his grip.

Mycroft sighed again. "I realize this is something you and I differ on, brother, no matter how much we may profess to agree. But you should kn- - -"

"Mycroft," said Sherlock. Firmly, this time. "Don't. Get out."

John held his breath again. After a moment, he could hear Mycroft leave.

Sherlock's head thumped on the bed next to him. John smiled. "How," he croaked, but his voice gave out before he could finish.

"John? John?" Sherlock's voice was close, and John did his best to prise his eyes open.

They felt like they were full of grit, and glued shut, and then it felt like they were being stabbed. He winced and closed them again.

"It's all right, John," Sherlock said quietly. John tried opening his eyes again, and it still hurt. "Take your time."

It took a few tries, but eventually John managed to open his eyes and keep them open. They adjusted to the light. He blinked until he could focus, and then looked at Sherlock.

The younger man was sitting next to his bed, holding his hand in a death-grip. Only Sherlock, thought John sourly, would be able to sit by a friend in hospital for God only knows how long and still look posh and put together.

Not that he could completely fool John, of course. The hair was tousled, but less artfully than normal. The younger man was smiling, hugely, but there was an edge to the grin and a weariness about the eyes. John squeezed his hand.

"How much- - -"

"Wait," Sherlock ordered. John snapped his mouth shut, and Sherlock reached over to a bedside table John hadn't noticed before. He managed to pour a glass of water one-handed, then held it out to John.

John tried reaching for it, but his left hand was trembling. He grit his teeth and reached anyway, but Sherlock snapped, "Don't be ridiculous," so he gave up.

After a moment fiddling with controls, Sherlock found the one that raised the upper half of the bed. When John was almost sitting, Sherlock held the cup to his lips, guided by John's still-shaking left hand.

Somehow he managed to down the whole glass without spilling anything. Sherlock put the cup back on the table as John's head fell back, annoyed that such a little thing had exhausted him so badly.

"So," John said. "How much weight has Mycroft put on?"

Sherlock smiled and laughed, but his eyes slid closed, then his head bowed forward to rest on the covers next to John's thigh. John felt his throat close and his chest tighten. He held Sherlock's hand tighter.

"Only two pounds," Sherlock said. "He's getting better at it."

John tried to laugh in response, but it sounded forced even to himself. They stayed like that for a little while, neither of them moving, John with his head tipped back to look at the ceiling, Sherlock with his eyes pressed to the bed. John wouldn't have been able to relinquish Sherlock's hand if his life depended on it.

"It's just the drugs," said Sherlock.

John blinked. "Sorry, what?"

"Your hand," Sherlock continued. "It's only shaking because of the drugs. Your whole body is shaking. The shaking in your hand will stop in less than half an hour."

John sighed and closed his eyes. Neither of them moved or spoke again until they heard the door open. John opened his eyes, and Sherlock sat up.

The curtains surrounding the bed were pulled back, and a young woman with a clipboard stood staring at them. After a moment, to John's annoyance if not surprise, she glared at Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes," she said. "I had thought we made it perfectly clear you were to call the nurses' station as soon as Doctor Watson woke."

Before Sherlock could answer John cut in, "My fault. I told him not to." As an afterthought he added, "I am a doctor, you know."

The nurse smiled at him. It was a very cheerful, sunny smile. So she was a pleasant person; she was only glaring at Sherlock because he was. . . well, Sherlock.

"I know, Doctor," she said, kind but firm. "Which means that you must understand that at the moment, your care is best left in the hands of someone else."

John chuckled. "Know I've said those words myself before. I'll try to be good from now on."

She smiled again, and took his vitals, and Sherlock didn't speak. John was grateful. When the nurse went to check his pulse and saw how his and Sherlock's hands were still desperately clasped, without a word she moved to the other side of the bed and used his left wrist instead. John was more grateful.

"There," she said, glancing up from her clipboard, "that wasn't so bad, now, was it?" But she wasn't looking at John, she was looking at Sherlock. That didn't make sense.

Before John could ask, though, she turned to him and said, "Everything looks very well, Doctor Watson. We're going to have to check your dressings in about an hour. I can send your doctor in now, or you can wait until then."

"Send him in now, please," said John immediately.

She nodded an made a note, then told him to call the nurses' station if he needed anything at all. With a smile to John and an unreadable look to Sherlock, she left, closing the door loudly behind her.

There was silence for a moment before John said, "What dressings?"

Sherlock jumped violently.

"Sherlock," said John, "what dressings? What's she talking about?"

"John," said Sherlock slowly, turning to face him. At the last moment he seemed unable to meet John's eye, and his gaze fell instead to their clasped hands. "How much do you remember?"

John shuddered. "Enough."

"Details, John."

"Fine," John said, huffing out an exasperated breath. "I remember. . . Let's see. We were walking to Tesco's. We were still on Baker Street. You were, what, perhaps two paces behind me? I heard tyres on the street, and I turned, and there was something green, and then . . ." John shuddered again. "That's it."

"It was a car," said Sherlock bluntly. "It hit you in the midsection. I called an ambulance. You were rushed to hospital. They said there was internal bleeding and took you immediately into surgery. That was yesterday. You spent the rest of the day, last night, and part of this morning unconscious."

John nodded, processing, trying to glean as much information as he could from what Sherlock had told him. "How long was I in surgery?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Two hours."

"Ah. Probably not too serious, then. At least," he added, "not as serious as it could have been."

"Probably," Sherlock said.

John waited, but no more was forthcoming. "Well?" he asked, nudging his hand in Sherlock's. The younger man looked up at him questioningly. "What are my injuries?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock. I'm not made of glass. I may be a bit cut up at the moment, but you know I can handle knowing."

Sherlock shook his head again, eyes sliding away from John's.

"Sherlock," said John, "I'm going to worry until I find out. If the doctor takes more than about five minutes to get here, I'm going to peel off the damn bandages and just look for myself."

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock spat. "All you would do is hurt yourself, open yourself unnecessarily to the possibility of infection, and undoubtedly increase your recovery time. Pointless."

"Dull," John agreed. He was gratified by seeing the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitch.

"I'd rather hear it from you," said John quietly.

Sherlock looked at him again, gaze openly curious. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm going to find out that something bad and painful happened to me," said John. "I can hear it from a doctor I've never met or from my best mate. I'd rather hear the worst of it from you."

"I can't tell you."

"Sherlock- - -" John began.

"I don't know!" He bowed his head, but didn't rest it on the bed again. His hand tightened convulsively around John's, and the older man wondered if he even realized he was doing it. "I don't know," Sherlock said again. "They won't tell me. I've been trying to read your reports, but Mycroft is all over this place. I haven't been able to find out anything."

"Ah," said John. "I knew I wasn't important enough to warrant a visit from the entire British government all on my own."

Sherlock's mouth twitched again, but the strangled noise he made in his throat didn't sound at all like a laugh.

John slid closer to Sherlock, close enough to stretch his still damn shaking left hand to lightly tap Sherlock's nose. "None of that," he said. "I'm sure I'll be fine. It's okay."

Sherlock froze as John's hand fell to the bed, and there was no telling what would have happened if the door hadn't slammed open at that moment.

"Doctor Watson!" exclaimed the man who strode into the room. "I'm Doctor Niven. Pleased to see you awake. Chelsea says your vitals look marvellous. Ah, you must be Mr. Holmes. I'm afraid I have to tell you, Mr. Holmes, that I won't be able to go over Doctor Watson's prognosis- - -"

"I'm well aware of the situation," said Sherlock. John could almost feel the coldness radiating off him suddenly, felt the ice in the words. Sherlock stood. "I'll return in an hour."

"No," John said, holding Sherlock's hand even more tightly when the younger man loosened his grip. "Stay here."

"John," said Sherlock, looking down at him. "They won't tell you what's wrong if I'm here."

"That's ridiculous," said John. "No patient is ever forced to be alone to hear their prognosis if they don't want to be. And I'm the patient here, as I've been reminded often enough, and I want you here with me."

"John," Sherlock began again. His face was softening. John suddenly felt, stupidly, like he was going to cry.

"I'm afraid he's right," said Dr. Niven. "I won't make him leave if you desire his presence, but I'm afraid there's no way I can go over any of this with you while he's here."

"That's outrageous- - -" John began.

"Yes," Sherlock cut him off. "It's outrageous and it's Mycroft, John."

All at once, John deflated. "Ah," he said. "No way around that one, then."

"'Fraid not."

John sighed and closed his eyes. Sherlock didn't move.

Resigned, John opened his eyes to look at Sherlock. "One hour," he said. "I don't care if we're not done by then. One hour."

He squeezed Sherlock's hand. Sherlock squeezed back, briefly, and then he was striding dramatically away.

"I don't know how he does that," said John to Dr. Niven as the door closed. "People shouldn't be able to sweep out of a room like that unless they're wearing a cape."

Dr. Niven laughed, but John knew the sound of it. He laughed like that himself, when he was trying to lighten the mood before he had to start telling someone what was wrong with them.

"Doctor Watson," began Dr. Niven, pulling up a chair to sit on John's left. John was absurdly happy that he hadn't sat in the chair that Sherlock had been occupying.

"John, please."

"Very well. Now, John, about the accident. . ."

One hour later John heard the door open. Without opening his eyes he reached out his hand, his left hand, his damnable left hand that was still bloody shaking, and a moment later Sherlock's long fingers curled around his own.

Human touch was the last thing John wanted right then. The feel of skin against skin was disgusting, revolting, sent an ache of yearning through him so strong he nearly screamed.

He couldn't let go. Not for anything.

"John?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"I don't want to talk about it," said John.

"Then don't."

"I won't."

Silence.

John gasped and snapped his eyes open as a thought struck him. "Sherlock," he said urgently. Sherlock leaned forward from his perch on the chair next to the bed, and held his hand more tightly. It felt awful. "Sherlock," John said, "promise me you'll leave it alone."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Leave what alone?"

"I mean," John said, struggling to sit up.

"Don't," said Sherlock sharply.

"Listen to me, Sherlock," John fell back against the pillows but clutched Sherlock's hand desperately. "Don't try to find out what happened. Don't eavesdrop on the nurses, don't steal my report, don't deduce it if you can help it."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. John watched his face anxiously. Whatever Sherlock was trying to say, it seemed to take him a few tries to assemble the words. That really worried John. He'd never known Sherlock to think before he said something. It was disconcerting.

"John," said Sherlock, "I have to know."

"No," John shook his head. "Sherlock, I don't want you to know."

"Then tell me."

John closed his eyes. "I can't."

They sat in silence again for a few minutes. Sherlock's grip on his hand grew steadily tighter.

John was surprised by how quiet, how small Sherlock's voice sounded when he finally spoke. "Are you going to be okay, John?"

"What? I- - - oh," John opened his eyes. Sherlock's head was bowed, but even the dark curls couldn't entirely hide his expression. "Oh, no, no, Sherlock," said John. He let go of Sherlock's hand and the younger man let him. John raised his hand to cup Sherlock's jaw, to tilt his head up to meet John's eye. John's other hand reached to stroke through Sherlock's curls. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I didn't mean to scare you. I'm going to be fine. Nothing life-threatening, nothing at all."

Sherlock closed his eyes. John couldn't believe that he, one Doctor John Hamish Watson, plain and ordinary in every way, had caused such a look to appear on the face of Sherlock Holmes.

He was only proud for a moment. After that he just felt guilty.

"I see," said Sherlock. It was the closest thing to a declaration of undying friendship John had ever heard. He smiled.

"Nothing to worry about. I've got to stay one more night, for observation, and then you can take me home tomorrow."

Sherlock nodded, face carefully business-like and free of emotion again. John smiled at him anyway. "Recovery time?"

John shrugged. "Hard to say. Probably a week to ten days before I'm free of constant discomfort. Six to eight weeks before I'm fully recovered."

"Unacceptable," Sherlock muttered.

John smiled again, falling back against the pillows, suddenly unreasonably weary. "I know. They said I could get better right now if I wanted to, but I picked the long way. Just to annoy you."

Sherlock chuckled. John started drifting, and when he felt a long, cool hand against his forehead he thought he imagined it. He almost opened his eyes to check, but he definitely didn't imagine it when Sherlock ordered, "Sleep, John."

He did.

The next day John sat on the edge of his bed, watching Sherlock move around the room, making sure he hadn't forgotten anything. John had wanted to pack, had insisted on doing it himself when two of the nurses tried to help, but after they'd gone Sherlock had taken his overnight bag and John hadn't protested. He could do it himself or let Sherlock do it. There was really no difference there. Besides, the one time Sherlock decided to be helpful without prodding was not going to be the one time John turned him down.

The thought of 221B, of Mrs. Hudson, of the flat, of home was so wonderful John had to close his eyes for a moment against the surge of longing. He thought about finally being away from this damnable hospital, finally sitting in his own chair again, drinking his tea, reading his paper and listening to Sherlock 'play' his violin. God, how he hated this hospital room.

John opened his eyes. He would have to tell Sherlock eventually, he knew. Once they got back to the flat John wanted to simply forget it, forget it all, pretend like it never happened. He wouldn't be able to do that if Sherlock didn't know; if John constantly had the worry of telling him hanging over his head. Best say the words aloud now and leave them in this hospital room, rather than dragging them home to Baker Street.

John took a deep breath and said, "I can't have children."

Sherlock stopped moving, then straightened. His back was to John.

"Not ever," John continued. "The car, it- - - it hit below my midsection. Hit something else that was rather important," forced himself to laugh, "and now I'm afraid it's rather. . . dysfunctional."

What he didn't say was that it was also partially missing. The damage had been too great; flesh crushed, veins ruptured, blood spewing beneath the skin, nerves screaming, and there had been no choice but to amputate more than half of his penis. John had never felt inadequate before, knew that average size was perfectly acceptable, but it turned out that when 'average sized' was cut in half what was left was very small indeed.

Even that might not have been so bad, he thought to himself for what must have been the thousandth time. Even that he could live with. It was just one more physical deformity to add to the list. Surely if he found a woman who loved him enough to marry him, surely she'd love him enough to not mind too badly that he would probably never be able to bring her to orgasm with his cock. Surely someone could love him that much.

But that wasn't all. Oh, no, John's life was never that easy. He couldn't just get shot in the shoulder; he had to also get a psychosomatic limp and a cane. He couldn't just loose half his manhood; he had to shoot blanks, now, too.

It was complicated, the inner workings of the human reproductive system, but John understood. He knew what it meant that scar tissue would be blocking most of the tubing, understood that it had been difficult enough to keep his urinary tract fully open. He knew that many men who suffered from erectile dysfunction disorder would also empty their sperm into their bladders, rather than out through the tip of their cocks, when they orgasmed. He had, however, never imagined that someday it would be medically impossible for he himself to do anything else.

Sherlock's head turned, though he didn't look at him. "John," he began.

"No," John shook his head. "No, it's okay. Please don't, Sherlock. I just . . . I just want to go home."

Sherlock was still for a moment more, and then he resumed checking the room. By the time he turned back to John his face was carefully blank, and John had gotten himself back under control. They didn't speak again.

When they finally made it back to Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson was waiting anxiously. She cried and tried to hug John without actually touching him and said she'd been so worried, so worried, did John have any idea how badly he'd scared the two of them? John shook his head and tried to smile and felt a swell of relief when he realized that Sherlock had lied to her, had told her that John's injury was to his stomach. The three of them made their way up to 221B, where John was forced into an armchair while Mrs. Hudson made him lunch and fluttered over him. It was comforting, John realized, much as he would have liked to be annoyed.

No sooner had he thought it than he saw Sherlock disappear around the corner. Even over Mrs. Hudson's chatter and the whistle of the kettle John could hear the snick of Sherlock's door and the click of the lock.

Sherlock didn't emerge for the rest of the day. John went to bed without seeing him again, realizing that other than one word he hadn't heard Sherlock speak since he'd told him.

Good, thought John. Maybe he hadn't heard. Maybe he didn't care. Maybe he didn't understand. Maybe John could pretend Sherlock didn't know, could pretend that he himself didn't know, could pretend it wasn't true. Maybe everything would be okay.

Maybe.

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Author's Note: I am eternally grateful for the very existence of johnlockchallenges on tumblr. Those of you who've read my fic "Voice Like Thunder" may remember that it was only written because of a johnlockchallenges prompt. Well, this fic owes its existence to them, too. I was lucky enough to be able to participate in their August/September Gift Exchange, which has really got to be one of the best ideas to hit the fandom since Red Pants.

This gift is for marsdaydreams (check her out on tumblr). She's fantastic, and I deeply hope that she likes her gift. I won't tell you yet what her prompt was, since it doesn't show up till Chapter 2.

Second Author's Note: Look directly below this. See the little boxes? Please, please, please, for the love of God type a word or two ("Sad," "Too dramatic," or what have you) and let me know what you think. This fic is MOSTLY written, though it's not yet wholly finished, so I will be taking reviews into account.