My Sherlock Fic! W00T!!1

Hey, all! I'm sorry I've been so lax about posting. There has been a significant lack in posting. I've been going unpostal. But don't worry about that. I'll soon go postal and you'll have the old Rahel back. XD
BTW! I just realized how weird it is that I have a name. This funny realization that my name is just a label that I never think about and don't really associate myself with is almost as weird as the time I realized everyone else has names that I don't know. I mean, imagine there being those little name-tags (bubbles? I dunno.) in WoW belonging to each person in the world, but instead of floating above someone's head, they float inside until someone discovers it and releases it. So every single person in the whole world has a little name-tag inside their head just waiting to be released by me.
Seriously. WEIRD.

...Ahem. Ånyhoo. What was I originally saying? Ah yes. I've been gone, but I DO have something to show for it! Behold.... The first parts to my Sherlock fic!! It takes up 2 chapters of Misery, but I split it up because I wanted to switch the point of view back and forth from Sherlock and John. (I wanted the POV to be Sherlock at first, but I realized that John plays Paul's role and can't be forgotten. Ah well. XD)
ALSO!! I decided that I'd give Sherlock some broken ribs and a bad concussion (and post-concussion syndrome.) That way, I can kinda get away with him being a bit OOC (Out Of Character). Concussions make people more emotional, uncoordinated, and unable to think very hard. Perfect for restraining poor Sherlock! I just threw in broken ribs for good measure. =)
.......Is it bad that I take so much joy in applying injuries to my characters? O.0

Aaaanyhoo, here it is! =D

1

Jawn. Canyooheer me? Jawwn.
These sounds: even in the haze.

2

Sometimes these sounds faded, leaving him alone in his own haze. He remembered the darkness pressing in upon him like a suffocating cushion. Almost tangible. Horribly real.
Did the haze indicate that he was making some sort of progress? "Away from what?" He wondered. He assumed (in a deep, vague, instinctual way) that this light -however hazy- was a good thing. He wondered at these sounds every time they came through the haze. "Like worms on a rainy day." He thought. He wasn't sure what that meant, but it sounded appropriate. Did these sounds -so worm like in their appearance and yet so welcoming in their meanings- exist in the darkness as well as the haze of light? They didn't seem to stem from the darkness, at least.
Anyway, these sounds served as a strange distraction from the pain. The pain hid from these sounds, fleeing it as a beast would from flame. He welcomed the sounds- they were the things that drove off the beast that lurked within the haze and came to feed off him.
However, the sounds didn't always last. They always moved away from him, leaving him alone left to either face the pain-beast himself or drop back into the darkness. Even in the haze, he didn't know who he was or where he was and didn't really care to know the answer to either question. He vaguely wished that he was dead. If this was life, he'd rather take his chance with death, thanks.
As time passed (if it actually did such a thing), he realized that there were spaces within the haze where the pain-beast did not reach. These spaces came at regular intervals that he welcomed with the remains of his being, sinking into the spaces like he’d sink into a warm, dark bath.

3

Sherlock Holmes paced the room as best as he could. His ribs were protesting again and his head spun, making it difficult to make accurate deductions about their situation.
So far, he’d collected that they were staying with a madwoman. That was easy, anyone could figure that one out. The woman, Annie Wilkes, was catatonic and suffered from extreme depression, paranoia, and an eating disorder. He also guessed that she could very well become homicidal if under the right mood. These, while all being very fine pieces of information, only strengthened his need to find out something far important- a way out of this place. He could pick the lock himself (no doubts about that) and make a run for it while she was gone, but that would leave John.
He turned to look at his colleague. The man was lying in a bed, loaded up with drugs, and breathing shallowly. Even under the sheets, John’s legs looked wrong. “Mangled.” He thought. He remembered what they had looked like, when he had dragged John out. He had seen his fair share of gore in his profession, but he still had to keep from retching when he thought of those legs. He wondered briefly if it was actually such a stroke of luck that Annie had come along. If she hadn’t, he and John would probably have ended up freezing to death... Not that bad, compared to what they were now faced with.
His head began to spin and he sat down on his bed. Thinking hurt. He had only been conscious for about three days, and his head still felt like someone was pounding on the inside of his skull. He was also immensely frustrated, possibly the most he had ever been in his life. He felt.... Dull. Yes. He, the great Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, felt dull. This was because he found it difficult to focus on much of anything.

4

For the first time since truly escaping from the crushing darkness, he had a thought that was separate from his current predicament. This first free thought was of a cane, metal and telescopic. He remembered this instrument, remembered the pain (so different from the pain-beast that hunted him in the haze) that had come with it. The term psychosomatic came to mind. He also remembered that the cane, along with the old pain, tended to come and go in a tide-like fashion. When it wasn't present, neither was his old pain. Or maybe it was the other way around. Maybe the cane followed the pain (which, in comparison to the pain-beast hounded him now now, was a walk in the park) like an annoying and obedient small dog. Funny, really that it should be called a cane when it was obviously a crutch. He soon associated this memory of the cane with his current pain. Whenever the pain-beast finally caught up with him (and it always did), he was reminded of the cane. He remembered it’s cool, aluminum surface and rubber handgrip. He remembered the way it clicked against the sidewalk, slipping against the cracks and irregularities. He had purchased it after an accident. He couldn’t remember what kind of accident it was, but he did remember that it was an important and dreadful point in his life. In addition to these memories, he recalled quite a lot of running. This was strange, because he seemed to remember that his leg was injured. Maybe he didn’t need the cane all the time? At any rate, he remembered running through crowded streets, horns and shouts blaring around them. They didn’t pay them much heed, however, and kept on after whoever it was they were chasing. Wait. They? That was new. There was a they, wasn’t there? At some point, at least. Where was this other person now? He tried to coax more information from his broken memories. He vaguely remembered it (him?) having a coat, a deep monotone voice, and a rather odd pair of eyes. Strange. Once again, he wondered who he was before all this. A name. A name is all that he needed. He wracked his brain, searching for clues pointing to his identity. He wished that he had the gifted recall that.... Who had that again? Damn, all this guessing was maddening. All he wanted was his name- a sound that held such importance for him. He circled around in the darkness of his mind, scouring the corners. A name. Name, name name. His name. His name was-
Jawn.
The sounds again.
Jawn. I’m here.
Suddenly, it clicked. “John. My name’s John. I’m John and I’m a medic.”
Afghanistan or Iraq? Sorry, how did you- Amazing. Is it really? Afghanistan. My name is John and I came back from Afghanistan. Afghanistan.

5

His first clear awareness of anything outside the haze was of stopping, of being suddenly aware that he just couldn’t pull another breath. Strangely enough, he didn’t feel all that panicked. In fact, it wasn’t such a bad way to die. It most certainly wasn’t the worst. At least it would get him out of here.
Then there was a mouth clamped over his, a mouth which was both familiar and alien at the same time in that it was in such an odd place at the moment. The air from this mouth blew down into his lungs, it’s owner trying to force him into breathing again.
He heard a voice (worms on a rainy day) screaming “Breathe, goddammit! Breath, John!”
The lips clamped down again. He felt his lungs fill, felt the second-hand air course through him again. When the man took his lips away this time, John didn’t let out the breath but pushed it out and gasped for air. He waited to feel his lungs to refill with oxygen, just as it had been doing for his whole life without needing much help. When it didn’t, he gasped for more and then his body was breathing on it’s own.
He began to fade back into the haze again, but before sliding in completely, he felt a hand close around his.

6

Sherlock paused in his observations. Something was off. It was quiet, he realized. Much too quiet. He looked over at John. The man was lying still and didn’t seem to be breathing. Sherlock moved to the bed, emergency procedures flashing through his mind. He took a breath, held John’s nose, and put his mouth over his friend’s. Ignoring the sharp pains he felt in his ribs, he forced some air into John, waiting after each plunge for his friend to start breathing again. “Breathe, goddammit! Breath, John!” He shouted before clamping his mouth over John’s again.
After forcing some breaths into John, his heart fluttering madly the whole time, Sherlock was relieved to see John take a breath on his own.
“God, that was a close one.” He thought and sat on the floor beside the bed. That was the first time he actually had to perform mouth-to-mouth on anyone. He was just glad that it had worked. He sat, holding John’s hand and listening to him breathe. It was the most wonderful sound in the world.
Novril. There were many reasons the drug wasn’t freely distributed as a painkiller. One was that it tended to cause respiratory depression in it’s weaker users. Another was that it was highly addictive.
He thought of their situation. John was on an addictive painkiller and his legs were mangled. They were in a house with a madwoman who was likely to be a serial killer. He couldn’t leave because he would have to carry John through woods and snow for many miles. Maybe it would have been better to not have come here at all. Maybe it would have been better if they had died in the crash, or had frozen out there. “At this point,” He thought “Almost any situation would be better.”
It was just so maddening, having to sit here and watch John struggle to survive, so far away from help. Sure, he’d be able to make it on his own, but he had trashed the thought as soon as it had come. He would never leave John alone with this woman. There was no telling what she might do.
The image of coming back to find John lying dead, surrounded by policemen and striped tape, legs mangled and broken, was almost too much for him to bear. After making sure that Annie was outside, he rested his head against the bedframe and allowed himself to cry. It wasn’t a child’s bawling cry, nor was it a soft patter of tears. He held on to John’s hand more tightly and sobbed silently for a few minutes before falling asleep.