Noises, sounds, screaming, whispering, all at once. A light touch on the shoulder and he's pulled back into the world. Words form on lips, but he can't hear them. He can taste the shampoo smell coming from the bathroom. Honey. He can feel the warmth of the steam on the hand that's on his shoulder. Sherlock The word forms on lips again and he looks up. Blue. He's surrounded by blue, warm, cold, dark, light. He widens his eyes, and leans forward into the warmth. Arms wrap around him. Concerned. John. The words fall from his lips like a prayer. He's almost pleading. Pleading for comfort, for the throbbing to stop. He can hear his heart beat. Maybe he's just going crazy. It's overwhelming. The stabbing pain in his head. The lights melt his eyes. Nausea swallows him, and throws him out into the world, leaving him light headed and un balanced. Tears sting at his eyes. Strange. He grips at the fabric around him. Silk, cool, smooth. He gasps, well, he thinks he did. He sits up and looks around. Dark, cool. He swings his legs over the side and stands up. It's like he took a step off a cliff. His world goes tumbling down, and he's on the floor. John The word falls from his lips for reassurance that he isn't dead, or in the void. No response. Did he even say it? He tries again, this time with fear in his voice. He can feel the Earth moving underneath him. He can hear the creaking of each building in the world as the wind flows through the holes. He lays there and listens to the thumping. He looks up at a figure and watches it's lips. Sherlock The word is falling off the lips with worry and relief. Strange how those two things can be put together. He's being lifted up, and placed back down into the cool smooth sea of silk. Noises, sounds, screaming, whispering, all at once. His limbs feel like sandbags, pulling him down Into his own pain. He doesn't try to get up, he just lays there. He tosses his head to the doorway and notices a shadow. He doesn't try to stop it. He just lays there, and let's it devour him again. He's choking. Drowning. Not able to breathe. Or so he thinks. He desperately grasps at his head, squeezing and tugging at his hair. Hoping that it will tell his brain to stop. Stop the noises, the sounds, the screaming, the whispering, stop it all at once. Aidez-Moi The words form on his lips, and he doesn't understand them. He knows what they mean, but he can't remember. He covers his eyes even though it's dark as night in the room. He tosses his legs over the edge again and stands. He wavers but stands straight. He finds his hand on a handle, turning. He opens the door and walks out. Où suis-je? The words so foreign, yet he knows them some how. He hears foot steps. Shuffle, step, shuffle, step, shuffle. He looks at the figure and remembrance flows through him. John He walks towards the figure, who hands him two capsules and a glass of a clear entity. He swallowed the capsules with the clear substance. It burns his throat, but in a cold, thin way. There is a wet cloth pressed to his forehead, then neck, then back. He hisses at the temperature that pierces his body. He watches the lips form words It's okay. You've just got a migraine. He somehow knows what those words mean, but he can't reply in the same way. Ça fait mal. There's a rumbling, it rattles Sherlocks ribs and head. Laughter. Thoughts swarm Sherlocks mind. The taste and scent of honey, the warmth of the steam on John's arms. The sound of his laughter. The feeling of his blue eyes drowning him. The way Sherlocks name looks on his lips. It makes his heart flutter. Maybe it's his migraine. Maybe he's just going crazy. He can hear his heart pounding, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom. He leans into the source of warmth, though he needs cold. He can't hear anything but his heart, and the sound of John's breathing. Music to his ears. He can taste the way John's eyes look. Cold, gentle, loving. His body radiates heat, his heart swallowing sherlock whole. John A prayer. A gospel. A word that blesses Sherlocks tongue. He holds onto the word tightly. The name that means comfort and love to Sherlocks mind. A word that reminds him of the sea, and the sky. Of trees, and bees. It fills him with happiness, and warmth, but coolness of the color. Three words fall from his lips. Words he didn't even know he knew. Words he won't know he said when this ends. Noises, sounds, screaming, whispering, all at once. He wakes and watches the dust in the sunlight dance like fairies. He wants to reach out and capture them, but he knows they will disappear. His head is calm, and his body is cool. He goes into the living room and sees John. Silence. No noises, no sounds, no screaming. Whispering. There's a voice whispering in his mind. It tells him to ask what's wrong. It tells him to apologize. He's not sure what he did. He's not even sure why he had a migraine. John. The voice startles the figure on the red chair. I'm sorry. A confused look. For whatever I did. I don't remember, but sometimes when my mind is clouded I do stupid things. A nod. That's all he gets. A nod. He can hear his heart pounding. It's overwhelming. He realizes what happened. He knows what he said. He's not sure if he screams or whispers the next part. He can't tell, his heart is too loud, and he's drowning in John's smell and color. The words fall from his lips again. This time he knows he said them. He knows that he's revealed the secret kept behind walls, that must've slipped out when his walls were broken down to rubble. Now there are no whispers. There is just the sound of both of them breathing, both of them waiting for the other to say a word. The words that were so foreign yet so familiar on his tongue, burned. Burned because John didn't say anything back. He could feel another migraine coming in, and he closed his eyes, covering his face. He could hear his heart beat again, and he wanted to drown in John's eyes again. But he couldn't. He ruined it. He ruined the chance with those words that he should've kept hidden. He feels hands around his wrists, pulling his hands away from his face. He opens his eyes and sees blue. He feels the warmth, and coolness of John again, and relief floods him. He watches John's lips, and the words form. The three words that were so foreign, but so familiar. The three words both of them have been saying for a while, just in different languages and ways. The noises, sounds, screaming, whispering, all at once were saying I love you
