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r_scribblesOooohhh, in the latest brief window of LJ-Being-Up-ness, I can post the latest Story of Luton (or, The Curious Case of the NotSherlock).
We've had the hurt, here commenceth the Comfort, although Martin's still feeling rotten. Quite a detailed description of panic attacks in this one - I've suffered from them from time to time myself, and drew on my experience of my first really horrible one. Don't know if anyone might find that triggery - as a sometime sufferer, I personally found it very cathartic to write.
part 5
Six
-x-
Sherlock regarded Martin as he slid into the taxi after him and barked an unfamiliar address at the driver.
‘Lestrade always keeps a pack of tissues in his inside jacket pocket,’ Sherlock told him. ‘You might want to clean yourself up a bit.’
Martin searched the jacket and did indeed find a pack of Kleenex. He set about wiping the worst of the bile off himself while Sherlock took out his phone and dialled.
‘Molly!’ crowed Sherlock, and Martin flinched. ‘I found something very familiar looking while finishing up my latest case, and thought it might belong to you.’
‘You found him?!?’
Sherlock’s phone was so close, and Molly’s hopeful cry so loud that Martin could hear her side of the conversation clearly.
‘Captain Crieff is alive and mostly well, and sitting next to me,’ Sherlock told her. ‘I presume I wasn’t the only one you pestered when you found he was missing this evening – you can tell the others to call off the search.’
‘Is he OK? What happened to him?’
‘Couple of blows to the stomach,’ replied Sherlock. ‘Tied to a chair for a while.’
‘Oh, God!’
‘He’ll be fine. He’s more scared than anything. It was my people traffickers, I’m afraid. They were labouring under the misapprehension that he was me. I can’t imagine why.’
‘Didn’t I tell you that was what it could be?’ Molly blurted on the other end, ‘but you wouldn’t listen to me, and now my boyfriend’s been tortured, because of you…’
‘I am not the one who decided it would be a good idea for you to choose a new boyfriend who was practically my facial and vocal double, and then ask him to meet you in a place where my enemies would be expecting to find me. But then, I’m not a complete idiot…’
‘Don’t,’ interrupted Martin, suddenly. Sherlock glared back at him, and his gaze fell back down to his knees. ‘Don’t talk to her like that,’ said Martin, quietly.
Sherlock continued to watch Martin as Molly protested down the phone.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Sherlock,’ she said, ‘but it isn’t like that. That’s not why I like him. He’s a good, caring, funny, honest man, and if he’s been hurt because of you…’
‘It wasn’t Moriarty,’ Sherlock told Molly, cutting her off. ‘When you called me because he was missing, you were convinced it was Moriarty who had taken him, not Battenberg.’
‘How’s that supposed to make me feel any better? What if it is Jim next time?’
‘It won’t be Jim. He’s not going to go after any of your new boyfriends, Molly – he’s done with you. You don’t exist to him, any more. It’s me he’s out to get.’ Sherlock’s tone softened, ever so slightly. ‘There’s no point in you worrying about him, any more. That’s my dubious privilege, now. And he certainly isn’t going to be dim enough to mistake your little Captain for me. Battenberg was a prize idiot.’
On the other end of the line, Molly’s voice sounded a little shaky. ‘But you got him though, right? He’ll pay for what he did to those people – to Martin?’
‘I’m sure I can “discover” some rather unsavoury files on his computer to ensure he has a very interesting time in prison,’ Sherlock replied. ‘Another thing for us to consider later. For now, I have a delivery heading your way. Will require tea, sympathy, supper, a hot shower and warm sheets.’
‘Oh,’ Molly squeaked, ‘but I have to do my hair…’
‘See you in a few minutes.’ Sherlock hung up.
Martin crumpled up the last of the tissues, still wincing away from Sherlock’s piercing stare.
‘When do you have to be back at the airport?’ Sherlock asked.
‘Seven,’ Martin replied. Realising that he had no idea what the time was, he checked the taxi’s clock. It was 11:38pm. He sighed. ‘I’ll have to give myself an hour or so to get there through London.
Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. ‘45 minutes.’
‘By bus.’
‘All right, an hour.’
‘If I just take time to throw some food down myself and cram in a quick shower and shave, I should just about be able to get enough sleep to be fit to fly. Not that I’m up for anything now other than sleeping, the day I’ve had.’
‘You and Molly don’t get much time together, do you?’
‘This is the first time we’ve actually been in the same city since we met. Sort-of goes beyond bad luck that the one night we get to spend together, I spend half of it tied to a chair being tortured because I was kidnapped by a gang who thought I was the detective working their case.’ Martin paused. ‘Actually, considering my luck in general, I really should have seen that coming. This is the sort of thing I should expect, with my life.’ He paused. 'Have you ever been in trouble with the law in Azerbaijan?'
Sherlock barked out a laugh. 'Oh, goodness, yes.' He stopped, and cleared his throat. 'Another case of mistaken identity?'
Martin nodded.
'Ah,' replied Sherlock. 'Word of advice, then - never go to El Salvador, either.'
'Do I want to...?'
'No.'
Martin descended into a gloomy silence. Sherlock continued to watch him.
‘I can’t fly a plane,’ announced Sherlock, suddenly. ‘Wouldn’t even know where to start. And I don’t have a girlfriend.’
Martin looked up and across at the other man. ‘Do you particularly want a girlfriend? Or a pilot’s licence?’
‘Goodness, no. Dull.’
Martin nodded. ‘Thought as much. And I bet if you did, you’d be able to get either, easily.’
‘Oh yes, definitely. But that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t have them.’
‘But those things don’t matter to you.’
‘But,’ Sherlock replied, ‘they matter to you. By your criteria, you are the more successful of the pair of us.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘By my criteria, perhaps. But, you’re not me.’
The taxi pulled to a stop outside a smart looking block of flats.
‘Ah, here we are.’ Sherlock got out, ordering the cabbie to wait before dragging Martin out with him.
Martin noticed a curtain twitch in the window of one of the 3rd floor flats as they got out of the taxi. Molly was at the front door before they’d had chance to ring the bell.
‘One boyfriend,’ announced Sherlock. ‘All in one piece and delivered to your door. Ta-da!’
‘Martin.’ Molly pushed past Sherlock and made a bee-line straight for Martin. ‘Oh God, what happened?’
‘I brought you sugar,’ Martin murmured, ‘but it was in my pocket, and they took my uniform…’
‘Lestrade’s looking for it,’ Sherlock explained, ‘on pain of getting his own jacket back. He’ll find it. He likes that jacket.’
‘I was going to do the Richard Gere bit,’ added Martin, unsure why he couldn’t stop either talking or shaking, ‘but I can’t, now. I’m so sorry, Molly.’
Molly gently put her arms around him, and Martin added “breathing” to the mental list of things he currently wasn’t able to do.
‘Martin?’ Molly pulled away from him and gazed at him in concern.
Try as he might, Martin just couldn’t draw a breath. He couldn’t even swallow. His mouth started to gape like that of a landed fish as he tried ineffectually to pull a breath through a throat that had apparently completely closed up.
‘He’s having a panic attack,’ Sherlock noted, dispassionately.
‘Yes, I know that,’ Molly snapped. She took Martin’s hand and ran his fingertips over the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘Feel this,’ she told him. ‘Think about how it feels on your fingers. Think about what kind of material it is.’
Martin obeyed, and found that he could now take small, ineffectual sips of air into his tight lungs.
‘Look at it – count the stripes. List the colours you can see in alphabetical order to yourself.’
Blue, he told himself, feeling lightheaded as his body still refused to take anything but the shallowest of panting breaths.
‘He needs to rest,’ Sherlock told Molly.
Green… no. Brown, then green.
Sherlock patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll get Lestrade to contact you via Molly if there are any updates.’ He paused. ‘Things will be better in the morning.’ He turned, and walked back to his waiting taxi.
Blue, brown, green, turquoise… At last, a proper breath went in, and came out in a loud sob. Molly held him tight, again. He didn’t hear himself crying. All he heard was the voice in his head saying blue brown green turquoise white over and over and over again. He was vaguely aware of movement, and the next thing he knew, he was on a sofa.
He blinked around himself, as if he’d just been in a dream. ‘I didn’t just faint then, did I?’
‘No,’ Molly told him. ‘Though I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had. Kettle’s on. Would you like a tea? Or something a little stronger?’
‘Just water. If that’s all right.’
‘I think I can stretch to turning on a tap for you.’
He looked down at his hands as she got up to go to the kitchen. They were still trembling. He’d wanted to stride up to her in his uniform and sweep her off her feet for a night of passion. Instead, he’d been dragged to her door in a mismatching, stolen trousers and jacket combo, filthy and hyperventilating, and instead of sweeping her off her feet, had broken down into tears and, very manfully, just about managed not to pass out in her arms. Oh yes, very sophisticated, Martin. Very attractive.
Molly came back to him with the water. ‘Are you hungry? Did they feed you?’
‘Their seats might have been about as comfortable as MJN’s,’ managed Martin, attempting the vaguest stab at sounding normal, ‘but sadly, their hospitality didn’t quite stretch to in-dungeon meals.’
Molly’s mouth twisted into a small, lopsided, nervous smile. ‘Bit like Ryanair, then. I could do you a sandwich…?’
Martin shook his head, wearily, defeated. ‘I’m sorry. I just want to wash, and sleep. I know we were looking forward to tonight, but if I only get four or five hours’ sleep, I won’t be alert enough to fly, and…’
‘Martin, you were knocked out, kidnapped and tortured, and it was probably my fault…’
‘No, not at all.’
‘I’m the one who brought you in to the crazy orbit of Sherlock Bloody Holmes, and this is the sort of thing people caught up in that orbit come to expect. Anyway, what I meant to say… what I’m trying to say is… let’s just write tonight off, OK? You’re bound to end up in London again soon, or I can go up to Fitton if I’ve got time off…’
‘The bright lights of Fitton, are you sure? Naïve London girl like you?’ Martin snorted a little laugh, still staring down at his hands and willing them to stop shaking. ‘They’ll eat you up alive.’
‘What I mean is, we can pick up where we left off then.’ She kissed him gently on the forehead. ‘You get some rest – I’ll sleep on the sofa.’
‘No, I couldn’t. I…’
‘My bed, my rules.’ Molly got up. ‘I’ll show you how the shower works. I’m afraid you, um… you do rather need one.’
-x-
Martin wasn’t going to argue with that. He gave body, face and hair a good scrub, as if he could peel away the evening he’d had with enough soap and hot water. When he went into the bedroom, he found Molly had got out an old, stretched T Shirt and jogging bottoms for him. The fact that they fit him didn’t exactly do anything to bolster his rapidly waning sense of masculinity.
‘Sorry about the TShirt,’ said Molly, coming in with a fresh glass of water. ‘It was the only one I could find that wasn’t moth-eaten, shrunken or pink.’
‘No,’ replied Martin, ‘it’s fine, I don’t think anyone will see me promoting Take That’s Comeback Tour on my chest in here, with the light off.’
‘All right, but if you get any Gary Barlow Nightmares, you let me know.’
Martin sat down on the bed. ‘Molly…?’
Molly lingered in the doorway. ‘Yes…?’
He wanted to ask her to stay. Not for sex, he couldn’t remember when he’d felt less sexy, and given that this was Martin, that was rather saying something. He just wanted her to stay, and hold him the way she had when he’d been coming down from that panic attack, but how to phrase that in a way that didn’t make him sound utterly pathetic or like he was some sort of sex pest trying to lead up to something because he wasn’t – well, maybe he was a little bit pathetic right now, but he certainly didn’t want to say that to her and oh God if he was getting tied up in knots just trying to work this out in his head, what sort of a mess would he get into actually saying it out loud?
‘Goodnight,’ he said.
‘Goodnight,’ she replied, and left.
Part 7
We've had the hurt, here commenceth the Comfort, although Martin's still feeling rotten. Quite a detailed description of panic attacks in this one - I've suffered from them from time to time myself, and drew on my experience of my first really horrible one. Don't know if anyone might find that triggery - as a sometime sufferer, I personally found it very cathartic to write.
part 5
Six
-x-
Sherlock regarded Martin as he slid into the taxi after him and barked an unfamiliar address at the driver.
‘Lestrade always keeps a pack of tissues in his inside jacket pocket,’ Sherlock told him. ‘You might want to clean yourself up a bit.’
Martin searched the jacket and did indeed find a pack of Kleenex. He set about wiping the worst of the bile off himself while Sherlock took out his phone and dialled.
‘Molly!’ crowed Sherlock, and Martin flinched. ‘I found something very familiar looking while finishing up my latest case, and thought it might belong to you.’
‘You found him?!?’
Sherlock’s phone was so close, and Molly’s hopeful cry so loud that Martin could hear her side of the conversation clearly.
‘Captain Crieff is alive and mostly well, and sitting next to me,’ Sherlock told her. ‘I presume I wasn’t the only one you pestered when you found he was missing this evening – you can tell the others to call off the search.’
‘Is he OK? What happened to him?’
‘Couple of blows to the stomach,’ replied Sherlock. ‘Tied to a chair for a while.’
‘Oh, God!’
‘He’ll be fine. He’s more scared than anything. It was my people traffickers, I’m afraid. They were labouring under the misapprehension that he was me. I can’t imagine why.’
‘Didn’t I tell you that was what it could be?’ Molly blurted on the other end, ‘but you wouldn’t listen to me, and now my boyfriend’s been tortured, because of you…’
‘I am not the one who decided it would be a good idea for you to choose a new boyfriend who was practically my facial and vocal double, and then ask him to meet you in a place where my enemies would be expecting to find me. But then, I’m not a complete idiot…’
‘Don’t,’ interrupted Martin, suddenly. Sherlock glared back at him, and his gaze fell back down to his knees. ‘Don’t talk to her like that,’ said Martin, quietly.
Sherlock continued to watch Martin as Molly protested down the phone.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Sherlock,’ she said, ‘but it isn’t like that. That’s not why I like him. He’s a good, caring, funny, honest man, and if he’s been hurt because of you…’
‘It wasn’t Moriarty,’ Sherlock told Molly, cutting her off. ‘When you called me because he was missing, you were convinced it was Moriarty who had taken him, not Battenberg.’
‘How’s that supposed to make me feel any better? What if it is Jim next time?’
‘It won’t be Jim. He’s not going to go after any of your new boyfriends, Molly – he’s done with you. You don’t exist to him, any more. It’s me he’s out to get.’ Sherlock’s tone softened, ever so slightly. ‘There’s no point in you worrying about him, any more. That’s my dubious privilege, now. And he certainly isn’t going to be dim enough to mistake your little Captain for me. Battenberg was a prize idiot.’
On the other end of the line, Molly’s voice sounded a little shaky. ‘But you got him though, right? He’ll pay for what he did to those people – to Martin?’
‘I’m sure I can “discover” some rather unsavoury files on his computer to ensure he has a very interesting time in prison,’ Sherlock replied. ‘Another thing for us to consider later. For now, I have a delivery heading your way. Will require tea, sympathy, supper, a hot shower and warm sheets.’
‘Oh,’ Molly squeaked, ‘but I have to do my hair…’
‘See you in a few minutes.’ Sherlock hung up.
Martin crumpled up the last of the tissues, still wincing away from Sherlock’s piercing stare.
‘When do you have to be back at the airport?’ Sherlock asked.
‘Seven,’ Martin replied. Realising that he had no idea what the time was, he checked the taxi’s clock. It was 11:38pm. He sighed. ‘I’ll have to give myself an hour or so to get there through London.
Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. ‘45 minutes.’
‘By bus.’
‘All right, an hour.’
‘If I just take time to throw some food down myself and cram in a quick shower and shave, I should just about be able to get enough sleep to be fit to fly. Not that I’m up for anything now other than sleeping, the day I’ve had.’
‘You and Molly don’t get much time together, do you?’
‘This is the first time we’ve actually been in the same city since we met. Sort-of goes beyond bad luck that the one night we get to spend together, I spend half of it tied to a chair being tortured because I was kidnapped by a gang who thought I was the detective working their case.’ Martin paused. ‘Actually, considering my luck in general, I really should have seen that coming. This is the sort of thing I should expect, with my life.’ He paused. 'Have you ever been in trouble with the law in Azerbaijan?'
Sherlock barked out a laugh. 'Oh, goodness, yes.' He stopped, and cleared his throat. 'Another case of mistaken identity?'
Martin nodded.
'Ah,' replied Sherlock. 'Word of advice, then - never go to El Salvador, either.'
'Do I want to...?'
'No.'
Martin descended into a gloomy silence. Sherlock continued to watch him.
‘I can’t fly a plane,’ announced Sherlock, suddenly. ‘Wouldn’t even know where to start. And I don’t have a girlfriend.’
Martin looked up and across at the other man. ‘Do you particularly want a girlfriend? Or a pilot’s licence?’
‘Goodness, no. Dull.’
Martin nodded. ‘Thought as much. And I bet if you did, you’d be able to get either, easily.’
‘Oh yes, definitely. But that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t have them.’
‘But those things don’t matter to you.’
‘But,’ Sherlock replied, ‘they matter to you. By your criteria, you are the more successful of the pair of us.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘By my criteria, perhaps. But, you’re not me.’
The taxi pulled to a stop outside a smart looking block of flats.
‘Ah, here we are.’ Sherlock got out, ordering the cabbie to wait before dragging Martin out with him.
Martin noticed a curtain twitch in the window of one of the 3rd floor flats as they got out of the taxi. Molly was at the front door before they’d had chance to ring the bell.
‘One boyfriend,’ announced Sherlock. ‘All in one piece and delivered to your door. Ta-da!’
‘Martin.’ Molly pushed past Sherlock and made a bee-line straight for Martin. ‘Oh God, what happened?’
‘I brought you sugar,’ Martin murmured, ‘but it was in my pocket, and they took my uniform…’
‘Lestrade’s looking for it,’ Sherlock explained, ‘on pain of getting his own jacket back. He’ll find it. He likes that jacket.’
‘I was going to do the Richard Gere bit,’ added Martin, unsure why he couldn’t stop either talking or shaking, ‘but I can’t, now. I’m so sorry, Molly.’
Molly gently put her arms around him, and Martin added “breathing” to the mental list of things he currently wasn’t able to do.
‘Martin?’ Molly pulled away from him and gazed at him in concern.
Try as he might, Martin just couldn’t draw a breath. He couldn’t even swallow. His mouth started to gape like that of a landed fish as he tried ineffectually to pull a breath through a throat that had apparently completely closed up.
‘He’s having a panic attack,’ Sherlock noted, dispassionately.
‘Yes, I know that,’ Molly snapped. She took Martin’s hand and ran his fingertips over the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘Feel this,’ she told him. ‘Think about how it feels on your fingers. Think about what kind of material it is.’
Martin obeyed, and found that he could now take small, ineffectual sips of air into his tight lungs.
‘Look at it – count the stripes. List the colours you can see in alphabetical order to yourself.’
Blue, he told himself, feeling lightheaded as his body still refused to take anything but the shallowest of panting breaths.
‘He needs to rest,’ Sherlock told Molly.
Green… no. Brown, then green.
Sherlock patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll get Lestrade to contact you via Molly if there are any updates.’ He paused. ‘Things will be better in the morning.’ He turned, and walked back to his waiting taxi.
Blue, brown, green, turquoise… At last, a proper breath went in, and came out in a loud sob. Molly held him tight, again. He didn’t hear himself crying. All he heard was the voice in his head saying blue brown green turquoise white over and over and over again. He was vaguely aware of movement, and the next thing he knew, he was on a sofa.
He blinked around himself, as if he’d just been in a dream. ‘I didn’t just faint then, did I?’
‘No,’ Molly told him. ‘Though I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had. Kettle’s on. Would you like a tea? Or something a little stronger?’
‘Just water. If that’s all right.’
‘I think I can stretch to turning on a tap for you.’
He looked down at his hands as she got up to go to the kitchen. They were still trembling. He’d wanted to stride up to her in his uniform and sweep her off her feet for a night of passion. Instead, he’d been dragged to her door in a mismatching, stolen trousers and jacket combo, filthy and hyperventilating, and instead of sweeping her off her feet, had broken down into tears and, very manfully, just about managed not to pass out in her arms. Oh yes, very sophisticated, Martin. Very attractive.
Molly came back to him with the water. ‘Are you hungry? Did they feed you?’
‘Their seats might have been about as comfortable as MJN’s,’ managed Martin, attempting the vaguest stab at sounding normal, ‘but sadly, their hospitality didn’t quite stretch to in-dungeon meals.’
Molly’s mouth twisted into a small, lopsided, nervous smile. ‘Bit like Ryanair, then. I could do you a sandwich…?’
Martin shook his head, wearily, defeated. ‘I’m sorry. I just want to wash, and sleep. I know we were looking forward to tonight, but if I only get four or five hours’ sleep, I won’t be alert enough to fly, and…’
‘Martin, you were knocked out, kidnapped and tortured, and it was probably my fault…’
‘No, not at all.’
‘I’m the one who brought you in to the crazy orbit of Sherlock Bloody Holmes, and this is the sort of thing people caught up in that orbit come to expect. Anyway, what I meant to say… what I’m trying to say is… let’s just write tonight off, OK? You’re bound to end up in London again soon, or I can go up to Fitton if I’ve got time off…’
‘The bright lights of Fitton, are you sure? Naïve London girl like you?’ Martin snorted a little laugh, still staring down at his hands and willing them to stop shaking. ‘They’ll eat you up alive.’
‘What I mean is, we can pick up where we left off then.’ She kissed him gently on the forehead. ‘You get some rest – I’ll sleep on the sofa.’
‘No, I couldn’t. I…’
‘My bed, my rules.’ Molly got up. ‘I’ll show you how the shower works. I’m afraid you, um… you do rather need one.’
-x-
Martin wasn’t going to argue with that. He gave body, face and hair a good scrub, as if he could peel away the evening he’d had with enough soap and hot water. When he went into the bedroom, he found Molly had got out an old, stretched T Shirt and jogging bottoms for him. The fact that they fit him didn’t exactly do anything to bolster his rapidly waning sense of masculinity.
‘Sorry about the TShirt,’ said Molly, coming in with a fresh glass of water. ‘It was the only one I could find that wasn’t moth-eaten, shrunken or pink.’
‘No,’ replied Martin, ‘it’s fine, I don’t think anyone will see me promoting Take That’s Comeback Tour on my chest in here, with the light off.’
‘All right, but if you get any Gary Barlow Nightmares, you let me know.’
Martin sat down on the bed. ‘Molly…?’
Molly lingered in the doorway. ‘Yes…?’
He wanted to ask her to stay. Not for sex, he couldn’t remember when he’d felt less sexy, and given that this was Martin, that was rather saying something. He just wanted her to stay, and hold him the way she had when he’d been coming down from that panic attack, but how to phrase that in a way that didn’t make him sound utterly pathetic or like he was some sort of sex pest trying to lead up to something because he wasn’t – well, maybe he was a little bit pathetic right now, but he certainly didn’t want to say that to her and oh God if he was getting tied up in knots just trying to work this out in his head, what sort of a mess would he get into actually saying it out loud?
‘Goodnight,’ he said.
‘Goodnight,’ she replied, and left.
Part 7
