A hypothesis on a definition of sacrifice (perfect, yes, but not complete):
"I hate this," he whispers.
Sherlock cocks his head inquisitively.
"I think it's just flu, but I. Well. You know what happened, probably. After I was shot. I nearly died."
Nodding, Sherlock holds out the teacup. With a rueful twist to his mouth, John takes it and sips.
"You aren't meant to break in when I'm throwing up everything I've ever ingested, you berk," John points out after he swallows the spiked tea.
"Why not?"
"Because I said so."
"Not good enough."
"It's the principle of the thing. You could give a man a little privacy if you liked."
"No," Sherlock says, deeply annoyed.
"I fucking deserve privacy, Sherlock."
"But I don't understand the point of it."
"Well, what if I don't want you to see me like this, perfect, elegant you, seeing me all twisted and weak and broken and fucked-up and helpless?" John snaps savagely.
On the word helpless, he sends the teacup flying cruelly into the bathtub. It hits the porcelain and shatters in a spectacular explosion of china. It's the most brilliant thing Sherlock has ever seen. Now the tub is spattered with brandy and hot chamomile, and there are little pieces of disfigured pink blossoms everywhere, sharp enough to draw blood. Shrapnel from a distant war zone brought vividly home and painted with cabbage roses, scattered all around their drain. John winces, hard, and then covers his face with one shaking hand.
Get your bloody hand out of my way, you're completely ruining my line of sight.
"I'm such a mess," John says hoarsely through his fingers. "I hate being this way. I hate me this way."
"I don't." And god, Sherlock doesn't. "But don't hurt anymore. I brought Boots night liquid and anti-nausea tablets from your kit."
The hand slides off his face again. John looks at Sherlock with a resigned and embarrassed and exasperated expression, as if he half wants to punch Sherlock and half wants to sink through the floor.
"You really can't be enjoying this," John observes. "I could spare you the discomfort."
"If you tell me to leave now, I will do," Sherlock offers. "I will. But I don't want to be spared. Do you think I like listening at doors, wondering how miserable you are? Does that seem like something I would enjoy, guessing at your condition? Where I'm concerned, do guesswork and John make a happy pair in your brain?"
John thinks it over.
"May I have a biscuit, please," he murmurs.
Tearing the packet open, Sherlock passes one along. John chews it experimentally, then winces again and drops the remainder in the bin.
Sherlock lifts the pair of flannel trousers and the soft cotton shirt experimentally.
"Right, hand them over."
"No. Come here."
John scowls.
"Problem?"
"Sherlock, I'll only get you sick."
All it takes is the raising of one very eloquent eyebrow to convey to John that the previous remark was either very stupid, or else failed to take into account anything he has ever learned about Sherlock Holmes.
Finally, at last, at last, at last, something in John softens visibly. He rolls his eyes heavenward and then crawls within easy reach. Being exquisitely careful, Sherlock reaches out and begins unbuttoning his shirt. When it's open, he slips it over John's arms, pulls his undershirt up and off, and continues, with John's occasional shaky assistance, until he has John nearly dressed for bed, tugging the flannels up his lean hips and pulling the drawstring to tie the knot. Dressing and undressing John is always a pleasure, but this time there is something to it beyond the revealing what's veiled, something deeper than the heady rush he always gets when a previously covered patch of John's skin is exposed. It feels almost worshipful doing this, like draping a Buddha or a saint. It's breathtaking.
If Sherlock could undress John to his bones, painlessly peel off the skin and then dress him back up in his own soft flesh again, that would be wonderful. More than wonderful. But it would hardly feel any more sacred than this does.
"You'd better go to bed," John says, watching Sherlock's fingers move. "I live here for the moment."
"Then I live here too."
"This is ridiculous, I'm perfectly capable of--"
"No."
Sliding the tea tray away a bit, Sherlock rises to a crouch and spreads the blanket over the floor. It's soft and thick and quilted, and he puts the pillow against the wall, lying back with his head sinking into goose feathers. John looks down at him as if Sherlock is a creature never before seen with human eyes, as if he'd encountered a unicorn sleeping in the middle of the forest.
"This is the part where you come here," Sherlock observes.
John's lids slide wearily over his eyes, and he grips the edge of the bathtub in frustration. "God in heaven, I--listen, Sherlock, you remember when I used to limp around like a mongrel run down by a truck? I was ashamed of it. Angry. I didn't...I didn't want to meet anyone who knew me, didn't want them to see how damaged I was. Running into Mike Stamford was horrifying. I'm a fucking doctor, I knew the leg pain was imaginary, I saw the tests and the scans myself."
"You're not limping an imaginary limp. You've a case of very real flu."
"Yes, and right now I feel as wrecked as I did when there was a hole in my shoulder and the nurses were being extra kind to me despite the fact I was screaming bloody murder at them, because the fever was rising and they all thought I was going to die. That was awful. Knowing. That they were coddling me, that they... And you're not just someone. And you don't just know me."
"Correct. And so?"
"I don't want an audience."
Sherlock, despite knowing that John is simply being honest, can't help feeling outraged.
"Wrong. Wrong. I am not an audience. Of all the mindless--you love me, and so I am going to sleep here with you on this floor, and bring you water and more tea in a new teacup and whatever else you like, for as long as this lasts. I cannot be coddling you, as I am emotionally and intellectually incapable of coddling anyone. I don't think you are twisted or weak or broken or fucked-up or helpless. But you are mine, in case you had momentarily forgotten."
He's listening intently, but nevertheless John doesn't say anything.
"Do you want it to be for me? Fine, that's fine. It would be better for me," Sherlock requests in desperation. "Please come here."
John absorbs this. His mouth twists, hesitant, and he swallows something bitter down. Sherlock would greatly prefer to have swallowed it himself and saved John the suffering, but some things aren't workable no matter how badly you want them, no matter how thoroughly your blood is mixed up in each other's veins.
When John does crawl onto Sherlock's lean chest, he's shivering badly again.
--wordstrings, "A Thousand Threads of What Might Have Been," part 1
Sacrifice, then, is much like thanks: accepting a a gift, which is the hardest thing. What I find most intriguing about this excerpt is what it suggests about the feelings and motivations of the sacrificed-unto.
All of this demands further consideration. I recognize that sacrifice is what's going on here, but I don't understand it--there is nothing in it that connects to my own life. I have never willingly appeared helpless to anyone--I don't even like appearing vulnerable--I have only very rarely wanted to show someone mercy when she or he appeared vulnerable or helpless before me.
There is one other part of this story that relates to sacrifice, helplessness, and mercy, and it is this:
Before this incident--and it's now much more than an incident in Sherlock's mind--John had always been endlessly affectionate and yet completely in control of himself. Deadly, in fact. A force to be reckoned with. John loses his mind during sex because he wants to, not because he can't help it. Now he's completely vulnerable, just a shivering little pile of bones. To Sherlock's shock, that makes the detective feel unspeakably kind. As if, now that John is actually at his mercy, mercy is the only thing he wants to provide.
No, not mercy. Mercy implies a crime. Just what John deserves.
--ibid.
Ha. "Deserves." The idea of anyone thinking that I deserve anything but evisceration is utterly bizarre and somewhat risible to me. The idea of my ever feeling about anyone else that she or he deserves anything better is likewise.
Mmm . . . maybe not my mother. My mother is very much like John, in that sense: good. But I am not much like my mother, and neither is anyone with whom I have ever fallen in love. Those like her are a different species; I don't know if miscegenation is possible--or advisable even if it is. I never know what to make of her, and I'm not sure what use her worldview could be to me if I were to take some of it. (I'm not even sure taking some of it is possible--it's that strange.)
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