AN AWAKENING

Philosophical questions: If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound?

Can a self-professed sociopath watch his friend fall in battle and not feel anything?

Sociopaths are said to...

* be able to act witty and charming

* be good at flattery and manipulating other people's emotions

* break the law repeatedly

* disregard the safety of self and others

* have problems with substance abuse

* lie, steal, and fight often

* not show guilt or remorse

* be often angry or arrogant

ooOOOoo

"Your text said you needed to talk," John huffed having run up the stairs. "Came as soon as I could."

Standing at the kitchen sink, Sherlock kept his back turned when John had reached the landing. "Where's Mary?" The detective queried without turning around.

"I'm sure I told you—bed rest for the next several weeks. We're too close now to take any chances."

Sherlock threw a backward glance over his shoulder. John had his hands thrust in his jacket pockets, appearing anxious, whether with impatience or concern, it was hard for Sherlock to discern.

"Yes, yes. I knew that. I meant how's Mary. These social subtleties escape me," Sherlock muttered aloud to himself with a dismissive shrug, and resumed drying the lab equipment he had been cleaning. "Of course you just answered that question. It's better…you, alone, for now."

"Sherlock?"

The way John said his name, Sherlock could tell the doctor was giving him a narrowed stare, obviously puzzled, and rightfully suspicious, but Sherlock didn't need to look up to confirm it.

"You okay?"

Sherlock turned toward John and leveled his eyes with his friend's. "Yes," he said immediately, one palm lifted as if taking an oath. "I'm clean. Not using…" Sherlock recognized in John's frown, furrowed brow, and quick nod that the doctor was reserving his verdict until he had a little more time in present company. "I don't expect you to believe me, but I am immersed in some mental challenges that are stimulating enough without needing enhancements."

John shifted his weight from side to side, working out the awkwardness that mistrust imposed between them. His features softened and his voice became gentle. "Good." He folded his arms across his chest and waited for Sherlock to continue.

"Well, I've asked you here because…." A sudden change of heart about what he planned to discuss made Sherlock falter, "…tea?" The abrupt rise in his tone of voice and the way he switched the topic were diversionary tactics that would only stall John for so long if not 't all.

"Not necessary," the gruff reply meant keep going.

Right! Not 't all. "Sit down, please." Sherlock gestured gracefully toward a kitchen chair and slid into the one opposite.

Unzipping his jacket John took a seat. "Okay. I'm listening."

"Weeks ago, in the jet, after Mycroft rang me about the threat, when I, ah—"

"—nearly killed yourself—" John folded his arms and leaned back.

"—used and visited the deepest recesses of my mind." Sherlock drew in a breath and dropped his gaze. He did not want to see the anger lingering in his friend's eyes. "Yes, it was dangerous,"he admitted, "but I've recovered from the side effects."

"Hope you're right," John grunted, "but only time will tell..." His voice dropped to a whisper.

Mentally replaying the moments surrounding his deliberate overdose, Sherlock fast forwarded through the aftermath that caused heartache—and all the arguments that followed especially between John and him. The detective wanted it all to go away so they could get on with the work. Sweeping his glance across the kitchen, he focused on a point behind John and continued "I visualized with such clarity and authentic sensations many astonishing experiences and images that are hard to forget even now."

"It's called a trip." Sharp sarcasm was evident in John's matter-of-fact delivery.

Okay, so it's not going away... "Well the 'trip' began with images of you as a soldier. Your clever Mary was right. I had been reading your blog about how we met on my mobile. Thought going back to the beginning would help, so it makes sense that I would imagine this version of you in a previous Afghanistan war."

Using his "grandest gift," John kept silent and allowed Sherlock to continue.

"Through your eyes I saw—imagined—the brutality of war, and the unspeakable destruction, and then you —this version of you got hit. Now, I was no longer you, but watching you take a bullet to your left shoulder, saw the pain in your face, and the shock that followed—which I fully comprehend now due to my own recent experiences…"

John grimaced.

The sadness, anger, and remorse that flushed John's face made Sherlock realize his aside may have been in poor taste. The reference to his own near-death experience when Mary had shot him was difficult enough for John, but touching upon the former army surgeon's actual war experiences and injury was a violation of his friend 's privacy. Without thinking about the emotional consequences of his unfiltered exposé, he had unintentionally caused John pain— again. At a loss for the right words to repair the damage, Sherlock merely dropped his chin to his chest, took a deep breath, and started again. "I'm bringing this up because I think I need to warn you."

"Warn me? About what?" Although his voice was husky, John masked his emotions.

"Your know that I don't give credence to prescient abilities, but since recovering from my... experiment, I've been having a recurring dream of your fall in battle, the one from the past."

"Ah! Recurring dream! Sure it's not a flashback hallucination? Delusions, depression, and anxiety are among the other side effects from the drugs you took." John sounded more frustrated than worried, although Sherlock heard both in his friend's voice.

"No, this is a dream, I'm sure a real dream that has been unleashing my subconscious thoughts, as dreams do, but this thought has been persistent, and I finally think I understand why. We are getting into dangerous waters, John. Even though Moriarty is dead and his 'Great Armada' destroyed, the coast is not clear, and we must remain on watch until I can figure what lies ahead—"

"—Sherlock, nobody can predict the future."

With an adamant shake of his head, Sherlock insisted. "It was once believed no one could predict weather, John, but we take for granted the application of current technology and science to predict the state of the atmosphere for a future time and a given location. Daily we listen to weather reports not realizing it is an analysis of trends. I think my subconscious has identified a trend, a trend that has been provided by data which my consciousness has missed thus far. Consider this a warning to be vigilant. "

"Sounds a little biblical to me." John seemed unnecessarily amused, "a warning in a dream."

"A trend! It's a trend that I'm interpreting as a warning." Suffering through John's cheekiness was something Sherlock took with a grain of salt as he was guilty of far harsher swipes at John. Tit for tat

"I see. So a trend came to you in a dream. Have to admit, this is odd talk coming from you. " John rubbed his chin thoughtfully in an attempt to be more serious and consider the claim practically. "People do dream to offset worry. Often, the subconscious may not only be concealing beliefs, fears and attitudes, but it can be the source of thoughts that affect a person even when awake. Sometimes it can interfere with everyday life. And let's not forget mind-altering drugs can mix it all up. So the possibility that you are solving a problem within your subconscious is not particularly strange."

"Yes. You see my point, but what is strange—perplexing—has been the physiological responses to this recurring dream." Sherlock looked at his hands. "I need advice…your medical advice."

"Well!" John seemed pleased as he sat back in the kitchen chair. "Describe what you're feeling."

John's use of the word feeling struck Sherlock like an unexpected slap. Up until that moment, he had anticipated his physician friend would listen to the list of symptoms, identify the cause of the physical manifestations that troubled him (B12 deficiency, mild dehydration, lack of nutrients from vegetables and fruits), and help him with a prognosis that was treatable with… vitamin supplements, more water, less sugar and products with added sugar, better nutritional choices, and most of all, staying off nicotine… The thought never occurred that he may have misjudged the source of his ailment.

Feeling?

Everything suddenly became much more complicated. A fluttering in his stomach and dryness in his mouth made it difficult to continue. This uneasiness prompted Sherlock to shove his chair back abruptly—the legs ripping across the floor caused a loud scraping sound—go to the cupboard for a water glass, and fill it from the tap. He took a few sips before returning to the kitchen table, plopping his glass down, and slowly seating himself across from John.

John's doing his thing, Sherlock noted when he met his friend's worried glance. "Patience's not a virtue, John, if it is used as a weapon."

"Huh, what?" John opened his eyes wide with mock surprise. "I'm just waiting for His Majesty to get settled."

That raised a half-smirk from Sherlock and broke the tension. Whilst working out a kink from his neck, Sherlock decided to resume his original plan and tell John the truth. His face became serious, his voice detached, "I'm not a stranger to dreams, but my response to them has always been different from 'the norm.' Even the bad ones, which I had countless times growing up, I endured without being affected emotionally. Well, I recall a few at first, around the ages of five or six, which terrified me. I was weak and vulnerable until I realized that I mustn't feel so deeply. Eventually, I found it far easier to control these rampant sensations by disavowing all sentiment, separating from matters of the heart, and applying ratiocination along with cold logic."

"Fine, Sherlock. You've provided a succinct history for context, but you haven't answered my question," John said evenly, keeping the neutral face of a practiced physician.

Sherlock found this strategy comforting. As long as John maintained his professional distance, Sherlock could continue. "I, I, um, wake… shaking and crying out. Wake up with sensations of terrible loss—that can only be described as deep pangs of fear and sorrow."

A pained look crossed John's features as he nodded slightly and bowed his head.

"In the past, my dreams have ranged from exciting to stimulating, sometimes boring; they have been both logical and illogical," Sherlock continued softly. "They're often about achievements or goals that I've set for myself, and I am usually in control of all the factors that comprise the dream. But they have never been so profoundly distressing that they roused me with emotions of sorrow. For me, to feel this so acutely is quite… disturbing."

John blinked, swallowed, and looked away. "Well, I know those dreams all too well. Warfare and traumatic loss can do that. They are very hard to ignore and because they come when one least expects them, they are hard to control." He cleared his throat and added as an afterthought. "And let me assure you that not all PTSD sufferers have someone come back from the dead to alleviate those haunting sensations associated with the trauma."

"Unforgiveable bastard!" Sherlock quipped with a slight smile. "Who would do such a thing to his friends?"

"I guess an unforgiveable bastard who is lucky enough to have very forgiving friends," John deadpanned back before reciprocating with a comparable smile. "Look, Sherlock, I'm not a psychiatrist, but it sounds like a PTSD episode, and perhaps your drug cocktail has broken down those barriers against sentiments which you constantly build around yourself."

"You think I build the barriers?"

"You just said that until you were five or six, you felt emotions. If that is true, you weren't born like this. Something or someone made you learn to respond this way."

"Are you implying I'm not a sociopath?"

"Truthfully, I don't know what to believe." John shrugged. "Look at me. I married an intelligence operative/assassin, so I may not be the best judge of character, but I've been studying the medical journals on these distinctions for quite a while." John stopped speaking abruptly, aware he had just divulged a guilty secret—that he had been researching antisocial behaviors using Sherlock as his subject. "How else would I be able to understand what you go through if I hadn't?"

"Makes perfect sense, just as I have experimented on you."

"Whoa! I've never drugged you or have done anything without your knowledge."

"Except observe my behavior, take notes, and I suspect, compare your findings against the DMS." Sherlock nodded approvingly. "It's all FINE, John."

John's mouth had dropped opened, but soon he recovered his voice, "Well, do you want to hear my opinion based on my research?"

Sherlock nodded pleasantly.

"I was trying to say, I think you do choose to exclude sentiments. I think your sociopathic tendencies have been acquired over time. A long time. The question is why? According to the latest definitions in the DMS, you would be classified as having a personality disorder—and by the way, they've eliminated the term sociopath. Your blatant egocentrism, your disregard for authority or danger, your drug abuse, let's not forget your arrogance, and your convincing talents at lying, conning, manipulating nearly everyone, except Mary, are all features that would be considered personality impairments and a form of antisocial behavior." John grunted and pushed back in his chair, plainly surprised he was allowed this conversation without interruption. "If I were to believe you had a disorder, I would see you as a charismatic, secondary psychopath, because you feel stress and guilt and actually care about people." Once he had finished, John drew in a deep breath as if he had held it during his entire explanation. Exhaling, he surrendered his last thought quietly, almost under his breath, "But, Sherlock, I think it's an act, like you are trying to hide from yourself."

Sherlock snorted a chuckle and studied John for a long moment. He observed the worry lines around the deep blue eyes that were peering back at him with curiosity, the pleasant face that could reflect too honestly every emotion the man genuinely felt in a given moment, the upright posture that spoke of personal pride, loyalty, commitment, and strength even as he sat in an ordinary kitchen chair, the man in whom Sherlock had found the truest friend. This appreciation fueled the impulse to speak another deeper truth triggered by John's question about what he was feeling. "I feel genuinely sad."

"Sorry, what?"

"It's what wakes me up—feeling sad when I see you fall in battle, accompanied by the wish that I could have helped you, the desire to have fought by your side, the need to rescue you." Sherlock met John's bewildered expression with his own. "Even as I say these words they are foreign to me, but I realize I feel this impossible thing—about something that happened to you—even though I can take no responsibility for it because it happened before I ever met you. Does this make any sense?"

In all seriousness, John leaned forward in his seat and clasped both his hands together to mull over Sherlock's words. When he spoke, the doctor maintained his clinician's indifference. "It's called empathy. You are experiencing an awareness of the feelings and emotions of others, and experiencing them for yourself through the power of your imagination."

"Is this normal behavior?"

"It's not uncommon in many people," John first nodded, then shook his head. When he looked up and met Sherlock's scrutiny, the warmth in John's eyes was unmistakable. "But for you, it's bloody extraordinary!"

Author's note: IMHO The Abominable Bride was a vivid glimpse not only into Modern Sherlock's Mind Palace, but revealed his personal thoughts and feelings about John, Mary, Mycroft, Lestrade, and of course Moriarty. My suggestion that it would lead to character growth and development is perhaps the real fiction here. Dear Reader, you decide.

Special thanks to englishtutor for her encouragement and understanding. (This fic is a prequel to my other stories MISSING IN ACTION, ACTION IN MISSING, TOO MUCH TO ASK, and THRESHOLDS.)