A/N: I'm not entirely satisfied with this, but decided to publish it anyway. Warnings with spoilers at the end. Please review.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
Gaslight
We're playin' those mind games together
Pushin' the barriers, plantin' seeds
Yes is the answer
And you know that for sure
Yes is surrender
You gotta let it go, you gotta let it go
-John Lennon, "Mind Games"
It started, as many unpleasant things did when Sherlock Holmes was one's flatmate, with a spread of crime scene photos across the entirety of the living room floor. Though most well adjusted individuals would have been more put off by the gaping wounds and coagulated blood glinting under the gloss coating of each still, John was mostly concerned about the lack of route into the kitchen. There were holes here and there in the web of prints, fixed in a seemingly random pattern, but surely Sherlock couldn't expect him to hop from one vacancy to the next like a child indulging in a game of hot lava. John decided he wasn't going to sacrifice his dignity and try. He tromped across the map of Sharon Tate's mauled corpse and into the kitchen without looking back, unconcerned by the dusty boot prints left behind.
Unconcerned, that is, until Sherlock approached him later looking stonier than usual.
"John," he began with deliberate annoyance, "Your boots have ruined my photos."
"So I noticed," said John, unquailed by Sherlock's iced glare. He fully intended on showing Sherlock his mistake, and making sure he saw that it was wrong to force John to put up with so much bullshit when John was doing him the favor of sharing a flat with him in the first place. Sherlock knew he was a hellish person to live with. John took in a slow breath. He could gently correct Sherlock's behavior easily enough. Show him that causing John unnecessary inconvenience would lead to reciprocation on John's part.
"Well, do try not to repeat the mistake," snapped Sherlock. "I'll lose valuable time re-printing them."
"You should have left space for me to walk if you didn't want them ruined."
"I did leave space!" Sherlock's eyes darkened. Perhaps he had thought he was being considerate, leaving a hole or two for John to attempt to step in rather than expecting him to teleport across an unbroken sea of images. But Sherlock, of course, was often wrong when it came to consideration, and it was John's duty as a good friend to show him the error of his ways in such circumstances.
"Not spaces that were easy for me to navigate," he said, and rose without further ado before Sherlock could make him feel small and stupid with his infallible logic. Baby steps were all it took when it came to Sherlock. Getting him to admit that he was wrong was nearly impossible, but John wasn't above a bit of trickery to make his point when it came to Sherlock's unreasonable behavior. A new opportunity was sure to arise sooner or later.
This time, the pictures were all of a portly middle-aged man, and the cause of death was an incision in his neck created to host a tube, according to Sherlock's theory. There were several close-ups of the flesh around the wound, showing sharp crusts of browning blood crowning the puckered skin in a perfect circle. John was unconcerned by the visceral imagery littering the living room floor. He slipped out of his shoes, making sure not to trod on any of the photos, and shimmied into Sherlock's ridiculously priced black leather pair just behind the door (thank God he had actually left them in the appropriate place for once), noting that they were buttery soft and smelled of oil. They were also too tight and long for his shorter, broader feet, but John's comfort was not the issue here. He stashed his more practical shoes where Sherlock's had been, and attempted to imitate Sherlock's long stride as he made his way across the photographs. Satisfied with his cunning, John removed the shoes and stuffed them behind the curtain, knowing Sherlock would be too occupied by the case to notice. He strolled into the kitchen and set the kettle to boil, whistling as he did so.
Sherlock noticed the prints immediately. He gathered the ruined photos with an unrelenting glower and stomped into the kitchen, curls askew and cheeks dark with anger.
"I didn't take you for a petty person, John," he said, using his disappointed voice. John nearly snorted. As if Sherlock had a right to be disappointed with him! "I hope your poorly construed revenge is immensely satisfying."
"Whatever are you talking about, Sherlock?" he asked innocently, though he couldn't prevent a small smirk from playing around the corner of his lips.
"You never walk around the flat barefoot when you get home from the surgery," Sherlock said smugly, calming a bit now that he knew he could prove John guilty. "Never mind that your stride length and the weight of your footsteps is obviously different from mine, no matter how carefully you tried to imitate me. Did you not think I know my own gait?"
"Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock," John began, now flushing furiously himself, "You were the one to ruin the photos without realizing it, and now your subconscious is attempting to pin it on me. Or maybe you think you can get away with forcing your mistakes on me so you don't feel guilty. I'm not going to be your scapegoat. Do you not realize I have better things to do than exact petty revenge for something that happened over a week ago? Not everything I do revolves around you."
John was impressed with his own performance. He sounded just as exasperated as he always did when Sherlock's narcissistic tendencies and superiority complex rose to the surface, and he was pleased to see Sherlock's self-assured glare flounder ever so slightly before his pale eyes hardened once more. He had nearly doubted himself. John had almost knocked Sherlock Holmes, sociopathic genius extraordinaire, down a few pegs. Was this what it felt like when Sherlock proved himself correct against the entire Scotland Yard? John could understand the appeal. He kept his features schooled in a scold as Sherlock gathered himself, looking even angrier than before.
"I don't know what you think you are accomplishing with this, John, but you should realize by now that I am not easily fooled."
He flounced off to the couch for a sulk, leaving John to grin contentedly into his cuppa. He settled on one last blow before Sherlock got the chance to sink into complete silence, taking great pleasure in the resultant huff:
"It's not my fault you're in denial, Sherlock."
John told himself frequently that what he was doing was hardly less ethical than Sherlock's boredom induced destruction. Sherlock did more stupid, unacceptable things with tedium as his sole excuse in a month than John had in his entire life, and the results were often potentially lethal. Resorting to a bit of trickery to teach Sherlock a lesson or two in the hopes of making him more bearable was hardly as bad as skinning a severed head and leaving the results on the table just because the criminal underbelly of London was feeling lazy. John wasn't doing anything that involved body parts, dubious substances, or anything else dangerous. He was just being a good friend and trying to help Sherlock see that sometimes it was okay to be wrong. Nothing problematic about that.
He started with little things, like switching the cup Sherlock kept his toothbrush in from blue to white. Sherlock immediately confronted him about it, of course, but John was ready with a gentle scold that once again produced that delicious floundering.
"John," he said with a chastising glare, "Why did you feel the need to replace my normal cup?"
"Mmm?" John forced his mouth into a politely bemused frown. "What are you on about?"
"My cup," Sherlock repeated, enunciating with brutal accuracy. "I always keep my toothbrush in a blue mug. Today it is white. Why?"
"Sherlock," John started, fixing him with a flicker of disappointment capable of reducing jaded military men to puddles of guilt. "You're the one with the brain for details. I barely notice what I put on in the morning. And you know I never go into your bedroom unless Mycroft thinks it's a danger night. Perhaps you switched it out without noticing yesterday."
"I would never do that." Sherlock shook his head firmly, but there was a troubled twist to his devastating upper lip. "I surround myself with blue things for a reason John. Blue is a serene colour. It allows me to think clearly. That is why my blue scarves, blue robe, and blue mug are all my favorites. I would not switch out the cup without realizing. If you think you can fool me that easily—"
"Sherlock," John cut in with careful admonishment. "What motive could I possibly have for attempting to fool you with something stupid like this? I'm not deluded enough to think I could get away with it." He set down his paper and fixed Sherlock with his concerned doctor stare. It revealed nothing but benign intent. "Now, I think all this is just the product of too many irregular nights. I've told you time and time again, Sherlock. You need solid eight-hour blocks of sleep to function properly. I'd hate to see that brain of yours suffer because you're too bloody stubborn to fix yourself a schedule."
For one glorious second, Sherlock's self righteousness drowned in something that might have been panic. But it came up a moment later, hardly even gasping, and instead of apologizing like a good flatmate should when his friend politely pointed out that he was wrong, he flounced off with a growl, favorite blue silk robe fluttering petulantly behind him.
It was even better when Sherlock found his favorite robe had gone missing. John watched with satisfaction (at putting Sherlock in his place for a change, of course. Nothing more) as he nearly upended the entire flat searching for it, still fresh and damp from the shower and nearly naked in his wisp of a tee shirt and pajama pants. He didn't confront John until he had undone all of Mrs. Hudson's Sunday tidying up, a definite improvement over the blue cup incident. And when he did, he didn't look half as angry.
"John, I need my robe," he said, nearly dejected. "I'm not sure what I did to annoy you so, but I apologize for whatever it was."
"Sherlock," John began in the mild chastising tone he'd perfected to a key, "I haven't hidden your robe. You probably misplaced it yourself. Just get a good night's sleep for a change and eat a few meals. It'll do wonders for your concentration. I'm too busy to deal with whatever this is, and I have better things to do than hide your things. Please stop accusing me."
The strain of hurt in his voice did wonders. Sherlock bowed his head. The motion was almost imperceptible, but John knew the signs of his guilt better than anyone with the possible exception of Mycroft. He waited with bated breath for what had to be coming, but a second later the emotion had gone, replaced once more with the cool mask Sherlock always used when he didn't want to admit he'd fucked up.
"I don't need to improve my concentration," he snarled. "Mrs. Hudson must have moved it when she came in to clean. I've told her time and time again not to move anything from its designated position, but she doesn't listen…" He turned in the direction of the door, but John stopped him.
"No. You are not dragging her into whatever this is. When has Mrs. Hudson ever touched your things without your permission? I was here to make sure she didn't move anything important on Sunday. How about owning up to the fact you made a mistake for a change instead of blaming us? It won't kill you."
"I didn't make a mistake! I don't move anything unless it's imperative to a case or experiment!" Sherlock insisted. But when he did retreat, he was almost slumped, like something in his core had begun to give up. John couldn't help his smile.
Next, John switched the order of the beakers Sherlock had set up on the kitchen table so that they no longer descended by height. Sherlock blinked rapidly when he noticed the change, as if he were hoping it would go away if he shut his eyes hard enough. John waited, never letting his gaze drift from his computer screen.
"John. Stop it." Sherlock's voice came from the kitchen, tired and frustrated, and John was a bit pissed off Sherlock didn't even have the courage to face his ire at being falsely accused.
"Stop what, Sherlock?" he called pleasantly, hoping for an opportunity to exercise his newfound acting skills. A stormy-faced Sherlock finally stomped in, arms tight over his thin chest.
"You know perfectly well what," he snapped, and retreated to fix his beakers without elaborating.
When he did eat, Sherlock always placed his drinks on the table and food on the counter, so John switched his toast and coffee the next morning. Normally he wouldn't notice a small thing like that in the first place, but he was an expert at picking apart all of Sherlock's unusual behaviors, and now that he was playing his little game he was becoming aware that many of Sherlock's quirks were more akin to obsessive compulsive tendencies. He had always suspected as much, but it was increasingly obvious (and worrisome) now that he was subject to Sherlock's hissy fits when he thought John had disrupted even the smallest detail in the organized chaos he drowned himself in. John was actually being kind by showing Sherlock he had a problem. When he did realize he was moving things from the way he liked them, he'd realize he was being unduly affected by circumstances inconsequential to the work and attempt to make a change. John was a good friend for showing him the error in his ways.
"You've moved my toast," Sherlock accused, plate in hand, when he returned from his first trip to the loo. He stared at said toast with distaste. Perhaps it had lost its appeal now that it had been moved from its designated position.
"Good to see you eating," said John, pretending he had only heard the word "toast" and giving the plate an approving nod.
"No, you've moved it," Sherlock repeated, closing his eyes as if John was an exasperatingly slow child he did not want to deal with. John's eyebrows inched towards his hairline.
"Haven't moved anything, Sherlock," he said in his "we've been here before, don't start this again" voice. Sherlock's eyes flew open and his mouth thinned. The amount of emotion he showed at times like these was immensely satisfying. He became human, just another picky person fearful his flatmate was messing with his head. But of course with Sherlock, the real fear was that no one was messing with him, that the forgetfulness and misplaced items was all somehow his fault and he couldn't even remember why. Admitting to one's faults was just as important as eating and breathing. John had grown up knowing that recognizing when he was wrong was the ultimate sign of maturity, and teaching Sherlock the same lesson was important, high-functioning sociopath or not.
"I always keep my toast on the counter," Sherlock said, dragging out his words like he hoped more syllables would help John understand. "It was on the table. I would never move my toast to the table."
"Sherlock, you love ribbing me for not noticing things like that," John began, pleased to be the one asserting logic as the end-all for a change. "Why would I suddenly start now? To spite you?"
"I know what you're doing." Sherlock ignored everything he'd said, clinging to the accusation like a lifeline. "It isn't going to work. Even Moriarty found it impossible to outwit me in the end, John. I am not easily phased."
Maybe Moriarty was going about it the wrong way, John thought, because Sherlock was certainly phased now. He was clinging on the scrap of hope he was in the right rather than listening to John's perfectly reasonable explanation. A Sherlock ignoring logic in favor of soothing his ego was a very phased Sherlock indeed.
"I'm your friend, Sherlock. Friends don't turn everything into a competition. I'm not trying to outwit you," John said sadly, brows furrowed with hurt. The doubt was back in Sherlock's eyes. "You could just admit you made a mistake, you know." The eyes hardened again, devastating and unreadable.
"I didn't make a mistake," he insisted, and stomped off again, leaving the toast cold and forgotten on the kitchen table.
Sherlock accused Mrs. Hudson of moving his things the next day. John overheard the whole confrontation, listening incredulously as Sherlock rambled on about toast and toothbrushes. He sounds paranoid, John thought, noting the fear in Mrs. Hudson's voice. She stood her ground, insisting she hadn't moved anything because she knew Sherlock always bit her head off when she so much as looked too hard at his belongings and honestly dear, are you perfectly all right because you sound a bit manic…and Sherlock stalked out at the accusation John had been waiting for in a whirl of coat and curls, mouth broken with panic. He stopped when he saw John, something sheepish rising in his eyes before it was smothered by an awkward cough.
"Come along, John. Molly has a fresh one in."
"I can't believe you brought Mrs. Hudson into this," John said, stony-faced and brimming with an aura of power usually reserved for serial killers. Sherlock fidgeted with his coat.
"Well, she's obviously been moving things. I had to make sure she wouldn't continue doing so. There are too many dangerous substances in the flat. She could injure herself—"
"Mrs. Hudson didn't move anything. I didn't move anything. I don't know if you're suffering from stress related amnesia, but you need to stop accusing the people who care about you and own up to the fact you have a problem. I'm worried about you."
Sherlock regarded him carefully, nearly all the way open with a childlike fear John hadn't seen before. It was gone the second it appeared, and Sherlock swooped out the door without another word, ignoring John completely.
When he couldn't find his blue-striped scarf on the way down to the Yard, Sherlock was furious. He actually grasped both of John's shoulders and shook him, demanding to know where he'd placed it. For a moment, John was frightened by the gleam in his eyes, becoming acutely aware that Sherlock was stronger than he looked and a good deal taller than John as well, never mind the fact that his brain, even in its current state, was exceptional. He could do a lot of harm if he tried. The shadow of his own mortality passed, like it always did when John was in danger, and he threw Sherlock off with little effort, fixing himself in a scowl.
"Christ, Sherlock, stop manhandling me," he snapped. "Now, calm down and try to remember when you last took it off."
"I can remember perfectly! I hung it on its usual peg just yesterday when I came back from the morgue. Please John, where did you put it? It's not laundry day, and you never dry clean my clothes anyway so why did you hide it?"
"Do you realize how insane you sound?" John asked incredulously. "Sherlock, I didn't hide your scarf. I didn't hide your mug or your robe either. Stop trying to blame the fact that you're human on me. It isn't my fault you can't be perfect every fucking minute of every fucking day. I don't know why you're accusing me right and left of things I'd have no fucking reason for doing, but it isn't funny and you need to stop it before I get angry."
"But you moved it! You had to have moved it, there's no other logical explanation—"
"There's no logical explanation for why I would move it! Now, if you want to stop acting like a child and quit the finger-pointing, there's a body waiting to be looked at."
For a moment, Sherlock just stared at him, something vulnerable and betrayed flickering behind his impossible cheekbones and disapproving brows. He shook it away and grabbed his coat, gesturing for John to follow, but he was abnormally quiet on the ride over. John chanced a glance at his neck and noted, with satisfaction, that it looked naked and precious without the blue fabric to sheath it. He could see a pulse quivering under the stretch of nearly translucent skin. It made Sherlock seem more alive, the evidence that he had a heart present and pumping a delicious thing indeed.
Lestrade was bewildered when they swooped in, eyes narrowing in on Sherlock's neck as he rattled off deductions about the poor headless woman on the floor. Her silent scream was two feet away, lolling obscenely on its side with un-seeing accusatory eyes.
"Oi, what happened to your scarf?" Lestrade asked when there was a reprieve in the monologue. Sherlock's eyes flashed, but John cut in before he could slice through anyone with his acidic tongue.
"Sherlock's been a bit forgetful lately. He couldn't remember where he'd put it. Not the first time that's happened in the past three weeks, actually."
"I am not forgetful! I've never had memory problems in my life!" Donovan sniggered behind her hand at Sherlock's defensive posture, but he didn't seem to notice, voice rising as he continued. "I always keep a mental catalogue of where I put things, and since I have no memory of misplacing anything, the only logical conclusion is that either John or Mrs. Hudson is hiding my things." He sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than them, a fact that didn't go over Donovan and Anderson's heads.
"Sherlock," John began in a voice he might use to quiet an embarrassingly whiny child. "We've been through this—"
"I am not forgetful!" Sherlock repeated, his protest nearly a shout. Lestrade's brow furrowed. Donovan looked less amused and quirked an eyebrow instead. John was a paradigm of friendly concern.
"If you say so," he said soothingly. "But even if you are, it's nothing to be ashamed of. We all forget things. It's probably just stress."
"I am not stressed," Sherlock mumbled, but he looked beaten when he finally returned to the body, hardly any force behind his usually glowing displays of logic. He didn't insult anybody, John included, but there was also a new worry lurking behind his eyes that made Lestrade's wrinkles deepen into shadows. It was easy for John to play along.
There was no denying Sherlock's panic when he withdrew a pack of marlboros he had no memory of purchasing from his pocket when he'd intended on finding a pen. John allowed himself to get angry for real this time, not even caring that Molly was watching them, because even when there was evidence in Sherlock's hand that he had bought something he'd promised not to, he still remained convinced he was in the right.
"I thought you'd quit!" John scowled, giving the cigarettes a disgusted sneer. "Sherlock, if this has something to do with the forgetfulness—"
"It doesn't," snapped Sherlock, gazing at the pack in guilty bewilderment. "I didn't purchase these."
"Well, that would be the only explanation for why they're in your pocket," John said patiently. "I'll have to tell Mycroft about this, you know. He won't be pleased."
"I don't care about pleasing Mycroft," Sherlock snarled, eyes wild and fearful. He turned to John in a fit of accusation. "You put them there. I know you did, you've been toying with my mind for weeks now, misplacing things, trying to make me doubt myself." His voice was hardly more than a manic murmur, but there was more malice in it than John had ever heard.
"Look at you," he said, throwing Sherlock the same look he'd given the cigarettes. "You sound completely unhinged. Sherlock, I don't know if you're going through some sort of mental breakdown or what, but stop blaming me!"
"I am not going through a mental breakdown!" Sherlock all but roared. "There is nothing wrong with me! You are messing with me, this is all about you trying to make me admit that I'm wrong, but it's not going to work, I'm too clever for you John—"
John left the morgue, brushing past a cowering Molly and letting the door slam behind him. He stopped for a second, still able to hear Sherlock's weak pulse of a voice. Such a sharp contrast to his typical biting baritone. It was a welcome change.
"John. John—"
It was almost a plea.
The next time they were in the morgue, Molly approached John. He had to admit she was shrewder than she let on, the purse of her lips showing she feared there was something legitimately wrong with Sherlock. They both tracked his movements for a moment, watching as he muttered names and positions under his breath, occasionally whirling around as if he feared the microscope might move when he wasn't looking, just to mess with him. He hadn't made much progress in the time they'd been there, far too busy pointing and cataloguing just so he could have an assurance it wasn't his fault if anything shifted. John had considered moving something minor when Sherlock's back was turned, but it was too risky, and he knew that if Sherlock caught him even once the game would be over.
"He looks like he hasn't slept in weeks," Molly observed, reflexively brushing a strand of hair from her eyes to better see Sherlock's rapidly working mouth. "What's the matter with him?"
"Don't know," John grunted. The quiver of Sherlock's lips was increasing in speed. John wondered what he was telling himself. "He's been off for a while now."
"Yes, but why?" Molly asked, fixing him with a sharp stare that reminded John of Mycroft when he smelled a lie.
"Don't know," he repeated gruffly, avoiding looking at her. He resolved not to accompany Sherlock to the morgue anymore.
The coat was almost the last straw. John had needled Sherlock all week about the marlboros, periodically examining his fingers for nicotine stains, giving him pitying looks, watching as he fidgeted, argued with his skull, refused to sleep, and proclaimed his innocence to often empty rooms. He was cracking. But he hadn't apologized, or admitted he was wrong, though John watched studiously for the signs every day.
Sherlock let loose a strangled howl when the coat went missing. It was a noise of pure agony, the wail of a man reexamining himself and finding everything he'd assumed wrong, and though it contained more absolution than any words ever could, it was not enough for John. He found Sherlock kneeling on the floor, head in hand and muttering to himself again. He made an effort to not look like he was undergoing an excruciatingly unwelcome bought of self-evaluation when he noticed John staring at him.
"I can't find my coat," he said, even-voiced and serene in everything but his eyes. If it wasn't Sherlock, it might've sounded normal, a simple admission of a fluctuation in memory. But then he added, a smidge too defensively: "I'm not going insane."
"I think you should see someone," said John, matching his calmness without effort. "This isn't like you."
"Did you hide it, John? Please tell me. Did you?"
Sherlock never said "please" like he said it then, raw and aching with some emotion he'd never wanted to experience. It was probably desperation. John wondered if he had ever felt such a feeling before.
"No Sherlock, I didn't." He waited for an apology that didn't come. Sherlock sulked out of the room; rubbing his curls like he believed could itch away the problem. John went to bed early and left him to his thoughts, ignoring the crashes coming from the living room. He awoke to find the flat trashed, remnants of paper and feather still suspended in the morning with Sherlock spread eagle in the middle of it all, muttering sluggishly even in deep sleep. The light sifting through his curls and eyelashes made him nearly angelic, illuminating a run of sticky residue on his cheek that might have been a tear and setting the remnants of the white toothbrush mug around him aglow. John watched him for a moment longer, something content coiling deep in his stomach that he later identified as a new sense of power; dominance over a man who was so unpredictable the greatest criminal London had ever seen hadn't been able to shatter him. But here he was now in shards, plain, oatmeal-jumpered John Watson looming above him with a satisfied smile.
In the end, John managed to convince Mrs. Hudson to keep the damage off the rent, as long as they cleaned everything up by the end of the week. Sherlock went about the task with his head bowed, giving John the confirmation he needed that he was ashamed of himself. He refused to speak of the incident, going about life as normally as he could without his coat, scarf, robe, mug, or any of the other things that were disappearing and showing up again in unexpected places at an alarming rate. He even managed to keep himself expressionless when John presented him with a dress shirt with a melted hole obviously caused by a corrosive substance and one of his patented disapproving stares. Sherlock, of course, remained constant in his insistence he'd had nothing to do with the incident, despite John's reminding him that there was no other possible perpetrator since he certainly didn't experiment with dangerous chemicals on a regular basis. For a week, things were almost back to normal. Then John upped the game more than he ever would've thought himself capable of a month ago, leaving Sherlock gasping and finally snapping.
"Why was this in your sock index?" John asked, dangerously tranquil as he held the bag of white powder up to the light. He hadn't felt so fulfilled since he put a hole through Jefferson Hope that first glorious night so long ago. Sherlock looked up from his computer, and he was suddenly filled with so much blind panic it was a wonder it didn't immediately overflow. He fell at John's feet in a quivering heap, hands braced under his chin in a silent prayer.
"John, I didn't, I've been clean, you know I've been clean, you know the signs, I don't know where that came from, you have to believe me John John John John—"
"And what about these?" John continued, ignoring Sherlock's whimpers and unleashing a stash of hypodermic needles that turned the whine into a plea.
"No, I don't know anything about those, don't know where they came from, don't know, you have to know I wouldn't, please John pleasepleasepleaseplease—"
"I don't know anything anymore!" John roared, tossing both needles and bag at Sherlock. He didn't even bother to catch them, the baggie smacking his face and landing at his knees. "First the cigarettes, the muttering, trashing the flat, always accusing me, and now this! What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you doing this?"
Something inside of Sherlock visibly broke. He shook, not with desperation, but with unbridled fury.
"There is nothing wrong with me!" he bellowed, picking up the baggie and shaking it in John's face. "I'm not doing anything. You planted these, just like you planted those cigarettes. You're doing this! What did I do to deserve this, John? What the fuck did I do to you?"
Well, let's see, there's the insults and the messes and the noises at ungodly hours of the night. There's the fact you don't give a fuck about me and don't bother to hide it, that you expect me to put up with all your bullshit but don't even make an effort when I ask you for the smallest favors. There's the fact that you never fucking admit it when you're wrong—
"What did I do to you?" is what John asked aloud. To his surprise, there were tears springing to his eyes. He never cried, even when it seemed like the only solution left. What a performance! "Can't you see it, Sherlock? It isn't me, it's you! You're delusional, you're demented, you're pinning this on me because you can't accept the truth. You need to fucking stop it. You need to go and get some help—"
"I don't need help!" Sherlock roared, spittle flying from his mouth and landing on John's jumper. "I need you to stop this. Stop this, please, I'm begging you John. Are you happy now? I'm begging you, please—"
"There's nothing to stop," said John, throwing his hands in the air and gaping at Sherlock, who had collapsed in front of him again. "I'm not doing anything. It's all in your head."
"No, it's not, it's not, it's you, I know it's you, there is nothing wrong with me—"
"Listen to yourself," John spat, thick with disgust and disappointment. "How did you come to this, Sherlock? How the fuck did you allow yourself to reach this level of delusion? Look, this is how it's going to be. Either you get your act together and figure out how to fix this and admit that you have a problem, or I'm moving out and you can deal with it on your own. Alone. I'm too fucking tired to deal with this."
"No, John, stop it, stop it, you can't—" Sherlock clawed at him, fingernails snagging on his jumper as he pawed desperately, eyes so huge John was surprised they didn't explode from his head. He had never seen Sherlock so frightened, so panicked, so submissive. And yet, the words he was looking for still didn't come. John grabbed his wrists roughly and pried his hands away.
"Don't touch me," he snarled, barreling past Sherlock and stomping towards his room. He spared one glance back, and saw that Sherlock had fallen, seemingly too shocked to pick himself. There was a string of saliva still clinging to his cheek. John shook his head in utter disdain and locked himself away.
Just after midnight, Sherlock called Mycroft. John could only hear his end of the conversation, but he got enough information to deduce it didn't go over well. The fact that Sherlock was resorting to Mycroft of all people for help in the first place meant he really was desperate.
"It's John, Mycroft. He's trying to mess with me, he keeps hiding things and telling me I did it, he's framing me. Mycroft, help me, please…No, you don't understand, he hates me, he's trying to drive me insane, make me think I'm imagining it, Mycroft—"
Mycroft must have hung up.
The flat was silent the next morning. John edged out of bed with a groan, finding he was sore from yelling, of all things. Perhaps it was just the exertion of losing his temper. It occurred to him, suddenly, that the stillness was wrong. Why was Sherlock not rustling about and muttering, searching for proof that John was out to get him? Why was he being quiet? John cursed and flew to the living room. His breath caught at what he saw, even though it was entirely expected.
Sherlock was laid out on the floor again, sleeve rolled up and needle in hand. There were fresh track marks on his arm, his eyes were closed, and there was no murmuring heart in his exposed throat for John to treasure this time. He rushed to Sherlock's side and pried the syringe from him, drawing back his eyelids and checking his pupils. Fuck. His fingers found the fold of skin connecting neck and ear. Nothing. He searched harder and finally breathed a sigh of relief. The pulse was little more than a flicker, a flame already fizzling to smoke, but at least he was alive. There was still a chance. John called the ambulance and Mycroft, watched calmly as Sherlock was carted away. When they were left alone, he turned to the elder Holmes brother and sighed deeply.
"I thought I'd checked all the usual places." Even to his own ears, John sounded genuine. Despondent, guilty, terrified for his best friend. Whether or not Mycroft bought it was the biggest test. "Mycroft, I am so, so sorry. I have no idea he had anything on hand. He didn't leave the flat. He's been acting oddly for over a month now, I should have told you—"
"John." Mycroft held up an imperious hand. This is it, thought John. All or nothing, right here. Come on, Mycroft, you know I wouldn't hurt your brother. "I know you care deeply for my brother. I know you would never hurt him or do anything to enable him to hurt himself. Please, spare me your apologies. They won't do him any good."
John collapsed on the couch, whimpering in relief. Mycroft took it as distress.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry, I should've done something to help him. I kept telling him there was something wrong, but he wouldn't listen…I should've just ignored him and gotten him looked at, but I was stupid and cowardly—"
"John," Mycroft said again, "It is no more your fault than it is mine. I got a troubling phone call from my brother last night. He seemed to think you were…how is it normally put? Out to get him. A ridiculous notion, to say the least. I assured him you considered him a friend and had no such plans, but he would not listen. I, like you, didn't think he had anything on hand and thought the situation could wait until morning. I underestimated Sherlock. It is one of my most frequent errors."
He was more emotive than John had ever seen him, regretful under his three-piece suit and cold government mask. John's regret was his own hiding place, concealing a delicious surge of triumph that a sole voice in the back of his head was sickened by. But the good feeling was stronger.
Sherlock asked to see John first when he awoke. John was more scared than he cared to admit, prepared for Sherlock to start accusing him the second he entered his little white room. But Sherlock didn't say anything when John finally did work up the courage to visit him. He was expressionless, shrunken and childlike in a hospital gown instead of his usual pressed silk and wool.
"Hello, John," he finally said, a flicker of an honest smile playing at his lips. John returned it, making sure Sherlock saw the apprehension behind it. He had to make Sherlock the guilty one. "I've spoken to Mycroft."
"Have you?" John asked politely. He revealed a biting glimpse of danger beneath it, a hint of "you hurt me, and I don't forgive you". Sherlock cowered.
"Yes. He explained the situation." John waited. Sherlock didn't elaborate.
"Sherlock. You know that I'm your friend, right?"
A nod. He continued, hopeful.
"Then you know I would never do anything to hurt you."
Sherlock worried his bottom lip as he pondered this for a moment, searching for the correct response.
"I know," he finally said. "John, I owe you an apology. You were right. There's something wrong with me. I acted so…I can't believe it. I'm sorry I was too much of a fool to see it."
John nearly grinned. He caught himself just in time.
"Of course you couldn't see it. You weren't in your right mind."
"It will most likely come back, once I get home," Sherlock mumbled. His words were rushed, like he couldn't get rid of them quickly enough. "I may need your help, John, to see what's real and what's not. Are you still planning on moving out?"
"No, Sherlock," John said gently. "I know you can see that you were wrong, and if you need me, I'll be there."
"Good." Sherlock offered him a stiff nod and stiffer smile. "Thank you. And you forgive me for falsely accusing you and…for everything else?"
"Of course I do," John said. He left light in body and mind. Sherlock would need help seeing right and wrong, true and false, and John would gladly offer it, even after everything that had happened. He would be there to guide Sherlock, and let him know when he was out of line. Because above all else, John Watson was a good friend.
Warnings: Dark!John, Victim!Sherlock, OOC, mind-fuckery, manipulation, drug abuse, mental breakdown, and a bit of crime related imagery that may be disturbing to some.
On the other hand, there is no gore, sex, canon characters turned serial killers, canon character death, or violence. Mostly just mental stuff.
Leave a comment, please and thank you.