Title: grey
Summary: He is, after all, only human. He cannot escape that. Character study. Reichenbach spoilers.
Notes: Based on concepts of the human condition and existential psychotherapy set forth by Irvin D. Yalom.
i. meaninglessness / ii. existential isolation / iii. freedom and responsibility / iv. inevitability of death
i.
It's always when he falls into one of those moods, when his world takes on a grey edge and narrows even further, and when he finds that he knows the number of whorls on the immediate ceiling just by glancing at them, simply because they are there and he has an odd kinship with them - seventy-two, to be exact - that is when he wonders, what is the actual point?
There isn't one, of course. Human beings are biological organisms, atoms to cells to tissues to organs, and are, on the whole, merely a lucky race - homo sapiens sapiens, arrogant enough to name themselves twice-wise only by virtue of a highly developed brain via evolution. Arrogant enough to make themselves the center of a universe that functions independently from limited minds which cannot possibly grasp its absolute magnitude, to assign it deities and meanings and myths as if such things can have a tangible effect.
"You're on the couch again? I just got a text from Lestrade. Says you aren't answering him at all."
Concern, frustration, slight anger. He's worried, why is he worried, he knows me. Phone, where is my phone? Oh, yes... I do believe I threw it against the floor yesterday.
"You did what? ... For an experiment? Why would... you know what, never mind. ... No, don't bother looking for it, we'll get it later.
Come on, we've got a case."
With many a whined, "John," and a muttered, "It's going to be boring," Sherlock Holmes rouses himself enough to slither off the couch and into his coat, saying farewell to those seventy-two whorls on the ceiling that have been counted a dozen times and have somehow attained the symbolism of his restless, searching mind.
But the details do perk him up a little.
ii.
He discovers something of a point as the case progresses; as each case progresses, really.
John reads him Lestrade's dismal excuse of a texted report, but it is enough for Sherlock's mind to latch on to until they reach the scene. By that time, half a dozen possibilities have all developed, ranging from plausible to improbable-but-possible, and most are discarded after arrival and a brief glance, only for their vacated spots to be filled by new conjectures.
"John, give me your phone."
("What happened to his?"
"Apparently he threw it on the floor and didn't bother to remember where."
"But why...? No; it's no use asking, is it?")
A quick scan, a wealth of information presented to him at a brush of his fingertips, and already the list of suppositions is shifting again. Sherlock glances up, lets his eyes sweep over the scene a second time as he tosses the mobile back to John and reaches for his magnifier. A thousand details present themselves to him - Anderson and Donovan had a fight, how utterly predictable, Lestrade didn't get any sleep last night, that fellow there just got back from America, that fellow's wife is cheating on him, now there is a shock - but it is now easier to ignore them, to filter from the mundane elements what is truly relevant. Sherlock's brain is beginning to move again, to waken from that sluggish greyness from which he can never quite escape when it comes calling.
Even amidst the excitement of something new, a puzzle for his mind to master, some things are exactly the same. People marvel at him, and either love him or hate him for what he can do, for being an anomaly among humans. And Sherlock can hardly explain qualia to them, for that is the very nature of the word, the experience. Latin; noun; plural; what sort, what kind. It is what he observes, what he notices, indescribable but for astonishment that they cannot do the same. How does one elucidate sight and the assault of detail and the whirling of his mind as intricacies and impossibly fast thoughts knot themselves through his synapses? It is like describing color to the blind - wholly impossible and only for them to experience; and that, too, is out of the question.
It is the strangest sort of isolation, whilst surrounded by others, and yet it is something that is merely typical. A tug-of-war between intersubjectivity, that bridge of communication, and the sneaking suspicion of solipsism, of solitary existence, and sometimes in his lowest points his thoughts turn positively nihilistic. But this is no longer a low point; this is heightening, lifting his mind, and he allows what might even be termed optimism to infect him... embracing his place in the society that his fellows have constructed out of a desire to erase that indubitable isolation.
This is what he does; deduction, mental stimulation - it is the reason, the meaning he constructs out of a world that frankly has very little point at times, and he molds it to fit the reasons and meanings and societal boundaries of others as best he can. It brings a little color to the palette, and grey London no longer seems to be quite so.
iii.
It is upon the roof of a nondescript hospital that Sherlock experiences the very rare sensation of being wrong.
Not beaten, not tricked, not duped, just utterly and completely wrong in regards to what he's come to take as life's given... or, at least, the given of his own existence, his own lonely existence experienced at dizzying speeds through his highly charged and hyperactive brain. A brain that no one shares, an ability that has always set him apart, made him different, alone, special, a freak. It had isolated him as much as if he had not existed at all, and the meaning he'd found was through using it, always using it, always calculating and observing and distancing, always distant.
But he's coming to understand the difference between isolation and existence, what truly bridges the gap, and it isn't logical in the slightest, to care so much. He'd seen it, heard stories of people risking their lives, dying for those they loved, and he'd never understood the concept of throwing an entire lifetime away, even for love; a working heart and body, potential, individuality, existence, why. At least, not until...
"John."
He still doesn't understand it, and he blames those ludicrous chemicals in his brain; but he can't exactly separate his consciousness from its life support, and so he's stuck caring.
Moriarty's blood is still trickling, pooling, dark red against grey.
I am you.
You are me.
And there is another aspect of wrong.
Because walking away, embracing difference and solitude and coldness, would have been so easy. Would still be so easy. Just a few steps, a few meters, and there is no need to care, to carry this terrible, colorful burden of love that Sherlock has so long tried to reject as unnecessary.
Lestrade, always calling him in, even when no one else would; respecting him, trusting him. Mrs. Hudson, dear woman, more a mother than a landlady or a housekeeper. Molly, giving to him what he is certain he does not deserve. And John... where to even begin. John.
Only there is a need, a burning one that he is absolutely dreadful at expressing, that they seem to understand and appreciate anyway, damn them. He's chosen it, despite his misgivings, and it's almost funny how the greater reason and meaning is prompting him to look down and down and down at the grey pavement far below, at what should be certain death under normal circumstances.
John is pleading, fear and anger and love and desperation bleeding through his voice.
I'm always upsetting you, aren't I? Forgive me.
Sherlock is aware of just how many choices he can make in this moment; this one gives him no advantage, offers him nothing tangible, is built on nothing but silly human notions of attachment. It will only cause a great deal of complicated grief and emotions and problems to deal with, and it's terribly inconvenient all-around.
It is the only choice.
iv.
A therapist would tell him he's made progress, but then again, few therapists would be able to understand the immensely complex thing that is the mind of Sherlock Holmes.
He supposes it can be called progress. He's come to understand and acknowledge certain aspects of humanity that he'd previously resisted, and though the majority of this newfound perception still annoys him greatly, he cannot deny the fact that he is human. Though perhaps an acceptance of his own humanity can also be called regression, for it certainly conveys to him no advantage... only a great deal of trouble, really.
But there are certain characteristics that he still refuses to recognize, and maybe the reason is just a juvenile kind of obstinacy, the erratic tenacity that he has always possessed. Because Sherlock Holmes, like the freest of youth, does not acknowledge death. He lives as if he shall never die, because he will not.
They say that death comes to all, and perhaps that is true.
He's already dully noted the amount of scratches on the tiles of the ceiling, where do such markings come from anyway?, when Molly enters, eyes anxious, to tell him that it worked.
But not today.