It takes all of John's will to not scream when his patient steals his notes and eats them.
Again.
For the fifth time this week.
"You know, it's impolite to do that," John tells him, smearing his words with a tone that's supposed to sound reprimanding. He rubs his eyes and tries to tune out the crackling of paper. "Sherlock," he groans. He drops his hands to shoot a stern look at the mental patient.
The dark-haired man twists his face into a glare before he stuffs the remaining pages into his mouth. His pink lips close over the large mouthful of notes, his teeth grinding John's sentences into wet pulp and bleeding ink. John imagines the words crawling down Sherlock's throat, seeping into his intestines, and clinging to the walls of his stomach. Words that repeat "Wonderland" and "mind palaces" along with too many questions that he can't find the answers to.
A tiny sigh slips out from the blond. His lips tighten into a thin line before relaxing. "Right then," is all he says.
=•=•=•=
Sherlock lets his eyes slip shut, the darkness behind his eyelids soothing his ringing ears. The blond doctor is warning him not to wander too far into his mind palace—that if he sinks too deep, it'll snatch him up and only drag him even farther from reality. He ignores the suggestions and empty advice throbbing behind the words. Instead, he chooses to seize onto John's voice, severing it from his sentences and listening to the shifts of his tones. A small whisper of pleasure escapes his throat. His body sinks back into the uncomfortable mattress, the hateful layers of bitter, icy sheets binding him even tighter. The covers always smell cold, he thinks. And clean. Why. Why? Whywhywhywhy?
An old, tattered bud of hatred pokes out inside his chest. A few seconds later, trickles of contempt escape from the seal of tight petals. And before he can stop it, the leaking grows worse until the entire thing explodes into a massive blossom of spiraling hatred. It crushes up against his ribs, thorns peeling at the bones and straining to pierce out of his flesh. The low groans of his ribcage pierce his ears and block out the dull droning of the room. Blooms of pain are already sprouting up in the roots of his nerves. He grinds his teeth, finding himself encased in his body. It's a terrible, cold coffin that engulfs his entire being. It smothers the warm screams clawing at the walls of his throat that are begging to be released. His fingers dig into the thin skin of the sheets, the long, slender digits bending and twisting and grabbing and—
A sudden hand wraps around his own. Sherlock almost gasps at the warmth pulsing from the worn skin. He yanks the new source of comfort close to his face. Hot breath pours from his mouth and spills out onto the digits curling around his. "John," he whispers before resting his pallid cheek on top of their knotted fingers. He feels the chaos in his chest begin to settle, the monster hissing. It retreats back into the yawning darkness to lick at its wounds. Heat flares in his stomach when he feels the doctor's grip tighten.
"You can't let your problems rule over you," John says in a soft voice that brushes against Sherlock's eardrums. "Sometimes . . . you have to kill them."
Sherlock remains silent for a few seconds, focusing on the warmth seeping from John. He turns his head a little until the corner of his mouth rests against their fingers. "The king has already died once," he says, his lips brushing against the doctor's skin with every word. "He doesn't wish to be killed this time."
=•=•=•=
When his session with John is over and the door has clicked shut, Sherlock closes his eyes and allows himself to sink into Wonderland. Deeper, deeper, and deeper, plunging past all the layers of his brain as he relaxes into the mattress until it swallows him whole. He feels the air around him slip past, his surroundings morphing into a different one. A soft breeze weaves through his curls and ruffles them. He sucks in a deep breath. A metallic taste stings his taste buds, spreading through his tongue. He remains still for a few seconds, allowing his body to become grounded into his mind. His body can sense the shift of his atmosphere around him and the slight increase in temperature.
"Yes," he breathes out, his mouth relaxing into the faintest hint of a smile. He inhales until his nose is no longer filled with the sting of cold sheets and dry medicine. His eyes flutter open, and his muscles stiffen at the sight before him. "Oh." He is standing in front of a tall window that stretches all the way up to the sky. Sheets of thick, almost nontransparent glass cover it, giving his prying eyes a faint, watery outline of the scenery behind it. His attention falls upon a round doorknob stained with a splash of red. Long, black threads dangle from it, floating in the still air. He hesitates before taking a step forward and pushing open the glass door. It's suddenly ripped from his hands as a strong wind shoves its way inside, settling by his shoulder. Goosebumps spring up to the surface of his skin. The collar of his shirt flaps from the breeze.
"Look towards the forests, Sherlock," it hisses, its voice loud and harsh.
The dark-haired man pauses before he turns his gaze out of the window. But he only sees a long stretch of land, interrupted by an occasional cluster of yawning, purple trees. His breath hitches, his hands shooting forward to grip the windowsill. "The medicine," he whispers.
It's destroying his Wonderland.
=•=•=•=
The screaming clouds tear at Sherlock's clothes as he grips onto the thin tendrils of the wind. They're speeding so fast in the stretch of purple skies, darting around the dark blue sunrays stretching out to sear the man's skin.
"The king," Sherlock reminds the wind with a yell and jerks away when a small curl of sunlight lunges at him. "You have to take me to him!"
The wind releases a loud hiss, startling a herd of cumulus clouds out of their path. They scatter with panicked wails, some of them releasing a flood of blood from their cottony undersides. An animal-like screech spiked with anger pierces Sherlock's eardrums. He twists around to see a tall, thin man speeding after them, his long legs floating after the rest of his nearly transparent body.
"Excellent," Sherlock mutters. "The cloud herder's after us now."
=•=•=•=
The wind throws Sherlock off its back once they reach the palace. He lands on the doorsteps with a sickening thud, muscles slapping against the hard stone. Pain explodes in his bones, and a wince crosses his face. He grinds his teeth, waiting until nothing but a dry throb remains.
"Bloody winds," he mutters before picking himself up. His eyes flicker towards the entrance, where the tall, red guard named Lestrade usually stands. His eyebrows lower in a frown when he is nowhere to be found. Ignoring the tiny flicker of concern, he surges forward towards the gleaming, oak doors. When he enters the palace, he sees that the king has changed the entire thing again. This time, it's a long, winding staircase with an extravagant, blood red carpet draped over it. He stands at the edge of the red fabric and stares up at the twirling, twisting steps that seems to lead up to nowhere.
And nowhere, his mind whispers, must be where the king is.
Sherlock releases a heavy sigh before placing his foot on the first step. It sinks underneath his weight. His black shoe melts into the marble like butter. "No," is all he has time to gasp before something gives a sudden yank at his leg. A yell breaks out of his throat as he pitches forward into the gaping mouth of the staircase.
=•=•=•=
The king is smiling when Sherlock blinks his eyes open. "Good evening," he says, his voice gentle and sweet. His mouth widens, revealing gleaming rows of tattered playing cards as his teeth.
Sherlock ignores him and sweeps his eyes around his surroundings. He finds nothing but a sea of darkness floating around them. The only thing he can truly see is the king towering over him, his dark hair swept back.
"My king," the younger man murmurs, lowering his eyes for a second.
The king's eyes gleam before he stretches out a large, white hand towards him. Sherlock reaches out without hesitation, curling his fingers around the long, pale ones. The skin feels cold and wet to the touch.
"Wonderland is dying," the tall man tells him.
Sherlock remains silent. He can feel the skin growing hotter underneath his touch, heat pulsing from the veins running underneath his digits. His teeth sink into his bottom lip as he tightens his grip. Don't let go, he tells himself. Don't let go. The single thought pounds into him, searing into the walls of his head. The king's fingers give a sudden twitch, and Sherlock releases a high cry as pain shoots through his fingertips. He grits his teeth and holds on even tighter, gripping the thin bones as hard as he can.
The voice swoops down into a darker tone. "You're not listening to me," it says, an unspoken threat rising behind the words. "Do you know what happens . . ." There is a dramatic pause before he continues. " . . . if Wonderland dies?"
Sherlock nods and swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He resists the urge to flinch when a cold hand slides along the side of his face. It runs along his forehead, smoothing out the lines bunching up on the skin. He releases a soft mouthful of air when a thin thumbnail scrapes against the outline of his cheekbone.
The king continues on, crooning, "I do believe you know what to do."
He closes his eyes, only to snap them open when a warning sting shoots through his veins.
"Hmm?" The hand grasps the bottom of his chin.
The grip feels so tight that the younger man almost fears that his jawbone will snap underneath the pressure. A shuddering breath escapes his mouth before he allows the words to slip out into the air between them. "Don't take the medicine," he murmurs.
The hand suddenly crushes around his fingers, a loud "wrong!" cracking through the darkness.
A ragged gasp twists out of Sherlock's throat. His teeth snag his bottom lip, his body straining to keep the pain at bay. "Kill John Watson," he chokes out. He winces when the hand tightens on his for a moment before releasing it. It drops back to his side, hanging limp.
"Excellent," says the king, a smile lurking in his voice. "Do remember that." He pauses for a few seconds before leaning closer. "After all," he whispers, tracing the shell of the younger man's ear with his words, "caring isn't an advantage."
=•=•=•=
As Sherlock steps out of the palace, his foot catches on a lump on the steps. He teeters forward with a sharp hiss, his hands grabbing for balance. "Shit!" he spits out before he finds his footing. Having regained his balance, he glances down at the obstacle in his path. His eyebrows lower into a frown when he realizes it's one of the guards curled up on his side, the curve of his spine facing Sherlock. Stretching out his foot, he presses it down on the man's flank, rolling him over onto his back.
He feels his lips tighten at the bloody handprint staining the front of the guard's black uniform. It's the all-too familiar mark of the king, laced with red threads trickling along the shiny, silver buttons. But when his eyes latch upon the frozen face, he feels something tighten in his stomach, something cold and bitter.
"Greg," he breathes.
The only thought that quivers in his mind is, Not again.
=•=•=•=
It's not a pleasant sight to find your older brother kneeling next to your sobbing friend, the front of his school uniform drenched in blood.
Sherlock freezes in the doorway, his footsteps dying off as his eyes latch onto the scene. I'm dreaming, he thinks. He has to be dreaming. He stares as Mycroft digs his hunting knife into Lestrade's twitching arm. The sharp blade carves out strange patterns and curls, leaving behind a trail of oozing, swelling blood. Sherlock is almost entranced by the sight. His grip on his schoolbag trembles before loosening, dropping it onto the floor with a sickening thud. His older brother falls still, all motion fading. For a few, tense seconds, the air is filled with Lestrade's whines and soft whimpering.
Finally, Mycroft's lips part to release a soft "Sherlock." And that's when the floodgates burst open to unleash a crashing sea of horror. Sherlock remains frozen in helpless terror as his brother launches into a lecture about the problems of sentiment and having a heart. He releases a steady monotone in a quiet, calm voice, enunciating his points by stabbing his knife into Lestrade.
"Caring is not an advantage," Mycroft says. The knife falls still for a moment.
A sob shakes Greg's shoulders. "Sherlock," he rasps, turning his head to stare at the younger boy with wide eyes.
Sherlock feels dizzy, peering into those brown pools leaking with pain. "Greg," he says. The name bounces off of the walls of his empty voice, sounding hollow.
Mycroft's grip tightens on the hilt. "It's not!" he declares before raising the weapon.
Sherlock's mind manages to snatch the moment, the exact second that something unreadable flashes across Greg's face. He sees his friend's body grow limp just before the knife crashes into his exposed throat. The sharp metal tears through the flesh, releasing thick streams of blood that race down the stretch of tan skin. Sparks explode in Greg's brown eyes for a brief millisecond, and (oh, God) Sherlock thinks he has never seen something so alive and beautiful before.
The voice startles him from his trance, saying, "Sherlock." For the first time during this encounter, Mycroft's gaze lifts up to meet his. "What did I say?"
The younger boy swallows, the walls of his throat suddenly tightening. His teeth dig into his pink bottom lip. He shakes his head, his curls trembling from the sudden movement.
The dark eyes gleam. "Sherlock," he says in a firmer tone.
Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and runs the words through his mind. He opens them and releases a shuddering breath. "Caring is not an advantage," he repeats, hardening his voice as much as he can.
Mycroft nods, yanking the knife out of Greg's neck. "Never forget that," is all he says before he plunges the blade into his own pale throat.
=•=•=•=
He's screaming and screaming with Greg's name clawing in his throat. It rips out of his mouth, tearing on his teeth as it unleashes itself into the air. There are pale sheets everywhere, clinging onto his limbs and restraining his kicking feet. It only releases a flare of raw panic through his tightening chest. His hands rip the hateful stretches of fabric, thrusting them as far away from him as possible.
"Sherlock!" someone yells.
It's John. John. John, John, John. Sherlock latches onto the warm rolls of his voice spiked with a frantic tone. John's mouth is flapping, his warm hands grasping his and squeezing hard. It's only when he feels the hot roll of tears that Sherlock realizes he's sobbing.
"John," he gasps. "Mycroft's in my head. I can't kill him. I wo—" He chokes on a sudden wave of hysteria as a loud scream unfolds from his throat. He bites down hard on his bottom lip until he feels his teeth break past the flesh. Bitter tears seep into his mouth, mixing with a fresh spray of blood. "John!"
John's fingers pull away from his. Sherlock lunges forward, desperate to grab onto them. But his mind rebels, screaming for him to get away. Caring is not a damn advantage. He cannot submit himself to coddling, to allow himself to deteriorate into a little boy sobbing for his mother. As John's hands reach out for him, the younger man propels his body backwards as hard as he can. He slams into the wall, his head thumping against it. A vicious ache plunges into his skull, but his attention is plastered onto the calm doctor.
"Sherlock," John says. "You need to calm down."
The soft, tender tone triggers an unwanted sob from the patient. He turns his head away, straining to hold back the tears quivering in his eyes. Stupid body, he thinks. Stu—
"Sherlock?"
His gaze flickers back to John to see that he is holding out his hand towards him. He stares at the short, small fingers pointing towards him. His eyes trace the thin lines embedded in the exposed palm. He imagines the warmth pulsing from the tan skin, and before he knows it, he is grasping the doctor's hand.
John looks him in the eye and says, "You're going to do this. No." He inhales before releasing a shuddering breath. "We're going to do this. We'll get him out of your head, Sherlock." His other hand reaches out to brush the dark, messy curls from his patient's eyes. "Because," he whispers, pressing a gentle finger to Sherlock's forehead, "you deserve to be free."
Sherlock's eyes slip shut at the soft touch. He imagines that finger pressing into Wonderland, crushing all those purple forests and shattering cloudy windows. The heat dancing on the surface of his skin is enough to calm the storm surging in his mind. Silence, he thinks. He knows he wants this, to watch the king crumble at his feet and to know that he is finally free. A flare of warmth erupts in Sherlock's chest.
"We can be free," he whispers.
Sometimes, it takes more than one person to tame the monsters.