Don't Give A Damn About The
Wreck You Live In
Life for Sherlock had always been very peculiar. Well to be fair, he is a very peculiar man; and also, without really knowing why, his story had always leaned a bit too much into the chaotic. That's what happens when you lead a dangerous life. And that's exactly the sort of life he decided to live. Anyone who chose to take any part in it -in some way or another- was to be granted a tiny glimpse of that existence. A peek behind the curtain, if you will. But none of them had ever managed to fit in quite well: all of them always too dull, too jagged, or simply too bloody boring for it to be really anywhere near possible for someone to be able to belong in his world.
Well at least that was until a certain army doctor came limping his way into a Saint Bartholomew's laboratory and decided he actually liked the world in which he had been thrown. He, very surprisingly, enjoyed not only the riotous happenstance, but also the company; Sherlock knew in that moment that he may never be able to decipher the enigma that was the assistant to the only Consulting Detective in the world: John Watson.
Life at Baker Street evolved into what anyone would call a home. Domesticity was always present, although maybe not in the way it is for everyone else. There was tea in the morning, yes. But there were also toes in the fridge from where they took out the milk they used for it. John came to understand that his life with flatmate and best friend Sherlock Holmes will never be a normal one, but it will also never be boring. He came to see it as almost an expectator in awe, the kind that witnesses a majestic scene of nature and does not wish to change a single thing in fear of damaging its beauty. The truth is, John never wished to change anything about Sherlock, nothing at all of his perfect person. Not until he killed himself.
After that, days were never filled, but devoid of emotion. Everything seemed quite grey, completely too quiet and not in the least bit alive. He was angry. Furious at his incapability of doing anything to change the circumstances, at Sherlock for having abandoned him and not caring about the damage he would be leaving behind him. But mainly, enraged at the world that chose to answer and bend to the magical touch of the best man he had ever known and allowed him to take himself out of the equation.
Needless to say, the universe was not the same for Sherlock those years either. The chaos that had once been a comfort became a ruthless enemy, threatening to demolish him at any wrong step. Where John's world was empty, his was too much. There was not a moment of peace, a tiny respite to rest from the cruel and violent world. All that he had ever known, all his reality turned against him, and when he was finally able to come back he hesitated in the pavement outside his home in fear of how his life was going to change again. Completely aware that behind the door he would find John. A John who would be either alone, or happy, or broken; and he didn't know which of those was worst.
Turns out, he still was very inefficient at predicting his friend's actions as he had been before. Inside, he found a very angry, furious, wrathing John who seemed to have a perchance for throwing things at him. The detective will never admit how grateful he felt in that moment to witness a disaster of his friend's making. One that was not orchestrated by him; debris caused by anger instead of hate. He felt like he could cry, actually, he did weep from the sheer relief he got to know he was back, that his mad world was still there waiting for him, wearing a hideous jumper and promising he will be mad at him for a long time.
Life went on, the both of them following the trail of their old world with dedication. Trying to build again all the things they had tear down in desperation and hurt. The cases helped keep their minds off it, the quiet nights helped even more. They tried, and before they knew it, the wounds were healed, the fight had ended, and all the little apprehensions that had seemed important before, became insignificant next to the magnitude of the potential between them. A big great thread that tied them together so tightly they some times felt choking. They realised it was another thing to add to the madness, a dangling bait for two adrenaline junkies who had a record of making reckless choices. At the end, love was too complicated a thing for them to ever resist, and so they tumbled down onto a manic emotion from which they both knew was no road back. Wonderful thing, that neither of them cared about that.
To this day, Sherlock still thinks back to the day he met the man who made all the chaos in his life seemed something other than dissonance. The man who taught him things about his own universe the detective himself had never seen. The man who had encountered a mess of a life and somehow managed to transform it into something with meaning. Not really different, yet nor the same. Just someone who had seen, and liked what he saw.
Now, life in 221B was even more of a madhouse than it had been prior to this change of dynamic. The fire consumed them and the water flooded the sitting room. Their reality continued to be too much to anyone who ever got to witness it, except this time it was not that difficult to imagine why. A plethora of reasons why it seemed to work, to fit. Folie รก deux, was a term that was often used to describe their relationship. How it had twisted both their persons and had left behind only something that no one seemed to make sense of. But at the end of the day, what else is love if not a madness shared by two?
Author's note: You'll leave alone, or crazy great, or break into a million pieces.
Inspired by Millions from Gerard Way