Tear tracks trailed from the corners of his eyes. The warm salt water delicately weaving past his hairline and into his painted curls. And he did nothing to stop them, it was futile. All because a few generation x jackasses decided red paint would suit him well.
It didn't.
So here he lay, finally, completely, utterly, indubitably, incontrovertibly done.
Sherlock raised a shaky hand to his bruised lips, only parting them for his sweet nicotine. No one else. Not once more. And thought, as his head leant against the cool ceramic of the Victorian bathtub. Completely empty and dry, save for the beanpole dressed to a T in skintight jeans, The Rolling Stones, and paint redder than the shirt's trademark kiss. Just thought, as he watched rings of smoke fade into nothingness.
Let it all run. Fuck it.
How do you win? Find balance. Find smug satisfaction in infinity. Yet maintain your stifling anchor, lest you lose yourself in a sea of possibility, the unknown, and mentality. Your true capacity? However, quite inevitably, you'll drift.
Mycroft had warned him about this, said he wasn't stable. Said he'd decimate underneath his imbalanced mentality, the pessimistic effect would only magnify his teenage-chemical haze of 'stupid thought'. Effectively 'losing'.
Before we continue you mustn't forget. Not 'the sea'. A. Plural. One of many. For all we know, they may be endless. Perspectives forever changing, shifting, interlocking, conflicting. Oh look, you're back to square one again, you fucking square. But what's the end point? Well, just your everyday pessimist of course.
He could already tell why. Swell opportunity to put his willpower to the test. Mycroft had clearly been speaking from experience, given the way his eyes clouded from unspoken memory during his little, silent exemplar. Sherlock could trump him.
Tell me, what is, for lack of a better term (as always), stupider? Pessimism in a world of meaninglessness or accepting one's uselessness and becoming optimistic- if not for one's spiritual and bodily health. What drives you to be this way? Maybe you are crazy- if so then why is it so difficult to conform to such dillydally! Is it ego? Disorder? Is your code flawed? Are you gifted? Are you delusional? Are you ungrateful?
Sherlock still didn't care.
Nope, you're alone! And what a great spectacle you make, no-one's dear! What a spectacle indeed. And while your expectations for anything but remain unrealistic. You yearn. You yearn until your chest shakes and your breath hitches- willing your eyes to cease their inane burning. Why? Is it due to your deprivation of something so common yet unbeknownst to you?
He refused to.
For it must be everything you've ever wanted, it can make you whole again. Hah! My eyes sting with mirth! What took you apart to begin with? Silly ingrate! Remember that woman you passed yesterday? You observed her tired gaze with something akin to detached pity- her eyes had long faded and dulled, clothes ratty and stained as she requested that man oh so hesitantly to pay her bus fare.
Sherlock sniffled. You don't have eyes, you're in my head. Mine sting in pain, not mirth. Never mirth. He reminded himself, because he could've sworn he could hear his own voice echo off the cream tile of the bathroom walls.
You wondered then. How had she sunk, what was it like, did her chest shake in pace with yours through her recollections and apprehensions? Did she tremble more so? How very selfish you were. For you possessed not a mere pinch of humility for the true victim before you. To go as far as to compare someone as privileged as yourself to someone so poverty-stricken and undoubtedly prideless.
That's enough.
Ah, loneliness: It can give even the poshest of the commonwealth the mentality of a terminally ill, invalided war veteran suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, lying helpless and watching as everyone slowly but surely abandons them. Pathetic.
You're better than this. And far from done. What about your dear, needful, loving mother?
Multiple children around you giving you a perfect opportunity. The opportunity to not be a huge sod. But they're all idiots, and you tell them so. All willing to give you exactly what it is you desire. What do you desire? Something unfamiliar and new? Knowing and not knowing it'll fail as every relationship will and always has you fear, you repress. Under a disinterested façade.
So you make deal. Coping with the fact that you can't run away, at least not yet.
You can't wait to run. Run until your chest burns and you can't feel your legs, only then satisfied by your aimless sprint. You relish annual moments of peace. Dogs tire from barking at a seemingly dead animal at some point. They'll chew you later. It's all a pattern after all. It ends eventually.
You know better. Remember your first run-in with society and their norms, how they shun you, condescend you? Grade school was a dream. From the looks of it, age had yet to play a part in their developmental process. Albeit a positive one. They're jealous, bitter and green, it leaves an acidic aftertaste.
Remember.
You're weak.
Control.
They're Monsters.
Delete.
Beat them at their own game until they can't feel their toes.
Delete.
Why would high-school be any different?
Delete. Delete.. Delete...Delete?
Delete.
Sherlock plucked the cigarette from his lips, holding the smoke in his lungs until they burned. Either from asphyxiation or the nicotine. And exhaled slowly, grinding the smoldering cigarette bud into his left forearm. He felt it. The pain instant, a shock. But Sherlock didn't hesitate in his ministrations. The skin burned and blistered, browning and blackening from the ash and the heat. Both probably. He wasn't sure which trounced which. He just felt it.
Delete.
Why would high-school be any different.
Oh, it most certainly was.
Sherlock scoffed, ceasing his ancient train of thought. Inner dialogue assisted his upbringing greatly. It constantly acted as a guide to his teenage-typical chemical imbalance. If he hadn't had that, god knows where he'd be. Nonetheless, his developmental process was nothing short of fascinating. He often found himself reminiscing about his past run-ins with "the norm".
How it had influenced him throughout. How they lashed and scarred a vulnerable one of their own. Melded him into the deformed man he now was.
Deformed by their standards. Advanced and exceeding mediocre understanding by his. All because they hadn't had their eggs on rye that morning, instead on putrid, abuse-worthy whole grain. It had been highly educational. The psychology intriguing. More so than he'd ever imagined. The bystander effect had proven greatly beneficial in his later years.
It was like watching a movie in a way. The characters misfortune or glee elicited ghosted sympathy or understanding in Sherlock. If only because it was starring him himself. He found the chest constrictions and raging, desperate flares that burned at the memories captivating. Second-handed.
The deletion process had been carried out flawlessly.
Sherlock curled in on himself, butt sore from remaining still on the uncomfortable, cardboard cot. And rested his chin on his knee-immediately raising it back up at the sharp pain that flared-, continuing to pick at a particularly tough and jagged toenail.
How dull, he'd even been forced to recall his own upbringing. How long had he been in here? Ah. He turned his mussed head to view the window. A crisp grey sky was visible through the metal- steel, cheap as always- bars. Rising up from his fetal position and using the metal bed frame as leverage, as to not irritate his tender torso, he patted to the window barefoot. Breathing in deeply as he went. Dew, morning. Around 6 to 6:30 am. Still humid from last nights shower. Adding to its occluding moisture. Would've been a shame if they put him underground.
Two weeks and five days had passed. Two weeks and five days since he'd last laid eyes on John. Two weeks and four days and 12 hours since John had last smiled at him. Two weeks and three days and 14 hours since John had last called him the brilliant man he was.
Ultimately leaving him to his nonexistent devices, not a roommate in sight.
Jesus, he might've damn well carved John's name into their forehead and had them pliant and silent. Sitting there quivering in fear as he explained the process of anthropodermic bibliopegy. And how John would make a most dashing cover. His skin a perfect tone prior to dissection and dehydration. One of Afghanistan's many appreciated betterments. But that he'd attempt to keep the skin's color as vibrant as possible.
Not that he'd ever tell the real John that. John would be mad, disgusted at him, horrified and quite possibly terrified. Sherlock couldn't have that.
But he supposed it was a little late to prevent such a reaction. He should've been more cautious, why wasn't he more careful?! Sherlock growled, relaxing at the dull throb and sting of broken flesh his hand gave as it came in contact with the aluminum bed frame. How was he supposed to predict the Yard growing a lick of sense?
He'd taken essential care in disposing of unwanted body part's. Ensured the procurement had been erased, every fleck of blood or broken struggle-induced fingernail had been contained. Promptly taking great care in running his victim's severed hands over furniture and appliances, every doorknob, every used cup, every picture. All the palms strokes treating each object accordingly. The prints looking every bit as casual, reverent or rushed, easily equating his victim's character and regimen. It was mostly unnecessary but he'd indulged in the act.
To assist this imitation. A bit of stalking beforehand never hurt. (Surely one hadn't guessed him as London's signature homicidal and rewrote a will depicting his character down to his very curls.)
Massacred their most distinguishing features, making their skull unrecognizable to its every curve, becoming a ragged, sharp edge to the bone. Hurling machetes at dead bodies happened to be loads more entertaining than a conservative whip. The more blood the better. Feeling the warm, seemingly endless supply of red life paint his body was exhilarating. It was wrong and it was right. He's always loved things he couldn't have. It left him glowing. Perhaps Elizabeth Bathory wasn't too far of with her beauty routine. John even complemented his fair complexion upon arriving from a local pub, lightly inebriated. He may have preened just a bit.
He'd even dissolved his victims teeth in a small pot of boiling lye. Just an experiment, John. Shame, they would have made for lovely souvenirs and reference to oral dissolution.
And despite that. He'd never left any survivors in his wake, they were far too precious. And couldn't be wasted. Not leaving a single fingerprint, not on the secluded warehouse's light switch, only on the cook book resting above the fireplace. He purposefully left at the most private of hours, as to not awaken John. Not a bystander in sight. It was perfect, not even Mycroft or his pets would know. His hacking skills weaved farther than most would reckon. Mycroft' firewalls hadn't a snowballs chance in hell.
Then how?
Oh, Mycroft would whack him upside the head with his umbrella for mucking up so badly. If he weren't so busy stress-eating. Probably considering choking to death on his pie slab because his beloved baby brother had a taste for visceral parfait garnished with dried epidermis twists.
Sherlock sighed, he'd ask to be hit again.
And John...he'd surely seen pictures of his latest project. Was feeling scared, thinking he'd just escaped most certain death. Daft little John, thinking Sherlock would ever lay an unwelcome pinky finger on him. No matter his longing and frequent lucid dreaming. Sherlock respected him far too much to consider. It ached to repress at times.
He wished John was here. Uncaring of the fact John would either scream for help and bang at the cell door, maybe beat him bloody for his gruesome, immoral acts. It would be funny.
Sherlock was just so bored.
But no matter. They would be reunited in due course. Besides, John was no doubt still cross with him. Perhaps this ludicrously long wait was necessary. Let him cool down. He would explain eventually. He would get the chance.
All the better to recite his worthless opening statement.