"In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name;
But now is black beauty's successive heir,
And beauty slandered with a bastards shame:
For since each hand hath put on Nature's power,
Fairing the foul with Art's false borrowed face,
Sweet beauty hath no name, no hold bower,
But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace."
-CXXVII; The Dark Lady Sonnets; William Shakespeare.
Chapter One.
The flat was destroyed and Sherlock half-leaned against the doorframe in utter disbelief.
"John!" Sherlock called out in the midst of his darkened bedroom, his low voice panic-stricken, his hands clenched the blankets of the bed, his body trembling as it pressed itself deeply into the mattress. "John?" he cried out again, but it wasn't really him, no- he was dreaming. As much of a dream that a nightmare could be.
The bookshelves had been completely ravished, the furniture scattered and torn apart, small hints of bleach-scrubbed blood-stains on the wooden floor meeting with the smell of antibacterial medication in his nose. Sherlock's crystal blue eyes looked devastated as he peered about, pulling his thin, pale figure through the apartment, holding himself up against the wall. There was no sign of life, no sure sign of safety, and no sign of what he truly desired to see again- John.
He continued walking through the flat, his black shoes lazily scuffing against the floor as he moved. His eyes flickered about as he choked back gasps and whimpers at what his deducing of the surroundings made him believe- the carpet was pushed back, as if someone had slipped, fallen, and scurried back up, not taking the time to adjust it again (maybe not having the time to adjust it again). One of the two lamps were on- the one by his old chair, but not John's- why? After further investigation, he found the lamp on John's side table had burnt out.
The blood on the floor, deep, desperate fingernail markings on the wooden door that lead to the staircase- it was as if Sherlock could remake the entire scenario in his mind. John was taken- killed, most likely- and Sherlock's false suicide had all been in vain.
"John!" Sherlock gasped once more, his shirtless form lunging upwards in bed, the stack of two pillows that were once behind his head now flying forward, following the former-detectives movements in suit. His body had broken out into a cold sweat, the sheets surrounding the male's form generously wet with perspiration. "Just…a dream…" Sherlock whispered to himself, his chest rising and falling heavily in the darkness of his hotel room. It'd been nearly a month since he had committed a false suicide to protect his friends, and every single day had felt like a year.
It'd been more than difficult for Sherlock to prevent himself from contacting anyone from his past life- no texting, no calls, no stake-outs to catch a small glimpse of his friends from before. To the world, he was no longer Sherlock Holmes- the dark, curly-haired, high-functioning sociopath most people hated, but no one ever forgot. His hair had been trimmed, not too much, but just enough; he no longer wore his signature trench-coat and scarf duo, knowing that it was the outfit of the world's only Consulting Detective, and stuck to simple button-up shirts and cardigans. There wasn't much he could do about his features, but those didn't really matter- as long as he kept quiet and stayed to himself, no one would give him a second thought.
Normally that wouldn't bother him, but it did now. He no longer had anyone to hate him, to talk about him behind his back (or even to his face, for that matter), and he felt more invisible as someone else then he ever did as an unpaid, loathed detective. It was as if he was in a Witness Protection Unit.
After a rather stressful, unemotional reunion with his brother, Sherlock had been able to convince Mycroft to pay his way about and ensure no one knew of his existence- he couldn't risk the lives of the people he loved, but he needed the basic necessities. Sherlock had promised his brother he would, eventually, find a way to pay his way about London, but nothing he found could stimulate his higher intelligence enough to satisfy him the way criminal work did. You're not Sherlock Holmes anymore, little brother, he remembered Mycroft scold him. You're going to have to settle.
"Settle," Sherlock scoffed, rubbing his fingertips over his closed eyes a few times before carefully throwing off his blanket and moving to stand onto his feet, the sudden rush of vertigo making him wobble slightly. He let off a heavy sigh, wiggling his toes into the supple carpet beneath him as his eyes adjusted to the darkness- the hotel was lavish, nothing like he was ever used too, but he had become accustomed to the lifestyle of someone who had to do nothing in particular. Glancing over at his bedside table, he noted the time and sighed to himself- it wasn't even daylight yet. His nightmares had become more frequent, more severe over the last few days, and all he wanted to do was sleep, but deep down he knew he didn't deserve that kind of peace. His body still ached from the injuries he sustained from his fall, and he knew it would take much longer than four weeks to be completely healed.
Padding slowly across the carpet, Sherlock stepped to the window, each of his hands gripping on to one curtain before he yanked it open with a small grunt, his eyes adjusting to the bright, alive city of London four stories below him. Mycroft really had outdone himself, making his younger brother as comfortable as possible in the time of suppressed uncomfort. "Bloody hell…" he whispered to himself, stepping forward to press his still-clammy body against the sliding door, his eyes staring forward as the cool glass gradually lowered his body temperature and made his sore insides scream in pleasure. Pressing his hands against the glass, his fingers drumming in a short, rapid pattern for a few long moments, making his bruised right wrist wince, he let his left hand slide down until it reached the handle, and he simultaneously stepped back and slid the door open, releasing a furious rush of chilly February air towards him, forcing his teeth to clench.
Stepping out onto the patio, not shutting the door behind him and not bothering to turn back and get a coat, he pressed his hips against the safety bars that prevented him from falling forward. "Nippy out at four in the morning, isn't it?" he addressed in a breathy tone to nothing but the cold air surrounding him. He wore nothing but a pair of boxers and a thin pair of sweatpants over them, and a brace around his torso that held his body tightly together, his natural, yet abnormally warm, body heat doing nothing to spare him from the brisk wind outside. Leaning forward, he moved his hands to clench the metal bar in front of him- he knew his life would never be the same, and he knew that, one day, he'd have to conform to the feeble minds below his feet, but he didn't want too. He knew he'd have to eventually swallow his pride and take a job at a place that was less than substantial, but he didn't want to. He longed to be back home, to stand in front of the window of 221b Baker Street, violin in hand as he played harmonics that reverberated through the thin walls of his flat while his best friend sipped tea and read a novel, one he had read several times previously, on the chair behind him.
"This isn't working," Sherlock began, leaning over the metal bar even more, disregarding the searing pain that shot through his body at the movement, now to the extent of where he was standing on his toes to prevent him from falling forward. "I can't do this!" he exclaimed almost too loudly, not caring who heard his choked-up tone; "I need my old life back… I need Baker Street… I need John, I can't bloody believe how ignorant I've been," he growled to himself, lowering his body back to his feet and slamming his hands down on the safety bar once he was safely stable. He regretted his suicide, regretted leaving everyone but his brother in the dark for the safety of his peers, but in the end it was worth it- they were alive, and that small fact made his body flush with a sort of warmth, causing pleasurable goose bumps to rise on his pale flesh.
As suddenly as his small burst of happiness appeared, it vanished, leaving his prior expression of eager aggravation to one of sadness. Though John was safe at the Flat, Sherlock missed him, and now that he was no longer who he used to be, he wasn't afraid to show it. He wasn't subtle like he used to be, wasn't the closed-off and uncaring person he introduced himself as to everyone he had ever met. Feelings never got him far in life, so he pretended he didn't have any, and it worked for a while, but in the few people he had interacted with lately, in a personality "test-run," he knew the façade wouldn't hold up.
He wasn't Sherlock Holmes anymore. He was in the since of intelligence and brutality, but physically and emotionally, he was something else. Something entirely new. Someone entirely new. He could be read as easily as he could read, and he could be caught as easily as he could catch, and he was in pain almost one-third of the time. "I'm not Sherlock," he began to himself below his breath, hoping that constantly repeating that phrase vocally would validate the situation to his mind. "I haven't been for a while now, have I?" he asked the air again, looking up to the night sky, smiling for just a moment before letting his expression turn firm again. "Have I really become so…so…" he waved a hand around at his words, unable to think of something to finish his sentence in a momentary lapse of mental function as he lifted his hands to run them through his hair when suddenly he froze as a singular word blew through him, wrapping around him like a snake who caught its prey, engulfing every fiber of his brilliant being and making him shiver from the cold, ominous tone it was spoken through- a stern word drawn out and spoken lightly, the pitch heightened at the end making it seem more like question:
"Obvious?"
Sherlock spun around swiftly and groaned in pain, as if to make eye contact with the being that had answered the question he had asked to no one in particular, only to meet eyes with nothing but a shut sliding-glass door and the dark room behind it. "You're overreacting, Sherlock," he growled to himself, pushing off the safety bar towards the glass door, his eyebrows furrowing as he stared at the handle of it- he swore he had left it open. Well, the wind is quite strong, maybe it shut it… He thought to himself, yanking it to the side and slipping into the warm hold of the hotel room, shutting the door silently behind him. All was silent again.
He could fell himself losing his touch, could feel his intelligence quota dwindle down all the more every single day he went without his work, and as he shuffled towards the bathroom across the way, hands limp at his sides, he was sure it was for the best. "No one likes a self-absorbed personality," he began, sticking his hand inside the bathroom and hitting it against the wall, moving it all around until he reached the light, and flicked it on, narrowing his eyes against the bright white fluorescent light that illuminated not only the bathroom, but a good portion of the bedroom beyond.
Stepping inside, not bothering to shut the door behind him considering he slept alone, he placed his hands on the granite counter of the sink and stared forward at his reflection- never did he hate what he saw more than right then. He had lost a good amount of weight, not that he wasn't skinny enough to begin with- he looked dead, pale, and tired, his natural glow replaced with sunken in eyes and furrowed eyebrows, his scraggly hair looking all the more pathetic. Turning his head look to the side, he examined his features for just a moment before flipping the faucet on and cupped his hands together, gathering a good portion of cold water before he leaned his head down and splashed it in his face, inciting a small gasp that escaped his pale pink lips.
Turning off the faucet, he walked away from the bathroom and over to his bed, throwing himself down onto the sheets and wriggling beneath them. He was awake now, but only half an hour had passed, and he couldn't run off to meet his brother for at least another three and a half hours, and without Mycroft, Sherlock really had no purpose. "Maybe today will be the day I see John," he said to himself, burying his short, curly hair into the satin pillows beneath his head. He knew it wouldn't be, but he could at least hope.
