A/N: I'm going to try making you cry.
To be constantly misjudged, it must hurt.
To be constantly wronged, it must burn.
Some wounds will heal, and the scars one day fade.
Some wounds are for life, as are the scars brought with time.
How much can one person take, before he breaks?
xxx x xxx
A dark-haired boy, thin and pale, crouched in a darkened corner of the room.
Five other boys, thick and menacing, in a semi-circle around him.
"Analyze this, freak!" the largest one, presumably the leader of the gang, says.
A delicate white shard is thrust at Sherlock's face.
It takes him perhaps milliseconds to reach the inevitable conclusion.
Bone. Central vertebrae. Small animal. Mammal. Mouse. His mouse. His pet. His only friend, companion, partner, confidant. Gone. Killed, dead, murdered.
The realization is a bullet to his chest, it is arms on his windpipe; crushing him, smothering him, killing him with the knowledge.
He struggles to breathe, fighting back the choking sensation emotion brings.
He wants to scream, wants to cry, wants to hurt.
He remembers, all too well, what Mommy has constantly drilled into him.
Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.
xxx x xxx
The needle goes in, effortless and efficient, infusing Sherlock with blissful euphoria, with no tedium of everyday life to contend with, no Victor to think of.
Because nothing can compare to the hole in Sherlock's chest, gnawing at him until he wants to rip his heart out. But that's the problem, isn't it? The gaping nothingness near his sternum is the place his heart used to occupy. And now it, too, belongs to Victor, along with his body and his control.
His mind is the only thing left to him. And even this, he is now giving up, for an hour of blessed silence from the rest of this dull world. He sighs in relief and sags against the couch, feeling the solution rushing through his veins, filling him with forged ecstasy he cannot be arsed to think about because he is floating…
This time, though, something is different.
Is it the dosage? Sherlock frowns, and double checks the syringe through the cloud of bliss occupying the forefront of his mind. It doesn't appear any different than all the other times he's done this.
Oh, it's an Annoying Ringing, coming from the direction of the door. The ceaseless, never-ending peal of – of something. Sherlock frowns (again), he's sure he ought to remember what that signifies, but he can't be bothered to give a fuck about it at the moment.
"Sherlock? You in there? Are you alright?"
It has been going on for the past few minutes – hours – days – worming its way slowly but steadily into his Mind Palace and invading the grounds, marching onwards to the guarded fortress. But his defenses are crumbling, his army has failed him, and nothing more can be done but await his enemies.
"Open the damn door, you bloody git!"
And now their Annoying Ringing has stopped, and they have progressed to Annoying Pounding. They are pounding, with their mailed fists and armoured gauntlets, on the citadel's gates, demanding entrance.
"Sherlock! If you don't open this door we'll break our way in!"
But he won't let them – he won't, he won't, he won't – they won't take over his Mind Palace. It is not theirs to take –
BANG.
"Call an ambulance, tell them it's an OD!"
His defenses are breached, his castle is crumbling, and so, it seems are the very walls of his brain. And it hurts, everything hurts – wasn't this supposed to be bliss, where has it gone – it hurts it hurts it hurts –
Then everything goes blessedly dark and still. No moronic idiots, no dull routines, no Victor Trevor.
Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.
xxx x xxx
Just a jerk of his index finger, and the torment would be over. Pull the trigger. Go on. It's easier this way.
He'd know whether or not it really is an empty chamber, and perhaps save both their lives, but the alternative – it is too painful to consider – what if he's wrong, and it's not empty?
I can't kill John.
It's his fault they're in this mess, he knows. He just had to go rushing in without back-up, and he knows in his heart Lestrade won't get here in time – not this time – not soon enough to save both their lives. He grips the gun tighter, using his left hand to steady his right, which is shaking rather uncontrollably.
"Get on with it, then," the Russian bloke snaps, sounding extremely irritated, pressing the barrel of the gun harder to Sherlock's temple to emphasize his point, "Shoot your pretty little boyfriend or I shoot you."
Sherlock closes his eyes and endeavours once more to steady his trembling hands. He schools his face into an impassive mask and tries to think of ways to escape which do not end up with either of them dead. He comes up with seventeen, immediately discards twelve as implausible and four as passable, but only one of which he thinks will work. And it doesn't involve both of them coming out of this alive.
He opens his eyes to see John looking back at him, from his securely bound position in the chair, his expression a mixture of determination and… resignation? But his eyes – his eyes tell another story. John's clear blue eyes, which have always reminded Sherlock of open skies and vast seas – reminiscent of his childhood dream of becoming a pirate – they are filled with all the emotion his face cannot show. Sherlock sees John's fear and resignation (he expects me to shoot him, to save my own neck), his amusement and exasperation (he's probably wondering why I'm taking so long), his pride and affection (he's… proud of me, for what I don't know, and – and he's fond of me), and his… love (he loves me) for Sherlock.
Sherlock finds himself speechless (his mouth is working to form words that just won't come), a most note-worthy phenomenon on any other night, as he gazes into the (oh, how desperately corny this is) azure depths of John's beautiful, beautiful eyes, struck dumb by the emotion he sees there.
Then John smiles, or as much as he can through the gag, and shrugs as if to say, 'It's alright, go ahead. I won't blame you.'
And Sherlock finds his chest constricting and throat closing up, and his hands, they're shaking worse than John's ever have.
Realization hits him, a freight train to the gut, and he reels, knocked off balance by the sheer intensity of his feelings.
I'm sorry, John. I love you.
It isn't until he sees John's eyes widen in surprise and the Russian cackle gleefully that he registers he's spoken aloud.
Without giving himself time to think (definitely a first for him), Sherlock flings his gun at John (who catches it out of reflex though his hands are still bound) and spins so his forehead is against the gun's barrel.
He hears John's muffled shout and sees the Russian's stunned look of surprise.
He closes his eyes.
Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.
You're wrong, Mommy. I saved John.