Alright, a couple things.
1. This is Khashana prompt and she is so nice and amazing and I just couldn't get the prompt out of my head. She asked for paralyzingdepressive!Sherlock in my John's a telepath universe and this plot bunny was born. I was so excited with it that I just had to write it right away.
2. This has major trigger warnings for depression and vague references to self-harm/wanting it all to be over. So beware.
3. I suffer from depression and I kind of took this from a bad attack I had one time and gave a Sherlock twist. I hope its not too OOC but emotions are irrational so I played it off of that. That spot on my forearm, really exists. Whenever I have a sad thought or something triggers me, this spot on my forearm twinges with phantom pain. I can't explain and I don't know if that happens to anybody else but how Sherlock reasons the phantom pain spot is pretty much how I thought of it as.
4. This takes place during Don't Touch Me, somewhere after they get together and John learns to push emotions but before learning the emotion code and before Sherlock found a way to call out to John at long distances. In fact, one could reason its because of this fic that Sherlock spent so long calling out for John, so that this didn't happen to him again.
Anyway, it's probably got tons of mistakes. I just want to get it published as soon as possible so I'll go back and fix it later no worries.
Sorry Long Author Note, to the story
Peace&Love
Sophie
The walls are blank, dripping with hopelessness and pain, mirroring the only occupant in the sitting room. The occupant isn't moving, he's barely breathing.
That child, that poor child.
Sherlock shuts his eyes and shakes his head. This doesn't bother him, no , this shouldn't bother him. It's just another dead body.
But her face, her young face, mouth open wide, so wide, with shock and pain that Sherlock wouldn't think possible on a child. Her hair had been a gorgeous flowing red, spread out from underneath her like a fiery halo.
She is so young, was so young.
Sherlock closes his eyes briefly, willing the image of her, Melissa, lying on that dusty floor with a ragged cut along her neck, like it was painted on. A red, sick smile.
The detective takes a deep breath, trying to get rid of the pictures in his mind on the exhales.
He should get up, he really should. He should get out of the chair, or is he on the couch? Is he even at home? He should make an effort to get rid of this dangerous mood.
He turns his head slightly, some part of his mind still buzzing with curiosity, and notices that he is in the sitting room on the couch. Well, there's that. How long has he been here?
The curtains cover the windows, blocking out any possible light, although it looks to be dark, so night time. He vaguly remembers stumbling home now, the early afternoon sunlight playing with his shadows.
He's been sitting on this couch for too long.
This is dangerous. He thinks to himself and then his mind chuckles.
That's why they are call 'danger nights', Mycroft's coined term is surprisingly apt.
But then he idly realizes that this isn't even one of those nights, not really. This is so much different, so much worse. His usual danger nights are more about his mind moving so fast, too fast, without any hope or way to slow it down. That's why he would go to drugs, something, anything to slow his mind down, just so he could categorize his thoughts. Anything, something to help the thoughts make more sense.
He shakes his head but he doesn't know if it happens physically. He stopped doing drugs, he doesn't do those anymore, he doesn't need those anymore. Now he has John, John and the work. Something, two things, to stimulate his mind enough to keep the thoughts focused and slow enough for him to not crave, need, the drugs.
And it works. He hasn't touched drugs in years and his cravings don't come as often. John keeps them at bay. John makes him want to keep them at bay.
John. He loves John, maybe its too early for love, it doesn't really matter, he does and its the truth.
He can feel himself start to shake suddenly and a a sharp jolt of pain vibrates throughout his mind. His eyes falling shut without conscious thought.
John.
He should reach out to John, his doctor can help. He should project his thoughts. He could do it, maybe, theoretically.
But he doesn't.
He suddenly can't.
He becomes immobilized, both mentally and physically.
John.
He should-
You don't deserve anything, his love especially. Sherlock cringes at his own mind. He wants to scream in protest against the thought in his head.
His toes curl with tension as his brain and his body fight for control. His body wanting to move, to get away from his brain assaulting him, abusing him.
His entire body tenses with anxiety and pressure. He begins to shake, a full body shudder that makes his jaw clench, his teeth grind together. His muscles clench without relief and Sherlock feels like he's going to burst. He feels like he is going to explode, like his muscles are going to rip out of his skin, one by one.
He knows, he knows, that logically this isn't how he should feel, this isn't how he reacts to things. He knows that.
But these are emotions, these feelings are something that's a part of Sherlock that even he can't explain. He's never been good at emotions anyway and maybe that's why he doesn't, didn't, do emotions before now, before John. He logically knows they are irrational, they can't be tamed and explained away.
He wants to rebel against that thought with such violent hate but he can't. He's paralyzed by his irrationalities and he can't get away.
He can't think, about anything, and he can't stop.
There is no relief, there is just pain and insults.
And then there is anger, anger at feeling this way and anger at having to deal with it and anger at the world and the helplessness of it all. Angry that the girl had to die and angry at himself, oh, he is so angry at himself.
He doesn't do blame, but, just, this case, this one tiny missing person that was easy. He could have been faster, seen the signs, worked a little bit harder.
He could have saved her.
But she's dead. She was eleven. He sees images of the girl, her big smile and messy red hair and they fizz into seeing her on the ground, spread out and on display.
Sherlock wants to scream, he wants to push everything away, he wants to breath deeply and without the pain and the heartache. He's feeling so claustrophobic, as if the walls are closing in.
But the room isn't getting smaller, in fact it seems to extend, creating a vast vortex in the sitting. It's just his mind making him feel claustrophobic and that doesn't make him feel any better.
It just makes him realize how alone he really is.
Because of his intelligence and because of his scathing personality.
No, you aren't really alone. It's a wistful thought and he wants to attach, he wills his traitorous mind to cling on to the thought.
It fleets away as crushing fearanguishpain come back with even more force than before.
Then, a spot on his forearm starts to pulse. It starts to itch and burn and Sherlock knows its a phantom pain. Its as if his emotions and feelings need a physical and emotional manifest so that his brain can rationalize and validate his feelings.
His brain is always against him.
He knows its a warning. This same spot itches and aches whenever Sherlock feels the sinking feelings of pain and fear and grief, he feels this spot prickle when he has particularly bad cravings.
He felt this spot twinge and vibrate with phantom tension that night his dear mummy died and the night when Mycroft had abandoned him for University.
This is his alarm to try his hardest to stop this, to stop it before this night gets worse, far, far worse. Unless something happens to twist him away, he could potentially end up in a lot of hurt by the end of the night.
Still, he knows this, he knows where this night will lead and he can't move.
He's too far gone.
Sudden flashes of the girl and of bad memories, bad hits and even worse family dinners. They rattle around in his brain and Sherlock can't distract himself, he can't turn his brain away from the horrible feelings and the thoughts and the memories.
His brain has called a free-for-all and jerks slightly at the terrifying thought.
Endless minuteshoursdays pass and Sherlock doesn't, can't, stop. He can't stop his shakes, his thoughts, his willingness to be done with the stupidity and pressures of the world.
He's tired, so tired and it's sinks down to his bones and disorients him. His thoughts are rapid-fire with insults. Insults aimed at himself, telling him of his worthlessness.
You are stronger than this. His mind, the part of his brain that wants to survive the night, is trying to help, it doesn't like the abuse its taking.
Sherlock tries to scream, he tries to move, to care.
He can't.
"Stop." He tries to say but his mouth barely opens and no sound comes out at all. His hands fly up to his hair of their own accord, gripping at his hair and pulling.
"Stop. Stop. Stop." He repeats the thoughts over and over again.
As soon as John opened the door, he notices a couple of things. The first being that Mrs. Hudson is gone. There are no clinking and clattering of tea cups or lights coming from underneath her door way.
The second thing he notices is the fact that there don't seem to be any lights on at all. No illumination spills down the stairs like it normally would. John knows its not that late, eight at the most and John just figures that Sherlock isn't in the flat. He had to pull a double shift at the surgery and he is bone tired and just wants sleep, tea, then lots and lots of sleep.
That's why it takes him a little bit, his body trudging to the stairs with wary movements, to notice the creeping oppression of emotions and feelings that permeate the entire Baker Street flat. It's so thick that John has to stop at the foot of the stairs, grab the railing with a white knuckled fist and look up towards the dark, daunting stairs.
"Sherlock." John whispers and he doesn't even know how he knows that the emotions are coming from Sherlock. Maybe its the very faint wiff of lilac but there is no honey to accompany it. Regardless, a burst of adrenaline hits him and he dashes up the stairs, two at a time. He ascends the stairs quickly but the entire way, John feels like his body is cutting through a thick fog, like an almost physical barrier that he has to trudge through to get.
He's never felt anything like this before and it worries him, it worries him more than words can describe.
A small part of him hopes its just a dream. The pain, the fear, the anger, the frustration, he hopes Sherlock is just sleeping and John can snap him out it. He doesn't want to know the circumstances if this isn't a dream.
He didn't get any messages from anyone, Mycroft or Lestrade, that this could be a danger night.
Oh, god. He hopes its not a danger night. Please let it be a dream. He pleads to himself.
John moves faster, not really knowing what to expect, despite his hopes.
He reaches the landing and looks into the darkness. He doesn't know where Sherlock is, its a toss up, if he is sleeping, the detective is in the bedroom, if its not that, John doesn't want to think.
He pauses for a split second and the silence envelopes him, closing around him like a bulky blanket, almost muffling him.
Except he can still hear a noise, a very distinct noise that has John moving through the open doorway to the sitting room.
He follows the sharp intakes of breath that put John's teeth on edge.
He can sense Sherlock on the couch, despite darkness, his ears can pick up where the noises are coming from. He immediately goes to the detective's side, fearing the worse.
He may still be in the throws of the dream.
But, all hopes of that are gone once John turns on the lamp beside the couch.
Soft rays of light brighten the sitting room, throwing dark contrast and shadows harshly in its wake, but John sees only the detective.
He is suddenly very thankful that he left his jacket downstairs because the heat of the emotions is much more unbearable the closer John is to the source.
And source, Sherlock is. The fear, pain, anger, frustration, hopelessness radiate off the genius and John inhales sharply.
He doesn't hesitate to drop in front of the younger man, his knees banging against the ground unnoticed.
"Sherlock." John says with a heavy heart as he looks at the man.
But, Sherlock doesn't move. He doesn't even seem to hear the doctor and that worries John so much more. This situation is so bad and the doctor feels terrible for not checking up on the man sooner.
The doctor stares at Sherlock, completely bewildered, he takes in the detective's hands twisted in his soft curls, fingertips white and with the contrast lighting it makes the mood even gloomier. The blogger can see the pain lines etched on his lover's forehead, sneaking out from behind the man's quivering forearms.
He doesn't know what is going on?
One of John's hands finds itself gripping at the genius's knee without thinking. There is soft fabric beneath his fingers that don't belong to the trousers that Sherlock normally wears. IT feels like the detective's coat. John looks down with a frown and sure enough, his hand is gripped around Sherlock's coat, in fact, Sherlock seems to be wrapped in the coat and his scarf too.
He looks as if he just walked into the sitting room, but if that was the case he would have turned the lights on.
"How long have you been here?" John asks softly and hesitantly, knowing the answer will be far longer than it should be.
But, once again, Sherlock doesn't move and he doesn't speak. The genius does, however, start to rock his body forward and backward slightly, his fingers clenching and unclenching while John watches horrified.
The projected emotions are growing, if that's even possible, the painfeargrieffrustration is stifling and John almost breaks agains the overwhelming emotions.
"Sherlock?" John calls again, his tries to keep his voice even, even though the feelings are assaulting his focus. The doctor brings his hand up to grip the detective's hand, grabbing the trembling hands.
The connection is instant and John almost rears back from the force of it.
The first thing he notices is about Sherlock's senses. The lilac had followed him from all the entryway but it was faint and the honey, he didn't sense that one at all. Now, the both of them are forced into the connection. But the senses are different, tainted and John doesn't know what's going on. The lilac isn't sweet anymore, in fact its putrid as if the emotions have stained the smell and John physically wrinkles his noise in disgust. The honey, its.. it's is almost completely unrecognizable. It tastes off, spoiled and sour. Both senses are strong but weak at the same time, less vibrant but more forceful. And John almost vomits what little dinner he's had at the rancid honey sense alone.
The second thing he notices, which really should have been the first thing to notice.
Sherlock is screaming.
Words full of pleading and begging. Some incoherent and others in a steady endless stream of subconscious thought.
"Stop. Stop. Stop! Stop! Please! Just Stop! I'm sorry! Just please Stop! Leave Me Alone. John. Please. Just make them stop. Please. Just leave me alone. I don't want this. Leave me alone. Please Just leave me alone. Stop."
As the words tumbled into the bond, John has tears spilling from his eyes.
It's John's turn to be paralyzed by an emotion, this time shock. He can't seem to think past the fear and the pleading and the pain, oh my, the pain.
He doesn't move for a full minute, not that he's timing. He is just so caught up in Sherlock's tumbling emotions that he just can't.
Can't think, can't move, can't talk, only listen in horror.
Finally, something snaps in him, and John is falling backwards. He lands on his backside with an ungraceful umph. He doesn't move again, his eyes wide, staring at Sherlock who is shaking so violently that John doesn't know how he isn't ripping apart.
However, his mind has been released from its hold and John doesn't know whether to be relieved or nauseated that its there, in Sherlock's head, to begin with.
The doctor just stares and it takes him a bit longer, longer than it should have (but he couldn't help but being enraptured, watching Sherlock shake, tremble and rock with tension and pain), until he comes up with a plan.
John forces himself back to stand, pushing his hands against the carpet and moving his body to sit beside the detective on the couch. He reaches for the detective's hands again, each clasp in it's respective partners, and pulls them away from his face. Sherlock resist but not consciously, its more like he can't physically let go of his hair even though its causing him pain.
John's hands are touching the back of Sherlock's bare hands so the doctor trudges up as many happy memories as he can. Memories of Sherlock's brilliance and their smiles, his smile, his laugh and how it makes John feel. He plagues the link with endless positive emotion and eventually, Sherlock's hands tighten before releasing and John immediately tugs the man's hands towards him, effectively pulling Sherlock sideways so that John can sneak a leg behind the younger man and cradle Sherlock's small, tense body against his chest, tucking the messy hair man under his chin and rocking the two them back and forth, trying to calm the genius down. One of John's hands move to fit flush against Sherlock's hot neck, creating an even stronger tactile connection.
The entire time, the endless pleading, hopelessness and pain doesn't stop coming through the link, although the force has receded slightly, but Sherlock is still screaming and he remains unresponsive.
John doesn't think that the detective even knows he's there.
"God, I'm so sorry Sherlock." John chokes, his tears mixing with the soft curls beneath him. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't hear for you." The last statement is whispered as John tries to push his own guilt back, even though he couldn't have possibly known what was going on.
An image is pushed through the link and it startles John.
A young girl, probably around ten or so and John's heart aches when he sees her throat cut viciously.
John can sense this is Sherlock's memory, but is it old or new?
Sherlock said something this morning, in one of his many, many texts today, about working a missing person's case but John was swamped and couldn't keep up with the replies even though he read them all.
Could this little girl be the missing person?
John shakes his head, there are to many variables, all he needs to know is that Sherlock is in pain, paralyzed with emotions and John is probably the only one in the world that can fix it.
He idly wonders if influencing Sherlock's emotions like this is ethical.
Then, a flash of the dead little girl and painfearpaingriefshameguilthopelessness fly through the connection and John sends calm happy thoughts, he sends safety and hopefulness, damning the consequences.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm sorry I didn't hear your pain." John says again, listening, feeling, watching the tension start to drain out of the detective. Sherlock's eyes fly open, they had been shut up until this point, but they are glazed over, blurry with unshed tears.
He continues his assault of positive thoughts, trust and love and safety and joy, and finally, Sherlock stops screaming. The thoughts taper out and John can feel Sherlock's grip start to loosen, his fingers that had subconsciously clenched around John's now slackening as Sherlock slowly comes to himself.
They don't talk for a few minutes, Sherlock just breathing in and out, John sending thoughts, any all things positive while Sherlock continues to sort through his head.
"John?"
John sighs in relief, but he can still feel the pain, and the fear and now, confusion. John just hugs the man tight to his chest, not willing to stop the onslaught of feelings to keep the genius safe and in the now.
Sherlock smiles, a quirk of the lips at the memories that John are sharing. Just as suddenly as the smile appeared, it was gone again and confusion becomes a forefront emotion through the link.
"John. Stop."
John knows what Sherlock wants, he wants the telepath to stop confusing him with conflicting emotions and John does comply, mostly.
Sherlock starts to wiggle after a few minutes and John is forced to loosen his grip. The detective sits up straight, turning sideways on the couch, his legs crossed atop the cushions and facing towards the doctor. His gaze is intense but John doesn't feel uneasy, he lets the man stare, mostly because he can tell how confused Sherlock is. The detective reaches hand and cups John's face. The doctor leans into the touch and he can feel a thumb brush across his wet cheeks.
"John."
The thought is so broken that John opens his eyes, that he didn't know he closed, and sees defeat in the detective's eyes.
He grips the man's wrist and shakes his head. "Sherlock. It's okay. It's going to be okay."
John doesn't need to know what happened, although he will find out later on, he just needs to comfort Sherlock as best he can. He needs to know how to deal with this, so if it happens again, he's prepared.
"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock says and John can feel the pure shame and remorse and worry, and the detective starts to wipe up the last remaining tears from John's cheek. The doctor immediately jerks backwards in horrified surprise, leaving Sherlock's hand hovering in mid air.
A look of genuine hurt flashes across the genius's face and John realizes his mistake.
He gathers the man up, moving as close as possible to him before manhandling the thin legs over his own lap and pulling Sherlock's chest towards him. It should be awkward but Sherlock accepts it and even scoots down so that John can lay sideways sort of on the couch.
He runs his hands over Sherlock's face, sending hope and love and pride and admiration, before taking the genius's chin in his hand and making the man look into John's eyes.
"You have nothing to be sorry about." John says firmly and Sherlock doesn't argue, he doesn't even try to jerk his chin away. Sherlock just stares into John's penetrating gaze and sees all the emotions, the trust and the happiness reflecting back at him.
John is surprised when he hears the gut-wrenching and heart tearing sob escape from Sherlock's throat. The man trembles, this time with emotional shock as he cries and sobs his pain away. John holds him, as much skin to skin contact as possible and offers reassurance. He doesn't offer the false emotions because Sherlock need to work on these emotions. And John is there now to help him if he strays to deep.
John grips his detective tight and whispers to him, gentle mutterings, nothing really registering in Sherlock's paingriefshameguilt filled brain until three words.
"...it's going to be okay, Sherlock, I love you." The detective starts to sob even harder and John doesn't know what he's done wrong but he doesn't let go, he'll never let go.
Thirty minutes pass and Sherlock has cried himself out and is really close to passing out from the emotional exhaustion. They somehow maneuver the lean man out of his jacket and scarf that Sherlock discards haphazardly on the ground, which he will probably be mad about later, before snuggling closer together.
They talk about everything later, once John gets the full story, after Mycroft and Lestrade stopped by, the DI had been worried when Sherlock hadn't answer his text or calls.
Sherlock will talk, mostly through the mental connection because the detective won't be able to say some of the things he thinks about out loud. John will allow it because anything would be better than what he had come home to.
John will listen. After several cups of tea, and walkthroughs and more talks. They will have a better understanding of each other and John will make a new promise.
But for now, now John focuses on holding the trembling, exhausted body beside him. He can feel Sherlock's thoughts fading through the link and he knows the detective is so close to sleeping.
A hand cups John's face making the doctor tilt his head down to look at Sherlock.
"I love you too." Sherlock chokes out, fat tears sliding his face.
John smiles, almost shy, as if Sherlock wasn't supposed to have heard that saying. But then Sherlock pushes his love through the connection and all John can do is kiss the man silly until the exhaustion takes them both and they drift into a surprisingly dreamless sleep.