Hey guys! So um...I uh...saw a thing...and I've been watching Sherlock...THE LAST EPISODE THOUGH I FRICKIN DIED. Anyway, have this painful thing.
It was painful to recall. Even more so to experience.
The beatings Sherlock endured during his undercover work were excruciating, yet normal, for what he was doing. (Taking down the vast network of Moriarty's operatives, obviously.) It wasn't in his nature to dwell on pain, so it caused him little in the way of inconvenience. Yes, every breath was exhausting. But what did that matter in the grand scheme of things? He could still walk, talk and think. It wasn't like his brain was damaged along with his back, so what was the problem?
There wasn't one. Until John Watson.
John Watson. His best friend. His saving grace. There was nothing in the world Sherlock wouldn't do for him. He was the yin to his yang, the heart to his mind. Heh, but I'm off topic. What does this man have anything to do with Sherlock's tolerance for pain?
Pain isn't about bruises, cuts, or blows. It's physical, yes. But it's about warnings. About imbalanced hormones and knowing when something's wrong as the nerves in your body send in wave after wave to your mind. Pain is a system of sensing and receiving messages from your body to your brain.
Pain is a system, a code. And it can be controlled.
...
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?"
Sherlock blinked. Was John screaming at him? Sherlock was trying to formulate an inquiry when he felt himself falling backward, hitting the wall with a thump.
Did John just push me?
"SHERLOCK!"
John?
He was on the ground now. How did he get here?
"IS THIS A GAME!?"
Sherlock gasped as a feeling pulsed through his side.
Hit. I've been hit.
His eyes widened.
I can feel it.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!? WHY IS EVERYTHING A GAME TO YOU!?"
The words rang in his ears. He grunted as the blows kept coming.
A game? Is this a game? Why can I feel it? Why are you hitting me?
"Please! No violence!" A voice- Culverton Smith -begged from the other side of the room. Sherlock mentally shuddered at the rush of disgust the voice gave him. Fortunately, it seemed to awake him to his current situation once more.
Two cracked ribs. Bruised face. Broken lip. You did your soldier name proud, John.
"No, it's alright. Let him do what he wants. He's earned it," Sherlock stated tiredly. John really did deserve it, didn't he? He took in a shaky breath. For the fourth time in his life, Sherlock's eyes teared up.
"I killed his wife."
He looked up, trying to tell them that it was alright. Sherlock deserved it. John deserved it.
...
Are you confused? Why would John deserve to beat the crap out of Sherlock? Because Sherlock killed his wife?
No. Let me explain.
John was already capable of making Sherlock feel. Emotions, loyalty, respect. Sherlock knew John held sway in his mind, even his heart. But no one could make him feel pain. Feel the blow of a punch, or the stab of a needle. Small things. Sherlock had control of the code.
Yet, when John turned his fists on him, suddenly Sherlock wasn't in control anymore. Anything he felt, was in John's hands.
Your life is never your's. Who's going to miss it when you're gone? Not you. It belongs in the hands of those you love, so keep your hands off it.
Sherlock almost wanted to laugh at himself.
Your life is never yours.
I suppose I was wrong. John didn't just deserve it. John was capable of it.
Because John Watson owns Sherlock Holmes.
...
Sherlock looked up from the floor, staring at John with a new perspective. One he was subconsciously running on ever since that first day.
I can't stop you.
Their eyes met. John glared down at him, his fists still clenched tight. Sherlock swallowed.
John turned away.
As the hospital help loaded him onto a stretcher, Sherlock closed his eyes.
I'm sorry, John.