Title: Put Me in Your Hands
Words: 765
Spoilers: Vague ones?
TW: mentions of... torture? Not quite, but possibly concerning imagery.
Author's Notes: Again, studying the character. Sherlock's turn, this time. I imagine he talks to himself in his mind via second person. Always referring to himself as "you", instead of thinking in terms of "I". His mind is odd to me, that way. But I have a lot of personal ideas about this Sherlock. This is just me pretty much thinking on paper for him, because sometimes he'll sit there and wonder how John even functions in his life.
John takes you, everything you've been in your isolation, and rips it to shreds. At first, it was almost like he stuck meat hooks under your skin and pulled until the flesh ripped with a wet tearing noise that you're all too capable of imagining. You didn't go willingly, of course. You screamed and fought against his grip, and you hated him for not knowing what he was doing to you the longer you two were together.
But time shortened the distance, and soon it wasn't torture. It was John stitching you together while you realized that you'd always been broken. An imitation of complete that he fixed with the patience of someone who knew how to empathize, truly empathize, and have it cost nothing to do so! That thought alone made you spend many a night staring at the ceiling as you thought. As you dove straight down to the depths of your mind, where all was silent and easy to manage.
There was the mind palace, and then there was going Underneath. Underneath was where time completely stopped for you, where outside factors never touched you. It was the last safe haven of your mind. A perfect place to contemplate the effect John Watson had on you.
And oh, does he affect you! Not that you have a name to give what he does to you, exactly. It's hard to quantify. Somewhere, along the way, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson became "Sherlock and John", and you weren't aware of it until a while after it happened. He remains steady in this odd bond, like he doesn't know it exists. you've even tested the extents of this bond (which you tentatively call friendship, even as the word feels lacking) with fire and rage and gunshots. He gets frustrated-angry-annoyed-resigned on the surface, but you remain connected. A problem without a solution or reason isn't worth your time, but John is proving to be this fascinating design hidden away in normality. He wears normal like jumpers and worn jeans as if he himself is normal. Both of you know he's not.
What you wouldn't give to be able to take him apart, piece by piece, to find that spark that keeps you close to him! It wouldn't be torture, no. You don't want to hurt him, or kill him. But you wish people were more like machines, if only so you could take them apart and put them together again in different ways. Not John, though; John has to be put together properly. In the end, if he were able to be dismantled, you suppose you'd never actually get around to dismantling him in full. All the clockwork of his mind-heart-body-soul-personality would be too complex, even for you. One wrong gear in the wrong place and you would have a new person. The point is that you want to examine him, top to bottom, inside and out, looking for how he works.
John is the sum of his parts. You know his limp is gone, but it still makes up who he is now. His Army, his Doctor, his limp, his Adrenaline addiction. That's just like yours, really; the adrenaline is better than drugs, when you can get a true kick.
John smooths out your rough patches. When you feel like drugs would be your only reprieve, he comes along and does exactly what you need to stay away. It's impossible, but it happens. He just looks at you, and you know you won't touch them and lose everything you've worked for. Music-cases-puzzles would be gone, again. You know that, but John's much better at keeping you convinced of that.
John is necessary. He's been shaping you, without you realising it. He's been working at the rough patches of you, like a true artisan, and smoothing them out. An unrefined, but no less brilliant Sherlock was at the other end of the time of your meeting John. When you look back at him, you're surprised that you could be so stupid.
(Of course you can be; growth renders your previous iteration useless, so of course they're stupid when you look back at them.)
John's smoothed you out, into a more human-shaped statue. The rough edges went in, but not too much. He knows you like rough edges. But the ones he leaves are just enough to keep your self-image while he makes subtle changes to the rest of you. In another year, you wonder what you'll be like.
John is necessary, like air and sustenance. You're satisfied that you're going to keep him, no matter what.