TITLE: What Do the Lonely Do at Christmas?
CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Two/ Anger
RATING:T (language, content)
A/N: FINALLY, an update. Christmas is obviously over and we're well past New Year's, but this story isn't centered around Christmas. There are obviously more mentions of it, but if you're sick of the holiday, please don't discard this story. I promise it's not entirely stuffed full of holiday happenings.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock... or Christmas.
I try to make it through my life,
In my way there's you...
I try to make it through these lies
That's all I do
Just don't deny it,
Just don't deny it
And deal with it,
Yeah, deal with it
You tried to break me
You wanna break me
Bit by bit
That's just part of it.
If you were dead or still alive,
I don't care,
I don't care
And all the things you left behind,
I don't care,
I don't care
I try to make you see my side
Always try to stay in line
But your eyes see right through
That's all they do
I'm getting tired of this shit
I've got no room when it's like this
What you want of me, just deal with it
- I Don't Care, Apocalyptica
Of course Sherlock noticed his flatmate's recent decline these past few weeks. No matter what others, or even he himself said, Sherlock Holmes was no sociopath. And he certainly wasn't oblivious. He merely tended to filter out things he deemed as unimportant – feelings, social courtesies, pleasantries, first names, and everything in between. That didn't mean he didn't notice all of it in vivid detail before choosing to delete it.
And when it came to the important things, Sherlock always noticed John.
Sure, there were the times Sherlock would carry on a conversation with his flatmate when John wasn't even there, but when it came to something truly substantial, something crucial – like John current crumbling condition – Sherlock didn't miss a single thing.
He had been quite closely monitoring and analyzing his friend for several days now and the detective became less and less pleased with each new finding.
John's frame was taking on the wiriness of an ailing man, not one of a former soldier. The doctor was frequently wearing glasses of black skin and sleepless nights. He almost ate as sparsely as Sherlock now. John no longer asked the detective to deduce things about his dead wife.
Some would see that as a healthy step to moving forward and on with his life.
Sherlock knew John far better than that.
If anything, the man was moving backward, drawing inward and away from everyone.
Sherlock preferred such a life, but John was so very different. John was social and friendly and kind. He extended a helping hand and friendship wherever he could. Besides, Sherlock was content where he was. John, on the other hand, wouldn't stop. He would continue to shrink and pull away, until he was just gone. Sherlock pushed others away, but that was at least some form of interaction. John could see through Sherlock's act when the self-proclaimed sociopath did this. But John was disappearing so much so that Sherlock almost could no longer see his friend at all. It was a completely different way of distancing oneself. And much more dangerous.
And he'd been doing a fine job of it too.
The doctor was going about it gradually. People would immediately notice and worry if John just simply and suddenly tore himself away entirely or turned on the offensive like Sherlock. His flatmate was clever. Clever, clever, John, who Sherlock would never allow to disappear from the world – from him.
John had fallen into a depression upon returning from the war. That was obvious from the first time the pair met. After Sherlock's "death", the deceased detective had had eyes put on his friend. With John's past dance with depression and his mother's death by the dark demon's hands, Sherlock was well aware of the danger. After Mary passed, the younger man kept an unobtrusive, yet vigilant, watch over the grieving widower. It had only been four months and Sherlock was now sharpening that focus on his friend with the holiday season in full sentimental swing.
Christmas seemed to excrete sentiment in a disgusting display of mostly feigned family fondness, couples clasping hands in the snow, achingly sap-steeped films and specials and advertisements, and sugary songs. Sherlock despised all the fluff already. Now he was actively avoiding it. He kept the telly off and distracted John from watching his usual programs. Once, he had come home to find his flatmate in front of the picture box with a long face as a romantic jewelry ad played across the screen. It was later that day when a mouse mysteriously got into their flat and just so happen to chew through the cables for the television. When the detective spotted a pair of lovers snogging under the mistletoe at a restaurant where he and John were having dinner, Sherlock had discreetly sent a waiter tripping and flying, knocking the lovebirds over before John saw them. He refused to take on any cases involving lost loves or spousal deaths. He even purposefully turned down a young woman with a rather intriguing predicament involving drug smugglers, her missing father, a priest and locked room murder.
Her name had been Mary.
He couldn't keep his friend shielded from everything, though, no matter how hard he tried.
When Sherlock found out two days prior that one Harriet Watson had landed herself in hospital and on the not so right side of the law, the detective had not hesitated before having a little "chat" with the woman.
Sherlock knew that John was trying to block out all emotions entirely and how truly difficult such a task was. John wasn't a psychopath or a sociopath. He had these retched feelings no matter how much he pretended or pushed. There was no flip of a switch. No fault free dam. All Sherlock had to do was make John feel something, anything, really feel it. One, single, strong, emotion to punch through that wall. All the others would soon follow, spilling in after.
The detective's mind scrolled through several scenarios and debated between which emotion to pluck at. There were a vast array of theories and psychology based upon human emotion. Some listed five basic emotions, others seven. Fear breeds adrenaline, but it's also fickle. It can both push or paralyze. To inject his flatmate with further sadness would only deepen the man's depression and desire to rid himself of that pain.
Sherlock had seen John Watson angry. He had himself been the target of said rage on varying occasions, his return from the grave included. Fury and hate were wild, sometimes uncontrollable, striking out without a person even fully intending to say or do certain things while under their influence.
Yes, anger could do it. Hatred would be the pressure point. The crack. The break.
Sherlock Holmes was quite skilled at offending those around him and eliciting an antagonized response. He imagined it would be quite a simple task to bring forth such a return from a man whose buttons Sherlock knew exactly how to push.
It started with little things. Leaving more body parts around the flat. Letting the milk go bad on the counter. Screeching away on his violin for hours. Setting fire to the curtains. Spilling a rather acidic experiment all over the kitchen table.
Then he started getting in John's way. Sprinting to occupy the bathroom when he saw John heading in that direction. Taking elongated showers that made John late for a shift. Bumping into him in the doorway. He even sat in John's chair.
He would observe, silently and pleasantly, as his flatmate tried to shake off each irritation, watching as each seemingly insignificant antic and emotion was swallowed down. It wouldn't be long before they would all pile up and come spewing back out.
Sherlock also implemented subtle, psychological attacks. Things that would make John irrationally angry without even meaning to be. Like an incessant itch he can't scratch. Some things were aesthetically pleasing naturally, whilst others, caused humans involuntary irritation. Pictures were tilted. A shelf off books were kept all straight and tidy, save the last one would be turned upside down. Furniture was moved just slightly out of place. The detective would almost soundlessly hum a tune and would be able to pinpoint the exact moment when the song would get stuck in John's head.
It wasn't long before he began his verbal assault.
"Lestrade wanted me to work a case of a missing girl." He had snorted. "Children. Not my area. Or my interest. Needy little things with hardly any intelligence or emotional control whatsoever, not to match bladder control as well."
"John, really, and I thought the mustache aged you. If all I saw was that jumper and not your face, I'd be forced to deduce that you were an old man."
"The doctor was the killer, John. I mean, really. Are there any competent doctors in this world? Do they just throw out medical degrees like confetti at a party? People actually trust these complete imbeciles with their lives?"
Again, little things. Like grating cheese. Slowly, he knew he was wearing the good doctor down.
And there it was.
Anger.
Sherlock smiled as he took the fist to his face. He hardly remembered what exactly he had said, but knew the names Harry and Mary had come into play at some point. It was his final hitter. His knock out punch after wearing his opponent down. Of course, he hadn't fully intended for himself to be physically punched in return.
But it was something.
Sherlock had to stifle gleeful laughter as John pulled his arm back and glared at his flatmate. There was a fire in John's eyes that would have sent someone else shaking to their knees. For Sherlock, it only brought prideful joy.
It didn't last though.
No sooner had the blood started cascading from Sherlock's nose, did John's expression shift. The fire was extinguished and in its place stood stark sorrow.
Sadness at the words Sherlock had so callously cut into him, and guilt for hurting his friend.
Sherlock had believed that breaking John's emotional dam entirely would logically result with his friend finally being able to make progress. He could be sorrowful and grieve, and then move on. Get better. Be John again.
Somehow, the genius had gravely miscalculated.
The shock of rage, following swiftly by sadness, reminded John why he was doing what he was doing. It fueled his need to cut himself off from everyone. He couldn't feel that agony again. He couldn't survive it.
Part of him didn't care if he survived at all. He didn't care much for living anymore.
That would be the ultimate severing of sentiment, wouldn't it? Killing himself. Putting a final end to his pain filled existence for good.
But he couldn't do that.
Because, even after rebuilding his dam, even after everything, there was still something there. A crack in the concrete. He no longer possessed any concern for himself, but he could never cease caring for others, no matter how hard he tried or how high of a wall he created. Mary would have never wanted John to take his life and Sherlock would be devastated.
So John did the only thing he could. He repaired the dam and kept his distance. Even if he couldn't stop or patch all of the cracks and stop caring entirely, he could make it hurt less. It was something.
And John would give anything for even a minute reprieve of his grief.
So John lay on his bed, staring somberly at the ceiling. He tried to not think about Mary. He shoved aside guilt for punching Sherlock. He focused on filtering everything out, his only thoughts being on that ceiling.
Sometimes John wished he was a sociopath.