WARNING: IN-DEPTH PORTRAYAL OF PSYCHOSIS
For those of you who imagine insanity as sitting in a dark closet, rocking back and forth, listening to the deafening voices in your head, urging you to be violent, I'm hoping that this slow descent into madness paints a lovely little picture for you. I've only ever personally dealt with auditory hallucinations and depersonalization as a side affect of my sleep disorder and psychiatric drugs, respectively. So, for those of you who haven't experienced anything of this nature – which is hopefully most of you – pay attention. I find that understanding the way a person's head works in these instances (namely, when having adverse reactions to substances, whether they be legal or otherwise) helps to generate compassion, which is an important type of support for people who are experiencing these symptoms. And because few can articulate what exactly is going on in their heads in that very moment, it's hard to fully comprehend their reactions. So I really hope that this helps you all to understand what the less exaggerated effects of psychosis look like (in the broadest sense, of course).
As he sits here in the middle of Molly Hooper's flat, his head buzzing with a combination of too many substances and a tugging feeling that he doesn't recognize, Sherlock feels wrong. He feels like his flesh is trembling endlessly in an attempt to escape the layer of skin that strangles it, binding it together and containing it. He wants to shed his skin. No, wait, that's not right.
The great Sherlock Holmes will not submit to the throes of psychosis. No, psychosis is for those lacking imagination and diligence. I possess great measures of both.
Sherlock taps his fingers on the armrest, feeling both over-stimulated and bone-chillingly exhausted at the same time. He feels his bones rattle inside of him, his innards trying to keep up with the ceaseless buzzing in his mind and in the flesh just below his skin. He shivers, contemplating the effects of fever, trying to remember if psychosis can be caused by the benzodiazepines, the cocaine, the opium, the fever, or maybe even the combination of drugs in his system.
Sherlock stares at the television screen, suddenly feeling as if the people in the programmes are looking and speaking directly to him. The volume is too high and the people are shouting now. Their eyes – they all look so crazed. Everything else – the dialogue, the plot, the scenes, etcetera – remains the same, save for the maniacal eyes and the loud voices. Sherlock turns off the telly and lies down on the sofa, squeezing his eyes shut in hopes that, if he tries hard enough, he might spontaneously fall unconscious. Needless to say, he isn't successful. Damn it. Damn it!
The telly may be turned off, but the laughing track still plays from the speakers. A live audience breaks out in applause sporadically, mocking Sherlock in his endeavours to ignore the psychosis eating away at his insides. Stop it. Stop it now!
He zones out for a moment, his gaze fixed on a framed photo on the lower level of Molly's coffee table. The photo depicts Molly and Tom close together, taking a "selfie." They're smiling so brightly, so foolishly as they sit on the front step of Tom's parents' house in the suburbs. Sherlock has deduced that Molly and Tom broke up as a result of one too many domestics. The end was a mutual agreement to part ways for the sake of sanity, and Molly had had a second's worth of sense to return the ring.
With his gaze fixed on this picture, he knows logically that a photograph cannot move. A picture cannot shift. And the people in said picture certainly cannot cry. As he watches, tears form in Molly's eyes in the photo, her cheeks blushing and her eyes growing puffy as tears spill over her wide, picture-perfect smile. No. Don't cry, Molly. He doesn't understand why she's crying. Is she trapped, lingering on thoughts of Tom? Does she want him back? No, they'll never work together. They have bad chemistry – they have since the day they met. Still, the photo of Molly cries, and Sherlock swears he hears her sniffle. Stop it. Stop this, right now. You're making no sense.
You're making me lose my head.
There's only one thing to do now, as he pulls his gaze away from the framed picture to look toward Molly's bedroom door. When he looks at the picture again, it looks as it did before it started crying, but that doesn't make him feel any better.
Quietly walking from the couch to knock on her bedroom door, Sherlock waits for Molly to tell him to come in. She asks, "What do you want?" In response to which, Sherlock mutters something unintelligible. "What?"
He slowly turns the door handle and peeks in through the crack of the door. "Molly?" he asks as she turns to face him. At the sight of her stress-worn countenance, he quickly enters the room and shuts the door before fumbling to the bed. He takes a confused Molly's face in his hands, scrutinizing her with fervour.
"What the hell, Sherlock?"
"Please don't cry, Molly," he says at last, swallowing down the pit in his throat and wiping away imaginary tears with the pads of his thumbs. What he doesn't know is that she had been crying, but only for a moment before rolling over and falling asleep. Her face is still red and puffy, but she's not crying anymore.
"I'm not, Sherlock, I'm not. Look," she insists, gripping his wrists as his hands still hold her face. "See?"
Sherlock is panting feverishly. "No, but you were. Why? Why were you crying, Molly?" Was it him? Was it me? Oh, please don't take him back Molly. He's not good for you. Find someone that deserves you.
"When?"
"Just now, out there, with Tom. But you were smiling. Why were you still smiling?"
She sighs, suddenly realising what has come over him. She should've known that this would happen, given his symptoms. "Oh, Sherlock – you're seeing things."
He ignores her, shaking his head. "No, because you were crying. And I know it makes no sense, but you were smiling and crying and taking a selfie and Tom is no good for you, Molly. He doesn't deserve you."
She just stares into his eyes for a few long moments before very slowly removing his hands from her face. "Come here," she says, motioning to the spot on the bed next to her. "Come on, lie down."
He looks at her, taken aback. "I didn't mean it... Not like that, Molly."
"I know, Sherlock. I know."
His face contorts in confusion. "You're going to... you're going to hold me, aren't you?"
She freezes. "If that will help you, I certainly can."
"But it will make you more sad."
As much as he's out of his mind right now, he's still making profound sense. It scares her. "I'll be OK, Sherlock. Just come here."
"OK, Molly. Just please – no more crying. It's trivial and stupid and it ruins your smile. Nobody cries in a selfie." He lies down next to her, facing her, his panic slowly abating.
She smiles softly at him, betraying the way she actually feels. "No crying. Promise." He makes no move to get closer to her, and she feels relieved that he's calming down without her having to make physical contact. That is, until he throws one arm around her waist to rest at the small of her back and hums his contentment.
He pulls her closer, her face against his chest, as he says, "God, you're rubbish at boyfriends, Molly. Maybe you'd ought to go back to girlfriends, like you did in uni."
"Being romantically inept doesn't vary by gender. I'll still be an idiot, regardless of the other person's sex."
Sherlock starts to "This is true, yes. Be a nun, then. Or just be celibate, like me."
She has to hide her shock at his confession. "Maybe that'd be for the best," she says, mostly to herself.
After a moment's pause in which he seems to have fallen asleep, Sherlock mumbles, "My pulse has slowed considerably. You're rather good at this, Dr Hooper."
She mumbles, "It's just biology. Sleep, Sherlock. Doctor's orders."
Sherlock hums in acknowledgement as his breathing slowly fades into soft snoring.
"God, what time is it?" Sherlock asks as he pads down the hallway toward the kitchen. When he had awoken after a four-hour slumber, he was alone in the bed, lying in a cold sweat. He doesn't remember how he got there, but when he saw that the sun had gone down, and when he smelled Molly's cooking from down the hall, he decided to investigate.
"Late. Dinner? I made pasta."
"Yeah, sure, fine -" he says non-committally.
"Sit."
Dinner is a quiet affair, and Sherlock remains in his chair at the kitchen table as Molly cleans up. After a couple of hours of telly, Molly asks if Sherlock is staying the night. When he says yes, she goes to straighten up her room, to get it ready for him. Sherlock joins her just as she finishes making the bed.
"I changed the sheets, and I got my work clothes out for tomorrow so I don't wake you tomorrow morning. I'll be on the couch tonight, but stay as long as you like. I'll be home from work by tomorrow evening -"
Sherlock interrupts her by grabbing her by the wrist. "Molly – sit." They sit at the edge of her bed, Molly looking everywhere but at Sherlock. She nervously toys with the elastic edges of her hoodie sleeves. He clears his throat. "Molly, I – I've noticed, erm," he stops, rewording his statement. "Why do you – why have you been hurting yourself?"
"What?" Tactic #1: play dumb. Playing dumb doesn't usually work on Sherlock Holmes.
He raises an eyebrow at her in response. "Divest yourself of the sweatshirt." She sits, frozen in place. He rolls his eyes, huffing, "Off, Molly – you're not making it any better by hiding."
For the life of her, she can't remember Tactic #2.
She mutters, "No, I – it's nothing. I'm just – it's cold, Sherlock."
"It's July."
She stares at him, horrified beyond her wits, for a long moment. But without any more verbal protest, Molly rises from the bed and hesitantly pulls the garment up over her head. She has no time to prepare herself before Sherlock takes hold of both of her hands, turning them over to reveal her damaged forearms. He removes his grip on her right hand to trace his finger around the gauze covering her newest set of marks on her left forearm. Molly immediately snatches her right arm away, burying her face in the crook of her elbow, hoping to muffle any sobs that she might accidentally release. She turns away, unable to look as Sherlock examines her handiwork with cold, apathetic eyes. Tears stream down her face freely; she can't hold those back any longer.
"Molly." She turns to see him still holding her by the hand, now looking up at her with those same cold, apathetic eyes. He gestures for her to sit back down. She reaches for her hoodie, but he stops her. "Leave it off." When she sits back down at the edge of the bed, her hand still gripped tightly by his, she can't look at him. His left hand strokes absently over her long-healed scars, in an almost-warm way. But Molly isn't fooled by his gesture.
"Are you going to scold me?" she asks tearfully, finally having worked up the guts to speak. She doesn't much trust her voice to say anything else at this point.
He shakes his head, looking down at her forearm. "Years, Molly – so many years. Am I, you know, the first to -?" She nods, biting her lip. "I see. Not even... not even Tom?"
"No. No one."
"Today. You did this today, twice. Once when I was asleep." She doesn't respond at all, because it's not a question. "Why? Was it, because, you know -"
"No, Sherlock. It wasn't because of you."
"No, that's not what I – I mean," he starts.
She shakes her head. "No. You mean was there anything you could've done? Was it because of something you said? No."
He has the good sense to look uncomfortable. "Last night at the club, I saw," he gestures to her arms, "and I was going to say something, but then today you were being so kind, so I was going to return the favour by not bringing it up. But then, after I woke up, I noticed that you'd done so within the past hour or so, and I just couldn't stomach it."
"How? How did you notice?"
"Oh, Molly – don't be daft. Your loo is like a crime scene. And you flinch more than usual when it's so, you know, raw."
"OK, so – what? What exactly was the point of bringing this up?" She's not angry at him, per se – more just at the fact that now, after all of these years, just as she starts to believe that she's safe from scrutiny, somebody finds out her secret. This tone of voice that she's now using – this malicious, defensive attitude – is something completely foreign to Molly Hooper's outward personality.
He looks at her, appalled. He cannot be deterred by her complete change in demeanour. "You don't see a problem here?"
She laughs darkly. "You're such a hypocrite!" He's taken aback by this. "How is this any different from what you do? No, you know what? It's not like what you do at all. What you do is reckless and dangerous and so incredibly stupid. At least this habit is... manageable."
He stutters, "You're kidding yourself, thinking that. It's no better than the drugs. This is just... it's savage, Molly. What the hell made you think to do this in the first place? Molly, this is – it's so... God, look at yourself! You can't keep doing this!"
"Don't, Sherlock. Really – don't."
"Oh, and why the bloody hell not? You think I can just... ignore this? Let it go?"
"Yes! Exactly! I don't know if you're doing this out of guilt, or..."
"Or because you're my – my friend? Because I refuse to stand idly by and watch as you destroy yourself?"
"You don't even like me, for fuck's sake – let alone think of me as a friend. God, why do you care? You don't. That right there – that's not caring, Sherlock. That's guilt." He looks at her, furious. He can't think of anything to say. "I don't need a junkie lecturing me about my habits."
His voice is quiet when he says, "Let me help you, Molly."
"And how exactly do you think you're going to do that? Kiss it and make it all better?"
"No, I -"
"Just drop it, Sherlock. It's fine. Don't tell anyone. We won't have to talk about this ever again. You know what? Just delete that whole conversation from your memory. It's just a bunch of wasted space anyway. You have your demons, and I have mine. I can set aside my anger towards yours if you can do the same. Good night, Sherlock."
With that, Molly leaves Sherlock in her bedroom, the door being the only thing between them. Sherlock is absolutely fuming, and Molly is crying angrily, sobbing silently in her agony. Neither understands the argument entirely, and that just makes the flame burn all the brighter.