Written In Cold Blood
Sherlock had never meant for this to happen. John was so strong, had always been so strong, and some part of Sherlock was flattered that he was the only person who could break the little army doctor. The rest of him was ashamed that he had. John just wandered around the flat in stupor most the time. Sherlock had been back for nearly two months now. When he first arrived back, it was clear John was having trouble realizing what was happening. He ignored him as though he'd been here the whole time and when Sherlock tried to verbally tell John he had returned, his doctor went into a state of frenzy, mangling himself in what was an obvious attempt to stop what Sherlock could only guess was himself. He didn't know what to do and so he did the only thing he could do and fled the flat.
Sherlock didn't remain away for long, returning the next day and cautiously preventing himself from agitating the man. He spoke softly with his flatmate, but John's responses were erratic. Sometimes he would look at him or murmur small, one word answers when asked a question. Sometimes he would look at nothing and answer questions Sherlock didn't ask. Twice in the same week he had awoken to John having a conversation with no one; one was an argument it seemed and the other was a repeat of a conversation they'd had before. Sherlock tried to insert himself into these conversations as they appeared and steer it into another direction, but John would ignore his attempts and even follow the ghost figure instead as if he couldn't see the real one.
He'd broken John, clearly. The only thing the man didn't seem to mind was Sherlock moving things around. John wouldn't move anything and after the Yard had rustled through the house, the man had obviously struggled to notmove everything back to where he thought it belonged. If Sherlock physically moved things, however, John wouldn't panic. Sherlock hoped dearly that this mean some part of John realized he was actually here and alive. He just needed the smallest part to know that John was still in there and still capable of being saved.
After Lestrade and his dogs left, John hurried out of the flat impossibly fast. Sherlock was impressed that John had managed to locate and open his safe. He wasn't surprised at all, though. John was very intelligent and with his new cold complex, it was leveling out his emotions in favor of logic. That wasn't his John, though. His John was warm and caring, not some cold-blooded killer. He supposed a person could be capable of both, but those were bad thoughts. Against his better judgement, he went out to seek help from his brother.
It was worse than he thought. Mycroft informed him of everything John had done. The file alone was far larger than it should be and with Mycroft's insight added on, Sherlock was regretting leaving him to his own devices even more. John was working with Sebastian Moran, for fuck's sake. What was Sherlock supposed to do with that? Fortunately, Mycroft was on their side this time. John couldn't be blamed for this entirely, though the older Holmes did insist punishment was required. Sherlock ignored him.
John returned to the flat the next morning and Sherlock quietly greeted him.
"Late night, I see."
"Mm," John responded indifferently. He stripped from his shirt and Sherlock watched him examine the bruises on his hips. From Sebastian, clearly, and by the scent, John had been smoking. It was hard for Sherlock not to be annoyed. It was bad enough that Moran had made John's situation worse, encouraging him to kill. The sex was just rubbing it in and now he was getting John to smoke. Sherlock wanted to complain that he'd struggled through quitting the last three years without John's help, but no matter how much he tried, he couldn't bring himself to get upset with his broken doctor.
John didn't know what he was doing. He didn't grasp the concept of how terrible the things he was doing actually were and therefore, he couldn't be blamed. Sherlock wouldn't blame himself, even if he would admit he was a tiny bit responsible, but it wasn't his fault either. Moran had to be subdued anyways, so the fault naturally fell on him.
John went about making tea and for a while everything was calm. Some days were good days. Sometimes John would act like his old self and have some tea, read the paper, or even watch the telly. Every so often he'd have great days and even blog, though Sherlock knew now that oftentimes the laptop wasn't even on and even if it was, the post never made it to his blog. These times weren't to be mistaken with one of his episodes, either, when John would repeat a day before Sherlock had gone. Nor could it be mistaken with when he looped. He'd just do the same thing over and over until he finally panicked and either left the flat or tried to maim himself.
Sherlock knew he had to carry on things carefully. He had to slowly integrate himself back into his flatmate's life and John out of his crime spree. It was more difficult than he thought it would be. Apparently, the Sherlock John was hallucinating was very cruel and that was putting him several steps back at a time. Was that how John saw him normally? It was a little upsetting. As far as progress went, there was little he could do for now. Every step had to be precise and pointed.
"I'm sorry, John," The lithe detective murmured softly as John enjoyed his tea. John seemed to grasp his presence this time. The blonde closed his eyes in surrender, pressed his tongue against his teeth and sighed. Most of all; his John wasn't pitiful.
"No, Sherlock," he said softly. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I just- I just couldn't save you."
"I didn't need saving," Sherlock scoffed back, unable to help his bit of annoyance. John cracked a smile, though.
"I know. I know." He didn't, obviously. Sherlock knew the human mind was fragile, but how could John really not realize he was here? Perhaps it was more than stress. Maybe John had, had an accident he didn't know about and hit his head. He might have just slipped in the tub and rattled his brain causing trouble in perceiving real and fantasy. John would know he was here if he hit him again. Sherlock didn't want to come to that just yet. John was paying attention to him at the moment and he would take what he could get.
"Moran is using you, you know," he informed. John laughed a little, but it was a cold, devoid laugh that was forced and bitter without meaning to be.
"I'm aware, Sherlock. Probably more aware than you would be. We use each other, don't worry. I can safely say I'm winning." John leaned against the back of his chair, now holding his paper with one hand and using the other to irritate the violent bruising on his hips.
"What do you mean by that, John." He was worried. He had every right to be worried about John's every little move. The man was unstable and if he gave a reason for Moran to kill him, Moran would.
"Always taking me for a fool," John snapped bitterly. That didn't mean this conversation was instantly going to go sour. Sherlock would just have to hold it out. "Don't think I haven't figured it out myself. Sebastian's clearly one of Moriarty's men. His top man in more ways than one if I do say so myself. He's so simple. When we fall, he'll soften my landing. We'll fall eventually. Mycroft's getting fed up with me." Alright, so this was going into hysteria. Sherlock couldn't do anything about it and he knew it. John laughed.
"You should tell him for me. Tell him that I would prefer a revolver when he finally gets his balls." John didn't know he was here. It wasn't the first time he had directly instructed Sherlock to do something an illusion would obviously be incapable of doing. Sherlock wasn't sure what he was trying to earn in these attempts, but they often made him feel worse than better.
"I would have felt better about it if he'd have done you that way. At least then I could connect him directly to the crime." John laughed a little more, this time the one that always ended in unstoppable tears. Sometimes he'd laugh until his voice was hoarse and he was crying because he didn't know what else to do. All of this was because he didn't know what else to do. Sherlock swallowed a bubble of bile boiling up in his throat. He'd done this to John.
"Do you know Lestrade is actually attracted to him? God, the meek following the pathetic. That's what we need. They deserve each other. They deserve each other for what they did." He couldn't stand here anymore. He couldn't just sit here and let John destroy himself. John was going to hurt himself, he would maim himself, and he needed to be stopped. Sherlock had never been a particular great judge about what was right and what was wrong, but regardless of whether it was right or wrong, he always landed somewhere near his target. He could say with a fair bit of confidence; this was wrong.
"John," Sherlock drew on quietly, but firmly. John seemed to have tuned him out, however.
"John," he demanded, loudly and forcefully. New action, new reaction. The little blond doctor turned to him immediately, beige eyes wide. His attention was caught but it was likely to end in another breakdown if Sherlock wasn't careful. He had to contort to John's currently ideology and that required some difficult contorting.
"John," Sherlock said again, now with John's attention. He could see his flatmate's mind reeling, doing its best to make sense of this situation and clearly failing. Sherlock approached him slowly and with reason, pressed a thin hand to either side of John's chair and hovered over him just enough. Physical contact was proven to be disorienting.
"I am disappointed in you John" the detective assured him ominously. John brushed his tongue against his lips nervously before pressing them firmly together.
"Stop," Sherlock demanded. Unfortunately, it didn't go as planned. Sherlock hadn't planned much, but stopping was what he was hoping for. John's expression faded swiftly, though.
"Make me," the little murderer hissed back. "Stop me if you're so inclined." Not going at all where Sherlock wanted it to, but it was progress. John was actually conversing with him.
"Why would I stopyou? Don't be boring. Moran is holding you back, John. He's going to get you caught and when he does, he'll drag you down and shoot you. Get rid of him so you can advance. Good hitmen don't kill for revenge. Moran is too emotional. You want to impress me; you won't do it with him." A bit not good, but it would solve two problems: Sebastian Moran and Sebastian Moran encouraging this ridiculous behavior in John. Beige eyes stared at him and then through him. John was gone again. Still, Sherlock deemed it as progress considering their 'conversation' had lasted longer than usual. John knew he was here. He knew it! It was just obvious that his mind wasn't making that connection.
Sherlock breathed deeply and abandoned John in the livingroom. He'd just have to wait now.
o-o-o
"John turned in Moran," Mycroft murmured though it wasn't quite a happy tone. Sherlock scoffed, doing little to show his brother that he was welcome in the flat. He wasn't and if John showed up conflict would ensure.
"Why are you telling me?" Sherlock insisted, blandly putting the older Holmes off. Mycroft was failing to be very helpful and if he was going to be useless, Sherlock didn't want him around.
"Sherlock Holmes is disappointed."
"Yes. I've heard John was fond of marking his kills."
"No, Sherlock. Not 'would be'. Is. Sherlock Holmes is disappointed. Would you like to tell me what brought on this sudden change. John drugged Moran, heavily I might add, emptied the flat, and cut the sniper's palm wide open just so he could leave his little message. Then he called me to tell me to come and fetch Moran. Why did he change his mind, Sherlock. If he had an arguement with Moran, he obviously has no qualms with killing him. He didn't. And now he's referring to you in present tense. You can not put John through any sudden changes in this mindset, Sherlock. You're putting yourself and John in danger," Mycroft scolded him with a permeating frown. Sherlock brushed him off. He could handle this situation better without Moran pushing John in the wrong direction. He was having enough trouble with Dream Sherlock pushing John away.
"I haven't the slightest idea what you're suggesting Mycroft. If John is starting to realize I am real, then I see no reason to view that as a bad thing. Moran is in custody and hopefully John will stop, if not only slow. I suggest you leave now, before he returns," The younger man insisted nonchalantly. John had cleaned out the flat and was likely finding somewhere to store the money he had confiscated. He wouldn't go to a bank, he wasn't stupid, so he would hide it somewhere no one would look. Sherlock had it narrowed down to a few options. The documents, which he was sure was in the hoarded mess, would likely return with him, possibly to burn. Mycroft frowned.
"Don't play with him, Sherlock. He's already broken." Nevertheless, he clearly agreed that it wasn't smart to stick around to speak with John. He paused at the door, however, and plucked his phone from his pocket. A short, one-sided conversation and Mycroft turned to face his brother again.
"John just dropped a collection of the stolen files from the last two years on DI Lestrade's stoop. Let's hope this is a change of tune." The older man sighed irritatedly and left without another sound. Sherlock hurriedly bustled around the flat, finding the daily paper and swiftly tearing the picture out the front. He could turn John around just long enough to make him better. He was understanding, which was fantastic, and it meant John was closer to getting better. Sherlock could still fix this.
He took a red pen and circled the man in the picture. A quick peek into John's calendar and Sherlock mimicked his flatmate's handwriting perfectly. He stuck it to the broken bathroom mirror and returned to his room to play his violin. He would fix John. He had to.
o-o-o
It was ridiculous to let Sherlock continue to dictate his moves even beyond the grave. John knew this, but he also knew Sebastian Moran was an enemy. Moran would kill him, and that wasn't a new thought, but suddenly, John was worried about that. He wasn't entirely sure why, but it was best to get rid of him while he could. He had no desire to wind up on the wrong end of Moran. Furthermore, the ideal way to end this situation would be to kill him, but John wasn't a fool. Not anymore. If Jim Moriarty was still alive, John was going to hit him where it hurt and that required the second most dangerous man in London.
John decided, that wasn't correct anymore. Moriarty was dead and Moran was in custody. Sherlock was right, as he always was, Moran was holding him back with his feelings. He was going to move forward now, without anyone, including Mycroft, holding him back. Moran wanted the ridiculous but John wanted revenge. It felt good to admit it outright. Of course he hated Mycroft, and he hated Lestrade, and everyone who dared to question Sherlock's genius, and he wanted them dead for what they did to Sherlock, and yes, Moran helped him with his goals in the beginning, but now he knew exactly what he wanted.
He quietly returned to his flat with a bag full of useful sources. John unlocked the door with a sudden realization that someone had been there. If they were still here, they wouldn't be for long. He dropped his bag and examined the flat swiftly. There was no one here, sure enough, besides the false Sherlock playing his stupid violin again. John returned to the door and without even the slightest bit of hesitation, began to install a ludicrous amount of stolen locks. He was definitely paranoid, but if internal locks were the only way to keep Mycroft out of his flat, then so be it. He reinforced the opposite side with a couple of hardy latches to prevent the door from being brutally busted down by the Yard.
Sherlock was gone. John looked over the mess that remained stretched over every corner of the flat and not getting any better. Sherlock was gone and even if he came back, there was no need for this things to be strewn all over the place. John really did try, but every time he attempted to throw something out or put it in a box or simply move it about, there Sherlock was insisting that he didn't. It simply wasn't worth the effort nor the strain on the back of his head. He would just work around it, then.
"I can't get out now, John," Sherlock murmured, examining the door. John ignored him. "This seems a little excessive." Excessive? John snorted. This wasn't excessive. He sorted through a few files and folders he had decided was worth keeping and make good work of the mobile he had taken from Moran.
"With you and Moriarty gone, Moran in chains, and the rest of the population not nearly smart enough, it seems Mycroft is lacking an 'Archenemy'. I could pull off the most dangerous man in London, couldn't I Sherlock?" He didn't even have to do anything. With that Moran left behind, clearly from Moriarty, he could pull a few loose webs taunt just enough to make the older Holmes, the only Holmes, panic. John smirked. He'd like to see Mycroft panic.
"That's not who you are, John," Sherlock tried to persuade him as if he thought it would work. John wasn't entirely sure why Sherlock, clearly made up by his own mind, was trying to talk him out of things. His mind was being very inconsistent with him.
"You don't know me anymore," John laughed lightly.
"You're not this."
"I'd kill for you, Sherlock." The little doctor turned in his chair to face the fixating illusion. It was getting easier to focus on him. It was frightening. It was also easy to fall into, almost like having Sherlock back again, even if it wasn't reallySherlock. He could never have Sherlock back.
"In fact, I have. And I will again and again until they understand what they did to you. And if they never understand," John laughed into his hand a little, "Then I'll just keep on until it brings you back and if it doesn't bring you back," He pushed his hand from his mouth to his hair, pushing it back with a sudden anxiety, as if he just realized that nothing he could do would ever bring Sherlock back. "Then only death will stop me."
"But John," Sherlock sighed impatiently. "I am here."
"I wonder sometimes," John reached for him minutely, but didn't try to touch him. "I just- I wish you would have known-" He choked on his words, tears cutting the pale skin of his face. "That Iwould have known- how much I love you."
This was ridiculous. He was talking to someone that didn't exist. He was driving himself crazy, that was what he was doing. He was making it worse for himself, that was all. John sank in his chair a little more, face held in his hand and the slightest of tremors racking his body. Everything was getting to be too much too fast. He could almost feel breath on his neck, though he knew better than to believe that.
"Then let go, John," the voice murmured to him in the kind of tone that the real Sherlock would have only used when he wanted something. "It doesn't matter if I'm here or not. Let me help you. Stop fighting me."
"I can't-" John swallowed thickly. "I can't. You're not real."
"But I am." Sure enough, this wasn't helping whatsoever. It was making everything a great deal worse, but John had since long stopped humoring the idea that he had some control over it. Even in his mind, Sherlock did whatever he wanted.
"H-help me what?"
"Well, at this rate you're certainly going to get caught. Mycroft already knows, Lestrade clearly has an idea that you're up to something, it's only a matter of time before someone realize what you've been doing and you make enemies in the wrong places," his mind suggested as if it were very simple. That was very Sherlock. John glanced up to him pointedly.
"I've lost my bloody mind."
"Come now, John. We both already knew that," Sherlock quietly admitted to himself that this was really not good. At the same time, however, 'good' was a relative term, wasn't it? They would just have to make some lifestyle changes now and while tedious, he owed it to John. His poor, poor John.
They were wrong, at least, The Yard that is, Sherlock wasn't putting the bodies there; John was.