I won't let them hurt either of you again. –Avery
I doubt you can stop them, but thank you. -JW
When the sun rose, Sherlock was staring at a shirt which had been spread out across the sofa. It was plainly the shirt of a killer—the blood pattern made it obvious, to Sherlock, that whoever had worn this had viciously slit the throat of someone who'd been on their knees. The enormous amount of blood suggested that it had been a murder in the heat of the moment—it hadn't been premeditated, but the kill was still extremely passionate, probably a vigilante-type kill.
He'd been working on the problem since three this morning. He hadn't slept. In light of his recent experiences, it was best to focus on his work; if nothing else, he thought more clearly. They'd been back in Baker Street for a few weeks now, and life had resumed mostly as normal. (Sherlock was still more physically distant than he used to be, and he would go into a sort of trance whenever Moran was mentioned or whenever John wore his parka, but aside from that, the tragedy seemed completely behind him.) He heard John enter the room, and, by way of greeting, proceeded to launch into exposition of the case.
"Thirty six year old male with no previous criminal record of assault turns up out of the blue. He has an enormous memory gap of several hours, during which time he managed to get from his flat in central London back to his flat, but upon snapping out of his stupor, noticed he was covered in blood. He had no memory of committing any sort of crime. This isn't the first time he's suffered memory loss, but it's the first time there's been any evidence of him leaving his flat, let alone committing a crime." He tilted his head, trying to gain every tiny little clue he could. A case was a case, and he found this one particularly interesting. He was fairly certain that John would notice that the shirt, aside from the blood, was identical to one of Sherlock's own, but that fact was irrelevant to the case itself—loads of people wear those shirts.
Sherlock looked up at John to see what he thought of this interesting case. "Ideas?"
"That looks like your shirt." John said, as he slumped down onto the couch. "Have you been slitting throats?" He asked, jokingly.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and he got back to the case.
"Well, he needs to be taken in for therapy, obviously. His brain is clearly blocking out violent memories, or maybe ones that would cause grievous amounts of guilt."
He sighed. "But you already know that, so, I'm useless, once again."
He stood up and went into the kitchen. "Tea?"
"Mm." He didn't dare tell John the truth—it really was his shirt. He was speaking of himself. But at the moment, he just saw it as a case—it was the only way to objectively observe what was happening. "It's possible. The—the client has suffered quite a lot in recent days and there is a possibility of repressed memories." He didn't want to go to therapy. Sherlock frowned. "There's no precedent for other dissociative behaviour, certainly not violent reactions. At the moment I'm trying to figure out if he really did kill someone or if it was just set up to look like that."
John had switched on the news. Now it was telling a story about a murdered man in the West End, evidently the first kill of a would-be serial killer as he'd left a calling card: a single instance of a flower called Bird's Foot Trefoil placed on the body—the flower that symbolizes revenge. Sherlock's phone rang. It was Lestrade. After he heard what Lestrade had to say, he hoped he hadn't gone pale.
"Um…that was a new development—apparently, the murder on the news is possibly connected to this. His throat was slit and there was a cigarette butt stabbed into the wound. The same ash is on this shirt. This shirt belonged to the killer, who was smoking at the time. But he gave up smoking." His eyes were distant and frantic. "Why would a man who stopped smoking and has little history of violent behaviour slit the throat of someone in an alley, stab the cigarette into the wound, leave a calling card, and return home with no memory of the crime?" He sat for a while, perfectly still, trying not to betray his panic as all evidence points to himself as the killer in a dissociative trance. "I'll take that tea now."
"Split personality." John shouted. He looked up and Sherlock and smiled. "Does that help you at all? Clearly, the killer has no recollection because he has a split personality.. Or maybe, maybe he's a sleeper spy? No, okay, silly suggestions." John went quiet. "God, I'm useless." Sherlock had gone pale, paler than usual. "Are you okay?" He asked, but Sherlock didn't answer. "Sherlock? Mind palace again? God." He went into the kitchen and made Sherlock's tea. He came back out and Sherlock had moved into his bedroom, John quietly followed, tea in hand.
Split personality. It sent chills down Sherlock's spine. "That's also a possibility—the split personality. There's a family history." His great-uncle Thom had no fewer than five distinct personalities, and Sherlock had only met him once but had seen the full spectrum—everything from a timid, kindly uncle to a paranoid war veteran. The thought terrified him. Particularly if his other self was a murderer.
"John, I…" Where was he going with this? He didn't want to worry John, but he felt strange holding anything back from him. So he tried a different approach. "Do you think it would be too soon…for a shag?" What? That was not even slightly what he'd wanted to say, but it was an interesting experiment all the same. "To see how much…we've recovered."
At the wrong moment, John had sipped his tea. He almost spat it out when Sherlock mentioned it.
"You're rather straight to the point." John spluttered. "Well, I say straight.." Sherlock was glaring at him, so he decided to take him seriously.
"I was under the impression that I disgusted you, after the whole, Moran ordeal." John slumped down onto the bed. "Did you really want to, or did it just slip out?" Sherlock had blurted it out rather suddenly, but John could never tell when it was by accident.
Sherlock ran his hands through his hair. "I think we should at least try. And I can always let you know if it won't work out. I need to know how much I've…gotten over what happened. Besides, the endorphins could kick my brain into gear on this case, if nothing else." He was plainly hesitant. "I mean, if you think it's too soon, then we don't have to, I just…" I have to know I am not evil.
"What?" John ushered. "You look like there's something bothering you, and it can't be what happened to us, because you're willing to try.. So, what is it?" Sherlock went extremely quiet. "I'm willing to try to, I want to, really, but if you're bothered by something, I want to know before we go ahead." He stayed quiet, his eyes dashing from one side of John's face to the other, like he was deducing every part of him. John shivered. "You could at least talk.."
"The shirt is mine," Sherlock said quietly. "That shirt. The bloody shirt. The…the Bird's Foot Trefoil killer's shirt. I need to know I'm not like that. I can't—now now, not after everything. I need to know I'm not a killer." He put his face in his hands. "Of course, just because of the position and everything doesn't mean I was the killer—possibly the killer drugged me and stole my shirt and then killed him to make it look like I did, but the fact is that I don't know what happened." He was tense and had pulled himself, not into a ball, but certainly in a defensive position. "I have to know that I can love more than I can hate."
John went silent. He looked up at Sherlock, who looked like he was about to implode with confusion. "You should have told me…" He almost whispered. "I'd never think bad of you." Sherlock was shaking slightly. "You can't love, more than you hate, because you do neither, so I don't see why you're so worried. We have each other, and no matter who frames you, I won't leave." He kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "I promise you."
At that one little touch, something happened. Sherlock growled "No." He practically threw John across the room and stormed out, leaving his jacket behind. Nothing about him was the same as he left. His walk was more aggressive. His pace was more determined. He had purpose.
Three hours after he'd walked out unprovoked, the phone lit up with a text (Sherlock had left it behind). It was Lestrade.
The victim was one of Moriarty's men.
The phone chimed again.
Received note from flower killer. Think you should take a look.
It was then that Sherlock opened the door. He took two steps in and froze on the stairs. He was blood-soaked and stank of tobacco smoke. He looked around, confused.
"How did I..?" He took a few more steps up to their rooms. "I was in the chair, then I was on the staircase." His eyes were wide and slightly panicky. "What? I don't—I blacked out." He looked down at his clothing and swayed as he realized it was blood on him and not rain. "It's happened again. We need to—I don't know." He quickly tore off his shirt and threw it to the side, hyperventilating slightly and certainly shaky. He paced frantically. "What do we do? What can we do?"
Hello, love. Missed me? I've been thinking about you /all/ day long. xxxx -M.
There are no words to describe how I feel about you. But I hear you've had a spot of trouble with one of your men being killed. I'd be looking out for that Bird's Foot Trefoil killer.
Spot of trouble, well, /yeah/, sure. But men I can alllllways replace, no? Don't be stupid, Sherlock dear. Who's to say that the Bird's Foot Trefoil killer isn't under me? xxxx -M
I am. One: why would your own men start killing one another off with vengeance as the motive? Two: I know who he is. –SH
After Sherlock had walked out, John slumped against the wall he'd been thrown at. His head was spinning, and he'd hurt his back, rather badly. "Right.." He muttered, a hot tear splashed down his shirt. Control yourself. You've never been treated like this in your life, why start now because of a simple emotion?
John got up, and stormed to the kitchen. He fixed himself a scotch, and almost fell down into the chair.
Around three or four hours later, Sherlock staggered in, covered in blood.
"What.. Oh my god, Sherlock give me the shirt." John grabbed it and paced the room, thinking what to do.
"We'll have to burn it… Well that's if you want my input, after before I can see that my company is no longer to your liking." John put his hand on his head, trying to think. "Whatever I've done.." Sherlock was looking at him confused. Of course he doesn't remember anything. Split personality, you see? "Never mind." John snapped. He went into his room to lay down on the bed.
Sherlock was beginning to piece things together. John had done something to trigger his other personality. This other personality was violent, homicidally so. Traumatic events could cause the mental split, and God knew he'd had enough of those in recent days.
"John," he said slowly to John's door, trying not to lose control. "I don't know what is happening to my mind. I'm—I'm terrified. And this time, it's not drug-induced." John wasn't answering. Sherlock breathed deeply. He had to focus on his work. And it was lucky he'd snapped into place, too, as the doorbell rang. Sherlock threw on a shirt. "Ah, Detective Inspector," he said smoothly. "You have something?"
"Yeah. There's another body, flower and everything—even the cigarette butt. But this is why I'm really here." Lestrade handed Sherlock a hand-written letter.
Vengeance for the broken, for the shattered, for the fallen. Vengeance on those who took it upon themselves to shatter fragile glass. I won't stop until the wrongs are righted.
-Avery
The writing was completely unlike Sherlock's, but somehow he knew that he'd written it and it was all he could do to maintain the façade of calmness that he knew only John or Mycroft could see through. He had a sort of distant flashback to taking the pen-cap off and writing "vengeance", but that was all. Lestrade continued. "That note turned up at the station about an hour before we found the second body. Looks like we've got a serial killer on our hands."
"Hardly. There have only been two victims. Besides, revenge is the motive. You say the first victim worked for Moriarty?" He hoped that the hesitation before the dreaded name wasn't too obvious.
"Apparently."
"In what capacity?"
"Don't know. He got pay-outs from Moriarty every few weeks or so, that's all we know. And the DNA of the victim matches some samples from rape/murder victims three years ago."
"Interesting…" And terrifying. "So the killer is taking vengeance for those crimes?" It would make sense.
"That's what it looks like."
The more Sherlock thought about it, the more he was afraid he was shaking. "Thank you, Detective Inspector, if I need anything, I'll text you." He shooed Lestrade out before staring at the note, breathing shallowly.
John peered round the door. Sherlock was standing there, probably in his mind palace. "Do you want me to stay?" John muttered, sheepishly. His eyes were puffier than usual and his throat was hoarse. "If you don't, I'll go." His body was behind the door in case Sherlock lashed out again. Instead, Sherlock looked up at him. "Look, Sherlock. I know this isn't your fault, but I mean, as you are now, do you want me to stay? Do you want me to help you? Or do you want to be left to your own devices?" He sniffed. "I just want you to be okay, at the end of this whole thing."
Sherlock was undeniably shaking now. "John. I need you to read the killer's note." He handed it to John and watched him read it. "I remem—" He swallowed. "I remember writing that. Only barely, but I do. I know it's not my writing, but multiple personalities often have different writing. What frightens me is that I killed two people." Seeing John's look, he added: "Yes, there's been a second victim." He breathed a shuddering breath. "I think I did it for us. I think…I think Avery did it to protect us from—from what happened." He grabbed John's shoulders and stared into his eyes. "If you leave, I'm not sure I can stay—" He looked away with a gulp. "I'm not sure I'll be able to stay Sherlock."
John was shaking like there was a gun to his head. Sherlock had killed, but more than that, when he was the 'other person' he could have killed John, unless he had the rationality that he said he did. But John had no proof of that.
He stood on his tip toes and kissed Sherlock, only softly, but just to prove that he was going to stay. "Okay then. He smiled as he shrunk back down to his normal height. "We need to burn your shirts, we need to do something for when you change personalities, and we need to make tea." Sherlock frowned at him. "Oh come on, tea solves everything." And John sauntered off into the kitchen, still shaking, but trying to look like he was fine.
Interesting how one kiss can trigger a change and another doesn't. Sherlock stood, feeling woozy, distant, and he knew that a change almost happened. He was glad that John wasn't forcing him to a therapist or something, but he knew something was wrong and that he really did need help. He took the teacup, trying to hide the shaking clank of dish on dish as he stirred it.
"My first instinct to prevent—" He shut his eyes. He refused to think of Avery as himself, but knew that would only probably add to the dissociation. "To prevent any further crimes is to tie me up, but in light of the original psychological trauma that might not be a good idea." He took a large gulp of tea which singed his tongue. "I'm a little surprised at how well you're taking this whole thing. I'm scared out of my wits—how can you be so…so calm? I'm going out of my mind…poor choice of words." He downed the rest of it. "How are we going to do this? And I don't think we should mention what happened those weeks or make physical contact for a while. I'm sorry. We can't have anything that reminds me of…that."
"I'm bloody terrified. But I'm used to this feeling, I've killed people myself. The only think I'm worrying about is you getting caught." He sipped his tea. "I mean, come on. Lestrade can't let you off, anymore." He frowned. "Also, when you do want to come near me again, just hug me or something. I don't want to cause trouble." He sipped his tea again. "You need to stay away from things that.. I don't know, make you feel? Like drugs? Maybe that way, you'll be able to control it." He looked up. Sherlock has his hands to his face, his thinking pose. "I'll leave you to it." He took his tea into his bedroom and sat down. He thinks you're disgusting, don't you see? Idiot, he's never liked you.Most of the time, the voice in Johns head sounded venomous and cruel. It wasn't his own. It was Jim's. He told him how vile he was, how much Sherlock would never want him, how stupid and useless and boring in comparison to everyone else. John knew this was just an effect from the trauma, but it still frightened him, immensely.
He'd rather be alone, why don't you just leave? You're useless, he doesn't need you, he never did. You're just something he shows off to the world, something he'll use to show he's normal. You're not special, so why did he pick you? Because you were stupid enough to care.
John wanted to scream, but he couldn't. The voice was in his own head, and no matter how hard he tried, he could never get rid of it. He wanted to beg for mercy,
but then he'd be absolutely insane. He was never alone, ever. There was always that voice that told him how much Sherlock could do better. He wanted to tell him everything, but Sherlock had his own issues, and anyway, he'd probably think John was mentally unstable, even more so than himself.
The door to John's room slammed open as if by police force. Sherlock stood in the doorway, his eyes blazing. Sherlock was gone and Avery was in his place. "If you don't love him, say it. If you can't love him, let him know. If you think he needs to be alone, tell him. I have killed for both of you. If you can't get over your trauma, check yourself into a therapist's office. But don't put it on him. He's far more fragile than even you know. Why do you think I'm protecting you?"
Avery turned and walked away, putting a cigarette to his lips and lighting it.
"I can't believe you're the same man who fought in a war. Only cowards feel sorry for themselves. Maybe he was wrong about you."
The door to 221B shut and Avery was out in the world again, unsupervised.
See? I told you. I may of hurt you, but he's going to kill you. You need to pack and get out, go on, do it.
John pulled his suitcase out from under his bed. He pushed everything he owned into it at lightning speed. He was shaking as he did it, but no matter how wrong it felt, the voice screamed at him to carry on. He hates you, you low life piece of scum. You're a coward, worthless. You need to get away before he kills you.
John stopped. Why would a negative voice tell him to save himself. He sat down on the bed. What are you doing, you prick? Pack your bags and get out or we're dead!
He stormed into Sherlock's room, looking for anything; drugs, cigarettes, alcohol, but he'd hidden them. He turned the room upside down, went through his sock drawer, looked inside the skull, behind the pictures, on the shelves, but nothing. He checked under Sherlock's pillow. Obvious. It was safe there. Why would John look there? He pulled out one bag of cocaine. If he was going to deal with Sherlock, he was going to show him what it was like to live with himself.
It was only an hour after he'd left that Sherlock returned (and it was Sherlock), breathing frantically. He had caught himself just before the kill. One moment, in his mind, he was sitting, thinking about how to restrain himself, and the next he was standing over a beaten man in an alley, a knife just beginning to press into the man's skin. He'd fled the scene. How could he do anything else?
He knew he was insane. He knew he had to get help. He'd end up worse than he could have ever imagined. After five minutes of self-centred panic, he realized he couldn't hear any sign of John.
No. No. No. This can't be happening. He opened the door to John's room and saw him on the bed, undeniably a victim of Sherlock's own addiction. But he knew it was John's first time.
Then suddenly Avery was back, shouting and swearing and hitting John, accusing him of being a selfish coward more than anything else.
But the fit passed, and Sherlock saw what he'd done. Even now it seemed like Sherlock wasn't there, but he was. He was sobbing and gently shaking John, imploring him to wake up, like a six-year-old trying to revive a dead cat. Then he remembered his first aid training and checked for a pulse.
There wasn't one. Between the drugs and the beatings, Sherlock had killed the only friend he'd ever had.
"No! Don't give up on me, John Hamish Watson!" He dialed 999 as he began administering CPR in a desperate attempt to prevent the disaster of his (and Moriarty's) making. He huffed around the chest compressions. "My friend has been beaten and I think probably overdosed on cocaine. He doesn't have a pulse. I'm administering CPR. 221B Baker Street." He knew it might be too late, but he had to try.
When the paramedics arrived, they had to physically force Sherlock away. They didn't know if John was going to survive. Sherlock didn't remember the trip to the hospital. But he knew, somehow, that he was still Sherlock and not Avery. He sat in the emergency room's waiting area, knowing that if John died, he'd be both legally and morally responsible.
On the blogs:
Sherlock: What have I done?
Avery: Only what you thought you needed to. If he couldn't handle your trauma, it's not your fault.
Sherlock: He overdosed because of me, and you're the one who beat him the rest of the way to death. If I thought I couldn't have friends before, you've ruined me.
Avery: I'm protecting you. Both of you. But I can't protect you from yourselves.
But then again, perhaps I can.
Sherlock: Don't you dare.
If he dies because of your homicidal temper, I'll have you locked up.
Avery: Don't threaten me. It's not your style. Though to be honest, I'm surprised you haven't tried already.
Sherlock: Leave me alone. I was fine until you came along.
Avery: No, you weren't. You were broken, damaged, weak. I arrived that morning on which you died and I've been keeping your traumas and your pains. And I've been avenging them. You're better.
Sherlock: You beat John to death. Literally. Because you couldn't handle that he wanted to get high. How is that better than what I was?
Avery: You're living again. Before I came along, you were a waste of the food you were eating. After they raped you, you just sat like a useless lump of flesh. You couldn't think. You couldn't live. You could barely eat and drink. You sat and you had nightmares and you didn't leave your bed. Your boyfriend couldn't even walk away without you whimpering and seeing Moran. You were nothing. It hurt to feel that. Never again.
Besides, John's still alive.
Sherlock: He might still die. If he does, I'll kill you. I mean it. You know I do.
Avery: Yes, I do. And you and I both know what that would mean.
John hadn't known how much to take. He felt his body shaking, his stomach jumping, his heart dancing, his legs collapsed and he managed to pull himself onto the bed. Then everything went blurry. He heard somebody coming in. Sherlock. He would help.
The next thing he knew, his was being beaten.
"You're a fucking coward! I have killed for you! I tried to protect you, you worthless piece of scum!"
His body gave out from the repeated traumas to the chest.
Blackness. Crying. Begging. Somebody was pushing on his chest. No change.
He heard voices. "He's crashing, move out of the way!"
What felt like a million vaults ripped through his chest, forcing his lungs to breathe, and his heart to beat. He couldn't see for moments after, but he knew what would await him when he did. Sherlock would be allowed in, and he wouldn't remember.
"Doctor Watson, we need to know, who did this to you?" A females voice asked.
He knew who it was. He knew why he did it. But he didn't say.
"I didn't see them."
"Did you try to commit suicide?"
"No."
"Thank you for your time." and she was gone.
His vision was coming back, he could see something dark sitting in the chair next to him. He guessed who it was. He opened his eyes, but he didn't look at him. He didn't know if it was Sherlock or Avery. He kept quiet. The person, whichever one it was, held on tightly to his hand. But he didn't respond. Why should he?
You promised him you would never leave. You promised you'd stay until he said he wanted you gone. You love him. Not Avery, but Sherlock. Just remember all the good times you've had with him. If you were to detach from him now, then I'd never get to finish my little game, now would I?
He shuddered. He wanted Sherlock to be himself again. He wanted Avery gone, but there was nothing he could do.
Sherlock's blog:
I feel like my mind is betraying me. It hurts. What Avery said is right. Broken glass.
Some time ago I posted how I felt like my soul was made of glass and my mind was diamond. I also remarked how even the diamond was cracking.
That's not true anymore. Both are glass. Both are splintered. The wrong push and it'll shatter completely.
No—I take that back, I think I've always been splintered from childhood. But the cracks are getting larger. I'm honestly not sure what's holding the shards in place. I'm not sure anything is.
The Bird's Foot Trefoil killer—Avery—has attacked John, and if I hadn't known CPR, he would have killed him.
I think I need help. There's no way I'll ever be what I was. I can pull fragments of my mind together if I just think. If I focus, I can almost be what I used to be. But even then, I feel so helpless. I don't like feeling like this. I don't like feeling. What happened to those days when I was just a mind?
I'm not sure I'm sane. In fact, I'm rather certain I'm not.
Sherlock heard the pulse monitor increase and knew it was only one thing. John was regaining consciousness. He squeezed John's hand a bit tighter. It was still a gesture he was getting used to.
"I know you're awake, John." He paused. "I know…I know the way we are isn't…it's not normal. Especially recently." He was shaking. "It's all to do with—" He cut himself off before he said anything worse. "I've been selfish. I'll understand if you want to leave me. I'm not sure I'd stay with me, either." He hated the fact that he wasn't crying. He knew he should be, but he was in too much shock to even muster up one little drop. "In fact, I'm pretty sure I'd leave."
"It's me or him." John spat. Something he'd never thought he'd say. "You get rid of him, soon, or I'll leave. I'll have to. I almost died."
Sherlock's hand was still gripping onto his. He squeezed back.
"I love you, Sherlock. I don't love Avery, however. I want you back. I don't want him. He's the side of you I thought you'd never unleash. Please, get rid of him, for me. I know it's hard, but I need you to."
Sherlock wasn't crying. John put it all down to the shock. He should have been getting medical attention, but as John was his doctor, and he couldn't even get up, he'd have to wait.
He moved his hand up to Sherlock's curls, and he ruffled them.
"I forgive you." He muttered, tiredly. "After all, I did take too much, you wouldn't.. he wouldn't have beaten me if I was fine. It's all my own fault."
A dry sob escaped Sherlock. "I...I can't. I don't know how to be rid of Avery. Trust me, no one wants to get him out of my mind more than I do. We...we talked on our blogs. Do you remember when Mrs. Hudson got attacked and I fought the man who did it? That's what Avery is, but without my self-control. He told me that after what happened on Christmas, before he came along, that I was a useless lump of flesh that wasn't even worth the cost of the food I was barely eating. I can't fight him." John's slow recovery was easing him, but he knew that it wouldn't take too much to bring Avery back out. "But I think he cares in a way I can't. He keeps saying he's trying to protect us. I don't think that only means...the thing we can't tell anyone about. I think he wants us to be happy. But I think he doesn't know how to get us there."
"John," he said after a few moments. "Promise me that when you get out of the hospital, no matter what Avery or I say, you're going to get me help and constant surveillance. Maybe even institutionalize me. I can't cope, knowing—" He swallowed and lowered his voice. "Knowing I've killed two men and nearly killed a third."
Lestrade entered. "Sorry to bother you, Sherlock, but I was told you were here. That Bird's Foot Trefoil killer let one get away. The victim said he was in an alley and the killer showed up and started spouting about revenge. He'd put the flower on his head and everything, smoking, about to kill him, but then for some reason, this Avery stopped and ran away."
Sherlock pretended to be interested, though he knew exactly where the story went from there. "Inter—"
"The victim got a clear look at the face." Lestrade looked at Sherlock stubbornly. Sherlock shifted as Lestrade held out the police sketch, a near-perfect match for Sherlock. "I haven't published it. Can you explain this?"
"Yes. But I won't. Not yet. It's too soon."
"Too soon?"
"Yes, that's what I said, too soon, didn't you hear me?"
"An emotional thing? I've never known you to hide behind that sort of bull. Tell me what you know or I'm going to—"
And that released Avery. Lestrade was slammed to the wall, Sherlock/Avery's arm choking him slightly. "Don't you get it? Sherlock's still trying to recover from his recent assault and you bully him. The only friend he ever had was put in hospital and you have the indecency to accuse him of murder. He didn't do it. I did. I killed them both and I would have killed the third if my time hadn't run out. So go back to your case files and your pastries and your casual shagging, and leave them alone." He released Lestrade, who gasped for a full minute, staring. Avery had moved toward the window and suddenly his posture softened-he was Sherlock again.
"It's happened again." He turned around and saw Lestrade's bruising neck. "My God. I…I don't…" He looked to John for both an explanation and forgiveness.
"We need to do something, Greg. He needs to be watched. It's not his fault. He has a split personality- Schizophrenia, Mania… Just help him. Pull some strings. It's not him, its.. somebody else."
Sherlock went quiet. Greg nodded, and walked out of the room, in shock.
"It's not your fault. You didn't ask to have two personalities in one body. We need to get.. to sort this out." John was terrified that Sherlock would change. Could you get my phone, please?"
Sherlock passed him his mobile, and he went straight to the phonebook.
"Hello, Doctor Hussey? It's John Watson, you were treating my patient earlier this year, Mr Sherlock Holmes…"
John went on to explain, choosing his words carefully in case Sherlock changed again, all the while keeping his eye on him, just so he didn't leave the room.
Sherlock closed his eyes and corrected John. "Schizophrenia and multiple personalities are two entirely different things." That made him feel a little better. Not much, but a little. Knowing his mind could still function its usual way, even just a tiny amount comforted him.
"When you're better—yes. Doctor Hussey. He's already seen me vulnerable." He shifted. "Although I don't have a terrific history with hypnotism and that's one of the most common ways of curing multiple personalities, or so I've heard." He put his hand over his eyes. "I'm tired. I'm so tired. How do you stand to put up with me, John? How can you go on, knowing how…broken I am and yet still manage to care about me? I don't understand."
To Mycroft:
I'm having trouble. Uncle Thom trouble. I thought I ought to inform you. -SH
From Avery's blog:
I would like to dedicate this post to the man responsible for my creation.
James Moriarty.
I will find you. I will exact my revenge. You will watch as I slit the throat of Sebastian Moran and stub my cigarette ashes in his trachea. Then I'll rip off your reproductive organs and tie you down on a roof in Qatar and watch you bake.
If you ever touch either of them again, you will die in the most painful way I can think of, and you know how creative I can be.
John snapped his phone shut. "Split personalities and Schizophrenia often go hand in hand. And I told you, I love you. People do that when they love somebody. They put up with the bad things. I know you don't understand, but yeah. I could explain to you, but I don't see the point. You care about me enough to be here, and that's all I need." John tried to sit up, but Sherlock pushed him back down. "What now?" He protested, moodily.
"Now I apologize for ruining your happiness. If I hadn't been so dead-set on finding Moriarty, this would never have happened. I've been so selfish. You're the one in hospital, not me. And I put you there." He gestured for John to give him room to join him—not hard, given that Sherlock was practically a twig, and thinner still with recent hardship.
He lay his head on the pillow they were both sharing and whispered into John's ear: "Why do you love me?" He was shaking as if feverish. "No one ever has before." He was crying softly. He was feeling desperate to be needed, and for the first time since he was four, yearning to be loved. "I need to know what keeps you by my side. Is it some masochistic compulsion? I don't understand." He curled as tightly as he could in the small bed, quivering like a terrified child.
John turned onto his side. "I'm sure I've explained this before. You're brilliant, more so that any other being on the planet, and as much as Mycroft would like to protest, you're the smartest. You read me like a book the first day I met you, nobody else has ever tried… even though I'm dull and ordinary. You're attractive, not that it matters, and you care about me more than anyone else in your life, or it appears that way. I don't know, I can't explain it without sounding like a corny teen novel, just take my word for it, I do."
He wanted to hug Sherlock, but there was a chance Avery would rip him limb from limb.
"I don't want to leave, I know I'd regret it, more than anything." Sherlock was softly crying. "I won't go, really."
For an instant, it was Avery who spoke. "Dull? Ordinary? Do you really think I'd love you if you were boring? Have some faith in yourself." Then he shuddered and was Sherlock again. He tensed and tried his best not to curl up. He dry-sobbed once again and practically hid himself between John's arm and the rest of his body. "I can't keep doing this. I can't keep going away." But before he could say anything else, the warm comfort of John's body heat had lulled him to sleep.
It wasn't a peaceful sleep. He twitched and groaned and occasionally muttered in French, but at least he was sleeping—both of him were sleeping.
In his dream, he was watching Avery at work. It was gruesome, but Sherlock could do nothing. He could only stand and observe as a man who looked like himself but was not the same slit the throat of a man in an alley. This was the murder he had regained control in time to prevent. But Avery still wanted it with an unbridled bloodlust. Sherlock recognized the victim as one of the men who had taken John from the van that horrible December day when Sherlock was last mostly sane. Avery smiled as the arterial blood splatter covered the walls and his own clothing. He placed a single flower on the body before using the exposed trachea of the victim as an ash tray. Sherlock knew that this was how it would have happened. "Stop," he begged as Avery examined his handiwork. No good. Then the scene changed and they were in the darkened warehouse in which Sherlock had his darkest days. Moran was tied on the floor, as was Moriarty. Avery was sharpening his knife and then using it to cut the stems from the flowers he used as a calling card. Sherlock couldn't move. The chilling voice that was his own but not his own spoke, and it was terrifying. "I want to hear you scream."
Sherlock jerked awake. The dream was already fading, but he knew he'd seen Avery's plans. But before he even gathered the courage to press himself closer to John, the dream had faded completely, leaving only the terror.
Text to Mycroft:
Mycroft, I think we should talk. My sanity is in doubt. Avery has killed and he wants to kill again. –SH
Avery spat back in a vicious voice. Was it him who loved him, or Sherlock? John shuddered, imagining if it were Avery, the beatings he'd get every time he tried to go near Sherlock.
"Who loves me? Him, or you, Avery?"
He was himself within seconds, sobbing against John, wrapping his arms as far around him as he could get. John stoked his hair, trying to get him to sleep, he needed that more than anything.
After a few minutes, he was asleep, but not peacefully. He was twitching and jerking, shouting in french, punching john in the chest by accident every so often. He was crying all the while, like he was trying to drag himself out of the dream, but John knew he couldn't wake him, it was too dangerous.
When he woke up, he jumped, giving John a shock.
"Are you okay, Sherlock?"
He didn't reply, he just pulled closer to John, burying his face into his chest, meaning his feet were off the of the bed. He was making loud sobbing noises, whilst he squeezed John like he was a lifeguard saving him from drowning.
"It's okay, I'm here. Just stay with me, please.." John felt himself welling up. The changes were becoming more frequent, and within a week or so, Sherlock would be completely gone, almost as if he had died when he overdosed.
"I love you." He sniffed, feeling Sherlock's heaving sobs against him. He just wanted him back to the way he was, but he had no idea what to do.
Sherlock couldn't think, and that was the worst part. Any moment, he was frightened of hurting John or himself or a total stranger. He'd been robbed of his rational mind. It was his second-biggest fear come to life. He tried desperately to think of what to do, but nothing came to mind. "I…I need you." He wouldn't say love. He couldn't. It was the most foreign of all emotions to him, and he wasn't sure he felt it. But he certainly needed John as a grounding force, his one and only friend. "I can't help it, I don't want to hurt you, but I honestly can't help it." He twitched. "Maybe…maybe nicotine will help? I'm withdrawing, too." His voice was calmer now that he'd come up with an idea; not Avery-calm, but more his normal self. "Would you mind if I…if I took a quick smoke? I know I said I'd stop but I don't have any patches."
John tensed. Sherlock didn't love him, Avery did.
"Sherlock.. I don't mind if you smoke, but… Avery said something before." He winced as he said it, "He said he loved me." He watched Sherlock's face very carefully, it looked contorted with pain and confusion. John felt sick, this monster, the one who brutally murdered people, who slammed him against walls with rage, who laughed at his pain, felt something more than care for him.
"I'm scared." John said meekly. He sat up and reached for Sherlock's coat, pulling the cigarettes from his pocket. "Here."
Sherlock froze, then he took the cigarettes. "He…" Sherlock was unable to finish the thought. "I'm frightened, too. He has the emotions I don't?" This worried Sherlock more than the rest of it. It meant his previous theory about his lack of emotion being neurological was wrong. It was some other sort of block, and one that Avery didn't have. He felt very, very sick.
"I have to…uh, I can't smoke in here. I'll be back."
It took him an hour and a half to come back, and when he did, he was wearing different clothing and an expression of total panic. He didn't even have the strength to say what he needed to: it's happened again. He hoped his face would say what his mouth could not. John saw. John understood. The look of horror in John's eyes compounded with his own caused Sherlock to black out.
From Avery's blog:
it feels so good to be let out of my cage. when I break through the walls of my prison and can lock him up for a while, safe, warm, protected, I am fulfilling my purpose. I need them both to be avenged.
"Sherlock, do you remember anything?" By this time, John was up and about, his body was bruised and cut, his back was aching, but he could walk with assistance. "Anything at all?" Sherlock looked at him blankly. It was getting hard to tell the two apart. "And I have a question for Avery. Why are you so violent to those who care for you?" John spat. "Come on, you can't hurt me here."
"I can't remember. I can never remember. This time…I was outside, lighting my cigarette, then I was changing clothes in Baker Street. I was covered in blood." Sherlock's phone chimed.
Found another one. I can't keep covering for you.
Lestrade
Who?
SH
The man from last time who was almost a victim. The one you insisted on interrogating in private outside about an hour ago.
Lestrade
Sherlock showed the phone to John. "We have to do something." He plonked down in the chair. "And I don't think you can just talk to Avery and have him answer. I think he has to be triggered. I've read his blog, though. I think he's trying to protect us from anything or anyone who might jeopardize either our lives or our relationship. He's violent, angry, and vengeful. I've read about killers like him. He wants to act as a shield or a vigilante, but I think he's twisted enough where he doesn't understand that he's doing it the wrong way. All three victims were part of the gang that—" He frowned. "You remember. They were all there. Very specific victims. He's not killing for fun." Sherlock felt better, analyzing Avery as though he were just another killer he was examining for a case. But the major difference was that he knew exactly who the killer was.
"He frightens me, John. I've never been this frightened of anything before, not even when I was under the influence of that fear-gas and started hallucinating Moriarty. I look at you and I see your wounds and I can tell just by looking that it was my fist that hit you, my fingers that hurt you. You know I can. And I can't remember any of it. Not one second."
Blogging:
Sherlock: This is what you do to me, Avery. This isn't strength. This is fear.
Avery: Why do I frighten you? I'm helping you.
Sherlock: You kill. You've murdered three people. I don't know how to live like this—time jumps and I'm sitting at home, minding my own business and suddenly I'm somewhere else, covered in blood and Lestrade texts me to tell me that they've found another body. And I know it was you. And not just that, you hurt John—you practically killed him. I don't know where your limits are. I don't know where you'll stop. That scares me out of my mind.
Avery: I will never hurt you or John unprovoked. I lost my temper at John because he ran like a coward. I love him. It hurt to see him run away like a selfish, slimy, pathetic creature because I know he's not any of those.
Sherlock: Stop trying to justify your actions. I know why you did it. I don't like that you did what you did, and I will find a way to stop you from killing again.
I don't understand how you can love him. I've tried. He knows how hard I've tried. But I can't feel the same way about him that I know he feels about me. How is it possible that you do? You're proof that it's not a neurological defect. So what, then, lets you love when I can't?
What is it like to be in love?
Avery: Words cannot express it, Sherlock. There is no way to describe it. It is something that must be felt, not spoken of. I would do anything at all for him. And for you.
Sherlock: It is precisely that thought which terrifies me.
Avery: Why? I would have thought that you would admire my dedication.
Sherlock: I am not a monster. I am not a killer. You are both. You don't stop where you should. I knew that American was going to survive. If you had been around, you would have made sure he didn't. You're no better than Moriarty.
Avery: Do not say that to me again. You know what I'm capable of and you know I know your weaknesses and what you fear most. Never ever compare me to that filth. I know you understand how serious I am.
Sherlock: my God
John hugged him tightly. "Don't worry about it, I don't need to forgive you for anything, because, it wasn't you. You're.. you. For now. That's why I need to.. do something." John sighed. "Sherlock, do I have your permission to conduct an experiment?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Can I try to trigger him, in a confined area? I need to find out his weaknesses. I know he can hear everything, and feel your thoughts, but you need to trust me. Do you trust me?"
Sherlock smiled weakly. "I was on the verge of suggesting it, actually. But we should have someone with psychological training present. And cameras. I have to see him." He ran his hands through his hair. He knew this was going to hurt. "Lestrade's interrogation room would be perfect. Everything's there. The recording equipment, one-way mirrors, a clean environment with nothing to use as a weapon, an intercom system." He looked at John. "Are you sure you can do this? It won't be pleasant."
"I've already set it up, come with me." He grabbed Sherlock's hand and pulled him down to the psychology department. He greeted the doctors when he arrived, shaking hands.
"Into this room with Dr. Watson, please, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock was quiet, and did as he was asked. The room was white with a glass window with scientists behind it. There was a security guard in the room, to keep John protected.
A speaker boomed down into the room, "Mr Holmes, your partner tells us that you can have physical contact, but nothing too intimate. We're going to have him kissing you to see if there are any results. If not, we will then link up some wires to you, to see fluctuation in certain chemicals. With luck, we can sort this out."
"Are you okay with this?" John looked up at Sherlock, "If not, we can back out of this." He grabbed onto his hand, and smiled up at him.
Sherlock nodded. "I have to know just as badly as you do." Looking to the others, he asked simply "Are the cameras on?" Having an affirmative reply, he then added "We should also test a number of variables—a surprise kiss from John would elicit a different reaction than one I initiate. A mutually-timed kiss would be different again. I'll start with mine." He wasn't ever going to get used to kissing, he thought as his lips gently caressed John's. It never felt quite right, but it never actually felt wrong, either. The kiss was characteristically short, enough to convey a message, but not enough to get carried away. It was one of very few kisses he had ever started since they became a couple, and he gave it now because he knew it might be the last he ever would. If Avery became permanent, John would never see him whole again, never again know him as he was when they first met.
Avery was silent, patient, watching. He showed no sign of emergence. Sherlock pulled away. "Still Sherlock," he whispered.
The scientists all muttered to each other, obviously this meant something, right?
"Sherlock, it's okay… I don't feel anything for him, trust me." Although John had never had a kiss as passionate as that, it disappointed him that Avery had to interject.
"Okay, Mr Holmes. We're going to link you up to this machine now. It's all experimental, this one shows us, by hormones and blood pressure, which personality you're in. We can then see which hormones rise, and try to stop them from doing do, so we can stop Avery coming through. You'll need to take the same tests again, and again after the hormones have been controlled, which will be in around three days; because we'll have to prescribe medication. It won't affect your abilities at all."
John grabbed onto Sherlock's hand and smiled up at him.
"It's gonna be okay, trust me."
"Of course they'll affect my abilities," he snapped. "Neurochemistry is a delicate thing." But then he felt John's hand and calmed down. "Sorry. That—that wasn't right of me. I don't—my mind is everything to me, and the more it's changed, the more I feel like I've died." He swallowed and took a deep breath. "I assume there are other tests now I'm hooked up. I'm no doctor, but I think an FMRI when in each personality would prove invaluable." The detachment was helping him focus. If he thought of this as happening to someone else, it was easier. But wasn't that what started this whole mess?
"I'm ready."
Many tests were ran for about an hour, John had to kiss Sherlock and Avery, and sometimes Avery lashed out at John, knocking him against the wall. The doctors wanted to tie him down, but given the past experiences, John flatly refused.
"May I speak with Dr Watson and Mr Holmes alone please?" An old looking scientist asked everyone else to leave. "Now, Mr Holmes… We understand that your brain means everything to you, and when we said that hormone changes would not effect you, we were wrong on one account. You will have the same ability you used to, but… if we get rid of Avery, we also get rid of the part of you that is able to detach from emotions." Sherlock just blinked at him.
"Don't you understand, that if you do that, he will just be Avery? That's the emotional side of him. We're not making this any better!" John fumed at him, looking as if he wanted to rip his head from his neck.
"We're not sure what else we can do… the hormone will cause him to feel like everybody else, the overproduction of it has caused havoc. It is up to Mr. Holmes. I'll leave you to decide."
And with that, he walked out, leaving them to decide for themselves.
Sherlock was having trouble coping with his choice. "So…I have to choose between being Avery some of the time and being Avery all of the time?" He literally could not decide which was worse, to be in a perpetual state of oblivion while his body went on, hurting people, probably killing, or to unexpectedly lash out and hurt people with no warning whatsoever. "John…I think you should choose. You'll have to live with it. Or not, if you want. We can put me in an institution or something. No!" he shouted suddenly, his face going hard and cold. "You can't end us! Not like this! Not ever!" Then his face softened. "It'll be hard on the both of us, but you know what Avery's done. I think it would be better for the both of us—don't say that, don't you dare say that, don't run away, you coward, I love him and I refuse to let go! If we did that." Seeing John's look, he paused. "Avery interrupted, didn't he?" Sherlock sat down. "Whatever we decide, it needs to be soon. I can't feel when he comes out or I'd suggest handcuffing me to the furniture at Baker Street when I felt him coming on, but I can't tell when he's waking up. I can only tell when he's been here by noticing time-jumps." He sat in silence for a moment, perfectly still. "What should we do? If—if Avery is here all the time, we can lock him up without me suffering. If it works like it has been, I'll be completely oblivious to what's going on. And at any rate, I don't know if imprisonment would be better or worse than these unpredictable bouts of violence." He swallowed. "He has killed three people, almost four." He looked at John, pleadingly. He didn't know what to do or where to go from here.
He faked a weak smile, an attempt to inject some light into the situation. "You could visit in prison or the psychiatric hospital or wherever they'd put him, maybe I'd have moments where I'm—" He choked off, the vision in his mind all too clear. John coming in on weekends or off-days, looking through the visitor's glass, eyes both terrified and hoping, desperate to see the man who couldn't love him instead of the killer who did. And once in a while, he'd be Sherlock, and they'd joke about their past cases and how Mycroft's diet was going. But then he'd be Avery again, spitting his love at John, not knowing that he was doing more harm to their relationship than good.
Sherlock put his head on John's shoulders, utterly exhausted. "What happened to me, John? Why did this all affect me so much more than it did you? And what in God's name are we going to do?"
"We're getting rid of him. This isn't the only way to get rid of him, I know it. I love you too much to let him win." he was choking with tears.
He ran out and slammed the door. "We need to do this, we need to stop him. He can't win, please." John was begging the doctor. "There has to be something else."
The doctor walked in again and sat down, white faced. "There is something. But.. it's highly dangerous. It has a 40% chance of working. Are you willing to try?"
"What does it do?" John muttered.
"It cancels out the other personality and leaves the person themselves. When it goes wrong.. it can wipe out both.."
John felt faint. "What do we do, Sherlock?"
A primal scream came out of Sherlock's mouth and he ran to the door, shouting. "I am not going to let him die. I am not going to let either of us die." It was plain that he was Avery at the moment as he bashed his fists on the door. The security man came to restrain him, but Avery punched and threw him—he had not forgotten Sherlock's knowledge of Judo, and he was stronger than he looked in the first place. "If you think for one second I'm going to let you put either of them in jeopardy, you are sadly mistaken. I will not let him die."
This behaviour went on for ten solid minutes before he fell to the ground, Sherlock once again, but slightly whimpering once he caught sight of the security guard's injuries. He tried to take refuge in logic and numbers. "Forty per cent chance of success. The statistics…the statistics show that I'll probably lose everything." He sniffed. "I was losing everything anyway." He closed his eyes, and a tear escaped and rolled down his cheek. "Paralysed by doubt…we have to stop this. I can't keep doing this. Call Mycroft."
John called Mycroft for about an hour. Nothing. "He must be terribly busy…" John trailed off.
"We wouldn't be able to do the experiment today, if you wanted to. It would be on Saturday. Three days."
"Do we ask Mycroft? I can't get through!" John wailed, like a child. He looked at Sherlock who was also in shock. John flung his arms around him. "It's going to be okay." He sobbed. "I love you, I won't let them take you away if you don't want them to."
"No calls back. Mycroft must be really busy. What do we do?" John asked Sherlock when he'd calmed down a few hours later. He just wanted to be normal again, but it was obviously never going to happen.
"I need to see Mycroft one last time before we do whatever it is we are going to. As myself. It'll be the last he'll ever see of me, probably. No, never mind, it'll be better if he remembers me as I was." He waved his hand dismissively. There was another thought in his head, one that would end the problem forever, one that wouldn't put John through hell, but he knew that Avery would never let him even start to do it. Which was probably for the best. Maybe.
"I say we try the drugs and if they don't work, then we consider the other option." It could mean giving Avery a more permanent foothold, but at least there wasn't a 60% chance that he could lose both his minds. It was the rational, reasonable answer.
Sherlock's blog:
Right now, there are four options.
Go on the way I have been, hoping Avery won't be too much of a disruption, even though I know he will be, with his sudden tornadic rage and passion that I can neither predict nor stop
Submit to chemical therapy, which would leave my faculties of deduction and observation intact but would break down all ability to emotionally detach myself—Avery seems to be largely my emotions and thus could become dominant
Have an experimental procedure performed on me, designed to wipe out one personality, but only successful 40% of the time—failure is a complete mental wipe of both personalities
Die, either by my own hand, assisted suicide, or suicide-by-policeman; I am not anticipating this as a possibility as Avery would certainly intervene, however, I am including it in my list as it is a reasonable way to end Avery's murderous behaviour
The way I see it is that we'll try option two for a time and if that fails, option three becomes viable. If, for some reason, both Avery and I survive that particular procedure, option one is most likely. Depending on the severity of any outbursts, only then will death be a choice I will consider with any sincere intent. I have to stop him before he kills again. I think he enjoys it, even beyond the revenge factor. I cannot continue to risk the careers of those in the police force trying to protect me from legal retribution.
"A-are you sure?" John choked, mostly with shock. "It's dangerous…" he imagined what life would be like. Avery taking over every so often. "It wouldn't be so bad if you and him were together, because then you would be able to feel, but you'd be you, and you'd stop yourself from killing, and in effect, he'd be gone."
Sherlock was in deep thought. "So, do we just.. go back to Baker street and try it out?" He tapped him on the shoulder. Sherlock nodded.
John got the prescription after he'd been signed out of the Hospital. He was shaking as he passed over the paper to the chemist. The chemist passed him the instructions to read whilst he waited for the prescription to go through.
"It says here about side effects. Well, it says: 'The user may: have a more regular sleep pattern, wish to eat more, be more sexually active, be agitated, dehydrate, spasm, vomit, and/or faint. Any person taking this medication should AT ALL TIMES be under supervision. Keep out of reach of user, as the user may try to overdose.' Blimey." John stared at the small piece of paper. "Are you sure? This seems to be a big change to your usual routine."
"Prescription for Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" The chemist called out.
"If you're not sure, we can cancel it right now." John whispered to Sherlock, worried.
"Of course I'm not sure," he hissed. "But the best approach to something like this is to start out with the mildest treatment and then go for the more extreme ones. As a doctor, you should know that." He looked around, more out of a need to look elsewhere than looking for anything in particular. "But I find it strange that Avery's fine with this. It's worrying me." He looked back at John. "I estimate it'll take a week for the drugs to get into my system properly, and another two before we know if it's working. Nearly a month before we'll know." But you and I both know it probably won't work. His look said it all.
He didn't take the bottle from John. He let him hold it in case Avery decided to protest. Now that there was a plan in place, he could think better. Once he wasn't fighting something with no weapons or strategy, he began to relax.
When they got back to Baker Street, Sherlock rummaged in his closet and pulled out a small box. He handed it to John. "Stun gun. In case you need it. Just make sure there's no physical contact or you'll shock yourself." He handed John a holster for it as well. "I want this on you at all times. We have no idea whether this medication will placate Avery or bring him out more, and while I don't think he'd intentionally hurt you, his temper is something I want you to protect yourself from. Do not hesitate, even if you're not sure whether it's him or me. If you feel in any danger at all, this should be the first thing in your mind. And while I'm momentarily incapacitated, use these." He brandished a pair of handcuffs. "The bed should be heavy enough to prevent my moving around. I know you don't want to think about physically restraining me after what happened with Mor—you know. But you might have to. The furniture in the living area is all too light. If I'm in the hall, you may have to use the staircase." He made sure to get John's full attention and eye contact before continuing. "I trust you, John. I know you can do this." Reading the question in John's face, he said "And yes, they were Lestrade's. Don't ask."
He watched as John put on the police belt, and then went to make the tea he'd need to take his medicine. Once he did, he sat in the chair and waited for some sort of result. "Hide the medication. You read the label. Only you can administer it." He picked up his violin and began playing an unusually hesitant tune, improvising as usual.
I'm looking forward to seeing how this goes. –Avery
Somehow I thought you would. -SH
John raised his eyebrow. "Right. I assume you'll be loud and angry whilst you're tied up, so what do I tell Mrs. Hudson? She doesn't know about this, and you know she'll just.. assume. Should I say it's for a case or.." he felt his face flashing red. Mrs Hudson always assumed, which was terribly embarrassing. "And when did you manage to get them off Lestrade? He'll kill you." He laughed, although he didn't feel entirely sure about where they stood with Greg now.
John came back after Sherlock had spent about three hours playing the violin. He was sitting in the chair, calmly thinking. "Do you want to take it now?" John held out a pill in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He was terrified that Avery was going to smack the pill from his hand any second.
"No, I've taken the first dose already; I figure I can handle that one at least." Sherlock put the violin down. "Something's working. I…um…I know we've kissed a lot today, but…well. It…um…" He reached over quite suddenly and planted a kiss on John's lips. But then the tender lip-brush gave way to a far more passionate one, and soon Sherlock, or rather Avery, was pushing John into his chair with his body, rarely-used muscles quivering. "You know you want it. You know you never get as much as you crave." He kept John from protesting by licking John's neck before gently biting it, something Sherlock would never have done. Avery got as far as pulling his shirt down to his elbows, having already unbuttoned John's with his teeth, before he stopped and pulled away. Sherlock stood up and put his shirt back on, buttoning quickly. "That was…not a good idea." He could see that John was frightened and it didn't take a consulting detective to piece together the clues as to why. "I'm sorry."
Sherlock was shaking, slightly. John placed a bowl of stew in front of him. "This should keep you going for a while." He smiled, "and by the way, do you want me to stop you, or not? I'm confused by this all. I'm not sure who's doing what." he sighed, slumping down onto the couch. He turned the television on, trying his best to distract Sherlock, or Avery, from anything that he wouldn't usually do.
"It's up to you. If you're not comfortable with anything, say something. I will listen. I don't know if Avery will." For once, Sherlock managed to watch the television without shouting at it. But only for fifteen minutes, after which he began pacing, muttering incessantly about the misdirection in the adverts, the ideal roof slope angle for a city residence, the smell of a dissected pig; nothing in particular. It was worse than when he'd tried to quit smoking cold-turkey.
He continued pacing and muttering, even occasionally jumping about, all night. Seven in the morning he awoke John by shaking him, his eyes manic. "John. It's almost time for the next dose." He blinked repeatedly and quickly, but not nearly as quickly as he spoke. There were traces of cream cheese leftovers on his mouth. "I think I've eaten quite a lot in the night. I don't remember. Probably Avery. He gets hungry? I, he, managed not to kill anyone, though, unless he destroyed the evidence before I came out of it. I wonder why I break through when I do? It seems to only happen when he gets out of control, but then why didn't I snap to during his first two kills? It doesn't make sense. He also seems to like cream cheese on blueberry muffins for some reason. Lots of cream cheese, going by the amount that's not in the refrigerator any more. He also may have filmed you sleeping since your video camera is not where it was. Either that or he filmed me-him-us. Sorry. I think I'd like to watch the video since I don't know how his mannerisms are different from mine and it could be a fascinating psychological study. Why aren't you up yet? I have to take the medicine at twelve-hour intervals and it's time. Get up."
"…Right," John groaned. He pulled the tablets from between the mattress when Sherlock wasn't looking.
"Here." He yawned, passing Sherlock the pill and a glass of water. He walked to the table to leave Mrs. Hudson a note.
Mrs Hudson- I have to keep an eye on Sherlock, could you pick up more Milk, cream cheese and blueberry muffins when you go to tesco? Thanks!
John x
"Right. Do you want anything?" He asked, planning to go back to bed. Sherlock was jumping around like a five year old. Sleeping was not going to happen.
"Milk, tea, eggs, cream, candy, cake, celery, anchovies, pizza, those little biscuits with the almond in, that's not what you meant, is it?" Manic was a bit of an understatement. "How are my vital signs? Blood pressure and pulse, high, no doubt." And it wasn't just Sherlock. Suddenly and for no apparent reason, Avery was in control and put his mouth to John's, forcefully, knocking him back in the bed and fiercely snogging, all the manic energy going toward one goal. He was working his clothes off now, and John was too shocked to keep Avery from taking off his. "Say you love me, I know you do, I know you love him, but I think you love me too, secretly you like the passion and the attention and all the things he can't give you. I know you want this shared body, I feel it in your tremors and see it in your eyes. You like his shining mind, his distance, his alien ethereal soul, but you need my emotion, my soul, my strength." There was very little between them—John's pants were the final barrier. "You know what you want, and it's what I want. You do love me, so don't keep—" Avery stopped, frozen with his hands inside John's pants in an effort to remove them. Sherlock was taking control again. He backed up and ran straight into the wall.
"Oh, God, oh, God." Sherlock shut his eyes. He was still wired. As manic as he still was, he put his pants and trousers back on in a hurry before running to his room and slamming the door. He started throwing things. "Why do you have to do this to me? Why must you take everything I have and ruin it? You're going to scare him away! He's the only friend I've ever had and you're going to run him off because you can't keep your pants on!" There was a loud crash as Sherlock threw his lamp against the wall and it shattered. Sherlock screamed into his pillow and just lay there in his bed, twitching madly.
John poked his head around the door. "Sherlock.. It's okay.." He went into the room. Everything was smashed, except his violin, his furniture and a picture of him and John. He sat on the bed. "Sherlock.. you haven't scared me away, I promise." He decided to lay down next to him, trying to get him to remove his face from the pillow. "He just wants me to say I love him, too. I don't." He sighed. John did wish for the things Avery said, but not from him, from Sherlock only. It made him feel sick to think that something inside Sherlock was dangerously obsessive and abusive towards him. "Look at me," He cupped his face, "It's okay, honest." Sherlock was sniffing and muttering, almost in whispers. "Come on, I think you need to sleep." John pulled the covers over them both, and hugged into Sherlock, who was still shaking with what he guessed was rage.
Sherlock was twitchy and held his hand out to John, almost detachedly examining how badly it was shaking. "I don't know if I can sleep—too wired. I've never been this wired in my life, and it's strange, it's not pleasant, not like the cocaine. I'm glad you're not going to leave. I know what he tried to do." He looked John straight in the eyes, his gaze oddly (for this moment) steady. "It's worse than what Moriarty did because this time, it really is my body." He gave a strangled sort of noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "And I've only been on the medicine for twelve hours; it's not even in my system long enough to know what the constant effects are going to be…"
Avery's blog:
it has only just occurred to me that he feels no pleasure
he does not permit himself drink, he eats very little food, even in his dreams he is cold and distant. the only times he is happy are his few brief moments with John, and even then it only registers slightly. he has never known ecstatic joy and he never will because he can't. he would not see the merits of a finely aged wine or the art in a subterranean cavern. his tongue does not burst with the glee of a well-prepared meal. his only pleasure derives from the pain of others.
and he says I am the one who is evil.
John: Shut up. He's not evil, you are.
I feel. I love. I experience. I don't sit distantly while he is content merely to observe.
do not mistake me—I want nothing more than for the two of you to be happy. I will protect that happiness no matter the cost.
John: Why do you want to destroy him, though? You know that every time you come forward, he loses himself.
Avery: I don't want to destroy him. I want nothing more than to protect you both. the release is involuntary on both our parts. I cannot control when I am free and he sleeps. it is torture for me because, unlike him apparently, I am forced to watch what he does and how he cannot care for you. I am forced to share his experiences, knowing that he won't share mine. I do not fade to blackness as he does when subdominant. it hurts because I know he will not feel as I do.
John: He's much more than you.
Avery: I don't understand your hatred. I have no quarrel with either you or Sherlock. it is the people who hurt you who I spend my nights coming up with creative ways of killing.
John: let me see.
you almost beat me to death.
Avery: I lost my temper when you ran like a coward into drugs or did you forget that bit?
John: Stop trying to make yourself look better. You're an abusive prick.
Avery: Then teach me.
John: No. You don't deserve it.
"Sherlock, if it's you, I won't stop you, but it's him. I can deal with it, but I want you, not him. It's so difficult. If he kisses me, I feel unfaithful." John sighed, gazing at Sherlock. "I only want to be with you, and I mean it." He leaned over a kissed him softly. "I don't want to hurt you, it would really… I'd hate it." He squeezed Sherlock tighter. "I just want you to stay you. I'd love it if he pissed off… I'm not sure why he loves me anyway, me and him have shared nothing, except when I was trying to trigger you. We've had no experiences, like cases and holidays; I don't understand."
"I think he shares all my memories. When he's dominant, I see nothing, but I don't think the same is true of him." Sherlock was wearing out now. Still speaking quickly, but his eyes are beginning to droop. "I think he knows. And if he is the expression of my emotions magnified, he is attracted to you for the same reasons I am. Your strength. Your determination. Your simple honesty." He smiled, indicating that his next statement would be half-joking: "Your willingness to appreciate me." His speech started to slow down as he grew drowsy—a combination of stressful days and a wired night are catching up. He hadn't slept properly since he'd first seen the bloodied shirt from Avery's first kill.
He drifted off into the first dreamless sleep he'd had in years with a deep sigh and a furrowed brow.
John kissed him on the tip of the nose as he fell asleep. After a few minutes, he crept out of the bed to do some laundry.
It wasn't long before Avery was out of bed, and it was clear that Sherlock was still asleep, and he had taken over.
"Go back to bed." John called in, thinking it was Sherlock, at first. He was slammed against the table.
"Avery, let him go. This isn't fair, how can this be happening…?" John was in utter shock, he had no idea that this was at all possible, and for once, Sherlock couldn't force himself forward to stop it.
Avery smiled. The look was one of twisted glee. But it faded once he saw how upset John was and released him from the table. "Oh, he's just sleeping. Don't worry. He needs his rest, too. I'm going out for a smoke." He made it half a step before he felt the handcuff close on him. "So that's how you like it?" He sneered as he saw John's stubbornly defiant look. "Oh, yes, 'anyone taking this medication should be supervised at all times'. I remember. I share his gifts of observation and deduction." Avery, John attached, walked to the fireplace and took his cigarettes out. Pressing one between his lips and lighting it, he blew his first puff of smoke at John. "That's better." Sherlock/Avery hadn't taken his second dose of medicine yet, and Avery was sure John noticed. "What shall we do today, John? Watch telly? Play a game? Cuddle?" He put his hand inside John's. He knew John would probably pull away. "It breaks my heart to see that you don't see him in me. It does. I am everything he is, but with emotion and soul and passion and none of his inhibitions. I can love you utterly and completely. I would not be averse to escalating that relationship. He sees it as weakness, as a vice he can't give up. But no, love is strong. Love is powerful. And even if you don't love me back, know that I love you." There was fierce emotion in his eyes. He wasn't lying.
John just closed his eyes, almost as if he wished that Avery would disappear.
"Stop it." He almost begged. "I fell in love with him. If you were him, I would love you, but you're not. He doesn't remember anything you do, he blames himself." He felt his tears spilling. "I love him. When I kiss him, I want you to keep yourself away. I don't want to feel you forcing yourself on me. I want him to remember everything. We can't even.." He trailed off, almost with shame. "Just keep to yourself, where I'm concerned. Once you've done that, I can work on getting rid of you all together." He pulled his hand away, and left Avery handcuffed to the table. "Good luck getting out of that. They're tight and that table needs at least three people to move it. I'll come and check on you in a moment." And with that, he walked off, leaving him screaming and shouting angrily.
"Damn it, John! Do you think I want this? To be conjured into existence by rape and torture and then never to know when I will next be able to use my body—this body? I can't control when I'm dominant—neither can he, it just sort of happens! I watch, hour after hour, unable to move, unable to speak, like I'm in a vegetative state, while someone I love saunters off in my body and won't even let me tell anyone how much I hurt!" He knew that John was pretending not to listen. "I can't even do my Goddamn job!"
There was a knock on the door as Mrs. Hudson came upstairs. "Is everything alright, dears?"
Avery turned to look at her from his position where he sat on the floor. "Mrs. Hudson, please, John handcuffed me to the table. He's upset and won't let me apologize. Please go to him and tell him that I'm sorry and that I love him. Barring that, get me out of these handcuffs."
Mrs. Hudson could tell that something was wrong. "Are you alright, Sherlock, you're not acting like yourself."
Avery laughed coldly. "Of course," he said to himself. "She doesn't know." He smiled. "There's a very good explanation, but for the moment it's top-secret. It has to do with the Bird's Foot Trefoil case."
For a brief instant, he was Sherlock. "Mrs. Hudson, thank goodness—tell John these words exactly: the medication. Now. The needle if he has to. Tell him now." Then, as Mrs. Hudson walked away, he put his free hand to his head as if he had a headache—he'd changed back. An uncontrolled shout of "No!" reverberated through the house as Avery tried to convince Mrs. Hudson to come back. But she'd already gone and was relaying the message to John.
"John, Sherlock needs you, quick. Has one of your… games gone wrong? He said medication or needle or something."
John ran upstairs. Avery was back. "One more thing, Avery. I'm not yours." He almost spat the words and he pushed the syringe down into his arm. Avery was screaming, begging. "Stop it." John shouted. Avery had one hand free and he pulled John's face in front of his.
"What are you doing?" John trembled with fear, knowing Avery was probably going to make a move on him, again.
"I just want you to see the look in my eyes as I go one step closer to total madness. That medicine won't black me out. You know it won't." His face changed completely, back to Sherlock, but almost pleading. "John, if sedation becomes necessary—" He transformed again, the mania the new medication would bring already beginning, starting with an insane giggle. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson, poor dear Mrs. Hudson, how confused you must be! Shall you tell her or shall I?" He began laughing again, but this time was cut off as he vomited, the small dinner he'd had the night before coming up all at once. "Sorry," he gasped. He writhed slightly, eyes rolling backwards a little. The medicine was not meant to be taken intravenously, and it was going into effect a bit too quickly. Not dangerously, because John was a doctor, but enough to be on the verge of it. "Oh, this whole mess. What a funny life I've had." Avery was jittery now as the mania started to take control. "What a strange, strange life."
John left him handcuffed as he cleaned him up. "Drink this." He handed him a glass of water. "You listen to me, Avery. You leave Sherlock alone. I don't love you, and I never will." He muttered in his face, menacingly, in a way he'd never spoke to Sherlock. Avery was rolling his eyes and laughing. "Come on, time for you to sleep." He unlocked him, and dragged him to his bedroom. "You're to stay here, do you understand?" John thought more clearly, he was going to escape. "In fact," he leaned over him, (he was lying down, he was bound to get the wrong idea) and cuffed him to the bed. "You can't move now." He put him in the recovery position so he wouldn't choke if he vomited. "And when Sherlock comes back, you're to stay inside, that clear?" He whispered.
"I love it when you get all military." He smiled, clearly turned on. He grabbed John's waist with his legs. "Hello sexy." But, after making sure John understood his physical reaction, he soon frowned once again. "Haven't you heard a fu—" He spasmed before he could complete the expletive and the pain cut him off. Yet another side effect, yet another box ticked. "You haven't heard a word I've said, have you? I can't control the change any more than he can. We are when we are. It's not a question of choice."
John left, and Avery taunted him with reminders that he was meant to be under supervision at all times. And then he began to sing loudly.
"Mental wounds not healing
Who and what's to blame?
I'm going off the rails of a crazy train!"
Suddenly the sound was cut off as Avery's whole back spasmed and he practically screamed in pain. "For God's sake, John!" It was plainly not Avery who spoke. But the next thing out of their shared mouth—a list of expletives long enough to make even some of John's soldier friends cringe—certainly was.
John shouted in Avery's face. "You can do it, I know you can." and he walked out.
He was singing loudly and screaming, then Sherlock shouted out.
John ran in, he was screaming and fitting. "Sherlock, Sherlock! look at me, please." He held his face. "Come on, look at me." He sat on top of him, to keep his legs still. "Come on, shh calm down." Sherlock stilled, breathing loudly. "It's okay, I'm here." He kissed him, to show he wasn't going to leave. "Do you feel a change coming on? Is it safe to unlock them?" He nodded at the cuffs, shakily.
Avery's swearing fit had subsided, as had his mind, for now. Sherlock was himself, his terrified self. "I never feel the changes happening. That's what makes them so dangerous." He retched. "Maybe an intravenous delivery wasn't the best of plans. But at least we're sticking to the medicine regimen." He felt feverish. "In the bathroom, in the top drawer, there are sedatives. They'll knock me or him or whatever completely out for nine hours or so. I take it by the fact that I'm handcuffed to the bed that Avery did something or tried to. If you have to, use—" Then Sherlock's time was up and the magnificent face hardened once more. "This medicine. It's—I don't like it," Avery finished lamely. He moaned as his abdomen spasmed, causing him to try to curl into a ball, but John's presence prevented it. "Damned nicotine interaction, we should have known."
"You and him are only a 'we' in a bodily sense." John spat, still sitting on his legs so he couldn't move at all. "And frankly, Avery, I don't give a fuck if you like it or not. You will take it and I'll make sure of it." He was saying it menecingly again, he felt as if his rage was about to rip through his chest. "You'll be gone, soon enough." Avery was protesting, loudly. "And as for the stuff you said before, about me wanting you.. It's not like that at all. You've not shared the things me and Sherlock have. You will never know."
The thing about having the emotions Sherlock didn't was that Avery's heart was breaking. One of the two men Avery loved more than anything in the universe was treating him like an abomination. Of course, in Avery's mind, this was completely wrong. He was their guardian angel. He protected them. He'd killed three of the people who had been involved in their rape and torture. If that wasn't love, what was? "There is nothing I love more than yourself and Sherlock. To know that it's not reciprocated...I'm sure you know the feeling." He shook, trying to ignore the aftershocks of the violent spasming. "I was born out of death and fear and memories most people would repress. I began the moment Sherlock thought about how easy it would have been just to go to the light during those three minutes he was dead. All he wanted was to see you as you were again instead of seeing Moran. He couldn't before that death. I took those memories and that hate and fear and became what I am. To protect him. To keep him from going into the black abyss. Because you can only save him from so much. I can save him from so much more. He needs us both." He was searching John's face for understanding, desperately hoping John would accept him as a part of life.
John looked down at him. He couldn't help but see the fear that Sherlock's face usually showed. Avery was begging for acceptance, for love. John reached down and cupped his face. "I know you want to stay, it's as horrid for you as it is for him. But you must understand that I loved him f- I love him. I can't watch him fade, just because you love me… I know you have the things he can't give, but he can learn, in time, I know it." John was choking on his tears. "Please, don't hate me for it, I just want him safe; I want him to remember the things we had, the things we will have.."
The hot liquid of tender emotion rolled down Avery's face. "I know how you feel. So I've recorded myself. He wants to see me. He doesn't know me. He can't ever know me without help—your help. And I could never hate you. No matter what. Unless, of course, you break his heart, and then you'll have something to answer for." It was meant as a joke, but given Avery's past history, it didn't come off as one. "I can't change what I am and I don't want to." He put his free hand to John's cheek tenderly. "Will you stay with me while I sleep, even if it is only eight in the morning?"
John felt so guilty. There was a part of him that wanted Sherlock to act like Avery (bar murder). He moved off his legs, and lay next to him. "Yeah, I will." He sighed. "I'd unlock you, but you could run off, and it's far too dangerous… I'll stay here." He curled up next to him. He still had some kindness in his eyes, he smiled.
"Have a nice sleep, Avery." And he fell asleep, hoping that Sherlock would be there when he woke up.
"Thank you. I love you," he said before drifting off.
Avery dreamed of Sherlock. They were in Baskerville, in one of the laboratories. Avery was locked in the cage. So was Sherlock. John stood outside the cage, white coat over his jumper, syringe in hand. "We don't know what this will do to you, but we're going to try it anyway." He injected Avery with a clearish pink liquid and it was like fire in the blood. He felt like he was burning.
Sherlock dreamed of Avery. They were in Baskerville, in one of the laboratories. Sherlock was locked in the cage. So was Avery. John stood outside the cage, white coat over his jumper, syringe in hand. "We don't know what this will do to you, but we're going to try it anyway." He injected Sherlock with a clearish blue liquid and it was like his blood had turned to liquid nitrogen. He felt like he was frozen from the inside out.
A voice slithered out of the stark whiteness beyond the cages as both Sherlock and Avery suffered. "Like fire and ice, Doctor Watson." It was Moriarty. Avery flung himself in spitting rage toward the bars, screaming obscenities and threats. Sherlock sat, fighting the urge to cower, too frightened to say anything. But the worst was yet to come as Moriarty grinned and rested his arm on John's shoulder. "I'd say that went pretty well, wouldn't you?" John morphed into Moran-John, the John who wasn't a John at all but was the twisted expression of Moriarty's sense of cruel humour. "I think you know what to do," said Moran, his eyes like the black pits of Hell. "Yes, I do," said Moran-John with an evil leer and both Sherlock and Avery knew what was coming.
They woke up, two minds' screams expressed through one mouth and one set of near-shredding vocal chords. Neither mind was present for a fleeting moment-they both wanted to flee. So the body that housed both Sherlock and Avery sat staring in wide-eyed primal horror, no sentient mind to control it for a full five minutes. Then he blinked.
Sherlock's blog:
What do you do when your nightmares haunt both your psyches? Both minds fear the same thing, and both minds suffer the nightmare at once, and neither knows which to assert itself when the body wakes because both are too terrified to be able to think?
And you sit there for a few moments, blank but fighting.
How am I supposed to survive the three weeks of this that will be necessary to figure out if this treatment is working?
"What's wrong?" John panicked, as if something bad had happened to him. "Do you want me to unlock you, is that it?" Sherlock, or Avery, (he couldn't tell who it was right now) was screaming and fighting to get out. John unlocked the cuffs and whoever it was looked as if he wanted to be anywhere but near John. "What's happened, please tell me…" John felt sick, it seemed as if Avery and Sherlock hated him, because he got up and ran to his room, slamming the door, whailing loudly.
The shared body howled for a moment longer before the shout trailed off. Someone had finally taken control. Sherlock. He remembered his nightmare, remembered sharing it with Avery. He stood up and rubbed his wrist—during his uncontrolled panic, he'd struggled against the handcuffs and bruised himself. He felt feverish, but fought to tell himself it was only an effect of the medication and that his nightmare hadn't been real. The medicine was working. He was unable to remain detached.
As rapidly as he'd run to his room, he ran back to John. "I'm sorry, John, I had a horrible nightmare. Mor—" He found himself unable to say the name, either of the names. "Them. But you were there, but he was you and you were experimenting. On me. On Avery. On us, it doesn't matter, separately." He had yet to get more than three hours of sleep since this whole thing started, and it was plainly taking its toll. His eyes were bloodshot and sunken. "Why did I dream that? Why?" He swayed on his feet and blacked out for an instant. Fortunately John caught him before he hit the ground.
"How is it so much worse for me than it was on Uncle Thom?" Sherlock was more talking to himself than anything, out of confusion and panic. "He had five people, but he seemed…calm. He could sleep without any of this—this fear." His eyes were distant, barely registering his surroundings, staring only at the ceiling. He turned his gaze to John as he lay in his lap on the floor. He reached out and grabbed him, like a terrified child. "Tell me you can fix this, John. Please. Tell me you'll help me through this." He was crying.
Sherlock's blog:
I am not used to feeling like this. I don't like it. I don't want it.
The doctors were right—this medication is increasing my emotions. I can't think objectively anymore, not like I used to. I don't know what it's doing to Avery.
Every single moment I'm awake, every second I am who I was born (and those seconds are becoming more and more rare), it's paralyzing fear at what he might have done in his rage or grief or a poorly-expressed love.
Hopefully this will be over soon.
"I will help you through, and I'll do everything in my power to stop this…" John stammered. This wasn't going to work. Sherlock was going to go insane. "Do you want to stop taking them?" He blurted. "I think it might be better. I'm so worried." He moved up to the bed, dragging Sherlock with him. "We need to stay here… I don't think we should move you around too much." Sherlock's face changed, Avery had something to say.
"I like the way you care for him. It's sweet." He had that twisted yearning in his eyes. "It's so boring in here. I think I'll order flowers. But first let's watch the telly." Avery grabbed the remote and turned on the news.
He tilted his head almost hungrily. "There are three things I need right now, and I'll settle for two of them. A cigarette, a shag, or another of Moriarty's underlings dead by my hand. Your choice, John."
Before John could even muster up an answer, the announcer said they were going to breaking news. It was a press conference on the Bird's Foot Trefoil murders—Avery's murders.
Reporter: "Is it true you have no leads?"
Lestrade: "We have no concrete leads, no." (Avery could tell he was nervous at being caught in a lie.)
Reporter: "What are you doing to help find this killer?"
Lestrade: "We have our best people on the case."
Reporter: "Have you consulted Sherlock Holmes, the Internet sensation detective?"
Lestrade: "Yes, and he's working on it."
Reporter: "And you say you have come up with absolutely nothing? I understand there was a cigarette butt left at the scene. Can't you get DNA evidence off it?"
Lestrade: "We're doing our best. It's not like it is on television! Now I think that's all the questions we have time for. Thank you."
A flurry of voices followed Lestrade as he left the podium. The news anchors continued their summary of the case. Avery smiled sickly. "He's so loyal for nothing." He turned back to John. "Now, how about that choice?" He was physically quivering, all the desires Sherlock never had visible in his body language.
"You can have a cigarette, and nothing more. You know how much I hate it when you kill, I don't want you to, but I love Sherlock, and I'd never be unfaithful to him." John had a nagging voice in his head telling him to go ahead, but that voice was one he'd learned to ignore. Moriarty. Go on, you need it.
"You know how I feel about him." John whispered, unable to get the words out.
Avery rolled his eyes as he took his cigarette. "Yes, I do, and you keep repeating it. I feel the same way. Trust me, I'd shag him if I could." He lit the cigarette and puffed for a few minutes, luxuriously letting out poisonous clouds from his lungs. He didn't care that he'd ruined Sherlock's recently hard-earned smokeless freedom—he really needed that smoke. "At least buy me a sketchbook and pencils so I have something to do all day instead of just sitting here. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will be a willing babysitter." Avery sighed with pleasure as the nicotine built up in his system. He was still hyperactively fidgety, but now he seemed calmer.
"I have." John mocked him, cruelly. "I'll text her, I don't trust you to stay here."
He pulled out his phone.
To Mrs Hudson
Could you pick up a sketchpad and some pencils? Sherlock needs it and I'm not happy about leaving him. Sorry to bother you. -JW
FromJohn Watson
"There." He smiled. "That's your last cigarette, by the way. I got rid of the rest, it doesn't react well." Avery was rolling his eyes and mocking John in silly voices.
"Shut up, Avery. You can't love me at all if you don't respect me. At least Sherlock does." He sat down next to him on the bed. "I don't know what you're gaining from existence, really." He blinked. "Sorry, that was harsh. I don't know why you need to kill for me and Sherlock when we don't want you to."
You could have him right now, and you know it. John stammered. "For fucks sake. You're not the only one with issues. I have voices in my head that tell me to do things that would ruin my whole life." He put his head in his hands and groaned. "I'm sorry that I can't give you what you want, but what would you do if somebody asked you to cheat on the person you loved?"
Avery's eyes went wide with concern. "Voices? What kind of voices?" He switched off the telly. "Please, John, you have to tell me. If nothing else, I need to know exactly what." He put his hand on John's thigh, lovingly, and did his absolute best to restrain himself from anything more intimate. "I care about you. If you're having problems, I need to know." He was plainly worried, his face showing more concern for another living thing than Sherlock ever had in his entire life. "I can't watch you go mad. Tell me what is going on."
"Jim's voice. He tells me how vile, useless, worthless, scummy and low I am. He tells me to kiss you when I love Sherlock, he is inside my head, and even if you kill him, he'll be there." John was breaking down into tears. He lent his head on Avery's shoulder. "I guess it's to be expected, I wasn't going to go through.. that, and come out normal." He began to sob loudly, "I wish Sherlock was here. If he knew then he wouldn't go and kill Jim for it.. please don't.."
Avery muttered a low curse before extending his arms to John and embracing him. "Shh, it'll be alright. Just sleep now and dream of peaceful things, my John, my ever-faithful John." John only had an instant to wonder what Avery had meant by sleep before the drugs kicked in. Irene Adler's private recipe. Avery held on to John, whispering comfortingly in a way he knew Sherlock never would until John lost consciousness.
By the time John woke up, it was nighttime. Avery was still holding him in that tender embrace. "Hello," he whispered as he saw John's eyelids flutter open. Avery smiled warmly. He'd missed his third dose of medicine and had been left free all day. "Mrs. Hudson brought the sketchbook. I haven't started anything yet. I couldn't leave you except for the obvious reasons." He ran his hands through John's hair and, in a reversal of the normal gesture, kissed John on the nose. "I'm sorry I drugged you. But you've been so stressed. You needed to relax. Forgive the methods, knowing that the intent was pure."
"Don't do that again.." He moaned, sleepily. "Do you feel better now?" He looked up, wondering if Sherlock was going to come back. "Where's.. Sherlock?" He said, cautiously. "I know it upsets you when I go on about him, but I'm concerned." He got up and went out of the room, pulling the meds from where he was hiding them, and returned to the room. "Take one of these, please." He almost begged. Avery sniffed at him in refusal. "What do I have to do to make you take one? I'll leave you alone, if that's what you want? I'll buy you more muffins? I'll even buy you more stuff to draw with, please.."
Avery smiled almost lucidly. "For now, all I ask is that you consider me the next time I want to be with you." Slowly he took the pill from John's hand and frowned. "This won't make him come back out. I don't think it will work except to stimulate the body and make me want you more. You read the side effects." He smirked a little. "But I'll take it, if it makes you feel better." He put it in his mouth and dry-swallowed, wincing. "Nasty." He shrugged. "I don't know where Sherlock is. He's slept all day. He didn't even wake up when you were out. I don't know why." Avery looked concerned, too. "I think he just needs his rest." He took John by the hand. "I want to show you something."
In the living room, Avery had taken his calling-card flowers, the Bird's Foot Trefoil, and put small handfuls into the eye sockets of Sherlock's mantle-skull. He smiled sheepishly, like a six-year-old trying to share something with the person he had a secret crush on. "Thought you'd like it a little brighter in here." He reached in for a gentle nose-kiss before picking up the violin. Avery's tune was entirely different from Sherlock's. While Sherlock's songs were unmistakably melancholy, Avery's were more spirited, more like a bird in flight than Sherlock's compositions which spoke of a loner in a crowd.
The music played on for another hour, the clock ticking over to midnight just as the bow faltered on the strings, stuttering slightly. He turned around, a look of confusion on his face. "John?"
John had slipped into Sherlock's bed. He wanted to remember when they both used to lay there together, fearing that he would never experience it again. He played it like he was asleep, so Avery didn't get the wrong idea. These days, John was always tired. He could feel himself slipping into depression, and no matter how much Avery tried, he felt alone. The door clicked open. The covers were lifted and he slipped under them, sliding his arm over John. John shivered, wanting contact more than ever, but he was never sure who it was.
"John," Sherlock said slowly. "Please don't pretend to be asleep because you're scared. I know you're not. I need you to answer some questions for me." Sherlock swallowed, the mania caused by the drugs starting. He was shaking slightly, not entirely from fear. "How long was I…absent? It has to have been at least seventeen hours. Please tell me it wasn't more than a day. I'm upset enough between this drug and not knowing." He started speaking more quickly. "I also need you to start keeping a diary of Avery's movements and the transitions. It will help to figure out if this is working. Three long weeks of Hell to find out if this is a cure. Unless you see definite signs of things getting worse. But I suppose Avery's presence for more than twelve solid hours is a sign of things getting worse."
His cold fingers met John's. "I need you, John, more than ever. I'm lost and confused and terrified. I've become something I've been frightened of since my childhood." Sherlock was fighting sobs now. "I don't know what to do. Help me."
John flipped around and kissed Sherlock. "I've missed you. He's been manic, he's been mental, I swear to god, he has to go.. He knocked me out!" John babbled on for what seemed like minutes, until he calmed down. "I've missed you, so much. I will help you, I promise." He curled up, resting his head on Sherlock's chest. "I don't want you to go, again. I hate it."
That triggered the sobs Sherlock was trying to hold back. "I don't want to go, either, I never want to, it's like being knocked unconscious but worse because you know you're doing things you don't want to." He lay in the bed crying for the rest of the night, sometimes as silent wriggling Sherlock, sometimes as chatty twitchy Avery, but always heartbroken and shaking and refusing to leave John's side, even though he felt as though his body was going to explode with the manic energy the drug provided.
When daylight came, Sherlock was himself. He felt he needed to apologize, so he woke John up with a full breakfast-in-bed. "I'm sorry, John, for the pain Avery and I are causing you."
John's phone chimed—a text was incoming.
Damn it, John, I thought you were keeping an eye on him!
Lestrade
"What is it?"
"He's done it again. He lied to me. It's Greg… This is all because I wouldn't have sex with him." John sobbed, feeling helpless. "What do I do?" John was panicking, short heavy breaths. Sherlock was trying to calm him, but nothing worked. Oh great, panic attacks. "Help /gasp/ me." He begged, crying against Sherlock's chest.
Sherlock grabbed John's shoulders. "John, focus. Focus on me, focus on us, focus on that first day we met in Bart's when I told you as much about yourself as you knew." He himself was being overwhelmed with panic. "Think of the good things. Think of the time I stole an ashtray for you and the time we chased a cab on foot. Breathe. Concentrate on that if nothing elllllllugh…" The increase in blood pressure was being amplified by the drugs and Sherlock felt very faint. "Concen…conc…c…" His vision swam and he was finding it hard to breathe. He knew his heart had been stressed since his near-fatal overdose, and even worse because of the drugs, but right now, John was what mattered. To hell with his own breathing. "Y…you survived a war. You survived Mmmmoriarty. You're strong, John, you can fight this. My soldier. My John. I need you, John, I need you by my side, as strong and as steady and as loyal as you've always been." His eyes were crossing, but he had to focus. He swallowed the rising vomit with a wince. "Don't you give up."
"Don't you dare ever ever give up," Avery was shouting. "I love you and I couldn't live if anything happened to you. Think. Focus. Brrr—" The shared body couldn't get enough air to his head, his heart beating too fast to be breathing in a way that allowed speech, and he passed out on top of John.
He was breathing, but it was shallow. John moved him into the recovery position and sat there, for an hour. He stirred occasionally, saying 'help' or 'don't go', and John did as he was told. "Wake up, please?" John was lying next to him, his nose against his, begging for him to wake up. "Please, for me?" He shook him a little, there was a gasp and a mutter, and then he was awake. He lay there staring into John's eyes for minutes, and John wasn't sure who it was.
"Don't let me go," Sherlock whimpered. His face looked more careworn than it had of late. It was as though Sherlock's soul was ten times older than his body. He hadn't slept properly, a deep restful sleep, since Moriarty had kidnapped John those horrible weeks ago. "This isn't working, this really isn't working, I can't sleep, and when my mind does, Avery takes control and my body never rests. He's coming more and more and I can't fight it…watch a film with me. Please." He looked almost as if he were resigned to the fact that he was on the verge of death, when in fact, he wasn't. "And then you need to make the appointment for Saturday." He didn't care that the odds were that he'd end up an empty shell—he just wanted Avery gone.
Avery, though, had other ideas. "No!" But that was all he could say as Sherlock slipped into control again. "Please, John." Realizing that John would look for other alternatives first, he fished for another idea. "Or you could institutionalize me or restrain me with straitjackets and a leash or keep me only half-awake with drugs until we find out if this medication will work once it's been in my system for longer, but I can't go on, seeing how much you hurt, seeing how little I can do. I just need to know Avery won't be able to hurt you."
"I could lock-down the flat? I can stock up on essentials and he won't get out. I can deal with him, it's fine." He got up to placed a film into Sherlock's DVD player. He never used it. "What do you want to watch?" He just shrugged back, and John settled for his own Harry Potter. He climbed back in bed with Sherlock and waited. He waited to see if he would change, but he didn't. John enjoyed being so close to him, at every opportunity he'd tell him how much he missed him when he was gone, or how he loved him. He never got the response Avery said he wanted, but that was okay. Sherlock was himself, for now, and that's all that mattered. "I wish you could stay." John said, sadly, as if he was going on a long holiday.
Sherlock stared at the film, but wasn't paying too much attention (except when he shouted that it was obvious that there was something up with Professor Quirrell). They'd started at the beginning of the series due to Sherlock's complete ignorance of it. He managed to stay as himself throughout the film, somehow, jittery from the medicine, and oddly emotional (though still not as emotional as Avery would have been), particularly when they said that love was the strongest form of magic. He was constantly thinking about what to do about Avery.
"I want to see the rest," he said once the credits had finished rolling. "Do you have them all?" He looked hopeful. It was an escape that he needed. His mind wasn't completely absorbed with his own problem, and he was enjoying the films, despite his earlier trepidation.
"Yeah.." John was surprised. Sherlock never took interest in anything John liked. "I'll go and get them." He ran into his room, and picked them up off the shelf. When he returned to the room, Sherlock was plumping up the pillows where John had been lying. John, again, put the DVD in a settled into the bed. He knew Sherlock was just trying to distract himself. "Are you sure you'd rather not play your violin or something to distract yourself?" He smiled, Sherlock would probably get bored of the film eventually, he always did.
"No, this is better. The violin only helps me think, and I don't need that right now." He watched, oddly almost happy. He had the person about whom he cared most sharing peaceful moments with him again, and nothing hurt.
Nothing, at least, until Voldemort's possession of Ginny was revealed. That was like a knife, painful to the point where Sherlock turned onto his side, facing John, and shut his eyes, his hands to his head, trying to deal with the returning fear of having a killer inside him.
John paused the film. He held Sherlock, and told him how it was going to be okay. "I'll do everything I can, because you're that important." He smiled at him, warmly. "We're going to be okay, we'll figure something out." He kissed him, softly. "I've missed your kisses, it sounds pathetic, but Avery forces it onto me." He sighed. "I hope he's sleeping."
"I think he is, but I can never tell." Sherlock looked like a lost child, in fact, much like Ginny had. To make it worse, his body was weak from constant jitters from the medicine coupled with the lack of sleep from the mania. He found himself wanting a teddy bear to hold. John was close enough, and he wrapped his arms around him and he just lay for a few minutes.
His hips began to press into John's with obvious sexual intent. "Whoops, bad timing," came a voice that wasn't Sherlock any more. "Sorry about that." The embrace was stronger now that Avery was in control—more assured of himself. He nuzzled John's neck, kissing it with barely-restrained passion. "I know how you feel about us, but abstinence is overrated." His fingers were running through John's hair, Avery's arms under John's and up his back. "I need it. He's been so hidden all of his life, and you unlocked it and I can't get enough of it." He was starting to lose self-control (not that he'd tried too hard in the first place)—his free leg crawling slowly up John's. He started to almost gurgle with pleasure.
To Harry Watson:
What do you do when there's someone you need but he won't look at you twice except with hate? -Avery
Also, how do I let your brother know that it really, really hurts my feelings when he won't shag me? -Avery
(Harry) Probably bugger off, because if they hate you then you've done something wrong.
(Harry) What the - ? Who the hell is this Avery?
I only have his best interests at heart. I'm protecting him. He can't see that. –Avery
You can also find my blog at birds-foot-trefoil. I won't deny that there may be some connection with those murders. You may also find the answers to some of your questions there. –Avery
(Harry) I highly doubt that my brother would hate someone who truly cared for him that much. Wait… your blog… Sherlock, what the hell are you going on about? Why are you calling yourself Avery?
I am that which Sherlock Holmes can never be. John never told you the full details about what happened Christmas, did he? Suffice it to say that near-death ended in life. –Avery
"W-what are you doing?" John stammered, mostly out of embarrassment. Avery was grinding into him, making John feel terrible. "This isn't fair." He tried to push him off, but he wasn't going to move. "Sherlock wanted me to defend myself." Avery forced his mouth on him. He was struggling to breathe, and was fighting the impulse to go along with it. "Stop it!" He cried, but no, he carried on.
"Don't scream, John. Don't resist. That'll only hurt us both." Avery was too strong, physically, despite the weakness. He was getting closer and closer to the thing he wanted, pulling the clothes from John's body. Then John headbutted him and it knocked him back to being Sherlock.
Sherlock staggered backwards, trying to flee, but fell off the bed and knocked himself in the head with the corner of the table. He blinked, vision starry. He couldn't think about what he'd just done. The evidence was in place that Avery had tried to—
No, he couldn't do this. He ran to the bathroom and got the sedatives he'd gotten from Irene. He ran back to John and put the small syringes in his hands. "Use these. You're not listening to me. Shock him or knock him out or whatever, just do not let him do that again!" But then his face became lustful again, Avery again. "Spoilsport," he muttered. He was about to charge John again when the doorbell rang. He stared at John, daring him to move.
"Yoohoo," came a little peep at the door. Mrs. Hudson stared at the pair of them. "Molly Hooper's at the door, she heard you were ill and wants to see you." Avery stood, breathing hard as Mrs. Hudson went back downstairs.
Sherlock's blog:
I can't even get through a ruddy song without blanking into Avery.
Without my work, without my music, what am I? John's drifting away. I can feel it. He's never sure if it's Avery or I who is looking at him and I think he might leave.
I watched it happen to Uncle Thom. I only met him once, when I was four, but I can still remember as he changed from Thom the haggard war veteran to Patrick the kindly uncle to paranoid Marcus, before the one whose name I never learned but always sang instead of speaking…like Ophelia. And when he turned into Michael, he hurt me, saying he hated my mother for loving father instead of him. Aunt Sarah came to dinners after that, but I never saw my uncle again. And I don't think she did, either.
To make it worse, Mycroft isn't answering his phone, either his texts or his calls, so either he doesn't know what's going on or he's abandoned me. He's always dropped work when something serious is going on with me, but not this time. Why? Is he too frightened of what I've become? If he and John could take turns staying with me while the other got some air, it wouldn't hurt as much. I'd know that they wouldn't be trapped like I have to be. But not even my own brother wants to associate with me. I don't blame him, to be honest. I wouldn't want my own company right now either.
Maybe it's the medicine talking. It makes me anxious, frightened, manic, and emotional. I said neurochemistry was a delicate thing and my body has slept so little since this started. Maybe I should start taking sleeping pills, even though I've had a bad experience with them before.
I see the look in John's eyes when he sees me. Doubt. Fear. The urge to run. It's a miracle he's stayed this long, after what Avery's done and tried to do. It's probably only a matter of time before he can't take it any longer.
What can you do when the one thing you have left is so close to leaving you?
(Harry) Stop. Talking. In. Riddles. I'm bloody annoyed, alright? It's bad enough that I miss every single thing that happens to my brother, but then when people like you turn up and just stir things up a bit more, it becomes more than I can handle. Just get to the point already, and maybe I'll consider listening to you properly.
To Harry Watson:
Dissociative identity disorder caused by the rape, torture, and near-death experiences inflicted by Jim Moriarty. Sherlock's brilliant mind couldn't cope with the trauma and thus invented me. Unlike him, I can feel. I love John and Sherlock. I would kill to keep them safe. I hate Moriarty with a burning passion. I feel anger and fear and pain and pleasure, things Sherlock can never know. Is that to the point enough? -Avery
(Harry) Yes, very. It doesn't mean I have to like it. Where is my brother now? Is he safe?
He is more safe from outside attacks than he has ever been in his life. –Avery
(Harry) But that doesn't keep him completely safe. What about attacks from somewhere, or should I mention someone, that's not outside?
That hurts. I lost my temper just once because he did something stupid and nearly died and now everyone is holding it against me. I'm on medication. It's unlikely to happen again. –Avery
I see from my text history that Avery's contacted you. Sorry you got dragged into this mess. –SH
(Harry) What. Did. You. Do?
He tried to run away by taking Sherlock's cocaine, didn't know what he was doing, and nearly overdosed. I lost my temper and hit him. A few times. He ended up in hospital. I've never done anything I regret more. –Avery
(Harry) You bastard. You sick fuck.
(Harry) Sherlock, thank god. Please tell me that what he said wasn't true.
I had to look through my text history to see what he said. It is true. All of it. I am taking something, though, but it'll be a while before we know if it's working. –SH
John: Right that's it, he's for it.
Harry: Is there anything I can do to help? Anything at all, even just the smallest thing?
John: Not really, there's nothing I can do either, not right now. I have to wait 'til next week to go back to the hospital with Sherlock.
Harry: Well just know that if there is ever anything you can think of, I'm right here. You two are my only priorities.
John: Thank you, Harry. I'll let you know if anything gets worse.
Harry: I hope that it doesn't. With all my heart.
From Harry's blog:
Why on Earth am I John's sister? Was it nature's idea of some kind of joke? I do not have the strength of will to be trusted with looking out for him. He needs someone much more of sound mind than me, and also probably someone who doesn't drink so much. I'm so sorry I'm never there for you, John.
John: Don't apologize, dearest. I don't want you hurt by this.
Harry: John, are you kidding me? You were hurt. That's my only concern. And of course, for Sherlock too, because I know that you love him.
John: Avery just wants to have sex with me, really. I'm not a cheating bastard, and to be honest, he beat me to death. It's only because of Sherlock that I'm here.
Harry: I'm so so sorry. I'm glad you have Sherlock with you. He's much more of a help than I am. But I'm stronger now. I can help too.
"Not now, sorry, Mrs. Hudson." John slammed the door. "Do you want to fight about this, Avery? I have told you. I love Sherlock, not you. I'm sorry. If I was going to have sex with somebody, it'd be him." He could feel his anger rising. "I love him. Clear?" He pushed him onto the bed, cuffing him. "This is the last time I'll warn you before knocking you out with my bare hands." He snarled at him. "I'm going to wash the dishes. You're staying put." and he stormed out of the room, slamming the door hard behind him.
Avery sat for a moment, both aroused at John's sudden military determination and heartbroken. This must be how John had felt since he had realized his love for Sherlock. Alone. Unworthy. Desperate to be appreciated. He sat, slowly descending into a sobbing fit, before snapping into Sherlock for one tiny instant, during which he sent a text to John.
Hussey?
SH
But then Avery was sobbing on the bed again. "Why does everyone hate me?" The words were practically a scream. "I need to survive! I need love! I need to know that I'm worth something! I need…" The words became indistinguishable as manic shouting ensued, Avery pulling on the handcuffs in an attempt to break them. Which he did at great cost to the health of his wrist.
He opened the door, tears streaming down his face, eyes red and puffy. "Fine then, see how you like it on your own." He ran straight for the door before John could stop him, and he was out in the world again.
John immediately pulled out his phone. He had one text from Sherlock. Avery had obviously managed to unlocked his cuffs. He texted Sherlock's phone.
Avery, come back now. We can talk about it, promise. I won't have a go at you. -JW.
He paced back and should he do? He needed him back, so everything was safe. So he was safe. So Sherlock was.
He slumped onto the couch and watched TV.
It had been about an hour. Nothing.
Come back, I miss you. -JW.
He felt a lump in his throat. He did miss him. But most of all, he wanted Sherlock safe.
Two more hours passed before Avery returned, and not by choice. Lestrade had him handcuffed and it was plain that nonlethal weapons had been used on him.
"Caught him waiting in the queue at Heathrow, trying to get some tickets to India, of all places." Lestrade took a second set of handcuffs and cuffed him to the dining table. "Wouldn't have found him if his brother hadn't been keeping an eye out."
Avery moaned. The weapons Lestrade had used to subdue him with weren't deadly, but they certainly hurt. Lestrade spoke quietly to John. "It's getting harder and harder to keep the murders unsolved without doing anything that could get me sent to prison. Hell, if they find out what I've done so far, I'll probably lose my job." Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck. "He needs help, John."
In the background, Avery began to spasm slightly. "Starving…" Lestrade ignored him. "Has he been himself, has he been Sherlock, at any point today?"
"I know. I'm trying, there's only so much one man can take. I'm locking the flat down. He's not getting out. He's been himself for a few hours, but he tried.. never mind." John trailed off.
He showed Greg to the door, and locked it. Nobody was getting in or out.
"The cupboards are stocked, and there's far too much food in the fridge. I have enough sedatives to kill you, everything is hidden and locked away. The keys are in a safe place and we're going to be here for the week. Enjoy." John went into his room and slammed the door. He'd forgot to mention about the bars on the windows, but he'd probably guessed.
Avery's stomach was churning. The pain from the spasms and the fact he hadn't eaten all day was leading to some severe nausea. "John, the handcuffs!" He hadn't been unlocked from the table and was sitting on the floor, arms behind his back, cuffed to the table leg. "John! You should be proud of me! I didn't kill anyone this time!" He said it with the air of someone who'd been in rehab and had managed to go to a bar without drinking. "I recognized some of them from the warehouse and I didn't come near them!"
Nothing. No reaction whatsoever. John was going to ignore him for the rest of eternity.
"Why am I—ow!" Sherlock noticed his wrist, fractured from Avery's previous escape. He didn't notice it by the visible bruising, of course, since his arms were behind him, but he sure noticed the pain. Going by the silence, I'd have to say that Avery was tied up while John went out.
He realized he was hungry. It must have been some time since they'd switched off the film. He looked up at the counter, but nothing was within the reach of his legs or neck. His lips smacked as well—wasn't dehydration one of the side effects? The dehydration could have led to the spasm he felt next; his entire left leg curled quite suddenly and he shouted out involuntarily.
It was time for his next dose of medicine, too, for all the good it was doing him. He sat back against the chair leg and hoped John wouldn't be away too long (even though John wasn't out, he was being quiet enough where Sherlock couldn't even tell).
John walked out of his room to find Avery was on the floor. "What's happened?" He looked at the strangled pain on his face, and realized it was Sherlock. He unlocked him immediately. "Are you okay, Sherlock?" He lifted him up, he was holding his wrist and screaming. "Come into my room, we'll bandage it up."
He pulled him into his bedroom, and got his medical kit out. After it was bandaged and held in place, he hugged him. "Are you hungry? We have enough food. We're locked in the flat, by the way. For a week."
"Starving. I guess Avery's stopped eating much." He managed a weak smile at his own attempt at a joke. "Isn't it time for the medicine, too?" He frowned. "Talking of medicine, have you made arrangements for Doctor Hussey to make a house call? Not that many psychotherapists make house calls, but it might be better that way. Have you started that diary I asked of you? I'm talking too much." He took a deep breath, but it was cut off by an abdominal spasm.
"I have an idea. Those chest harnesses—I saw some on Irene Adler's website—the ones that have the leather straps that cross over? If you put me in one of those and tie the other end to the bed, I won't hurt my wrist again and it's far more secure. They are designed for that purpose, after all, though, not, I expect for restraining a killer in particular." He was happy to have an idea rather than just wallowing in the recent blackness he had been inclined toward. "Use my card—order it by same-day shipping. The extra charge is worth it to retain what little peace of mind I have left." He looked sadly at John, yearning for the days when the worst they had to deal with was nicotine withdrawals. "Then maybe we can watch a different film. With popcorn. Something more normal."
John came back with the diary and the medicine. "Just ordered one of those things.." He passed the tablet and a glass of water to him. He swallowed it, disgusted. He put the film on and sat this time, in his own bed with Sherlock. "I've missed you, so much." He hugged him, not really wanting to let go. "What do you fancy to eat?" He smiled, still not letting go, nuzzling at his neck, like a child. "Hmm?"
Sherlock's body posture was reserved, hesitant even, but slowly he returned the hug. "Honestly, I'm in the mood for pizza. With olives and peppers and sausage. Not sure why." There were tears on his cheek, knowing that their moments together were growing more and more fleeting. "What's the film this time? Since the whole Voldemort-possessing-children thing isn't exactly distracting enough." He lowered his head. "I want to talk about anything but that."
"I'll go and make one if you like." He still wouldn't let go, as if it would make him stay. He moved his head up to his face, pressing his forehead against his. "I love you." He smiled, knowing that if he cried at this moment, he'd regret it. Sherlock gave him a half smile, but his eyes were teary. "I promise, we'll do something about this, and then we can have moments together without worrying when they'll end." He felt himself welling up. He sniffed. "I'll never leave you, no matter what." He kissed him, knowing that the times like this were short.
"That's why I chose you," he said simply and with uncharacteristic tenderness. "Even against all reason, you choose to hope for the best." As John left to go make pizza, Sherlock sat and watched the blank television. The colour was sort of hypnotizing, and before long he was in a slight trance, his mind completely blank for the first time in his life, and it was a good sort of blank. A restful blank. But he came out of it. "John," he said as he walked into the kitchen. "This is going to sound stupid, but may I have a teddy bear? One of the large ones that's the size of a fairly large child. It's just…I need something to hold onto when you're not wherever I am." He flushed slightly. "Preferably with the same colour hair that you have."
"Aw, okay," John giggled. "I actually have one that Harry gave to me, she said it reminded her of me." He brought the pizza out of the oven, and plated it. Then he went to his room [pizza in hand] and got the teddy from under his bed. "Here." He smiled. "I rather feel like I'm going to lose out now." He laughed.
Sherlock smiled and felt as though he was lying with his smile, even though he couldn't stop it. "You loved this, John. The fact that you still have it…" He smelled it. "It smells like you. In a good way." He sat on the bed, legs crossed, the bear in his lap for a few moments before he put it to the side. Once again, Sherlock wondered aloud what film it was they were going to be watching. "What did you say this one was?"
As the adverts at the start of the DVD ran through, he looked only at John, the medicine starting to take effect and heightening his emotions. "Why do I feel like I'm saying goodbye?"
"It's X-men. I'm surprised you've not watched anything!" He sat next to him, holding his hand, gently.
"You're.. not saying goodbye.. don't be silly, we'll work something out. For now lets just enjoy you being here." He smiled, patting his leg, lovingly. "God, I don't know if I have enough DVD's to last a week."
For the longest time, Sherlock said nothing as he watched the film. About halfway through it, though, he muttered "It's the Geek Interpreter all over again." He smiled sideways. He'd started to shake from the medicine, but taking it with food helped significantly, and he wasn't manic, just jittery, and it was still too strong to let him sleep.
Once the film had ended, Sherlock decided to do something about that. "John, I know we said I wouldn't take sleeping pills again, but I haven't slept—at least I don't think I've slept—for more than about an hour since I started taking this medicine. I'm exhausted. I'm consulting my physician about the problem." He desperately needed to sleep, he knew it, physically speaking.
"Doctor Hussey said he can't come for 2 days, he's off. We'll use a sedative until then. Do you want to take it now?" He gulped, wanting to spend more time with him. Sherlock nodded, exhausted. So John went to fetch the pills and some water, and within half an hour he was asleep. He was just waiting for Avery to come through when he woke up, and he hated the idea. He kissed him, turned off the film, and covered him up, teddy in arms. "Time to clean up this place, I think." and John set to work, on cleaning the flat, completely.
Sherlock slept deeply and peacefully, even drooling slightly as he held the bear. His dreams, altered by the two medications, were simple. Just himself and John, lying in a grassy field near his grandmother's house in France, holding hands, basking in the sunlight, feeling the gentle wind tickle his hair. "I love you," John said, and even in his dream, Sherlock couldn't say it back. But that didn't matter, because he was happy. In the dream, he felt his fingers come alive with the warmth of the sun, and he hadn't realized he was cold. After what seemed an eternity of bliss, clouds began to roll in. "Come on," Sherlock said to John. "We need to go back inside." Then he woke up.
He rolled over and looked at the clock. Eleven in the morning. He stood up and went into the kitchen to find it unusually spotless. He didn't notice that he was dragging the teddy bear with him like a child, and indeed, in all but physical age, he looked it—his robe was hanging off one shoulder, his eyes crusted with sleep, drool barely wiped from the corner of his mouth, his hair in a bedhead that could only be called adorable, and the bear dragging the floor. "John," he said simply. "I feel five."
"You look it!" John giggled. "Did you have a nice sleep?" He smiled up at him, from the table. "Hungry?" Sherlock nodded and sat down at the table, snuggling the teddy. "You seem to love that thing." He said, warmly. "Coffee?" Black, two sugars. Sherlock sipped at it tentatively. John hugged him from behind the chair. "You look much better, by the way, not tired at all. Glad you're here." He kissed him on the top of the head. The toaster popped. "Jam?" John asked him, but Sherlock was too busy staring at his teddy. He'd been doing that a lot lately, just staring off.
"J'aime mon ours en peluche," Sherlock said, before realizing he was speaking the wrong language. He blinked slowly. "French. My head's all sort of…fuzzy. But nice. Like children expect a cloud to be. Like candy floss." He smiled. "It's nice. Quiet. Peaceful. Good peaceful, not boring peaceful. It's strange." He picked up his toast with his right hand, left hand running through the short fur of the bear. "I think I like it."
He finished his breakfast quietly, taking his dose of medicine, humming on occasion without realizing he was doing so. When he was done, he sat in his chair in the living area, and picked up Avery's sketchbook. There were three finished pictures, one of a flower, the same sort as was clumped in handfuls in the eye sockets of the skull on the mantle, and two of John. The first one of John was him lying as if just awakened from a nightmare, Avery's sharp, brutal handwriting in an inscription at the bottom: "don't be sad, John." The second was of John injured; Avery had written "never again, I promise you, never will another hand harm you." Sherlock's face fell. He could tell how much Avery cared in a way he couldn't. It stung. He unconsciously gripped the teddy bear more tightly. He'd decided to call it Hamish, but he wasn't going to say anything yet.
"He can draw," he said, showing the sketchbook to John. "Nice to know he's good for something." He scrunched his face. He'd realized what he'd said about, essentially, himself. "Not what I meant." A short pause later, and he was starting to feel jittery again, less childlike. He didn't want the feeling to fade. "What shall we do today?"
Sherlock's blog:
It was nice while it lasted.
I think this medication, in combination with John's sleeping pills, is doing some good after all.
After I fell asleep, I had a rather lovely dream about being back in France. John was there, of course, by my side as always, and we just sort of lay in the grass and watched the clouds.
When I woke up, I felt peaceful, like I haven't felt in years. Properly peaceful, not the sort of peace I used to get from cocaine. Actual proper happiness. I haven't been happy like that since the last time I was in France—perhaps that's why I dreamed of being there. It was like my mind was made of candy floss instead of an Escher painting. I liked it. I needed to feel that way for the first time in thirty years and despite the potential dangers of the chemical interactions, I'm going to take them both together again tonight. I am living with a doctor, after all.
But then I had to take my medication again, without the sleeping pill, and now the jitters are back. Taking this on a full stomach seems to keep the mania at bay, just a bit, but it doesn't seem to be doing much to suppress Avery. In fact, going by the physical signs, he's getting worse.
But, as idiotically sentimental as it seems, this teddy bear John gave me helps me to relax. Not physically—the drug has seen to that—but mentally. I think it reminds me of the time when I was too young to understand the world.
"Not sure, anything you like?" John smiled. They obviously couldn't go out, so he had to think of something. "We still have DVD's and stuff. Apart from that, I don't think we have anything to do." He should have planned for this. "We can bake cakes?" he suggested, waving his hand absently. Sherlock nodded, excitedly. "Okay then, cakes it is."
Sherlock burst into wholesome laughter. "Last time I tried to bake a cake, I ended up giving the whole family food poisoning." He smiled. "I was eleven. It was Mycroft's going-away-to-university present." He stood up from his chair and walked to the kitchen. "But we can give it a try." He looked sadly at the empty table, now cleared of his chemistry equipment. "Who knows, if this medicine doesn't work out, maybe I could do that for a living instead. Sherlock Holmes, consulting baker." A tear rolled down his cheek, the expression of the cold depression that was returning at the thought of never being able to reliably be himself again.
John hugged him. "Come on, let's go." He pulled him into the kitchen. The next half hour was filled with laughing (childishly) and flicking ingredients at each other. When the cake was done, Sherlock insisted on icing it. "Fine." John pouted. "I'll go and watch TV while you do that then." and he slumped down onto the couch, happily. Sherlock was here for now, and that was all that mattered.
Sherlock had iced it before the cake had cooled, and the sugary liquid was running all sorts of everywhere. By this time, he was starting to resign himself to the depressing thought that he'd never be a detective again. He put the cake into the refrigerator (where the head used to be, he thought solemnly) to cool before returning to his chair in the living room. "Cakes instead of heads. Icing instead of blood. Candles instead of fingers. Flour and sugar and water where there used to be human tissues and chemicals and science." He was talking to himself softly. "I don't want to give up what I am."
The doorbell buzzed, and Sherlock knew better than to answer it. He knew what it probably was, delivery of the harness they'd use to restrain Avery. His quiet mutterings became more frantic. "I don't want to be caged like an animal. Like a rabid dog. Like something not human. Caged inside myself, inside this flat, torn from the only thing I've ever found to fully satisfy my mind, never seeing anyone again except for the one person I can almost love who will become my jailer." He was crying again, panicking again, and he knew that it was because of his medicine making him more emotional, making him realize that many of his worst fears were coming true.
He buried his head in the teddy bear and felt a little better. The panic was easing slightly, though the quiet tears kept coming like a raging waterfall, and he was trembling as he stared into the unlit fireplace.
Sherlock's blog:
Something's wrong with my mind.
Aside from the split, obviously.
I can't hold emotion back. I can't stop it. It's too strong. It's never been like this before, and I can only assume it's due to this medication. Since I've begun taking it, I've been more frightened than I've ever been, I've been the happiest I've been in thirty-four years, I've been deeply, deeply sad, and I've been at peace.
It feels wrong. But strangely right.
Is this what it's like to be normal? All these distracting emotions, cluttering up your minds, making you prone to irrational conclusions?
How do you function?
"Mrs. Hudson will get it." John said, "It's okay.. When we've been to see Doctor Hussey on wednesday, I shan't keep you locked up in here for much longer. I'm not even trying to keep you in, I'm stopping Avery from getting out." He sighed. "But hey, he's not been around for a while, so let's watch Pirates of the Caribbean, you wanted to, right?" He grabbed Sherlock by the hand and pulled him onto the couch. "It's okay, I promise." He wrapped his arms around him, snuggling into his neck.
Sherlock wiped his eyes on John's hair. "Yes. Let's." He couldn't find it in himself to smile because he felt so black, but the fact that John was trying to help him no matter what comforted him. "I know it's not me you're trying to…" He couldn't say imprison. "But it hurts so much. And I can't even focus to keep the emotions out." He hadn't realized he was hugging John, but he was, like a frightened child who had nearly fallen from a great height. He didn't want to fall.
"Hey, it's okay, seriously." John cupped Sherlock's face and looked him in the eyes. "You're brilliant and amazing. You out of all people can pull through this. I have utter faith in you." Sherlock blinked at him, doubtfully. "I mean it. You're strong. You can do this. Don't panic, everything will be okay."
Sherlock's brow was deeply furrowed. "I can't help but panic. That's the horror of it." There was a knock on the door. "Mrs. Hudson."
"Boys, why've you locked your doors? There's a package for you out here."
Sherlock released John from his desperate hug and cleared his throat, wiping his face properly. "You should get that. Then we should—" He swallowed. "Yes. You know." He shut his eyes as if trying to remain composed. "Whose room?"
John got the package and said it was all for a case. He turned to Sherlock. "Mine." He slowly walked in, heaving the box. Sherlock sat down onto the bed, looking glum. "Hey, we can bring the film in here." John brought the film in, and Sherlock's teddy. "I'm going to make you some tea." He smiled. Really, he just needed to think. Sherlock seemed to see himself as a problem, and thus wanted to be restrained.
When John returned with the tea, he cleared his throat, so Sherlock would notice. "Right, look. I'm not putting you in that right now." He nodded at the package. "You're not a problem, I'll get Avery into it when I need to. I can knock a man out."
Sherlock sipped the tea slowly; he really wasn't thinking about it. "You'd hesitate. You wouldn't strike first. I know you too well for that. Would you really hit him the instant he emerges or would you wait for him to—to do something?" Sherlock knew the answer. Even as a soldier, John's self-restraint was spectacular, and Sherlock was frankly amazed he hadn't fought back yet (with the exception of the headbutt). Sherlock put the teddy between the two of them, hoping to prevent Avery's advances. "I always wanted to be a pirate as a child. No rules. Take what you wanted. Don't have to be nice if you don't want to be. Sword fights." He smiled slightly, remembering the times Mycroft had humoured him by play-swordfighting. "Did you always want to be a doctor?"
"No.." He laughed. "I wanted to be a writer. But it's just not practical, so when I reached high-school I just.. went a different way." He sighed. He remembered how he used to fill books and books with stories. "I was never any good." He smiled, reassuringly, trying to show Sherlock that he was happy with it.
Slowly, he moved the teddy. "If he's going to do something, I promise I'll punch him at the first sign. So, if I hurt you, I'm sorry." He curled up almost around Sherlock. "I love you." He sighed as he drifted off into sleep.
Sherlock sat in his protective embrace, the gentle warmth putting him in that sort of semiconscious state one is in when one isn't quite tired enough for a nap but tries to take one anyway. The medicine in his system kept him twitchy and shaking, but they sat like that for some time, the television on, but the DVD not in the machine.
When John finally woke up, several hours later, he noticed Avery's sketchpad was on the bed next to Sherlock. Avery had woken up for a while. One of them—Avery or Sherlock—had returned to the little half-awake ball he'd been in before. He wasn't shaking any more; it was next time for the next dose of medicine.
"You're awake," said the shared voice. "Hello." He shifted and noticed the sketchpad. "Oh. Avery's been awake." Sherlock picked up the book and looked at the latest drawing. It was a picture of John, lonely, and had a poem underneath:
the pain in the eyes of the soldier
fighting a private combat
do not cry, my captain
it will be alright in the end
Sherlock closed the book. He looked around, taking in the rest of the room. "He hasn't done anything other than draw, has he?"
"Not that I know." John groaned, "I'm so fucking stupid. I shouldn't of slept. I needed it though." He gazed up at Sherlock. "I don't know why he keeps drawing me. It's kind of.. strange. I've told him about my lack of feeling towards him, but.. something feels.. wrong…" John trailed off. He'd thought about how Avery and Sherlock were the same in some ways. How Avery was the side of Sherlock with emotion. But he was so different at the same time. Promiscuous, violent, resentful. That was not the man John knew. As he explained this to Sherlock, he felt his heart beat rising. Sherlock could take it the wrong way. "..And the only way I know it's him, is when he tries it on with me or if he says a hurtful comment."
Sherlock grew pale at hearing the details of Avery's behaviour and he closed his eyes. "A part of my psyche I've either been able to control or was completely absent." His eyes snapped open again. "There's something more, isn't there? Something you're not telling me." He couldn't remember when John had told Avery about the Moriarty inside his head. But he knew something was wrong, not only with himself, but with John, too. "Tell me, John."
"I.. told him something personal. Something I didn't know how to tell you…" Sherlock looked pained. "I've been hearing.. a voice. Not just any voice, but.. Jim's. He's been telling me to do things, like get away from you, and to be with Avery. It's scary. I don't do what he tells me to, obviously. My own mind is the strongest. I can fight against it, I can do what I want, for now."
For a moment, Sherlock couldn't say anything. His terror had doubled. "Have you told anyone? You need to tell someone who can help. I should have realized—stupid, stupid, stupid." He was shaking his head, trying to stave off the panic at the thought that John might be headed toward the same sort of break. "What have I done?" Sherlock saw it as his fault. If he'd never grown attached to John in the first place, Moriarty would never have considered coming after John. He might never have even met him except that once in Bart's. Not even then, really.
Sherlock pressed John's phone into his hands, desperately trying not to hyperventilate again. "You have to call Hussey or Thompson or someone and arrange a sooner appointment. It can't wait three days. This is an emergency, John."
"I'm fine, really. Sounds ironic, but I don't like doctors prodding and poking into my personal business." He coughed. "Okay, other doctors. I don't want to go, it can wait. I've not had any issues today, or yesterday. So everything will be fine." Sherlock was pacing saying words like 'stupid, issues', or 'I should have known.' "John stopped him, holding his head in place. "Stop. I am fine." He threw his arms around Sherlock. "Trust me. Now let's focus on you."
"No, you aren't fine. If I lose you in the same way I'm losing myself, I'll have nothing left—nothing!" He was panicking. "I thought maybe, since you were a soldier, the things you saw on the battlefield would harden you, protect you, but, oh God, oh God, oh God…" His pacing became more frantic and his breathing more ragged. He didn't want to think about what darkness the mind of a soldier, a trained killer would have, let alone what it might do with his medical knowledge. He was overreacting a bit and he knew it, but his medication had stripped away any layers of emotional detachment and was causing him a flurry of emotions that he wasn't used to. He turned to John with extreme manic urgency.
"If you love me, you will do this for me. You will arrange to have a psychiatric doctor come here tomorrow, before noon. He or she will see us both." He hated using John's feelings for him to manipulate him, but he needed to know that one of them, at least, was going to be sane.
"Fine." John walked out of the room. He picked up the phone, and dialed the number that was now naturally there, in his mind. "Doctor Hussey? We need an appointment tomorrow. Yes, yes I know you're busy, but this is urgent. I insist. Okay. Yep. See you then."
He clicked the phone off and sat down at the table. You wouldn't be in this situation if you'd just listened to me and let Avery have his way with you. You still could, you know. Sherlock isn't going to take you any time soon.
John shook his head, as if a miniature Moriarty was going to tumble out so he could stamp on him. He wanted it to stop.
"Thank you." But then Sherlock saw John shake his head, eyes closed tightly as if fighting something. All colour had drained from Sherlock and he looked like a walking corpse. "John, are you hearing him again?" He grabbed John by the shoulders, a bit too tightly, but nowhere near Avery's strength. "Please, listen to me. You have to focus on me, on us, on everything that made us so beautiful together." He did something that he wasn't certain was a good idea because it could trigger Avery, but he reached down and brushed his lips against John in his own way of kissing. "You have to remember what we were," he whispered as he pulled away, his eyes pleading. His silvery blue eyes stood out from his paler-than-usual face, desperate, as if hanging onto his sanity by one thread called John Watson.
"Imagine if I had a split personality like Avery? Imagine he was like you, and could detach himself from emotions and spoke to you the way that.. I don't know, Irene did? Imagine that, now imagine that they wanted to make a pass at you every time they were around, and you had to fight it, whilst fighting yourself? I hate this!" John was sobbing loudly, and he fell to the floor, as if he had nothing left to hold him up.
"I want it to be me and you. Not Avery and Jim. That's what it'll end up like!"
"I…I am imagining it." His voice was shakier than it had ever been before. "That's what's terrifying me." He reached down and put his arms around John. "Don't go. But I don't want to torture you further, either. If—if you think it would be better to just—" He couldn't say it. He didn't know what to feel. On the one hand, Avery was making things far far worse, and it would be good for John to get away from him every so often, but on the other hand, Sherlock needed John badly. What was he going to do?
Then he remembered something that had, in his childhood, calmed his own nightmares. He stood up and crossed the flat and began playing his violin, an improvised lullaby tune, simple, relaxing, and peaceful. Sherlock trembled at first from his own insecurities, but before long felt his fingers steady as he hoped the tune would help to ease both his and John's addled minds.
"I'm not sure I should mix two tablets not prescribed for me. I'll take the ones Doctor Hussey gave you, but that's it. I'm sure I'll be fine." He went to get the tablets and some water. They both sat back down on the floor and swallowed them. Sherlock had refused to sleep whilst John was manic, as it was dangerous for him to go it alone.
It had been an hour, and John started to feel jumpy. "Is there any food in this house, I'm so hungry, oh my god. Food food food, Sherlock do you want some food? I'd like some. Should I make some food?" Sherlock was sitting in his chair with his eyebrow raised. He was telling John to sit down, but he wouldn't listen, he'd taken to spinning around in circles.
Something, Avery possibly, told Sherlock to get out the video camera. So he did, leaving it running in the corner with an empty memory stick. Sherlock wished John would film Avery, but he hadn't yet. He smiled, amused for the first time in a long time. "We could try my cake. Or if that's not alright, some beans on toast or something. You know how bad I am at cooking." He, too, had omitted the sleeping pill and was starting to grow manic. They would watch the video tomorrow when lucid and laugh, no doubt. He got the knife and sliced the cake with the skills of a ten-year-old (his hands were shaking too badly and it took a good deal of focus to not cut himself).
"Oh, GOD," he shouted around a bite of mediocre cake. "We've turned into hyperactive eight year olds!" Sherlock laughed at the thought, wondering exactly what John was like at that age. He put his plate down and before he could stop himself, was jumping on the sofa. Once he tired of that, he stared at the cake, speaking rapidly. "Sugar while manic. Not the best of plans. Certainly not my most shining moment. I'll make us some beans. And toast. Toast is good."
Ten minutes later, Sherlock sat in his chair, across from John, and was flicking beans at him.
"Stop flicking beans at meeee!" John was giggling. "Come over here?" He gestured next to him. Sherlock gingerly moved across the room to sit next to John. "Guess what? I like you, but no actually I love you, and it's weird because I can't help it and I can usually control my emotions, or I think I can or whatever." He rambled on for about 20 minutes before flinging himself at Sherlock, hugging him and not letting go.
Sherlock laughed, almost cruelly, but he was still himself. "John Watson, controlling his emotions?" Then he stopped laughing. "I wish I could say it back, John. I really do. But I can't. I can't." His own face was buried in John's coat, crying miserably. "Love has always been the one emotion I can never come close to touching. It's so…alien. Wrong. That's why it took so long to start our courtship. I didn't want to expose myself to it. But…even though I still can't love, I'm so glad I tried." He was shaking hard from the medicine and refusing to let go of John's jumper. "We'll be fine soon. I hope." Then he made a misguided attempt at a joke: "All four of us."
"I just wonder what you would do without me. I know you lived alone before me, but really, what was it like? Were you content with being alone? If I was to leave right now, are you saying that it'd be the same? Almost as if I was never there?" John was starting to cry, but not like usual. No, this was hysterical. He and Sherlock were shaking with what felt like the same emotion, but according to Sherlock, it was different. "Tell me, Sherlock, how are we different?" He'd pulled himself up to look at him. "I was alone, but then we met. Now I depend on you. I know you depend on me. We go through the same things concerning each other, and you're just too scared to say anything." He was coughing and spluttering on his tears. "I'm going to bed." and with that, he'd gone to continue his hysterical sobs in his room.
John left before Sherlock could say "I didn't know how broken I was before we met"; he didn't have time to say "You filled the hole I hadn't realized was empty". John had gone to his room and Sherlock just lay where he was, shaking, staring at the ceiling, wondering when these emotions would please just stop.
And for a while, between two and nine in the morning, they did, in a way. Avery was there. He turned the camera off—the battery was wearing down anyway—and wrote a poem:
the other half of my soul
once empty
now filled
love is a wond'rous thing
that leaves its footprints
upon the heart
but now 'twould seem
my other half is breaking
that foul darkness
engulfing him
please
may the light of a million prayers
protect him from his pain
I cannot lose him
I would die
a shattered man
At nine-thirty, Avery woke John with a respectful kiss. "All I want is your happiness."
"-mmfSherlock?" John mumbled out of his pillow. "S'goin' on?" He turned round to see that it wasn't Sherlock, at all. Avery was standing there, watching him. "Oh.." He said in a very glum tone. "I guess you know what happened. I just wanted him to say it back." He got up and threw his arms around Avery. You've admitted defeat.
Avery smiled. Finally, acceptance. "Thank you, John." He smiled warmly. "You don't know what that hug means to me." He returned it, and planted a more insistent kiss on John's mouth, but nothing beyond the norm of an average couple. He sat down, holding John's hand. "I know you want him to say he loves you. I think I want him to say it, too. He knows he's happier, more fulfilled than he was without you." Avery's thumb ran across John's. "I was never too clear on the plan—were we seeing Hussey at his practice, or was he coming here?" He didn't mention what he knew—it was time for his next dose of medicine.
"We assumed Sherlock would be here, so we said we'd go out. I'll have to cancel it now." He pulled out his phone and sent a text. "But I will have to go on wednesday.. you know. He wants you gone. It's for the best, for him, for his own sanity." John felt sick, he suddenly realized how very wrong this was. He cares more than the other one ever did. "I'm going to make some food." He stood up, pulling his hand away, and as he walked out of the room, it felt like it was burning, as if it'd had acid spilt on it. Avery followed him, but didn't notice this, and he continued to put his arms around John at every given opportunity.
"Don't you think it would be better for Hussey to see me and not just Sherlock?" Avery's hand reached for John's again. When John pulled away, the message was clear. "He needs to see you. Sherlock was right. It is an emergency. It's like you want to be in pain when he's not here. You shouldn't suffer for something so selfish. I can't control the changes any more than he can." He bit his lip. "Besides, there's always the chance there will be another switch before we arrive or while we're in the…what do you call it, anyway? Session? Interview?" He looked at John sadly. "I can see the conflict in your eyes. You hate yourself for wanting me—that little bit of you that does. For that reason, I'm doing everything I can to avoid shagging you right here and now." His eyes glittered. "And trust me, it's not easy." He took John's phone out of his pocket, not exactly hiding his ulterior motive, but controlling his long thin fingers. "Uncancel the appointment."
"Fine." John sent another text, explaining how the situation was getting worse. All the while, Avery was trying to kiss up the back of his neck. John shivered. It felt wrong. John moved away from him. "I'm gonna, um, go and watch telly." He sat down on the couch, stretching his legs out on it, so he couldn't sit down next to him.
Avery didn't want to give up his physical expression of his love, but knew that unless he controlled himself, John would never accept him. He sat in John's chair, knowing that it would probably be hard on John to see Avery sitting in Sherlock's. "When is the appointment?" John didn't so much as acknowledge that he'd spoken. "Damn it, John! It hurts when you pretend I'm not here. It hurts when you ignore me. I am real and I exist and this…this lack of willingness to accept that I am a person hurts. I've seen the results of this sort of treatment. No friends. Everyone hates that person. No one listens to what he has to say. He is denied his purpose in living. He is constantly told he's useless and evil and he should just die—because that's what it would do to me. It would kill me to just "go away". It's agony. The only thing keeping me from—" Avery swallowed, fighting back hysterical tears. "From doing as you seem to want and ending my life is that it would also kill Sherlock. And that would kill you."
"I didn't say anything." John muttered, absently. "I know you want to have sex with me, but I'd be cheating on Sherlock. Not happening." He was still staring at the TV, refusing to look up at him. "You know I'm physically attracted to you, and the emotion I have is only there when Sherlock is. I'd have sex with you if I didn't have the emotion for him, but I do." He finally looked up. "I'm sorry." He got up and went over to the table where he'd left the tablets, (he'd left them under some books so they'd be hidden,) "Time for your medication." He passed one over in the usual fashion.
"One won't be enough," Avery said softly before taking it. "I know why you're doing what you're doing. I know why you ignore me at every chance. But it hurts. I feel like there's no point to living, not here, not tied up and drugged, with you barely seeing me as a living being, and treating me accordingly." His voice started to break. "More than once I've thought about stopping this. Stopping—stopping everything. You and Sherlock together, that's what's preventing me from—" He breathed deeply. "I could never hurt him. I could never hurt you. But you seem to want me dead, you want me gone, the sooner the better and to hell with how I feel about it. Every time you look at me like that, I just want to blow my brains out. I need you, I love you, I have to have you and for you to see me as just—" He paused and blinked. "What has he been saying?" Sherlock looked around the room. "Or for that matter, what has he been doing?"
"Nothing bad." John muttered. "He wants me to have sex with him, but he's not forcing me into it. I just told him that whilst I find him, that being you, physically attracted, I'm not emotionally attached to him whatsoever. I'm sorry for last night by the way.." He trailed off, looking around. "I know you can't help it." John flung his arms around Sherlock and kissed him, more than he usually would have. He had to battle the urges that the voice forced upon him, he wanted Sherlock, not Avery. He had to battle it, he needed to, before he lost himself. He carried on, his hands in Sherlock's hair. Stop, you don't want him! You want Avery! But he didn't listen.
"Um," Sherlock said around John's mouth. "You sure thisgoodidea?"
It wasn't. Avery was back and with a passion. Things were starting to get out of control again, thrusting and squirming and tangling their limbs together, mouths all over one another's necks and faces. Avery even passionately kissed John's scar, his soldier's most prominent physical proof of his courage. He was on top of John in the middle of the rug, trying to worm his clothes off to complete the act. This time the only thing that stopped him was the doorbell ringing. "Our taxi," Avery gasped breathlessly, frozen on the verge of complete disrobing. "We never get there, do we?" He stood up reluctantly and got dressed again. "Ah, well, maybe later."
John slid into the taxi with Avery. He placed his hand on John's knee. He shuffled towards the window. "No," He stared out of the window. "I'm sorry, Avery." He knew that today he could lose Avery and Sherlock. "It's over now, really." He muttered, sadly.
They pulled up to the hospital. They walked down long corridors, and up to the lab. Doctor Hussey greeted them. "Avery, I'd like to say goodbye." John was getting teary. He wouldn't have time to say goodbye to Sherlock. "I don't want to do this until Sherlock's back." He was shaking.
Doctor Hussey pulled him to one side. John told him about the voice, and he prescribed him some pills. He reminded him that they'd be using the machine today. The one that only gave a 40% chance.
Avery was crying too, the full slap-in-the-face of statistics like a death sentence. "G…goodbye, John. I love you. I love you so much. I'm doing this for you. I'm dying for you. There's no one I'd rather die for." He slowly sat down onto the bed, stoically staring at the ceiling. "Will you be there, John, when they turn the machine on? I…I want you to be the last thing…I ever see." His face changed to an expression of momentary confusion before sadness kicked in. "Oh." Sherlock had realized where he was and what was about to happen.
The doctors and nurses all left, saying things like "we'll give you a few moments."
"John, I'm afraid." It was plain he was trying to hold himself together, knowing that this could be the last time John ever saw him as something other than an empty shell. He wanted to be his old self as he said goodbye. He grabbed John's hand and held it tightly. "I need my laptop."
He typed a blog entry before turning back to John. "I need you there when…when it happens. Even if they don't want you to come in, promise me you'll find some way to make them let you hold my hand."
Sherlock's blog:
Forty per cent. That's all the chance I have. And there's no guarantee that I'll come out dominant even then. It could be Avery. Forever.
In the statistically-high event that neither personality survives this procedure, know that you made my life the best it had ever been. I never knew how empty my soul was before you filled that deep chasm. Thank you for that. You've taught me so much about myself. I didn't understand love or friendship or anything like that before you opened the box that held my heart. I think I do now.
If Avery is the one to survive, let me say that I hope he can learn to control his feverish passions. You, John, of all people, would be the one person who can help him. Perhaps, in time, you could love him as you love me and as I think he loves you. Don't feel guilty if you start to feel yourself loving him. Or, for that matter, anyone else.
Know that I don't want you to live your life in mourning if I am gone. Mark my passing by living a life you're happy in. Don't cry if you hear a violin. Don't weep as the rain falls. Don't keep a police radio by your bed and wonder "what would Sherlock do?" before dissolving into depression.
If my mind is lost forever and my body becomes nothing but a shell, it's your choice what to do with it. Terminate life support and bury me or keep up hope that I could recover. It's up to you. Knowing you, you'll keep it in the hospital until it can't survive any longer with even life support, hoping against reason that one day I'll come back. Your stubborn persistence in optimism is one of my favourite of your traits.
Live. Love. Remember me fondly, but don't let the memory control you. I wouldn't want that. Live your own life, not the one you think I'd want.
Believe me to be, my dear friend, sincerely yours.
John held his hand. "I love you, and I know you can't say it back, but.. I do." Sherlock was in panic; he and Avery were sharing right now.
Avery came back for about five minutes, before he changed back, and it was this way for the next half hour.
Avery was sobbing, confessing his love for John, over and over. "I'm so sorry, Avery. You're dying for me. I'd never do this if you weren't affecting Sherlock, you know that." John leaned over the table and brushed his lips over Avery's. "I never accepted you, and I'm sorry. I'll miss you, in my own way. Thank you."
Avery smiled tearfully and grabbed John's hair. Then his grip weakened—he was Sherlock again, and just in time for the nurses to come back.
"It's time."
Sherlock looked deep into John's eyes and before they started to wheel him away, he managed to choke out five words. "John Watson, I…love you."
They had him in the operating theatre, and John had scrubbed up, insisting that he be present, not only as a friend, but as a medical doctor. The attending physician reluctantly agreed, and before too long, they were attaching a device to Sherlock's head.
He was on a medicine that kept him sedated but conscious—too weak to say anything, but drugged enough so he wouldn't be in too much pain. He needed to be conscious for the treatment to have any chance of working. His fogged eyes looked to John and squeezed his hand with all the effort he could muster (which was feeble, considering how sedated he was).
"This won't be pleasant to watch," Hussey said. He ran numerous checks on the machine to make sure it was working properly before switching it on. Sherlock cried out and convulsed violently, his hand half-breaking John's as he thrashed about. Then they turned it off and Sherlock moaned in pain before they switched it on again. This process was repeated ten times, and the reaction grew less profound with each one, until finally there was no reaction at all.
"That's meant to happen," Hussey said to John as he checked his final vitals. Sherlock was unconscious now, completely out of it—his mind had run away from the pain his body was in, precisely as expected. "Everything's gone well," Hussey said. "We'll give him a few hours to recover and then start testing." The nurses wheeled Sherlock out of the OR and into a recovery room, where he remained unconscious.
"That was basically a lobotomy." John spat. "You didn't say…" He ran off to Sherlock's room so he could wait for him to wake up.
After an hour or two, there was movement of the fingers, showing that he was coming back round. As who, though, John didn't know. He held his hand, the whole time. A faint hearted squeeze was returned.
"How is he?" Hussey had come around to check. John told him about the squeeze, and Hussey shook his head. "It happens often, even in the comatose. It's not a definite sign of recovery, but it does show that he has motor control."
It was another weary five hours before there was another sign, and this time, a promising one. John looked up to see Sherlock's eyes open. Not focussed, just open. Staring at the wall across from him, expressionless, vacant.
"Sherlock?" John walked in front of where his eyes were. "Are you with me?" He was waving his hands around. Hussey came in and said how it'd take a while for him to get back to his normal state.
John sat back down in the chair. "You know, Sherlock. I'll love you regardless. I'm going to look after you, I promise." He kissed his hand. "I won't leave you." Sherlock turned his head, his eyes still vacant. John felt all his hope drain from him. "Please." He squeaked.
Something in Sherlock's mind tingled at John's kiss. It was just a vague sensation, the words closest to being able to describe it would be "thank you for keeping me safe", but his mind was so muddled, he couldn't even think the words. All he could do was blankly stare. His eyes still couldn't focus and wouldn't follow movement, and it seemed he was looking through John rather than at him and that he had turned his head because he'd registered a presence rather than John specifically. His hand clenched around John's again, only slightly.
John smiled, relief spread through him. He was going to be okay.
It took about four hours before Sherlock could form basic words, and Doctor Hussey said he was okay to go home. He had to be taken in a wheelchair, but he was allowed all the same. John spoke to him all the way back to Baker street.
When they arrived, he seated Sherlock in his chair. He'd had to carry him upstairs. He fetched him a drink and some food, and left him to watch television whilst he cleaned up his room for him.
He still stared blankly a large majority of the time, barely registering anything that was going on. The only time he showed any sign of significant awareness was when John was in his range of vision. Sherlock was slowly recovering.
"Com…puter," he managed, and attempted a blog entry. It took him ten minutes to type, but eventually he managed "thfank yuou jhoin" before a tear of gratitude rolled down his face.
John kissed him on the top of the head. "It's going to take time, love. But it'll be okay, I promise you." He brought him his teddy, and placed it next to him. "Here, I know how much you love this."
Sherlock held the bear weakly. "Ha…mish," he said with much difficulty. "Named. Ha-mish." He blinked slowly. He was managing to piece together more and more, but was having a vast amount of motor control difficulty.
It could be days before he recovered full use of his limbs or even his mouth. He understood that and did his best to struggle through. "Food."
John was thrilled that Sherlock had named it Hamish, it was adorable.
"Okay, love." He made him pizza, it seemed to be his favorite lately. He put it in front of him. "Can you pick it up, or do you want some help?" Sherlock tried to move his arms but the most he could manage was his fingers. John helped him by moving it to his mouth, Sherlock took a large bite. He must have been famished because he'd not eaten in days.
Sherlock ate gratefully. He'd finished half a slice before managing a feeble attempt at a slurred conversation. "Look. Us. Fra…fragile. Brok-ken." He was starting to cry softly. He'd watched his great-grandmother after her stroke and it was similar to this, being so weak you can't even feed yourself. It frightened him then and it was frightening him now. "Photo…mantle…where is?" There was a photograph of himself and John that used to sit on the mantle. It was Sherlock's favourite—the two of them at nighttime, standing on a bridge across the Thames. Why hadn't he noticed it had been moved? "Why…moved?"
"It's in my room. I moved it because I wanted it near me. I'll put it back now." John went to get it and placed it back in its place. Sherlock smiled. "Don't worry about this, you'll be okay." He pulled his chair next to Sherlock's and placed his head on his shoulder. "I'm going to be here the whole time, if that's what you want."
"Yes." He spoke unfalteringly. "Stay." He leaned his head back onto John's and before long fell asleep.
But it wasn't a peaceful sleep. His dream was filled with abstract bursts of violent white light and painful sharp noises, like there was lightning in his head. Every time one of these went off, he would yelp slightly.
He jerked awake and realized he was squeezing the teddy bear quite hard. "John. Wake."
"Hello, you. Are you okay?" John smiled at him, kissing the end of his nose. Sherlock looked tired and scared.
"Tea?" John got up and went into the kitchen. It was time for his own medication.
"Oh, Sherlock? I'm on medication now." He sat back down. "I feel great."
"Nnnight…mare." Sherlock's arms were starting to work better now, still not enough to be able to hold his tea, but enough to try to reach out to his cup. He flinches at the nose-kiss, residual trauma from what Moriarty's done, but he doesn't react any more violently than that. "Good. Happy…for you." His eyes smiled a little, even though the rest of his face showed no sign of it (not because he wasn't, but because his motor control was still hit-and-miss). He groaned and shut his eyes. "My head…" The flashes and noises still continued, though significantly less intense than when he was asleep. It was like having a pinball machine stuck in his head, with an eternal 1970s teen at the controls. "Mild hallu…hallucin…hallu-cin-a-tions." He winced again as there was a particularly loud bong. "Not mild. Noisy. Bright. Thunder…pinball." He reached a hand towards his teacup and put his finger through the handle, but was unable to lift it.
"Here." John helped him by moving it to his lips. "Would you like an aspirin? You could do with something to stop your head from hurting." He went to fetch some. "I'm going to put Pirates of the Caribbean on for you; I know how much you like it.
Sherlock was quiet whilst watching the film, like he was thinking. He couldn't move his arms up to his thinking position, though, it was too much effort. After the film, he tried to get up, his legs collapsed under him. "Sherlock, you need to rest, we'll train your legs when you've spoken properly."
"Need body…to obey…" Sherlock was plainly frustrated at his inability to control his body. His speech was improving now; he could make more than one-syllable words without difficulty. "Vocal excer…exercises." He was flopped back down in his chair and he began to slowly attempt an old theatre vocal warm-up: "To sit in sol—solemn silence on a dull, dark dock, in a pesti—pestilential prison with a life-long lock, awaiting the sensa…tion of a short, sharp shock, from a cheap and chip…py…" He didn't have the strength to finish the rest of it, but was pleased he'd gotten out that much. His face was scrunched up in frustration and pain and his fingers were twitching irritatedly. "L…" He had to take a few deep breaths. "Les…Lestr…does he…know Aver…Avery's g…gone?"
"I'll text him now, I told him we were going to the hospital, so he's just waiting to see if you've recovered."
John pulled out of his phone.
ToGreg Lestrade
Sherlock's better, Avery's gone. Thank you, for everything. - JW
FromJohn Watson
"There, done!" John smiled at him. "Do you want to try and walk now, or..?"
"So…tired. Walk tomor…tomorrow." He fell asleep rather suddenly and was out for several hours, the noise and light still bombarding his head, but he was too exhausted to be woken up by it.
When he did wake up at three in the morning, his head felt a bit more sorted out. John had fallen asleep in the chair next to him. Sherlock smiled gently as he watched John breathing slowly for the next hour. He, at least, was peaceful.
Sherlock wondered if John had caught the words he'd said that he was prepared to have been his last, when he was wheeled into surgery. For a fleeting instant, he'd known what love was firsthand. But it could have been Avery's emotions bleeding through because the warm glow had since faded. For that strange moment, he loved John more than anything else in the world, a romantic love even. But now he wasn't sure. All he knew now was how much he was glad John was here for him, despite everything he'd put him through.
When John woke up, after what seemed like hours, Sherlock was looking at him, smiling. "mffhh-hello." He smiled back. "Hungry?" John wanted to get Sherlock out of the house, but he was refusing to move.
"Come on, you need to try, or you'll never get walking again." Sherlock just flatly refused. John gave in and put on another Pirates of the Caribbean film on for him, and made him something to eat.
He wanted to talk about what got said at the hospital, but it wasn't the time.
Sherlock did something unexpected during the scene when William Turner died. He cried. Just a little, just one tear, but it was far more than normal for him. The thought of losing someone you care about forever hit a tiny bit close to home. But he sighed contentedly when it was revealed that William was the new captain of the Flying Dutchman. "He'll never really die," he whispered.
When the film ended, he looked toward John. "I'd like to…try to walk." He leaned forward in his chair with great effort before going vertical for a brief second and then toppling into John's arms. "Maybe not," he said weakly. "We could go out. The wheelchair. Strolling on Baker Street." There were too many memories of Avery still remaining in 221B. An uncleaned ash-tray, the sketchbook on the table, the flowers now wilting in the skull. "Need fresh air."
"Right, okay. I can help you walk if you like, I can hold you up?" They tried, it wasn't hard as Sherlock was so light. He was weak on one side and it was painful, so they just went with the chair. John had to carry him in the chair downstairs; and pushed him out into the street.
"So, where do you want to go?"
Sherlock was hard-pressed to think of a place he normally visited that was wheelchair-friendly. "Don't know. Speedy's? Maybe just wander." He fought to wiggle his toes. "Been trapped here too long."
Out the door they went, and Sherlock got the occasional strange look as they entered the next-door cafe—not that Sherlock cared one way or another what strangers thought of him. The television was on as he leaned over the table to sip his beverage.
"And now to breaking news. There's been a break in the case of the Bird's Foot Trefoil killer's murders. We take you to the live press coverage."
Lestrade: "…injuries were severe and he died in the hospital during surgery."
Reporter: "What type of injuries?"
Lestrade: "I'm not at liberty to say. Just be glad he's off the streets."
Anchor: "That concludes the press conference. To recap, it appears that the Bird's Foot Trefoil killer, who went only by the name Avery, was wounded severely and died in the hospital."
Anchor 2: "Thank God that's over. I know I won't be the only one sleeping better tonight."
Sherlock smiled weakly. "Good old Lestrade," he managed. "A misint…misinterpret…misinterpretable truth is easier to sell…than a lie." He sniffed at John's snack. "Smells delicious."
"Well, I guess it's for the best. I shall miss him though, he was nice in his own way; I mean, aside from the killing and the infatuation. If he were another person and not using your body, I may have been able to befriend him." John sighed into his cup of tea. "What do you want to eat?" Sherlock gestured towards a bacon sandwich. "I'm glad you're eating more than usual." He smiled over the table. "I'm glad this whole ordeal is over, I'm starting to feel myself again. No more voice." Sherlock had already finished his sandwich. "Shall we go to the park? I haven't been there for a while."
"I think I'd like that." Now that he had some decent food inside him, Sherlock was finding it easier still to speak and to move, although using his arms for more than thirty seconds was still a chore. "Like saying hello again."
When they arrived at the park on this busy Saturday afternoon, however, Sherlock tensed up. His hypersenses were starting to get the better of him. There were too many voices and faces and colours, and he could tell everything about everyone that walked by. His mind was normally quite good at dulling anything he wasn't trying to see, but he hadn't recovered that ability quite yet and everything bombarded him. He jumped at a barking dog, squinted at a woman in a tie-dye t-shirt, and flinched at a child's happy squeal. He weakly put his hands over his ears and shut his eyes. "Too much. Too much. I'm not ready."
"Home?" John nodded in the direction of Baker street. Sherlock nodded.
When they got home, Sherlock wanted to go to bed. He looked tired. John tucked him in.
He was shouting for his teddy. John took Hamish to him. "I feel replaced." He laughed. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching him drift off.
Sherlock drooled in his sleep as his brain continued to patch itself back together. His dreams were still full of pinball-machine-like noises and sounds, but they were growing less and less painful. He even muttered things every so often, oddly more articulate than he was when awake.
"Où est John?"
"Need detergent."
"Mon seul ami."
"Put it in the microwave."
Strangely, the things he was saying had nothing to do with the abstract images in his head. It was like his mouth decided to practise speaking now that the rest of him was taking a break.
"Mais il ne peut pas être le meurtri…er?" He opened his eyes, wide awake, realizing he'd been speaking in the night. Forgetting how confused his brain was, he tried to stand up and once again hit the floor with a resounding thud and groan.
"Sherlock?" John looked around confused. He'd got into the bed with Sherlock, to make sure he was okay. He pulled him up onto the bed. "If you want me to help you to walk, I will." Sherlock was screaming with frustration. "It's okay, really, come here." He sat on the bed and rested Sherlock's head in his lap. "Shh, you'll get better. I promise."
"I need to do it on my own!" Sherlock hit his pillow. "I need to be able to walk again without help. How am I supposed to do my job like this?" His fit froze. "I can speak again," he observed. "Interesting. My brain must have fixed its wiring as I slept." He tried to run his hand through his hair, but his arm wouldn't cooperate and halfway through it just sort of flopped. "We need to work on physical therapy. Arms and legs and fingers. Make them work until they respond properly."
"How" John thought about getting his violin. "I feel as if I can't help you at all. What do you want me to do? Do you want me to get you something? Honest, I'll help all I ca-" Sherlock had strained his arm to cover John's mouth. "Right" John mumbled from under his hand.
"Give me challenges." His arm lost strength and Sherlock hit himself in the face. "Tasks. Goals. An error-free blog post an hour. Walking a certain distance. Holding things for a certain period of time. You're a doctor. You can think of something. Besides, catching me when I fall ought to be useful—I don't fancy giving myself a concussion." He grimaced. His limbs were tingly as they are when they've been asleep. "I need the pain. It focuses my mind." He was very frustrated that, although his language skills seemed to have repaired, his arms and legs still weren't working, though his fingers were still more agile than yesterday.
"I.. I don't know." John stammered, his mind taking a wrong turn. "Um.. How about trying to play your violin?" Sherlock looked pained at this suggestion. "No? How about trying to write your name? Walking from here to the fridge? Um, I don't know." His mind was fuzzy.
"Violin would require my arms as well as fingers. We should focus on only one muscle group at a time. Less exhausting. But I do agree with writing my name for hands and wrists practise. Probably walking to the bedroom door first; the refrigerator might be a bit ambitious yet." Sherlock sat himself up, which didn't require too much effort. He waited until John was in position to catch him, and he hoisted himself to his feet.
Three hours later and the most Sherlock had managed unaided was four small steps, not quite enough to reach the door. He'd had to fight the urge to shout at himself for his body's inadequacies and more than once muttered darkly. The sun had begun to set as he gasped, face red from exertion. "I'm not stopping until I do this," he panted, but John's firm stare told him he wouldn't be trying anything else for the rest of the evening.
It had been about four hours, and Sherlock had made it to the kitchen. He's collapsed a few times, and John had to catch him. He was red in the face, and a few times he screamed in anger, or what was probably pain. When he'd made it to the fridge, he slid down it. "You made it." John smiled, picking him up. "So, what do you want to do now? You must be tired." He turned the kettle on, tea would cheer him up.
Sherlock was panting. "I don't…I don't know. Writing. Typing. Have to regain my speed. I hardly want to type like you for the rest of my life." He hadn't meant it as an insult, and honestly hadn't seen it as such, just an observation on John's typing speed. Besides, he was cross and determined. "I don't want to sleep until I'm back at least at fifty words per minute." It was an impossible goal, considering he was barely at an error-proof ten, and he knew it. He partly just wanted to see how far John would let him push himself.
"You can type up a text post, and then you're stopping. It's not going to help, and that's my medical opinion. You're going to hurt yourself." He pursed his lips. "Move over here." He sat him at the table and put the laptop in front of him. "Right, tea." John made it and put it next to him. He didn't move the cup, until he'd typed up the post. By which time, the tea was cold.
Sherlock's blog:
As part of my physical therapy, I am typing this post.
Not sure what I'm meant to be typing about.
I'm slowly regaining my faculties in hands and legs, though they are still quite weak. I'm certainly not up to playing the violin anytime soon, unless there's a similar neurological rapid-healing effect such as my speech centres experienced overnight.
John's made me promise to stop attempting to force healing for the day after I type this. It took me seven hours to walk to the refrigerator unaided. I think I'll use that as my goal—the time it takes to walk from my room to the kitchen needs to be under two minutes before I'll call myself recovered. I need to be able to play Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto, all forty-five minutes of it, straight, before I'll consider myself fully healed in the arms and fingers department.
It's taken half an hour to write this. Now my tea's cold.
Once he'd finished his post, Sherlock grabbed for the cup and managed to take a sip before wincing at the temperature. "Can't you reheat this?" He was snappish, understandably, and waited impatiently for John's answer. He knew John thought he'd exerted himself too much for the day, and secretly Sherlock agreed, but he was Sherlock and therefore not going to simply go to bed without some sort of fight. It'd been awful when he was a child, insisting on staying up throughout the night just because his parents had not-so-politely told him to go to bed.
Realizing that John was probably not going to reheat the tea, Sherlock decided to try to make his way back to his room by himself. He made it for five steps before collapsing to his knees, and crawled the rest of the way across the rug before his arms and legs gave out completely. He grunted a protest as John lifted him off the floor and half-dragged him to his bed.
"Do you want me to stay?" John had changed Sherlock into his pajamas, (a struggle, as he kept insisting he could do it himself; but his arms wouldn't work when he tried) and tucked him in. Sherlock pulled him down onto the bed as if to say yes. John got under the covers. "I don't know why we have separate rooms." He confessed- ever since they got together, they always seemed to share a bed.
John couldn't sleep. His medication had caused him to have an odd sleeping pattern; he'd sleep one out of three days. He lay awake. Sherlock was refusing to sleep- probably because he felt as if he could try more to get better, but John refused. "No. You're staying here. I don't want you to hurt yourself."
Knowing it was useless to argue, Sherlock sighed. "Fine. But you need to sleep too." Sherlock couldn't sleep because his mind was whirring. In addition to the strange lights and sounds in his head, he felt as though there were ants crawling all over him. But he did eventually fall asleep for a few hours.
Just at sunrise, though, he jerked awake, jumped out of bed, and, in a barely controlled flailing fit, ran around the room—actual proper running—calling John's name as if searching for him before running into the door and falling down.
"Ungh."
"What on earth…" John sat up. "Can you stand up?" Sherlock gingerly stood up, smiling. "So, what was all that about?" He was laughing; he'd never seen anything like it.
Sherlock walked into the living room, without trouble. "I think you're okay!" John cheered. He passed him his violin as he slumped into his chair. "I'll make you some tea."
Sherlock managed to lift his violin, but it still was a struggle. "I can reliably move my arms and legs now, though they're still quite weak. I think perhaps what awakened me was a spurt of adrenaline. I had a rather unpleasant dream. It wasn't so much a dream as a collection of memories." He paused. "Of Moriarty. Of every instant I ever saw him. Right up until—you know."
"Are you.. Okay?" John managed to get out. He hated hearing the name, it made him shudder. He never went into detail with Sherlock about what had happened to him. Sherlock had been very matter-of-fact about it, but John had stayed silent. He'd not told anybody; not even his therapist. He'd not been to her for a long long time.
Sherlock noticed the expression on his face.
"What happened, John? What happened that week when he had you?" Sherlock had his analyzing face on, detached. It was the only way he himself could think about his time without feeling things he didn't want to feel. "You know you can tell me. I have to understand." He put his violin down and managed to convince his arms to assume his thinking pose.
"Nothing new. He'd already subjected me to it all before the pool. You should see my back." He felt sick as he thought of the scars from the bite marks on his back. He swallowed, as if to make the feeling go away. He and Sherlock had obviously not had sex since it happened, whenever John felt as if he could try- it was never out of his own choice. "I.. I um. I don't know really. I'm scared." Sherlock frowned. "No, I mean. I feel scared to be close to you like that had scarred me, mentally. There's a little part of me, and yes that's me, that is always telling me you'll find me.. repulsive. I find myself repulsive; I allowed him to do it to me."
Sherlock wasn't sure what to do. On the one hand, he needed concrete sight and proof of how badly John had been injured, but he also didn't want to hurt John's feelings. "I could never find you repulsive," he said softly and flatly. "Not ever. No matter what's been done to your body. It's your mind I care for the most. And you only permitted it because you felt you had no choice. It was the same reason I—the reason I exchanged myself for you. There was no other way." Awkwardly he reached toward John and embraced him. "I need to know, John, I need to see and understand. You were there when I was released but I couldn't be there for you. I don't know what they've done to you physically. I have to know. Please understand that."
"Do you really want to know?" Sherlock nodded. John stood up and turned around, taking off his shirt. He knew how bad the marks were. He didn't hear any response from Sherlock. John turned back around, still shirtless. Moriarty had carved a large 'M' into the chest area where his heart was. He slumped down into the chair. "I don't think I need to explain.. the other things he did. I guess they were much the same as yours. He used you against me."
Sherlock's hands traced the scars, fingers trembling. When John had sat back down, Sherlock was deathly pale and when he spoke, his voice shook worse than his fingers had. "My God…" He thought he was going to faint. He just stared in shock for a few seconds. "What…what they did to me was far less…physical. Mental torture. But I suppose you'd noticed that." He didn't know what to do. He felt a boiling rage inside him that he hadn't felt since the mental split, and all he wanted to do was kill Moriarty. He decided that talking was probably for the best, particularly if it helped John do the same. "I'm going to…say precisely what's in my head right now. I apologize if it frightens you, but I can't not say it. I want to murder him. I want to tie him up and drip battery acid through his skull and listen to him scream in agony as he dies." He was shaking worse and worse, the violent rage threatening to knock him into full-blown hysteria.
"And then I want to…" He didn't have a finish to his thought that could be expressed in words. The image in his head was one of raw brutality, blood and body parts scattered as if by explosion. "I want to…" He wiped his face, having only noticed the tears of pure hatred streaming down. "Sorry. Sorry. I just…hate. I haven't known hate. Not like this. Not ever."
"It's okay, Sherlock.. I can't even remember it. I'm worried about.. having sex, in case I do. It's not you, at all, it's just. He wasn't even remorseful. I know we're in an adult relationship, but.. I don't know. I feel like a teenager again, like I've never done this before. I'm scared, terrified."
Sherlock's eyes were hollow and his voice was breaking. "I envy you. How much of a blessing it must be to have your mind protect you from those memories. I remember everything that they did to me. Everything. And when I look at your wounds, I can tell the whole story of that horrible week. I can tell by the healing pattern in what order they were inflicted. I can hear the screams of agony in my head. I can hear Moriar—" He cut off, unable to continue. "It's the greatest curse of a mind like mine. But thank you for telling me. I needed to know." He was shaking, staring at John. He didn't tell his only friend that he could even feel the pain in his mind.
"I just feel uncomfortable in my own skin. I hate looking in the mirror, and when I look at you, I wonder why you want me here. Why do you?"
"Because I need you," Sherlock said simply. "When you vanished, when Moriarty had you, and I didn't know where you were, I felt lost. I panicked. I didn't sleep at all." He buried his face in his hands. "If you need to…to take a break from me, from us, I understand and will support you fully. I will, honestly, be astonished if you don't want to take a holiday without me, considering what I've put you through, directly or indirectly." He desperately hoped John would refuse this idea, but at the same time, knew that it might help him to take some time out of their hectic life.
"No, that's the opposite of what I want. That's all I needed to hear." John smiled. And it was. He'd wanted nothing more but for Sherlock to say he needed him. "Do you want to get away from me?" He swallowed, nervously. "Or maybe, we should go on holiday together? Somewhere of your choice."
"I miss France. When I was a child, my grandmother used to take us there for the summer. She had a house not far from Marseilles and Mycroft and I would sleep in a little barn she'd updated with all the modern amenities. We each had a room, a place where no one was allowed but us. I used to read for hours." Sherlock closed his eyes, relishing the memory. "I would lay in the grass on the sunniest days and just watch the clouds." He opened his eyes to look at John. "When I had that night of utter peace, on the sleeping pill and the antipsychotic, I dreamed we were there." He stared into the distance. "It could do us good, a holiday in France." He frowned but chuckled. "Look at us, discussing something so ordinary, so common. Like normal people."
"I'll book us tickets, if you really want to go. It sounds lovely." John stopped. "Do you want to go somewhere that special to you with me?" It seemed a stupid question when he said it out loud, but it needed to be addressed. What if he ruined Sherlock's love for the place?
"Well, seeing as how it's highly unlikely my deceased grandmother is going to rent the barn out, that's obviously out of the question." He smiled, starting to feel hopeful that he could find something to bring him peace. "But I am comfortably familiar with that area, so something in that vicinity would be preferable." He grew distant again. "Twenty-three years since I was last there. Old Louis probably won't remember me, even if he's still alive. He'd be ninety seven." Louis had been one of the most beloved citizens, the owner of a tiny bistro the Holmes brothers had frequented as children, and Sherlock had never found anywhere with a better croque-monsieur. "It would bring me a bit of peace."
"If your sure. Maybe you should decide how we get there. I'd say ferry, but it's up to you. When do you want to go?" This was odd, for them; Sherlock was right. They were almost normal. "I'm looking forward to it." John grinned at him. "Really."
"The weekend? Or is that too soon?" Sherlock stood up, and had started running through a list of things he'd need to pack in his head. "A week to start. No more than a month." He was pacing, and then he stumbled. "Not quite full faculties," he groaned. "Thank you for this." He clearly also expected John to pay as well.
"This weekend sounds good. Tea?" John had already boiled the kettle. "But, the weekend is in two days. So you should book the travel, here's my card." He slid it over to him. "Find somewhere nice for us to stay."
"I'm hardly going to find us somewhere unpleasant," he pointed out. He opened his laptop and filled in the information required before handing John's card back to him. He felt a tingle of panic when he momentarily couldn't spell his own name, but chose not to trouble John with it as the confusion only lasted an instant. He reassured himself that, like his temporary clumsiness, it was a a direct result of his neurosurgery. "Got us a hotel overlooking the beach." Sherlock felt reassured by the fact that he was going somewhere that he'd only ever been happy. "A week on the French Riviera, what could be better for healing emotional scars?" He smiled. "Plane leaves Friday night."
