In which our hero must walk the fine line of the fires between dreams and reality.
o0o0o
Sweet sixteen had been a lie, and now seventeen wasn't shaping up to be any better. He was stuck, he was stagnant, and he was terrified. Everything he had once known about himself, once liked about himself had become a challenge to hold onto, a half forgotten memory. Nothing was himself anymore, and the depression was getting worse. He didn't have to remember what life was like before the accident, to fully appreciate that his life had to be considerably worse now. Almost anything would be better than this.
The only freedom he got, the only real reprieve, was the insistence by the physiotherapist that he needed to walk in order to ensure that his leg was strong. Initially his mother hadn't let him out of the house, but at his second appointment the therapist looked at his leg in mild alarm and frustration. He had told John in no uncertain terms, that if he didn't start walking meaningfully on his leg he would never be able to regain use of the muscles that were left. They were starting to waste, and if he didn't show significant improvement by his next appointment he would have to refer the case on.
His mother had not liked that one bit, she had always been reluctant to let go of even the meanest bit of control, but she could see that if her options boiled down to letting John walk around outside, or having someone else involved in the case and take all control from her, then she was going to take the former. Due to this, no matter how much she actually meant it, she informed John that he needed to be free to take walks. She insisted the walks were to allow him to think about God, and pray through physical motion. It was complete spin doctoring on her part, and was never happier for it. Not that he was actually particularly happy, but he would take what he could.
He was allowed to walk only at certain times of the day, most notably the mid-afternoon, and he had to be back within a certain time or his mother would come to drag him back home. He suspected that she thought he was using his injury as an excuse to haunt gay bars. It might have been something he would have done for a laugh. If only there were ones open in the middle of the day. If only there were ones in this stupid town at all.
But he was allowed to walk for those moments. He had almost gotten used to the dead weight now, and if nothing else, he had built up some considerable arm muscles in the time that it took for him to get out of the wheelchair.
He had been using the walks to think, the thoughts were not good ones, often dark and desperate, bringing a sense of the futility to these long meanders. The sense of hopelessness and loss about his own mind stuck with him, but it was better to have these thoughts away from the ruling of his mother.
Occasionally, though, there was something else, some other thing it almost seemed an extrinsic spark, He knew that there was nowhere else from which the spark could have come but inside. It was often a fleeting thought, gone within a moment, but it breathed gently the words; next year will be better. This fictional voice told him that, even if he was now too stupid to go to university, even if he had missed out on the chance to start his A-levels proper, he still was going to be eighteen in just under a year. Ten months that was all. It was almost the end of May already.
He was ticking down the days until he could leave, although he knew it would never be as easy as that.
That bright spark always faded quicker than a shooting star, but the echoes of it lingered a little longer even when there was none of that same certainty left in him. It wasn't affirming, there was little left to affirm in his mind, but each spark tided him over through the dark until the next moment where he could seize the sensation again. The dark was still dark, there was nothing that John could do to stop that, but there was an afterimage held in it.
He decided that it was probably to do with endorphins, whatever those things were. People seemed to think they were a miracle cure for everything anyway. They would be a good product to bottle. Sell to people. Be happy, they would say, because nothing else is going to make you happy.
He doubted the marketing campaign would take off; not enough interest.
There were a few different routes that John chose to walk down. It depended on the day he had been having as to which one he chose first, but there was enough variety in the terrain to keep his physio happy, and enough change in scenery to keep his mind relatively blank for a while, a little reprieve from everything before the knocks started coming again. They always came, except in those brief moments.
The days continued on, and every day John felt physically stronger. He concentrated on that, the strange sort of positive from the situation. Of everything that John used to care about, used to value as essential traits of an rounded human being, John could honestly say that he never valued physical strength highly, but for now that small positive was all he was getting, so he held onto it. How far he could walk, jog, sprint in the free time he was allotted became of significant importance to him.
He started that walk softly, silently, hoping not to attract the attention of his mother whose only reassurance was that John couldn't get very far. If she knew that he could almost run a marathon now, she wouldn't be so eager to let him walk. He always put on a bit of a show, he would stutter in his walk, make sure his pace was slow, make it look as if there was still a long way to go, and then he would start to walk away normally once he knew that the only people in visible range were the neighbours, still not safe enough to do what he really wanted to do.
He would then make his way to the edge of the forest. From there he could run, uninhibited, along the half paths through the trees. He knew this route now, knew how avoid getting his feet to stuck on the roots, knew how to duck under branches, he knew how to let go, just a little.
It was nice along here, although in the beginning he skirted too close to the river and started to get a panic attack. He managed to control himself after a time, something he was incredibly grateful for, because he couldn't imagine, didn't want to imagine, what his mother would have done if he hadn't come back under his own steam. She would have used as an excuse to never let him leave the house on his own, that was for certain.
He still had to cross the river to get to the forested area, but the bridge wasn't as scary to him as he thought it would be. It was tall, and the fences weren't so short that he could accidentally trip over them and off the bridge. His feet pounding against the sturdy ground was quite therapeutic and he almost wished that he had taken up athletics when he was in school, even though he knew he would never have been allowed near the field, the boys in the school wouldn't have let him.
This was the kind of sport he liked anyway, even in a competition, the only true comparison one had was oneself. A race might have involved other people, but there were no other teammates, it was just the track. He wouldn't have had to rely on others to work with him and to communicate with him or trust their ability to go near him without pressing his face into the dirt.
He had no inclination to compete anyway. He wouldn't ever be good enough, and he doubted there was a squad for amputees anywhere near the town he was stuck in. People didn't like that sort of thing; it took away from the aesthetic of the place he guessed. God he hated it here.
There was no out from here anyway; he wasn't going to be able to go back to school, so he wasn't exactly going to be able to enjoy some cliché underdog story where he won the hearts and minds of the people by being really good at running despite overcoming terrible adversities. His life was a tragedy, one of those art house films where everyone ends up unhappy or dead, or unhappy then dead. His life was one of those films which never did well in the box office because they were too fucking depressing. He wouldn't even be able to get the half-optimistic tragic ending that picked up Oscar nods for being a 'brave film'. His would just be terrible. Pathetic.
He admired the lights shifting over the swaying tree tops, not looking to the sides of the bridge where he once used to enjoy the view because it still caused a stutter of panic in his chest. He slowed to a walk, both to avoid the gazes of people who were potentially too close to his mother, and also to buy himself time to enjoy the view, to enjoy his freedom before he had to return home for another day of prayer and 'therapy'.
His peace, his momentary mindlessness, was harshly interrupted by that same voice that had found him here before. The voice that had been a constant his whole damn life. Some part of his mind remembered what happened before and the adrenaline that ran through him felt as sharp as a knife. He had to remind himself that he could run this time. That he was strong enough to walk away. That he didn't have to be stupid enough to engage him. Unfortunately Carl didn't make it that easy.
"Look, it's the little retard. Are you allowed out without a minder to wipe your drool, or did you escape the straight jacket?"
It was funny that Carl was saying these things to him, bothering to engage him when there was only the two of them on the bridge. Even the twitching curtains on the road near this side were still. There was no audience here, no-one that he had to play up to. It must have been strange, to grow into a role that you never wanted. He used to ignore John when he didn't have to show his hatred in front of the crowd, but John guessed that if you pretended to be something for long enough, whatever was there before eventually got replaced.
He vaguely recalled that it took seven years for all the cells in a body to be replaced.
It had been about seven years hadn't it? The last parts Carl that remembered how to care about John, the last calcified grains of cells in the depths of his bones, had finally been replaced. Carl was now literally not the same person that John used to care about, used to love.
"What?" John said, stopping to send a vaguely withering look to the boy. It was funny; he was so scared of the water, but the boy who threw him there didn't raise that same emotion in him, not to the same degree at least. Only as much as a vague sense of self-preservation did. The rest of his brain had shut off in the way it had done many times since John's 'accident'.
Carl scoffed in the same way he did when trying to elicit a reaction from his cronies. "Retarded." He emphasised, drawing out the word. "Can't your brain handle big words, idiot?"
This time, John was just done.
"Don't have to have a dick showing contest just because you're gay." John replied. It was one on one this time and John was fed up of playing dead. He was fucking alive, no thanks to this cunt, and he had had a lot of time to be angry about it.
He was told, a long while after the fact, that throwing oneself into risky or dangerous situations needlessly was a strong indicator of suicidal depression. It had certainly fit at the time.
"What the fuck did you just say to me?" Carl growled, as animalistic as his needless posturing had always been.
"Didn't you understand? What's your excuse for being retarded? At least I sustained heavy brain damage; you appear to just be a thick cunt. Probably why you like cock so much." It was crass, and god it made John cringe to even hear himself say it, but if he wanted to fight on Carl's level, he was going to have to get dirty, say things that he would never mean. Say things just to get a response.
"Say shit like that again and you're a dead man."
Carl was dangerously close to the limits of his ability to behave like a vaguely rational human, but John didn't want him to be rational. John had to keep pushing, keep poking, keep scratching at the festering wounds that Carl still bore.
"What, so it was another Carl Powers who made me a mix cd of love songs and kissed me by the river like some kind of chick-flick? You know 'cause I could have sworn that was you." John's blood was pumping in his veins as loud as thunder. When did he get so brave? Probably when he stopped caring whether he died or not.
"Shut your fucking mouth." Carl spat, starting to advance slowly, although the colour had drained from his face at the reminder. John had found the trigger.
"Aw, do you still love me?" John cooed, flying on autopilot now, "I'm not surprised you tried to kill me then, that's how your daddy showed he loved you, right?"
John could see every muscle bunching in Carl's body, ready to leap at John's throat, ready to strike, to rip out his jugular.
"I think I've moved on, but you know, we can get you another boyfriend if you want. There are some gay clubs in the next city over I think."
John had said enough. Carl came charging at him with zero finesse, the pure anger and hatred of someone who had heard everything they hated about themselves shoved into their face. This time, however, was different, this time John was ready for Carl. He might have been taller, but John had the element of surprise on his side, he had seen the attack coming and used Carl's own height to his advantage. The well placed tackle brought him tumbling to the ground where upon John leapt on top of him.
What John lacked in skill he made up for in speed and determination, tearing into every opening he could find. Carl wasn't exactly lying idle, but John had gone numb with the fight. He found afterwards that had he tore his thumbnail down the middle, broke two fingers and one of his hand bones in the assault. He didn't know why, but he hadn't felt the pain, or maybe he had and he just liked it.
It was so easy, too easy, to drag Carl up and almost over the barrier by the lapels of his shirt. Carl hadn't expected it and only just managed to hook his knees over the edge of railing to prevent himself sliding further. He was clinging to John's arms again, but this time he was holding on for dear life rather than trying to restrain John or cause him harm. His eyes were wide with fear and something in John was still not registering it, still not working out what this all meant. John held the advantage here; it would have been so easy to tip the boy over the edge, even if John would have been taken down with him.
"You destroyed my life," he spat with vitriol, "I could have gotten out of here, left this fucking god-forsaken place and been somewhere else. Just because you were happy to be your dad's good little bitch and piss your life away in this back water shithole, having a wife you could only fuck when drunk and kids you hated, it didn't mean I was. I wasn't. Now I don't get that choice. I'm just as stuck here as you are you complete pussy, I hope that you're fucking happy."
The quality of what was happening changed there. Carl's voice, far from how he had sounded like before, became calm and accusing. "It all started with you." He threw at John. "You were the one who fell in love with me first."
"What?" John asked, confused, his own voice seemed far away, like it wasn't real.
"You made me love you. You loved me too hard, and it made my father hate me. You destroyed my life first. It all started with you." He accused. 'you, you, you.'. It was all John's fault. It had always been John's fault. He had started all of this.
"Shut up!" He shrieked, he didn't know whether he was talking to Carl or the voices in his own head.
"If you hadn't been a bad person none of this would have happened." Carl continued, sounding weirdly like John's mother. "You would have still been my friend, and I would have still been happy, and we could have both gone to university and gotten good jobs and lived happy lives. You corrupted us. You made this all happen." He continued to monotone.
"That's enough!" John said, forcing Carl to let go of his arms, forcing him to tumble over the edge of the rail and into the black swirling water underneath. He floated down like a feather, and when he hit the surface he didn't make a sound.
'It was all your fault.' The bubbles of air seemed to accuse as they rose to the surface. The strangely crystal clear water letting him see Carl drown slowly, not even struggling, not even trying to break free from the hold of the fingers of cold water forcing their way down his nose and throat. Instead that almost-corpse was using every last drop of energy to accuse John, to make sure he knew where the blame lay.
Your fault. The water whispered.
It's all your fault.
o0o0o
"Carl never really said any of that stuff about having loved me once." John explained, having to remind himself that that stuff was long over now. That the rest had been a dream.
"He was just stunned into silence by that point, probably thought I was a nutcase. My father came along when I started ranting about how I could have gotten out of that place. Carl was right over the edge, and it would have been so easy to just let go of him. I was so much stronger than I had ever been because of all the running and rehabilitation. Carl didn't dare fight me because he knew he would fall from there. It was my father who stopped me."
John was shaking a little in his chair, feeling sick even admitting that; he hadn't saved Carl because it was the right thing to do, but because someone else had intervened in the nick of time.
"I don't think I thanked my dad for being there. I probably should have, because in the mind-set I was in at the time I would have killed Carl. Would have been done for a lot more than assault and attempted murder."
The court case had been horrible because of that word. Murder. When that word was involved John's image went from that of a bad kid, to one of a hardened psychopath, though in truth there was no difference in the actions between the charges. The only difference was perceived intent.
Mr Powers had pushed for the harshest charge he could manage considering what had actually happened. It seemed as though he held a lot of sway in the small town, and the police added 'attempted murder' to the already obvious charge of aggravated assault. The twitching curtains had been John's downfall, a street full of witnesses who had looked outside at the start of the commotion. Once they had seen, it was easy for Carl's father to pressure people into testifying against John.
Watching Carl on the witness stand it was clear that even Carl hadn't wanted to be there. There was none of that joyful sadism that John had come to expect out of his ex-love, instead there was almost sadness there, almost an apology, but not quite. Regret was trumped, as always, by fear of his father.
It was only the psychologists, and there had been many of them, that landed him here rather than in prison.
"Do you have this dream often, John?" Mike asked him, offering John a cup of hot Ribena to help his nerves. Blackcurrant juice to calm the nerves almost seemed funny, except John seemed to have lost all mirth of late.
"I've not dreamed of what happened with Carl since before the trial, and I've never actually dreamed of killing him." John explained.
"I won't trivialise this John, but normally people worry about their dreams when they have experienced them repeatedly, such as your initial accident. Why do you think you're so affected by this dream?"
John shrugged, trying for nonchalance, but feeling anything but indifferent. "Because I feel like I killed him I guess," John was becoming a good little psychoanalyst in his own right, "I know I didn't really physically hurt him that day, not like he had hurt me, what I did was nothing in comparison, but I felt like I was used everything at my disposal to make him crack. I could see that those words got to him, and if he killed himself then I can't help but feel the things I reminded him of played a big part."
"I don't want to sound like a stuck record here, John, but…"
"I know." John interrupted, "It's not my fault."
Mike smiled almost affectionately, "You say that, but I have a feeling you don't believe it."
"Always a difference between knowing and believing." John tried to sound wise, but in the end he sounded like a bad Yoda impression. "I guess I can't help it, because even if I wasn't the cause, everything that was the cause I was involved in. Even indirectly, like the stuff with his dad was because of what Carl did for me. There's this part of me that can't separate the two."
"It's very astute of you to note the difference, John." Mike praised, "And it is my job to make sure that you separate them, and then believe me when I say, 'it is not your fault'."
The sigh that John gave was quietly exasperated, exhausted by the constant reminders that he still had a lot of work to do in the 'feeling okay with himself' journey he was on. "I look forward to it." He said, hoping that it sounded light-hearted, rather than depressive.
"How are your studies going John?" Mike eventually asked after a few more back and forth reassurances of guiltlessness. "Your exams are very soon now it's the New Year, do you feel prepared?"
"Yes, surprisingly." John admitted, "It's kind of nice being back in school and studying stuff, I almost forgot how much I enjoyed that bit of it. It's not easy, but it's not as hard as I was scared it might be after…" He tapped his head in lieu of finishing the sentence.
"Good luck with them, if you ever need anything else, or any additional assistance I would be more than willing to help, but I believe I've held you long enough, dinner time will soon be upon us."
John was actually slightly sad to leave, he had wanted to talk about more than just his stupid dream, he had wanted to chat to Mike like he was a friend and not a therapist, but he was glad for dinner. He just hoped that the kitchen had finally finished off the turkey.
o0o0o
The first few weeks of January passed in a flurry of studying that was so intense that John could almost imagine that he was in a boarding school rather than a mental hospital. Maybe he was Harry Potter, carried into a world where he suddenly had friends and was accepted, and then he would become the chosen one, destined to defeat a dastardly villain.
Except he looked around and he was still an inpatient, so any parallels between his life and Harry Potter's were pure psychotic delusion, but at least he was in the right place to deal with psychotic delusion.
He certainly had his Hermione though, the close friend and study partner. Sherlock however was less inclined to study for his own well-being than the fictional witch. In fact, John was fairly certain if wasn't helping John, then Sherlock would have long committed the relevant facts to memory and gotten on to something far more important, but John didn't absorb information in the way Sherlock did, so he instead had to study often, and with increasing intensity as the exams loomed. John didn't want to leave a single mark to chance.
He would already have enough to overcome on his university applications – something that seemed more and more like a solid reality to John – without having even marginally questionable exam results. The only way they might overlook his current incarceration was if every exam, recommendation and report was perfect. He couldn't afford anything less. Whether Sherlock truly cared about John's career ambitions or not – John wasn't even sure if Sherlock was aware of them – he indulged John's compulsive need to revise every spare moment of his day as long as John was happy to be his partner in crime, or rather his partner in solving crime.
John himself thought he was fairly useless, but Sherlock insisted that it was imperative that he had someone to talk to, just to bounce ideas off even if John had no useful input of his own. Sherlock was blunt that way.
He was starting to forget the time when he didn't have facts drawled at him by a so-reclined-he's-practically-upside-down Sherlock. He was glad that he had a companion to help him through this, because that voice stuck in his head far more than the words on the page.
Any little bit of help John was grateful for; this exam session was already going to be hard enough; he was trying to get the whole of the two year course squeezed into one year, meaning he was to be subject to eight exams rather than four. He wondered how he had managed to talk the tutor into submitting him for the entire AS in one sitting, but he was starting to think that the tutor was the one who needed therapy. His tutor reassured him that lots of people who had the time and attention of a singular tutor tried for the A-levels in one year, and that he should be more than capable of achieving good results.
But John didn't need good results. He needed immaculate results.
Even though it was his idea, sometimes he felt like blaming other people for the decision to fast track. He was always forced to relent, however as there was no one else to blame. No one but himself and his stupid over ambition. He had never been like this before, allowing himself the delusion that he could do something so complicated, but here he was, suffering as a consequence of it. His tutor had also insisted that he could slow down and re-sit everything in the summer if this turned out to be too much for him to cope with. There was no shame in slowing down.
Except that John couldn't risk re-sits, if the university asked to know his full exam history rather than just his final results it would make the difference between getting and not getting in to the course of his choice.
"State two differences between diamond and graphite and explain them on a molecular level."
Right, John knew this, strength, graphite rubs off in layers, diamond's molecules are all interconnected, graphite had spare electrons to conduct electricity, diamond didn't. Simple easy, but what if he didn't remember that later? This was an eternal panic for him, his success was only guaranteed if he was able to remember and his mind was not reliable. Even when John was right he was scared.
Binomial expansion, Atomic structure, The Nervous Arc, Matrix Algebra. The list of things he had to not only commit to memory, but to understand fully was enormous and he felt that it was a list that was ever growing. Every time he came up against something that he didn't recall or didn't understand he panicked internally. He didn't have time to learn all the things he didn't know. Even with Sherlock calmly sitting beside him, explaining the details of whatever aspect of Le Chatellier's Principal he was forgetting, he felts rolls of sickness run through his stomach.
"John," Sherlock sought his attention when it had dissipated. "You are going to excel in these exams. You are easily able to recall the information you need to, no matter how useless it might be in the real world. There is little that you need to concern yourself with apart from keeping calm."
It was exactly what John needed to hear in that moment.
"Thanks," he replied simply, the vote of confidence helping him greatly, even though he could see that every word Sherlock had spoken was all to calm him. Every gesture was calculated, manufactured rather than sincere, the fact that Sherlock had gone to the effort to try and manufacture that sentiment actually was truer and more endearing than the actual words themselves.
Sherlock probably knew that too, the smug git.
"I can practically hear your mind working, John. Come on, you have more equations to solve. You will be too distracted if you don't reassure yourself that you are capable of such medial tasks. Then when I need you, you will inevitably be useless."
"When do you ever need me?" John asked, trying to sound funny, but feeling something clench in his stomach.
"Don't be ridiculous, John." Sherlock replied, in the same way he did when there was an obvious deduction missed, "There is no need for you to sell yourself short, and not about this either." He finished, lifting the text book for emphasis.
"Now, let's look at limits." Sherlock offered curls splaying attractively against the sofa as he picked up the maths questions.
Yes. Limits. Limits were important, and John found himself increasingly had to remind his own mind of that fact.
o0o0o
The good thing John supposed about the exams was they brought with them some degree of distraction, distraction from all the things that had been plaguing him. They gave him distraction from his messed up family life, and from Carl's death and from his hesitantly growing, but completely inappropriate pull towards Sherlock and the half-visions of a future he had once given up on imagining. Good or bad, those thoughts were all heavy, and they were far too much for John almost all of the time.
The pressure of the exams were a more immediate focus, something that he could turn his attention to because they were so imminent, much more so than grandiose ideas of a distant future or the potential moment in time where he would be okay with his Father's inability to make his mother seek professional help. The exams were knocking on his door demanding to be paid attention to.
However, this left no time for the space where most people would think about something more relaxing than their exams. The exams were the down time, and that didn't leave John any room to breathe.
The one thing he had which gave him respite from his constantly heighted state of anxiety and preparation was his burgeoning friendship with Molly. Whilst Molly still did not speak to him, he learned a lot about her and in turn she learned a lot about him. They talked hobbies and TV shows (the ones they were allowed to watch at least) and plans for the patches of Garden they had been allotted near each other. Well, John talked. Molly scribbled.
She never asked for the details of why he was there. All the information they shared was superficial and light. Their friendship was built on the ease of not having to speak, because in the end it wasn't their business to know everything about the other person, so Molly didn't pry, and he returned the favour.
He actually knew very little about her, he wasn't even sure of her age, although he could hazard a guess that she was a little younger than him, as he spotted a GCSE copy of Twelfth Night in her bag, so she was probably fifteen or sixteen. Secretly he was pleased that he spotted this, as though he was getting deduction points, but that made him think of Sherlock and that put his brain on high alert again, so he stopped thinking of it.
He was happy for his reprieve with Molly, and looked forward to that half an hour a day in her company where they would exchange pointless words over whatever nutritious concoction the kitchen had dreamed up that day. He thought that, of all the people he had met and interacted with here, she was probably the one he would want to keep in touch with the most. She had a soft way about her that was just a nice and stark contrast from all the hardened people he had known in his time.
It didn't really occur to him that her meekness spilled over to a placidness that was more of a symptom than a character trait.
Though it should have been obvious from her perpetual silence, it was too easy to forget that she was sick. It was brought home to him like a sledge hammer not on the occasions where he would have to wait a moment for a direct response to a question, but in one event about three days before the exams started.
He had made somewhat of a routine of sitting with Molly in the dining hall. He went to lunch at more or less the same time every day during those moments between his group therapy session and hers. He would come in and sit at what he mentally referred to as 'their table'. Sometimes she was there first, sometimes he was, but no matter, it was the same routine.
That was until that day. That day where he sat down to join Molly and she got up and walked away.
He thought that maybe she was running late for something, perhaps she had a family meeting or another appointment and she didn't have time to go rummaging in her bag to explain. Even that seemed to strike John as incorrect; there was an economy of gesture between them, even if she hadn't time to explain why. A simple wave of her hand in front of her face, or a little apologetic frown or something would have said, 'Sorry, can't talk now. Another time.', but she did none of those things. She didn't even look him in the eye.
It was almost to the point where he thought that perhaps she hadn't seen him, except that he was almost certain she had.
After a quick lunch – if he wasn't going to share in Molly's company then being on his own not working just caused his brain to go into overdrive – he left deciding to go off and find Sherlock and perhaps recap the chirality stuff, when he spotted Molly on one of the community sofa's with Jim.
Perhaps it was he who she had made an appointment with, perhaps he had requested that they spend some time together. It was quite clear that he had some form of romantic attachment to her and though he doubted Molly would be prepared to return another person's affection for many years to come, it was clear from her smiles that she appreciated his company.
Though Jim was keeping his hands to himself, and was being careful to not share any physical contact with her, the looks Jim gave her said enough about his feelings, in fact they said more than words ever could. Just because a thought, a feeling wasn't expressed in language, it didn't mean that it wasn't expressed.
John's decision to join them was not thought through. He didn't justify it, even in retrospect, he just fancied talking to her, and he liked Jim well enough from their limited conversations.
But when he went up to join them – they really were the only ones he spoke to after all – the look on her face shocked him so much that he relented. She had looked petrified by his presence. Even on that first day when they had been perfect strangers Molly hadn't looked that frightened to see John. Jim, for his part, hadn't noticed John, and started muttering in a concerned tone at his friend. John couldn't hear the words, but he could see the intent, so he walked away quickly, before Jim could notice him.
o0o0o
He found Sherlock a while later, after he had been fed under the carefully watchful eye of the kitchen staff, looking through his phone with a great intensity. He probably had a case on, he normally did, but there was a subtle difference between the active and passive portions of a case and the way they wore themselves on Sherlock's face.
John was surprised to have that gaze turned on him, Sherlock normally blocked out the real world when he was thinking, he stopped talking and focused only on what was in front of him, the things that were pertinent to the work, but Sherlock seemed to give that pattern up for John, and he didn't quite understand why.
"Something's bothering you," he stated, not a question, but a fact, something unable to be argued.
"Yup." John said, unsure about whether he really wanted to talk about this. It was certainly be of no interest to Sherlock, but he asked anyway, because it was bothering John.
"You're going to be thinking about it all day, you might as well tell me what it is." He reasoned logically, in a way that gave John no real choice.
"Molly ignored me today, she was actively avoiding me. She seemed terrified when I had found her and I just don't know what I did. She didn't have a problem with Jim."
Sherlock in return gave John his patterned 'I'm deducing' look.
"Was there any conversation leading up to her disappearance? Perhaps any prior that could have offended her?"
John thought about it, really deeply thought because he wanted to know what he had done, but there was nothing, he hadn't strayed into dangerous territory, nothing he had said had sparked even the slightest look of discomfort on her face. "No," he decided finally, "No there really wasn't."
"But she was with Jim?" Sherlock asked for confirmation.
John just nodded, thinking everything through again, wondering what it was that had happened.
"I assume that he displayed some amorous inclinations towards her." Sherlock, again, stated.
"I guess so," John agreed, "He did try to touch her or anything, they were just talking, but he did look like he… I don't know, liked her a bit I guess."
"Don't try to speak to Molly right now," Sherlock insisted, "She will react badly, speak to Jim first, make him aware of her condition, and then if necessary go to Mike."
"What is it that happened?"
Sherlock sat carefully, fingers steepled under his chin. "I don't know the exact details, but Molly, as I'm sure you've gathered, was a victim of long term abuse. Her abuser had… persuaded her I suppose, that his intentions were entirely romantic, but that she was not allowed to communicate with other people, thus her complete and utter silence. She had been taught that love means complete submission to another to the point of slavery. She would believe that to be worthy of Jim's romantic attentions she would be forbidden from communicating with anyone but him. Whilst she is probably aware of her actions, such conditioning is hard to overcome."
"Okay." John said, accepting Sherlock's explanations, because that was why there were all here; to get better. It wasn't like he hadn't suspected something like that about his friend, it just made it terribly real to hear it from someone else. To have it explained in such a clinical way. He was just sort of numb in the wake of it.
"I understand that it is worrying to you John, but this is why she is in this institution with expert care. I assure you, that it will not take long for someone to notice her backwards progress. It took you mere hours day to note it."
John didn't reply, feeling a tightness in his chest that stopped him from being able to speak.
"Speak to Jim, explain what Molly is doing, I'm sure he'll be reasonable enough to withdraw. None of us here should pursue such relationships anyway."
"Yeah," John conceded, "You're right. I'll talk to him." He reminded himself of the same thing daily.
"So, now that's sorted I'd like your opinion on this carpet." Sherlock concluded with a flourish, shoving the picture on his phone underneath John's nose for his inspection.
Right. It was sorted, because everything was fixed by solving the puzzle. The aftermath was not part of Sherlock's problem. Aftermath was for other people to deal with.
But it was John who felt he had to deal with the aftermath, in more ways than one.
o0o0o
When Sherlock headed off to his own scheduled appointment, John went to find Jim, hoping that he wasn't in his own meeting. He happened to be in luck, because Jim was in the commons, flicking through an old fantasy novel, though not one that John recognised.
"Hey Jim," He began, waiting for a response before sitting down.
"Hi, Johnny." Jim replied, looking up from his book with a smile, "How are you today?"
"Alright," he cut off quickly, "Listen, do you… you know, like Molly?"
Jim's shy little blush was answer enough, but he gave a short nod anyway, suddenly engrossed with something on the table. "Why do you ask?"
"I don't want to be a downer, Jim, but I really don't think it's a good idea to let her see that."
"You don't like her do you?" he asked, with perfect concern, "I didn't want to step on anyone's toes, I just like talking to her."
"No, I don't like her in that way. That's not the problem." He tried to keep his tone even and mollifying, hoping that Jim could understand. "You know she's very sick don't you?"
"I suppose." Jim said, "I mean I know she doesn't really talk, but she's still nice."
John didn't want to explain the whole problem, telling secrets that weren't his to tell was more of Sherlock's bag than his, but he felt the need to explain some of it.
"Molly was very hurt by someone before." John said, "A romantic relationship would be very bad for her. It makes her start to shut down. She might stop talking to her therapist, and that would be really bad." It made Jim's smile falter, dark ringed eyes dim a little as he slumped his shoulders, understanding.
"I do like Molly, I mean, she's so sweet, isn't she?" He added, both affectionate and sad.
"Yeah," John placated, "She's lovely."
"So lovely, but I don't want to hurt her, I feel bad that I didn't even realise what I was doing."
"I didn't think you would" John reassured him, "You just need to be careful."
"I'll talk to her."
o0o0o
Mycroft's visits were more regular than John had initially realised, he didn't know when their scheduled day was, but there must have been one. His failure to notice pointed out how bad John was at linking the pieces together. He couldn't even work out that Sherlock saw his brother more often than once a year, and clearly more often that the monthly "family days" that the institute held.
It also pointed out to John that Sherlock hadn't needed someone to be with him when Mycroft visited at Christmas, rather it seemed that Sherlock had requested company for John's benefit, so that he got to spend time with something like a family. John didn't really know what to make of that.
John had been looking for Sherlock to run through some more past papers with him as the first exam was two days away now. John felt hopelessly co-dependant as he searched. When he finally heard Sherlock's voice, it was from behind one of those doors, this one was not closed although it had the 'in session' sign up on the door.
"It's all very fascinating," Mycroft's voice came in reply, when John was close enough to hear, "But I don't know what it is you expect me to do about the Powers case."
Powers case. There was that phrase again, except now John knew what it meant. He held his breath and all but pressed up against the door to hear more.
"Look at these contusions, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, "surely you can see it,"
"Of course I can see it, Sherlock, but what does that prove? There's nothing more than that, no other evidence that will help you. There aren't even CCTV cameras down that way, let alone any that would still hold useful information."
"I've correctly convicted men on less."
"You have not convicted anyone, might I remind you Sherlock." Mycroft insisted, "Lestrade convicted people when he had enough evidence to present your deductions in a court of law. As much as you might fancy that you solve these crimes, it is he who does the actual leg work that allows the cases to be resolved. He would very quickly have his badge revoked if he stood up on a case and said, 'this man is guilty because a drug addicted, sociopathic teenager told me so.'"
John was surprised at how much conviction Mycroft had in this matter, clearly he was starting to tire if the mask was starting to show even hairline fractures.
"Shame on you Mycroft, he's a married man. Granted he won't be married for much longer at this rate, but still, there's eager and there's stepping on another's grave."
"There is no grave stepping here, Sherlock." Mycroft drawled, seemingly bored of it all.
"What contusions?" John asked, timidly pressing the door open by inches, making the other two aware that he was there and not wanting the two of them to get so far off the track they had been on.
From the look on Sherlock's face it seemed he hadn't actually noticed that John had been outside the door. It seemed strange that the boy who so badly wanted to be a detective would have missed something so obvious, but John reminded himself of Sherlock's perfectly singular focus during case. John, despite his involvement, was not really part of this one.
Mycroft on the other hand seemed hardly surprised to see John, his focus was as sharp a Sherlock's, but he had time for the world around him, and little interest in the case with the exception of appeasing his brother.
Sherlock held open file carefully in his hand, tilted away from John for the moment. Those were going to be full of photographs. Photographs of Carl's vacated body. The corpse of a boy he had once called friend. He was touched that Sherlock thought enough to wish to spare John the trauma of seeing those images, but John was already haunted by the death of Carl, he doubted it could be made any worse.
"I want to know." John stated simply, and so Sherlock carefully shuffled papers until he could pull out a single photo of a torso. It was bruised and battered, but it wasn't all that offensive as photographs of dead people went. He was grateful.
"He was on the swim team was he not?" Sherlock asked, John nodded in agreement, "His body shows evidence of cramping, fitting and drowning after trying to swim out of the river. If he had truly wished to die such efforts would not have been made, he could have been dead before he ever got to the strid. If this had been by his own hand, the bruising would have been distinctly post mortem, but the injuries were definitely sustained before death. He was a strong wild water swimmer as well, as evidenced by his plethora of medals in outdoor triathlon. If he had wished to have avoided death it should have been simple for him, yet he shows signs of an uncharacteristic struggle. He was impeded in some way, but still showed that he wished to escape."
"His father." John swallowed carefully around the heavy lump that formed in his throat, coughing once with nerves, "His father had hit him sometimes,"
"I had thought it might be domestic originally," Sherlock conceded, "But the bruises are so close to death that he would have been attacked at the river, it would be unlikely for such domestic violence to go unnoticed, such fights are rarely quiet. And that still doesn't account for whatever drug Carl was given."
"Drug?"
"To induce the fitting, to ensure that he wouldn't survive."
"What drug was it?"
"Haven't the foggiest," Sherlock admitted cheerfully, "the toxicology report came back clean, but it obviously means that the coroners haven't been looking properly, I need my dear brother here to order a search for a few other chemicals that could be of import."
"I am hardly in a position to be asking full for a full chemical screening of the body of some unknown teenager, Sherlock." Mycroft reiterated, exasperatedly.
Sherlock's face was a perfect picture of; who do you think you're talking to? and bitch, please. Both of which John might have found amusing if it weren't for Sherlock actually pointing out to him what seemed like solid evidence for Carl's murder. Trying to process that took precedence.
"Would you be willing to assist me on this, John?" Sherlock asked, "Being from the area, you would know the physical river better than anyone actually working on the case."
"Of course I'll help, Sherlock." John agreed, "But couldn't you work out everything you need to know from what you've got there?" he finished pointing out the evidence file in Sherlock's hand.
"Photographs are all well and good, John but an insider's knowledge is invaluable."
They were interrupted by a polite knock on the door and the soft "Coo, coo." From Mrs Hudson, "Hello, dears. That's time I'm afraid."
"Of course, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said, standing and collecting all his papers together.
"Would you mind terribly if I spoke with John alone for a moment," Mycroft addressed to Mrs Hudson.
Her face was conflicted, the scheduled time limits were quite strictly enforced, but John knew how persuasive the Holmes boys could be. "Well, really I shouldn't."
"It really will take only a moment of time." He smiled; something that didn't suit Mycroft much, it was tight-lipped, and insincere, but it convinced Mrs Hudson well enough.
"Two minutes only." She said, "and I shall be right outside this door."
Sherlock watched this exchange with mild, interest, but no more than that, instead choosing to stride off purposefully dramatically, "I shall meet you in your room John."
John could do nothing more than wave carefully as he awaited his own certain doom at the hands of Holmes-the-elder.
"What are your intentions towards Sherlock?" He asked directly, two minutes did not leave time for skirting around an issue.
"Intentions?" John stuttered nervously, wondering what Mycroft could mean.
"Do you intend to remain in contact with my brother?"
John nodded, nervously, but found himself unable to say anything else.
"Sherlock's condition makes it very important that people he meets are able to be relied upon." He explained, "It would be very unfortunate for you if you found yourself to be… unreliable."
"Right." John accepted, "Be reliable. Good. Wasn't planning on not. Being reliable that is."
"Do you know of Sherlock's mind-palace, John?" Mycroft continued, almost as if he hadn't heard the response. Either that or he didn't care about it.
"A bit," John said, feeling bemused by this shift in conversation, "It's a mental technique to store information when you don't use it all the time. Isn't it?"
"That's what it is for most people," Mycroft inhaled deeply before speaking, in that distinctive way John had noticed a few times, "for Sherlock the 'palace' has been more than that for a long time. It's where everything goes. Everything that he is not using in that moment gets stored behind doors. Sherlock does not have idle thoughts. All of his thoughts are quite active. Even fairly basic tasks he has to prioritise and find during the day. If you've noticed, he doesn't eat, barely sleeps. Every day he has to filter through that first room which he has called his 'priority' room, and food and rest are not, to him at least, of immediate priority. The only independent thought he has on a day to day basis is 'check the priority room', then he will function from there."
"No offence Mycroft," John interjected, "But this doesn't really make any sense."
"Doesn't it?" Mycroft asked rhetorically, "You have seen Sherlock in those rare moments where he hasn't carefully calculated every thought and action. Sherlock does not function without the use of his mind palace.
"Okay," John said, still feeling lost, "Imagine I'm really, really stupid and I need this explained without the use of locked room metaphors, and go from there. Can you explain again?"
Mycroft rolled his eyes as though it wasn't difficult for him to imagine John as that sort of imbecile. "Sherlock is practically an amnesic."
This made John sit up and take notice, "But he remembers everything."
"No," Mycroft tried to explain, though John could already see that this would be a difficult concept to get his head around, "Sherlock stores everything. He actually remembers very little."
John said nothing, though made a half gesture with his hand as if to say 'I have understood that part, please continue'.
"If you were to speak to Sherlock the moment he woke up in the morning he would barely be able to string two words together, I know that's the case for most people when they haven't had their dawn dose of caffeine, but for Sherlock it's truly an inability to speak, or to even think. If asked to do so he his reduced back to a childlike state, unable to use adult reasoning skills, as I believe you witnessed early on in your acquaintance with him."
John did remember that incident, Sherlock pleading with him like an infant to be able to go outside, even though it was completely impossible. Crying in the same way as children did when their favourite toy was broken; raw, honest, but completely irrational.
"It will take him mere moments of time for that primary instruction to kick in, the instruction to 'check the priority room'. In there he keeps the things that are necessary for Sherlock to function as a normal human being, as well as whatever current case or interest he needed.
"At any word or image or trigger, Sherlock will immediately be able to find the room he needs to acquire the relevant memories, then he puts them away again, locks the door and saves them for later. So, he knows when Lestrade texts him with an interesting case, he will first remind himself of who Lestrade is, then he can go to his 'evidence' room to look for related information, or that if he needs help he can go to his 'useful acquaintances room' to remember who he needs to talk to at that moment.
"He will never forget you, it is impossible for him to truly lose a memory and forget, but he will deprioritise you put you away in a little room in the east wing. If and when he does that he will be able walk by you on the street without so much as a backward glance. I have seen what happens when Sherlock does not consider people, 'priority'. They become accustomed to being an important part of Sherlock's life, to having attention lavished on them, then they are stored in some dusty little place on the third floor and Sherlock will only unpack his memories of them when asked to. He will not do so independently. He is unable to."
As confusing as the explanation was, John sort of got it. "Saying this from experience, are you?" John enquired, quite honestly.
"Did Sherlock ever mention to you he had a brother? Before you met me?" Mycroft gave, considerably.
John thought about it, he wasn't sure, but he didn't think so, so he shook his head.
"When not having to actively think of me, Sherlock forgets I exist." His face holds a weight of sadness that John can barely fathom, "He can recall me in an instant, if he sees my face or hears my name, or if someone asks him about his siblings. But he will never be able to think 'I wonder how my brother is doing, maybe I should send him a text.' Or 'maybe Mycroft is free for dinner and would appreciate company'. His thoughts about me will all be because of a series of triggers. I exist behind the locked room of people who he can call if he is arrested, or in the room of 'people who have access to criminal files'. He doesn't ever 'wander the halls' as it were.
"His thoughts about me will never be organic, and so I cease to exist. I think this is what gets him through the day, forgetting that people like my uncle and his previous dealers and other people who physically and mentally abused him exist. But in the process of protecting himself from the perils of emotion, he sacrificed the ability to muse, to create, to imagine."
"What about the violin?" John asked, "Doesn't he play that beautifully?"
Mycroft nodded, "He can access memories of ideal bow strokes and other people's masterworks, he can play, but he cannot compose. Not any more at least," Mycroft added, "He used to as a child. My greatest hope, more than anything, is that one day he will be able to again."
If Sherlock's mind was as complex as Mycroft made it sound, then composition seemed like an impossible dream, but it would be stunning to hear something that Sherlock wrote himself. After a moments contemplation, Mycroft continued.
"You, it seems, have been placed in the priority room. You are one of the thoughts he deems necessary to access every single day, one of the things he feels that he should never forget. Cherish that John." Mycroft cautioned, "It won't last forever."
"Right," John said, overwhelmed with how much he had been given to process. Both with Carl and Sherlock. "Thank you."
"I am trusting you with my brother," Mycroft menaced carefully, "Ensure that trust is not misguided."
As Mycroft swept out of the room John had to take long moments to compose himself. There was a part of him that suspected he was actually the only sane person left in this place. What did Mycroft assume about him when he thought he could trust John to look after Sherlock? John's job in this place was to try and fix himself, not deal with other people's messes.
He would have assumed that Mycroft was just another mentally unstable person, were it not for his obvious ability to procure highly sensitive documents at the drop of a hat. Whatever his job was, it was powerful enough that John really didn't want to know.
Between Mycroft's threats and the revelations of Carl's murder, John had been left with a whole tangle of emotions that he would be unable to explain to Mike, and whilst he was grateful for Sherlock and his friendship, those he was not grateful for. It took him many minutes, or maybe only a few really long seconds considering he wasn't interrupted by Mrs Hudson, to compose himself, before he slowly hobbled to his room, feeling a part of his leg that wasn't there anymore ache. Phantom feeling to compensate for the overfilling of emotion.
Rather than being in his room as John had expected, Sherlock was carefully leaning against the door in that artful way of his that seemed effortless, but John liked to imagine had been precisely calculated and practiced until he could lean with military precision.
"I assume my brother has explained the details of my condition." Sherlock said, in response to John's silence.
"He tried, I didn't really get it, but if your mind works then it works. It's not really my business."
Sherlock hummed, clearly disbelieving at John's statement, "Even if I am unable to daydream?"
"You can't daydream?" John spat out in shock, before realising that it probably wasn't a tactful thing to do.
"It's a necessary part of the creative process apparently. The ability to link objects and people and other thoughts to non-connected memories creates new imagined memories. It is that, which I am currently unable to do. It's not as though I'm unable to link thoughts together and come up with a new thought or solution, I wouldn't be a very good detective if I couldn't, but something wholly disconnected and unique? It just doesn't happen."
"Right," John shuttered, "Right, bloody hell."
"Does it shock you?"
John thought on that for a moment, "It's weird, I'll give you that." He admitted, "But all of our brains are a mess aren't they? That's why we're here rather than at home watching EastEnders."
Sherlock pulled a face as though he'd swallowed a lemon. "If it's a choice between being here with you and impaired, or 'fixed' and watching EastEnders then I'd rather stay 'broken' thank you."
"What if it was Jeremy Kyle?" John offered as a tongue-in-cheek alternative, but garnering no response, he realised that Sherlock didn't actually get the reference.
"You definitely need to be educated in the ways of Jeremy Kyle." He insisted, "It is your responsibility as a British citizen to make room in your mind palace for it. I'm sure you could use it as a way to explore the intricacies of human interactions."
Sherlock seemed to contemplate this momentarily, though, John reflected, he wasn't sure that Sherlock could contemplate. "You shall have to catch me up."
They continued walking for a moment, unsure as to why they were heading outside before recalling that Sherlock hid his patches there. After a moment of companionable silence, John found himself having to ask about something that Mycroft had told him.
"Apparently you've prioritised me so that you remember who I am." He mentioned, failing to sound casual.
"Of course, John." Sherlock said, as if such a thing should have been completely obvious, "I told you before; you're important."
"I guess if you're stuck here you have to remember me." It wasn't anything to do with John himself, he was sure, because John had never been important. It was almost certainly more about who was here in this shared place, the priority room had a list of people Sherlock had to keep in favour with. Something like that at least.
Sherlock gave a shake of his head in response, with an amused sort of smirk that made John think – slightly giddily – that maybe, just maybe, he was wrong.
"I am fairly confident, John." Sherlock said, carefully smoothing the patch onto the crook of his elbow, "That this was anything but suicide.
Obviously the moment couldn't last, they had a case to crack after all.
o0o0o
Molly sat with John the next day. She didn't take her usual seat right next to him, but instead sat on the other side of the table.
"Hi," he said softly, not wanting to scare her. She didn't respond, she barely looked at him, but the inkling of a smile that pressed up against one cheek said enough.
o0o0o
"Jim," John called, jogging up to meet the other boy, it was much later that evening, before lights out, and though he knew that Jim was mainly here to sleep, it would be a while before he actually made his way to his bed, "Look, thanks for speaking to Molly. It was really great of you."
"No problem," Jim said, with a soft sweet smile, "I'm glad it helped. How's Sherlock getting on with proving Carl's murder?"
It was like being plunged in ice. He could barely spit out the "What?" around the choking air.
"Carl's murder, don't be shy, I know he's working on it. It's been most entertaining." Everything about Jim had shifted, his smile was no longer sweet; it was now harsh. A jagged line of teeth breaking his face in two like a shark.
"How did you know about Carl's suicide? How did you know about Carl?"
"Come now; if I had wanted Carl's death to seem completely like suicide it would have seemed completely like suicide Johnny-boy, I just love watching Sherlock play. Call it a Christmas present to him, though it seems rather belated now. Has he finished the puzzle yet?"
"What the hell are you on about?" John exclaimed, unable to absorb what he was hearing.
"Getting rid of Carl of course," Jim stated, mirthfully, as if it was funny that John didn't get it, "I needed you both to have no distractions. I would say that you're a distraction for him but, he's so much more luminous when he's around, so whatever keeps him with you serves my best interest."
"What does Sherlock have to do with Carl?"
"I couldn't have you fawning over that boy, far too pathetic. He wasn't good enough for you when you can have Sherlock, and you being around Sherlock is far more interesting. You give him a leverage point, it makes him much more fun to play with. Something's got to be fun for when I leave."
"You're insane." John breathed.
Jim gestured to the building around him, in amusement, "You're only just getting that now?"
"It's simple really," he continued, "I'll get rid of anything that's a distraction. I regret that my body is such a fragile vessel for the mind, so some of the petty distractions, such as sleep, are required, but it will have to do. You don't have distractions, he doesn't have distractions, I don't have distractions, 'Play up! Play up! And play the game!" he quoted in sing-song.
"What about Molly, what are you trying to do with her?"
"She really is a darling little mouse," he crooned, "But I'm not interested in her, she was just a convenient way to get Sherlock re-interested in me. It's all about knowing the sticking points. Sherlock's sticking point is you. Yours is your terrible loyalty to those you call friends, including dear little Molly. I knew she'd clam up as soon as she was given any affectionate attention, and now Sherlock recognises me as something because I'm attached in his head to you."
"How on earth do you think you'll get away with this?"
"Not sure yet," he hummed thoughtfully, "I'll find a way to take myself off the map, but I want to be creative with it. No point in being boring. Maybe even engineering my own suicide, that might be fun. Go underground and start running the business at full capacity, like Keyser Söze, that would be theatrical wouldn't it? No one ever sees me and gets to live? Such a shame that Sherlock wouldn't get that little reference, I always have loved spinning stories."
"I'll tell him, tell Mike. Sherlock's got enough evidence to convince people it was murder. You'll go straight to prison."
"Please," he commented with a roll of his eyes, "as if I was actually there." He said the word 'there' with a deep distain, wrapping up John's own thoughts about his hometown neatly, but discordantly, like looking into a mirror warped by fire. "I don't like getting my hands dirty."
"You're making this up, you're delusional. You've dreamed something and you think it's real."
Jim's smile was conspiratorial, and in that moment John knew he had won. Whether he was telling the truth or spinning a lie, John would be unable to do anything. He couldn't even be certain this conversation was actually happening.
"But what if it is real? We're both delusional you and I." he concluded, "Who would believe either of us?"
When John woke up the next day, he knew that the conversation was so vivid that it must have been real. But at the same time he knew that it couldn't have been. Like so many of the strange dreams that he had, he was sure it meant something, something he would normally explain to someone else.
But despite this, John didn't tell a soul.
o0o0o
We, dear reader, are working our way to the end of this tale now, though how long that will take I don't know. Speed has never been my strong point.
