Things once in the dark, aren't so pretty in the light...
AN: Hey guys. I know it's been forever. Been dealing with health issues and RL shit. Just...bleh. Anyways! Here is this chapter, and it's quite a bit angsty, I will admit. Love you all.
xxHoney
Sherlock sleeps the sleep of the dead. But it is a fraught sleep, in which his subconscious memories leak into the groundwater of his dreams like radiation.
Things he keeps behind locked doors in his Mind Palace are breaking through — twisted, nightmarish imagery combined and enhanced with the cocktail of drugs Irene flooded him with.
First there is the noise, screaming and whimpering, his brain conjuring these desperate noises from some of the more gruesome cases he's partitioned himself from. The walls he has put in place are faltering, and flashes of corpses, their faces contorted in agony, assault him. The ones he couldn't prevent are all there too, rattling at the bars of their cages.
He wants to scream, but he cannot…
A cool cloth on his face, sturdy yet soft hands guiding him upright. He opens his eyes, the shadows of his room bending into menacing shapes until one of those steady hands cups his cheek, turning his head to face the sun once more.
"Just a little water…there you are. I'm here, I'm here…"
He tries to hang on to that grounding presence, clumsy fingers grabbing onto the soft material of a cotton sleep shirt, twining into silky hair.
"Hush, now. You're all right. Try to sleep, love."
He is being guided back down now, face tucked into a dark, comforting cove, the fragrant hollow of neck and shoulder. He falls.
The honey drips down the sides of the glass jar, pooling on the counter. It looks like molten gold in the sunlight.
"So, you're the one my brother has been talking about."
His eyes snap up to Irene's violet ones. Her scarlet tongue curls around her finger, licking off the sticky substance.
"I suppose so," he says, affecting a bored tone when he is, in fact, fascinated by this girl with the sharp gaze and windswept curls.
"You sure you know what you're doing?" she asks, scooping up another glob of honey from the jar. Sherlock merely arches his eyebrow. She scoffs and sucks on her finger again, walking toward where he is leaning casually against the opposite counter in Victor's small kitchen. "Getting involved in his…enterprises," she clarifies. She brushes up against him, and he has no where to retreat to. "Honey?" she offers.
Confused, he glances at the pot behind her. Before he has a chance to say anything, her lips are pressed to his, tacky and cloyingly sweet.
He stiffens, blinking as the kitchen around them dissolves like some demented Salvador Dali painting. He tries to struggle away from her, but she bites down on his tongue, eyes glowing, and feral. Her face contorting in fury rendering her ghoulish and terrifying.
He screams, tearing himself away, hot blood pouring down his face as the fuchsia sky above him begins to bleed. His heel catches on something as he attempts to scramble backwards, and he falls into nothingness…
The sound of sobbing.
Where is it…?
It's coming from him. The realisation is humiliating, and yet, he can't seem to stop himself from shaking apart as chaos swirls around him.
He barely registers another voice breaking over him, before he is dragged under once more.
"Naughty, naughty, Sherlock."
He whips his head around, unable to see a thing. His heartbeat thrashes in his ears.
"I'm so…disappointed in you, my darling."
Sherlock's stomach clenches when he places the cadence of that sickening voice. Moriarty.
He tries to move, but can't, and to his horror, icy water begins to creep up his legs further cementing him in place.
"Better hurry, Sherlock. Tick-tock," Moriarty's high pitched voice mocks.
Sherlock struggles, the ever-rising water now up to mid-thigh causing him to shiver. He wants to call out, but before he can even try, the water surges up to his chest, stealing his breath.
"Jane Watson is in danger, Sherlock…best hurry!"
Then he is engulfed…
"Jane!"
"I'm here, Sherlock, I'm fine. You need to relax."
"Nnggh."
"Shh."
That cloth again, daubing his brow. It is cold and damp and reminds him of the chilly water. He flinches and tries to push it away.
"No-o."
"Sherlock, stop. Stop. I know, but I need to bring your fever down."
"Cold."
"I know."
"Jane. Jane…"
"Shh."
There is a trail behind the Trevors' summer home that leads into the small wood surrounding the property. Sherlock knows of it well, having spent two of his summers here. When ever the heat of the afternoon began to wane, he would follow his friend into the small forest for a bit of exploring.
However, this wood he currently finds himself in looks strange and eerie. The trees lining the path are devoid of leaves, making the stark white branches look like bone as they reach up to scrape a darkly bruised sky. The smell of ozone hangs heavy in the air, and all around him is a crackling noise, like twigs snapping in the distance, followed by the rustle of dead leaves. He can't help but think of scales slithering over the detritus.
It puts him on edge, and he would turn around and run back from whence he came, if it weren't for the urge to keep following the familiar figure in front of him, always three steps ahead no matter how much he lengthened his stride.
"Victor. Victor!" Sherlock says, panting as he tries to get his friend to turn around. All he can see is the back of his head, auburn locks pristine despite his tattered clothes.
"In a dark time the eyes begin to see…" comes his voice.
"What?" Sherlock says, reaching out a hand, only to miss his shoulder as Victor trudges ever forward.
"I meet my shadow in the deepening shade."
"Stop. Will you stop for a moment, Victor?" His calves begin to throb with the strain as the path below his feet becomes gnarled with tree roots and sharp rocks, making the pace he is trying to keep impossible.
"That place among the rocks — is it a cave or winding path?" Suddenly the scenery changes, and Victor comes to an abrupt halt at the precipice of a jagged cliff. Sherlock gasps, losing his footing to the slippery rock, and landing hard on one knee. Victor, his back still to Sherlock, points out across the sea to the horizon. Sherlock squints into the foetid yellow sun as it casts a putrid glow over the churning waters. "The edge is what I have!" He takes a step, and the edge of the cliff begins to crumble.
"Don't!" Sherlock yells, struggling to his feet. He tries to run to his friend, but it is too late as Victor opens his arms wide and flings himself into the abyss…
Sherlock opens his eyes.
Sherlock wakes with a panicked gasp, rousing Jane from her doze. Her fingers automatically tighten on the nape of his neck, kneading soothingly into the tension.
"Shh," she murmurs, sifting her hand through his matted hair.
After the last nightmare where Sherlock had been delirious with fever and despair, she had managed to calm him down enough to take some paracetamol, and he had curled up on his side, head in her lap and an arm wrapped around her legs. She is sat upright against the headboard, an ideal position for her to continue to soothe him, but not so ideal for sleeping, if the kink in her spine is any indication. She remains still however, her fingers lightly grazing his scalp as his muscles remain taut.
She holds her breath, waiting to see just how lucid he really is this time, projecting a sense of calm and safety that hopefully pierces through the haze.
About a minute goes by before Sherlock uncoils somewhat, breathing hard. From distress or relief, or both, Jane doesn't know.
"Hey," she intones, not wanting to shatter the silence of early morning. Sherlock continues to gulp in air, his right arm tightening around her knees as if afraid she would vanish. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Mhm," he acknowledges. His hold doesn't let up, however.
It's another minute before Jane registers the damp spots seeping into her track bottoms, and winces inwardly when she realises it's from Sherlock's silent tears.
"All right, love?" she whispers, brushing the hair back from his temple. In the dimness of pre-dawn she sees that his eyes are squeezed tightly shut. She catches the glimmer of a tear as it slides across the bridge of his nose to join the others gathered beneath his cheek.
"B-bad trip," he grits out, trying to smooth his jagged breathing.
"Not much longer now," Jane says. "The worst seems to have passed."
Sherlock hums again, his vice-like grip slackening somewhat. He turns his head so his face is pressed into her thigh and lets out one last shuddering breath. She reaches down with the hand not occupied with Sherlock's curls, and eases the fabric of her trouser leg out of his fist. He latches on to her hand instead, and she squeezes back.
"This is real?" he asks.
She closes her eyes at how much her heart aches for him. "Yes," she says bending to press a kiss into his hair. He turns his head so his face isn't hidden any more, and she kisses him on the crest of his cheekbone. "I promise. Go to sleep."
Sherlock sighs, nestling further under the covers, his head still on Jane's lap, and it's no time at all before he drops off into slumber once more.
Jane must have fallen asleep herself, but at what point, she's not sure. Because the next thing she knows, she's waking up alone to dewy yellow sunlight streaming through Sherlock's window, somehow snuggled under his downy coverlet. She pushes herself upright with a muffled groan, her head pounding with residual exhaustion. She could seriously do with another few hours of sleep, but she forces herself out of bed.
On Sherlock's bedside table, Jane spots a set of clothes neatly folded, her phone sitting on top, and her eyebrows rise of their own accord. It is uncommonly considerate of her flatmate, the likes of which immediately draws up a red flag. It goes against what she expects from him, and the gesture, while sweet, strikes her as cautious. Too cautious.
She pulls the black and white striped jumper over her head, followed by her comfortable jeans, trying to shake the feeling of unease.
The feeling only intensifies when she can hear irate voices out in the sitting room.
"You are impossible, Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft says, cheeks taking on an uncharacteristic flush indicating just how agitated he is. Sherlock, impeccably dressed despite his blue robe sneers at his older brother, and Jane takes a seat as unobtrusively as she can across from him at their breakfast table. She would have to ask why their table is currently in the sitting room and not in the kitchen, later, but thinks maybe she doesn't want to know given the possible gruesome reasons behind it. After all, it wasn't too long ago she found a decapitated head in their fridge.
"Relax," Sherlock says, scrolling through something on his phone. He doesn't acknowledge Jane as she sits down. "Your photographs are perfectly safe."
"In the hands of a fugitive sex worker!" Mycroft iterates. Mrs. Hudson chooses that moment to bustle in with a tea service, pointedly clearing her throat, and Mycroft adjusts his collar.
She exchanges a quick 'good morning, dear' with Jane, before making her way to the kitchen. Brave woman, Jane thinks, gratefully reaching for a cup.
"She's not interested in blackmail, she wants…protection from something. Someone," he amends. He puts down his phone, and flicks open a newspaper. "I take it you've stood down the police investigation into the shooting at her house?"
"We can't do anything without the photographs. Our hands are tied."
"She would applaud your choice in words, Mycroft. That phone is her 'Get Out of Jail Free' card. You have to leave her alone, or she'll spill. Treat her like royalty."
"Although…" Jane says, tying her hair back. "Not the way she treats royalty."
Sherlock scoffs, and for the first time that morning, meets her eyes, a smirk playing on his lips. Before she can say anything else, however, that breathy orgasmic exhalation sounds from Sherlock's phone, causing the moment to dissolve. Sherlock hurriedly looks away, snatching up his mobile.
"What was that?" Jane says, even though she knows perfectly well.
"Mm?" Sherlock says, keeping one eye on the screen. "And anyway, Mycroft. What even was that steaming load of tripe back there?"
"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," he sniffs, eyeing Mrs. Hudson as she brings out two plates of soldiers and rashers and setting them down in front of her respective tenants. Jane's stomach grumbles appreciatively, and she picks up a fork.
"Bollocks. You don't actually mean to tell me you didn't know that people were after her. CIA-trained killers, to top it all off. And you sent Jane and me straight into the fire," he says, referring to Jane as if she isn't even in the room. Splendid.
"Thanks for that," she mutters darkly, not sure who she's actually addressing at this point.
"Really, Mycroft Holmes. Sending your little brother into danger like that," Mrs. Hudson says, topping off Jane's cuppa. "It's a disgrace; family's all we have in the end."
"Oh do shut up, Mrs. Hudson!" Mycroft growls, finally at the end of his patience.
Jane's temper flares, and she yells an indignant "Oi!" at the same time Sherlock barks a furious, "MYCROFT!"
The British Government startles, blinking rapidly as he takes in the disapproving tableau before him. Chagrined, he tugs at his collar again. "Apologies, Martha."
Mrs. Hudson nods, bestowing him with a magnanimous smile, which is more than the ponce deserves, in Jane's opinion. She pats his arm, "Thank you, dear."
The tension is still thick in the air until Sherlock breaks it with his usual snooty remark of, "Though do, in fact, shut up," and continues to eye the paper. Mrs. Hudson shakes her head fondly at him, oblivious to the awkwardness still lingering in the air.
And if that isn't bad enough, Sherlock's phone chimes in with that lewd "Unnh…!" making Mrs. Hudson gasp a little in shock.
"That's a bit rude, that noise. Isn't it?" she says, flushing a little. Her hands fluttering, she clears away Jane's half-eaten breakfast. She's definitely lost her appetite.
Sherlock makes a good show of ignoring his mobile, and instead picks up the previous thread of conversation. "There's nothing you can do, and nothing she can do either. Or will do, I might add."
"I can put maximum surveillance on her."
"Like you haven't already," Sherlock snorts. "Besides, why bother? You can follow her on Twitter. I believe her user name is 'TheWhipHand,' no spaces."
Mycroft's phone trills angrily from his breast pocket. "Yes, most amusing. Pardon me," he says with a distasteful grimace, excusing himself while he takes the call. Sherlock tracks him suspiciously as he wanders out into the hall.
"Why does your phone make that noise?" Jane says, disrupting his scrutiny. The only indication she gets that she has, in fact, disrupted his concentration is the slight flare of his nostrils because he still won't acknowledge her. It's getting to be ridiculous, actually. "Sherlock."
He tears himself away from glaring at his brother, and resumes reading through the paper. "What noise?" he says, shoving aside his untouched plate for Mrs. Hudson to clear away.
"Unnh…!"
He cringes. Just barely, but Jane spots it. "That noise," she says almost cruelly.
"Text alert. Means I've got a text," he stonewalls.
"Funny," Jane says, her tone anything but amused. "Your texts usually don't make that noise."
"Someone must have changed it. As a joke, perhaps."
"So that any time they text you —"
"Unnh…!"
"Could you turn that down?" Mrs. Hudson says, gathering up Sherlock's plate and mug. "At my time of life it's just not decent." Jane continues to stare at him as she hurries away.
It's irritating because she knows he knows she's glaring at him, and yet he still refuses to look at her.
"I'm not stupid, you know," she says quietly, some of the fight going out of her. He balks, opalescent eyes flicking over her face before settling on a spot over her shoulder.
"What ever gave you that idea?" he says flatly. She chooses to forge ahead regardless of that encouraging invitation.
"Listen, what happened yesterday —"
"Does not bear repeating," Sherlock says, jumping to his feet. Not willing to let him run away, Jane's on her feet too, grabbing his wrist.
"Yes. It does. We need to talk about things, Sherlock. We need —"
Abruptly, he twists his arm out of her grasp, and all at once the force of his gaze slams into her.
"We don't need to do anything. I don't need to do anything," he snarls.
"Yeah. Sure. Everything's perfect, is it?" Jane hisses back. "I've just spent half the night up with you, listening to you shout out all kinds of terrible things, and you think there's nothing to talk about?"
"Nobody asked you to!" Sherlock bites, scuffing a hand through his hair. Stunned, Jane takes a step back.
"What?"
"Nobody asked you to be there. Least of all me," he says. His face is twisted into such an awful expression fury, and Jane has the sudden image of a wild animal caught in a snare, lashing out fiercely at anyone trying to help. She is hurt by this — by his obvious pain. But she is hurt even more by his words, knocked off balance by the sudden concussion of his anger. A vacuum opens up between them, filled only with the sound of her pounding heart.
"Bond Air is go; it's been decided," Mycroft's voice floats into the sitting room, and Sherlock snaps his attention towards him, releasing Jane from his immutable gaze. She feels weak in the wake of it. "Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later," he says, strolling back into the sitting room. Sherlock is on him in an instant.
"What else does she have?"
"I don't —"
"Irene. What else does she have?" Mycroft arches and inscrutable eyebrow much to Sherlock's frustration. "Come on, the Americans wouldn't be interested in her for a few compromising photographs. There's more. Much more. Something big is coming, isn't it?"
Mycroft regards him, countenance as cool as ever. "That Adler woman is no longer any of your concern. From now on you will stay out of it."
"Will I?" Sherlock challenges.
"Yes," Mycroft says sharply. The brothers face off silently for a beat, before Mycroft finally breaks eye contact and slips his mobile into the pocket of his waistcoat. "Now, if you will excuse me." He nods, and turns swiftly on his heel without further ado.
Sherlock growls, marching over to the table and grabbing the first thing he can, Jane's mug of tea, and hurtles it at the wall with a bellow.
"Sherlock Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson admonishes rushing into the sitting room.
"LEAVE!"
Mrs. Hudson yelps a little, and with a disapproving huff, scurries away.
"Well done, you," Jane says, suddenly too numb to really care.
"God, I can't bloody think!" he rages. "Stupid, arrogant bastard barring me from this case!"
"Yep. Good luck with that," she says, making for the door.
"Where are you going?" he says, grabbing her shoulder, her bad one, as she walks past. She shouts in pain, throwing him off.
"I'm going to apologise to Mrs. Hudson, if you must know," she says rounding on him, her anger renewed. He looks at her wide-eyed, for once finally seeing her. "And no, Sherlock, nobody asked me to, so God knows why I even bother. But she is a good woman, and treats you like her own, so the least I can do is go and make sure she's all right, because loving you is no easy task, and I should bloody well know!" she finishes, cheeks flushed, and trembling with rage. She distantly registers what she's just said, but doesn't give a flying fuck at this point.
"Jane," he says weakly, face paling.
"Don't!" she says, holding up a hand, and flees before the panic can fully settle in.
She slams the door as hard as she can, having had the last word for once. However, she doesn't feel triumphant in the least when the only thing echoing inside her is emptiness.
In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood—
A lord of nature weeping to a tree.
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.
What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall.
That place among the rocks—is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.
A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is—
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.
Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.
-Theodore Roethke
