A/N (1): As promised, a more Sherlock-centric chapter, moderate ramble in the beginning and everything. Next chapter features Christmasy things, but nothing cliche or too major; the rest of the chapter will have to do with other things.
God, I keep fearing that this story is dragging on or something, and that you guys secretly want me to hurry up or something. But the chapters aren't that long, word-count wise, and I personally feel like the build is okay and reasonable, but... I always second-guess myself. So if you have any (polite) crit, please, click the review button. If you want to pet me like a cat and assure me I'm doing fine, you can also click the review button. Or just... avoid both and exit the window after reading. Whatever you want. X3
Nine: Broken Melody
Sherlock seems like the sort who expects approval and doesn't care if it isn't given to him, because obviously everyone isn't clever enough to realize that he deserves it.
But that couldn't be father from the truth. He gives that impression, he knows, and it is on purpose; he does it so that he doesn't feel as rotten as he has the potential to feel.
In truth, Sherlock craves attention, approval, compliments; he is accustomed to people telling him to piss off when he takes an observation and subsequent deduction "too far" and offends them. But what he would actually like to hear is someone say, "That's right! How could you tell?" and after he explains it, showing off, he would love nothing more than to hear, for once, someone say, "That's amazing! You're extraordinary!"
No one has ever given him that, and the statistics he's created based on his history and how the pattern will most likely repeat in the future has shown him quite clearly that the chances of someone giving him that are slim to none. Humans are impressed easily enough at first, but after a few more statements, their pride blocks their praise and they become irritated and feel foolish in comparison and ashamed of what's been exposed about them or people they know/care for.
Captain John Hamish Watson is one of the exceptions. One of the marvelous few that make up the slim chance that another like him will be in Sherlock's future, someone that will tell him that he is brilliant and so very clever and fantastic and feed him all the approval he needs to keep from breaking down.
As much as Sherlock wishes he weren't, he is merely human. Eventually, he's sure, too much neglect will turn even him into a demented mind, because genius is depressing, genius is lonely. Genius is all he is, all he has to his name, currently. Genius needs company. Watson has given him that. It's a gift, one Sherlock intends on clinging onto, as regrettable as it sounds. He's terribly greedy, he knows, to keep an already trapped soul on the Earth longer than necessary. Mycroft even pointed out why, while Watson was gone those five years: because, deep down, Sherlock is sure another person like Watson will never stagger into his life.
He seeks approval, especially Watson's, even if it means leading Watson closer to moving on. He dug up all he could during and after school today in order to receive it. He knew his methods of obtaining the information was going to be criticized for the lack of morality, but he was able to forgo that, mercifully. He got something better than a, "You're incredible!" or something of the like, however.
He was overjoyed when the ghost said he would stay a while longer and prolong finding closure with his family. By common social standards, he should feel guilty about feeling so joyous. But he honestly can't find it in him to be sorry for wanting to his closest and singular friend to stand by him for as long as possible. Isn't that a natural thing to want, even if the circumstances are supernatural?
Sherlock contemplates all of this while he watches Watson fiddle with the rubber ball he handed him as a starting point to work with. It's the same one the spook made appear to levitate the previous night, and thus far, it's amusing to witness the delightful faces Watson is pulling while trying to merely make the ball disappear.
After a few more grunts and groans and damn near twenty minutes of wrapping his hands around the ball and trying different meditative exercises that Sherlock carries the ghost through, Watson throws the ball violently in frustration. "It's not possible, I tell you!" he roars, and for a moment, his image becomes intensely clear and opaque, and battle wounds bleed and tear at his clothing until, in that brief second, he appears like death itself.
Sherlock blinks. This is new.
"Do that again," he says, standing from his desk chair. "Get angry. Throw something."
Watson's anger has fled, and only confusion remains. "What? Why?"
"Just do it!" the teen commands loudly, his arms gesturing.
"I can't summon anger at will," Watson frowns. He looks at where the ball is settling on the floor near the bed from being hurtled at the wall.
"For God's sake," Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes. He picks up the ball and throws it, and it rebounds off of Watson's head.
"That hurt!" Watson snaps, and then his eyes go wide.
"Yes, exactly, thank you," Sherlock says rapidly as he throws up his hands. "That's the point. Come on, then; get angry. Try to punch me with all you've got, or try to change the ball again; whatever will spark that fury, that pain."
Watson nods his head firmly. "Yes, all right. I'll try. But I'm not decking a kid."
"I'm fifteen. From your time period, that was about a year from being considered a man," Sherlock retorts.
Watson sorts a laugh. "Yes, well, times have changed, haven't they?"
"This isn't helping," Sherlock growls, and he turns sharply around to retrieve the ball from where it's rolled into the hallway. He returns, slams his bedroom door, and forcefully shoves the ball into Watson's chest. The ghost fumbles to grab hold of it. "Anger, Watson! We need to generate more anger!"
"Why, again?" Watson sighs. "I don't like feeling angry. It summons up negative memories."
"That's what I need to see," Sherlock answers smoothly, looking keenly into Watson's eyes. He feels strange; they are the same height. It feels only yesterday, in some ways, that their heights were so vast that Sherlock saw Watson as he saw every other adult: a tower of authority out of reach of his childish hands. But that isn't the case any longer. Sherlock is growing. Sherlock has matured five years in both his physical outer body and his mental and emotional inner body. Their eyes are perfectly leveled, as are their mouths, and – the teen banishes the thought before it can form. He blinks, forces himself to take a step backward. He clears his throat. "I need to make sure my eyes weren't playing tricks on me."
"What had you seen?" Watson questions apprehensively.
Sherlock sighs heavily. "I'll tell you if it happens again. Now, please: anger."
Watson looks skeptical and puzzled, but does as he's told. He works again on the ball, trying to morph it invisible at the least, and again, as it doesn't work, his form alters into something macabre and gruesome. Sherlock grins, runs as Watson maintains that appearance, and brings a hand-mirror from his mother's bedroom. He flashes it at Watson, and the man glances up, sees himself, and jerks back in horror.
Instantly, the shock returns his form to normal, but it was recreated, and Watson saw it.
"That…"
"That must have been how you looked as you died. Maybe spooks, in lore, are described as the morose state of their deaths, and I honestly thought it odd that you weren't the same, even though, the moment I first saw you, you looked hunched over as if wounded, as if you were in pain. But you were clean of any wounds. It seems that isn't true. It seems," Sherlock rambles quickly and excitedly, "That is how you should look, and only a flare of extreme and negative emotion triggers it. But you choose to remain calm most of the time, and therefore your soul projects how you remember yourself: whole and devoid of the affects of war."
Watson looks genuinely stunned out of breath, if he had any. He stumbles backward and takes a seat on Sherlock's bed. He rubs his hand over his face and promptly rakes it through his hair. At last, he utters in slight awe, "A normal person would be afraid of that, of me. Wouldn't try to recreate it, wouldn't be excited about discovering it. But then, you're not a normal person."
Sherlock smirks. "Of course I'm not. Mundane, predictable reactions are tedious. I'm adverse to the norm. I have always been that way, you know that."
"Yes, and I fear what it's doing to me, to be honest," Watson admits with a laugh. He looks up to meet Sherlock's gaze, and his back straightens. "Here I am, momentarily terrified of myself, and you're smiling like you've just discovered a new species of butterfly."
Sherlock frowns. "Yes, and?"
"…Nothing," Watson murmurs, dropping his gaze once more. "You're just… very accepting of things people aren't normally accepting of, and it's… well, unusual, of course, but… a good thing, I think. Although it makes me wonder: if I weren't so fascinating to you, wasn't something g that could surprise you with things like this, would you be remotely interested in being my friend?"
"Yes. Of course." Sherlock feels his face heat up at how immediate his response had been. "Or not. No." He pauses, reconsiders for a second time. "Maybe? –It depends on how I met you and if you were just as equally accepting of my peculiar nature as I am of yours, currently. And if you still were able to surprise me. Very few people can do anything to surprise me in the way they behave, but you always manage to." He scratches his chin. "I think those would be the reasons for us being friends aside from your ghostly state, anyhow. And I'm never wrong."
"Everyone is wrong sometimes, even if it's exceptionally rare," Watson counters kindly. "But thank you. It's nice to know that, were things different, we'd still be amiable."
Sherlock nods, unsure what to say. He clears his throat again. "So, then. You can't turn other objects invisible or intangible aside from yourself."
"Seems so," Watson says in a tone that is akin to sighing regretfully. "And I was hoping it would work, just for the sake of success."
"We still haven't tried a human test subject. Perhaps flesh and bone is more malleable than rubber?" Sherlock suggests. He holds out his hand and feels the tingling sensation of anticipation thrum through his arm. "Try it on me. Concentrate especially hard; think of nothing else but turning my body invisible. That should be simpler to do than intangibility; invisibility is a trick of the light, not the movement of molecules so fast that they faze around objects."
"If you say so," Watson complies, taking Sherlock hand and finding his footing. Sherlock tries to brush off the fuzzy feeling of caterpillars in his stomach at the contact. Watson is ever like touching the fleeting chill of air, dense like fog and cold like window glass, but barely there, the sensation of his hand flickering in and out of Sherlock's grasp, despite the fact that he can see the man's hand hasn't left or turned intangible in the least.
He picks up the mirror and angles it down at himself, ignoring his own reflection save for the fact that it is there in his peripherals. "Alright. Begin testing the methods I ran by you earlier. See if any of them is a strong enough concentration to turn at least part of me invisible."
Sherlock has a theory: things with souls all have the potential to become invisible or intangible with a little aid from something that is free of its physical body. The contact of energies should be enough to make the physical host unnecessary, and therefore, invisible or intangible to let the spiritual host take control. And if Sherlock can focus himself on feeling as Watson described when he changes form like that, then perhaps the mesh of the same commands will trigger the desired affect.
At least, in theory.
Sherlock holds his breath, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. He glances down at their hands, mostly, and sees Watson's flicker, shifting in and out of invisibility, but even with the flickers, Sherlock can still feel the presence, still rub his thumb over the back of the specter's hand. And if Watson notices the touch, he doesn't react or comment on it.
For a brief, beautiful moment, Watson's eyes are closed and his face is relaxed and he looks as young as twenty, perhaps slightly younger, and there is something that changes in his clothing, something infinitely more casual than a uniform for a short second. Sherlock's curiosity sparks, and he nearly shatters his friend's concentration in favor of asking what Watson is feeling or thinking that is causing him to do that. He has the urge to run a whole range of experiments, now, to trigger emotional memories or things that will also alter Watson's spiritual appearance; he already knows what anger does. But what is this one?
Sherlock notices, then, after the moment passes and Watson returns to his usual thirty-year-old soldier-self that Sherlock's fingers are turning faint in color, losing their solidity. He checks it in the mirror; it's actually happening, not wishful thinking projected from his mind.
Thrill runs through him, bright and warm, and Watson must feel it, because in an instant, he released Sherlock's hand and his eyes fly open.
They stare at one another for a lingering second. Then Sherlock ventures, "Did you feel that?"
"You were… keyed up. Was it working?" Watson asks, casual as ever.
"Yes!" Sherlock says with a small jump oh triumph, setting the mirror down and touching his fingers that were in Watson's hand a moment ago. "It was unmistakable. My fingers were vanishing before my eyes." He bounds up and down again. "Haha, yes! I love it when my theories are proven plausible."
Watson smiles. "I'm glad you're pleased."
"Yes, but now we can't stop until we're entirely successful," Sherlock replies. He's grinning mischievously. "No sleep tonight. We must keep at it. And I'm also planning on testing how your emotional state or how certain thoughts and memories of yours affect your appearance."
"Why? Because of how frightening I was while I was angered?" Watson asks for clarification, his brows drawn.
"Yes," Sherlock supplies, although it isn't the while truth. But it doesn't have to be. "Oh, this is going to be enlightening. I love it when experiments go right." And he moves to his desk to record his trials on a spreadsheet for a moment.
"You're… writing up the trials," Watson muses, peering over Sherlock's shoulder while he writes.
"Naturally," Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes. "It wouldn't be science unless it's recorded, John."
He suddenly freezes, hand stilling on the page and head lifting. He's never called Watson 'John' before, even in his own head. He feels the dreaded warmth of a flush rise to his ears.
"Um… If I may call you John," the dark-haired lad adds mutedly.
The ghost socks his head down at the teen. "What? Of course you may. I call you 'Sherlock' and not 'Holmes' often enough, anyhow. And, as you pointed out, you're nearly a man," he says with an amused smile. "So I think you've earned the right." He rolls his shoulder backs and looks away. "I'd prefer it, actually. Too many people have called me 'Watson' – with or without the titles of 'mister,' 'doctor,' or 'captain' in front of it – in my life. I could do with being called 'John' for once." He smiles. "And who more appropriate than my best mate?"
Sherlock's blood betrays him and fully assaults his cheeks now. He continues with his writing and pays it no mind. "Yes, that… that works."
Wat– John smiles broader. He moves to lean against the side of the desk and throw and catch a few of Sherlock's pencils, twirling them around his fingers in between tosses. It's not distracting, but it can potentially be if Sherlock doesn't focus solely on making his chart that will hopefully soon be filled with comments and a traceable pattern. He decides to create a scale to base his percentage of invisibility on, and makes another for when they attempt the trials of intangibility.
Now, he doesn't expect half of these to work even as well as the first attempt to see if it's even doable. There are many variables to take into account, some even that Sherlock doesn't know, making them true variables of the x sort. But the point of experimentation is to test hypothesis and adjust them accordingly after each failure. So there is nothing left, now, but to take the steps, jot down the results, and test the limits.
"There," Sherlock announces at last, spinning 'round in his desk chair to face John. "Ready for a few more trials?"
"As ready as I'll ever be," John shrugs, and he holds the ball up, eyebrows raised. "Why, do you think, it didn't work with this, but started to work on you?" His tone shifts from curious to mildly mocking in a teasing manner as he says, "I know you must have a few thoughts; your brain is beyond capable."
Sherlock smiles wryly. "It is, and I do. But nothing worthwhile telling you yet; I need to collect more data first."
"Alright," John agrees as he drops the ball and lets it roll away on he floor somewhere. He mimics cracking his knuckles. "Give me your hand again, then."
And again, it is like a broken melody, the way John's hand feels in Sherlock's; wavering in and out of focus like a melody recorded on a scratched disc, choppy in flow but certainly filling up the entire room. In this case, it's filling up Sherlock again, the contact putting something restless and empty at ease within him. Sherlock relaxes, settling back into his chair, and watches intently as the ghost closes his eyes and concentrates.
Thirty-two trials later, they are only able to get as far as Sherlock's elbow with complete invisibility, and midway up his bicep with the discoloration and transparency.
But it's something, and nothing short of a miracle, something between science and the paranormal that needs further investigating.
A/N (2): It's like the mystery never ends and just becomes more and more complex when it comes to John, eh, Sherly? He's just sooo interesting to you, isn't he, Sherly~?
(#childish taunting# Sherlock has a cruu-uuush, Sherlock has a cruu-uuush~!)
