Shadow Child - Part 11
Author - Kourion
Summary: 'So you're not a robot. So they were wrong, Sherlock! So everyone who thought you were heartless and unfeeling was foolish and stupid and wrong.' / Warnings for past child abuse/ non-con issues. Eventual Johnlock (romance focus only/ issues with sexuality/ fear of sex). Protective!John/ Case-fic.
Sherlock's POV
I let John pad away. He looks resigned, and I almost feel badly. Almost.
I also feel an emotion that's almost like...anger. It's nonsensical, but there you have it.
His words echo in my head:
'I'm going to tell you something... As someone who does, in fact, love you...''
'Love you.'
The anger returns and I chuck my pillow against the wall.
No one has ever said words like those to me before. Not even Vincent. Vincent said he cared for me. He cared for me, and he knew something was wrong, and 'please Sherlock, just tell me. We can work it out, but I need you to be honest with me. If we can't talk about what's bothering us, what hope do we have for us?'
Stuff like that.
But love? I honestly don't think anyone's ever said that word to me. Not in relation to me. Maybe about someone else. Maybe in the generic ''peace and love to you this holiday season.'' Molly's Christmas cards, maybe.
But never like how John said it, this morning.
And in that moment, when John said those words? I didn't feel happiness, and I didn't feel peace.
I felt anxiety. A sense of dread, almost.
Because Vincent didn't even love me, but he still decided I was 'too much' for him. He still decided he couldn't deal with everything that was wrong with me.
And I know what it's like when someone seems to care enough to want to help but you just can't let them, because you don't know how to open up enough to make that possible. As fond as I was of Vincent, I couldn't be the sort of man he needed, and now with John? Now it's even worse, because apparently - in some way - John loves me.
So when he decides I'm too much for him to deal with, it's just going to be all the more cutting when he goes away.
Because eventually they all get tired. They get tired because I don't want to talk about things, discuss things, 'work through things.' And I can't say those words back. Words like ''I care about you.'' Or to say ''I love you, John''? That seems insurmountable, even though it's just four silly words.
Three, if I drop the John. Two if I keep it really simple. Just a 'love you.' But when could I say something like that? When getting the paper? When watching a show? At Angelo's? After a case? Anytime I say it would sound wrong.
And how stupid it would sound, out of the blue. And what's worse! If it's not out of the blue, it sounds feigned, or it sounds like I'm just repeating the words that so effortlessly seem to flow from John's own mouth because I am supposed to do so. He won't think it's because I want to do so. And that's half of the problem right there. I don't even know if I want to say them. If I mean them. There is just a buzz in my head when I think about them in relation to anyone, and that buzz intensifies in sound when I think about the concept of love in relation to John.
After all, I don't know if I love anyone, and I don't want John to assure me that I can. How ridiculous is that assurance, anyway? To have to assure a 36 year old man that they can do something that most infants can do?
The whole endeavor is mortifying, and thus - best left alone.
To be sure, I know I am inordinately fond of John. Almost to an absurd degree. To a degree that mucks up my ability to concentrate. But is it love? I don't know.
And so here I am, after the disgusting events of last night - and he says that? At a time like this? When all I want to do is check into a motel until the images have - possibly (is it possible?) - weakened a bit in his mind? Of a full grown adult, urinating over himself like a newborn. And I must have made noise. I might have even said or shouted something in the first place that alerted him to the situation. What's worse - I have no idea what.
It's not like I can ask John, either. There is no casual way of bringing it up. There is no way I can ever know just how badly I've made myself look. Just how disturbed he's going to be with me, going forward. The horrible things I may have said without consenting to speak. Not really.
So why now?
Why would he say something like that to me right now? When he knows I can't reciprocate?
I fall back into my comforter and force myself a bit more rest.
Sometimes - rarely, but sometimes - complicated situations seem to make more sense after rest.
On that point, John does make sense.
I sleep for another three hours, and rouse drowsily. I've never slept this long in my life, not in one day - and when I glance at my bedside clock I'm informed that it's past noon. I crack my neck, relishing the pop and the sudden rush of looseness, and then groggily rise. My hands ghost over my cheeks, my chin. They feel rough, sandy, and I grimace in distaste - remembering that I didn't shave yesterday. My hair also feels damp. Sweaty. I look down and notice an extra duvet on the bed. One that suspiciously looks like nothing I own.
I hold back a groan, my heart beating rapidly in my chest. I tell myself he's just being as he's always been.
(Except he's not, is he Holmes? He said he loves you. He is putting blankets on you. He's staying with you when you're in the bathroom because he thinks you are a lunatic.)
I finally do let myself groan. Put my face into my comforter and groan at what's happening between us and the fact that I can't make heads or tails of it. Is it romantic? What John feels for me? And if it is, wouldn't I have known about it before now? And if it's not, why did he say he loved me? I'm not his child. I'm not his brother. Maybe John thinks you can love someone as a friend. In that Universal sense of love. Maybe that's all there is to it.
Which, of course, is frightening enough if you really think about it. But it's not quite as overwhelming as the other possibilities.
The possibilities that I will never ask him about. Especially since my own traitorous mind is yearning to confuse me as late. Like the other day, when I had the impulse to kiss him. And I've never had the impulse to kiss anyone. Not even Vincent, after sex.
But if I tell myself it's John's idealized notion of friendship and loyalty and sympathy?
Then it's not so hard to consider.
Maybe that's all there is to it. Not that it makes this feeling totally abate in my chest. My heart still feels like someone is squeezing it.
But I suspect I'm going to have to live with this feeling for a bit longer, yet.
When I was a little boy, I always wanted someone to say ''I love you, Sherlock.''
Just once. Just one time, so I could just trap the sound into my head and pull it out when I was really sad.
No one ever did.
Even Mycroft talked around it. He'd whisper, ''I'm here now'' in the darkness sometimes, after I was calmer, or he'd show me he'd care in his own strange, Mycroft way with hot beverages. Sometimes he'd even give me a hug. Stiff and awkward. Almost as bad as my own. But it was an attempt at expressing some sort of brotherly affection, and back when I was a child - I appreciated the effort. I'd even hold on, and press my body back to his and grab his pajamas between my fingers like he was a buoy, and I was drowning.
To be fair, I don't think I ever said ''I love you, Mycroft'' either. So I can hardly fault him for never saying the words that I couldn't, myself, say.
But it wasn't just Mycroft.
Victor never said them either. Mummy - definitely not. I honestly don't think she told me when I was an infant. Too small to remember.
I used to dream that maybe when I was little - very, very little - that mummy would have come and picked me up out of the crib and stroked my hair, and would say, ''I love you, Sherlock'' or even just ''love you.'' ''I love you, Sherlock,'' would have been better, but any sort of affection would have made me so pleased. So I used to imagine that this is how she would have spoken to me when I was really small. Too young to have been a problem yet. Too small to be hated.
But then I grew up and realized what a stupid thing that was to dream about.
I stare at my fresh, clean clothes. My purple shirt, which is made of Ahimsa Silk and is incredibly soft, and a pair of black corduroy trousers that I haven't worn in about three years. I found them in the back of my closet, looking pressed and decent. My other trousers could likely do with a washing. I grab a belt just in case, not having measured my dimensions in a good six months. Then find some wool socks and silk pants and bring everything back with me to the bathroom, too.
I strip out of my pajamas - or rather, John's pajamas. The RAMC shirt clinging to my chest, dampened by sweat. I suddenly feel filthy. I can't give these back to him. I sweat in his army clothes. Even the bottoms he gave me feel damp as I remove them, and I make a mental checklist to complete a couple loads of laundry this evening after I return home. My scarf could do with a washing too. Lately it smells sour, when it's pressed against my mouth. Like sick. Or something worse.
I lather up my hair, and apply extra shaving foam to my skin, holding back the impulse to shave over the cleansed skin until it stings and peals with blood. If I do that - and I have before - it's going to sting, and that's going to be a relief - but then it's going to scab, and I'll just have the impulse to rip the scabs off, and it's all going to get very messy, very fast. But I do shave three times regardless, just to grab any errant hairs that have decided to bypass the razor.
When I stand up under the jet of hot water to rinse off, I suddenly feel the blood leave my head and see black spots. My heart begins to pound forcefully, and I suddenly can't hold back the wave of nausea. A second later, I'm vomiting out old tea, that smells of bile and whatever fermenting tea purged from my stomach would smell like - suddenly filling the air. Acrid, hot and disgusting.
My legs feel like jelly and I move back down to sit at the bottom of the tub, letting the stream of water beat down over my head. My arms are shaking - less prominently than last night, although the cause this time is likely blood sugar. Low blood sugar, low blood pressure, low electrolyte balance - low something.
Suddenly feeling cold, despite the steam and the heat of the spray, I close my eyes and try to focus on absorbing the heat from the water.
I dry off quickly, my skin prickling in the cooler air of bathroom. The mirrors are foggy, and I find I don't mind that. I don't honestly like looking at my naked form as I get changed.
After I am more or less dry, I pull on my socks and pants, then my shirt, and finally my trousers. The trousers sag at the waist a little bit which is odd; they used to sit comfortably, merely relaxed.
I work a belt through the appropriate places and tighten everything up several notches, somewhat surprised to see the gap of space between flesh and clothing. The bones of my hips are creating a ridge of empty space and I sigh in discomfort, the tightness of the belt making the skin around the bones ache even more than it normally does. When I inspect my sides, I realize they are lightly bruised. Not badly - but speckled with green and yellow bruising. I try to determine if I've recently fallen, or walked into anything clumsily, but I cannot recall any such event. What's more - the bruising is fairly evenly distributed, on both sides of my body.
A further perusal of my belly shows slight bruising elsewhere. I frown at the reveal, and wonder when my body started to look so injured and pale.
My shivering has increased since the shower, and now - even with the clothing, I find I am feeling pretty cold. I decide to check my wardrobe for a jumper, which I eventually find. A soft wool jumper all in navy blue, that I haven't actually donned in about a decade, believe it or not. A turtle neck fashion, so it compresses against my body a bit more than I'd like, but the benefit of it is that I quickly do feel warmer. And right now, I will take heat over some ridiculous Mycroft-purchased style.
Then I think of John, and his habit of always wearing layers. I've never even asked him if he's cold. Just assumed that it was his preferred style too.
At any rate, someone will have to talk to Mrs. Hudson about the heating in our suite.
The shower gave me time to determine how I'm going to proceed with John.
Polite, definitely. Maybe a little reserved. I can't let him think I'm this open book right now. I want the discussions of the last week to stop. Abruptly. And the only way they will is if I reign in my emotions. I can't have any more nightmares around him, I can't be acting so differently. If I feel oddly sad, I need to keep it together until I can deal with it on my own. John shouldn't have to concern himself with me more than he typically does. All that is going to do is stress him out, and he's already tried to be so loyal for me. He already works so hard at it. At being a good friend to me.
''Afternoon,'' I say civilly, when I see he's seated at the table - conspicuously free of my experiments.
John eyes me for a second, looking almost wary.
''I didn't chuck them out,'' he says quickly, in assurance. ''I just moved everything to the living room. Cleared your desk a bit.''
I wave his concern away.
''That experiment was over anyway,'' I say evenly, the tone of my voice neither affectionate nor annoyed. Just me. Just how I always sound, I hope.
Which is to say, probably colder than John deserves. But I can hardly help the way I am designed.
He's frowning at his plate for some reason.
''What?,'' I snap, not being able to help myself. So much for my goal of being polite today.
''Sherlock - you're shivering. Are you cold?,'' he asks gruffly, not seeming to care much for my tone of voice. Pointing to me with his rye toast, the butter glistening in the light of the kitchen. The oil dribbling off the bread, and falling to his plate.
He must have used a lot of butter.
I don't know if I suddenly feel hungry, or if I suddenly feel sick to my stomach. I don't know if I want to suddenly eat toast, lots of toast, with deep slabs of butter.
Or if I am repulsed by the idea.
My stomach gurgles in mock hunger, and I press lightly against it with my hand.
An old voice hisses in my brain like a wasp.
'You'll know you'll feel worse. Bloated. Swollen. It'll just touch you all over. The food. From the inside. Until you get it out again.'
I turn away, my heart thumping away. I rub my tongue over my teeth, realizing that they still feel porous from my earlier vomiting session. They feel porous and contaminated, and if I eat right now - when I feel like this - it's just going to make me retch again. I know it will.
''Come on, sit down. You look a little peaky,'' John says a few seconds later, when I realize I haven't responded. He suddenly is tugging on the hem of my jumper, and my hands clamp down over his own. Quickly. Without thinking.
''What are you doing?,'' I ask impulsively, hating the high note. The strained sound, almost like I'm afraid of him.
''Nothing,'' he says with a sigh, suddenly sounding sad, ''just never seen you in a jumper before,'' and again he makes a little tugging motion on the corner of the garment. Not to...take if off, I realize dumbly. Just a physical reference to what I was wearing, I guess, Just a way to show a form of what - affection?
He goes back to his toast, eyeing me.
''Did you think I was going to take if off you? Keep it for my own?,'' he says, with false levity, his eyes revealing concern.
I suddenly feel flush with embarrassment.
''Of course not, don't be stupid!,'' and I rise to get a mug from the cabinet, anxiously searching for tea.
My gaze settles on several packages of teas and flavoured coffee. Gingerbread tea...apparently. Some sort of German Coffee Cake coffee. I pick up the coffee, and sniff it. It actually does smell like dessert.
''This smells...decent,'' I say a moment later. ''Can I?''
John rolls his eyes.
''Sherlock, you can always help yourself to whatever is in the kitchen. I'd want you to,'' and he bites off a bit more toast, swallows, speaks again. ''In fact, I'd be insanely happy if you'd let yourself have a bit more.''
My neck suddenly feels prickly with heat.
''Let myself?,'' I ask harshly, turning with a flourish. ''What is that supposed to mean?''
John presses his hand against his left eye, dropping his fork against the plate. The plate is smeared with ketchup, and the remnants of some sort of omelet.
The ketchup looks like blood.
''You know exactly what I mean. Come on, Sherlock - take a look at yourself for once.''
I feel my brow furrow, and let my gaze travel up my trousers, and over my jumper.
''I'm clean, I'm wearing pressed clothes, I've gotten sleep-''
John chucks his napkin down onto the table. Probably saturating it in the blood-ketchup on his plate.
Mrs. Hudson knitted those for us, and if he stains them with ketchup, she's not going to be amused.
''Look in the mirror. You're losing weight! You haven't eaten much on this case, and God Sherlock - I get it,'' and his voice soften abruptly, ''I do. But I've tried so hard to ignore it, but you don't look...healthy. You haven't looked healthy for weeks, and I'm concerned.''
I finally put the coffee back onto the shelf, feeling attacked.
''Oh come off it! I am exactly the same size I've always-''
''No you're not! Damn it Sherlock, you look... I know something is wrong. Please, please let me know what's going on.''
I huff out my anger quickly, slamming the cabinet shut with a bang.
''Nothing is wrong,'' I parse, my voice steeling into something sharp.
''If you don't want to tell me, fine. But please don't lie to me!''
''I'm not lying!''
John looks frustrated, and wipes at his mouth with the napkin.
''I've ignored it for weeks, partly cause I didn't know if I was right or not. But I can see now, it's not all in my imagination.''
I retrieve a tumbler, petulantly certain that I won't be touching any of John's tea or coffee any longer. Or any of his treats or food. I'll get my own stuff, thank you very much.
''Oh, I know what this is,'' I start lazily, ''More telephone calls to Mycroft, right? He does love to be dramatic, you know. Create a drama where none existed.''
I see a vein throb at the corner of John's temple.
''This has nothing to do with Mycroft, and everything-''
I fill the tumbler with tap water and drink slowly, feeling the water drop down into my stomach. I'm reminded of a cave, with water splashing up over the edges. Something hollow and untouched by man. And it makes me feel calmer.
''I don't have time to discuss pointless drivel, John. I need to get back to the hospital and speak to-''
John stabs his eggs with his fork.
''Not going to happen. Lestrade says you're not to go speaking to Toby on your own. Not after the stunt you pulled with Dr. Barrett.''
''Stunt?,'' I hiss, ''I didn't pull a stunt!''
''Regardless, if you want to speak to Toby, you have to speak to Lestrade first. You defy him again Sherlock, and I don't think he'll be very lenient with you going forward.''
I bring the tumbler down hard against the cabinet. Hopefully cracking it.
''Take it easy!,'' John hollers, ''You can't just damage things because you are in a bad mood!''
And why oh why does this conversation seem so familiar?
I start to depart when John rises, and hurriedly runs up to me, grabbing my arm. I let him turn me around - he obviously wants to talk to me - and stare at him with irritation.
''Come on. Let's just...,'' and he sighs again, ''I don't want to fight with you, Sherlock.''
I pull my arm back from his grasp and fold it over stomach, suddenly aware that my belly is hurting.
''I'm not fighting with you.''
John gives me a weak smile.
''Good,'' he hurries to add. ''Good. Now, can I at least make you some lunch? Or some coffee? You can't go running around on no fuel.''
His eyes are demandingly hopeful.
''Fine,'' I say uneasily, knowing that given the mood I am in right now, anything in my stomach is likely to make me feel worse. Sicker, not stronger.
John grins up at me more fully now.
''Great. What do you want? I'll make you anything you'd like. An omelet? I can make you a cheese and mushroom omelet? Maybe with some toast?''
I suddenly can think of nothing else but that syrupy sweet blood-ketchup coating John's plate.
''Yogurt,'' I say quickly, ''and coffee. Please.''
John frowns but doesn't say anything. Not for a few seconds, and then: ''Just yogurt?''
I hedge, then give him a partial truth.
''My stomach hurts.''
John gives me a sympathetic smile, then ushers me to his place, quickly clearing away his own dishes. I smear a drop of blood-ketchup with my finger.
''Yogurt it is. Blueberry or coffee? Which would you prefer?''
''Coffee yogurt?,'' I ask carefully, unsure if I am understanding him correctly.
John laughs.
''Yeah. I'd figure you'd eat anything if it was coffee flavoured.''
I bite my lip and then nod.
''Okay,'' I sigh, and John busies himself with measuring out the German Chocolate Cake coffee, starting up the Mr. Coffee coffee maker. A couple seconds later the little brown machine gurgles to life, and the sweet aroma of chocolate and cherries permeates the air.
''What black magic is this?,'' I quip.
John suddenly looks far more relaxed than I've seen him in ages, and I realize I'm doing the right thing, indulging him.
''Got this from that little café where I bought the biscotti. They have this whole...line of beverages that taste like desserts.''
''That's helpful,'' I say, my leg jumping up and down against the lino, ''Maybe we can wean Mycroft off his cakes with this.''
John rolls his eyes, and then a few seconds later presents me with a steaming cup of the stuff. A huge bowl of yogurt is soon to follow.
I realize he must have given me the majority of the container.
''Just eat what you can comfortably manage,'' he says softly, placing one hand on my shoulder. I feel the other at my back, and suddenly my stomach clenches in anxiety at the touch. About the increasing amount of times that he's been touching my back, or my face, or my shoulders in the last week. The increase in hugs. The increase in everything that indicates emotional...connection. It feels soft and warm and safe at first. But then once I start to think about it - then it feels wrong, which in turn makes me feel wrong. Because I am fond of John. I shouldn't be so awkward about this. How insulted would he be if he knew how strange his touch makes me feel? He'd likely be hurt. So I can't tell him, ''please don't touch me.'' I can't hurt him like that.
And what's more - I can't differentiate if I like it or dislike it. His touch, I mean. All I know is that it makes me feel wrong. Ashamed, almost.
Moronic brain.
John takes his hands away a couple seconds later, and I finally let myself breathe.
About 15 minutes later, I've consumed most of the coffee, and a little more than a half of the yogurt.
''I'm done,'' I say emphatically, ignoring the twisting in my gut. The protest of the cells inside my belly that are screaming out at me that I've just done a really idiotic thing.
''A+ for effort,'' John says with a smile. ''Want me to accompany you to the Yard?''
I hesitate. Decide that if Lestrade's going to be pissy with me, I'm likely to get irked in response. And John's seen enough of me acting like a child recently.
I clear my throat.
''No, I've got it. I'm good,'' and then I wonder if that's a sufficient response, or if a normal person would take such a response personally. ''Thank you for offering,'' I add a second later. I probably sound robotic.
John retrieves my coffee mug, and I rise quickly, placing my hands over my belly. I can already feel the slight swell of skin as my stomach puffs out with the weight of the food.
I feel dreadful.
By the time I get to the Yard, I am feeling a tight band of pain across my lower back. My stomach is clenching like I've consumed something bad.
In and out of here. That's my goal. A quick appeal to Lestrade about how I won't let my temper get the better of me again, and then off to Evelina.
Unfortunately, I run into Donovan before I can complete my objective.
''You really think you'll just be able to say some meaningless assurance to him, and get total clearance again? Are you insane?''
I smile, despite the pain in my belly.
''Ahh Sally, you always know how to brighten my day.''
''Cut the crap, Sherlock. What do you want?''
I feel my expression change at her appropriate use of my first name. I don't know if I am amused or a little disappointed at the change in her.
''Am I no longer your most beloved freak?''
And then, just like that, a ripple of something stabbing cuts into my gut and I clench my teeth in pain.
''Sherlock?,'' Sally says rapidly, her voice tinged with alarm.
She turns to Fred Gregson, and hisses at him, ''get me a chair. I think he's going to faint.''
Then her arms are at my sides, holding me still. The entire Yard is staring, I am sure - and I push at her arms with my hands.
''Stop it. I'm trying to help you!,'' she growls at me, having none of John's sensitivity or warmth.
I growl something back to her - have no idea what, really - but am thankful when the chair is finally close, and I'm able to sink down into it.
''I don't need your help,'' I wheeze a couple seconds later. ''Just a stomach-ache. Just a bit hard to breathe.''
''Like that's normal,'' Anderson says amused, coming up around the bend. He's finishing what looks like a chocolate éclair, and my stomach screams in protest at the food.
When I look back up to Sally, she's looking at me with a slight expression of disbelief.
I typically never reveal when I don't feel well.
''Stay here. I'm going to get you a painkiller and a glass of water. Though you look like you should see a doctor. You're pale as a ghost. And Anderson - don't antagonize him for once.''
I dismiss her with a wave of my hand, more concerned by her relative kindness to me than anything else, and then realize that Gregson is hanging around, probably wondering if something interesting is going to occur. Evidently my reputation precedes me, even if I've never worked a single case with the man.
''I don't need anyone else gawking at me, Gregson. I'm not a lab specimen.''
Sally just stares back to me, mouth a hard line as she walks away, ''Yeah, it's alright Fred. I've got this. Stupid idiot always runs himself into the ground,'' she mutters. ''And you-,'' she commands to me, as if I'd be one to listen to her directive in the first place. ''Stay there. Don't move.''
I wrap an arm around my belly, and curse John for his noon force feeding.
Sally wanders off, and I have an immediate thought to just...leave. Certainly if Lestrade sees me as I am currently, it's going to flitter back to John in some capacity. And more than that, I likely won't get the okay to talk to Toby. Not looking ''sick'' as John puts it.
So after Gregson departs too, I stand up and make my way down the hallway, and out past the break room. Staggering into the stairwell, I walk to the second floor and make my way into the larger washroom and shower room. It's technically just for Scotland Yarders - not 'guests', but the others have seen me around enough to know my presence doesn't indicate an intruder.
By the time I get to the last stall in the bathroom, the yogurt is coming up on its own. I run the last few steps, as my body projects outwards cords of black, gritty stings that never seem to end.
I spit into the bowl feeling some of the pain abate with each heave and with each release of yogurt, and whatever else is coming out of me.
Finally I step back, feeling lighter and less full of acid and pain. I flush the vibrant mess away, and go to wash up; cupping my hands under the faucet, I catch the black markings streaked across my skin, and rub at my lips, realizing the taste is hot and salty. I gulp a couple swallows worth of water and rinse out my mouth by spitting back into the sink.
The water swirls away in a lurid dark burgundy red as I void the residual sick away into the sink. Then I quickly realize what I'm staring at - no doubt in my mind that something is wrong.
Because I'm bringing up blood.
At that second, a sliver of pain ripples across the interior of my stomach like a shard of glass being pulled over flesh.
I drop to my knees and continue to bring up red. Gritty red, like coffee grounds. The colour so dark as to almost look like old oil.
Abruptly, the fluorescent lights seem to explode over my head and then, rather strangely - I don't feel any pain at all.
