Who Are You?
By Navigatio
Summary: If I weren't who you thought I was-If I weren't who I thought I was, would you still love me? A case Sherlock takes on because of boredom (it's only a three, for heaven's sake!) puts John's entire identity into question.
Chapter 13: John falls apart
When John's hands were empty, he kicked at the rocks and screamed, an inarticulate cry full of such anguish that Sherlock felt physically knocked backward from the force of it. Part of him was analyzing ways to escape, to run back to the car and hide so he didn't have to deal with John's emotions. What could he possibly say, what could he possibly do in the face of that level of pain?
As the scream died out, John bent over at the waist, arms folded tightly around himself, and began to sob, harshly, his whole body shaking. Sherlock watched him helplessly. He wanted to comfort John, but he didn't know how. This was part of the unwritten social code that he had somehow missed. It didn't come naturally to him, and no one had ever taught him. In fact, there didn't seem to be any specific procedure at all. Everyone else just seemed to know what to do, while he was completely at sea.
Let's see, what had Molly done, when he had burst into tears on her sofa while he was dead? He wasn't really sure; he just knew that one moment his carefully maintained control had evaporated, and the next her arms were around him, and it had been incredibly comforting, almost the first time in his life that physical touch had been calming rather than overwhelming.
If he had found it comforting, then John might too. Without analyzing any further, Sherlock walked up beside John, making sure his shoes made noise on the gravel so he didn't startle him, and wrapped an arm around John's trembling shoulders. John leaned into him until Sherlock was supporting most of his weight, his face buried in Sherlock's coat.
Sherlock cast about until he spotted a flat rock a few meters away. Carefully he half-guided, half-carried John to it and sat down with him, arm still tightly wrapped around his shoulders.
After a few minutes of noisy sobs, John's breathing quieted and evened out a bit, although Sherlock was aware that his shoulders were still quivering. Finally he spoke, so softly that Sherlock had to strain to hear. "I don't know what to think. I don't know what to do." His voice trailed off into a harsh whisper, his face pressed hard against Sherlock's shoulder. "My whole life is a lie. I'm so lost," he choked out, the sound muffled by the fabric of Sherlock's coat.
Gently, Sherlock took John's hand and stroked his thumb over his knuckles. "John, the man you are hasn't changed," he said softly. "Genetics means nothing."
John was quiet, apparently listening, so he continued. "You are still the kind, honest, loyal man I'm proud to call my friend."
John sniffled, and after a moment chuckled weakly. "Makes me sound a bit like a dog."
"John, I'm serious."
"I know, Sherlock. And thanks." John straightened up and wiped his face with his palm. "Sorry for. . . getting your coat all wet."
"No apology necessary." Sherlock was still holding John's hand, soaking up the heat. It really was unfair for John's hands to be so toasty warm. No wonder all the girls melted under his touch.
John looked down at their joined hands and cracked a watery grin. "Is this going to be a thing now, you holding my hand?"
"Do you want me to stop?"
The grin widened. "No, I suppose not. Just. . . maybe not when other people are around."
"Noted."
John's grin dropped and he nodded, eyes focused on the river. "This is bloody awful," he said after a long moment.
"Yes."
Several minutes passed, during which time John continued to silently stare out at the river with his fingers curled around Sherlock's. Finally the wobbly grin returned. "Ok, I'm ready to go."
"All right. But I'm driving." Sherlock was expecting a fight, but John just handed him the keys and trudged silently back to the car.
Riding in the passenger seat of the hired car, John put his forehead against the side window and stared out into the countryside. It was a clear day, not a cloud in the sky, which was a brilliant sapphire blue. John's favorite kind of weather, but he took no pleasure in it. The anger he had felt earlier had dissipated, and now there was just. . . nothing. God, what a mess.
Sherlock's voice startled him. "Do you want to meet them?"
Them? Who? Oh, yes, the other half of this little tragedy. The Paddingtons. Did he want to meet them? "I don't know. What are they like?"
"The father was a Railroad lineman, retired seven years ago. The mother was a bank clerk, also retired." Sherlock's voice was careful, as if he was afraid of rattling John again.
"I'm not asking for their employment history."
"Oh. Right. The mother has a clean criminal record. The father has several arrests but no convictions for drink driving. The father talks little while the mother is voluble. Umm. . ."
John raised an eyebrow at him expectantly. "Go on. I want to know the full story. All your little deductions about them."
"All right. The father is a long-term alcoholic. Their marriage nearly broke up when their son disappeared, although I have the impression they were already unhappy long before that incident. However, they stayed together. They are not close. The only thing they agree on is that their son is alive and they want to find him. I must say I was surprised to discover they were actually correct in their assessment."
John rather thought the big surprise was not that Sherlock had been wrong, but that he was willing to admit it. "What about the—my siblings?"
"The brother, Adam, died in childhood of kidney malfunction. He was born with a kidney condition, and a suitable transplant was never found."
"Oh." John tried to muster up some grief for a lost brother, but completely failed on that score. He had no attachment to Adam Paddington and couldn't even fake it. These were complete strangers to him.
"The sister, Sylvia, is now 50 and lives in north London," Sherlock continued. "She is a bookkeeper, never married. She visits her parents regularly. They don't trust her, but I haven't worked out why."
"Really? You don't know why?" John knew he was winding Sherlock up a little, but he couldn't help it. There was something a bit endearing about Sherlock admitting he couldn't figure something out.
"Hmm. . . not yet. They gave each other a look when I mentioned wanting to talk to her. I wasn't sure what it meant. Of course, now I don't really need to know what she has to say. I've already got the answer I was looking for, apparently."
"Ok, I'll meet them," John said impulsively. He didn't exactly feel like it, but it seemed the right thing to do.
"You will?"
"It seems unfair not to. They've been looking for their son for so long."
Sherlock gave him an affectionate grin. "That's my John." And John couldn't help but grin back. He leaned his head against the window again and stared out at the pastures and fences flashing by. There was a cold lump of anxiety sitting in his stomach at the thought of meeting a group of strangers who wanted to claim him as their own. He already had a perfectly good family—better than good, at least as far as his mum and dad went. As for Harry, well. . . he couldn't deny he had wanted to trade her in once or twice during his life, but when it came down to it, he did still love her, and couldn't imagine replacing her with an older sister he had never even met.
With these thoughts still turning over and over in his mind, he drifted off to sleep, trusting Sherlock would wake him once they got to the Carlisle train station.
A hand on his head, pushing him under the water. Gasping for breath, sucking in a mouthful of salt that burns his tongue and throat. Choking, drowning. A voice—his mum's voice-telling him he's worthless.
When John woke with his heart pounding in his ears drowning out the hum of the car engine, the first thing he became aware of, before he even opened his eyes, was that someone was holding his hand. No, not someone—It was Sherlock's hand on top of his, Sherlock's cool fingers curled possessively around his.
"Sherlock," he said sleepily. "Why are you holding my hand?"
"You said it was all right." Sherlock's hand pulled back, and John immediately missed it. He was always too warm, and Sherlock's cooler hand had felt good on his skin.
John considered. "I suppose I did, but why do you want to? I thought you didn't like to be touched."
"With you it's different."
"Really? How so?"
"Hmm. . . when I was a boy, whenever someone got too close, I went into sensory overload. There were so many smells, sights, sounds. . . It was just too much. My system was overwhelmed and I would either put my hands over my ears, or start screaming. . . sometimes both."
John didn't want to laugh at that, but he couldn't help the grin that quirked the corner of his mouth up. "I can see that happening, yes."
"Don't make fun."
"All right, I'm sorry. It sounds like sensory integration disorder."
"That was one doctor's diagnosis, yes."
"One doctor? How many did you see?"
Sherlock was silent for a moment. Finally John prompted, "Sherlock?"
"I'm counting."
"Oh." He had to count to remember them all? That didn't sound right.
"Three psychologists, two neurologists, and four psychiatrists."
"Good God, nine specialists?"
"Mm, yes, My mother took me to a new one whenever they refused to increase the dosage on my medication. Or when they started asking too many questions."
"What medications?"
"Dexmethylphenidate, Thioridazine, Haloperidol, Diazepam, Chlorpromazine. . ." Sherlock's tone was clinical, unemotional, but John found his blood pressure rising with each drug he listed.
"Those are all major antipsychotics!"
"I know that now. They never helped, and they just upset my stomach, so after a while I just stopped taking them. By that time I was too big to push around, so there was nothing Mummy could do about it. When I got older, I learned to control it on my own, but the urge is still there. But for some reason, lately when you touch me, it calms me down, helps me focus. I found it harder to stay calm when-when you weren't around."
"Oh." John hadn't considered that Sherlock actually liked being touched by him. That Sherlock might have actually missed him when they were apart. "So this is something new? Is it just me?"
"Hmm, no." Sherlock paused and pressed his lips together. John just waited quietly. He had learned if he gave Sherlock a little space, sometimes he would share more, often without even realizing it.
"Molly too," Sherlock admitted finally.
Oh this was interesting. Best not to seem too interested, however, or he'd clam up. "Really?"
"Yes. When I was. . . dead, she took care of me. When I got into scrapes, you know. She cleaned me up, stitched me up a few times." Sherlock rubbed his left shoulder. John just kept listening quietly. This was the most Sherlock had shared about his foray into darkness, and John was desperate to know more, but was afraid to ask. He knew that pushing him for information would only end in retreat. "It felt good, helped calm me down," Sherlock continued finally. "Of course, she doesn't do that anymore."
"But you want her to?"
"Mm, sort of. I suppose."
John smirked. "Then why don't you. . . you know, try touching her? I'm sure she would let you."
"John, I'm not a complete fool. I know how she feels. If I were to touch her, she would have expectations. I don't think I'm ready to fulfill those expectations."
"Hmm. . . Do you think you might be ready to do that at some point in the future?"
Sherlock's head tilted while he considered that for a moment. "Maybe. But I don't want to confuse her. With you I don't have to worry about that."
John's smirk turned into a chuckle. "Good to know you're not trying to confuse me."
"You know what I mean."
"Sure, Sherlock, all right." John sat up a little in his seat and took a peek out the car window. They were on a motorway now, and the rolling green countryside of northern Cumbria had given way to mountains and lakes, so they were clearly south of Carlisle and the train station. "Hey, we're past Carlisle. Aren't we taking the train?"
"I decided to drive back. We can return the car at King's Cross." Sherlock shot a glance at John and obviously observed the gathering thunderclouds on his brow. "I'll pay the extra fee."
John shook his head. "All right, whatever, fine. But you have to drive all the way."
"I will."
"And pay the tolls this time! No trying to drive around the barrier."
"I will."
"Good." John leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes again. As long as Sherlock was willing to drive and pay, he supposed it didn't matter. He could have a kip here as well as on the train. As he was about to drift off to sleep, he felt Sherlock's hand on his again, hesitant, tentative. John supposed it was the closest Sherlock would get to admitting that he needed warmth and companionship. He caught Sherlock's cool fingers and squeezed, gently, just to let him know it was still all right.