Shadow Child - Part 25

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). Protective!John/ Case-fic.

Author's notes: I have very, very sketchy net access right now and I may be in this boat for another 2 or so months. Perhaps longer. :/ I apologize. I have wanted to get some writing done for a long time now, and I hope everyone enjoys the update. It's shorter than a normal chapter, but I hope it's better than nothing. I'm currently having to write in cyber-cafes, which can be costly, so please know I will be finishing in a more timely manner as soon as I am able. Thanks, guys!

This chapter is special as it the first chapter written from a unique character's POV. More developments in the next chapter, but I just wanted to provide you guys something, rather than nothing. I am envious of those of you that have a relatively sane and stable existence.

Oh, in very small ways, I tried to showcase a slight odd speaking pattern for Yuri. He's near-fluent in English, but I wanted to create a difference in how he uses words and constructs his sentences to highlight his background - Russian born, French raised.

Yuri's POV

It's shortly after noon, on Sunday, when John Watson calls me. Soft voice, not quite a whisper - but definitely quiet. Subdued.

I recognize the number and head to my office, wanting to minimize noise and any subsequent discomfort for John.

''Yes, John?''

''Umm, yes. Hi Yuri,'' he starts out hesitantly.

He sounds distracted, and I decide to cut to the chase.

''Have you discussed seeing me with Sherlock? With Sherlock seeing me, as well?''

A pause. It's slight - almost not a pause at all - but I sense it. Can feel the reservation he has in even replying.

''Ye-es,'' John parses, the word slightly drawn out. ''And he's agreed to see you. So that's good. Unexpected. I mean, he initially was going to, but then seemed to go back on his decision, and sometimes getting him to do anything that could be of his benefit is really tricky, and-''

I sense that it was a tentative agreement at best, though, hence John's hesitancy in answering. The start of his rambling.

''Today?,'' I interject. ''Has he agreed to see me later today?''

''No, not today,'' he says quickly. ''That won't work. I tried, but-''

It's an Issue. Obviously.

But I had guessed as much upon first meeting Sherlock when he had been admitted for his ulcer perforation.

Obviously Sherlock dislikes speaking to doctors as much as most people dislike root canals. Which is to say - a whole lot.

''Okay. Do not worry about that. What is his available time? You are aware of the schedule for availability?''

A hear a sigh.

''Yes. That might be better, anyway. He's...he's sort of psyching himself out a little bit, Yuri. I think. But if it's short - a quick visit, at least initially - he might slowly come out of his shell.''

I think of Sherlock, as I first met him, in clinic. His irritability did not completely hide his nervousness. Though I bet that was his intention. Well crafted armor, honed over decades.

I push away a pang of empathy. Over empathizing with Sherlock may be to his detriment. He likely gets enough of that with John, and with John I am also sure he's become a master of manipulation. And of course there are reasons for everything. For his need to feel so reliant on his skills to manipulate others. That is already a very huge sign of dysfunction. But his denial of very serious problems, now, will only prolong his suffering.

And it is not in my nature to prolong considerable suffering that is covered by a gloss of surface discomfort. I'd rather push past immediate hesitancy if it would help someone get back on track.

The issue is even more pressing now, of course. Eating disturbances have a definite pressured need. They cannot go unchecked for too long, because the damage they cause isn't strictly further psychological disturbance.

They can threaten a person's physical existence, and from what I suspect of Sherlock - he's been struggling, acutely, for several months. And in a less acute sense, he's likely been engaged with disordered habits on and off since his childhood.

''Have you discussed a time? Date? Some time this week?,'' I clarify, hoping John doesn't take my brusqueness for irritation.

''Yes. For the opening you mentioned. On the weekdays.''

''Twice a week?,'' I confirm.

''He'll be okay with that,'' John says ambiguously. ''I'm sure he'll be, eventually.''

We chat for a few more minutes, while I pencil Sherlock's name into my roster, and explain to John what NHS information I will need in the future. I can hear the weariness - and, if I am not mistaken - a slight ripple of fear - in John's voice before we disconnect.

On Monday, I return to the office and take my regular caseload of patients. At ten to 2 pm, I receive a call stating that ''Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes'' are in the waiting room. I nod to myself, then relay that they can come into the office to my secretary.

They do, almost immediately.

John first, Sherlock trailing him - shoulders hunched almost to his chin in tension, his body language defensive. Stiff.

I shake John's hand first, then turn and give Sherlock a short, gut genuine smile offering my hand.

He doesn't take it. Simply stares at my form, glances downward, blinks, and then begins to speak.

''Right, well come in. Lots of space,'' I say easily, keeping the tone and the dialogue simple. I have worked in this profession for long enough to know that taking anything personally, especially when a person is conflicted about getting better in the first place, would equal utter foolishness.

John smiles broadly, seemingly relieved to just have Sherlock in the office. His smile is eager. He's trying to encourage his friend.

And it's readily apparent by the tension behind the smile, not fake, but strained - that his decision to see me, for himself alone - was also not in error.

Chronic concerns about a friend or loved one takes an emotional toll on those close to the afflicted as well, and can be incredibly draining to those seemingly not afflicted by any disorder. That is part of the pernicious nature of certain problems. They rarely impact one person. They can impact an entire family, even if seemingly indirectly.

I can't help wonder how much they've argued about this issue in the last few weeks, however.

John sits front and center, moving slightly to the side when Sherlock deposits his lanky form next to his friend's a few seconds later. I note, with interest, that he took to sitting on the same sofa as John, rather than selecting his own chair off to the side.

Yet he's not making eye contact with John.

Fascinating cluster of signs.

So he's likely either ashamed, or angry over being here - but not so angry that John's presence fails to provide necessary comfort.

''Can I get either of you a beverage?,'' I ask, as is my typical way of greeting new clients. John, of course, smiles politely and requests a bottled water. Sherlock remains mute.

''Sherlock?,'' I clarify. ''Would you like something to drink?''

I see his thin face dart around quickly, searching for something. He looks restless, and I wonder how long it will take to put him at ease. Most of my clients seem to find my mannerisms comforting enough. I am not known for being off putting or overly intrusive. I must, at times, press clients. But it's usually in a testing capacity when they resort to going silent for extended periods of time. Or in serious situations involving suicidal ideation or self-harm. Things I cannot let go unchecked.

I have no interest in bulldozing through someone else's emotional past just because I can.

''We have Perrier too. Or canned fruit juice, colas. I can make tea?,'' I continue, when there is no further response from Sherlock.

Sherlock's jaw clenches for a nanosecond, before: ''A Perrier, please,'' he requests primly, but his face contorted in sourness.

I pad over to the small fridge and return a few moments later with water for them both, and an Italian Soda for myself.

''Not a good choice for someone whose family history is rife with Type 2 diabetes,'' Sherlock states silkily as I pop the tab. John winces and gives me a look that showcases his apologetic nature.

''Ahh,'' I say with a slight grin, ''but certainly a little bit of sugar now and then isn't the worst thing if I eat healthfully on the whole. Wouldn't you say?''

Sherlock licks his lips, then glances to his knees. The bones protrude in such a way as to give him a Tim Burton-esque skeletal look. In a clay-mation character, it looks intriguingly spooky. On a human being, it almost looks grotesque.

''It's your pancreas, not mine,'' he mutters after a moment, while John rolls his eyes.

I smile again, while I pour my beverage into a taller glass and re-settle myself into my chair.

''So? Should we just jump into it, then?''

Sherlock continues to stare directly ahead of himself, while John nods briefly, then turns to his friend - obviously wanting collective assent.

''I think that would be easiest,'' John says tightly, breaking the silence. His strained grin is back.

I realize he likely has his own issues with therapy, too. But he attends out of duty. A sense of responsibility. Not an actual ease with the process.

''Okay,'' I agree. ''So... how about I just pose a couple basic questions and you both can provide your own take on the situation? Such as - what, ultimately, would either of you like me to help you accomplish if you were to become my patients?''

John rushes to answer, while Sherlock distractedly picks imaginary lint off his blue woolen coat.

''Well, these sessions are not so much for me, but for him,'' John starts by way of clarification. ''I'm here to provide, I guess, support. Sherlock doesn't have the best history with psychotherapists,'' he adds rapidly.

I fight down the urge to smile. I doubt that Sherlock has the best history with authority figures, period.

''Sherlock, would you say that's accurate? John's statement?''

Sherlock looks up tiredly. I can sense the weariness in his entire being. Partly bodily fatigue from poor self-care, but partly mental turmoil. His mind and body are fighting one another, and he likely doesn't know which one to follow. His eyes are ringed in black, and he looks even thinner than the last time I saw him in the hospital.

Which was already borderline emaciated.

''Of course it's accurate. John wouldn't say such a thing if it were not,'' he responds in an almost biting tone.

I lean back slightly in my chair and let my hands gloss over the glass table.

''Would you say that John typically is accurate about his assessments of people? In general?''

Sherlock hesitates briefly, then responds with: ''For an individual who has not spent much time focused on studying human behaviour, I would say John is exceptionally good at reading people.''

John's eyebrows rise to his hairline, and when we catch each others line of sight, I bite back a smile. Mainly as he looks so surprised by the compliment.

''And was it John's suggestion to have you see someone?''

Sherlock crosses his arms over his frame now. A classic defensive maneuver. One I'm sure he's quite aware of normally but which has presently escaped his notice.

Belying his anxiety.

''Yes,'' he barks at me, his voice sounding hoarse.

It sounds as if he has cried recently. The voice is raw.

''What were John's reasons? Why did he want you to talk to someone?''

Sherlock presses both of his palms against his legs. He looks up, seems to freeze, and then repeats the motion.

It's odd. But it reminds me of a stim that I once observed in a young man with high functioning autism. That's not to say that's the case here, but I have the faintest suspicion that Sherlock would be closer to being neuro-atypical than neuro-typical. Of course, the aversion to eye-contact, currently, could simply be due to his own anxiety in the present moment, and not a typical issue for him.

But I visited his website. Saw his intense, unusual interests. His devotion to performing tests on cigarette ash. Over 240 different kinds.

That sort of dedication, to a subject that most would find innately boring, is interesting to me.

Not only that - I have observed his interactions with others. With myself, his nurse, with John. His online comments to suggestions and responses on his own webpages. The style, the dismissive tone, the borderline-anger all the time, and the rapidity with which he does, indeed, become angry - all of that provide little warnings and clues that I am trained not to ignore.

I have the faintest suspicion that there could be another diagnosis under his overt disorder here, but that will have to wait for future exploration.

Then again, he is undeniably brilliant. That itself can generate odd mannerisms and traits, if only due to repeated isolation that can co-occur with unrecognized brilliance - especially when it presents as marked since childhood.

And Sherlock definitely seems to be defensive. Not only dismissive of others, but guarded.

As if he's expecting verbal rebukes.

He's likely been bullied extensively for being different, and now holds his differences close to him. Unwilling to concede to changing, as he's used to being the way he is. And would likely prefer to see others as deficient and stupid, rather than admit that he's not coping as well as he could. Not living as happily as he's entitled to live.

''He thinks I have a poor self-care style,'' Sherlock states suddenly, his dark voice cutting through the fog of my own thoughts.

The statement is so intentionally vague that I lean forward and nod - as is my habit when trying to encourage a relatively recalcitrant patient, hoping to get more information.

''Can you flesh that out a bit more for me? In what ways is John concerned? Specifically? Hygiene? Sleeping?''

Sherlock huffs and when he looks up at me again, it's with a faint anger.

I'm starting to become used to his anger, and no longer find it quite as impressive. Not now that I've sensed his deeper, fuller fear.

''Obviously not hygiene,'' he snarks, ''My hygiene is impeccable, on the whole.''

It's true, too, of course. But I continue to let him rant, while John's eyes reach to mine in an almost apologetic manner yet again.

I realize the co-dependent lock the two of them are in: John, so used to taking responsibility for everything and everyone I suspect, and Sherlock - quick to dismiss himself from responsibility for very much.

Neither extreme, of course, is healthy.

''Sherlock,'' he starts, wary. Tempting. A 'play along nicely, please' sort of voice.

''These games are transparent, and therefore - aggravating. If you are going to play me, Doctor, at least be creative about it.''

I remain mute, while Sherlock repeats the motion I had observed earlier and then suddenly proclaims, ''John is concerned about my eating. Primarily.''

I study my pen, pull it close, then glance back up to the tense man before me.

''What concerns John about your eating?,'' I specify.

Sherlock's face is steely.

''He doesn't feel that I eat regularly enough.''

''Anything else?''

Because obviously - that's not the whole of this issue.

Sherlock bites his lip, flinches.

''He doesn't feel I eat enough when I do, indeed, eat.''

John's now sitting as rigidly as his friend, and I take another sip of my cola, debate momentarily how to answer.

''What about you, Sherlock?,'' I ask easily, trying to put both men at ease. ''What do you think?''

''What about me...what?,'' Sherlock responds tightly.

''Do you feel you eat enough? Or regularly?''

Sherlock hedges, not knowing how to answer. And his answer will be interesting, if only because I sense that he's capable of being profoundly honest when he needs to be.

''Not compared to the average,'' he begins easily enough, but I hear a 'but' coming. ''Yet I am not average, so-,'' he responds after a few seconds, his eyes wary and scanning my own. ''It makes it complicated, and others...never understand. Even John. He doesn't...,'' Sherlock trails off quietly, and I am starting to hear the deep upset in his voice now.

I can sense that he's incredibly conflicted over how he lives and interacts with others. The tug of war within his own mind, especially for someone so intelligent and so typically ruled by logic - must be hard to live with, and frightening.

To know he is soothed by that which is ultimately destructive and the opposite of logical must be disquieting for one so typically guided by rational analysis. Proceeding to facts, not feelings. Yet now he is soothed by habits and allowances that are geared to appeal to his emotions, and not his body. That must be a rather conflicting place to be.

''What do you wish others would understand?,'' I ask calmly. ''How you feel? Why you feel as you do?''

Sherlock seems reluctant to answer, but he does: ''My transport is not composed in such a way as to give me regular ques or typical feedback encouraging excessive intake when I consume, or fail to consume, various foodstuffs.''

The wording is odd.

It's removed, almost robotic sounding in usage.

I have no doubt that Sherlock wishes, at times, that he could become more robotic. There is less pain for those without emotional awareness. But Sherlock is not lacking in emotional awareness.

He's likely much more emotionally aware that he wants to admit; more emotionally aware than he is probably given credit for being.

''Your transport is what? How you refer to various bodily or organ systems?''

He nods - looks slightly less tense at my lack of judgment of his terminology.

''That's correct,'' he states more assuredly now.

I pause momentarily.

''Do you feel that your transport is defective?''

Sherlock studies me, and then states, ''No. I do not.''

''Oh for God's sake, Sherlock,'' I hear John mutter, and resist an impulse to hold up a finger. One of the issues in allowing more than the patient himself into a therapy session is the random utterances from concerned family or friends who also attend the session.

This can be revealing and informative, but can also stop a natural form of dialogue between myself and the patient who needs the most solid focus.

Yet, in Sherlock's case, I am betting that John's inclusion in these sessions was vital, even so far as ensuring Sherlock showed up at all. So it's a small price to pay on the whole, I guess.

''John - you seem to think that's not an accurate assessment, is that right?''

I see John's body sit up straighter on the sofa, as he responds with conviction: ''You're absolutely right that's not an accurate assessment,'' and then, ''Sherlock - we've been over this repeatedly. You are exceptional in so many ways, but you cannot operate on nothing. No one can.''

Sherlock looks away in frustration; I observe the body language between the two of them for a few moments.

''Sherlock?,'' I ask gingerly a short time later. ''You seem to be angry with John. Can you tell me why?''

There is a huff of air.

''I am not angry with John,'' he gets out in gritty and obvious anger. ''I am frustrated that most people are so simple-minded in their understanding of variant bodily compositions that-''

''Oh, come off it!,'' John interrupts, seemingly tired of Sherlock's excuses. ''I am more than sensitive to 'variations in bodily compositions', so let's stop with this. All of this. This is about you not taking care of yourself. That's why we are here. And nothing I have said or done seems to make a difference, and I think - if you were honest with everyone right now, in this room - you'd admit that you are doing some very unhealthy things. Things that don't make sense. But rather than own them, you are trying to make it seem like the essentials that all people need - food being a very big one, Sherlock! - don't apply to you. And they do. Of course they do! Just admit that much!,'' and John's voice is craggy now. ''Please just stop trying to deny that!''

Sherlock closes his eyes briefly and when they flutter open a few seconds later, I can see that they are swollen with tears.

''I-I,'' even his chest is rising and falling faster now, ''There is nothing wrong with me.''

John puts his head in his hands and groans.

''Do you see this, Yuri? This is it! It in a nutshell. We talk around this issue, and he never admits to anything. Except rarely, and even then, it's an allusion, not a direct admittance, and I just can't...live in the flat and see him do this to himself any longer. I can't.''

Sherlock's eyes widen with anxiety now. I see him lick his lips, then meet my gaze with fear.

''Are you trying to express that you'll consider leaving if Sherlock doesn't change some of his habits?,'' I qualify, since Sherlock seems incredibly still and unwilling to talk, currently.

''No,'' John exhales, tiredly, ''No. I won't leave. I just don't...I don't want to have to see this happen any longer. All my life, it seems, I've had to sit back and see people do things to themselves that eventually ruined their own lives. And it's a horrible feeling,'' John stops, swallows, his voice thick when he continues, ''it's horrible to want to help someone you care about so much, and not have any power to make anything better for them. To plead with them, and not see anything change. Ever. Or even WANT to change. It makes you want to give up. To not care so much. Because it hurts to see all that potential go down the bloody drain, and when it's someone you love, it's even worse and-''

John abruptly stops talking and Sherlock blinks rapidly, licks his lips. He's paler now, and looks almost more upset than John.

And vaguely guilty.

I pull out some lined paper from my desk and separate two sheets, giving one to each man.

''I can imagine that it would be an awful thing to witness. John?,'' I ask carefully, ''I want you to write down three things you'd like to see improve. In terms of how Sherlock cares for himself. And then I want you to read them out.''

Sherlock shuffles in his seat as I hand him his paper.

''This is so stupid,'' he huffs, seeming about 14 years old in that moment.

I smile and continue to hold out Sherlock's paper, which he finally takes. ''You too, Sherlock. But I want you to write three things down as they relate to John. Things you'd like for John to change, insofar as to how he interacts with you. About his concerns, or in any other way.''

Sherlock takes the paper warily, as if the exercise is a trick. His eyes are scanning my face, roaming over the landscape of my features. Trying to catch the deception.

''John doesn't need to change anything about himself. He's-,'' and the lanky man clears his throat now, ''he's fine the way he is.''

''Well, fine is a good starting point, sure. But let's try to improve upon 'fine', alright?''

Sherlock gives me a look of irritation.

''I am not effusive with my praise. As far as flatmates go, John is perfect.''

John looks startled then, and stops writing. I see his cheeks colour slightly, and distantly recall some of our previous conversations. His own confusion as to his sexual orientation. Potentially, he stated.

That was a word he liked to use a lot. Potentially.

And if there is something there - something hedging romantic attraction, at least - then I have an inkling that it's not a one-sided situation. I mentally file the information away for something to bring up in a future session.

Potentially, I mean.

''Are you asserting there is nothing you would change right now, that could help you and John discuss certain issues more openly?''

Sherlock is starting to look even more flustered.

''We discuss things well. John is always available to me, regarding any discussion of which either of us would wish to partake.''

The words sound wooden and practiced. My guess is that Sherlock has mentally generated dozens of psychobabble catch phrases that he plans on using on me.

''That sounds a little rehearsed, Sherlock,'' I say evenly, my tone firm but not cold. ''Do you think maybe that's what John could have been referring to, earlier?''

Sherlock blinks as if he doesn't understand the question.

''What?''

''You are extremely talented in navigating away from and out of conversations that you'd rather not have. That must be taxing to John, especially considering how concerned he is about you.''

Sherlock actually glares at me now. His eyes no longer wet. I suspect that he typically controls his emotions so expertly that crying is a rare phenomenon at best, and that anger is easier to fall back on. Easier to use as a shield.

Tears leave a person vulnerable, and I doubt Sherlock lets himself feel vulnerable if he can avoid it.

''Well, psychiatrists are expertly trained in inserting themselves into the middle of conversations that are better left alone,'' he growls back at me in retaliation and I see John roll his eyes. Actually roll his eyes.

I bite back a laugh: ''You agreed to this session, did you not?''

Sherlock continues to glare.

''I have very little control in this entire situation. I simply do not want John to worry as he has been. This was the price to ensure that he stop.''

I am starting to sympathize with John Watson. Sherlock is likely tiring at his argumentative best, and I betting that he is trying to be open right now.

''Well, you have a choice all the same,'' I clarify. ''You could have refused to see me at all. John's concerns aside.''

Now the black haired man stands up abruptly, and he flounces over to my bookcase, avoiding staring at me.

''That wasn't a choice! I don't - I-''

His hands fall to his sides now, and I sense he feels defeated.

''What?,'' John asks carefully. His tone is softer.

Sherlock continues to study the bookshelf, his back turned to the both of us.

''I don't have many friends,'' he responds quietly, tentatively. ''I did not want to lose my best one. Maybe my only one.''

John suddenly looks so sad that it takes all my willpower to simply observe, and not speak.

''Sherlock...I'm not- You're not going to lose me!''

Thin arms now wrap completely around a thin torso.

Protection.

Comfort. But self-generated.

''You say that now,'' Sherlock starts, edgily. ''But you've only been dealing with this for awhile. You cannot promise any-,'' and then he stops talking abruptly and returns to his seat, and picks up his paper and pen, hurriedly scrawling on the sheet of loose-leaf.

In one rapid motion his pushes the paper forward towards me, then stands up and exits the office.

The door latches with a loud shlocking sound and John turns to me in confusion and concern.

I pass him the paper, and watch the other man's features as he reads the words of his friend.

'I want John to know that I will get better. That I've been here before, and worse, and got better on my own. I want him to stop worrying. When he worries, it makes it harder for me to eat. And I don't know why.'