Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability
Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gattis or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.
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I am not a native speaker and this will get beta-ed some time in the future, but until then please try to ignore my grammar mistakes… or tell me where they are :)
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Chapter 26 - Saturday early evening
John saw Sherlock relax a bit.
Good.
He needed a relaxed atmosphere for what he planned to do next.
"I assume you're still exhausted and feel like shit… But…," he didn't really know how to start, this was harder than expected, "I need to explain… I know where you are Sherlock. I know how your world feels right now."
"Joohn…" Sherlock sounded a bit alarmed and tensed up again.
"It is quite an empty place…"
"I do not desire to talk about this."
"Shut up," John gently suggested, "You don't have to talk. I'll talk in fact. Don't speak, just listen."
The former soldier knew by doing this he risked to trigger himself… he knew he wasn't good talking about feelings… but this was the only way… and talking to Sherlock was on some levels more difficult than talking to anybody else… and in some other areas easier than anybody else.
"Some time ago I was in a dark place. It was the worst state my mind had ever experienced. Before I had been there my soul had no clue such a horrible mindset even existed, and when I was there I realised how blind and lucky I had been not knowing anything like it existed before," John paused for a moment. He didn't dare to look at Sherlock, sure the detective would try to stop him as soon as he had his attention.
"I was maybe even… envying all those people who had their blessedly normal life and were so innocent, not even knowing such horrors exist. It is the kind of place that once one has been there it is impossible unsee it, seeing it changed me," John admitted, taking a deep breath to collect himself a bit.
"I felt so very alone there that it made my whole existence hurt from loneliness and abandonment… Every single minute of my dreadful existence was agony. Not only that I felt left alone by people, but by anything nice or positive that existed in the world. I was no longer able to feel joy or enjoy anything I had loved to do before. Every hint of bliss and felicity had been wiped from the face of my world and I was sure that having felt it before was a naïve illusion. I didn't understand how other people walked the world and didn't understand the lie they were living. I felt like I was a dead man walking and when I went to sleep I hoped I would never wake up again."
"When was this, John?"
John cursed that Sherlock was even unable to shut up when he didn't want to talk. But Sherlock seemed to have switched into some other mode. His posture had changed from refusal to…?
He sounded alarmed. Or was it worry? John was heading somewhere different, had not intended that path of thoughts, not even considered that Sherlock might ask this.
"Doesn't matter," John unfolded his legs and stuffed some pillows into his back.
"It does for me," Sherlock's voice was slightly trembling again.
Damn it.
Sherlock had seen him on the bed with the gun.
Did he think he was suicidal?
"Not recently. Don't go there… Calm down," John lay down on the cushion but eyed Sherlock's body carefully.
Then he continued, "You're not getting the point. The point is to ask yourself if you recognise my description of that place in your mind and if you have been there or if there's anything in your mind palace that might feel similar to what I just described."
"I doubt that this…"
"Shhh. I'm not finished. You need more date, and I need to get this out… So, please, just do me the favour and listen. I might feel better after having done this," John briefly touched Sherlock's hand in the semi-dark.
This was about encouraging Sherlock to open up by doing it himself.
They were an odd sight there, on the ground, surrounded by pillows and blankets and bottles of water and medical stuff.
"While my soul was surrounded by that dark, my body needed to go on with life. I felt separated… er, my mind felt separated from my body. All-day things constantly reminded me of the horrible things I had experienced. I wandered the world like in a dark bubble. Where ever I went, the reminders of the trauma seemed to follow me, sprang into my mind when I didn't want them. I couldn't get rid of them, I couldn't hide from them, my own mind harassed me. I couldn't outrun the constant nightmare my life had become. There was no safe place in my world any longer. More severe were things that were consciously or unconsciously associated with the memories of dark events themselves or the hours around it."
John took another deep breath, feeling how describing this made him feel cold and uneasy. Talking to his therapist had forced him to learn to speak about his feelings. He gave a sarcastic huff when he realised the feeling of shame about it had profoundly deadened during the past years of therapy. He could do this to help Sherlock.
"My brain constantly replayed all the shit in technicolour and slow motion, I was helplessly watching and unable to change anything… Reliving shock, panic and helplessness… and the pain of course, again. The aftermath of reliving the memories left me disoriented and shivering in new arisen terror."
John carefully observed Sherlock's reactions, whose eyes had closed. He seemed paler than half an hour ago.
He hesitated, should he go on with this? He almost felt cruel, but on the other hand he knew - no matter what - Sherlock would never ever go see a therapist. So the only option they had was to figure this out between the two of them.
The only chance to figure out what was happening was to do this was while Sherlock had his defences lowered enough to let John in.
Was this madness? Double madness? – No Mycroft was with him, triple then?
But Sherlock had to realise that he needed help and he had to understand he actually needed to entrust John with it, at least if he didn't want to entrust anybody else.
The doctor hated the idea that he might be the only straw that Sherlock might be willing to grasp, especially since he himself still felt like he needed help with this whole disaster himself and was not convinced he'd be qualified.
But due to his own experiences he might be the best choice from the few people Sherlock actually trusted. Well, maybe he could manage to drag Sherlock to his therapist later, though the consultant had always considered her incompetent.
"I… er, felt broken, ashamed, numb, in shock, and afraid that anyone in public might see my state of mind. I hurt… I hurt more than I had ever before in my life."
He stopped, needing a moment himself. He had closed his eyes and when he opened them he saw Sherlock's jaw was clenched and the man had tensed up and was breathing shallowly. Whatever Sherlock was seeing in himself from John's descriptions was surfacing.
If Sherlock was experiencing nothing of it he'd have pointed it out in an unnerved tone by now. The consultant knew what he was talking about, at least partially.
The doctor continued to watch his reactions closely while he continued.
"Well, there was no sleep without nightmares, and in them I relived the events in a thousand different scenarios, sometimes by being a bystander with tied hands, helpless, not able to prevent the horrors from happening. When it was really bad I felt like on the edge of a breakdown. I had no control over the tears sometimes, they just came, it made me feel vulnerable and I started to hate myself for this weakness even more… was angry at myself for not being able to keep them at bay. As you know, I'm not usually the guy who sheds tears easily."
It was hard for John to keep his tone casual, especially while staring at a Sherlock, who seemed to come closer and closer to some kind of severe distress.
But it was no use, Sherlock needed to understand he needed help the way he learned all things: the hard way.
He needed a bit of a gentle kick in the pants to make him open his eyes on this.
John hated himself for being the one who had to execute the kick, but he knew he was the one and only person who was able to do it. If Sherlock would listen to anybody it was John, not Mycroft, not Lestrade, not Molly.
Him, only him.
Right now he swore about how hard it was. It was even kind of painful.
"I hurt… and sometimes the only thing in my mind was that I wanted the hurt to stop," John finished.
Oh god, it still hurts.
It made him close his eyes and wait for a moment to calm down.
Sherlock gulped, then turned onto his side and hid himself from John's view effectively.
Slowly, the former soldier went around him and found Sherlock was trembling again.
Shit. Here we go.
John took a deep breath, now or never.
He half sat, half lay down next to Sherlock on the other side. By then, the detective had curled up into a foetal position.
John slowly rested his hand on Sherlock's upper arm, who's breath haltered for a moment and so he decided to speak.
"You need help with this. You can't do this alone. Let me in… Let me help."
Sherlock gulped and drew another shallow breath.
"I know you hurt and I know the memories are tormenting you. If you don't get help this might become far worse or even develop into PTSD… And believe me, that will be so much worse, you don't want to go there."
Sherlock's jaw clenched even more.
"You don't need to do anything. You trust my medical skills and allowed me to stitch you up… This is not too different… Just let me in, just listen to me and go with me where I take you."
Sherlock remained still.
"Can you do that?"
The doctor knew that letting Sherlock think it over would only result in retreat, he needed to take him by the mind's hand as long as Sherlock was in this fragile and vulnerable mindset, the only situation he'd be able to accept it, which was right now.
"Sherlock, I want to help… I need to help. I know where you are, I know you feel no hope and I know you feel lost, but all you have to do is allow me in. Let me take care of things for a moment. I've been there, I maybe have a compass. Can you do that?"
John's hand was still resting on Sherlock's arm and in the semi dark John saw something that he interpreted as a tiny nod… Even if it wasn't, he'd continue.
He needed a few seconds to collect his thoughts. Sherlock seemed not to dare to move the tiniest bit after right now, extremely tensed up.
"Hey, you need to relax a bit, here," John started to move his thumb across the shoulder joint, where it happened to be. The detective took a few deeper breaths.
The fact that Sherlock didn't shove him away and the fact that he had agreed to let the doctor in where large steps… and showed a lot of trust.
"You told me the Mindpalace was damaged somehow," John started in a soothing voice. "I want you to take me there."
John waited.
After about two minutes he wondered if Sherlock was able to hear him or if his distress was causing more trouble than the doctor had thought.
It took another two minutes until he heard an answer.
"How?" Sherlock sounded terrible, exhausted and hoarse.
"By just describing me what everything looks like… how the palace feels to your senses… Just describe what you see. Take me there and tell me what you see for the beginning."
John more felt than saw another nod. He tried to relax, get into a more comfortable position, this might take a while.
"Okay. I want you to go to the mind palace, but simultaneously keep your ears with me, can you do that?"
"'course."
"Really? You usually kind of ignore me when you go there."
"'t's new," Sherlock whispered.
"Since when?" John tried to ease the situation a bit doing by some random talk.
"J'st happened… don't know… since Baskerville… or since the return?"
Sherlock sounded as if he really needed to sleep, it was a lot of work for him to even talk. But John needed to build the small entrance he had been granted into a solid door before Sherlock had the chance to close it again because of shame and stoic embarrassment.
"Like a speaker… system."
John raised his eyebrows.
Really? This was… something important, wasn't it? Huge change or something, his own speaker system.
"Go on, try to relax a bit, breathe deeper… Good. Let's go, figure out the problem, can you do that?"
"There's damage…"
"You're already there?"
This was fast.
"No, I know. Need a minute," Sherlock's voice trailed off at the last words; his breathing deepened.
"Sure, take your time… Can you go to where the damage is and describe what it looks like?… no wait, I need a rough plan of the surroundings… How many stories are there?"
"A lot."
"More than twenty?"
"Yes."
"How many rooms are there on one level?"
"D'pends."
"On average?"
"Between thirty and seventy."
"Blimey. Does it actually look like a real building?"
"Some areas do," Sherlock's speech was gaining confidence.
"Was the memory palace always there or did you built it in your youth?"
"It was always there and had different areas… but it hadn't a visual appearance when… when I was a child, it had not the shape of the insides of a building or of rooms. It was just areas in space. I built the memory technique inside the phenomenon and they… kind of… merged." Sherlock explained.
In the beginning John had thought the Mindpalace was just a memory technique, but right now he understood it was also a visualisation of Sherlock's mind.
"So, the parts you built latest have the clearest visualization?"
"All parts I built past the age of fifteen years have very clear visible structures."
"And the parts you built in your youth?"
"They are more abstract… Some information there kind of hover in endless space."
John paused a moment, trying to imagine what Sherlock described.
"Are you in there, yet?"
"Can't concentrate, you talk too much."
John giggled, "So concentrate."
He waited and could almost feel the change in Sherlock's demeanour when he managed to enter his mind's realm.
His body relaxed and his breathing deepened.
Would this be good if he was panicking again? Take him to the Palace?
"Hmmm," Sherlock made a minute later.
"Is this a way of telling me you're in the lobby?" John had lowered his voice and spoke slowly.
"Hmm," Sherlock agreed, it sounded dreamy.
"Go to the damaged areas, describe the surroundings and your paths."
"Grande double staircase… Corridors… Current level is like an old school building. Many doors. No damage here," Sherlock sounded faraway, his eyes were closed.
"Okay, what is the light like?"
"It's illuminated perfectly… though kind of bright."
"So where are you headed now?"
"Walking up the stairs to the seventh level."
"What do they look like?"
"This segment of the stairway is fancy… space age…"
John chuckled, this was actually getting a more interesting touch than a horrible one.
"Can you remember when you built that particular one?" John asked just because he was curious.
"Er… yes," Sherlock muttered, sounding a bit bemused, too.
"You like that one…"
The doctor felt Sherlock relax more under his hand, he had carefully maintained the touch.
"Yep," Sherlock exhaled.
"Is there a level in similar design?"
"Obviously… But there's no damage… I'm climbing another flight of stairs."
"Yes, alright," John was actually kind of amazed to take this virtual journey inside of Sherlock's mind.
"How do you know from the stairs there is no damage?"
"Feels like it."
Now, that was kind of puzzling.
Sherlock sucked in air through his teeth and the doctor could feel him tense up.
"What is it?" John carefully asked
"There… some areas are burned down or something… I can't really know because I can't see, there is… are visual disturbances… Smoke maybe?"
"How were they damaged? From the bonfire?"
"No… from… bombardment… or something."
"With what was it bombarded? Bombs?"
"The bonfire,…"
John frowned.
"… Serbia… the Fall," Sherlock continued the list.
John could feel the distress rise in the room.
"So, it was bombarded… Er, your soul was attacked by several events that shook you, made you… hurt you, in a non-physical way?" John tried to translate.
"Mmaybe," Sherlock admitted, sounding ashamed.
"Did you try to extinguish the problems?"
"I… It took some time to realise they were even there, then I tried, but I was busy with Moriarty's net and… I… underestimated it, and… it's still smoldering."
"Did you try to get a hand on that?"
"Repeatedly."
"Why isn't it working?"
"The water… vaporises and the… mist makes seeing the seat of fire difficult… there's too much rubble to get through."
"Is the mist and the rubble a visualization of emotions or sensations?"
"I don't know. Sounds ridiculous."
"Maybe of anxiety to face it…" John mused.
"No, I'm not afraid of facing things."
"Do you know what you are afraid of?" John probed further.
"No… Yes."
John waited but finally understood that Sherlock was not planning to explain.
This was actually further than John had hoped to go and he decided to leave it here.
"Right, okay, I want you to you 'bookmark' this area somehow and mark it - so you don't stumble into it accidentally - so we can find it again if we decide to. And then… can you slowly come back to reality?… Or is there something you want to show me?"
"Mind Palace is reality," Sherlock mumbled.
"I know, but I don't know how else to put it into words to get out of there. Can you bookmark it?"
"Hmm."
"Don't go there alone… and remember where it is."
"Yes."
John removed his hand from Sherlock's arm and waited. It took almost two minutes before Sherlock slowly blinked.
"You're tired."
Sherlock nodded.
"You want something to help you sleep?"
A headshake.
"Okay, can you manage to roll onto your back for a moment?"
A nod. Sherlock managed to shift into the prone position.
"You need anything?"
"No… Cold," Sherlock protested when John dragged back the blanket and took his BP once more.
"You need some sugar."
John fetched the meds and some soft drink from the floor. He helped Sherlock take the assortment of colourful pills, who excepted his stabilizing hand on his back; he even drank half of the small bottle of sweetened beverage before he lay down again.
When John made their temporary camping site more cosy Sherlock rolled back into the foetal position.
The doctor offered him the edge of another blanket he had shoved away earlier. Sherlock took it and dragged the blanket over his legs.
"Sleep. I won't leave."
It took almost half an hour until the detective's breathing finally evened out.
Sherlock's sleep was fitful and John spend the rest of the night trying to figure out how to make this work, thinking about what do to next. He was not a therapist and the weight of the responsibility he had just started to shoulder made him a bit uneasy. But repairing the palace and sort out some of the negative responses seemed necessary.
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A/N:
Thanks for reading. Please review.