Sorry for taking so long for this update. School is taking up so much time - I wish it was summer again. I hope everyone's having a good week and staying safe. Wear a mask and all that.
Trigger warning for a bunch of stuff including past physical abuse (mentioned but not depicted), after effects of a panic attacks, past emotional abuse, combat PTSD and alcoholism (mentioned in a flashback).
Basically, Izzy has been through a lot of stuff in her life, which deeply affects her even now. If you feel that these topic may trigger you, tread with caution.
Happy reading.
They were kicking her out. Izzy knew they were going to. She had heard what they were saying through the walls. The details were fuzzy because she was too deep in her panic attack to quite hear but she got the gist through the snippets that she heard.
"Being so annoying."
"Totally unreasonable."
"Woke me up with her screaming."
"Mother fucker."
"Take care of it."
"Doing this deliberately."
She hadn't meant to do it. She couldn't control whatever this was.
There was a little bit of the conversation that was too quiet to hear followed by the slamming of a door. Her anxiety was racing. This was so much worse than before. They were going to kick her out. And she would have nowhere to go.
She was a little surprised for John to come back in and guide her through whatever this was, even suggesting something called a grounding technique.
It was weird. He should have been furious but didn't seem angry at all. In fact, his face was a perfect picture of calm as he sat across from her on her desk chair. It was strange how John knew exactly what to do.
He was close - almost uncomfortably so - but it felt like there was an ocean of distance between them.
They had sat together in comparative silence for a little while – until she could breathe properly and felt calmer. "Do you mind if I go get dressed for work?" he asked gently. "You need to get ready too."
"Yeah, I'm feeling better now," she responded. John nodded and went to get himself ready. Izzy went to get ready too, throwing on some semi clean clothes and trying her best to drag her hairbrush through her hair. Might as well look goodish if she would have to go to a new placement again.
One day this time. Not even 24 hours. This was a new low. She couldn't even last one whole day without fucking it all up.
You're such a useless piece of shit.
You can't do anything right.
They don't deserve to deal with this stuff. They were so good to you.
I know that… At least he hasn't done anything yet.
There's still time for him to decide to. Mr Dodson won't arrive for at least half an hour, maybe more. Now you're alone with him. Who knows what he might do?
She shook her head of the thought. Even thinking about it was making her feel anxious. Throwing yesterday's clothes and her brush, which she faintly realized was missing a few bristles, in her binbag, Izzy was distantly glad that she didn't bother unpacking. Gives her less work to do now.
She took one last look around the small room she had slept in, quickly neatening up the sheets and tucking in the desk chair. John would probably be pissed if she left it untidy. She straightened out her hoodie picked up the binbag.
Poignant, since everything she owned was garbage to them. It was almost humiliating, the way they would hand her a binbag at the end of every placement, intended to be enough to fit everything she owned. She had gotten used to it after a couple of times though. It didn't bother her anymore.
Or at least she told herself that.
She wandered out into the main living area. Though she hadn't picked up on it when she had first arrived, the place was sort of a mess. It was by no means unhygienic or dirty, but it was cluttered in a way that made it seem lived in. Alive.
There was a fireplace against the far wall. She had never seen one in an apartment like this before. Upon further inspection, she noticed that it hadn't been cleaned for some time. There was still some soot in the grate. A framed photo of Sherlock and John in front of a church was hung just above. It was probably their wedding photo.
Sherlock looked uncomfortable in the stiff white shirt he was wearing, but he was still smiling. John was positively beaming ear to ear, an arm wrapped around his husband's shoulder. It was a flawless moment captured in film.
Izzy jumped a little at the sound of heavy footsteps behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she saw John fastening his tie and fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt. She felt like she'd be caught doing something horribly wrong. Snooping was probably forbidden.
"Sorry, I was just-" she began.
"It's fine Izzy," he assured. "It's a nice photograph. You shouldn't feel bad about looking around. I don't mind at all. Anyway, are you about ready to go?"
"Yeah, I packed up all my stuff and made my bed. Thank you for letting me stay the night. Will Mr Dodson get here soon?" she said, picking up the bag and doing her best to not make eye contact. He could see that as aggression and attack. She had learnt that lesson from Mr Carkwright.
John said nothing for a moment, then gave her a confused "What?"
Izzy glanced up at him, equally puzzled. John gave her an empty stare. "To pick me up. To go to my new placement," she mumbled. Was he going to force her to spell it out? Just to humiliate her. This was sick.
An uncomfortable silence filled the room - thick and heavy.
"I haven't called Mr Dodson," he said at last.
Wait, what?
Izzy tried to say something in response but couldn't bring herself to speak. This was a trap. She didn't know how but it was absolutely a trap.
John took a quick glance to the clock on the wall, sighed a little and gestured for Izzy to sit down on the couch. She did, though somewhat reluctantly.
"I'm not mad at you Izzy," he began, sitting across from her on one of easy armchairs. "Far from it. What happened this morning wasn't your fault. I have no idea how you came to the conclusion that I was angry."
"I heard you and Mr Holmes through the walls," she said quietly. "Talking about how I woke you up and that you were going to 'take care of it'. By sending me away. I could tell that you were both mad."
"That wasn't about you Izzy," insisted John. "I was talking about Sherlock's hair, would you believe it? My husband has this bad habit of forgetting to brush his hair for days on ends. It makes it most unmanageable some mornings. Trust me, I'm not angry at you. And I'm not mad at him either, just a little annoyed that he has a seeming inability to accomplish basic tasks on occasion."
Could she trust him? Izzy hadn't truly trusted anyone in years. She nodded though; if it meant that he let her stay…
There was a pregnant pause, before John spoke again. "So Izzy, how long have you been having panic attacks? Are you on any meds? Or do you see a therapist?" The questions all came out quick fire, possible a little quicker than he intended.
Izzy looked at him blankly. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
It's true. She doesn't.
"Have you never heard of a panic attack?" he asked. Izzy shook her head in response.
"Put simply a panic attack is a physical manifestation of someone's anxiety. Usually it manifests through things like difficulty breathing, an increased heart rate, dizziness and nausea," explained John. "They aren't physically dangerous but they aren't very unpleasant either. What happened earlier was an example of one. How often have you been having them?"
"Most days. More when I have the nightmares," she admitted.
"Nightmares?"
"It's all in my file. I have these terrible dreams. About lots of stuff. But mostly about my mother and when I found her… um… body and… and…"
She could feel the anxiety rising in her chest, starting in her stomach and reaching up to her heart. Just on the peripheral of her vision, she noticed John beginning to reach his hand out toward her before quickly retracting it.
"I understand Izzy. I really do," he said. "I have nightmares as well. PTSD. From the war. I was never a foot solider but I experienced a lot of trauma. People died at my hands. I buried friends. And I lost everything. It's been years but what I've seen still affects me. The difference is, with the help of my therapist, it no longer controls me. As long as the people around me respect my boundaries and are willing to work around my trauma that is."
"I don't expect you to tell me everything immediately. It might be a while until you can trust me with that. But what I do expect it for you to tell me your boundaries. What you would prefer my husband and I not do?"
Izzy isn't sure what to say. What if he uses these things against her? To hurt her. It's happened before. People get ahold of her file, read about her mother and what happened then decide to use it to manipulate and hurt her. Or hear what happened with her brother and…
This isn't a time to be thinking about Jacob. Think about him just upsets you. You know that.
Even if Izzy wanted to say something , she isn't sure where she would start. Instead, she looks down at the ground, feeling all to overwhelmed.
"I'll start you off," offered John, trying to be helpful. "Earlier during your panic attack, you showed an aversion to touch. Would you prefer we kept our hands to ourselves? Or is it only during your panic attacks that you dislike touch?"
She had totally forgotten about that. She must have looked so pathetic.
Why are you so scared of me? It's not like I hurt you that much. And I only do it when you mess up. It's all your fault really.
God. Why was she thinking of him right now. Just when she thought this day couldn't get any worse that bastard butted his way into her brain. Maybe John and Sherlock were different. Maybe she could finally trust someone again.
It's worth a try.
"I don't mind touch really. I don't like it but it doesn't trigger anything really unless I'm in that state. But you have to approach me from the front. And don't grab me with no warning."
"That's doable. Anything else you can think of?" asked John.
"I don't like loud noises. Shouting. Door slamming. That kind of thing. And alcohol. I don't mind if you drink but I'd rather not see it. It conjures up too many…
The stench of booze on his breath. Smashed glass on the floor. Golden liquid seeping into the carpet. She had tried to run but he'd grabbed her and…
"No. Stop. Please."
"Bad memories," she finished.
"You'll be pleased to know that I don't drink at alcohol. My sister was an alcoholic for three years, which turned me right off the stuff. Sherlock's sober too. He thinks alcohol muddles up his brain and stops him thinking properly. So there's nothing of that sort in our house. You can check if you would like."
"I'd rather not."
"Can you think of anything else?" he asked. Izzy shook her head. "Let me know if anything changes."
"For me triggers are quite specific," he added. "Cars backfiring for example. Fireworks too. Bonfire night is hell, I usually just wear headphones to block the noise. If you could refrain from using loud alarms on your phone or watching television that includes scenes of war that should be all I need from you. Other than that I should be able to handle things myself."
"I don't have a phone so that won't be a problem."
John gave her a little look then stood up while still talking. "I should have an old one in here somewhere," he muttered as he rooted around the drawer in the desk. "Ah ha!" he exclaimed, pulling out a brick of a phone.
"It's pretty old," he admitted "But it still works. And it's a smartphone. Sherlock will set it up for you later."
"You don't have to give me a phone Mr Watson. I've survived seventeen years without one," she said. Owing him something was the last thing she wanted to do.
"I insist upon it. You can use it to call us if necessary and to keep in touch with your friends. Is that okay with you?"
Izzy nodded, slowly though with strong intent. John gave a faint grin and set the phone down on the table
"Do you still want to go to school?" asked John going to fetch his bag. "You've had a pretty emotional morning. I would understand if you didn't want to."
"No. I do," insisted Izzy.
As much as she found that she liked this man, she was still wary of him. Staying alone with him for an entire day was just asking for trouble.
"Okay, but we should get going now or we'll be late, said John as they left the apartment."