Chapter 6
There was a night, well more than one, where Sherlock thought to end it all before. There were times even as a child the small genius figured out the ways in which life could be better, and concluded that he would always be without them. But he never tried, not really. Even as a misunderstood teenager, when he hadn't eaten in a week, and had avoided meal times for at least a year prior, his emaciated body sitting in a hospital bed, nutrients forcing its way into his bloodstream. Impossible for him to reject this final meal. He had thought. First chance he got he'd jump from the roof. But it didn't work out that way, because as much as he truly believed he wanted to die, the truth was he just wanted to be okay. And to his great surprise the group therapy and inpatient nurses actually helped. So he left, well in body and in spirit and he went on with life. Of course, he knew, it wouldn't last, it never did. He found himself back in the same hospital for a second time at 18, a few weeks before he was due to leave for University. This time, he had insisted, he never intended to hurt himself. Mycroft scoffed at this, he had seen the scars. But this wasn't an attempt of any kind, nor was it a refusal to take care of himself or a desire to disappear as before. He had just simply miscalculated.
"You! Miscalculated! I highly doubt that brother mine" Mycroft asserted at the preposterous. "You have the greatest mathematical mind this country has ever seen...well second greatest" He smiled. "I highly doubt you can miscalculate a dosage to such disastrous results."
"Well the problem, Mycroft, was that I was high when I was calculating!" Mycroft raised his eyebrows but didn't reply.
"Please just...don't worry the parents."
"I think the amount of substances in your system will do that all on its own, Sherlock."
"I mean, don't tell them it was on purpose." Mycroft moved to reply but Sherlock interjected - "Because it WASN'T on purpose." And so, against his better judgement, Mycroft kept Sherlock's secret...or he backed up Sherlock's truth. Whichever, he only kept up such a deal on the premise that Sherlock would stay in treatment until he moved away to University.
"I don't want to receive a call from Oxford telling me you're dangling by a rope from the chapel's spire."
Sherlock often felt guilty, when he saw Mycroft care. It felt easy to resent yourself and reject your life when you thought no one cared. He didn't much care for the reminder that he wasn't, in fact, completely alone in the world.
Going to University was difficult. But he had places to hide, and things to focus on, and ways to distract himself enough to not feel the overbearing guilt of hurting people he, regretfully, loved. He would spend most of his time in the chemistry lab, when he wasn't in lectures or extracurriculars. He was already starting research on a proposed PhD before he'd even had a week of first year classes. It was almost futile going to the lectures anyway, since he already knew everything they were attempting to teach him. Though it passed the time. And he was supposed to be socialising. Which he didn't really do. Until James.
Everything felt better with James. The world seemed to glow even under grey clouds or dim flickering street lights. They got a flat together. It was a tiny run down flat, in the very top of a 6 story building above a liquor store. The ceilings curved and arched, reminding them every time they bumped their head as they got out the shower, that they essentially lived in an attic. It was dusty and there were cobwebs everywhere, and both had so much stuff and so little storage that they treated the ground as if it was a bookshelf, and the hall way as a bike shed. If they weren't tripping over the piles of stuff, they were tripping over each other. The heating rarely worked and there were always drunks outside and they only got around an hour a day of natural sunlight, that managed, against all odds, to creep in through their tiny single paned window and fall gently on the bed as they woke up every morning. It would wake Sherlock up first, hitting his side of the bed, before slowly migrating across the bed. Sherlock would watch as it glided across James' body. His skin glistening under its golden rays. He'd watch his boyfriend slowly squint as he woke up, his eyes sparkling. James would immediately pull his head under the covers, he hated being woken up. But Sherlock would pull the covers down and insist James needed the vitamin D. To which James would reply "I need your vitamin D" and laugh. And they would giggle together, and kiss each other's skin, and trace their fingers over each other's bones, lace their hands through each other's hair, warm each other up under thin white sheets, until they finally, begrudgingly, pull themselves out of bed. Then they'd drink black coffee and smoke cigarettes, sitting on the small flat part of the roof that they have to climb out of the kitchen window to get to, and that they pretend is a balcony, watching as the rest of London wakes up, knowing that no one else gets to wake up as in love as they do.
But the high of being in love didn't eradicate the lingering darkness, the wolf still laid in wait at the bottom of the tree, waiting for the day Sherlock finally fell, alone and afraid, to be devoured. And Sherlock did fall. Love can't save you from yourself, no matter how good it feels. And one day, Sherlock woke up, and he felt the sun on his face, and he saw the love of his life laying in front of him, and all he wanted to do was pull the duvet over his head, roll over, and fall back asleep.
And things just kept getting worse. And he felt worse for it, because he was supposed to be happy. He had everything he wanted, he was in love, he was doing well in university, he felt content with everything, but he was still falling into this emptiness again. So if he can't be happy when things are good, he thought, what is even the point.
And so he silently just fell apart. Everyday felt empty, and lonely, and cold. He grew silent, and days would pass without him noticing. James would leave food for him on the desk, ready for when he woke up, but he would just turn away from it. Hunger was a distant memory at this point. But he'd try and play pretend for James, because he loved him and he deserved a normal happy boyfriend.
It was early December and James wanted to have a christmas party with their friends before he went back to Ireland to see his family. Well, he said 'their' friends but really they were just James', Sherlock only spent time with them when James was around and really he didn't even talk too much to them when he did.
The small flat felt full pretty quickly. The rain pounding against the roof above was being drowned out by the Christmas music that was blasting from a mixtape James had spent hours making the night before. He added Bowie's Little Drummer Boy three times after finding out it was Sherlock's favourite. All of James friends were laughing and drinking wine, the girls in sparkly dresses and their hair filled with hairspray, the boys in garish christmas jumpers they'd decided to all wear, James included. He had even convinced Sherlock to put one on, although he only kept it on long enough for the girls to take a Polaroid of them together. He would look back at that Polaroid later and wish he had felt as happy as he looked. It looked like a snippet of a happy life, young love and good friends celebrating Christmas. But Sherlock didn't feel it. No matter what, no matter how he thought about it, he couldn't be happy. He was smart and he knew logically, objectively, things were good. Yet he still felt …. nothing.
Sherlock escaped to the kitchen by taking up the opportunity to offer to get James another drink. But stood in the tiny kitchen alone, the sound of Little Drummer Boy seeping through the wall, alongside the sounds of high spirits and friendship and laughter echoed through the flat, made him feel more distant than the few feet of brick and tiles between them.
"Sherlock? How long does it take to pour two brandys" James laughed as he stumbled into the kitchen. He giggled as he realised he was talking to an empty kitchen, before noticing the smoke billowing past the propped open window that led out to their make-shift balcony. "Sherlock" he called out in a sing-songy voice as he leaned over the counter to push the window open further. "What are you doing babe, it's pissing it down" he laughed. "you can smoke inside, everyone else is. I promise I won't tell the landlord" he put on a fake whisper, his voice slurred. But Sherlock remained silent. Confused, James clambered onto the counter and perched on the window ledge, so his body was half in the kitchen, half out on the roof getting soaked by the rain.
Sherlock turned slowly to look at James as he took the last drag of his cigarette before throwing it off the roof to fall down to the damp pavement below. James noticed, Sherlock's eyes were glistening and his hands shaking. A lump grew in James throat, his heart dropped and he felt himself immediately sober up. He smiled nervously, "Babe," his tone cautious, "Come on in now, you'll catch a bitter cold out here." His thick Irish accent caught in his throat as he talked, stuttering with fear.
"I'm sorry James I can't - "
"No, no, Sherlock, you just come in now okay" James said, panic rising in his voice. Sherlock just turned away. He started straight down at the ground below, the end of his cigarette still barely visible in a puddle below. He kept his eyes fixed on it as he spoke his voice so quiet it almost got lost in the wind. "I'm so sorry." He took a step closer to the edge. But James was faster, he tackled him, almost sending both of them flying off the edge, having not accounted for how slippery the roof tiles could get under such torrential rains. Everything happened so quickly, James could barely remember fighting to pull Sherlock back into the window. Could barely recall the way his limp body fell flatly against the tile with a heavy thud. He never thought about the pain on Sherlock's face at realising his life was saved. But he does remember being crumpled on the cold kitchen tile, Sherlocks shaking body beneath his, as he held Sherlock's face between his hands, both man's faces stained with a mixture of rain and tears. James looked deep into the broken man's soul and between sobs spoke "No! No! You can't do that Sherlock! You don't get to do that to me!" His voice shuddered "You're life is not your own...keep your hands off it!" As the two men silently cried together, a shiver ran down James' spine as the sound of the blissfully ignorant party guests singing along to Elton John from the next room echoed through the flat