I glance to the skull atop the fireplace mantle, hollow eye sockets peering back at me. It may just be a figment of my own imagination, but it's like he's waggling his nonexistent eyebrows; he wants me to talk about it.
I oblige almost immediately, lunging from my armchair and swiftly pulling Skully to rest against my thigh. His silence always pulls something deep out of me, probably because I know he can't mock me. He's just an object, but he's better than people.
"He might just be my soulmate, Skully," I whisper, and I, myself, haven't even come to terms with that little tidbit of information yet. I hadn't meant to freeze at his first name, but I did, and I know just how far too expressive my face can be when unchecked.
I spin the skull in my hands, expecting to feel happier about this whole soulmate thing. Frankly, though, I'm terrified of John Watson and what he might be. What if it turns out he isn't my soulmate? What if I start expecting colors that never come and it turns out this is just a fluke?
I need to sigh to keep my breathing relatively normal, now, thinking too deeply into this. Maybe I should tell Mycroft to come over? I scowl at my own train of thought, disgusted at myself for even suggesting appearing so vulnerable in front of my brother; he's a bastard.
"He's...interesting, praising my work where others have endlessly insulted me. His facial expression reminded me of one of Gladstone's," I explain, trailing my fingers over Skully's cranium. Gladstone cocks his head at me from his place by the fire.
"His face looked like Glads when I gave him a special treat from out of town for no reason, except because I thought he would appreciate it." The analogy startles even me, and the way I smile when I say it is slightly disconcerting; I need to shake John Watson. I'm already getting too attached.
"Sex is terrifying," I admit softly. Mycroft tells me I talk in a small voice every time something sexual is brought up. He's probably right on that account. My experiences have always been...less than pleasant, but it's easy enough to ignore when I'm not thinking about it.
If we were soulmates, would John expect a more physical aspect of our relationship, or would he feel uncomfortable with a man? Would we both ignore and never act on it? Does he not like getting attached? Would he prefer just the benefits of coitus and nothing more? Is he actually like everyone else who took from me and gave me nothing back?
A ping from my pocket disrupts my thoughts, calming my heavy breathing the slightest bit as I pull my mobile out; a text from Mycroft. What the hell does he want, and why is he always meddling?
Someone has you flustered. You're panicing. What is it?-MH
None of your business, now shove off.-SH
Now don't be like that, brother dear. I'm only trying to help.-MH
I am not a child in need of coddling or a hand to hold, so kindly sod off.-SH
Fine, but you should expect new cameras in 221B within the week.-MH
And you should expect me to destroy them the first day I find them.-SH
Ah, what would Mummy say? Disobeying your older brother? Treacherous.-MH
You are overly dramatic, and I'm done talking to you.-SH
I slide my phone closed with a click, and for some reason the sound sets me off. I hurl the BlackBerry across the room, and Gladstone almost seems scolding while Skully just looks amused in my mind.
The phone sounds with another notification, and I find my anger suddenly bubbling out of control until Gladstone licks my palm. I sneer at him, but he continues the motion until I wrench my hand away and bolt up from the chair; he can't distract me from the matter at hand.
"I wouldn't be able to offer anything physical to him," I stutter, stalking across the room. "Maybe a kiss or a touch; ugh, I don't even think I have the capacity tocuddle!" I mutter angrily, swiftly pulling my violin to my chest. I scratch out a grating note before plopping down again.
"Would he force it on me?" I shake my head rapidly, glancing sideways at the skull still on my chair. "No, no, John seems nice," I breathe, carding a hand through my hair. "But maybe he's demanding, or, or overly jealous? Lustful?"
I'm babbling. In vain, I rub circles into my head that are meant to be soothing. My chest feels tight, and I scratch fitfully at it.
"Maybe sex would be a punishment," I hiccup, my eyes stinging with something. My skin feels clammy; not a pleasant feeling. "Could we not just sit and talk? Would he not let me kiss him unless he wanted it?"
"Would I have to...," my voice trails off, meek and gentle, and it's only now that I realize I've been shaking. I don't want anything in my mouth, and I just want to gag to wash the nastiness away. "He wouldn't make me..." I want to vomit.
I weeze a little, tamping down my jittery leg, gripping the chair just a little too tightly. The fabric is scratchy against my palms. My sickly hands stick to it.
"Would he..." My words are no longer words, just incoherent sounds, and now my breath is hitching and my heart hurts and my throat feels constricted. I need water, or something, and I feel choked and my eyes are stinging still.
Abruptly, a sob catches in my throat, and now I'm choking on my breath and tears. I quickly swivel to face the window, letting out a shaky puff of air and splaying a hand over my heart; it's beating too hard.
"Sherlock."
It's Mycroft. He's opposite me, ridiculous umbrella still in hand. He needs to hurry before I try to run. Running would help, but no one would-
"Hold on, just breathe," he supplies, gripping my arm. I jerk away, and I don't want to, but I'm wound up and-
"How many stairs are there leading up to 221B?" Mycroft's voice cuts in; he sounds breathless, like he's just run a marathon to get here. I cling to the chair cushion; maybe he has.
"17," I say instantly, trying to rein in my breath. Somehow, he manages to inch his hand up my back.
"What types of limbs are in the fridge?" Even when he tries to help, it sounds like prying, like he's a babysitter; it's familiar, though.
"Thumbs and toes," I respond, pulling at the seam of the chair, still pushing into Mycroft; he won't get up. He's making my chest tight, like a coil ready to be sprung.
"What is my name?" He gestures to himself, and I shift uncomfortably when his elbow brushes against mine.
"Mycroft," I state, and he seems convinced enough to back off a little. He looks worried still, but I just focus on breathing instead. Right now, breathing isn't boring, but vital.
"That's right, just keep breathing," he encourages, and he doesn't know how comforting his voice sounds right now. It's like being in a desert andfinally finding water that isn't a mirage.
"Calm down," he cooes(Mycroft, cooing?!), and he smoothes his hand over my back, shifting the sallows of my shirt. "Everything is fine..." An utter lie.
I let out a large breath, one almost too big for my own chest, but it helps, and I actually relax into the chair. My brother slips his hand away, placing it in his lap, but still tries to placate me with arbitrary, empty statements.
"Better?" he asks, and I take a moment to nod 'yes'. He actually looks relieved, and his almost always pinched face relaxes into something more natural. We sit for a moment, me still trying to catch my breath and him watching over me, before he breaks the silence.
"Panic attack," he informs simply; I should've known. The symptoms were all present, but I was too worked up to see them. "You said something about a John? Who is that?"
Heaving another sigh, my heart beating at a less alarming rate, I try,"An acquaintance of mine." Mycroft gives me an admonishing look, and I know I've displeased him, but when do I not?
"He's more than that, hence how we got into the position we are currently in." His eyes soften slightly then as he says,"Now tell me, really, who is he? Will he hurt you?"
There are times I believe Mycroft doesn't love me, but now is not one of those times. The way his mouth curls on the word hurt and the intensity of his eyes is caring in a way reserved only for things he truly cares about. Mycroft caring is more unsettling than comforting, right now.
"No, he's rather nice," I admit, going for honesty. "It's just-"
"I know," he interrupts, pointing slightly to my wrist. "But he may not be the one, Sherlock, and I'm sure if he is, he won't be-can't be-any of the things you said."
"Maybe so, Mycroft, but the fact still remains that he will leave like the rest, soulmate or not. They always do," I intone dejectedly, and Mycroft's eyes harden with something close to understanding. He pivots to look out the window, taking a clump of the chair's arm in hand, pulling, worrying at the fabric.
He exhales a long, exhausted breath. "What am I to do with you, brother dear?"