Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes © Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
A/N: Just found out that specific words (often formatted or includes odd symbols) delete themselves. Do tell if you see something that's missing.
.
.
W
Part VII —
The Invisible Man
.
.
"Love leaves a trail of sulphur like some lingering smell. As soon as you meet someone, you smell it. Like when you take a leak, your fingers smell. You have to wash them, two or three times, so you can forget you pissed."
— Ben, Man Bites Dog / C'est arrivé près de chez vous
.
.
There's blood, leading from 221B and to a cab outside.
But London works with him today and rain pours from the sky. The driver silently eyes Sherlock counting up 300€ in blood splattered cash. "Think he'll live?" the driver asks.
(John had screamed when they'd lifted him, cursing and spitting and twisting.)
It takes a bit for Sherlock to react. He's trembling, but blinking lazily, "Yes. Yes." The man—or rather, questions—makes him uncomfortable and so he promptly turns, going inside. The blood continues up the stairs. Blood and ash. The second step whines and cracks under his weight. The whole house is rotting. Ghosts under the floorboards. Memories, whispering.
His phone beeps. He picks it up from his pocket, frowning.
The message pops up in the form of a small mp3 file. Nothing else, no words. The number is unknown. The file's name is J_4 . mp3, awakening a slow terror. To not disturb the man upstairs, he uses ear plugs. Only one of them works.
It doesn't lessen his reaction.
Screaming.
John's.
"No no no please stop this!" The splatter of liquid. Blood. Footsteps. "Please don't please don't I— Aaargh!" A chair, scraping against the floor. More screaming. A great bang. Laughter. Sherlock wants to take it off, but he listens until the end. "Sherlock," John weakly calls, sounding like he's drowning in delirium and his own blood. "Sherlock..."
He mutes his phone and goes up, insides swirling.
John lies on the sofa. Or rather, he's sitting up, refusing to relax. The bullet went right through, thank god. A clean wound. No major artilleries. It'd taken quite some time before Sherlock had checked it. Panic and heroin had hindered it.
Sherlock doesn't quite know what to make of it.
Silence resides for a couple of minutes.
"Was it intentional?" John asks.
"What?"
"Did you shoot me because you wanted me to shoot me?"
"No! Of course not, I…"
"You asked me if I planted those bombs. Do you think I did this on purpose?" He gestures to his face, bandages muddy from his collision with the rain licked pavement and red from clutching his wound. "Do you think I did this to myself?"
There it is again.
The sword that slices through Sherlock and kills his brain.
Guilt.
"You wouldn't..."
"I've killed people before, Sherlock. You know that."
"That was a war, John."
"Isn't this one, too? A war against the men who..." He gestures to the two of them. ...Destroyed us. "The men I was following, they weren't good men. I ought to track them down again. End them."
Sherlock thinks about John screaming.
"You've lost a lot of blood."
"It doesn't matter."
"Does anything matter to you?"
John looks straight ahead, avoiding Sherlock. "Revenge does."
"What about the very thing you're avenging?"
"That thing is dead."
Sherlock feels like a ghost. His very presence puts John in constant agony.
(Perhaps something within him died when he fell from that roof.)
"How can I trust you, Sherlock?" John asks. "You shot me. I'm starting to think you want to kill me just to rule out the possibility of your little doctor doing something you can't."
"Of course not! I— I—"
And then John is leaning so close Sherlock can smell blood and hot air.
"What, Sherlock?" he breathes.
[Closeness. Holding your gaze. Dilation of pupils. A pregnant silence. Looking at your lips. Adam's apple bobbing.]
Sherlock doesn't know who moves first.
They kiss.
Quick, harsh, loveless.
It tastes like what could have been fire.
John tears himself away rather quickly. His pupils dart back and forth, not managing to decide which of Sherlock's eyes he'll focus on. "I loved you, once," John says quietly.
The words are so stark they leave Sherlock dumbstruck.
"I want to trust you again," John continues.
"I trust you, at least," Sherlock says.
His phone rings. It is muted, so it vibrates in his pocket.
He hasn't been so happy to see Mycroft's number in his life. Yet he answers with a definitive "I'm busy. Call me—"
"Sherlock. We need to arrange a meeting. Now." A pause. "It's about your case."
Sherlock takes one look at John before he replies. "Where do you want to meet?"
.
.
Sherlock knows something is terribly wrong as soon as he steps into the arranged place.
A public restroom. Abandoned. Graffiti on the walls, grime everywhere. Most of the toilets and sinks are smashed. Flies buzz near the flickering lights. The linoleum was white once. Not anymore.
"Of all the places to meet..." Sherlock begins, lip curling in disgust.
Mycroft stood entirely still.
And then Sherlock was 15 again. They'd been in a bathroom like this then, Mycroft's hand on his arm, dragging him through the streets. He hadn't said a word—and Sherlock had never despised his brother's silence as much as then.
Mycroft strides forward with long steps. He places a death grip on Sherlock's face and neck, studying him from all angles. "Dilated pupils. Cold sweat. Constant twitching." Sherlock tries tearing himself away, to no avail. "...Shortened temper. Little brother, you're back on drugs."
He lets go.
Sherlock stumbles backwards.
"This is why you called me here, isn't it? You just like them. Bullying me. I will not be mocked again. I'm leaving."
"Running again? Is that always how you deal with your issues?"
The time spent with mercenaries, thieves and liars had not helped his social awkwardness.
"Fuck you."
[Emotional overload. Suggested strategy: run run run run.]
"Mother and Father wouldn't want to see you like this."
"Stop it."
"And John? What would he say?"
"Stop." Sherlock shuts his lids tightly. He can't do it anymore. "John is alive," he says finally, "and I have spoken to him."
"You're delusional and drugged. We both know where John is."
The abattoir room.
"Shut up. I've seen him."
"There is no John, Sherlock. He wasn't waiting for you, and he isn't. By all means he's probably dead."
"No. No no no. He's not dead, nor an illusion. I've touched him." 'Shot him. Kissed him.' "We're fighting Moran together now and—"
(So many interruptions. Sherlock feels as if he hasn't finished a sentence in two years.)
"Moran? What have you found out, Sherlock? I have the right to know."
This pisses Sherlock off. He doesn't like how Mycroft uses his name all the time, either. Doesn't like Mycroft at all, actually. "It's my case." Mine, mine, mine. My case, my problems, my life.
"You'd be dead if it weren't for me. Homeless. An addict, scrambling the streets, bloated with disease. You don't see it, do you?
"And I'm invisible to you as well, Mycroft. I'm not your brother. I'm a problem."
"Gifted with such natural intelligence, and yet see nothing. You rot your mind. You're such a stupid, stupid boy."
There it is.
The wall breaks a little.
Sherlock slowly reaches into his pocket, drawing forth tiny white pills. Ritalin. He swallows them, staring at Mycroft the entire time, watching his expression twist into something awful. Something lovely. Unhinged. 'Stop pretending you care,' he wants to scream, 'I'm sick of it.'
And then Mycroft reaches into his own pocket. A small bottle, which Mycroft removes the top of with his teeth. Murky insides. Titled SYRUP OF IPECAC. Makes one vomit.
"Don't even think—"
Mycroft punches him across the face. It leaves an angry, purple bruise. Where does his strength come from? He shoves him into a nearby stall. With quick movements, the bottle is in his mouth. Sherlock feels vomit collect in his throat. He's twisted around, face held over the repulsive toilet, fingers curling in his hair.
The last time this happened—without the syrup—Mycroft held his hand, stroking his back.
("I worry about him." That was one of the first and truest things he'd said to John. "Constantly.")
"Out, Sherlock. Get it out."
"I..." more vomiting "...hate you."
'That is alright,' Mycroft thinks.
"I'm a bloody—" a halt, "...drug addict and I'm still better than you you fat worthless peace of shit. You'll die alone."
Sherlock's malevolent expression twists into a grimace, and he pukes into the toilet; a watery, yellow mass.
'That is alright, too, little brother.'
Mycroft sighs and allows Sherlock to throw up until he dry heaves.
His phone rings.
"Hello?"
A pause.
"Oh dear," he says, turning to Sherlock, "the bombing has started again."
.
.
The man lies in the blue bed. The hospital is big and well guarded. But he hasn't felt safe in three years.
Yesterday, he and three others were chased through the streets. They know too much. All of them went to the police, while he checked into the hospital because of the bullet that graced his shoulder.
The nurse—a pleasantly smiling zombie—comes in. She is very pretty. "I have a phone call for you," she says. "It's from Bobby. He's your son, right?"
Bobby? Lil' Bob? He hasn't talked to his son in eight years!
Teary-eyed and tense, he takes the phone in his hand.
"He—Hello?"
(He doesn't know that three others receive a phone call at that exact moment.)
Three.
Two.
One.
.
.
.
.
They'll find his burnt remains in the morning, underneath the rubble caused by the explosion.