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Marked
Sherlock had done it again: he had manipulated him.
Hit by that realisation, John stopped dead in his tracks at the end of the dreary corridor, somewhere inside the maze of the MI6 building.
The two men who had brought him here had reappeared miraculously as soon as he had stepped out of the office, and they were now looking expectantly at him. But they never spoke a word. John cleared his throat and said, "Look, guys, I, um, need some time to think, so if you could just leave me alone for a moment? Or two?"
They nodded curtly at each other, then at him, and withdrew, undoubtedly keeping an eye on him the whole time.
John groaned and walked over to a window, staring out into the darkness, wondering what the hell had possessed him to allow Sherlock to play him like this. Again.
He was furious with Sherlock and with himself: Sherlock had thrown that insult at him, apparently as some kind of bait, and he had swallowed it, hook, line and sinker. It had been cold and deliberate. But why?
He couldn't figure out Sherlock's reasons, though his intention was obvious: to get rid of John and avoid talking to him.
John kept clenching his hands in anger while he tried to remain rational, but he found it very hard. Three years apart and Sherlock still knew how to push his buttons. Whatever had made Sherlock drive him away like this, he would not let him succeed. Not this time.
A small voice in his mind warned him that anger was not a good basis for talking sense. Unsurprisingly, it sounded a lot like Mary. Yes, he had to calm down first.
John huffed and hummed for a long time, trying to control his breathing and his anger, until he felt ready to go back. He reminded himself that Sherlock had been tortured, and however cool and in control he appeared, the experience had traumatized him. He couldn't be held responsible for his actions. John was a doctor, and he would maintain a professional distance.
Feeling a lot more confident, he marched back to the office, pulled open the door and strode right in.
They both looked at each other in surprise: Sherlock clearly had not expected him to return; and John was astounded to find the detective hunched over his phone, one finger lingering on the screen while his left hand was tearing at his curls. No coat, no jacket, sleeves rolled up, flushed cheeks in a too pale face, and –
Oh my God. No. Please, no.
His arms.
John acted in shock. He moved forward, reaching out for Sherlock's arms; Sherlock recoiled instantly, a look of pure horror on his face. John froze mid-movement, his mouth open, no sound emerging. He stared and stared, unwilling to process what his eyes took in, refusing to see, refusing to accept.
Neither of them moved. Sherlock's face quickly morphed back into a mask of blankness, his eyes hard and calculating.
John swallowed and turned his head away, momentarily shutting out the ugly reality. He felt such a surge of rage rushing through him that he had to seize the edge of the table to stop his hands from grabbing Sherlock by the shirt and shaking him. He wanted to yell at him, 'Are you completely out of your mind?! How can you do this to you, how can you do this to all of us?'
But of course it would be entirely useless. Instead, he leaned forward, gripping the table even harder; he forced his voice to be calm, but he did not try to conceal his fury and his disgust.
"Care to explain?" He nodded at Sherlock's arms, staring him in the eyes. "Or is that another issue you intend to postpone?"
Sherlock slowly straightened his back and folded his hands on the table so that his naked arms were clearly visible. He sat with his lips pressed together, looking at John with an utterly expressionless face, never blinking.
John shook his head in disbelief. "You're provoking me. You want me to hit you." He gave a joyless laugh, struggling to regain control. "I won't let you drag me down to this." He grimaced and bowed his head between his shoulders, then straightened abruptly. "I just won't."
He marched to the door, but livid with anger, he grabbed the door handle and turned around. "Sherlock, if you think you can drive me away, you're wrong. I won't let you. And you will talk to me after we have captured Moran. I won't allow you to manipulate me any longer, and you're certainly not going to get rid of me."
He slammed the door shut with such force that the calender on the wall fell off its hook.
Blinking, Sherlock gazed at his arms, faintly surprised.
Track marks.
He had completely forgotten about them. How was that even possible?
Stunned, he realised that he hadn't even had cravings since his return, despite his dark mood. Was he so beyond caring that he did not even yearn for the relief of the drug?
No. That was not it. He closed his eyes and tried to untangle the turmoil of emotions warring inside him. It was the hunt, he realized, the need to eliminate the danger to John and his friends once and for all; it had kept him so busy that he hadn't paid any attention to his body. Trying to dissociate himself from the aches and endless demands of this bundle of flesh and bones had been vital for too long – it had become a habit; but how else to endure torture?
Another thought struck him, and he hissed at himself in anger – how could he forget? How could he be so stupid?
Stupid, stupid!
The depression. Of course. Withdrawal.
He actually smiled at the realisation, running his fingers over the dark punctures in his skin. They were healing. Eventually, the depression would fade, too. The only question was whether he would live to see the day.
He picked up the phone and resumed writing.
John,
You are brilliant!
Of course, you got it all wrong; you see but you don't observe, as always. But that is not important; what matters is that you made me realise something I had missed. For the first time in years, I feel – hopeful.
Yes, of course these are track marks, and they are caused by injecting cocaine. But if you employed that brain of yours, you would instantly realise that none of them are old, yet there are no new ones either. No scars, no weight loss indicating long-term drug abuse – so, regular injections over a short period only, stopping several days ago. Where was I at that time? Right.
I didn't inject myself, silly.
I'm sure you'll come to that conclusion eventually, once your anger has abated. I admit your assumption is not entirely illogical: cocaine does have the beneficial effects of increasing endurance and improving my ability to focus, which is useful when you're on stakeouts or fleeing from enemies. However, the drawbacks of psychological dependence – far worse than physical addiction – are too significant to revert to such means. I don't have to tell you that cocaine, after the initial and deplorably short euphoric phase, can cause severe psychoses with acute paranoia, including the infamous delusional parasitosis.
And that, my friend, makes it a fine tool for torture, particularly if you intend to achieve a long-term effect on a former drug user.
They've done a mediocre job, though. I don't mind bugs and I've had no cravings so far; and if I did, I would not give in to them, simply because I would not grant them this victory.
On second thoughts, I admit they may have been more successful than I've given them credit for. After all, you now think I've fallen back into my old habits.
But there is something else.
I told you about Mary's perfume. And you know that smells can trigger cravings as well as flashbacks. Unfortunately, in my memory the smell of that perfume is linked to the forced injections of cocaine and the subsequent episodes of paranoia. It was done deliberately: I was literally conditioned to accept the smell as a trigger, hence my attack on your wife. Hardly pure chance, don't you think?
But who would devise something as devious and malicious as that? Give it some thought, please.
Now, I did sound a bit more like my old self again, did I not?
Maybe, just maybe, everything will be all right in the end. I dare to hope, because you said you would not leave me. And yes, I will talk to you. Maybe not in words. Not yet.
Thank you, my conductor of light.
S