Chapter 10: Exercises in sciamachy

The rain beats harshly against the plane as it ascends rapidly through the polluted air above England. The plane shakes like a kite that's been abandoned and given to wind as a token of respect, the air currents playing with in that particularly cruel way seven-year-olds torture insects just to see how far they can get with it before they kill the poor creature. Layers of cloud seem impenetrable, like concrete or petrified cotton smeared with oil, dark and unattractive. It seems as if the plane is about the crash into the sky.

But it doesn't. It cuts through the oily clouds like a bullet through dirty gauze, until the cockpit falls silent as rain is suddenly left below them and the sky becomes the ground. The only remaining traces of the storm that is currently bullying the Earth below them are fast-fleeing raindrops that slide off the wings and windows and the cacophony of thoughts in Sherlock's head that sounds very much like sharp beating of rain against every surface available to touch. Deposited in Sherlock is the essence of the turmoil that is now just a distant memory below the plane's belly, layers upon layers of dirty, grey weather festering like an infection in the wounds in the sky.

Lost in thought, Sherlock's unseeing gaze is trained on his hands, the pointer finger of his right hand worrying the skin around the nail of his thumb. Such delicate, thin skin, that folds and wrinkles like cheap nylon with each sweep of fingertips. Sherlock remembers how even that part of him ached in the thick of detox, pain inflicted by an invisible tormentor from within his body. At times it was a sharp pain, like the one of a cigarette being extinguished on living flesh, while at others it turned into a duller, all-encompassing pain that seemed to weave itself all around, pulsing through him with each heartbeat, as if it was linked to his blood cells alongside oxygen. The former kind warranted screams and moans and writhing, but the latter was almost a constant condition, a baseline at which he was forced to exist. It was far more difficult to endure.

The pain he feels now feels very much like it. He can feel it in the cuticles around his nail, in his teeth, in burns its way down his trachea with each inhale, down, down, down, slithering along his body until it finally settles in the most distant recesses, nesting in his alveoli. His lungs are full of it. 'Psychosomatic' Sherlock chastises himself, and it's such irony that he almost laughs. Almost. Had anyone told him that the man whom he cured of a psychosomatic limp would be the cause of his own psychosomatic pain, Sherlock would have laughed it off. But the laugh, even a cynical one, dies in his throat, loses wind somewhere between the heart and the mind and the incessant pain that isn't, can't be real.

And yet, it is.

It's pitiful, Sherlock sneers at himself, that he is failing to prevent his mind from inflicting pain upon him. He wonders if all this would hurt less have John and he never progressed to more than just flatmates (but was that ever even the case? Weren't they made 'more than flatmates' very early on, by the absence of a crutch and then a bullet through a villain's shoulder and a shared inappropriateness? Sherlock doesn't know if this knowledge makes him feel better or worse, really). Maybe it would have been easier waking up to an empty bed had he never been given reason to expect John to be in it. But even as he thinks this, Sherlock realises he is happy that he will never know the answers to the what-if-s. If he got to do the last few months again, he wouldn't do much differently.

When he woke up to find the sheets all his and the other pillow already cold, he wondered if he'd find John in the lounge, trying to sort things out in his head. Sherlock hadn't had a chance to properly gauge John's state of mind when John came back from his walk. This was partly due to the fact that his own state of mind was in somewhat of a disarray, partly because John moved so quickly that Sherlock was crowded against the wall before he could even take in all the details of John's person. And then John was all over him, all around him, and John can be so horribly distracting like that. So horribly, wonderfully distracting. No, not can be – could be. Past tense. Even grammar is a mockery now, salt to a fresh, bleeding cut.

But once again, as soon as the moments needed for sleep to seep completely out of him, leaving him achingly aware and clear, Sherlock knew the flat was empty, bar for him. Even then, because hope is such a stubborn little pest, he considered several reasons for this state of things, each more improbable than the previous. One, John just went to the shops. Two, John went to the pub. Three, John went to Mrs Hudson's for tea. Five, John got abducted by Mycroft. Six...he gave up on six, as the nagging truth fought its way to the forefront of his mind, cackling mockingly at his poor attempt at self-delusion. What was only a very strong hunch soon became confirmed fact as Sherlock got up to roam the flat, and found John's laptop gone from the desk. He checked the kitchen, only to find John's favourite mug gone, too. His medical bag and his gun were missing as well. How very strange it is that the absence of things could be heavier than their presence. It is illogical – if anything, removing four objects should make the space that much lighter for their added weights, but to Sherlock the empty spaces appeared seemed denser and more burdening than the heaviest of loads.

Returning to his room, Sherlock dressed and started preparing for his departure. It wasn't really much in terms of preparation. No packing was required – Mycroft always took care of that – and no final arrangements and coordination were needed either. Things tend to be surprisingly simple when one travels alone. He phoned Mycroft, letting him know all was ready. After that nothing was left for Sherlock than to wait for the squeaking of tires on the pavement in front of 221B. He caressed the strings of his violin idly with his fingers, but the motion reminded him too much of another hand tracing similar patterns against his skin, not so long ago, so he chucked the instrument away, regretting the harsh action as soon as he the mournful twang of wood, and string, and the soul contained within the two, colliding with the worn fabric of John's chair pierced the air like the wail of a beaten animal. For a moment, he considered writing some sort of note, a goodbye in case John came back around the flat to gather the rest of his things while Sherlock was away, until he realised that John's already said his goodbyes. Sherlock just didn't understand it as such at the moment.

John leaving was always a viable possibility, Sherlock knew that. He knew it when he resigned himself to telling John the truth about Mary. He knew it, but logical knowing doesn't exclude illogical hoping, which, in the end, was Sherlock's downfall. Looking back now, setting up an elaborate scheme to keep John safe from himself by having a person supposedly closest to him lie to him about her identity and effectively making their whole relationship a lie, wasn't really the best way to go with a man who has trust issues. Sherlock gets that now, but as they say – hindsight is always 20/20.

But here's the thing – love is a defect found in the losing side, not because it makes men blind, but because it makes them unapologetic. Love is the ultimate means-to-an-end scenario. It is the end that justifies any and all means. And Sherlock understands his mistake – he should have chosen his means more wisely. But he can't find it in himself to regret keeping John safe. The irreparable consequences of his choice are a solid fact which makes him aware of the inappropriateness of his actions (to put it mildly), and he knows he owes John an apology for that, but he can't force himself to be apologetic about his intent.

Not that it matters, anyway. Even if he gets back, John won't be there to hear any apology Sherlock had to offer.

As the plane sails smoothly though the high-altitude air, Sherlock's gaze returns to the half-moon shines bright and cold, a razor cutting the sky's soft skin.

When the plane lands on a small private airport in the vicinity of Bern, there is a dark car waiting for him on the taxiway. Listless deductions about the chauffeur ('divorced, disillusioned former Catholic, father of two, local, smoker, bilingual since childhood, speaks two foreign languages, not one of Mycroft's men – an outside liaison then) float off the man and around Sherlock's skull automatically, but there is no energy behind them. Like breathing or eating, deductive thinking appears to have become perfunctory.

(Sherlock is pining, he recognises this. He loathes himself for it.)

The sky is clear here, the night almost bright. It is the planet's cocktail dress compared to the ragged cloth that is the English sky, most of the time. Utterly gorgeous, it seems to be mocking Sherlock with subtle jabs in form of starlight and calm lakes reflecting the world around them like sensual mirrors. As the car takes off, Sherlock averts his eyes from the window and stares at the soft leather of the upholstery. He tries tracking the car's journey('going east, final destination near the Alps, Bernese and Urner') in order to drown out other thoughts that intrude like the vilest of burglars, which doesn't really prove a good technique, since he already knows where he's headed. It isn't until the car slows down to take a turn and Sherlock reads the name of the town on a plate ('Meiringen'), that he realises he spent the whole journey focused on exactly the one thing that he was trying to ignore.

As he walks into his hotel room, a flash-back washes over Sherlock. There is something in the movements that have been almost rote for so long that brings out memories Sherlock doesn't really care to revisit – the twisting of a doorknob that doesn't lead home but into another in-between place that is only intended as an interim, the stepping across a threshold and into the darkness of a room that smells generic and beige (best case scenario) or down-right damp and mouldy and grey (worst, more frequent scenario), not bothering to turn on the light (if there is any). He's done it countless times while away after his 'fall'.

Sherlock doesn't bother removing his clothes before spreading himself over the bed. The room is lovely, with a view. Five-star hotel near the main attraction of the area (some sort of waterfalls, Sherlock recalls) – Mycroft spared no expenses in order to make sure Sherlock was comfortable. Too bad he didn't manage to achieve that goal, because Sherlock's never been more ill at ease then at that very moment. But, he supposes, that's not really Mycroft's fault. At least not all of it.

The room is a far cry from the dingy squat-holes he's sometimes had to put up with while chasing down Moriarty's network, but no amount of plush duvets and velvety curtains can change the fact that being in this room feels very much like it did in all those other ones. With the added quality that this one feels just slightly (or not-so-slightly) worse.

Sherlock wishes for the bullet-riddled walls of an abandoned hotel outside Sarajevo. He longs for the wind that howled in the attic he stayed in while in Tibet. The damp, neon-lit basement in a village in the foot of the Ural seems rather charming now, really, because all of these places have one thing in common, one thing that was worth more than all Sherlock's (however sparse at that moment) goods and chattels.

Hope.

Back then, Sherlock had the knowledge (or so he thought) that when all is done, he will return back home and be welcome there. Admittedly, that didn't go quite as expected, but Sherlock hadn't been wrong. Once the emotions died down (or were more successfully repressed – depends on how you choose to look at it), things went back to some sort of equilibrium. There was never any real threat that Sherlock wouldn't get to live his life (with John) again.

Which is precisely why this fancy, expensive, comfortable room is a dungeon build out of silk and marble and hardwood floors. Because Sherlock knows that once he leaves it he will return to a world much altered compared to the one he left. John won't be there to welcome him back. John won't even be there to be pissed off at him. John simply won't be there. Because John made a choice (and Sherlock can't find it in himself to resent him for it).

And there is nothing simple about that.

The pain that he's been trying to deny any power over him seems to be carving out a space inside him, a hollow that should be unfeeling but somehow manages to ache harder than infected tissue. It is the very specific pain of knowing exactly what was once had and now is lost. It is longing and regret and disappointment and sorrow, all hugging each other tight like morbid lovers. It steals breath, traps it in the vacuum of the void in Sherlock's chest (it is possible his lungs have been sacrificed to make space for the pain). Sherlock cowers away from the feeling, refusing to examine it more closely, but the sensation is relentless and assertive, demanding attention like a spoilt toddler. Loud and kicking, it is so much like a person that Sherlock can swear he hears it speaking to him.

The Pain smells like the familiar grease stains on the sofa and the foreign fabric softener of the hotel sheets. Its kicking inside Sherlock's abused chest is an unnerving amalgam of John's hands sneaking under Sherlock's shirt and Sherlock's startled kicking off of sheets after he woke up to find John gone. It seems to be kissing Sherlock from within, leaving tastes in his mouth – the bitter of burn toast on days when he tried making it before John got up in the morning, and the chalky residue of hunger long-ignored and barely-felt that he assumes he should be feeling sometime about now, considering he hasn't eaten anything since before telling John about Mary, twelve hours ago (has it really only been twelve hours? Sherlock could swear a death and a funeral took place somewhere in that time).

The Pain's whispers sound very much like the endearing nonsense John sometimes whispers between sweaty, slick slides of their bodies, in that altered state of mind when coherency is redundant. Its sing-along litany sounds very much like all the definitions of John Sherlock's heard during their first time at Mycroft's.

There is no one to silence it, no one to sooth its howls. The Pain's thin, skeletal fingers reach out to hug Sherlock around the ribcage, digging pointy ends of digits into Sherlock's sides until he is forced to double over on the too-sterile, too-impersonal bedcover. He remembers another set of arms encasing him like this, a warmer pair. The Pain giggles at this, and Sherlock feels it along the length of his spine, all cold ridges making his skin break out in gooseflesh. With each memory and each comparison, the Pain seems to be growing stronger, larger, and more inescapable. Feeding off anything available, like a parasite, it spoons Sherlock like a toxic bed-mate, wrapping itself around him as if to erase traces of another being ever doing the same.

It whispers sweet nonsense in Sherlock's ear, but the sweetness is the sickish one of rotting matter in warm summer air.

It breaths down Sherlock's neck, but its breath is acidic. It tries to lay kisses just below Sherlock's hairline, on the spot where his pale neck runs into his thick riot of hair, but the action is nothing even reminiscent of osculation as much as it is scraping of teeth close to Sherlock's blood.

The Pain is a poor lover, and as long as Sherlock keeps his eyes open he can resist its clumsy advances with some success, no matter how weak. But resistance is hard work and Sherlock wonders if the Pain would leave him alone if he fell asleep, so he lets his eyes fall shut. At first his hypothesis seems like a valid one, as he can slowly feel the sharp phalanges digging into the skin of his torso slowly turn soft, the breath at the nape of his neck turn warm and the harsh grating against his skin slowly turn into presses of lips, pliant and slightly chapped, but so achingly familiar...The rotten-sweet nonsense filters out into a familiar murmur of sleepy banter...

Somewhere in his semi-somnolent state, Sherlock can feel himself relaxing, turning around on the bed. Sleep is like a soft veil with analgesic properties, covering him all over. Soft fingers and warm breath...half-there kisses and half-formed words...John.

Warmth and comfort envelope him, and Sherlock can't, for the life of him, remember, understand, why his eyes are still closed...why isn't he looking at John?

And that's all that takes. A single grain of consciousness. Prodding and questioning and just a drop of 'why?'. Sherlock never was very good at leaving things be.

The moment his brow creases in his sleepy confusion, reality comes crashing down and Pain's disguise falls off and it convulses around Sherlock in a manic hug. The soft John-flesh melts off its fingers, leaving bare bones that stab, its breath necrotises within an exhale, turning rancid, and the soft lips shrivel and disappear. The words turn into a high-pitched shriek and Pain screams in Sherlock's ear.

Its scream sounds very much like Sherlock's.

In the dark room, sleep is an abstract concept, as hard to grasp as String theory, and Sherlock knows without a doubt that the night is going to be just a long night terror of a solivagant man, endured with eyes open and no relief of waking up available. He lets cold sweat wash over him, eyes wide open and unnaturally light in the shadows. There won't be any rest for him tonight.

Just an extensive exercise in sciamachy.