Chapter Thirteen: Personality Development

.o.o.

.o.

Press my nose up, to the glass around your heart

I should've known I was weaker from the start,

You'll build your walls and I will play my bloody part

To tear, tear them down,

Well I'm gonna tear, tear them down

Mumford & Sons - Babel

.o.o.

.o.

Sherlock flinched slightly when John stuck the needle into his companion's forearm and let the syringe fill up with his blood before he pulled it out.

"Sorry, Sherlock… didn't mean to hurt you…"

The detective shook his head and sighed softly. "I know. It's just something that needs to be done." When John smiled weakly at him, he felt his heart skip a beat. The two men were silent for a long time as they waited for Molly to enter the lab. "If you're going to leave me, I-I'd prefer if you got it over and done with."

John looked up at him, surprised, his eyes widened. "W-What…? I'm not… going to leave you, Sherlock. Why would you say something like that?"

The question made the detective feel slightly guilty but he forced himself to look at John. "I'm not getting better, John. I feel like I'm just getting worse. I'm losing days off my life that I can't remember and it's becoming too much for you. I can see it written on your face whenever I look at you. It's becoming too much and you're contemplating leaving because you can't handle it."

John shook his head before he placed his hand on Sherlock's chest. "No, please don't say those things. You're going to give yourself another panic attack…"

Sherlock placed his own hand over the one that was already on his chest. "Then tell me it isn't true and don't lie to me. Tell me that you never think about how life would be without having to deal with all my mental instabilities."

The doctor gave him a sad, disappointed look before he wet his lips and then glanced off to the side before looking back at Sherlock. "Yes, I do sometimes ponder about what life would be like if you were not plagued by these things, but I already know how it would be, Sherlock. My life would be empty without you and I'm at least ninety-nine percent sure that I'd be dead. I contemplate what life would be like but I love you and that means loving you no matter what, even when things get bad. You have a mental illness but that doesn't change how I feel about you."

Sherlock gave him an unsure look, as if he didn't fully believe him but said nothing else as Molly Hooper appeared inside the Pathology lab. She gave the two of them a polite smile and tied her hair up into a high ponytail before looking at John.

"What are we doing today, then?"

John handed her the syringe. "We need you to do some testing on this blood sample. Sherlock's having memory issues and we're concerned that the antidepressants are to blame for it. Can you do that?"

She carefully took the syringe with gloved hands and nodded. "Yeah, of course. I'll run the blood through the proper tests and do some research. We're sort of backed up today though; the test results might not come in for a couple days…"

Sherlock looked over at her with an impatient expression. "Is there any way you could perhaps get the results to me a bit sooner, Molly? I'd be willing to do you any favor that you request of me if you could rush the tests just a bit."

The offer took the young woman back and she looked at him with confusion in her eyes. "Favor? What… could I possibly ask you to do…?"

"Now come on, Molly; you and I both know that there's a special person in your life that's harassing you. You want him gone, I can make him leave," he replied, matter-of-factly.

Her expression softened into slight surprise but he could tell she was trying not to give herself away. "I'm sorry? I don't understand…"

Sherlock scoffed impatiently now. "You've gained about five pounds since the last time I saw you, which tells me that you're trying to gain weight in hopes of deterring a man from finding you attractive. You've also not bothered to wash your hair this morning by the small amount of grease in it, you have a small bout of acne that you haven't even bothered to cover up with makeup. You're also not wearing any lipstick like you usually do. By the dark circles under your eyes, you haven't properly slept in almost a week because this man has made you feel uncomfortable, possibly even crossed a line you hadn't want to be crossed," he ran off, not missing a beat. "In conclusion, there's someone harassing you that you're not attracted to and you want him to leave you alone. Now, as I've said, if you'll speed up this testing process and text me the results, then I'll do you a favor and help you get rid of this parasite."

John looked at Sherlock with his mouth agape before glancing over at a clearly uncomfortable Molly Hooper, who looked at the detective with her own mouth open. She blinked a few times before forcing herself to close it and then gave a curt, agreeable nod to Sherlock before she walked over to another part of the lab.

John looked at him. "Was it really necessary to point out all her flaws that she probably didn't need pointing out?"

Sherlock looked at him with crestfallen eyes. "Not good?"

John nodded. "A bit not good, yeah. You could've just told her you'd do her the favor. In fact, you would've done her a favor by not explaining how you came up with that deduction about the bloke she didn't want to see."

"Well, I'm sorry, John but it's done with so all we can do now is move on. She's doing the tests. Let's just go back home…"

John noticed the slight change in his companion's demeanor and felt helpless. "You're feeling it again, aren't you? Depressed." It was more of a statement than an actual question.

"Yes, John. I believe I am…" he reluctantly answered, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

"Alright, then let's go back home while we wait for her to text you back the results. We'll keep you occupied in the meantime," John took Sherlock's hand and walked him out of the lab and soon out of the hospital.

They hailed a cab, taking it back to Baker Street. John was about to let go of Sherlock's hand when he felt the detective's grip tighten a bit more instead of letting go as well. He kept his hand in Sherlock's, not saying a word until they made it upstairs to their flat. By this time, out of the corner of his eyes, he could see tears making trails down Sherlock's face.

"It's all right, mate. We're here now, we're home," John cooed soothingly, gently squeezing his companion's hand before leading him inside their flat and closing the door.

Once John turned to face Sherlock and saw the detective turning his head away to hide the tears that were streaming down his face silently, the doctor sighed to himself and reached up before he gently thumbed the saltwater droplets off the younger man's face before smiling lovingly.

"It's okay, Sherlock. I'm here…"

Sherlock cleared his throat and tried to cough nonchalantly. "I-I'm sorry, John. I don't… normally do this and I really didn't want to cry in front of you…" He remembered crying in front of John on another occasion recently but that somehow seemed different. They were together in the bedroom and John had only listened to his sobs; he hadn't actually seen his tears.

John shook his head sadly and took his hand before he lead him into the bedroom, not bothering to close the door, though. He looked up at the slender man standing in front of him and then leaned in, pressing his lips against the detective's.

When they casually pulled away, they both gently rested their foreheads against the other's and John placed is hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, letting his fingers caress the skin there. The two men were silent as they listened and attempted to match each other's breathing pattern.

Finally, John opened his mouth to speak but kept his voice low, as if speaking in a normal tone would ruin the moment. "What do you want to do, love? We can go anywhere and do anything you want. What do you think would help you?"

Sherlock closed his eyes as a stray tear escaped his eyes and fell quickly. He wiped it away with his fingers and swallowed hard. "I… I don't k-know…"

John Watson searched Sherlock's face as the English rain fell hard against the window of his bedroom. He gently lifted up his chin and started to kiss him passionately, determined to make the younger man see how much he loved him and try to convince him that he wasn't going to leave him. It seemed vital that Sherlock knew this right now more than ever.

This sudden passion surprised him at first but the detective met John's passionate kisses with his own, running his fingers lovingly through the doctor's hair. He seemed to forget himself as they let their tongues dance their waltz once again and Sherlock gently pushed him against the wall, letting his fingers slip under John's shirt before he tugged it upstairs and threw it away from them onto the floor.

John did the same with Sherlock's shirt and the two men stood in front of each other with only their trousers on. Out of breath now and panting, Sherlock let his fingers trail over John's battle scars on his back and shoulders, feeling the rough, uneven skin as it slid under the pads of his fingers.

This felt real. This was real, Sherlock told himself. If he felt lost and unsure about his life and where it was going, feeling the skin that belonged to the only man he loved and cared for so dearly somehow helped him stay focused on the present and didn't disconnect from anything like he usually did. His emotions seemed almost euphoric and colors seemed brighter. Even in the dim lighting of the room, John's eyes looked hazel with chocolate flakes in them. He didn't know how this was but he didn't want this to end. He forced himself to forget everything else in this moment and stay with John.

"W-What are you thinking about, Sherlock?" John panted, smirking at him curiously.

Sherlock's chest heaved as he tried to slow his heart rate but to no avail. "Honestly, only you, John Watson. I think I need my doctor, though; my heart won't stop racing."

John's smirk turned into the brightest smile Sherlock had ever seen and then he playfully pushed Sherlock onto the bed before kissing him harder. "You're such a bloody wanker, Sherlock!"

The detective didn't think it was possible for him in his current state but a laugh escaped his lips and he also smiled in the kiss. "Maybe, but I'm a wanker who's madly in love with his doctor. Surely you can't fault me for that."

John chuckled and ran his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls before he planted soft kisses on his neck. He made sure Sherlock was comfortably lying down before he grabbed a sheet and threw it over top of him before sitting on the detective. "I suppose I can't, but the least I can do to show you how much I love you, detective."

"Consulting… detective. I believe you forgot the 'consulting' part," Sherlock jibbed teasingly, watching John as he started planning kisses on his bare chest.

John gently bit down on his skin but not enough to be painful. He looked up at Sherlock. "Shut up, Sherlock, or I'll make you shut up."

The younger man raised his eyebrows and smirked. "Oh, is that so, doctor? I don't believe you will…"

John shook his head before he threw the sheet over himself so Sherlock could no longer see him but only see a lump that was slowly making its way downwards on his body. He moaned aloud and then relaxed before John started to prove him wrong.

Sherlock was letting his fingers trace the edges of John's shoulders and the crevices of his biceps after their rump, John's body fitting so perfectly against his own as he half-sat, half lay in the bed, John doing the same with his back pressed against him.

The sadness had, for the most part, disappeared but there were still small amounts of it still swimming inside his brain. It seemed as if the depression had refused to fully depart and he was already tired of taking the antidepressants. He was broken from his thoughts when he heard the chime of his phone. He glanced down at John who had fallen asleep and reached over carefully to grab his phone from off the bedside table.

1 Missed Message From Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock resisted from letting out an audible scoff as he opened the message.

Have you gotten the test results back yet? – M

This time, Sherlock sighed aloud. His brother wasn't an idiot; he knew his younger brother wouldn't be getting them back in the same day, regardless that he had bribed Molly to rush them. It didn't make a difference. Even if it was the antidepressants, which it most likely was, Sherlock would still have to get placed on new ones.

He reluctantly forced his fingers to text back:

Of course I didn't. I should know the results either later this evening or tomorrow. Why are you asking me about my test results, Mycroft? You don't care about them. What did you actually wish to discuss?

After hitting send, Sherlock gently caressed John's hair and nearly flinched when he saw the doctor move his neck and groan. He sat up before he moved his body to lay on his stomach, looking at Sherlock with lovingly, curious eyes.

"What does your brother want?"

Sherlock gave him a sideways look. "How did you know it was my brother texting me?"

John smiled in satisfaction and then wet his lips. "I know that sigh, Sherlock. That sigh tells me it was someone you dislike but also can't ignore. The only reasonable answer was that it was Mycroft."

Sherlock sat up straighter, smirking. "It could have been Molly Hooper… I dislike her."

John shook his head before playfully narrowing his eyes. "You don't dislike her, Sherlock. You consider her a friend, especially after all she's done for you. She fancies you, and you've grown to not despise her, which… I believe in Sherlock terms would mean that she's your friend. Besides, you would ignore her messages. You can't ignore your brother's, not even legally."

Sherlock gave a single nod in admiration. "Excellent deduction skills, doctor."

"I suppose you rubbed off on me. You've taught me a lot…"

"As have you with me," Sherlock admitted just as his phone chimed again, almost with the same insistence and annoyance as his brother. How appropriate. He opened the message up to read it.

Let's meet up for tea tomorrow at Speedy's. We should talk about yourself. – M

"It appears my brother might actually care about my well-being. Either that, or he needs a favor from me. I'm always on my guard when he talks about meeting up to talk," Sherlock confessed before he typed a quick response back and then hit send.

John sat up, the sheet wrapped around his waist. "Do you really think Molly will rush the tests for you? You did treat her pretty unkindly earlier." He gave Sherlock a disapproving look.

Sherlock sighed and shrugged. "I don't know. She seems abnormally desperate to rid this vexation from her life. I have confidence I'll receive the results in a few hours this evening. She needs my help and I promised to help her. Shouldn't a man stick to his word?"

John half smiled, half smirked before he moved in to sit beside Sherlock, resting his head on the man's shoulder. "He should… but you should help her even if she doesn't give you the results tonight. This bloke seems like he could be trouble, which by the way reminds me; what exactly are you planning on doing to rid her of him?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Never you mind, John. That's for me to know and no one to ever find out."

John's smile vanished and he straightened up, looking suspiciously at Sherlock. "Wait a minute. You're not going to injure this guy, are you, Sherlock? Or… poison him with anything?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm only going to make sure he leaves her alone, permanently," Sherlock replied in a near-whisper.

"Sherlock," John spoke in a warning tone now. "I can't believe this. You never act so territorial or defensive in Molly's favor… you're acting almost…." John trailed off.

Sherlock cocked his head slightly to the side, furrowing his eyebrows. "Almost what?"

A smile of realization came across John's face now. "You're acting almost brotherly! You're acting like her big brother. It makes sense! You think of her as a little annoying sister you never had and you feel the need to protect her! You were going to help her even if she didn't have the results back as fast as you wanted them! Oh my god…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh shut up, John. Don't attempt to analyze me; it's really not your forte."

John could hear the edge to Sherlock's voice but he could also tell that the detective was only pretending to be angry or upset. He only disapproved of John having figured out the secret on his own. "This is a big improvement for you, Sherlock. I'm so proud of you."

Sherlock grabbed his pillow now and hit John in the face with it before he threw it and then suddenly laughed, looking off to the side. He wasn't even sure why he was laughing, which scared him for a moment. He then realized it was because everything John had told Sherlock about his personality had been right and John was right again; this was an improvement. He had never before considered Molly to be any type of person other than a simple-minded girl who worked at a Pathology lab at St. Bart's hospital and over time he had developed some type of relationship with her.

He really was feeling protective over her and the thought of some random arsehole harassing her had started to grind at Sherlock. "Damn it, John. I do hate it when you're right."

The doctor moved over to him and kissed Sherlock's temple before he lay behind him and played with his curls. "I know you do. It's all right, though. I still love you."

.o.o.

.o.

The two men had fallen asleep when there was another annoying chime that echoed in Sherlock's eardrum. He reluctantly woke up, surprised that it was nearly 11:30pm and the new message had come from Molly; she had stuck to her word.

He opened up the message to read it, blinking a few times to get rid of the grogginess he was feeling.

Sherlock, the antidepressants you're taking proved negative for your memory loss. I've talked to several doctors and psychologists and they all believe the memory loss could be from a repressed memory of your past or it could simply be a side-symptom of your depression. I lean more towards the former suggestion, though. Anyway, let me know if you need anything else. – Molly

Sherlock thought for a few minutes. What kind of repressed memory from his past? He memorized nearly his entire childhood since he was five years old. He couldn't think of anything particularly traumatizing that happened but then again, it would be repressed for a reason. He might've not been able to think of a memory if he was still repressing it. He shook that option out of his head.

Had anyone ever had memory loss, blackouts in particular, when it came to depression? He honestly didn't know and he didn't want to wake up John just to ask this question. It didn't seem like a dire need-to-know thing. It could wait for the morning.

As these things passed through Sherlock's brain, he realized he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep again. He carefully rolled John over to lay on his side of the bed before he stood up and snuck out of the room and quietly closed the door. He looked down at the message again and decided to type back a response.

Molly, thank you for the speedy job. It's much appreciated. I'll keep to my word as well and take care of your harasser for you. Just give me the address of where he lives and his full name. – SH

After he sent it, he walked into the kitchen and put on the kettle, thinking about what he would do to scare off this guy. He seemed like the average creep, no real huge threat that Sherlock couldn't handle. What he really felt compelled to do was to strategically place some sharp spikes on the ground and toss the guy outside of his own flat, perhaps four stories up. That would be difficult to explain to Lestrade, however.

When the kettle started to spit out white clouds of steam, Sherlock turned it off and poured the water into his tea cup. He let his thoughts trail off. Maybe he could somehow get this guy arrested and stay out of it; maybe he wouldn't even have to physically confront him.

Molly probably wouldn't be very pleased if she found out Sherlock had nearly killed him. He decided finally that it would probably be best if he just let Scotland Yard arrest him for something. Sure, he seemed like the average creeper but these men had a history. He was bound to have some kind of record.

Sherlock took his cup and then placed it on the coffee table in the living room before laying on his back on the sofa. He closed his eyes and placed his palms together before he took Mycroft's advice and started to walk around his Mind Palace. Perhaps he could find some repressed memories somewhere in the dusty corners of the closets.