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To the Core

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Part 4

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Mycroft Holmes was still awake. He was sitting in his favourite chair in front of the large fireplace, a long empty tumbler in his hand, and he was also pondering his brother. Throughout their life, Mycroft had seen Sherlock in various states of being unwell, the worst of which had so far been drug-related.

During those days, Mycroft had lived in constant dread, had flinched every time the phone rang because he was afraid Sherlock might have overdosed. It had been equally worse when Sherlock had rung him in the middle of the night, either too high to speak properly but insulting him nevertheless, or sometimes sobbing, desperate and still beyond reach.

Yet Mycroft found that this latest incident was even more difficult for him to stomach, and he was secretly glad that his team had arrived at Davenport's house before him, that he had not seen Sherlock in that bedroom, wrists and ankles restrained and that ghastly man all over him. Mycroft briefly closed his eyes; thank God they had not completely stripped him, had not physically hurt him. It was bad enough as it was.

Sherlock had never tolerated physical contact well, and Mycroft was already surprised by the amount of trust he seemed to have in Dr. Watson, who was the only person Sherlock allowed into his personal space; well, apart from Mrs Hudson maybe. But there was a difference to Watson, certainly; Sherlock seemed not only to tolerate his presence and their closeness, but to... enjoy it, if that term was feasible at all. Mycroft had rarely witnessed Sherlock being so at ease with anyone else, and he wondered whether there was more to it than he was aware of. Well, if there was, the better; Sherlock was certainly going to need help, and he was very likely going to refuse it from anyone but his friend.

Mycroft almost smiled; Sherlock had never had real friends, it was strangely endearing that he had managed to obtain one, and one so loyal at that. Mycroft finally put his tumbler down; it did not actually matter how far their relationship went, as long as Sherlock was not alone.

John was at his wit's end. Ever since his breakdown four days ago, Sherlock had not once left his room. He was hiding and had locked himself in; John had spent a considerable amount of time knocking at the door, reasoning, asking, pleading, threatening, swearing, but nothing had helped.

He was getting angry at one point, but his worry predominated; he even called in sick at the surgery, because he did not want to risk leaving the house. Mrs Hudson, who at one point had noticed that something was odd, had kindly done the shopping for them. John felt like he was keeping vigil; he even slept on the sofa in the living room so he would hear any commotion from Sherlock's room.

On the fourth day, John resorted to barricade the door which connected the bathroom and Sherlock's room, so that it would not open from the outside anymore. That way, Sherlock was going to have to leave his room eventually, John thought, and waited.

It was late that evening when the room to Sherlock's door opened. He obviously had not expected John to sit in the hallway, and paused for the shortest of moments. He looked dishevelled and pale; he obviously had not shaved, and there were dark smudges underneath his eyes, telling of sleepless nights. He avoided John's gaze and quickly disappeared in the bathroom.

John could hear water running, then it sounded as though Sherlock was trying to unbolt the other door, but to no avail. For a long time it was quiet; John took the opportunity to remove the key from Sherlock's door.

The detective eventually re-emerged, scowling, but still not saying anything, which was rather unnerving. John had expected a biting remark at the very least. As it was, Sherlock simply turned towards his room.

John followed him: "Talk to me, please," he said, quietly. "Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks: "I can't," he said, his voice low and hollow.

John snorted: "Bollocks."

Sherlock huffed: "You said you weren't making me."

"Fine, then I'm hereby revoking that statement," John said, crossing his arms. "For God's sake, for how much longer do you want to stay in your room, Sherlock?"

Sherlock did not reply. He just stood rigidly, shoulders and head drooping in an uncharacteristical manner.

Shaking his head, John took one step towards his friend: "It's not going to get better if you keep doing this."

"I'm fine." Sherlock said stubbornly, but it did not sound convincing at all, only tired and weary.

"Oh, I see. You're fine. Great, yes. So it's probably down to my being an idiot that I'm worrying about you and had to manipulate the bathroom door in order to talk to you? And your being fine means that you hole up in your room, don't talk to me, don't eat, probably don't sleep either and in general simply wallow in your misery while the world around you can sod off?"

He snorted again, unable to contain his frustration any longer: "Let me tell you this then: you are the idiot if you think that you'll get away with this!"

Sherlock still did not turn around. When he finally spoke, his voice seemed bare of any energy: "What do you expect me to do, John?"

John glared at his back: "First of all: look at me. Tell me how you really feel. Talk to me. Let me... let me help you."

"I don't want to talk, and I don't want your pity."

John was not sure for how much longer he would be able to hold on to his temper:"Seriously, Sherlock, I am going to punch you."

Only now did Sherlock slowly turn around: "Fine. Punch me."

John was lost for words. This was not Sherlock. The man who usually was so overconfident and vibrant seemed to have disappeared. He looked... devastated, and there was no fight left in him. His cheekbones were more prominent than usual, and John could see his collarbones through the t-shirt he wore.

"I am going to punch you," John said slowly, "if you don't help me."

"Help you with what?"

"Getting the old Sherlock back."

Now it was Sherlock who snorted, but he avoided John's gaze. The doctor was having none of it: "First of all, you need to eat something. And come out of your room, at least for a while."

John was a firm wall of resoluteness. Sherlock looked at him and felt his heart ache, because there, just two steps away from him, was everything he could not have. He had spent the past four days trying to reason with himself, but he had felt confused and unable to think properly.

And now John, whom he had tried to shut out in order to clear his head, but who had been the main thing in said head, was standing right in front of him, and he was concerned about nothing but Sherlock.

His knees threatened to give out all of a sudden, and he quickly extended one hand to support himself on the wall, but too late; a moment later, he found himself sitting on the floor, befuddled.

John knelt down next to him, putting one hand on Sherlock's arm: "That's what happens when you don't look after yourself," he said, sounding upset. Sherlock closed his eyes, willing the dizziness to go away and John's hand to stay there. He could not help it, he was shaking, and not just because he felt cold.

John's voice was much gentler when he spoke next: "Come on."

He got up and held out a hand; Sherlock stared at it for a moment but knew that surrender was inevitable. Shutting John out had not been a good idea to begin with, and now the notion of returning to his room and being alone again was rather hard to bear. So he took the offered hand and allowed John to help him to his feet. He was still a little unsteady, but John never let go until they had reached the sofa in the living room, onto which they both sank.

"There's no need to be ashamed," John said, looking at Sherlock from the side, deciding to meet the topic head-on. Maybe dinner could wait a little longer.

Sherlock still seemed reluctant to talk about it but was staring at his hands. He had pulled up his knees and was hunching in on himself, and John was afraid he might withdraw again.

"You don't know what you're saying," the detective now murmured.

Yep, dinner definitely would have to wait. John crossed his arms: "And that's where you're wrong," he said, after some deliberation, "since I actually do." Bracing himself, he continued: "I know how it feels not to be in control of the situation anymore."

"Because you were shot."

It was not a question, rather a statement.

"No, because my boyfriend turned out to be a sadistic bastard."

After a moment of comprehension, Sherlock raised his head to meet John´s gaze: "Your boyfriend."

John exhaled a little shakily; it still was difficult to talk about it, even after nearly two decades. "Yes. We got together at uni, and for a while everything was fine. We got along well, we had a few mutual friends, the sex was fantastic."

Sherlock sat rigidly, silently listening to this new and seemingly unexpected bit of information.

"It all changed when the pressure on us rose with each trimester," John continued, "every time there were exams coming up, he was unrecognizable all of a sudden. He turned moody and choleric and, occasionally, heavy-handed..." he paused to take another deep breath, "he really seemed to enjoy intimidating me, which was the worst about it. And then one night, he went too far. He... didn't have my consent to do what he did. I wanted out and he wanted to show me who's boss. He wasn't even drunk and he knew what he was doing; there's nothing for excuse it." He fell silent, for his voice was trembling too much and he had said what was necessary to make Sherlock understand.

"I'm..." Sherlock seemed baffled, "I'm sorry, John."

"Not your fault," John said, after clearing his throat. "But there you go. It happens. And it wasn't my fault either."

"What was his name?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"It doesn't matter."

Wrong, Sherlock thought. It did matter, because he could not bear thinking of John being submitted to such a personal and offending act of violence, and the idea had his stomach churning with anger. It was clear, however, that John was not going to share the name of the man who had abused him. Well. There would be other ways of finding out. For now it unimportant.

Sherlock silently shifted on the sofa until his shoulder was touching John's. "What happened next?"

"I left him," John said, in a low voice. He sounded tired all of a sudden. "I moved into a shared flat and bought a bottle of pepper spray. He called me a few times, alternately begging and threatening me, but a month later he dropped out because he could not cope with the pressure anymore, and I never saw him again."

Sherlock peered at him as things fell into place: "And consequently, you joined the army."

"Yes. Learned how to defend myself, among other things."

"Does Mike Stamford know?"

John was taken aback by the question, but answered nevertheless: "Yes, he does."

"Thought so." A hint of Sherlock's usual smugness was evident in his voice.

"How?"

"He's always fidgeting a little when you two are talking about old times."

"Nothing ever escapes you, does it?"

Sherlock tiredly rubbed his forehead with his fingertips: "No, it doesn't," he agreed, softly.

He was aware that John was waiting for him to say something, but he did not know how to broach the subject. Maybe his friend was expecting this to be easier on him now that John had shared his own experience with Sherlock, but it was not.

He needed to explain things to John, everything which he had been fruitlessly poring over during the past four days and nights, and he really did not have any idea how to do that.

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To Be Continued

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