"Whoever's homeless now, will build no shelter;
who lives alone will live indefinitely so,
waking up to read a little, draft long letters,
and, along the city's avenues,
fitfully wander, when the wild leaves loosen."
― Rainer Maria Rilke, Day in Autumn
…
Azkaban
…
The next morning, Sherlock woke up to an empty bed. He spent all day in it. Mired. Every breath felt like labor.
Sherlock found that unlike all the love songs and poetry that claimed being parted from one's love is eternal agony, no one moment was completely insurmountable. Every moment was harsh and bitter, as he felt the dreadful lacking with his whole nervous system. But alone, the moments could be endured.
Each one after the next.
When he could entomb himself into every second, the space between clock ticks, he could close his eyes, take a deep breath, and say, 'Okay, this second is over now.'
What was insurmountable, unendurable, was looking past each moment's boundary, and seeing all the incoming little seconds, minutes, hours, and days lined up and waiting for him. His mind shrank back, reeling from the horror of being in his present state for longer than a second at a time. So he would retreat, close his eyes again, inhale deeply, and say to himself: 'Focus on just this second, here. It's over now. Now just the next second. Good, you survived that, too.'
It was a technique he learned from withdrawal, when he quit mainlining cocaine cold turkey. It was nearly a decade past him now, but he remembered laying just like this, yearning for drugs, every moment setting his head on fire with the need. Sherlock remembered how he could almost feel the metallic taste right after he injected, laying there trying to detox, but imagining himself pumped full of cocaine, his body spreading the warmth around to each of his extremities.
It was masochistic, he knew even then, to envision so clearly, what he so desperately lacked. But once he started, it was impossible to stop, the vivid daydreams of needles and narcotics replacing for a while, the real thing, but of course, making the chemical lack even more pronounced, and painful.
He had learned the lesson from withdrawal that the worst thing you could do, the cardinal sin, was to replay the times when the craving was satisfied. It hurt all the more when, irrevocably, one found oneself in the present again.
But he could not stop.
So he did it now, even though he knew how terrible an idea it was. Alone in bed, Sherlock inhaled, and imagined he was inhaling the scent he was lacking.
It was only yesterday that he was here. Sherlock could remember yesterday. And the day before. In fact, Sherlock's memory was as sharp as ever. He could remember anything he wished.
He cast his mind back to the most tender moments he had shared with his wizard and clutched at them.
The memories he summoned were so clear that he felt like he could will the wizard into existence if he concentrated hard enough. If he opened his eyes, he would see the face which he longed for, staring back at him from the other side of the wide bed.
But there was no one there. Only fading dreams and bed sheets.
Sherlock slammed his eyes shut and tugged the memory back to shore, losing the present once again, setting sail into the waters of days past; before his mother's death, before his labyrinth collapsed, before Harry left.
Sherlock lay remembering, one very fine morning, possibly one of the finest in his life:
Harry was straddling him, propped up on his arms. They were both in Sherlock's bed. Sherlock lay underneath, panting. Harry must have sensed that they were coming to that crucial point in a relationship when the intimacy would finally escalte, and boil over into sex. It almost happened before, on several occasions.
Feverish, the wizard came up for air, and tried to say something. Evidently, he wanted to get all the words out at once, because they jumped and tumbled over each other, barely strung together in a coherent thought.
Sherlock took a break from caressing, kissing, and imagining what the next minute would hold. He looked into his lover's eyes, listening.
"I don't know if I can go through with this. I'm afraid that I can't. That I'm not able to. " The wizard tried again, this time taking his time with each word.
A pause. Let him continue, Sherlock ordered himself. Sherlock was still developing this skill: listening, rather than talking. It was coming along nicely.
"I'm quite fond of you, so I wish this wasn't the case, or maybe I hoped that liking you would somehow fix me, but it hasn't yet, and I don't think it will…" Harry floundered, trying to explain.
"Alright," Sherlock answered easily, propping himself up on his elbows.
"I'm not sure if you've picked up on this, but, I'm not exactly…" Harry continued, waving his hand next to his temple. Indicating, what? Madness? "I'm missing something. Some pieces."
"Oh." Sherlock answered, and held his tongue. He wanted to reassure Harry, but he was starting to understand that it was sometimes better to let people talk through their problems.
"Like, I can't get angry, and I can't…do other things, too." Harry finished, and Sherlock could almost see the man deflating as he finished his thought. No doubt, whatever it was Harry was trying to tell him about, pained him a great deal.
How could Sherlock not have noticed? For how carefully he watched Harry, and how observant Sherlock was, he noted Harry's 'missing pieces' problem ages ago. If anything, it was a shock that it took the detective so long to see it in the first place. He still remembered the evening when, coming home after solving the Harlesden maniac case, Sherlock meticulously replayed every interaction he had with Potter, and came to the conclusion that the wizard could not get angry. (How wrong he turned out to be, but no, don't think of that, don't think of that, back to the memory).
"I have noticed." Sherlock responded. He knew Harry wasn't talking about just his lack of anger. He wished the wizard was more direct, and described his problem in greater detail. He almost lost control of himself, and asked Harry to clarify, but he stopped in time.
Harry let out a breath.
"Good, I didn't want to lead you on or anything. I'm sorry." Harry said, and sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed, putting some distance between them.
"Do you know why?" Sherlock asked.
"Not exactly. I can guess. I, well," Harry swallowed, and shut his eyes, "I had some experiences, and I never fully recovered."
"Do you think you could try being a little more vague, please?" Sherlock said, some of his frustration finally finding a vent in a half-hearted attempt at humor.
Harry let out a relieved laugh. Sherlock was glad the decision to lighten the mood was the right one. Sherlock felt more sure of himself than ever, navigating the confusing and turbulent waters of the human psyche.
"So, I got caught, right? During the war?" Harry started again.
"Yes?" Sherlock nodded.
"God, I really don't want to talk about this." Harry sighed, his hands finding his face. Sherlock used his newfound ability of silence again. It worked like a charm.
Several long moments ticked by.
"They caught me, and they did things to me." Harry finally admitted.
"They tortured you?" Sherlock said, pretending he was guessing. He wasn't. He knew.
"Yes," came the ragged, tired reply. "At some point everything blanks out and I don't know what happened. I must have, I don't know, detached somehow. Since then, I haven't been whole." Harry said.
Sherlock kept looking expectantly at the wizard. Finally, Harry sighed and continued.
"First thing I remember after that is waking up in Hogwarts." The wizard said slowly, casting his mind back through time and space.
"You recovered there? In Hogwarts?" Sherlock prodded, wanting Harry to continue.
"I don't know if recovered is the right word. It was sort of touch and go for many years. Especially after Gi-" Harry's face twitched, but he recovered in a split second and continued, "After someone dear to me died, I was out again. It doesn't always feel like it, but I know deep down there's something wrong with me. I'm broken in some way, and I'm not sure I'll ever be normal. Sherlock, I don't even remember my trial, you know?"
"Since I've met you, you seem to have a firm grasp on reality," Sherlock reassured the wizard. It was, truth be told, not one hundred percent true, considering the whole episode of visiting Sherlock's uncle Rudy. But close enough. "It doesn't bother me, the way you are, if that's what you're worried about."
"Thanks," the wizard's lips, gathered in a crooked smile. Sherlock's heart seemed to stop beating. Then, a kiss, the wizard holding his face, the rough palm hot on his cheek.
Sherlock found that this small act, listening and comforting, was somehow soothing to his own soul, as well. It was like the words he said were meant for himself, too. How was that possible?
Regardless, he felt lighter and happier after their conversation, although it had been solely the wizard's past that had been discussed.
Another kiss, and Sherlock insistently tugged Harry downwards, on top of himself. The wizard followed, always obliging.
It seemed that Sherlock's easy acceptance of whatever problem Harry thought he was facing was enough to erase Harry's worries. Harry kissed back, touching Sherlock along the inside of his thighs. Sherlock hummed appreciatively at this attention.
Ironically, the very next hour after Harry had aired his fears of not being able to become intimate, they had sex. So, obviously, the wizard had never had anything to worry about.
He remembered how they made love. That morning, and after. There were only a precious handful of times, and Sherlock wished more than anything that there had been more.
He remembered the sensation of skin on skin, a chest pressed against his back, arms confining his movement, a soft voice whispering into his hair.
Sherlock always wanted the wizard to take it rougher, be more aggressive, but Harry was more passive than Sherlock urged and wished him to be.
Sherlock moved from the memories, and into fantasy. When they fought, he had seen a lightning flash silhouette of a different Harry. This different Harry had a temper. He had a savage intensity that electrified Sherlock.
Sherlock knew that he had been in love with Harry, the one with the broken pieces, which had been long ago misplaced. He could have spent a very comfortable lifetime with the subdued wizard, who never became angry and permitted Sherlock anything.
But the different Harry, the one that Sherlock barely caught a glimpse of, right at the very end, as the foundation of their relationship collapsed, Sherlock would do anything, crawl through any hell to get closer to that man. And to have him in his bed…
Sherlock's mind, ever ready to be of service, extrapolated the two Harrys. It combined them, and let Sherlock see exactly what he was missing out on.
This time, Sherlock was having sex with the different Harry, and his wishes for more violence were met and surpassed. How would that man's fingers dig into his skin? How would he grab Sherlocks hips, how would he drag Sherlock back, and grab Sherlock's hair, savagely yanking him back by the head, the pain coming sharp and clear. How would he twist his arms, and pin him, screaming into the pillow…
Sherlock was becoming aroused, as he lay in bed, miserable.
The awful panic, the ball of dread, rose up, and Sherlock was coughing it up like it was a physical thing, a tumor lodged in his throat. He ran to the toilet, retching into the bowl, shaking.
…
Harry apparated to Fair Isle. The bitter wind off the Northern Sea whipped and yanked his hair. His heart thumped in his chest, beating itself against his ribs.
Harry drew in a deep breath. He felt the cold go through his entire body. It felt real and immediate, and good.
For so long, he had been stuck in a monocolour stream, going along with the world, while not really participating. He had felt like he was seeing his life through a screen, like he was watching his own badly programmed series. But now, the screen has shattered.
Harry's heart beat firmly in his chest. Tharump, tharump, tharump! Has it always been beating? Was he just noticing now that he was completely and utterly alive? He was surely dead for the last decade, until he ran headlong into Sherlock Holmes.
At the moment, Harry wasn't sure what to think of Sherlock. Half of him wanted to go back to Baker street and curse him, and half of him wanted to beg Sherlock to reconcile.
Harry had grown so fond of the man. There was an ache, a driving pain in his heart, from the words which they had exchanged as they fought.
Perhaps Harry had over-reacted to Sherlock's taunts. The man had, after all, just lost his mother. Harry was sure he was in pain and lashing out. Harry remembered the odd, surreal lilt to the detective's voice, as he had started the argument between them.
He had always loved Sherlock's voice. Even from the beginning, before the two became romantically entangled, Harry enjoyed listening to the deep, rumbling, polished tone.
Harry had lived so long in a halfworld, of mist and shadow, where the only voices he heard were those of the dead. But Sherlock was alive. He was amazingly alive. Breathing and thinking, thinking so fast he seemed like a whirlwind to Harry.
Living with the detective, and being that close to wild, quicksilver life, it had seemed like a rare treasure. Harry sometimes found himself feeling guilty, like he was stealing those moments from someone else. As though they could ever belong to him. Once or twice, he had woken up at Baker street and expected to see the ratty cupboard around him, and realize that his whole life had been a vivid daydream.
He remembered laying with Sherlock, pressing himself closer to the warmth emanating from the man's chest and listening to his heartbeat, which sounded like a confident cry: I am, I am, I am.
Harry suddenly longed to return to Baker street. He would apologize to Sherlock. Surely, he could smooth things over. When they argued, Harry had been surprised at the sudden flare of his own temper. He had not felt anything remotely close to anger in years and years. He had forgotten the sudden weight of it, the burning intensity. His old temper had simply caught him unawares.
That's how he could start his apology to Sherlock.
The good news is that I can feel emotion again, but I am awful sorry about the teacups.
Harry shook his head. No, not now. He had other things to do. And he had debts, which Sherlock did not understand, that must be paid.
For god's sake, he let Snape rot in prison! The man who restored him, the man who he owed everything to!
Of course Harry could blame others for this. Hermione and Sherlock teamed up on him, and made him promise to stay away from Azkaban.
But reasonable people with reasonable suggestions had never stopped Harry before. He didn't see a reason why they should, now.
It was August, Snape's trial would be within weeks. Harry felt like he had woken up, completely oblivious to how long he had slept. He almost missed the old potions professor's trial. What if they had sentenced him to the kiss?
Harry decided he had not a moment to lose.
He shifted into his animagus form, watching the world grow bigger as he shrank into the form of a crow.
He took to the skies, and made his way north, to the island of Azkaban.
…
It was not an accident that Sherlock likened his present predicament, his languoring sickness, to withdrawal.
Once a drug addict, always a drug addict.
Reflecting, Sherlock realized that he had gone through the same process of convincing himself when he started using cocaine, as when Harry started living with him. He had told himself that the drug aided his thinking mind, and sped up his thoughts. In the same way, he deluded himself into thinking that becoming intimate with Potter was necessary, crucial to keep his nightmares at bay, and to quiet his ailing mind.
He had jealously hoarded Harry to himself. He had gotten high, in a way, off him. He had even mimicked the process of taking larger and larger doses, to reach the same summit of bliss as the first time, imitating the classic downward spiral.
Oh, but there was a difference. A great, big ugly difference, indeed.
Sherlock will always be a drug addict. He knew that slipping back into his old habits would be as easy as putting on a coat. But, he did not stay physically addicted to cocaine forever. The pain of withdrawal, the horrible sickness, all faded with time. It was physiological.
But this, this horrible yawning hole in his chest, that ate every thought and spat them out dripping with acid, this would not heal so easily.
Would it heal at all?
He wasn't sure.
He didn't know much about love. Did time heal these wounds? How long would it take? There was nothing physically wrong with him, so Sherlock reasoned, there technically was nothing to heal. Would he lay in this bed, completely healthy but with a hole in his chest, forever?
As the shadows lengthened, and night fell on London again, Sherlock saw that he only had two options. Grab the revolver and put a round into his cerebellum, or get help.
He picked up his phone and dialed John.
…
Snape knew it was the end for him. Or rather, the sensible, logical him. The kernel of consciousness that knew to call himself Severus, and knew that he was once a Professor of Potions, a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and a Death Eater, that Severus Snape did not have long until he perished.
Of course the body, a living body, would remain, serving out the long prison sentence of the man once known as Severus Tobias Snape. But Snape, as himself, would likely be no more.
He was going mad, and he knew it.
Snape saw Potter's face in the window of his cell, and knew that it must be a hallucination. But it was a persistent hallucination. He saw Potter's face again, and again.
Now, there was a light rhythmic tapping on the cell window that made Snape think of a bird's beak tapping on wood.
Before long, Snape would probably see Potter in front of him, then maybe he would see his old Hogwarts office, and red-haired Miss Weasley, and the sneering portraits and…
Maybe it wasn't so bad to be completely mental. Maybe it would be better than the bone-breaking cold, and the rustle of the dementors' rotting robes. He smiled a little to himself. Yes, let the madness take him. Why did it matter anyway? He was here forever, until death. Might as well completely release his grip on this hopeless reality.
And he was right! The very next thing he hallucinated was Potter in front of him, although he looked wrong, older. His madness must have a sense of realism, Snape thought wryly. The man, Potter, put a gentle hand on his shoulder. It was warm, so warm after the days of freezing solitude.
"Professor, can you hear me?" The man asked, and Snape chuckled. That was rich, coming from a delusion. Of course, Snape had no option but to hear him, what with Potter being in his head and all. Snape's head lolled to the side, as he tried to see past Potter. Did his cell resemble the Headmaster's Office yet? Were there cheerfully flickering candles around him, instead of the gray, rough stonework and rusted iron?
Potter, the hallucination, looked worried.
"Look, just hold on, and don't freak out. It'll be harder to carry you if you're fighting, alright?" Harry said to him, and suddenly, the cell was growing larger and larger, impossibly big. No, that wasn't right. Snape was growing smaller.
When he could barely see past hallucination Potter's knees, he stopped shrinking.
Snape had to admit, this was an odd delusion. He'd have figured he would be tormented or comforted by hallucinations created from memories and recollections. He wasn't sure why he was imagining he was shrinking.
He looked around, and instead of his hands he saw two pink animal paws. His body was covered in sleek, dark fur, and he was sure, although he couldn't see them, that he had whiskers.
Snape no longer liked the direction these hallucinations were going. And it only got worse.
Where Potter once stood, there was a monster. A terrifyingly huge crow, talons bigger than Snape's whole paw. It started coming closer. Snape didn't have time to think; he scurried.
The crow was too fast. Talons seized his midsection, and Snape tried to scream, but it came out as a high pitched squeal. The talons were tight around his body, squeezing and he could hardly breathe. He felt wind on his face, rustling his whiskers, as the crow-monster flapped its gigantic wings, and then…
Oh no, oh no, oh no!
Snape fought with everything he had, trying to claw or chew at the beastly bird holding him hostage, but it was no use. He could barely reach the scaly taloned feet, and he could not do much damage. And then, the most horrible of sensations, of being lifted into the air.
Snape had always hated flying with a passion. The few times he had to sit on a broom, he clutched the handle with a white knuckle grip, and prayed silently to himself that it would all be over soon. He hated the sickening vision of the earth disappearing underneath his feet, and the nauseating feeling of being suspended in the air.
They rose through the inky black night, and Snape was sure that this was the worst a delusion could possibly be. Maybe he ought to have tried holding on to his sanity a bit longer. Underneath him, the waves crashed against a rocky island, topped with a fortress, and Snape felt a terrible vertigo overtake him.
Maybe he could still save himself, thought Snape. Twisting around madly, he finally found he was able to reach the crow's foot with his mouth. He bit the taloned foot, and heard with satisfaction the bird-like shriek above.
The talons released him.
He thought he might open his eyes now, and discover that he was alone in his cell in Azkaban, but that is not what he saw. The sea was suddenly growing closer and closer, and then his vision was twisting as he was spinning round and round, and he could no longer tell where the horizon was in the blackness of the night, and everything was flying past him, and he would crash, he would crash, any second now…
Something caught him, knocking the wind out of his chest. It was the bird squeezing his torso, this time even more painfully, the talons digging into his flesh. They rose through the air once again.
He stopped fighting the crow-monster. He simply gave up, went limp, and closed his eyes, waiting for the nightmare to be over.
…
John was drinking the worst cup of tea he thought he ever had. Sherlock must have filled the entire teapot with leaves, before adding a splash of lukewarm water. There were loose leaves, swimming like drowned flies in his cup, and the liquid itself was terribly bitter.
He took a few sips, trying to be polite, then set the cup on the table, intending to leave it there for the rest of his visit.
Sherlock hadn't even touched his.
"So, then, how are you getting on? Where is Harry?" John asked, trying to put on a jovial air. He had known Sherlock long enough to see that he was in one of his sulks. No doubt, a case wasn't going his way. Or maybe, the wizard had refused to perform the same spell for the millionth time. Sometimes, it didn't take much at all to upset the world's only consulting detective.
Sherlock stared past John's head, and didn't answer.
John was growing uncomfortable, but he reassured himself that this happened sometimes. Sherlock was somewhere in the depths of his mind, and it might take some time to resurface.
He was about to give it up, and go make another, more palatable pot of tea, when Sherlock finally spoke up.
"He's gone." His voice sounded very empty. I chill went through John.
It had taken Sherlock so long to answer that John had completely forgotten the question.
"Sorry, who?" John asked.
"Harry. He's gone. Left last night." Sherlock said, and then heaved his entire body into a sigh.
"Oh I see," John said, although he really didn't, "And does he intend on returning soon?"
Sherlock's eyes snapped to John's. John must have been hallucinating, because it looked like the cool, gray eyes were welling up with tears.
No, impossible.
"How do people put it?" Sherlock said, and his voice, John noticed, was shaking, "We're broken? We've broken up? I don't know if he'll come back. I assume not."
Sherlock covered his face with his long fingers, and it was now unmistakable. He started crying.
"Hold on, now!" John jumped up from his seat. The situation was very unnerving. Through all the trials and tribulations the two had faced, Sherlock was always, always, in control of himself.
"Alright, it's going to be alright!" John was feeling completely out of his depth. For just a second, he thought of calling in Mycroft, but immediately discarded the idea. He was sure that Sherlock did not want his older brother to see him in such a state.
He came around the table, and awkwardly patted Sherlock on the back. Seeing that this had no effect whatsoever, he returned to his seat and groped for something, anything to say to console Sherlock.
"Oh, he was a right bastard anyway," the words were ludicrous, but John simply had nothing else, "good riddance I say. Maybe if we catch him again, I'll show him how he ought not to treat people."
The wet sounds of Sherlock's sobs transformed, and it took a second for John to realize that Sherlock was laughing now. At John, presumably.
Well, it was a welcome change anyway, and if he could play the clown and let Sherlock feel better, he was happy to be of service.
"John, John, please, think," Sherlock said, the sound of laughing and sobbing still very close, "Do you really think the mild mannered wizard is at fault here, or, or…" It looked like Sherlock was choking, like he couldn't quite get the last word out, "Or me?" Sherlock spoke the word 'me' with such hatred, his eyes glinting with rage in the weak light.
John didn't have to think too hard to come up with the answer.
"Alright, alright, Sherlock. Start from the beginning. Like one of our cases, yeah? Let me play the detective, for once. Let's go sit you on the couch, there, like all the clients before. Now, try to calm down, and tell me what happened."
…
AN: Another chapter up, and we're one closer to the end! Please let me know what you think. I really enjoy reading your comments :)
