There Is Noise - fanfic
There Is Noise
AN: Written for this prompt http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/12826.html?thread=67806234#t67806234: basically Sherlock gets telepathy and has a hard time. John helps. Not beta'd.
Written by Ambikai (Yes, I am that anon)
There is noise.
Can you hear it?
The whispers, the shouts, the yells, the cries, the gossip, the underlying threat and the undying devotion. It is all around, going round and round like a teddy bear. There is all that and more more more more more - can you now hear it? Can you?
He can. He hears everything, everything. Nothing is safe. He doesn't even have to look, he just knows. The knowledge, the secrets just build within him, completely and utterly. He is a part of everything, everyone.
And it hurts.
The constant chatter which wasn't always there. Once it had been silent, and his mind like harddrive working at full efficieny, deleting and rearranging things: rid off that, acquire that, resave that. The brain is a harddrive and his tool. With it he could see into the tiny details, and make those key connections that everyone else missed because of their clutter, their baggage.
Useless. Uneeded.
And now he could hear it all, and he couldn't stop it. He couldn't do a damn thing to stop it. It just kept coming in. He needed/wanted/had to have it stop. Stop the mindless chatter that follows him everywhere.
At first he had thought it useful. Oh how he had weilded it only two days ago. Running high, on the case, the adrenaline pumping through it and helping his mind keep up with the torrent of information that roared in. And then like after every case, he crashed from lack of sleep and food but this time he was at the mercy of something else.
It was a genetic trait you see, a throw-back to the old days when the Holmes hadn't been a family but a clan. Now the ability was rare as the bloodline weakened. He thought he would never have it but how he had wanted it. Just like Mycroft. He was an idiot for wishing for this. He now knew why his older brother hid behind camera's, safely locked away from the rubble, only coming out when needed. He never really understood that with this ability, this blessing, this curse, this everything that there wasn't an off-switch. Just a constant go, go, go, round, round, round - a cycle that swept through and through.
He could contact his brother, he could and be taken away somewhere quiet, where he could get just that hint of silence and begin to learn how to block - or at least turn the volume down. Mycroft always said it never stopped. But his freedom, he couldn't ...
He curled up deeper into himself, sitting in the corner of his bedroom, head clutched in his arms and just wanted it to stop. Wanted his Mummy to come kiss it better. Wanted Mycroft to fight it off. Wanted his father to play the violin and let the music sweep over him. Just stop, just stop, just stop ...
"Stop."
He breathed, glancing around the dark room but it kept coming. He bit back a dry sob, refusing to break down. He had to keep it together, work this out - he was brilliant. He could - god that james was a complete - he bit into his lip, the copper blood distracting him from whatever inane thought a pedestrian was thinking, but just as he pushed that aside another appeared.
"Stop, stop, stop ..." he kept saying it over and over and over again, at some points stopping to ram his hand against his head, hoping the ache would distract.
It didn't.
It made it worst.
He heard John came home, heard him call out if he wanted some pasta, and Sherlock swallowed but couldn't answer as John's thoughts, so close, so near (physical proximity always made it worse) overwhelmed.
... twenty five minutes boil water cut onion, get that can would sherlock want any most likely slice slice damn onions crush garlic where is that tomato paste ...
... why hasn't sherlock replied has he gone out maybe probably ...
Stop, stop, STOP!
Sherlock let out a strangled cry.
John's thoughts froze - impossible but they did and then he heard thudding footsteps, and his nails dug into his arms as the door swung open.
"Sherlock?" said John, reaching for the light in the darkness.
"Don't," he croaked, "Just go, just go, just ..."
The words failed him and he shrunk even further into himself. John sighed by the door, and moved over, slowly. He reached Sherlock, thoughts unnaturally still and bent down. His hands wrapped around Sherlock, pulling his weary and cold body against John's warmth.
"Easy," he said, "Deep breaths,"
Sherlock tried to, but each breath came at shallow, his body going hysterical. Why couldn't he do this? Why the hell couldn't he - John's forehead met Sherlock's.
"On me." the soldier ordered, and Sherlock tried to focus in as the doctor assessed (and he wondered 'what?' as the thought was so quickly there and then gone) and his friend pushed.
... a merry song a campfire a star filled sky the sound of waves marching feet a kettle whistling and then ...
...i love you please just on me me me friend drown it out i love you be okay me me me just me ...
John held Sherlock tighter, bridging a connection, and Sherlock let go, slumping against John as John's thoughts wrapped around Sherlock, completely and entirely. A shield against everything.
There was silence.
Isn't it beautiful?
Fin