Sherlock Fic: Leaving things undone: Day 4: Manipulation
Here, have a Day 4: Manipulation. Sherlocks ideas are getting more and more twisted ;)
Have fun! And a special Thanks to my beta reader swissmarg of course :)
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Day 4: Manipulation
In my dream I’m killing Mycroft. I don’t remove my hands from his neck but squeeze even more until his body gets limp and slips lifeless from his armchair. I’m thinking about how to get rid of the body when John enters the room. He looks at me, understands the situation after a few seconds, and I think: No, don’t hate me, don’t leave me! (and here, in my dream, these thoughts are normal and I allow myself to feel, because no one sees it in here), and then John pushes me aside and lifts Mycrofts dead body as if it weighs nothing, and with the corpse of my brother he leaves the room. John will take care of it while I’m staying beside the armchair, shivering and knowing that they will catch him (and he knows that too, he isn’t clever enough to cover up a murder), and I will never see him again.
I wake up, one arm reaching upwards, my fingers spread, and in my mouth is a word that I wanted to shout in my dream, but I can’t remember it.
(Though I guess it was his name).
It’s Thursday and I frown in irritation when I see the date. Where did the last three days go? I wasted two of them with tactics I thought would be efficient (I was wrong). I hung the list up above my bed, a red pin is piercing the upper middle of the paper and holding it against the wallpaper. I look at the single check mark behind Day 3: Information and think that I may have information now but my actual problem has only gotten worse. Now I’m not only fighting the Army or my brother or any other authority, but John as well, something inside him that makes him believe he’s doing the right thing by leaving me.
Day 4, I whisper, and my fingers skim over paper. Manipulation. The Latin word means nothing more than ‘to handle’, to use an object (from manus (lat.): hand. Manus, manus, manui, manum, manu, manus, manuum, manibus, manus, manibus.). Today the word has a far more negative connotation; it means to influence a person or a group of people without their knowledge, to change the perception or behavior of others through underhanded, deceptive, or even abusive tactics.
It doesn’t matter how I look at this word, it won’t make my intentions more honourable or less damnable. If I were to take the first meaning then John would be nothing more than an object, without free will, and I’d be able and allowed to use him as I like. Would it make any difference if I were to accept that John is a human being yet still form him according to my desires? (He doesn’t know what he wants, he needs to be manipulated so he will see the truth). I keep telling myself that I’m doing the right thing (until I believe it).
It’s raining outside when I leave the flat. London’s on its best behavior this week (as if the streets were a part of me, as if they were reflecting my insides. I like that thought. It would connect the city and me even more, although it already runs through my veins). The wind beats raindrops against house walls and the windows of cabs sneaking by. Reflexively, I lift my hand to wave for a car, but then I remember my actual plan while rain drips down my cheeks. I almost give up and turn around, not even three steps out of the flat. But I pull myself together, turn up my coat collar, hunch my shoulders and push my wet hands into my pockets (and just for a second I think of Mycroft and his umbrella, his eternal companion).
The kitchen is warm and filled with the scent of sweetish-spicy food. I know John likes to eat Indian (he loves the tang of curry but not the bite of chili), so hot water is bubbling in a pot, which has turned white because of the dissolved starch of the rice. In the pan, turkey meat is frying between mangos and cashews in a curry-coconut sauce.
My coat is hanging at the door and dripping, a small transparent pool has formed underneath it. I’m leaning against the sink, a tea in my hands, and listening.
I thought about clearing the table in the kitchen but I wasn’t sure about where to put all my chemicals and equipment. To bring them to the small storage room upstairs in the attic or even down into the old moist cellar seemed impossible (aside from the fact that I still need all this stuff). Therefore I left the table alone and cleared the small table in the living room instead (it took me longer than expected, under stacks of files and documents I found some interesting things which I put away unread weeks ago because I was otherwise engaged), borrowed one of Mrs. Hudson’s table cloths, and set the table (I thought about our first dinner together at Angelo’s and the candle he placed between us, giving us the thumbs-up, but I decided against it; this object is too often connected with romance).
There is a silent clicking at the front door, then a whistling as the wind that has turned into to a storm sweeps across the floor. Keys clink against each other, followed by John calling my name (and I wistfully file the sound of those two syllables from his mouth).
“I’m in the kitchen,” I say and hear his steps on the stairs, despite the water boiling beside me.
When John enters the room he’s just taking his likewise dripping wet coat of. The expression on his face shifts into a disbelieving smile, he furls his eyebrows.
“What are you doing?” he asks (a rhetorical question, it’s obvious what I’m doing; we already had a discussion about this strange kind of communication). Then he hangs his coat up, right beside mine, where they both enlarge the pool on the floor. He passes me, lifts the lids of both the pot and pan, sniffs at the food inside, and fortunately the smile on his face widens.
“You cooked dinner.” This time it’s a statement, and I nod hesitantly. But he narrows his eyes, takes a step closer to me and stares into my face as if he wants to spot a lie (and my heart skips a beat, a sting inside my chest). “It’s not poisoned, right? I mean, this is not one of your experiments?”
I shake my head (talking seems impossible at the moment, and I realise that I have stopped breathing), and his eyes are smiling again, I can see light patches within the circles of his brown irises. I smell rain on his skin, mixed with the faint scent of disinfectant which always surrounds John when he comes back from the hospital (and for a few seconds time seems to be standing still so that I’m able to count the water drops in his hair).
This is the moment I do something stupid.
I reach out my hand, grab his shirt and pull him the last few inches closer. He lifts his arms and supports himself against the sink behind me so as not to fall over. While he exhales in surprise I tilt my head for a better angle and then I press my lips on his and breathe his air (and my head is screaming and screaming and screaming). John’s whole body tenses up, he tries not to push his body against mine (and I don’t know where to put my arms), and he takes my breath, his hands are still grabbing the counter as if he were afraid of touching me and our mouths are the only point of contact. I taste his tongue on mine (and I try to save that feeling, but it’s impossible to classify, I don’t have a file for that kind of experience in my mind palace), something is melting inside my stomach and spreads and I want to lift my hands and pull John closer to me. But then I hear fizzing next to us and I open my eyes (when did I close them?) and see the rice water boiling over and pouring foam over the hotplate.
John tumbles backwards, leaving a tingle on my lips, I don’t dare to breathe. He stares at me for a few seconds, his eyes widened, his chest rising and falling erratically.
“John…” I begin, but he shakes his head.
“Don’t,” he simply says (and my cheeks are hot, my forehead burns), then he looks down in embarrassment, lifts one hand and waves vaguely towards the stove.
“You should…” he whispers hoarsely. I just nod (the English language betrays me) and pull the boiled-over pot away from the hotplate. Steam fills the kitchen when I lift the lid, the window fogs and damp air clogs my lungs. Outside the storm is beating hail against the house wall, it’s clattering.
When I turn around, John is gone.
Manipulation, I think when I’m lying on my bed later. My fingertips skim over my lips. Who is manipulating whom? I planned to make his life a bit easier, to prove to him that I’m useful (I shudder because I chose the same word as my brother). When did I decide to bind him emotionally and sexually?
I stare at the ceiling and consider whether it’s a good idea. And then I try to find out if it was an idea at all or if it just happened (I search for that moment in my mind palace, but can’t find it anywhere, my brain was too overwhelmed to save it properly, and I silently curse). I come to no conclusion; I roll from one side of my bed to the other, bury my hands in my dark curls, pull at single strands and resist the urge to give in to the itching once again.
And eventually, when I doze somewhere between sleep and waking, I remember parts of the scene in the kitchen, and I try to hold on to them as long as possible, but in the end just one thing remains. One thing I carefully put into a new file inside my mind.
(John Watson tastes like his name: of warmth and caramel).
Have fun! And a special Thanks to my beta reader swissmarg of course :)
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
Day 4: Manipulation
In my dream I’m killing Mycroft. I don’t remove my hands from his neck but squeeze even more until his body gets limp and slips lifeless from his armchair. I’m thinking about how to get rid of the body when John enters the room. He looks at me, understands the situation after a few seconds, and I think: No, don’t hate me, don’t leave me! (and here, in my dream, these thoughts are normal and I allow myself to feel, because no one sees it in here), and then John pushes me aside and lifts Mycrofts dead body as if it weighs nothing, and with the corpse of my brother he leaves the room. John will take care of it while I’m staying beside the armchair, shivering and knowing that they will catch him (and he knows that too, he isn’t clever enough to cover up a murder), and I will never see him again.
I wake up, one arm reaching upwards, my fingers spread, and in my mouth is a word that I wanted to shout in my dream, but I can’t remember it.
(Though I guess it was his name).
It’s Thursday and I frown in irritation when I see the date. Where did the last three days go? I wasted two of them with tactics I thought would be efficient (I was wrong). I hung the list up above my bed, a red pin is piercing the upper middle of the paper and holding it against the wallpaper. I look at the single check mark behind Day 3: Information and think that I may have information now but my actual problem has only gotten worse. Now I’m not only fighting the Army or my brother or any other authority, but John as well, something inside him that makes him believe he’s doing the right thing by leaving me.
Day 4, I whisper, and my fingers skim over paper. Manipulation. The Latin word means nothing more than ‘to handle’, to use an object (from manus (lat.): hand. Manus, manus, manui, manum, manu, manus, manuum, manibus, manus, manibus.). Today the word has a far more negative connotation; it means to influence a person or a group of people without their knowledge, to change the perception or behavior of others through underhanded, deceptive, or even abusive tactics.
It doesn’t matter how I look at this word, it won’t make my intentions more honourable or less damnable. If I were to take the first meaning then John would be nothing more than an object, without free will, and I’d be able and allowed to use him as I like. Would it make any difference if I were to accept that John is a human being yet still form him according to my desires? (He doesn’t know what he wants, he needs to be manipulated so he will see the truth). I keep telling myself that I’m doing the right thing (until I believe it).
It’s raining outside when I leave the flat. London’s on its best behavior this week (as if the streets were a part of me, as if they were reflecting my insides. I like that thought. It would connect the city and me even more, although it already runs through my veins). The wind beats raindrops against house walls and the windows of cabs sneaking by. Reflexively, I lift my hand to wave for a car, but then I remember my actual plan while rain drips down my cheeks. I almost give up and turn around, not even three steps out of the flat. But I pull myself together, turn up my coat collar, hunch my shoulders and push my wet hands into my pockets (and just for a second I think of Mycroft and his umbrella, his eternal companion).
The kitchen is warm and filled with the scent of sweetish-spicy food. I know John likes to eat Indian (he loves the tang of curry but not the bite of chili), so hot water is bubbling in a pot, which has turned white because of the dissolved starch of the rice. In the pan, turkey meat is frying between mangos and cashews in a curry-coconut sauce.
My coat is hanging at the door and dripping, a small transparent pool has formed underneath it. I’m leaning against the sink, a tea in my hands, and listening.
I thought about clearing the table in the kitchen but I wasn’t sure about where to put all my chemicals and equipment. To bring them to the small storage room upstairs in the attic or even down into the old moist cellar seemed impossible (aside from the fact that I still need all this stuff). Therefore I left the table alone and cleared the small table in the living room instead (it took me longer than expected, under stacks of files and documents I found some interesting things which I put away unread weeks ago because I was otherwise engaged), borrowed one of Mrs. Hudson’s table cloths, and set the table (I thought about our first dinner together at Angelo’s and the candle he placed between us, giving us the thumbs-up, but I decided against it; this object is too often connected with romance).
There is a silent clicking at the front door, then a whistling as the wind that has turned into to a storm sweeps across the floor. Keys clink against each other, followed by John calling my name (and I wistfully file the sound of those two syllables from his mouth).
“I’m in the kitchen,” I say and hear his steps on the stairs, despite the water boiling beside me.
When John enters the room he’s just taking his likewise dripping wet coat of. The expression on his face shifts into a disbelieving smile, he furls his eyebrows.
“What are you doing?” he asks (a rhetorical question, it’s obvious what I’m doing; we already had a discussion about this strange kind of communication). Then he hangs his coat up, right beside mine, where they both enlarge the pool on the floor. He passes me, lifts the lids of both the pot and pan, sniffs at the food inside, and fortunately the smile on his face widens.
“You cooked dinner.” This time it’s a statement, and I nod hesitantly. But he narrows his eyes, takes a step closer to me and stares into my face as if he wants to spot a lie (and my heart skips a beat, a sting inside my chest). “It’s not poisoned, right? I mean, this is not one of your experiments?”
I shake my head (talking seems impossible at the moment, and I realise that I have stopped breathing), and his eyes are smiling again, I can see light patches within the circles of his brown irises. I smell rain on his skin, mixed with the faint scent of disinfectant which always surrounds John when he comes back from the hospital (and for a few seconds time seems to be standing still so that I’m able to count the water drops in his hair).
This is the moment I do something stupid.
I reach out my hand, grab his shirt and pull him the last few inches closer. He lifts his arms and supports himself against the sink behind me so as not to fall over. While he exhales in surprise I tilt my head for a better angle and then I press my lips on his and breathe his air (and my head is screaming and screaming and screaming). John’s whole body tenses up, he tries not to push his body against mine (and I don’t know where to put my arms), and he takes my breath, his hands are still grabbing the counter as if he were afraid of touching me and our mouths are the only point of contact. I taste his tongue on mine (and I try to save that feeling, but it’s impossible to classify, I don’t have a file for that kind of experience in my mind palace), something is melting inside my stomach and spreads and I want to lift my hands and pull John closer to me. But then I hear fizzing next to us and I open my eyes (when did I close them?) and see the rice water boiling over and pouring foam over the hotplate.
John tumbles backwards, leaving a tingle on my lips, I don’t dare to breathe. He stares at me for a few seconds, his eyes widened, his chest rising and falling erratically.
“John…” I begin, but he shakes his head.
“Don’t,” he simply says (and my cheeks are hot, my forehead burns), then he looks down in embarrassment, lifts one hand and waves vaguely towards the stove.
“You should…” he whispers hoarsely. I just nod (the English language betrays me) and pull the boiled-over pot away from the hotplate. Steam fills the kitchen when I lift the lid, the window fogs and damp air clogs my lungs. Outside the storm is beating hail against the house wall, it’s clattering.
When I turn around, John is gone.
Manipulation, I think when I’m lying on my bed later. My fingertips skim over my lips. Who is manipulating whom? I planned to make his life a bit easier, to prove to him that I’m useful (I shudder because I chose the same word as my brother). When did I decide to bind him emotionally and sexually?
I stare at the ceiling and consider whether it’s a good idea. And then I try to find out if it was an idea at all or if it just happened (I search for that moment in my mind palace, but can’t find it anywhere, my brain was too overwhelmed to save it properly, and I silently curse). I come to no conclusion; I roll from one side of my bed to the other, bury my hands in my dark curls, pull at single strands and resist the urge to give in to the itching once again.
And eventually, when I doze somewhere between sleep and waking, I remember parts of the scene in the kitchen, and I try to hold on to them as long as possible, but in the end just one thing remains. One thing I carefully put into a new file inside my mind.
(John Watson tastes like his name: of warmth and caramel).