Sherlock Fic: Leaving things undone: Day 6: Violence
Day 6: Violence
I try to imagine how it would be to hold his hand.
It’s childish, of course! Usually, I don’t think about things like that (they’re not important).
I’m starting to see John Watson as a drug. I’m familiar with drugs and addictive substances. It’s not a secret that I have a past with drugs. It hasn’t always been easy to control my racing mind (and I succeed only partly these days), and there was a time in my youth when control was impossible. I remember the night when Mycroft found out, how he stood in the door and smiled (maybe my intoxicated mind skewed the picture; he could have looked sad or angry, though in my memory he’s always smiling). He never addressed it. He let me do what I wanted. I wonder what that means. Am I all the same to him? Does he leave me free to do what I want? (Does he know the noise of my mind himself?) My brother is a mystery to me, and maybe I am to him as well. It’s all the more surprising that he’s interfering now.
I lay my palms on top of each other, interlace my fingers as if I would like to pray, file away the feeling of grinding skin and shake my head in disappointment. It’s not the same. It doesn’t arouse anything. I tried stroking my neck like John did (the thought causes a shiver, the touch itself didn’t), skimmed over cheek and jaw with my fingertips. Nothing. I even resumed my experiments in masturbation (I ended my research in this field years ago because it just wouldn’t bring any results and I couldn’t understand the fascination of people who occupy themselves with this action). I gave up soon after, the experience resembled my previous studies, it bored me, it lacked in tension, in excitement. The one thing that was missing (and I wrote that fact down in a notebook which was hidden in a box under my bed for years) was obviously a partner.
John left the house half an hour ago. I didn’t leave my room to have breakfast with him (or rather: watch him eating). I knew he didn’t want to see me, and I wasn’t sure about how I felt, wasn’t sure past the last days, so I didn’t want to risk it. I would rather lie on the bed in my room and roam through the chambers of my mind palace, leafing through pale red or turquoise folders (whose content is only important in part, perfect to pass one’s time without challenging the brain too much). And I catch myself again wandering by the room, in which the loose pages are scattered around the dark green folder. I don’t dare to enter it, don’t dare to collect the data and create a register and sort the information. And yet, these memories attract me so strongly that it almost crushes my heart, it takes away my breath when I come too close to the door and the hidden pictures behind it. Then I back down and try to forget that I need them so badly that it almost kills me.
Suddenly my mobile phone vibrates. It’s not unusual, at this time for the past five days Lestrade has offered me a case which I have always rejected because I was otherwise occupied (I look at the list which lies forlorn on the desk, question marks behind item 6 and 7). Does it make sense to continue to work off the list? I have the feeling I have reached my limit, I have failed.
Lestrade’s text is similar to the ones he has sent over the past days, it’s still the same case which the police (oh, surprise!) seem not to be able to solve. I sigh, skim over the display with my thumb. Eventually I type some hasty words which tell Lestrade that I will arrive at Scotland Yard in about thirty minutes, and shove the phone back into my trouser pocket.
I put on my shirt, and while I button it up I stare down at the piece of paper. I know I can’t stop. I know that I can’t let John leave. I know that I need him (and I’m still not sure why). My stomach cramps. I need a solution. I need a new idea. Something that will work.
And a plan crystallises in my racing mind, an idea that is not my own. It’s twisted and more than ‘a bit not good’ (but in my despair I cling to it, and I admit, I even smile a bit).
My knuckles hurt like hell, but the result is satisfying. The cracking sound and the fact that Anderson is bleeding on the ground at the moment are telling me that I did a good job. Anderson curses, covering his face, which is contorted in pain, Donovan tries to press a handkerchief to his nose while Lestrade grabs me from behind and holds back my arm. I shout something but I can’t hear it, my head vibrates too loud, the blood inside pulses through my ears. I’m furious. I just can’t remember why. Maybe later, when I have cooled down (but it’s not that easy, so much anger and despair seem to have built up inside me).
Lestrade pulls me outside, talking insistently to me; I just shake my head and my hurting hand. I’m breathing in the humid air of the day. My head cools down, blurry words become sentences.
“Sherlock, go home,” Lestrade says, and I tiredly nod. I turn around and stroke over my swollen knuckles while the memory comes back.
(“Where is your constant companion?” Anderson asks, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed.)
I leave behind the cab that Lestrade called, I need the walk now. An imaginary map of the surroundings flickers in front of my eyes, I only need a second before I recognise the way home. I walk down the footpath, my thoughts are flying, people are getting out of my way, irritated, but I only marginally see them.
(“I heard he’s going back to Afghanistan. He came by yesterday to say his goodbye.” Anderson chuckles dismissively. “It seems the good doctor grew tired of you.”)
The humid weather swept the park, a single jogger runs on the other side of the lake, blows breath clouds into the wet air. Above me the leafless branches of the willows are rustling in the wind, crackling and creaking under the pressure of the atmosphere.
(“Maybe he is even fleeing from you. All the bruises and scratches. Who knows what you did to him at home.” He looks back to Donovan and his smile grows deeper, the wrinkles in his face darker. “I could imagine that you perform experiments on...” Fist meets nose. Fracture. A simple equation.)
The streets are shining from old rain. The next shower will wash away the winter. It’s Saturday, the people are frantic. And I am becoming calm and clear among them. When I cross the street I see my contorted reflection in the wet asphalt. It means nothing. It’s what is left behind of me. I enter another phase. My mind rules my body, the pain in my knuckles is long forgotten. My face must look empty, vacant. But behind it, in the depth of my brain, something is working and stretching strings to hands and feet. I am a machine (and it sounds like something John could reproach me with).
No matter how you look at it. It is and will be a knife I’m holding against his throat. Something inside me struggles, the other part thinks that this is the answer to my problem.
John is staying calm, he has long since been forced into a corner, his back pressed against the living room door, my body against his, the blade on bare skin. But he is a soldier, he knows how to deal with crisis situations (my brave warrior), and so he’s just watching me with a combination of suspense and anticipation and astonishment. He’s not yet horrified. He still doesn’t suspect that I’m serious. That I’m not myself anymore but the part of my mind that can’t bear that he will leave. He needs to know. He needs to know what he’s dealing with. That’s why I say:
“You can’t leave.” (And actually I mean: I can’t bear that you’ll leave me alone.)
“You will stay.” (Please stay, I need you.)
“If it’s necessary, I will force you to.” (Don’t leave me alone, I can’t stand this painful thought.)
I don’t even realise that the wrong words are dripping out of my mouth and straight into his ear. John’s eyes widen, he swallows, feeling the steel against his neck.
“You’re insane,” he silently says and I smile and nod. Then I kiss him. He doesn’t fight back. It feels wrong but I don’t care.
“Do you know why I’m leaving?” he asks when I break away from him. I don’t look into his eyes, but I can make out a sad smile. “You won’t understand it,” he adds, so quiet as if it weren’t meant for my ears. “I’m doing it for you.”
“You’re lying!” I shout. My free hand grabs his jaw, I turn his head up and somehow I manage to look into his brown eyes. “You’re lying,” I repeat, softer (and I begin to doubt).
“Why do you want me to stay?” John asks. He doesn’t blink, as if he were afraid of missing something (what is he seeing in my dark eyes, which are sometimes steel-grey, sometimes blue or even as black as the shadows of London?)
I watch him for a long time. John Watson, I think, how is it possible that you always say the right thing? How is it possible that you keep being a riddle to me? Some people believe you to be normal. Ordinary. Some of them even think you’re boring. You’re more. So much more. (Are these the things I’m supposed to say? Are these the right words? Why is it that I don’t know what the right things are?)
John sighs, then grabs my arm with the knife. Seconds later he is pressing my face against the door, my arm painfully twisted to my back. With one motion of his hand he disarms me. I suddenly feel the pain in my knuckles again and it dawns on me what I just did, right at the moment when the knife hits the floor. (I held a blade against John’s throat.) I convulse, John still holds my arm. (I threatened him.) The realisation takes my breath away. I scream the carbon monoxide out of my lungs, sliding to the ground. John’s body is warm against my back.
When I turn around after a few minutes, John is gone, and the warmth nothing more than a delusion.
I try to imagine how it would be to hold his hand.
It’s childish, of course! Usually, I don’t think about things like that (they’re not important).
I’m starting to see John Watson as a drug. I’m familiar with drugs and addictive substances. It’s not a secret that I have a past with drugs. It hasn’t always been easy to control my racing mind (and I succeed only partly these days), and there was a time in my youth when control was impossible. I remember the night when Mycroft found out, how he stood in the door and smiled (maybe my intoxicated mind skewed the picture; he could have looked sad or angry, though in my memory he’s always smiling). He never addressed it. He let me do what I wanted. I wonder what that means. Am I all the same to him? Does he leave me free to do what I want? (Does he know the noise of my mind himself?) My brother is a mystery to me, and maybe I am to him as well. It’s all the more surprising that he’s interfering now.
I lay my palms on top of each other, interlace my fingers as if I would like to pray, file away the feeling of grinding skin and shake my head in disappointment. It’s not the same. It doesn’t arouse anything. I tried stroking my neck like John did (the thought causes a shiver, the touch itself didn’t), skimmed over cheek and jaw with my fingertips. Nothing. I even resumed my experiments in masturbation (I ended my research in this field years ago because it just wouldn’t bring any results and I couldn’t understand the fascination of people who occupy themselves with this action). I gave up soon after, the experience resembled my previous studies, it bored me, it lacked in tension, in excitement. The one thing that was missing (and I wrote that fact down in a notebook which was hidden in a box under my bed for years) was obviously a partner.
John left the house half an hour ago. I didn’t leave my room to have breakfast with him (or rather: watch him eating). I knew he didn’t want to see me, and I wasn’t sure about how I felt, wasn’t sure past the last days, so I didn’t want to risk it. I would rather lie on the bed in my room and roam through the chambers of my mind palace, leafing through pale red or turquoise folders (whose content is only important in part, perfect to pass one’s time without challenging the brain too much). And I catch myself again wandering by the room, in which the loose pages are scattered around the dark green folder. I don’t dare to enter it, don’t dare to collect the data and create a register and sort the information. And yet, these memories attract me so strongly that it almost crushes my heart, it takes away my breath when I come too close to the door and the hidden pictures behind it. Then I back down and try to forget that I need them so badly that it almost kills me.
Suddenly my mobile phone vibrates. It’s not unusual, at this time for the past five days Lestrade has offered me a case which I have always rejected because I was otherwise occupied (I look at the list which lies forlorn on the desk, question marks behind item 6 and 7). Does it make sense to continue to work off the list? I have the feeling I have reached my limit, I have failed.
Lestrade’s text is similar to the ones he has sent over the past days, it’s still the same case which the police (oh, surprise!) seem not to be able to solve. I sigh, skim over the display with my thumb. Eventually I type some hasty words which tell Lestrade that I will arrive at Scotland Yard in about thirty minutes, and shove the phone back into my trouser pocket.
I put on my shirt, and while I button it up I stare down at the piece of paper. I know I can’t stop. I know that I can’t let John leave. I know that I need him (and I’m still not sure why). My stomach cramps. I need a solution. I need a new idea. Something that will work.
And a plan crystallises in my racing mind, an idea that is not my own. It’s twisted and more than ‘a bit not good’ (but in my despair I cling to it, and I admit, I even smile a bit).
My knuckles hurt like hell, but the result is satisfying. The cracking sound and the fact that Anderson is bleeding on the ground at the moment are telling me that I did a good job. Anderson curses, covering his face, which is contorted in pain, Donovan tries to press a handkerchief to his nose while Lestrade grabs me from behind and holds back my arm. I shout something but I can’t hear it, my head vibrates too loud, the blood inside pulses through my ears. I’m furious. I just can’t remember why. Maybe later, when I have cooled down (but it’s not that easy, so much anger and despair seem to have built up inside me).
Lestrade pulls me outside, talking insistently to me; I just shake my head and my hurting hand. I’m breathing in the humid air of the day. My head cools down, blurry words become sentences.
“Sherlock, go home,” Lestrade says, and I tiredly nod. I turn around and stroke over my swollen knuckles while the memory comes back.
(“Where is your constant companion?” Anderson asks, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed.)
I leave behind the cab that Lestrade called, I need the walk now. An imaginary map of the surroundings flickers in front of my eyes, I only need a second before I recognise the way home. I walk down the footpath, my thoughts are flying, people are getting out of my way, irritated, but I only marginally see them.
(“I heard he’s going back to Afghanistan. He came by yesterday to say his goodbye.” Anderson chuckles dismissively. “It seems the good doctor grew tired of you.”)
The humid weather swept the park, a single jogger runs on the other side of the lake, blows breath clouds into the wet air. Above me the leafless branches of the willows are rustling in the wind, crackling and creaking under the pressure of the atmosphere.
(“Maybe he is even fleeing from you. All the bruises and scratches. Who knows what you did to him at home.” He looks back to Donovan and his smile grows deeper, the wrinkles in his face darker. “I could imagine that you perform experiments on...” Fist meets nose. Fracture. A simple equation.)
The streets are shining from old rain. The next shower will wash away the winter. It’s Saturday, the people are frantic. And I am becoming calm and clear among them. When I cross the street I see my contorted reflection in the wet asphalt. It means nothing. It’s what is left behind of me. I enter another phase. My mind rules my body, the pain in my knuckles is long forgotten. My face must look empty, vacant. But behind it, in the depth of my brain, something is working and stretching strings to hands and feet. I am a machine (and it sounds like something John could reproach me with).
No matter how you look at it. It is and will be a knife I’m holding against his throat. Something inside me struggles, the other part thinks that this is the answer to my problem.
John is staying calm, he has long since been forced into a corner, his back pressed against the living room door, my body against his, the blade on bare skin. But he is a soldier, he knows how to deal with crisis situations (my brave warrior), and so he’s just watching me with a combination of suspense and anticipation and astonishment. He’s not yet horrified. He still doesn’t suspect that I’m serious. That I’m not myself anymore but the part of my mind that can’t bear that he will leave. He needs to know. He needs to know what he’s dealing with. That’s why I say:
“You can’t leave.” (And actually I mean: I can’t bear that you’ll leave me alone.)
“You will stay.” (Please stay, I need you.)
“If it’s necessary, I will force you to.” (Don’t leave me alone, I can’t stand this painful thought.)
I don’t even realise that the wrong words are dripping out of my mouth and straight into his ear. John’s eyes widen, he swallows, feeling the steel against his neck.
“You’re insane,” he silently says and I smile and nod. Then I kiss him. He doesn’t fight back. It feels wrong but I don’t care.
“Do you know why I’m leaving?” he asks when I break away from him. I don’t look into his eyes, but I can make out a sad smile. “You won’t understand it,” he adds, so quiet as if it weren’t meant for my ears. “I’m doing it for you.”
“You’re lying!” I shout. My free hand grabs his jaw, I turn his head up and somehow I manage to look into his brown eyes. “You’re lying,” I repeat, softer (and I begin to doubt).
“Why do you want me to stay?” John asks. He doesn’t blink, as if he were afraid of missing something (what is he seeing in my dark eyes, which are sometimes steel-grey, sometimes blue or even as black as the shadows of London?)
I watch him for a long time. John Watson, I think, how is it possible that you always say the right thing? How is it possible that you keep being a riddle to me? Some people believe you to be normal. Ordinary. Some of them even think you’re boring. You’re more. So much more. (Are these the things I’m supposed to say? Are these the right words? Why is it that I don’t know what the right things are?)
John sighs, then grabs my arm with the knife. Seconds later he is pressing my face against the door, my arm painfully twisted to my back. With one motion of his hand he disarms me. I suddenly feel the pain in my knuckles again and it dawns on me what I just did, right at the moment when the knife hits the floor. (I held a blade against John’s throat.) I convulse, John still holds my arm. (I threatened him.) The realisation takes my breath away. I scream the carbon monoxide out of my lungs, sliding to the ground. John’s body is warm against my back.
When I turn around after a few minutes, John is gone, and the warmth nothing more than a delusion.