Nutrisco et exstinguo - Chapter XXXVI
A.N.: In Homer's Odyssey, the lotus tree bore a fruit that caused a pleasant drowsiness and was the only food of an island people called the Lotophagi or Lotus-eaters. When they ate of the lotus tree they would forget their friends and homes and would lose their desire to return to their native land in favour of living in idleness. (Wikipedia) The italicized passages in the first scene of this chapter are direct quotes from Pope's translation of this episode (Book IX of the Odyssey).
The fairy tale is directly quoted from Joseph Jacob, Indian Fairy Tales.
Thank you to all reviewers! Hope you enjoy this chapter :)
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Nutrisco et exstinguo: "I feed from it and extinguish it"
Age quod agis: "Do what you are doing", "to the business at hand"
Warnings: Rating for this chapter is T.
You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link.
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Chapter XXXVI: Age quod agis
Starting now, by Ingrid Michaelson
oOo
I want to crawl back inside my mother's womb
I want to shut out all the lights in this room
I want to start fresh, like a baby in a sink
Scrub away all these thoughts that I think of you
Ueno Park is so big a park one can easily spend an entire day strolling through it. Of course, the man presently sitting on a bench, gazing at the Shinobazu Pond, did not have an entire day to spend on anything as trivial as a stroll. At first glance, he could have been taken for one of the homeless men scattered here and there throughout the park. But on second glance, it was very unlikely, for most of those in that situation were Japanese, and the man was clearly not.
But sitting there alone on this bench at night, it was hard to believe that he might just some tourist. He did not look like the romantic, solitary type either, which could have accounted for his presence in such a place at such a time. Looking at the lotus pond could be a lovely thing to do, but as it was evening one could hardly appreciate the scenery. All in all, the place was rather deserted. It was strange for a man to be there at this hour if he was not homeless.
Yet here Sherlock was, sitting on the bench, looking at the pond. He was enjoying the quietness and the cool evening air; it felt almost warm against his cold skin, but not quite. It wasn't just dark, it felt dark. He could just close his eyes and smell the night in the silence of the park.
The silence, and perhaps the lotus, too.
There was that episode about the Lotus tree in the Odyssey, he remembered. Odysseus and his companions came to an island and Odysseus sent a few men to talk to the people of that land. The Lotus-eaters. But then the sailors ate from the lotus tree and everything went wrong. Sherlock opened his eyes.
Nine days our fleet the uncertain tempest bore
Far in wide ocean, and from sight of shore:
The tenth we touch'd, by various errors toss'd,
The land of Lotus and the flowery coast.
Waiting here in the silence the nagging feeling that had been bothering him all day was becoming uncomfortably stronger. Strange thoughts about someone somewhere - London, perhaps? - eating from the nonexistent Lotus tree.
They went, and found a hospitable race:
Not prone to ill, nor strange to foreign guest,
They eat, they drink, and nature gives the feast
The trees around them all their food produce.
Sherlock was no fool. But he hadn't thought of deleting some things that now became a bother. A bother in moments such as this one. Recently he'd even thought he'd heard his ex-landlady's voice on the street. The way a man ran a hand in his hair had reminded him of another grey-haired man who'd been part of his life once. Which life?
Lotus the name: divine, nectareous juice!
Which whose taste...
It was funny. Even the Woman's gesture that time at the window in the hotel. Handing him a cigarette. How reversible life was.
...insatiate riots in the sweet repasts,
Nor other home, nor other care intends
Maybe the air was actually warm. Sherlock was not sure why it had seemed cool before. Now it definitely felt warm, almost too warm against his skin.
But quits his house, his country, and his friends.
He closed his eyes. Back in the recesses of his mind, somewhere among the waves of the tempest surrounding his archipelago, there was the trace of a smile, the shadow of a movement of the hand, some very pale yet powerful halo, diffuse over the foam. He played with it like he used to play with danger, feeling no thrill but somehow managing to thus dispel the unease and the hint of boredom threatening to eat away the margins of his mental world.
The three we sent, from off the enchanting ground
We dragg'd reluctant, and by force we bound.
Sherlock was remembered of that time in Molly's flat when he'd been waiting to leave and there was nothing to do but to think of pointless things, because all the important ones had been dealt with. As he had this last thought, he could tell something wasn't quite right in the reasoning, but upon examining it, could not see where the flaw was in his logic. Perhaps there was no flaw after all.
"Hello, Sexy."
He had felt the shadow coming towards him in his back, but had decided against moving just yet. When it finally spoke, though, he took his gaze away from the darkness of the pond and his eyes met a night-blue Westwood suit.
"I've been waiting here for you all day long," he remarked. There was no reproach in his voice; not even threat. Just a cold weariness, as if the reply had been expected of him. It simply came naturally as he stood up.
"But the work is done! I was good this time, really. And Sherlock, dear, I've been waiting for you all my life!"
The dramatic and ostensibly aiming-at-being-comical exclamation did not reach Sherlock. He was thinking about something else. About the name Moran had used.
"You've never waited for something, Seb," he finally said. "Not for anything. Not for anyone."
Moran stood still for a moment. But Sherlock, if he'd noticed, was not waiting for him, and Sebastian soon followed again.
"What a foul mood you're in..." he muttered.
They walked in silence for a while. Then Seb broke it again, with his usual air of innocence.
"D'you know what lays under the Lotus tree, Sherlock?"
Maybe Sherlock was deep in thoughts; or maybe he just decided to ignore his companion. He did not reply. This did not seem to put Moran off, however, and on he went, lightly.
"Job said it. 40:21-22."
A snort escaped Sherlock. Soft. Cold.
"Gospel truth, now, is it?" he asked quietly.
The rest in haste forsook the pleasing shore
This time it was Sebastian who ignored him. Or perhaps he hadn't expected Sherlock's participating in his little monologue, and his next line had been so well-prepared that he just couldn't let go. So in he leant and whispered against black curls:
"The Behemoth, Sherlock."
The taller man gave him a look.
Or, the charm tasted, had return'd no more.
So life moves slowly when you're waiting for it to boil
Feel like I watch from 6 feet under the soil
Still want to hold you and kiss behind your ears
But I recount the countless tears that I lost for you
"Are you upset that he's no longer upset?" Seb suddenly asked one night when they were in bed. That was the only bed in the hotel room. Sherlock had considered telling Seb to sleep on the floor, like he'd done once for John Watson when they had been on a case that involved soap and poison and required that they spend the night in the bedroom of the victim.
But then he had pictured the complete scenario in his mind. Sebastian would pout and sulk and still come in the bed. Sherlock would point a gun at him and tell him to get off. Sebastian would refuse, maybe not openly, but one way or the other, he wouldn't comply. And Sherlock couldn't possibly shoot him. Yet.
Since the power play was bound to end up with a loss on Sherlock's part, he simply got used to Moran's little theatrics and pretended not to care about him sleeping in the same bed. With time, in fact, he had truly grown accustomed to it, and it really no longer mattered.
"Do you always have to speak out of the blue and out of context in the middle of the night?"
"But you weren't sleeping!"
"That's not the point."
"Then what's the point?"
"Talking to you is tiring," Sherlock deadpanned, turning to face the other side.
"What?! That's so mean, Sherlock!"
Silence. If he didn't answer, perhaps the other would just get tired of it, too. It would be nice if the sparring stopped at least a few hours a day. Even if, Sherlock knew, it was a fight of every instant in the end. A fight to the death.
"So, are you?"
Silence.
"I suppose you are. I would be, too, I guess. Maybe."
Silence.
"Or maybe not. Who knows?"
Silence.
"Sherlock?"
Silence.
"Stop pretending to be sleeping, it's annoying!"
Stop pretending to be stupid, it's annoying. Yet again: silence.
Seb sighed and let his head fall back on the pillow with a soft thud. Sherlock hadn't realized he'd sat up until then.
"You're an idiot. You don't know what you want. It's annoying, so bloody annoying."
"I know what I want."
"Oh, really?" Behind the sarcasm, Sherlock could hear the beaming - Moran was happy he had managed to make him speak.
"Yes, really."
"What do you want, then?"
"You to shut up."
"Oh, that was an easy one! An easy one, Sherlock, not worthy of you."
A few months before, Sherlock would have snorted or scoffed at this. Now it elicited no response from him at all.
"It was a stupid question anyway," Seb mumbled.
Glad to hear you say so.
"After all, I already know you're upset. It's so obvious even an idiot could see it."
Indeed.
"I'm not saying I'm an idiot, mind you!"
Of course.
"Can't you just answer me properly instead of doing it in your head?"
No.
Sebastian sighed. Sherlock wondered if it was just one of his habits, one he'd got with Moriarty perhaps, or if it was just Sherlock that made him sigh like that.
"You really shouldn't worry about John forgetting you and everything. He clearly hasn't, you know. Well, you don't, but I'm telling you. Your informants are idiots, they don't live with him, they're not close to him. Or maybe you're just the one inducing stupid things from what their telling you, but-"
"Shut up, Seb."
"But seriously you shouldn't be so upset about something that's in your imagination! I mean sure, he thinks you're dead, you're the one who made certain that he did believe it! What can you expect?"
"Seb."
"I know him. I've been close to him. You know I have. You never said anything about it, but you must know. Your informants, they must've told you. So I can tell you. He's not forgotten you. He hasn't erased you at all. That's what you are trying to do to keep going."
A few months before, Sherlock would've snapped. "I know him" ?
Maybe he really would have shot him then. Or at least knocked him out. But not now.
Now, he knew how to play.
He turned to him with a blank face and a scene from long ago, on another bed, with another man, briefly flashed across his field of vision.
"I'll tell you a fairy tale, Seb," he said patronizingly. "It's called A Lesson for Kings. It's from India."
Moran arched an eyebrow in the dark. Sherlock considered mimicking his sweet, innocent voice, but eventually decided against it. He wanted to play as he wished. To lead the game. And to win.
"Once upon a time, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, the future Buddha returned to life as his son and heir. And when the day came for choosing a name, they called him Prince Brahma-datta. He grew up in due course; and when he was sixteen years old, went to Takkasila, and became accomplished in all arts. And after his father died he ascended the throne, and ruled the kingdom with righteousness and equity. He gave judgments without partiality, hatred, ignorance, or fear. Since he thus reigned with justice, with justice also his ministers administered the law. Law-suits being thus decided with justice, there were none who brought false cases. And as these ceased, the noise and tumult of litigation ceased in the king's court. Though the judges sat all day in the court, they had to leave without any one coming for justice. It came to this, that the Hall of Justice would have to be closed.
Then the future Buddha thought, 'It cannot be from my reigning with righteousness that none come for judgment; the bustle has ceased, and the Hall of Justice will have to be closed. I must, therefore, now examine into my own faults; and if I find that anything is wrong in me, put that away, and practise only virtue.'
Thenceforth he sought for someone to tell him his faults, but among those around him he found no one who would tell him of any fault, but heard only his own praise.
Then he thought, 'It is from fear of me that these men speak only good things, and not evil things,' and he sought among those people who lived outside 'the palace. And finding no fault-finder there, he sought among those who lived outside the city, in the suburbs, at the four gates. And there too finding no one to find fault, and hearing only his own praise, he determined to search the country places.
So he made over the kingdom to his ministers, and mounted his chariot; and taking only his charioteer, left the city in disguise. And searching the country through, up to the very boundary, he found no fault-finder, and heard only of his own virtue; and so he turned back from the outermost boundary, and returned by the high road towards the city.
Now at that time the king of Kosala, Mallika by name, was also ruling his kingdom with righteousness; and when seeking for some fault in himself, he also found no faultfinder in the palace, but only heard of his own virtue! So seeking in country places, he too came to that very spot. And these two came face to face in a low cart-track with precipitous sides, where there was no space for a chariot to get out of the way.
Then the charioteer of Mallika the king said to the charioteer of the king of Benares, 'Take thy chariot out of the way!'
But he said, 'Take thy chariot out of the way, O charioteer! In this chariot sitteth the lord over the kingdom of Benares, the great king Brahma-datta.'
Yet the other replied, 'In this chariot, O charioteer, sitteth the lord over the kingdom of Kosala, the great king Mallika. Take thy carriage out of the way, and make room for the chariot of our king!'
Then the charioteer of the king of Benares thought, 'They say then that he too is a king! What is now to be done?' After some consideration, be said to himself, 'I know a way. I'll find out how old he is, and then I'll let 'the chariot of the younger be got out of the way, and so make room for the elder.'
And when he had arrived at that conclusion, he asked that charioteer what the age of the king of Kosala was. But on inquiry he found that the ages of both were equal. Then he inquired about the extent of his kingdom, and about his army, and his wealth, and his renown, and about the country he lived in, and his caste and tribe and family. And he found that both were lords of a kingdom three hundred leagues in extent; and that in respect of army and wealth and renown, and the countries in which they lived, and their caste and their tribe and their family, they were just on a par.
Then he thought, 'I will make way for the most righteous.' And he asked, 'What kind of righteousness has this king of yours.'
Then the charioteer of the king of Kosala, proclaiming his king's wickedness as goodness, uttered the First Stanza:
'The strong he overthrows by strength,
The mild by mildness, does Mallika;
The good he conquers by goodness,
And the wicked by wickedness too.
Such is the nature of this king!
Move out of the way, O charioteer '
But the charioteer of the king of Benares asked him, 'Well, have you told all the virtues of your king?'
'Yes,' said the other.
'If these are his virtues, where are then his faults?' replied he.
The other said, 'Well, for the nonce they shall be faults, if you like! But pray, then, what is the kind of goodness your king has?'
And then the charioteer of the king of Benares called unto him to hearken, and uttered the Second Stanza:
'Anger he conquers by calmness,
And by goodness the wicked;
The stingy he conquers by gifts,
And by truth the speaker of lies.
Such is the nature of this king!
'Move out of the way, O charioteer!'
And when he had thus spoken, both Mallika the king and his charioteer alighted from their chariot. And they took out the horses, and removed their chariot, and made way for the king of Benares!"
Perhaps Sebastian understood the message.
Or maybe he'd long fallen asleep. In any case, he said no other words that night.
But before you finally go there's one thing you should know:
That I promise -
Starting now I'll never know your name
Starting now I'll never feel the same
Starting now I wish you never came into my world.
"Sherlock, this is so much fun!"
"We're not here for fun, Seb."
"God, you're so boring. Here, look through these!"
With a huge, silly grin, Moran waved eggplants with a hole in them in front of Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock stared.
"I heard them say that if you look at the Okuribi through a hole cut in an eggplant you will not suffer from illnesses of the eye!" he exclaimed.
"You don't understand Japanese, Seb."
"It was a couple of tourists talking," he protested.
"Just move, you're being a hindrance."
"Really? I was just trying to be nice to you blind man, y'know..."
Here it was again. That voice. It was a little reminiscent of that of the Woman, in a rougher way; still, noticeably playful. Teasing. Sadistic.
"You are a fool. The Okuribi are the fires. They haven't even been lit yet."
"Oh well, then I guess you'll just remain blind. Ah, look! They're starting to light up the one on Daimonji-yama!"
Sherlock looked up. They were, indeed.
"We should've worn yukatas," Moran moaned, now playing with an apple.
"This is not carnival, Seb."
"But it's a festival! And there was a carnival earlier!"
Sherlock's gaze shifted to the other people standing on the restaurant's roof terrace with them. He should have been here by now.
"But you know, I think they've got a pretty funny sense of humour, those IOU folks," Seb commented. Sherlock did not reply. "I mean, O-Bon? And the Daimonji to boot? The moment when the spirits of the dead go back to their own wor-"
"Thank you, Seb, I really hadn't realized. Could you please shut up, now?"
"God, you're so tense. Relax!"
"Don't touch me."
The couple next to them was starting to stare. Sebastian smiled sweetly.
"Why, you're not so jumpy at night, dear."
"You don't touch me at night. I'd kill you."
"You know you can't do that," Moran retorted in a skilful mimicry of a familiar sing-song voice.
But Sherlock was no longer listening. He had spotted the man through the bay windows. Casually, he went up inside to the bar and sat there. The man came up to him naturally.
"Good evening."
"Good evening... sir."
Sherlock smiled.
"So, you made up your mind."
"I was never against you, sir, I was just so scared of her, you must understand I-"
"There is nothing I must do," Sherlock interrupted coldly. The man gulped. His blond hair was turning greyish, and the way he was sitting, back rigidly straight, made him look as if he were used to standing at attention. Sherlock averted his gaze to look at the cup of sake he'd been given by the bartender.
"I can tell you where she is, sir. I-"
"You're an expert in ciphers, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir, I-"
"Then give her a message from me."
"Sir..."
"JWHWFL SFV A KZSDD TW EWJUAXMD. You'll remember, won't you? Or shall I write it down?"
"But sir..."
His voice was pleading now. Sherlock's gaze was as cold as ever.
"You cannot have two masters. I do not trust you. Get out of my sight, now. Now!"
Sherlock was almost surprised at his own barking voice. Almost. Not many things surprised him, these days. Not many things at all. He looked absent-mindedly at the man's back disappear into the crowd.
"Can I have two other cups, please?" he asked the bartender. Who turned out to be a barmaid. She smiled.
Moran was standing at the same spot where Sherlock had left him, watching the fires. The second had been lit, now.
"Here," Sherlock said, handing a cup to Seb, who seemed genuinely surprised. Didn't he always? It must have been easy for him.
"Wow, thanks. It's Christmas! Did the talk with the messenger go well?"
"Mm."
"So he told you where she is?"
"I already know where she is."
Sebastian blinked.
"Then why the hell did you want to meet that guy?"
A small smile lit up Sherlock's face. His eyes were reflecting the fires blazing far on the mountains.
"I wanted to send her a message."
"Ah. Enciphered, I presume?"
Sherlock looked down at his cup of sake.
"It is said that if you tilt a cup of sake so that it reflects the Okuribi on the surface, your wishes will come true." Moran's gaze was fixed on him, but he did not seem to notice.
"Was it Caesar cipher?" Sebastian asked.
"Obviously."
"Haha, I like your sense of humour too, man!" He fell silent. Sherlock was not listening. Finally, as if he weren't even really talking to him, he said:
"Don't you have a wish?"
Sebastian looked at his cup of sake. Slowly, he tilted it to the side. For a moment all the noise around them seemed to fade away. Then his face broke into a twisted grin.
"Goodbye," he murmured, staring back up at the fires. Then, in a louder voice that made the couple next to them jump: "Cheers!" He drank his cup down in one go.
Something flashed across Sherlock's eyes for a second, but Moran missed it. He kept playing with the apple nonchalantly. Sherlock could tell right away that whatever had just happened, it was over and now Moran was back for more taunting. Idiot.
"Say, Sherlock. D'you wish you had been the one?"
"What?"
"Do you wish you had married John when you still had the chance?"
Sherlock blinked.
"That's preposterous. We're both men."
"Well, it's done, nowadays. Boyfriends can marry each other."
"John Watson was just a flatmate and colleague. We never were boyfriends."
"Don't you wish you had been?"
Sherlock watched as the third fire was lit up. A boat. A small, child-like smile graced his face for an instant, then was gone. He finished his sake.
"No. That would have been dull. Boyfriends? Girlfriends? All of that is boring."
"So you too picked your archenemy after all."
Sherlock's eyes turned to slits as he looked at Sebastian. But Moran was watching the fires, and did not look at him. Then suddenly Sherlock became aware of something. Something discreet, just one little word...
"I too?" he asked.
Moran smirked in the reddened night light.
"'I'll burn the heart out of you', was it?" he said. "So did he, Sherlock? Did he manage to do it?"
Sherlock fell silent. He fixed his gaze on the fires again.
"He certainly didn't burn anything out of her, although I'm sure she would've loved it," Seb went on.
"The Evil Queen... Yes, I suppose she picked the right character."
"The discarded woman," Sebastian announced theatrically. "That makes you Snow White, dear!"
Sherlock spared himself the trouble to glare at him.
"She must really hate you, you know. She must hate you so much. Her loathing is all she's got left."
"Turning into a psychologist or a poet, now, Seb?"
"Why must you always be like this?" Moran's annoying voice was whinier than ever. "But anyway, I bet the apples were about something else, too. Another reference."
In the distance, the boat-shaped fire kept blazing and blazing. They watched in silence until the last two fires were lit.
Maybe it was rather mesmerizing after all. Sherlock had not expected it to be. It was just work. Fun? The word had lost its meaning long ago. But maybe this was beautiful. The five signs looked like huge ghosts coming to you from the darkness, running in a round dance. But they never quite got to you. They never came close enough.
Sherlock heard Sebastian bite into his apple beside him, but the sound seemed even farther than the fires.
"Don't you want to know, Sherlock? Or is it that you just refuse to acknowledge it?"
The taller man did not answer. His eyes were blazing, reflecting the fires. Mirrors. Sebastian lit up a cigarette and dragged on it.
"You've already bitten into the apple of knowledge, love... You can't run away from what you've brought upon yourself. My little fallen angel."
Sherlock ignored the words and simply took the apple Moran was handing him. He bit into it.
I want to crawl back inside my bed of sin
I want to burn the sheets that smell like your skin
Instead I'll wash them just like kitchen rags with stains
Spinning away every piece that remains of you.
"You think he's addicted?"
"Why are you even asking? Of course he's addicted."
"But he's got an addictive personality too..."
Sherlock's head throbbed. He could recognize the Woman's voice, and Seb's, too. But everything was blurry and the migraine was making him dizzy.
Suddenly the images shifted and he saw Molly. She was speaking with Eliska. This didn't make any sense. Sherlock could not hear what they were saying but they both seemed quite upset. He wondered if they were going to end up grappling like in movies.
Stupid, stupid...
He fell. The scenery changed again. It was Baker Street. Their living-room. But there was a woman in the armchair instead of John; she was lulling to sleep a small thing in her arms. A baby. She had no face and Sherlock felt a wave of nausea hit him.
"Sherlock. Sherlock. Wake up, it's time to go."
"Leave me alone."
A chuckle. He found himself lying on Molly's couch.
"Everyone is waiting for you. You've got to get up. Come on, Sherlock. It's time."
"Yes, Sherlock. I've been waiting for so long," Eliska chimed in. "I've been waiting for you to come my whole life..."
Sherlock saw the blade only as it pierced Molly's flesh. A scream ripped the image apart but it was soon replaced with an even bloodier one. "Stupid woman. She'll die, too," Eliska murmured as she cut Irene's throat and started dancing with her head. "Salome? Don't make me laugh! The head of John the Baptist, John the Baptist, John the Baptist! … Ooh. John the Baptist?"
Her grin was like Moriarty's. Like a wolf's.
"Don't."
She laughed.
"Mary Mary quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells and cockleshells
And pretty maids all in a row!"
"STOP IT!"
But the blade had struck and the blood was now soaking the armchair and the clothes of the two pitiful corpses in it.
"You didn't have to... You didn't have to... YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO!"
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock froze. This voice.
"Sherlock, you're alive! What... Oh my God."
Now Sherlock was holding the blade. Why was he holding the blade? Eliska...?
"Sherlock, how could you?"
"No, it's not what you think, John... You have to trust me."
"HOW COULD YOU?!"
"IT WASN'T ME!"
"Oh, really?"
Oh. The most dreaded voice. "Really, Sexy? Wasn't you, huh?" Moriarty paced around him in circles. Everything had turned black but it still reeked of blood. "Really, Sherlock? Don't you wish they were dead? Don't you wish they never existed? Don't you-"
"ENOUGH!"
He gasped as he opened his eyes and was hit by the smell of cigarettes. Without a word, Moran handed him one. Sherlock took it mechanically.
"Well. That one was pretty bad," Seb remarked in a drawl.
Sherlock ignored him and dragged on the cigarette, trying to put himself together. After a while, his pulse was even again.
"That was it," he murmured. "The missing piece. His trump card."
"What?"
"She was always there. She too always counted."
It took a moment for Seb to understand what in the world Sherlock was talking about. Then he snorted. "How much did Miss Hooper really count for you before she suddenly turned out to be your last resort?"
"Was she?" Seb arched an eyebrow. "His last resort?"
Seb smirked. "No. But he used her. Just like you used Molly Hooper."
Sherlock remained silent.
"Eliska never counted," Seb continued. "There was no room for her in his mind. No room at all."
"But he did use her."
"Maybe. She's not important."
"What is, then?"
Moran grinned broadly.
"Me, of course!"
As this elicited no reaction from Sherlock, Seb sighed and dragged on his cigarette, watching the blue smoke he was blowing. In the darkness of the room, it seemed white. He fell silent.
But before you finally go there's one thing you should know:
That I promise -
Starting now I'll never know your name
Starting now I'll never feel the same
Starting now I wish you never came into my world.
"Sherlock?"
"Mm?"
"Do you wish you could've had him before you left?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Nah, please don't beg, I'm not into that."
"Seb." Sherlock's eyes fell on the red digits of the alarm clock. 3:22. He groaned.
"But seriously. Don't you wish you had held him just once?"
Only silence answered. In the darkness Moran could not see Sherlock's face, but had he seen it still it would have been unreadable. Moran just didn't realize that in his sentence, there were too many words Sherlock just could no longer understand. They simply did not make sense. Not applied to his situation. Never applied to him. Wish? Hold? Had him? Fleetingly, he was reminded of the Woman's vocabulary.
He smiled in the darkness. This was all just a game after all. One where you put your life on the line, too. He should have been happy. Perhaps he was.
"Do you?"
His deep baritone voice broke the silence and he enjoyed how the very light tinge of mockery in it seemed to shatter Moran's skilfully woven web.
"Do I what?" Seb asked, puzzlement clear in his voice. Maybe a bit too clear. But it might have been genuine. In the end, it did not matter.
"'Do you wish you had held him just once?' Is that a line from him to me through you, or is it something you are truly telling me as if I were your mirror?"
"Mirror, mirror on the wall, tell me who is the most beautiful one in the world?"
"I'm not on the wall," Sherlock pointed out blankly.
Moran rolled his eyes, before a smirk played on his lips. "Would you like to be?"
Sherlock just stared in the blackness towards the stupid predatory voice. "I'm fine, thanks."
"Really?"
"Seb. Did you have this kind of relationship with him?"
"Are you jealous?"
"What? No, God no!"
"Wait... Who are you talking about?"
"Jim Moriarty, of course."
"Of course?! I was talking about John!"
"That was a while ago! Please do try to keep up."
Seb grumbled something in his pillow, cursing cocky self-centred one-track minded geniuses.
"Why the hell are you interested?" he finally said.
"Well, I don't know. You seem quite interested in my sex life even though it is nonexistent."
"And whose fault do you think that is?"
"It's not a fault."
"Oh so you're happy with it?"
"Of course I'm happy with it."
"But you've never even tried!"
"I'm not interested."
"But you're in love with John!"
"You wish."
A pause. The air seemed to freeze as tension filled the space between them. Moran appeared to be stunned. Or maybe he was grinning exultingly, sadistically in the darkness. Who could have known? The room was pitch black.
It's my world, it's not ours anymore
It's my world, it's not ours anymore
The room was full of light. The sun was coming in through the bright green foliage of the trees just out the windows and was reflected a thousand times on the various mirrors inside. This was the reception room in the house from his childhood, Sherlock remembered. They never used it unless they received guests. It was a pity, because it was one of the brightest rooms of the mansion.
What am I doing here? Sherlock mused.
He walked up to oneof the windows and looked out into the park.
"Sherlock."
He started at the voice and turned violently, his stance already defensive.
"What are you doing here?" Mycroft asked.
"What, is it forbidden?" Sherlock glared. Mycroft was wearing that stupid V-necked Ralph Lauren jumper that made him look even more snobbish than usual. And he was still carrying that book. "What are you doing here?"
"I was looking for you."
Sherlock snorted and looked out the window again. "Mummy sent you."
"She's worried about you, Sherlock. She said you've been looking unhappy, lately."
"I've never looked happy, Mycroft. It's stupid."
"But you are unhappy."
Sherlock glowered.
"How would you know? You don't even live here anymore!"
"This is still my house!" Mycroft protested.
"It's Mummy's."
"Sherlock I'm only going to boarding school, this is my home!"
"Home? Since when did you start caring about such lousy concepts?"
"Sherlock..."
"And what are you doing walking around with that stupid book every time you come over for the weekend? The Prince. Don't make me laugh."
"It's a very good book, Sherlock."
"And you must know it by heart by now. So why are you carrying it around all the time like a baby with his cuddly toy?"
Sherlock hadn't realized it until now, but Mycroft had been coming closer and closer to him. He snapped when he put his hand on his smaller shoulder.
"Don't touch me! Can't you just leave me alone?!"
But Mycroft's grip tightened painfully. "Is that it, then?" he asked quietly. "You're feeling lonely?"
"Don't make me laugh," Sherlock spat.
"I'm really not trying."
Mycroft had the very bad idea to put his other hand on Sherlock's other shoulder. That was the last straw. Swiftly and with cold fury, Sherlock grabbed his sleeve at the elbow and his collar with his other hand. Mycroft barely had time to realize what was happening before Sherlock stepped in, pulled, bent, loaded him on his back and threw him. Mycroft's eyes widened. He gasped, stunned, as his little brother pinned him firmly to the ground.
"You said you'd never leave me," he screamed. "You said you'd never leave me behind! Liar, liar, liar, LIAR!"
As Sherlock opened his eyes filled with tears, he saw it wasn't Mycroft he was holding anymore, but a stranger with blue eyes and greyish blond hair. He looked nothing like Mycroft. Yet Sherlock kept screaming and screaming and punching the man brokenly, more and more unconvincingly, until he fell on him and curled on himself, exhausted, sobbing.
"I hate you. I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you..."
Starting now I'll never know your name
Starting now I'll never feel the same
Starting now...
He was lying on the bed under rays of moonlight that came in through the window in stripes. His sleep was agitated; his brow was shining with perspiration, black curls sticking to it. His mouth was half-open, as if he were having some trouble to breathe properly. He looked like one of those prisoners in romantic paintings, alone in some gothic cell looking at the moonlight. Except he wasn't looking.
Sometimes he moaned softly, or sighed. His voice was low, never quite coming out of his throat. It sounded trapped. His pale, nervous hands tensed every so often, then slackened and fell back on the white linen once more. He was moving his head around, twisting his throat so much at times that he seemed to be contorting in acute pain, or struggling against some invisible, malicious forces.
Suddenly he arched his back and the sheet enveloped the shape of his body more tightly, fitting around every detail, heightening them. He looked like a white Belphegor whose mask had been shattered, a sculpture whose torment was immortalized in stone and who could not even voice its distress.
Slowly, Sebastian reached towards the restless figure, waiting for the inevitable whisper. Here. It was coming, it was coming closer... He smiled. His hand closed onto the black curls as the full lips quivered.
"John..."
I wish you never came into my world
.
.
.
tbc
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