I have a friend that hates fanfictions because he thinks we always make wimps out of super heroes. I really try not to fall in that category. But I can't help it if everyone is a human being and has flaws. Sherlock and John are humans as well. I believe a hero is someone who does what they can, not what they want. And they're not braver than any other human being. They're only brave five minutes longer… So here it is. First fanfic with the new Sherlock. You know the BBC one in 2010. It's brilliant really. Warning for slash [I mean, John and Sherlock not a couple? Really? I feel it sticks out like a sore thumb.] and self-harm [You've been warned.]. But anyway, here it is. Enjoy! And reviews are the fuel for a writer. If only a line or an alert. ;)
Note: The italics are the thoughts of the characters.
Ownership: If I owned Sherlock and John, there'd be a big fat gay wedding, I guarantee! However I did invent the plot of this story of course. Just borrowed the characters from BBC.
"You had no right!" John replied absolutely furious.
"You have a right to know." retorted Sherlock ever so calmly.
"I don't care about her past! Everyone deserves a second chance."
"Is that what you believe?"
"Yes." John said firmly, reducing Sherlock to silence.
How could he? John thought.
"God knows where she is now! And it's all because of your I'm-so-smart façade. You don't care a minute about Sarah, or me for that matter. So LEAVE MY RELATIONSHIP ALONE!"
"But she's two timing you, John."
"GIVE IT. A. REST. Why do you care anyway?"
To that, Sherlock could not answer. Not that he really could not, but he would not. He would not unveil his true feelings for the angry doctor. What chance did he have? John's straight. He likes women. That's all right. I'm better off without that kind of hassle anyways. I'm married to my work, he kept repeating in his head.
"Mind your own business, Sherlock!"
John likes Sarah. That's all. He had to deal with it. He did not want to let go, but he had to or he would loose John…and that, he could bear.
Sherlock kept staring off into space. John was getting impatient.
"Aren't you gonna say something?"
Not a movement.
"I'll help you out: 'I'm so sorry, John. I won't do it again.' would be in order in this kind of situation where…"
He was cut dryly by Sherlock.
"Caffè Frateli." he uttered sharply.
"…Wha? What's that?"
"The Caffè Frateli on Wigmore Street. That's where she'll be. Go get 'er." John was stunned for a second, recovered and headed for the café without a word, but slammed the door loudly making himself crystal clear.
He was mad. Why did people get so caught up in relationships? So complicated. It was pretty simple really. You were either friends or enemies. And for the most part, enemies. That was all.
Truth was, Sherlock felt… woeful. Again had he upset John against his best efforts to be considerate. Sherlock was like a kid who did not want to upset his parents, but could not help getting into trouble. Sadness filled his heart: he did not want John out of his life. All he could think was being in the same room as John. Possibly sit close to him… maybe even touch. Or not. He did not exactly know what he wanted. But he felt bad. Not so much so he would regret what he had said. No. He never regretted anything he said, because he always calculated so precisely. What went wrong was not his business. He was a sociopath after all. A high functioning sociopath, but still a sociopath. Plus, he was right!
I disappointed you. That's good. Good deduction, yeah. Of course, it was. He was always right. However, Holmes could never be what Watson wanted him to be. He saw it in his eyes sometimes, often actually: the amazement, the surprise, and the admiration. He lived on it. He existed for that thrill that people provided him. John was always so genuine, so easy to fool, yet a fast learner and always caring for him. Nonetheless, the result was always the same. People, normal people that is, could not survive in the toxic environment Sherlock created. How many times some acquaintances had told him "Piss off! Mind your own business."? He had gotten the message. He was not wanted. By anyone.
He understood people and at the same time he did not. It was like mathematics in his head. Thoughts of the criminals added, their errors subtracted, evidence multiplied, all the tiny parts of the puzzle divided. The unpredictable became logical, every little detail and habit striking. All so obvious. How was it that people did not observe? They could not even say what was in their pocket! What Sherlock could not understand either was all the rubbish of social relationships. He was so bad at that. He only spoke his mind. How could that be wrong? They were only making it more difficult for themselves really.
How could he possibly tell John? Tell him what though? Stay with me… please? You will resume residing on Baker Street forthwith. You will remain with me until further notice. That sounded good! Or not? Relationships! He saw them mapped in his head. The influences and points of contact. They all merged and made sense. But when it came to actually making a move, it all got mixed up. He did not understand why people were so stuck up on certain ways of saying this or that. It was difficult to process. And he did not actually care.
Actually this time, he tried to care and blew it, as usual. Whenever he tried to help, he would ridiculously fail. Sarah was not faithful to his John. She did not deserve him. He could not make John see apparently. But imagine the ways he could make her suffer for her infidelity. The down side of being so smart is that you get so many ideas of getting your way. So watch out for the nerdy in your class.
John was different. He was better. They are lives at stake Sherlock, actual human lives…just so I know, do you care about that? Will caring about them help save them? No. Then I'll continue not to make that mistake. What good did it do to care? He cared before…but only pain and death resulted. He could do something about it only when his head was clear and focused. That's how he could work at his best.
Is that news to you? God, it hurt him when John said no. Somehow, he wished John had said yes, because then, it would have proved that he understood him better than any other human being. Well, he did not quite understand himself. How could anyone?
At least he had a friend. Maybe not anymore… He was always sure about John's loyalty, but now, not so much. Could he be? Or not? He would come back for some explanation since he left his cane. He wished John would come back, forgive whatever it was he was supposed to forgive and give Sherlock what he craved the most…touching.
When was it the last time anyone had touch him? He had touched John a few times to prevent him from hurting himself or when he stripped him from imminent bombing. At that point, he did not only touch him because he was protecting his friend, but because he actually wanted to. Want to feel flesh and skin under his fingers. Heat against his body. John's breath on his skin. His voice. Sherlock wanted to hear his voice, his cries, his sighs. He wanted his all.
I have date. John had announced proudly. You know two persons who like each other, go out and have fun? - That's what was suggesting! he answered surprised. But his surprise came from the fact that John had engaged in another relationship than their own. He had assumed that his, them, was…well, going on and exclusive. But then…he had gone. John had gone. And gone again. And he was now mad. Really mad. Mad at him. He had done it again. Somehow. He never could make anyone he loved happy. He never could! Ever! He was the worse friend one could have.
He hated himself for that. He hated himself period. Oh God, he hated himself. And that hurt. But it did not hurt enough. No. For that, he should be punished and no one ever did that, did they? He deserved to suffer. His ancient demons were raging in him. Fighting to get out. Fighting to be brought to life again. Sherlock had these flashbacks popping in his mind, despite his best efforts to stay focused. He saw blood and cuts. His arms itched of craving. The craving of his youth. Younger, drugs were not available. It only came later on. In College. When he was with Tommy. Aw, Tommy. He would have done anything for him. But never told him. Tommy was nice to him. Just like John was. Tommy was handsomer. But John is more interesting, he thought with delight. Long term that's even better. Despite his urge to sabotage John's relationship with Sarah, he had kept himself from any scheme planning. He had tried that and… well, Tommy was not here anymore to testify, was he?
His engorged eyes freed large tears rolling on his dry cheeks. His throat contracted in a knot. The muscles in his neck tensed up and his arms tingled down to the tip of his fingers.
It hurt, but the hurt was good. He was punished by his own body. He felt alive! So alive. But it was not enough… He could not stop staring at his bare arms. The pale and tender skin with marks of the past. He remembered every scare, every cut. Every single one of them. He rememebered. When. How. Why… The sore under his fingers felt immensely orgasmic. When he was not in this mad state, he was actually ashamed of the scares. For that, he always wore long sleeves. They were not so visible, but just enough to be seen if one looked closely. People were blind. They really were. It made him even sadder. Aarg! The damn itching would not stop. Quite the opposite. It got worse and worse, like a thousand burning marbles rushing through his veins making his breathing chopped. The tears had stopped flowing from his eyes.
His mobile shook. John! Hope! Maybe he'd forgiven him! Maybe, he was coming back to him. "Don't expect me tonight. I'll be at Sarah's. Don't bother calling or texting, I'm not interested in your explanation which you probably had no intention of giving."Sherlock smirked. Bull's eye. John bitching him was almost too beautiful. At Sarah's?
So it was all forgive and forget? The girl did not deserve him, why could he not see that? Another inner voice asked him Do you think you deserve him? No. Of course not. All he deserved was respect of his work and genius. It was all he did with his life anyways. He did not expect anything else.
His phone shook again. "Oh and Sherlock. Fuck you." I wish, he thought. That last text gave him the last blip of courage needed to do what he was craving to.
He rushed in the kitchen, precipitated towards the kitchenware. He pulled out the drawers violently to find sharp objects. Something that would slice up easily, but not too easily. No yet. The fact was that he knew perfectly that razors were his best option. But part of the thrill was to feel the urgency in every cell of his body. His heart go wild. His head spinning. Thinking about it. Every single thought revolving around the want and need. Revelling in the pain of not having it immediately. Hunting for suffering. The necessity building up in his system. The electricity in his arms. God it hurt.
He let out a cry of despair and the sound of his own scream scared him. He remembered Mrs. Hudson. He should be careful. She was taking her evening tea and would be all ears.
He tried different knives, but the blades were either not sharp enough, or they would wound him too much with their little teeth. Screws were good for the pain, but they scarcely scratched. This needed blood. Lots of blood.
After a few superficial lacerations (only to warm up really), he finally got to the good stuff with satisfaction. He went to the bathroom and opened the cabinet underneath the sink. He hastily rummuraged through it with his hands. His right hand withdrew, clenching to a small black bag of velvet. Sherlock's accomplice, partner in crime that he dashed to unzip, revealing its long, shiny, sharp blade.
Sherlock admired the object for a moment. "Such a long time old mate",he whispered nostalgically to his childhood instrument of torture and friend, ironically.
He took it in his hand and played a few tricks with it before clasping against his white skin. He caressed the pale epidermis with the cold blade. Shivers down his spine. Exquisite.
Then he turned the knife perpendicularly and oh! so very carefully slid the blade enjoying the pain and the opening of the skin. It was only when he saw the blood that he started shaking and gasping the air he had not realize he had been holding.
His heart pumping wildly, his head getting dizzier. All his reason screamed for him to stop. Reason... he laughed. What a stupid thing. Stopping you from getting your way. Something in him just wanted destruction, suffering, punishment… He deserved this. His body even trembled of desire, the craving boiling his blood. His chopped breaths resonated in the bathroom. He sat back comfortably on the floor, his back leaning on the bath tub, his legs, butt and hands touching the coldness of the ceramic on the floor. He swiftly cut another time…and another…and another..and another…and an another. He blinked rapidly not to pass out. The last thing he wanted was to loose consciousness, miss all the fun and be found by someone. No, certainly not. He stopped a moment to regain his full consciousness.
This state, this rush never felt so good and terrible at the same time. It had been so long since he had been in this fabulous feeling. Drugs were too dangerous now. They were detectable in the blood, and symptoms were visible. He was closely checked and he knew it. Drugs were not an option anymore. Nicotine patches were good, but for thinking. This was his new drug. Or rather an old one. A good old one of his childhood. Sometimes he wished he would not loose consciousness so quickly, so he would be able to hurt longer. He liked how for one moment, nothing else mattered in the world, but his bleeding arm. He liked that he felt so much, all of his physical body and everything else faded away. Complete nothingness invaded his mind and for a moment, he felt peace. It was not about suicide. Really, it was not. He wanted to live, like everyone. But the hurt made things bearable. Finally he had paid his debts, paid for what he had done. It allowed him to get to his own superior self.