PARA/DOX

It's Good To See You Again

Sherlock rose to his feet, he stumbled with his eyes shut towards his desk and reached for the small metal organizer which sat on top. He pushed his fingers through the pens, through the pencils. His fingers closed upon his letter opener, a sharpened blade of obsidian. The letter opener had been a token from his father before he faded, a treasure taken off of his own desk. Something inherited, now used to erase these most horrible genes. Sherlock opened his eyes behind the sunglasses, finding the doorknob and passing quietly through his bedroom door. His fingers closed confidently upon the weapon, his eyes scanning the hall to make sure he was not observed by his wandering mother. The woman was probably in hiding, somewhere in her bedroom where she could not bother the escapades of her son. It was better that she didn't know, not until it was over. Sherlock locked the door before he turned on the light, leaning up against the wooden frame and feeling along the wall for the familiar switch. He shivered, though when he opened his eyes he saw the familiar white tiled bathroom. The blue carpets. The floral shower curtain. The whole bathroom had been redone after Mycroft's suicide, the bath had been replaced, the walls had been colored a different shade. The project had cost nearly a thousand dollars, all in an attempt to reshape the room which hosted such a tragedy. Mrs. Holmes hadn't wanted to witness the room that was her son's last sight, she never wanted to stare at the same wall he had as his life was draining into the hot water. Even now Sherlock found it difficult to step inside, the air was stuffy, stinking of death and rot. Even though he knew all of the water had been drained, all of the blood had been washed; he still remembered the feel of the hot water overflowing onto his shoes. He still felt as if there was the remnants of those bloodstained memories, seeped so deep into the foundation of the room that it could never be properly erased. Bloodshed was not always the answer, and yet the Holmes brothers had a knack for finding it the only solution. Cursed with the same infliction, blessed with similar and simple solutions. Sherlock was not yet prepared to sacrifice his life, though he found it necessary to mutilate what the world said was so special. He was sick of being special. He was sick of being outcast. Sherlock drew the blinds; he checked the lock once more. He set the letter opener upon the mantle of the sink, running his fingers carefully over his cheeks as he stared at the glasses which sat carefully upon his face. He wouldn't need them again, they would serve no purpose. Perhaps he would need something to hide his face from the world, though never again would he need to hide the world from himself. Sherlock would liberate himself, if not in the most acceptable way. He took a deep breath, easing the glasses off of his eyes and staring within the mirror. No reflection looked back. In this world he was not here to stare into the mirror. Instead there was a man sliding fully clothed into the water behind him, a man whose nose hardly touched the surface as he sunk. There was a pair of glasses upon the rim of the bath, abandoned and unnecessary. Sherlock winced, shaking madly as he watched the last of his brother's breaths bubble up from the surface behind him. His hands clutched onto the old sink, the tan one that his mother had shattered herself with a construction man's sledge hammer. How ironic that she would have avenged the blood of both of her sons by shattering one single item. Sherlock took a shuttering breath, trying to avoid the tears which were flowing from his unappreciated eyes. The eyes that again forced him to hear the scramble behind the door, the ones which forced him to listen to his own voice calling from behind the wood, his own hand rattling the locked knob. The bath was overflowing again. Sherlock felt it again. He took up the letter opener, knowing he would have to do this blind. His reflection wouldn't aid in the process, he would have to be sure. He had to know exactly where to apply the pressure; he had to know just where to bring the pointed end down. Sherlock had a very specific target and he didn't want to scar his skin. He wanted to be rid of his eyes and only them. Sherlock ran his fingers overtop of his closed lid, feeling the firm rounded thing which hid underneath his shapeless eyebrow. He felt it quiver, as if it was expecting every touch to deliver the final blow. He pulled the lid open, settling himself, collecting his breath. His fingers wrapped around the makeshift blade, trembling as they did so, understanding their purpose in this pitiful game. Sherlock couldn't help but cry; he couldn't help but feel that the smaller version of himself behind the door was trying to break in to help him now. His past self was beginning to kick open the door, he would break through very soon. Sherlock knew because he remembered. Both eras had Mycroft's name on their lips, as Sherlock whimpered it now he knew it would be the last coherent thing he would be able to speak of until his screaming subsided. The pain might be everlasting, but it was better than what was to come. It was better than the agency. Sherlock took a deep breath; the door cracked and broke open, and in came two figures. One was noticeable, expected. A small boy with unruly black curls, racing to the bathtub to reach into the hot water and pull his brother's head from the depths. The other was new; the other was not in the original version. An older man, fully colored, diving upon Sherlock as he stood previously unnoticed at the sink. The letter opener fell from his hands as he was pushed onto the old carpets, tackled by the force and urgency of his colorful stranger. Sherlock gasped upon impact, all of the air flying out of his lungs as he writhed and struggled upon the carpet. He was tangled in limbs, not all his own, and burdened by a weight that he did not recognize.
"Get off...off!" Sherlock demanded, kicking widely until at last the stranger fell over onto the carpet. He rolled into Sherlock's childhood form but did not ruin the moment. The boy never felt the impact, he was sobbing upon the rim of the bathtub, screaming for a mother who could not yet hear. Mycroft was already waterlogged, his pale skin turning blue and his clothes stained red.
"Don't do it." the stranger demanded. "Don't you dare!" he grabbed at the letter opener before Sherlock could recover it, pocketing the weapon and rising anxiously to his feet. The room was loud though both present parties stayed quiet. Sherlock pushed himself up onto his elbows, coughing madly and trying to regain the breath he had lost.
"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded, unafraid to demonstrate his spite. The man hesitated, his cheeks flushed with color that was so deep, so real. Sherlock wanted to embrace him; he wanted to feel each of the colors which were so vibrantly stained upon his body. It was the same man as before, the same which had reached out to him in the ancient shell about one hundred years ago. Here he was, the same age, the same outfit, the same look of amazement. He was about sixty; Sherlock could tell that there were formed wrinkled along his face. The hunch in his back was still there, though in his powerful stance he was taller, ready for another fight and trying to ignore the cripple of his old age.
"I can't tell you that." the man explained quickly, his voice raspy as he gasped for breath just as desperately as his victim. He seemed exhausted by the effort of saving Sherlock's eyes.
"A time traveler?" Sherlock presumed.
"Yes, a traveler. And I think...I think I did my due part. I didn't know if...if it would work." The man admitted, studying the room, turning circles in an attempt to study the room as it was. In a moment Sherlock realized the man might not be seeing the same scene as he was. He might not have noticed Mycroft; he might not have noticed that Mrs. Holmes had run straight through his back in an attempt to collect both of her sons. He might have been in the present, tackling the solid form of Sherlock Holmes in the bathroom where he stood.
"If what worked?" Sherlock sneered.
"In my world you succeeded. In my world you were...you were miserable." the man whispered. "It took me forty years to piece it together, forty years to come back to save you from yourself."
"What the h*ll are you talking about?" Sherlock exclaimed, rising to his feet in expiration.
"I'm saying I changed the course of time!" the stranger announced. "I changed it for you."
"I don't even know you." Sherlock snarled, stepping away from the man in case he really was as mad as he appeared. The man softened, blinking a tear from his eye as he nodded quickly.
"You will, soon. But this time...this time you'll see me." He promised, his voice cracking emotionally. It would appear as though this stranger had been waiting for this exact moment much longer than Sherlock could appreciate. It would seem as if this meant more to him than any moment of his whole life. Tears were streaming down his face, though there was still a smile poking from his old lips.
"Are you from the agency?" Sherlock clarified.
"Yes." The man agreed.
"I still went? Even after I carved out my eyes, they still took me?" Sherlock whispered in amazement.
"Yes. Yes..." the man stepped forward, catching the side of Sherlock's face within his palm. To his surprise (and Sherlock's as well) he boy did not resist. He felt as though his jawbone was aligned quite well with the man's palm, he felt as if it was supposed to settle there.
"You created time travel even without my eyes?" Sherlock clarified.
"You were just a brain to them. Not to me. I wanted you to be happy; I pledged...I pledged my life to change things. I discovered this for you...for my version of you. Gone now, I'd expect. I might be gone soon as well." The man whispered.
"A paradox?" Sherlock presumed, remembering the loose rules of time travel that Hollywood had created for their own purposes.
"I don't know." He admitted. "No one knows what will happen if anything changes."
"Time travel is possible, is that what you're saying?" Sherlock clarified. "And it took you forty years to poke at my brain in order to find it?"
"It was necessary." The traveler insisted.
"It sounds inhumane!" Sherlock growled, pushing the man's hand away and taking a step farther, trying to avoid this man and his misplaced intimacy.
"Sherlock, believe me it was...it was all for you. Everything I did was for you." The man promised. "But I have to ask you to do something for me." his fingers fumbled within his pocket, producing a small black flash drive. It looked like a modern version, one that was perhaps ages old in the man's current time frame. Nevertheless Sherlock recognized it as a tool of his decade, something that would fit the modern day technology.
"When you get to the agency, give this to a man named John Watson." He introduced, holding out the flash drive for Sherlock to take. Sherlock hesitated to go any farther, though he cupped his hands out in front of him and allowed the traveler to drop the flash drive into his fingers.
"Who's that?" Sherlock wondered, folding his hands over the flash drive and holding it carefully within.
"He's a good man. He'll be the only good man you meet." The traveler promised. "Give him that flash drive, only he'll know the password."
"What's on it?" Sherlock wondered nervously.
"My life's work. He'll know what to do. He'll do it faster. He'll do it better." The man promised. Sherlock nodded, realizing that he held more than a piece of plastic in his hands. It was what his mother had often preached... it was the evolution of humanity.
"This is time travel?" Sherlock clarified.
"Give it to him. Let him ask the questions." The man insisted, his voice trembling as his practiced script came to an end. "Promise me Sherlock; promise me you won't hurt yourself."
"I don't even know who I'm promising that to." Sherlock snarled.
"A dear...dear friend." The man assured. "Just say it, say it so that I can have changed something."
"I promise you." Sherlock muttered, finding it remarkably easy to commit to. Knowing now that empty eye sockets would get him nowhere was all the evidence he needed to avoid the act completely. He didn't feel the need to suffer if it would only lead to more pain.
"I should go. I should go or I'll stay forever." The man admitted with a saddened chuckle. "Perhaps when I return things will be different."
"Can I know your name?" Sherlock pleaded, stepping forward and reaching out almost involuntarily. The traveler caught his hand in midair, his fingers wrapping around Sherlock's palm as if he had been expecting such a gesture. Some part of Sherlock realized this was a moment too important to let go, it was perhaps the crowning achievement of this old man's life. And here Sherlock was, taking it for granted. Their fingers interlocked, the stranger pulled him ever so closer. He smiled sadly, looking as if he wanted to step closer but knowing he had to stay farther apart.
"It's better if you don't." the man whispered. "Just...just do what I've told you. And I think everything shall be okay." Sherlock nodded, feeling as though words would fall short in this situation. His throat had grown a balloon, making it impossible to speak his mind. He had so many questions it felt futile to even ask one, and the growing silence only acted as a cue for his visitor to leave.
"Goodbye Sherlock." The man muttered, dropping his hand into his pocket with a regretful smile. "It's good to see you again."
"I's good to see you...for the first time." Sherlock agreed quietly. The same beeping drew his visitor away. One moment he was there, the next he was gone, without any satisfying evidence that he had ever been there at all. Sherlock's hand, once supported by the stranger, fell back to his side quite unceremoniously. He rolled the flash drive over in his fingers, a solid piece of plastic that meant the entire ordeal had not been made completely within his mind. He searched for a breath, he searched for a word. He searched for his glasses. Sherlock found them in his front pocket, settled where they usually were in his planned excursions. He pushed them back over his eyes, erasing the scene of his mother helping drag Mycroft's lifeless body onto the tiles. The screams vanished, the sobs were erased. The new bathroom appeared. And yet the letter opener was gone, not in his pocket, not on the floor. Vanished with his visitor, traded for something more valuable. Sherlock blinked in the mirror, blinking and seeing even after he had committed himself to making everything go dark.