PARA/DOX

Over My Dead Body

"I don't know what's going to happen next." Sherlock admitted heavily, leaning over his knees and squinting at the figures who were running this way and that upon the soccer field. Each face was unrecognizable, as if their haircuts wholly defined them. Musgrave hummed next to him, leaning Sherlock unapologetically into his chest as he folded his ankles across the bleacher seat below.
"I think that's the excitement of life, is it not?" he teased. Sherlock sighed, wishing he could have such an optimistic view of the world.
"I mean it literally. My life, your life, my world. It's on the verge of collapse. I can feel it. Two years was long enough to strain, it's like bending a piece of wood before it snaps. I can already hear the fibers giving way. It's just a matter of time before the whole thing shatters."
"Is it because of your mother?" Musgrave presumed. Sherlock remained quiet, appreciating the heartbeat that was drumming a steady rhythm somewhere in the chest that confined him.
"Yes." Sherlock agreed slowly. "She's going to die any moment. She's all I have left, the only shred of normalcy I can actually hold onto."
"We can start a new life together, if you want to." Musgrave offered.
"It's not about having a life, it's about maintaining it. My mother happens to be the only one fighting for my freedom. As soon as I turned eighteen the agency wanted me to move in with them, they wanted to keep me isolated and protected. I denied them, though she refused. Over her dead body, she claimed."
"And her body is..."
"About to become dead." Sherlock finished, stealing the words out of his friend's hesitant lips. "They own every part of me, Reginald. My house may as well already belong to them, but once she dies I'm afraid I won't even get to keep that."
"You can fight back. Sherlock you're their most valuable asset, you're made of gold to them. And you're invaluable. Threaten...I don't know. Threaten to give yourself a paper cut." Musgrave suggested.
"Oh right! That'll move them for sure." Sherlock teased.
"I'm serious. Well...not very serious. But I'm sure you've got a reasonable amount of leverage over even their top man." Musgrave assured, running his hand through Sherlock's long curls for good measure.
"I'd like to think I have, but every day I begin to wonder." Sherlock admitted quietly. "They've done it, you know."
"Done what?"
"Invented time travel." Sherlock admitted grimly. "So I suppose they don't need me in the long term after all." 

Sherlock was told to pack his bags in the receiving line of the funeral. He stood alone, pitifully, on the bottom stair of the altar while members of the agency shuffled past. The nurses, the security guards, the men in black suits who didn't seem to have any connection to his mother. Reginald Musgrave was the only familiar face in the crowd, further emphasizing the idea that Sherlock was now wholly alone in this world. Perhaps this was an intended feeling. Sherlock almost hoped that there were guards outside of the church, refusing entrance to anyone who looked to be a normal civilian come to pay their respects. Maybe they wanted to alienate the only son, maybe there was a crowd of supporters barricaded just behind the doors of the church. That was more of a comfort than the empty pews. Musgrave held onto his hands for a long while, he was so bold as to hold up the whole line for about three minutes. The boy had his head bowed, crying as his fingers wrapped around Sherlock's cold and clammy hands. He didn't seem to want to let go, for they both seemed to know it was the last time. Sherlock didn't feel safe enough to draw the boy closer; he knew that there were important eyes upon him. Moriarty, Mr. Trevor, each sitting in the front pew and observing their subject's admirers. Sherlock allowed Musgrave to cling for as long as he wanted, though the moment the boy stepped closer Sherlock was prepared to step back. When Reginald finally let go, when he let Sherlock's hands fall away from his, he couldn't even show his face. Perhaps he was embarrassed of the state he was in, perhaps he didn't want to let Sherlock see him cry. And yet the tears were not shed for Mrs. Holmes, rather for her son who had been shoved from instability into a freefall. Sherlock watched the bowed blonde head retreat, knowing deep in his heart that his muttered goodbyes would be his last words ever spoken to his first love. The agency, as promised, was about to engulf him. John Watson was the last to go by, the short Doctor looking quite pathetic when paired against the tall suited gentlemen, each with shoulders broader than the casket that sat on a rickety table. John had managed to clean himself up since their last meeting, as if the agency had insisted on better standards for their most elite scientist upon the team. Sherlock wasn't ever told directly, though the way John now held himself and the supposed price tags of his clothes made it quite clear that he had been offered a substantial promotion. He looked healthy, happy, and most of all important. John Watson might as well have pinned a gold star to the lapel of his jacket, for at the moment he stood at a higher privilege than even Doctor Moriarty in the eyes of the government. Moriarty had created their puzzle, but John Watson was the one to solve it.
"Sherlock, I'm so sorry for your loss." John muttered, offering his hands out for added support. Sherlock wasn't one to offer himself to strangers, in most cases the skin of another felt inappropriate upon his own. Though for some reason those extended palms seemed quite tempting, and very gently he lowered one of his hands into their center. John's fingers folded quickly, with the speed of a bear trap but the gentle touch of soft velvet. It was a welcomed touch, a careful one. John had to crane his neck to look into Sherlock's eyes, though there was a determined look of empathy displayed within those rich browns. His gaze was a melting sensation, and before long Sherlock felt his other hand clench the mess they held between them, wrapping around John's hands as if forcing them never to let go.
"Thank you, Doctor Watson." Sherlock whispered, his lips hardly parting. The Doctor smiled, swallowing uncomfortably as he tried to ease his hands back to his side. Sherlock let them fall; he withdrew completely, though as he dropped his hands into his pockets he could still feel the phantom touch. It was skin that he hadn't expected to be so soft. Fingers that had touched him many years back, fingers which held a stethoscope to his bare chest. Who would have known they had only grown gentler?
"Mr. Holmes, will you be ready to leave in an hour?" Moriarty asked, appearing before him as suddenly as if he had fallen from the air. Sherlock blinked, turning back to see Victor lingering behind him, the man conveniently choosing to ignore all that he heard.