PARA/DOX

The Consistency of A Caress

Sherlock could tell that the agency had at least put some thought into his bedroom's design, as if their interior decorators worked even harder than the scientists in charge of world changing revelations. What time these people spent on trying to coordinate an age appropriate bedroom ought to have been spent trying to make the contact machine do something more than shoot sparks and hiss. The walls were papered thickly with a dark blue, some of the corners already peeling off to reveal the characteristic white paint that had been smeared across the entire building upon its initial construction. The bed was twin sized, comfortable and warm with multiple blankets tucked underneath the mattress to provide a solid barrier against the cold building. The room was equipped with all of the gadgets a teenaged boy could want, video game consoles hooked up to a wide screen TV, a Bluetooth speaker with a mini light show attached to the edge, and plenty of space upon the wall to hang up posters of his preferred taste. It would have been a boy's paradise if it were fit into a regular house, one where you didn't have to pass men in white coats to use the bathroom. A house with home cooked meals and people who were related to you by blood, not just by possession. Sherlock wasn't much of a gamer; in fact he wasn't much of anything. He didn't know how to play video games, he didn't have a taste in music, he didn't even know what posters he would hang if he got the opportunity. He wanted a library, though apparently the decorators had not considered that a part of a typical teenage lifestyle. And so, in his minimal free time, Sherlock took to lying in his bed. The ceiling was interesting enough to stare at; in fact the small silence was a much more appreciated pass time than shooting computer generated men on the TV screen. His life didn't give him much, though it did give him a lot to think about. It gave him a world that was crumbling at his feet, all in an attempt to raise the human race into the next level of knowledge. To conquer the present and the past left only one more horizon to manage. Two out of the three wasn't so bad. Though Sherlock was beginning to wonder if the personal cost was getting too steep. He wondered if the life he had grown up with was the sacrificial lamb, the one which had been drained in order to give life to the creation brewing in Doctor Watson's laboratory. Sherlock's father had vanished before he got the chance to meet him, his brother had died before he got the chance to appreciate him, and now his mother died before he got the chance to please her. Sherlock's family had slipped through his fingers much like water, no matter how hard Sherlock tried to grasp them they still found the cracks within the skin, the divots into which they could escape. Sherlock winced at the idea of his own neglect; he hated to even suggest the idea that he was somehow to blame. It was the agency's fault, inherently so. Though Sherlock was the one to draw the agency nearer, he and Mycroft both. They had been born with something, something that he was only now beginning to realize was impossible. The science that John Watson discussed, the particles of sunlight that were the essence of time itself...what were the chances that he was born with that same technology within his own eyes? What were the chances that Sherlock was offered the ability to see the one thing humanity most desperately needed to understand? Sherlock already knew that the agency had controlled his life. He knew that they would probably also be responsible for his death. Though what else might they have had a hand in? Was his birth as much of an interference? Were his genes mixed, his potential altered? Had Sherlock been experimental in some way, or were he and his brother just a mistake of nature? A thankful mutation that somehow led the way into the next generation of science? The latter was growing increasingly unbelievable. And because of this supposed interferences Sherlock had been cursed to see the past, never hold onto the present, never plan for the future. Each one of the people he loved were leaving him slowly. There was a drafted letter to Musgrave upon his desk, a letter explaining why he had to end their relationship. It was a necessary shift, one that both of them had seen coming from miles away. Sherlock's life was confined in this laboratory, he wasn't the dating material. His life would go nowhere except a test tube, and that was less than Musgrave deserved. They could never have a proper marriage, never a proper life. Musgrave was the last thing anchoring Sherlock to the life he wanted to live, and there he went, slipping away with the rest of them. It was beginning to feel like the climax of his despair, though as Sherlock slowly realized that was actually wishful thinking. Sherlock would like to imagine that his suffering could not deepen any more, though that mindset had the potential to only disappoint him. At the start of his adventures with the agency he had imagined things could not get worse, though somehow the very idea of misery was pioneering itself into a whole new age. With every day passed along inside of these white walls Sherlock began to imagine that misery grew at an exponential rate. In here it never stopped growing, never until you put an end to it yourself. A knock at the door interrupted Sherlock's process of thought, a most merely spiral that was going to land him in the ground if he did not begin to focus on the positives. Sherlock was thankful to be interrupted, so much so that he called out to admit the visitor before he got confirmation as to who was on the other side of the door. Not many people visited him here, if it wasn't Victor it was usually a laboratory assistant summoning him to the various parts of the building. The high ranking scientists could never bother to get Sherlock themselves, as if the footwork was much too exhausting. Sherlock expected to see the squat figure of one of the lesser scientists, so much so that he hardly forced himself to look towards the door when it opened. He merely sunk his head into the mattress, letting one of his arms flop unceremoniously towards the floor.
"Sherlock, you're looking comfortable." John Watson declared, his voice ending in a sharp little chuckle as he shut the door behind him. Sherlock blinked, letting his head fall to the side and observe his most appreciated visitor.
"John?" Sherlock muttered, turning himself around and trying to position himself into a more proper sitting position.
"Don't worry about being formal." John assured, waving away Sherlock's straight posture and anxious expression. He had never had the honor of hosting John Watson in his bedroom, and for the first time Sherlock began to grow embarrassed of the state it was in. There was a housekeeper provided, of course, though Sherlock managed to make messes much faster than she was able to clean them up. Therefore the room was scattered with old clothes and a myriad of different things, each one littering the floor and making it difficult for the Doctor to step.
"I'm here to take measurements." John admitted, producing a curled plastic tape measure from his pocket. Sherlock grew a bit red.
"Is that why you closed the door?" he presumed nervously. John sighed, shaking his head and blushing as each connotation began to flood his headspace.
"I'm measuring your skull, Sherlock." He corrected, to which Sherlock nodded thankfully.
"Alright then. That's a bit more modest." Sherlock smiled. John sighed, stepping closer but not close enough just yet. Instead he studied the boy, keeping his hands on his hips as he observed each defining feature of his facial structure.
"Lean forward a bit, if you may." John instructed. Sherlock obeyed, sticking his head out much like a bird and holding still as the Doctor looped the tape measure around his head and pulled tightly. His curls were tugged in the process, making Sherlock yelp in protest and bat at the hands which were responsible for his torment.
"Did you know the Victorians thought brain size was reflected in the forehead?" John chuckled, making note of the number and muttering it to himself before he could forget.
"Oh ya? I'm sure that was just their way of justifying those outrageous inbred heads of theirs."
"A valid point." John agreed. "Though they wouldn't have taken you for much based on this number."
"I don't know if that's a compliment." Sherlock admitted, happy to feel the tape measure release from his forehead and drop limply around his shoulders. John collected the thing, rolling it methodically within his fingers before the entire tape measure was tamed and secured within a small bundle in his hands.
"I intended it to be one, though I can see how it's more ambiguous." John admitted. He dropped the tape measure into the large white pocket in his lab coat, producing a small pad of paper to report his found number. Sherlock leaned forward some more, trying to straighten his neck to better read the writing that had already been left upon the pad.
"Why exactly are you measuring my head?" Sherlock wondered. John shrugged, dropping the notebook back into his pocket and grabbing the chair from Sherlock's little desk. It would appear that he intended to stay a little while. That was no bother, of course. Sherlock enjoyed company. The Doctor arranged the chair next to Sherlock's bed, leaning back into it and folding his legs daintily. The long billows of his lab coat fell at strange angles, finally revealing the man who had been hiding beneath them all these weeks.
"It's my goal to help you organize your powers better." John admitted. "I think your capabilities far outweigh our own, and I want to help you as best as I can."
"So you're measuring my head?" Sherlock assumed, trying to remind John that his answer had not yet addressed the original question.
"I'm making you're a device that can screen out the unwanted time zones. The sunglasses were a telling trick, that's part of the reason the scientists figured out the capability of certain light. Those glasses block out the rays of the sun, and they block out all of the particles of the sunlight as well. If we can make you lenses that can filter out unnecessary light, all while allowing the good light to stay put; perhaps we can utilize your powers more practically."
"I don't think my 'powers' can be anything more than trivial. What good is it to see the past if I can't do anything to change it?" Sherlock wondered, countering John's optimism as if this was a necessary transition to make.
"That's something I think you can learn." John assured, his eyes sparkling with incomprehensible anticipation.
"You want me to learn how to mess with the time line?" Sherlock clarified.
"Yes I do." John agreed. "As I think we can all agree on some unideal things that could be changed for the better."
"That's a power I don't think the agency wants me wielding. The first thing I'd do was convince my brother never to sign to them, and then force myself to turn it down as well." Sherlock pointed out, running his fingers through his long bangs to anchor them more securely around his ears. John watched patiently, his lips sinking into a concerned frown.
"You regret your time with us?" he clarified.
"Of course I do. Two years of this foolishness and what have I got to show for it?" Sherlock snarled.
"Forty million dollars?" John suggested.
"A prison cell and a headache!" Sherlock countered immediately. "Dead family members and now a life without an end."
"That's uh...well I can't deny that's unfortunate. Though our results are still yet to come. It's a slow process, but in this week alone you'll see the reward, the fruit of your labor."
"Ya, can't wait." Sherlock grumbled unenthusiastically.
"It'll be worth it in the end. You'll see, Sherlock." John assured. "I think your life will feel a lot more meaningful once we've got the technology to utilize it."
"I wish my life could be meaningful in the normal sense." Sherlock snarled. "I don't want to judge my worth by how many machines I helped create. I want to get married, have a family of my own. And this stupid agency just ruined my chances at that as well!"
"What do you mean we ruined your chances? God Sherlock, you're not even twenty yet." John complained.
"Well I'm not going to leave this prison cell ever again, and I can't have visitors either." Sherlock grumbled. "It's like quarantine."
"There's plenty of nice ladies here, plenty lab assistants your age." John suggested. Sherlock scoffed, folding his arms across his chest and realizing that one of his only confidants still didn't know a thing about him.
"I don't suppose you know anything more of real life than I do, Doctor Watson. Though even despite that estimate you still fall short." Sherlock sighed. Finally he flopped back across his bed, figuring his breath spent explaining his situation to the Doctor would be wholly wasted. John Watson was a scientist, not a psychologist. In fact he spoke as if he were more machine than man, perhaps owing to his company in the past two years.
"I'm sorry I can't be of more help." John mumbled. Sherlock grumbled in response, flailing his limbs pathetically so that they landed at odd angles around him. This was his way of throwing a temper tantrum, though by John's stubborn reluctance to leave he could tell it was not working properly. By now Victor would have left, in fact he might have disappeared just as soon as Sherlock began to complain.
"What about the housekeeper? She's sweet, and I think I heard she's just out of college."
"What's a college graduate doing as a housekeeper?" Sherlock laughed, craning his neck to see John's face fallen into a very serious expression.
"Doing what I did, I suppose. Starting from the bottom." John snapped. Sherlock fell silent, pursing his lips before falling back down into complacency.
"Sorry Doctor. Didn't mean to offend."
"It's nothing to apologize about. In fact you're the one person I have to thank for my generous promotion. From pediatrician to top scientist, it's not a jump that is made every day."
"Yes well, you seem to deserve it." Sherlock sighed. "Perhaps you were the only one who could have pulled it off."
"I wonder about that sometimes as well."
"How humble!" Sherlock laughed, finally sitting up so as to arrange himself in a better conversational position. John looked rather embarrassed, though his hands were raised as if to halt any more of Sherlock's offensive presumptions before he had a chance to explain.
"I don't mean that I'm the only one smart enough. I know that's not true. It's just the equations, the way the blueprints were drawn. They were familiar to me, inherently familiar. I've always had a unique way of going about such plans, and it would seem as though your strange time traveler had the same way of doing things."
"Perhaps you taught him, somewhere done the line."
"Perhaps he was me." John declared, perhaps unconsciously. As soon as the words escaped he looked noticeably uncomfortable, as if he hadn't yet spoken such a theory out loud. Sherlock blinked, trying to piece together that face he had studied so long ago. The traveler had been an old man, though age was the best disguise. Sherlock had never considered the idea that the traveler had been someone he already knew; in fact he never even thought to look. He stared at John, trying to imagine what his face would look like covered with wrinkles, what his hair might degrade to if it lost all of its color.
"The eyes." Sherlock muttered absentmindedly. "The eyes are similar."
"You don't have to go proving or disproving anything." John insisted, suddenly looking embarrassed that he had brought up the idea. It was as if he didn't want to prematurely announce himself to be any more special than the next man, even as the top scientist he didn't want to take credit for something he never did. The Doctor suddenly got to his feet, realizing that his time might have been expired. Sherlock countered him; almost subconsciously he rose to meet him. The boy proved an obstacle, despite how embarrassed John had grown he didn't have a way out without blatantly ignoring Sherlock's request for a continuation. For once the boy had grown captivated in a conversation, and John's crackpot theories seemed to be the most interesting suggestion he had heard within the walls of this bleak, boring laboratory.
"He was very sentimental, Doctor." Sherlock pointed out. "From his universe he claimed to have been quite close to my blind counterpart."
"I should hope so. It seemed as though he had dedicated his life to helping you." John agreed.
"Would you do the same?" Sherlock wondered. John blinked, hesitating with his words before fumbling his fingers a bit nervously.
"I should think so." he agreed under his breath, ducking his head to avoid the gaze that was emitted from behind the dark aviators. Sherlock smiled thankfully, feeling as though he was toying with this man's emotions much more recklessly than was appreciated. Though it was interesting to throw such important prompts at him. Interesting and telling, for it would seem as though the Doctor could not bring himself to stay silent.
"Doctor, I wonder if you might mimic him, for a moment." Sherlock whispered.
"Mimic?" John clarified, his voice coming out more aggressively than he would have ever intended.
"Many things might have changed between yourself and that traveler. Age takes us all, eventually. Though some things might remain constant. The color of your eyes, perhaps. The size of your hand." Sherlock suggested.
"My hand?" John whispered, his voice now so small it might have been only a squeak. Sherlock reached for it, thankful that the Doctor had no reflexes with which to counter the advance. Perhaps he was only too willing to offer it, despite the most uncomfortable look on his face. Sherlock had been anxious to feel John Watson's skin again, ever since the funeral when he had been first acquainted with it. It was a soft feeling, a most appreciated one. As he twisted the Doctor's fingers between his own Sherlock felt a very similar emotion to love, though one not nearly so strong. Perhaps he was misinterpreting the mere illusion of proximity; perhaps he was mistaking this touch to be much more meaningful. He was merely starved of any human contact, getting too excited of a touch he might as well take for granted. Carefully Sherlock raised the hand to his cheek, allowing the fingers to curl in quite the same fashion as the traveler's had done in the bathroom all those years ago. John's instinct was to hold his face just the same way, with the same palm, outstretched in the same manner. It was a touch that felt nearly constant. Sherlock allowed his own hand to drop, taking a deep, satisfied breath to feel a familiar caress. John's hand lingered, pocketing Sherlock's jawbone so carefully within his folded fingers.
"Is it the same?" John wondered, his voice sounding breathless. Sherlock knew if the Doctor was wearing his stethoscope he could pick up a rhythm that was off the charts in both of their chests.
"Nearly identical." Sherlock agreed, pushing his hand against John's as if to ease it more aggressively into the side of his face. His eyes drooped shut, a satisfaction shivering through his body that only encouraged him to ask for more. More, longer, more intimate feelings. It would seem as though he had the Doctor within his command. It was a slippery slope, this rewarding process of experimentation. Sherlock might have claimed the traveler did many things to him, all if he could convince the doctor to mimic it. Sherlock was lonely, desperately so. This sudden temptation only proved how long it had been since he had been properly cherished.
"Sherlock, I should get back to the lab." John insisted in a trembling voice. He pulled his fingers away most anxiously, ducking both of his hands into his pockets as if to keep them off limits for the duration of his stay. Sherlock stepped backwards, thrown out of his trance by the almost aggressive tone the Doctor resorted to using. It carried a firm message, if not an embarrassing one. Sherlock realized only too late that he had overstepped his boundaries.
"Yes of course." He agreed. "I wish you luck."
"We'll see each other soon." John assured. "In due time I expect to be working with you daily."
"I will look forward to it." Sherlock nodded, to which John gave a weak, nervous little smile. Sherlock returned it with the same lack of confidence, though his smile dropped just as soon as the Doctor turned his back. The door opened to dismiss him, those most appreciated hands pulling on the handle from the other side in an attempt to shut a solid wall between the two of them. He was running, in one sense of the word. Running away just as soon as things got real. Sherlock slumped back upon his bed, trying to calm his trembling nerves. He messaged his fingers back and forth upon his wrist, trying to mimic any sensation that he had gained from those foreign hands. Finding this useless he settled back upon the mattress, stretching his chin to the ceiling and cursing his own nerve. How easily he scared his friends away, how easily he was left alone.