PARA/DOX

The Roles of the Missing

There was a formal gathering set for the next morning, the unveiling of John Watson's time machine. Over and over the man tried to change the label of the machine, insisting that they weren't anywhere close to traveling through time, merely close to observing it. Though this seemed to be a matter for another day, for Sherlock received a pamphlet tucked under the frame of his door that was announcing in big bold print the revolution of the linear progression of time. It was no longer such a straight forward concept; it was no longer so easy. Sherlock took the pamphlet to his bed, ripping it to shreds as he thought carefully about how many ways this machine could go wrong. It would of course be the first time anyone but a Holmes brother had seen the past, and so it may be as revolutionary as the agency hoped. And yet it would fall short, Sherlock knew it would. He had been observing the past for many years, and as of now he had not seen anything that made this curse worthwhile. Sherlock rubbed his fingers through the particles of white paper, appreciating the feeling of anything new upon his skin. All he had felt was metal and needles, bedspreads and clothing. Paper wasn't supposed to be new, though the shredded fibers of expensive prints felt like satin between his clenched knuckles. It was time like these that he missed Musgrave. If this building had a single window he would have been praying that the boy was climbing through, a regulated source of heat and admiration. Sherlock loved nothing more than cuddling up into that thick varsity jacket, appreciating the warmth his lover gave off. He liked to feel those careful hands upon his skin, messaging across the base of his curls, caressing the outcroppings of bone that were jutting dangerously through his pulled pale skin. Sherlock missed physical touch, he missed being admired. The boy sat back upon his bed, rooting his back deep against the wooden bed post and staring longingly at the door to the outside hall. He knew it was open, though the hours were climbing steadily into the evening. Even if he could wander the halls they would be just halls. No laboratories would be open at this time of night; no scientists would be wandering around looking for a thrill. John Watson would have left hours ago, undoubtedly forced to take a night to himself to try to erase those circles from around his eyes. He had a big day tomorrow. Sherlock wondered just how many people had received an invitation to his debut. The idea of this laboratory bedroom was to be able to keep tabs on their treasure for as long as possible, though as Sherlock's use grew slim he began to wonder why they didn't lock Doctor Watson in a prison cell as well. Wasn't his brain just as useful, if not more so? Tomorrow morning Sherlock would have no gift at all, no sight that another could not mimic. Sherlock's only gift was to create the visions naturally, whereas John Watson had transferred that same power into a block of metal. With such advancements what use was their plaything? Sherlock stared up at the camera anchored in the corner of his bedroom, a half sphere that was trying its best to fit in with the rest of the wall. The agency didn't want Sherlock to know that he was being watched; perhaps they thought he would feel better in the illusion of privacy. Sherlock got to his feet, looking about the room to find something with which to shield himself from their ever watching eyes. How was a boy supposed to change, knowing Moriarty or Mr. Trevor were sitting back and observing? It disgusted him to think that this footage could be paused, replayed, stored...revisited. There was something inherently disgusting about both of the men in charge, and Sherlock took no comfort knowing they were his makeshift guardian angels. The boy rooted through his clothes drawers, coming up with handfuls of agency issued clothing. White shirts and cotton pants, even a lab coat so as to further their illusion that he was a scientist rather than a subject. In the end Sherlock found a long white sock, one with the perfect amount of elastic around the top edge. The sock plus the roll of scotch tape ought to do the trick, at least long enough for Sherlock to decide what he wanted tonight to shape into. They would notice the camera was blocked, though they might not be able to do anything about it until the sun rose. Sherlock dragged his desk chair towards the corner of the room, clearing aside some of the game consoles that were sitting uselessly in his way. Thankfully Sherlock was tall, and when he stood with his feet planted on the chair he was able to stretch far enough to anchor the sock around the camera. He was pulling at the scotch tape when there was a knock on the door, a knock followed so quickly by the sound of the turning handle that Sherlock didn't have to look to confirm the identity of his visitor. His heart leapt, perhaps prematurely.
"What on earth are you doing?" Victor's voice scolded, the man rushing to offer a spotter in case the chair happened to kick out from under Sherlock's unevenly distributed weight.
"What does it look like I'm doing, Victor?" Sherlock snarled.
"Looks like you're breaking the rules." Victor pointed out.
"I don't like your father watching me." Sherlock admitted, sticking a long piece of tape around the perimeter of the sock to anchor it in place. When he let his hands fall the cloaking device stayed hanging, offering a strange decoration but a secured method of privacy.
"It's not my father that's watching. It's some hired croon, one who's probably asleep by now anyway." Victor insisted.
"Asleep? What time is it?" Sherlock wondered with a squint of his eyebrow.
"It's nearly midnight."
"Then what on earth are you doing here? Don't you have some lavish life to get back to?" Sherlock sneered, taking Victor's hand and stepping carefully off of the chair to safety. Sherlock didn't always allow Victor to patronize him; in fact if he wasn't so lonely he might have smacked the man away and refused any help to dismount. Though, tonight Sherlock had been infected with a fever, one which had been festering in his heart ever since John Watson's hand had fallen away from his face some days before. He was desperate, lonely, his perception so skewed that even Victor's company would be better than nothing.
"How can you expect me to live a lavish life when I'm tied to your hip?" Victor wondered, waving around a motherly finger as Sherlock raised his hands in surrender.
"I didn't know if my moving in changed that. Now that the agency's watching over me day and night I'd expect you had re-downloaded Tinder."
"I don't...I don't need something like that." Victor defended weakly, blinking once as if trying to understand what sort of accusation had just been thrown. Sherlock's arms hung limply to the floor, his shoulders hunched in quiet misery as he stared up at Victor with a forlorn expression.
"I miss Musgrave." He admitted at last.
"So do I." Victor agreed. "He was good for you. I don't know why you were so quick to cut the cord."
"Do you really expect the agency to let my boyfriend come visiting? I got quite the stern talking to from your father, in fact. I should like to cut cords with him as well, that psychopath."
"My father?"
"Yes, your father." Sherlock grumbled, crossing his arms across his chest and giving Victor a quick examination. He looked perfectly in order, as if these days off were starting to do wonders for his complexion and physique. He wasn't as tired, which seemed to be the common lot.
"I apologize for anything he said. He's a maniac, truly." Victor admitted.
"He might be listening."
"No, these cameras don't have sound." Victor assured, waving his hand carelessly.
"Oh, so you've watched them before?" Sherlock scoffed. "Are you stalking me too, hm? Joining in on the fun?"
"I've not watched you!" Victor defended, stepping back as if Sherlock's accusation hit like a slap.
"Who then? My brother?" Sherlock snapped. "That's another thing your father confessed."
"He doesn't speak for me, in fact he doesn't speak for anyone. He's a liar, pathologically." Victor pointed out.
"I don't know why you're so afraid to admit it. There's nothing wrong in loving Mycroft, and I should know. I'm his brother, brothers are always the first to see red flags."
"My relationship...professional relationship," Victor corrected quickly, "Is none of your business."
"Then make it my business." Sherlock demanded, stepping up to his aggressor in a most confrontational stance. "What was it, too scared to fall in love with a lab rat?"
"No one is a lab rat." Victor debated, recoiling as Sherlock's feet began to slide progressively closer. He was becoming anxious, jittery. Sherlock didn't believe in any old wives' tales, though by the way his body was churning he might have been able to blame it on a full moon shining down upon the laboratory's cheap metal roof.
"Did you approach him first, or was my brother braver than I thought?" Sherlock wondered, snatching Victor's wrist and pulling the man closer with an abrupt tug. Victor wasn't aggressive enough to dispute, though he had the strength to fight if he so desired. Instead the man remained docile, hesitantly allowing his hand to fall prey to Sherlock's curling fingers. Perhaps he was willing; perhaps that was why he called so late in the night.
"Your brother was a kind soul, Sherlock." Victor muttered, his voice shaking as Sherlock closed the gap between them, their chest colliding unevenly. Sherlock's forehead only came up to his protector's nose, an unfair height advantage to a boy who was so used to towering over others. Perhaps Victor wore high heels underneath those long trousers, a last ditch attempt to reclaim some control over his subjects.
"I'm a kind soul too." Sherlock reminded him.
"A misguided one, I should think." Victor mumbled, holding his chin high so as to make his lips virtually inaccessible to his oncoming predator. "I don't know what you're trying to achieve tonight, though I think it would be wise to change your intentions."
"I told you, I miss Musgrave." Sherlock reminded him. "Not so much his conversation."
"Sherlock, I don't want this with you." Victor demanded, finally yanking his wrist free from Sherlock's grasp and stepping backwards with some anxiety. "And I'm sure you don't want it either."
"I don't care if it means anything or not. I'm lonely, Victor." Sherlock whined.
"That's no reason to be so forward." Victor debated, his voice snapping so quickly it nearly gave Sherlock whiplash. The boy shuddered, rubbing his hands across his arms as he reconsidered the madness that was passing through. Finally he turned away, curling his long hair across his shoulder and ducking his head where Victor couldn't see his down facing gaze. Sherlock's cheeks grew hot; suddenly the realization of his boldness was coming flying back with a lethal force. If he had eaten a proper dinner he might have lost it.
"I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered at last. "I'm sorry."
"It's alright. We've all been there before." Victor assured. "Teenage years are strange. You never know what you want, or who..."
"Oh stop that! Stop turning everything into a lecture!" Sherlock insisted, throwing his arms in the air so as to throw a proper tantrum.
"It's my job to lecture you, Sherlock. Lest you grow up a rotten, undisciplined child." Victor reminded him.
"Don't say that as if I'm five years old. I've already grown." Sherlock insisted, turning back only to sneer at his counterpart. Victor was chuckling, having folded his arms across his chest while keeping his chin stretched and confident. He looked thoroughly amused, though it may just be a defense mechanism.
"Pity, really. I suppose you'll just keep this trajectory and stay a rotten, undisciplined adult."
"Oh I hate you." Sherlock snarled.
"As you should." Victor agreed. "Come here, Sherlock. I may not be able to play Musgrave, but I'll be myself if that's alright?" he opened his arms in welcome, that playful stance he took when he wanted a hug. Sherlock sighed heavily, embarrassed of Victor's behavior even if there was no one here to witness it. Victor played a very important part in the agency; he might as well be a trained actor for how professional he could act when he needed to. It was this side of him, this playful side, that Sherlock admired most. When he didn't have to wear that matter-of-fact look the man took on the role of a father trying to embarrass his daughter on the school sidewalk. He was playful, annoyingly so. And such bothersome behavior necessitated an equally bothersome response. Sherlock grinned, unable to wipe a smile off of his face as he geared up for the most aggressive hug the world had ever seen.
"You're asking for it." Sherlock warned, backing up a couple of paces to ensure he got a running start.
"Give it your all." Victor assured, bracing himself against the coming storm. Sherlock took a deep breath, digging his toes into the ground and taking two massive, aggressive steps before launching himself in the air and hitting Victor full force. Their chests collided, Sherlock's limbs wrapped tightly around the sturdy frame, and despite some wobbling and the laws of nature Victor Trevor managed to stay upright.
"You're too skinny, Sherlock." The man complained, hoisting Sherlock like a child within his arms and letting the boy nestle his head safely within the crook of his neck. It was a feeling that Sherlock needed, though not one he had set out to find. As usual he misjudged himself; he misjudged the emotions which were bubbling within his chest. Perhaps he missed Musgrave, he missed another pair of lips in his mouth, he missed a foreign hand under his clothes. Though he missed his mother more, he missed a calming embrace and the smell of flowery shampoo. Sherlock never realized how big of a gap had opened in his life until he felt Victor's arms wrap around him, that familiar embrace that would cradle him across the shopping mall or in the pew of a church. He forgot what it was like to be held, not romantically, but lovingly all the same. Sherlock didn't realize that he had begun to cry until he was laid carefully onto the bed, the sudden sprawl forcing his tears not to run so cleanly down his cheeks. Instead they began to dribble back into his eyes, or along the sides of his face, dancing within the folds of his lips as he was positioned within the blankets like a child. With this sudden realization he could do nothing to stop it, his sobs beginning to writhe in his chest until he released them like an agonizing scream. He had not cried over his mother, not yet. He had never cried for Musgrave. Most importantly he had never cried for himself. All of the misery began to cumulate, to multiply, until the only way he could rid himself of its pressure was to let it out in large, emotional doses. Soon Sherlock couldn't think straight, he couldn't even see. His glasses had fallen off of his face, getting lost within the pillows as he squirmed and wailed, tearing his fingers across the sheets and kicking his legs angrily against the bed post.
"I hate it here, I HATE IT!" Sherlock screeched, his foot finally splintering its way through the post and shattering the wood in two. The room wasn't a bedroom any more, not by his own judgement. Instead it was an office space, filing cabinets stacked around an empty and abandoned lab table. Despite this foreign room he felt familiar arms wrap around him. The bed in which he was laying got heavier with the arrival of another body, and carefully Sherlock felt himself being pulled up against a stiff, comfortable chest. He hesitated, sniffling away the last of his tears and stilling his muscles into an obedient, if not satisfied, limpness.
"Our worlds are going to change tomorrow, Sherlock. Perhaps for the better." Victor reminded him, rearranging the boy within his arms to that he could run a hand carefully through the tangles of long black curls. Sherlock shuttered at the feeling, appreciating the fingertips upon his scalp, pulling knots with careful precision.
"It's bound to get better, Victor. Because I can't see how it'll be any worse."  

At the rise of the sun Victor helped Sherlock tie his tie, pulling out his ID card to ensure that everyone knew he was allowed to walk with free range across the facility. "There will be lots of strangers," Victor had warned, "And you'll want to make sure you're not mistaken as one of them." Sherlock thought his warnings were a bit ill placed, for he would be the only freak with sunglasses in the well-lit indoor facility. Despite his method of sticking out there would still be enough confusion for the agency to deal with, enough to make Victor stress the importance of proper identification. Today he swore never to leave Sherlock's side, promising that he would be protected from any range of attacks, whether they are violent or anxiety induced. Today would be the first step into the new age and, according to the guest list, most of Washington felt the same. Sherlock felt a ball in the pit of his stomach, nervous even though he only had to sit by and watch. Perhaps he was worried about his hand in the matter, wondering if the flash drive he had passed along to Doctor Watson was reliable enough to demonstrate to the world. This was the first test of the time observing machine, the first of many and the one most likely to go wrong. What was the agency expecting, and more worrisome, what were they promising? Sherlock wanted to look the part today, and so with an elastic hair tie produced from Victor's pocket (as if he had been anticipating this) Sherlock tied his disheveled black curls into a proper bun on the back of his head. It was fashionable for the times, at least Victor assured him it was, and when he looked at himself in the mirror he appeared more put together than in the last three months. Perhaps it was all for the show, ensuring that the President of the United States did not mistake her highest paid employee for a street rat. Or perhaps it had something to do with the night before, the emotional turmoil that had been settled one way or another within his chest. The pair made their way down the hallway an hour before the show was due to begin, as per Moriarty's firm instructions to his propaganda committee. Sherlock's job was to shake hands and look pleasant, he was supposed to prove himself a medical miracle and an indispensable part of the government's funding. The most important members of the country were sitting in some waiting room by now, being served coffee in cups printed with the agency's most distasteful label. It was a pre-party, one might say, if partying only consisted of very dry conversations and knots the size of Texas rooted deep in the pit of your stomach.
"Now remember posture, remembering handshakes." Victor reminded him, tapping Sherlock on the elbow so as to make sure he was paying attention. As with most things Victor said, these words of wisdom passed through one ear and out the other, falling off into the empty white hallway. Sherlock was too distracted with trying to figure out who was walking in front of them to listen to Victor's motherly little rants.
"And no parlor tricks, unless you're asked by someone in the President's cabinet or above." Victor added quickly.
"What do you define as a parlor trick? Because I can either take of my sunglasses or I can pretend to remove my thumb. Look!" Sherlock wagged his fingers together, hiding half of his thumb within his hands and pretending to have severed it from his hand. "Pretty spooky."
"Absolutely none of that, whatever it is." Victor snapped, pushing Sherlock's hands away and slapping the boy roughly on the back. "Composure, Sherlock."
"I think Madam President would love it." Sherlock mumbled, though Victor wasn't even acknowledging the words. Perhaps he was growing too nervous to joke about these things, and to be honest humor was only being used as a defense mechanism on Sherlock's part. Of course he was terrified, he was afraid to say the wrong thing, or to step on someone's polished toe, or to accidentally insult the government while its top heads were standing too closely. These people played nice, though there were fangs hidden behind their pursed smiles. One wrong move and you could be erased from the map.