PARA/DOX

The Culmination of the Centuries

"This is it." Victor muttered, his hand clasping around Sherlock's fingers so as to release all of his pent up anxieties. Sherlock looked quickly towards the bodyguard, unsure if this was really his intention, though he allowed it to continue. Sherlock's feelings for victor, if there were any at all, had been quickly dissolved the night before. Today's contact felt more brotherly than anything, as if Victor was reaching towards Sherlock for support, not necessarily for romance. John typed something into his remote, stepping back as the machine began to blink rapidly. Small beeps began to sound from its interior, reassuring beeps. Sherlock studied John, watching the scientist's face for any signs of distress. The man was nervous, his fingers were white and clawing at his own knuckles, though his face was as calm as he could force it. The machine seemed to take its time, though Sherlock was blind to the initial results. Suddenly the room burst into applause, their words overlapping so heavily that Sherlock imagined the whole room would explode from sound alone. John's face erupted into a smile; he bent over his knees in self-congratulation, though still Sherlock saw nothing. He looked towards Victor, towards the rest of the crowd. The box was glowing blue, steadily. Victor's head was craned towards the ceiling, staring at something that couldn't possibly be there.
"Victor, I don't see it." Sherlock whined, pulling at the man's sleeve so as to draw attention back to himself. The bodyguard chuckled, looking around in amazement before bringing his eyes blankly into Sherlock's general direction.
"And I can't see you." He admitted. "Sherlock, take your glasses off."
"Oh, right." Sherlock agreed. He pulled his glasses off anxiously, immediately stirring a conflict of interest within his eyes. His head began to pound in refusal, his eyes shifting back and forth with a great throbbing pain. It felt as if two slides were being passed across his corneas, as if his comprehension of the world was nothing more exciting than a slide projector. The world offered him a forest, a glittering green paradise with chestnut trees as high as the eye could see. Though his eyes were also insisting upon something much less tangible, flashes of light, flashes of white space, as if he was spiraling through a laboratory that had not yet been completed. His eyes with their own power saw one thing, whereas the machine competed with its own variation. Each of the time zones were suddenly competing for dominance, raging a battle in the front of his skull. Never before had the boy been stretched so thinly, with two pasts trying to cram into this present moment. His head didn't just ache; it felt as if it had exploded. The last thing he heard was John's voice, followed by a scream that was high pitched and almost embarrassing. He hadn't realized it was his own scream, his own voice, shattering through the tranquility of the present moment. His hands were wrapped around his head, his sunglasses fallen somewhere in the crowd and crushed under an expensive leather shoe. Sherlock fell too, he fell hard. First he leaned into the glass, his forehead bouncing off of the thick material before he recoiled and tumbled upon his bodyguard instead. Victor's head was still looking up towards the trees; he was admiring them as John promised to switch to a more modern scene, one that took place fifty years ago. Sherlock never saw fifty years ago, neither did Victor. The boy dragged across Victor's jacket, his body falling into the man's ankles as he shut his eyes tight and tried to keep them from throbbing. There was a heartbeat behind his skull, a deep drumming, an impossible rhythm to keep up with. There was too much, not even his fingers shoved over his eyes could keep the invading light from permeating into his pupils. He rolled onto his stomach, heaving, writhing, his long hair caught in his open mouth as it fell at odd angles around his face. The carpet tasted sour, it felt strange under his elbows, under his knees. Sooner or later it became too much, the pain climaxed into unconsciousness, and fifty years ago melted instead into darkness. 

Sherlock woke to darkness, the most immediate sensation he could feel was the groove of sunglasses upon his nose. His fingers began to twitch, the first and only part of his body he could move at the moment. The boy was lying flat upon an examination table, the same one he had been examined on during his first visit to the agency. His muscles ached, as if bruises had sprouted upon his limbs during the ruckus, and for the moment his arms and legs remained immobile. From the back of his skull he felt pressure, though that might be providing some relief. The pain must have moved, it must have relocated to at least allow him to regain consciousness. He was coming to very slowly, his ears beginning to pick up motion from a single corner of the room. Panic began to well in his chest, a sort of fear that was spawned by being completely helpless. He couldn't see the world around him; he couldn't comprehend what was going on. He knew he had sunglasses on, though he had never been met with a prescription so dark. Finally Sherlock shifted, met with the audible crackle of white paper. So it was a doctor's office of some sort. It had that smell in the air, that of disinfectant.
"What's going on?" Sherlock whispered, his voice coming out dry and shaky, his throat coated with dust and an insatiable thirst. His doctors must have recognized that tone, for as soon as Sherlock was able to sit up upon his elbows he felt a cup being tipped into his lips, a careful thumb easing gently upon his lower jaw. The water was cold and refreshing, bringing him back to life seemingly from the inside out.
"You're fine now." came a soothing voice, a familiar voice. Sherlock blinked, choking momentarily on the water and letting a couple of droplets dribble from his parted lips. The cup went away, the hand left his face. When Sherlock exhaled he could feel his breath being intercepted, as if the man who was tending him had not gone too far. There was a lingering presence before him, the same sensation he felt when he was trapped in the past and trying to avoid Moran in the present. He couldn't avoid what he couldn't see, though he knew there was a threat all the same.
"Doctor Watson, is that you?" Sherlock wondered quickly, twitching his foot to make sure he had mobility all the way down his leg.
"It's me." the man agreed carefully. "Sherlock, can you see me?"
"No. Why...why? Why can't I see you?" Sherlock exclaimed, suddenly recognizing that to be a very leading question. He felt his hand enveloped within another, his fingers cradled by the soft and familiar hands of his dearest Doctor.
"I can't explain it, Sherlock. I don't want to make conclusions too early."
"Doctor, have I gone blind?" Sherlock dared to ask. The man heaved a great sigh, his fingers tightening as if he was trying to ease the blow of his words.
"Like I said...I can't make conclusions."
"Oh my God." Sherlock muttered, flailing his hands more aggressively in the direction of the voice. "Oh my god." He repeated.
"Don't get worked up, it could be temporary. It could be...well it could be nothing to worry about."
"How can I not get worked up?" Sherlock exclaimed, grabbing fistfuls of the Doctor's stiff clothing before he could at least grab his arm. Sherlock wrapped his fingers anxiously, pulling the man as close as he could manage, pulling him in to serve as an anchor.
"Your eyes don't work like ours. The tests we usually run for these kinds of things may be inconclusive." John assured.
"You've run them?"
"We've tried."
"And..?" Sherlock exclaimed. John didn't respond, though that was enough of an answer to drop Sherlock's heart heavily into his stomach. They were conclusive, he could only imagine. According to those tests he had lost his sight.
"John, this wasn't supposed to happen here." Sherlock insisted. He worked his hands up towards the man's neck, holding it between his palms before looping his forearms in an awkward little hug. Sherlock was not sure what he was trying to accomplish, he wasn't sure if touching someone made up for his inability to see them. In some way it hurt him more, running his fingers across the line of John's hair without being able to decipher its exact shade of gold. The boy shuttered aggressively, though he relaxed into the outstretched arms of his Doctor. By some miracle it would seem as though John needed a hug as well.
"I don't know what I've done to you, Sherlock." Doctor Watson wailed, his arms wrapping stiffly across Sherlock's back, his fingers clawing across his shoulders as he pulled the boy closer. Sherlock had begun to cry, his tears wetting the Doctor's lab coat, his agony beginning to well up uncontrollably in his chest. He couldn't see...he couldn't see. His body was being held up by John's sheer strength, though as his limbs regained motion Sherlock was able to reposition, pulling himself onto his knees so as to fully lean his weight into the Doctor's chest. Together they cried, together they pulled, pulling the other so closely into their body that the two might have fused without proper interruption. Sherlock could hear the footsteps in the hall before the door had opened, an early warning that allowed him to rip his arms away from the Doctor and fall back upon the table where he had been originally placed. John cleared his throat, stepping away from the table and abandoning his patient where he lay. The door was opened, a familiar tread of footsteps raced to the bedside. Sherlock craned his neck; he looked towards where he could hear the panting breath above. There was the pressure of proximity upon his face, the hovering magnetism that warned him when someone's hands were so near. He couldn't feel any touch upon his cheeks, though there was something lingering close enough that a simple lean would collide him with the unknown, outstretched hands.
"Victor?" he presumed, not knowing anyone who would react so furiously to his lying blind on the table. Certainly Moriarty or Mr. Trevor would start throwing a temper tantrum before they rushed to his aid.
"I'm here, Sherlock I'm here." Victor's hands finally settled down upon him, fingers gripping his face fiercely as he leaned his body heavily into the table. Sherlock clasped at the wrists, working his fingers around the exposed skin underneath the sleeve of his jacket.
"Victor, you're hurt." John commented, interrupting the moment as he veered closer to the battered body guard. Sherlock tried to sit up, though Victor's hands held him down for the moment.
"Hurt?" Sherlock clarified. "How so?"
"It's nothing, don't worry about me." Victor assured, letting his fingers fall away all the while his arms were well constrained within Sherlock's grip.
"It's my job to worry about you." Sherlock pointed out.
"On the contrary, the situation is quite reversed." Victor protested, yanking his arms away and retreating towards the corner of the room. Sherlock heard the door close, a loud slam that startled him into a sitting position. His feet hung dangerously across the edge of the bed; though for all he knew it could be a precipice. His toes dangled, who knows how far the ground really was?
"Victor, sit in the chair." John demanded. The sound of cabinet hinges and cardboard containers led Sherlock to believe that the body guard needed some sort of medical aid, as if the situation was so serious. The boy groaned, pushing his fingers into his temples in an attempt to regain his vision manually. He wanted to see Victor; he wanted to see what had been done to him. Victor winced from where he sat, though John's cooing voice made it sound as if he was finally attending him.
"It'll sting, just hold still."
"Victor, what happened?" Sherlock demanded.
"I told you..."
"I can't see. Victor, tell me at least what I could have deduced with my own eyes!" Sherlock demanded. A pause from both parties. For the moment Sherlock couldn't even hear their sharp intakes of breath.
"He's...he's alright." John began. "His lip is bloodied, his eye is black. A cut upon his left cheekbone."
"Who did it?" Sherlock demanded. Victor sighed heavily, his fingers bouncing aggressively against the chair and his tongue kept safe behind his teeth. Sherlock jumped from the table, taking a leap of faith in hopes that the ground was not nearly as far as he imagined. His feet planted sooner than expected, his knees buckled and his weight shifted heavily. Sherlock was toppled off balance, caught almost immediately by a pair of strong arms which wrapped around his chest and eased him into an upright position.
"God da*n it Victor, who do you think you're protecting?" Sherlock growled, sneering in the direction he last remembered the man's voice to come from.
"I'm protecting you, Sherlock. Though it would appear I'm no good at that anyway."
"Don't say that, don't even think it. This isn't your fault." Sherlock insisted. Victor sighed, stretching his feet forward and tapping the heels of his dress shoes against the tile. John's arms shifted around Sherlock, trying to help him stand on his own. In all honesty Sherlock did not need a helping hand, his balance was centered and his feet were planted firmly. He merely liked the shoulder to lean on; he liked the firm hand that was spread along the small of his back.
"The administration doesn't see it that way." Victor sighed, at last breaking the silence that had begun to spread like an asphyxiating fog. "I told you to take off the sunglasses. I should've thought a bit more before just...just encouraging that behavior."
"If that's your contribution then I am equally to blame." John insisted.
"None of you are to blame; it's my eyes that are the problem! Or lack thereof." Sherlock sneered.
"They're still there, Sherlock. They're not damaged to the naked eye; in fact they're not damaged by any tests available." John assured quickly, as if he wanted to make sure Sherlock was not panicking for nothing.
"I'd go so far as to say they're damaged anyway. Due to the little problem that I can't see." Sherlock reminded him.
"Your sight may return. It may be a prolonged black out, the sort you get after staring at a flashlight, or into the sun." John suggested. Sherlock slumped into the familiar frame, feigning dizziness in an attempt to get nearer to the Doctor's calming voice. He pressed his shoulder against the man's chest, hanging a hand upon his forearm and clutching onto his starchy white sleeve.
"I hope so." Sherlock muttered.
"For all of our sakes." Victor agreed gruffly.