PARA/DOX

The Time Martyr

Sherlock had expected the unveiling of the time machine to be bigger news than it was. In fact he had expected the international leaders to be at their doorstep, begging to be part of the grand event. On the contrary the invention was being treated as anything less than nuclear, the conversations were hushed and secretive as if people were afraid even to discuss. As the date of its final product began to roll around the halls were filled with applications. Of course Sherlock couldn't read the signs for himself, though he began to notice the sound of paper fluttering against the plaster as he walked swiftly by, a sound that indicated something being advertised quite aggressively. Sherlock had managed to steal one, ripping it off the wall outside of his room, and it was this flier that Victor now read as Sherlock sat perched in his desk chair with a tarp laid out across his shoulders. One of the scientists also happened to be a barber, and when Sherlock had gone to Moriarty demanding to be let out into the world for a haircut his answer had been short and affirmative. They could make do with what they had, keeping their precious materials and their precious secrets safe inside of their compound. And so, as Sherlock heard the snipping of the scissors drawing dangerously close to his ears, Victor serenaded them with the reading of the brochure.
"Volunteers needed for the first trip into the past." Victor began. "Any man or woman who wishes to be a part of the first experimental trip to 1950 will be compensated, and ensured with a one million dollar life insurance guarantee. Contact Doctor Moriarty for more information."
"You'd have thought they chose their travelers beforehand." Sherlock commented. "I would think that one of the scientists would be dying to go."
"That's the thing, Mr. Holmes." The barber interrupted, his gruff voice sounding almost threatening at such a proximity. "Dying is the key word. We all know it's a suicide mission, and so does the agency. That's why they're offering the insurance, to satisfy the family after they're gone."
"It can't possibly be that dangerous. John's an able minded man; surely he's got it figured out." Sherlock protested. He couldn't see the hair that was falling from his head, though by the noise of the locks hitting the tarp he could feel that they were heavy and long. This came as no surprise, in fact he had requested to be put back to normal.
"No one doubts Doctor Watson; we just doubt the ever lasting impression of a test run. Not everyone wants to be smeared across the time lines, with some part ending up in the fifties and the rest staying planted where you last stood. It's hellish." The barber complained.
"Well if that's the general opinion why are they even bothering? Why not send some ferrets to the fifties instead?" Sherlock pointed out.
"Yes of course we'll do that first. In fact I think they're already working with the mice. But this is a machine for humans, and until we can safely transport humans we're never quite finished."
"It's a brave business." Victor commented. "I should like to know who signs up."
"Those without a family, I suspect." The barber suggested.
"That's about half of us. We'll have to narrow it down more than that." Sherlock scoffed.
"You'd be surprised at how many have something to lose." The barber admitted gruffly. He shifted around towards Sherlock's bangs, beginning to snip away as he tried to position his legs in careful juxtaposition with Sherlock's knees. Victor ruffled the magazine he was reading, almost in a warning manner, as if he was daring that barber to get any closer than necessary.
"I wonder who will be the first to volunteer." Sherlock muttered.
"I heard some have already put their names down. Those who have nothing to lose, those who want to end up with their names on a plaque one way or another." The barber admitted.
"I don't think I want to watch that. I can imagine it getting bloody." Victor grumbled.
"It's history, one way or another. Doctor Watson has been dragging us all into the next century, single handedly and at a speed that's almost impossible to comprehend. The man's either a genius or a time traveler himself."
"I'd say he's a genius." Sherlock agreed, trying to steer away from the latter guess. It was almost frightening how close this rambling barber had gotten to the truth.
"He's doing calculations that he invented himself. In two years he made up his own mathematics." The barber pointed out.
"It's a legacy we can't hope to compete with." Victor muttered, knowing too much about the flash drive to be thoroughly impressed with the Doctor's work ethic.
"Yes well, it's a shame. I think I heard he wants to be the first to go back."
"What?" Sherlock exclaimed, his entire body writhing. The barber made a noise of disappointment, as if his scissors had slipped and cut at the wrong angle on behalf of all that movement. "What do you mean 'go back'?"
"What else could I mean? He wants to be the first to test the machine." The barber clarified, looking surprised to hear such shock in his client's voice.
"That's ridiculous! I mean...he could...Victor!" Sherlock whined, yanking his head away from the man's grip so that he could glare blindly to where victor was last heard.
"What are you looking for me for?" Victor defended, unable to use the phrase perfectly as Sherlock's gaze was not entirely settled upon him.
"Mr. Holmes, it'll help if you keep still." The barber suggested.
"What do I care, I won't see it anyway." Sherlock grumbled, throwing the tarp off of his shoulders and pushing past the scientist in an attempt to find his cane.
"Sit back down, Sherlock, at least finish with your hair cut!" Victor defended. Sherlock was halted by a pair of strong hands latching onto his shoulders, ones which would not yield no matter how much wiggling he attempted.
"John's going to kill himself, and he didn't even ask me?" Sherlock whined, flailing his arms helplessly and making a fool of himself. Occasionally he hit solid things, once Victor's head (intentional) and once the dresser (unintentional). Eventually Sherlock recognized that he would not be allowed to escape, at least not until all of his hair was cut to the same length. At the moment he could feel long strands escaping from the top of his head, covering the shorter hair which had begun to curl even more furiously at the bottom of his head. He would look like some sort of hairy root vegetable if he escaped now, and that humiliation was enough to settle him down into his chair and quiet himself. He could interrogate John any time, though if he was spotted looking so horrific his words may not mean anything at all. Sherlock was still fuming as he felt the tarp being wrapped around his shoulders, tucked closely into his chin so that the stray hairs did not get lost within the inside of his shirt.
"Why would John so readily sacrifice himself? Surely Moriarty won't let him...I mean his brain is so much more valuable than anything we have." Sherlock protested, trying think of more rational defenses than his own personal deflection. He couldn't just rant about his love connection, not without word traveling back to Mr. Trevor. Certainly the man had already insisted the barber disclose anything he heard within that room; he might have fitted the man with a wire.
"Don't ask me to explain it. Perhaps he wants his legacy to be even greater. A time martyr." The barber suggested.
"He's just an idiot! If he dies I'll...well I'll make sure no one remembers his name."
"Now Sherlock, really. Don't be so childish." Victor complained.
"It'll serve him right! Waltzing off and killing himself will be no help to anyone." Sherlock snarled. "That's selfish, so terribly selfish."
"I'm not a fan of it myself. The man is invaluable. But it's his life, and I don't think anyone's allowed to tell him what to do with it." the barber shrugged.
"Ridiculous." Sherlock grumbled, twisting his fingers anxiously underneath the plastic tarp and considering all the ways he was going to sabotage John's life mission. If it came down to breaking the machine or even the Doctor's legs he would be willing. There was something more valuable than a reputation, and perhaps John still had yet to discover that. Just as soon as his haircut was finished Sherlock ran his hand once across his head, feeling lightweight and naked without the length of long curls to message. The curls felt springy and short again, the sort of hair he had before the agency had scooped him into their cold, dead arms. In some ways the new haircut reminded him of better times, though in other ways it felt like a rude mockery of his current situation. This was a free man's haircut, designed and styled within his makeshift prison. Victor tipped the barber out of his own pocket, being the polite gentleman to make up for Sherlock's lack of a solid 'thank you'. As soon as the scissors were dropped onto the counter Sherlock tore off his glasses, thankful to see the familiar white walls. Perhaps his vision was going back a week, maybe decades, but either way the doors were the same. Through this method alone Sherlock could find his way, even without finding his walking stick or accepting help from his companions. The boy broke from the room and started into a run, yelling occasionally to warn people to get out of his way. It was a straight shot from his room to the laboratories, though he was blind to the pedestrians that might be getting in his way. At this pace he was bound to hit something, and occasionally he felt the solid thunks of his shoulder colliding with someone else's, he even hit his toe off of what sounded like a metal cart. Despite the various roadblocks Sherlock arrived into the laboratory fast enough to make a grand appearance, throwing open the doors to where he assumed his Doctor might be hiding. There was a metallic humming in the air, a soft chorus of beeps and soft metal collisions. The scientists were hard at work, though that did not stop Sherlock from making a scene.
"Doctor Watson, is he here?" Sherlock demanded, his voice ringing across the empty walls loud enough to bring their work to a standstill. "John Watson?" Sherlock repeated after figuring he had the attention he needed.
"I'm here." John announced, his voice getting closer even throughout the minimalistic syllables. He was walking forward.
"Can I have a word with you?" Sherlock wondered, his eyes scanning uselessly, trying to spot a man within an empty laboratory, one which must have bene converted into a workspace more recently than imagined.
"Yes of course." John agreed, his voice now close enough that Sherlock could reach out to touch him. Sherlock nodded, grabbing at the air in an attempt to clutch onto his shoulder. When that failed he merely turned, finding the door handle and letting himself into the hallway.
"Aer there people here?" Sherlock wondered, looking helplessly around towards the milling doctors who were wearing ugly white trainers and sporting large, curly up dos. The eighties, presumably. Though the traffic of the last century did not necessarily reflect that of today.
"Yes, some." John agreed, his voice hushed as if he did not want to associate with this secrecy.
"Can we go somewhere private?" Sherlock suggested.
"What's so urgent?" John wondered, elements of nervousness sparking along his tensed words. Sherlock sighed heavily, pulling his hand across his neck and forgetting there was nothing there to cling to. Instead he just collided his fingernails painfully against his skin, wincing at the effort.
"I don't want to make a scene, but I fear I'm going to start yelling." Sherlock warned. John hummed his understanding, despite the apparent confusion that continued to build in his voice.
"We could go to a bathroom or something." he recommended.
"A broom closet, perhaps?" Sherlock suggested.
"That'll just look like we're having an affair." John pointed out in a weak, defensive tone.
"Who says we're not?" Sherlock growled, grabbing for the Doctor's arm and rejoicing when he at least hit something solid. This thing turned out to be John's chest, though with some maneuvering Sherlock was able to snatch up the lapel of his uncomfortable white lab coat. For some time he dragged the Doctor down the hall, in some cases passing right through some of the ghostly scientists who passed within his vision. The opportunity arrived when Sherlock turned the knob of one of the janitorial closets, shifting around and nearly shoving the Doctor in through the open door. He didn't know how many witnesses there were, nor did he care. Let them talk. Let Mr. Trevor sweat.
"Sherlock, this is a bit shady." John warned. After a moment he heard the sound of a metal cord being pulled, presumably to illuminate the hanging lightbulb above. Well of course it made no difference to Sherlock, in the past the closet was dark, no different than being blind in the present. It was slightly better to live without his glasses, though Sherlock still felt lost. The whole closet smelled like disinfectant, and as Sherlock tried to place himself within the room he had to kick plastic buckets and mop heads.
"Yes, it's better if it is. Better because I don't want anyone witnessing me smacking you on the head!" Sherlock exclaimed, taking as best aim as he could and flailing his hand stupidly in front of him. Thankfully he made contact, though without the knowledge of when to increase his strength his fingers just bounced harmlessly across John's face, as if it was never his intended target.
"Wow, okay." John muttered. "What did I do to deserve that?"
"My barber said you were first on the list to travel back to nineteen fifty?" Sherlock snarled. There was silence, guilty silence if Sherlock had ever heard such a thing. The Doctor hesitated, shuffling his feet across the bare floor as if he was trying to think of an appreciated response.
"Right, yes. About that." John murmured.
"About that...no, I'm not giving you time to think about it! I refuse to let you go." Sherlock insisted.
"What makes you think I'm looking for your permission? I'm a grown man; I'm allowed to pioneer a little bit." John defended.
"It's a suicide mission." Sherlock pointed out.
"It's my own machine! I don't intend to kill anyone, least of all myself!" John exclaimed. "Since when did you not trust me?"
"Since now! Since...since twenty minutes ago! John, you're smoking crack!"
"We're strictly drug tested here."
"Then I'm surprised they didn't pick up on it." Sherlock snarled. "John, you're the brain behind the whole operation, why are you so willing to risk it?"
"I'm not the brain, your flash drive is the brain."
"Which you wrote! John, it's been you this whole time! I thought we agreed on that?" Sherlock pointed out. The Doctor faltered, his words of aggression staying put within his helpless lips. For a moment he must have been flattered, though his anger quickly returned.
"Well then it'll all be there for me when I get back. And if I don't get back, well, then it'll be there for someone else." John insisted.
"Don't do this as some sort of publicity stunt. Half of you is going to go back to the fifties, the other half will be here, severed, bloody." Sherlock snarled. "It'll be a disaster."
"I trust my machine!"
"Well I don't!" Sherlock exclaimed, allowing his truth to be told as bluntly as possible. "I don't trust anything if it puts your life on the line."
"It's not your job to protect me." John defended.
"It's a self-assigned position." Sherlock snapped in response, ensuring their passionate exchange was never mistaken as such. Best to keep the tone hostile, just to ensure they weren't trapped in a closet with tears in their eyes. For a moment the Doctor fumed, either trying to get himself collected or trying to figure another rude compliment to start throwing. It was a strange exchange, one that might have best been left where it was. Sherlock could feel his own anger diminishing into something much more vulnerable, and the longer he stayed in the dark, listening to the breaths of John Watson, the longer he debated doing something they'd both ultimately regret.
"Sherlock, I can make my own decisions." John pointed out, his voice shaking as he tried to make it as serious as he could manage.
"And what, you're going to leave this all behind? Say it works, in some miracle world. Say you survive. How do I get you back?" Sherlock whispered, drawing his arms over his chest as if to hide his now open heart.
"It's...well it's not quite figured out yet. But Sherlock, it's the chance of a lifetime, it's my dream. It's always been my dream."
"What, to be in the cold war?" Sherlock snarled.
"To be the first to travel time." John admitted. "God, it's what I've worked for my entire career. I want to do this, ever since I was a boy. Ever since I first found out about your brother."
"Hasn't...hasn't anything convinced you to stay?" Sherlock muttered in return, his voice suddenly cracking with the very emotion he was trying to hide. He couldn't hear John breathing. It sounded as if the Doctor had suddenly died on his feet, as if his heart had skipped so many beats he might not remember how to start the rhythm up again.
"To stay here? In this time period?" John wondered, trying to spit out a response and answer a question with a question. It was excellent deflection, though it wouldn't work.
"In this time period. In this agency. In this closet, if you'd like." Sherlock whispered.
"Well um...well there's always been some stigma about leaving one of those." John chuckled.
"I'm well acquainted with that very problem." Sherlock assured.
"Oh ya...time traveling?"
"Closets. And coming out of them."
"Sherlock, dare I say you're flirting with me?" John shivered.
"I'm convincing you." Sherlock corrected. "I'd convince you a bit more if I could find your face."
"It's uh..." John hesitated, his voice catching nervously. "It's getting a bit late."
"Well that's rude." Sherlock protested.
"It's the truth. They'll be wondering where I got to." John defended.
"John Watson, you monster! I'm still in the middle of something!"
"Just uh...just put it on hold, perhaps?" John suggested. "I've got a machine to perfect."
"Put it on hold, my lord I'll just about..." Sherlock growled, figuring there was no use in trying to hit the man any longer. He was too humiliated to finish his sentence, instead he shuffled along to the side of the closet, his back colliding with a firm metal structure, one suitable enough for hiding.
"Sherlock just...just put it on hold." John repeated, touching the boy once upon the shoulder as if to resonate any of his apologies. Well of course Sherlock couldn't study his face, he couldn't read the man's emotions even if he wanted to delve so deep in the disappointment. Instead the boy cowered closer to the cleaning products, hissing in disgust as he heard the closet door open and eventually shut. He was left in the dark, as he would have preferred. Even though the bulb was still shining Sherlock was plagued with infinite night, the proper mood lighting for the oncoming wave of crippling defeat.