Three Is Company

Still Your Savior

Sherlock was seated in a chair, uncomfortably as his feet tapped upon the unfinished floor. It was a glimpse into the house that John had never had before, though the inside so shamefully reflected the exterior. Unkempt and dirty, just as it must have been under the reign of the elder Holmes. Sherlock was pulling his fingers individually, popping the knuckles with a satisfying yet anxious crack. His eyes scanned the room, looking back and forth as if expecting an eavesdropper to appear from the windows. He continually looked towards the stairs, as if his roommates would appear to interrupt.
"Sherlock's log. Monday." The man began. "I lost myself again last night. I'm not sure what I did, but when I woke I had lipstick on. I don't know...I don't know how that happened. It was applied, not stolen, but I'm still afraid. I don't know what I did, or if I had done this at all. I'm constantly afraid that I've accidentally invited someone into the house. Though this time I didn't panic, I searched the rooms myself. I found the lipstick tube stuck under Irene's door, but she must have left. Perhaps it was a practical joke. Perhaps she found me sleeping, and decided I might look prettier with a shade of red." Sherlock ran his fingers across his face, shaking his head as if he was going through a procession of greater evils. His figure was small, curled into himself with the armchair defending him from behind.
"I'm scared. I don't know who's in my head. I don't think...I don't think it's me." he admitted. "I want to remember, I want to remember."  With such a chant, the tape cut out. Perhaps snipped by its creator when the final strip had been played. John hastily shoved the next tape inside, still numb by the confessions, wondering how close Sherlock would get to the truth. He was beginning to speak in more rational terms, beginning to realize that his blackouts might be caused by someone other than himself. The next tape began to spin, the VCR beginning to whine its way to a play button. John pressed this just as anxiously, sitting on his knees within the back room, utterly disregarding the folding chair that might have been a more comfortable alternative.
"Sherlock's log, Tuesday. I watched Mary Watson take the baby for a walk. It's a silly thing to say, because the baby doesn't actually walk. She's just in that ridiculous stroller. I didn't say hello, because she was so afraid the last time, and I think she still is. When we were at the Watson's house she never looked me in the eyes. It's as if I'm a pestilence or something, as if she thinks my mental illness is contagious. I've never done a thing to harm her and yet she seems to treat me like a criminal. It's rude. I don't like her any longer. The child is pleasant, a little ugly, but reasonably so at that age. I wish I could get to know her a little better. I've heard that Catholic assign God parents, sort of like...like adopted parents. I wish I knew the child better so that I could be one of those. It sounds special. I want to be special to them." The tape went blank, replaced almost instantly with another. The confessions were not long, though they were potent. John felt with every word that he was gaining more and more insight, as if Sherlock was crouched behind him and whispering the words carefully into his ear. It was a fixation, a guilty pleasure.
"Sherlock's log, Wednesday." The man was sporting a black eye, pressing against it with what looked like a bag of frozen vegetables. "Today I quarreled in the grocery store and blacked out for a moment. When I came to I was lying across one of the benches, being tended to by Martha Hudson. She said I had gotten hit. I don't remember getting hit. The last thing I remember was getting angry with the cashier; because she said there was a limit on the coupons. It was silly, but it enraged me. She was...she was telling me what I couldn't do. Like she was controlling me. And I don't like being controlled. She had this look on her face, an absolute blank slate, a popping of bubble gum. She told me I had to put back one of my watermelons. I felt pressure rising, and then I blacked out. Martha said that a man in line behind me had spun me around and hit me square in the eye. The cashier was crying. I don't know what I said. I don't want to know. I think it must have been awful. I didn't like the way I felt today. I felt like I was being taken over, as if there was a sludge descending from my veins. Heating up, starting to boil. My temper is not what it used to be, and now supermarket disputes are pushing me over the edge. I'm afraid of myself. I don't want to go out again anytime soon. I hope the police are not called."
"Sherlock's log, Thursday. I'm inside, and I'm staying inside for as long as I can. Martha came to check on me, which was kind, but I didn't let her in. She came to deliver groceries that she went back and bought, my cart that was discarded after the feud. She said the police aren't going to get involved, which is generous. I'll live for another week, but I hope you'll come visit me for my session. I don't want to leave the house just yet. Other than that, everything is normal. I think I'll be a hermit again. I'll just watch the world from the window; I'll see how many Watsons I can spot in one day." Sherlock gave a smile to the camera, a solemn one, with his black eye glistening in the light of the window. Then he rose, the tape cutting off before he knees could even extend the proper length.
"Sherlock's log, Friday." The man was sitting askew on the chair, with his back pressed against the side and his legs dangling from the opposite armrest. His neck was unsupported, and as such was dangling precariously behind, the weight of his brain pulling his body ever farther towards the ground.
"I'm bored." He admitted with a groan, waving his hands into the air and wobbling dangerously. "I'm so bored. I haven't blacked out but I might prefer to at this rate. I've done all the crossword puzzles in the house. I've even cleaned Irene's dishes, which have been sitting out here for a week! She's a disgusting woman, always leaving just in time to pass her chores onto me. But at least it offered me something to do. When I'm not moving I'm sitting, thinking, and remembering things from my childhood. Yesterday as I was falling to sleep I remembered such a potent memory, one that in the moment I never thought I'd forget. I was wrong of course, because sitting in the dark it resurfaced for the first time since the occurrence. It was...well it was one of the last beatings I received from my father. I had tried one of his beers, stole the last few drops from the can he most recently discarded. It was disgusting, a foul concoction, but I received such a beating that I thought that was the day I would die. I still remember now, I remember the feeling of his hands against me. Pushing me, hitting me. Sometimes he would relax his wrist, pull his punches so as not to hurt me too badly, though that night he was determined. For some reason he thought that by hitting me he would 'save me' from the drink. He was always so afraid I'd turn out like him, as if somehow he realized that he had materialized into a rotten man. A cursed man. That was the first time in my childhood life that I had called out for help. It was the first time I actually wished for someone to come to rescue me, the first time I imagined that someone had arrived in my life to fill the position of savior. He had...well he had thrown me upon the floor. I was bleeding. I was broken. And I called out to John Watson. I drug my nails through the carpet and I tried to get to the window, to call out to my friend. I knew he had weapons, I knew he had baseball bats if nothing else. I yelled and yelled, until finally my father covered my mouth. He refused me to call out, but in my head I kept reciting the name. John Watson, John Watson...as if some seven year old would somehow be my salvation. I wanted him more than ever in that moment, just like I want him now. I'm not in danger from anyone but myself, but I still feel that I need his help in defending against that. Just like when we were younger I don't think he'll be of much use, but the mere presence of another person would help. I don't know how to ask. I don't think I will. But I feel that when I next wake from a blackout he'll be the first person I call to. I...I don't think I've been in the position to trust someone before. At least not someone who's paid to be my friend. I don't like assigning some heroic label onto John. I don't think he'll like to wear it. But I wonder if he won't be missed for an evening, or for the night. I wonder if he won't mind accompanying me in my battle against my mind, and keep me company when the darkness draws out the most pungent thoughts. I suppose those are my thoughts for the day. Embarrassing, I suppose. Needy and childish. But when I think things like that I can't help wonder if you were right, Reginald. Perhaps it is time to let someone in."