Three Is Company

Was That You?

Sherlock had not noticed the time, though by the way the short, exhausted figure of John Watson stumbled into the room he realized it must have been late. Late enough that John would be heavily inconvenienced by his child's cries. Sherlock froze, this time mechanically, not naturally. He pulled his face away from the window, hiding in his sphere of darkness, the availability to see while remaining unseen. He thought he was breathing, but by the way the glass eventually cleared, he was probably wrong. John pushed the mobile a couple of times, the cloth moons and stars that were hanging above the crib serving as a transfixion device. Supposedly the motion offered the baby some comfort; perhaps it even played a soothing song. Sherlock had never been allowed in the upper stories of that house, except when the room John was now standing in had belonged to him. When it was decorated with autographed baseballs and posters of race car drivers. When they would sit on his bed and go through decks of cards, searching for the rare faces that meant nothing to Sherlock but everything to John. Sherlock wondered how much the house had changed. John waited for some time, yawning with indignation. From here Sherlock could not tell what the child was doing, if finally she had shut up and nestled back to sleep. John answered that question by reaching into the crib and picking her up, momentarily exposing the rest of the dark house behind him. So the Watsons slept. Or rather one of them did. Sherlock finally exhaled again, though he anxiously wiped the moisture from the window so that he might still be able to observe. John began to bounce the baby within his arms, rocking her swaddled figure in his arms and muttering words unheard. Sherlock felt a pang of envy, though he realistically understood that he would never be offered the same care. He pushed his fingerprints softly against the wooden frame of the window, wanting a little pressure to go a long way. He wanted to push through the walls themselves, he wanted to fall into the lawn and topple over the fence between them. He felt that destruction was the only clear way to get into the Watson's domain, the front door now seeming to be too dangerous a threshold to cross. John was wandering, walking about the room as his face became more and more awake, his eyes more alert. Despite his bedclothes he looked as if he was in the prime of the daylight, and for a moment his face fell from that calming coo to a more disturbed, agitated look. Instead of trying to whisper to the baby he seemed to get lost in his own thoughts, and the moment his jaw set his gaze shot quickly to the window, as if he realized he was being watched. Sherlock didn't scurry away. He knew he was invisible, he knew that even as John's eyes trained directly towards him they would never see a thing. Sherlock was a part of the shadow now, as dark as the night sky and quite as neglected. Though he did press closer. He settled his waist against the window frame, leaning the whole of his weight against it, feeling the sting of the cold glass as his thin shirt tried to prevent the chill from touching against his chest. John didn't know that they were making eye contact, though Sherlock held it indefinitely. He held it sternly. He lavished in the idea, just the chance, that John was thinking about him. It was enough to get high on. Sherlock moved like a man possessed, though he suddenly realized that he wanted to be seen. He wanted to use this evening as a moment, if not one of touch then at least one of recognition. Sherlock's hand strayed towards the lamp, easing his body away from the window as he extended his long, delicate fingers towards the dangling chain of his solitary lightbulb. He wanted light, he wanted visibility. Sherlock pulled it, spurring the room into illumination. Pulling himself not only out of the darkness, but out of his solitude as well. From this angle John Watson could see it all. The man on the other side of the window seemed moved; suddenly he jumped, as if each nerve was reacting with a delayed response. In his arms the baby began to squirm, as if his grip had suddenly tightened. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, reopening them as soon as he convinced himself to face the man he had so deliberately set up as his witness. He bit down upon his lips, clenching his jaw until at last he felt blood. He stared; he stared so fiercely that he might have punctured a hole in the glass that separated them. He wanted to be closer, though he must ultimately settle for this short distance, this delighted visibility. If he couldn't be touched Sherlock at least wanted to be noticed, he wanted to be seen. Though with this eye contact, something which seemed so magical in the moment, his world began to change. John's body began to flicker, back and forth with the rest of the world, as if spots in a roll of film were beginning to burn away. It felt like the aftermath of a head injury, as if his skull had been smacked by a bottle, or by a palm. The world was spinning, though his body still somehow regained control. Gravity was ever present, gravity never changed. And yet the world was flip flopping, betraying itself, fighting itself. John blinked here and away again. His window morphed, the lights blinked out, and then he appeared again. Sherlock stared at his reflection in the mirror, and then promptly lost it. Sherlock saw himself once, then again with his fingers in the buttons of his shirt. He saw himself again, with his shirt hanging open. Again, bare chested. His consciousness was blinking on and off, small spaces of time flashing as if by a hazardous strobe. He couldn't remember his actions; he could only remember waking into them. He could only remember staring at himself with as much surprise as the last time. Something was taking him over. Something was prompting him. Sherlock stumbled forward into the window, finally breaking eye contact with his neighbor across the way. He wanted to regain his consciousness, though it would seem that John's mere presence was discouraging that simple pleasure. Sherlock fell into the window pane, his bare shoulders sliding across the glass. Darkness, and then the floor. Darkness, and then the ceiling. Darkness, and a wonderful feeling. Sherlock kicked against the dresser, he rolled as far under the bed as his body would allow. He struggled and fought with a sinister presence who did not have a name, did not have a body. He was grappling with someone inside of his very head, like a man fighting for control with a demon. Perhaps this was so simple as that, a possession? The presence of the Devil in his house would not come as a surprise. Musgrave had defined the state he was in as a manic episode. Sherlock was at least conscious to recognize it for its true state, its true form. He recognized the symptoms, just as the Doctor had promised. The bridge between reality and insanity was growing ever smaller, as if they were now divided by a mere footstep. His body was shaking, his body had lost control. Dark, light, on, off, here, there, Sherlock, stranger. Though he had never had the hallucinations. He had never envisioned a savior, this was the first time that a shape had appeared in his head. A welcomed and familiar shape, as if his brain, even in its worst moments, wanted to conjure a peaceful thought. John Watson seemed so real, so real, as his fingers grasped upon Sherlock's shoulders, digging his nails into the bare skin as he dragged his neighbor's heaving body out from its hiding spot. Sherlock must have been carrying himself; he must have been struggling on his own. The man that hoisted him onto his lap, it could only be an illusion. Sherlock was sane enough to rationalize this; he had found a bench, a pillow, something which would have elevated him to the appropriate level. The arms which were wrapping around his chest, the hands which were taking formation across his back, the five fingers pressed around the cornerstone of his spine. Falsified. Rationalized. Manic. Even the voice which called to him now must have been far away, words which were muttered in John's head on the other side of the fence, not yelled from his lips just spaces away. Echoes, memories. Sherlock's eyes were hardly focusing, though in their wobbling he could not properly convince himself that he saw his savior. This must have been a dream. This was where the darkness took him.
"Sherlock!" the voice was calling. Patting against his cheek, fingers against his neck. "Sherlock, wake up!"
"Not...you." Sherlock managed, dispelling the hallucination before he began to trust it. Perhaps this was how the creatures of his mind were prepared to bait him. Perhaps they were waiting for him to embrace the idea of John Watson, to play off the last strand of hope he had. To crush even the idea of his neighbor would ultimately erase the last chance of survival Sherlock had. The last chance of connection he ever dared to create.
"I'll call the paramedics." John's voice decided, a strange assortment of words, ones that Sherlock couldn't recall hearing before. How could he have constructed those words in his mind?
"You'll what?" Sherlock whispered, his lips barely opening to form the words.
"I said I'll call the ambulance!" John repeated, louder this time, positioning his face in front of Sherlock's, trying to allow the vibrations of his urgency to rattle across the man's skull. Sherlock blinked. Darkness, for a moment.
"You're blinking." Sherlock admitted.
"Sherlock?" John repeated. "Are you Sherlock?"
"I'm..." Sherlock breathed carelessly. "Are you John?" he asked in return.
"Good, good. Alright. Sherlock, stay with me. You have to stay with me." John debated.
"Are you John?" Sherlock demanded again.
"Yes, I'm John." the man assured. More familiar now. Feeling more solid.
"I don't think you are."
"Why not? Who else would I be?" John demanded. He gave Sherlock's body a small shake, allowing the limp limbs to begin trembling. Sherlock hung his head back upon the lap which held him, feeling the quivering of the human body against the back of his skull. It felt real enough. It was a feeling of comfort he could not have created on his own, simply because he had no means of imitating such small, delicate details. He had not yet been held. Not like this.
"My brain. Tricks." Sherlock whispered.
"I'm not tricking you." John assured with a little laugh. Sherlock was still blinking, though that smile stayed longer in his mind than the rest. Those white teeth, spread in joy, in care, they stayed stuck in time even when the rest of the man began to move again. He animated right around the stuck feature, the smile Sherlock did not want to forget so soon.
"You came to save me?" Sherlock clarified.
"Yes. Though I don't know what I'm supposed to be saving you from." John admitted. "You're scaring me, Sherlock. I'm afraid we're losing you."
"Did you call the ambulance?" Sherlock whispered.
"Not yet." John insisted, readjusting his grip as his fingers continually slipped across Sherlock's slippery skin. His fingers could notch within the bones, exposed grip holds that the skeleton provided. And yet even they could not be held forever.
"Don't." Sherlock whispered. "They can't help me any more than you can."
"I doubt that. I don't know much about medicine. Nothing about mental health." John insisted.
"You know what to do." Sherlock assured. "You know to do this."
"This?" John clarified. Sherlock gave a low hum, finding that his deepest vocal chords still had the ability to speak their mind. He relaxed his body, commanded it to stop shivering. He stretched across John's legs, bending his back most uncomfortably over his neighbor's body and pushing his hands against the soft shoulders which held him. Fleece pajamas, a comforting detail.
"To hold me." Sherlock clarified. "I've never...well I never knew it could be so effective."
"I'm glad it is." John admitted, giving another nervous chuckle. "You collapsed."
"I didn't realize." Sherlock breathed.
"You were under the bed." John clarified.
"Hiding." Sherlock admitted, as if that was supposed to be obvious. John's features were coming back into focus. His face was starting to move fluently, as a whole, as a unit. He was beginning to smile with all of his teeth, with all of his wrinkles. His skin was obeying, his eyes were blinking. His eyes were sparkling. Sherlock felt a tear beginning to sting his own eyes; he felt the eruption of a sob coming forward. Could this be true? Could this animate, solidified version of John Watson really have come to his rescue? Could it be that the one man he wished so desperately for had really arrived to hold him, to act upon his wishes? To save him from himself? It was a feeling of relief Sherlock had not yet known. It was a certain liberation, free from the doubts that had begun to grow within his head. John was here, wasn't he? John did care. Sherlock began to push his fingers against John's face, feeling his way around his cheeks, getting a grip across his jaw bone. He messaged his fingers deeply into the ruts of the man's skull, into his temples, underneath his hair. Sherlock was feeling for details he would never have known, having always been separated by a practical, platonic distance. He had never been allowed to explore the crevices and imperfections of his childhood friend.
"Are you feeling better?" John wondered, never pulling away, never easing his grip. Sherlock gave a weak smile in return. John's skin was beginning to glow, beginning to look angelic. Perhaps he was on the verge of another blackout; perhaps he had to act fast. Sherlock could feel his heartbeat returning, he could feel that his breath was beginning to act upon his wishes. He could see, breathe, and feel the ways he wanted. His body was his again, and at the moment there was only thing he wanted to do with it. He felt there was no other use. Sherlock grabbed harder onto John's head, he used it to pull himself up, to pull himself closer. His spread his fingers alongside the sides of John's face, digging his palms into his cheek bones, capturing his ears and the short, stubby tufts of hair between his fingers. Sherlock opened his mouth, he captured John's sharp exhale, and with one last exertion of effort forced his lips overtop of the other pair. The only other pair, as the world would have it. As the fates would allow it. From there he did not know what to do. From there he could not find a further avenue to take. And so he held it, he held it as long as he could. His open mouth, absorbing as much of John's face as he could take in. His sturdy palms, holding the two faces together. His beating heart, beginning to sound more and more familiar. John was the one to move away, perhaps realizing that Sherlock would be mute and motionless, trapped within his inexperienced kiss, for as long as he would be allowed. John was the one to wrench his lips away, tilting his head so that he could still remain in the grip, their foreheads pressed together instead of their mouths. He was wordless, as expected. Each one of his breaths was immediately stolen. Sherlock held the taste of his lips upon his tongue. It was dark again, he was shaking again, and though Sherlock felt sturdily cemented into himself. He knew that, despite John's reaction, he would have possession of his own body. John didn't respond in words. Instead he responded by repositioning the man upon his lap. He didn't push him away, as Sherlock had first expected. He didn't shove the trembling body off of him, planting a kick, calling the police, calling his wife. Instead he took a sharp breath, collected his hands around Sherlock's torso, and pulled the man up to face him. Sherlock was forced to comply, to contort himself so as to properly fit where he was assigned. He was posed like a doll, with his legs arranged around John's waist, with his ankles curled behind the man's back. His hands stayed positioned, his hands stayed firm where they were. He would not so quickly let John slip from his grasp; he wanted to feel the exact moment when this solid figure disappeared into smoke. But so long as the illusion stayed he was allowed to enjoy it. He was allowed to feel when another kiss was pressed to his lips, this one intentional, this one offered instead of given. A closed mouth affair, with tight lips and clenched teeth. Sherlock could feel John's heartbeat against his own chest; he could feel a rhythm that felt remarkably similar to his own. Could it be real? Should it be real? Sherlock didn't care. At the moment he couldn't care. He played along. He mimicked what he had seen. He opened his mouth against John's lips again; he licked his tongue across as much salty skin as he could reach. He didn't know what to do, he just did what felt right. At what felt right was some form of devouring. It was what they did in Irene's tapes. It was what made sense at the moment. How could one be intimate, how could one express what he was feeling at the moment? How could he keep this moment lasting, progressing, until he had John Watson at his side and in his home, in his bed and around his finger? What did he want from this night if not eternity?
"Sherlock?" John whispered against his lips, persuading the man to slow down, persuading him to finally keep his mouth shut and to himself.
"What?" Sherlock responded, in an equally frightful voice, as if he spoke to loud they would be caught within the empty house.
"Was that you?" John clarified. Sherlock's hands slid back to his side, balancing precariously upon the trembling knees of his neighbor. The question was confusing him, though he felt he knew the answer all the same.
"It was me." Sherlock agreed. "I'm...I'm not sorry." He nodded in defiance at this point, trying to stay firm with his agreement with himself. He wasn't afraid of the consequences, nor would he regret having to face them. He recognized this moment, this waking up. Sherlock saw John's eyes sparkle in that same realizing way. John was returning to the real world. To the real, married world.
"You don't have to be." John admitted, easing Sherlock comfortably back onto the floor as he rose shaking to his feet. For a moment he was quiet, running his hand through his hair and turning small circles around the floor. He glanced towards the window across the way, still illuminated. John realized that he could be seen from his house, seen by his child.
"I have to go." John declared, his voice trembling as if he had just woken from a most startling dream. The words pierced Sherlock's skin individually. Four wounds working their way deeply into his skin, festering into sores.
"I won't tell anyone!" Sherlock promised, jumping to his feet in return, collecting the saliva that had been running down his lips like a wild animal. "I won't even tell Musgrave."
"I...I have to go." John repeated again, as if he could not spare another word. He kept his head down, his eyes averted. It would appear that he couldn't face what he had just done, nor who he had just kissed. A married man. A dangerous situation. Sherlock followed John's retreating back to the door, he raced on bare feet across the splintered wood, his footprints pounding with twice his weight. One half was his hallowed body, the other was the mounting guilt. The more John averted eye contact the heavier it became, until by the time they reached the stairs Sherlock was in danger of breaking through the floor itself.
"John, John!" Sherlock demanded, forcing his voice throughout the house, regardless of what his roommates would hear. "I won't tell a soul!"
"I know! I trust you!" John was already down the stairs, turning to face his companion and leaning heavily upon the banister. His eyes looked wild, his face looked pale. Sherlock might have recognized the indentations upon the man's mouth, he might have recognized the signature of his own lips.
"I shouldn't have done that." John muttered, shaking his head and flexing his fingers into a claw. The banister took the worst of it, getting stuck with John Watson's pointed fingernails.
"You had to." Sherlock insisted weakly. "I had to."
"Perhaps." John whispered, backing slower down the stairs, back towards the door which was already open. A hallucination retreating back into this fading dream. "Perhaps." He repeated again, and was gone.