Three Is Company

Guests Are Not Burdens

Despite his better intentions, Sherlock fell to sleep. Though there seemed to be no danger in the place he had intended on staying alert throughout his first couple of hours, and when he woke at four o'clock he felt a deep unsettling feeling, as if he had had another blackout throughout his dreams. But no, he was asleep where he had last settled himself, the suitcase still settled where it had laid before his consciousness abandoned him. Perhaps the clock was wrong, set to misguide him on how long he had actually allowed himself to sleep. Sherlock groaned as he pulled himself into a sitting position, pushing his shoes into the tense fibers of the carpet. Untouched, unused. It was a strange place, felt as if it was only just put together. Perhaps it had been an office, perhaps a bathroom. Perhaps Musgrave had spent the past couple of days remodeling for this exact purpose. Despite the clock's nefarious intentions Sherlock still remembered his Doctor's orders. He was to come downstairs when he woke, no matter the hour. And while lunch may not be prepared, perhaps dinner was soon approaching. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he ate a proper meal, for those flaky crackers had only seemed to make him more hungry. Slowly he approached the door, trying the handle to see that it thankfully gave way to his grip. Quietly Sherlock started down the stairs, retracing the path towards the door in an attempt to find the kitchen. When he arrived at the base of the steps he found that the sun had already set, and while the curtains were pulled back there still seemed to be an excess of darkness absorbing what little light was produced by the lamps. Musgrave himself was sitting on the couch, his back settled against one of the armrests and his legs extended across the rest of the cushions. He wasn't wearing his normal suit and tie, but instead a flannel shirt and what appeared to be a matching set of pajama pants. He looked obscenely normal, with a book in his hands and a reading lamp positioned over his shoulder. Even his hair had been tousled, released from the thick product that kept it tamed on the back of his head. Sherlock stood for a moment on the bottommost stair, hesitant to approach the creature he suddenly didn't recognize. Was this some sort of parallel universe, where the Doctor's face looked increasingly aged, where his clothing looked soft instead of starched? Where his circular glasses reflected not harsh judgement, but instead the soft orange glow of the lamps which surrounded him?
"You're awake." Musgrave commented, pushing a bookmark between the folds of his novel and setting it aside.
"You're wearing flannel." Sherlock replied, an equally obvious observation. Musgrave chuckled, getting to his feet and switching off the rather harsh reading lamp. Instead he turned on the overhead lights, offering the room at least a consistent glow as opposed to the scattered lamps which illuminated only comers.
"Everyone deserves to relax once in a while, yes?" Musgrave presumed. "I can't live in my suits, though I might have tried in the beginning of my career."
"I'd almost prefer if you did." Sherlock admitted, retreating up another step as Musgrave moved past him and into the kitchen.
"I hope you like soup. I figured a chicken noodle soup would be just the thing. They says it heals the body, but I think the mind might also be within its realm of influence."
"I like soup." Sherlock agreed. "Though I didn't know it had any powers like that."
"It's an old wives' tale."
"I've never had one of those."
"No, I suppose you haven't." Musgrave chuckled. He passed through the dining room, which was only a small table with four chairs scattered depressingly about. From the papers on the table Sherlock could tell that only one chair was ever occupied. Despite his charm and character, Musgrave was undeniably a bachelor. The man went towards the stove, pulling the lid off of a large blue pot and stirring it a couple of times, smacking the wooden spoon against the rim with a loud, aggressive bang.
"Sit down, Sherlock. I'll get you a bowl." Musgrave assured. Sherlock nodded, not knowing what else to do but follow instructions. While he knew this wasn't a therapy session, he still felt that he was supposed to be on his best behavior. He felt there might be a punishment in store if he didn't follow his instructions to the tee. Sherlock settled himself into the chair across from Musgrave's supposed place setting, clearing aside some of the papers and making gently stacks on either side of him. Some of the papers seemed to be notes about other patients, while others were pages seemingly torn from books, accompanied by a healthy dose of newspaper clippings. The entire table seemed to be a collage, and from what Sherlock could tell it all seemed to be discussing psychological anomalies.
"Patient notes?" Sherlock presumed. Musgrave hummed, seemingly occupied by pouring bowls of soup without spilling a drop. Every so often the ladle would hit off of the bowl or the pot, though aside from this his actions were entirely silent.
"None on you." The man admitted at last, only seeming to recognize the comment as he turned towards Sherlock and began to walk the bowls carefully towards their appropriate settings.
"You don't take notes on me?" Sherlock wondered.
"Of course I take notes on you, but I had the sense to hide them before you came downstairs. I don't have any need for you to start challenging my professional opinions." Musgrave explained. Sherlock nodded, though he didn't quite understand what he was agreeing to. He didn't like the idea of secrets, especially when the Doctor's notes should be nothing more than observations of their time spent together. Was his psychological analysis so convoluted that it had to be kept secret from the brain which housed it?
"Do you think I'm crazy?" Sherlock wondered, staring into the steaming bowl of soup which had been placed before him. It looked homemade, in fact it looked delicious. Though Sherlock couldn't bring himself to eat, at least not until the Doctor took the first sip. Was that paranoid? Perhaps. Though this whole affair felt strangely fabricated, as if the soup would turn out to be dyed water, and the house would be blown over by the next gust of wind.
"I think crazy has a very wide definition. Not always derogatory." Musgrave explained, settling his spoon comfortably in his fingers and balancing out a generous first bite. Sherlock watched him carefully, watched as he blew carefully upon the steaming liquid.
"Am I crazy?" Sherlock repeated again.
"Yes." The Doctor agreed. "But that is not always a bad thing."
"I should think it's a bad thing for me." Sherlock muttered. Musgrave took a bite, and so Sherlock followed suit soon after. Just as with sleep, it would appear that his body wanted to overindulge in food as well. Just as soon as the hot broth passed through his lips he was tempted to pick up the bowl and drink the rest, his stomach suddenly opening into a vast vacuum, unaware of its capacity until it was allowed the first drop. Sherlock only then realized how unhealthy he was, how exhausted, starved, and dehydrated he allowed himself to be.
"Sherlock, I don't care what realm you fall under. I just want to get you better. And I think, in the days to come, we shall make leaps and bounds."
"Am I to stay for that long?" Sherlock wondered, somehow hoping for both an invitation and an eviction. He did not yet feel comfortable within this house, though he suspected he would grow to if he were allowed another couple of days.
"I should think you need a break from that house. Perhaps the memories are too daunting." Musgrave suggested. Sherlock nodded; hardly able to hold a conversation by the rate he was shoveling his soup into his mouth.
"I suppose. Though I wouldn't want to be a burden." Sherlock muttered. The Doctor sighed, as if he was sick of hearing that word.
"We already went over that, Sherlock. You are a guest. Guests are not burdens." Musgrave pointed out. "I think what you need is a confined environment, a safe environment. I want you to feel at home here, a place for reflection and for healing." Musgrave insisted.
"Like an asylum, but with the positive meaning behind it." Sherlock muttered. Musgrave nodded, a smile piercing across his usually stern complexion. It was odd to see him smile, something so genuine, something so human. At the moment he appeared to be a poorly constructed copy of the Doctor, as if he had been killed and shoved under the couch only to be replaced with his docile, friendly doppelganger. It was suspicious. They finished their soup in silence, or rather Musgrave finished his. Sherlock continued to eat until the pot had run dry, and even then he didn't feel as though he was satisfied. Of course he wasn't rude enough to ask what else was in the man's cabinets, and so instead he sunk back into his chair and pushed his fingers together, staring upon the placemat with a crinkled, nervous expression. He was waiting for Musgrave to start a conversation, though in their entire time spent together they had never had to employ small talk. Perhaps it was not possible with their given relationship.
"I hope John thinks I'm alright." Sherlock muttered. "He might worry if he sees the lights are off."
"For your sake I hope he does. I hope I get a call." Musgrave chuckled. "That means he cares."
"I know he cares. Of course he cares, he's got no choice." Sherlock scoffed. "That's what makes this so difficult."
"Do you love him?" Musgrave wondered. Sherlock hesitated on that question, trying to at least feign consideration before spitting out the honest truth.
"Yes, I think so." Sherlock agreed.
"Do you think he loves you?" Musgrave countered, the obvious follow up to such a loaded question. This time Sherlock had to pause for consideration, and his eyelids sagged so much as he pondered that he wondered if he might fall asleep instead of continue on with their conversation.
"I think he's confused." Sherlock declared at last. "I think he does love me, but he's trying to figure out what form it's supposed to be in."
"He faces a difficult decision, Sherlock. If he chooses to love you instead of his wife, well he'll need to give up everything he's ever known. His wife, his child, his home."
"I know. Goodness, don't make me feel worse." Sherlock insisted, recoiling into his seat in a silent protest. Musgrave smiled, as if he hadn't tried to make the situation anymore condemning. It would appear that this was his version of conversation, calling people out on their faults and capitalizing on the constraints of this miserable world. Musgrave did not appear to feel guilty enough to hold his tongue.
"Perhaps he came back too late." The Doctor decided at last, rising to his feet to clear the two bowls away from the table. Sherlock sat back, still as stone, and watched as the man went about scrubbing the dishes with a blue sponge. He had to agree, though he hated to acknowledge that there was ever a lapse in fate. John Watson did come back too late. He had vanished off to college, disrupting what might have been their destiny all along. If he had only stayed put, stayed like the rest of the people in their town, well perhaps they wouldn't be having this issue. Perhaps Sherlock would have returned home to open arms, and neither he nor John would know the name Mary Watson.