Three Is Company

The Company Of The Sick

Sherlock felt himself go numb, first with surprise and then with an onset of familiarity, of daunting possibility. He was interpreting the request correctly, was he not? He was getting everything out of this suggestion that could possibly be had.
"Reginald..." Sherlock whispered, not finding the strength to form his proper defense.
"I don't wish to put you in an awkward position." The Doctor insisted. "We could...we could go out if you'd prefer it. Find a willing suspect and, well go from there."
"Are you suggesting that I...I hook up with someone?" Sherlock whispered.
"Not entirely. I'm just suggesting that we get you to a certain point, a point where your brain might shut down. I would like to find the trigger, the primary trigger, so long as it is in my power to do so." Musgrave insisted. Sherlock pulled his arms around himself, feeling the need to draw his legs into his chest to form a formidable defense. Though despite his concern he could also be swayed by the apparent logic. It was an experiment, was it not? An experiment to determine the root cause of his illness, and perhaps also to determine if the cure could be found in John Watson. Could that man be the exception to the rule? Could he be the saving grace that Sherlock had been hoping to find? In this evening alone, was it in the Doctor's power to prove it? Sherlock hesitated, though with every other look upon his therapist his defenses began to fall.
"Might this help me in the long run?" Sherlock asked at last.
"If I can diagnose a problem, even better if I might find an exception, then the cure is coming within reach." Musgrave agreed, his voice growing ever more anxious.
"And it would be...purely professional?" Sherlock assumed again.
"I would never take advantage of you." The Doctor promised, his voice sweet and sincere. Sherlock's face had gone past the state of a mere blush. Instead he felt that he was properly burning up, as if his blood had heated to the point of boiling. Perhaps he would offer a more reliable source of heat than that gas stove. And yet there seemed to be no logical reason to deny the request. They were professional, after all. A doctor and a client, each doing what they felt was best. Sherlock took a deep breath, biting down on his tongue in his nervousness, but allowed himself to nod.
"Do you...do you know how?" Sherlock whispered. Musgrave nodded a bit nervously, pushing his hair across his head and rising to his feet. The man looked almost unrecognizable in his flannel set, more of a figure for the front of a winter postcard than an icon for the upholding of psychiatric ethics. Nevertheless he kept a firmly professional stance, his glasses serving to cover the true emotion from his eyes. Oh those ever changing lenses, seeming to offer what the patient wanted most. Sherlock swallowed forcefully, though he set the newspaper aside and stared up at the man approaching him. It wasn't John Watson. In some ways it felt unfaithful, as his heart had settled upon a partner for the rest of his foreseeable future, though in other ways it felt like justifiable payback. Who knows what John did with Mary, the outrageous wife he kept stuck at his side? Sherlock had every right to employ the same level of practicality. He too could force his body to do one thing while his heart stayed firm upon another.
"Now...now stay calm." Musgrave instructed. "I should like you to tell me what is happening in your head. I want to know the breaking point. Tell me if the room is changing, or if your internal thoughts are beginning to take an unfamiliar tone."
"I need to narrate?" Sherlock whispered apprehensively.
"You're lucky I'm not asking for a recorded session." Musgrave insisted with his nervous little chuckle. Both men seemed entirely unsure, though it would seem as though a professional curiosity overrode any chances of withdrawing. Musgrave, now at such a proximity where his hand could meet Sherlock's, seemed set within his plans.
"Are you ready?" the Doctor whispered. Sherlock clenched his lips underneath his teeth, feeling the need to close his eyes though finding no polite way to go about it. He wasn't disgusted by his Doctor, and it would perhaps be shameful to make it out to be such. There was a level of professionalism demanded by them both, a level of confidence to be upheld.
"Yes." Sherlock agreed. Musgrave nodded, clearing his throat apprehensively before taking hold of Sherlock's shoulder. His fingers were wiry, his nails fighting through the fabric of Sherlock's provided pajamas. Very steadily he pushed his patient into the couch, so that Sherlock was almost sunk between the cushions, and descended his other hand to a lower, more private angle. Sherlock's lips parted involuntarily, though his eyes finally closed. While he could tolerate the view of his Doctor he did not appreciate the connotation between the man's disheveled look and the reach of his arm.
"Remember, describe anything unusual." Musgrave instructed. Sherlock pushed his feet into the ground, his toes slapping audibly against the hardwood. The Doctor made a noise of content, though he did not seem to be satisfied. Sherlock's eyes were forced again when he felt a sudden addition of pressure, when his legs were suddenly offered the burden of another man's weight. The Doctor's arms threaded across his back, taking his patient against his chest, contorting his legs around and into the cushions which supported them both. Sherlock flexed his fingers, he grabbed hold of the edges of the sofa, he dug his fingers into the wood. He could feel that something was happening, something was changing within his body and mind. He hadn't ever felt this sort of pleasure, though already the feeling was becoming numb to him.
"Speak to me, Sherlock." Musgrave insisted, moving himself up and down across Sherlock's body, his soft, surprisingly light form causing the springs of the couch to start upon their own communal hymn. At first there was nothing to report, nothing spectacular. Sherlock found it difficult to form a word; he found it difficult to think of another in particular. His body felt rigid, though each and every nerve was firing. His head, now reclined back, was staring only at the stars. Straight through the ceiling, straight through the upper story of the house. And then, suddenly, there became a ripple. A ripple of darkness, blocking out what might have been the first of noises to escape from his lips.
"I see darkness." Sherlock admitted in a groveling voice, one which was summoned from an unknown depth of his throat.
"Good, good. What else?" Musgrave wondered, his fingers wrapped around Sherlock's neck, cradling his head within his celebratory grasp. Still he was moving, a strange and elaborate dance across Sherlock's waist, bringing about the only predictable reaction. Sherlock could hear someone, someone else in the room. It was as if there was an uninvited guest pressed up against his ear, streaming words into his mouth that he would never take it upon himself to say. It couldn't be Musgrave, despite the man's supposed proximity. His voice was never so high, and at the moment he probably didn't have the energy to attempt such long conversation.
"There's a woman's voice." Sherlock explained. "She's saying...awful things. The room is blotchy."
"What is she saying?" Musgrave wondered, his own voice struggling to maintain a professional attitude. It was only then that Sherlock wondered if they were not being affected in the same ways. Though Musgrave did not have the pleasure of escaping the situation. He did not have the opportunity to lose consciousness.
"Things about you." Sherlock described. "Filthy Doctor, a whore using his diploma as an excuse. Lonely Reginald, preferring the company of the sick."
"Yes, that sounds like something she'd say." Musgrave agreed miserably.
"She?" Sherlock whispered, his voice taking on an agonized pitch.
"Keep speaking. What about the room, tell me about the room?" the Doctor insisted, his words dropping off into a gasp as his form began to quiver, shaking against the body of his experiment, perhaps having misjudged his own capacity.
"It's dark, Reginald." Sherlock admitted tearfully. "I can't see it anymore."
"Keep going."
"I'll have the rest of you, Doctor Musgrave; I'll have you right now."
"Sherlock, can you still hear me?"
"Even the wrinkled can be good lovers when they're desperate enough." The room, by now, was gone. The feeling was gone, his body was floating. It seemed that the darkness which was swirling about the upper story of the house had begun to soak through the floorboards, culminating into a sickening fog which began to jam itself down Sherlock's throat. His mind went fuzzy, his body entirely out of his own control. His mouth was moving through he couldn't recognize any human language, he could feel an octave leaving, he could feel words escaping, though he had suddenly gone quite deaf. Sherlock fell backwards into the couch, knowing that his body was still being moved, knowing that he was being commanded in some way or another. The last thing he heard was his Doctor's startled breath upon his ear, a shriek, a moan. And then, surprisingly, a doorbell.