Three Is Company

Follow Where Your Heart Has Gone

Sherlock POV: Sherlock cut the engine on his car, the small Volkswagen bug that had taken to making threatening creaking sounds. It was unhappy with him, perhaps because he rarely drove it, rarely gave it a place to go. Though this past week the car had gotten a well-deserved vacation, it had the honor of sitting in a different driveway for the passing days of stagnation. Though with the squeaking the car was doing, Sherlock imagined that it was just as upset to find itself back within its old lot. He had stalled on his way out of the Doctor's house, some part of him wishing he might stay there forever. What use did he have of his solitary life, now that he appreciated the company of a man he could trust? What did he want with this horrible household, sharing it with missing roommates and the ghost of his father? Sherlock's mouth turned sour upon pulling into his driveway, staring into the windows that somehow managed to stay pitch dark even in the afternoon sun. And yet the neighborhood was different. Upon his absence someone had taken it upon themselves to reduce the isolation. The large wooden fence which had stood to protect his house from the Watsons was gone. Some of the boards were piled along the side of John's house, as if he had stored them there for further use, though any other trace of the structure had vanished during his absence. Now all that stood in the way of complete abolishment of borders was the waist high chain-link fence that surrounded Sherlock's property, now looking so pathetic upon the disappearance of its taller, more impermeable neighbor. Sherlock climbed out of his car rather unceremoniously, lugging only a backpack full of his single change of clothes. He stumbled into his yard, only to examine the missing fence which had stood for so long as a symbol of isolation and mistrust. He peered over the edge of his own little fence, staring into the dead grass that was dried and trampled, having been trying to root around the wooden structure without any luck. Even if the physical barrier was gone it would take a long time for the ecosystem around it to recover, as this fine line of decaying ground was enough to remind him that there had, at one point, been so strict a border between them. Though now it was gone. Gone...and without any warning. Had Sherlock missed something? Had his house been put up for sale, and in an attempt to make the market value rise the Watsons elected to make themselves look friendlier? Or had John suddenly decided that they did not need a barrier between them, had he finally realized that he should drop all physical and emotional walls? Sherlock didn't dare to hope for such a miracle. Instead he hoisted his bag upon his shoulder, casting a passing glance to the empty windows of his neighbor's house, and hurried along inside. As Sherlock pushed open the door he could smell that he wasn't the first to enter it upon his absence. The only person who would care to come inside was Musgrave, and of course he was the only one who knew where the spare key was hidden. Therefore the smell of bleach was not so surprising, and the absence of the large wine stain on the carpet was gone as predicted. The coffee table was also replaced; evidentially the Doctor had figured that it was no use patching the old one back together. Bad memories would be associated with the fissure, so it was understandable that a new, sturdier structure take its place. The coffee table chosen fit well with the rest of the house; in fact it almost stuck out as being way over the normal pay grade. It was an eloquent design, which now began to make sense when Sherlock considered the standard that Musgrave used when regarding his own home décor. Sherlock trembled, pushing the door shut behind him and hesitating to settle himself so comfortably back within his own home. Some part of his felt dirty. He felt as though the water of Musgrave's house had failed to clean him in the past month, and upon walking back into his home he needed to take a long, hot shower. The events of the night before were coming back in little blotches, as if his brain had elected to forget about them as soon as it settled into his blackened state. Perhaps his mind determined the affair with Reginald to be too delicate to contemplate all at once, and so it released snippets of memory to be stomached as they arrived. Some bits had revealed themselves in dreams, while others surfaced during breakfast, or during the drive home. When the radio wasn't playing it was astounding how much he could remember, from things which he could confirm to things that felt more like the imagination. Sherlock could remember Musgrave's experiment; he could remember the unethical intimacy that had occurred. And yet he could also remember, for some odd reason, the sound of John's voice. It wasn't a recycled voice, either, not a memory that had made its way in to fill the gaps in the darkness that followed. It was John's voice, speaking with a level of concern that he had not heard before. John's voice, spoken undoubtedly the night previous. Though he had been nowhere near the Doctor's house, he couldn't possibly know where to find it. How then, could he have appeared in the puzzle that was coming together? How could Sherlock's mind have placed him into the events of the night previous if he had no physical role in the affair? The entire episode must have been created in his mind, from start to finish. No matter what he remembered, no matter what he thought he could still feel, well it had to have been a mad hallucination. Though no matter how hard Sherlock tried to forget, the harder his body tried to remind him. As his mind passed the images out of his head they instead took root within his nerves, and before long he could feel the ghost of his Doctor across his body, the pressure upon his legs, the arms around his chest. Sherlock was almost crippled with the thought, and when every part of him began to remember the man's touch he had to settle his hands upon the wall, taking deep breaths to try to control the rather animalistic side of his brain. He felt it...he felt it again. It was the first time anyone had touched him in such a way, or rather the first time he had allowed it to happen. And yes, it was for a scientific cause, but that didn't make it feel anymore justifiable. Sherlock had never been enthusiastic about the idea of sex; in fact he had repelled the very word in an effort to keep himself chaste. Though last night he had allowed something even worse than temptation infiltrate his mind. It was, well it was logic. Logical thinking, scientific advancements, intimacy on the behalf of therapy. How much of it could he accredit to the spoken intentions, and how much could he trace back to the Doctor's own admirations? Could it be that he had been tricked, touched without his knowing consent, just as when he was a child? Was this the second time, the second man, who had taken advantage of his innocence? No, no. Not Reginald. Sherlock shook the idea out of his mind, flexing his fingers into the plaster wall before pushing himself away, steadying himself upon his feet in an attempt to regain a more normal, more humanoid presence in the house. He couldn't allow these doubts to ruin his memories. He couldn't allow himself to being accrediting everyone's actions to unjust, unethical motives. Musgrave had his best interests in mind. Furthermore, Musgrave knew his past, present, and arguably his future. How could a man with such knowledge ever have it in mind to take advantage of him? Reginald knew the trauma, he knew the troubles. And yet he had to advance, he had to come closer. If one step closer was decreasing the proximity to the cure itself, then why should Sherlock deny it? Why would he not accept a man he trusted, a man he loved, to be with him in such a way? It made sense, it made all the more sense, that his mind could not handle the intimacy with Musgrave. Though he had to wonder what had happened the moment his brain went dark. Could his body feel something that his mind could not remember? Sherlock concentrated on the nerves, he tried to remember which of them had been activated by a touch that was not his own. To his relief he could only feel the touches that he remembered allowing. Those which were not so innocent, but those which were validated through the Doctor's previous explanation. There had been an agreement between the two of them, there had been an understanding. Nothing Musgrave had done gave Sherlock any reason to doubt his word or his motives. In fact it was his own mind which had begun to rebel against him. It was his own mind that planted the doubt, if only to torment Sherlock with the result for the rest of his life. And what were the solutions? To run back to Musgrave and make him take it all back, or to make him repeat it all? Should Sherlock scrub himself until all of his skin had been wiped away with the bristles of a sponge, or should he instead move to cover up the touches with other ones, more deserving ones? Had that, in essence, been a practice run of what was yet to come? Was it just proof that, despite his fear, Sherlock was still able to accept the love of a man? And who would be the next, who could only be the next? Sherlock forced himself not to look out the window, despite the fact that his view was not impeded anymore. He didn't have to look to know where his heart had gone.