Three Is Company

He Is Mine To Save

There were only two chairs in the entire pharmacy, and by now they were both shoved into the backroom, set up in such a way to provide a private session between the Doctor and his unintended patient. It wasn't yet noon and yet John flipped the sign on the door, wishing for absolute privacy in his dealings with the Doctor. He knew that there would be most intimate secrets passing between them, and in an effort to keep his reputation under control John did not want any costumers to be milling around the cough drop aisle and hearing the details of his emotional affair. Musgrave already seemed to sense the issue, he was stiff and concerned, peeling his jacket and scarf away from his suit and hanging them upon the back of his respective chair. It was John's viewing chair, the one usually faced towards the television. By now all of the tapes were within the Doctor's hands, not in the VCR, but still John felt as if he had to hide something. Even though the confessions on those tapes were shared knowledge there was still a certain intimacy about them, as if both men could watch but never at the same time. John shut the door quietly behind, wishing that the light bulbs hung upon the ceiling would offer a bit more clarity to the situation. Instead they were weak and struggling; casting the room in an almost metallic aura, as if silver was dripping from the bulbs and drenching them in its hue.
"Thank you for coming." John muttered, balancing awkwardly on his stool while the Doctor settled much farther below. The chairs were uneven, offering John the opportunity to look down upon the Doctor. In some ways it was an honor to be seated above him. In other ways it felt wrong, as if their roles had been reversed. John was not supposed to stand taller; he was not supposed to glorify himself against a man with so much more accomplished.
"Something happened?" Musgrave presumed. John wrung his fingers together, finding in the moment that all of his confessions seemed too difficult to admit. When he didn't have an audience John was already beginning to recite his speech, though now that those grey eyes were staring so firmly behind his glasses there seemed to be nothing to say. John's words sunk into his stomach, they balled up inside, making him feel that he had to vomit in order to manage anything coherent.
"Something happened." John repeated, feeling that he was only able to mimic the words he had already heard, having forgotten the whole English language in the time it took for him to arrange upon his stool.
"I'm not a mind reader, John." Musgrave snapped, to which John gave a hesitant little chuckle and dared a quick glance in the man's direction. To make up for the height difference Musgrave was leaning forward, his elbows balanced on his knees and his head craned as high as it could go. From there he was almost able to meet John's eyes without looking any farther up, though he still had to strain his eyes to avoid tilting his neck in any demeaning way.
"Last night Sherlock was under my porch. Like he did when we were kids." John began.
"With the cat." Musgrave agreed. John nodded, not caring to ask how much detail Musgrave knew about their shared childhood.
"After my wife had gone to bed I invited him inside, I thought he might need to warm up. It was so cold last night, and his hands were like ice." John admitted. He grumbled to himself, flexing his fingers to avoid hitting himself in the head in retaliation. Musgrave must have realized what had happened, for his eyes softened involuntarily. And yet he would not do John the honor of silencing him. He didn't seem to mind forcing the man into such a position. He wanted to hear the words directly out of his mouth.
"I kissed him this time. I kissed him first. I don't know what came over me but...but we couldn't stop. And I knew Mary was upstairs, but I didn't care. I couldn't care. It escalated; it became more than just a kiss. We ended up on the couch, and he was warm...and quiet. And peaceful. But I had to send him away before my wife woke, and he left the way he came." John admitted at last, spitting the words rapid fire, unable to stop before his story had concluded. Musgrave nodded very slowly, his hand running alongside his cheek in contemplation.
"Did you have sex?" he wondered at last, so blunt that the words nearly toppled John off of his stool.
"No." John admitted quietly. "It seemed to be escalating to that point but...but he said he loved me. And after that I just sort of melted. I didn't have any more motivation. I wanted to hold him more than anything, to just melt into him."
"Alright." Musgrave muttered, without allowing his opinion to be revealed just yet.
"Alright?" John insisted, waving his hands around to try to get the Doctor's attention back upon him. By the way the man was spacing out it seemed likely that he was considering his lunch order and not the most dangerous affair that had been set before him.
"Yes, alright. What more is there to say? It would seem that you've worked your way into this problem, and I'm a therapist, not a miracle worker. I can't just magic away your mistakes."
"You think it was a mistake?" John clarified with a blink.
"Your wife is the mistake." Musgrave insisted, with such a tone that John was thankful for this distance between them. That declaration felt as if it should be paired with a slap. John frowned, sinking into himself and arching his back much like a cat when it felt threatened.
"Well what do I do?"
"How should I know?" Musgrave whined. "You're the one who needs to sort out your priorities! For Sherlock's sake I'm ever ready to cast Mary Watson off the face of the earth, though for your sake I stay my hand."
"You won't kill her?" John demanded.
"No I won't kill her. It's an expression, John."
"Not a very common one." John complained. Musgrave rolled his fierce eyes, seeming exhausted with John's constant indecisiveness. "I suppose what I need from you is an analysis on Sherlock's behalf. I love him. I really do. But what should I do with that love, knowing I probably can't just marry him?"
"He's a fragile creature, John. A heartbreak is the last thing he needs. In fact something this gigantic may very well throw him off balance. You heard Victor the other night, explaining his time limit. If Sherlock is given any more fuel to his fire, if he harbors something deep and festering, an anger that cannot subside, well perhaps Victor would stay dominant for the rest of his life. A heartbreak could banish Sherlock into the back of his own mind."
"That's f*cking reassuring." John snarled, jumping off of his stool only to throw the thing across the floor, a sudden pent up rage demanding that he make as much of a noise as he possibly could. The metal stool slid across the tile in a chorus, making the Doctor wince once for show. He hardly reacted, owing to his profession. He was used to outbursts, it would seem.
"So what now?" John declared. "What, am I supposed to get a divorce? Or am I supposed to entertain this affair for as long as possible, keeping him a secret for the rest of my life to make sure his mind doesn't snap?"
"Yes." Musgrave sighed.
"Yes to what?"
"Yes!" Musgrave clarified. "Yes to both! Yes to either!" the man rose to his feet as well, finally settling that height difference which had been put into question from their latest seating arrangements. Finally the Doctor was fuming; finally his gray face had sparked a bit of color.
"Believe it or not, you're not the one who matters. I don't care about your silly little family life; I care about your role in Sherlock's life. He's put you on a pedestal, do you understand? And to do anything, anything to betray that trust will be to send him down a spiral."
"So I'm supposed to betray my wife?" John clarified.
"You already have! What's one more time? What's five more times? What's the rest of your life? So long as you're secretive, or even better, so long as she understands."
"So that's it then? You're encouraging this?"
"Do you wish I condemned it? Do you wish I would flatter your ego by holding your marriage to a higher status than Sherlock's sanity?" Musgrave growled. John gritted his teeth, wondering if Musgrave deserved a punch in that softly lined face. It would feel better than yelling, for it would seem as even when angry the Doctor could produce a stronger argument. If this was a battle of wits, Musgrave had already won. How nice it would feel to send a fist into that face. How nice to send the man to the floor. John took strong breaths instead, balling up his fists but keeping them tucked safely against his sides. He wouldn't draw any more blood, not when Musgrave was already swimming in it.
"If I stay with him will he ever change?" John asked at last, replacing his anger with his curiosity. At the moment the two emotions were so perfectly matched, though acting upon one would do him much better good than the other.
"I don't know." Musgrave admitted. "I know that he can handle your intimacy, and no one else's. He remained Sherlock throughout your affair, yes?"
"Yes." John agreed.
"Then he won't become Irene, at least not while he's under you." Musgrave muttered, his voice coming with much more spite than originally intended. John blinked, though he maintained his ground. He stepped forward, trying to intimidate the Doctor even though his own hands were shaking.
"And Victor?"
"I don't know. Maybe go home and provoke him, see what happens." Musgrave smiled.
"You're the expert at that, Musgrave. Perhaps I'll invite you over to call him a whore." John offered.
"Couple more nights with you and it wouldn't be a wasted breath."
"Oh that's it, that's it! The next body on the side of the road is going to be yours!" John growled, swinging a well-deserved punch into the wagging jaw of Reginald Musgrave. His knuckles stung as the Doctor stumbled, though he did not crumble as John originally intended. The man seemed to be made out of dried plaster, how did he not shatter upon impact? Musgrave returned to his feet, returning with more ferocity than John expected from a man of his age. The Doctor swung back; he balled up his wiry fist and sent it swinging in John's direction, though thankfully John had some lessons in dodging. He backed away just in time to save his front teeth, pulling down upon the Doctor's arm and throwing him once more off balance. Musgrave's polished shoes skidded across the tiles, stumbling towards the wall until at last he tripped over his own feet and fell hard to the floor. Finally he was at John's mercy, taking a moment to spit a mouthful of blood across the floor and push himself painfully upon his elbows. John kicked him gently, forcing Musgrave to remain on the floor where he belonged. That suit could get a little dirty. It could stay down in the dust for some time longer.
"What do you have against me, Musgrave?" John snarled. The Doctor repositioned himself again, pushing upon his palms and trying to ease into a sitting position. Instead John kicked out his hands again, depriving the man of the opportunity of recollection. He was growing older by the second. Every time he flattened against the floor he seemed to sprout another wrinkle, another grey hair. John huffed, his upper lip curling to see the man so pathetic before him. He was tempted to kick him, though he feared he might break the frail man's ribs.
"Against you?" Musgrave growled, groveling upon the floor, his fingernails scraping against the lacquer on the tiles. "You, the savior of Sherlock Holmes? You, the man who could heal him in the span of three months? Who usurped my role in his life, my constant role?"
"Jealous, are you?"
"You're not supposed to be here!" Musgrave wailed, pulling himself across the tiles and flattening his hand across the spray of blood. His teeth were stained red, his lips painted an exquisite shade of red.
"You're supposed to have left! You're his childhood friend, vanished upon return! You're supposed to be a memory, not a f*cking reality." John stepped back, avoiding the flailing hands of the desperate Doctor. "I was supposed to save him, he's mine to save. I'm his therapist and you're...you're just his neighbor!"
"Well I'm sorry! I'm sorry, alright?" John insisted, starting to pity this broken form. He had never expected those confident eyes to sparkle with tears, though it would seem as though the lines of Reginald's face had become aqueducts, running his sorrows down the length of his cheeks.
"You claim to love him, like you're such a martyr, such a saint. Cradling broken goods. You say you love him with such reluctance, with such shame! You don't want to love him. You don't want to be responsible for him. You're disgusted by your role in this affair. Never realizing that you're not the first. Never realizing that there might be someone else who would want your burden." Musgrave spat, spraying another round of blood across John's shoes. John winced, stepping back once more, afraid of what would happen if his shoes ever got within arm's reach. Was Musgrave angry enough to kill?
"I'm sorry." John repeated again, this time trying to force some meaning into the words. The Doctor halted, instead of clawing his way forward he merely reclined upon the ground, accepting his prostrate position. He hesitated for a moment, groaning quietly to himself, before finally planting his palms upon the floor and struggling to his feet. John didn't kick him down this time, he let him rise. It would appear as if Musgrave had spent his due time at his feet. The Doctor wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, pulling his lips across his bloodstained teeth and exposing them like a wolf. His hair had fallen out of place, once styled across the back of his head but now falling in greasy chunks along his forehead. He didn't raise his eyes to meet John's. In fact his glasses nearly slipped off his nose from the angle in which he hung his head. John was silent, almost ashamed at having degraded the Doctor into what must have been his innermost state. This was what that exterior was created to hide. The firm standing psychiatrist painted over top of the emotional whirlwind of a potential patient. The man began to limp away, his limbs not bending as they might have before. Musgrave moved slowly, like a man who had lost his cane, and gripped the door handle with reluctance. Before he turned it he stalled, staring at the crack of light emitting from underneath the door.
"Call me if he needs me." Musgrave insisted at last. John was silent; he nodded, though it went unseen. He didn't feel the need to escort the man to the door. That would be a move for a gentleman, and he had already disproved himself as such. Musgrave limped unaided through the door, pulling it shut behind him as if to separate his withered form from anymore of John's judgmental stares. John was pushing his toe into the puddle of blood when he heard the bell at the top of the door ring, announcing the Doctor's final departure.