Three Is Company

Your Life and Your Secrets

Sherlock POV: Upon opening his eyes, Sherlock could tell that they were moving. He could feel the earth moving underneath him, he could hear the purring of the engine as it hummed. There was John in the driver's seat, looking gorgeous as ever, bent over the wheel with a look of concern in his eyes, his fingers clenching so tightly to the leather that his nails may very well be piercing it. Sherlock recognized that it was his own car, his trusty little Volkswagen, though he dared not question why he was a passenger in his own vehicle.
"John." Sherlock muttered sleepily, rolling over in his seat so that he could press his shoulder against the chair, giving his companion a little smile. "Had I fallen asleep?"
"For a moment." John agreed. Sherlock nodded, blinking for a moment as he tried to remember where they were coming from, or even where they were going. With a hallow feeling he recognized a gap in his memory, and with a bout of concentration he tried to remember the last time he was in his right mind. He could remember only his bed, settling down for bed around ten o'clock. But had that been tonight, or yesterday?
"John...did I black out?" Sherlock demanded, waking himself up with the sheer concept of a massive misunderstanding. John was silent for a moment, pulling his lips into his mouth as if trying to keep from answering impulsively.
"Do you want the truth?" John asked at last, looking towards his passenger with wide, concerned eyes. Sherlock felt a shiver, suddenly realizing that his chest was bare and sticky. In the darkness he couldn't tell what he was wearing, though he could feel the tight pull of elastic, the frayed ends of what seemed to be a long zipper.
"What do you mean by that?" Sherlock asked worriedly. "What...what happened tonight?"
"Tell me Sherlock, please! If the truth is hard to understand, please tell me you still want to hear it."
"I want the truth, of course! It's my life, isn't it?"
"Even if it'll hurt you?"
"John, tell me!" Sherlock demanded, throwing his hand across the car and through a beam of moonlight, able to glance a deep shade of red before he plunged his fingers into John's arm. The man shivered, nearly folding over the wheel entirely as he debated just how to deliver this news. Though Sherlock needed it, he needed the truth! He felt as if he had woken up in the eye of a hurricane, and progressively the winds were getting worse, the rains were getting more torrential. He was drowning, slowly drowning, in all that he did not know in this world. What could be worse than this?
"You...you don't have black outs." John admitted at last, a rather hefty reversal of Musgrave's official diagnosis. Sherlock froze, feeling as if even the blood in his veins had hesitated to continue on. He blinked.
"What do you mean by that?" Sherlock asked, his voice barely squeaking through the gaps of his teeth, his jaw virtually immobile. John squeezed his face, wrinkling his cheeks into his eyes and putting both their lives in danger. Somehow the car had only accelerated, and now he was driving blind.
"You don't have blackouts. You have...episodes. You have...a transformation. Your problem isn't memory, Sherlock. It's multiple personality."
"Where did you get such an idea?" Sherlock wondered, chuckling nervously, trying to find the humor in this. Trying to predict the moment that John would start to giggle, when he would slap his knee and admit this was all some sort of sick joke. "I don't see your psychology degree anywhere." Sherlock laughed, waiting for John to laugh. When that moment didn't come Sherlock's anxiety began to rise. Now instead of freezing his heart seemed to be working tenfold, pumping with such a rhythm that his ears could only hear the predictable throbbing. He continued to laugh, he felt that the moment his smile slipped then he would have to start considering the facts. He would have to wonder if there was any truth in such a claim.
"You don't have roommates, they're in your mind, Sherlock. They're in your head; they're emotions, your emotions. Irene is...is lust. Victor is anger. They come out when you're blacked out; they come out when you're overwhelmed. You don't remember what they do because...because they're in control. In total control."
"Stop the car." Sherlock whispered, suddenly becoming trapped in the tiny confines of the passenger seat. The words John had spoken were beginning to take up the free space, beginning to cloud the air with a heavy fog. Sherlock couldn't get a proper breath. For some reason John's exhales were making the air thicker, like trying to inhale water. Sherlock pushed his fingers against the window, feeling the cold touch of the outside world, trying to focus on drawing the frosted glass into his fingers instead of processing any of the information presented to him. Sherlock pulled his feet upon the chair, brushing his head against the roof of the car, struggling in what could only be a woman's dress pulled all the way down to his waist. He wiggled anxiously, ferociously; looking towards John and feeling the car only begin to accelerate farther.
"We can't stop." John muttered with a hint of apology in his voice. But just a hint wasn't enough. For a split second Sherlock wondered if that wasn't just an excuse, but an omen as well. But no, he couldn't just take that as an answer. Suddenly Sherlock didn't recognize anyone in the car. John's face was shadowed heavily, shadows that began to look like wrinkles over his youthful face. His eyes no longer looked soft, they looked devious, menacing, as if this was all part of a master plan. Worse still, Sherlock no longer recognized himself. What choice did he have?
"I'll jump! I'll jump if you don't!" Sherlock decided aggressively, grabbing at the handle and pulling before he even gave John a moment of consideration. As soon as the door flung John's foot hit the brakes, allowing for Sherlock's departure to be a little less painful than it would have otherwise been. When Sherlock stepped out he found that the ground was no longer moving, and while inertia hit him like a train, somehow the man managed to stumble onto the pavement otherwise unharmed. He hit the ground hard, the pebbles digging into his exposed skin, skin that looked red and painted in the moonlight, though with bare feet Sherlock managed to struggle to his feet, taking deep gasps in order to fill his lungs with the due oxygen. By the time Sherlock stumbled into the grass John was there to catch him, and as he sunk to his knees he felt a familiar pair of arms wrap around his bare, freezing chest.
"You're lying, you have to be lying." Sherlock managed, dragging his words as long as he could manage, hoping that with the next syllable he could wake himself up. In the moonlight John's skin looked ghostly, his eyes looked bright and devious while his fingers felt wiry and cold. Gone was the warmth of his embrace, gone was the spark that ignited between them. Nevertheless Sherlock was given no better choice. He had to collapse into John's chest, as there was no one left to hold him.
"I wish I was lying." John whispered, his voice sounding choked with agony, the same sort that was keeping Sherlock from saying anything in response. When he tried to speak his words were replaced with a sob, and like a balloon the thing forced itself up his windpipe, escaping as a wail. Sherlock wished it didn't make sense. He wished that he had any proof to discredit the claim. Though what good would it do to start making up theories? What could he possibly do by fighting John's confession, especially when it had been delivered with such force? How could Sherlock swear that he had physical roommates when he had never seen them in person? How could he swear that his blackouts were just episodes of lost time when he had woken naked in bed, or when a stain of blood appeared upon his living room floor?
"Musgrave...I need Musgrave. We need to tell him." Sherlock whined, pushing his face into the crook of John's shoulder and letting his tears fall onto the warm fabric. John rearranged the sobbing figure, trying to ease him more gently upon his body, trying to hold the whole of the shivering, trembling weight.
"He knows." was John's simple response. Sherlock shook his head, sniffling as he wrapped his arms even tighter across those appreciated shoulders.
"No he doesn't. He would've told me." Sherlock defended, speaking this as the absolute truth. He wasn't afraid to demonstrate his belief in the Doctor, he wasn't afraid to stake some of his dignity upon that claim. Musgrave had always been there for him, Musgrave had never lied...
"He knows. He's always known. Sherlock, we've all been lied to." John whispered. "We've all been caught in his game."
"Musgrave would never lie to me. You don't...you don't know what you're talking about!" Sherlock demanded, suddenly wrenching himself away from the virtually unrecognizable form. A body that had begun as a safe haven suddenly felt like a prison, and with every word John continued to cut deeper into the fabric of Sherlock's reality. Sherlock fell aside in the freezing grass, the droplets of cold evening dew smearing the red stain across his white skin. The stains that only now seemed relevant.
"What happened to me, John? Why are we driving, what am I wearing? What's...what's all over me?" Sherlock wondered. "And don't lie! John, don't you dare lie to me again!"
"I'm not lying! If I had kept my mouth shut you never would've known, he never would've had told you! You're taking fake medication, you're attending bogus therapy, you're talking with a Doctor who only wants you as a plaything! He's manipulating you; he's manipulating all of us!" John demanded.
"Why would he lie?" Sherlock whispered.
"Why would you think I would?" John shot back. "Why would I be lying about any of this?"
"To make me feel crazy!" Sherlock insisted, pushing himself to his feet and shivering in the frosted air. "I'm not crazy, John! I'm not!" It wasn't a very legitimate claim, judging by looks alone. Sherlock had never felt more insane, he never felt more misunderstood. His eyes were wide, his mouth clamped, his fingers curled and his chest bare. He looked like a wild man, like someone who would be tucked up in an asylum rather than allowed to roam free.
"I wish I could agree." John whispered, falling onto his elbows as the light of the car illuminated him in a haunting, beautiful glow.
"What did we do tonight, John?" Sherlock managed again, pulling his fingers across his arm in an attempt to push off any excess blood. He realized now what it was. He realized what he was covered in, what he was stained with. Sherlock trembled, trying to pull the dress farther up his chest to fight the bitter cold that was beginning to invade through his pores, freezing his skin and his insides as well. Perhaps Sherlock would turn into a block of ice, perhaps he would freeze before he heard John's last and most damning confession.
"As much as I hate him, I feel like Musgrave is the most qualified for this one." John admitted.
"How can it be worse?" Sherlock insisted. "How can anything be worse than what you just told me?"
"Think it through, Sherlock!" John demanded. "Why else would we be running? What could you have possibly done to...to get us running?"
"Did I kill someone?" Sherlock asked, his tongue feeling swollen as he managed the words. He intended it as a joke; in fact he wished he could have summoned the words in a more humorous manner. But after such confessions this evening did not seem to fit the potential for laughter. Everything that had been said since the time Sherlock woke up seemed ridiculous enough to be considered comedy, though with these last words no one seemed to be laughing. Instead John's face turned grim, his eyes dropping to the ground and his upper lip beginning to waver. The first of his emotion. The first of his comprehension.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. But we're in trouble." John admitted at last. "Deep...deep trouble." Sherlock sunk to his knees once again, in the stance of one repenting to their God. He wished that might have been intentional, though in all actuality he found it impossible to stand any longer. His feet were overburdened with his weight; his muscles had begun to cramp and eventually subside to gravity. His knees crashed upon the grass without the proper absorption of impact, and the shock traveled up his entire frame, his thin, freezing frame. Sherlock might have shattered. He certainly didn't feel whole. There were no words to be said. The truth, as ghastly as it was, began to feel as if it could be nothing but gospel. How could this be a lie, how could anything so sinister be made up as a practical joke? John's face said it all, his grim expression, his urgency to get back in the car and continue their trek. But where were they to go?
"I killed someone." Sherlock whispered, feeling out the words on his tongue and wishing them to feel foreign. Wishing them to feel wrong. In horrible contrast they felt more familiar than his own name.
"You didn't kill him. Victor did." John corrected, getting upon his own knees just to crawl towards where Sherlock was collapsed upon himself. Now his spine would not cooperate, each one of his muscles just giving up on supporting him any longer. His nerve structures had a better moral code than did his supposed roommates.
"I'm not Victor." Sherlock whispered, shaking his head aggressively so that his curls flew across his face, hitting his cheeks like a whip.
"Of course you're not." John assured, his voice drawing closer all the while Sherlock sank deeper and deeper into the frost. "He's an invader in your head. But he doesn't have to be. You can will him away, Sherlock. You can tell him to go."
"I don't understand it."
"Neither do I." John assured. "But what choice do we have? It's your brain, Sherlock. It's yours to control."
"I want to see Reginald." Sherlock demanded. "I can't...I can't believe that he's lied to me all this time."
"I don't think he's the angel we want him to be. In fact I'm starting to believe he's the true enemy. The true villain of your story."
"I don't have a story." Sherlock whispered, now so close to the ground that he could taste the dirt on the tip of his tongue. "I don't want a story." Sherlock felt a hand upon his head, five fingers patting carefully upon the top of his curls and pulling through their disheveled tangles. At first the touch was startling; at first it sent a shiver down his body, one that manifested like the sudden shockwave of rage. Unrecognizable rage.
"We need to talk to him." Sherlock insisted. "He needs to explain."
"He'll deny it, I know he will. I don't think we should get him involved." John whispered, his fingers now messaging around Sherlock's head, trying to pull his face out of the grass so that their eyes might be able to meet. And yet Sherlock wasn't ready to look, not right now. He was content with staring into the ground, his face pressed so close that he couldn't see anything but darkness. No blood, no John. He wanted that, he wanted the darkness now more than anything. In fact a blackout might even be preferable. If what John claimed was true then Sherlock didn't have to be bothered with his own decisions, not after passing the reigns onto one of his more elusive roommates. Those who seemed better equipped to handle his problems.
"Don't touch me." Sherlock whispered, shaking off the persistent hand.
"I want you to know I'm here." John assured, his fingers continuing to surround Sherlock's ear, to curl around his skull and cradle the divots of his cheeks. It was an unappreciated touch. It felt like a miniature chain, one which was locking through his very bones and capturing him to this new and ever changing reality. Sherlock didn't want to feel physical proof of this conversation. If he could sit in the grass and convince himself that nothing had been said, well then maybe it would be true. If he could sit here forever and deny what he had heard, well then maybe he could walk away believing that he was still an innocent. Believing that his hands were clean once again. Nevertheless, John continued to touch.
"I know you're here." Sherlock snarled, suddenly jolting from his crouching position just to smack John's hand away. "If you weren't here I wouldn't be going through this." Sherlock's eyes flashed, he could feel somewhere deep inside of him that capability to kill. He had never experienced anger very well; he had never processed the emotion. He felt it now.
"This is not my fault, need I remind you?" John snapped back.
"Who's then? Mine?" Sherlock snarled. "Me, who can't remember a thing? Me, who might be falling for this elaborate lie just for your excuse of eloping?"
"It's Musgrave's fault!" John demanded, finally rising to his feet as if he felt he needed a sudden height advantage. And yet Sherlock found that his legs were beginning to work, as if someone else was taking charge of his legs he matched John's eagerness, he stood tall, proud in his own skin.
"For what, for keeping secrets? For telling lies?"
"Yes!"
"And we'll just pin this on him, even though you're guilty of the same?" Sherlock pointed out with a sneer. John hesitated, his confidence slipping for just a moment, but an obvious moment. Even in the dim light of the street lamps Sherlock could watch John's face sag into a sudden realization.
"I'm...I'm just as caught as you are." John managed at last. "He's got me under his spell too."
"You make a lot of excuses, John." Sherlock whispered. "And for someone who claims to love me, you tell a lot of lies."
"What do you mean claims?" John wondered, stepping forward at last, evidentially unable to hide his underlying aggression.
"You heard me right. Why would anyone who had their partner's best interest in mind even keep something like this? Why would anyone spring the truth on like a big boulder, forcing me to carry it for the rest of my life?"
"Because Musgrave told me to! He's got a PHD and round glasses, who am I to question his judgment?"
"Then why now? Why now?" Sherlock exclaimed.
"Because he seduced you, and because we've got a body in the backseat!" John shot back, his voice rising to such a level that the confession bounced off of the surrounding forest. Sherlock shivered away, hoping that no hermits were around to hear. A body in the backseat?
"Seduced me?" Sherlock whispered, repeating what ironically seemed the most troubling out of both details. John growled, fumbling with his fingers as if he suddenly didn't know what to do with them. He twisted them together, looking across to the car as if hoping Sherlock would have preferred investigating.
"Yes, seduced you. Victor told me all about it. About the night you were at his house. His experiment." John muttered, casting his eyes down as if this was beginning to get too uncomfortable. As if, for some reason, everything up until this moment had been easy to vocalize. Sherlock stepped forward and then back, feeling as if every word he didn't say just clogged up his windpipe, making it impossible to speak anything more than murmurs. He remembered that night, of course he did. He remembered the Doctor's weight, the Doctor's movements. Sherlock's lips parted, passing a momentary exhale as that feeling lingered for just a moment within his body. The ghost of Musgrave's fingers still remained.
"It was just that. An experiment." Sherlock insisted.
"It's ridiculous, that's what it is. Musgrave has known from day one what brings Irene out. He knows what brings Victor out. He didn't need to test it himself. He just wanted to get close to you. He's jealous." John snarled.
"Jealous of who, you?" Sherlock chuckled.
"Yes, of me! He said so himself. I...I may have met him earlier this week. I may have punched him, actually." John admitted, shrugging his shoulders as another wave of red hot anger flushed through Sherlock's system. Harming Doctor Musgrave felt like desecration.
"He's a professional."
"He's a scoundrel. If I told even one action of his to the medical ethics committee he would be sent to prison." John pointed out; in such a tone that he sounded tempted to go through with his stark promise. Sherlock felt his upper lip begin to rise; he felt the wind brush against his exposed front teeth. Like a wolf, he snarled.
"You wouldn't dare." Sherlock whispered, finding the darkness ever increasing. Finding the night intensifying, pulling over his eyes like a screen.
"I might just dare." John snapped back. "He's done unspeakable things to you."
"He's been there every step of the way!"
"On a path he created himself! He created your illness. He's given it a fake name, a fake diagnosis, a fake prescription! All to keep you at his side, permanently! He's in love with you, Sherlock, and he doesn't know how else to keep you close!" John's words rang with such intensity that they might have been from a loud speaker. Sherlock opened his mouth respond, though all that was passed was a breath. He tried to flick his tongue, he tried to annunciate anything, to produce words, but all that was left was a whimper. He looked towards John but saw nothing. He looked towards the ground and saw blackness. He looked into himself and recognized only his shadow, hidden for the night. His limbs fell limp, his feet rooted to the ground. A fire was starting, a fire was spreading. He might have exhaled nothing but smoke for the time that he remained conscious.