Three Is Company

The Words of Reginald Musgrave

Sherlock POV: Sherlock woke to a feeling quite similar to a hangover, though remarkably warmer. His head was the first thing to wake completely, for even before his eyes could open he could feel a dull aching between his temples, a migraine that seemed to have the stems of his eyes wrapped between its fists. Despite the pain the rest of his body felt remarkably relaxed, warm and comfortable; in fact there was an almost violent aroma of lavender in the air. Last he remembered he was on the side of a road, he was in the frozen grass...how could his situation have changed so quickly? Sherlock's head lulled to the side, hitting a corner of what felt like wet tile, and as his body moved to adjust himself there was a large wave of water which came splashing up towards his chin, nearly choking him as his gaping mouth was filled.
"Careful, Sherlock." scolded a stern voice. Sherlock grumbled, blinking once, twice, and finally beginning to see a scene unfolded in front of him. It was a bathroom, a familiar bathroom, one with calm orange lighting and a sea shell patterned shower curtain pulled off to one side. He was asleep in a bath of warm water, unable to confirm his state of dress due to the deep red hue. He hoped it was some form of bath salts, a remedy for those of modest taste, though he understood that the color must have been from the collection of blood that he had been stained with upon his last firm memory. His arm was trapped within someone else's grasp, and as Sherlock stumbled back to his right mind he felt a long swipe of a soapy sponge dragging along his exposed skin.
"Reginald." Sherlock guessed, not even needing to spot the figure alongside the rim of the bath before he could identify the touch of the cold, callused hands.
"Just stay still." Musgrave muttered, dropping Sherlock's hand back into the water before sponging his shoulder, one of his firm palms pressing against Sherlock's chest to steady his body. Sherlock shivered, his blurry eyes squinting, though he didn't speak a word of protest.
"Musgrave, I think something's wrong." Sherlock whispered, his head struggling to rise as his neck gave a wobble of protest and sent it crashing back down upon the tiles.
"Nothing's wrong. It's under control." Musgrave assured, his smile looming somewhere within the corners of the blurry bath, unattached and animate on its own accord.
"Where's John?" Sherlock wondered, trying to piece together his last bit of interaction before the world went black. Or before...before he lost control. He couldn't remember the scene, he couldn't yet remember the road, though he could remember the words. The words that had been echoing across his skull ever since he went away. Even the darkness liked to reiterate his greatest fears. Even his unconscious mind couldn't fall properly to sleep.
"He's outside." Musgrave assured. "But he'll leave soon."
"Can he come inside, please? I want to speak to him."
"He's not coming in. He's filthy." Musgrave snarled.
"I'm filthy."
"Not anymore." Musgrave sighed, cupping his hands together and letting the water pour delicately overtop of Sherlock's face. The water was aromatic, stinging Sherlock's nostrils and eyes as it trickled along his rigid cheeks, finding its way in the path carved by past tears. Musgrave didn't use a sponge for this, instead his fingers rubbed along Sherlock's face, trying to push away any stains left by the horrible scene.
"How did I get here?" Sherlock whispered when finally the Doctor's fingers had fallen away. He spat a couple droplets of water, allowing them to create great ripples in the blood stained bath.
"John drove you."
"We were...arguing." Sherlock muttered. "He told me terrible things."
"He was lying." Musgrave explained carefully. "He's fallen out of our control, conflicted with our goals. He's dangerous, Sherlock. We won't be associating with him again."
"He told me I have people in my head."
"People?" Musgrave chuckled, pushing back Sherlock's curls with a handful of shampoo and easing his head forward upon his neck. Sherlock didn't protest, in fact it felt quite nice to have a set of foreign fingers messaging against his scalp. He could feel the suds of the shampoo filling his ears, popping and distorting his voice as he spoke.
"My roommates. He said something that I couldn't understand. That I have other people controlling me from the inside. Victor, Irene." Sherlock explained. Musgrave laughed again, washing his hands off in the water and instructing Sherlock to submerge. Sherlock allowed himself to slide carefully under the water, the warmth engulfing him as his eyes stayed open, staring up through the red tinted bath and seeing a distorted figure of the Doctor above. From the ripples of the water it looked like Musgrave's face was moving, one moment his smile was genuine and sweet, another moment it was chopped in half by a ripple, sneering with one half of his mouth while the other remained emotionless. It was a terrifying ordeal, so frightening that Sherlock would have preferred close his eyes and remain under the water instead of submerging and facing the stranger above. In that moment he remembered what John had claimed, far beyond the promises of a mental disorder. He had accused Musgrave of being unethical, of manipulating, of seducing. Sherlock kicked his feet against the opposite side of the tub, pushing his head into the light and taking a deep gasp of air. Musgrave smiled as he emerged, standing with a white towel draped across his forearm.
"I'm afraid that John has been lying to you, attempting to scare you even more. He's a menacing man, Sherlock. A threat to us both." Musgrave began, as if their conversation was supposed to shift to a more serious tone as soon as Sherlock's hair was washed accordingly.
"He said I killed someone." Sherlock whispered, his words accompanied by the dripping water falling from his soaked curls.
"It's quite the opposite." Musgrave sighed. "I'm afraid as soon as you're dry I will have to call for the police. John killed a man tonight, and finally he will pay the price for all he has done to this community."
"What?" Sherlock whispered, nearly pulling himself from the tub just so that he could look his Doctor firmly in the eye. The way he remembered their conversation, John had never been the one to confess. Instead he was going on about Sherlock's murder, Sherlock's deeds. How can it be possible that John was the one at fault?
"He thinks I can help him, that's why he's waiting outside. He's sworn to kill us both if we speak a word of it. Because this time he's gone too far. His lust for blood..."
"Musgrave, you're not making any sense." Sherlock whined.
"It will be clear soon enough. All you need to know is that you're safe, you're safe and he's not going to hurt us again." Musgrave's eyes were soft, his glasses allowed for a perfect glimpse of the grey irises that shone with a sense of calm. He held out a soft white towel, an offering, though Sherlock remained hidden where he was in the deep red water. Was he in a position to deny the Doctor? Was he prepared to call his own psychiatrist a liar?
"I don't feel safe." Was Sherlock's final response. The Doctor chuckled, shaking his head as if to begin a long speech. Though despite the large breath he took, despite his lecturing tongue settling into place, the man remained silent. Instead he held out the towel again, this time so that Sherlock could reach out a hand and grab hold.
"Dry off, Sherlock." The Doctor instructed at last. "Dry off, and speak no madness until you're properly dressed."
"Will you leave, please?" Sherlock whispered, squeezing the towel with one dripping fist. The Doctor chuckled, as if he was surprised as such modesty. Though Sherlock was suddenly worried he would be met with a refusal. Another bout of logic that could only be fought by apparent rudeness.
"I will step outside." Musgrave promised after a long moment of hesitation, dropping the towel and striding carefully outside of the door. Sherlock waited until he heard the latch click before he felt safe enough to emerge, the water clinging to his skin and dropping back into the tub with a loud chorus of splashes. He stepped onto the mat, toweled himself dry, and wrapped the towel carefully across himself, fixing a makeshift toga as it would seem that there was not another available outfit. What he had been wearing was gone, though from the cloudy memories he could remember the tight pull of a skirt, something feminine and uncomfortable tangled around his waist. He was happy he didn't have to see such a thing again.
"There are no clothes." Sherlock complained.
"Would you like some of mine?" Musgrave suggested from the other side of the door.
"A pair of pajamas, perhaps?" he was met with silence, though eventually the door opened again, this time with Musgrave bearing gifts. It was the same set he had been offered upon his stay, a pair of flannel pajamas that were warm and comfortable, the same pair that he had been wearing when he hosted the Doctor upon his lap. Sherlock shivered, pulling the towel tighter across his body as he carefully monitored where those grey eyes glanced.
"I don't remember you being so modest." Musgrave muttered with a touch of humor in his voice, a touch of ridicule. Sherlock was silent, remaining in his soft cocoon until again the Doctor was on the other side of the door. Then he quickly dressed, toweling off his hair and pulling a comb through the tangled, untreated curls. Two of the comb's plastic teeth were lost in the struggle. Finally Sherlock stepped out into the hallway, the cold of the rest of the house enveloping him as he stepped into the empty darkness. Downstairs he could hear a voice, Musgrave's voice, as if he was talking on the phone. He was reading off the address of the house, finishing with a plea for speed, before the soft click of the receiver silenced the house entirely. Sherlock lingered on the top of the stairs, his toes pressing into the fibers of the cold carpet, staring upon the lamp lit living room that was stretched out underneath him. Some part of him did not want to descend. He wasn't sure what he was doing, where he was going, or who was going to receive him. Should he allow for the Doctor's continued hospitality, or should he rush out into the cold world to meet John once more? Which would be met with more violence? Whose word should he believe, and whose promises should he trust? At the moment Sherlock was being forced to choose between the two most important people in his life, with each vilifying the other. And now it would seem as though John was going to be hauled away, taken by the police in the final play of Reginald Musgrave. A move in a game that was being played exclusively between the two of them, with Sherlock as the apparent prize.
"Sherlock, come downstairs." Musgrave instructed. Sherlock hesitated on the top of the stairs, his hand on the railing but his feet planted firmly in the hallway. Musgrave's footsteps were loud, and he arrived predictably at the bottom of the stairs.
"I have a kettle boiling." He added, as if that was supposed to add more leverage to the situation. Sherlock bit his lip, though he felt he had no choice but to descend. Carefully he crept, each bare foot padding against the cold hardwood, before at last he was delivered once more at his Doctor's side. Musgrave smiled, placing his hand upon Sherlock's shoulder in a move that was supposed to be casual. Both of them felt the tension. Both of them understood the meaning. Thankfully Musgrave pulled away.
"Sherlock, you're not to say anything to the police." Musgrave instructed.
"Why not?"
"Because right now you're very confused. If you were to tell the police all that Mr. Watson told you, well then you would be incriminating yourself. And me, as well." Musgrave explained.
"But John didn't kill anyone."
"If you choose to believe that, Sherlock, then you choose the only other option. You choose to take the blame yourself, which is preposterous." Musgrave snapped.
"It wasn't me, it was Victor." Sherlock complained. "The man inside my head."
"Do you hear yourself?" Musgrave laughed, shaking his head as if he had never been met with such lunacy. "Do you understand what sort of nonsense you're spewing?"
"But John said..."
"Mr. Watson has accredited a falsified disease to your condition; he's creating a solution to a problem that he cannot understand. Multiple personality is not a recognized illness. It's made for television dramas. It doesn't exist." Musgrave sighed. "He's trying to confuse you, enough to take credit for the crimes he has committed."
"He's not a criminal."
"I'm afraid he is. Sherlock, have you not recognized the pattern? Ever since Mr. Watson moved to town there has been a whole string of killings. It's no coincidence! He's blood thirsty, insatiable. He's dangerous."
"I don't...I don't understand." Sherlock managed in a hoarse whisper. "I don't think I believe you."
"Well then who? Who do you accredit to these crimes?" Musgrave laughed, his teeth shining and his eyes flashing. Sherlock shivered, unable to form the words he most wanted to say. A thousand names ran through his head, a thousand possibilities clouded his mind. But in the end there was only one man, only one man solely responsible.
"You." Sherlock whispered, just as the windows began to flash a telling red and blue. "You!" Sherlock repeated as the sirens began to wail. The words flew from his mouth as if someone else was controlling him, though as of now he regarded that as a stark possibility. Perhaps it was Victor who was yelling just beyond his tongue, or Irene that was hand selecting the words to say. But it felt right, it felt right. Musgrave's smile faded, though he had no choice but to turn to the door. The police were already knocking. The Doctor turned one look back towards his patient, as if warning him not to interfere, before turning the knob and allowing for their new guests. Sherlock was hit with a wave of cold, the outside air infesting the home and forcing the warm stove heat to be replaced by something much more familiar. Sherlock could see the lights of a car, he could hear a conversation. He bit his lip, stepping aside in his ridiculous pajamas as the police officers spoke briefly with Musgrave in the doorway. What they were saying was entirely lost. Sherlock's ears chose to listen instead to the crunching of footsteps on the snow, the slamming of a car door and a noise of protest from the driveway. Sherlock could hear John's voice, he could hear his yelling. Sherlock stared at the back of the Doctor too afraid to step forward. He stared at that head of grey hair, nodding and agreeing with the story that flew from his lips. It all made sense, it all fit together. For anyone who did not understand both sides of the story this would cement any blame exactly where Musgrave intended it to go. He looked so proud himself. John yelled again. The police did not give Sherlock a chance to speak. In fact they never gave him so much as a fleeting glance. Sherlock might as well have been furniture, for Musgrave acted as his mouthpiece. Musgrave made up the story. Musgrave took control. Sherlock passed along towards the window, he walked carefully through the soulless house, pulling aside the curtains and peering carefully into the darkness. The lights of the police car were enough to see by, enough to illuminate two silhouettes struggling alongside the squat frame of Sherlock's own Volkswagen. John's short form was only too recognizable, his chest pressed against the door and his arms getting tangled and caught behind his back. A police officer was wrestling handcuffs onto him, their voices just audible overtop of Musgrave's explaining. Sherlock pressed his fingers to the window, falling upon the glass as his forehead smeared against the cold pane. John was kicking and fighting, rolling alongside the metal door and wailing his protests to the arrest. The officer was stronger, the officer was more determined. John was turned around, his face turning to meet Sherlock's as he was led into the backseat of the patrol car. Sherlock might not have been visible, but somehow their eyes met all the same. Somehow John knew exactly where to look. The man's face was struggling, his eyes large and anxious, though Sherlock could do nothing but stare. He couldn't allow one emotion to take control, lest he have to display all of them at once. It was much too complicated to choose a particular grievance to latch onto. Instead of saying anything he said nothing. And that silence, it would seem, was more dangerous than anything Musgrave could say. Anything that John could say. Inside of his head were three witnesses to all the crimes, but inside his mouth was a tongue not allowed to speak. Sherlock was beginning to wonder if his voice was still his own. He was beginning to wonder when he opened his mouth if Musgrave's voice would come out instead.  

A/N: Oh my goodness...how do I start? How do I end? What do I even say? This is the last story I'm going to be publishing on this platform, and oh boy does it feel weird. Weird that Wednesday and Sunday will now just turn into...days. Not update days any longer. I'll post a longer goodbye soon, probably in my one-shot book, but as for now I'll take a moment to celebrate the piece that just finished. I'll begin with saying thank you, sincerely thank you, to everyone who came out of the dark Wattpad shadows to follow along with my last publishing process. Part of the reason I decided to step away from fanfiction was the rather crushing weight of having one or two readers per part for past year or so, but this story really turned it around, and really showed that you all are still reading, however silently. Knowing I had an audience waiting was what made this book one of the most fun to publish in a long time, especially since it had plot twists and a lot of great (yet crazy!) scenes. Even though this one was written before I knew how to properly paragraph indent and format dialogue, I'd say it's one of my top favorite stories that I've written so far. Perhaps I'll list them all in order on my goodbye speech, ranked from my favorite to least. Alright then, prepare to hear from me one last time! I'll publish my tearful goodbye when time permits. Until then, thank you all so much for reading, and thank you for your support throughout these years!