The Scientist

The Terrifying Truth

It was not a pleasure to burn.

In fact, it was quite unsettling, watching even the smallest flicker of a flame lick at the air surrounding it. Perhaps it was the idea that fire could be so changeable that Sherlock despised. Untamed, fire could burn the world down. When closely observed, it could be fascinating. He remembered that as a child, he would watch a candle simply flicker for days on end. He loved the sight of a yellow-orange flame and found it comforting whenever he was teased at school for being different. It was a constant in his variable-filled life. It was his rock that kept him grounded all while being his escape from reality. He could also remember the countless times he had been burned as a child. Most of the marks had faded with time, but one particularly nasty one remained on his left hip. Every time he looked at himself in the mirror, he saw the short twelve-year-old, being restrained while another boy held two candles against his skin, one pouring hot wax, the other simply burning the flesh with its heat. He hadn't understood why they would do this to him. He would always be careful with his deductions and made sure not one would cause him pain (he had learned this earlier on when little boys would stick pencils into his nose and step on his feet after having unknowingly insulted them).

Burning was entertaining. Being burned is no fun. Sherlock was painfully reminded of this very concept in his late twenties when a certain man threatened to burn the heart out of him. He said he wanted to burn him. Because he was bored.

Little did this man know that Sherlock was already burning, little by little, since his adolescence. No one knew of his problem except Mycroft and their father; they couldn't tell Mummy, she would be devastated. Perhaps that wasn't the best decision, since she would have to find out the hard way.

Sherlock hadn't had more problems since he turned 18, but the doctors said that it was going to be quite a while before it showed up again. Up to 30 years, he had said. No less than 15. Sherlock's father knew only because he had the same problem. It was hereditary, but Mummy didn't know that. One would think that she would have figured it out already, but maybe she didn't want to know. Sherlock did that sometimes. He looked but some subconscious part of his vast mind must have prevented him from seeing. He could have seen if he wanted to, but he just didn't want to believe the truth. It was like that with Redbeard and Mary. Some part of him knew, but he didn't want to listen. It was all very irrational and didn't make sense, which was the very aspect that annoyed Sherlock beyond belief. He didn't like not knowing.

So when Doctor John Watson showed him the x-ray of a rather large tumor in his brain, he simply nodded, somehow expecting this very moment to happen exactly when it did. Knowing that he didn't know was nerve wracking, but actually knowing wasn't as reassuring as he thought it would be. It never would be when it came to this sort of thing. John Watson, ever-so faithful, loyal, loving John Watson, said nothing in response to Sherlock's silence. They simply sat in the living room of 221B, quietly staring at each other with blank gazes.

Sooner or later, John glanced out the window and saw the darkness of night creeping into the sky. He was about to get out his phone to text the babysitter that he wouldn't be home for a while (he would text Molly, ask her to go over and take care of Rosie until he got home) when Sherlock spoke for the first time in hours.
"John," he said, his voice slightly hoarse. "Go home. Be with your child."

"But Sherlock--"

He cut off John with an intense glare. Perhaps it would be less painful dying if he didn't have to see his best friend pitying him for the rest of his life. Whatever was left of it, anyway.

"Leave."

John closed his mouth and sat for another moment. After a while, he nodded curtly and made his way to the door. He put on his jacket and paused in the doorway. "You don't have to go through this alone, you know."

Sherlock refused to meet John's eyes and instead focused on the droplets of water clinging to the outside of the window. "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

John let out a puff of air, something in between a scoff and a laugh. "Right." he turned on his heel and started down the stairs but stopped after a few steps. "You can always call me. If you ever need anything."

"Yes, I know. Thank you," Sherlock said with an annoyed, dismissive tone. "Lovely to see you again. Goodbye."

Sherlock waited to hear the front door slam before he closed his eyes and let himself feel. He felt raw emotions crawling into his thoughts, flooding all the rooms of his mind palace, slowly drowning his entire brain in grief, pain, fear. That was what he felt the most: sheer terror. He was faintly aware of his heart rate skyrocketing and he could hear his lungs squeezing before he took in a shallow breath just to squeeze tightly again. He would have been glad to die just then from a lack of oxygen. His face was streaked with tears, he realized, and he was gasping for breath after he screamed in anguish just moment ago. Thank goodness that Mrs. Hudson wasn't home for the time being, or else she would be fussing about him. She had gone out to play bridge with her friends. But Sherlock wasn't entirely sure he was glad she wasn't there. No, he thought to himself. Alone protects me. I'm in this alone.

A gentle voice broke through his watery thoughts: Oh, come on, even you know that's the biggest lie you've ever told.

Sherlock smiled weakly as he connected a face to the voice coming from his mind palace. Auburn hair. Soft, brown eyes. Pink cheeks. Doctor Molly Hooper. Always protecting him from destroying himself.

He was vaguely aware of his phone ringing, a familiar sound that made him snap back to reality. The harsh ringing broke through the multifarious doors of his mind palace and fought to reach the sound. He opened his eyes and caught a glance at the coffee table above him. He was on the floor underneath it, apparently.

The ringing stopped. Then started again. It was Lestrade, then. Sherlock did his best to calm his breathing and sat up. He reached over to grab his phone. The vibration and ringing made him come back enough to speak.

"What is it, Lestrade?"

"Hello, Sherlock," a voice purred on the other end, obviously not the Detective Inspector. The person had an Irish accent. Or maybe American? Sherlock was still somewhat disoriented and couldn't totally focus.

Sherlock frowned at the unfamiliar voice. "Who is this? Where's Lestrade?"

"Don't you recognize me?" the voice asked. It was a man. Definitely Irish. "Pity. Now you really owe me."

Sherlock shook his head in an attempt to clear the fog. "What are you talking about?"

"Ah, ah, ah, ah, Sherlock," the man sang. "You know exactly what I'm talking about." He paused, waiting for a response. "Oh, come on. This is too easy. Staying alive? BOORRIIIIING."

Sherlock sat straighter, his eyes widening, his ears beginning to recognize the man's voice. "I just had to ask . . . Did you miss me?"

The line went dead and Sherlock's head spun. An Irish man. I.O.U. Staying Alive. Boring. Did you miss me?

Moriarty.