The Mad House

The Immortal Chain Has Broken

As soon as John woke he saw the ceiling, he smelled the wine, and he knew something was wrong. He sat up sharply to find that it was dark, the curtains were drawn and the lights were off and yet he was still laying in the living room, on the couch, as if no one had bothered to move him yet. There wasn't a pillow under his head, nor a blanket draped over him...he was left to the elements, left to gravity. His neck hurt terribly, and his shirt stunk of old dried alcohol. John would like to say that he had forgotten the events of the night; oh it would be so much preferable if he had woken up in a blackout. And yet he knew that he hadn't been drinking, he knew that he had been attacked. He knew that he had said one too many stupid things, almost as if his mouth was working on its own to get him into trouble. John sighed heavily, sitting up and messaging his neck for a moment, staring now at the blank darkness before him and appreciating the serenity. It wasn't very often that he found himself alone. Not just physically, but in spirit as well. Suddenly he felt completely detached from everything, and everyone. He felt as though he had been let off of a chain that he hadn't even known was bounding him until now. He felt free as a bird...and yet what a horrible feeling it was! For nothing had changed tonight, nothing except Sherlock's final farewell. John had been attached to that boy, that chain that had been fastened to his soul had been hooked to Sherlock's as well, and just now he found himself completely and pathetically alone. For once John missed depending on someone; he missed being joined at the hip. Just as soon as they were getting to know each other, just as soon as they were beginning to accept each other! And John just has to open his mouth, he had to open his mouth and allow all of those dumb and pointless insults to go flying out. The question now was, who was talking? Was it him, or was it the house? Was there some sort of supernatural possession that had fallen over him, in an effort to drive Sherlock away? Well no, of course not. Why would the house want to separate them now that they've come so close? Was that not their destiny, in the end? Oh but if it was, it was ruined now! If they were supposed to go live in that house again, if they were supposed to get married, whatever history decided to relive, well it was over now, wasn't it? Everything they had worked towards, everything they had been brought together to do. It had all flown out the window, simply because John couldn't hold himself back. He couldn't control his anger, nor could he understand just where that anger was coming from. He couldn't decide if he was actually upset with Sherlock, for really there was no purpose to be! There was no use, holding Sherlock accountable for the things he had done before. Even if John was correct in assuming that Sherlock was a prostitute, well what would it matter? Certainly the Sherlock he knew now held himself to a higher level of decency. Or maybe John hadn't been mad; maybe he had just been afraid. Maybe he hadn't been able to handle whatever feelings were rushing through him. It wasn't so easy for him to hear Sherlock's confession and then go straight into describing a theory. John needed more time to digest Sherlock's new sexuality, while it made no differencein their relationship whatsoever, John still felt as though there was a tailoring of memories to do. He felt that he needed to go back and look at what had happened between them, this time putting a sort of filter over it all. He had to reevaluate their time spent together, just now instead of Sherlock Holmes the student he had to look at him now as Sherlock Holmes the homosexual.Was that fair? Well certainly not, that was about as stereotypical and alienating as you can get. And yet John had to take it all in, for he felt almost as if he had been living in a deception this entire time. It made no difference in their future, yet John still had to reconsider their past, and look deeper into what was done, and what was said, to make sense of it all! He didn't want to put one label and one label only on top of his friend's face, yet then again it was certainly a label that defined a good portion of their lives. For they already knew what made them different from all the rest, and those differences may be the deciding factors as to why they had been sent back in the first place. Oh, but was John even allowed to classify them as such? Using the word us as if there wasstill such a thing! Had Sherlock not abandoned him, and left him on his own for such a foolish string of words, spat out in a fit of uncontrollable influence? And were they officially separated, had that seemingly invincible, immortal cord really been snapped? John lay back down on the couch, his head fogging even though he was not in the least bit tired. He felt as though this was better pushed aside, it was a thought that might be better pondered in the daylight. John still felt as though he was under the influence of something, whether it be the wine, or the delirium, or the sadness. Yet something was making it difficult to concentrate. Something was making it difficult to think of anything other than the obvious- and those eyes wouldn't leave his vision even after he had closed his own.