As It Should Be

Chapter 4: The Broken Genius

John could hear Sherlock playing the moment he stepped out of the taxi. Sometimes, if he caught him playing alone he'd linger in the hallway a little longer, just to hear the way Sherlock plays when he thinks no one is listening. He feels like he is getting an insight into Sherlock's mind, into his ever protected emotions. Although, he does suspect Sherlock could have noticed he was there the whole time. He was, well, smart. But, whether Sherlock was playing because he thought he was alone,or he was playing because he wanted to impress John it didn't really matter, it was still a little slice of Sherlock's talent. Something only John ever got to fully appreciate in these small moments.

As expected, Sherlock immediately stopped playing when John walked through the door.
"You're early." He stated, as he set his violin down and lit a cigarette.
"There's been another-"
"Murder, yes I know."
John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's arrogant interruption.
"Let me guess, you could deduce from the traces of dust on my trousers, and the length of my stride as I entered the room?"
"Well, sort of...and I watch the news" He pointed at the tv that was displaying the news currently unfolding. They both laughed, and John shook his head, annoyed at himself for letting his guard down. He was supposed to be annoyed at Sherlock. But sometimes he just struggled to keep hold of a grudge. Especially with Sherlock. He wasn't sure why. There was so much he wished he could've apologised for and stupid things he wished he never got angry about, when he found out Sherlock had 'died' all those years ago. Of course Sherlock wasn't dead, but he didn't know that. He supposes that feeling of regret lingered past the point of Sherlock's return, and he found it difficult to not want to resolve and forgive any issue with him as quickly as possible, just in case....just in case.... well he didn't really like to think about it. But then again, Sherlock was always getting himself into trouble. And when he wasn;t, these days he was just filling his bloodstream with drugs and his lungs with smoke. It was difficult not to think about the fact he could end up dead, his body laying limp on the roadside...again. And John hated to think about it. But then Sherlock said something that meant he couldn't ignore it anymore.

"I'm going to try and get myself killed."

"For F-" John started.
"What exactly do you mean?" Lestrade had arrived a few moments after John. Neither knew the other was coming, but somehow Sherlock was expecting them both.
"Well, if this killer wants to kill me, what better way to catch them then offer myself up as bait?"
"And what if he kills you?"
Sherlock just shrugged in response and began playing his violin again. A different tune than he'd been playing when John arrived. It was more... somber.
"Sherlock you... I can't watch it anymore, I can't let you put yourself in danger or doing heroin at every hour of the day. You need to stop this. You need to be clean."
"Why John? Seriously, why do I need to be clean? What purpose would that serve? What's the point?"
"The point is your killing yourself Sherlock!"
"So what?!!?" Sherlock laughed.

***

Sherlock had resented life for as long as he could remember. The problem was, he knew he was smart, objectively, but this didn't stop him from feeling like an idiot, like a fraud. HE had always felt so different, so out of place. Of course he could blame it on being 'too clever', but he didn't really believe that. He felt there was something deeper inside him, something fundamentally broken about him. Which is, he assumes, why he turns so often toward some kind of vice. The thrill of a case, the high of a drug, the euphoria of starvation, and ever the adrenaline of self harm.

He couldn't quite understand how everyone else seemed to go about their daily lives still feeling whole. There was nothing whole about him. He felt like the shattered glass that seems, against all odds, to stay within the frame, fearing with every gust of wind that the shattered parts of him would simply scatter across the floor below. But eating or smoking or starving or cutting or shooting up always helped to fill the emptiness in him, momentarily.
He assured everyone who noticed that it was all purely a logical choice. And most of the time, because of who he was and how he was, they'd believe it. He often stuttered on a word ever so slightly in hope that they'd notice, a subconscious desire to ask for help, to plead for it. But it never really worked, and he never fully committed to it, because deep down he didn't really think he was deserving of help. And so, if he was caught not eating he would day "digestion slows me down", when caught using he'd say "it's for a case" when caught smoking he'd say "it helps me think." It was all cleverly conceived lies. If you convince everyone around you that you're a genius, and then say things with enough authority in your voice, they'll believe you.
The cutting's a little different, though. Mycrofts the only person who ever noticed it. Sherlock grew clumsy one summer, wore a tank top specifically to aggravate his father who claimed only 'gayboys' wore them. Of course Sherlock was sort of proving his point, but his dad didn't know this yet. Sherlock was smart enough to cut only in places that tended to be covered, he didn't account for how high the tank top would rise when he was playing badminton with Mycroft. Although they were revealed for just a small moment, Mycroft noticed a whole host of both old and new scars across his younger brother's stomach. Mycrft was, of course, clever enough to deduce that Sherlock's legs and chest were likely to reflect a similar pattern to his stomach, and understood what it all meant. This didn't stop him, however, from humouring Sherlock, and pretending to believe him when he said it was purely an experiment in pain tolerance. Sherlock knew Mycroft didn't buy it but neither brother brought it up again.

John, of course, never noticed anything. During one case there was a girl who was covered in self harm scars. John tutted and commented "Why on earth would anyone do that to themselves?" Sherlock replied with the most basic wikipedia answer to the question pretending not to notice it was rhetorical. The answers he gave were shallow and scientific, his real answer to that question though, the fundamental truth behind his desire to harm himself is purely emotional. An answer he struggled himself to put into words, if he ever were to need to. Despite his perceived character, there were many things Sherlock struggled to put into words. It was endlessly frustrating for him.

Late into their relationship James would often remind him of his many flaws. It wasn't often James would be spiteful and mean. In fact Sherlock would often describe him as the kindest man he had ever known. But when he was angry, or upset, the words he would say would cut like knives, that would bury themselves deep within you until you can't keep yourselves from picking at them. The wounds scab over, but the memories scar, leaving fingerprints and teethmarks permanently etched into your soul. James would snap at Sherlock after dinner with his friends about how Sherlock had conducted himself. Reminding him that he was not 'normal' that his inability to hold a conversation was embarrassing. That he was embarrassing, unlovable, impossible or difficult. That he was cold or broken or just not enough. James would storm off into another room once he had said his piece, until hours later when he'd quietly slide next to Sherlock as he slept , gently wake him up to apologise, kiss his scars and tell him he loved him. And then spend weeks quietly making up for his overreaction, until it seemed his forgiveness was earned, and then it would happen all over again.