The Descent

BY THE WAY: I have a poll on my profile page, please vote on it!

Also by the way: I am posting a lot on the Facebook and Tumblr "Sherlock Memes" pages, so please go have a gander if you miss me while I've been at French Immersion. (At the moment I'm a bit sick of it so...here we go...this is a result of a lot of pent up stuff...)

Based on the prompt by the fantastic RainbowBananas:

Sherlock and John haven't been living together very long, and John hasn't had any really bad nights until this one. So he's in very desperate need of comfort, but also kind of unwilling to admit he needs it, especially since he doesn't actually know Sherlock all that well yet. Sherlock, on the other hand, is having two simultaneous OH ** moments: one, because he has no idea how to comfort John, and two, because he has no idea why it's so important to him that he comfort John. Perhaps this is the first time Sherlock realizes he Has Feelings for John?

BUT. This piece gets really dark very fast. Warnings: Talk about suicide, with a hopeful conclusion, I think.

Therefore this takes place between 7 February (the date that John posted A Study In Pink on his blog) and the events on the 23rd of March (the Bond night at 221B and the Blind Banker case beginning). Thanks to the timeline by Lyrical_sky on Archive of Our Own!

His bed. It had been so long since his bed had looked comfortable. But after three weeks of blissfully dreamless nights, three weeks of physically and emotionally exhausting days, and three weeks of his mind dwelling outside of himself for once and enjoying it - in other words, after three weeks of living with Sherlock Holmes! - John's bed actually had become a welcome place for him.

John's bed in 221B had no unpleasant associations - it was not dangerous when he returned to collapse in it. Yes, it helped that it was a different piece of furniture in a different room, but it was made more safe because a different kind of energy radiated from it. It was the same kind of feeling of respite that it used to have, in his medical school days and in his army days.

Appreciate us the soft pillows cooed to him, you're liable to be summoned away from us sooner than you would prefer.

No indeed, his bed was no longer a cocoon of entangling, stifling fabric, waiting for his inevitable reluctant surrender to the spiders that wove his dreams and memories into horrors, horrors that came unbidden at the dark and unholy hours of the night.

In fact, John had almost forgetten that he'd ever had a problem in the division of dreams.

But three weeks into his new accommodations, it was still too soon for him to forget the months of struggles. Nor did the universe seem to wish that he would find total peace whilst sleeping.

Once or twice since his moving-in, John had awoken with a start and a head full of memories and dream-images that, as he grasped to remember what they were exactly, he couldn't. As he sat with drooped shoulders on the edge of his bed, he tried to recall what it was that he'd dreamt about.

He knew from the pounding of his heart and the sweat on his brow that the subject hadn't been pleasant, but after a few minutes of not remembering anything worth noting, he forgave himself and, with conflicted gratitude, returned to his disturbed sleep.

Being a bit of a pessimist, he knew that this had to be temporary, this not-remembering-his-dreams thing.

It just was because of the change in his environment, he told himself. Because his new room-mate caused enough disturbance in his external world that his chaotic inner world couldn't compete. Because Sherlock was liable to wake him up with all sorts of noises in the night: violin music, the frenzied sounds of dumping everything out of the cupboards while rooting for an experiment ingredient, the shouting of his name because Sherlock hadn't notice John go upstairs to bed, and, once, the sound of The Who's Tommy accompanied by what sounded like the noise of furniture being violently moved around.

In any case, John experienced these nights of despair rather less frequently than he once had. There might have been several reasons for this change. Perhaps it was just out of sheer physical exhaustion, the adrenaline in his veins after dashing with Sherlock across London after god-knows-what making his sleep a solid and restful one.

Perhaps it was because of the environment that Sherlock seemed to create; everything about Sherlock was mess, chaos, and action, while John's training left him tidy, orderly, and reactionary. This meant that John felt like he was filling some need in Sherlock's existence, serving as a cog in the wheel of something greater, and even though he loved it, again it was exhausting keeping up with the detective, even on a night in.

Perhaps it was because of his close proximity to another human being; being in the barracks had made John appreciate his privacy, but after being compelled to leave his fellows in Afghanistan, he found that the nearness of the others had cultivated in his heart a greater appreciation of deep, meaningful relationships and physical closeness. Which, he wasn't sure if he could call his relationship with Sherlock either of those things, quite, at least not aloud.

But the day he shot the cabbie, his heart knew at least this much: that he and Sherlock were essentially a special operations team on a great and terrible battlefield. If that didn't engender a deep meaningful relationship, what else could?

Ultimately, it was no surprise when, one night, John succumbed once more to what he feared was inevitable - a recurrence of the seriously disturbing dreams that stayed with him for days.

It was a few weeks after Sherlock and John had begun sharing the flat. The telly said it was the coldest February experienced in the U.K. since 1991.

The whole weekend, Sherlock had successfully demonstrated for the first time his ability to go for days on end without speaking. It was the strangest thing for John, who was used to pretense and going through the motions of life with an emphasis on duty. It was his duty to be polite, courteous, and respect the normative values of his culture. Speaking was a part of keeping up The Act.

But of course Sherlock didn't care about The Act. He valued only The Chase, as John had learned so quickly, and this affected the way he attended all the other realms of his life, so it seemed.

So Friday and Saturday had been painfully dull, with Sherlock pottering about silently, intent on brooding over his however-many-patch-problem. John had, despite Sherlock's comment that he must be a masochist, gone out for drinks with the rugby lads from Blackheath again, despite a relatively disappointing experience three weeks prior, and that Saturday night proved no more entertaining than the last time. When he returned home, Sherlock was still resisting all his efforts to engage in conversation except for a condescending 'told you so' sort of look that made John extremely cross, so John called it a day and went to bed, a little drunk and not dreadfully happy.

Not being very tired, having alcohol in his veins, and a bottled-up bad mood in his heart probably all contributed to the very vivid nightmares he experienced that night.

The content really didn't matter so much - it was the same sorts of things every time. One moment he'd be giving a thumbs-up to his bunk-mate, a medic by the name of Charlie, the next moment Charlie was on the floor narrowly missing a shell, the next moment the trees were falling around them (why were there so many trees, that made no sense, it was Afghanistan), and on and on and on it went.

The worst was when there were people dying, brutally, before John's eyes, and he couldn't save them all. Their broken, splintered bones pierced their flesh, and their organs oozed out of their abdomens. His clothes were bloodstained and not one of his patients survived as he raced from open wound to open wound with nothing more than a roll of toilet paper (no gauze!) and some rags for bandages. He felt personally responsible for each death.

There were other things, too, things that he was afraid to even acknowledge to himself, things he strove desperately to forget.

Of course, as is the nature of dreams, John was seeing a hybrid assortment of dream-images: some images were associated with his Past Life in Afghanistan, and some were associated with his Current Life as a civilian. Which meant that Sherlock, his new room-mate, showed up in the dreams too.

This was a bit ridiculous, especially considering how much the man already figured in his consciousness in waking hours. But John realized that because lot of his emotional energy was invested in his room-mate, it made sense that Sherlock would figure in his unconscious. It would be probably more conspicuous if Sherlock didn't show up in his dreams, John realized.

But that didn't make it easier to witness how his dream-self approached dream-Sherlock. That was new.

At this part of the dream, John was already panicked as he raced from dying person to dying person, when dream-Sherlock showed up, ominous and haughty and condescending. Dream-Sherlock didn't help with the mess, instead being more interested in John's dream-laptop.

Dream-John, in a moment of desperation, went to his room-mate and said, "I'm doing all this for you," referring perhaps to his frantic efforts to save all the dying people. To this, dream-Sherlock appeared nonplussed, and said cooly, never looking up from the laptop screen, "There's more wounded downstairs." Then dream-Sherlock slammed the laptop shut, rose from the couch, and left the room, trailing cigarette ash.

It was this moment of abandonment, combined with the overwhelming task at hand, that brought John to cold and clammy wakefulness.

"It was just a dream," he said to himself, though he felt instinctively that it wasn't. It had been too real. And wait, was that the smell of a cigarette...?

"To be sure," said a voice in the darkness, and John realized that he wasn't alone. There was a noise of Sherlock rearranging himself in the chair next to the bed, and then John felt the weight of a pair of feet somewhere near his own as the detective propped them on the edge of the bed. The detective inhaled deeply, and there was a dot of amber light, and Sherlock exhaled again. John realized the other man was smoking.

"You're smoking, indoors. In my room." John's irritation was a mask, perhaps one that was too transparent, for Sherlock just laughed softly.

"Purposefully. Nicotine has a tranquilizing effect. But I'm sure you know that."

The silence settled comfortably upon them as John came to terms with the situation. The dream...it wasn't real. It was mostly his overactive imagination. Sherlock was...here, oddly enough. Sherlock hadn't really abandoned him with the remains of a few hundred dying men to clean up, whatever that signified.

What a funny room-mate Sherlock was turning out to be. John considered himself a very caring sort of individual, deep down, and he wasn't even sure that he'd intervene in any way if he heard Sherlock having a bad dream. Yet here was this man, the cold-blooded, hyper-rational detective, almost cheerfully comforting John Watson in his emotional distress.

"What is it like?" asked the detective, in his I'm-paying-attention-to-everything-down-to-your-nosehairs voice, and John felt a little bit...erm...mushy. It wasn't often that John received the full and undivided attention of the detective, and it always made him feel like he wanted to be something else, perhaps a puddle of invisible goo.

"The dream? Oh." John didn't know where to begin, and even the thought of beginning explaining anything made him weak. "It's...memories, a lot of it. Just memories."

"Mhm." The tone demanded that John continue.

"I don't...I don't know," said John, realizing that being on-the-spot wasn't helping him think. "I...don't know."

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Sherlock just rolled his eyes at that, maintaining his somewhat dramatic persona despite the fact that John probably couldn't see his eyes in the dark. Really, sometimes people were so tedious. Then again, he recognized that John's dreams were probably so overwhelming, he didn't know where to start talking about them.

Settling deeper into the creaky chair, tipping it onto its back legs and bouncing a bit as he tried to find the center of gravity, Sherlock just muttered, "Well, when you do know, I'm listening."

His cigarette was nearly gone, and he was already irritated because there was just one more left in the carton, and he wasn't sure if he could justify his lighting up again on the pretense of calming John down.

Because it really was just a pretense, given it was mostly necessary for calming himself down. He felt like he needed it, as if he was about to embark on a great and terrible journey into unknown territory.

Sherlock had never been one to have dreams, for which he was indubitably grateful. However, this inexperience left him with a certain amount of helplessness at the present moment. It hadn't ever occurred to him that his mother's lifelong devotion to dream analysis - a profoundly annoying habit, by Mycroft's standards and his own - might have any practical bearing worth anticipating.

John, however, was not easy to manipulate, which was one of the aspects that made him fascinating. Whereas many people in the doctor's position who were less mindful of their convictions would be gushingly open at this point in the conversation, given how many social barriers Sherlock had (very consciously) broken in the past few minutes, the doctor would not simply speak his mind because of an absence of words in the room.

John was a doctor. He probably had been trained in the old therapist's trick of just sitting there and not saying a word until the patient, out of discomfort at the silence, began spilling his guts. He probably was a master of it. Certainly the doctor got Sherlock to often say more than he intended.

And not many people really could do that, Sherlock thought, deciding to go ahead and light the last cigarette. He dashed out the minuscule remainder of his current one in the cup of water that sat dutifully by John's bed (note: fresh this evening, still a bit wet at the handle, no doubt filled in the bathroom sink). Then he lit the second cigarette with the lighter that, with similar predictability, sat in the dish on the bed-side table that also held John's spare pocket change.

The flash of light from the military-issued zippo was brief, but Sherlock used the second to glance at the doctor, and their eyes met like the positively and negatively charged ends of two magnets, only to break when the light disappeared and Sherlock turned his head in the other direction to exhale.

"What, you want a drag?" Sherlock knew the doctor wouldn't accept, so it was almost a joke.

"No, thank you." John's voice was bleak, tired, gentle. As if he'd been to the underworld and back, and lost the thing he most dearly loved there. All was grief in his voice. Self-incriminating blame. A strong dash of self-pity, but not unconsciously so. "I don't care for poisons."

"Poisons, no. Too uncertain, too slow. A Browning? Perhaps." Sherlock inhaled and exhaled again, realizing that he was getting a bit too close to dangerous territory, territory that he'd been hypothesizing about the whole three weeks he'd known Doctor John Watson but hadn't dared to really explore yet.

He knew the doctor lived in a dark, dark, dark place, someplace deep within the earth, someplace that possibly wasn't even earth but hell, and Sherlock wondered if there was a way to go down there and retrieve the poor man from the endless cycle of gnawing upon himself in the darkness.

There's no time like the present, suggested the devil in him, a devil that didn't care anything for the feelings of people.

He's vulnerable. What, would you kick a man when he's down? demanded the better part of him with extraordinary clarity.

Dismissing both these members of his inner parliament with a shake of the head, Sherlock just wondered anew, as he had so many times: how close had John Watson been to killing himself the week they'd met?

He hadn't disclosed all his observations to his new room-mate in the cab that first night.

Addressing the affair with pragmatism - oh hell, you need a room-mate, I need a room-mate, so let's just call off any questions about this matter because we both are in need right now and we're both relatively difficult people to match, so let's just agree to do this without any dilly-dallying because I am sure neither of us wants to worry a minute longer about this process, so now that's settled, let's get back to the more interesting problems of life - had covered the immediate and deep concern that he felt reverberating from Mike Stamford that afternoon.

Concern that, try as he did, he could not help but intuit himself as he looked at the army doctor.

He knew the signs too well. Too, too, too well.

And so did Mike Stamford. Unfortunately Stamford wore his heart on his jolly old face so clearly, it was a wonder he'd even convinced John to budge an inch out of that vortex of Waiting-To-Get-Accidentally-Killed-Or-Maybe-I'll-Just-Do-It-Myself-Maybe.

Behind that knowing smile, those chubby cheeks, and unfortunate glasses, Stamford had assumed the identity of a sheepdog trying to get an ailing lamb back to the flock. A sheepdog alerting the Shepherd by barking loudly.

Several tangible things had alerted Sherlock to this. Stamford's characteristic cheerfulness was on full volume, and there was an uncharacteristic firmness and certainty in his knock at the door and the way he stepped into the room. (Normally, especially around Sherlock, Stamford was nothing if not obsequious, creeping around the lab with overdemonstrated respect, masking his jealousy at Sherlock's intelligence with good humor that was often forced.)

Then there was the blatant lie that he didn't have his phone when it was clearly visible in his front jacket pocket, which forced John, a man of undue conscientiousness, to offer his own. Then there was the slightest hint of desperation evident in the way Stamford hurried away to mind his own business behind the lab table, and the pretend nonchalance in his voice as he retroactively introduced his friend. It was his way of passing the baton.

Indeed, the nurse couldn't have sent Sherlock a text that was more clear: Sherlock look at this desperately unhappy man and do some magic for him - please HELP!

And then the smile that came to his face when Sherlock responded to these signals - oh yes, for once Stamford appeared genuinely grateful when Sherlock, with pretend indifference that he picked up like a chameleon from Stamford, posed the question, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

No doubt Stamford knew that Sherlock would also see the glazed-over look in the doctor's eyes, the firmness of his jaw, the carelessness of his shaving, the heaviness of his shoulders, the terseness of his words, the brooding wrinkles of his brow, and all the other hundred microscopic details that indicated a man who was barely keeping The Lie together. A man who was constantly insisting "I'm fine" whilst experiencing the most profound not fine-ness, who was maintaining a hollow existence with the bleak hope that someday, one day, he'd be able to get past his demons if he just kept putting one foot in front of the other.

Men like Stamford didn't really have a chance to go through this state of transformation - they had people worth returning to after the war, people who made The Acts necessary for a return to civilian life bearable if not downright pleasurable. Moreover there was more duty attached to them because if they weren't Happy to be Home, they'd be disappointing the sweet wives and children and parents and close friends who loved them.

Repression was the name of the game in Stamford's case, Sherlock knew; the nurse repressed his memories and feelings with binge-eating, hence his rapid and continued weight gain. But the rest of the time - actually because of this maladaptive coping mechanism - Stamford managed to be otherwise Happy with a capital H. He had a job, two newborn twins that he couldn't stop talking about, and had joined a garage rock band as a bassist. And his wife was an absolute darling - vapid, too-involved in her church ministry, and plump as a dumpling herself, but loving.

But John Watson...John Watson didn't have those so-called 'support systems' so he was undergoing the very natural process of Survivor's Guilt or what-have-you. He had no one worth repressing for, other than the person who sold him his daily newspaper, and maybe the cashier at Tesco's and, once in a while, a certain family member who made an awkward unsuccessful effort to try and care about him. The rest of his life could be safely spent brooding, despite his principled, duty-bound efforts to move mechanically forward.

Which was probably what had scared Stamford the most, Sherlock figured. Stamford didn't, intrinsically could not understand what John was undergoing, it was too much what Stanford was denying himself - the chance to grieve all those who had been lost.

Unfortunately, Sherlock knew, while in the long run if John survived this period, he would be better off than people like Stamford, after addressing and getting over these emotions. But for the immediate moment, Sherlock knew a man on the brink of suicide if he'd ever seen one.

Sherlock knew because, too often in his rather young life, he'd been at the same precipice, looking into the darkness of the abyss that might well be hell and wondering if it would be easier just to let himself fall.

It's not the same for him, though, he told himself as he looked at the doctor in the darkness and heaved a great exhale. As his eyes re-adjusted to the darkness after the flicker of the lighter, he could tell that his room-mate had not stopped staring at him. He's actually lived through things a little more pressing than my own first-world problems.

And the more he mused about it, as they sat in the darkness that wasn't as cold as it had been earlier, the more he wanted to know.

It had been driving him a bit nutty for the past three weeks, and while he respected the virtue of patience theoretically, he was not a great practitioner of it.

Indeed, as his devilish side observed, you have been remarkably patient thus far - you deserve to press a few buttons.

No! Don't you dare, insisted the better side, which concerned itself with the knowledge that The Gun was in the bedside-drawer still, same as the first week, and some days (when Sherlock checked) it had changed its position in the drawer, as if John would get it out and look at it once in a while.

Well, how is he going to get it out of his system if you don't address it? some third voice said, probably a member of the devil's party but Sherlock wasn't sure. He certainly won't talk about it unless you force him.

Which led Sherlock to say, dryly, "It is a Browning L9A1, isn't it?"

John just nodded, which given the darkness was not helpful, but Sherlock heard the rustling of skin against the collar of John's pyjamas.

"Why?"

Sherlock's ambiguity was deliberate, because he wanted to see where John might take the question, but unfortunately the response was a bit common.

"Why what?"

(Defensive.)

"Why do you have it?" Sherlock clarified.

"Have what?" insisted John. "The pistol?"

(Very defensive! And not very willing to talk about it...)

"No, a purple teddy bear. Of course I mean the pistol," replied Sherlock a bit too snappily for his own good, regretting his choice of words the moment they flew out of his mouth. But he was so sick of not knowing, and his patience was entirely gone.

But somehow the snappishness seemed to work better on John than kindness, perhaps evoking some elements of his army training. (How sad.)

"...I have it as an insurance policy," said John slowly, mumblingly.

"Insurance against what?" quizzed the detective, barely not adding "soldier" as the last word of the question, his voice emulating the pitch of typical drill-sergeant in a war film. He realized on some level that he was now committed to delving deep into this problem and not coming out again without the lost part of John's soul, if that was at all possible. (He didn't think about it in that way, though.)

"Against..." murmured John, who was no longer looking in Sherlock's direction but forward, into the darkness in front of him, as if trying to see beyond the walls to the great heavy clouds that hung low in the sky.

But some clarity returned to him, some groundedness, and he shook his head. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"I don't believe you," said Sherlock, readjusting his legs, crossing them at the ankles because they were restless.

"Well, what will you have me tell you?" asked John, and there was a sudden bitter, resounding pathos in his voice. "That I'm saving it for a rainy day?"

"Its significance is not exactly monetary," returned Sherlock trying to study the doctor in the dark, trying to see where in the dark depths of John's personal hell the significance of this thing lay.

"And its use would not be monetary," answered John gravely, and he sank down onto the pillows, apparently trying to sink as low as possible into the oblivion that was his bed, emulating his mood, which was probably at a place much closer to the core of the earth than John could reasonably get that moment.

Sherlock sat there, poised and still, finally exhaling the last he could get out of that cigarette and glumly depositing it in the cup of water.

"Well?" he said, looking at what he could see of the doctor in the dark.

"Well what?" asked John, his voice muffled by a pillow over his face. "Leave me be, Sherlock, let me sleep."

"No," replied Sherlock comfortably, and then a sudden thought inspired him. "Would you like to be...held for a while?"

"What?"

The doctor removed the pillow from his face with a sharp movement.

"You heard me," said the detective, finding that ounce of courage that had made him ask the question in the first place had long since fled.

"No," said John, and he added fervently, desperately, "I'm not gay."

"That's neither here nor there," said Sherlock, forcing himself to sound nonchalant about it. "I was simply referring to the physiological phenomena that occur with person-to-person contact, namely the decrease in blood pressure, the synchronisation of pulse, the secretion of neurochemicals that-"

"-I'm a doctor, Sherlock, I get it."

"Fine." Sherlock curled his legs up onto the chair and hugged them, pressing his face into his knobby knees. "Just trying to be helpful."

"Well, a shitty job you're making of it."

Ouch.

Feeling a bit too pained at the challenge, Sherlock felt himself retreating into himself. As much as he wanted to uncover the mystery of the Problem Of John, this was a major setback. He forced himself to not let feelings get in his way, but as it happened every time he wanted to dismiss his hurt, he just got angry.

John was instantly sorry, of course. "God, Sherlock, I didn't mean that. I'm sorry. I...just..."

And then, then there was that vulnerable tone to John's voice, and Sherlock realized how stupid he'd been - John was a helping sort of person and his life was oriented towards serving others. So the only way he'd ever help himself was if he was actually helping someone else...

So Sherlock gave a cry, raising his head and, with a constricted throat, uttered with near-tearful frustration, "God! You're an imbecile!"

"Yes," John said, his voice very balanced all of a sudden. "I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"Don't you understand what I'm doing here?" asked Sherlock, maintaining the blend of hurt and anger in his voice that he gauged would bring the best response from his room-mate.

(He ignored the fact that it was rather too easy for him to summon these feelings - in fact they were genuine feelings that he was merely channeling to suit his purpose, but he preferred to think of himself as an exceptional actor than admit that sometimes he was a bit too emotional.)

"No, I genuinely don't," said John, but he was sitting up in the bed, and his hand extended to try and touch Sherlock's shoulder, which was perfectly in accordance with Sherlock's own plan. "I get it, I'm an idiot, now please explain what you're doing, because I sure as hell don't understand. One minute you're smoking, the next minute you're asking me about my gun, then you're wanting to..."

John left off there, because Sherlock inched away from John's offered hand with a shudder, withdrawing into as small a ball as he could create out of himself.

"Are you okay?" asked John, which was really a stupid question, he was better than that, so Sherlock didn't answer. "Are...are you..." He swept his feet from under the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the detective in the darkness, and Sherlock was inwardly shouting Eurekea! because this was exactly what he was hoping for.

"No. I'm...I'm not okay," answered Sherlock raspily, unfurling just the smallest bit. "I'm not okay, John."

"In what way are you 'not okay'?" asked the doctor, as if talking to a small child. Which, granted, Sherlock was acting like one.

"I...I'm so alone, John."

The words had a ring of authenticity that hadn't been meant to be there, and Sherlock was for a moment terrified of it, but whatever, it was all part of The Act.

"In what way do you mean?" asked the doctor, and Sherlock could already hear the I'm not gay so please don't tell me you are creeping into his tone.

So he batted away from that question quickly. "You don't know what it's like, being someone like me."

John shook his head, and Sherlock could hear it. "No, I don't," answered the doctor gravely, and then with a sigh he said, "Oh, all right, come on. You probably need the physiological effects of touching somebody more than I do."

You're lying to yourself, this is just your way of accepting it after your initial resistance, the detective thought with some amount of glee.

The doctor patted the space next to him on the bed, and like a starving animal offered food and protection, Sherlock leaped up and practically dove onto the bed face-first, whereupon John gingerly lay down, face-up, next to the detective. Awkwardly, John put an arm around Sherlock, who was doing his best to tremble.

"So, Sherlock. Tell me what it's like."

"Nobody really likes me," said Sherlock with a rush of emotion, and he realized too quickly that he was, once more, spilling more than he intended to the doctor. "I told you what people normally say when I deduce things about them - piss off."

"Yes, you told me that," said the doctor, and his one-armed hug tightened just the smallest bit.

"That's been...heretofore my whole life, John," said Sherlock, feeling like he was losing control and spinning off track too quickly, so he tried to find some finality in these words. "My whole life can be summed up in those two words. Piss off."

He realized then that maybe he really, really had to go deep into the dark hellhole in order to bring that thing of John's that was near the bottom, so he added, with a faltering voice, "I...I've been thinking of doing just that, John. For a long time, it's been in the back of my mind."

"What has?" asked John, and there was a trembling in his voice.

Feeling far too comfortable in their non-gay cuddling position, Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed his face into John's shoulder, muttering, "Just...pissing off."

The words were infused with a venom that was most delightful, Sherlock the Actor lauded himself, but now that he'd reached the bottom of Hades, he was going to have to perform some music to win John from the god that dwelled there.

"So." John swallowed, startled perhaps at the confession. "You mean..."

"Yes," Sherlock snarled, pulling his face away from John's shoulder to enunciate more clearly. "To make it perfectly clear to your funny little brain: I've thought of offing myself."

"Don't say these types of things," John said in a deep and strangled whisper, his hug relaxing to become almost perfunctory, and his hand absentmindedly stroked Sherlock's upper arm. "Don't say these types of things."

"And what of it?," Sherlock returned scathingly, "Nobody'd care, 'cept my brother, and hell knows I don't care what he thinks. No, you don't know what it's like," he continued, so bitter that he was almost laughing to hide (what he hoped were) crocodile tears, "Being like me. Being hated by all these people because I'm different."

"I don't think you're hated," said John, deeply moved, and Sherlock felt a twinge of guilt when John's hug became strong again, more genuine.

"No," John added slowly, "I don't think you're hated by anybody, Sherlock. Except maybe Anderson, but we all know he's a toerag. Even...even the cabbie respected you," he went on, his voice getting quieter and quieter. "Even when he was going to kill you, he didn't hate you."

Sherlock gave a sharp bark of a laugh that was bitter, deep, and resonant, and hopefully the last he would be giving in the conversation.

"Well, you certainly think you understand. I guess you don't." That was a stroke of genius, Sherlock thought in retrospect. Challenge his very ability to help you!

"Understand what?" asked John, "being a genius?"

At which compliment Sherlock felt his ears get a bit warm, but he didn't say anything lest he give away his delight.

"No," John continued "That I could never understand. But there are...other things that I do understand."

"Like what?" asked Sherlock, breathing a sigh of relief despite himself. Truth and fiction are almost interchangeable, scarily so, he realized, and he sought to compose himself.

"Like...well, we were talking about my 'insurance policy.'"

"Yes," said Sherlock carelessly, "we were, weren't we?"

"Well," said John, a bit embarrassed, "I think given the context of this conversation you can infer the reason I have it."

Sherlock sighed. "Which is?"

"...do I have to come out and say it?" asked the doctor unhappily.

"Please do," returned Sherlock, feeling lighter as the doctor exhaled and swallowed hoarsely.

"In the cold light of day, it sounds a bit silly, but...I retained it as an insurance policy against life, if that makes any sense. No, it doesn't," added the doctor with bewildering lack of confidence. "It doesn't make sense at all. But...there it is."

"...Continue?" asked Sherlock, trying to sound a little less enthusiastic than he really was, which was enormously.

"I...I signed it back in at the registry but didn't actually return it," the doctor said, and the very breath with which he said the words seemed to bear his burden. "I haven't told anybody that, actually," he added quickly. "Couldn't tell Ella, of course - she was designated by my case-manager, and aside from what she could do to me by sending me to a sanatarium, I couldn't let that get back to the blokes at the force. No one knows I have it."

"I see," said Sherlock, though all this had been entirely too obvious from the moment he'd known John had a gun.

"So...I actually didn't think I'd make it this long," said the doctor, his voice getting smaller and smaller with every word. "I...when I was living out of the hotel, I would get it out every day and look at it. And think to myself, Is today the day, or should I just eat my breakfast and go out in the world and continue to live this lie? And every day, I chose the lie. I don't know why I did. But some part of me had some...hope, I guess. Not much, but...but a glimmer."

"You didn't think you'd make it this long," prompted Sherlock slowly, gently, sadly, not letting John get stuck in a memory as they began to climb the rocky path, towards the light.

"Yes," said John, and this single syllable was so pregnant with sadness that Sherlock wondered if he was justified even in having embarked on this escapade.

Perhaps it had been foolhardy to begin such a descent as this, Sherlock considered, but he knew he couldn't just let John stay down in the darkness of the underworld. At least, Sherlock couldn't not try to bring his heart back to the light of day.

It occurred to Sherlock that perhaps he was saving himself a little bit, too, from the abyss. It also occurred to him that he wasn't quite sure why he thought it was so important, to bring John out of this, but his Feelings started to enter the picture as the likely culprit, so he pushed them away to focus again at the task on hand.

Just don't look back, John, Sherlock begged, in an unconscious mantra, just don't look back or you'll fall back in. Or maybe we both will...

He kept his eyes directly ahead, too, lest he also look back while he was guiding the doctor out of the mire.

"Yes, and...?"

"And I guess right now, I'm feeling like maybe I may actually have a normal life someday," said John, and Sherlock's emotion soared like the sudden release of a buoy held underwater. It was all he could do to not jump to his feet and cheer.

"Really," was all he said, since he couldn't really keep his exuberance out of more than a single word.

"Of course," said John a little more glumly.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to hold onto the mantra, don't look back, don't look back...

"Of course," said John again, deflating and letting his grasp on Sherlock loosen a little, "The only thing that's really changed in my life is having you around, you brilliant idiot. So I suppose I still have reservations, since...well...how long will we be room-mates?"

"The term of the lease is one year," answered Sherlock hoarsely, "one year, John."

"Well, a lot can happen in a year," said the doctor sadly. "I mean...Sherlock...a lot. We could hate each other by this time next year."

I could never hate you, a voice within Sherlock echoed painfully, and Sherlock found real stinging behind his eyes. He didn't say anything to contradict John, however, though he knew he had to keep looking and moving them both forward.

"Well, anyway," the doctor said, leaving any other reservations to Sherlock's imagination (which was unfortunately exploding with theories to fill the gaps), "if nothing else, you've helped me get out of that rut I was in. It may or may not last for forever, but nobody...nobody else has done a better job at getting me out of myself. Which is why I think I officially quit with Ella," the doctor added with some ruefulness. "So thank you for that, you clever human being."

"Welcome," said Sherlock dryly, managing the one word adeptly despite the feelings that threatened him. He felt like they'd been successful at getting out of that dark place, mostly, and now they lay panting on the surface of the earth once more, a little wiser for their expedition, but he also felt profoundly foolish.

He'd been expecting that John would be a Eurydice and plunge back into the depths irretrievably, only to let Sherlock's Orpheus grieve.

"So, your dream?" asked Sherlock, since they were comfortable there, and also because he wanted to ensure that the wound had been cauterized to some extent and would not be infected. That John would not, once Sherlock moved away from this space, slip back into the deep dark place within himself again.

"It...it's nothing," said John, which made Sherlock laugh a little.

Damn it, why do I laugh so much when I'm so close to tears?

"That's unworthy of you, John. Try again."

"Erm. I know," said the doctor, and he took a deep breath. "But for the moment, Sherlock, I don't know if I can say anything more."

The detective sighed, but realized he wasn't going to be getting any more out of this conversation.

"That's all right," he said, though it didn't feel very all right to him at all, in fact he felt downright depressed about this whole matter, as if he'd just drawn out John's demon and let it inhabit his own self. "Just be honest about it or you'll never heal. And...just, god damn it," he added with feeling, "just let yourself grieve, Doctor. It's not that complex. Just because your ship sank doesn't mean you have to follow it to the bottom of the ocean."

This was also advice that Sherlock thought was relatively appropriate for himself at the moment, because he was feeling himself slipping, slipping away like sand slipping through fingers.

Maybe he had gotten himself into too deep a mess. This was hell, he thought, this was quicksand. Was there any viable escape for either of them?

But whatever point they had gotten to, John seemed to have had enough of this chit-chat, because he was patting Sherlock on the shoulder in such a way that suggested that he was grateful, but wanted to actually get some sleep.

"I think I'm beginning to see that," said the doctor with a low, gentle chuckle, and he withdrew his arm from around Sherlock and sat up on the bed. "Now, are you all right?"

"Of course I'm all right," said Sherlock, a bit too enthusiastically, because he was feeling quite not all right but he dared not let John realize this. "Are you all right?"

"No," said the doctor more honestly than Sherlock could be, "but I'm better. Thank you."

It was a dismissal, and Sherlock was finding himself grateful for it even though his entire essence screamed at him - you've got so much more on your mind! say everything, don't let him dictate the end of this conversation!

But it was easier at this point to run away from these Feelings that were cropping up, so Sherlock slipped off the bed onto his feet. He'd gotten himself into much more than he'd bargained for, so he might as well contemplate it over some work.

Or, what was more likely, distract his mind from the problem until his Feelings had ebbed and he could examine what was going on within him with greater clarity.

"If you need me, I'll be working with the eyeballs from the freezer. Taking for granted you haven't eaten them," said the detective with dark humor, padding in stocking feet towards the door.

"God don't even joke about that," said John, another low chuckle in his throat, and Sherlock opened the door, slipped out like a cat and quietly, respectfully, closed it behind him.

What compelled me to do all that, he wondered, feeling sick to his stomach as he went to the kitchen, so much so that he ended up over the sink dry-heaving. What was the point?

There was a darkness in his own heart that he hadn't even realized was here, he acknowledged, and it wasn't going to go away without some rigorous examination.

It was a bit arrogant of himself, he also noted, to think of himself as Orpheus in this little matter of his relationship with John. Because really, John was such a good conductor of light...maybe Sherlock was the one being saved from the darkness of hell.

Whatever. That was too scary a thought, so Sherlock splashed the remnants of the previous day's pot of coffee in his face, wiped it off with a dishtowel, and set to work defrosting the eyeballs.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

They never talked about that night again, at least not directly. It had been, perhaps, too much in their relationship too soon, and in any case, very near afterwards had come an increasing trickle of cases that had drawn Sherlock out of his moodiness and John into a blossoming passion for blogging.

Some days later, though, John had discovered a very lovely new artisan-made journal and a pen that probably had cost more than his entire wardrobe sitting on his bedside table next to the cup of water that, strangely, he'd not remembered to change, and as a consequence still had the fragments of two cigarettes floating in it.

"Try writing them down as soon as you wake up," was all the post-it attached to the front said, in Sherlock's familiar scrawl. "I promise not to read."

Given Sherlock's tendency to disrespect barriers, John realized, this was a serious promise. Perhaps one akin to Hades' allowing Orpheus to take back Eurydice.

If you miss me even more and the Tumblr and Facebook pages aren't enough, then I guess you can check out my youtube channel, which is called "DeduceMusic". No fanfic there, but I at least recorded the Sherlock BBC theme song on the piano. As well as a bunch of other stuff, including snippets of my never-to-be-premiered musical, "That Woman!" which I believe is far superior to the "Sherlock Holmes - The Musical!" that exists. (Bella Spelgrove never impressed me much).

My plot includes, among other things: John struggles with his sexuality, Irene continues to tread a thin line between criminal and plain-old-adventuress, the philosophy of Wiggins convinces Billy the Page Boy to stop trying to impress Holmes and get a life, and myriad other psychological oddities and paradoxes abound. Ultimately, a lot of Conan Doyle's loose ends get tied up in this Victorian-era set musical. I need to still write the official script but whatever.

And...why do I always post on the worst days for getting reviews? Like Mondays and Tuesdays? It's because I start these things on the weekend and don't finish until the end of the weekend. Do try and prove me wrong, if you can.