Chapter Text
Constantinople had truly changed something within Sherlock. The whole ordeal had been nothing short of horrific and it was truly a miracle there hadn’t been any casualties. Well, none besides his father.
He’d hoped that returning home with his family, James included, would settle whatever it was that kept his chest constricted. It didn’t. Being home made it worse, in fact. Walking past family portraits, glimpsing the locked study, all hit him like the bullet that had torn through his abdomen. Grief was a fickle thing, he supposed. Made all the more complicated by the monster his father truly was.
Getting reacquainted with Beatrice was … interesting, to say the least. Picking through all of the lies she’d been told her entire life was a never ending task, although one the family was happy to attend to. It was mostly his mother and sister, although Mycroft often joined their endeavor. Sherlock, however, wasn’t as present in the discussions,
Or, really, present at all.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. However, his mind was playing tricks on him. Visions of his father lurked in every corner: seeing him sitting in his favorite chair in the living room, him fishing down at the river, him conducting experiments. And even if he couldn’t see him, he could certainly hear him. His voice appeared, reenacting memories from his childhood and from recent times. Worse, he could hear things that had never been actually said by the man.
Silas’ voice would haunt him, blaming Sherlock for his death, for his sister’s death (in spite of what he now knew), and countless other misfortunes. The voice hurled insults and attacked his insecurities. A favorite of the hallucinated voice was telling him that he would lose the one friendship he had, just as he had repulsed all of the people before him.
So, with all of that, he avoided, well, everything. And it helped. Sort of.
The hallucinations didn’t happen as often locked in his own room. He rarely emerged, only leaving when he well and truly needed food or was summoned by his mother. His avoidance was noticed by everyone although none of them really knew how to handle it.
He quickly lost all of his energy, suffocated by the hallucinations and drowned by the never-ending nightmares. Every night, he’d wake in a cold sweat with his heart pounding and breath heaving, with horrific images burned into his mind. Within a matter of days, he was reduced to a husk of a person.
James had noticed immediately. The Irishman came in at least once a day to pester him, to tease, challenge or poke at him. But the Brit had nothing left to respond with and Silas’ voice would sneer and mock every time his friend entered. And as much as he truly missed his friend, it was easier without this father haunting him even more.
At some point, he’d tried to do something relatively productive. He’d grabbed a book at random and plopped down at his desk. But when he opened the book, the letters swam through his sleep deprived vision and his father’s voice mocked him for being “too daft to even read.” In his frustration, he whipped the book across the room with shaking hands, where it slammed into the wall before hitting the floor.
He turned his chair around, facing the wall to ignore the book he’d just thrown. The anger faded rather quickly and within minutes only numbness remained. He wasn’t really sure which he preferred. His mind began to wander and soon enough he fell into his mind space, a fall he welcomed.
That was, until he found himself standing in a very dark place. He stuck his hand out in exploration and hit a surface before his arm had even straightened. He spun around, barely able to move in whatever confinement he found himself in. Thoroughly unsettled, he tried to leave his mind space.
Before he realized that he couldn’t leave. No matter how hard he tried.
He panicked. Started banging against the walls of his cage, yelling for help that didn’t come. His chest was crushed with dread, his lungs unable to pull the air they needed. Blood roared in his ears as he shook like a fragile baby bird. Until, he suddenly felt his enclosure move.
It rolled along, with commotion reaching his ears as he was moved. He was stopped for a moment, before the voice that haunted him called out, “Bring in the deplorable!”
The sheet that had covered the cage, which he now saw was glass, was pulled off and revealed a room he’d never hoped to see again. French officials and investors looked at him with morbid curiosity, a glance showed Professor Malik off to the side. And to the other side was none other than Silas Holmes himself.
Everything proceeded as it had in reality and he felt himself fading. His vision blurred, his breath leaving fog on the glass in front of him. He could barely breathe as his shaking hands fumbled at the walls, looking for anything. Anything that might help him. Silas circling his cage grabbed his attention.
“My own son,” he preached. “My own flesh and blood, betrayed me for some perceived morals.” Sherlock could feel the man's hatred filled glare burn into his very soul. “Instead of joining his father in his prosperous business, he causes my death instead!” Blood soaked through the madman’s clothes, stealing whatever measly air the boy’s lungs had left. “It seems only fair to return the favor, wouldn’t you agree?” The crowd cheered in agreement.
“Father,” he pleaded, delirious from panic. “Father, please…”
“Oh, begging now, are we? Finally decided to call me Father instead of Silas?”
“Please.”
“My dear boy, the time for negotiating is long past. I’d say it passed right around when I was shot by your little band of misfits and certainly by the time I fell off that cliff, thanks to you.”
“No, Father, please,” he sobbed.
“Such a shame you wouldn’t join the business. I suppose you’ll just have to be a demonstration for these fine people instead.” The Holmes patriarch stopped next to the hatch Sherlock had forgotten existed, noticing the all too familiar vial held in the man’s hand. With a creak, the hatch opened.
“Goodbye, my boy.”
The vial shattered.
The effect was immediate. His lungs burned with the fires of Hell, his muscles spasmed as he tried to break the glass in front of him. It felt like lightning had lit up his entire body, which he was losing control of, and a scream was ripped from his throat. The world seemed to spin around him as he collapsed to the floor.
And just as he nearly gave in, a gunshot rang out.
Bits of glass fell to his lap as a stream of fresh air flowed into his cage. He tried to look up to investigate, but his vision was thoroughly blurred and his head felt too heavy. Which is why he barely realized that something shattered the rest of the glass walls until a wave of unpoisoned air washed over him. Then, his ears managed to pick up on a voice he hadn’t heard yet. A familiar tone, but not the one that had doomed him.
“-lock! We need to go!”
It took a moment before he managed to focus enough to make out the face in front of him. One he recognized as one of safety. “Ja- James?”
“Yes, Sherlock, please, we need to leave now!” his friend pleaded. “You have to squeeze out of this cage, come on now!”
Despite his body being heavy as lead, he did his best to crawl out through the escape route his partner had supplied. He could barely move and was grateful when James pulled him out the rest of the way. His friend grabbed his arm and slung it over his shoulder, hauling him upright.
He leaned most of his weight into his friend, each step shooting white hot pain through his veins. And with each step, a whimper he couldn’t contain slipped past his lips. James led them through the tunnel he knew all too well. The one he’d been shot in. He could practically feel the bullet piercing his flesh at the memory.
One blink later and he was back in his room, sitting on his chair facing the wall. The shift had him questioning everything. Whether it was a dream or truly was what his mind palace had created. As if answering his question, an all too familiar face entered his view. Hands landed on his knees, providing a grounding comfort his rattled brain desperately needed.
“Sherlock, are you alright?”
“James?” he managed between labored breaths, desperately hoping he wasn’t hallucinating.
“No, it’s your other friend,” James teased, a soft smile gracing his face. “Can’t say that's how I usually spend my nights, but all in all-”
The banter was all the confirmation he needed as he hurled himself towards his friend. He clung to the man as though his life depended on it or, more likely, his sanity. His head hid itself against his friend’s neck, guarding him from whatever the world may send. Then, two arms slowly came around to mirror the gesture and his floodgates burst, releasing a tsunami of sobs. One of James’ hands cupped the back of his head, his fingers weaving through his hair, and he cried even more, though this time with relief.
“Shhh, it’s alright. It’s alright.” The Irishman rocked them ever so gently, the care and love seeping into the Brit’s very bones. “It wasn’t your fault. Your father made his choices, there was nothing to be done. That’s not your fault. You were the only one who didn’t want him dead. For God’s sake, you took a bullet for the man!”
He let out the smallest of laughs and pulled back just enough to get a good view of his friend. James’ hand ever so gently cupped his face, wiping away a tear as their foreheads rested against each other.
“It wasn’t your fault, Sherlock,” his friend said. “Not in the slightest.”
“I- I don’t- How were you even there?”
“Couldn’t sleep, decided to come pester you to pass the time.” They both laughed before James sobered a bit. “I’ve been worried about you, mate.”
“I’m sorry, James. Truly. I’ve just felt … burdened,” he muttered, hints of shame and regret tainting his voice.
“Then let me, us, in. Let us help you carry that big old cross you’re trying to carry alone.” He paused. “Your mind space … I’ve never seen it like that. Out of control. A beast of its own creation.”
“It’s like I always say, James: the real prison is up here,” he sighed, bringing a finger to his temple. “What’s often a palace can also be a prison, it turns out.”
“Well then, it’s a good thing your friend has experience in orchestrating prison escapes, isn't it?” he smirked.
He couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes, I do suppose it is.”
“Now, if you don’t mind, please go change out of these bloody clothes. I do not want to think about how long you’ve worn them.”
“Ah, yes, it’s definitely been … too long,” he grimaced. “Won’t be but a moment.”
He grabbed some pajamas and went to change, the familiar motions helping to erase some of the lingering panic. As he returned, he noticed his friend trying to help clean up his room.
“There he is, all ready to meet the King! Now, into bed, if you don’t mind.”
Sherlock hesitated, weighing his options. “Only if you’re staying,” he murmured.
“Well, can’t leave now that you’re present for the first time in weeks, can I?” he replied, just a touch softer than usual.
The bed was only made for one person, but neither boy really cared. Sherlock found himself partially on top of his friend and his head retook its position in James' neck. His partner’s arms held him, just as Sherlock did to him, and both sighed contentedly. He felt the last tension he had be released as safety took its spot.
“James?”
“Hm?”
“Did you mean it?” he asked apprehensively. “That it wasn’t my fault?”
“Of course, you dolt. He made his choices and despite all of it, you tried to save him anyway. Now, will ya please stop asking stupid questions and go to sleep?”
He huffed before letting sleep slowly wash over him. There was no doubt that his troubles would persist for quite a long time, but he at least knew for certain he had a friend who would happily help him through. Even though his mind may be a prison at times, he had a friend who led prison escapes. There was nothing they couldn’t do, together.