Chapter Text
“There are three types of lies: lies, damn lies, and statistics.” -Benjamin Disraeli
If there existed but one grand truth, it was this: Sherlock Holmes was incapable of uttering words devoid of deception. He was full of the poison, cursed from birth to speak only lies.
At four years old, he’d made his mother tear up a bit when she’d asked her sons how they were enjoying their supper and he had responded, “It’s disgusting, mummy.”
It had, of course, been lovely. But what he’d thought was a simple uncontrollable urge to lie brought him to the larger bedroom in the house, hands wringing in on themselves as he asked his elder brother, ten years old at the time, “Why do the words from my mouth sound different from the thoughts in my head?”
Mycroft, who possessed neither the time for Sherlock’s presumed lunacy nor an understanding of the breadth of his brother’s affliction, answered: “You’re born for it. The instinct to lie is as deeply ground in myself as it is, and always will be, in you.”
Even at ten, Mycroft had been a self-important arsehole. Still, that night, Sherlock had cried silently into his cotton pillowcase until the sun began to peak its brilliant rays over the hillside. It had been the first time he'd fully appreciated that his experience was not a universal one. He was different in a way he couldn't even begin to comprehend.
He got older and wiser in unison, learning to manipulate his curse to minimize the inevitable pain on others and himself. He didn't want to lie, yet he couldn't fight against it. He was seven years old when he learned about all the different sorts of lies: reconstructing, omission, disinformation, and the ilk. In this way, he learned that he could at least manoeuvre as close as possible to what the truth. If his mother cooked a warm, perfect meal and asked him how he liked it, he could instead say, “I prefer your potatoes,” and bring her slightly less sorrow. Although, in truth, she stopped asking him that question many moons ago.
He learned that anything shy of the whole truth was considered a lie. He tested this theory when he was ten in the mirror, trying to say, “My name is William Holmes, my favourite colour is blue.” The words were reverberating through his head ready to explode yet fell silent in his throat. He cleared his throat and gagged- the sensation of attempted truth was quite painful. He tried again, speaking a statement that was partially true: “My name is Sherlock Holmes, blue is one of my fav-” but the words caused him such pain, he had to stop. It was, apparently, too close to the truth.
He tried again: “My name is Sherlock Holmes, the colour of blue is decent on the eyes.”
With this, he felt burning and discomfort, but the words, their important truth diminished, successfully escaped freely into the world.
Over the years, with practice and dedication, he became quite good at finding loopholes: he could nod and shake his head if the question was yes or no, though his neck would get sore for up to days afterwards if he did so. He was additionally capable of answering yes and no questions on paper, though he couldn’t force his hand to write the full truth without the prompting. He’d learned that when a girl in 6th grade had passed him a note that said:
“ Do you like me? Check YES or NO ” with two haphazardly boxes beneath the question. He had been able to successfully (and truthfully) check the box that said “no.”
Yet his most beloved method of conveying truth was through making commandments that implied truth. For example, he was able to simply tell his brother to shut up when he was being unbearably imperious. Commandments, after all, were neither truth nor falsehood; they were simply orders.
Still, the fact remained that he couldn’t tell a full truth. He couldn’t even tell his classmates or family, “Hello, just be aware that I can’t tell the truth. Everything I say to you is a lie. Don’t believe me, ever!” because that was, infuriatingly, the truth.
He threw himself into his studies. He leaned into his natural ability to read the experiences of those around him. If he could burrow himself deeply enough into the pursuit of learning, he could ignore just how few people desired to come near him.
So he suffered alone and in silence. He watched as he made enemies with everybody around him and was helpless to prevent it. He would have given anything in this world or this life to be able to break himself of the malison that turned every person he’d ever known against him. They were right: he was rude, he was cruel, he was unbearable.
He was a freak.
“Well, bit different from my day.”
Sherlock raised his eyes to locate the source of the unfamiliar voice from where he was conducting some research for a case. Once he caught sight of the man, he was utterly helpless to look away. The lab, always dreary in its uneventful and quiet atmosphere, became the essence of radiance with the entrance of the gentleman who spoke those words. Sherlock was floored, baffled, positive in that moment that he’d never again be the same man that he’d been even one second earlier.
Why his vindication in this belief was so strong could not be explained. It was akin to grabbing wind, this inscrutable certainty that something about this stout, blond man was as revolutionary as if the sun had begun revolving around the moon. He was something more than a retired Army Captain, more than an insomniac, more than a man suffering from an eating disorder, more than an isolated introvert. No, he was much more- somehow.
“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine,” Sherlock asked after noticing there was no lump in his trouser pockets where Mike Stamford usually held his mobile. He willed his voice to remain steady, cool. He dared not allow his eyes to linger for another moment after he began speaking- his lingering gaze would surely betray him. His phone did, of course, have a signal. But sometimes lies served a function, after all.
“And what’s wrong with the landline?” Stamford asked.
“I prefer to text,” he said, though he had no preference either way.
Manoeuvre around the truth. He was always manoeuvring around the truth.
“Sorry, it’s in my coat,” Stamford said casually.
On cue, the man accompanying him fished his phone out of his own trouser pocket and offered, “Here, use mine.”
Success.
“Oh,” he said in mock surprise. “Thank you.”
He crossed over to the gentleman, taking the phone with ease as Stamford introduced him as an old friend of his named John Watson.
John Watson .
Of this John Watson, he could deduce many things. He could read his brother’s alcoholism in his phone, his military experience in his posture, and his insomnia in the dark bags lying beneath his eyes. But the most important thing that he could read on John Watson was the manner in which he regarded his words carefully, the way they seemed to be ripped from his against his will.
If anybody in the world shared his unique experience, it was this man. He had never once thought it would be possible, but lightning does- sometimes, somehow, miraculously- strike twice.
Sherlock’s hypothesis was proven to be amply true within the first 24 hours of meeting John Watson. If he hadn’t believed it completely when their initial connection was evidently profound, he was made positively certain when John proclaimed loudly, on multiple occasions, that Sherlock was brilliant.
No one in his life had called him brilliant before. He’d been called weird, freak, arsehole, smartarse, and any other number of cruel names. But brilliant? Not once.
Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
It was impossible for John- a man whom Sherlock found himself caring for deeply and devoutly after an incredibly short time together- to truly regard Sherlock so highly. Yet he saw himself mirrored within John. He saw disdain for the words falling from his mouth, saw the way he struggled with what he wanted to say, saw that he was hiding something. Therefore, what remained was, although infinitely improbable, that John Watson, like himself, could only speak in lies.
He wasn’t alone. He could be understood. If he played his card rights- if he believed the opposite of every word from John's mouth- he may never need to be alone again.