Chapter Text
It is extraordinary how the mind works. It can conjure up memories and images of the past in a flash, in a moment of blazing clarity which propels the person who remembers back to an earlier life, to instances forgotten or willfully deleted. Time seems to rewind back to whatever the mind deems necessary to point at that particular moment.
Thus, when Sherlock asks John to use his imagination on what he would be thinking in the last moments of his life, and John replies "Dear God, let me live", the whirlwind of energy which is Sherlock´s mind pauses for a long, painful second.
Because this is exactly what he has found himself silently praying on one particular night years ago, a night he normally does his best to avoid remembering.
It takes him all his willpower to reboot his brain, which threatens to lose itself in this memory, and return to the case at hand. But he knows now that he and John do share an experience, even though circumstances can´t be more different.
They both know what it means to silently beg for their lives.
"Hey, laddie, fancy a drink on a Friday night? Don´t keep yourself cooped up in this respectable building for too long, you might end up like your brother – stiff and humourless like his umbrella."
The young, blonde man who is leaning in the open door to Sherlock´s small office is sending him a mischievous smile, but Sherlock just shakes his head curtly.
"No thank you, Connor. I´ve still a report to write, and anyway, I do have an appointment to keep", he reclines the friendly offer.
Connors smile fades into an expression of serious concern. "Look, you´ve been here for a month and you´ve hardly spoken to anyone. It would certainly help to melt the ice if you came along for a pint or two." The Irishman´s eyes twinkle again. "Bet you have a lot of Holmes family secrets to tell. Would be most entertaining, I presume," he adds with a mock posh accent reminiscent of Sherlock´s elder brother.
Sherlock, who has started to return to his computer screen, pauses and frowns at Connor. His colleague has been doing his best in trying to coax him into the company of his fellow-workers, but Sherlock is just not interested. He has spent many years at school and university in solitude, after all, and has come to regard casual chats as merely a waste of time. He has lived through too many incidents when people, outraged by his observations, have turned on him. Their support is based on the mutual agreement not to ask too many questions and to accept half-truths and lies without further questioning. Sherlock, however, has never excelled in hiding his observations, opinions and conclusions. He is far too thrilled to connect the data his never-resting mind collects to set the pieces together to form complete images. And, as much as he might wish he could, he can´t stop the fast-calculating processor in his head to contaminate it with the mundane. Besides, he reasons with himself, he urgently needs a change of scene tonight, to forget the oppressing circumstances he has been forced to accept for the past four weeks. He desperately needs a change of condition, actually.
Absent-mindedly, Sherlock rubs gently at his left wrist. It´s a good thing that Connor is a far too trusting soul to get suspicious at the gesture. Instead, he sighs dramatically, and pushes himself off the doorframe. "Too bad. Guess I can´t convince you to change your mind. Of course you can´t possibly stick around with me when you´ve already decided to grace someone else with your company." He winks." I only hope the lady knows to be grateful for the honour. Lunch on Monday?"
Sherlock nods, more because he wills Connor to leave than because he is truly interested in his company during lunch break. Even though the Irishman seems to be a decent enough fellow, Sherlock had no desire to engage himself in tedious social interactions and necessities. He barely listens to Connor´s words of goodbye, instead, he continued to stare blankly at the computer screen, his mind rewinding his father´s latest lecture on talent, duty and gratefulness.
Involuntarily, his fists ball, and he brings his right down on the table, hard. Gingerly, he opens his hurting fingers, staring blindly at the calluses there, a reminder that life consists of so much more than his father´s most favoured values. Again, he feels a tightness in his chest and his pulse quickens as he realizes that he is trapped, imprisoned within the walls of this unofficial governmental facility, under the tight surveillance of one of Mycroft´s closest friends.
The so-called second chance his family has offered him after his first arrest for possession and three months in rehab feels actually worse than a life sentence. He feels smothered by their concern, devoid of any wish to live up to their expectations, especially his father´s. He feels extinct.
Neither the insufferable, dull company nor the sentimental caring of fellow human beings is helping him to keep his appearance. To solely rely on himself is what protects him best – from all his fears, useless hopes and disturbing feelings. And he is not willing to give up the remedy of chemical substances which are powerful enough to change who he is.
His fingers find the switch to shut the device down, and he grabs his coat and scarf and leaves the office swiftly, his fingertips already tingling in anticipation.
Sherlock steps outside the hateful building, and feels instantly lighter, despite the fierce wind which threatens to rip his jacket off him. He closes it swiftly and huddles into the familiar warmth of his scarf, already feeling more like himself. Contrary to his brother, he tends to feel stifled if he stays inside for too long and prefers to expose himself to the elements. It´s not only curiosity which allures him to test his resilience against nature´s whims, it´s his independent spirit which needs the challenge and the accompanying feeling of freedom and space.
He shakes a cigarette from its package and fumbles for his lighter while he starts walking. The first drag and the fresh winter air contribute to clearing his mind, and he steps forward with a new determination in his stride, disregarding the headache which has been building up for the past hour.
He observes employees bustling from the surrounding buildings towards the nearest tube stations, and already feels detached, like an art connoisseur regarding a tableau of enigmatically arranged forms and colours, blending into each other. It is not a friendly picture he sees, as winter has not been kind to London´s citizens so far. Persistent gales from the North Sea have been carrying cold, damp air into the capital. It has been thoroughly uncomfortable for everybody, the streets freezing and wet, the stores and offices drafty and overheated in the vain attempt to retain a semblance of warmth in the buildings.
Sherlock couldn´t care less, although he considers snow an improvement, for it dampens the maddening hyperactivity in the city. Snow would help to him to remember cheerful childhood days spent at his family´s home. It would keep his mind from the fact that he is staying in a metropolis, a spot where one´s position and wealth is tremendously overrated. It would divert him from the fact that he does not feel right in his life. Not in the position his father has recommended him into, where he is supposed to conduct research for a secret governmental project, and bullied by a boss with a violent temper and no preference for objections.
Sherlock´s independent spirit revolts against instructions he regards as absurd, and he refuses to believe in the significance of his experiments and analyses. To make matters worse, his reports and recommendations seem to simply disappear somewhere within the institution´s communication channels, never leaving an impact on an ongoing investigation. Frequently, he is warned to be patient, to just continue with his tasks without asking too many questions. But he can´t abide to stay quiet whenever he discovers a puzzle to solve.
Even though he has long figured out that it is those who are able to socialize successfully with the influential persons who will be promoted, he can´t be bothered to keep his mouth shut whenever he knows that he´s right. It is most certain that he will not get farther than his current position anytime soon, which will most certainly annoy his father to no end, as it adds proof to his senior´s observation that Sherlock is a failure, the black sheep of the Holmes family.
Which he is, actually. To his knowledge, no one of his nearer and farther kin has nurtured a less socially acceptable vice than drinking.
He takes another drag on his cigarette and turns around the next corner, away from the mundane and commonplace, into his very own realm of substantiality and experience.