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“I’m afraid.” Holmes whispered to the quiet of the night. He was nestled securely inside the arms of his lover yet his mind wouldn’t stop worrying relentlessly. He could feel the warmth coming from Watson and the rise and fall of his chest, a calming sensation, though not enough.
Watson had just been about to fall asleep before he heard the hesitant voice, alerting him. He scurried upright to survey the room, finding it absent of any danger, he concluded the threat must once again be the making of Holmes’ own mind. Watson tightened his hold.
“It’s alright, darling," he murmured into his companion's hair, hoping he could be of some comfort to Holmes's uneasy mind. Of course, he was curious as to what his partner was referring to, but he would not yet ask; Holmes would tell when he meant to, be it tonight or not.
They stayed like that for a while as Sherlock gathered his words, trying to form them into a coherent sentence. Not that he needed to, Watson would understand him regardless.
“The things inside my heart, they frighten me, Watson. They do not feel like mine, yet they’re there and a part of me," he explained, his voice hushed, as the time was way past midnight.
"Sherlock, we’ve been over this; what we do isn't—"
“I know that. I wasn’t referring to us.” Holmes corrected him, and his companion just nodded and waited for him to elaborate.
“I feel like no matter how many cases I solve or how many people I help, I’ll forever be this rotten man, for my intentions are always selfish.” Watson furrowed his brows; he knows Holmes can sometimes be full of himself, but he would never consider his arrogance something rotten.
“I know I’m not the sort to get involved in pleasantries, yet sometimes when I see you comfort a relative of a victim or a witness, I cannot help but marvel at your kindness. How easy it seems to come to you.”
“I’m no saint; you know this best. You've been there and faced the brunt of my frustrations."
“Of course I know, we all have anger from time to time, that is not what I was referring to. Watson, you — you have a kind heart above all. Your first instinct is to always provide and aid others. Time and time again you have smiled through even when you were in immense sadness. I cannot find such goodwill inside myself to tolerate others. I cannot help but envy you, which further disgusts me. I should not be envious of you; you’re the light of my life. I should admire you and count myself lucky that you should prefer my company, which I do of course.”
Watson cannot help but let out a laugh at that. It sounds ridiculous; Holmes’s intelligence has helped solve many cases. If he weren't his brilliant self, there would be many more murderers roaming the streets free. And Watson was just about to tell him this fact before Holmes spoke again.
“I know it sounds delirious coming from me because of my usual arrogance and how much I consider my intelligence to be an asset, but there are times in which it becomes a burden that I wish to get rid of. Times when my mind tells me you’re too obtuse and why I bother taking you along with me to cases. I hate those thoughts. I want to claw my own brain out of its skull.”
If Holmes had said those things in a time before their relationship Watson might have been offended or upset, but after knowing and loving this man for years, he knows those words are not what Holmes believes.
“Sometimes I surprise myself with how hateful I can get. I’m by no means a loving man, but I loathe to think of myself as someone so vile whose brain supplies him with prejudiced and cruel remarks towards people, even his closest. You must know I’m not a prejudiced man, Watson. I would never judge anyone different because of their background or abilities, but— I do not know why I would even think these things when they do not matter to me— but my mind is still a mystery to me after all these years.“
Watson does not interrupt Holmes’s train of thought. Jumping from point to point, it’s hard to follow, but after years of practice, Watson can track him better than anyone. When he’s sure Holmes has finished, he offers his point of view to hopefully alleviate the fog of self-doubt from Holmes’s mind.
"Dear, I don’t care about what your brain tells you; those aren’t your values, and they aren’t what you believe. I know that. I don’t care that you hate me sometimes, because I do too. Yes I’ve had my many frustrations with you, yes there are times that I have despised you too, but in the end I know you’re the man I love more than anything because I cannot imagine my life without you in it. And I know you feel the same way; I’ve never doubted it.”
"John, it’s not just frustrations I've—" His breath hitches; he lowers his voice before continuing.
"I've been exposed to gruesomely graphic scenes from my mind. I've thought about— thought about harming people, in ways that would repulse me if I came to witness it. No, thought would not be the right word here, as these things come to me against my will. That is the irony of it all, that my mind would produce these visions that horrifies itself. And worst of all those notions haven’t been limited to strangers. I’ve had images— images of hurting you— you must know I would die myself before any harm comes to you.” Holmes’s voice wavers through the end. His emotions are getting the better of him. Just the recalling of his past thoughts, of seeing Watson suffer, however imaginary those situations might be, is terrifying.
Watson sucks in a hard breath; it’s not comforting to know what goes on inside his lover's head, but John knows that’s not the man he fell in love with.
“Sherlock, please, you have to listen to me. You have to believe me when I say that’s not you, okay?”
“I’m afraid it won’t just be my thoughts one day; I'm terrified I'll—"
“You won't."
“You can’t know that."
“I know."
The certainty with which Watson reassured him shut Holmes up. He trusted his partner more than he did himself. Resting his head back on Watson’s chest, Holmes closed his eyes. The storm had calmed down in his heart, but it was only a matter of time before it came back, and when it did, Watson would be there again.
Sometimes our demons may be too hard to recognise, for they’re too entangled within us. But Watson had time; he would untangle each knot with a loving and careful hand.