Fic for trickybonmot: Ford (2/5)

[holmesticemods]

“Hello, there. Brought some supplies.”

I glance up and past him, my brow furrowing. Usually when he opens the door, there’s only darkness behind him; I had assumed that the unit was enclosed in a building. Today there’s a bit of a blue tinge to everything, and I can just barely make out a narrow black road and another row of units a little way off. So we’re outside then. Huh, that’s almost funny, isn’t it. My freedom is just beyond the metal door, barely a meter in front of me.

He steps inside and pulls the door down, slinging a worn leather bag from his shoulder. He’s never brought a bag before. I shudder. Doubt I want to know what’s in it.

He crouches down then, and unzips the bag, then halts his motion and looks up at me. His eyes are that odd combination of manic and eerily blank that I’ve become accustomed to. His brow furrows, and I wonder what he’s thinking, what he sees when he looks at me. Well, I know who he sees, but… I must look something awful. I don’t think I’ve slept more than an hour at a time since that first day, I know my posture is slumped and defeated, I can feel the grease in my hair accumulating at the base of my skull, and I can only imagine the state of my face. I stare back at him with as much defiance as I can muster. It isn’t much, I don’t think. I’m so tired.

“Oh, what,” he says with a bitter smile, and reaches into his sack. “Not talking to me now?” he pulls out a small white box and stands up, stepping toward me. I flinch back. “That’s rich, seeing as I’ve been talking to your bloody headstone for four years.”

My eyes flutter closed, and I slump forward again. He eyes me warily, then comes to stand behind me. I know I should be afraid - what’s he doing back there? - but I can’t even summon the energy to tremble.

I feel his hands touch my forearms and slide down, pushing the cuffs as far down on my hands as they’ll go. It’s uncomfortable, and I suck in a pained breath. He pauses at the sound, then I hear a click and the squeak of a plastic hinge - he’s opened the box. Oh, god, what is he doing? What is he going to do? What’s-

“Ah!” A stinging sensation sluices across my wrists, followed by an odd sort of bubbly feeling. My hands feel wet and cold. It’s… it’s a familiar feeling, but I’m not sure wh-

I recall my unfortunate forays into sports as a child, skinning my knees and elbows on the pitch when I inevitably fell down. Da had always said I had the body of an athlete; he’d pat my back as he covered me in plasters and tell me that I only needed to work on my coordination. Then he’d wad up the rubbish and put the cap back on the bottle of-

… Hydrogen peroxide.

That’s what he’s pouring onto my wrists - hydrogen peroxide. He’s… he’s treating my wounds?

Do I seriously still have to do this?

Make you eat?

Bandage you up?

You were always the wrong man.

Been talking to your bloody headstone-

“I’m not dead,” I say, the words falling from my lips before I’d even consciously thought them. I shake myself - it’s pointless, stupid, silly to try to argue with a mad man. He won’t believe me, won’t be convinced, said so himself. But then, what other option is there? Just sit here and wait for him to kill me?

“Well, that bit’s obvious by now, isn’t it,” I hear him say, just as I feel a smooth dry cloth wrap around my left wrist. He does the other in short order, and I feel him stand up behind me, the air shifting subtly around his movements.

“No, I’m-” no point, no point, no point “I’m not- him. I’m Scott F-”

“Ford Williams,” he murmurs, and comes to stand in front of me.

I look up at him imploringly. “Yes,” I whisper. “And I’m not dead.”

He nods absently, and bites his lip for a second. “Mm. Right,” he says, and drops the white box - first aid kit - back into his sack, before turning around. He stands akimbo and scrapes his bottom teeth over his top lip. “So did you know about her then? About Mary?”

This again. God, why am I even surprised? He’ll never let me go, and he’ll never believe I am who I say I am, so- so… I peer at him through narrowed eyes. “Who are you,” I growl at him. If he won’t let me tell him who I am, maybe he’ll tell me who h-

“Haha!” he laughs raucously. “Well done, very well done, Sherlock. That was almost convincing,” he says, smiling broadly. The expression takes years off of his face, making him look oddly boyish.

I lick my lip and try again. “Tell me your name.”

He tilts his head to the side, smile fading to a tiny quirk of amusement. “You know my name.”

I shake my head. “I don’t.”

The smile disappears entirely, and his eyes go hard and sharp like crystal. “You’re lying.”

I huff out a breath, half exhausted, half terrified. “I’m not,” I whisper, my voice agonised. “I don’t know you,” I continue, and my shoulders shrug, the cuffs scraping over my recently-bandaged wrists. “I’ve never seen you, before two days ago-”

He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. “Did you know. About. Mary.”

Jesus fucking- “God- I don’t know who she is!” I scream, my head shaking side to side autonomously, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I’ve completely lost control, I can’t- can’t- “You’re a sodding lunatic!”

He stares at me askance, and I wonder if it’s going to happen now, if he’s going to kill me. Oddly enough, the thought is less terrifying than it was two days ago. I think I’d like to be anywhere else, anywhere but he-

“A lunatic?” he says, face caught between shock and… is that amusement? He thinks this is amusing? “Well, that’s almost funny, isn’t it.” No, it isn’t. “God even knows how many times people’ve called you that.”

Called me what? A lunatic? No, no- “No one’s ever called me that,” I counter, my face scrunching up in confusion.

“Ha!”

“They haven’t! I’m-” What am I? Who am I? “I’m…” I swallow convulsively, “I’m nobody. I’m-” I snort in self-loathing, “-perfectly ordinary. I’m a bloody schoolteacher, I-”

“Ah, yes, of course,” he says, and tilts his head back in a nod. “I’d nearly forgotten. What do you teach then?” he says, head tipped down as he looks up at me through his lashes.

“I-” He… does he actually want to know? Or is this another test? “What?”

“Your subject,” he says, eyelashes fluttering. “What do you teach.”

I stare up at him, my eyes wide, silently begging. What for, though, I have no idea. Nothing he’ll actually give me, anyway. “… French.”

His face breaks into a smile at that, and it’s the most genuine one yet. I feel my brow fold in bemusement. “Yeah,” he says, and I’m nearly bowled over by his agreement. “I’d nearly forgotten how fluent you are.” Oh, Jesus. “The poisoning case at that restaurant - Le Chevalier, was it? - you spoke a lot of French then,” he continues, leaning his shoulder against the wall. “No idea how you figured it was the sommelier, but-”

Stop this. “I’ve never-” he glances up at me, face oddly open. I look back down at my lap. “I’ve never been to Le Chevalier.”

He’s silent for an endless moment, and I can’t help but feel that I’ve ruined something. No. No, this isn’t my fault. I never asked for this, I didn’t want this, I haven’t done anything wro-

“Right,” he says, and I look up at him. His face is closed off again, and I feel my own fall. “‘Course you haven’t.” He steps back over to his bag and pulls out a takeaway box, turning back round and extending it towards me. “I brought you a bit of Angelo’s pasta primavera. Figured you-”

“Why are you doing this?”

His shoulders slump and he retracts the arm holding the takeaway. “This again.”

“I just, only-” I’m running out of options. I nearly laugh out loud at that - I never had any options, in the first place. I’m not running out of options, I’m running out of time. “If you won’t let me go-”

“I won’t,” he interjects, and my posture slumps even further.

“If you won’t let me go,” I repeat, “and you won’t tell me who you are, then-”

“John Hamish Watson.”

… What?

“… J-John Hamish Watson. That’s-” Oh my god. Oh my god, it worked. He told me. He told me! “That’s you?”

He rolls his eyes and crouches momentarily to set the takeaway on the floor. “’Course it’s me. Doctor John Hamish Watson.” Doctor? “Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” Captain? Captain? Like, what, the military or something? No, that’s- “Veteran of Kandahar and Helmand, Bart’s Hospital - you know all this.”

He’s… a doctor? No, that’s… Well, he did mention a clinic, I think. But… he said he was homeless, I thought? Suppose there are a lot of homeless veterans, but… His clothes, they’re clean. Neat. Not new, but not old either. No. No, he didn’t say he was homeless. He said, he said… There is no home for me. Not anymore. Ugh, what does that even mean?

I take a quick breath and lick my lips. Where did he say he served? “Kandahar, you said? That’s…” Middle East somewhere, yes? God, I don’t remember. “That’s in, er…” Where do we have soldiers? Ugh, why don’t I pay attention to those depressing news broadcasts? Bugger, I can barely get through Four Thought. Perhaps… “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

His face goes blank, jaw slackening, but his eyes… His eyes look moist, shiny, like he’s tearing up. Oh, god, I’ve said something wrong. Jesus, what have I said? What have I done?

He licks a lip and the wetness in his eyes leaves as quickly as it came. “Afghanistan,” he says, and his voice is gruff, gravelly.

Afghanistan… Well, that might explain why he’s bloody insane. On the other hand though, “Why are you-” his hair is a bit silvered, yes, and there are crinkles around his eyes, but other than that, his features are moderately youthful, almost boyish. “You look a bit young to’ve retired,” I finish.

His eyes roll then squeeze tightly shut. “We really doing this, Sherlock?” he grits out. Doing what? I don’t-

“I was wounded in action,” he continues. “Bullet to the shoulder, some nerve damage.” He was shot? God, that must’ve been- “Can’t be an army surgeon with shaky hands, so…” he trails off for a brief moment, mouth turning down with something like regret. “I was invalided out.”

Jesus, alright. So, he’s an army doctor, shot, sent home… “And then what?” I ask, worrying my lip between my teeth.

“And then wh- And then I met you, you berk,” he barks, brow furrowed in annoyance. I cower back slightly and look down. “And you… You fixed me,” he whispers. “You saved my life.”

… Oh. I- God. Army surgeon, comes home broken, makes a friend, who then commits suici- “How did you meet him?” I ask, derailing my train of thought before it could stray somewhere too dark. “Your- your Sherlock, I mean.”

He huffs out a laugh, though it sounds pained. “You’re not ‘my Sherlock’,” he mutters, and my brow furrows. What does that mean? “You were never that, and you know it,” he continues, glaring up at me. “Why are you-”

Ugh. “I was never any Sherlock,” I counter and muster just enough courage to glare back. His eyes roll skywards, and I slump forward in my seat. “I’m Scott,” I continue in a bitter whisper. “I’ve- I’ve always been Scott.” Well, actually- “Though…” I trail off, wishing I hadn’t spoken at all.

And of course, he prompts me to continue. “Though what.”

I don’t want to tell him this, don’t want to tell him anything really, seeing as nothing I have to say seems to mesh with what he wants to hear. But every second I’m here further convinces me that I have nothing to lose. “My mum,” I murmur, looking down at my hands, “when I was small, she-… she used to call me ‘Ford’.” Don’t forget your lunch, Ford. You’re a good boy, Ford. You can go out and play after you’ve finished your chores, Ford- “My-… my sister calls me that.”

He stares at me blankly for a moment, then his gaze loses focus, and he seems to look through me. “Sherlock’s your middle name,” he whispers, and I strain forward to hear him. “One of them,” he continues, shaking his head. “I’m not sure which.” A deep breath. “They read it off at your funeral as ‘W.S.S. Holmes’. Always figured the W had to be something really horrid - worse than Hamish,” he says with a dry laugh.

I shrug my shoulders and lean back. “Hamish isn’t so bad,” I respond, though why I’m seeking to offer him comfort is beyond me. “I’ve got a student called Hamish.”

“Oh, have you?” he says, voice sarky and cold. “Well, that’s a nice coincidence, isn’t it.”

Well… yes. It is. “Yes, I suppose so. Dr. Watson.”

His eyebrows jump, and his gaze softens with mild amusement. “You’ve never called me that before. Dr. Watson.”

I huff out a rueful laugh and swallow against the dryness in my throat. “’Course I haven’t. I didn’t know your name until a moment ago.”

The fleeting softness in his eyes disappears in a flash, leaving only sharp ice. “How long are you gonna do this, Sherlock?” he asks, though he doesn’t inflect it as a question. His eyes bore into mine. They’re blue, so blue, don’t know how I ever thought they were brown. “You have to know - you must know - how fucking awful this makes me feel,” he finishes, voice an anguished whisper.

You?, I almost say. I’m supposed to be concerned about how you feel? But, no. I doubt that would solve anything. He’s angry enough, I don’t reckon anything good would come of us both being angry.

I swallow my dismay and shake my head, looking down submissively at my feet. “I’m sorry. I- I’m very sorry for-” God, what am I sorry for? That I look like his dead friend? That he’s not still overseas? That he didn’t die there? That I ever thought a holiday in London would be fun? “… for your loss,” I finish weakly, and it sounds only mildly sincere, even to my ears.

“Oh Jes- shut up, Sherlock,” he says, face scrunching up in annoyance.

“Please-” don’t call me that. That’s not me, I’m not him, I’m not him. “… Please call me Scott,” I murmur. “It’s… it’s my name.”

He stares at me for a second, face impassive, then quickly makes his way over to his bag. “You want the pasta or not?” he says, his back to me as he rustles around in the sack.

I shake my head. “I-I’m not hungry.”

He chuckles dryly. “’Course you’re not,” he responds and stands up again. When he turns to me, I see a glimmer of light reflect off of something shiny in his hand, and he steps towards me. What is that? What is-

Oh my god.

No. No no no nonononono- “Oh god. Oh my god, what are you-”

“It’s just anaesthetic, Sherlock. You’ll be fine,” he says firmly, grasping my arm.

I shiver, then start to shake violently. No, no no no- “Please, please don’t,” I implore him as he brings the needle flush with my skin. Oh god, oh my god, he’s going to kill me or- or worse, Jesus Christ, help me, someone help me, someone please- “Don’t do this, I’m begging you- I-” Ah! It’s in, oh god, there’s a needle in my arm, oh my g-, oh my god, I can’t, ca-, caaa- “I…” Dark. So dark. Sssso- “Pleeease, nnn-”

—

I wedge the handset between my shoulder and ear, glancing down at my hands. Hm. Seems my cuticles need attention. All this stress is hardly conducive to maintaining attractive nail beds. I breathe a short sigh and turn my hands over to inspect my hyponychium - abysmal, as expected.

“Your leads, then,” I murmur absently into the mouthpiece. “What are they?”

There’s a brief pause, during which I realise first that I am in dire need of a professional manicurist, and second that my brother is… hesitant. I feel my eyes widen, though I shouldn’t be surprised, really; Sherlock has accumulated a whole mess of odd traits and idiosyncrasies in his time away, very few of which actually suit him-

“London.”

… I do so loathe repetition, but, “London,” I say, monotone, and glance up from my nails. If I pay them any more attention, I may well start picking at them - a vile and uncouth habit.

“Yes,” Sherlock intones. His voice is quiet, only barely above a whisper, and I am put in the terribly uncomfortable position of wondering where he is without the ability to track his location. How vexing.

“We know Moran is in London surveilling John,” he continues, and his tone bears the slightest edge of anxiety - another strange new characteristic he’s developed.

“Ye-es,” I respond. Does he truly believe me unaware of Moran’s situation? Or… oh. My left hand comes to rest palm down on my desk, as my right reaches up to encircle the handset; I feel the lacquered ceramic strain in my grip. “You think the accomplice is with Moran,” I say, struggling to keep my disbelief out of my tone. “In London.”

I hear him sigh from down the line, but the flavour of it is different than usual. He sounds… exhausted. “I’ve searched everywhere else,” he mutters, “every potential safe house, bolthole, hideout, I’ve retraced the accomplice’s steps entirely and had next to nothing to show for it. The only place I’ve not searched is London.”

I shift the handset against my ear. “For obvious reasons. It’s entirely counterintuitive.”

“Yes, exactly,” he says, voice wobbling in nervous anticipation. I wonder how long it will take him to re-delete this wealth of newly acquired emotions. “Strategy 101,” he continues, “don’t put all your eggs in one basket.”

I huff out a breath and lower my chin to my chest, speaking deliberately into the mouthpiece. “Which is precisely why the accomplice wouldn’t be in London.”

There is another long pause, during which I can’t help but wonder if my dear brother has lost (or temporarily misplaced) his touch. Bad enough that sentiment had him jumping from a roof four years ago, now it seems to stain his every move, every decision, nearly every word he speaks. Only moments ago he spoke of an illegal move, just the sort of rhetoric my clever - though I’d never tell him as much - brother would use before flipping the board in his favour. And now he’s prattling on about London, of all places.

He sighs again, this one wearier than the last and heavy with a sort of… oh my, is that guilt? “I underestimated Moriarty and his syndicate once,” he says - ah yes, guilt indeed. “They know I won’t do it again.” Oh.

Oh.

Seems he is not the only one making foolish underestimations. My mistake.

“They know that I know that they’re clever,” he continues, and he is, he very truly is, “so-”

“So they deliberately make a foolish move,” I cut in, tuning to his (admittedly brilliant) wavelength, “knowing that you would never suspect it.”

He huffs out a relieved breath. Was he always this easy to read? “Precisely. Genius, really,” he says bitterly. “I’m running about Eastern Europe like a headless chicken following whatever red herrings they plant for me, whilst-”

“They’re together in London,” I murmur, mostly to myself, “safe and sound in the knowledge that you would never suspect Moran to keep his accomplice with him.”

“Mm.” I hear a tiny whisper of sound and determine he has pursed his lips. I feel myself do the same. “Which brings us to my second lead,” he says, tone circumspect.

My posture straightens. “Oh?”

He takes a slow breath, then another. Then another. “… Agra.”

—

“And the prince awakens.”

“I-…” Oh god, I feel awful. “What?” My head, for god’s sake, my head! Feels like there’s a bloody parade inside it, my breath making the roar of the audience, and my pulse forming a heavy bass drum. And, fuck, everything hurts. My whole body is sore, terribly so - Christ, did he beat me while I slept? My arm in particular, god, why does my arm feel s-

“I’ve brought you some water. And a few energy bars.”

“I-” Jesus, is he yelling? No, no he’s not, but it feels like he is. What happened? I blink my eyes a few times - they feel both crusty and gummy, ugh - and glance around. The room looks much (exactly) the same, and I shake my head, ignoring the sloshing feeling which I can only assume is my brain flopping about inside it. When I tilt my head down, I notice- “Oh.” My hands are cuffed in front of me. …That’s-

“Figured it’d be better this way,” he says, nonchalant. “You can have a wee whenever you like, now.” Oh god. “Careful, though. They’re not the sort you can pick, made sure of it.”

The soggy cloths on my wrists have been replaced with thin white bandages, taped down quite professionally. My god, he actually is a doctor? I shake my head again - slosh - and wince. “I can’t pick any sort of lock,” I mutter bitterly. “Been locked out of my flat all night for it.”

He huffs out a little laugh. “Right. Well, then, Scott,” god, it’s almost worse when he uses my name, that tone is so- “you definitely can’t pick these. The bars and water are next to you, just there,” he says, and slings his bag over his shoulder, keys in hand. “I’ll be back round six.”

No. No no no nonononono- “Please don’t leave me here,” I whimper. I wish I could yell, scream it in his stupid, crinkly little face, but… “I… I’m just-” so tired.

“What,” he bites out, face impassive.

I glance down at my sore arm. There’s a bandage round my bicep, and I furrow my brow, before determining that I’m absolutely too exhausted to care. My chin falls to rest on my chest, exacerbating the horrid crick in my neck. “It’s cold,” I whisper, “and… I-” I swallow compulsively once, twice, and cough a little. Am I getting sick? Huh, some doctor. “I don’t like it here.”

He chortles a dark, deep laugh at that, nearly too low for me to hear. “Yeah, well. I don’t like it here either,” he responds, shaking his head. “Don’t like much of anything these days.” He gives me a long once over and grimaces. “Not that you care.” He makes a volte-face and steps toward the door.

No more, please, no more. “Please, Dr. Watson, please, I’ll-” what? I’ll what? There’s nothing I can do, nothing I can say- “do anything you like- I’ll-I’ll-”

“Is it Walter?”

I feel my brow scrunch up. “Wh-what?”

He turns back round then and looks down at me, eyes curious. “Your name, W.S.S. Holmes.” That’s not my name. “Is it Walter? Or Wilbur? Maybe something really awful like, er,” he smiles wryly, “Willoughby? Winchester?”

I-… There’s nothing to say, really. Nothing to even think. Too tired to think. But he’s looking at me askance, expecting an answer. I feel my face go blank as my body numbs over. “Scott,” I say, voice devoid of emotion. “My first name is Scott.”

A short pause, a soft, dry chuckle, a clatter of metal, and a cold, hateful darkness.

—

“Still not eating, I see.”

Oh. He’s back. Must be ‘sixish’. Didn’t hear him come in. Didn’t notice the light come on. Is that a duffle bag in the corner? Can’t tell. Don’t care.

“Not hungry,” I say. Is that my voice?

“Really?” he responds. I haven’t looked at his face yet, but I can hear the amused surprise in his tone. I hunch over. “Been three days, you know.”

Yes. I’ve been counting. “How long will you keep me here.” Too tired to inflect it like a question. Not like he’ll give me a clear answer anyway.

“Until you tell me the truth.” Case in point. “Sort of a stupid question,” he says offhand.

“There aren’t stupid questions, only stupid answers,” I say before I can stop myself. I know those words by rote, said them so many times to my students. Silly. I’m not a teacher here - hell, I’m not even alive here. Just a madman’s mad dead friend.

“Ha!” He barks out a raucous laugh. “That’s a good one,” a smile in his tone. “And how was my answer, then? Stupid?”

A bit, yes. I shake my head - can’t tell if the sloshing feeling is gone or if I’m just too numb to feel it. Too tired, too cold, too far gone to care. “What did he do to you,” I murmur, and my voice is gravelly, cracking. “This Sherlock,” I see him wince in my peripheral vision. “What did he do. You said…” Been talking to your headstone for four years. “You said he killed himself.”

“Did I say that.”

His amusement has finally disappeared, and I look up at him. Ah, yes. Inscrutable as ever. “Yes,” I respond, staring him dead in the eyes. Or perhaps, staring into his dead eyes. Or staring with my dead eyes into his dead eyes. Whatever. Cold. I’m so cold. “You said it’s been four years since he killed himself.”

He stares back, and no, his eyes aren’t dead, but shadowed. There’s something behind them. Something lurking. “Good memory you’ve got,” he intones. “Scott.”

That’s my name. Don’t call me that. I repeat myself, “What did he-”

“You know what you did,” he interrupts, and his voice is a low rumble, like thunder miles out.

I shiver, cold. Not afraid, not anymore. Too tired. “I don’t.”

“You do,” he counters immediately, and the thing that lurks keeps lurking.

I imagine we could go back and forth like this for hours - or rather, he could. Think I might lose consciousness barely a few minutes in. How is he not tired, not cold? How is he alright? How can he do this? How-

“You killed yourself,” he says, and the words sound choked, ground out past clenched teeth. I peer up at him, and his face is… I can’t describe his face. Don’t think I know the words. “Jumped off the roof of St. Bart’s.” Jumped off the… what. “I stood there,” he says, and his eyes go unfocused, distant, “not twenty paces from where you-” he swallows with a little choking sound, “… landed.” He finally looks down at me, though I can tell it isn’t me he’s seeing. “You’d called me just before, on your mobile. Told me you were a fake.” A fake? Fake what? “Told me to tell everyone you were a fake. Asked if I would do this for you. If I would-” Oh, god. Oh god, no. “If I would watch. You-…” Jesus Christ, Jesus fu- “you made me…” he takes several short breaths, quick and close together like a panic attack, and of course he’s mad, of course he is, if this man, this Sherlock made him- “watch.”

… Détruit. That’s the word. Destroyed. Ruined.

“He…” Oh my god. If I didn’t hate Sherlock already - which I’m quite sure I did - I certainly do now. Tenfold. “He k-killed himself…” the numbness is fading and I can feel my feet again. They hurt, “… in front of you?”

He stares at me for a pregnant moment, and I realise why his face is so… odd: his expressions don’t quite mesh. He’s sad now, anguished - I can see a sheen growing in his eyes pooling on the inside of the lower lids - but he’s… smiling. Like something’s funny. It should frighten me - further proof that he’s mad - but, strangely, it doesn’t. I only feel an eerie, heavy hollowness in my gut like guilt, or perhaps shame. The shine in his eyes crests and a little tear forms at the corner of the left one. In it, I can see the reflection of the fluorescent light overhead. If I looked close enough, I reckon I could see my own face.

“S’it make you feel better,” he murmurs, voice just above a whisper. His cheeks are still rounded with that incongruous smile. “Referring to yourself in the third person?”

Third pers-? Oh, yes, how could I forget. He thinks I’m this man, this Sherlock. God, it’s a wonder he hasn’t killed me yet.

I shake my head and look up at him. “I’m not,” I whisper back.

“Bet it soothes your God complex,” he says as if I haven’t spoken at all. “Or maybe your Asperger’s.”

My brow furrows, and I clasp my hands together, my thumbs picking at the bandages. “I’ve not got a God complex. Or Asperger’s Syndrome.” No point, really, but it seems my mouth is determined to say pointless things before my brain can tell it not to.

“Well, you would say that,” he replies with a shrug. “S’not like you’d ever admit to it.” He tilts his head, considering. “Maybe the God complex, but-” a short, dry laugh, “-that’s not what you’d call it.”

I tip my head up. “What would he call it?”

He looks me in the eye and smirks. “’Being right’.”

Being right? Being… right? I don’t- what does that mean? I lick my lips, then pull them through my teeth. “And the Asperger’s?” I ask. “What would he call that?”

He stares blankly at me for a second, then snorts and looks off to the side. “Same thing you’ve always called it,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over the back of his head. “High-functioning sociopathy.”

High-functioning… What. “He- …” Oh, god. He was-? …Ugh, of course he was. What other sort of person would kill himself in front of someone he knew, a friend, someone he cared about? And high-functioning? What on earth does that mean? A sociopath is a sociopath, there’s no functionality to even take into account- “He was a sociopath?”

I thought it a stupid question (there are no stupid questions), the answer seeming so obvious, but the man - John, his name is John - looks oddly… conflicted?

He - John - shakes his head absently, then tilts it to the side. “I never thought so,” he murmurs, and he sounds like he’s talking to himself. “Not really. Always figured you were just-” licks his lips, “-just different and-” his eyebrows rise, eyes going glassy and distant, “… lonely.” He pauses for a moment, biting his lip. Then he stirs, shaking his head as if waking himself up. “But talking to you now, doing-” he gives me a once over, “this, I gotta say, I’m beginning to rethink that.”

This? What this? I don’t- “I don’t understand.”

He stares at me, and though the wetness is gone from his eyes, the smile still looks misplaced. “You realise this is torture, right?” He licks his lip again and smiles a little broader, though it’s still cut with an edge of anger, nigh on malice. “You do see that. Don’t you.”

Torture? Of course, this is torture - I’m tied to a bloody chair in a piss-riddled storage unit with a madman barking at me and waving a bloody gun in my face! … Only… Only I don’t think he’s talking about me. “Torture,” I repeat, shaking my head. “What’s tor-”

“This,” he hisses, drawing out the sibilant like a snake. I flinch back at the tone and shrink in on myself. “Making me-” he cuts himself off with a vicious bite of the lip, then steps forward, towering over me. “Making me talk about you like you’re still fucking dead,” he grits out, leaning over me, “while you sit here - right here - in front of me.” His hands come up in wild gesticulation bare centimeters from my face. “You told me you were a fake when I knew you weren’t, and then you died. Now - now - you’re alive, telling me you’re real when I know you’re not.” No, no no no, I am real, I am- “It’s evil,” his voice cracks, “Sherlock, it’s-”

“I am real!” I interrupt, projecting my voice over his. He leans back slightly, eyes widening. “I am,” I continue, voice shaking. “I’m just not Sh-”

“Scott Ford Williams!” he yells over me. “That’s who you’re not.” He leans in close to me again, placing his hands on my shoulders. I want to flinch from the touch, but I can’t move and I’m so cold and he’s so warm, so warm, hot almost scorching. “He’s not real, Sherlock,” he whispers plaintively into my face. “He isn’t real, and he never has been, you-” he squeezes my shoulders, and his hands are strong, “you are real, Sherlock.” His eyes are moving wildly, flicking over my face. “You are.”

Détruit.

Ruiné.

Angoissé.

I shake my head slightly, my greasy hair brushing over his fingers, and look up into his eyes. They’re shining again and glow bright blue and fathomless. “I’m sure he was real,” I whisper, “Dr. Watson.”

His face scrunches up at the name, and I can tell he doesn’t like when I call him that. Finds it incongruous, like his tearful smile. He grits his teeth, “Damn it, Sherlo-”

“But he’s dead.”

His face smoothes out into inscrutable blankness. There’s a flicker behind his eyes, the lurking thing flinching back from the finality in my tone. I doubt he’ll believe me, and even if - miraculously - he does, I doubt even more that it will save me.

He shakes his head, like a shiver. Is he as cold as I am? “No.”

I nod slowly. “Yes.” I shouldn’t feel sympathy for this man. “Sherlock is dead. John.” Or pity. “He’s dead.” But there’s a little voice in the back of my head, a voice I barely recognise as my own, whispering détruit, détruit, détruit. “But…” I lick my lips and lean in closer to his face, until he can look nowhere but into my eyes. “I, Scott Ford Williams,” I enunciate my name deliberately. That’s my name. That’s me, “I’m-” I smile sadly, and my eyes feel hot and stinging, “I’m alive. I am real, Dr. Watson. I’m-” I shake my head and look down. There isn’t much to me, I’m hardly very interesting, but… Remind him you’re human. No. Remind him I’m me.

I look back up, my jaw jutted forward in determination. There isn’t much, but I’ll tell him everything, everything I can think of. “I’m thirty-four,” I begin, my eyes trained on his. “Thirty-five on the fourth of November.” God, I’m already running out, I- Oh! Last year! Last year, Maggie made me do this horrible online dating thing, so many questions, most of them pointless, but… What’s your name? When’s your birthday? What’s your sign? “I’m a scorpio. I…” Occupation? “I teach French at Wimbly Academy in Dorset, and-” Family? “My sister, Anita Jane - Annie, I call her - she’s got a son called Kirkland, after-after our father.” God, I miss you, Da. “He’s… seven, eight in January. I-” Fuck, er… Pets? “I’ve got… I took in a stray cat about ten years back, named him Schrodinger,” Da taught Physics at Wimbly, years before I was even a student. He chose the name, thought it was funny. I never understood it really, but Da was sick back then, fading away, and I- I couldn’t- “though I usually just call him Ding. He’s quite fat, lies about in the sun, does little else. I…

“I’ve not gone on a proper date in a- a while, but… there’s a young man,” Seth, lovely, lovely Seth, “gardener - works at the florist with Mary from up the road.” Not your Mary, my Mary. Sweet, doddering Mary. “He’s… Seth, that’s his name. He’s… he’s a quiet sort, like me, but- but he’s quite charming. Always chooses the best blooms for my bouquets…” Roses, all peach. Juliet, Finesse, Campanella, Tiffany- “I take flowers to my mother’s grave every Sunday…” Mum. Mummy. Mummy, I love you, I love you, I love- “I miss her quite terribly, she- she had a stroke six years ago, but it still feels like…” Mummy, please, I love you, please- “like yesterday.”

“Please, Dr. Watson, please…” Listen to me, please, please, please believe me. “I am not who you think I am, I’m not…” He made me watch. “Sherlock, but…” Pleasepleaseple- “but I am real.” I swallow and taste salt. When did I start crying? “John.”

His hands still rest on my shoulders, though his grip has long since gone slack. His expression is unreadable, eyes wide and wet as he peers unblinking into my eyes. I don’t think he’s seeing me, don’t even think he’s seeing Sherlock. I doubt he sees anything beyond his own mad anguish.

Of a sudden, he drops down to his knees, as if his strings have been cut. Oddly, he seems small. He’s not a tall man, but usually his presence is massive, pressing against the four walls of this tiny little room and crowding me back against my chair. But right now, huddled on the floor between my knees, his hands sliding along my collarbone and up my neck to cup my jaw, he seems… miniscule. Impossibly tiny.

His grip on me becomes firm, but not painful, as he tilts my face downward. “Your eyes are…” he trails off, his own eyes widening and shining bright in the light. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”

His hands are warm and dry, and I can feel an oddly placed callus on his forefinger as he moves it back and forth over the hinge of my jaw. My breath stutters out of me. “It-it’s-” God, I’m stammering. I clear my throat and try again. “It’s h-heteroch-chromia-”

“Iridis,” he interrupts, eyes still glazed with that far-away look. “I know. You told me once.”

No. That’s…

No.

My head dips, shaking, as my whole body curls in on itself in wretched defeat. I suppose that’s it, then. He doesn’t believe me, can’t believe me, will never believe me.

A tremor works its way through my shoulders, and his hands slide down to squeeze them. I sniff pathetically, staring at my still clasped hands, and whisper, “I never did.”

“You won’t convince me, Sherlock.”

(I know I won’t.) That’s not my name. Don’t call me that. (I know I won’t.)

“P-please.” What am I even begging for?

“It’ll never happen,” he murmurs, hands smoothing over the exposed skin at my neck to extend his fingers into the too-long curls at the back of my head. Need a cut. If he keeps me here forever, will he cut my hair? I really… I really need a cut.

“Your face,” he continues, “see, it’s-” his hands clench in my hair, but it only hurts a little. “It’s burned into my memory, isn’t it.” As yours will be burned into mine. “Had nightmares about your face - covered in blood,” he made me watch “head cracked open,” détruit “dead eyes. I still have them sometimes.” détruit détruit détruit “You’re not Scott Ford Williams-”

I tip my head further down, even as it causes him to pull ever harder at my hair. “I am.”

He tightens his fingers, and I wince and whimper. “You’re not,” he says with a sharp-edged air of finality. “And you’ll never convince me otherwise.”

It seems my vocabulary has narrowed down to just one word: “Please-”

“You’re not leaving here until you tell me the truth.”

I finally bring myself to look into his eyes. They’re a bit blurry, and I can’t tell if it’s tears in my eyes or his. “I have,” I whisper, and lean close enough to feel his breath on my face. “I have told you the truth.”

He stares at me for a moment, and I can’t tell if he’s deliberating. I don’t know what more I can do, what more I can say to convince him, if convincing him is even possible at this point-

He pulls back quickly, fingers snagging on the tangles in my unkempt hair. “I brought you some things.” He takes a few short strides to the corner of the room, and stoops down to rifle through… oh, it is a duffle bag. After a few seconds of shuffling, during which the contents of the bag jangle against each other ominously, he pulls out small, rolled-up mat, a thick wool blanket, and… a long chain.

No. No no nononono.

He rolls out the mat against a side wall and drops the blanket on top, leaning over the makeshift bed to hook the chain to a small metal bolt in the wall. No. No no no please, god no, please, please, please, no-

He approaches me swiftly and I bite my lip, belatedly realising I’ve been talking out loud. He squats down between my knees and disengages the short length of chain tethering my cuffed hands to the seat of the chair, before immediately connecting the other end of the new chain to the cuffs.

“Oh god, please, please no, please-” I whimper out, but he only looks down, smiles slightly at his handiwork, then pushes himself up to his feet with a soft grunt.

“There you are,” he murmurs, dragging me to my feet and pushing me towards the mat. No. No no no n- “Might be quite cold tonight, so there’s a nice blanket for you. Still got water and energy bars, too, so you should be alright. I’ll be back in the morning. I don’t work, so we’ve got all day to-” he turns his back and approaches the metal door, looking over his shoulder at me, “…chat.”

He pulls open the door and steps through and no no, please, please, I can’t stay here, can’t sleep here, can’t be here for one more second! “Please, Dr. Watson-”

The lights flick off, and I can just barely make out his silhouette as he stands in the darkness beyond the door. “Goodnight then.”

The door clunks closed, sealing me in silent pitch.

—

END PT. 2

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