The Fear Landscape Series: Sherlock

10 Jul
The Fear Landscape Series: Sherlock

Sherlock stood in the entrance hall of his Mind Palace. This was his fear landscape, his greatest test. Prove he was not afraid of anything, and the simulated landscape would release him. Sherlock was confident that he, of all people, would have little to worry about.
“Sherlock!” shouted a voice from a room far away. The voice was panicked, but that didn’t usually worry Sherlock. Nevertheless, Sherlock began to sweat and immediately broke out into a run in the direction of the sound. He could only focus on one thing.
He had to get to John.
“Sherlock!” John shouted again. Sherlock raced to the noise, but every time he thought he was getting close, the sound would take another turn and he’d run down another hallway. It was likely he wouldn’t get there in time at this rate. But no. No, failure wasn’t an option. He had to get to John. That was that.
At long last, the sound came closer and Sherlock slowed. All of the doors were closed. And there was no way to tell which was the right one.
Sherlock turned his head to quickly inspect each door. Obviously not the six closest to him. Walking down the hallway, Sherlock deduced away every option until he came to the last one. Of course it had to be the last one. As if he had time for that.
He opened the door. A sharp bang. John fell to the ground.
Sherlock attacked his murderer and killed him. In one leap Sherlock was next to John and begging him to be alive. “Wake up, John, wake up!”
“Sh-Sherlock?” John whispered shakily.
Sherlock’s heart lept into his throat. “Yes! John, it’s me.”
“Always remember, Sherlock. You did this.” John lay limp in Sherlock’s arms. Dead.
No. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t be dead. Sherlock tried to stop the bleeding and every other form of revival he could think of, but nothing helped. It wasn’t that he couldn’t be dead, Sherlock realized. It was that he couldn’t not be dead. He took a bullet to the chest at point blank range. Of course he was dead. And it was all Sherlock’s fault.
Even John had said so. Sherlock crouched still as a stone over John’s body, listening to the sound of his heart and wondering why it was so fast. Oh, right. This was an emotion. Sherlock sighed. So he did hsve emotions. He’d thought the landscape would be easy for him. Instead, Sherlock stood and walked out of the room. Out in the hallway, he calmly waited for his heart rate to go down. When it finally did, Sherlock was brought to the next fear.
He was at the hospital. Getting some kind of bad news. Sherlock payed attention. As the doctor said the words Sherlock’s brain started to spin and only a few of the words entered. Inoperable. Deep. Intracranial pressure. Terribly sorry. Options. Arrangements.
He was dying.
He had a brain tumor.
He was going to die of a brain tumor.
“How long do I have?” he asked. Dying. He was dying, this minute. He’d known he wouldn’t live to an old age, doing what he did, but he’d always figured it would be a bullet or poison or something. Not this. Not his own mind turning on him.
“A month. At the outside,” the doctor said.
Sherlock stood and began to stride out of the room. “Thank you, doctor. Come, John,” he said. But then he looked over. John was not there. Right. John was dead. John couldn’t be with him now.
As soon as Sherlock was out of the room, he leaned his back against the hospital wall and pressed his palms to the wall. His head he tilted up, and his eyes he closed. He was dying. True, everyone was always dying. But his death was more imminent now. And he would have to face it alone.
Sherlock cupped his hands and held them to his face in an attempt to stop the emotions. It didn’t work. He knew that the only way to get past this was to stop letting emotions take hold, but the funny thing about emotions is they don’t do as they’re told. They aimlessly scamper all over the body, affecting everything in their path.
There wasn’t really any way to take control of the situation, so Sherlock chose to focuse on his heart rate again. For minutes and minutes he stood there, breathing in, breathing out. He didn’t really have a brain tumor. This was a simulation. Breathing in, breathing out.
The hospital disappeared and a very familiar room in his Mind Palace took its place. “Why are you here,” Sherlock snapped. He could already feel his skin heating up and his muscles tensing all over his body.
“Oh, Sherlock, don’t be so obvious,” Moriarty said from the other side of the small, padded room.
“I’m not afraid of you. You’re dead.”
“That’s not why I’m here,” Morarty sang tauntingly back. “I think you know, don’t you, deep in your heart, Sherlock Holmes. I tried to tell you back on that roof.”
“Told me what?” Sherlock shouted. He didn’t want to believe anything Moriarty told him, but he already had an idea of what Moriarty would say. And that… And that Sherlock knew already.
“You’re me,” Moriarty whispered. “You’re me.” Moriarty broke out in laughter and wouldn’t stop. Sherlock tried to regulate breath and calm his heart, but he seemingly had no control over his own body.
He wasn’t Moriarty. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. But, maybe he was. He’d been denying it for so long, but really, what was the difference between them? Sherlock had fixed on an answer to that long ago, but that answer gave him no comfort now.
The difference was John. John had made him better. John had made him human. And because of John, Sherlock was no longer Moriarty.
But now John was dead. And already Sherlock could feel his hold on the Moriarty inside of him slipping. Without John, he’d become Moriarty.
He was not about to let that happen.
“No,” Sherlock said simply.
“You can’t fight it, Sherlock. I am you. And you are me,” Moriarty whispered.
“No. I am not you. I will never be you,” Sherlock repeated.
“Why ever not? You can’t fight instinct, Sherlock Holmes, you can’t fight who you really are.”
“No. This is not me,” Sherlock held.
“Then what do you think it is?” asked Moriarty.
“A choice,” Sherlock said. The world around him turned a pristine white and he was dropped in the next part of the landscape. The morgue. And everyone was there. Even John.
“John? Molly? Gary?”
“It’s Greg,” Molly corrected.
“Greg. Mrs. Hudson, what are you doing here?” Sherlock asked incredulously.
Molly spoke before Mrs. Hudson could answer. “You’ve been keeping things from us.”
“Well, yes. I’ve always kept things, from all of you.” It was never a good idea to give any one person too much information. Didn’t they all know that.
“You were supposed to tell me everything,” stated John.
Was he? Should he have told John more? “That’s beside the point. Why are you all here? What’s going on?” Sherlock tried and failed to keep the subtle feeling of panic out of his voice.
“You’ve been keeping secrets,” Mrs. Hudson said.
“You threw yourself off a bloody roof!” John shouted.
“I did that to protect you!” Sherlock yelled at them. “I did it for all of you. I had to keep it a secret!”
“I think you should go, Sherlock,” Molly said, pointing to the door. Sherlock stood in shock for only a moment before turning around, and, holding his breath, walking out the door.
He was back in the real world. Alone, far, far away from London, the morgue, John, or 221b. Sherlock closed his eyes. It may have only been a simulation. But how many of his fears could become truth?

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Posted by on July 10, 2014 in *Le Fanfic, *Le Sherlock


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