#fff260

Sherlock fandom. (TW: domestic violence)

Building Walls

Both had been scared as boys. John of the dark, Sherlock of the light. 

John’s vivid imagination made up monsters under the bed and kidnappers in the woods around the tent when the Watsons went camping. 

“Fear is a weakness,” John’s father growled when his son was shaking and sobbing, terrified of the horrors of the darkness around him.

The solution was to beat the fear out of John while using spite words like coward, squeamish, queer, faggot, weak.

It took some time before it worked. For every stroke from his father’s hand or belt, John’s protecting wall was reinforced with a new brick, until his father was satisfied, and John’s fear had dissipated. So it seemed anyway.

***

Sherlock was a night owl from an early age but was forced to live in the light where others could see his aberrant behaviour. His cousins, aunts and uncles all called him freak, queer, weak, abnormal.

He just wanted to be left alone with his experiments, which he preferred to conduct in the dark hours.

“Fearing the light is a sickness,” his mother told him, and caught him in an iron grip before he could abscond and ordered him to sit in the conservatory with her and his cousins for hours.

When he finally was released, his head throbbed, his eyes stung, and he felt bone tired. He cried when he woke in the morning, realising that he’d been too exhausted to escape sleep.

“You must not let them see your weakness, brother mine,” Mycroft advised him, so Sherlock built a wall around himself and called it his Mind Palace.

***

In the dark Afghan desert, John met many soldiers who were afraid of what they could not see, and with good reason. He knew he should be terrified, and deep down he was, but he had a responsibility as a captain. His wall was strong and didn’t crack until a bullet came out of the velvet night and found his shoulder.

Back in the radiant city that was London, John’s wall crumbled. His mind was a dark hole even if he was surrounded by light.

“Nothing ever happens to me,” became a mantra he lived by, until he met Mike Stamford, and later Sherlock Holmes.

The brief and totally ridiculous encounter in the lab at Barts, lifted a vail, and a glimpse of sunshine entered John’s mind.

***

For years Sherlock lived in the blissful darkness, but people still interfered and made his life miserable. His mother and brother in particular. So, he sought out company that at first was a relief, but later put him on the path towards addiction and destruction.

Stumbling over Greg Lestrade’s crime scene, high as a kite, but still capable of observing and deducing what had happened, saved Sherlock’s life. For the first time in years, someone was interested in the knowledge he possessed; signs that a victim had been poisoned, different traces of mud or ash. 

“Get clean, and I’ll call you when we’re out of our depths,” Lestrade said.

Mycroft probably ensured Lestrade’s promotion after that, when Sherlock explained, and begged Mycroft to take him to rehab.

The incongruous scale Sherlock used to categorise the crimes Lestrade called him about, wasn’t all about how interesting a case was, but had more to do with the time of day. Only a serial killer could make Sherlock attend a crime scene in broad daylight. The darkness was his friend, and his dramatic persona thrived and added mystery to it all when he whirled around in his beloved Belstaff and polished Italian shoes.

John was like the sun and should frighten Sherlock with his warmth and incandescence. Instead, Sherlock felt an instant calmness fall over him when his fingers brushed John’s as he took the phone John offered him the day they met. 

***

John’s fear of the dark night vanished when he saw Sherlock together with Jeff Hope, and his hand was steady when he shot the awful cabbie.

Sherlock’s case scale suddenly changed, and he and John turned up at crime scenes at all hours, even when the sun shone bright and clear.

The only fear they had left, was losing each other.

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“Careful…” Greg Lestrade teased quietly.

Mycroft Holmes whose Mach speed on a slow day mind was elsewhere, but always attuned to the man next to him, focused his attention. “Pardon?”

Greg blatantly looked away. “For a moment there I thought you might sing.”

“Sing!” Mycroft scoffed, “What makes you think I would do something like that?!”

“You…” Greg bit his lip in failing effort to not grin. “You were… humming. Happily, so. I’m honored you’ve knocked down those ice blocks you surround yourself with, to relax enough for that.” Greg looked as though he was about to place a hand on his forearm, but stopped himself, “Thank you.”

It was not the first time Mycroft noticed such abortive moves from Gregory.

But it was the first time he noticed.

Noticed the thing Gregory had been trying to hide from him.

Noticed how he was showing him in subtle ways now, without upsetting the wall.

Noticed when Greg sometimes retracted from that wall, if it became too cold.

Noticed Gregory was correct - the ice blocks were mostly gone.

And noticed the only person trying to rebuild them was Mycroft himself.

Years ago, after one bad relationship too many Mycroft sealed his heart away and swore never again. The blocks were the sickening touch of fear, secured away in emotional ice.

The fear of letting himself be vulnerable again.

The fear of trusting someone to not hurt him again.

Gregory was subtly showing that HE was the someone Mycroft could have those things -vulnerability, trust, more– again.

Moreover, Mycroft noticed Gregory alone had been making all the moves, patiently waiting for Mycroft to make one.

“You know how I feel! You reciprocate!” He reached for Gregory for the first time, purposely humming in happiness.

“I do. And I have… for over a year, Mycroft, but I needed you to know it for yourself...” Greg beamed at the humming and their joined hands, “…not because I told you.”

Mycroft swallowed the fear, looked the waiting man in the eyes, and mentally kicked the last ice cinderblocks between them away. “I love you. And I’d very much like for you to be mine, Gregory.”

Written once again for @flashfictionfridayofficial using the prompt #FFF260 fear is a sickness as prompt. There could be spoilers if you haven’t seen the 13th episode.

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Fandom: Yatagarasu: The Raven Does Not Choose Its Master

Characters: Wakamiya/Nazukihiko/Crown Prince/Golden Raven/Kin’u, Yukiya, Hamayu/Sakura-hime/Sakura, mentions of Sumio, Lady Azusa, Lord Genya

Word count: 1090

—

“IF you want to die, then you can do that all by yourself. I will not stand here idle for your assassins to kill you.”

Yukiya then poised to leave the courtyard, nudged his horse, and flew away.

“We will meet again. I know it,” Wakamiya said shortly before the boy’s departure feeling so sure of himself.

“In your dreams, maybe. I am not planning to come back here at all,” the boy faced his master as if forgetting something. “Of course, everything will be different if you decide to give up your claim to the throne. Let your brother Lord Natsuka rule for they want him. Then I promise I will be yours forever… to serve you.”

Wakamiya’s breath hitched for a second.

Yukiya never thought of it much: the longer he stayed with his young master, the easier it was to love him.

But when he thought of the downside of serving Wakamiya, he never longed to be a part of a farce they called the imperial court with so many schemers wanting to get ahead of each other by stomping everyone’s feet.

Yet, deep inside, the Crown Prince only had to say the word and Yukiya would fold at once.

“I know it because I am a kin’u. One day I will ask for you and you will come back to me.”

Yukiya gaped at Wakamiya as if he grew horns over his head. He stood there not moving but focused his eyes on the prince. The whole time Sumio was only waiting for his cue after His Highness stopped him earlier from interrupting the boy’s tirade.

“I am saying this because I worry about you. I do not want you to die.” Pain etched on Yukiya’s face.

A kumquat flew in the air. Yukiya caught the candied fruit with his right hand and looked grumpily at his now former young master. Wakamiya in turn fixed his gaze on the boy longer than he had intended to do until he vanished from his sight. A final goodbye at the moment.

‘Fear’, she says, ‘can be a sickness, and you must not let it get its teeth too deep into you. A little fear, caution, awareness may keep you alive out there, a sense of whether a place is safe, whether a person may be on even… A little Fear only. But if you don't keep control, if you let it control you, you will give yourself away in the street by your wariness, or you will sit too tight, and be there like a plump duck for the hunters when you should have run. It won't be easy, but you must, must make it your servant, not your Master, out there it won't just haunt you, it will kill you.’

She looks down from the raised platform at the faces turned attentively to her, and can’t top the thought from coming. Fear or not, how many of you will make it back?

Posts something about a wip then leaves again. For this week’s @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt.

word count: 515

*****

Nathan was no stranger to irrational fear.

Enclosed spaces had always given him a tight feeling in his chest that he was forced to push through on every elevator or crowded subway. He still hated bugs, no matter how many times his mothers said the roach was more scared of him than he was of it. But those were things normal people faced all the time. This was different.

Normal people weren’t so terrified of monsters they couldn’t even leave the house.

He pulled his knees to his chest, a small sigh escaping him as he looked at the walls of his childhood bedroom. He’d gone to stay with his mothers after the accident, a move they’d been happy with to start – but after three months, they were rightfully concerned. Physically, he was fine, but it was clear that there was something wrong inside him – or rather the latest in many things wrong with him, just far more difficult to hide than the others. And so he hid his entire self – from the monsters and from the world.

A dark shape passed outside his window, sending a chill down his spine. You don’t have to look, Nathan told himself. It’s a bird, a squirrel, something mundane and not worth getting up for.

Nathan stood up. He walked towards the window. He pulled the curtains aside a little and saw nothing. Just the night as normal, lit by some dim streetlights. He scanned the view, searching for monsters made of shadows with glowing red eyes. Nothing.

Because the monsters aren’t real, Nate. You didn’t see anything, your brain was messed up because you were in a damn car crash. If he told himself that enough times it would become true, he was sure.

He turned to head back to his bed, then paused. He looked back. There was a girl, just outside the illumination of the streetlight, her eyes glowing with blue light and staring directly at his window.

Then he blinked and she was no more. Not real, like demons and dreams of blood on his hands.

He pulled the curtains closed and flopped back onto his bed. His phone buzzed. He ignored it. It was either Cath, who wouldn’t mind him texting back a little late, or anyone else in the world, in which case he’d keep ignoring it. His social media had been dead for months, his last post an announcement on how he was recovering and wouldn’t be making any appearances. He’d checked the replies a few times – they were full of fans wishing him well, hoping his sickness would pass. Part of him felt bad for letting them think he was bedridden when he was just here, perfectly healthy.