#mutelock

Ah, wait wait, I think I can really do something with this. Damn.

( misophonia/mutelock )

It was a trick Mycroft explained to him. Much to other’s dismay Sherlock’s go to coping method was to imitate whatever annoyed him. Someone was ticking their foot against the floor? Then he’d do the same and it’d help him keep calm. Sherlock was seven years old when Mycroft explained to him, and subsequently their very frustrated dinner guests (“does he have to do that?!”) that mimicry was a very effective means to lessen the anxiety caused by things that unsettle us. So, Sherlock ticking his fork against his plate whenever Mr.Clarke couldn’t control his spoon as a consequence to his worsening Parkinson disease wasn’t to mock him, it was to ensure Sherlock wouldn’t have to rush off and rudely leave the table all together, probably while snarling at Mr. Clarke.

Rows weren’t rare in the Holmes household. Lately they were worse than ever, which had everything to do with an affair and very little with— what had previously been the biggest issue— the younger’s son incapability to speak properly. Like Mrs. Holmes said one day, while very upset and under the impression that Sherlock was upstairs and vast asleep, which he wasn’t, “I don’t know what to do with him anymore. I can’t make sense of his nonsense babbling and it makes me so angry I often… hate him for it.”

The day after it took Mycroft to figure out what was causing Sherlock to behave so strangely. On the one hand he was quiet and making a real attempt to behave, but on the other hand he was agitated and seemed upset without cause.

But what really upset Sherlock wasn’t hearing his mother talk about him negatively when he wasn’t supposed to listen in. It was hearing father yell at mother that it had been an accident and that it wouldn’t happen again, while she cried and tried to believe him, but couldn’t. It was their tone of voice that set Sherlock off. He’d feel it coming even before they did themselves. It’d start with the strain on a sentence, while one asked the other what was on the telly that night. It was ever so subtle, but Sherlock always heard. Sherlock leaving the room had become a sign and it'd become enough that it usually set the whole thing off.

Unfortunately for Sherlock there was no hiding. The voices reached through the walls into his bedroom. And they weren't the sort of voices that he could withstand if he must. They weren't laughter, which already could be very annoying, but at least wouldn't make him cringe like this. Mother and father were talking through each other, trying to drown the other's words in their own anger driven statements that usually weren't very well formulated.

He'd sit there, with the palms of his hands over his ears, until they'd feel painfully pressed against the sides of his head. But it didn't help, because he'd start hearing that low constant badum badum of the blood rushing through his veins, which was just as bad, if not worse, as the shouting downstairs.

There'd always come a point where Sherlock couldn't take it anymore and mimicry was the only solution. He'd shout until it felt like someone had made him drink boiling tea, or forced something sharp down his throat. He didn't say words, but he'd use the same sort of tones he heard coming through the walls. And although it'd always result in Mycroft angrily telling him off and trying to shush him, it would help him through another shit storm of bickering without passing out or vomiting over his bedroom floor.

Mycroft would have probably been more cruel if he hadn't believed that this was the only way for Sherlock to cope. Frankly he didn't want to know what his brother would be like if he didn't have this odd method, no matter how annoying it was for those who had to listen to it. It wasn't any more annoying than it was for Sherlock in the first place...

Perhaps that was why the cruelest thing about this transition back in time, to a time in which Sherlock didn't speak. It didn't happen suddenly, his brother losing his voice, but the end came when his father accidentally dropped a plate and it crashed to the floor just a little too close to Sherlock's feet, who'd jumped at the sound and felt nauseous for the rest of the evening. He hadn't said a single word since and that was two years ago now.

( mutelock )

Sherlock had never really thought much about the sort of day that today was. That was mostly because he had never had any interest in the intricate details of relationship building, nor the effect it had on individuals. It had only ever been a science, not an experience. Now it was both.

It had been over a year since John had moved into 221b and Sherlock suddenly realized how, at some point in the last twelve months, it had become normal for him— the freak— to share his flat with John Watson. And today was the day he was suddenly struck by how odd it was that he hadn’t even realised it happening. It wasn’t a one day to the next thing, obviously, but surely a thing as big as this came with some sort of revelation. Perhaps this was it.

He was almost immediately sure it couldn’t be this, however. It didn’t come with the enlightened feeling or the feeling that something had been solved and could be put aside for something new. This was ongoing and he felt further from solving it than he had ever been. Despite enjoying the thrill of a game and the satisfaction of answering a question right, he did not mind that with John Watson it all worked very differently.

And while Sherlock was trying to understand the army doctor, John was learning to understand him, quite literally, by learning to read his main means of communication.

Most of the first few weeks they’d spend in silence, although occasionally John would tell him one thing or another about himself, or about something he’d noticed. Occasionally he’d read something from the papers, when he thought it would interest Sherlock. He became better and better at spotting the interesting cases and Sherlock had stopped reading newspapers all together, because it was far more efficient to let John do it for him.

Initially Sherlock carried a small notebook with him wherever he went and whenever he needed to tell John something he’d scribble it down for him to read. It wasn’t very sustainable when it came down to deep conversations, so they rarely had those, if ever… But John, who by all means did not have the time, nor the proper resources, was keen to learn how to read the sign language Sherlock fluently spoke, but rarely got to use in his line of work. Apart from his brother and Mike Stamford he knew no one who he could have a meaningful conversation with. Lestrade knew some basics, but they were all work related and left out more details than it was usually worth. Molly was invested in making sense out of him whenever he signed to her, but— regardless of the efforts on both their sides— it rarely worked out. He appreciated that she tried, however. It was far better than what most did for him.

He shared a home with John, which made him far more than a passer-by at the yard or a familiar acquaintance. Sherlock had yet to decide what term to dub John.

His hand almost moved to John’s shoulder, while the shorter man was looking into the fridge for something to eat, but was getting distracted by Sherlock’s most recent experiment, which included a set of feet. Not a pair. John had got used to being touched softly on the shoulder or arm whenever Sherlock wanted his attention. It was a means for John to know to look around at Sherlock’s hands to see what he wanted to say and, lately more often than not, John would perfectly read him. Not that Sherlock was using excessively difficult terms yet. He left those for later, when he was certain he wasn’t going to make John change his mind about this.

His fingers never reached John’s shoulder as he pulled back before making the conscious decision to put himself on the spot with no idea of what he wanted to tell John, but knowing there were plenty of things he was thinking. No, not thinking, but feeling. That was exactly why he’d pulled back.

He’d changed his mind. First he’d see if John withstood the test and, even when Sherlock was going full speed, still tried to follow him. If so, then perhaps Sherlock would tell him. But not yet.

( mutelock )

Sherlock Holmes didn’t consider anyone a friend, because no one considered him one. Of course it was hard to blame them. Most people had too little time to lead a satisfying social life as it was and honestly, he’d be very surprised if anyone would find the time to learn sign language just to talk to him. Although some people had asked for some simple signs to make communication just that bit better, there had never been anyone who had wanted to know what he would tell them if he could use all the words in the world.

The only reason Mike Stamford ever spoke to him was because some time back he’d learned Sherlock was mute and never spoke. It was a running gag, really. One Sherlock was keen to ignore. But when Mike Stamford had come to him and told him what Sherlock had already known, but never considered— that he had a deaf sibling— Sherlock for one of the first times in his life had a meaningful conversation with someone that was not his brother.

It just so happened that he’d mentioned looking for a flatmate. By God was he glad about that when Mike actually came in that afternoon with a potential flat share. Not that Sherlock was all too hopeful, but one interested party was better than the usual none.

John Watson used a walking stick to help him, but then kept standing in the lab, while looking around. “A bit different from my day.” Sherlock tilted his head.

They were introduced by Mike Stamford and that prolonged the moment just long enough for John to have taken in his surroundings and laid his eyes on the detective, who naturally hadn’t said a word yet. But he knew everything about John Watson already, which made him smile to himself.

Mike had taken a seat, which was an indication he wasn’t planning to leave the two alone yet, which Sherlock knew was a very deliberate decision not to have anyone in a room alone with Sherlock, the freak. He was thankful. This was a one off opportunity and he did not want to ruin it.

Sherlock put down the equipment he had been using to conduct his experiment, so he could use them to sign to Mike Stamford and ask for a phone. He needed to text someone, before he’d forget the insipid boring case, especially now he had something far more important to do.