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Remembering to Feel Chapter two

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To Whom it may Concern,
Today, my mission is find out why Sherlock was crying last night. However, I doubt he'll be willing to admit that that actually happened. I want to understand him. I want to help him, if I can. Despite what everyone knows, Sherlock Holmes is a man, and he is a man of emotion. He may be a man of little feeling, but I know he has them somewhere in that cold heart of his. It's silly, but at times I wonder if the word "lock" in his name means something. He surely is a lock, but what is the key? I intend fully to find out, no matter what it takes. This is what I'm investigating today.

Upon waking that morning, I found Sherlock sitting in his chair, staring at the glowing television screen. The volume was all the way down, so the fact that he was sitting and staring at it was rather peculiar. I approached him and was instantly overwhelmed by the potent stench of smoke.
"G-good morning, Sherlock," I said, trying to contain a cough.
He didn't look at me.
"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, little no inflection in his voice what so ever.
I picked up the newspaper and sat over in my chair, trying to escape the smoky scent that wafted off of Sherlock.
"I mean good morning," I replied, "that is still the phrase, right?"
Sherlock hummed, "sarcasm. It doesn't look good on you."
I cleared my throat in an attempt to dissipate the awkward atmosphere. Sherlock was now staring at me with a scowl, his pupils so small that they were practically nonexistent. He was just staring at me, motionlessly and slightly irritably, as if I had somehow insulted him.
“Are you alright, Sherlock?” I finally asked, noticing how bloodshot Sherlock’s eyes were.
He looked away from me and I watched as his body swelled with a huge intake of air. I could hear the nervous sound of his foot tapping against the floor, and instantly I knew that he was not alright. Being able to deduce this was quite a pleasurable experience for me, since I wasn’t the one who usually could read people with just a glimpse.
“Why would you ask something like that, John?” Sherlock snapped, his syntax cold and uninviting.
“Well, I was just wondering.”
“Am I alright, John?” he asked, “are you? Are we? Is anybody? What kind of question is that?”
Clearly, he was avoiding the question, but it didn’t bother me much. It was almost time for me to meet Mycroft for coffee, and though that wouldn’t be comfortable, it would hopefully be informative. I knew there was no way Sherlock would tell me how he was really feeling, but perhaps someone like him could. I had to wonder what it was like to be the only two people in the world with an abnormality such as that. Did it bother Sherlock, or did it only bother him that he wasn’t the only one who could do the things he did? He definitely came across as prideful and cruel, but that couldn’t be all there was to Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock and I didn’t exchange anymore words before I left for coffee. Knowing Mycroft, he arrived at the coffee shop two hours before our meeting date just so he could criticize me for being “late for being early” or something pointless and petty like that. I decided to piss him off by being even “later”, so I walked all the way there in the brisk London air rather than arriving quickly in a Cabby. It was sort of odd to walk down the street without Sherlock walking beside me, since that had been so normal for the past year. It was almost lonely to walk without his constant jabbering and nonsensical deductions hammering ceaselessly on and on and on. I never noticed how quiet my world was without Sherlock.
“Well, there you are,” I heard Mycroft say as I walked into the coffee shop. “Its about time.”
In front of him on the table sat four empty coffee cups, and directly in front of him sat new steaming cup. It smelled of caramel, which seemed out of character for someone as sour as Mycroft. As I sat, Mycroft gave me that irritatingly fake smile and I instantly wanted to get up and leave again.
“So, what did Sherlock do now?” he asked me, still grinning falsely.
My jaw wanted to drop to the floor at his ignorance, but I held it in its place to sustain my collected appearance. How could he instantly jump to the conclusion that Sherlock had done something wrong? After what had happened between him, Sherlock, and The Woman, he had no right to assume Sherlock had done anything wrong. I liked to believe that Irene Adler and Mycroft really hurt Sherlock, because it helped me to see Sherlock on a deeper level of humanity.
“He did nothing,” I replied, “but, I am concerned about him.”
Mycroft took a sip of his coffee.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I think there is something…wrong with him,” I said, staring at him intensely, hoping he’d detect the mood of the conversation.
He was quiet for a moment, then he looked at me and asked, “do you want coffee, or a spot of tea or anything? Its on me.”
I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, but instead I stood and gave a grin. I took out my own money and showed it to him, then replied, “no, its on me. But, thanks.” I then ordered a bit of tea for myself, and as I waited I thought. Mycroft Holmes was not on my list of favorite people, nor was he on Sherlock’s (not that Sherlock actually kept a list like that). He claimed to worry about Sherlock, but if he truly did he would not ignore Sherlock, then contact him only when it was convenient. That’s not how family works, and surely Mycroft knew that. The entire Holmes family didn’t seem incredibly functional, and it was a topic that was never brought up.
“So, this is about Sherlock?” Mycroft questioned as I retook my seat across from him.
I nodded.
“Yes, there is something wrong with him. Like I said.”
Mycroft actually laughed at this.
“Yes, I know that! I’ve always known that! Doesn’t everyone, John?”
Angrily, I retorted, “that’s not what I mean, you ass. I mean there is something new. He hasn’t been himself, and I can’t figure out why.”
“What makes you think I can tell you that?” Mycroft asked me seriously, leaning forward in his chair. Slowly and with some amount of misplaced grace, he folded his hands on the table and frowned at me.
I couldn’t quite decide what kind of expression to make. Should I be angry? Bitter? Or, should I beg him to answer my every question about the closed book that was his brother? I pretended to be absorbed in my rather foul tasting tea until I decided on a couple of bullshit words to say.
“You’re his brother. I figured you’d know,” I said, almost gagging at how terrible the tea was.
“I was his brother,” Mycroft sighed with exasperation, “when we were children. All I can really tell you is that he…was troubled. Very troubled indeed.”
Troubled? Was that supposed to mean something to me? And, to claim that their brotherhood ended after childhood was an atrocious thing to say. With every word Mycroft said, my hatred grew stronger.
“How do you mean?” I asked, trying with every fiber of my being to provoke him.
“I mean he was troubled, Watson,” Mycroft replied darkly, “his childhood is not a pretty picture. Look, he sort of rejected the reality of what he was, and it caused a lot of trouble for him. That’s all, alright?”
I could tell that Mycroft was getting defensive. He was very flustered and I could see sweat forming on his brow. He cleared his throat and swallowed himself up in his newspaper, most likely to hide his nervous expression.
“Why is Sherlock so…I guess…catatonic, Mycroft? I think you know,” I said crudely, hoping my word choice would be enough to force an answer.
“He just texted me,” Mycroft said randomly, “He says he needs you back at the flat.”
Before standing, I looked at Mycroft in puzzlement and asked, “h-how did he know I’m with you?”
Mycroft lowered his newspaper and recreated that fabricated grin once more.
“He’s Sherlock. He figured it out.”
With that, I stood and left, feeling fed up with Mycroft and his smartass responses; not that my experiences with Sherlock were ever much different. At least I could call Sherlock my friend. I could barely stand to be in the same room as Mycroft, let alone speak to him. I had to wonder if Sherlock was angry with me for meeting with Mycroft. If he could deduce that I was with his brother, then surely he had an idea as to why. I certainly hoped he wasn’t angry, because when Sherlock was angry, it was like the rising of the apocalypse.
Luckily, Sherlock wasn't too angry with me, he was actually quite excited when I walked through the door. When I walked in, he was sprawled out on his couch, not wearing pants, a newspaper on his chest. Upon seeing me, he sprung up and papers flew like confetti all over the room.
"Good to see you, John!" Sherlock cried, "how is my old brother?"
I watched as papers floated down to the floor and replied, "h-he's uh...he's swell. What is going on exactly?"
Sherlock gave a smirk and demanded I sit, so I joined him at the table. He slammed a newspaper in front of me and read the headline: A DOZEN TEEN DEATHS OVER THE COURSE OF A WEEK. POSSIBLE SECOND OR THIRD DEGREE MURDER SUSPECTED, BUT NOTHING PROVEN.
"Doesn't seem too odd," I said, examining the article.
"Well, take a look here," Sherlock said, pointing out once specific line in the article. "It says here that every adult suspect died randomly after being questioned. Seems a bit off to me. Lastrade says he can't find any connections. There's no hard evidence on any of the bodies. It's a complete mystery. And, the cause of death is always the same."

I raised my eyebrows and asked, "what's the cause of death?"
Sherlock gave a devilish smirk and said, "heart attacks."
This was enough to confuse me out of my wits, but it was also enough to spark my interest.
"How is that murder?" I asked.
Sherlock groaned irritably, acting as if I should have known this already, even though I had no way of knowing anything.
"John, there have been 12 teenage deaths over the course of a week. All male. All between the ages of 14 and 17. They all attended the same grammar school, and apparently they all knew each other. Each of the boys were physically fit at the time of their deaths, so it doesn't make a whole lot of sense, does it? And, why would every adult, every parent questioned, drop dead of the same exact cause? A bit odd, if I do say so myself."
Looking into Sherlock's eyes, I knew that this simple, police worthy job was only a distraction from whatever the hell was the matter with him. He was begging me silently with his eager expression, and his silence was deafening after a while. As I hesitated to agree, he began to look hopelessly desperate, and I could almost hear his eyes screaming at me, begging me to work the case with him. In his indiscernibly colored eyes, I caught my reflection and it appeared like wet due on greenish grass. This was curious because his eyes were for once wet enough, for once bright enough to reflect my image back at me. This displayed some level of emotion, housed in the colorful, turbulent confusion of Sherlock’s eyes.
"Should we go look at the bodies?" I sighed, rubbing my aching forehead.
Unexpectedly, Sherlock jumped out of his chair and gave a little cheer. He then smiled euphorically, shook my hand, then sprinted up to get dressed. I was glad to make him so happy, but I also knew it wouldn't last. Mycroft mentioned him being awfully troubled, and he said it was specific to his childhood, but I thought differently.
When Sherlock was finally dressed, we went to the lab to meet up with Molly and Lastrade. Molly, as usual, was uncomfortably delighted to see Sherlock, and Lastrade gave him that same old tired expression. Unfortunately, Sally Donavan was also present and she was impossible to avoid as long as Sherlock was around. It was like he was magnet, attracting her cruelty and insults.
“Who let that in?” Sally hissed, pointing at Sherlock as he stood over Lastrade’s shoulder and listened to his case synopsis.
“He…I-I mean, we would like to help out with the case,” I told her through my teeth.
“Ugh,” Sally groaned, “I swear, if he gets all…inhuman again I’m going to…”
“Do nothing,” I snapped, not noticing the harsh tone in my voice. “You’ll leave him alone, and if you don’t, you’ll regret the hell out of that decision. Go give him the report and take him to the morgue to see the bodies, if its not too much trouble.”
Without another word, she walked over and handed the report to Sherlock, who thanked her rather loudly. She snarled, then led him down the hall, toward the morgue, and I followed them. Being a doctor, I liked to be present while Sherlock examined the bodies with his deducing eyes. I liked to believe that my presence was a huge help.
“Here you are, freak,” Sally said as we entered the morgue. “Enjoy your dead bodies.”

I watched Sherlock’s expression change. The brightness in his eyes faded away, leaving him somber and seemingly heartbroken, his face once again lacking the richness of pleasure. Slowly approached the open drawers and tore a blanket off of one of the dead teenagers' bodies, his eyes solidly fixed on it. I couldn't help but notice how tremendously sad he looked, and it was all because if that word. The one word that noticeably depressed Sherlock. What I wanted to know was why. Why that word? Of every insult that anyone had ever given him, "freak" was the only one I've ever known to truly upset Sherlock.
"Who is this?" Sherlock asked almost inaudibly.
Sally apparently didn't hear him. She let out an exasperated sigh, the snapped at him, "speak up, wacko, I can't hear you!"
His face twitched as though he had just taken a punch.
"Who is this!?" Sherlock cried, his face now bright red.
"That is Davie Phillips," Molly's voice said from the doorway. She pranced in and Sherlock's face softened, then relaxed. "He was our first."
Sherlock traveled all around the body, his eyes examining every aspect of it closely.
"Fifteen years old," Sherlock said, "about 175 pounds, mostly in muscle mass. Approximately six feet tall. One of the largest weight lifters in his class. Judging by the size and definition of the muscles in his legs, he ran daily to keep his heart strong. He favored his left leg, since he had ACL surgery in his right one. That was his one and only health hindrance, so a heart attack makes no sense for Davie."
Molly blushed and gave a smile.
"Did you read all that in the report?"
Sherlock made a very agonizing expression at Sally, then looked at Molly pleadingly. His expression broke my heart. Of course he hadn't read that in any old report, he deduced it with his brilliant mind, but if he were to admit to that in the malevolent presence of Sally, she would rip him to shreds with her words.
"I-I uh..." Sherlock stammered, looking at the floor, "I didn't."
Sally then piped up, "of course he didn't! Don't even know why I give him reports! He used his freaky 'mind powers' to figure that out, Molly!"
Without hesitation, I yelled out angrily, "get out, you bitch! We don't need you around, so be on your way!"
Sherlock smirked at me, then returned his attention to the dead body.
“This doesn't make any sense. Are you sure they died of heart attacks?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes at Molly.
"Yes," Molly replied, glancing at the report in Sherlock's hands. "All of them."
"Have you ran blood samples?" Sherlock asked, staring at dead body.
Molly handed Sherlock a tray of blood samples and smiled at him, which caused Sherlock to return with a smirk.

"Yes, we've ran them, but you can take a second look."
Sherlock strode toward me and bumped Sally out of his way rather aggressively, smiling at the floor as he did so. In response she called out to him, "watch it, freak!" Which wiped the smug smile off of his face. I ran after him, feeling rather sympathetic and very concerned at the sight of Sherlock's down hearted expression.
"Ignore her," I whispered to Sherlock, "she's the freak here, not you."
Sherlock sat the blood samples down on the table, then sat down, his eyes locked on the microscope. He took a tube of blood between his fingers, then opened it up and actually poured a drop on his fingers. I kept praying silently that he wasn't going to do something abnormal with the little crimson droplet, but my prayers were not answered, because after a few seconds of closely examining it, he did in fact lap it off with his tongue. His lips curled up and he spat out:
"Polonium 210. Very rare, very hard to detect in blood tests. Very, very deadly."
My eyes widened and panic began to course like electricity through my veins. I knelt down and made eye contact with Sherlock, who was turning very green.
"My God, Sherlock, did you just ingest Polonium!?" I cried, holding onto his shoulders. "Are you alright!?"
He started to slip out of his chair, then I heard the sickening rumble of vomit brewing in his stomach.
"Oh, I-I'll be fine," Sherlock said, gagging. "I only ingested a microscopic amount, which will only cause possibly uncontrollable vomiting, headaches, convulsions and possible seizures. Not a big issue, John..." As he tried to finish his sentence, he fell to the floor and started to heave rapidly, vomit spewing out of his mouth. Panicked, I sprung up and called hysterically to Molly, who sprinted over with a trash can. Instantly, she joined him on the floor and he shoved his head into the trash can, puking loudly and trying to sputter out some sort of coherent sentence behind his convulsing and painful heaving.
"What did he do!?" Molly cried as Lastrade and Sally joined us.
Listening sadly to Sherlock's pathetically miserable convulsions, I said, "H-he actually...tasted the blood, and apparently he could taste the poison that killed the boys. S-something called Polonium."
"You freak! Clearly this killed the boys! Can you not do anything normally!? Why are you such a freak!?" Sally shouted, striking Sherlock on the back of the head.
Sherlock's violent puking ceased and he glanced weakly up at Sally, sweat and vomit soiling his face. With all his feebleness, he pointed up at her, his bottom lip and his finger trembling, and said furiously, "you...shut up! Just please...Stop! I-I'm doing m-my damn job, a-and yours is not to make fun of me! I've h-had enough of you! Dammit!" As he spoke, his body began to shake and he collapsed like a dead fish to the tile, his body tightening and contracting and convulsing, flailing uncontrollably on the cold tile. I noticed his eyes were open, but his pupils and irises were hidden behind the blanket of his eyelids, and they were rapidly moving back and forth as he twitched and spattered and whitish foam began to emerge from his trembling lips.
"He's having a seizure!" I cried out, taking his arms and holding onto him so he wouldn't hurt himself. "Someone get him something to bite on! Quickly!" I noticed blood mixing with the whitish foam and my grip on him tightened as I began to panic. Lastrade handed me a towel and I stuffed it in Sherlock's mouth, but by that time it was too late and his rapid movements had slowly to a light twitch.
Finally, he was completely still, laying on his face in a mess of his own vomit and bloody slobber, moaning quietly. It was a slow, deep, continuous moan, and it seemed to get progressively louder.
"Sherlock? Are you alright?" I asked, trying to raise him off the floor, but failing because he nothing more than a drooling dead weight.
Sherlock only kept moaning.
"You need to get him home," Lastrade said, "at least he figured out what's killing the boys and the related adults."
With the help of Molly and Lastrade, I lifted Sherlock off the floor and together we carried him out and caught a cab.
"You know Sherlock," I sighed, looking down at my now sleeping friend. "He's going to wake up, and he's going to want to look into who's been poisoning the boys and why."
"I don't want him back for at least two days," Lastrade said urgently. "That was rather violent."
I stared into Sherlock's sleeping face and frowned, knowing that he would not take time off. He had quite a moment of pure emotional weakness while he was violently puking, and it was directly after being insulted by Sally. She the used "the word". The word that caused Sherlock such obvious inner turmoil.
When we arrived back at the flat, Sherlock woke long enough to place himself on the couch and ask for some tea. I made sure he was wearing a blanket and that was resting beside a trash can, just in case he had another violent puking fit. As he rested his head against the arm of the couch, he looked over at me with very tired eyes.
"John, I-I'm not a freak," he stammered weakly, closing his eyes.
This broke my heart.
"I know you're not, Sherlock."
I noticed a few tears roll down his cheeks, the he took a little gasp and said sadly, "she always says I am. They a-always think I am...everyone..."
"Sherlock, you're not a freak. You're truly not," I told him gently.
Before he drifted back to sleep, he murmured miserably, "yes I am."
The heart break has only just begun!!!! Hope you enjoy!
Heres a link to chapter one: [link]

And heres chapter 3: [link]
© 2013 - 2024 AugieWinchester
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YorukoHimesama's avatar
aw my god TTATT
the FEELS :iconepicnuuplz:
hit me right in my kokoro :iconimdeadplz:
poor sherlock!!! John, give him a hug alreadyyy!!! :iconcrycryplz:
there's going to be a continue right? Can't wait to readit TTwTT