Sherlock Holmes has hurt a lot of people in the past.
Clients, random passersby...just a lot of people. The clients came first. It was a little disconcerting, when a pudgy man in a suit just sort of stares at him from the end of his bed when he woke up that first morning. There had been yelling, a blast of water from the bowl he kept by the bed...it didn't take but a few seconds to realize that it was indeed, a mirage.
There was at least fifteen clients following him around that first morning. They came and went as quickly as they had done in real life, Sherlock's guilt wasn't that strong when it came to them, and they weren't anchored as much, so they came and went fairly quickly.
Not like the next, though.
Phillip Anderson and Mrs. Hudson
Anderson was highly annoying to have follow him when he went to the grocery. Not saying anything, just...there. Ugh. Sherlock had fun insulting him the entire time he appeared, though. It was a nice stress-reliever.
The appearance of Mrs. Hudson took away some of the humor, and replaced it with a pang of regret, but also, a sense of comfort. Having her follow him around in the flat reminded him of old times, and maybe that's why she didn't stick with him so long. He rather wished she stayed.
Irene Adler and Molly Hooper
Molly Hooper stayed.
By late afternoon there hadn't been any concrete answers on just what these things were. They didn't seem real, didn't seem like they were the actual people, but that didn't mean that they weren't, either. It worried Sherlock. He didn't like their silence. Their staring. Molly's big brown eyes spoke volumes. His guilt at the way he treated her ate at him, the pain he caused her all those years, her unrequited love, and worst of all, when he forced her to say 'I love you.'
He felt he'd stolen those words from her. As painful as it had been for him, he was impressed she'd made him say the words back.
Each word was like a stab in the heart. It had been so hard to say them to her. Just why was it difficult, Sherlock? He berated himself. Words were easy to say when you didn't mean them...
Irene Adler hovered behind Molly. His guilt for her wasn't as strong, he won the game fair and square but he still felt responsible, which was why he saved her. That and...well, he just didn't want her dead. And he liked it when she texted him. And...
Irene didn't stay long enough, he was slightly disappointed.
Mycroft and Eurus Holmes
Mycroft stayed.
Sherlock wished he didn't, he was still quite resentful and having Mycroft looming over your breakfast cereal brought back entirely too many memories. But he did feel sorry for his big brother. Sherlock hadn't treated him fairly when all his brother wanted was to keep him safe, keep him sane, and protect him. His methods for doing so were...not the best, but still. He did his best.
Eurus stayed.
Sherlock was startled by her appearance, he had deduced by now that the people who were staying were somehow...connected to one's feelings about them. Despite what she'd done to him, he knew maybe that...if he had played with her as a child more, maybe none of this would have happened.
He felt guilty for forgetting that she ever existed.
Eurus's appearance really bothered Sherlock, though. She came closer to him than Mycroft or Molly did (they were still around), and the detective's behaviors began to get more...erratic. He jumped at the littlest noise. He crept around corners like he was expecting something to jump out at him. He tried crawling into a corner and closing his eyes.
Nothing would help. She was still there. Staring at him. Like some creepy ghost from a horror movie.
Eventually he stood up, yelled at her to leave him alone in no uncertain terms, and ran out of the door. His run through the city took two hours.
It may have been amusing to see three people following him close on his heels. But he didn't look amused.
Victor Trevor and Mary Watson
If anyone knew Sherlock Holmes, they knew that this was a danger night.
A little red-headed boy was sitting at the edge of the couch, a pirate eyepatch on one eye, and a toy sword in the other.
Sherlock looked like he'd been kicked in the teeth.
"JOHN!?" he wasn't sure what time it was. Late. Early. He must have passed out on the couch. Mycroft, Molly, and Eurus were there, as usual, but...this...this was...no. This wasn't...no, he couldn't. Not this. Not Victor. He couldn't see Victor like this, straight out of his broken memories, healthy and staring at him with wide eyes...
Why couldn't you find me, Sherlock? he seemed to be saying.
Why weren't you clever enough?
Sherlock's hands shook. He needed...he needed to stop this. He needed to send his mind somewhere they couldn't follow.
"Why!?" he yelled at the visage of Victor. His eyes shining with unshed tears. "Why are you here!? You're not supposed to be here! Go away!"
Victor would be upset with him if he told him to go away.
The detective turned around on the sofa. If he couldn't see them, then maybe...
He knew they were there, though. It was wearing on his nerves. A few minutes passed, and he couldn't go back to sleep. He turned around, daring to peek--
And Mary Watson was standing there, next to Victor.
"Mary."
Sherlock felt his heart stop, and skip a beat. If John came in here--
She stared, her eyes sorrowful. It was because of him, after all. It was because of him that she was dead. He had robbed her of a future with John and Rosie, because he couldn't keep his mouth shut--
"No. I'm not doing this. I refuse."
Sherlock dashed to his room, skidding in front of his sock drawer, the phantoms following him. Shaking hands pulled out socks, looking for something stashed for emergencies. He needed to dull the pain. Send his mind on a trip. Away from them.
All those eyes stared at him. Mycroft just stood there, like he had so many times before.
"You know why I need this," he said, not turning around to face them. He could feel their eyes on his back. His voice was shaking. "Don't look at me that way. You know why!"
Sherlock dared to look behind him. Victor was staring. The little boy that he'd played with had grown up to be someone horrible.
He wasn't a pirate. Just a junkie.
Mary.
Mary, who should be alive.
"I'm..."
Sherlock slid down his chest of drawers, a broken gasp escaping him. He buried his face in his knees, as his shoulders shook.
Sherlock Holmes | OTA | De Chima (TW: Drug mentions)
Sherlock Holmes has hurt a lot of people in the past.
Clients, random passersby...just a lot of people. The clients came first. It was a little disconcerting, when a pudgy man in a suit just sort of stares at him from the end of his bed when he woke up that first morning. There had been yelling, a blast of water from the bowl he kept by the bed...it didn't take but a few seconds to realize that it was indeed, a mirage.
There was at least fifteen clients following him around that first morning. They came and went as quickly as they had done in real life, Sherlock's guilt wasn't that strong when it came to them, and they weren't anchored as much, so they came and went fairly quickly.
Not like the next, though.
Phillip Anderson and Mrs. Hudson
Anderson was highly annoying to have follow him when he went to the grocery. Not saying anything, just...there. Ugh. Sherlock had fun insulting him the entire time he appeared, though. It was a nice stress-reliever.
The appearance of Mrs. Hudson took away some of the humor, and replaced it with a pang of regret, but also, a sense of comfort. Having her follow him around in the flat reminded him of old times, and maybe that's why she didn't stick with him so long. He rather wished she stayed.
Irene Adler and Molly Hooper
Molly Hooper stayed.
By late afternoon there hadn't been any concrete answers on just what these things were. They didn't seem real, didn't seem like they were the actual people, but that didn't mean that they weren't, either. It worried Sherlock. He didn't like their silence. Their staring. Molly's big brown eyes spoke volumes. His guilt at the way he treated her ate at him, the pain he caused her all those years, her unrequited love, and worst of all, when he forced her to say 'I love you.'
He felt he'd stolen those words from her. As painful as it had been for him, he was impressed she'd made him say the words back.
Each word was like a stab in the heart. It had been so hard to say them to her. Just why was it difficult, Sherlock? He berated himself. Words were easy to say when you didn't mean them...
Irene Adler hovered behind Molly. His guilt for her wasn't as strong, he won the game fair and square but he still felt responsible, which was why he saved her. That and...well, he just didn't want her dead. And he liked it when she texted him. And...
Irene didn't stay long enough, he was slightly disappointed.
Mycroft and Eurus Holmes
Mycroft stayed.
Sherlock wished he didn't, he was still quite resentful and having Mycroft looming over your breakfast cereal brought back entirely too many memories. But he did feel sorry for his big brother. Sherlock hadn't treated him fairly when all his brother wanted was to keep him safe, keep him sane, and protect him. His methods for doing so were...not the best, but still. He did his best.
Eurus stayed.
Sherlock was startled by her appearance, he had deduced by now that the people who were staying were somehow...connected to one's feelings about them. Despite what she'd done to him, he knew maybe that...if he had played with her as a child more, maybe none of this would have happened.
He felt guilty for forgetting that she ever existed.
Eurus's appearance really bothered Sherlock, though. She came closer to him than Mycroft or Molly did (they were still around), and the detective's behaviors began to get more...erratic. He jumped at the littlest noise. He crept around corners like he was expecting something to jump out at him. He tried crawling into a corner and closing his eyes.
Nothing would help. She was still there. Staring at him. Like some creepy ghost from a horror movie.
Eventually he stood up, yelled at her to leave him alone in no uncertain terms, and ran out of the door. His run through the city took two hours.
It may have been amusing to see three people following him close on his heels. But he didn't look amused.
Victor Trevor and Mary Watson
If anyone knew Sherlock Holmes, they knew that this was a danger night.
A little red-headed boy was sitting at the edge of the couch, a pirate eyepatch on one eye, and a toy sword in the other.
Sherlock looked like he'd been kicked in the teeth.
"JOHN!?" he wasn't sure what time it was. Late. Early. He must have passed out on the couch. Mycroft, Molly, and Eurus were there, as usual, but...this...this was...no. This wasn't...no, he couldn't. Not this. Not Victor. He couldn't see Victor like this, straight out of his broken memories, healthy and staring at him with wide eyes...
Why couldn't you find me, Sherlock? he seemed to be saying.
Why weren't you clever enough?
Sherlock's hands shook. He needed...he needed to stop this. He needed to send his mind somewhere they couldn't follow.
"Why!?" he yelled at the visage of Victor. His eyes shining with unshed tears. "Why are you here!? You're not supposed to be here! Go away!"
Victor would be upset with him if he told him to go away.
The detective turned around on the sofa. If he couldn't see them, then maybe...
He knew they were there, though. It was wearing on his nerves. A few minutes passed, and he couldn't go back to sleep. He turned around, daring to peek--
And Mary Watson was standing there, next to Victor.
"Mary."
Sherlock felt his heart stop, and skip a beat. If John came in here--
She stared, her eyes sorrowful. It was because of him, after all. It was because of him that she was dead. He had robbed her of a future with John and Rosie, because he couldn't keep his mouth shut--
"No. I'm not doing this. I refuse."
Sherlock dashed to his room, skidding in front of his sock drawer, the phantoms following him. Shaking hands pulled out socks, looking for something stashed for emergencies. He needed to dull the pain. Send his mind on a trip. Away from them.
All those eyes stared at him. Mycroft just stood there, like he had so many times before.
"You know why I need this," he said, not turning around to face them. He could feel their eyes on his back. His voice was shaking. "Don't look at me that way. You know why!"
Sherlock dared to look behind him. Victor was staring. The little boy that he'd played with had grown up to be someone horrible.
He wasn't a pirate. Just a junkie.
Mary.
Mary, who should be alive.
"I'm..."
Sherlock slid down his chest of drawers, a broken gasp escaping him. He buried his face in his knees, as his shoulders shook.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
I failed all of you.