weep not for the memories

[brushoff]

WHO: Everybody!
WHERE: all cities
WHEN: March 4 - March 6
WHAT: it's a catch-all log, sucka! Tag here and thread around for the Dorian Ruins Everything Guilt Extravaganza part of the overall March plot. Please check out this ooc post for details!
WARNINGS: Traumatic memories. Possible talk of murder, death, blood, other nasty things. I'll try to update if the warnings needed but please use content warnings if it gets super nasty!

It starts off on March 4th, the early morning before the sun's even risen. You know those weird mirages that were hanging around the day before? Well now it's getting a little personal.

These mirages come and go seemingly for no reason. They might stay for a minute, they might stay for an hour. The images vary between person but the unifying factor is that the mirages consist of people the player characters have hurt, whether people in-game or from their homes. Whether they murdered them, slandered them, or even had a petty little argument, the unifying factor is the guilt each character feels towards or about this mirage. After all, you know you hurt them somehow. You know their existence somehow makes you feel guilty.

Another unifying factor? The creepy way these mirages just seem to stick to you. They'll follow you if you try to leave, staring you down with their creepy unblinking mirage eyes. And whoops: everybody can see said mirages. Hopefully you're not being stalked by someone you and somebody else both know, wouldn't that be awkward?

Have fun confronting your traumatizing past and/or wondering why your buddy's got some creepy ghost guy following him, imPorts!

( ooc: this is a catch-all log! Make starters of your characters getting haunted by their creepy mirages, have other people react to said creepy mirages, ???, profit. Hit me up on the ooc post if you have any questions! )

Comments

[acclimatized]

John stares at the sock clutched in Sherlock's hand. Mycroft warned him about danger nights. How they could be triggered by anything; from weeks of boredom without a case for him to dissect or a sudden, emotional upheaval life that made Sherlock want to embrace oblivion. There were only a handful John experienced and most of them were caused by The Woman.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't give him a reproachful look or scold Sherlock. He walks into his bedroom, side-stepping the mirage of his dead wife and Sherlock's lost childhood friend, and sits down next to his friend. His gaze lingers on Victor Trevor for a moment. Sometimes, he dreamed about his hollow eyes fixed on him, yet he didn't know what the boy looked like. Or how close he was to almost sharing his fate.

"I know this is difficult..." John begins slowly, wringing his hands and keeping his voice level, "but what happened to them isn't your fault. You know that, don't you?"

[thevictoriandetective]

It takes some time, but Sherlock's eyes finally flick over to John, who's sitting next to him. There's a rattling sigh. His voice sounds uncharacteristically...small.

"And yet...if it wasn't for me, they'd still be alive."

His hands are shaking, making the sock shudder. Definitely a danger night. What he wouldn't give to send his mind on a journey where no one else could follow. Where he could be safe and just stop thinking...feeling...because this hurt. As horrible as what Mycroft did was, he could see its merits.

Forgetting had its own sort of dark kindness. Ignorance was bliss.

[acclimatized]

"Look, I know you can predict things weeks in advance to wind me up, but you can't know that."

On Christmas Day, he asked the woman he loved if the name Mary Watson was good enough for her. He had decided the problems of Mary Watson's future would be his privilege to bear. It had been a heartfelt vow, albeit an unfilled one in the end. Rosamund Mary would have always cast a shadow over their life together. Magnussen had threatened to expose her unless they danced for him; Ajay had wanted to kill her for her perceived betrayal; Norbury had wanted to eliminate AGRA to achieve a quiet life. There would have always been ghosts chasing after the woman who abandoned her identity and became his wife. Wetting his lips, he gazes up at Mary Watson. Framed in the doorway, she looks beautiful.

"Mary saved your life because she wanted to. She liked you, Sherlock. From the start, she was bloody besotted with you. She kept on at me, asking me when I was going to see you again. I was so angry at you and she..." His voice catches and he clears his throat, "... she knew! She knew just how much you meant to me. Who knows, I might've done the same thing if she'd been the one to call the babysitter instead."

He looks away from the mirage of his wife and at Sherlock's trembling hands. His own fingers twitch as he thinks about reaching out and offering him some little comfort by steadying them. But he decides not to and an exasperated Mary in the doorway berates him.

"You couldn't have known what would happen to Victor either. You were just a little kid with a best mate, like every other six-year-old in the country."

[thevictoriandetective]

John's words hit Sherlock hard, like a cold slap to the face. Not in terms of cruelty, but in terms of the sheer love and kindness that both he and Mary had for the detective that didn't expect anyone to be his best friend. A long time ago, when John jumped on Moriarty, Sherlock had been so shocked and floored he'd paced back and forth for a minute, scratching his head with a loaded gun.

But now, years later, he had a flash of John jumping in front of him to take a bullet, instead of Mary. He gripped the sock he was holding tighter and a choking breath escaped him as he shook his head. He would have really gone off the deep end if that happened. Not that he wanted Mary to die. The feelings were conflicting and made him feel a little worse. He didn't want any of them to die, and certainly not for him, a man who hardly deserved anything, much less their friendship.

"I should have played with her, like she asked," Sherlock looked up at John, his normally icy blue eyes, wet and reddened.

[acclimatized]

John. Do better.

"No one wants to play with their sister when they're little." John tells him, prompted by Mary's sharp tone and the concern shining in her eyes, mirroring his own. It was an ill-timed sentiment, but a heartfelt one nonetheless. On his good days, Sherlock Holmes is the great detective of London, a champion of the persecuted. He has saved his life countless of times. It's a no brainer which one of them should take a bullet.

"I never wanted to play with Harry when we were growing up." He adds with a sniff, wondering if she will appear now that he's thinking about her. She doesn't materialize and he snorts – typical Harry. He looks away from the mirages standing over them and stares at the sock clutched in Sherlock's hand. "Even if you did play with Eurus, there's no telling what she would've done next. I know she's your sister, but she's dangerous."

[thevictoriandetective]

No one wants to play with their sister when they're little.

Eurus, even as an adult, had taken a shine to Sherlock. She'd always wanted to play with him, and he had failed her the first time for not figuring out her code. He still felt somewhat guilty, felt that his stupidity had gotten Victor killed, and probably always would.

"Would've saved Victor, maybe. If I was smarter..."

He gritted his teeth, there'd always been something driving him to be more clever, smarter, more intelligent than anyone else, and he finally knew what it was. It wasn't just ordinary competitiveness, it wasn't entirely because his self-worth was tied up in it because for years he thought it was all he had to offer to people to get them to accept him--it was because he knew that being clever could have saved his best friend's life. The thing that he'd been searching for all this time, the thing he could never find...

It was obvious he'd carried so much blame and guilt over the years, even in his subconscious. It wasn't hard to see how easily he'd turned to drugs. A pain he never had words for, a guilt that fueled his reckless behavior, that lowered his self-worth to the point that it took Mary dying for him to get it back.

"I'm...so sorry, Vic," he mumbled into his knees. How could he ever put this ghost to rest?

He wipes his nose on his sleeve, a childlike-gesture, looking at the sock in his hand. He tosses it on the ground, leaning his head back against the drawers, closing his eyes a moment, swallowing. He'd never grieved properly over Victor, it had terrified him, destroyed his sense of safety and security, and taught him that emotions were pain and needed to be avoided at all costs. And now, here his heart was ripped right open, and John was seeing the most secret part of his heart flayed open. No one should have to see this, much less John, who was obviously dealing with his own pain.

"I...I'm sorry, John," he said, his eyes still closed, his brows furrowed. His voice was wavering, and so unlike the confident air he usually carried.

[acclimatized]

"Sherlock, mate... you did save Victor. If you hadn't solved the Musgrave Ritual, he would've been forgotten down that well forever."

He would have been too, John thinks to himself. The thought sends an involuntary shiver coursing down his spine and he attempts to push it out of his mind. Which is admittedly a bit difficult, especially with the mirage of Victor Trevor standing beside his wife and staring at them with that passive gaze.

"Sure, you were a bit late, but that's just you. What matters is that you returned him to his parents; you gave them closure. Believe me, it's more than some people get." When Sherlock doesn't react to him, John finally gives in and throws his arm around Sherlock, pulling him in for a hug. Mary beams at them and John shoots her a look, silencing her from making a comment.

"I know it's not okay. It's shit."

[thevictoriandetective]

You did save Victor.

Even if the case had not been this personal, it would have infuriated him to think that such a mystery would have remained unsolved. Not just because of the code, but because of the tragedy involved. Victor had suffered an immensely sad fate, but John was right, closure was something that many people never got.

His blue eyes glance up, staring at Victor, who was simply staring back. His best friend who he'd forgotten, who would have remained forgotten, he wondered what he must have thought when no one came...God, he couldn't bear it, his heart had been broken thirty years ago and he'd patched it together by sacrificing Victor's memory, and now it was breaking all over again--

He didn't realize it but John had pulled him in for a hug. Sherlock let the dam break, tears silently falling, leaning on John, not unlike how John had broken down and Sherlock had given him a hug. A detached part of him wondered about the nature of grief, how both of them had made a herculean feat at attempting to hold it back, when what they really needed to do was let it out.

No, it wasn't okay. It wouldn't be okay. And he'd have to be okay with that.

And, as always, John was there. Even after everything they'd been through, what they'd done to each other--he was there, even at his worst, his most embarrassing, his most vulnerable.

And that meant everything.