maskormenacelogs | A Miscalculation

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A Miscalculation

WHO: An intoxicated Sherlock and YOU
WHERE: De Chima
WHEN: A few days after the Cold War Confessional
WHAT: Sherlock is afraid of water again
WARNINGS:Drowning references, self-medication/drugs, drunkenness

He'd come a long way from when Will had taken him out to the creek to help him get used to swimming, but it seemed like he was right back where he started. After that ridiculous dream, he couldn't bear to go underwater again after what he'd done to John. He knew it wasn't his fault, but he couldn't get that image of John drowning out of his head. He'd neglected to spend time underwater, planning to get the eight or so hours he needed that week eventually--but the sleeping plague hit, and well, he was busy with other things. After waking up properly and realizing what he'd done, he'd been too upset and skittish to bother doing it. But he was feeling worse and worse, and he decided, of course, the best thing to do was to face one's fears head on.

So there he was, at the nearby gym's pool, dressed in just swimming clothes, including a white rash guard. It was closed for the night, and hopefully he wouldn't be bothered. He sat at the edge of the pool for a long time, willing himself to jump in.

"Blast." He finally just went for it, diving in. Immediately he felt relieved, his body desperately needed it, and he took a big gulp of water, when--

--FLASH--drowning John--

--his lifeless body floating--

--because of him--

"AGGHHH--" Sherlock threw himself over the edge of the pool, grabbing onto the deck like a lifeline. He hit it so hard that the concrete cracked, his strength unchecked. He stayed like that, trembling slightly, but still feeling the need to submerge. This was insanity. He was going to crack if he didn't get ahold of himself.

Well. There were other ways, but John would not be happy. But John didn't need to know.

*******

It wasn't hard to find a sedative, and he tied a rope around his foot, and to a concrete brick, feeling his eyes start to droop. With the last of his strength before he passed out, he jumped in, holding the brick, into the deep end. He'd calculated the dose exactly, so he'd wake up right before they opened. It wouldn't do for them to find a body in the pool, even if he was just passed out.

********

Sherlock awoke with a panic, naturally. Tied up to something he couldn't quite remember what, and underwater, with flashbacks--water randomly flew everywhere, like fountains, as he crawled onto the deck, only stopping once he regained control of his water manipulation once again.

Ugh. He just wanted his mind to stop!

********

Despite it being morning, Sherlock stopped in a convenience store and bought something to settle his nerves. Usually he calculated these things well, but in his nerve-wracked state he drank a little too much, one thing led to another, and several hours later, an intoxicated detective was seen wandering around De Chima, coat halfway hanging off his shoulder, stumbling along curbs and clutching a bottle with a brown paper bag around it, and oftentimes yelling at mailboxes for being stupid or passed out on people's lawn furniture.

[Feel free to find Sherlock wandering around anywhere in DeChima!]

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"Watch out!"

The shout was going to be useless no matter what; but more useful was the garrotelike arm that suddenly clamped around Sherlock's chest from behind.

(Dragging him back from the curb, and the road, and the now swerving, honking car.)

Sherlock stared, blinking blearily at the road, like he suspects it wasn't actually there a second ago. Huh. Cars. That would have been unfortunate.

"Excellent reflexes," he said brightly.

He still hasn't actually moved from the spot they dragged him, nor turned around to identify who saved him.

Cassian steps back, keeping one hand on Sherlock's back to make sure he isn't about to fall over. He cranes around, less to present himself as to get a look at Sherlock's face—check pupil dilation, sclera capillaries, anything else. of course, the aroma is a pretty good clue on its own.

Mainly, Cassian's just glad the man had recognized the rescue attempt for what it was, not feel attacked and punch him.

"Thanks. Can I help you get somewhere?"

[ooc: also, if it comes up, please feel free to do Sherlock's thing at Cassian as much as you like; I throw all info at your feet. I'm such a sucker for that, I'm pretty impossible to godmod. And if you want to do any power-sharing shenanigans, thisaway]

Sherlock had no idea who the man was looking at him, and right now his deductions were whimsically amusing and probably wrong, what he could muster was 'man', 'wears shoes', and 'has eyes'. Sherlock slipped the bottle he was holding into his coat pocket, he probably reeked at this point, and smelled oddly of pool chlorine as well. His hair had dried poorly and his curls lay sloppily on his forehead.

"Get somewhere?" he frowned, it seemed to be a very confusing question. "Yes, think you might just be able to help me."

A pause. "Trouble is...can't remember where I was going."

[OOC: YES! Haha Sherlock's deductions will be hilariously inept until he clears his head, and I would love to do some power-sharing shenanigans!]

Edited 2017-04-28 03:49 (UTC)

Cassian decided to keep his hand where it was. Preemptively propping the other man up.

"All right," he said, with the intonation and frequency most effective to soothe while still cutting through disorientation, "do you have a wallet?

[ooc: XD ! In that case: the observable evidence clearly shows that Cassian is a children's party lemming-wrangler.]

It was a good thing too, because Sherlock was pretty wobbly. His weight would shift back and forth as he attempted to understand the concept of 'center of gravity'.

"You're a strange pickpocket," Sherlock frowned, trying to study him. He was picking up traces of deductions, but it didn't make sense. Something about parties. With children? Probably not a pickpocket then?

His wallet would be in his right coat pocket, by his hip, a shaky hand wavers over that particular pocket as Sherlock attempted to weigh the options in his mind. Tell him? Don't tell him? Fall asleep?

Cassian notices the tell of Sherlock's hand, but doesn't just go for the pocket—to prove he isn't. "All I want with it is your address," said Cassian soothingly. He lifted his free hand, subtly waving it to make sure Sherlock saw it, before pointing to the pocket. "May I?"

Sherlock still looked at him suspiciously, but he was either too intoxicated to fight back even if he did steal, or simply didn't care. Probably both.

"Go ahead."

He moved his arm to let him have access.

Partly in further reassurance, partly in benign misdirection, Cassian used one hand to pat Sherlock's back, while the other sensationlessly slipped out the wallet.

(…hadn't been the mission this time, but he did know how to pick pockets…)

Cassian flipped it open one-handed, in view of both of them, to look for ID.

[His wallet would have clearly seen better days, and was still somehow wet. His name and address would be there somewhere or the other, and a few crumpled bills. However, Sherlock frowned, he didn't feel like going home right now, and that's where this would lead, wouldn't it?]

Give that back.

[He tries to clumsily grab for it.]

"Whoa. Easy." Cassian swiveled in on one foot to put his shoulder against Sherlock's chest, and looped his arm around the other man again to keep him from overbalancing. He clapped the wallet also to Sherlock's arm, where it would register as being in Sherlock's imminent possession, not withheld, without Cassian actually handing it back yet. "Just getting your ID, remember?"

You know, after seeing Sherlock around on the network and speaking to the guy, Archie sure as shit hadn't expected their next meeting to be like this.

"Well, goddamn."

He's standing at the edge of someone's lawn - someone who, mercifully, seems to be out - and just... observing the scene. Sherlock, passed out next to a crooked flamingo lawn ornament. Archie would find this markedly more funny if he hadn't been in the same situ-- oh, who is he kidding? This is pretty hilarious. He pushes open the gate and pads up to Sherlock, nudging the detective's leg with the tip of his trainer.

"You alive, bro? I don't think that grass has a super interesting case buried in it."

Sherlock out a muffled groan. He had no idea where he was, and had doubts about who he was, at the moment. Something reeked. It was probably him.

The detective rolled over slightly, giving the owner of the trainer an irritated look.

"Five more minutes!"

Rolling his eyes, Archie crouches down and grabs a handful of Sherlock's coat. It's easy enough to pull the guy up.

"No. Get up before someone calls the cops."

Sherlock probably feels fairly light, as he's a bit of a beanpole. He sways as he's dragged upwards, blearily blinking at the person who has awakened him.

"Rude. I don't think I want to."

"I don't give a shit about what you do or do not want, mate," Archie snaps back.

He starts by dragging Sherlock out the garden. Possibly by his collar, if the detective isn't keen on walking at the moment.

"Well, why not?" Sherlock asked pointedly, letting himself be dragged out by the collar. He's not exactly sure how to walk properly at the moment, something to do with one foot in front of the other. Completely baffling to him in his current state.

"Because I want to inconvenience you, obviously."

He keeps dragging Sherlock until he's out the garden, then unceremoniously lets him drop to the ground.

"The fuck have you done to yourself?"

"Obviously," Sherlock echoed, and went OOF as he was dumped on the ground.

He frowned as he looked up, squinting blearily, and scratched his head.

"Done to myself?" He sniffed his coat, and made a disgusted face. "Attracted a definite stink, apparently."

"Yeah, a real depression stank," he says, crinkling his nose slightly.

"Where do you live? I'm gonna drag you home and spray ya with a hose."

"I'm not really sure," Sherlock said, scratching his head again. Then he brightened and held a finger up.

"221 B Baker Street!"

Which was his address, back home, in his world, in London. Definitely not his address here.

Archie pulls out his phone to use the GPS and...

"...In Georgia?!"

"Not Georgia," Sherlock slurred. At least, he didn't think it was Georgia.

What exactly was Georgia again?

"De Chima!" Sherlock yelled suddenly, in a fit of inspiration and vague coherence. Then he quieted again, slumping over and snoring a little.

Archie swears, absolutely regretting getting involved. He puts a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, pushes him back slightly and backhands him across the face.

"Sober up, ya stupid bastard!"

He seriously considers releasing Crobat and ordering it to attack. Not that Crobat would actually hurt a human - it's been too thoroughly trained not to - but it can still give them a scare. Archie wonders if this would help... "sober" Sherlock up.

Ouch. His face stings, his eyes wide and for a second he just gapes there like he's too baffled to understand anything. He focuses on the person yelling at him.

"Stop telling me what to do!"

"Believe me, you will thank me later," Archie says, low enough that it's almost a growl. He doesn't slap Sherlock again, but squints at his face, trying to discern if his little love tap did anything.

Doesn't look like it. Archie lets go of Sherlock, sending out Crobat. The giant purple bat materialises in the air, flapping above the two men.

"Who do you live with?"

Sherlock looked at him with big, slightly tearing eyes.

"Crushed hopes and piles of regret," he admitted solemnly. He glanced up at what looked suspiciously like a giant purple bat flapping its wings above them.

He'd never seen a sight like that in all his years.

Neat.

He shrugged and looked back at Archie.

Grimacing slightly, Archie ducks away from Sherlock.

"Crobat, give him some fresh air," he says, gesturing to the bat.

If Sherlock does nothing to stop it, he'll be grabbed by the shoulders by said giant bat and lifted up into the air.

Sherlock does nothing to stop it.

He's utterly baffled as something picks him up by the shoulders and drags him into the air.

"What in blazes!?"

Someone walking nearby is carrying four cups of soda from a fast food place. Sherlock's powers, in his flailing, send the contents flying into the air, desperately trying to hit whatever was flying him around. The person screams and runs away.

Though, since Sherlock was drunk, the liquids probably go careening towards Archie instead.

The soda hits him in the chest and face, but Archie just takes it like a champ. This is nothing compared to Sharpedo's water gun phase. He crosses his arms, shaking his head slightly to get the soda off.

"Shake him a bit, Crobat," he says, grinning slightly. "I'll let ya down when you tell me who you live with."

"Let me dowwwwwwnnn!" Sherlock cried out, kicking his legs back and forth wildly. Who he lives with? No way. John would kill him. He remained tight-lipped on the matter.

"Shake him a bit more, Crobat," he commands, grinning.

"Ya know, there's an easy way outta this."

When John woke up this morning, this wasn't how he imagined he would be spending his Thursday: sitting in a police station, waiting for his best friend to sober up and feeling $250 dollars lighter than when he walked in. He knew Sherlock had been acting odd lately, but he never thought he'd get hauled in for public intoxication.

Obviously, John was the only one who learned his lesson after his stag night.

He waits the police officer to bring Sherlock out of the cells, fidgeting in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the waiting room and regularly checks his watch with a sigh. Four-thirty. With the sleep epidemic and now this, this month was going to tight money-wise. First though, he needs to get to the bottom of what is bothering Sherlock.

He has a feeling he already knows.

Sherlock was brought out of 'the drunk tank,' where he had nearly fallen into fisticuffs with a giant of a man who had a surprisingly strong opinion on alpaca wool. He was stumbling as the police officer hauled him along, though he could feel himself start to sober up, and the start of a hammering headache that promised a wonderful hangover.

Without a word, the officer brings Sherlock into the waiting room, and leaves to bring back the small tray with his effects.

The detective blinks, not really quite sure where Mr. Wrong-opinions-on-alpaca-wool went, but he was clearly not in front of him.

Someone else was.

"Oh, hello John," Sherlock said, with a wave of his hand, and a sloppy smile.

"Hi." John says wearily, sharing a brief, albeit meaningful look with the officer. It's a look that conveys a thousand apologies for inadvertently subjecting everyone in the police department to this madman all day. He steps forward to take over Sherlock-herding responsibilities and leads him over to the seats by his elbow while the officer goes to collect his belongings.

"Right. Sit there and drink this." He thrusts a polystyrene cup of water into Sherlock's hands. "I'm going to call us a cab."

The officer looks rather haggard, but his sympathetic look in return spoke of how he was most sorry for the person who had daily Sherlock-minding responsibilities.

Sherlock lets himself be led by John, still unsteady on his feet, as he sits and takes the cup thrust in his hands. He sips the water thoughtfully as the blurry events of the precious day and night are starting to embarrassingly make themselves known. He probably reeks of pool chlorine and booze, his curls a veritable rat's nest as he never bothered to comb it after getting out of the water.

He doesn't meet John's gaze, the guilt starting to set in.

The officer comes by again and delivers Sherlock's few things, has him sign off on a couple forms and informed him he was free to go.

John paces back and forth while on the phone, his face creased into a concerned frown that grows deeper each time he looks at Sherlock and takes in his ragged appearance. He can smell the booze on him of course. Everybody can. It doesn't bother him though; he's grown accustomed to the scent after wasting half of his adult life dealing with Harry's various binges. It's the whiff of chlorine that turns his stomach and makes his heart flutter in anxiety.

Absently, he touches his neck and takes a deep, calming breath. It was a few days ago but he was still bothered by his own nightmare in the dreamscape. Fortunately, the officer's return offers a distraction and John takes his Sherlock's things while he signs the forms. By the time they are sorted out, John is finished on the phone and says thank you to the officer.

"Cab should be here in fifteen minutes." He tells Sherlock, sitting down next to him and tossing his ridiculous belstaff coat on the next seat over. He links his hands together and sits there for a moment in complete silence. Sherlock is refusing to look at him. He purses his lips, looking at the wall ahead and finally decides to break the silence.

"Soooo. That happened." He starts casually, hoping it will prompt Sherlock to talk to him. He's never been very good at conversations like this.

Sherlock doesn't touch his coat, he just sits there, his shoulders slightly slumped. He's still not looking at John.

"You have a talent for stating the obvious," he murmurs. His hands tap absently at his legs once, twice, but other than that, he just seems tired. And nursing a headache.

"I'd rather not talk about it." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. This was embarrassing enough as it was. Though it was probably a sign of things getting worse if he didn't work it out. Alcohol was not his usual way of Dealing With Things.

"Cheers."

John was prepared for the flippant response and smiles to himself. Sherlock's barbs don't hurt bother him anymore, since the detective has proven that he's just as much an idiot as he is over the years. This occasion will be one example he'll use against him later. He tilts his head to the side, looking at his friend. He can already tell this is going to be one hell of a hangover.

"Okay. Fine." He says patiently, looking back at the wall. A beat passes before he adds, "But we have a long wait and I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock doesn't say anything for a total of four minutes and fifty-five seconds. In this time, he comes up with no less than seventeen different scenarios of how this conversation can go, all of them ending poorly, one of them ending with John smashing one of these chairs over his head (unlikely). However, the scenarios in which he doesn't tell John all end poorly and by his calculations, would only result in an emotional rift between them both, and a lowering of their mutual trust. Considering how low said mutual trust could get at certain times, and how low it had been back in London, he could only conclude that, as painful and uncomfortable as it would be, actually telling John was the only conceivable path to a potentially positive outcome--or at least one that wouldn't end in horrible fireworks.

"I went to the pool," Sherlock began quite suddenly, breaking his silence. He cleared his throat, sounding hesitant. "It's been too long, I missed my usual go this week, and the bathtub is stifling for eight hours."

He rubbed the back of his head. "I couldn't...it was too close to the dream. I took something to help me sleep and anchored myself in the pool. Woke up and was...I..." How to explain it?

"I wasn't well," he finished lamely. "I had to stay away from drugs, but I needed something that would stop my mind. And one thing led to another..."

And yelling at mailboxes.

Oh, thank goodness. While Sherlock was cycling through the scenarios in his head, John was counting the cracks in the opposite wall and how many times the receptionist used her nasal inhaler and it was starting to become tedious. He looks back at Sherlock when he starts recounting how he ended up in the drunk tank, paying him his full attention until he talks about his actions in the dreamscape and feels a pang of guilt.

"I'm, uh, proud of you. Well, not for getting piss blind drunk and arrested thing, but not... you know. Indulging." John clears his throat, avoiding eye contact with Sherlock under the guise of checking no one is listening in on them. No one seems interested in their conversation and inwardly sighs in relief.

He looks back down, chewing thoughtfully on his bottom lip. He had noticed the bathroom had been available more often lately, but he assumed he was spending more time with Will at the lake. To think he had gotten to the point where he was putting himself in a stupor to face the water again... and it was all because of him.

"It's my fault. I'm sorry, I should have said something sooner, but instead I..." He shakes his head. "What happened in that dream, it wasn't real. I thought dragging it up was a bad idea, so I just. Hoped we'd both forget about it."

Despite everything, there was a slight twitch of a smile on the corner of his lips when John said he was proud of him. Trading one vice for another, perhaps, but improvements were improvements. Sort of.

Sherlock suddenly looked straight at John when he spoke again.

"Your fault!?" he said, incredulous. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course I know it was just a dream, we don't need to talk about it."

No, they needed to talk about it. Sherlock just wasn't admitting that to himself. He felt stupid, being this bothered by an idiotic dream.

"How do you work that one out, then?" John retorts, finally lifting his head to look at Sherlock. "You were fine going into the water for ages until that stupid, sodding dream. Christ Sherlock, you had to chain yourself to something and knock yourself out."

It isn't hard to imagine the terror Sherlock must have felt regaining consciousness under water. John has lived the reality of it, shacked down the bottom of a well on the Musgrave estate and at the mercy of the water rising up around his neck.

"You're different now. Of course it's going to bother you."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John was right. He shut up a second later, biting his lip, hard. He'd been in furious denial about the situation, but hearing it laid out obviously and simply like that...

"A minor setback," he finally admitted. "I'll be fine next week."

He wasn't sure how he was going to do it again without sedating himself.

"Different now?" A scoff.

John hums a noncommittal note. He doesn't look like he considers Sherlock's behaviour over the past few days as a minor setback. If their roles had been reversed and he had pulled Sherlock out of the pool, he wouldn't have been able to sleep at all. He would've roamed the flat until he was too exhausted to dream about anything.

"You have to admit, you were a massive dick when I met you. You were rude, you rubbed everyone up the wrong way, then you didn't understand why people would get mad at you." His lips twitch into a fond, lopsided smile. "You still have your moments sometimes, but you've.. softened. Things don't just... I don't know, bounce off you anymore."

He clasps his hands tighter.

"So... yeah. You're different. You experienced something terrible. It's shit and sometimes this happens."

Eh. That was true. He shrugged and tilted his head in agreement.

He looked at John, the slightly amused smile he had fading, his eyebrows furrowing. There was a point where he would have laughed in John's face for him saying he'd 'softened,' a point where thinking such a thing was revolting.

Now?

"You're basically saying I'm human." The slight smirk returned, the brows still furrowed.

He ran his fingers through his tangled mess of curls and sighed, leaning his head back. "Sometimes people fall into shared dreams where one is a Soviet soldier bent on kidnapping his best friend for brainwashing and ends up nearly killing him?" He doesn't sound angry, he's just stating the facts. "Because that happens to everyone, surely."

Edited 2017-05-14 15:08 (UTC)

"Not necessarily. Sometimes people get really pissed off about the past and make a magical palace to lock themselves away from the world. Because funnily enough, most people don't particularly like acknowledging that side of themselves and try to attack anyone stupid enough who comes to rescue them."

He doesn't expect Sherlock to understand anything he just said, but it's an ordeal that has stuck with John over years. A cautionary tale of what happens when he tries to bury his emotions instead of accepting them for what they are and embracing them. Sadly, it was a lesson that didn't return to London with him and he looks down at his knuckles.

"What I'm saying is that stuff like this just happens. You didn't nearly kill me. I tried to kill myself to save you. If you think about it, it's the same thing you tried to do for me. I'm starting to think you're a bad influence on me."

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A Miscalculation

This okay?

Yup!

Woot!

:D

THAT ICON ^_^

It's one of my faves! XD I'm so glad I found it

ME TOO <3

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