The Adventure of the Multifarious Wonderland

[not_a_hero]

Who: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Philip, Evelyn Carnahan (???)
Where: Grounds 1, Ocean, Grounds 4, Grounds 9, The Mansion
When: April 1st, 2nd & 7th
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sherlock and John tackle investigating the changes in Wonderland.
The Story:

The Grounds:
Area One - April 1st
Ocean - April 1st
Area Four - April 1st [Private]
Area Nine - April 2nd [Private] (mentions of suicide)

Mansion:
Bedroom 2-21 - April 7th [Private] (drug use and mentions of suicide)

Comments

April 7th - Ten years Younger and Debilitating Additions [Private]

[not_a_hero]

[not_a_hero]

The first thing that struck John was that when he woke up, he was on his stomach. Not a very odd event, in and of itself, but the doctor only ever slept on his back, or curled over his right side with his left hand available to dive for his gun at a moment's notice. No, instead, he was sprawled awkwardly, the bedding tangled and stiff around his legs, back slick with what he assumed was sweat. The doctor, however, once shifting to rise to his feet, discovered that the white 400 thread count sheets were stained with... blood. And, of course, that was mere seconds before recognizing the agonizing pain and weight in his upper back. And that's what brought him to this moment, now, staring at the full length mirror next to the closet and taking in the broken, red, angry skin around his shoulder blades, and the pair of twitching, broad, heavy wings now protruding from them. They were stiff, the left still wrapped tight against itself in what he assumed was the position they had broken the skin of his back in, and they were wet with blood and a clear, thick fluid. which had also dried in rivulets across his back. The wings were dark brown, tan, speckled... hawk's wings. The left one twitched, muscle straining as it stretched out, aching, jerking to a stop about half the length that the right could--almost his arm span, but not quite. Ah, there... The left one, as if mimicking, mocking the wound in the shoulder it occupied, had a gnarled scar near it's base, the feathers awkward and bare in patches. John supposed, awed, that if he'd had these wings when he was shot, it could have indeed injured it in some way.

The doctor showered, taking extra care to clean the wings as best he could from the grime and blood, wincing as any nudge tugged at the inflamed skin around them. Even the closet seemed prepared for this--what John could only assume was another event, and he's shocked at how casual and mundane that fact was starting to feel--and provided an altered version of a pale blue long sleeve shirt, with two slits and buttons on the back for the medium wings to slip through. They were not big enough for flying, just meant to be useless limbs, John mused as he made his way to Sherlock's to show the detective, grunting painfully as said limbs knocked against the door-frame clumsily and sending shocks of agony down his spine. "Errg, Sherlock?" He called, opening the door to the flat and stumbling in, digging his fingernails into his right shoulder to distract from the pain. "I think I've found something interesting."

Sherlock looked up from his spot on the couch, slummed out in his pajamas and dressing gown, with only mild surprise on his twenty-two year old face. On the table beside the couch was an array of well recognized paraphernalia including a lighter, spoon, needles and a bag of a white substance which would be identified by context alone if not by sight. All had been used. He let one large hand lay gently over the crook of the opposite arm, gazing up at John with a peaceful if not somewhat confused expression. There was certainly no recognition in his pale eyes.

John froze, mid stride. His eyes dart over the glazed expression, the youthful face, the tools of the trade, the hand on the place of injection in a manner so familiar... and the doctor swallows thickly, shifting his weight until he's in a more neutral pose and he can lock eyes with the detective better. "Oh..." John breathes, because really, what else is there to say to this situation?

Sherlock looks slightly more surprised for a second as he shifts into a more upright position. "Auditory hallucinations as well as visual?" He glances at the bag with a pout of approval. "Must be good stuff."

"Halluc-" John pauses, biting his tongue. "Sherlock... do you--" The detective's eyes are flat when they glance over him, no spark of recognition at all. He want's to ask if the other knows him, remembers him, and wonders if that would make this situation worse or better. "I'm not a hallucination."

Sherlock shakes his head. "The only alternative explanation would be that I am dead and god is real. I'm fairly certain dead bodies are immune to the effects of dopamine and that there is no god, however, so a hallucination of an angel you most certainly are." He relaxes back on the couch, now taking John in as a rather detailed figment of his own subconscious. "A little old for an angel. Broken. Is this what I think salvation looks like? A middle aged man with twisted, useless wings? I really hope you're not meant to be symbolic because I think there might be a lot more wrong with me than the obvious if you are."

Ouch, parts of that hurt in a round about way. John tries not to let it show on his face, but Sherlock has always been good at reading him no matter what he hid. He sighs, making his way over to the couch until he's standing over the prone 20-year-old, the sight twisting something in his side and gut. The pin pocked arms, the sickly pallor of Sherlock's skin, the blown out pupils... And he can't even sit on the table beside the younger man due to his tools littering it. John sighs, and holds out his hand. "Will this prove it to you?"

Sherlock eyes the hand, not really sure what to do with it. He smirks to himself at last and reaches up to touch it, fully expecting to pass right through it as the blunt contact of his fingers to John's palm proves. He recoils instantly at the touch, holding his hand like it's been burned as he sits up, eyes going manic in their scanning of him, visibly working him out.

The shirt was too thin to hide rigging, the wings too heavy for simple straps to hold them in place. The way they moved, the smell of them, the details all too precise to be faked. He could read pain in John's face and smell the blood still lingering along the feathers, judge the left one to be disabled--an odd detail for something fake. The man was real, his wings were real, the strange place he did not recognize was real... Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed, hands holding his head. It didn't make any sense. Nothing was making sense and even the drugs weren't helping.

"It's impossible. None of this is possible."

"Yeah, this place can do things like that..." John tried to smile, to take the edge off of things, but his gut ached. It was hard enough seeing the detective in such a state. Sherlock was usually the one easily identifying the odd things that happened around Wonderland and to it's occupants as events, so his distress and confusion over reality, drugs or no drugs, was unnerving. John hesitated, then crouched next to the couch, not touching the other man again for now. "Sherlock, do you know where you are? What is the last thing you remember?" Perhaps he can get a grounding for how exactly to handle this situation with more information. The wings on his back twitched anxiously, ruffling.

Sherlock laughed lightly, the chuckle dark and moody. "Last thing I remember? The smell of pizza, sports clothes still unwashed, screams not associated with pain, lamps with dim bulbs, bins of chewing gum and research and wet cigarette butts from the spilled beer. I think most of that was real. Maybe it wasn't. Not so easy to tell now."

"Oh, Sherlock..." John breathes, running a hand over his face and staring at the ceiling to compose himself--to push the idea of Sherlock in such an environment from his mind. "Well, uhm... You're in Wonderland now. It's a bit hard to take in when you're not high, so I'll just leave it at this; weird things happen here. Like me sprouting wings or you... being..." Like this "...here."

"Wonderland? Is that the one with the boy who never ages or the girl who follows a rabbit? Never mind, it's not important. Or is it?" He looks at John... there's something about him he doesn't like. It's in his eyes and in his posture. It reminds him of Mycroft but not in the way Mycroft makes him angry. "Who are you? How do you know me?"

John is not really sure how to answer that. He bites his lip. "I'm nobody. Nobody, just... a friend. John Watson."

"A friend? Pff. I don't have friends. Did he send you here to spy on me? Did Mycroft go and call down an angel from heaven to spy on his troubled little brother? There really are no limits to his selfishness." Sherlock reaches out to touch a wing. They look so real.

"I don't work for Mycroft." John insists, a pinch forming in the bridge of his nose and eyebrows at the very idea. He hadn't been on the best of terms with the elder Holmes after Sherlock's suicide, and the very idea sends a flash of anger through him. He's jolted out of it, however, when Sherlock reaches for his wings. The urge to flinch back is strong, but he stays still, holding his breath, wings twitching in anticipation. "Careful." He breaths softly, not to shock Sherlock away but just in case.

Sherlock pets the feathers gently, more sure than ever that they are in fact real. He sinks his fingers in along the grain, feeling the softness brush softly against his hand. "But you know him. Know him well enough to have an informed dislike of him. Interesting. Most people don't get to see his dark side. Who are you to be so special?"

It feels very odd having the wings be pet, especially by another person. Not bad, but odd. As Sherlock's long, cool fingers press along the feathers, he shivers and it travels up through the wings themselves. The touch is soft, and it doesn't hurt as much as he was thinking it would with how much movement had been agonizing when he'd woken up. "I'm not special. He's just not the best with first impressions when he's being dramatic. And we didn't exactly part on good terms last I saw him."

Sherlock smirks slightly, shaking his head. "You are full of contradictions. You're not an important government official--there's no reason for you to have met my brother in any sense unless hired by him but you hate him enough to never wish to work for him. Being my friend would perhaps lead to an acquaintanceship but I don't know you. I think I'd remember someone like you."

John can't help but quirk his lip at the sprawled man, if a bit sadly. "I'd hope so. But that's fine, don't worry about it." His wings flex, one ruffling against Sherlock's hand.

"So you refuse to tell me who John Watson is, do you? Should I be ashamed to know you, then, or is it simply too complicated to explain?" He quirks a brow at him, looking him over, mindlessly petting the soft feathers. "Certainly not a professor. Hands of a man with a desk job, though. A doctor given the detached concern. If my reality really is this fucked though then let's go with guardian angel as a possibility. It fits best."

John breaths a laugh, flushing at the idea of being deemed an angel, wings or no. But it was far less complicated then explaining the reality of the situation to the drugged twenty something detective. "We can go with that." The doctor reaches out and presses a hand to Sherlock's forehead, pushing back his hair. "I have my work cut out for me, though..." Sherlock's fingers on his wings starts to make his shoulder-blades ache like a knotted muscle being worked loose and he stretches them as best he can.

Sherlock kept his eyes locked on John's, fascinated and almost desiring a clear head to observe him with. "Am I worth saving, John Watson?"

"Without a doubt, Sherlock Holmes." He says firmly, yet still smiling, eyes only breaking their lock with the grey blue ones to dart over the other's features, taking in the effects of the drugs. His hand trails down from the other man's forehead to his neck, where the pulse flutters against his fingers and he doesn't notice the small bandage there until he's about to shift and move away. John leans over Sherlock further, feathers ruffling in concern when he gets a good look at the plaster. "What happened?"

Sherlock looks confused for a moment before he seems to remember and shrugs it off, trying to displace John's fingers with his own hand. "Attacked by some crazy bitch living here. Drank my blood. Sort of stole my high. Under the circumstances, perhaps it was a vampire and not just some mental patient with impossibly sharp canines." He shrugs his eyebrows, watching his wings intently to try and learn to read their shrugs and tremors. "She knew me too. Like you do. Another 'friend' of mine?"

John frowns, drawing back his hand at Sherlock's squirming but his eyes remained fixed on the injury. "A vampire? What did she look like?" He doesn't notice Sherlock's attention to his wings, which are flexing anxiously at the idea of Sherlock being bitten by a blood-sucking fictional creature.

"Brown hair, soft curls, Londoner I believe. Grabbed me by the shirt, pushed me against the wall just there, pinned my hands to it when I tried to stop her and bit into me despite the height issue. Really, when you say it that way, it sounds almost romantic. Rather a bit more painful than I imagined my first experience with a woman might be. Certainly left me weak in the knees though I consider blood loss an acceptable excuse." He sighs like it's all very boring. He is much more interested in how obvious John's honest concern for him is.

That description sounded an awful lot like Evelyn, and John had a feeling that in the face of what Sherlock had done considering her boyfriend, pinning to a wall and biting him was probably justifiable in a vampire's mind. He tried quirking a grin at Sherlock's observation about feeling weak in the knees, but was far more concerned with making sure the younger man was healthy after that incident... given the circumstances, at least. "Might have been. I've never been bitten by a vampire lady, so I can't help you there. Did you bother eating anything since this happened or am I going to need to force you?" He reaches out again towards the wound as he asks.

Sherlock knocks his hand aside again. "I think you know exactly what I've done since then."

He let out a long suffering sigh as he drew back his hand, having gone through this routine but with the distinct lack of drugs. "Of course." The doctor used a hand on his knees for support as he pushed himself up, making his way into the kitchen portion of the apartment and setting about to make tea and some food for Sherlock. "You're going to eat this, alright? Just to make me feel better about you... walking around after having your blood half drained by a vampire."

"I think you'd feel much better not walking around with the weight of those on your back," Sherlock notes, watching him with a distinctly odd and unusual deduction winding through his brain. It makes him uneasy in a way being attacked by a vampire surely hadn't. "John, really, there's no need. I'll do for myself."

"...It's fine, I'm already up." He calls nonchalantly back into the sitting room, though he's touched, if a bit surprised. In fact, the wings did hurt. Spread in the pose they wanted to maintain, the weight strained his raw skin and pulled at muscles that were sore from the addition of new limbs. He tucked them close to his back to try and reduce the strain, turning his face away from the sitting room and gritting his teeth, as he started boiling the water and poking through the fridge to determine what was available for food.

[not_a_hero]

Sherlock gets up off the couch, walking slowly and standing in the doorway, using it to support himself while the room spins slightly. He's light headed from blood loss and slowly coming down off his high. He'd like another hit but gets the sense he shouldn't do that--not in front of John. John's presence is very odd to him the more he learns to accept. "John, I seem to be forgetting a lot.. people and places... Things I shouldn't have forgotten. Are you... my boyfriend?"

He hadn't realized that Sherlock had stood, and at the sound of his voice far closer then it used to be, John turned from the cabinet where he'd found a can of beans for beans on toast. 'What are you doing standing?' he was poised to say 'sit down before you faint' was there was well, on the tip of his tongue, but Sherlock's question froze it there. The tips of his ears went hot, and he could feel the ache as his wings ruffled against their pinned pose at the flare of emotions that rushed through him. "Am I your... No. No, I'm just--" The doctor's gaze dropped, darted. He'd long since gotten used to not correcting the people that assumed as such with the two of them, and just accepting this odd partnership between the two of them for what it was without question... but it was something else describing it to the detective himself. "... You're important to me, Sherlock. I'm... your blogger." He ends weakly, trying to grin at the other and not feel self-conscious standing there defining their relationship with a can of beans in his hand.

Sherlock nods slowly after a minute, not really feeling any more informed than before. He finds a chair and sits down, flinging his fingers through his own hair. "Right. Whatever that means. That's good, I guess. You're old enough to be my father after all." Though it was definitely there: love. Sherlock hadn't ever seen it before, not directed towards him. Whoever John was, he was important. Very important. He cared about him more than anyone else Sherlock could remember. It made him want to make John happy and comply with his good natured requests. But the supplies at the table by the couch were calling his name as the high ebbed with the dreadful depression lurking just beyond. "Listen, John.... how much of an issue are we going to have if I string a few highs over the next hour or so? Today's not been the best day and I'd just as soon keep my mood buffed. I'd offer to share but your expression from before has made your opinions on recreational drug use rather obvious."

John turned away under the pretense of heating up the beans on the stove, hesitant to answer. Ideally, he knew he'd prefer Sherlock not to, and for mainly selfish reasons; he hated it, especially having the comparison of what Sherlock was like brilliant and older and clean. But, in the end, John knew this was something Wonderland was throwing at them, and Sherlock had told him these things tended to come to an end quickly enough. What good could he do to the poor detective, now almost half his age, if he started insisting on a detox and rehabilitation for the sparse few days they'd be in each other's presence? Was deciding to do that against his oath as a doctor, as Sherlock's friend? John placed the hot toast onto a plate, scooped the beans atop each slice and turned to slide the plate over the island counter to the younger man, glancing up at him eventually. "Eat, and... go ahead. I don't like it, but there's not much I can do about it at the moment, can I?"

Sherlock smiled at John, not entirely ignorant to the stress the call had induced. He made sure to eat despite having no appetite, eating every bit of the meal put before him without so much as a word of complaint or need to insist. Saying 'thank you' seemed too odd a phrase for their exchange. He settled on being amicable. John had hardly given him any excuse to be otherwise. "So.. what does John Watson do here when he's not sprouting wings and making toast?"

"Oh, I'm never bored." John licked his lips, having watched Sherlock eat every bite out of the corner of his eye, knowing the acceptance of the food was only to appease him, and that he shouldn't feel a bubble of warm satisfaction by it, but nevertheless it's hard to not enjoy being listened to without a fight. He makes them tea, setting the finished mug he'd prepared for the other man in front of Sherlock. "I have a very energetic roommate who dabbles in all sorts of things like experiments and exploring dangerous areas. I have to make sure the nutter doesn't get in over his head." But he's smiling into his mug, eyes cast on the counter between them and gaze fond.

Sherlock sips his tea to find it exactly as he likes it. Exactly. John has done this before and many times. Sherlock can't help but frown into his own drink, looking into the milky mug with a sort of pained longing. Part of it is the down, he knows, but he also knows the relief from the depression will come fast as soon as he returns to his living area and injects another hit. He can let himself slip just a little more to stay in the strange company he's found. "Why don't I remember you? I... want to remember."

It hurts, quite a lot, to hear the way Sherlock says that. John sets down his tea and presses his hands into the counter, fighting the urge to stride over and wrap the detective in a hug, pulling him close--a desire he's very rarely ever followed up on, as he can count on one hand the times he and Sherlock have embraced, and one was down in those depressing caves just a few days ago. "I'm sorry." And he is, so much that he decides to go against his gut instinct to avoid overwhelming the young man before him and tell him the truth. "You won't be able to. At least, I don't think so." The doctor flexes his left hand, wings fluttering behind his back.

"Why not?" Sherlock surges up out of his seat, depression sliding away with irritability and mood swings. He hates that he's intelligent enough to catalog the responses his mind and body have to the drug he's come to almost need to feel happiness anymore. It makes him feel in control to know what is him and what is the cocaine. It makes him feel like an idiot to shoot up again and again even when he knows exactly how little he can influence how he'll react thanks to it. "You remember. She remembered. Why should I be different, why should I be denied what is rightfully mine? Memories are important, memories can tell you everything. I need mine. Get me them."

John had jumped back when Sherlock suddenly stood, temper flaring, but he frowned now, standing his ground and holding out a hand as if to calm a wild animal--he was used to Sherlock's flares in temper and frustration when he was older, but the situation was different now. This Sherlock was young, addicted to cocaine, and lacked the connection they had with one another, no matter how much he seemed to desire it. Wings stretched, flared, betraying his slight surprise, he tried to talk soothingly. "Calm down, Sherlock. It's alright." He tried to gauge if it'd be best to circle the table and get closer to the other man or keep a respectable distance. "I can't get them for you. I wish I could. But, those memories belong to an older you, I wouldn't be that surprised if you can't access them."

"An older me? Older? How much older? First vampires, then angels, now time travel? Is that what you're telling me? I can't remember because none of this is mine? I don't have this?" He grabs his mug of tea and throws it across the room where it shatters and splashes. "If I don't belong, I'll go back? When? When do I go back? Where are you? You know this place, you don't have to search for anything, but this isn't your room, this is mine. Who are you to belong here? Blogger? Blogger of what? What do I do that needs blogging? Who am I?" His mind is tearing itself apart with all its questions, all the clues circling around him like mad.

"Sh-Sherlock!" He flinches as the mug shatters, breath coming short as the detective unravels in front of him. "Calm down!" He quickly strides around the island counter--nearly leaping over it in his haste to get to his friend--and grabs the other man's shoulders. "You're you! You're the most brilliant man I've ever known and you need to take a second and breath and listen to me. This place doesn't make any sense, I know--" He lifts his hands again, one then the other, to clasp the sides of Sherlock's head in a firm but gentle grip, trying to lock their gaze. "But it won't do you any good to get worked up...!"

"I'm not worked up!" Sherlock glares at him, shoving at him to get him away, hating what he can't have with an intensity that surprises even him.

John grunts at the shove, but holds his ground with army trained stubbornness, only a wince and a returning glare as his response. "You are! I can feel your pulse going a mile a minute! Just..." He cards the tips of his fingers into Sherlock's hair, trying to affirm his hold and also to sooth the other man. It takes some effort, but he lowers his own voice from a matching yell to a soft shush. "Shhh... Breathe a minute. I'll answer your questions, just do this for me, okay? Don't make me get a shock blanket."

"What's a blanket going to do?!" Sherlock takes a cue from John, however, and pauses after his outburst, concentrating on breathing, trying to feel his heartbeat slow. He needs a hit. He needs to feel the pleasure running through his mind and feel the clarity and splendor of another high. He doesn't want to feel like this anymore, he wants more of that again. "Tell me," he begs. "Everything. Tell me in as much detail as you can. I need to know. I need..." a hit. God he needs it.

"That's it..." He soothes as Sherlock breathes slowly, letting out his own held breath as he feels the other's rapid pulse falling to a more acceptable rate. The doctor didn't notice he had started caressing his thumbs over Sherlock's temples in a calming fashion until a few moments later, stopping with a promise on his lips, deciding to disregard any lingering thought on the space time continuum or any of that nonsense films had hammered into him for these sorts of situations. Sherlock's voice was so pained, pleading, honest to the point it stabbed at his heart, and he couldn't resist. He can feel his wings, the new appendages that they were, trembling and flexing in the lingering adrenaline and worry. "Okay, okay, I will, I promise." John offers the young man a small smile. "Where do you want me to start?"

Sherlock grabs at John's shirt, feeling weak as the adrenalin fades but not willing to move from his spot. He delights in the soft touches and the smiles, the pacifying concessions and genuine concern. Sherlock is a freak; he's hated, he's mocked and people cringe when they see him in anticipation of the unknown revelations sure to come out of his mouth unwarranted and unwelcome. That's life. That is every day he's spent for as long as he can remember, trying to impress the world and finding the world to be far more annoyed than pleased with his cleverness. How can John exist? John is an anomaly, the illusive .001% of the population immune to his personality that surely existed but thus far had not appeared. He was an unprecedented existence that couldn't possibly be real but like some strange dream suddenly was. "You," he demanded, gripping his shirt tighter. "Start with you."

"Me?" John's eyebrows raise in surprise, throat going tight and dry at the request. His hands, steady, slide down and rest over Sherlock's wrists, thumbs now soothing over the pulse there in something that seems to be becoming habit. "Alright. I can do that." He swallows. "Do you want to sit down, first? I can uh... make you another cup of tea? Bit of a long story, this."

Sherlock shook his head, gently pulling away. "Tea's fine, but, uh... Tea's not enough. You make tea, I'll.. uh...," he nods and walks back to the living room, sitting down on the couch to prepare his fix.

[not_a_hero]

"Right..." John turned away purposefully, setting the kettle to boil once again and then crouching near the wall to clean up the shattered remains of the mug Sherlock had released his rage onto. His wings, twitching in agitation, ached and strained in response to his anxiety knowing what Sherlock was doing a room over, how he was just letting it happen. The broken mug pieces cupped between his hands, the doctor stood, taking them to the bin and finally letting his eyes rest on the young detective, analyzing his actions in a way that wasn't at all pitying, but more so full of bitter fascination. This was what Sherlock did back then, he might as well understand it.

Sherlock already has his syringe ready--a new one, a sterile one; he wasn't an idiot and refused to reuse even his own needles least the habit end up in an easy mistake in other's company. He tied off his arm using his mouth to pull the tourniquet tight. He was good at finding a vein and injected himself without so much as a wince, tossing the empty syringe to the table top and untying the tourniquet as he clamped his hand over his arm, waiting, rocking just a tad as though the motion could move it faster through his veins. It didn't take long. The rocking stilled as he sighed, hands running through his hair as he sat back, looking up at the ceiling with nearly lustful eyes and a content smile on his face. He felt better, so, so, so much better. He chuckled through another sigh, letting his read roll in relief, catching John mid-motion and hesitating against a smile. "Pull up a chair. I recommend one from the kitchen. You can sit backwards in it and keep your back from being pressed against anything unyielding." He plopped his feet up on the table, still fighting a smile though his eyes positively shone with ecstasy. "I'm sure you're aware of cocaine's properties as a topical anesthetic. Not trying to push it on you but your pain is obvious."

"I'll keep that in mind." John called back, mouth twitching in uncertainty of which way it should turn. The visible difference in Sherlock's body language was fascinating to watch, if a tad scary. John had dealt with addicts as a doctor, both before and after his tour of duty. But it was something else watching someone he knew and cared about depend on it and shoot up in front of him. He went through the motions of making tea for the other man, mentally repeating what he'd just witnessed a couple of times as he added the milk and sugar to Sherlock's liking. "It's not so bad, right now... more sting and ache then real pain." That was a bit of an understatement, but he'd rather not have the detective worry about it. "It was probably far more painful when they grew in, luckily I was asleep for it." He came over and set the tea on the table by Sherlock's hand, making a second trip into the kitchen to retrieve the chair as per the other's suggestion.

Sherlock accepted his tea, smiling broadly at him with John's apparent acceptance of his actions. It was okay to relish in it in that case. He drank to cure his dry mouth and sat with his fingertips dancing against the mug, drumming out his excitement. "So events which made me younger have given you wings as well. Are you sure your mental state is unaltered? Not that it matters, I suppose, if my memory of this time is limited to the duration of my stay. You're a doctor, though, yes? You didn't correct me before though you also didn't exactly correct the guardian angel bit so I assume you're more than just my doctor and much more than my blogger even. Doctor turned police officer? No, too steadfast, not one to make that kind of a career switch. Army doctor? Yes. I like that. Protective, deadly, but a still something of a humanitarian. Suits you."

John can't help it, forever awed by Sherlock's deductions, even those he's made before--he smiles, lead by one quirk in the corner of his mouth until it spreads throughout his whole face, eyes bright. "That's brilliant." And it was, since a fair amount of the signs Sherlock had picked up on the first time they met--military issue hair cut, psychosomatic limp, prominent tan lines--were gone or fading, not exactly the same as before. And yet he still figured it out with ease. "You're right, of course. Fifth Northumberland Fusileers." He ruffles his wings--the left one's movement sad in comparison to the right's-- to release some of the giddy energy watching Sherlock deduce usually gave him. "You and I met when I returned home."

Sherlock smiles, flushing slightly at the praise. No one ever praises him--even Mycroft's compliments are generally backhanded and venom tipped. He leans forward, John still the most fascinating thing he's seen all day and that's even with vampires and winged people included. "We didn't know each other before, though. Meeting of circumstance, then? Why would I be in the company of an invalided army doctor?" Perhaps somewhat sadly, high Sherlock is much closer to his normal self--normal as John knows him when he's just solved a case and is full of self congratulation and glee. High, Sherlock is just fine. It's the lows coming off the stimulant that ruins him.

"We were introduced through a mutual friend." John explains, getting quickly wrapped up in Sherlock's enthusiasm, eyes alight in memory. "You proposed we become flatmates, and by the end of the night you managed to get yourself into the mercy of a serial killer. I ended up having to save you. We became colleagues after that."

"I was at the mercy of a serial killer? Doesn't sound like me; are you sure you're remembering correctly? Surely I'd have known the man was a killer and have been able to formulate some kind of tactic for alerting the police. And why should I need a colleague in my line of work who may be required to come to my rescue? I don't work for the police, then, I assume. That's fine. They're sluggish and held back by the law. Am I a private detective? Oh, and that's what you meant by blogger! You write about the cases I solve. A soldier to save me, a doctor to patch me up and a blogger to praise me. Are you sure we're not dating? You sound absolutely perfect." Sherlock said, all of which was spoken on one breath, quickly spoken like the train of his thoughts unfiltered and unhampered by any notion to not say the first thing that popped into his head.

John stares, taking a moment to register everything that had just rocketed out of the younger man's mouth, vaguely wondering if the Sherlock he knew ever talked at such speeds. With a shake of his head, he burst out laughing, more giddy then humored. "Well, I'll admit most people think we are, but we're not. Not that they'll listen when I explain..." The doctor rubs the back of his neck, giving Sherlock a sheepish grin, trying to ignore how warm his face, ears and neck felt at the question and praise that followed it. His wings were rather betraying his thought process, though, as they shifted and fluttered subconsciously. "But, you're not a private detective. Rather, a consulting detective. 'Only one in the world', you 'invented the job.'" He quotes, and something about saying those words makes pride run through him for a split second. "Pretty spot on with my duties in our partnership, though."

Sherlock smirks at the wings. He can read you, Dr. Watson. "How much easier some things are to observe when you're not caught in the middle of them." He finishes his tea, smirking widely. "And is Mycroft fat and miserable? Everything else sounds brilliant so far so on can hope."

John tilts his head, a bit confused by what Sherlock first said, but can't resist bursting into giggles and getting distracted by the comments on Mycroft. "He doesn't really share his daily life with me, no matter how many times he's kidnapped me to check in on you. I'd say..." John trails off, smile wavering. Lost in the thought that yes, currently, in the time he came from, where Sherlock had leapt from a roof to appease a madman that Mycroft had practically handed a loaded gun to... Mycroft would be rather miserable. But best not to even suggest that series of events to this young Sherlock. The doctor couldn't deal with something like that. He quickly gets his teasing tone back into his voice once more. "I'd say yes. He's a pretty miserable guy all around, though, isn't he? And in terms of weight... He's thin enough, but his diets are still a sore spot you like to pick on."

"Well, thank god we're still at arms. I'd have to write this whole conversation off if you were to tell me we'd reconciled and were something of friends. Really, kidnapping you to find out about me? Desperate old fool. Do you play into his games or do you deny him to his face? I rather think the latter but that might just be my hopeful expectations of you."

"I don't if I can help it." He grins wryly. "I get enough Holmes style manipulation from you."

Sherlock smiles and launches off the couch, stepping over the table to come up behind John, one hand on his shoulder to keep him from twisting around. "Then I don't have to explain to you how pointless is will be to argue with me on whether or not I'm going to inspect these." He fiddles with the buttons on the back to expose the flesh.

John opens his mouth to protest, stopped from his turn to see where exactly Sherlock was going by that hand on his back. But, as expected, he closes his mouth and settles forward, shoulders tensing in a desire to roll or shift in anticipation. "Right, of course." He relents, a smile obvious in the tone of his voice. As Sherlock peeled back the shirt, the skin around the base of the wings is exposed to the air again, causing John to shudder. A couple of long lines of thick scratches make their way from the base sight and fan to the doctor's shoulders and sides, from where, in his sleep, he had clawed at the agonized skin unconsciously. The wings flex, drawing in and out on either side of the detective, brushing against his arms and the tips displacing some strands of curly hair.

Sherlock very carefully runs his finger along the scratches and the juncture of wing and man. The soft feathers against him feel spectacular while the drug makes him sensitized and alert. "I'll treat these for you if you want. With whatever you want. You can't do it yourself."

"...Alright." He finally agrees, the shiver caused by Sherlock's light touch reminding him the sting in the skin and muscles was still there. It might not be the best idea normally to entrust his medical care into the hands of an addict, but Sherlock's hands are steady against him and the familiarity of the tone in his clever voice and deductions makes it easy to trust him. "I have a proper medic bag in my room, but there should be a kit under the sink in the kitchen."

Sherlock nodded to himself and went to get it, bringing it in as well as some water and pain killers. "Not sure when you last had any but probably best to have a bit more." He gets some antiseptic out and moistens a cotton ball before dabbing it along the broken skin.

John doesn't admit to not having taken any pain killers, not exactly keen on fulfilling the stereotype that doctors make bad patients. He takes two of the pills obediently now, swallowing two with a swig of water, before leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, hanging his head slightly, hissing at the small sting of antiseptic.

Sherlock takes his time, being very meticulous in his ministrations. Once clean he gets some petroleum jelly out and rubs it gently into the areas with his fingers, very lightly massaging where the skin is unbroken. "You're not going to want to put the shirt on over this. Rather messy. It'll protect and hydrate, though. Should keep you from getting painful scabs. Correct me if modern medicine has disproved that."

Sherlock's hands feel rather nice, working the muscles that ache and gently covering the broken skin with medicine. John grunts softly, shoulders relaxing under the attention. "No, hasn't changed." The wings brush up again, long feathers brushing against Sherlock in subconscious expression of gratitude. "You're rather good at this... Thank you." John presses earnestly, letting out a sigh and already feeling much better.

"I've taken care of myself for years. I'd hope to have come away with something." He rubs his cheek against a wing. Feels nice.

John's breath hitches. That feels like a mix between a tickle and a caress, and the feathers ruffle lightly in response. "I'm glad you're able to... continue to do so until you meet me."

"Wouldn't want to miss out on my biggest fan." He smiles and drags his fingers over the wings in a trailing touch as he moves back to the couch, pulling his bag of cocaine close again.

"Oh yes, I'm quite the monumental event." The wing stretches after Sherlock's touch until it trails off the last tip of the longest top feather. John doesn't realize it's doing that until he see's the detective move past him to sit on the couch, and he snaps the wings back to him, coughing awkwardly to distract from the motions. When he eyes the new bag of cocaine, the doctor presses a hand to his chin and mouth. "...You need another hit already?"

Sherlock pauses, looking up at him like he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. ".... snorting can sustain a high for half an hour but injections only last about ten to fifteen minutes. I don't like the adverse physical side effects of snorting so to sustain I have to either inject often or inject large quantities. If I plan to be functional, I chose often." He fidgets with the bag, scowling slightly. "I did ask you. You did say you wouldn't mind."

He pauses, and knows that he hesitates too long. The last thing he wants is Sherlock worked up again, especially after how... nice their interaction has been the past few minutes. The doctor reaches out, hesitates, then lays his hand over the detective's, the one clutching the bag. "It's fine. It's all fine." He breathes, keeping his gaze down on the drugs, confronting them. "I was just... curious, I suppose." John then drew his hand back again, peeking up at Sherlock and giving him a weak smile. "You and I haven't discussed this time of your life, really. Probably because I haven't asked. That's all."

"Do people normally talk about themselves and their juvenile, self destructive tendencies? I imagine I both envy the me of now and despise me." He hurries with his task of preparing his next hit, feeling a little guilty for it. He's tempted not to and to just face the low and get it over with. But he doesn't want to bother John. And John's been smiling and talking well with him and for that it's still worth it. "What about when you were my age? Wholesome youth of average sexual deviancy, good grades and regular letters home to mum?"

"Yeah, well, I'm quite boring." He smirks to himself. "I was in the middle of med school getting my MBBS and trying to stay out of trouble because my folks had their hands full with Harry." He reaches for his tea, which was forgotten for a while and now cool, and takes a long swig.

"Troublesome brother? You would be the favorite, I imagine. Hard to surpass a sibling going in for a doctorate." Sherlock works quickly, avoiding looking at John. He's a pro at this and it doesn't take him long.

"Sister, actually." He'd forgotten, for a minute, that this Sherlock didn't know small facts like that. "I imagine it was, but she was far more inclined to get attention due to her deviations from the norm, the good and bad that came from that. I'm sure she resented me, but I tried to not add any additional stress to my mum and dad, in any case." He fiddles with his tea, realizing that this conversation hadn't ever really happened between him and his Sherlock, either.

Re: April 7th - Ten years Younger and Debilitating Additions [Private]

[not_a_hero]

Sherlock watches him, still smiling. "Queen, Country, family and friends. Is there nothing John Watson won't fight for? Your protective streak must run on for ages." He drops another empty syringe on the table, packing his stuff away to make sure he would call it a day with this last dose.

"To a fault, I suppose." John muttered with a self-deprecating grin, watching those clever hands folding away all the tools of his addiction.

"Would he like me if I found him? The you in med-school."

John looks up to catch Sherlock's eyes, considering, pressing his lips together thoughtfully. "I'd be concerned about you, maybe wary, with your addiction. My father was an alcoholic so... but..." He smiles, fondly. "I think, even back then, I would find you oddly charming. Especially if you deduce something. Can't help but be impressed by that, no matter my age."

Sherlock smiles. "Then if I remember even one thing, I hope it is you. And I will find you."

"..." There's a warm rush through his veins, what he imagines Sherlock must feel like with one of his injections. "We find each other eventually." It's a promise, and it dries out his mouth, makes his tongue feel thick. There is something so open and honest about this Sherlock. His wings flutter.

"Eventually." Sherlock sighs, flopping back onto the couch. "I envy you. You love your life. You wouldn't change a thing. No degree or medal has ever given you the same feeling of worth that you experience in what has become just part of life."

"That's not quite true." John muttered, watching the other man. "You know, when we first met, you saved me."

"From the serial killer?"

"No. From myself." He folded his fingers together, left hand tight in memory of a tremor.

Sherlock eyes him, checking his wings are carefully as his face. "Yourself? How?"

The wings on John's back are drawing in, tight, as if protecting themselves, the left one more obviously awkward then the right. "I was depressed. An adrenaline junkie with PTSD, no connections and unable to return to duty. I had a hand gun in the same drawer I kept my laptop in, for whenever I felt... inspired." He twitches, trying to grin, but unable to look at the other man at the moment. "Luckily I had it in the end, though, because I wouldn't have been able to save you if I didn't."

Sherlock's eyes narrow with thought. "You were planning to kill yourself."

He smiles at Sherlock, embarrassed and anxious. "I was considering it, yes."

Sherlock looks very serious. "That would have been a monumental waste. Selfishly I can think of no greater crime than to deny me your presence."

John chuckles, inwardly knowing it's a bit not good, rather morbid, considering the circumstances. His wings hunch awkwardly. "Couldn't have that. But in the end, you didn't have to. We met. You asked me to be your flatmate, dragged me all across London, and managed to cure my psychosomatic limp just over the course of a few hours after that." He catches Sherlock's gaze, then breaks it a moment later, looking away. "...I didn't consider suicide ever again with you around. So, you saved me."

"Why did you specify 'with you around'?" Sherlock leans forward, eyes boring into him.

His wings, which were shifting about as he talked before, freeze. "...I don't know." He says, trying to not freeze, not hesitate too long, trying to not betray anything else. He hadn't meant to say that, hadn't meant to hint at them being separated from one another once again. "Just worded it oddly, I suppose."

Sherlock chuckles just a little. "I'm glad I took that last hit. You're not a very good liar."

Sheepishly, hesitantly, he smiled. "Just because you can read everything about me. I'm quite a good liar by normal standards."

"I see. Well, at least you're aware it's pointless. Certainly didn't keep you from trying." He sighs, running his fingers through his hair. "So Mycroft was right all along. That is perhaps the very worst part of it all."

"...Right about what?" John asks softy, concern pinching between his eyebrows.

"I do find myself in an early grave."

John flinches. "Oh." He opens his mouth, takes a deep, pained, breath. "Oh."

Sherlock waves his hand at him. "Don't worry; I don't mind. It doesn't frighten me. It hardly comes a surprise. I'm far more surprised to know I meet someone like you before it happens."

John raised a hand, clutching at his shirt where it rested over his heart. "But it's my fault." He hisses.

Sherlock tilted hishead at that. "Was it now? Interesting. How exactly?"

"Someone threatened Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and myself. You... you had to jump..." He could hardly say it and keep it together, but he refused to break down in front of Sherlock again, even if this one wouldn't remember the incident in the caves. "Or they would shoot us. If I had figured that out, if I had stayed with you that day, maybe..."

"Oh God," John suddenly breathed, pressing his hands to his face. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this."

"Nnnno. Probably not." Sherlock shrugged. "Little late for that now. Little late for everything. You can't change the past. At least I don't think you can. Hardly worth the effort to hold on to wishes for another chance if all it does is cause you pain."

John let out a ragged breath. Perhaps he just wanted to talk to someone about these things, someone who would understand it like Sherlock, but not exactly the same as his Sherlock. Now he was feeling foolish, like he'd betrayed the younger version of his friend by telling him these things from his future. He leans his forehead down to rest on his knees, breathing deeply. "I'm sorry." He says as he sits back up, his features schooled once more.

Sherlock shook his head. "Like I said, it's fine. You look like you could use a few outbursts. Something a bit less controlled even then that. What do you do with it when you're at home? Swallow it?"

He worries his lower lip, uncomfortable. At home, in an empty apartment and people dancing around him with concern and awkward distractions. "...Mostly. Easier that way." John stands, grabbing for his tea mug and clearing his throat, keeping his gaze away. "Going to make a hot cuppa. You want more?"

"Sure. Scream for me, though."

"...Excuse me?"

"Scream. It's fun. It releases adrenalin and can be rather therapeutic. I can demonstrate if you require it."

"I'm far older then you, it'd be silly if I screamed for no reason." His mouth is twitching though, trying not to smile.

Sherlock eyes him. "You have a reason."

"...I suppose so." He bites the inside of his cheek, then heads into the kitchen, shuffling with the kettle once again, a distraction. "But it probably won't help, in any case."

Sherlock gets up and follows him, walking close behind him. "Would you like some Oxytocin and Dopamine then?"

"...Oxytocin and Dopamine?" John asks, bemusement on his voice. He set his mug down and started reaching about the cabinets for their lose leaf tea, on his tip toes to get to something more caffeinated out of his height range.

Sherlock leans over and kisses the corner of his lips quickly.

John freezes, slowly registering the sensation of cool lips on the corner of his own. Heat flares up from that point of contact, and rushes over his cheekbones and the back of his neck. He turns his head, looking back at Sherlock, surprise obvious. "....Oxytocin and Dopamine...?" He says again, barely a breath.

"Chemical compounds released in a kiss." Sherlock smiles a little. "They're good for improving moods."

He licks his lips, washes of cold and warm running through him. He wonders vaguely if he should feel more angry or put off in the very least then his is. But like so many other things between the two of them, it's easier to not define it. In fact, it seemed way too easy to accept the kiss as another part of their quirky relationship. Eventually the corner of his mouth, the one that was kissed, quirks. "Not your usual way of cheering me up, but... efficient." John lowers his head, pressing his thumb against the corner of his mouth thoughtfully.

Sherlock smirks at him. "Cocaine can increase one's sexual arousal and confidence so if it's weird, blame it on that."

The wings behind John ruffle in response, knocking his mug over. John curses and scrambles after it, laughing awkwardly once he does pick it up and set it upright again. "Okay, uh... okay. Right."

He smirks a little, watching him. "It was me then, wasn't it? The one who was too scared to say anything?"

"Say anything about what?" John focused as much as possible on cleaning up the minimal tea that had been left in his mug and was now spattered on the counter.

Sherlock watches him, leaning against the table. "You love me. I find it hard to believe I didn't love you."

The wings on John's back ruffle again, flustered and surprised. "I-... You're wrong. I mean, I love you. But as a... friend. My best friend." It feels constraining, calling it that, but any other label is kind of scary, stepping out of that undefined relationship comfort zone. He can't look back at Sherlock, though, and he hopes the heat in his ears isn't as visible as much as it is felt. "And in any case, you were married to you work. Are married to your work. And there's Irene, and--" He feels the wings on his back flutter anxiously once again and he is half tempted to concentrate on pinning them to his back once more, expressive buggers that they are.

Sherlock nods. "It was both of us then. Well, at least I'm not entirely to blame. I'm very good at self-destruction. You may have noticed. I wouldn't know what to do with something good other than watch it break and inspect the pieces."

"But we weren't romantic." He insisted softly, even though it sounded weak, even confused, to his own ears. "I'm not-- You weren't--" He stopped, knowing he was rambling and instead reached up once more to try and grab the tea be was attempting to get before. "You know how to take care of good things, though. I've seen you do it."

"That only means I know when you're watching me." Sherlock reaches up and gets the tea for him.

"...Thank you." He slowly lowered off his tip toes, turning and slowly accepting the box of tea from the younger man. "How do you know so well? How do you know what you're like with me? We've only properly met for the past couple of hours."

Sherlock shrugs. The high is dwindling. "I know me. I know ninety percent of the population thinks I'm a freak and the remaining ten think I'm 'special needs'. I know I gave up on even trying to fit in years ago and take stimulants to simulate some kind of enjoyment in life having not been able to achieve any myself. I know people aren't worth investing anything in, not time and certainly not emotions, because they will meet only the worst of my expectations. I know people like clever only when it's working for them and have no qualms about rejecting all but what they chose to accept, ignoring or hating the rest. I know I live with you, though, and that you know me well. I know I accept your help and your contributions to my life or else you wouldn't still offer them. I know I don't rely on stimulants or else you wouldn't react as you do. I know I've let you in to my work and my home, infusing everything that matters with your presence. I know this isn't like me, that there is no precedent in my known life for these actions. And I know that there is nothing more I would want in my life at this moment than to have someone like you with me and what all I would do to not lose that."

John stood there, clutching the tea box, and leaned back against the counter for support, eyes never wavering from Sherlock's face. He could see the differences between this younger version of the detective and the one he'd grown so used to, but the deductions, and the expression on his face as Sherlock rattled them off as if they're so obvious, so elementary, is of course, the same. The same flare in those blue grey eyes, even if they're dulled by a lingering high. "...Brilliant." He breathes, and it hurts like an admission even though it was intended as praise.

Sherlock smiles, loving the praise he gets so little of, and leans in to kiss him again, no longer limited to the corner of his lips.

As Sherlock leaned in, John considered stopping him, pressing his hand against the detective's chest, or over his lips. He had always imagined, the few times he'd allowed his imagination to wander and linger on the subject of kissing his flatmate, that it would happen after or during a chase through London's streets, panting between Sherlock's fantasticamazingbrilliant deductions and then somehow they'd kiss in the rush of adrenaline before the younger man darted off again with his blogger stumbling after, dazed. But that possibility was gone, now, smeared on the pavement of Bart's along with that way of life in general, the one that he loved so much despite it's frustrations and downfalls and danger and he wasn't even sure any more he was defining their life as colleagues or just Sherlock in general any more.

Then he remembered with a flinch. This wasn't his Sherlock, not really, and he was partially taking advantage of the far more casual, friendly, warm nature of this younger Sherlock to indulge in things that his Sherlock, the one who knew him through the fights over milk and heads in the fridge and his constant stream of girlfriends, would likely never do. He breathed out raggedly, reaching up to press his palm over Sherlock's mouth. "Wait. I'm not... I'm twice your age, Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped, worry and pain passing over his face for a few short moments before tucking back away in a stoic mask. "You think my mind's incapable of deducing what I can see with my own eyes?" He straightened up though, playfulness forgotten. He'd been stupid. He'd done something wrong. He's gotten carried away again and forgotten that nothing works out well for him, not now, and frankly not ever. He side steps away from John, heading back for the couch. "Nevermind. Sorry. I don't know what I was thinking."

Those words and the look John managed to catch a glimpse of were so much more prominent after seeing the smile on Sherlock's face just moments before. God, why did being moral have to hurt so much? It was better this way, John told himself, he shouldn't indulge, he shouldn't risk everything he'd had with Sherlock for kisses and closeness with his younger self. He leaned back against the counter again, staring at the floor where the younger man had been standing a moment before. "You were trying to make me feel better." He pointed out gently. "But I can't take advantage of you like that."

Sherlock chuckles mirthlessly. "You're a damn idiot," he mutters and flops down on the couch, tucking himself up into a ball on the cushions and trying not to say things he'd regret on the down as much as he did the thing he had said while still high.

[not_a_hero]

"So I've been told." John mutters just as mirthlessly. He shuffles around the kitchen awkwardly, moving slowly as he cleans the kettle, the mugs, wipes the counters three times each absentmindedly, taking up a half hour until finally there is nothing else to do except go and stand by the couch, looking down at the ball of Sherlock curled up into it, turned away from him. "....Sherlock." The doctor calls softly.

Sherlock turns over, looking mostly over his shoulder at him. He's stabilized in the time left to himself. His eyes no longer shine with the joy and energy on the drug or carry the pain of the depression after. He's ice cold and indifferent, transport for a mind that has nothing yet to work towards. It's Sherlock--just Sherlock. "Did you need something?" he asks. That's usually why people bother him anyway. And he'd behaved quite poorly.

The ice is all the more biting after their near kiss in the kitchen. John's wings shuffle, arching, and he tries not to feel too terrible at the loss of the light and happiness Sherlock had shown before, knowing he's partially to blame for that, if now wholly. "No, I'm just... I wanted to apologize."

Sherlock shook his head. "Don't. I say stupid shit all the time. It doesn't mean anything. Just tell me to shut up next time. Sometimes I listen. The things I say when I'm high... they're a lunatic's ravings so treat them as such."

"Look, it wasn't stupid... I'll even admit, I liked hearing those things." He slowly crouched, wings spread wide for balance instinctively. "So, you're not a lunatic, I've lived with you long enough to know that."

Sherlock chuckles. "With him. Let's not forget the distinction."

"You become him. There's a difference, but it's not that much of a stretch."

Sherlock sighs, stretching his legs out on the couch. "Are you going to stay here all day or did you have things you needed to do?"

John frowns. "If you're looking to get rid of me, just say so. I stand by what I said, though."

"From the beginning to the end, I'm sure. Good day, Dr. Watson."

The snub cuts, but John stands, sighing, resigned. "Fine. I'll be next door, if you need me." He hesitates, one, two, three minutes, watching the detective for a sign to wait, stay... before finally turning heel and heading towards the exit.

Sherlock does not stop him. He needs time to evaluate and assess everything he's learned and everything he's done. This is why he has no friends, after all. He can't just leave well enough alone.

John waits outside the door, leaning his hand against it and breathing deeply. What if he had let Sherlock kiss him? What would have happened? He certainly wouldn't be leaving the room on such a low note, hoping that the young detective still smiles at him. The doctor closed his eyes and brushed the fingers of his free hand against the corner of his mouth, stomach knotting up in wonderful, horrible ways at the memory. Eventually, he pushes away from the door, stumbling back to stare at it pleadingly, accusingly, and finally turning away to take the few steps into his own room, flopping down onto the blood messed sheets without much care and staring at the far wall, wondering with detached fear, if he screwed things up permanently.