entrancelogs | The Adventure of the Impulsive Partners

"My safety?" John leaned back as much as Sherlock's circling arms would allow so they could lock eyes and his disproving, if not rather flushed expression could be seen. "While I'm not considering forcing you into lobotomization, I'm not exactly thinking the best thoughts over here either." Flexing his fingers against Sherlock's skin absently, the doctor suddenly recalled the rough treatment he had given his partner, hissing in sympathy when he got a good look at the quickly bruising bite marks he'd left.

"Christ, look what I've done to you..." Lifting a hand, John brushed his fingers along the deep marks with the upmost care, the frown lines in his forehead and around his mouth growing deeper as the concern banished his darker thoughts. "See what I mean? This is not good, Sherlock. I've really hurt you."

Sherlock scowled slightly with the concern. "It's nothing that won't heal." He let him touch and inspect as he liked all the same. Adrenalin was still raging through his veins strong enough to ignore discomfort. "I see your point either way, though. The detainment of one does not necessarily mean overall safety. We'll have to work out what is at play here in order to try and avoid further escalation. If I end up killing you, I will not be pleased."

An understatement.

Sherlock let John go, making himself find distance and with it--surprisingly--some clarity of mind. He wanted to stay close but somehow the less he listened to that yearning, the easier it was to do what needed to be done.

"I won't be pleased if I force sex on you, either." John licked his lips, staring after Sherlock as he stood as well, using the wall for support. "Whatever this is, it is wrong. What is the point of making relationships horribly twisted and violent?" Distress was obvious on the doctor's face, both for the other residents having to deal with this off-base event, and what was deciding to claw it's way into his brain. Were were those thoughts coming from? Were they completely imagined by some unseen force or was he, John Watson, actually capable of considering such things?

...The distance between him and Sherlock was like a wide, gaping wound.

He had to fix it.

John absently took a step, then two, after the detective, trying to bring them closer together while, with his focus distracted, his body was allowed to do as it pleased and desired.

"It's likely the perversion of someone's memory. Wonderland's purpose in playing it out like this is less important than the memory creating this. Hardly a matter of victimization if all people feel this way. It's not the same though. Why isn't it the same?" He tousled his own hair, shifting the curls back and forth as he raked his brain for some clue. He could feel John's presence even without seeing him and looked back over his shoulder, brow raised at his following. "Distance is better, John. Have a seat."

John twitched out of his reverie, eyeing the diminished space between the two of them with raised eyebrows as if he wasn't quite sure how it got there.

"Oh." He muttered, flushing around the ears. "Right. I'll just. Yeah."

Shuffling over to the couch against the far wall, John sat, resting his hands on his knees and drumming his fingers with pent up anxiety that should have been long gone with the rather pleasurable interaction he and Sherlock had just partaken in.

Sherlock watched him take his seat. This was rather awful.

"This is... quite the event. The greatest threat to you is me and for me that threat is you. However, initial stages are innocent and pleasant enough until escalating into nothing short of madness. Worst is the moments of cognitive awareness when the full extent of the 'locked room' scenario can be appreciated. I can't keep you safe without risking myself and vice versa." He leaned his back against a wall, no longer very amused by the room and the things he'd discovered in it. "I do believe we have found the Moriarty of all events in this one."

John gnawed on his bottom lip, appreciating the sting of the bruise growing there as he nodded. The slight pain was keeping him grounded, even as his gut twisted with want he wasn't looking to define at the moment.

"That's a good name for it." He said with a rueful smile, shifting his weight. His clothes had not been tossed very far from where he now sat, so John busied himself with quickly throwing on his pants, jeans, shirt and jumper. Sherlock's clothes scattered about nudges at the hair trigger in his mind, and it was hard to not stare. John quickly threw them over to the other man, keeping their eye contact as minimal as possible.

"Do you think it'll be like this for a couple of days? Most events averaged about that much, didn't they?" He couldn't imagine dealing with this for even another hour, let alone 48 to 72.

Sherlock nodded as he picked his clothes back up, stepping into them leisurely. He left his shirt unbuttoned--it was too tight anyway, like most of his shirts, and he didn't feel like dealing with the straining material.

"A couple days at the least. Judging by my increased clarity, I think abstaining from physical contact will help keep things from escalating too quickly but that in itself seems to be more difficult than previously believed." He stares into John's face, even if the other man was having a difficult time meeting his eyes. "I expect you to use deadly force if necessary to keep yourself safe from me, John. You've already lost one life. We can't have you dying again."

John's head jerked up, and he turned wide eyes towards his friend, mouth ajar in shock. "You're not serious..." He said softly, the very idea cutting through the displeasure of putting up with this torment for days and leaving him with a chill in his spine and stomach.

"Of course I'm serious. While you are a trained soldier I know martial arts and several forms of traditional sport such as boxing and fencing. While there are no swords at hand, I could still attack you with items found in this room with enough skill and force to cause you to become concussed and upon my mercy dead." He shook his head, hands in his pockets. "I expect you to kill me in self defense should it come to such, John. As you would any other attacker."

John stared at Sherlock, his expression twitching between horror and reluctant understanding. "...Do you expect it to get to that point?" He said softly, still unable to quite swallow the idea of killing his best friend and lover.

Sherlock took a seat on the bed, steepling his fingertips against his chin. "I don't know. I feel fine for now but at the time, the urge was very great. I had no idea I was capable of such jealous feelings or irrational behavior and yet I could have snapped your neck in a moment of ecstasy and have found the whole experience cathartic rather than horrific."

Sherlock wasn't so wrapped up in his own thoughts to ignore the signs John was giving off as to his displeasure. If Sherlock had thought the idea would be an easy one to accept, he wouldn't have felt the need to spell out what had to be done. John, when not biting and scratching at his skin, was a gentle man who avoided confrontation with him when possible. And most certainly violence.

Sherlock rubbed at the marks on his neck and shoulder.

"Christ." He muttered in a breath, feeling rather nauseous at the idea of Sherlock standing happily over his body. Despite knowing that if there was a way to die, by Sherlock's hand was hardly the worst he could consider (the best being dying for Sherlock's sake), their wavering personalities made it less so Sherlock killing him then some twisted person wearing his friend's face.

"Maybe we should try being apart." John finally said, folding his hands atop his knees. "Since distance is helping to a degree, maybe being in separate rooms would be for the best. With both of us heading to new places so we can't seek one another out."

John's eyes darted down to the pale hand soothing the litter of bites and scratches he'd left behind. Swallowing, the doctor wasn't sure if he wanted to reach out for the sake caressing the pain away in Sherlock's place, or to sink his teeth into that lovely flesh once again.

"You're forgetting that there is limited space here," Sherlock pointed out. "We'd have to share rooms with others. If you're alright with the idea of us having an open relationship under the event parameters, then I suppose that would work out fine. One of us can stay here and the other can... well, find alternative companionship."

The very idea made Sherlock's blood boil. John kissing some strange woman, his lips on her flesh marking her like he had him, hands holding her close, rocking into her on the waterbed with Newton's third law adding some benefits to the bed's design. John liking it better. John changing his mind.

"Alternative companionship..." John lowered his gaze to Sherlock's feet, his mind going along similar lines, but with Sherlock as the one making love to someone else. Sherlock wasn't a sexual being, but this event seemed keen on triggering all sorts of needs and wants that were outside the normal realm. And any time John dared consider being the one to leave, a horrible grating twist occurred in his stomach.

No, that could not happen. There were forces at work magnifying it, but he did not want their relationship to become open, even if justified by this event.

"I couldn't."

Sherlock smiled just slightly at that in short lived relief before shaking his fingers through his curls in frustration.

"We're at an impasse, John. We know the risks if we stay and the risks if we should split up and still there is no better option. There is no way to secure safety outside death."

John took a deep breath, letting it out in a long, shaky exhale, considering the other man with a thoughtful, if concerned expression.

"...We could drug ourselves. Sleep through it." He finally muttered. "I'd suggest a barb coma, but I'd be under too and unable to monitor us and make sure we were brought out of it okay."

At the mention of drugs Sherlock seems to both perk up and instantly darken. Oh, god, yes... drugs would be nice. Something to make his brain focus and find the answer.. just a little cocaine and he'd be sharp enough to think a way out...

Sherlock swallowed. "Will the closets give you want you need, though? Considering everything is event locked, Might only supply things of a recreational value."

"Not sure," John said vaguely, thinking over this option. "Won't know until we try, I guess."

It wasn't an ideal option. He hated the idea of giving drugs to a former addict, and the fact that they'd both be out of control of their bodies. But the downside was also the upside; they'd be unconscious for most of it, and only awake enough to to take another dose until the effects of this event were gone.

"...Should we?"

Sherlock thought for a moment then took a deep breath. "You've already died once. If anything happened... two to zero out of four. You'd be halfway to forever dead whereas if only I die, we become even."

John frowned, blinked hard and shook his head in confusion. "What are you saying?"

Sherlock could not be suggesting dying now. Not when he'd done no real harm. John jerked to his feet.

"No. You're not going to. I don't want you becoming even with me." His tone became a little desperate, and he couldn't resist taking a step towards the other man. "Neither of us are going to die this time."

"Your plan carries risks though. My suicide would give you the safety and peace of mind that would come with us not sharing a room without the fear of breaking our mutual commitment. It skips the part where I become a threat to you at all past what has already transpired."

Not that he liked the idea. What he did like was John drawing nearer though he knew he should back away. There was nothing more desperate and unwelcome than this event.

Taking quick breaths through his nose, John shifted his weight, opening his mouth to protest but only shutting it with a tense jaw as he realized he had no argument to propose. Had they been in opposite shoes, he probably would have already put a gun into his mouth to keep Sherlock safe. But he couldn't even phantom giving the detective permission to do such a thing. Not after having to watch him commit suicide once before.

John shook his head minutely, expression schooled but eyes desperate. Hands raised, as if to move and embrace the taller man, but then dropped back to his sides, twitching, anxious. Even though he knew it was likely the only way, otherwise Sherlock wouldn't propose it. He didn't want it to happen.

"No. Don't."

"It's that or restraints. And you've already made it clear you do not trust yourself enough for that. I would rather you not deal with guilt at actions you can't control. This is the best possible solution given all factors."

Though the means would be... interesting to try and work out.

John rocked back, pressing his hands to the back of his neck and pacing a few steps. Restraints were a possibility, but they'd have to both restrain themselves on opposite ends of the room. And it was possible one of them would trick the other so as to have the other tied up and vulnerable. In this state, anything was possible.

"I can't give you permission." He finally said, but the hollow tone in his voice said he was relenting to Sherlock's logic.

Sherlock understood. He nodded and rose up from the bed, going ahead and buttoning his shirt buttons now. May as well look presentable. "I won't ask you to be there." He walked over to the bathroom, eying the medicine cabinet. Least messy, easiest to commit to should sudden impulses kick in during an attempt.

"Of course I'll be there." John's voice was ragged as he followed Sherlock over to the bathroom without thinking. "You're doing this for me, why wouldn't I--"

Sherlock shut the door behind him, keeping John out. At least John could say he wasn't able to stop him like this. Small consolation but something.

And he couldn't trust John anyway. Or himself with John that near.

Sherlock popped open a few bottles and swallowed down the contents with water from the tap. He'd open the door once he was sure he'd taken all the necessary precautions to make the attempt a success.

"Wait--" John darted over to the door as soon as it closed, wrapping his hands around the handle, ready to tug. Ready to pull it off it's damn hinges if need be. This was stupid. Sherlock was his. He couldn't let him go again. Desperation. Necessity. Love.

Sherlock was doing this for him. Because he loved John.

John dropped his head against the wood, hands clutching until they shook but never turning the knob to open the barrier between them.

Sherlock opened the door slowly, knowing John was there. He didn't feel any different yet but he only had a half hour at the most. If he suffered. Less if he didn't.

John smelled good. Not nice by any means but still of them and of exertion. He tried to keep his distance, small as it was.

"There's a good chance my body's natural instincts will make me violently ill in hopes of vomiting up the surplus of chemicals I've ingested. I tried to make a decent cocktail including sedatives to lessen the likelihood." He leaned against the door frame, trying not to be distracted. "Where would you like me to go so as to not inconvenience you too much in passing?"

John swore under his breath, hands rising in an instinctual need to attend to an ill patient as a doctor and also the prime desire to save the life of his friend. His friend who could suffer through the last few minutes of his life.

"Anywhere. The couch, the blankets, that ridiculous bed, christ, Sherlock."

He wanted to cup that face, sooth as best he could, apologize, and promise to not let this happen next time, even if either of them would easily do it again out of necessity.

Sherlock smiled just a bit in a poor attempt to show that everything was and would be okay then walked over to the blankets and pillows on the floor. He sat down, knees bent. This was by far the worst waiting game ever.

"I'll be too heavy for you to move effectively so we'll have to make sure I'm on a blanket or sheet or something that can be used to relocate me if required. I'd move to the bed just to be out of the way but I'm concerned any movements made by the water would only encourage premature hopes in resurrection."

"Right." The idea of treating Sherlock like a thing, something to be hefted about and moved at convenience, nearly made John gag. He remembered the time when he had to move Sherlock from Irene's house, lugging the drugged and slurring detective down to Lestrade's police car. He couldn't imagine doing the same thing without the detective's breath in his ear, the hot flare of his body against John's and the slight movements of his body.

Things that would be gone so quickly.

"Can I be close to you now...?"

Sherlock considered it for a minute then nodded. "I'm sure we can avoid complete madness in the time this will take. Or at the very least I will conveniently interrupt it." He folded his hands over his knees, not wanting to make the grabby hands towards John that he was yearning for. He was a little more frightened by the idea of dying than he'd expected. He was leaving John to face whatever the event threw at him alone. It was incredibly selfish and stupid of him. And in many ways too late to be rethinking their decision. His decision.

John knelt slowly beside him, like approaching a skittish animal. Reaching out, he took Sherlock's pale face between his hands, throat going tight. The doctor leaned in, raining small kisses against Sherlock's cheeks and nose, sliding closer as he did so.

"I'm so sorry." He hissed. "You shouldn't have to do this. I should have figured something else out."

Sherlock put his hands over John's, closing his eyes and enjoying his presence. "I'm beginning to agree with you. This may have been a poorly reasoned argument. The same impulses that drove us to sex and then to murderous intent might have been the same urges that inspired thoughts of suicide. There's the matter of telling true intention from event caused stupidity... But I felt more sure before you were right here so perhaps it's proximity or perhaps it's just fear or regret. I'll have to wait till after to see if I was under the influence."

He couldn't shut up even if he felt like all he managed to say was unhelpful gibberish. He didn't feel good and it only made him talk faster.

"No, we should stop. Get the drugs out of you. Then we can think it over and make a decision with clearer heads." John was all but pleading, pulling back to lock a desperate gaze on the detective. Stroking one hand over Sherlock's features, pushing the curly bangs off his forehead and feeling the unnatural heat starting to rise under the skin, he swore he could see the discomfort rising in Sherlock's expression.

"C'mon. Please."

Sherlock bit his lip, considering for a moment before closing his eyes tight. "Damnit, I don't know! I don't know what's me anymore! Oh, god, what am I even doing?! What have you made me do?" Sherlock shoved at John to get him to back away, hands curling to cling on to his shirt with a cringed spasm rolling through his gut. "A-ah! No, I- Not you. Sorry. I'm sorry."

John's expression went stiff at the accusation, not fighting the shove and falling back onto his rear. Lips parting in shock, he watched Sherlock resist doubling over, the apologizing barely registering as he took in the pain starting to spread over his friend's body.

With a flinch, John wordlessly jumped to his feet and dashed over to the cabinet, throwing it open with the intent of finding activated charcoal, something, anything to stop the process he'd assisted in starting.

Sherlock hugged his knees with John gone, his mind reeling with the sudden revulsion at his actions. It had seemed so clear. Everything had seemed to draw to a single, best-of-the-worst conclusion. They had both accepted it, they'd acted on it, why was it only now that it seemed utter insanity?!

But really, it only seemed insane because it meant John would be alive to go off and be with someone else. They should both die. Wasn't John supposed to follow him everywhere? Didn't that make more sense? Why was John making him do this alone?

Sherlock moaned with another surge of pain, face hidden in his knees as he squeezed himself into a ball. He was doing this to save John. Because he honestly did not want John to die. But god, why should the voice of reason be the one advocating suicide?

"John? John, what are you doing?"

"I am making the cabinet give me activated charcoal. Stop the process." John said with a tone of obviousness that was more suited to the detective.

And the cabinet gave it to him, along with a bottle of apple juice. Because Sherlock liked things a little sweet, John realized broken heartedly, and mixing it with the charcoal would make their savior method more palatable. He didn't linger on why the cabinet relented, considering the event locked room, but perhaps ingesting something bad for you was understandable in a love hotel. Measuring out the mixture with practiced, steady hands, he mixed the drink together and rushed back over to the detective.

"Here, quick, drink this before more of the drugs get absorbed."

Sherlock eyed it. God, what were they even thinking anymore.

"Then what happens? Then what do we do about these things?"

He remained hunched, looking up at John and the cup in his hands.

"We make sure you recover and we figure out a better way to deal with this. One that doesn't involve you dying." John near commanded, his voice stern and eyes slightly wide enough to convey how scared he was for Sherlock's life.

"Don't make me force feed you, Sherlock." He warned with words that might have been a joke in another scenario.

Sherlock swallowed then reached for the cup, taking it into his own hands and making a face at the smell before attempting to drink it. He did as told despite the terrible flavor and the way it made him want to retch. He could feel his hands shaking. It could very well be too late for these measures but he was willing to try for John's peace of mind.

"It's not just about wanting to kill you. It's everything. Every impulse is... every train of thought has the potential to escalate to stupidity. That's why it's different for us. It's not specific to any one way of thinking." He gagged on the last swallow but made himself keep it down.

"That's it..." John soothed as Sherlock drank, ghosting his hands around Sherlock's trembling ones with a concerned frown, making sure every last drop was swallowed. He couldn't focus on what was effecting them at the moment, not when Sherlock could be violently ill to the point of dying still.

"Once I'm sure you're alright, we'll think it over again. Properly."

Sherlock shook his head, grasping for John. "Don't you see? It means you're not safe either way. This whole plan is a failure." He doubled over, clinging, biting back sound. Either the effects of the sedatives were kicking in or the heavy feeling on the horizon was death. He couldn't leave John with the mystery unsolved.

John made to stand, but Sherlock's grasping fingers made him stop, crouching to put him back on eye level with the other man.

"Sherlock, forget about keeping me safe a minute. I'm fine for now. You, however, are very much not." He quickly wrapped a supporting arm under Sherlock's stomach as the man hunched over, throat tight and hard to get breath through. "Without the proper equipment I can't tell if the charcoal is working or not. If you'll be okay or not." What good a doctor was he if he couldn't even safe the most important person in his life?

Sherlock laughed darkly. “I’m a terrible boyfriend.” Which they had both known going into things. Which hadn’t stopped either of them. “Even knowing that the issue was with the thought process, I still thought I could reason a way out of this and—well—congratulations to me for making things worse for you. I’m almost starting to believe I deserve this.” He smirked with self deprecation, tugging again at John’s shirt. It was so, so easy to hurt the man who usually guarded his heart quite well. John wasn’t a heart-sleeve sort of man but honesty buckled when faced with itself. John could not protect people from himself, could not harm someone he loved to defend himself, and could not make medical miracles happen. Sherlock and the event both proved to be a masterful team when it came to breaking John’s heart.

He tugged on John to remain near, leaning into him with a sigh as his muscles relaxed after a string of spasms. “I’m tired, John,” he admitted. “Sedatives maybe already in my system. Maybe more. Can’t tell the difference. Different from my last overdose. Cocaine was kinder, honestly.”

John set his jaw, settling down with his back braced against the foot of the bed next to his friend. He pressed their foreheads together, pulling Sherlock against him so he was cradling the younger man, curled around him like it would somehow protect. He could feel the small spasms shivering through the lean body that felt far too thin in his arms.

"I am... so sorry I let this happen." Sherlock's scent surrounded him, and despite the desire to shake Sherlock violently, to keep him awake, to keep him alive, John stroked back the dark curls soothingly. If Sherlock didn't survive this, fading away in his sleep was far kinder then suffering through the drugs shutting down his system. And if John wanted to be anything at the moment to the man he was holding, it was kind.

Sherlock loved the feeling of being wrapped in John’s arms; snug and cared for and wanted. It made it easier to close his eyes and relax. It made it easier to forget what the pain and heaviness might mean if he allowed himself to sleep. Everything was easier when everything was John.

He shook his head at John’s apology, hating the words he’d said in madness. “Don’t. Not your fault. I’m just… being an idiot.” He turned his nose to John’s cheek, kissing the skin there as he rubbed against it. “Is this the part where I tell you I love you and that everything is going to be okay? Or will it just sound redundant or rather stupid at this point?”

The Adventure of the Impulsive Partners

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