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fogdraws · 1 month ago

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A Softening of The Brain

A Sherlock Holmes fanfiction based in "The Valley of Fear"

“John.” The sound of my first name stopped me on my tracks; Holmes never used it, as did the costume go. “Would you be afraid,” he whispered, “to sleep in the same bed of a lunatic, a man with a softening of the brain, an idiot whose mind has lost its grip?” This could have so many implications, so many ways to interpret it, but no matter what sense I made of it, there was only one answer. “Not in the least,” I said with some difficulty, regaining the breath I had lost before. “Sherlock, I'd never leave you.” That, I turned to regret just after it came out of my lips — too revealing. Or... what if that scene from the canon had another meaning? One that's more... romantic.

Or... Read it down here! vvvv

It were odd times, the days I'd passed at Birlstone, investigating the murdering of Mr. Douglas. Odd would not suffice; I had witnessed some things that I would really rather not.

Now the moon was high and I laid down in a double-bed — the best we could find in this small thing they call town — with a book resting on my lap, its words stubborn to be read. My mind, nevertheless, was still racing, taking every chance to turn to Holmes’ being: what would the man be doing right now?

It is of Holmes' doing, this disappear-first-explain-after situation that keeps doing numbers to my heart, as much as it is of my doing to let myself worry about him. How could I be tranquil when I don't know of his well-being?

The detective had gone out after saying something very sparse about the case — mysterious and dramatic, just like always. Maybe he'd come back today, maybe tomorrow, maybe a week from now. No one knows; sometimes I think that neither does he.

I had just put the book onto the bedside table when I heard Holmes’ shoes hit the ground: slow and light, much like he does when he knows I’m supposed to be asleep. Of course, he knows I’m not. He knows pretty much everything — lying is not an option really, but you can make do with omitting half of the facts and hoping he’ll buy it.

Accepting the false as truth for your own self, sometimes, serves as a better lie than conjuring anything new. Protecting it, controlling yourself where you can, and letting yourself when it’s convenient to do so. That, I should say, I have acquired quite the ability to do since I’ve come to live with Holmes.

The old door clicks open and Holmes’ face pops out of the slit of light that comes out of it. His thin aquiline nose is beautifully contoured by the dim illumination, making his face look absolutely otherworldly against the brute finishing of the inn’s walls; I ended up staring for more than would be adequate. The world was still hazy from my tiredness, and the words, hard on my tongue.

“Hey, Holmes”, I started, “have you found anything out yet?” His tall, lean figure turned away for a second, sending my mind into a rush, longing for his gaze: I hadn’t seen him enough, observed him enough. The excuse I created then was that I worried only for his well-being, that I’d felt the need to look over for any wounds as is the first instinct of a proper doctor. That would be set to be a doubtful truth for me and for the world.

My eyes are startled as a dim candle is lighted by those delicate, though strong, fingers of Holmes’, sending me flinching slightly, the sleep still washing out my mind and senses. All of the sudden, he is coming closer to me; I sit up.

Now, I’m wide awake — his head is so close to mine that I can feel his controlled breathing. Holmes certainly doesn’t feel mine, for it had stopped completely at some unknown point, out of some feeling I couldn’t acknowledge without it becoming too evident.

I take in his face, his smell, his heat: no one would look at him from a distance and think Holmes a man of such comforting ways. As little as his sole presence was enough so that you could relax and feel like yourself again. This man really is majestic.

This could have so many implications, so many ways to interpret it, but no matter what sense I made of it, there was only one answer. “Not in the least,” I said with some difficulty, regaining the breath I had lost before. “Sherlock, I'd never leave you.” That, I turned to regret just after it came out of my lips — too revealing.

“Ah, that's lucky,” was the last thing any one of us uttered that night. Maybe both of us were afraid of what could come out of further conversation. I, certainly, was.

In the most absolute silence — Holmes had this kind of disturbing ability to do little to no noise — and in almost pure darkness, he started undressing himself slowly, until only the boxers remained. This inn of ours, see, had the worst bathrooms any of us had ever seen (and that says a lot, considering that we both had our fair share of doubtful stayings), which made changing inside them virtually impossible.

That meant we had to change in the room, something that wasn’t really a problem before, since we made the effort to be alone while doing so. But now, I deduced, it was too late at night. And we were tired. And we weren’t seeing much because of the darkness. And we were friends, for god’s sake! Two men, just that. Partners, only at work.

A nightgown was put over his long body. I turned my face towards the wall: allowing myself to such temptation was not an option. To Holmes, probably, this was an act done with no ulterior motives, but to me, oh, to me, it was torture! A display of everything I could never dream to have, right in front of my nose. Sherlock seemed embarrassed too; the whole ordeal was done quickly, and I am grateful, for if it was to go on for longer still, I would bear it no more.

The bed was a double one, but still rather small. I’d suggested that I sleep on the floor, but Holmes refused, claiming that the hard floor would cause my shoulder to hurt. Then, he said he’d do it instead, but I also didn’t let him. We had stared at each other for some seconds, before going back to whatever we had been doing before; the decision was made, and there was little to do but accept it.

The candle was unlit: we were now in complete darkness.

A newly-familiar weight settled just beside me on the bed, moving the covers until they covered us nicely. The atmosphere was cold, but in this old small place — full of cracks and pests and whatnot, the air dusty with misuse — I felt more than sufficiently warm. Comfortable. Cosy. Holmes' knees gently touched my sides, and somehow his hand ended up close to my arm, knuckles barely touching my bare skin; I dared not to move.

When I woke up, Holmes was closer, much like we gravitated towards each other during the night: just enough that I could feel his breath on my shoulder, his hand laying limp on my chest and moving with the rise and fall of it. It was impossible to say which one of us did it. Maybe both.

Laying very still, should I wake him up, I admired the mess of strands that was Holmes' hair. Dark and flowy, they framed his face nicely as if each one of them were just meant to be there.

I dared to push a loc off of his eyes. At that, they opened, causing me great panic — which I would not dare to show — grey irises barely visible before closing again in a lazy motion. Holmes' slumber is light, I should've remembered. The palm of his hand stiffened and was swiftly removed from where it laid.

Minutes later, the detective jumped off the bed and went on to his day, like nothing ever happened this last night. I accompanied him, as I always do, and it was a great day with great discoveries, as it always is with him. But I would not let it be.

I got in the room first; Holmes had gone on another errand I'd never hear the resolution. Sat upon the bedsheets, I awaited his presence in uncontained anxiety, mind trying to make sense of what I had heard yesterday. What had he meant with it? My thoughts kept turning to improbable possibilities, which I quickly shut down, only for them to arise, once again, minutes later — things that were but figments of my fierce imagination. Images of bare shoulders, parted lips and thin hands aroused my mindscape at every opportunity; this man, Holmes, tested all and every one of my limits without even knowing he was doing so.

After what seemed an eternity, Holmes' figure entered the room with an unprecedented heaviness. Living with the detective had its advantages: since staying at Baker Street, I had become more observant, and did as much as picking up some skills from him. As my heart raced, I looked up and saw his face go through a plethora of emotions when spotting me, like his did the very same. “Are we not discussing what you said yesterday? At night.” I said, words hard to find in an aching throat.

Holmes gave a violent start. “I did not mean anything by it, for I didn't think before talking.” The detective finished his point with the clink of metal on wood, putting down the candle he held with force. It almost went out. “It's best you forget it ever happened, Watson.”

“No, we are not letting this pass. Holmes, hear me. No one says something like this with no end in mind. You must be aware I'm here for you. Always. Forever.”

“Do not press your head to this matter, Watson. It isn't worth your time.”

“Was it about the way I write your character in The Strand? I do not think you of any bad. I am not leaving you, no matter which kind of insane you must think you are. What would be so dire that it’d make me flee?”

“Please, John.”

“It's only for the public! You know that. You've said it yourself: I romanticise everything, see facts that aren't there; make up thoughts I didn’t have. Omit the ones I have, even!”

There was a pause; silence. Silence, only in words, for his mind seemed ever so active, and he made it as to go away, exit the room more than once, never going through the action of fully turning around. Holmes’ lips parted a few times before he was able to direct his speech at me again.

“It's not that, Watson.” A pause. “It is that I am no normal person. Should anyone see me as myself, I would be promptly dead, and my reputation, ruined. You needn't have any more preoccupation than what you already have with this case.” At that, Holmes turned his head around to face anything but me.

“Then I don't know what to think anymore. Is this what you want of me? Confusion?” My voice cracked in distress. I didn't notice when I had gotten up, nor when I’d placed myself so close to Holmes’ figure. The candle flickered, encasing him in periods of light and shadow; but never taking away those eyes, that mouth, that nose, all features as though they were sculpted by the most skillful of artists.

“No! It is, John, that you matter so much to me, that you make me sick of the heart, of the brain and of the body.” That forced a breath out of my ribcage; my mind raced with no ending line.

“I… what?”

Holmes seemed physically struck with the realisation of what he had really professed, the gravity of his words. For a man whose whole ordeal was calculating the possibilities — the words — before doing — saying — anything, he sure did look surprised by his own self, eyes darting all over me in a panicked frenzy: deducing what I would say or do next. Holmes had told me, before, that I was one of the few people he couldn’t read all that easily. That made me interesting, according to him.

What I would say next was, indeed, a good question. I, myself, had no idea what to think. Blood pumped through my veins quickly, and I felt hot all over — had Holmes meant what I thought he did? I took one, two steps closer to Holmes' figure; our hands brushed slightly, sending chills down my spine. “Sherlock.”

Holmes backed away slightly from me. “This is wrong,” he warned in a sorrowful tone, much like he mourned something that could never be his. Something I also did for the longest while, since meeting the detective; discovering we both felt the same agony, over the same problem, was positively soothing.

I glanced at Holmes lips — thin, but almost welcoming, as if they were meant to meet mine. “I know.”

“You're staying?”

I placed both hands on Holmes’ clothed chest; it rose and fell erratically, almost in synchrony with the beating of the heart that lay inside it. Mine must’ve been doing the same.

“Only if you want me to.”

Holmes’ lithe hands moved to cover my own, holding them tight. We were close, closer than we had ever been, as the detective inched forward and did what I had yearned for so long: our lips met and gave way to a chaste kiss, leaving me breathless and desperate for more.

“Oh, I surely do,” Holmes answered before pressing his lips against me again, this time more passionate. I let mine part, allowing his tongue to slip inside, and kissed back. It was better than anything I could ever imagine, heat surging deep in my body as we moved in unison.

That night, we went to bed early, but not to sleep.

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totallycirclek · 5 months ago

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1,282 WORDS

so I did a thing. I wrote a thing about a trans man and the horrors of dysmorphia

THIS IS A SHORT PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR STORY ABOUT BODY DYSMORPHIA AND SI TAKEN TO AN EXTREME

!!!TW!!! GORE, SI, SH, BODY HORROR, OD, DYSMORPHIA !!!DNI IF THIS WILL HURT YOU!!!

The human mind is one of the strangest things of all

He lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He let his head loll to the side and glanced at his bedside table. 3:17 am. He returned his gaze to the ceiling for a few more moments, before getting up and walking to the bathroom. He turned on the lights, and just stared at his reflection. He gazed blankly and his feminine hips, his unbound chest, his petite frame. He watched his form, hideous in his eyes until his sight blurred, blinking his vision back. He returned to his room, and laid in his bed, uncovered on his side. He stared at the wall until time lost its way.

He sat up in his bed, sore and confused. After minutes that felt like decades, he cracked his back, neck, and fingers and pawed around his bed. He found his vape, a small berry ice flavored one, and he took a hit. He held it for a few seconds, took another, inhaled through his nose and held it, breathing only when the vapor was all but gone. He sat in his bed a while more, before getting up to look in the mirror again. He stood and stared until his eyes watered, then returned to his bed. He sat on his phone for hours upon hours. He repeated this cycle over and over, time after time. A blurred silent montage of sit, stare, stand, stare, over and over for hours. The sun rose and fell with the hours and he did not stop. As night fell, he began seeing things in the corners of his eyes. Blurs. Shadows. There for just a moment, creeping and slithering around him. Trying to consume him without being seen. They grew closer and closer, threatening to devour him until the second he tried to glimpse them. But still, the cycle pursued.

The night melded into day once again, and he found it much too bright. It killed the shadows, but he didn’t seem to mind them. The sun was bright and hot, illuminating the room far too brightly and bringing it to an uncomfortably warm temperature. He searched his room for curtains. Minutes became hours as he grew increasingly frantic, tearing his room up in search of something to kill that god awful light. Eventually, after hours of searching, he’d taped trash bags over the windows. He got up to resume his routine of staring at his hideous abomination of a reflection and glided into the hall, only to find it just as unreasonably hot and warm. He meticulously covered each window with trash bags, taping them generously to the wall. He went through forty trash bags and five rolls of duct tape, just to cover each window completely. Once the house was pitch black, he went around and lit every candle, lighting the place an eerie hue.

He stalked back to the bathroom, having taken to leaving the lights on. The room was illuminated only by the four light bulbs above the bathroom mirror. One had died, and the others were all tinged and dirty, illuminating the already white and old room a soft, ugly green. He stared at the mirror once more, gazing through the hideous abomination that he saw as his female anatomy. The dark began creeping around him again, edging his vision and coating him. He let it, allowed its wispy black tendrils to wrap around him.He stared blankly through the man in the mirror still, dazed and disgusted.

There was a loud pop and a tinkling shatter. His hands flew to his face as he flinched and crouched, bracing himself for whatever impact, only to realize it was simply a light bulb. The dark and sick blackness was gone, disappeared as it did when he looked at it. He sulked back to his room, his routine never ceasing. Days stolen, hours disappeared, minutes gobbled by the dim and desolate routine. He returned to the mirror, and this time, began scrutinizing the thing he saw. He watched it dimly, a small silent voice pointing out the hideous details. The horrendous, matted hair, cut choppy and short. Unbrushed, unwashed indefinitely. The face. Too feminine. Far too feminine. The ugly little mustache, the small, bulbous nose, the deep-set, dull, and tired eyes. God, the eyes. Mud-brown pools with no shine, dark mountains below, deprived of sleep so long the thing had forgotten. The small shoulders, profoundly soft collar bones, and scrawny arms. Somewhere along the line, he’d put on his binder. It was better, but only truly served to coat the creature in the mirror in an extra level of revulsion. The thin, weightless, frame, the delicate effeminate hips, shrouded in baggy cloth. The thing was an imposter. A creature parading like a man. It was horrid. The inky darkness came crawling back, and this time, he didn’t see it. It crawled over him, burrowing into his skin as he watched the creature in the mirror. Accompanying it though, was a creature. Not as disgustingly fake as the one he so often stared at, but more ethereally hideous. It was dark, a charred black, crusted as if in magma. It was tall, lanky and disjointed, and smelled of rot. Rot, char, and.. Peony blossoms. It stalked closer, slinking and gangly through the inky darkness. He didn’t see it at first, but he smelt it. As soon as he blinked, it was gone.

He paced his room rapidly, circular and silent laps. The monster of the last trip had startled him, but he would return as usual. The cycle worsened over time. He was driven into a state of manic psychosis, pacing, staring, panicking,and repeating. It blurred and melded in the darkness, days fading and sense of time becoming less and less certain. The candles had burnt out long ago, he hadn’t eaten or slept to the best of his ability. He drank and ate nothing, passed out occasionally only to wake with a start and return to the process. Not even gods can be certain how long this progressed. At last, the creature got to him. He turned to face it, turning his back on the disfigured fraud in the mirror, but the strange horror behind him was not the one held still by his gaze, and much less the one he had to worry about.

A woman pounded rapidly on the blue apartment door, shouting and screaming for him. She found the key under the mat and unlocked the door, bursting into the apartment. She crept apprehensively through the dark and eerie house, gazing at each window with unease as she examined the trash bag covering, and noting the gagging yet flowery scent but unable to pin it . She trekked towards his room, opening the door only to find the room trashed. The rest of the house was oddly clean though. This room smelled the exact same, yet no stronger. She still couldn’t place it. He wasn’t there though. She hurried timidly to the bathroom, and set a hand over the door knob. She noted the smell coming strongly from the other side, and was finally able to name it. She stood for what seemed like a millennia before opening the door, dropping to her knees numbly at the sight of her mauled son before her, arms and legs coated with bloody gashes, the bottle meant to contain his antidepressants lay empty beside him as he lay limp in a lake of blood on the dingy floor, foaming at the mouth. He was what smelled like rot and peony blossoms.

The human mind is one of the strangest things of all

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