An Awakening Chapter Two: Boomerang

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Recap: Empathy from a sociopath? John couldn't be right.

Sherlock had not expected his "experiment" to become something more mind blowing;

but it had, and he was still tripping over odd sensations weeks later.

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Once the front door closed behind John Watson, Sherlock pulled back the plush drape and peered from the window over Baker Street. This familiar perch to observe his friend had often given him perspective, and he expected it would provide such insights again now.

Ah! No surprise. Using his quick march. Hurrying back to Mary…. I've kept him too long.

The last thought-fragment jarred him.

Empathy?

So many times, Sherlock had stood in this very spot at the window to collect data and appease his curiosity about clients, associates, and his flat mate.

With objectivity. Never with empathy.

Intrigued, he would often watch John storm away from discussions that had inexplicably gone awry or strut with purpose on an urgent task or saunter off to meet a woman on a prearranged date. From this hidden vantage point, the detective had found it fascinating to deduce cause and effect and study the vagaries of human emotions as manifested by the invalided soldier whose pension left the veteran little choice but to cohabit with him.

Nor had Sherlock expected the arrangement to last long, although he had reasoned that Dr. Watson was a suitable candidate for a trial run. The former army surgeon, having lived through extreme hardships in Afghanistan, would have presumably been accustomed to the minor discomforts of sharing quarters with all types. This much proved true, but the scientist could not resist the temptation to experiment on such a convenient test subject. Sherlock's less-than-subtle disregard for his flat sharing responsibilities, born from a life of privilege, made it easy to manipulate scenarios—forgetting to pick up the milk, not paying the cab fare, storing body parts in the fridge—to discern patterns of reactions and to verify the resiliency of his remarkable fellow lodger.

After months of tests, there remained one irrefutable constant that baffled Sherlock the most— his flat mate, like a well-crafted boomerang, always came back. Unlike with boomerangs, however, the detective could not extract the science for the doctor's returns—motives were a tricky thing—although he could draw some obvious conclusions:

John Watson was NOT ordinary! Nothing could be further from the truth. With nerves of steel, strong moral principles, and intelligence, he seemed quite tolerant of, if not completely inured to, adversities. Even more amazing, the steadfast man actually intended to remain his flat mate. Determination in the highest order!

This satisfied the detective. At their first meeting he had deduced as much, but the confirmation over the long term was gratifying.

During their beneficial working and living association that lasted for eighteen memorable months, the routine of window-watching evolved from an investigative exercise to a practice, then a habit, and ultimately a ritual that restored Sherlock's sense of order when the genius felt troubled by racing thoughts. Time and time again, the theorem proved to be true: no matter the cause for departure, John would always come back.

Except, after being dead for two years, nearly dying from a gunshot wound, and more recently almost killing himself with a drug overdose during his unexpectedly foreshortened exile, the thrice-resurrected detective no longer assumed this postulate held—perhaps it was too much to ask of any man—even his exceptional friend.

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Sherlock watched the subject of his concern head north on Baker Street until John vanished from view. As if on cue the detective heard the desperate whining of a dog followed by a child's voice, his, responding with a shamefully sentimental plea: "Redbeard, please, oh please come back." He knew it was all in his head, but the now frequent recurrences—a recent development—of this acute memory brought up an inevitable ache from decades ago and triggered an inexplicable anxiety as he stood alone in his flat.

Distancing himself from the sensation of loss, Sherlock unclenched his grip on the drape, and stepped away from the window. That his repressed feelings for his beloved pet resurfaced in such moments both irritated and puzzled him. He had spent all his life smashing emotions under a hard rock of logic and priding himself on his commanding self-discipline. He had succeeded in banishing weak sentiment behind a fierce fortress of indifference. To cut off personal attachments he wielded his sharp superiority like a sword, and since childhood he had used his rebellious nature as a shield.

"Only a mother could love a boy like that…."

Shaking loose those hurtful memories, Sherlock reconsidered John's assertion—rude awakening—that bore an inkling of truth. Was his behavior not entirely due to personality impairment, but an act—a learned response—behind which he was hiding?

Whilst immersed deep within his Mind Palace, his Victorian alternate had declared, "Oh, Watson. Nothing made me. I made me." This rang true even in the present. He was self-made in so many ways. His observational skills, his deductive reasoning, his abstinence from sentiments, and his unique consultation work had all been sculpted from the stone of his extraordinary sensitivities to stimuli and honed by the chisel of his rare genius, but had he manufactured his antisocial spectrum disorder too?

To contemplate these points further, Sherlock stretched out on the sofa and shut his eyes. His friend's surprising revelations had filled his mind with questions and arguments he needed to sort. Deep breaths helped him focus; a favorite meditative mantra eased his internal turbulence; and tenting his long fingers against his lips, Sherlock began by revisiting his memory at the moment the jet landed.

He wasn't entirely sure if he had reached full consciousness when Mycroft, John, and Mary first boarded. It was possible his recollections of their initial reactions could have been a fabrication of his drugged-induced state. Yet the snippets of their conversation lingered. Maybe what he thought he heard was real:

"He was high before he got on the plane," Mycroft had divulged.

"He didn't seem high," Mary had objected as she thumbed a search on her mobile.

"Nobody deceives like an addict," his brother replied in his know-it-all tone.

"For God's sake! This could kill you! You could die!" Waving the list, John expressed his shock and disappointment, yet again.

It didn't matter to Sherlock if this first waking was merely a figment of his drugged mind because he was certain his perceptions of John were real. It never fails. John seems perpetually surprised. Always looking for heroes where none exist, yet John always comes back to his belief in me, warranted or not!

Sherlock sighed in frustration. He was both ashamed of his soft sentiments—wanting companionship with John—and regretted his decisions that caused pain. Never had he intended for any of his choices to hurt his friend. The "suicide," murder, exile were all done for John's protection despite the personal consequences to them both. And John seemed to understand this to some degree. The one matter they clashed over was Sherlock's "seven-percent solution" to alleviate boredom.

But not this time!

When Mycroft rang to recall him from exile, it precipitated his next move. Sherlock had had only a few minutes on the jet to calculate "a stronger chemical cocktail" that would have helped him connect the parallels of a past mystery to understand the present one. Suppressing the relief the second chance gave him, he congratulated himself for the hidden stash he had stockpiled in anticipation of what he most feared about exile. It was a suicide mission after all. He had made the pragmatic decision to either self-medicate or self-euthanize rather than endure torture that would break him. The "return" of Moriarty, however, suddenly changed all that. With the means already available, Sherlock had been hand-delivered a reason to heighten his thought processes.

Idiot! The voice of John-in-his-head intruded on the detective's thoughts whilst he reclined on the couch. You recklessly endangered yourself.

Not reckless. Knew you'd find me in time, John. You always do.

Don't' give me that, Sherlock. What if I hadn't?

Then I'd be dead. Problems solved.

That's what you think, is it?

As we are holding this conversation entirely in my mind, apparently that is what I think.

You continue to miscalculate your importance to your friends, just as you could have miscalculated the dose ―

―But I didn't miscalculate the dose. My friend-ssss, is there a plural here? Well, that's another matter. Anyway, blame Mycroft. I wouldn't have experimented if he had not raised a false alarm. Moriarty alive―

―Casting blame is shirking your own responsibility.

True, John...

But Sherlock had immediately accepted the responsibility of this undertaking that offered him the possibility of a reprieve. Indeed, he may have misjudged micro-milligrams here or there in his haste, but the overall success of his drug use refocused memories lodged in the hard drive of his Mind Palace to make those connections.

Initially, the experience had played out like a movie. However, just scarce moments within this vision of the past, the Victorian façade cracked altogether and proved he had not truly time-traveled at all. "I'm your landlady," Mrs. Hudson had argued, "not a plot device." Without a formal education, upper-class Victorian ladies might have benefited from learning the finer arts to entertain their husbands' guests, but none would have used such a phrase, even less so a common landlady or housekeeper. Clue after clue was a trail back to modern times: Mycroft commenting about "a virus in the data" was another waving flag, and although this Dr. Watson seemed the antithesis of compassion toward women—so unlike the modern version— the very idea that Victorian men would harbor sympathies toward suffragettes was preposterous. But this was not a history lesson.

This language and those attitudes belonged in the present where he still resided in a drugged state on a jet about to land, and Sherlock recognized it. Rather than stall the investigation for correcting historical inaccuracies, he allowed the numerous anachronisms that pervaded his "time-traveling" experiment because he had far deeper concerns—the need to solve Moriarty's revenant through data collection of the facts from the past.

After all the unpleasantness had ended, he had survived the deliberate and dangerous overdose, escaped the depths of his Mind Palace, and finished the vivid trip sufficiently positive that he had acquired the knowledge he sought—an understanding of his nemesis and himself and the method to predict Moriarty's next move.

Why is everyone still so upset? It's been weeks. I've recovered fully from the overdose.

During the subsequent and real arguments with Mycroft, John, and Mary, Sherlock kept referring to his retro-Victorian investigation as an experiment, but the others, including John, insisted it was a hallucination. It did not matter what they believed—well John's opinion mattered—but Sherlock had used for a specific purpose, not just as an escape from an intolerant world; he definitely knew the difference.

The fog has lifted… except no one needs know the one lingering side-effect…

Sherlock had not expected his experiment to become something more mind blowing; except the more he reflected upon it, the more he realized it had. Somehow, it had become an exploration of his deep-seated feelings for others, and he was still tripping over those sensations weeks later.

Were I truly a genuine sociopath would this be possible?

Like a pebble thrown into a calm pond, ripples of curiosity emanated from these questions.

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The sound of the key in the lock momentarily stirred him from his repose.

John? Coming back?

Sherlock cocked one eye open where he lay on the sofa and listened as the ground floor door swung inward.

No.

He didn't need to hear the reedy voice of Mrs. Hudson talking to herself to know she was returning from shopping. He could tell by the slow creak of the hinges that the slight-build aging woman was pushing hard to open the heavy exterior door. There will be a time when she will have more trouble with that door…

A good man— John—would have sped down the steps to assist the landlady with her bundles.

Sherlock did not move, however, listening instead for assurances that she was managing just fine. After all, she was a spry able-bodied woman who was still capable of numerous activities. She had her wits about her and was practiced at determining how much she could carry home. Robbing her of these exercises of mind and muscle would only bring the debilities of age sooner. This he would not allow. Mrs. Hudson must remain vital for as long as possible.

Good. She's in her flat, but perhaps a lighter-weight door or better working hinges might be in order. A five-pound closer instead of the ten-pound would likely do the trick...Will look into that.

Caring about the well-being of others was not entirely new to Sherlock, but he abhorred showing this sentiment—his greatest weakness—even with those who knew his secret.

Sherlock closed his eyes and refocused his attention on his Victorian experience. It did not surprise him that, as in many of his dreams, he perceived himself during the course of this jaunt as the one in control. He saw himself as playfully assessing Dr. Watson in one glance, testing the good doctor's reflexes with the toss of his riding crop, whilst delivering his way-too-clever quips to show off his astonishing cleverness.

"And you're clearly acclimatized to never getting to the end of a sentence. We'll get along splendidly."

Amusing as it appeared to Victorian Holmes, there was something less sportive about how he treated this Watson. While the modern man often criticized his friend, it was done to instruct and it was done without mean-spirited ridicule, but this Holmes verbally mocked the good doctor. Missing were the gentlemanly courtesies of Victorian mannerisms and a modicum of civility one would have expected in 1895. Rather, the witty repartee was less playful, and as the dream sequence progressed, became condescending and sharper.

"You may speak freely in front of him as he rarely understands a word."

"My Boswell is learning. They do grow up so fast."

"You must forgive Watson. He has an enthusiasm for stating the obvious which borders on mania."

Oh, good old Watson! How would we fill the time if you didn't ask questions?

No matter which century one inhabited, working with 'ordinary brains' on a regular basis was not without its frustrations. Countless times, Sherlock had derided Anderson, Donovan, and "every single officer you ever made feel like a tit, which is a lot of people"—as John had once so eloquently stated—and yes, even Lestrade, whom the detective actually respected, but never, ever did he rage at John, at least not with full rancor like Victorian Holmes of his experiment had done:

"Since the moment of conception? How breathtakingly prescient of her! It is never twins, Watson. …"

"You were about to suggest there may be some supernatural agency involved in this matter, and I was about to laugh in your face."

"Use your brain, such as it is, to eliminate the impossible, which in this case is the ghost, and observe what remains, which in this case is a solution so blindingly obvious even Lestrade could work it out!"

This biting, meaner, angrier edge was worlds away from the actual esteem Sherlock held for John. It seemed that within the Victorian setting, Holmes had become uncharacteristically infuriated by Watson, especially when the physician seemed convinced by the fakery of a ghost.

…convinced by the fakery of...? Sherlock hitched a breath and opened his crystalline eyes, startled by his thoughts. This bitterness toward Watson took on new significance: Am I resenting John for believing the lie of my suicide and giving up on us; do I blame him for letting my disappearance radically affect our lives?

He let those ideas germinate briefly before uprooting them. No. it's something more, something else for which I feel shame and regret…

Sitting upright on the sofa, Sherlock leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and folded his steepled hands over his mouth as the new understanding dawned. He valued his principled friend, the man who believed in heroes, the man who answered to a higher standard, but in contrast, Sherlock saw his own flaws with such clarity.

"Helps me if I see myself through his eyes sometimes. I'm so much cleverer." Sherlock may have actually admitted that aloud when he awoke the first time to their concerned faces in the jet.

In a gentler moment within Sherlock's trip back, Victorian Holmes described Watson as "a man of a seemingly kindly disposition," and complimented Mrs. Watson for "an impish sense of humor which currently you're deploying to ease a degree of personal anguish." These observations were appropriate even for their present incarnations. By extension, the Victorian Holmes revealed what he thought of himself "an unsavory companion of dubious morals."

It is NOT John who angers me…. I anger me. Not the "I" I made of myself, rather the "I" I am now…

"…solitary confinement is locking you up with your worst enemy," his brother had said. As much as he hated to admit it, Mycroft was right. After two years of battling the enemy on a secret mission, Sherlock returned physically scarred by abuse and torture but psychologically haunted by the secret enemy who lurked in the shadows of his failures. Despite this weakness, he relied on his powers of self-discipline to resist many a danger night, even without John's ameliorating companionship. And after the Watson wedding, it was not hard for the lone occupant of 221B to keep a distance from his once ideal helpmate and the very perceptive wife, ensuring that neither would see the fractures in his veneer. Unfortunately, this seclusion sentenced him to time with his own worst enemy.

Still, it was unsettling to observe the Victorian alter-ego make the one man Sherlock most respected appear stupid and inept.

"You amaze me, Watson," Victorian Holmes sighed in obvious reproof as he sat opposite Dr. Watson in the clattering train's single compartment.

"I do?"

"Since when have you had any kind of imagination?"

Dr. Watson took the reproach in stride with his usual no-nonsense, "Perhaps since I convinced the reading public that an unprincipled drug addict is some kind of gentleman hero."

Touché, Watson! This man did not have blinkers on. This man did not think Holmes a hero. This Watson knew the truth of his Holmes and could see all the failings: the drug addiction, the needing to "swot up" when seeing "someone cleverer," the "living breathing man" masquerading as "the brain without a heart; the calculating machine. I write all of that, Holmes, and the readers lap it up, but I do not believe it."

But of course this Watson would see me the way I see me. This construct is all in my head. Yet, like my real version, this Watson also insists his Holmes meet the standards of good character:

"… I would quite like to find every ounce of the stuff in your possession and pour it out of the window."

"I should be inclined to stop you."

"Then you would be reminded ... quite forcibly ... which of us is a soldier and which of us a drug addict."

But has this Watson set the bar too high? He expected his Holmes to measure up and be moved by a sense of humanity. Can I expect that of me?

"Never on a case," Dr. Watson simmered with fury. "You promised me. Never on a case."

"No, I just said that in one of your stories."

"Listen." Watson's quiet rage was a menacing storm advancing from the horizon. "I'm happy to play the fool for you. I will run along behind you like some halfwit, making you look clever, if that's what you need, but dear GOD above," he roared with tremulous indignation, "you will hold yourself to a higher standard."

"Why?"

"Because people need you to."

"What people? Why? Because of your idiot stories?"

"Yes, because of my idiot stories." The Victorian Watson conceded, averse to furthering the dispute.

As Holmes had supplied rapid answers to his own questions, he preempted the real answer. It was not "people" that was actually meant here. Had the doctor not been so barraged with diversionary questions, Watson/John might have added: because I need you to. This statement, this confession would have been too difficult for Holmes/Sherlock to ignore.

"…because I need you to."

Agitated by this realization, Sherlock launched himself with acrobatic ease from his sitting position on the sofa, drew his legs up, and hugged his knees. All along in the Victorian setting/Mind Palace, Sherlock had been arguing with himself; not with Dr. Watson, and certainly not with the real John, nor was it unusual that he would use his friend's perspective to see things more clearly. He'd done it countless times, although never with such a heavy boost from drugs. Rocking slowly on the sofa cushion in a tightly folded pose, he concentrated on the crucial thoughts of this awakening.

It is not only people —John, Mycroft, Mary, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, the reading public, etc.—who need me to, but I need me to. So, no matter how I interpret Watson/John's statement, it will always be up to me, "the addict," to choose— because I need me to …

Throughout the Victorian experience the lines had blurred between Watson's idealized fiction of the Great Detective and the actual man going by the name of Sherlock Holmes: "No, those are my words, not yours! That is the version of you that I present to the public."

But I made me!

Sherlock did not believe for one moment that without his friend, he did not exist or that without John's strength and high moral principles to support him, he could not stand alone. He had a strong sense of self. He had been alone for most of his life; he could do it again. "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me," he had stated once to deflect John from standing by him. It was not far from the truth. But after experiencing genuine companionship with John, he knew "alone" was not what he preferred. And he had endured extreme deprivation those two long years away because he valued their unique friendship. The force to get back home again, as powerful as the arc of a hurled boomerang, kept him alive and focused in his darkest hours.

Once he had returned to London, he realized this truth made him vulnerable and vulnerability was alarming. As much as he wanted John in his life, this strong need was a weakness that he deemed dangerous. After the initial shock that John would not be coming back in the usual way, he saw that the change in John's status—Mary had become an integral part of his life—was an opportunity.

Sherlock had always supposed that empathy and sympathy for others would weaken his self-control and deductive skills. It was to a higher standard of pure logic and cold reason that he held himself accountable and which allowed him to remain composed and objective when solving a case. As he could not let sentiment or caring make him fall short of that commitment, or of his ultimate usefulness to a client, he was willing to sever sentimental entanglements with his soon-to-be-married friend so as to clear his mind for his consulting detective work. Like old times, before John.

"…the brain without a heart…"

It was more painful than he had realized although he expected he would adjust over time. However, abandoning John proved to be a needlessly self-destructive over-reaction to his fear of emotional attachments, and by withdrawing from those who cared about him and about whom he cared actually allowed his "worst enemy" —the Moriarty within— full power to destroy him.

It was from this slippery precipice of self-loathing— "I am your WEAKNESS! I keep you DOWN! Every time you STUMBLE, every time you FAIL, when you're WEAK ...I ... AM ... THERE! No. Don't try to fight it. LIE BACK AND LOSE! Shall we go over together? It has to be together, doesn't it? At the end, it's always just you ... AND ME!" —that Sherlock was saved by John.

It all seemed obvious now. The problems of the heart would not be resolved with separation. Tripping through time had opened Sherlock's mind to the beneficial advantages of the sentimental attachments that had despite all his defenses touched his heart, and whilst he had long suspected that he needed John to keep him from the edge of darkness, the proof in this vivid visualization was simultaneously stunning and uplifting. The shame of needing companionship and regrets for showing sentiment were mitigated by the awareness that with John by his side, Sherlock could be a better man. He did not have to sacrifice the power of his intellect, the science of deduction, his extraordinary genius for minutiae. All these things still made him, but John's stalwart belief in him made it all worthwhile.

"Thank you, John."

"Since when do you call me John?"

"You'd be surprised."

"No I wouldn't. Time you woke up, Sherlock. I'm a storyteller. I know when I'm in one."

"Of course. Of course you do, John."

"So what's he like? The other me, in the other place?"

"Smarter than he looks."

"Pretty damned smart, then."

His OD experiment was as much a clarification as a revelation about many things. Sherlock had only scratched the surface when he confided in John about dreams making him feel sad. Since his "journey" through time, he was experiencing a greater depth and range of emotions: kindness, joy, relief, respect, forgiveness, admiration, and appreciation that put greater value on his extraordinary friend John, the Moriarty-vanquisher.

"It was my turn," Dr. Watson had stated matter-of-factly.

"Quite so," a euphoric Holmes agreed.

John was as indispensable to him as he was to John. Shaking his head, Sherlock rose swiftly from the couch, stomped across the coffee table, and went back to the window. How incredibly dangerous it is to care too deeply. Loving is a risk, but so is living. He shrugged and pulled at the drape. It's time to accept each challenge.

As he gazed out the window on Baker Street, Sherlock realized that the confrontation between the idealism of Watson and the reality of Holmes was over. There was really only one thing John wanted—for Sherlock to hold himself to that higher standard. This thought gave the detective hope because he knew if he did, if he kept this promise, like the remarkable boomerang, John would always come back.

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AN: By viewing TAB as a vivid glimpse into Modern Sherlock's mind and heart, we are seeing his personal thoughts and feelings like never before. Costumed in Victorian garb, his flaws and weaknesses are personified, but more telling is how he views his friends, his enemies, and himself, and whether he can change.

All text in bold italic are direct quotes from TAB. All disclaimers about who owns BBC Sherlock apply, but gratitude and acknowledgements go to Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan for the extraordinary and miraculous resource of the TAB Transcript. (I don't know how she does it!)

While I feel so lucky to have met such wonderful writers (you know who you are) who share in the excitement of finding the right voice for our beloved characters, I must always give a very special nod to my dear friend englishtutor who held my hand when I was just starting out. Thank you!