Chapter Text
There was a man in another room.
Sherlock snapped his gaze to Beatrice, who was playing nocturne in C-sharp minor on the piano, and focused on the melody. The mournful sound echoed in his chest, as if she was playing the strings of his soul; it was barely bearable.
There was a man in another room.
He walked past the doorframe twice already, trying to get his attention, but Sherlock intended to ignore him for as long as he could.
Hallucinations became a daily occurrence.
James threw an amused glance at him, sipping from his third glass of whiskey, and saluted—Sherlock managed to smile back as if nothing was happening. He was becoming rather good at this.
Pretending that nothing was wrong while ignoring a shadow in the corner of his eye was easy. It was becoming less feasible when they were trying to scare the life out of him.
Last time Sherlock almost lost his control was yesterday evening during the family dinner. One moment he was laughing at James’s joke, and the next he froze in terror, looking above his shoulder to a man whose face was half blown and covered in blood. He stared at Sherlock with the empty socket where his eye should have been, then slowly dragged his thumb across his throat in a silent threat. His stare was psychotic, intense, and, unfortunately, unforgettable.
The man in another room started to make noise. Sherlock didn’t flinch when he heard some mumbling and sharp bangs into the wall—the man was acting rather unhappy.
Beatrice finished the nocturne and Cordelia Holmes clapped with joy, proud of her daughter.
‘It was lovely, Bea,’ said she, jumping towards her and hugging her dearly. Cordelia still couldn’t get used to Beatrice’s presence in the house; and while Beatrice was still in her adjusting period, acting cold and most of the times not knowing how to react to her mother’s love, Sherlock was just grateful to have the rest of his family united.
He was mourning Silas’s death.
It was one thing to say that he wanted him gone while he was still alive, and drastically another realising that he could never see him again.
Sherlock tried not to think about it.
‘You look rather haunted,’ said James with a smirk. He approached and sat in front of him on another couch, sinking into it in his own relaxed way. ‘Chopin would have been disappointed in your lack of appreciation.’
Sherlock managed a smile.
‘I had a time to appreciate the melody earlier today. She was practicing for quite a while.’
‘She is rather good at this.’
There was something in James’s tone that annoyed Sherlock.
‘I’m thinking of returning to Oxford,’ said he suddenly. ‘As a student this time. I was always good at learning, and there is so much I want to know about.’
James looked at him, surprised.
The man entered the room.
‘Yes, your mathematical skills could use some improvement,’ said James finally and took a big sip of whiskey, turning his gaze away. They didn’t talk about what they will do next; it’s been only a few weeks since Silas’s death, and James was spending majority of his time in Appleton Manor, almost becoming a part of Holmes family.
‘How lovely.’
It was the more like a hiss the snake makes before biting its victim with venom. This time, the shadow was a tall, drowned man, with a skin almost blue from suffocating. There was water dropping down from his hands; he stood right behind James, not taking his intense gaze from Sherlock. It felt like he was suffering and threatening Sherlock at the same time.
He felt real.
Sherlock’s whole body tensed, as he tried not to leave his gaze from James, holding onto him as his anchor to reality.
The air became too thick, almost impossible to breathe in.
Sherlock felt as if it was him who was drowning.
It was not real. Just his overactive imagination.
He knew it, so why it was so hard to stop thinking about it?
‘We could find you another scholarship,’ said Sherlock, forcing himself to sound normal. ‘After all that we did for the government—’
James laughed. There was a certain bitterness in his eyes when he looked back at him.
‘I’d rather die than let someone feel superior towards me again.’
There was something about James that left Sherlock conflicted. He was impossible to read. From time to time, Sherlock replayed the last memory he had of them in Constantinople, when James said that Sherlock knew him. It didn’t really feel like he did.
The drowned man changed his direction towards Sherlock. Sherlock felt his cold hand on his neck. It felt physical. God, it was physical, Sherlock couldn’t breathe. The man looked at him with pure hatred.
This is not real. There is still air in this room.
His lungs were on fire, he couldn't take a breath, he was suffocating.
‘Sherlock?’
James’s voice came from somewhere outside his perception. The whole room became dark, and felt like water—the only thing Sherlock could thing of is that he had to act normal, act as if nothing was happening.
With an incredible effort of will, Sherlock jumped on his feet, mumbled ‘excuse me’, and stormed to the corridor, and then up the stairs.
‘Sherlock?’ James's voice sounded concerned behind him.
Sherlock, echoed the hissing voice, vibrating in his bones. It sent shivers down his spine.
The man was there again, it the corner of the corridor, looking at him, watching him.
‘Why can’t you leave me alone?’ snapped Sherlock. He picked the wooden figure from the table and threw it into the shadow. The figure flew through it, and the shadow seemed almost amused.
‘Sherlock.’
Fuck.
James was standing right behind him.
‘I—’ Sherlock caught his breath, searching for what to say. ‘Sorry, I thought it was a… Well, a rat. Yeah.’
He stared back at James. He didn’t believe him. Of course, he didn’t believe him, Sherlock couldn’t have come up with a more pathetic lie even if he tried to.
‘A rat,’ repeated James. His eyes narrowed, as he was scanning Sherlock's face, noticing all the details.
Sherlock’s heart was pounding, as he was trying to even up his breathing. In and out. It is all not real.
‘Your mind is playing tricks on you, doesn’t it?’
Sherlock didn’t reply. James knew. He always knew how to read him.
‘For how long?’
It felt like Sherlock physically couldn’t speak. The man in the corner was slowly approaching them again.
‘For fuck’s sake, Sherlock,’ James clapped his hands right in front of his face, snapping him back to reality. ‘For how long?’
Sherlock focused his gaze on James.
‘Ever since Silas’s death.’
There was a growing anger in James’s expression.
‘And you didn’t tell me? How bad is it?’
Sherlock shrugged. The darkness in the corridor began to lay heavily on his shoulders.
You should tell him, Sherlock, hissed the voice of the shadow, sending shivers on Sherlock’s skin. Maybe I'll drown him next.
Sherlock’s hands were trembling.
The drowned man stood next to James and stretched out his hand, almost touching James’s neck.
Sherlock acted faster than he thought.
With a swift movement, he pushed James away so hard he hit his head on the wall and cursed under his breath.
The realisation came a second later.
‘I’m sorry! Sorry, I—’
‘I’ll take that as ‘very bad’,’ grumbled James. ‘I assume you thought you were saving me from something.’
Sherlock couldn’t find anything to say.
‘Try not to do that next time,’ grimaced James. He rubbed the back of his head and glanced around, checking if there actually was something or someone he should be aware of.
The shadow had disappeared, even though Sherlock still felt the trace of its presence.
James looked as if he had a lot to say about this whole situation.