mutelock

[glitter---girl-deactivated20160]

Definition for manual alphabet in the dictionary

[mutelocked]

Sherlock always hates loud noises and whenever he heard them he used to scream, but ever since he stopped talking, he has no way of coping with loud noises.

Ah, wait wait, I think I can really do something with this. Damn.

( misophonia/mutelock )

It was a trick Mycroft explained to him. Much to other’s dismay Sherlock’s go to coping method was to imitate whatever annoyed him. Someone was ticking their foot against the floor? Then he’d do the same and it’d help him keep calm. Sherlock was seven years old when Mycroft explained to him, and subsequently their very frustrated dinner guests (“does he have to do that?!”) that mimicry was a very effective means to lessen the anxiety caused by things that unsettle us. So, Sherlock ticking his fork against his plate whenever Mr.Clarke couldn’t control his spoon as a consequence to his worsening Parkinson disease wasn’t to mock him, it was to ensure Sherlock wouldn’t have to rush off and rudely leave the table all together, probably while snarling at Mr. Clarke.

Rows weren’t rare in the Holmes household. Lately they were worse than ever, which had everything to do with an affair and very little with— what had previously been the biggest issue— the younger’s son incapability to speak properly. Like Mrs. Holmes said one day, while very upset and under the impression that Sherlock was upstairs and vast asleep, which he wasn’t, “I don’t know what to do with him anymore. I can’t make sense of his nonsense babbling and it makes me so angry I often… hate him for it.”

The day after it took Mycroft to figure out what was causing Sherlock to behave so strangely. On the one hand he was quiet and making a real attempt to behave, but on the other hand he was agitated and seemed upset without cause.

But what really upset Sherlock wasn’t hearing his mother talk about him negatively when he wasn’t supposed to listen in. It was hearing father yell at mother that it had been an accident and that it wouldn’t happen again, while she cried and tried to believe him, but couldn’t. It was their tone of voice that set Sherlock off. He’d feel it coming even before they did themselves. It’d start with the strain on a sentence, while one asked the other what was on the telly that night. It was ever so subtle, but Sherlock always heard. Sherlock leaving the room had become a sign and it'd become enough that it usually set the whole thing off.

Unfortunately for Sherlock there was no hiding. The voices reached through the walls into his bedroom. And they weren't the sort of voices that he could withstand if he must. They weren't laughter, which already could be very annoying, but at least wouldn't make him cringe like this. Mother and father were talking through each other, trying to drown the other's words in their own anger driven statements that usually weren't very well formulated.

He'd sit there, with the palms of his hands over his ears, until they'd feel painfully pressed against the sides of his head. But it didn't help, because he'd start hearing that low constant badum badum of the blood rushing through his veins, which was just as bad, if not worse, as the shouting downstairs.

There'd always come a point where Sherlock couldn't take it anymore and mimicry was the only solution. He'd shout until it felt like someone had made him drink boiling tea, or forced something sharp down his throat. He didn't say words, but he'd use the same sort of tones he heard coming through the walls. And although it'd always result in Mycroft angrily telling him off and trying to shush him, it would help him through another shit storm of bickering without passing out or vomiting over his bedroom floor.

Mycroft would have probably been more cruel if he hadn't believed that this was the only way for Sherlock to cope. Frankly he didn't want to know what his brother would be like if he didn't have this odd method, no matter how annoying it was for those who had to listen to it. It wasn't any more annoying than it was for Sherlock in the first place...

Perhaps that was why the cruelest thing about this transition back in time, to a time in which Sherlock didn't speak. It didn't happen suddenly, his brother losing his voice, but the end came when his father accidentally dropped a plate and it crashed to the floor just a little too close to Sherlock's feet, who'd jumped at the sound and felt nauseous for the rest of the evening. He hadn't said a single word since and that was two years ago now.

The cruelest thing was not that his little brother couldn't say what was on his mind, but that he couldn't control what went in. He could no longer mimic the fight. He could no longer drown out sounds by humming. He'd become more silent than ever and as a consequence, the world became louder than it had ever been.

[mutelocked]

( misophonia )

"No sugar, John. Not today, it's too noisy out," Sherlock had said whilst stepping into the living room, wrapping himself in a dressing gown, his hair a mess and his eyes only just adjusting to the daylight. John looked up with a frown. He had, in fact, been reading the newspaper and had no intention of making tea, so Sherlock's comment annoyed him. However, he felt more intrigued than annoyed at the moment.

"No sugar today because it's... too noisy?" he repeated, which suddenly had Sherlock's gaze upon him, as if he was an idiot for repeating something so blatantly obvious. But then the arrogant facade faded-- not that it had been a very good one with those tired eyes of his-- and it was replaced by a somewhat dismissive shrug. "Not going to explain?" The super sleuth shook his head and groaned at the ongoing drilling outside. They were working on the road and were going to do so for the coming few days. Sherlock had already been complaining yesterday, after spotting the notification signs in the street.

"There's nothing wrong with the road, what are they doing that for?" he asked, stepping towards the window to glance outside. He looked overly uncomfortable, at the continued drilling. John hadn't particularly enjoyed it, but he'd forgotten about it after getting emerged in other things.

"Paying attention to it isn't going to make it any more pleasant," John pointed out and got up to make their teas, despite having previously wanted to tell Sherlock off for suggesting John do all the work. He'd spotted that look of despair in Sherlock's eyes, while looking outside. It was nowhere near as bad as it was on danger nights, but it was reminiscent of it and John figured he should try to avoid Sherlock in that state.

He automatically reached for the sugar, but he stopped himself in time and looked at Sherlock again, but decided not to ask and put the kettle on instead. He'd wait for Sherlock to settle, before questioning him. It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to show strange behaviour and it also wasn't unusual for Sherlock to say things John didn't understand at all and John often wished he had a better idea of what really went on in that head. Sherlock liked to look in control, John knew. He also liked pretending not to care or have any feelings and John sometimes wondered whether he wasn't acting that at all. Maybe it was true. Sherlock Holmes didn't feel things that way, like he told himself often. It was the only way he could forgive Sherlock for some of the things he did. He didn't know any better.

Autistic? Maybe. Or just a high-functioning sociopath, as Sherlock was so keen to remind people. John had spent a night on wikipedia reading all about so called sociopaths and although a lot of the symptoms matched Sherlock's cold and absent behaviour, it also didn't entirely match up. Sherlock wasn't always in control... He wasn't always cold... He wasn't cold now, while he fretted and stared out a window, like a puppy trying to understand what was going on the first time his owners had a row about who would take him for a walk.

"Your tea," he said, while putting it down on the table next to Sherlock's chair. The detective stepped towards his chair and sunk down in it.

"They better be finished at the end of the week," Sherlock said. "Or I'm going to have to do something about it."

"It's not even that loud, Sherlock," John replied.

"I think it's that loud," Sherlock replied childishly.

"Why? What's going on?" John continued, but Sherlock didn't seem to want to talk about it. He never wanted to talk about anything, especially not the things that bothered him. He'd either lash out or stay silent and ignore John's questions. Or he'd try to get out from under it all by seeming fine and pretending not to have a clue why John was asking him anything at all. He did neither of those three right now, as he continued to sit in his chair uncomfortably and staring ahead with a look of frustration in his eyes. John had seen that look before, whenever Sherlock was an answer short to solve a case. Usually the answer would be something manifested in humanity, or emotion. Sentiment.

"Oh, can it stop already?!" he exclaimed, which nearly caused John to spill his own tea over the edge as he'd been in the process of grabbing his cup.

"Sherlock, calm down, for god's sake!" he replied, his heart only slowly calming down again. "What's wrong with you? It's just fucking road works."

"I hate road works."

"Yes, I realise," John replied. "Don't forget your tea." They were silent again for a moment and John watched his friend, while Sherlock was fretting and shifting positions, looking around the room as if he might find something that could block out the sound. "Why do you hate road works?"

"It's noisy. This is my house. I'd like to be left alone in it."

"They're working on the road, Sherlock, not the house," John replied, but he was starting to assume that Sherlock really did feel assaulted. Not because of the road works, but because of the noise it made. It was honestly not that loud. It wasn't very pleasant and it ruined the atmosphere a bit, but it was bearable. To John at least.

Sherlock's hands moved up and he pressed long fingers against his temples, while breathing in and out. "Are you okay, Sherlock? You seem a bit... panicked."

Sherlock seemed ready to deny it, but then he sighed instead and closed his eyes. "I hate noises. Always hated them. I think we might have to stay at a hotel until they're done."

"We?" John asked. "That's expensive, Sherlock. You can also wear earplugs if it's that bad."

"It is that bad!" and the look in Sherlock's eyes caused John to believe it instantly.

"Okay," John said, his voice softer, trying to comfort his friend, rather than continue to oppose him. Maybe it wasn't fair that he always tried to do that, just to get something out of Sherlock, but it often worked. Like Sherlock said himself, people hate telling you the truth, but they love to contradict you.

"Earplugs, yes. But you can't have them. I need someone to listen out."

"Listen out? We're at home Sherlock. Listen out for what?"

"I dunno..." the detective said. What did Sherlock 'listen out' for when he was sitting here? "Just do it, alright?"

"Alright."

[mutelocked]

But how beautiful would it be if John actually stopped looking at all the details like "what is Sherlock today" and instead started to think more like "today Sherlock is Sherlock"

( gender fluid Sherlock )

It had been a while since Mycroft's last visit and although they rarely treaded to more personal levels than 'how's the diet?', Mycroft seemed keen to inquire how Sherlock was keeping up now ze had a flat and a flat mate to share it with.

"It's only been two weeks, how much do you reckon could've happened?" Sherlock asked, avoiding having to delve into the topic of John Watson and the domestic life ze had of late.

"You've spent most of your life causing me problems. I'm getting a read on whether or not I can expect a decline."

"I like it here," Sherlock replied, giving Mycroft at least that much of a response. It was better than nothing.

"How's he with the whole..." Mycroft made a vague gesture in Sherlock's direction, who immediately sat up a bit straighter, signalling clear defense. Ze knew better than to expect any change to come from Mycroft. At least they didn't fight about it as much as they used to, but Mycroft still seemed very keen never to mention the word.

"Fine. John is fine with it." Which was more than could be said about zer older brother. That wasn't to say Mycroft wasn't glad to hear it.

"Not causing you any trouble then?"

"Not more than usual."

"I suppose the advantage is he's not likely to mistake you for a real woman. Knowing John Watson's eagerness to flirt, it could get very awkward very quickly between you two. Not the ideal sort of circumstance to share under one roof."

"Mistake me?" Sherlock repeated.

"You're almost a head taller than he is," Mycroft pointed out. "Probably not what someone like him is looking for."

"I'm not a head taller, and I don't think anything as silly as that could stop us. Besides, 'real' is subjective and I don't care how awkward it'll get, because I'm sure it'll pay off in the end. Now, kindly leave me alone. I need to get changed."

"You only just got dressed, Sherlock, surely you can come up with a better lie to chase me off with."

"I'm changing into something more appropriate. I need to ask John Watson a question."

[mutelocked]

Prompt: Write Sherlock trying to tell John he's in love with him.

( mutelock )

Sherlock had never really thought much about the sort of day that today was. That was mostly because he had never had any interest in the intricate details of relationship building, nor the effect it had on individuals. It had only ever been a science, not an experience. Now it was both.

It had been over a year since John had moved into 221b and Sherlock suddenly realized how, at some point in the last twelve months, it had become normal for him— the freak— to share his flat with John Watson. And today was the day he was suddenly struck by how odd it was that he hadn’t even realised it happening. It wasn’t a one day to the next thing, obviously, but surely a thing as big as this came with some sort of revelation. Perhaps this was it.

He was almost immediately sure it couldn’t be this, however. It didn’t come with the enlightened feeling or the feeling that something had been solved and could be put aside for something new. This was ongoing and he felt further from solving it than he had ever been. Despite enjoying the thrill of a game and the satisfaction of answering a question right, he did not mind that with John Watson it all worked very differently.

And while Sherlock was trying to understand the army doctor, John was learning to understand him, quite literally, by learning to read his main means of communication.

Most of the first few weeks they’d spend in silence, although occasionally John would tell him one thing or another about himself, or about something he’d noticed. Occasionally he’d read something from the papers, when he thought it would interest Sherlock. He became better and better at spotting the interesting cases and Sherlock had stopped reading newspapers all together, because it was far more efficient to let John do it for him.

Initially Sherlock carried a small notebook with him wherever he went and whenever he needed to tell John something he’d scribble it down for him to read. It wasn’t very sustainable when it came down to deep conversations, so they rarely had those, if ever… But John, who by all means did not have the time, nor the proper resources, was keen to learn how to read the sign language Sherlock fluently spoke, but rarely got to use in his line of work. Apart from his brother and Mike Stamford he knew no one who he could have a meaningful conversation with. Lestrade knew some basics, but they were all work related and left out more details than it was usually worth. Molly was invested in making sense out of him whenever he signed to her, but— regardless of the efforts on both their sides— it rarely worked out. He appreciated that she tried, however. It was far better than what most did for him.

He shared a home with John, which made him far more than a passer-by at the yard or a familiar acquaintance. Sherlock had yet to decide what term to dub John.

His hand almost moved to John’s shoulder, while the shorter man was looking into the fridge for something to eat, but was getting distracted by Sherlock’s most recent experiment, which included a set of feet. Not a pair. John had got used to being touched softly on the shoulder or arm whenever Sherlock wanted his attention. It was a means for John to know to look around at Sherlock’s hands to see what he wanted to say and, lately more often than not, John would perfectly read him. Not that Sherlock was using excessively difficult terms yet. He left those for later, when he was certain he wasn’t going to make John change his mind about this.

His fingers never reached John’s shoulder as he pulled back before making the conscious decision to put himself on the spot with no idea of what he wanted to tell John, but knowing there were plenty of things he was thinking. No, not thinking, but feeling. That was exactly why he’d pulled back.

He’d changed his mind. First he’d see if John withstood the test and, even when Sherlock was going full speed, still tried to follow him. If so, then perhaps Sherlock would tell him. But not yet.

John couldn’t have just a few words. He needed to know all of them, before he could have those.

[mutelocked]

Can you write a mutelock version of Sherlock and John's meeting?

( mutelock )

Sherlock Holmes didn’t consider anyone a friend, because no one considered him one. Of course it was hard to blame them. Most people had too little time to lead a satisfying social life as it was and honestly, he’d be very surprised if anyone would find the time to learn sign language just to talk to him. Although some people had asked for some simple signs to make communication just that bit better, there had never been anyone who had wanted to know what he would tell them if he could use all the words in the world.

The only reason Mike Stamford ever spoke to him was because some time back he’d learned Sherlock was mute and never spoke. It was a running gag, really. One Sherlock was keen to ignore. But when Mike Stamford had come to him and told him what Sherlock had already known, but never considered— that he had a deaf sibling— Sherlock for one of the first times in his life had a meaningful conversation with someone that was not his brother.

It just so happened that he’d mentioned looking for a flatmate. By God was he glad about that when Mike actually came in that afternoon with a potential flat share. Not that Sherlock was all too hopeful, but one interested party was better than the usual none.

John Watson used a walking stick to help him, but then kept standing in the lab, while looking around. “A bit different from my day.” Sherlock tilted his head.

They were introduced by Mike Stamford and that prolonged the moment just long enough for John to have taken in his surroundings and laid his eyes on the detective, who naturally hadn’t said a word yet. But he knew everything about John Watson already, which made him smile to himself.

Mike had taken a seat, which was an indication he wasn’t planning to leave the two alone yet, which Sherlock knew was a very deliberate decision not to have anyone in a room alone with Sherlock, the freak. He was thankful. This was a one off opportunity and he did not want to ruin it.

Sherlock put down the equipment he had been using to conduct his experiment, so he could use them to sign to Mike Stamford and ask for a phone. He needed to text someone, before he’d forget the insipid boring case, especially now he had something far more important to do.

It had taken John aback to see him sign and Sherlock was starting to get nervous, because he damn well saw that expression out of the corner of his eyes. No matter, he thought. Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other.