Lost and found
[T.W. for bullying, mentions of childhood trauma]
"Home"
As he looks into his microscope, Sherlock is thinking about the book he picked up last night. About the brave pirate who's currently exploring a desert island, following an ancient map and trusting his companions more than himself. Getting lost in the process. Walking alone inside a deep, dark cave without listening to the bad feeling in his gut.
Something about that pulls a broken string Sherlock is not willing to repair. It's not about the danger, or the possibility that the book could end tragically. It's not about being alone, or helpless, or too exhausted to think about fighting. It's about getting lost, and never finding your way home.
It's ridiculous how much the topic seems to affect him. He knows that, to get lost, it's necessary to have a home to begin with. Or a place in the world, at least.
Sherlock Holmes doesn't belong anywhere, instead.
Not in his childhood home, that's filled with dark memories. Pictures of two kids with bright smiles on their faces, even if Sherlock doesn't remember being happy. A dog bowl Mr. Holmes doesn't have the heart to throw away, although his dog is long gone. Echoes of screams and cries, even if Sherlock can't tell who's the boy asking for help in the dark.
In the past, during primary schools, his five years old version found his temporary home in his father's car, and in that long road that connected Mr Holmes' house to his ex wife's. A backpack with clothes and snacks became his best friend, because it was impossible to make a real one.
Mommy's home, free from voices and pain, was better than his father's for many reasons. And yet, Sherlock never dared to call it his home. The car deserved that title.
That, until his father decided to buy a new model without asking for his son's opinion. Sherlock remembers sobbing for hours, and ending up being grounded for it.
He tried to turn his high school into his new safe space, but he was too thin, too weird and too gay for that. In few months, the building became his personal house of horrors. He was pushed around in the corridors, laughed at in the locker rooms, or dragged to the rooftop and kept from falling off by three giggling idiots. He spent his lunch pause in the bathrooms, locking himself in one of the stalls and holding his sandwich with shaky hands. Most of the times, he was too tense to take a bite without throwing up.
And then, when Mrs. Hudson finally walked into his life, he was too damaged to have hope.
He likes Baker Street more than he cares to admit, but...
But something is missing. And it frustrates him to no end, because he can't quite place what that is. Can't even make hypothesis. He simply knows something isn't right, like a itch in a spot he can't reach, or the sensation of forgetting something at home although he has no idea what that item is. It keeps him up at night.
Someone pushes the lab door open.
Mike Stamford, judging by how heavy his footsteps are. There's the sound of a cane clacking against the floor, too, and another voice whispering something he isn't interested in hearing. He doesn't even look up from the experiment he is occupied with.
He asks for a phone, because he can't waste time searching for his own. Says there's no signal on it, although he isn't sure if that's true. Refuses the landline– he prefers to text anyway. Mike replies that he forgot his own, and Sherlock somehow resists the urge to roll his eyes.
"Here," the other man says casually. "Take mine."
Sherlock's heart skips a beat, and he frowns at it in confusion. Confusion that fades incredibly quickly, as soon as he lays his eyes on the soldier waiting with his phone in his hand. Almost like he isn't giving his heart to a stranger in the most reckless way possible.
Sherlock blinks.
Once.
Twice.
And he knows, then. He knows John is exactly what he's searching for, because the itch isn't there anymore. Because he feels like he met the man already, perhaps in another place or another time, but always when he needed him the most.
He imagines a meeting settled in a past without cars and technology, or in a world where Charming Princes exist to save lost creatures like him. A world where he can stop feeling like the freak he's destined to be.
"Oh," he lets out, standing up and ignoring the dizziness and the butterflies in his stomach.
"Thank you." He adds, because he doubts it's appropriate to reply with the words buzzing in his head.
I missed you.
Where have you been?
I'm lost without you.
You left me alone for so long.
Show me the way out of this deep, dark cave, will you?
I'm scared.
Please don't leave again.
Don't leave anymore.
Take my hand.
Take my heart too.
Stay.
Promise?
