"Why didn't you tell us that you were back home Sherlock?" Mrs. Holmes wondered, taking one of Sherlock's hands and squeezing it in one of her own. Sherlock wiggled his fingers free, yanking on the cloth handcuffs violently.
"I wanted to avoid this...whatever this is." Sherlock snapped. Mr. Holmes walked closer, still not having said a word. He looked very uncomfortable yet almost awestricken at the sight of his son. Sherlock was sure that dispute his silence there was so many things he wanted to say.
"But this is good, we're talking to each other, we needed this." Mrs. Holmes defended.
"I don't need anything." Sherlock defended.
"You need to talk to your parents Sherlock, and this time, you can't run away." Mrs. Holmes insisted, patting the hand restraints thankfully.
"Oh, so this was your master plan? Wait until I'm chained to a hospital bed and try to win back my love?" Sherlock asked with a sneer.
"Well of course not Sherlock, we would never want you in a hospital! But, considering the circumstances, it's not the most inconvenient." Mrs. Holmes admitted with a shrug. Sherlock groaned, closing his eyes as if they would just go away if he stopped paying attention to them.
"Well then, whatever you're going to say, go ahead. Yes, I'm irresponsible, yes, I'm immature, and childish, and unreliable, and cruel, getting those points out of the way, what more is there to say?" Sherlock wondered carelessly. Mrs. Holmes glanced uncertainly up at her husband, who seemed to have gone mute. Well then again, who knows? Maybe he was mute, maybe in those seven years he had his tongue cut off in a car crash or something like that?
"We just want you back home, we want a better relationship. Seven years ago we weren't prepared to lose you; we weren't prepared to let you be who you are. But look at you now, you probably have a house, a job, a nice husband or wife, you made it, dispute whatever we thought." Mrs. Holmes said with a loving smile.
"What did you think?" Sherlock asked curiously, finally poking open one of his eyes to see his mother's reaction. It was very odd to see her sitting in that chair, and in the end he decided that maybe it would be better just to keep his eyes closed.
"Who cares what we thought, we were wrong. That's all that matters. And we're willing to admit that we were wrong, we're just waiting for you to admit it as well." Mrs. Holmes insisted.
"If you were wrong then how can I be wrong as well?" Sherlock wondered. Mrs. Holmes sighed once more, looking as if this were very hard to put into words.
"Well, I do remember you storming out of the house, threatening to turn yourself into the police station for murder." She recollected, looking rather ashamed to admit such a thing. Sherlock kept his eyes closed once more, because the thought of Victor threatened to bring tears, and his parents simply couldn't see him cry.
"I stand by what I said." he said simply.
"Sherlock, this is all very delicate, but we're going to say the same thing we said back then. It wasn't your fault." Mrs. Holmes insisted. Sherlock sighed, here we go again, their reconciliation was going to just add more fuel to this fire that had been burning for seven years.
"Mother I don't want to hear more about Victor." Sherlock said simply.
"But you don't know anything." Mr. Holmes insisted, finally opening his mouth and stepping forward in this debate. Sherlock's eyes opened curiously, wondering what on earth his parents would have kept from him.
"I don't know everything? Are you implying that you know something more?" Sherlock wondered cautiously. Mr. Holmes looked regretful to have even brought it up, but now that he had started he obviously couldn't stop. This time it was Mrs. Holmes's turn to be mute, seeing as she obviously didn't want to partake in this conversation.
"Sherlock, Victor came to us that morning, the morning before the fire." Mr. Holmes started. Sherlock sat up abruptly in his bed, his eyes fixed desperately on his father and his ears straining to hear the next word.
"He came to you?" Sherlock wondered. Mr. Holmes hung his head in shame, but obviously he was happy to get this story off of his chest.
"Victor came to ask for your hand in marriage." Mr. Holmes admitted flatly, seeming to have to cough up the words as though they disgusted him. Sherlock's face paled, his mouth hanging askew as he tried to process this new information. Victor was going to propose, when they were just seniors in high school? Victor was that dedicated to their love that he was going to get married so young?
"And...what did you say?" Sherlock whispered, his throat starting to close up as he already anticipated their response.
"No of course, you were simply too young. We told him how irresponsible that would be, and he was distraught, he insisted that after two years of being together that you two deserved a happy ending before anything could change. We refused again, and he ran out of the house in a frenzy, and we never saw him again." Mr. Holmes explained. Sherlock stared at his father in front of him, wondering if this were all just an alcoholic hallucination. Surely Victor wouldn't do such a thing; surely he didn't kill himself because he couldn't be with Sherlock forever?
"So he killed himself because he thought we could be together in death?" Sherlock whispered nervously.
"He killed himself because he was crazy!" Mrs. Holmes insisted, dropping her purse onto the ground with a horrible smack.
"He wasn't crazy!" Sherlock defended, his arms shaking in their restraints. How dare they insult Victor's memory, how dare they accuse him of being insane?
"The only way you would've seen that boy's sickness was if he were foaming at the mouth, he was deranged Sherlock, he always had been! He could've asked to marry you when you two were well into your forties and I still would've refused!" Mrs. Holmes exclaimed, getting to her feet in some sort of rage, releasing all of the feelings she's had brewing inside of her for seven years.
"I loved him!" Sherlock defended just as loudly.
"That doesn't justify his actions Sherlock, he killed himself, and there's no doubt in my mind that he wouldn't have taken you with him as well. He killed his entire family Sherlock, just so that he could be with you forever." Mr. Holmes said in an almost calm voice, as though he were trying to keep his cool.
"Maybe I would've been okay with that? Maybe I would've wanted to die if I could escape the cesspool of misery my own family brings upon me!" Sherlock exclaimed. Mrs. Holmes gasped in horror, as if she weren't expecting such harsh words to come out of Sherlock's mouth so soon.
"No matter what I do you two will never approve! No matter who I am, who I love, you'll never be proud of me, never! I'll always be your upset, your mistake!" Sherlock snarled.
"Sherlock Holmes you know that isn't true, we love you with all of our hearts, but you're simply being unreasonable, we did what we had to do, we did what we needed to do." Mrs. Holmes defended.
"Did you never think about what I would've said?" Sherlock growled, his voice dropping dramatically so that he drew the proper attention to himself. Mrs. Holmes faltered, closing her mouth and trapping yet another insult inside.
"What?" she whispered nervously.
"Yes." Sherlock snapped. "I would've said yes."
"Then maybe it was good that he burned!" Mr. Holmes insisted. Sherlock let loose a scream of rage, and had it not been for the straps on his wrist he would've tackled his father with his hands around his idiotic neck. How dare he mock Victor's death, how dare he insist that an innocent boy deserved to die!
"Sherlock?" asked a new voice, a softer voice. All three heads turned to the door, and John Watson stood clinging to the door frame, looking weak in a thin white hospital gown.
"Who are you?" Mr. Holmes asked in a rather regretful tone, probably wondering how much this newcomer had heard.
"John, come in, they were just leaving." Sherlock assured.
"We're not finished Sherlock, we know where you're staying, we're going to call!" Mrs. Holmes warned.
"I dare you to try." Sherlock growled. John stood very nervously next to the wall as both the Holmes parents left without so much as a goodbye, the door shutting violently behind them. John watched Sherlock nervously, wondering if he were going to start yelling once more. But Sherlock relaxed, easing himself into his pillows and softening his expression, watching John with loving eyes.
"Come here, it's alright." Sherlock assured, nodding towards the chair that had been occupied by a very many number of people. John nodded, walking very slowly over to the chair, looking very weak.
"Where those your parents?" John guessed, staring at the door as if he were worried they would return.
"I wish they weren't." Sherlock grumbled, his scowl returning for a short moment.
"Well, be thankful. Both my parents are dead." John admitted.
"I'm sorry to hear that." Sherlock muttered. John just shrugged, as though it didn't really bother him that much.
"Ya well, it was while ago. We were never really...close." John admitted. Sherlock nodded, watching John as he stared at the floor nervously.
"How much do you remember from tonight?" Sherlock wondered softly, wanting to take John's hand if he wasn't tied down.
"Not...not much. But what I do remember is a blur, as if I was watching from a perspective's point of view." John admitted nervously. Sherlock nodded, not wanting to have to explain every detail to John. If John didn't remember their brief moment on the dance floor then maybe it better stay that way.
"Well, elaborate. What do you remember?" Sherlock wondered.
"I remember sitting at the bar with you beforehand, taking shots, feeling better, and then we went to dance and you were swept away. You left me alone there, so I went back to the bar." John admitted heavily, as if he didn't want to recall those thoughts. Sherlock nodded, that matched up with his memories, if they were accurate that is.
"Yes, what then?" Sherlock wondered. John sighed heavily, sneaking a glance at Sherlock before staring back at the floor, picking at his dressing gown nervously.
"I remember you joining me at the bar; I remember...I remember you saying things, getting closer." John admitted. Sherlock's face went a bit red and his fingertips turned numb, but he nodded, that was all correct. "But I didn't pull away, I didn't want to, and soon we were dancing together, with our hands interlocked. And then you were even closer, and...and I wanted to pull away but I couldn't, and soon I felt your lips on my head and I couldn't do anything except kiss you back and as soon as I pressed my lips against your jacket I lost control, and I don't remember anything after that." John finished with a long, rattling breath, as if this were painful to tell out loud. It sounded so shameful when put into a sober man's mind, it sounded so wrong now that they sat here in the aftermath.
"Yes, I um...I remember that as well." Sherlock whispered, eventually finding it difficult to even look at John from where he lay. John nodded, and there was a still silence that hung over the air, they both knew they had to talk about it, they both knew that they had to justify their horrible actions.
"We were drunk." John offered first. Sherlock nodded, that was for sure. They were both drunk, their actions were not their own, they were in a cloud of desire and carelessness, what else could they have possibly done? But Sherlock did remember some thoughts more clearly, more vividly than others. He rather remembered his mind telling him no, even as he stepped closer and closer. Maybe he wasn't as clueless as he hoped.
"Molly said that you most likely lost control because you were drunk, she guessed that it was the equivalent of being unconscious, since your soul is numb. But now that you told me your own experience, I don't think that's so." Sherlock decided rather uncomfortably. John sat hunched over in his chair, the back of his hospital gown stretching tightly across his spine.
"You think it was...you?" John wondered, not able to look Sherlock in the eyes as he proposed such a thing.
"In a way I think it was me. The priest warned us about sinning, that was a sin, it was adultery..."
"No it wasn't!" John defended suddenly, sitting up right so that he could defend his point with a dangerous glare. "We didn't even kiss, alright, it was just drunken affection, it meant nothing!"
"John, I'm just stating the facts." Sherlock defended.
"It wasn't wrong." John said flatly. Sherlock sighed heavily, letting his head sink farther into the pillows and staring up at the ceiling, pitying john's small mind. He was trying to rationalize this into something that didn't hurt his self-conscious, he didn't want to be guilty about cheating on Mary, so he focused on the minute details. Just because their lips didn't meet doesn't mean they weren't going to, if that Aspiration hadn't taken over then who knows how far it would've gone? Dispute John's insistence that those little kisses and shy words meant nothing Sherlock knew that they meant everything. They were everything.
"Yes, alright John. Nevertheless, just in theory, if that were in fact wrong, then the Aspiration would've fed off of that sin and beat out your soul for consciousness. It was a horrible chain reaction, going from bad to worse in seconds." Sherlock insisted.
"It wasn't even me doing those things then, it was Irene, inside of me, she as controlling me!" John insisted, looking proud of himself for managing to worm his way out of such a thing.
"Yes, John of course. It was." Sherlock agreed regretfully, wondering if John actually had a point there. What if John didn't love him at all, what if all of that was just Irene, taking the reins and making John do things he would never do consciously? What did that mean for Sherlock, who could never blame his own actions on something like that?

    "Well then what do you think we should do?" John wondered.
"Well I know a start." Sherlock muttered sarcastically.
"Alright, other than never sinning at all, what do you suggest we do?" John asked, looking for a much more specific answer. Sherlock sighed heavily, wracking his brain for the short term solution that may hold the Aspiration back just a little bit more.
"Let's clean up your soul." He decided, looking at John excitedly. John looked rather lost; he was staring at Sherlock with a blank expression, obviously not following.
"Well, I mean I don't really know any good soul maid services around, but you know..." John said with a humorous little shrug.
"No, I mean confession!" Sherlock insisted, wiggling around in excitement. "You know how those Catholic churches have those like...box things? And you tell the priest everything wrong you've done and he gives you something like a royal pardon? We could do that, we could get you reconciliation for all of your sins and therefore purify your soul." Sherlock proposed. John nodded, thinking for a moment without looking too doubtful.
"That could work I suppose, I mean, I don't see anything wrong with trying. We could get Father Franklin to do it." he planned, nodding in agreement to his own statements.
"That would be perfect; with confession your soul's armor can be restored." Sherlock agreed, trying to make some sort of metaphor that an atheist could understand. John hummed in agreement, but didn't say anything for a moment.
"Why did they strap you down to the bed?" John wondered curiously, as if just noticing Sherlock's handcuffs around his wrists. Sherlock sighed heavily, lifting up his hands and letting them get pulled back down once more to show him just what kind of unfortunate circumstance he was in.
"I supposed they thought I was a violent patient. They thought we got knocked unconscious from a bar fight." Sherlock said with a little laugh.
"As if it were that easy." John muttered, not able to keep a smile off of his face nevertheless.
"Sounds so simple, doesn't it? Just getting drunk and going a few rounds. They I'd drop you back off at home and we could both sleep, both be normal." Sherlock said with a longing sigh.
"I don't think we'll ever be truly normal, not anymore." John muttered. Sherlock nodded in silent agreement.
"You could." he decided, looking up at John with a soft expression, knowing that John had the potential to go back to a normal life.
"Well, you could as well." John agreed, as if he were somehow trying to make Sherlock feel better about his future. Then again, his future hadn't even started yet and it was an absolute train wreck. Family, kids, an actual house, there was no way he was ever going to achieve those things without a job or potential in life.
"John I can see the dead. My best friend back home died a couple of years back, how am I supposed to be normal?" Sherlock wondered regretfully, casting a saddened glare down at the floor next to John's feet.
"Well you could always find a nice...man. You could settle down, you know, get married? Who needs the dead when you have the living?" John asked in a hopeful voice. Obviously he was trying to make Sherlock's gift sound like something that could be ignored, something that Sherlock could just look over and continue on with his life.
"It's never going to be that simple. I'm a twenty five year old man who's still afraid of the dark." Sherlock said with a shameful little laugh. John sighed heavily; obviously he was feeling as though he should be doing something to comfort him, he was trying to help. But he couldn't help, not without feeling guilty, not without submitting the feelings he was trying his best to ignore.
"Well maybe you just need someone to protect you from what lives in the darkness." John suggested.
"Who do you suggest?" Sherlock wondered, raising an eyebrow yet not bothering to be platonic about it, he liked to see John's cheeks flush uncomfortably. He liked to see him uncomfortable.
"I have a nightlight, if that helps." John muttered with a little laugh, and Sherlock could only laugh as well, his flirtatious nature breaking down to reveal a childish smile.
"Good thing you're taken then." Sherlock decided. As soon as he said that John's face fell morbidly, as if Sherlock had just announced a death in the family. Sherlock tried to mutter his apologies, but as if she had been waiting for an awkward silence, Mary walked into the room, radiating an aura of power as she strode towards her husband.