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Watch with Glittering Eyes

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         Sherlock remembers almost everything that has ever happened to him, though there are blank spaces made during the Dark Ages of his university career. Unusual as it is, he remembers with vivid clarity the days and weeks before all of his (six) overdoses, but that first time, what must have hooked him is a blur, a blemish in his otherwise flawless Mind Palace. In the years since he broke the grip of cocaine Sherlock built his Palace up to the glorious structure that now stands erected in his cavernous mind, rivaling even Alexandria in both knowledge contained and beauty. He understands that most people who have the misfortune of making his acquaintance believe him to be an unfeeling machine, focused solely on the physical world, on what can be touched and seen, but most people are idiots.


         If acquaintances make it through Sherlock’s first tirade, they assume him cold and calculating, they assume him to be wholly scientific and utterly focused on the pleasure he derives from unearthing their darkest secrets and baring them for the world to see. People assume, but people often assume wrong. If they would stop for even a moment, Sherlock often thinks, people would notice that beneath his bespoke shirts and just on top of his heart lays a pendant made from Apache Tear and Aventurine. Perhaps it was unfair of Sherlock to classify people as idiots simply for not recognizing his twin stones when they slipped from under his shirt; perhaps it was an unfair hope that as unlikely as it was for someone to recognize the type of stone he wore, someone would take notice of the fact that though these stones offered luck to the user, they offered no protection.


         Sherlock remembers almost everything that has ever happened to him, births and deaths and drugs and loss, but what Sherlock remembers best and most fondly is his first experiences with Wicca. He was five years old and already three hours into exploring new and uncharted sections of the local library. He’d already read through the mostly horrific and mindless children’s section, and though he did have a soft spot for Matilda, her genius and hardship struck a chord in his young soul that he couldn’t fully articulate, most of the other books in the section were drivel. He knew of vaguely of witches from other Roald Dahl books, but those had sent him whimpering through the darkness into Mycroft’s room for several nights after finishing it. He had explored the biography section from Black Bart to Mary Read and more. Those had sent him gallivanting into Mycroft’s room like the swashbuckling scalawag he was, for weeks afterwards he was the scourge of Mycroft’s waking moments, poking and prodding him constantly with his miniature cutlass and rapier.


          Eyes wide and curls bouncing with every step, Sherlock made his way slowly towards the back of the library, quickly scanning the shelves that surrounded him for anything that could entertain him for more than a few hours. He saw physics theory, biology studies, and civics texts, but he’d already scoured those editions that Mycroft had for textbooks. He’d scanned them all, not understanding enough to be anything but frustrated and then forgot to replace them in Mycroft’s room when he came in from exploring for the day. In fact, he had left them on the creekside and by the time Mycroft had found them, they were soaked with dew and permanently damaged. This had earned him a half year ban from borrowing Mycroft’s things, and he was glad of it, Mycroft’s text books were already advanced for his age and Sherlock could hardly comprehend them. He quickened his pace, nearly skipping in his haste to explore this uncharted territory. Finally, he reached the final section of the library, labelled “Lore”. It was filled with beautiful hardback editions of Greek, Nordic, Irish, and African mythology; some of it was new and garishly decorated, some was old and covered with dust, and all of it brimmed with knowledge.


         Over the next few weeks Sherlock became engrossed in the lore section, plopping himself down in the midst of it every day at 9 when the library opened for the day, pilling books around him until only the very top of his curls were visible, until 20 minutes to 4 when Sherlock frantically but methodically replaced each book in its proper home and then rushed to the mathematics section where he read until Mycroft picked him up after school each day. In those too short hours Sherlock entered new worlds of magic and mysticism that he had never known existed. He soon finished the specifically mythological section and found himself looking through indexes and even asking the librarian for her advice on occasion. Sherlock found himself reading Homer, Rumi, and Ovid for background on the myths that so captivated him.


         It was within the pages of Homer that Sherlock found his first dynamic view of witches, in the descriptions of Calypso and Medea. Of course, he knew they were portrayed as villains, wicked women who were punished for their use of magic, but their power and their respect for the earth and the gods stood unwavering beneath the scorn of their contemporaries and their author and creator. From these descriptions Sherlock began his search for all things Witchcraft. After a few false starts with the Scarlet Letter, Witch of Blackbird Pond, and a few others, Sherlock finally found a beginner’s guide to the art of Wicca. Inside that book and the many many others that followed, Sherlock found a home for himself and his persistent curiosity. He found that there was always a new angle, a new opinion on the mercurial garden that is magic.


         Of course, over the years Sherlock did discover a passion for crime solving and chemistry, but his reliance on salt, good thoughts and spells were never ever forgotten. In University, he had to give up, at least briefly, his rituals (the dorms didn’t allow fire or candles or candles on fire in large quantities). This proved harder to accommodate than Sherlock had expected and by the middle of his first semester his mind had begun to collapse in on itself, breaking him apart into the hopeful child that his Wicca practice had sustained and the darkness within him that formed from his childhood bullying and the constant and unapologetic scorn of his classmates that had followed him all the way to University.


          Instead of constant spell working, Sherlock turned first to his experiments, stealing microscopes, chemicals and specimen from the biology labs only to whole up in his dormitory for weeks poking and prodding tissue, algae or some intriguing mixture of the two. Only when the dormitory management and the university president firmly and repeatedly requested the immediate termination of his noxious gases, chemical fires, and decomposing frog remains, did Sherlock consider other means of clearing his mind.


          He slept less, ate less, and his deductions turned from brutally honest but fair to vitriolic and uncalled for. He accepted his continued solitude and learned to tune out the obscenities often shouted his way on the rare occasions he attended lecture. Though nothing truly interested him, Sherlock began to explore the underbelly of London during his free time. He learned every street and alley within days, the unfortunate souls who could be tempted to speak after a kind word, within the month after that, and was given his first hit of cocaine exactly four weeks and 3 days after he began his explorations of London.


          After that, there were even fewer lectures and no disturbing experiments because Sherlock was rarely in his dorm. Instead of spit out life stories Sherlock found himself waking up in the damp cellars of abandoned factories, tourniquet still tight around his arm. Sherlock found that he didn’t need his massive brain or his spells, in fact he didn’t need much of anything except the singing of cocaine through his overtaxed and underfed body.

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         Years passed with Sherlock still under the spell of his mistress, though he eventually learned that to keep Mycroft from swooping in on him like a protective mother hen, he did have to eat at least once daily and emerge once every 12 days from his stupor to at least insult Mycroft’s weight just to keep the meddling bastard from sending his minions slinking after him. After Sherlock’s sixth and final overdose, he finally consented to attend rehab though it was a very secure one located on the Southern Coast.


         When he emerged ten months to the day after entering, Sherlock was an unemployed 27-year-old with vague but visible track marks and an abrasive personality. Thankfully his trust fund was to be unfrozen that afternoon, though it was to be monitored closely by one of Mycroft’s many goons and he was able to return to his third love, London, and find a cheap but manageable flat to rent.


         Sherlock remained as distant to those around him as he’d ever been, but for the first time in his somewhat stinted life he had the freedom to construct his world around him. Within days of moving into his tiny flat on Montague Street, Sherlock began to cultivate his garden.


         First came the thistle, pots and pots of it around his door and windows, to remind him to stay strong. Then coltsfoot and ivy on his tables, counters and even the few chairs that Mycroft had somehow snuck in before Sherlock moved in. Finally, he filled his bedroom with daisies, lavender, marjoram, marigolds, and more to fill his infrequent dreams with hope, strength and to remind him of the simplicity of the days he spent on the creekside during his youth.


         Over the next few months as his plants flourished, Sherlock reacquired his other tokens; his original microscope bent and bruised on the outside from his afternoon on the edges of his creek, but precise and delicately put together as ever, his original copy of Matilda, given to him by the kindly librarian after his 100th official borrow of the novel, and his beloved violin as well loved and well cared for as the day he began lessons.


         These things became fixtures in his home, as much as Billy the skull or his plants. In fact, when Sherlock saw that tendrils of ivy were winding their way around and into his microscope he couldn’t help the warmth that filled his chest and brought the ghost of a smile across his face.


         Even after he moved from Montague Street to Baker Street, on the behest of Mrs. Hudson who feared retaliation from drug lords who had either hated or loved her deceased husband, Sherlock maintained and expanded his collection of greenery, secretly hoping to one day have a garden that rivaled Ms. Honey’s in beauty.


         Just as cocaine was beginning its siren call once more, a grumpy, short, ex-army doctor limped his way into Sherlock’s life and gave him the most frustrating and worthwhile problem he had ever encountered. That problem’s name was John H. Watson. 


         Suddenly, and for the first time in Sherlock’s life, he was not on his own. Instead of a sigh or scoff when he arrived at crime scenes, there were good natured jabs thrown towards both him and his doctor (and that’s what John was, his doctor). Instead of being introduced as Sherlock Holmes, he slowly morphed into Sherlock and John, the detective and blogger, the madman and the doctor.


         When John had first moved into Baker Street, Sherlock had been careful to remove his beloved plants from most common spaces, fearing ridicule and derision from the doctor whose approval he craved. But as months passed and John continued to be his grumpy, but not cruel self, Sherlock slowly began moving his plants back out into the main areas of the flat. First into the sitting room, ivy winding around the knife stuck perpetually into the mantel, then onto bookshelves and windowsills almost blocking the weak London sunlight.


         Six months after the earthshattering event that was meeting John Watson, Sherlock had no trouble admitting to himself that he was irrevocably in love with his doctor. He had tried to delete it, but found that, just as on a computer the request couldn’t be processed because that file was in use. He had tried ignoring it, just hoping it would go away, but then John would see him tending his plants and smile that soft smile and it was back at the forefront of his mind.


         After the Pool Sherlock knew that his time for cowardice had run out, he could not pretend that his love for John was his secret. He couldn’t pretend that his aloof and distant act was fooling anyone, if it ever truly had. Sherlock believed with very little doubt that John would not ridicule him even if his sentiment was unrequited.


         Before going into the breach Sherlock changed the charm on his necklace to one of Rose Quartz and Rhodochrosite, desperately hoping that he would survive John’s refusal with only a mortal wound to his pride and not to his already shattered heart.


         After the first breathless exchange of kisses and desperately whispered “I love you”s, Sherlock lay curled inside the circle of John’s arms in his (their?) bed and thought of the little boy he had been when he read about Matilda finding her place in the universe, the boy he had been when cocaine stole his mind and body, and the man that now lay surrounded by the love of his life.


         The next time Sherlock cast a spell, hoping for the clean resolution of a particularly gruesome case, candles dripping wax onto the sitting room floor and mixing with salt, John came up behind him, ruffled his hair and sat down across from him. This soft love was what he had been searching for in the books of the library and the streets of London all his life and now without hesitation or doubt, it was his.

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      John had been injured in the latest case, nothing too serious, just burns on the palms of both hands from grabbing evidence from a suspect started fire, but long to heal and annoying to live with. He had been grumpy and tetchy all week, hating his inability to type up the case notes or open a beer without sharp stabs of pain.

      This annoyance on John’s part led to Sherlock, sitting criss-cross on their, less than spotless, bedroom floor, frantically searching for healing spells that were specific to the hands. It seemed silly to him that he had deleted any healing spell, given his line of work, but his mind palace was utterly devoid of helpful information and thus the increasingly annoyed search history his phone showed him.

>Wiccan spells healing

>Wiccan spells healing hands

 >Wicca spells healing hands

 >Wicca spells healing hands white magic

 >Wicca healing spells for injured hands

 >hand spell

 >handjob spell

 >how to turn off autocorrect


            Finally, he found a spell requiring only salt, candles, water, and intentions- all of which he had in abundance. He quickly gathered sea salt from above the fridge, four candles from deep under the bed he and John shared, water from the bathroom sink-the kitchen sink was being used to filter different blood types to observe any minute differences between them, and finally his silk scarf, covered in floral designs, bright colors, and square enough to not make sense to wear as a scarf.


            Once he had collected his materials, Sherlock scurried back to the space in front of their bed to set up. He carefully flattened his scarf out, placing a candle on each corner, securing them to the floor, next he lit the candles with care to not catch his scarf or the flat ablaze, mixed the salt and water then settled himself in the right mindset to perform his spell.


Sherlock breathed in and out, calming himself and shutting out the world around him, he hadn’t realized his eyes were closed until he opened them to find himself in his mind palace and John standing before him. With careful steps, he approached him and took John’s injured hands softly in his.


It was impossible to know how long they stood, John simply breathing and Sherlock repeating his belief that John’s hands would heal soon, but eventually he felt a soft but gauze covered hand run through his hair in the real world. Sherlock took a few minutes to resurface, enjoying the light kisses pressed to his scalp as he returned to the reality.


When he finally did, John was smiling down at him as bright and warmly as the sun and Sherlock couldn’t help but return that love and warmth he saw in John’s eyes. His face craned up for a kiss and he saw a crumpled paper bag from the pharmacy held in John’s hand.