Date: 2013-08-09 03:01 pm (UTC)
substituteskull: (commanding - chating arm out gun)
Silvery-blue memories form and convolesce, pushing in and out of each other, running together, touching. Embracing. Sherlock's life runs in front of him and through him, the young boy with the rat's nest curls almost blowing up his school, watching his father stoically walk out on them, his mother's inability to comfort a boy with too much intellect and a tacit degree of boredom bordering on the sociopathic. John isn't without his childhood flaws. Born Scottish, moved to London, he forced himself to change his accent early on. His sister did too. Small, always small, he'd been picked on mercilessly. Until he faught back.

No one picked on him after he knocked in a few heads.

Where Sherlock spend his late teens going over cases, John played rugby, went off to war. In their twenties, Sherlock took up drug use, the memory of the needle plunging heroine once more into his arm cut away by John surgically removing shrapnel from a little boy caught in military crossfire.

Sherlock might not linger on memories, but John certainly does. His sister. The alcoholism--

It hits him so hard in the face with the memory of what happened the last day they'd been in the Vatican Cameo. So many people had been hurt--

"Ah-- Ah, God!" he vocalizes, hand shaking in the control sphere.
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