Title: The Beauty of Blackness
Rating: T
Genre: Family/Hurt/Comfort
Summary: AU. After a life-threatening incident when he's fifteen, Sherlock lands in the hospital, blinded. Rated mainly for swearing.
A/N: I can't promise that all the medical shit in this story is accurate, it's probably far from accurate, but it's fiction, and I'm sure you can forgive me for a few/way too many mistakes and minimum researching.
Snow drifts lazily down, settling on the sidewalks and coating the rooftops in central London. Big Ben chimes eight at night, the hollow noise echoing off the buildings and vibrating into the atmosphere. In the centre of the sidewalk stands a boy about fifteen years of age, watching the police come in and out of the house and listening to their chatter.
The boy has a gaunt look about him. He is tall and thin, and wears an expensive-looking blue jacket and black scarf. Snow covers his dark hair that curls down to his chin. The boy's name is Sherlock Holmes.
Greg Lestrade notices the boy standing quietly a short distance away, and saunters over to the kid. The (naturally, none of that ageing stuff) grey-haired man is new to the squad and his step was proud, "There's been a murder." He says, "You should get home before the murderer comes back."
"She won't come back." Sherlock replies, "She's probably terrified."
"She?" Lestrade wonders.
Sherlock nods, "The man was drunk, coming home late from a Christmas party. He got in a fight with his wife and came after her with a kitchen knife. She overpowered him and took the weapon, but the idiot kept after her. She didn't want to kill him, but it happened too quickly. She was horrified and tried to cover it up by swapping the weapons and keeping the one she used, trying to cover up the fingerprints. Bit presumptuous, because all knives would have both their fingerprints."
"In the police business, we don't go about making up stories for crimes." Lestrade says finally, after staring for a few seconds.
"It isn't a story." Sherlock sighs, "It's obvious! There's a stench of booze in the house and on the body. There's a picture of them fishing on the mantelpiece, the wife is a fairly big woman, and he was intoxicated, so she could overpower him very easily. There's a corner of the rug turned over, and since one of them has obsessive-compulsive, that would never stand. The wound in the man's chest is too large for the knife the size, obviously happened when the wife replaced the weapon to look like a suicide."
Lestrade's mouth opens, and when he finally closes it, he askes, "How did you know all that?"
"I poked around before you arrived." Sherlock says with a smug smirk and turns on the spot, striding away, "You'll probably find her at her sister's flat." He calls back, leaving Lestrade dumbfounded.
Sherlock strolls along the Thames, staring into the frigid water and thinking. Helping the police and leaving the new officer struck dumb gave him a warm feeling of giddiness. Maybe he will do that again. Ben chimes ten at night, and he heads back in the direction of home. He hates Holmes Christmas parties, all the family he hates in one room is always too much. Mycroft isn't worried and tracking him down now because Sherlock does this every year: goes out into the city and wanders around, window shopping. He sometimes buys himself gifts. It's one of the only times he can really see London(New Years and Thanksgiving as well), as his family lived halfway to Cardiff. This year he had bought himself a new magnifying glass. It was a work of art, with a slim reed handle and a frame of silver and iron. He's so caught up in his thoughts, the murder, the magnifying glass, the chemistry set at home and the new chemicals he would be getting tomorrow(as always), that he doesn't notice the car zooming toward him down the mostly deserted side street until it's too late.
Mycroft Holmes often wishes he could go out to the town with his brother during the Christmas parties, but as the elder brother, he has to stay behind and set a good example for the family. He sits on the couch, watching the excited children opening their gifts with the other adults when his phone vibrates in his suit pocket. He pulls it out and glanced at the screen. Sherlock. He gets up and went into the kitchen to speak.
"Sherlock?" He asks in his way of greeting.
"Your brother was found near the Thames earlier tonight." A cool male voice says.
"Who is this? Has he been kidnapped again?"
"...Again?" The man asks, "No, this is St. Bart's Hospital."
"He was a victim to a hit-and-run by a black minivan."
Mycroft swallows nervously, "Is he..."
"He's currently alive, though it is regulation to contact an adult figure in his life. We could not reach either parent, so please get them to come down."
Mycroft's already heading to the door, "I'll go myself, Mummy isn't available. Where is it?"
The man tells him the location and Mycroft hangs up.
Mycroft run down the stairs when it takes too long to wait for the elevator and is in his black car in record time.
Mycroft taps the arm of the waiting chair in a steady rhythm, biting his lip as he waits for news. 1-2-3-4. After about an hour, a doctor comes out of the room and beckons him over.
"Sherlock is stable, and will survive. There are several fractured ribs, a broken ulna, radius, tarsals, and metatarsals on the left side, and a major concussion. Nothing lasting, as far as we can see."
Mycroft relaxes slightly, and slouches back into the waiting chair, "Anything you might've missed, anything affecting the brain?"
The doctor nods, "Certainly. Concussions and car crashes can cause many problems in the brain including PTSD, cortical disabilities, inability to form concrete memories-"
"That'll be enough." Mycraft says, it pained him to hear what might be wrong with his brother. "When can we see him?" Though Sherlock has never admitted it, Mycroft cares deeply about his brother, and is sure that deep down, Sherlock returns the fondness. Very deep down.
"We'd like doctors to be unobstructed in their work for twenty-four hours or so, though he may not wake up for another twelve hours after that. And what about your parents? They need to know."
Mycroft nods, "When Mother and Father are available, I will communicate your message and the situation. Call me with any changes, though I won't be able to come." He says, and tells the doctor his number.
The drive back to Mummy and Father's large house is long, and it was midnight by the time he arrives. He writes a note to Mummy and Father should they come back before turning on their phones(unlikely, but still), and heads up to his brother's room.
It is a mess, to be frank. Books are thrown everywhere, from chemistry textbooks to Moby Dick. He can hardly see the bed for clothes and the only thing that looks like it is used on a regular basis is the desk chair that looks like Sherlock slept in it nightly. Notebooks and papers are piled all around the desk, leaving only a tiny space for writing. Mycroft begins packing some of the chemistry books(he would love to see the hospital that allowed Sherlock his chemicals), and two books of Grimm's Fairy Tales(Sherlock must like it, it was one of the more used books, though he couldn't see how Sherlock liked fairy tales), and a change of clothes for himself. When he has gathered everything Sherlock might want when he awoke and some things for himself, Mycroft calls his parents, as it is now twelve thirty, and they will be out of their stuffy religious service by now.
Thankfully, his mother answers the phone, "Mycroft. You didn't waste long calling, do you need a ride?"
"No Mother." Mycroft says, "Sherlock's in the hospital."
Juliet Holmes gasps, "What happened Mycroft?" She asks, her voice hurried and scared.
"A black minivan ran him over, not an accident, they think."
"Which hospital?" Juliet asks.
"St. Bart's in London." Mycroft says, and tells her the location, "Sherlock cannot be seen for twenty-four hours and he may be unconscious for thirty-six."
"Mycroft," Juliet says, her voice suddenly soft, "see you there, I love you, and be safe."
Mycroft swallows, understanding his mother's feelings, "You too, Mum." And with that, he hangs up.
Mycroft grabs the note from the counter and stuffs it in his pocket. He closes his eyes and slumps into a stool, suddenly weary. Surely it isn't wise to drive this tired. Without thinking, he lays his head on the counter to sleep.
Weak sunlight filters through a gap in the curtains, painting a golden stripe across the counter before coming to rest on the back of the waking Mycroft.
He twitches, then stretches and sits up. What happened? He yawns and tries to gather his thoughts. He sits bolt upright as he remembers, and it takes all his willpower to not jump up and go rushing out to the car and driving back to the hospital. It won't do any good. They won't be allowed in the room for a while. Instead, he gets up and begins to make a small breakfast. Just a coffee and toast. He eats it silently, wondering what's in store for Sherlock and all the Holmes. He checks the phone for messages and found that there is one, from Father.
'Your mother and I left early this morning. We're going to stay in your place until Sherlock's out of the hospital. Follow us once you've had breakfast and packed some clothes, we'll meet at the hospital tonight. We have your keys.'
Mycroft sighs and tosses the phone carelessly on the counter. He downs the rest of his coffee and set to getting ready.
First, a new suit(he looks atrocious), then packing another bag. Counterproductive, he knows, changing clothes before packing and getting his suit all wrinkled again.
It's around noon when he's ready, and he hauls the bags out to the car.
Icicles hang from the eaves of the large house and powdery snow crusts the icy lawns. Stiff breezes blow, not enough to lift the snow, but enough to be slightly uncomfortable. The sky is mostly clear of clouds for once, and it is perfect for a Christmas Day.
Beeping and murmurs surround Sherlock who lays prone, eyes closed, trying to get a grip on reality. He...he had just pissed off a...police officer? That seems right, and he was heading home, then, since it had been late, right? There was water and Ben...the Thames? Yes, that seemed right. But what had happened after? The bed is uncomfortable, nothing like his chair. Bed, bed, bed, why is he in a bed? He never sleeps on his bed. Never sleeps willingly at all. What happened? He opens his eyes to take stock of his surroundings.
Okay, someone left the light off. He blinks rapidly several times, trying to squash the panic that rises in his chest an threatens to choke him. He tries to move his arms, his anything, but they hurt terribly, "Somebody get the lights!" He croaks. His throat is dry. Why?
Immediately, bodies are crushing around the bed, suffocating Sherlock.
They wouldn't be doing that and saying he looks terrible if the lights are off.
Shit shit shit shit. No, not that, he needs his eyesight. Fuck. Not that, anything but that. He begins to shiver, blinking rapidly and trying to see something, anything.
"Something's wrong! Hold him down!" Strong arms grab him and prevent him from thrashing. He couldn't move even if he wants to, the shock was seeping into his bones, leaving him too terrified to move.
"What's wrong?" A man asks, leaning over him.
Sherlock wants to shove him away, shove them all away, but he still couldn't move, "I can't see." He whispers, like it's a big secret, but he really couldn't bring the energy to speak more.
Immediately, more doctors come closer and begin talking about what may cause that to happen. He hears cortical blindness a lot, as well as some other medical terms, and to be frank, he doesn't much like the word blind. It boxes it in and made it so it is concrete, unchanging. Blindness is a terrible word.
Finally, after a long time of arguing and tests on his eyes, a doctor(presumably) comes in with three other people. Mummy, Father, and Mycroft? Seems about right. Their footsteps squeak on the floor and suddenly, he's enveloped in a hug and Mummy's perfume. He tries not to start, but fails terribly.
After it gets awkward, Mummy lets go, but he can feel her standing close by. She calms him, an he is glad for her presence.
"We believe that your loss of sight was caused by head trauma to the optical lobe, essentially screwing up your brain's ability to process images." The doctor starts, "This is called cortical blindness, and there will be an MRI to confirm this."
Sherlock sags against his pillows in hopelessness. He needs his sight. How would he make his deductions?
"A blinded person can live a normal life with minimum help from others. You can consider a cane and maybe a seeing-eye dog when you get older." The doctor quiets for a moment before saying, "I'll leave you alone now." And Sherlock hears his shoes squeak over to the door behind his head and to the right.
Immediately after he leaves, Mummy grabs Sherlock's good and and holds it to her chest and mutters how much she loves him. He enjoys it for a while before trying to listen to Mycroft and Father. One of them is shuffling his feet at the end of the bed, the soles of his shoes squeaking on the floor. Finally, Father asks, "Do you feel all right?"
'Like shit.' Sherlock thought, but aloud he said, "Passable, given the circumstances." That was how you needed to speak to Father, formal, and never, ever use slang.
"Good." Father said.
Mycroft clears his throat, or Father, but Mycroft is more likely, "I packed books, so if you want anyone to read to you, just ask."
A knot forms in Sherlock's chest at 'read to you'. It will be like he's six, having to depend on people reading to him and audiobooks until he can learn Braille.
He doesn't want to learn fucking Braille!
Instead he nods slightly, polite like Father insists, "Which books?"
"Grimm's Fairy Tales and your chemistry books."
They visit for a while longer, but there isn't much to say. He likes Mummy holding his hand, and when she drops it, he feels lonely.
The blackness and quietness after they leave and the doctors are finally done is stifling. He gets bored quickly, just sitting there feeling pains in his foot and arm and chest, it isn't hard to...see that ribs are fractured and bones are broken. He now remembers the car crash and realises it wasn't an accident. That makes him feel better in a way, and worse in others. It isn't his fault he was blinded, that's good, and he really hopes the person who did that will be jailed. That will be extremely satisfying.
He suddenly realises. What was the last thing he saw? The other side of the street, surely?
No...something more pleasant to conserve. He remembers staring into the sky that night, and seeing snow falling down, twirling and mesmerising, making it look like he had stared into infinity.
He figures that is a good moment to preserve, and wonders how he can remember every detail as crisp as possible.
He thinks for a while, then remembers a memory trick he read on the Internet. A memory house, a place people made in their minds to remember things. It could be anything from their childhood home to a street. He decides he will make a palace. A gigantic building made of stone surrounded by a little medieval village where he will keep trifling things that he doesn't want to throw away, like the number of steps it takes to cross the kitchen at home. But the palace will be huge, beautiful, and he will be able to see it. He starts with the mudroom, where he will keep important things like that image.
He realises later that it is the first time he lies to himself.
He spends most of his time wandering his new Mind Palace, though he makes Mycroft and Mummy read to him when they visit(since Mummy and Father visit together, he only has to make one read). The Mind Palace is coming along nicely, it's expanding every day and he's memorised the rough layout of the hospital room and threw it in the dungeon with stuff that isn't useless enough for the village, but not so useful it deserves a proper place. Almost every waking moment he spends wandering the sunlit halls, storing things in vases and tables and flags. But eventually, everything is documented and it becomes boring scuffing his shoes on the marble floors, so he comes back to the normal world where darkness engulfs him.
He's sick of it already.