I DO NOT OWN ANY SHERLOCK CHARACTERS!
Looking Toward the East Wind
I was quite tired when I awoke, feeling like I was emerging from the depths of a great lake, breaking the surface and gasping for air. My eyes snapped open and I blinked away the harsh light, as my senses started to come back to me. I was lying on a soft bed, blankets like white clouds covered my legs and torso, but my chest was bare and tangled in wires. I moaned a low and deep sound. As my eyes became adjusted, I started to feel. It was a sharp biting pain in my chest, one that shrieked for relief. I gritted my teeth and tried lifting one of my arms, but it was heavy and felt as though weights were pressing against it. I sighed and started to hear the soft beeping that counted each of my heartbeats. I calculated the rhythms in correlation to my own heart and assumed that I was indeed unwell. My pulse usually ran much quicker then this did now. I glanced at all of the machines that supported me, watching them map out my body like a directory. My vitals demonstrated my wellness, the transfusion monitor pumping more blood into me to make up for the loss, as well as the morphine drip, which in relation to the rest of the machines was the one that drew my gaze.
It was pointed to the 'low' setting and I grimaced. It must be Mycroft's doing… he still thinks I can't handle my little 'drug' problem. I sighed but found out too late that this hurt as well. I closed my eyes and tried to block out all noise and memories, for something was nagging me, I simply couldn't remember what. I knew the nature of my situation, and of Mary's situation, but there was a different kind of block in my mind, that I couldn't quite place.
Click, click, click.
I was rudely interrupted by the sound of a woman entering. I opened my eyes a fraction to see who had the nerve to disturb me while I was thinking.
"Hello Sherl." Came a sour voice. I moaned and locked eyes with her brown ones,
"Janine." Said I.
"So sorry to hear about…" She drifted off, gesturing in my general direction and looking slightly awkward.
"Mmm. It's nothing major."
"Well I'm not gonna act like I care." She responded coolly.
I continued, "You are responsible for the lack of morphine in my system?"
"You proposed." Was all she said.
"So?"
"So you're an arse."
"Clearly."
Janine scoffed however a small smile creped up on her face and she laughed slightly. "Well at least you'll admit it. But was it really all a lie? None of it was real?"
"Nope." I said lightly, imaging John's look of disapproval at my words. "Sorry." I added, not sounding it.
"Well I supposed what you went through was enough of a payback for one girl." Janine said, "plus with all the press I'm getting about you I can retire early." She said, shrugging and patting on my covered legs.
I scoffed. She frowned at me and without another word she stood and stalked out of the room. I glanced around to look for the call button, but it was just out of reach. My hand found the control on my bed and I lifted it so I was now sitting up. Grunting from the pain, I watched the machines tick away for a minute before there was a light knock on the door, where three people entered. A doctor dressed in green scrubs took the lead; behind him were Mycroft and Lestrade.
"You have some visitors Mr. Holmes." The doctor needlessly informed me.
"Yes."
"How are you feeling?" He continued, unceremoniously grabbing my wrist to check the slowness of my pulse. He plucked my chart attached at the edge of my bed and made a few scribbles on the paper.
"My pulse is irregular due to the lack blood flow to my veins because of the blood loss, once the transfusion is complete it should speed up the process but in the mean time, I should stay off my feet and intake a lot of fluids, how am I doing doctor?"
The doctor looked as bemused as any of my clients and I stole a small smirk. The doctor shook his head and said, "Yes, Mr. Holmes. I'll leave you alone now shall I?"
He left the room as Mycroft and Lestrade simultaneously stepped forward.
"Hey Sherlock." Lestrade began.
"What do you want Grant?" I asked, my body feeling tired and beat up.
"It's Greg, brother mine." Mycroft corrected.
I quirked an eyebrow at the two of them, "So you two finally came out then?"
"What?" Lestrade burst out, his laugh high-pitched and sharp.
"He's my brother, what did you expect?" Mycroft said, lightly brushing Lestrade's shoulder.
"Okay, yes. But not to everyone, so don't go blabbing." Lestrade said, looking warmly at Mycroft.
I scoffed and continued my staring contest with the window, my eyes unfocused.
"Sherlock." Mycroft began. I begrudgingly turned my gaze back to him. "I am sorry about what happened."
"It's not that large of a problem. The bigger problem at the moment is Mary and Maganesen."
"Not that big of a problem? Jesus Sherlock, I thought you of all people-"
"He's right." Mycroft interjected quickly, throwing the tiniest of glances to his companion. "It is just one bullet wound." Mycroft regarded, glancing at the bandaging on my chest. I didn't catch the misstep, for I was too busy scrutinizing the window once more.
"Anyway, dear brother-" Mycroft began, drawing my attention back, "Stay off your feat and don't do anything strenuous."
I rolled my eyes but didn't respond. I couldn't shake a lingering feeling of something in the back of my mind, stored away. I was too exhausted to take a trip to the Mind Palace today. Perhaps tomorrow… I thought idly, drifting into sleep quite quickly, however my brain clung onto one last thought before I drifted off, perhaps John will be here when I wake up…
The next day dawned bright and chilly as my eyes opened slowly, talking in my surroundings. I had had a bizarre dream that captivated all of my current attention. Mary was there, holding the rifle, wearing her wedding dress and a smug smile plastered on her face. However, when she pulled the trigger and the bullet whizzed out of the barrel, I didn't feel the impact, but someone screamed beside me. I had looked around to see who was making all of the commotion but no one was there, just an empty space of floor, but oddly, after a moment- the floor had started pooling blood on it's own, I thought to bend down and investigate before I was wrenched out of my dream by the demanding exterior world around me.
I was confused and frustrated. Most of the time I didn't remember my dreams, when I did, it was usually filled with calculations and numbers, much like what my brain was filled with during the day. But for a reason I couldn't quite place, this dream felt different.
There was a soft knock on the door and appeared the face of Mrs. Hudson, looking pale and concerned, wearing her purple dress as usual.
"Oh Sherlock." She whispered, advancing toward my bed. I flashed her a fake smile and adjusted my pillows slightly, feeling a stinging in my chest. I inhaled a quick breath but Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to notice my pain, for she was preoccupied with straightening my bed sheets.
"Hello Dear."
"Good morning." I responded.
"How… how are you feeling?" She asked timidly.
It was like they had never seen anyone in the hospital before, treating me like an infant.
"Fine yes." I waved off the question like a bothersome bee.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, why wouldn't I be?"
"Well I just feel like, well, after…" She struggled with her words, "After everything that happened…" She drifted off and looked at me expectantly.
"It's like all of you are expecting me to suddenly cry out in pain, honestly- I don't know why you are all treating me like this is my first injury!" I do not remember shouting or getting out of bed but my chest felt like it was on fire and my legs were shaking.
"Sherlock… Lie back down please." Mrs. Hudson allowed a tear to escape her eye before she helped me, groaning, back into bed. I sighed and brushed stray hair out of my eyes.
"Now, I need to speak to John. Find him for me." I said in a brisk, business-like way.
"But Sherlock he-"
A sharp knock cut through her sentence. A doctor in blue scrubs entered, "I heard shouting. Is there a problem?"
"No, no problem." I said quickly, glancing at Mrs. Hudson who looked very pale. "Leave us now." The doctor raised his eyebrows but must have caught the homicidal look on my face and left imminently.
"Oh Sherlock. I know it's hard to accept, I just can't believe that you were betrayed like that."
My eyes grew wide as I stared at her. "How the hell do you know about that?" I was feeling very on edge.
"Well Detective Inspector Lestrade told me, and oh Sherlock, I am so sorry."
"He wasn't to know about that. How did he find out?" I growled. Mrs. Hudson looked on the verge of tears. I rolled my eyes and got out of bed slowly, ripping the heart stickers off of my bare chest.
"Where on earth do you think you're going?" She barked, all traces of tearfulness gone.
"To talk to Gary about his misstep." I hissed through my teeth.
"But you're still hurt!" She protested.
"Mrs. Hudson, out of my way." I snarled. She took a step back, frightened. I stepped forward and almost fell due to the IV still tethered to me. I ripped off the tape and pulled out the needle. Leaving it dangling off the bed and strolled to the dresser where my jacket and pants lay. I slipped them on over my gown, I had no time to loose, and walked out of the room without a backwards glance, deaf to Mrs. Hudson's protests.
The bullet wound stung as I raised my arm to hail a cab. The lights seemed harsh and it was becoming harder and harder to breathe, however I pushed that aside for I had more important things to deal with.
I stepped into the cab, pulling my coat tighter around myself, feeling as though it may protect me from harm. I rattled off the address of Scotland Yard and leaned back. My mind was working irritatingly slow due to the fact that the morphine was still coursing through my veins. I sighed and thought about the possible repercussions of John finding out, not from me, that the love of his life had betrayed him. He would surly break. John could withstand a war but the loss of trust would close him off to the world and cause him to draw so far into himself, he may never be able to trust again. I shuttered at the thought and told the cab to drive faster, wishing I had my mobile on me to possibly stop Lestrade from doing something as pigheaded as telling John who was behind my shooting.
We pulled up and I threw some bills into the front seat and took quick steps toward the entrance, ignoring my racing pulse and frantic heart. I yanked open the door and headed toward the stairs, groaning as I took them two at a time.
"Lestrade!" I yelled before I had even gone halfway into the long workroom.
His head poked around the corner and his eyes widened.
"Sherlock, what the hell-"
"Have you told him?" I growled.
"What are you doing walking around? You've only just been shot!" He gestured me into his office and I obliged, to get away from the confused and lingering stares of other workers. He closed the door with a snap and went back to his desk, gathering a file and papers and stuffing them to the side, out of sight.
"Did you tell him?" I repeated, trying to keep the murderous tone out of my voice.
"Tell who? Christ Sherlock, sit down will you?"
"I don't have time for your games Craig." I hissed and ignored the chair he was offering me. "Have you told John?"
"John?"
"Yes, John." Why was he being so unbelievably slow.
"Sherlock…" He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.
I continued to stare at him expectantly.
"I'm going to get Mycroft."
"Don't." I warned.
"I'm sorry mate, but you have to get back to the hospital."
"I'm fine. How many times do I have to tell you!" I yelled, though my body at that precise moment decided to betray my words. My hands shook and my heart felt as though it was being beaten by a metal rod. These are the symptoms of nerves. However I had no reason to be nervous, save the fact that Lestrade was being an unhelpful prick and I needed to know if John knew.
"Lestrade. Did you tell John about Mary?" I decided I needed to spell it out for this imbecile.
He set down his phone and looked me in the eyes.
"Sherlock. Do you remember what happened after you got shot?" Lestrade asked me.
"Of course." I said.
The door opened and in came the elder Holmes brother. I groaned and took a stride toward him.
"What are you doing here?"
"Greg called me."
"Who?" I asked bewildered.
"Lestrade, brother mine."
I hissed and turned my gaze to the DI who shrugged but also looked slightly sympathetic.
"Now, Sherlock. Lets go." Mycroft said, his expression sour.
"I need to know."
"Know what little brother?"
"DOES JOHN WATSON KNOW ABOUT MARY?!" I yelled, my visage breaking and I began yelling. I was tired beyond any kind of fatigue I had experienced before, I was confused and my entire body was screaming at me, demanding that I lay down, however my brain told me to keep investigating, never shutting down, not until I had sufficient data that John was alright and that the secret was still just that, a secret.
"Sherlock." Mycroft began, his tone calm but his eyes telling a different story. "Sit down."
I decided to comply, saying, as this may be the only way to obtain answers about John. I sank into a chair, feeling a spike of pain shoot through my chest. I bit my tongue and watched as Mycroft shifted the weight from one foot to another, a tell for my brother whenever he was anxious. This didn't bode well.
"WELL?" I yelled.
"What do you remember when you were shot?" He asked me.
"What does it matter? Why do you continue to ask me that?"
"Just answer the question, Sherlock." Mycroft said, keeping his calm, patient tone and twirling his umbrella between his fingers.
I sighed but apparently breathing hurt so I struggled to collect myself before saying, "I walked in as Mary had a gun to Magnesen. She turned it on me and told me to stay where I was or she would shoot me. I underestimated her moral and stepped forward regardless of her warning. She shot me in the chest and I fell backwards to control the blood flow and did not go into shock."
"And?" Mycroft prompted.
"And what? Then I blacked out."
"No." He said.
I nearly yelled again but my energy was slipping away from me.
"What. Do. You. Mean. 'No.'?" I asked through gritted teeth.
"There is something more Sherlock, something that happened before you passed out. Something that you have, stored away…" he paused, choosing his words, "Under lock and key."
I recalled the nagging feeling from earlier and knew, however begrudgingly, that he was right.
"So…" I began, my brain processing things much slower than normal.
"You know what to do Sherlock. Go to your mind palace."
I glanced at Lestrade who was watching silently and back to Mycroft who's expression was reserved.
"Then go." I said.
"What?" Lestrade asked, throwing Mycroft a wide-eyed look.
"We'll be outside." Mycroft said, pulling Lestrade out of the room, ignoring to his mumbles of confusion. I heard him whisper; "I'll explain everything in a moment."
I closed my eyes and pressed my fingertips together, pushing them on one another and opening the door to my thoughts and memories. I walked down the corroder, and recalled the night of the shooting. The corridor, which had previously been colourless, now resembled the room I had entered to find Mary. She stood there, and I stared down the nozzle of her gun, a small smile playing around her rosy lips. The scene was frozen and I looked around but I suddenly I was on the floor, lying flat on my back, a gaping hole now resided in my chest, with the beginnings of what soon be a crimson tide oozing to the surface.
I dug deeper into my mind and grasped at every detail; the temperature inside my body and surrounding, the noises of cab's honking faintly down below , the wham of Mary's pistol making contact with Magnesens face and the twitching of my body when I willed it not to go into shock. My eyelids had grown heavy and I thought this was it. But beyond it lingered a shadow, something dark that I had overlooked. I closed my eyes tighter, journeying further to the depths of my mind.
As I lay in my own puddle of blood, I began to pick out other details. The sound of Mary's footfalls echoing around the room as she left the way she came. I could hear them now, over my own moaning. I heard the drip drip of my blood as it splashed to the floor. But now another figure was approaching, rapidly. Of course, I knew those foot steps anywhere.
John.
He ran into the room and his footsteps became hesitant and slow. He approached me and I felt his presence as though he was here in real life and I felt his hand pull back the hem of my coat to revel the bullet hole. His breathing was slow and calm and he didn't speak. Then his warm fingers closed around my wrist and his breath warm when he leaned forward to feel my pulse. After letting my hand fall to the floor, he stood again and sighed.
It was an exhale with a release of air that came out in a higher tone, indicating that he was pleased. His footsteps became softer as he left the room. They stopped near the location I believe was the doorway and the slight squeak of the hardwood indicated he turned around. He spared me one backwards glance before leaving. That was all.
Someone was shaking me now. My eyes snapped open and I let out a cry of pain. I was lying flat on my back in Lestrade's office. Mycroft's face loomed over me, with Lestrade on the phone, calling an ambulance. My brother was checking my pulse, which was quite erratic.
"Sherlock. Can you hear me?"
I attempted to respond but I found my mouth unable to move. I was in what is commonly referred to as shock. My fingers felt numb, so did my arms and my legs and my torso and my stomach. Every inch of my body felt as though it was spinning. Spinning away from anything familiar and confronting.
"Why…" I managed through the pain that was chocking me. The idea of John's betrayal was colossal. It hurt my chest deeper than a bullet wound.
"Brother. The ambulance will be here very soon. Stay with me." Mycroft said. I would have laughed at his strange display of compassion had it not been for the gaping hole inside of me, that had no relation to the wound.
"John." I mumbled, "Why."
My words were incoherent and displaced. I was slipping, divulging back into my own mind, looking for refuge there.
I stood in the middle of our flat, but something was wrong. All of John's things were hazy and ghostlike, almost transparent. I squinted and tried to put them into focus but they continued to slip in and out of sight, becoming less clear every moment. I blinked and John was standing in front of me, wearing what he wore the day we met, all of those years ago. He, like his surrounding possessions, was faded.
"Hello Sherlock." He said, his pale lips flashing a warm smile.
"John? Is that you?" I asked, stepping forward. However, the closer I got, the harder it was to see him. So I stepped back again and he came more into focus.
"Yes Sherlock, of course it's me."
"Why?" I asked him, afraid of his answer.
"Well I thought it would be obvious for a genus like you."
I didn't respond but just continued to look confused. He sighed, his tone impatient, "Mary."
"Mary?"
"My wife." He said, "She's the reason for this. All of this." He gestured around to the fading objects.
"She… she told you to leave me?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"You ask to many questions Sherlock." John growled.
"Why?" I pressed.
"It was… complicated."
"It hardly seems that way." I replied.
"I just can't keep doing this."
"What?" I asked.
He paused, chewing his tongue, "I can't keep living both lives. I can't be with you and with her. It's too much for me."
"How?" I was confused.
"I'm sorry Sherlock. But I had to choose. And I chose Mary."
He was fading to nothing now, just a ghost, grow fainter from the fabric of my life. His chair disappeared, then his mug, and everything that filled the flat was vanishing.
"Goodbye." John said, and he too vanished from my life, leaving me standing in a half empty flat with a half empty heart.
I awoke with a sharp yell, feeling my chest explode in pain. I was lying in a bed again, wires dangling off of my chest and arms. My chest was hurting worse than ever and I looked around desperately for the morphine, but it lay an arms length out of my reach. I could no longer numb the pain, for it was full and plain- staring me directly in the face.
"JOHN!" I couldn't help crying out. I was so confused and lost, my head was spinning and my heart pounding. He was gone. That was it for us. I wanted to rip out my IV and run away from this place again, for I knew it was no place to find a cure.
I would leave Baker Street. Leave London if I had to. Anything to get away from him,. the memory of him, the idea. London's stench was full of John, I couldn't bare it to be in this place. I was starting to panic, my breathing rapid and my palms becoming clammy. I swung my feet off the bed and intended to stand. But my heart gave an ungrateful jolt and I was lying on the floor, pain rippling through me.
I let out a yell and moment's later footsteps could be heard at the door. Four medical staff entered and they all helped me, still yelling, back onto the bed.
"His pulse is erratic."
"His breathing is becoming shallow."
"We need to sedate him."
"We can't risk further tear to the wound."
"His heart is giving out, we need to restart it."
I was falling head-over-heals through the process of a complete body shutdown. My muscles were the first to go, unable to aid me in moment. I lay still on the bed, as my nightgown was being cut open to reveal the canvas of my bare chest, where scars and wounds took place, hiding my insides from the world. They my chest down with cloth and stuck pads onto my body. Next came the defibrillator, charging, a low wine and then the shock. It coursed through my entire body, sending electricity throughout my nerves, shutting them down too. My body twitched and tingled but my heart remained stubbornly slow and dying, to tired to carry on. I didn't blame it, because I allowed it entry beyond it's cage. I allowed one person to enter the inner workings of my soul, and now that person had stabbed it, leaving it to die.
The defibrillator wasn't working. So they moved on to compressions. The head doctor took the lead, placing one hand over the other and pushing down on my heart, forcing it to keep pumping. I wanted to tell him it was no use, my heart was done, it could not be fixed this time. But he kept trying, breaking my ribs to reach the useless organ residing in my chest. I heard him counting tough my eyes were closed. "1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8…"
This is when my brain began it's initial shutdown . I began to loose consciousness and felt the pathways of my brain crumbling around me. I couldn't feel anything and therefore couldn't deduce. Perhaps that is why it took me this long to realize who's voice that was.
"11. 12. 13. 14. 15. Come on Sherlock, come on."
It was the voice of my salvation and my doom. My eyes snapped open, apparently not aware that I was dying, they looked up to the face who was beating life back into me.
It was John.
I laughed. John was so shocked that he stopped compressions. My heart choose to keep going. John's cloudy eyes locked with mine and we stared at one another for a millennia.
"John." I said and his eyes filled with tears.
"Sherlock."
That was all we needed to say. It was enough. I understood and so did he. Though he had left me for dead, he came back, just as I once had not long ago. Because the funny thing about John and me, is that no matter who is fading- the other will come and save them.
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