~ Advent ~
~ Chapter 1: Colorless ~
London seemed devoid of color that late November morning, the fog and overcast draining the greys of asphalt and stone, muting to silence any painterly efforts to bring a note of cheer, and even rendering the first of the city's Christmas decorations lifeless. All entirely in keeping with Sherlock's mood, of course.
He was well aware that depression was natural to the recovery process. He'd been injured before, though never so severely, and there had been the occasional stint in rehab as well, so he had expected it.. He was prone to the occasional lowness of spirits even in the normal course of things, extraordinary intelligence not being necessarily conducive to a long and happy life, but a lengthy stay in hospital followed by weeks confined to 221B were miles beyond normal. Pain, weakness, boredom, frustration, and beneath it all, a nagging sense of dread: all had worn on him to such an extent that it was nothing short of miraculous his family and friends had not abandoned him to wallow in petulance and ill-temper alone.
Yet the fact was, they had not. For the most part.
Sherlock's family, of course, had little choice but to put up with him. Once he was past the worst of it, his parents had returned to their home in the country, traveling to London by train to check on him every week or so. His brother's intrusions were more frequent and less appreciated. John, observing signs of agitation in his patient, strongly encouraged Mycroft to keep his visits brief, and, to Sherlock's constant delight, was utterly indifferent to the British government's advice, veiled threats, or protests.
His release from hospital had been expedited by the fact that a licensed doctor was in residence in Baker Street. John had moved back to the flat immediately after the confrontation at Leinster Gardens and the "domestic" that had followed. Sherlock knew John was still paying the rent on the Watson domicile in Maida Vale, however, and for a while had paid Mary the occasional fraught visit, too. Both had seemed encouraging signs - not that John and Sherlock indulged in any rational discussion of the situation. The subject, so central to their lives at present, seemed to be off limits, creating a very awkward elephant in the room. And beyond that, Dr. Watson was so annoyingly devoted to his friend's recovery that it was difficult for Sherlock to get away with bloody anything. So the arrangement was far from ideal, yet there was a degree of comfort that would not have existed had it been necessary to engage outside help. Mrs. Hudson indulged them both with tea, their favorite biscuits, and local gossip twice a day without fail, and Lestrade popped in fairly regularly. Sherlock should have been content.
It was October before John released Sherlock to light duty. There'd be no running hell for leather about London's warren of streets and alleys yet a while; no swarming up walls or leaping fences. Daily physical therapy would continue, and only the mildest of diversions from NSY were permitted: John had been quite adamant. Lestrade had taken these orders to heart, and Sherlock had been offered nothing but threes, and a couple of fours in all this time… until today.
This was a six, and would require a visit to the lab at St. Bart's.
His reaction to this realization was disturbing. A strange and seemingly inescapable combination of positive and negative impulses prodded at his composure, and was due to a single factor. All five foot three inches of her. Of those few beings he considered to be his friends, Molly Hooper was the only one who hadn't come to visit him during his convalescence. In fact the last time he'd seen her (in the flesh) was the morning before he'd been shot.
Sherlock Holmes needs to pee in a jar.
There had been no question of the outcome, so it had been punishment, plain and simple. Facing Molly Hooper in such a state was the last thing Sherlock had anticipated or wanted, but he was in no condition to gainsay an enraged John Watson. Mary had been more sympathetic - she'd said nothing to contradict her angry spouse, but the look she'd exchanged with Sherlock just before they'd all invaded Molly's lab had been clear enough. There had been nothing for it, however, so Sherlock had steeled himself against Molly's inevitable disappointment and probable tears. Molly, his gentle friend, the girl who'd been so infatuated with him that she'd risked everything for him when he'd come to her for help. The woman who mattered.
Only things had not gone quite as anticipated.
She'd been appalled at the state of him, then swiftly angry, and growing more so as she ran the required test with brisk efficiency. The results were accurate, as he'd known they would be, and damning. Yet none of them had been more surprised than he when she'd marched up and slapped him hard across the face. Repeatedly.
How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with and how dare you betray the love of your friends. Say you're sorry!
Her words were clipped, furious, and imbued with the cutting edge of truth.
But Sherlock, even at his lowest still had his pride and, as usual, had deduced his opponent's weakest point.
Sorry your engagement's over, though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring.
Which was another lie - the first bit, at least.
She was hurt, as well as angry, now. Stop it! Just stop it!
And Sherlock knew at once that she'd ended her engagement because of him. More fool she! had sneered his inner devil, but beneath that was satisfaction, almost a kind of happiness, juxtaposed with an unaccustomed sense of shame at what she'd been presented with that morning.
He would address it all at some point - these feelings - but the little scene had moved on and then was over: the focus turned to Magnussen.
Now, months later, it was still on Magnussen, but the final confrontation with that terrible man was still a month off - Christmas Day - whereas a confrontation with his pathologist was imminent. He couldn't imagine she was still angry with him, after all this time, after he'd been shot, and twice near death. Yet she had made no effort to contact him. Perhaps his relapse into heroin (for a case!) had been the final straw for her. It was a fear he'd long suppressed, and now it was an immediate issue.
As the black cab carried him swiftly through the colorless city, he drummed his fingers nervously on his knee, frowning blackly. He knew she would treat him in a professional manner, that was a given. But he wanted more than that.
He would have to apologize - sincerely, this time. Never an easy thing with him. He huffed discontentedly, slouching in the leather seat. If only it would clear the air between them…
To be continued...
