Greetings to you all!
After recentely finished watching the Sherlock series and stumbled across Star Trek: Into Darkness I had this small ideia nudging me. I usually don't do crossover stories, but I just coundn't resist write this one. It is a simple twoshot; the first part called Sherlock takes place on the past and the second called Khan happens on the future. As soon as I finish writing the second part I will post here; life has kept me busy these last few weeks.
Also as usual, Sherlock or Star Trek characters doesn't belong to me, this is for my own and others fans entertainment. I hope you like it.
Sincerely,
Lyon Heitor ~ Altheryon
BEYOND TIME
1/2
†
Sherlock
At first he had been furious when Mycroft told him; his brother had done many things in life as one of the most influential men in the British government, and he really cared little for most of the tedious tasks that the other did during the execution of his work, but that... It had been too personal, almost like a direct offense to him and John, though John didn't know yet.
But now that he had walked into that room and saw her face, serene and pale with eyes closed as if immersed completely in a deep sleep, Sherlock thought then that Mycroft's decision might not have been so bad after all.
The black-haired man approached; his ice-blue eyes took on a shadow of sadness and he laid a hand on the glass of the cryogenic chamber.
"Mary..." he whispered.
In his mind the younger Holmes revived for a brief second the moments he had spent with his friends; he remembered their marriage, the birth of little Rosie, the couple's laughter at meetings where the three of them gathered to spend time together, the moment the woman threw herself in front of him to save him from the bullet and John's countenance filled with deep pain, anger, hurt and disappointment.
Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath; not even his logic and reason were able to keep him from feeling that pain in his chest, and when he returned to stare into the cryogenic chamber, he recalled his brother's words spoken before.
"It was extremely easy indeed," Mycroft explained. "At a brief moment when the party separated from the crowd to pass through the tunnel that gave access to the cemetery, we exchanged the coffin and they buried an empty one..."
Still observing Mary Watson's serene countenance, the black-haired man didn't divert his attention from the woman as the room's door opened again a few minutes later and another person entered the highly restricted area.
Mycroft Holmes stood beside his younger brother and told him soberly.
"It's been two weeks since the day I told you about it and you just came here now; took you long enough."
"To deprive someone of their fair rest like any ordinary person and imprison her in a cryogenic capsule would be considered by many as something disrespectful."
"It depends on the point of view," the other man replied. "Instead of the body tissue decaying and rotting, the cold of the cryogenic chamber has the necessary intensity to prevent this from happening; it is perfectly preserved and it can stay unchanged for centuries."
Sherlock frowned and stepped away.
"Why you did it?"
"Because there is still a possibility of saving her."
The consulting detective raised his face sharply to stare at his brother in disbelief; Mary was dead and there was nothing in that world that could be able to change what had happened, but Mycroft's countenance remained serious and unaltered.
Sherlock said then.
"Challenging the natural laws of death? It's logically impossible. "
"Practically speaking, yes..." The elder Holmes agreed. "But in theory there is a possibility that has now been researched as one of the government's most secretive technologies."
The agent approached the cryogenic chamber.
"That's why I didn't let them bury Mary Watson. That's why your friend still doesn't know." He watched his younger brother. "I don't want to give false hope to John Watson if the experiment results in failure."
Sherlock looked away and stared at the floor; although they were now in a somewhat considered good terms the detective could still remember perfectly that day; John holding his wife's body in his arms while kneeling on the ground, his dark-blue eyes cutting him like a razor.
"You had promised us!"
Sherlock raised his face.
"What I must do?"
Mycroft sighed discreetly with resignation and proceeded.
"They need someone to be the host of genes created to test this theory; someone with incredible intellectual ability and discipline over their own body to be able to stand the procedures and advance through the stages of the experiment. To put it simply and objectively, it is a violent genetic reprogramming where by stages the normal bodily functions will be replaced by those created in the laboratory."
"And what is the real purpose of this research?"
"To form an indestructible and effective army; the government fears that in a few years a terrible war will befall the planet and that we should be prepared for it. These soldiers would have superior resistance, superior intelligence, would have no fear or any hesitation, disciplined to follow orders without question."
Mycroft looked at the cryogenic chamber.
"But for this it is necessary the first to be a gifted person, an individual prodigy to serve as a template for the creation of others."
"And what does this have to do with Mary?" The dark haired man asked.
"One of the scientists told me in secret that the change in the bloodstream would be drastic, as also the ability to recover would be so superior that if a blood sample were inserted into any ordinary living being it could be able to heal any injury, or even reanimate cells and the functions of a still organism and return it back to life."
The agent looked at the other.
"It's just theories, of course."
Sherlock frowned.
"They want a guinea pig."
"Your name was suggested on the agenda." Mycroft confessed with some reluctance.
"And when will you hand me over?" The younger Holmes simply questioned.
The agent was silent for a brief moment; then answered in a low voice.
"I refused."
Sherlock watched him with surprise and Mycroft sighed slowly, watching the floor as he proceeded.
"I... I don't want you to put your life at risk to participate in this, it's a pilot project and extremely dangerous... But regardless of my personal opinion they said they would contact you anyway next week to try to convince you to take part in."
The younger man observed his brother and it was the long years of coexistence that made him realize what was hidden beneath the other's countenance.
"You're afraid I'll die."
Mycroft stared at him, his eyes darkened with restrained emotion and the agent smiled slightly and shook his head in silent affirmation. Sherlock, surprised, was sympathized; it had been one of the rare occasions when his brother had clearly shown how much he cared for him.
Swallowing, composing himself, his older brother went on sober, but his voice shook slightly, imperceptible to anyone, but not to him.
"I wanted to warn you of any false statement that they may make about the project; this is what they will do, its consequences and risks." Mycroft looked at him for a long moment. "But... no matter what else I tell you... you... have already made your decision."
Sherlock glanced back at the cryogenic chamber and his friend's face and he slowly nodded in agreement.
"I'll do anything... to see them happy again."
They were both silent for a few couple of minutes, and it was the younger's voice that suddenly inquired.
"What is this project?"
Mycroft looked at him.
"It's called the K.H.A.N. project."
...
It was a quiet day at first, tedious even; there was no case, no emergency call from Gregory or anything on television that could momentarily distract him and the next session in the labs would be only next week.
Sherlock was in the living room, sitting in his armchair as he read some tidings in the morning newspaper, easily deducing the outcome of each police incident reported on the clues told in the tidings itself.
"Extremely obvious..."
The detective turned the page lazily and continued reading with a distinctly disinterested countenance, and that was how John found him a few minutes later when he returned from his medical appointment; he had left Rosie with Mrs. Hudson purposely so he could have a private conversation with his friend.
John stood in the doorway and stared at the other for a long moment, and as Sherlock didn't turn his face away from the newspaper, the doctor then said.
"I'll make some tea."
The detective nodded in acknowledgment and turned another page.
John disappeared into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with two cups in hand; he laid one on the table next to Sherlock and then sat down in the other armchair and began to slowly take his tea.
"I need to talk to you." The blond-haired man spoke, breaking the silence.
"Then talk, John." The consulting detective simply replied with a slight touch of humor in his voice, still not diverting his attention from the newspaper, although with one hand he took his tea cup.
John took a deep breath.
"I had that appointment at my doctor today and he revealed to me the result of the tests I did last week for the malaise I have been feeling lately; in fact he just confirmed a suspicion I was already having..."
"And did he give you good news?" Sherlock asked, turning another page.
John took another sip of tea and answered quietly.
"He said I'm dying."
The response was immediate; the black-haired man lowered the newspaper and stared at his friend.
"You don't have to play like that; I'm paying attention to what you're saying."
Frowning, Sherlock set the journal on the table and rose from the armchair with the tea cup in his hand.
"What did he really tell you?"
"He said..." John looked up to him and repeated it slowly. "...that I'm dying."
Sherlock watched him without showing any reaction; he froze when he found no sign of humor or lying on the doctor's face who continued to stare at him with a sober countenance, but his dark, sincere blue eyes met his with a fragile, lost look and the sound of something breaking suddenly echoed in the silence that had fallen upon the room.
In the midst of his torpor the detective noticed that his trembling hands let his tea cup fall to the floor.
John watched him with compassion; his friend had frozen as on the day he had invited him to be his best man; now, however, for a not so joyful reason unfortunately.
Sherlock felt his world fall even with the ground standing firmly under his feet; his logical mind immediately made him glimpse a future where his best friend who he loved as a brother wasn't present anymore, and the black-haired man slowly sat down again in his armchair as John stood, cut off the distance between them, kneeled in front of his friend to hold his trembling hands; they were cold and he rubbed them in an attempt to warm them.
"It's a hereditary disease." He proceeded quietly. "It can be dormant for several generations until it manifests itself strongly in one of the individuals; when it happens there is nothing that can be done."
The blond man then laughed humorlessly.
"Looks like I was the winner this time."
John looked at him.
"On a good estimate I have a few more years to see Rosie grow up and to accompany you in several cases still."
His friend said nothing; his ice-blue eyes stared at him in disbelief and the doctor gently called him out.
"Sherlock... It's okay." He holds his hand firmly. "We will find a way to work through this together."
The black-haired man remained silent.
No... It wasn't all right at all.
...
When John arrived at the flat with his four-year-old daughter and found the lights completely out, the doctor placed the girl on the floor, switched on the lights and he widened his eyes in surprise when he saw his friend lying on the sofa, back to him and apparently sleeping.
Immediately he found it strange; Sherlock didn't sleep at that hour especially if he was waiting for their arrival.
"Rosie, why don't you go get a glass of water for Daddy, sweetheart?" He asked and the small girl quickly turned away to do as she was told.
John approached the other man.
"Sherlock?"
When he got no answer the doctor knelt beside the couch and touched the other's shoulder, frowning when he perceived him trembling.
"Sherlock?"
When the consulting detective remained unanswered, John pulled his friend to face him and was startled when he saw his face; the man looked awful. The doctor touched his sweat-wet cheeks and the black-haired man moaned, his ice-blue eyes opened in slits and there was a glow of recognition in them.
"John...?"
"Yes, it is me." The ex-military replied. "Sherlock, what happened? You're burning in a fever."
"I'm not… well..."
Sherlock coughed and his whole body contracted with spasms; John's face paled and grave concern filled his face. He grabbed his friend's shoulders and shook him when he saw him close his eyes for a moment too long.
"Sherlock! Stay with me! You cannot fall asleep; I need you to stay awake!" The doctor began to check his wrist and physical signs while at the same time his eyes searched the flat looking for any clue that could explain his friend's current situation.
"John..." He almost didn't hear the weak whisper. "Call... Mycroft..."
John stared at him astonished; Sherlock wouldn't ask to call his brother if it weren't really of extreme urgency; when the black-haired man began to cough violently the doctor realized that there was nothing he could do there; the detective needed to go to a hospital now.
Sherlock lost consciousness as John's trembling fingers typed Mycroft's confidential phone number.
...
He awoke to the sound of cardiac monitoring and white walls; he was lying on a stretcher with several devices attached to his body and it took several minutes until the sensation of numbness diminished and he could completely distinguish the scenario around him.
Sherlock realized that he wasn't alone in the room and saw his brother sitting in an armchair not so distant, watching him with a worried countenance.
The consulting detective closed his eyes and laid his head back on the pillow.
"How long have I been out?"
"Three days," Mycroft replied. "Your body has begun to react to the procedures and is adapting to the genetic transformations that are occurring."
"I feel like I've been hit by a train," Sherlock muttered, glancing back at his brother. "Have the scientists given any predictions of when these effects will pass?"
"The changes are severe and at first you will feel them quite a lot, but in a few weeks the discomfort will decrease and you will feel strong again; they will also review the doses given to you to continue the procedure."
The dark-haired man frowned; his ice-blue eyes stared at the government agent intensely.
"There's something you're not telling me," Sherlock said knowing.
Mycroft pinched his nose.
"Dr. Watson is outside; he left his daughter in the care of Miss. Hooper and spent these three days here at the hospital accompanying you and refused to go; the team had some difficulty in dribbling him in the questions he asked about your condition."
Sherlock said nothing at first; he felt touched by his friend's gesture while fearing that he might have discovered something about the project.
"He still doesn't know," Mycroft reassured him.
"But..." The consulting detective inquired.
"When he learns that you are finally awake, you both will have a not very pleasant conversation; the only way we found to diminish his suspicion was to direct the hospital's medical staff in telling him that you went back to drugging again and used more than your body's tolerance limit, resulting in a relapse."
Sherlock grimaced.
Before any of the Holmes could say anything else the room's door opened and John Watson entered; the doctor's dark blue eyes widened as he realized his friend was conscious.
"Well..." Mycroft said, clearing his throat. "I'll let you two talk; I was just leaving."
The agent walked towards the door.
"John." He nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him.
The two friends stared at each other in silence; the blond-haired man stood by the bed and exhaled a long sigh, and Sherlock easily recognized the traces of fury barely contained in the other's countenance. His analytical mind quickly deciphered the various emotions that manifested in the ex-military's dark blue eyes; fury, unbelief, relief and also profound deception.
The detective swallowed hard, opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't said anything.
John moved quickly and accurately before Sherlock could see what was happening; the doctor slapped his face hard and the dry sound echoed clearly in the room over the constant noise of the cardiac monitoring devices.
Surprised and face-turned, Sherlock blinked for a moment without reaction; when he looked back at his friend John slapped him again, this time on the opposite side of his face.
The black-haired man didn't move, staring down unresponsive at the white sheets with both cheeks reddened and swollen and didn't try to look at his friend's face anymore.
John took a sharp intake of breath; with clenched fists the doctor closed his eyes and counted to ten mentally, and only then he looked back at the detective.
"Sherlock," John said in a calmly forced voice. "Why?"
Sherlock didn't answer and in the face of his inertia, the doctor went on.
"I thought you had stopped completely after Rosie's birth."
The detective shrugged.
"There was no reason, John," he replied quietly, following Mycroft's story; anything would be better than revealing him about the project.
"No reason?" John repeated half-incredulous, half-furious.
"What can I tell you?" Sherlock spoke disinterestedly, finally raising his face to look at the other. "Nothing different has happened in our lives and I continue to solve the same stupid police cases as always; I only found in the flat a substance that I had kept for tests for some time and I decided to experiment it."
John glared at him.
"That's simple? Out of sheer boredom you decided to get drugged again with whatever crap you managed to found?" The doctor ran a hand through his blond hair in frustration. "Damn it, Sherlock! You could have died! Don't you value your own life, do you?!"
In the face of the detective's silence, John went on.
"If you don't, I do care about your well-being!" And pausing briefly, the ex-military sighed and watched his friend with disappointment, as if he understood what was actually happening. "You... you're doing this because of me, aren't you? Because of what is happening to me."
Sherlock met his gaze and John continued.
"Stop it; it will not change or solve anything! You're the only friend I have and you're Rosie's godfather; she adores you and if she sees you using drugs, what example would you give her?"
The black-haired man remained silent, staring into his friend's livid face with great sorrow in his heart; he wished he could take the shadow of worry out of him, he wished he could tell him the truth, he wished he could take that damn sickness away that is slowly consumed him… John's sincerity moved him at the same time that it was hurting him too, and as he turned his face away to look at back at the covers, he answered in a low whisper.
"Forgive me, John."
The doctor sighed long as if to force the tension out of his shoulders. He reached out and took the black-haired man's hand firmly.
"The next time you have the bright idea to do something stupid, call me before you do it, okay?"
Sherlock merely nodded in response.
...
"I want a teddy bear!" Rosie asked with that look and Sherlock smiled slightly in amusement as he watched John's stern countenance melt and take his daughter to the toy store down the street; it was incredible how the six-year-old girl could quickly break her father's defenses when she wanted to.
Accompanying them a few paces away was the factor that gave him enough time to realize the exact moment when the taxi driver lost control of the car and the vehicle slid down the street towards his friend and goddaughter.
"John!" Sherlock shouted on alert and the doctor looked up; his dark blue eyes widened in amazement and he didn't have time to take any reaction.
The black-haired man jerked forward, pushed his friend and his goddaughter behind a pole and the three of them fell on the sidewalk just as the car hit the concrete column and spun, it's front turned in their direction; Instinctively Sherlock lifted his left arm and struck the side of the vehicle, his fist kneaded it's full extent and pierced the metal completely. His strength was so great that he managed to stop the car's motion and prevent it falling on them.
Taking a breath the detective immediately removed his bloody fist from the car and hid it in the pocket of his overcoat; he stood and walked away a few steps from his friend, who sat at the sidewalk, disoriented, and hugged his daughter in his lap.
"What happened...?" John asked in confusion.
"The driver lost direction and almost ran over you; luckily I was able to push you out of the way and the pole held the full impact." Sherlock replied, feeling the cuts on his hand slowly begin to regenerate inside his coat, silently giving thanks to the positive results he was getting from the experiment.
John looked at the post and sighed with obvious relief on his face, embracing his daughter tightly as the scared driver left the car to see how they were.
"Thank God ..." The doctor said.
...
He watched in silence as John told his nine-year-old daughter the truth about his illness; with gentle, carefully selected words the doctor slowly revealed to Rosie that within a few years she would no longer have her father's presence in her life and that she would have to be prepared to move on when this happened.
The girl jumped, screamed, threw herself on her father's lap in tears inquiring why the world was so unfair.
John's countenance was calm, dark-blue eyes that contained the softness of fatherly love and at the same time the firmness necessary to maintain reason at that moment as he embraced his daughter affectionately.
Sherlock knew that John was trying to be strong to offer comfort and a safe haven to Rosie, but he knew his friend so well that saw the other man inside was in pieces as much as the girl on his lap.
John looked up at the detective for a brief moment before looking back at his daughter and Sherlock turned his face away from his small family to stare at gray London through the flat's window.
First Mary... Now John...
He clenched his fists tightly and little Rosie's question echoed in his mind again and again.
Why was the world so unfair?
...
Combat training was usually as logical as reasoning for mathematics; the number of enemies was calculated by the perimeter extension, their apparent weaknesses were analyzed to calculate the number of movements and types needed to overthrow each one of them in order to expend the least possible effort.
Simple, easy and logical.
Usually while fighting against combat prototypes he used to turn off his mind and let himself be carried away by the exercise that had surprisingly shown itself as a pleasurable activity over time, allowing him to rest and meditate while performing the various sequences. But that day his rational mind was destabilized after the scene he had witnessed earlier in the flat.
With each new stage of the procedure his body adapted to the changes and strengthened, molding itself with each new training like that one, but inside he felt weak, impotent and tied to the circumstances imposed by destiny; destined to watch his best friend to languish day by day until he gave himself up in the arms of death.
Sherlock took a deep breath and the feeling of helplessness turned into an overwhelming fury that was spreading inside him like fire.
The black-haired man dodged the prototype's attack and lunged blindly at them.
He was not doing all this in vain.
He grabbed the nearest opponent and punched him several times.
He wasn't subjecting himself to all those infernal experiments to see that in the end everything could result in failure.
"Sherlock!"
He needed it to work!
"Sherlock!"
He closed his eyes and listened to Rosie's crying and saw her again on John's lap.
He would save them at any price.
"Sherlock! Stop! Sherlock! "
One of his adversaries grabbed his neck from behind and he immediately retaliated; with a swift movement he turned, knocked down his opponent and pinned him to the ground, his fist stopped within inches of the other man's face when in a quick moment he recognized his countenance before he deferred the fatal blow.
Sherlock blinked dazedly, his astonished ice-blue eyes staring into his brother's face that watched him back with concern in his gaze.
"Mycroft...?"
Realizing what he was doing, the black-haired man stepped away from the other and the government agent slowly sat down feeling completely sore on the training yard floor. Raising his face, Sherlock noticed the presence of the scientists at a safe distance, all watching him with fear and concern reflected in their countenances, and looking around the consulting detective realized that all the prototypes were completely reduced to totally unrecognizable debris.
He watched his own hands covered in blood and bruised by wounds inflicted by his own blows during training, and for the first time since he began the proceedings Sherlock wondered to himself what he was becoming.
...
It was a quiet afternoon on a mild and even sunny day; they were strolling the aisles of a mall when it happened.
Rosie laughed contentedly, stretching out her arms as the thirteen-year-old girl ran forward and looked back at her father and her uncle and waved at them to come quickly. John smiled and took two steps towards his daughter, then stricken with a sudden sharp pain in his chest his legs went limp, his vision darkened and he fell.
Sherlock held him in his arms, calling his name several times in a frightened voice and Rosie screamed as a crowd of people began to surround them.
...
It was despair that made him make that decision no matter how much he had spent hours thinking about all the possibilities logically possible. But the logic that always helped him in all the stages of his life was helpless for the situation he was presenting now, and it was the first time he made a decision without using logic and reason but only the emotion coming from the deep and strong desire in his heart.
Rosie followed him curiously through the long white corridors of the lab and after briefly standing in front of a door where her uncle typed a password on the panel, the passage was released and they entered the room. The girl's eyes widened in surprise, approaching the cryogenic chamber and the woman inside it.
"Why is she sleeping in there?"
"Actually Rosie she died a few years ago, unfortunately..." Sherlock explained to her, standing next to the girl. "This chamber is protecting her, because there is a possibility in the future of bringing her back through a very secret experiment that can also save other lives."
"A secret project?" She asked and he nodded in agreement. "Who is she?"
"Her name is Mary..." Sherlock watched her. "She's your mother."
The girl's eyes widened in surprise and she returned to watch the woman inside the chamber with great emotion, touching the glass softly as if touching her face.
"She's beautiful," the girl whispered.
"You look like her." The black-haired man smiled, but the girl realized that the smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Why are we here?" Rosie inquired, showing in her blue eyes cunning and maturity that transcended her present age and Sherlock knelt before her and took her hands in his.
"Because I need to make you a request, Rosie... You're smarter than the other girls your age and I know you'll understand what I'm going to tell you now, strange as it may seem to you..."
Rosie nodded slowly and the detective revealed to her about the K.H.A.N. project and its purpose and the girl listened to everything without daring to interrupt it, and when Sherlock finished his tale, Rosie looked back at her mother and again her godfather and understood then what he wanted to do, and in the silence that followed the girl hugged him tightly and consented to the black-haired man's request.
"Save them... If there's a chance, please... Save them!"
...
John sighed discreetly and raised his face to observe his friend and his gaze softened as he found the clear concern on the other's countenance; Rosie had left the room a little awhile and after the nurse quickly applied him medication and also left the place, now both finally found themselves alone to talk.
The sound of the devices in the hospital room echoed loudly in the terrifying silence, and the doctor remembered the day he was sitting in the armchair next to the stretcher to watch over his friend's rest in worry.
Their position was reversed now.
"Sherlock." The blond-haired man called him softly, weakened, in a tone a little louder than a whisper.
The consulting detective immediately lifted his head; his ice-blue eyes revealed fear and John held the other man's hand.
"I know it's not an easy situation for you... But I need to ask you something."
Sherlock said nothing.
"I want you to take care of Rosie... I want you to take care of her, watch her grow up, make her study hard to be a good person in life."
The black-haired man closed his eyes and felt dizzy, but the tears didn't come out for he held them, nodding in agreement.
"Sherlock." John called again, and with a neutral countenance the detective caught his eye again; smiling slightly despite the situation and feeling a peace in his heart, John told him. "It's going to be okay."
Sherlock frowned and then a tear slid down the side of his face; in the next moment others also came silently.
"I..." He spoke in a choked voice. "I could to do anything, John... Anything... for you, for Rosie... for our family."
"I know this... there's nothing you can do." John replied and the detective looked away to stare at their joined hands.
John frowned.
"You're hiding something from me," he said at once, noticing it on his friend's face for he knew him well. "What did you do?"
Sherlock lifted his face and watched him with great emotion in his ice-blue eyes just as the blond-haired man realized his vision became blurred and his body was forced to the effects of sleep. Immediately recalling the medication the nurse had given him, he tried to stay awake, but it was useless and the last thing he knew before he lost consciousness was the strong hand that held his and Sherlock's voice telling him.
"It's going to be ok, John... I'll make it be ok."
...
He personally put John in the cryogenic chamber; he didn't allow another to touch him or do it instead. He took extreme care so that the man would be comfortable and that the whole procedure would be carried out successfully as expected, and when it was over he deposited John's chamber next to his wife so that they would wait together.
"I'll save you." His promise echoed in the silence of the room.
...
Rosamund Watson had dreamed of being many things when she grew up: a doctor like her father; consultant detective like her godfather Sherlock; a policeman like Uncle Greg or a spy for the British government like her mother to help Uncle Mycroft; and each one of the options had made an extra thread in John's hair turn white.
But when the girl really grew up and became a beautiful woman she studied hard and became a scientist instead, after what had happened to her father, with time being linked to the K.H.A.N. project until she became one of the key pieces for the good progress of the experiment.
She was the only person on the team Sherlock fully trusted.
On one of the nights when she had stayed in the labs to finish off some documents after work, Rosamund took advantage of the tranquility that hung in the institute and decided to visit her parents as she used to do when she was alone; A few minutes later she entered the room where the cryogenic chambers were stored and the long-blond-haired scientist stood in the doorway when she realized there was someone else in the room.
Rosie sighed discreetly as she recognized her godfather after better distinguishing him in the dimness that inhabited the place, and by lighting only one of the lights the woman could better visualize the man's countenance.
After her father had been placed in the cryogenic chamber Sherlock had changed with everyone, becoming colder and indifferent and only few people were still able to make him open a little.
Now the man was standing beside the chambers, watching his friends with a sober face; his countenance had an austerity that in the last years became almost always present in his physiognomy, his ice-blue eyes were distant and lost in memories in time, his black hair was now cut short, evenly combed back and he wore his long black overcoat.
The scientist walked up to him and stood beside the man as he gave no reaction, but when she took his hand in a gesture of comfort he returned it, gently stroking her fingers.
...
Mrs. Hudson passed away shortly after while sleeping a serene sleep and didn't see the horrors of the war that fell upon them months later; it took them all by surprise, quick and silent and mightily reaped thousands of lives.
Although they had already waited for it, the war came much sooner than the British government stipulated and the plans designed to form defenses through the K.H.A.N. project were disarmed long before they could initiate the desired expansion, with Sherlock being the only one who had been subjected to all stages of the experiment, successfully resurging as a different being of superior genetic construction, stronger and almost indestructible.
And his evolution forced him to watch every one of the people who were important to him succumb, fragile and weak before the destruction that has spread all over.
The bombing of the spring-gathering event was devastating, taking away the lives of hundreds of Londoners and also his parents who had also come to watch it; he arrived just in time to manage to find amid the ocean of wreckage and flames his elder brother, and embraced his body as he watched the light leave Mycroft's eyes.
Called to compose the elite of the army in an emergency, the London police took the front lines in one of the first and most violent confrontations that Sherlock participated; and no matter how tough, strong or fast he was, he wasn't able to stop the shots that took the life's of Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson.
Just as he had not been able to arrive in time to save Molly Hooper when she trembled and pale as her blood flowed abundantly, staining the black shirt he wore, she cried and smiled, holding out a cold hand to caress his face while she whispered one last time that she still loved him, and he regretted all the years that had passed without doing anything and lamented the story of love that they hadn't lived together.
That night he completely destroyed the flat; broke furniture and objects and fell into pieces in the middle of the room, vaguely remembering Rosie's gentle embrace which in vain had tried to comfort him in his grief.
As hope has receded some of the K.H.A.N project scientists found it better to undergo cryogenic sleep in an attempt to awaken hundreds of years in a world that might be a little better than that one. Rosie initially declined, not wanting to leave him alone, but Sherlock gently convinced her that this would be the best option and promised her that as soon as he guaranteed the safety of everyone he would also undergo cryogenic sleep.
So, sometime later, gently he helped her lie down in the chamber and watched her as deep sleep took her awareness away...
...
At the end of it all he was alone, standing in the middle of 72 cryogenic chambers that contained not only the people who played a significant part in his life but also who represented his history; those who had known him as he was.
His friends… His family.
Sherlock took the 72 chambers to a place far from the war, distant, safe; then visited each one of them and inserted through the devices of the chamber some of his blood in all, silently hoping that with the passing of the years a miracle might happen and that the harsh procedures he endured during the experiments could finally bring the expected result.
Bring back those who had left.
He took more time when he visited his parents, his brother and Eurus and also Mrs. Hudson, and took even longer when he stood beside Rosie, Molly and Mary's chamber.
The last one he visited was John and resting his hand on the glass of the cryogenic chamber he watched his dear friend's face for a long time.
"It has been very difficult since the day you fell asleep..." he whispered with a faint smile and his ice-blue eyes toke on a soft glow. He injected his blood into the cryogenic chamber and when it was finished he said. "I hope the world has become a better place when you and our family wake up."
After saying goodbye, Sherlock walked into the last chamber. He lay down inside and beginning the procedure he slowly felt his consciousness falling into darkness.
(To be Continued)