All Things for a Reason
I have no way out, not anymore. Thinking back on it, I should have known this would happen when he promised to burn the heart out of me. I had never dreamed, not in my worst nightmares, that this is what he meant. I have not only damned myself, but John
as well; possibly to death. These are my thoughts as I ascend the stairs to the rooftop to face the man that has haunted my nightmares since he strapped bombs to John's chest. I recall when I found out about my own inability to feel normal human emotions, something that has changed so drastically in the last six months that it has left me disoriented and confused as to who I really am.
I was fifteen when I was attacked in school. His name was Bruce Clarkson, and he was a mean kid. He was the kind of guy who would beat you until you couldn't stand then kick you a few times in the ribs or head for good measure. I had been enduring these beatings for months at this point, he was my flatmate at the all boys' boarding school Mommy and Father sent Mycroft and me to. I had requested a transfer to a different room on several occasions, but my request was always dismissed. Finally, I had enough with being a human punching bag; I got enough of that at home for Christ's sake! As he descended on me one night to beat me for the poor score he received on his maths test, I pounced, quite literally since I recall springing from a crouched position on my bed to being on top of him and repeatedly punching him in the face in under fifteen seconds. Due to the fact that I did not have a scratch on me, that had been inflicted in the fight since they ignored my healing bruises and cuts, I was deemed the guilty party and forced to leave the school. Mommy beat me black and blue when I arrived home. If I recall correctly, Mycroft told me I was unconscious for three days and Mrs. Hudson, who had been our nanny since I was five and had become part of the cleaning help as we aged, had to put ice chips under my tongue so I wouldn't dehydrate.
When I awoke, I was informed that Bruce had been hospitalized for his injuries. I was slightly startled to notice that I had no negative feelings towards this; in fact, I was rather pleased with myself for putting a monster in his place. That is, until I was informed that I was the monster and not the other way around. I am a sociopath, just like so many serial killers and rapists; like so many monsters. I grew to hate myself, hate that I could not feel like a normal person. One day, while she was cleaning my room, I asked Mrs. Hudson why I had to be a monster, this was her response: "Sherlock Benedict Holmes, you are not monster. You are a good boy who will grow into a great man."
"But what about what I did to Bruce?" At this question, she came to sit beside me on my bed and took my hand in hers, squeezing it reassuringly.
"Sherlock, you were a man in a bad situation who feared for you safety, I would have done the same thing, anybody would!" She was the only person who believed my side of the story. "What do I always say, Sherlock?"
"If you don't get your feet off that table, I'll beat you with it?" I say with a grin. Kicking your feet onto a table is one of Mrs. Hudson's biggest pet peeve, along with me leaving my experiments and equipment out when she is trying to clean.
"Not that, you little imp," she pulls on my cheek lightly, "that everything happens for a reason. There's a reason that you needed to leave that school, and not just because of your rough relationship and scuff with that brute. You're meant to be somewhere else, doing something else. And as for your illness, it allows you to focus on things that most people wouldn't be able to see." By this she of course meant my ability to read everything about a person in a single glance, something that I had been doing since before she came to work for us.
"Really, like what exactly?"
"What do I look like, a fortune teller?" I can't help but laugh because she kind of does, all she needs is a turbine and a silk moomoo. She chuckles too; she always does when I laugh. "Think about it like this my boy: a negative coincidence brought me to you and your brother. My washing machine had broken down and I needed to go to a coin laundry to do my washing. While I was there, I saw a flyer for a nanny service and since I now needed a new washer and always longed to take care of children," Mrs. Hudson could not have any children herself due to her malfunctioning ovaries. "I decided to sign up. Once my training was done, I was sent to your family's door. I loved you boys right away." She isn't lying, which amazes me since just about everyone who meets my brother and I disliked us do to our inability to properly associate with people. By that I mean we were both very awkward and did not respond well to attention since that usually meant Mommy was going to beat us again.
"And this has something to do with me because…?" I was getting testy, like I always did when people tried to show me affection, which would be why most people tend to give up on me. Mrs. Hudson is not most people though.
"Because if my washing machine hadn't broken down I would have never become and nanny and would have never known you boys. At the time is seemed like a bad bit of luck, but now I thank my lucky stars for that old junker of a washer." She squeezes my hand again and messes my hair, which I hate, before repeating her favourite saying, "All things for a good reason, Sherlock," and leaving my room. She was right, of course. Not long after that I took my first case: a boy who drowned in his school pool during a swimming competition, which I now know was because of Moriarty. Moriarty is exactly what I feared I would be: a monster. As I think this I open the door to the roof and quickly close the gap between us, the lyrics of staying alive filling my ears. As he speaks I think of another time that things happened for a good reason. It was just before Mrs. Hudson came to work for us. Mommy had beaten Mycroft for breaking a glass at breakfast and was screaming at me for trying to stand up for him. Normally, I would never speak out against my Mommy at this point, but I couldn't seem to stop my mouth from forming these words, "If you hate taking care of us so much, then why don't you buy somebody to!" I braced myself, expecting a blow that never came. Instead, she turned on her heal and walking into the kitchen. Twenty-three minutes later, she came back and let Mycroft out of the timeout room, which was a small closet in the basement, and told us to clean up, that somebody was coming over.
"Who is, Mommy?" Mycroft aimed to please Mommy, always did what he was told and needed to know if 'cleaning up' meant wash the blood from your face or get in a suit.
"I took your brother's advice and hired somebody else to keep an eye on you spoiled little brats. Your new nanny will be here in one hour." That meant we needed to clean the blood of our faces and change into nicer clothes, but not a suit since she is just a new servant. The moment she arrived I knew we would be safer from Mommy than we had ever been. She took us both in her arms and held us tight before she placed ice on Mycroft's swollen eye and a kiss on my forehead. It was the first kiss I had ever received.
Oh God, did he just say he has assassins on John? "John?" the name escapes my lips in a barely auditable whisper.
"Not just John; everyone." Who else could he mean? I think to myself, but I already know. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly; they're all going to die if I don't do what he says. I'm completely at the mercy of a monster, the monster I once feared I would be. What does he want me to do? Stop investigating cases? Help him escape from England with all his riches while I take the blame for his crimes? For me to come to the dark side? Damn it John for your silly movies! No, he wants me to jump off the roof to my death, and only then will they be safe. It's a good thing that Molly and I foresaw this possibility, but if she is being watched, will she be able to help me without Moriarty being tipped off?
"But I'm sure you can call it off, can't you?" I ask him this as calmly as I can, trying to sound as uninterested as possible.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean there must be a word or a signal that you can give the killers to call off the assassinations after I'm dead."
"As long as I'm alive you have a way to save your friends. You have a way out." He pauses for a moment and looks slightly defeated, but I know better. "Well, good luck with that!" He pulls out a revolver and puts it in his mouth, and that's the end of Jim Moriarty. But now what can I do, now how do I save them? I step towards the edge, unsure if one more step will lead to oblivion or salvation. Either way they'll have a better chance of survival with me gone. Or will they? Without Moriarty to call off the attack, will they die anyways? How do I get the attention of the assassins without tracking them down myself? Well there's an idea, but first I'll have to die to ensure their temporary safety. There is only one thing I can think of, and already I hate myself for it. I quickly pull out my phone and message Molly to get the net and our escape route ready before I call John.
"Hello?" He answers and I can hear a slight whistle in the background, like that of the wind filtering into the mouth piece.
"Where are you?" I wish there was some other way for me to get the attention of the assassins.
"Outside St. Bart's, why?"
"Perfect." I doubt he heard the sarcasm and self loathing in that one word with that damned whistling. I see him getting out of a cab across the street, putting the smaller wing of the building between the two of us. It couldn't be more perfectly lined up if I placed him there myself. He won't be able to see me hit the ground, but the assassin, that is sure to be following him, will be able to see me jump and hopefully spread the word to his co-workers. "Look up," I demand and it takes very little time for him to find me. Even from this distance I can see the look of shock and confusion. As I lock my gaze with his and give him my message, I'm reminded again of a time of mysterious reason.
I had happened upon someone I once went to school with and in a desperate attempt to have him leave me alone so I can do my work; I answered all his stupid questions about my life since university.
"So where are you living now?" He asked as I placed a slide into the microscope, trying to match the plant material found in the body's hair to the various samples I found in the car of her family members.
"I'm currently between flats as of now. I do have a place in mind; however, I need a flatmate to be able to afford it without financial assistance from Mommy." This was not the right plant; the one from her hair was more curved than this one.
"Well, I can keep my eyes open for you if you would like," I just grunt the affirmative since the second slide looks almost right, but not quite. "Well, Sherlock, I need to be going. I'll keep you posted about the flatmate. Goodbye my friend," I don't even acknowledge him this time since he is not my friend; he was my flatmate in my first year of university. He finally leaves me to my work, only to return less than a half an hour later with John in tow. I would have never thought that such a chance meeting with a man I had not seen in several years could change my life so drastically. This man introduced me to John. John, who captured my attention the moment he walked in. John, who killed a man to save me from my own hubris. John, who became my first true friend despite me making his life a living hell. John, who taught me what it meant to be a real human with real emotions; a true man. John, who is pleading with me to come down and stop this foolishness because he believes me and we need to catch the dead man lying on the floor behind me. I say my apologies and my goodbyes before I toss the phone to my side and spread my arms. In that moment, as I hear his voice screaming my name, I realize something so profound that it just might give me the strength I'll need for the long, horrible months to come. It was all for a reason: Mommy's beatings, Mrs. Hudson coming to my rescue, Bruce Clarkson's beatings and my rebuttal. My every breath, my every word, my every step was leading to one singular goal: Dr. John Watson, the one person I would truly die for. All things for a good reason: for John. And then I step off the edge.