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Two months earlier
"Who the hell is ringing the doorbell at 2 in the morning?" I was already in a foul mood because a patient had kept me up till 12. Holding my pillow over my ears, I sunk back into the covers, hoping that whoever it is would stop. Of course it didn't, what was I even thinking? I groaned and turned to Mary. Without even opening her eyes, she whispered, "You're such a wonderful man, John."
Damn, that woman will be the death of me, I swear. I blearily pulled on a nightgown and trudged to the door, pulling it open. A man in a heavy coat was leaning against the doorframe, his hand on the doorbell. "What the he-..." I froze. I know that ruffled, curly brown hair anywhere. "Sherlock..?"
No way, I was dreaming, hallucinating. Sherlock was dead. I checked his pulse, saw his body myself. I rubbed my eyes. Still there. Gave myself a pinch. Still there. My astonishment suddenly transformed into a surge of intense blind anger.
"What the hell are you doing Sherlock? Two years. Two goddamn years, and you turn up at my door? You…" I grasped him by his coat collar, and yanked him towards me. There was no way he was going to be let off the hook. Not today. I let fury wash over me. This bastard...I was lost for words. Screw it, I can express this physically too. I drew my fist back and punched him, hard. He didn't duck. Hm, at least he knows he deserved it.
I didn't expect him to fall and hit the pavement with such a sickening sound.
"Sherlock? God, sorry. Wait, I'm not sorry, but are you ok? I didn't mean to...Sherlock!" In the darkness of the day, I hadn't looked at him carefully. I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight. Dear lord, his face was covered with bruises and cuts, some already half-healed, others looking somewhat new. His nose was bleeding...but I admit that was probably because of my punch. I looked down, and my stomach turned. His coat was covered with blood stains, not all of them dried.
Please, no…
Mary had come to the doorstep, probably worried why I hadn't gone back to bed yet. Before she could say anything, I yelled at her to call the ambulance. My mind was in overdrive. I quickly peeled his coat away. I was careful, but I got a small groan in response. He was conscious. He must be in so much pain now.
"Sherlock? Stay with me." He was wearing a white shirt and a pair of slacks under the coat. At least I think it was white, but it had turned brown and red with all the blood. The shirt wasn't torn and had no holes, so he just got it recently. The buttons were buttoned haphazardly; he had been in a hurry. No, even Sherlock in a hurry was meticulous. Sherlock must have been badly injured. His pants were ripped and dirty. I could see the deep slashes on his bare skin through the rips. Thankfully, they weren't inflamed.
I handed my phone to Mary. She quietly took it and held the light steadily. "Sherlock? Talk to me. What-" I sucked in my breath. As I opened the buttons of his shirt, I could see just how bad his wounds were.
"Sherlock! Sherlock! You have to stay awake! Please, do this for me...Mary, check if he's awake." Blood was flowing profusely from a series of gashes on his body. There were patches of angry burn marks. Bruises decorated his body, but I ignored them. Broken right arm, broken collarbone...broken ribs. What had he gotten himself into? I started first aid, tearing strips from my nightgown for makeshift bandages. How did he even manage to get to my house?
"He's out John." You're not dying on me Sherlock. I still have a bone to pick with you. "Slap him."
"What?"
"Slap him Mary. He needs to be awake."
She slapped his face repeatedly, lightly. "Slap him harder, Mary!" She was going to, but Sherlock caught her hand with his own feeble one. "John," his voice cracked. "Did you say to slap me harder?" His voice was so weak, but I was ridiculously overjoyed to hear the sarcastic tone ever present in his speech.
"Sherlock, you bloody bastard. What the hell happened?" I regret those words so much.
His eyes widened and filled with panic. His lips moved soundlessly. He frantically tried to turn his head around, even though Mary was holding it in place. He struggled to get up, crying out at the pain. "Sherlock? Calm down, it's ok. You're with me, John." He started screaming and flailing. He stared with frightened eyes at Mary and tried to pull away. "She's my fiancée, Sherlock; she's with me." Where was the ambulance?
"Sherlock?"
"I don't know, I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!" He was practically wailing.
Then he was silent. I tapped him on the shoulder. "Sher-" He shuddered and cowered, whimpering. Mary stared at him, then me. I could hear the ambulance in the distance. I crouched further down. "Sherlock it's ok. You're safe." I stopped, shocked. His face was covered in tears. Sherlock never cried. Not from pain, not from anything. Mary was crying too. "Oh Sherlock."
Sherlock kept crying and whimpering as the ambulance took him to the hospital. Mary and I rode with him, shivering absentmindedly, still in our nightgowns. I phoned Lestrade first and told him to meet us at the hospital. I didn't mention Sherlock. I hesitated, debating whether or not to call another person. I didn't need to, Mycroft called me minutes later. It was a blur, so I can't recall what I said. I just recall feeling choked up. By the end of the ride, Sherlock was hyperventilating and had to be sedated. He was taken in for surgery. He was so still, his face still wet. Mary and I sat numbly outside.
We were silent for a long time. I think Mary patted my shoulder periodically.
"I punched him." I choked out, my voice cracking with guilt.
"What?"
"I punched that bloody bastard. I was so mad...I couldn't see his…"
"Shh. He'll be fine. He'll pull through. You've told me how persistent and stubborn he was, remember?"
"I actually punched him. He came to my house in the middle of the night, of course he needed help. How did I not see that? He was hurt. I punched him. And why the hell was he acting like that?"
"Shh, baby, it'll be alright. He was just in shock. Shh. It'll end soon, and Sherlock will be fine."
Mary couldn't have been more wrong.
Sherlock woke up days later with no memory of what had happened. He seemed cheerful enough, as cheerful as Sherlock could ever be, given his present state. He told me he couldn't remember what had happened for the past six months, only the part where he was trying to reach my house. And he couldn't remember the part after I told Mary to slap him either. His eyes closed as he strained to remember, but I hastily changed the subject.
"Ok erm so you're alive. Great. Couldn't have told me? You know, saved me from mourning?" I wasn't angry, not anymore. I couldn't bring myself to feel angry.
Sherlock shrugged. "I had actually important matters to attend to." If he wasn't already half-dead, I would have killed him right there. I breathed slowly.
Lestrade walked in and saved me from being a murderer.
"Hey! Look who's alive! God, Anderson will be insufferable now."
Sherlock's colorless lips twitched. "He must be cursing and prepared to kill me himself." Wow, that sounded a lot like me.
Lestrade grinned. "Nah, he couldn't be happier. He was always claiming that you were still alive with his crackpot theories. Guilt, I suppose. He won't stop talking about how he was right all along now." His smile faded. "But Jesus, Sherlock. What in the world happened to you?" I should have warned him not to ask that.
Luckily, Sherlock must have not heard him, because he was scowling at a figure by the doorway of his room. I could guess who it was without turning around.
"Well, well, brother mine, you are in fine shape." Mycroft's words were accented by the sound of his cane on the tiled floor. "Was it not enough to scare Mummy and me by turning up two years ago when you were supposed to be 'dead?' "
Sherlock snorted. "I think you were more displeased that I wasn't actually dead."
Mycroft sniffed. "Oh you injure me, Sherlock. You know, I was the one who got you this nice private room. And no, Sherlock, before you ask, you are staying in this nice room. You're not going back to Baker Street."
Sherlock opened his mouth, presumably to argue, but he was cut off by a flurry of movement. A nurse was wheeling a patient in. The patient had clearly suffered from some kind of crash and was bleeding heavily through the bandages. The nurse seemed to have realized that she had gotten the wrong room, and wheeled the patient back out, apologizing. We turned back to Sherlock, who had gone still. "Sherlock?" I cautiously asked.
He grabbed his head with his good arm. "Sherlock..." I tapped his shoulder, fearful of a repeat of the night I found him.
"Get the f*** AWAY FROM ME!" He thrust me away. Everyone was shocked. Sherlock had never been one for coarse language.
He struggled to get out of bed and tumbled up instead. Lestrade moved to help him. Sherlock scrambled up. He ripped the IV and all other tubes out of his body. If the situation wasn't so serious, I would have admired at how he was able to move at all.
Sherlock got in a defensive position. "If you take one step further," his voice was low and rough. "I swear I'll kill all of you." He smiled; it was a dangerous smile. His eyes glittered. "Come on, step forward. Brother mine, won't you try?" His smile widened. The room felt cold. "Oh you coward, you never had any guts did you? You're just a big, fat bully." He chuckled. Then turned angry again. "Damn it, let me go! You've never cared for me, why pretend now? I want to leave. I don't want to see your faces. F*** you!" He the lamp beside the hospital bed, and before we could move, smashed it against the ground. How did he have that strength?
Lestrade jumped. "Jesus man, calm down. We're not gonna hurt you." He moved forward. Mycroft held out his cane to stop him. "Let him be. He'll wear himself out soon enough." He turned and swept from the room. Cold-hearted bastard.
He was still right. Sherlock was swaying, and moments later, his eyes rolled back. Lestrade and I jumped forward to catch him. We ended up in a tangle, while Mary helped Sherlock into bed. Damn, that woman is strong.
Lestrade was looking at me, expecting an explanation no doubt. I faked a smile. "He's just under a lot of stress. Shock, definitely. He'll be alright soon." Even then, I think I knew that that was a lie. Sherlock had always reacted well under stress.
Lestrade nodded. He believed me. "Let me know if you need me or anything." I nodded. He glanced at Sherlock. "Poor man. He must have gone through a lot."
If nothing else, that was true.
Again, Sherlock woke up with no memories of his shouting. He frowned, trying to recall when his brother and Lestrade left. I told him he fell asleep. He didn't believe me, but he couldn't come up with an answer either.
That wasn't the last time. In the next few months, Sherlock had many episodes where he acted unlike himself and couldn't remember anything afterwards. Triggers were anything from blood to asking about the past to even random, unidentifiable things. Every time after blacking out, Sherlock would panic. I would comfort him, telling him that nothing happened, that it was just a side effect of stress and shock. I think I was pretty successful in keeping the doubt out of my voice.
After he was discharged from the hospital, I told Mary that I would have to stay with him at Baker Street to look after him. She readily agreed, the sweet, strong woman that she was.
When Sherlock stepped into Baker Street 221B, heavily supported by Lestrade and me, Mrs. Hudson flew at him and hugged him. He winced, but smiled genuinely. "Oh Sherlock! How I've missed you!"
"I've missed you too. But really, you've missed me putting dismembered body parts in your fridge and decorating your walls with bullet holes? My, Mrs. Hudson, you have changed."
He sounded like Sherlock of the old again. I could almost believe that nothing had changed.