Author's Note: This is my first foray into the world of Sherlock and you readers are awesome! Thank you so much for your kind reviews it was much appreciated. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like.
BECAUSE YOU GUYS ARE AWESOME REVIEWERS! I'M POSTING EARLY...HOPE YOU ENJOY. Also, I don't use a Beta, so apologies for any mistakes.
(To those of you that noticed the 1st chapter followed the The Empty Hearse pretty closely, you're correct. It jumps off into AU in this chapter. Hope you enjoy it.)
PLEASE REVIEW: Since this is the first effort in a new fandom, if you enjoy the story and want to see it finished, please leave a review so I know. Cheers!
Disclaimer: Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration is belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece. I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.
Chapter 2
Aftermath
Five minutes earlier…
John seethed as he flagged down the first passing cab he saw. But it wasn't anger that was painfully clamping down on his heart; it was hurt and betrayal. Sherlock had put him through hell and the high-functioning sociopath had done it intentionally. Of all the people in John's life that he'd chosen to trust, Sherlock was the last one that he thought would do something this painful…this cruel…this psychotic.
His thoughts turned to Harry and their ongoing sibling feud. But not even she would pretend to be dead. Their childhood hadn't been all white picket fences or parties and John still carried the scars, both emotional and physical, from those clashes, but it had never caused this much emotional pain; possibly because he'd never expected all that much from his family. When their father had finally died and John had been accepted into the army with a specialization in the medical field, he'd thought that he'd left that life of disappointment and pain behind him. Turned out the joke had been on him and the universe was still laughing.
As he thought of the tragedy that had been his life for the last two years, he realized that it had actually been worse with his best friend.
His gaze lifted to where Mary was standing, speaking with Sherlock. The taller man was holding a white linen cloth to his split lip; his face a mask of confusion. John couldn't even muster the energy to feel bad about that. Punching Sherlock had been a knee-jerk reaction to the rage coursing through his veins. The damn sociopath hadn't even understood why John was upset. It wasn't that he'd faked his death or even that he'd kept it from John (although he was very pissed off about that), it was the knowledge that the genius-detective had felt he couldn't trust John to maintain his secret.
After all the death defying chases and the many cases, that had nearly cost the doctor his life, he'd assumed that their friendship was beyond any issues of trust. Apparently he was the only one that felt this way. Honestly? That was the most distressing thing of all, the lack of trust. John didn't trust easily and he'd extended that closely guarded emotion to Sherlock and he'd snubbed it. His therapist had diagnosed him with 'trust issues' at least that was what Mycroft had said upon their first meeting. Bloody bastard sticking his pompous English nose in my business. But it had all been for nothing because…
Sherlock didn't trust him.
How could he ever believe that John would betray him? He'd die before he placed his friend in danger. He swallowed thickly and scrubbed his hand across his face, suddenly feeling old and tired. When his fingers brushed the mustache, he cringed. It had taken Sherlock less than five minutes to determine that Mary didn't like the facial hair. John hadn't even noticed.
"Mary?" He called out flatly, turning to look at the two people in the world that meant everything to him. Complicated emotions swirled through him as he stared at them. Mary smiled up at something Sherlock had said and then made her way toward the waiting taxi.
John stepped aside so she could climb in ahead of him before settling himself in the backseat and pulling the door closed. The cab had barely begun moving when he turned to her. "Can you believe him?" He was hoping for some support from her and was slightly shocked when she answered.
"I like him." She stated evenly, her eyes sparkled with mischief when she looked over at him.
His dark blue eyes flashed over to her and his eyebrows drew together in consternation. Of course she'd 'like' him. He thought with frustration. "What?" It was the only response he could muster.
Mary shrugged and turned a radiant smile toward him. "I like him." She repeated softly before reaching down and lacing their gloved fingers together.
221B 221B
Sherlock shoved his hands into the pockets of his Belstaff before he started walking back toward Baker St. None of this had gone the way it should have…the way that the consulting detective had anticipated that it would. Why do people have to throw emotions into every situation? If John had been able to think clearly, logically, then he would have been able to see things from Sherlock's point of view and surely he would have seen that there had been no other option.
But no, the army doctor was viewing the entire situation through the blurry lens of emotions. The ever-present moisture that permeated London's atmosphere picked up and turned into a downpour. It quickly plastered Sherlock's dark locks to his head. In a way it was appropriate he supposed, given the situation he now found himself in. He considered making his way past his dealer's route and securing himself a dose of morphine to ease the rampant spinning of his mind.
Of course you want drugs, when things don't go your way, you crawl inside a syringe. John's voice invaded the sanctity of his internal thoughts and then resounded off the marble walls of his mind palace, shaking Sherlock to his very core.
"Shut up, John." He growled.
Several taxis pulled past him, slowing down hopefully, but Sherlock ignored them and continued to walk through the dismal streets. It was the perfect reflection of his current mood. The storm increased until it was raining so hard he couldn't make out the street he knew he was walking on. The light from the street lamps disappeared into the rain drenched sidewalks and simply seeing his hand in front of his face was no longer an option. Perhaps that was why he missed the car that screamed around the blind corner and slammed into him.
The metal collided with his already abused flesh and he grunted as he landed on the hood. His forward momentum caused him to roll up into the glass, shattering it with his back. A warm wet rush of, what he could only assume was blood, immediately soaked his right arm. That's really unfortunate. His brain supplied in acknowledgement of the injury.
White-hot pain shot through him and stole his breath, his eyes clamping shut as he struggled to simply pull in one breath after another. He was fairly certain that one of his lungs had collapsed because he immediately had difficulty drawing that single breath. His broken ribs had shifted painfully and whatever healing his body had done was immediately undone.
Sherlock slowly slid away from the glass, down the hood of the rain-slick car and landed on his back in a puddle of water, his already aching head cracked against the unforgiving ground for the second time that night. White spots burst before his eyes and he knew that he'd sustained a fairly serious concussion. No amount of internal argument was going to stop unconsciousness…not this time.
The world pin-wheeled down to a single point and he knew that he didn't have long before he was locked inside his mind palace due to the failure of his transport. This wasn't the type of unconsciousness he'd been hoping for tonight. He'd been seeking the kind of mindless floating that came with morphine, not the dizzying speed that accompanied cocaine. And he certainly hadn't been hoping for the sluggish and ridiculous responses that came with an injured brain.
The part of his mind that was still active recognized that he was bleeding, profusely, probably arterial… He waited for the person driving the car to get out and at least phone the ambulance. But they didn't. And his thoughts drifted for a moment. He pulled them back with great difficulty and slowly pulled his arm against his side to try and slow the bleeding.
Should he be tying some sort of the turni-thingy around…his arm? Or maybe his…oh bother; he couldn't even recall the basic makeup of human anatomy at the moment. Where was John? He would know what to do. Doctoring was John Watson's job; Sherlock's was deductions and crime solving. He had no time for mundane things like first aid and doctoring.
But his lightning fast thoughts were not cooperating like they should be. Damn things kept splashing off into the darkened corners of his mind-palace without permission; completely ignoring Sherlock's physical needs. Rude! Very rude indeed!
Through the reddish haze of pain and the random drifting thoughts he realized that the car had disappeared and he was now alone in the middle of the rain-drenched street. Sherlock didn't even know for sure where he was. Fan-bloody-tastic! Hit and run, that's just awesome…he felt his mind slip into the darkness...
Brussels - One year ago…
Sherlock squatted down next to the old stone building in the small alleyway; he held his hands over the trashcan fire desperately seeking the warmth it barely offered against the cold night air. The thin material that was currently serving as a coat, and he used that term very loosely, was doing nothing to dispel the biting cold that was seeping into every bone of Sherlock's thin body. He missed his thick Belstaff…and the warm glow of the fire inside of 221B Baker Street.
The snow was falling in thick sheets of white and the temperature was rapidly approaching dangerously low levels. Sherlock was in this predicament because he'd been chasing the assassin Moriarty had sent after Lestrade and that chase had landed him in Eastern Europe. The man had been quite good, not as good as the assassin that had been assigned to kill John, but very good otherwise.
The decision to kill this man had been an easy one. Sherlock wouldn't allow anyone to come after his friends; not again. After all, hadn't he committed suicide to protect his friends?
"Your only 3 friends will die…" Moriarty's threat still echoed through his mind palace, ensuring that Sherlock stayed focused.
Over the last year he'd killed a lot of people, although to be fair, they hadn't been very 'nice people' and they'd had it coming. The final problem was Moriarty's second in command and he was the one person that Sherlock hadn't been able to identify…not yet. The consulting detective thought the man might be Serbian or at least there was a connection there that needed to be explored. The members of Moriarty's network were every bit as afraid of this 'second in command' as they were of Moriarty himself; which meant that information was hard to come by.
Sherlock blinked sluggishly as his vision swam in and out and he swallowed back the nausea that threatened to reproduce his last meager meal. He hadn't slept in…how many days had it been now? He couldn't remember anymore and his mind was starting to ignore his desires and operate on its own. Damn thing kept pulling images of John from the safety of his mind palace and placing him there with Sherlock. This time he couldn't fight the apparition that now knelt next to him in the gathering snow.
The black jacket and the dark blue jumper that John was wearing made him seem so much more real to the consulting detective that it was difficult to ignore the 'John-hallucination'.
Sherlock's long delicate fingers were bright red in the extreme cold, not to mention stiff and starting to turn white . He tried to open and close them several times; it didn't help, not in the least. He kept his eyes averted from 'John'.
The hallucination chuckled. "The cells are starting to crystalize due to the cold." John said as he leaned back against the brick wall of the alley. "They are going to start breaking through the cell walls destroying the nerves and probably causing permanent damage." Sherlock ignored the comment. "You won't be able to play the violin anymore."
Why was his hallucination telling him something so obvious? "I'm not stupid, John. I'm well aware of the effects that freezing temperatures have on human tissue. I've done quite a few experiments to determine that information." Sherlock hissed indignantly. "As you well know."
John simply shrugged. "True, you did take that human head from the morgue…you kept it next to the roast in the freezer, as I recall. But if you don't warm up you will suffer permanent damage." He repeated the previous warning.
"If you insist on stating the obvious, John. You can leave." Sherlock's words slurred slightly and he tried to blink away the weariness that was plaguing him. He knew that the figure standing across from him wasn't actually 'John Watson'; certainly not the one that he was aching to speak to. But it was better than being alone with his own thoughts.
The moment that Mrs. Hudson had taken his skull, thus forcing him to notice the rather unremarkable man sitting in his living room, and he'd realized that John was actually listening to him...well that moment had been a game changer. The skull had done an increasingly poor job of focusing Sherlock's flashes of brilliance ever since the doctor had knocked on the door of 221B.
"You aren't real." The baritone rattled out of Sherlock and the doctor sighed and nodded his agreement.
His blonde head bowed in agreement. "No Sherlock, I'm not real. You left me behind, remember?"
"I didn't have a choice." It came out more resigned than as an excuse.
John's head tilted to the side and he pressed his lips together in the way that he only did whenever Sherlock did something he thought was idiotic. Which was decidedly less often than when John did something stupid. Sherlock thought with a half-smile.
"You always have a choice, Sherlock." John said softly.
221B 221B
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade stared in the rearview mirror as he waited for Sally Donovan to exit the bank. They'd been called out to check out a break-in attempt. Nothing had been taken, just damaged property at this point. The wipers were running on high to keep Greg's field of vision clear. The storm had come out of nowhere.
Donovan was just exiting when another call came across the radio. He rolled his eyes at the ceiling for a moment and listened to the call. She pulled the door open, climbing into the BMW and out of the cold London rain.
"Hit and run at the corner of Baker and Jordan. Male, thirties. Unresponsive at the scene, will be transmitted to St Barts for medical evaluation. Closest units to this location, please respond." The radio died and Lestrade sighed as Sally groaned softly.
Lestrade really wanted to go back to the office; it had already been a very long day. They were both tired and technically off shift, but… "It's right around the corner." He said, ignoring the weariness pulling at his eyelids.
She blinked tiredly and ran a hand over her face, wiping the rain from her cheeks, before nodding. "Yeah, alright." It wasn't the rousing support he'd hoped for, but it would have to do.
The drive took less than five minutes. What the DI hadn't anticipated on was the onslaught of emotions the moment he pulled onto Baker Street. He hadn't been on this particular street since Sherlock had…died. It was still too painful to see the place without the consulting detective, the energy that had always been vibrating through the flat had dissipated into god-awful silence.
The lights of the emergency vehicles whirled in the distance as he slowed to a stop. It was still pouring and the rain was now sucking up the extra light from the surrounding areas. Greg wasn't looking forward to getting soaked and then heading back to the tiny rented flat he currently occupied. He sighed and pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders before stepping out of the car onto the puddle-laden sidewalk. Within moments the detective inspector was soaked clean through, his hair plastered to his head, making him feel like a drowned puppy.
He reached for the umbrella in the back seat and then splashed over to the back of the ambulance. A body was lying motionless on the gurney, an orange emergency blanket wrapped over it.
Lestrade stepped close enough to be able to make out the fact that the victim was indeed male, thin and tall. He leaned over further and felt his breath catch painfully in his chest before freezing there all together. Shock raced through him and paralyzed his response as he stared down, desperately trying to understand what he was seeing. Because what he was seeing simply wasn't possible…he was dead…
Lying on a gurney, less than 300 yards from 221B Baker Street's front door, in a pool of wet black hair and bright red blood, was Sherlock Holmes. He was even wearing that damned coat he loved so much and the blue scarf he was rarely seen without.
"Oh God…" Lestrade whispered and gulped down the bile quickly rising up the back of his throat. This was like deja-vu. He'd been on hand when Sherlock's body had been transported to Barts for autopsy. Lestrade had seen first-hand the condition of the consulting detective before he'd been pronounced dead, by Molly Hooper.
The way the vibrant green-gray eyes had stared vacantly up into space. The way his body had been unnaturally still and compliant. Because, on a good day, there was nothing compliant about Sherlock Holmes…and that had definitely not been a good day. But this? It had the potential to be so much worse, because the DI hadn't even suspected that the bastard was still alive. And now Sherlock might not remain that way. Son of a bitch!
Sally rushed to Lestrade's side, her eyes widening when she saw what had silenced her normally talkative boss and, instead, had him staring down in disbelief. "What on God's little green Earth…?"
"I doubt very much that God did this." Lestrade spat back angrily.
TBC…
Author's Note: Please take a moment and let me know if you're interested in the rest of the story.
