So sorry this took me so long! Mad, hectic couple of weeks, highlights of which include family fights, no less than seven exams to cram for, my seventeenth birthday and a touch of money trouble. Extra long chapter to say sorry! Thankfully, writing always makes me feel better and reviews help even more so thanks to all you lovely people!
I feel I must warn you, dear readers, there is a helluva lot of self-blaming, self-loathing and generally pretty angsty and irritable Sherlock in this chapter. It's hard to write emotions for a sociopath so let me know if anything doesn't work - it would be greatly appreciated! Enjoy this instalment!
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock - though it would've been brilliant to claim the credit for 'gay Jim'! Pure genius at work right there.
Lestrade barged into the hospital wing that was holding Sherlock Holmes. On the surface, he looked calm, important and in control.
In reality only one thing was really registering inside his head.
I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill him myself.
The head nurse looked up from a chart when he entered. She was a middle-aged woman with a careworn face and kind eyes that were, at this moment, narrowed in his direction.
"Can I help you?"
He flashed his badge in her face. "I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes." He made to step around her but she shifted and remained blocking his path. The badge had obviously had no effect then.
"I'm afraid no one is permitted to see Mr. Holmes until his next of kin can be contacted."
"And why is that?"
She looked at him incredulously. "The man was just in an explosion. It's doctor's orders that only family visitors are allowed. You'll have to wait, Detective Inspector."
Lestrade rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly.
"Fine. What about John Watson?" She consulted the chart in her hand.
"He's still in surgery and probably won't regain consciousness until tomorrow."
A pit seemed to open up in Lestrade's stomach and twist uncomfortably. The reports he had received from his officers had been somewhat garbled and consisted mostly of complaints about Sherlock addressing them all as idiots when they finally retrieved him and John from the wreckage. As a result, he had imagined that the pair had, as usual, escaped fairly intact.
They always did.
But now he thought of John. That loyal, reliable soldier. He thought of him hurt.
He thought of Sherlock.
This, he decided, is probably not good.
It's all my fault.
The words danced through Sherlock's mind, taunting him, mocking him. They only paused to offer further proof of the fact, images that he would rather forget but, for the first time in his life cursing his infallible memory, he never would.
It's all my fault.
Blood. John's blood. Blood on his hands.
It's all my fault.
A laugh. A high-pitched terrible laugh.
It's all my fault.
Red dots. Flashing lights. Crippling, horrible fear.
It's all my fault.
Boredom. That stagnant, irrepressible boredom that goaded him.
It's all my fault.
It's all my fault.
It's all my fault.
"I know!" He yelled to the empty room.
The scratchy hospital sheets had tangled themselves around legs. He thankfully was spared any severe pain from his bullet wound by the morphine dripping steadily into his blood stream from the IV in his wrist. Pain would only distract him from his emotions.
Generally, he would dismiss them. He was, after all, famously detached. Cold. Unfeeling. But now he relished in feelings of guilt and shame and pure, unbridled rage that swarmed in his heart. Because he deserved this. This pain was the one that he could not and would not deaden.
John Watson was hurt and it was all his fault.
There was no punishment on earth that could possibly fit the crime, so he devised his own. Here, in this alien and uncomfortable bed, he was slowly torturing himself over memories and dark thoughts that crept into the corners of his head, no longer restrained.
Why? Why had he let him get involved with his life in the first place? Why hadn't he just given Mycroft the plans? Why did he have to challenge Moriarty? Why? Why? Why?
"Well, don't you look pensive?"
Sherlock didn't even bother to raise his head. He had known of his brother's presence from the moment he stepped in the room and was sufficiently immersed in his own thoughts to commit nothing more to the conversation than a grunt of acknowledgement.
"How eloquent." Mycroft strode across the room to the bedside chair, followed, as Sherlock deduced by the sound of heels, scent of perfume and incessant clicking of phone keys among other things, by his assistant.
A stony silence fell between the Holmes men.
It was finally broken by a loud, irritating and irritated sigh from Mycroft. "What were you thinking?"
Sherlock snorted. "It's nice to see your bedside manner hasn't improved."
"Quite apart from the legal and political ramifications of your actions, you put your life in the hands of a psychopath and walked headfirst into a trap as though you'd received a blow to the head that lowered your IQ rather significantly. I can condone your chasing criminals through the city but this was really bordering on stupidity, Sherlock."
"Are you just here to lecture me or was there something you wanted?" His tone was icy cold and dripping in acid as he glared at his older brother. As if he gave a damn about his own life right now.
Mycroft surveyed the younger man for a moment before replying. Surprisingly, Sherlock did seem genuinely upset about the situation. There were emotions in his eyes that he could not recall ever seeing there before. He knew the reason, but it still was strange to see him so affected.
Emotion, it seemed, made Sherlock appear more human. And that was so alien to his character that it was far more disconcerting to witness than Mycroft would care to admit.
All this crossed his mind within a few seconds and none of it registered on his features. He shrugged nonchalantly.
"Simply adhering to my brotherly duty." The comment came across as overly scathing, but this had been the only way to talk to his sibling for a long time. "Oh, do stop pouting. I thought you might like to know that Dr Watson has been taken care of, that's all."
And there it was. That flicker of genuine, real and heart-wrenching concern.
It disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared but it didn't go unnoticed. Nothing did when Mycroft was in the room.
"What do you mean 'taken care of'?"
"I mean that I had him shot." Honestly, what did he think it meant?
In reply to the contemptuous glare aimed in his direction, however, he relented. "I had my own Doctor perform his surgery. Everything went well and he's now in recovery. Apart from a few broken ribs, a fractured kneecap and quite a few stitches in his shoulder, there doesn't seem to be any serious damage."
Sherlock turned away and became engrossed in his own fingers.
"Fine."
Mycroft stood to leave, 'Anthea' in tow, but paused before reaching the door.
"I like him, Sherlock. He's a good man and he's good for you. Just try not to get him killed." He left the comment hanging in the air and said no more except to call over his shoulder from the corridor. "Oh, and there's a detective fellow here to see you."
When Lestrade entered Sherlock's private room a few minutes later, he saw the detective, in complete disregard for Doctor's orders, pacing relentlessly back and forth across the room.
He sighed by way of announcing his presence.
Sherlock was similarly courteous.
"Have you found him?" Hs voice was an agitated, harsh snap. It was the closest the DI had ever seen him to worried. Deciding it would probably be unwise to goad him just yet, Lestrade settled with answering the question, storing his rant for future use. Highlights of this included 'what the hell were you thinking?' and 'are you suicidal or just plain stupid?'.
Ah, well. Another time perhaps.
"We've uncovered six bodies, each clad in black and holding rifles so none of them likely o be Moriarty."
"Of course not." Sherlock came to a standstill and glared at the wall as though it had caused him some great personal offence. He spoke again but quieter, darker, and it was probably more to himself than anyone else. "He can't have got out unhurt, otherwise the game would have started again."
"Maybe he doesn't know you're alive?" Lestrade supplied helpfully.
Sherlock snorted.
"Please. He knows. And he won't be happy." It may have been a trick of the light but Lestrade could have sworn he saw the corners of Sherlock's mouth twitch.
"I want to see John."
Poor Sherlock! I really do feel rather mean…
Ah, well - I'll get over it. A bit of shameless plugging here: since I mentioned boredom somewhere up there ^, I have a 221B fic called Curious Things that rambles on about it that NO ONE has reviewed.
This makes me sad.
Being sad makes me annoyed/do stupid things.
Only possible outcome: horrible mass-murder. Do try your best to prevent this.
Though I might get to meet Sherlock if he has to hunt me down…
