Hi (: sorry it took me a while to update. This chapter is a bit long and boring but worth it (: review and I shall update faster!
Hot water surrounded Sherlock as he bathed his young body. He fiddled with the rubber duck that buoyed on the bath water. Whenever Sherlock's mother troubled him and forced him to take a bath, he thought. His mother always said that he thought too much, but other than that, Sherlock was lucky if she even gave him a comment, but never spared Mycroft a compliment. Although today had been the day where Mycroft was paid less attention, and mummy's coos and accolades were turned towards Sherlock for the first time in many years.
Sherlock leaned back and sucked in deeply, sinking his head under water. He'd gotten a 98 on an IQ test that Mycroft had taken 4 years prior. And what had Mycroft gotten? A 94. And weren't these tests supposed to be harder these days? Sherlock smiled happily underwater, proud to have outshone Mycroft and earn his mothers attention.
Having held his breath for as long as he could, Sherlock went up for air. He had barely broken the surface when a strong hand held him down. Sherlock spluttered and tried to hold on to what remaining air he had while he struggled under the strong hold of his assailant. He flailed underwater, splashing at the surface. His head hurt from the lack of air and he his vision was going blurry. Giving up, Sherlock ceased his tries for release. He set his hands down and relaxed, letting every last bit of air escape from him in bubbles.
The hand that held him down sharply pulled him up by his hair, sending a new jolt of pain down Sherlock's spine. Out of the water, Sherlock spluttered as he tried to inhale as much air as he could. His head throbbed and his eyes hurt. Calming down, Sherlock looked at the person who nearly killed him.
"Mycroft! Why did you do that?" Sherlock gasped when he saw his brother standing before him with deep hatred in his eyes. With one swift move, Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's hair and pulled Sherlock close to him. Sherlock cried with pain and fear as he was yanked towards his older brother.
"You might have won Mother's admiration, brother, but it wont last. You're the runt of the gene pool, the lower one. You wont succeed. By next month, Mother wont pay you any mind and she'll be giving me all the praise." Mycroft spat these words at his little brother, and then release his grip. Sherlock trembled and began to tear up. Leaning back, he hugged his knees, for once scared of his older brother. Mycroft looked almost satisfied, then proceeded to force Sherlock under once more.
Sherlock was more prepared. He had breathed in sharply right before he had gone under. Looking up, he saw the unmistakably grin on Mycroft's face to be a mixture of content and loathing. His brother grabbed for his mouth and forced the air he had been holding out. The throbbing in his head grew more intense and he had a black flash every time his heart beat. And his heartbeat was death's drum ringing in his ears, getting louder with every moment. The water seemed to be getting hotter, and Sherlock swore he was burning under water. It was as if a fire had been lit in the water, intending for him to boil in the bath.
"Sherlock!" A faint voice called, high pitched in panic. It was feminine, and very familiar.
"Sherlock!" Louder.
"Sherlock! Wake up! Sherlock!" The shout was deafening.
"Sherlock! Please! Get up!" Molly?
"SHERLOCK!" The loud call of his name woke Sherlock from his dream. Or flashback. Either way, it wasn't pleasant and he was glad to be awoken. But something was wrong, and he could tell by the heat that was pressing against his perspiring skin and Molly's frantic cries. Sherlock jerked upwards, opening his eyes. And all he saw was orange and yellow dancing across the walls and furniture.
Fire. It blanketed everything like thick snow. The heat was unbearable as Sherlock rose from the couch and tried to weave through the bits of singed ceiling that had fallen off. Smoke and fire swallowed what oxygen remained and Sherlock yet again found it difficult to breath. Flames licked and snapped at his legs, burning off cloth and biting his skin underneath. Ashes fell down from the ceiling like heavy fall rain and Sherlock was soon covered in ash and dust.
"Sherlock! Help!" Molly's shrieked in fear as a plank fell in her path, blocking her way.
"Molly! Don't move. I'm coming!"
"Sherlo-" Molly cried, but didn't finish her sentence. A fiery plank fell and hit her in the head, knocking her out onto the ashen floor.
Sherlock, more frantic than he had been since the weeks and days before his death, ran as well and as fast as he could through the smoking and flaming debris that littered the apartment. Sherlock pushed away the overturned furniture and the parts of the ceiling and wall that had given way. Finding the flaming block that had barred her way and prevented her escape, Sherlock bend down and lifted it. Flames wrapped around his fingers and singed his already burnt body. He pulled the plank that had been lodged between the small stairwell and the couch and threw it towards the fireplace. Sherlock climbed the stairwell with haste, reaching out towards the fallen Molly. She lay there in her nightie and bathrobe, which had caught fire. He ripped off the flaming material and gathered Molly in his arms, laying her head on his shoulder, his right arm around her waist and his left carrying her legs.
Sherlock heard the sirens outside; knowing some neighbor living in the apartment next door must have called the fire department. He ran with Molly in his arms – she was surprisingly light- towards the door. He pushed the door open and ran down the steps to the first floor.
When Sherlock finally got outside, water was raining down onto the apartment building, trying to quench the flames. A police force had gathered among the firefighters and was questioning neighbors and bystanders. Arson. That was a word Sherlock had heard from the distance.
"Help!" Sherlock cried, running towards the police force, bouncing Molly in his arms. "Someone help!"
"This way!" A policeman called, waving Sherlock and the unconscious Molly towards an ambulance. Sherlock hurried towards the blinking truck and carefully laid Molly down in the back. Paramedics immediately started attending to her wounds, and tried to treat Sherlock's but he waved them off, perplexed. How had the fire started? No fire had been in the fireplace, but Sherlock was positive the fire originated from their apartment.
"Excuse me, sir. Could I get a name?" A policeman touched his shoulder, snapping Sherlock out of his thoughts.
Sherlock slowly turned towards the policeman, even more wary now that Mycroft had spotted him, and he was a known figure to the force.
"Keith Ruben."
"Sir, You're going to have to be questioned over there by the police car." He directed Sherlock towards the officer talking to the neighbors, and Sherlock thanked whatever higher power he did not recognize the officer.
When Sherlock was about 3 meters away from the questioning officer, Sherlock stopped. He recognized the man he had tried to keep up with without tipping his hat. D.I. Greg LeStrade the name card read and he could just make out the woman who Molly claimed to weep at his funeral. Why were the Detective Inspector and his somewhat obedient frizzy-haired sidekick doing at a fire? As Detective Inspector LeStrade would have said 'Not our division.'
"You, sir. Come here." Detective Inspector LeStrade pointed at him, and Sherlock walked cautiously over to the officer.
"Name?"
"Keith Ruben."
"Oh, you're Molly's flat mate then? She usually does the autopsies for the cases I work on."
"Molly doesn't talk about her work much with me." Sherlock spoke quietly, and wondered why Greg LeStrade hadn't noticed whom the man standing before him was.
"Oh, so you're that kind of flat mate?" LeStrade raised his eyebrows and smiled good-naturedly. Sherlock just shook his head.
"She's just a friend I'm staying with until I get back on my feet."
"Ah. Do you know where the fire started?" LeStrade spoke casually, as if he couldn't really care less about the fire.
"Not really. Was it an accident?" Sherlock had that pressing feeling, that nagging feeling that something was wrong with the fire. The night Mycroft had found him and the building he had been staying in caught on fire? It wasn't a coincidence, and the cogs in Sherlock's head that hadn't been used in a while seemed to oil themselves down and start turning again.
"We think it was arson."
"Arson?" Sherlock tried to make his voice surprised, but the predictability of the case was already clear. "Why would anyone set fire to a five floor apartment building?"
"Who knows? And honestly, we can't even begin to find out where it originated, the blasted fire just wont stop burning."
"Best of luck finding the culprit, Inspector."
"Where are you going?" LeStrade's voice called after Sherlock as he slowly walked away from the crowd of neighbors and bystanders.
"Checking if my flat mate is ok."
As soon as Sherlock was reassured that the still unconscious Molly was stable, Sherlock took off. He walked down the streets of London, frantic and unsure of where to go.
Frantically checking the pockets of his robe, Sherlock found his phone. He punched in John's number and held the phone up to his ears. It rang out and Sherlock grew more panicked as he felt more alone. He rang again and it was silent. Sherlock almost hung up when he heard a noise on the other end.
Sherlock held the phone up to his ears and heard the glass break. "Shit," A man slurred his voice from behind the phone.
"Hello?" The voice was soft and quiet, as if he'd just been awoken, but more slurred and jumbled.
Sherlock didn't answer, deducting John's situation from what he could hear of the Doctor's clumsy foothold and garble. Click. Sherlock hung up the phone, so sure now of where he was going. And the man spoke of trusting him? How could he when he so blatantly lied about the subject that Sherlock found most important?
The cabbie dropped Sherlock off behind the building. Sherlock paid the man and walked in from the back entrance. People stared at him in his slippers and robe but Sherlock didn't care. The people in polished suits couldn't waver the rage, mistrust and frustration he felt at Mycroft.
Ding! The noise indicated that Sherlock had reached Mycroft's floor and he sauntered down the hall, finally reached the glass door marked Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock flung open the door and was delighted to see Mycroft's unsuspecting face at his sudden entrance.
"Sherlock, I do think that you coming into my office at this late an hour is rather atrocious. Especially with soot covering your face and you looking like you just hopped out of bed."
"Well, my flat mate is knocked unconscious in an ambulance and my apartment is on fire, where else am I to go?" Sherlock laughed coldly and sat down on the chair in front of Mycroft's desk. Mycroft was reading over a safe plan that no one could unlock. Dull.
"Ah, yes. I heard about the fire. Tell me, have you accepted my offer to stay with me?" Mycroft spoke quietly, his gaze furrowed on the plans in front of him.
"Why would I stay with you?" Sherlock folded his hands on his lap, staring curiously at his brother.
"Because you can trust me, and you should trust me."
Sherlock shook his head and smiled. "Lies."
Mycroft's pen stopped. He looked up at Sherlock, his gaze hard "I am no liar. What good reason do I have to lie to you?"
"See, brother. I was thinking that too, and I didn't come up with a reason that you would yet you have lied to me. Twice, actually."
"Twice, Sherlock?" Mycroft smiled a little, leaning back against his chair. "Do tell."
"Tell me again, how is John doing?" Sherlock stared at him with such hatred that he had never felt towards his brother. Trust his mind sneered at him. Since when do we trust anyone, let alone Mycroft?
Mycroft went white. "He's fine. Just as I said."
"Oh, really?" Sherlock had a faint smile on his lips, but his eyes reflected cruelty and distrust. "So tell me, he isn't perhaps, oh I don't know, gone off the deep end?" Sherlock stood up and leaned forward, resting his hands against the desk. "He hasn't found comfort in alcohol or drugs?"
"How would you know?" Mycroft looked at him coldly, wary of his brother's deduction abilities.
Sherlock stood straight and released his temper. "How wouldn't I know?" he roared at Mycroft. "Mycroft, you said I could trust you. Hadn't even been a day before you went and lied again! Of all subjects in which you could have lied, why the one I was most sensible about?" Sherlock shouted all these words at Mycroft. Tears had sprung in his eyes but he wiped them away, careful to not show any more feeling in his voice.
"Before I came here, Mycroft, I called him. I could hear it. Do you think I don't know what a drunkard sounds like?"
"Sherlock. Please, I just didn't want to make it worse between us than it already is! You had already found it so hard to trust me when we were kids, I wanted us to mend that relationship now."
"How could I trust you, Mycroft? One test score I got higher than you. It was one test score!"
"Sherlock, I truly regret what I did."
Sherlock swung around, not caring if the emotions he always concealed behind layers of impenetrable masks showed. "You tried to drown me, Mycroft! Do you not think you are the reason I never had any friends? Do you not think you are the reason I have so many fears? Do you not think you are the reason that I am so eager to prove myself?"
"Sherlock, I – I don't know what to say."
Sherlock regained his composure. "An apology, perhaps."
"I'm sorry."
"Good." Sherlock turned on his heel and headed for the door.
"Sherlock, wait."
Sherlock stopped in his tracks, now tired of his brothers fabrication. "Yes, Mycroft?"
"What was the second lie?"
Sherlock took a deep breath. He hadn't said her name in over a year.
"Irene Adler."
"What about her? John told you that – "
"John told me what you wanted him to tell me. When he brought the file up, he did his best to conceal it, but I saw it." Sherlock laughed again. "In witness protection in America? Really, Mycroft? I saw what you wrote."
Mycroft sighed, resting his hands on his protruding belly. "So you know she's dead."
"Oh, that's where you are wrong."
Mycroft's gaze darted from the floor to Sherlock. "What?"
"She isn't dead."
"She was executed in Karachi, Sherlock. I investigated this myself."
"Then why don't you think your facts are wrong?" Sherlock paced the floor.
"Explain." Mycroft beckoned Sherlock's words.
"You know when I took that case in Brazil? Instead I flew to Karachi, Pakistan. I know how to hide, brother, and I knew that she was going to be executed. I'm the one that was supposed to be leaving her headless, but instead, I helped her escape."
"Why?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Why, SHERLOCK?" Mycroft's voice rose to a loud bellow at his annoyance at Sherlock's help of a fugitive.
"I loved her."
Mycroft laughed. "You aren't capable of such emotions."
Sherlock stopped pacing and snapped his gaze at Mycroft. He felt tears beginning to form in his eyes but he didn't care. Mycroft's words stung him, but he wouldn't give Mycroft the satisfaction of knowing.
"You wouldn't know."
When Sherlock had arrived at the hospital it was 4:00am. Only a few lights were on in the hallways and the rooms smelt of antiseptic. The nurse behind the desk had fallen asleep, her head buried in her paperwork. Sherlock moved her arms carefully, trying to see where the patients were kept.
241. That was the room where Sherlock hurried. The doctor's jacket he had acquired was too big for him and was even large over the robe. When he finally reached the room, Sherlock was frantic. He needed to know what Molly knew, to confirm the suspicions that rose in his head.
She lay on the hospital bed, machines beeping and liquid flowing into her bloodstream. She wore a hospital gown and her hair was tossed onto the pillows, and she most likely hadn't woke since she was knocked unconscious in the fire. Sherlock bent over her, and in the least gentle way possible, grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her until she stirred.
"Sherlock... Sherlock!" She whispered menacingly as her eyes fluttered open.
"Sorry. Molly – "
"Why am I in hospital?" Sherlock rolled his eyes at the time she was wasting.
"You got knocked out during the fire and I carried you out."
Molly looked at him quizzically, trying to imagine Sherlock doing something like that. "Thank you."
"Yes, yes. Now, I need you to tell me, was there anyone at the apartment today?"
Molly rubbed her temples and narrowed her eyes, concentrating on a memory that seemed so distant. She gasped and spoke quietly.
"There was a man. I didn't catch his face. I got in at about 8:00 and you had gone out. He was in the corner of the living room, examining the bookshelf. I told him to leave and threatened to call the cops. I didn't know what he was doing. He left and said 'Nice to see you again, Molly'."
Sherlock breathed hard as he deducted everything that she had said. Nice to see you again. It could only be one person. Nice to see you again. Nice to see you again.
Sherlock gave Molly's hand a quick squeeze, and walked out the door. He let the Doctor's coat fall down behind him as he walked down towards the back entrance.
Just as he reached the door, Sherlock dug into his pockets for his phone. Unable to find the phone blind, Sherlock emptied his pockets. Keys, writing paper, phone… writing paper? Sherlock was attentive and never missed anything, and he never recalled taking paper with him. Sherlock always thought it was best not to use paper, as it could be traced as easily as string attached to a bomb.
Sherlock unfolded the crinkled paper and read what was written. He stared at it, dumbfounded. He had stopped moving, as this had shocked him, and things never came as a surprise to him. It was supposed to be over. He had sacrificed his life for it to end.
We both can play dead, but at least I know how to stay hidden.
