Chapter 3
He was small again, a little boy with soft dark curls and knowing eyes. He saw the fury in his father's eyes and recognized the betrayal his mother must have felt in this moment. It was written all over her face.
"Why Sherlock, why for god's sake have you killed that bird?"
"I had to know", his former self replied. "I had to know how it functions. That's why I had to cut him open… to see, to understand."
"This is not a machine, a thing, Sherlock!" His mother yelled at him. His father only shook his head.
"But…"
"No but. You killed a living being. An animal. For what?" Where there tears in his mothers eyes?
"But I had to know!"
"You killed a bird out of curiosity?" It was then that something between him and his mother had died. Sherlock was no longer her baby child but a lunatic seven year old boy. It was the first time he was forced to see a "doctor", the first time someone called him a freak. And it came out of his father's mouth: "Freak", he had said and then he had left.
He remembered. If his mind could have reached out to him, he would have told John how sorry he was. He would have touched him, mind to mind, soul to soul, because it was something even a Sherlock Holmes could not bear: This lone figure sitting next to his bed. Lost.
John watched him. Hours had passed since they had brought Sherlock into hospital. He had not moved since. Everywhere were cables and machines, pumping air into the consultant detective's lungs. The heartbeat was regular again. Thank god. Sherlock had not gained consciousness yet, but he had not died either. That was something, wasn't it? John watched the sleeping form of his best friend. Sherlock was pale, even his lips were white now, a contrast to his nearly black hair. Sweat was on his face. John carefully removed a drop with his thump. He had never touched Sherlock like that before and it made his heart ache. Had he done this tiny gesture two days earlier could he have saved Sherlock? John blamed himself. Sherlock was right: John saw but John didn't understand. He should have recognized the signs. Sherlock had been far too quit that evening, not even touching his violin. He had stared out of the window, blinking from time to time. But more like a statue, than a human being. He had not responded when John had said goodbye, but he seldom did. So why worrying? But he should have seen the shaking hands, he remembered them now. Oh Sherlock.
Why had he done it? Why? John desperately wanted to ask that question. But it was not essential, wasn't it? The only thing was that Sherlock survived. John never prayed, never since Afghanistan. But he did it that day. He prayed so deeply that he didn't see how Sherlock stirred for the first time.
He had been three years old when he first recognized he was not like other children. Playing on the playground, digging in the sand, running around… that was boring. He loved to explore things. And he never understood why other people looked at him in this strange way. One day made him see: He was not normal. Not like other kids. Not like Mycroft or Mary or Pete…
Grandfather – what had he looked like? – had given him a little car to play with. It was of metal, painted in blue, polished till it shone and with tiny little rubber wheels. His grandfather had shown him how to move it, back and forth, back and forth. Boring.
That evening Sherlock had taken his new plaything and had thrown it into the fire burning in the stove.
"Sherlock", the shocked voice of his mother still sounded in his ears. "Why did you do this? Don't you like your new car? Granddad was so proud of you today…"
Sherlock looked at her with big eyes. It was his car, wasn't it? So he could do like he pleased.
"Sherlock, you will have to apologize for that."
Why? It was his car. And this was important. He had to know. Which part of the car would melt first?
His mother rambled on while he stood motionless, transfixed by the melting car in the fire. Beautiful. Interesting. The tires were aflame, the car slowly crumbling. It was a picture to remember. For sure. He loved it!
Pain. Pain. Pain.
Sherlock thought his head might explode. His throat felt like being torn open by force and his body ached. Had he run into a car?
No. Sherlock remembered. Sherlock, the fool, that was what he should call himself from now on. Or even better: Sherlock, the idiot.
John? Was John somewhere nearby?
Sherlock tried to open his eyes. Nothing. He wanted to wet his lips but something was in his mouth, cold plastic… do not panic… oh dear… Suddenly there was this light. Painful in his eyes. Ok… he understood: Eyes open. Good. Pain. No… no please. His breathing was ragged.
Beep, beep, beep… the sound of the heart monitor sounded slowly and even at first, but it started to beep faster and faster. Like his heart. Sherlock could feel it in his throat, pumping blood through his veins… still… so he had to be alive… do not panic…
"Shhhhh…" A cold hold touched his head, stilled his trashing form. John's hand. Sherlock searched for John's face, John's eyes. There he was, still a bit blurred. Funny….
"I am here." It was good to hear John's voice. John meant living. John was good.
Sherlock searched John's hand, craving the touch of his soft fingers entwined with his own. There it was. Sherlock clinked on him desperately. There were people around, pulling something from his throat. Light blinded his eyes for a few seconds. Someone spoke. Sherlock did not recognize him. He still held John's hand, still looked into his sad eyes. Tears again, John?
Sherlock tried to breathe. In and out. Breathing was essential. John had told him so. And then he opened his mouth, his lips rough and aching. It was a word someone could have easily missed, for it was no more than the trace of a whisper: "John."
But John heard. John smiled.
To be continued