A/N: Hello darlings, here I bestow upon you the next chapter. Sorry it took a bit longer. I had a little case of the writers block, as I know many of you will understand. Well, any who it's over, I just sat myself down and wrote and this came out. Hope you find it enjoyable.
Chapter 3
Holmes absent-mindedly traces the slivery scar line circling his mark and tries to, somewhat successfully, drown out his thoughts to a dull buzzing. He glances at his gloves on the bedside table and sighs, leaning over to grab them, wincing when he bends over into the exact wrong angle, straining his wounds. The gloves are retrieved all the same, and gently slip onto his pale hands.
He closes his eyes and tries to ignore his all too familiar surroundings. A clean room with white walls, wide windows with children's doodles plastered on in a failed attempt to provoke joy, a single twin sized bed placed to the side of the room, white sheets that are not quite itchy enough to be troublesome accompanied by thin light blue covers that smell of disinfectant (everything smells of disinfectant), a lone empty chair tucked under a small table where 'get better' cards would have been, a small heart monitor next to the bed, an IV next to that monitor, and the steady 'beep beep beep' that echoes around the small space.
Suddenly the door clicks open and Holmes' eyes fly open. A tall, pudgy figure enters and Holmes lets out a groan. The man has chocolate brown hair, and hints of the beginning of a receding hairline. He wears a fashionable pinstriped suit with a stiff collared, clean, white shirt and deep red tie. He has a professional air about him, but his hands twitch slightly at his side for a moment, as if missing something.
"What do you want?" Holmes asks irritably.
"Nice to see you too, brother dear," the man smirks, closing the door behind him.
"You know how I feel about repetition, so state your purpose or leave, preferably the latter," he snaps.
The man does not reply for several beats. "You overdosed again."
"Clearly, judging by our currently location."
The man ignores him. "You got stabbed."
"Yes, for god's sakes we both already know this, why confirm it this absolutely banal way?" Holmes hisses.
"You forget your place, brother."
"Oh, then were would you want me to go then?" he smirks back.
"Rehabilitation, preferably."
"That is not what either of us meant. Stop suggesting rehab, I am not addicted."
"Your medical files would say otherwise."
"I am completely in control," he defies.
"You are not in control, or else you wouldn't be here."
"It's not like it matters to you anyway! Why are you even here?" Holmes bursts suddenly.
"Despite what you may think, brother, I do care for you. Sherl-"
"Do not call me that," Holmes interrupted, unconsciously rubbing his scars again.
"Oh for god's sakes, I play your little charade in public for you, but you cannot ask that I never call you by your birth name."
"I do. You can call me Holmes, brother, or nothing."
"And for what? So that your name cannot find you? Have you ever considered that they may be able to help you? Why are you so desperate not to bond?" the man exclaimed, restraining from anger.
"Do not bring him into this!" Holmes hisses through gritted teeth.
The man's face softens, not in relief or affection though, just in a broken way, an 'I give up' way. He lets out a deep sigh and clenches his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose, as if trying to keep a headache at bay.
"Brother, I try to help. I leave you be as much as I can, but I must intervene when such things as these happen. I will not allow you to destroy yourself. Do not waste yourself to narcotics or all things," the man's tone was on the brink of a plead, but his face shows no such correlation.
Holmes takes a moment before saying, "Wow, a please and everything, you're really going all out, brother."
"Just remember, that when you do lose control, I tried. I have exceeded my limitations; this is something you have to do yourself. This is on you." With that the man turns sharply and leaves without another word.
"Stupid brother," Holmes huffs irately to himself.
He takes another moment in silence, contemplating the meeting, shortly doubting himself. What if his- No, of course he isn't. Holmes is in control. He could stop whenever he wants.
He gives his head a small shake and mentally scolds himself for even thinking that his brother could have had a point. He glances down at his gloves, and his finger almost shudders as he thinks of pulling the left one off, or even just pushing it up a bit. He does not.
No, he is fine.
{***}
It is two months before it happens again. Back to the hospital he goes.
No one visits him, not even his brother. He is glad to be rid of the insufferable git, but his stomach twists when he thinks about his absence too hard. It does not matter; the man probably had him on surveillance anyway. He always has cameras following him.
The process is as usual, and he is set free within a few days. He goes back to his regular routine, but one day something new happens. New things do not normally happen to him.
Holmes, while on his way to his first deal since the clinic, stumbles upon a crime scene. It is a small one at that, but enough to catch the boy's attention. It is in a dank alleyway, which itself is typical. It is not a particularly gruesome scene, but something about it is interesting. It is not a regular crime. He cannot see it completely, the body is obscured by yellow tape and guarding officers, but he can see it well enough, with his exceptional eye sight and quick thinking. It is a young boy, his age cannot be too far from Holmes', and he is wearing a dark, bloodied t-shirt and baggy jeans, with worn and yellowing, white tennis shoes. He looks ordinary enough, but what watch catches Holmes' eye is not his clothing or even cause of death, but a peculiar mark on his finger.
"The gunshot wound is the apparent cause of death, it's most likely just a mugging. He's-"
"You're wrong, you know!" Holmes calls over the barrier. The policeman in question spins around and looks at the civilian incredulously, but before the man could say anything in response Holmes continues, "It isn't a mugging, check his wallet, it will be full."
"Uh, sorry but this is a cri-" starts another.
"No, wait. Hey, you, did you see anything?" asks the first policeman.
"No, but I know what happened," Holmes answers simply, shrugging a bit.
"How?" he asks, his eyes narrowed.
"I did not see then, but I can see now. It is written plainly all around you what happened. Perhaps if your team was more competent, you would be able to see it too," Holmes scoffs.
"Now, listen here-"
"The boys clothes and haircut suggest middle class, but I'm sure if you check his wallet, which you really should have already, you'll see he is not, but is instead he is belonging to a wealthy family. This is evident by his manicured fingernails and graduation ring, Chelsea Independent College, an exclusive private school not far from here. His wound, it is not post mortem because of the amount of blood, but it is not the cause of death either. It was given before his death so he bled out regularly, but he was dead of the poison shortly before the loss of blood would have gotten him. Yes, poison, obviously. Look at the slight bruising around his mouth and jawline. Someone forcefully opened his mouth and made him swallow something, assuming he was drunk, by his trousers and shoes. It wouldn't have been very difficult. On his hand, other hand, there are faint scratches up his ring finger, and on the same finger, just bellow, fading imprint of a ring. Most likely his ring was urgently removed from his person. The ring was not taken for money though, as is clear by his wallet full of money. It was murder, feigned as a mugging to through you off. I suggest looking for traces of cyanide in autopsy. You're looking at a serial killer."
The man, as well as the entire scene looks dumbfounded at the young man, and after a few beats, he manages to ask, "Serial killer?"
"Yes, obviously. Cyanide, it's way of entry, if he, male is statically more likely, knew him he could have easily slipped it into his food or drink, but instead he waited for him to get drunk enough and stumble away from his friends and forced it down his throat. Admittedly cyanide is a strange choice for a serial murderer, but it is so. Anyway, you should have had enough to go on by the ring."
"The ring? The ring he took? Why?"
Holmes smirks and simply replies, "He wanted a souvenir."
The man goes silent again, and the officers' baffled and questioning gazes do not waver.
Holmes sighs again. "Well, now that I have basically solved you case in, what, two minutes? I think I'll be off. Laterz!" he adds mockingly.
"Wait, how-" the officer begins, but the boy has already disappeared with a flap of his dark, fairly ragged trench coat. He is faster than he looks.
Holmes smiles to himself. That was… it was satisfactory.
He feels a small rush from it, and all but snickers at the stupid looks on the police's faces. It felt good. He feels less bored. He is always bored. It is a small, yet great improvement. There is a small but proud smirk planted on his face.
He feels… less intense. The craving does too. It isn't enough though, of course it isn't. He needs more.
He reaches his original destination and a few minutes later walks back with a lighter wallet and heavy pockets.
{***}
The buzz and distraction of 'detective work' is almost as addictive. Holmes finds himself searching for crime, just so he can solve it. He does not care to become a detective inspector or even a private detective, not that with his medical record he would be able to get into police academy, dull. Anyway, he would never stoop to the level of joining the police, they are all idiots, that's why the need only thing he wants is to satisfy his craving and do the job.
Eventually one policeman catches sight of him. He gets in a fair bit of trouble for intervening in a crime scene, but the man sees something in the boy.
Now it has been three months since DI Lestrade has employed Holmes as his aid in solving crimes. Consulting Detective; that is what Holmes likes to call himself, the only one in the world.
It is then that the DI discovers Holmes' other occupation. He is told to clean up or forget the work.
The next few weeks are the worst.
Holmes goes to rehabilitation.
{***}
"Your little psych tricks you learned in uni don't work on me. Stop inflicting your horrible and inaccurate analyses upon the world. Can I go yet?" Holmes snaps, pushing himself from his seat.
"No, you have to talk or else your session won't count, then you'll just have to stay longer," replies the doctor, not in a threat, but more of a strangely off-putting, friendly reminder. Holmes sighs but retakes his seat and the doctor smiles. "Now, Sherlock, you-"
"Do not call me that," he interrupts.
"What would you prefer I call you then?" The doctor raises his eyebrows.
"Holmes, just Holmes."
"Why would you like it better that I call you that?" Holmes remains silent. "Well, Sher-"
"Fine, fine! It is because marks do not have last names."
"Ah, I see," the doctor nods. Holmes doubts that he even half understood. "Do you consider yourself unbonded?"
Holmes huffs and responds irritably, "That is a ridiculous term. I do not wish to bond, why must there be a title for it? I am not 'unbonded', as you so like to call it, for reasons that most are."
"Of course, and what would those reasons be then?" the doctor asks.
Holmes does not answer.
"Are we done yet? I think enough has been shared."
The doctor ignores him. "Do you think this has anything to do with your past drug use."
Holmes eyes blaze and he hisses, "Do not pretend to understand me. You have your diploma, but that does not mean you are any more competent at your job, especially when it comes to me. I doubt you've ever met anyone on my intellectual level before, even outside of work, so do not think you can comprehend my mind by asking me a few preplanned psycho-analysis questions."
The doctor shows no real sign of reaction, but Holmes can still see the hint of resentment and surprise in the man's face and body. He excuses himself and the doctor does not object.
He does not slam the door behind him, but he wants to.
After the haze of anger fades away, Holmes aimlessly wanders the halls of the hospital. He randomly deduces patients and nurses, but it is all love affairs and money, which frankly he has had enough of. It does not help with the boredom beginning to creep in again; these were the times he did something stupid and rash. He does not though. Holmes continues to walk around purposelessly, until a nurse finds him and leads him back to his room. He does not refuse; he was beginning to tire of ambling anyway.
He does not dislike his room. It is not completely one like a standard hospital's, it has variation and thank god it does not have children's doodles in this clinic, for obvious reasons. The walls are not blinding white, but a soft blue. The lights are not bright florescent lights in long bulbs, but instead a subtler more yellowish tinted light emitting from a ceiling fan. The bed is more comfortable than the usual hard mattress and thin layers, but most of all, there are no windows. It should not be at all comforting but it is. He should feel trapped and cut off and claustrophobic, but he does not. He feels… safe. He will never say this out loud though, not even to himself.
He does not feel as trapped because it does not feel completely like a hospital here. The windows are somehow symbolic he supposes. Hospitals were open and plastered windows in every room to give the illusion of freedom to the patient, but this, a windowless room, it felt real, no deception, very unlike a hospital. Yet, he only felt this way when he is solitary; anyone else ruins the effect.
In the place of where a window would have been, is a bookshelf, half full. This is his brother's doing, of course it is. This whole room is unusual. It had to be. This would have, on most occasions, annoyed Holmes, but it does not. He just wants to go home really, that and work. He does not have a real home to go to though, so this, little oddly out of place hospital room, would have to do for now.
A/N: Well, there you go, chapter three. I have begun chapter 4 already, so hopefully it shall be out in the ether for you to read soon. Good day.