Chapter Three


I awoke to the sound of people rushing around the hospital corridors, feet squeaking on sterile floors, and Lestrade hovering nervously above me. He had a fake smile plastered on his face,

"I'm glad to see that you're back to the land of the living." I sat up slowly, head still spinning slightly. His head stopped me, pushing me back down,

"How long was I out?"

"About five minutes." I tried to get up again, but he kept his hand on my chest, "Best not, I think. You're looking a bit green—"

"Well, how would you feel if you found out that your best friend had been… had been raped." Lestrade sighed, giving me a slightly disapproving look,

"John, I have known Sherlock for five years. Before you came along, I was the closest thing he had to a friend, so don't think that I am not struggling with this too, because I am. I am very struggling." I felt a wave of shame wash over me and I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face,

"Right, I know. I'm sorry, Greg. I didn't mean it like that—"

"I know what you meant, and it's fine." He helped me sit up, supporting me when I swayed slightly,

"Is there anymore news?" He sighed, suddenly looked very old and weary,

"They were just in there with him, and apparently he's beginning to wake up—"

"Well, that's good."

"Yes, but the thing is that he doesn't remember anything that happened. He's missing about three hours, and he doesn't seem particularly different to how he is normally. They don't think he knows what happens, and they want you to make the decision on whether or not to tell him."

"No." He blinked in surprise, looking at me with a slightly incredulous look,

"John, we can't keep it a secret from him. This is Sherlock, he'll figure it out eventually, and it won't be long. It'll probably only make him angry that we didn't tell him."

"I'm not saying we keep it from him forever. I just don't think now is the best time—"
"Then when is?" I glared at Lestrade, frustration and anger bubbling up until I snapped and shouted at him,
"I don't know!"

There was a moment of silence, a few nurses and other patients looking at us in surprise, and finally we sighed and dropped out head into our hands, almost simultaneously. I sighed, trying to sort out my thoughts, "I think, first of all, we need to talk to the real Mycroft. He knows Sherlock better than anyone, and he might be able to give us some insight into what happened when he blacked out last night—"

Lestrade nodded, and I was about to get my phone out to ring Mycroft when it began to buzz on its own accord. It was a text from the man himself,

I am waiting outside.

I got the feeling that Mycroft was probably more upset than he let on when we met him by his car. Sherlock had told me that Mycroft only rings when he can't talk, and if he wasn't talking now then perhaps he was cracking underneath the façade.

He was swinging his umbrella at his side; he might have looked callously nonchalant if it weren't for the bloodshot tinge to his eyes. He must have gotten rid of the tears quickly, before we could see them.

A polite hand was extended towards Lestrade,

"Mycroft Holmes. I wanted to thank you for taking such good care of my brother."

"It was no trouble, Mr Holmes." I glared at the man when he turned to me,

"Your younger brother has been stabbed and is lying in a hospital bed, and you're standing out here?" He raised an eyebrow, tucking his umbrella under his arm,

"I thought I had foregone my bedside privilege in favour of giving you full access. Besides, it is not the first time Sherlock has been at death's door, and it will certainly not be the last. I think the more important question is, why are you out here talking to me, and not in there holding his hand?"

"You know why," I said, choking slightly on the words. He sighed, looking very much like this was not the first time he had dealt with something like this,

"Yes, unfortunately, I do. I would like to ask that you do not reveal the events of last night to him – not now, and not ever."

I gaped at him in shock, and my decision was made immediately,

"How the Hell can I keep this from him? Not only is it wrong and unfair, particularly in the long run when he finds out, but this is Sherlock. He'll take one look at our faces and know." Mycroft shook his head, looking surprisingly sad,

"He will not figure it out. He didn't manage to any of the other times."

I felt like the air had been physically punched out of my lungs, and Lestrade had to voice my unspoken question, since I was incapable of speech,

"Other times? What do you mean other times?" The look on Mycroft's face was carefully guarded, so as not to reveal more than he wished known, but the regret and the sadness was clear in his voice,

"Sherlock and I did not have an easy childhood. Mine was not quite so difficult. Our father suffered from a cocktail of mental disorders, some of which are to blame for Sherlock's own mental condition, and he took an early dislike to Sherlock. He treated the boy like a stranger in our home, and there was only so much I could do to protect him."

"What did he do to Sherlock?" Mycroft sighed, shaking his head,

"I doubt we will ever truly know. Sherlock's mind is unlike anything I have ever seen, a unique combination of symptoms, and he has always been able to remove or repress unpleasant memories. I doubt he will ever truly to get the memories back, and it has always been easier to allow him a kinder life. So, please, be patient and take care of him, John, and he may just be back to his typical self."

I didn't know how to respond, but there wasn't time regardless. He shook Greg's hand one last time, climbed into his car, and left us behind. We exchanged quick, stunned glances, and Lestrade asked,

"So, we're not going to tell him?" I sighed, running a hand through my hair and making a mental note to find a comb from somewhere.

"I guess not, but it doesn't feel right. I feel guilty—"

"But, if it's what's best for him. Perhaps, we should let sleeping dogs lie, and let him forget." I nodded, turning to led him back into the hospital. He kept step at my side, still looking slightly bewildered by the whole situation,

"I just feel like Mycroft's hiding something from us. Something important. I just don't know what it is."

We found the doctor, from earlier, waiting for us outside Sherlock's hospital room.

"I'm sorry to bother you gentlemen, but he's awake and asking for someone – a man called John." I felt a tiny smile tickle the edges of my lips at the idea that I was the first person he would ask for, but I kept it under wraps,

"John can't be here, but I'll go see him now if that's alright. Thank you for everything, Doctor—" He stopped me with a gentle touch to my shoulder,

"There's one last thing. I might be out of line here, but there seems to be something wrong. He's been acting difficult, and there have been a few incidences with nurses. I suggest you tread lightly, or he may get upset." I smiled slightly, apparently Sherlock was back to his usual impolite self,

"I'll keep that in mind." He nodded, before going off to visit his other patients. I took a second to just brief, calming myself, before pushing open the door and rushing to Sherlock's side. He was lying in the bed, fully awake, and staring up at the ceiling with a harsh, calculating expression on his face,

"What happened to me, John?" I took a seat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to take Sherlock's hand. I had found recently that, despite his coldness, he seemed to be a bit of a sucker for physical contact and liked to sit close to me on the sofa, invade my personal space and brush my hand. I thought it would be a contact, but instead the hand was pulled way. I frowned in confusion, but said nothing. He was allowed to be out of sorts.

"You were attacked, Sherlock; you nearly died. Greg and I were out of our minds—" He frowned, and his head lifted slightly off of the pillow,

"I wasn't asking about myself, John. I want to know what happened with the case. I know that I was stabbed and injured in a number of different ways, and that is not news to me. So long as I am alive, it does not matter. I only care about the resolution of the case. Did I catch the men?"

"Do you really not remember? Any of it?" His eyes narrowed further, and he looked close to lashing out, or shouting,

"Of course not, or I wouldn't be asking. Honestly, why are you being so damnably slow today John? And would you stop trying to initiate physical contact." I gaped at him, slowly retracting the hand that I had subconsciously reached for,

"I'm trying to comfort you, Sherlock. After an attack that had clearly traumatised and left you unable to remember—"

"I don't need comforting," he said, dismissively. He sniffed, "I am perfectly fine mentally, and I will recover physically very soon, so you can stop—"

"No, I can't! Sherlock, you were stabbed. They found you nearly dead, and I was worried sick. I thought you were going dead, and I'm your friend. I care about you—" He looked away, nose wrinkling slightly,

"We are flatmates. You have no obligations to me except to pay rent, and that is the way I prefer it. I don't have friends." I could feel my cheeks flushing with anger, and I jumped to my feet,

"Why are you being like this, Sherlock?" He scoffed, picking up the remote to fiddle with the position of his bed, frowning slightly when the new angle jostled his injuries a bit too much,

"This is hardly new to you, John. I am a sociopath. I'm highly functioning, but a sociopath nonetheless. I don't have friends because I don't care, caring is not an advantage and it will not help me to recover. Medicine will help me recover, not your mollycoddling, and quite frankly I'm sick of people trying to convince me that friends do anything except act as a weak point—"

"You're wrong, Sherlock. I don't know what's going on, but this is not you. You're being far worse than normal, and I don't know why. Do you remember something from last night, or something?" His eyes narrowed, slightly curious as to what I talking about, but then he just huffed,

"I merely remember chasing the criminals. I have a decent amount of blood under my nails and enough fatigue in my muscles that I assume I put up a decent fight. Lestrade knows I am fine, but is hovering here without coming in to discuss the case, so I have come to the conclusion that they are in custody. Am I correct?"

"You beat them, yes." I couldn't bring myself to say that he had killed them, as Lestrade had informed me he had, even though I don't think he would cared.

"Good, then we are finished here. Why are you still here, then?"

"I thought we could talk about some other stuff, around the case."

"What is there to talk about except for the work? That is all I care about, and I do not wish to talk about anything else. Get out, I need to go to my mind palace." I dithered for a second, still wanting to talk, but he just snapped, "Get out, Doctor Watson."

The tone to his voice had floored me. I'd never heard him be so cruel, or cold before. Something was definitely not right.