Well this was going to be my last chapter but I got a request from Alex455 to bring in Lestrade and/or Brother Mycroft. Will see how my plot bunny works with that. Maybe "Beth" will get her justice after all?
More quotes from "Study in Pink" and"TGG" included.
I want to thank all my reviewers, those who are favoring and following. You are all equally awesome.
As always, I own none of Sherlock Holmes SACD canon nor the BBC's Sherlock. Keep it coming people.
Sherlock was mindful that the failure to find out what happened on the slope that day was largely due to his inability to divorce himself from the concern and yes, fear, of the extent of Beth's injuries and the need to get her medical assistance. There was not thoughts of preserving footprints or any kind of evidence, had there been any. All thoughts had been focused on her and their child's survival, nothing else. Sentiment, again.
Her aunt and uncle had been adamant that Sherlock allow the official police handle it. His place was by Beth's side. A large part of him was in full agreement. He had wanted to be with her. But another part wanted to be out in that field. Something had happened and he knew it hadn't been good, certainly not an accident. No, he hadn't believed it then and he didn't believe it now. Not for one second. There was the note. Who had been the sender that she would have responded to in such high spirits?. Her aunt had said Beth had been happy. Looking forward to answering it. Where had it gone to? The need to investigate this had left him feeling conflicted and torn.
In the end, in spite of all of their love and their bond, it had made no difference what so ever. The doctors had been cautiously optimistic. Yes, she had suffered a server head injury but she was young and strong. Talk to her, hold her hand. For four days he had held her gently, talked himself hoarse, even wept, but she had never rallied. The baby had come, albeit prematurely and for two days he had had a son. Then mother and son had slipped away within hours of each other.
He didn't remember much of the funeral. Beth and Scott had been buried in the same coffin. Scott bundled in his mother's arms. Sherlock vaguely remembered the support of her aunt and uncle but he had been left feeling empty, scooped out and wretchedly hollow and their words had not touched him. Like rain on a hot, dry day that evaporated before it could ever reach the parched earth beneath the dark gray clouds. Oh yes, his heart continued to perform it's biological functions. It pumped, the blood continued to flow through, but all emotion, even feeling, seemed to have disappeared.
He had felt nothing except the anger when he had been investigated for possible wrong doing in their death's. He was the boyfriend? Fiance? Lover? Nineteen and pregnant and beyond him, they had looked no further. She was still underage so their marriage could not be revealed as yet. Been close to the supposed victim in any case. Possible suspect then, if foul play was even to be considered, so the official report went. But his alibi had been air tight, he had been with his uncle all that day and in front of a whole farm of witnesses, and it held up at the inquest. The inquest had ended with the verdict of death by misadventure. Stupid, stupid! Out of their depth always. First Carl Powers, and now this. Except for Gregson and Lestrade, it hadn't changed. Even in silent thought it registered as a snarl of angry disgust.
He walked into the rent and flicked on a light pausing for a brief moment. Empty. No registration of presence. John out then. Pub, where else. He dropped bonelessly into the over stuffed chair in front of the cold fire place. Absently he unpacked the violin and held it, plucking the strings with his finger tips.
He had gone back to London. In the city there was "The Work". People who had problems and wouldn't or couldn't go to the police. All the better for him. If he couldn't bring justice to his own family he could for someone else and failure, this time, would not be an option. But even at times that wasn't enough and there was cocaine. He was a "proper genius," yea? Addiction? Oh please! But it had happened. But there had been Lestrade of the NSY. No questions. No prying. Just, "get off the stuff or I can't use you. You compromise and endanger any case you work on. You compromise me."
What ever the reason, it had worked. He liked working the big cases. Solving the cold cases had been an eye opener for Lestrade, Gregson, and Thompson and they started seeking him out. So the drugs had to go and it was Lestrade who had given him a place to crash or check up on him between cases. Why had he cared, besides the fact that he needed Sherlock. Sentiment? From a Yarder?
" I will burn you! I will burn... the heart out of you!"
"I've been reliably informed that I don't have a one."
"Oh, but we both know that's not quite true."
Sherlock's head rocked slightly at the sudden intrusion of the memory then his eyes narrowed. Moriarty knew of his friendship with John, the midnight meeting at the swimming pool had revealed that much. Moriarty's words revealed more. John was not the only one Sherlock had allowed to get close in the last several years and, somehow, Moriarty knew it. How many times have loved ones been used as hostages to coerce someone into acting against their otherwise strong moral principals? All to often and with disastrous results. He was then aware that someone had entered the rent and the smell of warm food permeated the air.
"You can put the dish in the refrigerator. Or have a late supper yourself."
"Yes. Alright then."
This was going to take some very serious and deep thought and right now John was concerned and worried about something and it would be distracting. Sherlock rose from his chair and strode for his bedroom. "Goodnight John."
The "Goodnight Sherlock." barely registered as he shut the door behind him. Placing the violin under his chin he began to play as he paced the room.
000
The nightmare gripped him by the throat and wouldn't let go. It was the Five Pip bombings all over again. But instead of a blind woman it is Elizabeth. The scene changes swiftly to the pool and midnight meeting with Moriarty. But instead of John revealing himself, it is a youth with his mother's hair and his father's eyes who had not lived long enough to be.
Sherlock's body jerks upright into the setting position heart pounding trying to draw breath. He fumbled with the bedclothes as fear and adrenaline courses through his body. There just isn't enough oxygen in the room and Elizabeth and Scott...he tears the duvet from the bed and wrapping it around him, heads for the door. Not Baker Street! Alright, just...get out! No light...find the door. "God!"
"Sherlock? Easy, bloody hell...what?"
"Don't. Touch. ME!"
"Hey, hey. Calm down mate. You're fine. Really, Sherlock, it's okay."
"Can't...breath."
"Yes. Yes, you can. You are. Just.."
"Out."
"Outside you mean? Okay. Come on then. Just slow down. Take a deep breath, hold a beat then release. We're outside now. Just...that's good. That's alright. Slowly now. Panic attack, do you know what triggered it?"
"Bad dream."
"Bloody right, more like a night terror."
Sherlock took another slow deep breath and released. "The Five Pip bombings."
"Jesus, Sherlock. You didn't have anything like this after the original event. What changed? Ooohhh."
Sherlock looked at him sharply. "John."
"Was it different faces then? Someone you knew...or know?"
Sherlock was on him swift as a cat holding his head between his hands searching his face. "What do you know?"
"What? Wait...I was at the cemetery...I saw..."
"No one knows! Do you understand? You Tell No one, promise me, John."
"Of course I promise. Bloody hell, Sherlock, who would I tell. Mycroft? Not bloody likely since he doesn't know already."
Sherlock released him and stepped away. "No paper trail. No official wedding announcements. We were going to wait until her 21 birthday to make it official. The stone is only four years old."
"Walk me through it, okay? I mean, I already know some of it. You must have been pretty young, yea? And that you loved them both very much, and what ever had happened, you hadn't been able to save them."
"I told you once, John. I am not a hero."
John let that pass without comment. "She was nineteen?"
Sherlock nodded. "I was twenty one."
"An accident?"
"I never thought so, neither did her aunt and uncle. She was to far out . If she had fallen or simply miss stepped...I can show you later today how it was."
"Was there an investigation?"
"As far as it went. They had one suspect but when his alibi checked out they let it drop. They said there was no evidence of any wrong doing."
"What about yourself, Sherlock. Did you get a chance to look into it?"
"Sentiment causes doubt and confusion, John. It muddles the thinking and paralyzes it. That point has been so very eloquently brought home to me. So no. I wasn't able to do anything to help at all. I believe, however, that I have been most effectively cured of that particular defect." The words tasted bitter on his tongue but they were no less the truth.
"Love is not a defect, Sherlock!"
"It is when it can be used as a weapon. When it becomes a power play. A bargaining chip. When one seeks to dominate or even destroy the so called "object of affection."" Sherlock's voice had hardened. The tone laced with sarcasm.
Then he took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring and he drew himself up to full height. "A glorious sunrise, yes?"
Then his head snapped to the right, his body following a beat later. "Coffee, John?"
Sherlock strode away towards the rent.
How does one look so damned graceful even wrapped in a duvet? And damn, damn Mycroft sodding berk Holmes and Jim Moriarty with him! Why can't they just drop off the face of the earth like Irene Adler! Then maybe people could live their lives in peace.
"People don't have archenemies."
"What?"
"In real life. People don't have archenemies."
Yea. Well, welcome to your life, Sherlock Holmes.
John sighed and went to make the coffee.