Molly Hooper's ringtone had been a simple digital chime before Jim changed it to Ke$ha.
At the time, it made her laugh. Afterwards it left her feeling empty and depressed. She hadn't bothered to change it back though, mostly because she'd forgotten about it. Due to her slim address book and her sluggish social life, she'd forgotten about the ringtone, thus Tik Tok remained programmed into her phone.
That is, until the phone rang while she and Sherlock in line, grabbing coffee.
Sherlock's expression fell and he glanced about the crowded café in mortal dread. The ring was loud. Couples and friends had stopped talking to each other and were looking towards the pair impatiently.
"Good god, Molly, is that your phone?" Sherlock hissed.
"Sorry, sorry," Molly lamented, digging in her purse. "The chime is loud so I can hear it from the office."
"Is that…?" Sherlock began, his upper lip curling.
"Yes," Molly answered sullenly. "Jim…thought it was funny."
Sherlock's mouth twitched. He looked down at his feet uncomfortably.
The duty to tell Molly about Jim from IT had ultimately fallen on John. Sherlock hadn't wanted to do it, Sherlock had been expressly forbidden to do it, though it puzzled Sherlock why John would forbid him from doing something he would never volunteer for in the first place. Since then, he'd never spoken of it to Molly. Sherlock secretly wondered what their dates had been like. He'd been tempted to ask her. For the case. Not for the case. Other reasons.
Sherlock shuddered. He tried to bury the thought back into his reptile brain where he interred all his base, irrational thoughts. As he did, Jim Moriarty's sing-song voice taunted him; Yeah, you'd watch. Shameless, mindless rutting animals. You're one wank away from being ordinary and pathetic.
Molly continued to dig through her purse, though her rustlings became lethargic as her mind was preoccupied with visions of her fleeting, false relationship with a man who turned out to be a master criminal. She felt dirty. For a moment, she was just silent and still, the phone in her limp hand. She thought, I wonder if they found out at the hospital. I wonder if that's why…
"God," Sherlock snarled, plucking the phone from her hand, jolting her from her stupor. "This is intolerable. Unforgivable." His fingers danced across the keys, silencing the ringer.
"Thanks," Molly mumbled sheepishly, reaching for the phone.
Sherlock twisted away from her, keeping the phone out of her reach.
"Um," Molly mumbled impotently. "My phone…"
Sherlock ignored her. He continued to fiddle. A minute later, he "thumped" the phone back into her chest. "There," he huffed. "You're welcome."
Molly drew back, blinking in surprise at Sherlock. She took the phone quietly. "Ok."
He pushed her aside. "Our turn." He stepped up to the counter and ordered two coffees and paid for them. He did it quickly, leaving no opportunity for objection or for opportunity for Molly to attempt to pay for herself. "Come along, Molly," he said, his nose in the air, drifting away from the counter to find an available booth.
Molly gulped and rushed to follow. People were still looking at her. She tried not to make eye contact with any of the irritated customers and kept herself a close to Sherlock's back as possible without walking into him. To preoccupy herself, she scrolled through her phone to see what Sherlock had done to it. She found a new ring tone had been downloaded. She clicked on the file name just as Sherlock settled into an available booth in the corner.
She blinked. "Blow?"
"Blow is infinitely superior," Sherlock declared obstinately, as if issuing a challenge.
A smile crept across Molly's mouth.
Sherlock returned the smile eagerly. He looked positively devilish when he smiled. His "let's play" smile was noticeably more appealing than the "how can I get what I want out of you?" smile she was familiar with. For one, his authentic smile revealed teeth. His eyes squinted a bit, his chin ducking down, like his happiness didn't know what to do with his face.
"How do you feel?" Molly asked pleasantly. "You look better."
Sherlock shrugged off his coat and slipped off his scarf, sipping his coffee. "Ugh. I regret adding milk." He set down the cup, letting his long fingers play on the cardboard heat guard.
Molly sat down and took up her own drink, realizing Sherlock had ordered for her and curious about his selection. To her surprise, it was exactly what she would have ordered for herself. She wondered if that meant she and Sherlock took their coffee the same way…or if he just knew how people liked their coffee fixed. Like he always knew everything.
"I feel better," Sherlock volunteered without being prompted a second time.
Molly warmed her hands around her cup. "Me too."
Sherlock's finger tips played with the heat guard of his cup. "I'm concerned about you," he said finally.
Molly balked. "What. Me?"
"I wish you hadn't thrown away your anti-depressants," Sherlock said. "If they were prescribed to you, you have a valid reason to take them."
Molly sighed. "I didn't have a valid reason, though. I knew I was going to lose my job. I heard the rumors. My boss kept dropping passive-aggressive hints. I was miserable. But I should have known a bunch of pills weren't going to make it better."
Sherlock nodded. "Fair enough." His fingernail dug into the heat guard and he began to peel apart the cardboard. "Still. I'm sorry about what I said. About clutching pills on the bathroom floor and putting on a brave face to come to work. I said it to hurt you." He paused. "I don't know why I would want to hurt you."
Molly's small, awkward mouth twitched. "You…you tried to warn me about Jim. You said that to hurt me, too."
Sherlock could no longer keep eye contact with Molly. Now he looked at his hands, too. He became completely preoccupied with peeling apart the heat guard on his coffee, dropping curling strips of brown paper on the counter. He dropped them one at a time, like daisy petals.
"Yes," Sherlock finally admitted. Then he frowned. "No." He looked up almost defiantly. "No, I didn't do it to hurt you. I didn't." He shook his head. "I mean. I knew it would hurt you. But I didn't do it to hurt you. That wasn't why. He was dishonest. He thought he could fool me. I didn't like that. I didn't like him." He focused narrowed on his coffee cup. "Of course. He did fool me." He pursed his lips. "I wasn't trying to go out of my way to hurt just you. I wanted to humiliate him."
Molly cocked her head curiously. "Why?"
Sherlock said sullenly, focused on his cup, "This might come as a surprise to you, but I don't think much of homosexuals."
"But…." Molly frowned. "But you're…"
Sherlock's mouth twitched. He nodded stiffly. "I'm…the worst kind of closeted gay man. The kind who bullies his own. The kind that projects his self-hate. That's why I felt the need to call him out. His behavior and mannerisms repulsed me. I looked at him and I felt sorry for him, so obvious and pathetic. I thought…that could be me. It gave me chills." He dropped another strip of paper on the table. Another. He loves me. He loves me not. His face was growing more tense as he spoke. "I get so sick sometimes thinking that strangers might be able to tell just by looking at me or hearing me talk." Finally, he glanced up at Molly. It was a half-glance, looking up under his bangs, his eyes hidden as if in shame. "If I hadn't been so reflexive, I might have deduced something relevant. Like….I dunno. Jim Moriarty was a master criminal. But, no. I only got as far as 'gay.'" Sherlock sighed. "Oh well. Lesson learned."
Molly's face was infinitely sad.
He steepled his hands and pressed his lips to his own fingers. "I wonder if that's how John feels when he looks at me, the same way I felt when I first saw Jim. I wonder if I make him sick. I wonder if I embarrass him." Sherlock was quiet a moment. Reflecting. Then his lips trembled. He dropped his hands back down on the table, seizing his coffee cup and resuming dissecting what he could without totally unraveling the cup.
Molly saw Sherlock's eyes losing focus and spoke softly and quickly, trying to shift focus, "Well. As far as Jim Moriarty goes, posing as gay or straight is the least of our worries, right?"
Sherlock was silent.
Molly didn't like his silence. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock's mouth moved but no sound came out.
"What?" Molly asked. "I didn't hear you."
"I…I flirted with John, Molly."
Molly blinked.
Sherlock's looked sick. "I thought I could be subtle, but I couldn't have been more obvious."
Molly tried to think of something to say, but she couldn't think of anything.
Sherlock said, "I don't know what I what doing. What I was thinking. I didn't expect him to respond. I didn't even expect him to notice." His eyes flickered towards Molly. Searching and hungry and needy. "I just felt safe and it was nice to be affectionate and be able to be like that and John promised, he promised to understand, and I just thought….this will be nice. I can have this and John won't mind. But he did. It wasn't welcome. I made him uncomfortable, crossing that line." He sank into himself.
"What did you do?" Molly asked seriously.
Sherlock cradled his face in his hands, ignoring her question. "He's going to move out. We won't be friends anymore. Oh. He'll be polite when he run into each other. If we run into each other. That's what's expected, of course. But inside he'll cringe when he sees me. He'll tighten up inside. There goes Sherlock Holmes, that creepy…." He couldn't finish. He looked broken. "I just touched him."
Molly gave Sherlock a dubious look.
"No where obvious," Sherlock defended. "Just his arm. But…I…I caressed him. I did it a hundred times before. He never cared before I told him I was gay."
They were both silent for a few moments. The world churned around them. The café bustled with customers coming and going.
Sherlock asked, "Will you pity-fuck me?"
Molly slowly looked up, her face blank, eyes wide.
Sherlock explained numbly, "I don't want to be gay anymore. I'll be your boyfriend if you want, just tell everyone I'm straight. Tell John." He smoothed his hands down his front to fix his wrinkled shirt, in an attempt to make himself look more presentable, as if he were in an interview, as if that's how sex worked.
Molly said nothing. It wasn't necessary to say anything. She knew Sherlock could hear himself, hear how irrational he sounded. Maybe he just needed to get it out.
"I can become more self-aware," Sherlock rambled. "I can restrain my behavior further, retrain my mind. Instead of rejecting my sexuality outright, I can re-direct it." His voice was resolute.
Molly was disgusted, horrified. She recoiled. "You can't psych yourself straight," Molly said.
"Yes I can." Sherlock looked at nothing.
"No you can't. You can't."
"I can do anything with my mind. If I have to be ordinary, if sex truly is a undeniable instinct that I can't suppress, then let me join the ranks of the acceptable, the dull. I'll retire in obscurity, blanketed in the security of meaningless relationship structures and wait to be embraced. Desperate for acceptance, I'll become dependent on the opinions of others. Unable to think. Just like everyone else." He exhaled. "Do you think John will forgive me then?"
Molly frowned. "That's the most horrible thing I've ever heard. Why would you want to change who you are?"
Sherlock sat up. "Don't think that because I'm concerned about John that I can't be a good boyfriend. I can take care of you. You won't need to work. I have a trust fund." His eyes lit up. "Hey, you want a job? John's homophobia has made him inadequate as an assistant. I can't speak to him without fear he will do me physical harm. He has no desire to share my company any longer and as he's positioning yourself to advance his relationship with his girlfriend, I'm sure he'll move out any day. My flat has two bedrooms, so you can either keep one for yourself for privacy or you can..."
"Be quiet," Molly said curtly.
"Okay," Sherlock said, obediently silencing himself.
Molly drank her coffee in sobering meditation. She decided that having the power to mute Sherlock Holmes on command was, indeed, a great and terrible power that she needed to harness immediately and master. People would gasp and clap.
Molly said, "Pretending to be straight is going to make you feel better. Pretending isn't going to make you straight."
"I…"
"No talking."
Sherlock shut up.
"You want to do something for me?" Molly said, "I want you to see a therapist."
Sherlock's whole face scrunched up.
Molly continued, "I can be your friend if you want. I can listen and I can share my thoughts with you. We can even do things together, go places. I'm sure we have something in common we could enjoy. But just an hour ago, you were planning to kill yourself. I've watched your emotions go up and down all afternoon. Just a minute ago, you were laughing and smiling and teasing me. Then you were sad again. Now you want….God. I want to help you and I don't know how. I'm not gay and I can't give you any advice. But I hope you don't go back to hiding who you are. Coming out was very brave thing to do and you shouldn't give up. I think an honest-to-God counseling session might do you some good…"
Sherlock raised his hand.
Molly cocked her head. "What are you doing?"
"Waiting to be called on." He was completely serious.
"Oh."
Sherlock waited.
Molly pointed at him. "Sherlock."
Sherlock put down his hand. "I didn't 'come out' by choice. John outed me."
"Did you really just raise your hand and wait to be called on like you were in a class room?"
"I wasn't sure how to proceed," Sherlock said. "Anyway, I came out to John in confidence. He outed me in the middle of a crime scene in front of the entire homicide team. It was not empowering. It was the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to me."
"Then take it back. Come out. On your terms."
Sherlock looked miserable. "I don't have any terms."
"You could come out on your blog," Molly suggested.
Sherlock flinched. "God! No! I don't want anyone to know. I just wanted to tell John. I was satisfied just to have him know and have him accept me and have him keep my secret."
Molly insisted. "I know. I think it's great."
Sherlock leaned forward aggressively. "Why? Why is it great?"
"I don't know. I just think it is."
"Well, I don't think it's great," Sherlock mocked. "I don't think anything about it. I don't jump up and down for joy knowing that you are heterosexual. I am not sitting here at this table mentally celebrating that you enjoy penis. I'm not."
Molly flushed.
"Did that make you uncomfortable?" Sherlock demanded.
"It was just a little vulgar…"
"It's a very personal and graphic image to suddenly be thrust into the forefront of your thoughts," Sherlock said forcefully. "Now. Try to imagine that from a different perspective. I'm a gay man. So I like penis, too." He shrugged. "Just give me a round of applause. You think that's the first thought I want strangers to have of me? I don't see how telling complete strangers, or even people I know, that I'm attracted to men…or even that…I fantasize about…about…certain types of sex acts…that…I don't see how that makes a me a better person." He scowled in disgust. "Its not fair. Its not. There are so many obscene ways for men and women to have sex with each other and nobody judges them. The way people conduct themselves is just absolutely sickening, but it's all okay. It's okay to cheapen yourself and expose your body and destroy marriages and have flings and casual hook-ups and go to sex clubs and rent people and use their bodies and it's all okay, it's fine, it's fine. When you shake hands with strangers, naturally they assume you're straight and they move on with their day. They don't pause and consider all the possible ways you might like to fuck. But if someone suspects you're gay, they suddenly…fixate on what that implies. Start imagining you in sexual scenarios and…I just…no. No. And. And." Sherlock was growing angrier and angrier as he went on. "I'm celibate. I don't even do any of those things. I have no desire to have a boyfriend. I have no desire to participate in those…certain sex acts…even if I do find them appealing in some abstract way. I can't control my sexual orientation, but I can certainly control my behavior and I am not just some mindless, pleasure-craving junkie and I'm not coming out. I'm not coming out." Sherlock scowled. "Why are you laughing!"
"You had me at I like penis.'" Molly dissolved in a fit of giggles. Her head sank into the table.
Sherlock stared at the helplessly laughing Molly Hooper, his anger raging. "You have seriously been sitting there, fucking laughing. Since 'penis.' Are you five?"
Molly nodded, unable to breathe.
Sherlock was furious. "You're an idiot."
Molly couldn't be stopped. Her face was red. She was sliding off her seat.
Sherlock shook his head. "A complete and total. Fucking. Idiot."
Molly disappeared under the table. Her gasping laugher was the only evidence of her presence.
Sherlock sat back and sipped his coffee, smug, bitter. "It must be fun to be an idiot. How nice. Just carry on. On the floor. With the candy wrappers and the dirt from people's shoes. Just stay there. Under the table. Laughing. In public. Because you're stupid." He paused. "People are looking, you know."
Molly tried to respond. But only a blubbering sound came out, not English, and she must have found that hysterical because she lost control again. She laughed louder.
Sherlock drummed his fingers impatiently. Then he laid sideways in the booth and glared at Molly. "Hey. Look at me."
Molly was wiping tears from her eyes. She tried to compose herself, but her face was still sloppy-silly from laughing hard and intermittent giggles erupted quietly every few seconds. "Hmm?"
Sherlock said seriously, "How is it? Under the table."
"Pretty great."
"People are judging you."
"Let them," Molly giggled. "They wish they were as happy as me right now."
Sherlock lay on his side for a while. He curled his arm under his head and tucked his knees in. "When I was a little boy, I didn't know how to make friends. It seemed to come very naturally to other little boys. My brother Mycroft had amassed a large circles of friends and their days were filled with adventures while I played by myself. I didn't mind playing by myself, but I thought I was hopelessly outcast, untouchable. It was very unfair. So I asked my mother for her advice. She told me, 'If you want to make friends with someone, walk up to them and say: I'm Sherlock. Let's be friends. Well. I thought that was shockingly direct. It was obscene. It was in violation of some natural law. But, lacking an alternative, and also being six and very trusting, I gave it a try."
Molly smiled and asked, "Did it work?"
Sherlock nodded. "On the boy across the street. I was so excited I might as well have been in love. I played every day with him all summer. Eventually, we grew apart. Well, I grew into a little snot and I pissed him off and he wouldn't play with me anymore, but that's not the point of the story. The point is. Mother was right. And that's what this feels like. I feel like…you know."
"Like what?"
"I'm Sherlock." He paused. "Can I play in your fort?"
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0
When the coffee was finished and the clerks chased them out for "disruptive behavior," Sherlock and Molly laughed madly on the sidewalk, walking away. It had been an exhilarating day for them both.
Later, prepared to part ways, Sherlock's face fell again. No longer distracted by new friendship, his mind was wandering back to dark thoughts. Molly took Sherlock's hand in hers and asked him to reconsider seeing a doctor. But Sherlock faked a smile and promised not to hurt himself.
Standing on the steps to her building, Molly looked sadly at Sherlock. She knew the difference between his "let's play" smile and that other smile. "Come up to my flat," Molly asked, taking his hand and tugging gently. "I only have a Mr. Coffee and a couch, but you're welcome to both."
"I'm going home to see John," Sherlock lied.
Molly released Sherlock's hand reluctantly. "Ok, then. Call me tomorrow?"
"Yes."
She went into her apartment building and Sherlock watched her go. He turned around and started the long walk home. It was dusk and London began to glow.
Sherlock walked a long time. His feet grew heavier and heavier.
What a nice day it had been.
Let it be the last one.
He knew a bridge.
On his way, he changed his mind several times. His mood swung wildly. He made plans to see Molly first thing in the morning and laugh like he had today, no regrets. He knew a shop that ground excellent exotic coffees and he could bring her a batch and they could enjoy it together.
No. End it tonight.
No. Find John. Be brave. Talk it out, one more time, even if nothing comes of it, just try.
No. He never wanted to see John again. No.
Find Lestrade instead. Find a case. A good, life-affirming murder to stir his thrill for living. Be functional. Be rational. Put all these ugly thoughts in the past and carry on. Invite Molly. Learn to smile for real.
No. The bridge.
No. Find a CTV camera and stand there until Mycroft found him. Forgive Mycroft for rejecting him. Forgive Mycroft for being gay, too. Start his life over. Tell mother. Tell father. Get therapy.
No. No. No.
Go to the hospital before you do something stupid, a little voice inside Sherlock's mind urged.
"Oh," Sherlock answered out loud to his brain. "Yes. Yes. That's the thing to do."
Go do what Molly told you. Go see a therapist.
"Yesss," Sherlock purred.
He was climbing the steps to hospital before he even realized he'd arrived. He went to the emergency room and patiently explained his suicidal thoughts to a stunned nurse. In moments, he was ushered away, stripped of his coat and his belongings, including his pocket knife. He didn't resist the anxious hands that pushed him. He answered all the questions that were asked of him calmly. He felt safe and secure.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0
Molly's apartment was small, cluttered, and retained a faint cat-smell, much like the rest of her life. Toby the tabby was curled in her lap as she sat in front of her desktop, scrolling through help wanted ads online, updating her resume when her phone began to jingle.
Go insane, go insane, throw some glitta, make it rain on 'em…
She jerked up and reached for her purse on the floor to find the phone. This distressed Toby, who leapt off her lap with an indignant, raspy mew.
Finding the mobile in her purse, she flipped it open. "Molly Hooper," she said pleasantly and anxiously, hoping for an interview.
"Why don't you have texting enabled on your phone?" Sherlock demanded irately. "My messages keep getting sent back to me! What are you? Some kind of anti-technology, knuckle-dragging luddite?"
Molly smiled. Better than an interview. She leaned back in her chair, bringing her feet onto the lip of the chair and tucking her knees under her chin. "I got your text. I'm glad you went to the hospital. How is it…?"
"Sod off," Sherlock snarled on the phone. "I stupidly texted John to let him know where I am. Now he's on his way here to see me. I don't want to see him. I don't want to see him. I tried to dissuade him from coming, but he's insistent. How can I convince him not to come?"
Molly pursed her lips. "I think you should talk to him."
"No."
Molly dramatically lifted her hand, as if summoning the spirits, even though Sherlock couldn't see. "Let him come, Sherlock."
"Nononono!" On the other end of the phone, there were sounds of dull crashing, like Sherlock was throwing himself back and forth. "I DON'T WANT TO SEE HIM."
Molly sighed. "If you're really that opposed to it, you can always check yourself out. You checked in voluntarily, they can't stop you."
More crashing on the other end of the phone. "Molly! You're not helping!" Sherlock howled. "I am progressively regretting becoming involved with you. YOU ARE RUINING MY LIFE."
Molly rocked back and forth in her chair blithely. "I'm not doing anything. Just sitting here."
"RUINING. MY. LIFE," Sherlock shouted in the most despondent way.
"Are you medicated?" Molly inquired.
Suddenly, he was calm, conversational. "Soon, probably. The nurse doesn't like my temper tantrum. She's shaking her head at me. She's motioning for other nurses. Oh great. That's five damn nurses."
"What?" Molly asked.
Sherlock said, "I think I have to go. I think the orderlies are going to sedate me."
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0
"Sir?"
Sherlock snapped his phone shut and grinned innocently. Sitting sideways on the arm chair with his back braced against one arm and his legs draped over the other arm, bare feet in the air, Sherlock turned to face the gathering nurses, smiling, hands steepled ingenuously. "Sorry," he apologized. "Was I being a bother? Promise not to do it again. Oh? Or are visiting hours done for the night?" He offered up his phone, waggling it . "I imagine you'll be wanting this back."
There were several nurses now, males and females. The head nurse stepped forward, short cropped hair. "You have a visitor, sir."
Oh, good. Well, at least they weren't going to wrestle him to the ground. Sighing, Sherlock turned himself right in the chair and stood up. He closed his bathrobe dramatically and scooped up his slippers. "God. Why? Why?" He handed his phone to the nurse. "Couldn't you have sent him away? Visiting hours are over. What about my treatment?"
"He had special privileges sir. This way." She took the phone.
Sherlock followed the nurses glumly. "Where we going?" He noticed the crowd had not yet dispersed.
"Why the parade?"
"Private room. His request."
"Really? Just because he's Doctor John Watson, he can command the staff?" he groaned. "I suppose being a doctor and all, he can go anywhere he likes in a hospital and do whatever he likes. Fine. Fine. Lead the way."
Sherlock was lead down the hall, past Awesome Black Nurse's station. As she buzzed the door open, she muttered in disinterest: "Fiduciary."
Sherlock beamed. He'd asked her to say it earlier, just to hear how she would pronounce it, and she'd ignored him. "Thank you. That was lovely."
"Bye-bye," she said, waving. She went back to filing her nails.
Sherlock waved merrily back as he was ushered out the door. The nurses led him through the corridor. They turned a corner, out of the behavioral science unit and into the general hospital. This hallway was dim. Only the emergency lights illuminated the floor. Sherlock frowned. "What is this?" he asked. "What, are you taking me away to be murdered?"
"The gentleman asked for privacy," the nurse answered in a tone that suggested the conversation was over.
Sherlock faltered, doubting. "Wait." He stopped. "We're going to see John Watson, right?"
One of the male nurses took Sherlock by the upper arm and pulled him forward.
"Wait." Sherlock tried to jerk his arm back. "I don't want to go. What is this?"
The male nurse grabbed Sherlock firmly again and before Sherlock could respond, two other nurses came from behind and grabbed his other arm, one under the armpit and one by the wrist. "Stop!" Sherlock shouted, his knees giving, making the nurses drag him. He kicked furiously. "No! I don't want to see him! He isn't welcome, you understand? Get off me!"
"Walk on your own or we'll have to restrain you."
Reluctantly, Sherlock gathered his feet under his body. "Don't you dare put me in a straight jacket. He would love that. Fucking love it. Prick. Miserable prick. I hate him."
They stopped in front of an examination room. A nurse stepped forward and unlocked the door, pushing it open and stepping aside. "In you go. He's waiting."
Sherlock shook his arms free and the male nurses let him go. Indignantly, he smoothed his hands over his robe, reached up to touch his hairline. Composed, he marched forward into the darkened room, leaving the nurses outside.
Inside was an empty room, stainless steel counters, a sink, cabinets, a table in the middle of the room, a partially drawn curtain. Again, the lights were off. Just the emergency lights glowing softly.
"Close the door," Mycroft instructed tensely. He was in the opposite corner of the room, leaning up against the wall.
Smiling bitterly, Sherlock slammed the door behind him. "Dear brother. How nice to see you." He walked about the room absently, jauntily. "Go head. Gloat." He spun around once to show off his hospital frock, his robe. "I'm in a mental hospital."
Without a word, Mycroft stood up straight. He stepped forward, revealing Sherlock's laptop in his arm. He set it on the table.
Sherlock stared at it uncomprehendingly.
Mycroft opened up the screen and waiting for it to flicker to life. "I didn't even know there was a problem until John contacted me yesterday. He told me you were missing. I had no idea."
"Odd. You know everything." Sherlock folded his arms. "You even snoop through my text messages."
"I followed you on the cameras," Mycroft said defensively, insulted at Sherlock's presumption. "You weren't behaving in a manner that would raise my alarm. It's not unlike you to traverse all over London, not outrageous for you to sleep in a bus station. For all I knew, you were investigating a case. I told John he was overreacting, that sometimes you wonder off and you just aren't thoughtful enough to keep friends informed of your whereabouts." Mycroft switched the laptop off stand-by. "Then he broke down. Told me everything that happened. Told me he found this." He turned the laptop around to show Sherlock. "You recognize this document?"
Sherlock's heart sank. He'd buried it. Of course Mycroft would find it.
"All the feelings laid out bare," Mycroft said. "Each paragraph documenting your escalating terror, culminating in panicked denials. I've read each troubling passage, every one growing darker and darker than the one before it. When I came upon the sentence, 'I want to die,' I couldn't read anymore." He looked up, his eyes unusually bright in the glow of the laptop. "Shall I read it to you?"
Sherlock's cheek twitched angrily. "That wasn't meant for you. That was meant for John."
"I know. He read it, too. He made it all the way to the end, to your suicide note."
Sherlock set his jaw. He hadn't printed the suicide note for a reason.
Mycroft sighed. "He gave it to me. He gave it to the police when he turned himself in for battery and assault. Attacks where the victim was targeted specifically because of their sexual orientation fall under the hate crimes category. As such, I can insure a lengthy jail sentence, if you want."
Sherlock balked. "John's going to be charged with a hate crime?"
"He's at peace with it," Mycroft said simply. "He asked me to deliver his apology."
"I don't want John to go to jail. That's ridiculous."
"I didn't think you would," Mycroft said. "Which is why he was released on his own recognizance pending a hearing. However, I wasn't going to allow him to come here. No. He's in a car outside. I had my people pick him up when we read your text messages." Mycroft's tone changed. "Brother. Did he hurt you?"
Sherlock's stomach muscles clenched.
Mycroft walked forward slowly. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened. I tripped. I fell down some stairs."
"Sherlock," Mycroft said. "I thought you were dead. I couldn't find you all day. I pulled every agent under my authority to search the city, comb your phone records, watch your bank account for any activity. I broke down the door of every dealer I know you've been to. I even went to mother's, hoping you might have gone home."
Sherlock backed up against the wall, feeling his chest tighten.
Mycroft advanced on Sherlock until they were very close. Mycroft said, "I had this vision in my head of finding you in an alley. Overdosed. Bled out. Cold." He reached up and ran his fingers through Sherlock's messy curls. It was a gesture he hadn't made since their father died. Sherlock didn't resist. "You went to a goddamn hospital. You didn't even use a fake name. I can't believe you did something so responsible." He pulled the limp Sherlock into his arms. "I never thought to look for you here."
Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut. In a moment, he felt his weight being supported. Mycroft was holding him. He felt so strange. "I wasn't hiding. Your agents are all garbage," Sherlock muttered.
Mycroft chuckled into Sherlock's hair.
Tentatively, Sherlock's arms lifted around Mycroft's waist. He gave an experimental squeeze and was rewarded with a squeeze back. "What did you tell mother?" Sherlock asked.
"That I was worried about you. That's all." He stroked Sherlock's back. "She's used to that. She'd like you to call sometime."
Sherlock melted. He didn't want to. He wanted to fight all these feelings washing over his body, he wanted to fight the contented sighs threatening to escape his mouth. He wanted to pull away and shove Mycroft back and curse him and hate him and vow to never forgive him. But this was nice. And it didn't mean he forgave his stupid brother. It just meant that this was nice. And it was. But…
"No," Sherlock said, trying to pull away. "No. No. I don't forgive you."
"You don't have to forgive me," Mycroft said, releasing his brother. "You just have to be okay. And I see you are well on your way."
Sherlock looked at his laptop. "I didn't want anyone reading that. I wasn't done writing. It's unfinished. Raw. I didn't have my thoughts in order."
Mycroft took the laptop from the table and handed it to Sherlock. "Take it. You have all the time you need and no distractions while you are here. That is, if you want to stay here."
Sherlock took the laptop and rested it against his chest. "Yes. I want to stay."
"I can transfer you to a different hospital if you want more privacy."
"No, this is fine."
Mycroft nodded. "What do you want me to do with John?" he asked.
Sherlock said gently, "Please don't let the hearing go on. Even if John is found innocent, his reputation will be ruined forever. If people in the medical community think he's violent towards gays, it could cut off opportunities for him, close him off from some circles. He isn't like that, Mycroft. John is the sweetest person I know. We just had a spat."
"John was very explicit about his motivations," Mycroft countered.
"John doesn't know what he's talking about," Sherlock defended. "He isn't homophobic. He was just distressed that I… made an unwelcome sexual advance."
Mycroft raised his eye brow. "He didn't tell me that."
Sherlock said, "He was probably embarrassed."
Mycroft said, "Or it didn't happen."
"It did."
Mycroft smirked.
Sherlock said, "What?"
"Did you really put the moves on poor John Watson?"
Sherlock shuddered. "Mycroft. Jesus."
"I didn't think you had it in you, Sherlock."
"It's not funny," Sherlock said seriously.
"You know what?" Mycroft offered, moving slowly to the door. "I think it is funny. I think this whole situation could do with some laughter." When he put his hand on the handle, he looked at Sherlock. "He desperately wants to see you, Sherlock. What should I tell him?"
Sherlock hugged his laptop. "Is John okay?"
"He thought he drove you to kill yourself," Mycroft answered.
"Is John okay?"
"He could probably use a drink and a good night's sleep."
Sherlock nodded. "Well. Make sure he gets both. And tell him I'll see him in the morning."
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To be continued….
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Author's Note: Just so ya'll know, watching Reichenbach Falls was really surreal for me because the previous chapter was written before the episode aired. Watching Molly and Sherlock connect (read: plot SUICIDE) after I had just written about Sherlock and Molly having a heart-to-heart about suicide made me go: HOLY MOTHER OF GOD. I AM THE ORACLE. I'm not really the oracle.
Also, these chapters keep getting longer. ::facepalm:: This was supposed to be a one-shot. Why did I think I was going to fit this all into one story? Why do I not have any perspective whatsoever?
Thank you everyone for your reviews, comments and pm's. I love connecting with fellow Sherlockians.
