He couldn't think. His mind was wrapped in emotion and it obscured every bit of information he desperately tried to grasp at. All of his life he had worked so hard to eliminate the pain of feeling. His father had taught him that the only reason that he got upset was because he let the situation take power of him. If he took control of himself and accepted the world as it was then he could live on a higher plane where none of the anxieties of everyday life would touch him.
Anderson sat with his face moving wildly from joy to wicked excitement. The pleasure he derived from his questioning sickened Sherlock. He heard the words that came out of the man's mouth but let them process on a purely linguistic level. The less meaning he gave to them, the faster the process would be done.
"Where were you at 9:10 pm?" Anderson asked.
"With John."
Anderson tapped his head with his pencil. "Mm, think. I know you know this up in there."
"What are you talking about?"
Anderson grabbed a photo from the bottom of the stack. It was a poorly illuminated security camera shot from what appeared to be a bank. "We examined the area all around. You were by yourself."
Had he left?
It was certainly possible. They were at the tail end of the investigation and he needed to examine the ATMs on Caldwell. John certainly must have followed.
But John said he had a headache.
He hadn't even asked John if he'd wanted to come…
"That doesn't prove anything," he said, exhausted.
Anderson stabbed the photo pointedly with his pen. "This bank is a block away from your flat. Time of attack was not five minutes after this photo was taken."
"Still doesn't prove-"
Anderson leaned forward. "It proves enough."
Sherlock rubbed his temple to stave off the migraine that crept up his spine. It was ludicrous. There was nothing but traces of evidence scattered through to connect him. Surely they didn't think he was capable of something like this.
He was so tired. The case had kept him up for the last two nights and it had been days since he'd had a proper meal. Sitting in the brightly lit room with his wrist clamped against the chair only served to exacerbate his exhaustion.
"She practically raised me," he said with a thready voice.
"That's going to play real well with the jury. I'm sure a few of 'em will want to hang you for that."
Enough.
Sherlock propped himself up and looked Anderson dead in the eyes. Their years of petty comments and off-handed insults had all come to a head at this moment.
"Anderson," Sherlock pleaded.
"What?"
He couldn't help but tear up out of pure exhaustion. "I didn't do this. Please, you have to believe me."
For a moment he thought that he'd changed Anderson's mind and somehow softened him. For an instant the sneer left his face and he looked at a man he'd known for nearly ten years.
"No," Anderson said. "You're not doing your little mind tricks on me. I know you did this. I don't know why, but I know you did."
Sherlock looked at him with pleading eyes. "Anderson…"
"Shut up. No one's coming to help you."
Sherlock fell back into the chair, defeated. He bowed his head and let the emotions take hold like a virus.
"Jesus…" Anderson said in disgust as he slid a box of tissues across the table. Without looking up Sherlock grabbed a handful and shielded his eyes from Anderson.
The door opened and Sherlock assumed it was another spiteful officer ready to rip him a new one. He stayed against the chair and forced himself to think of anything but the blood soaked carpet of Mrs. Hudson's flat.
"Sherlock?"
The voice sounded oddly familiar. He peered out of the corner of his eye and saw the blonde hair and gentle smile of a Watson. "Why are you here?" he asked.
She grabbed a seat and pulled it next to him. "John called," she whispered. "He said you were here."
"John called?"
Harry rubbed his back. "He's still at hospital. Hasn't heard anything yet."
Sherlock nodded.
Harry turned to Anderson and loudly tossed her purse on the table. "As Sherlock's attorney," she snapped, "you now speak through me. Got it?"
It was to be three years since her daughter was in the wreck. Martha steeled herself for the anniversary date where the whole world kept on moving as she struggled just to stay upright.
Her husband was gone more and more on business trips and outings that promised to shake out business connections but never served more than to keep him away from home.
The neighborhood had been quiet lately. She hadn't thought much of it. The Holmes had kept to themselves as of late. She hardly heard of peep from them in months. The slinking figures would enter and exit the house almost invisibly. That was, until a balmy August afternoon when she heard the whine of sirens down the street.
With nothing better to do than to leer out the window, she looked for the inevitable appearance of a police car or ambulance. Her best guess was the elderly couple a few houses down. Edgar had been ill for months-it was only a matter of time before his never-ending bouts of pneumonia caught up with him.
The hefty red front of the fire truck came into view first. It whizzed around the corner with its booming sirens echoing down the street. When it passed Edgar's house, her heart fell. If not him, then who?
It parked in front of the Holmes house.
"Oh no," she muttered.
She instantly assumed the worst. The image of Sherlock with a rope around his neck or his wrists slashed to his elbows burned in her mind. She had hardly seen him in weeks and when she said hello it was a meek response with a sorrowful bow of his head and a wave that consisted of a weary flick of his hand.
Her eyes tracked the commotion as the paramedics arrived soon after. Two men jumped from the front seat and raced to the back of their vehicle. In one fluid motion, the gurney was on the ground being rolled towards the Holmes house.
"Please," she muttered as she kneaded her hands.
It felt like a lifetime before any activity was visible from her window. She stared, helpless, at the door for a glimmer of news. In a flurry of action, the paramedics bumped the door open and wheeled out the gurney.
In all the madness, she couldn't see who it was being carried out.
Just don't let it be him.
There was a splash of black hair from behind the paramedics arm. She gasped as they turned the gurney. And then the red blouse revealed itself.
Evelyn.
It was almost as bad.
There was an oxygen mask on her face. The paramedics stared with intense concentration as they rushed her to the back of the ambulance. Evelyn looked pale and her body slacken.
Out from inside the house, Sherlock stepped out. His shoulders were hunched and, even from across the street, she could see his face fall in helpless devastation. He stood against the doorframe, alone, and watched as his mother was wheeled to the back of the ambulance. His eyes stayed loyally glued to her every movement as they lifted her in the back and slammed the doors.
At this point, a small crowd had formed in front of the surrounding houses, all cocking their heads and hoping for a peek at the novelty. But he still stood firm as no one even made an attempt to comfort him or look him in the eye. He was the neighborhood oddity, that boy that no one knew much about and didn't care to learn.
As the ambulance drove away, the crowd followed suit. One by one the gawkers retreated back into their homes as they murmured to themselves their speculations on the woman's condition.
Martha grabbed her coat and ran to the front door.
"Sherlock!" she shouted as she rushed across her yard and towards his home.
He hardly moved as she came closer. His entire body stood rigid and still as he held tight to the doorframe. It had been weeks since she'd tried to speak to him-she had assumed their relationship had progressed past the point where he'd politely talk to the woman across the street. He was, after all, nearly eleven and far too mature to talk to adults just to get a little custard.
"Sherlock, darling," she said as she got to his side.
Yet he stood still. His face was etched with trails of tears and his eyes were puffy and pink.
"Do you want me to take you?"
He blinked another deluge of tears that cascaded down the bridge of his nose and landed on the collar of his uniform shirt.
"Or I can call your father?"
He was in shock. She knew better than to push him lest he collapse even further. However, he wasn't safe just standing in his doorway. She'd have to do something.
"Sherlock, please, say something."
Slowly his head turned incrementally towards Martha. "Is she going to die?" he asked, his voice hardly above a whisper.
Her heart fell. She had no idea what condition his mother was in at that point. For all she knew, Evelyn was already gone. "I don't know," she said as she rubbed his back.
His tears came out in large gasps as his entire body crumbled into hers. "I don't want her to die."
She kissed the top of his head and pulled him in close to her chest. His entire body heaved as he struggled to catch his breath between the cries. "I know," she said.
"Father's going to be so angry," he said.
"Angry? No."
"I was supposed to watch her."
Jesus.
What had happened?
There wasn't time for speculation. Her focus needed to be on the boy.
"Let me take you to her."
His cries slowed to a whimper. "He'll be mad."
"He's at work, darling. Let me take you and then I'll call him."
He shook his head. "Don't call him."
"I have to," she said. "He's your father."
Sherlock pulled back and looked at her with frightened eyes. "Can we go?" he asked.
She pulled him in close again and gave him another kiss on the head. "Of course. Let's go see your mother."
John wanted so badly to leave. It hurt every muscle in his body that he had to stay in the waiting room. His body ached to think of what Sherlock was going through at the station. It was excruciating enough to be at the hospital with the freedom to leave and access to knowledge. He couldn't imagine how it would feel to have the burden of worry crush your every bone.
Harry was there with him. Miraculously she was in town and, out of the kindness of her heart, she got out of bed at three in the morning to travel across the city to the station. John had played every card in his deck and promised more in the future. If he couldn't be there, Harry was the next best thing. Sherlock would be safe with her.
Lestrade refused to leave. He feigned long conversations on his phone as an excuse to walk away from John's glare but he simply walked to his car, sat inside, and came back in the hospital. John still couldn't talk to him civilly, not yet. Despite his protestations at the fairness of the arrest and his proclamations that he too was sure Sherlock hadn't done it, Lestrade still allowed it to happen and John simply couldn't forgive him.
Mrs. Hudson had been in surgery for four hours, going on five, and they hadn't heard a peep from the doctors. Intellectually he knew that it wasn't something to worry about, especially in cases as unusual as hers, but it will concerned him that they had no new answers.
As six in the morning rolled around, John finally let his eyes shut just long enough to grasp a few moments of rest before a voice called out for Hudson. His entire body fell laden with heavy exhaustion but he still got to his feet and lumbered towards the equal weary surgeon.
The man was about his age, perhaps a bit older, with the same jaded glare of a man who'd given his share of terrible news and was not pleased to do it again. As John walked over he feared the worst. He steeled himself to hear that she hadn't survived and prepared how he would get the news to Sherlock.
Just walk, John. Just walk and pray.
The surgeon looked up at him as he attempted to refocus his eyes to the dim lighting of the waiting room.
"Martha Hudson?"
"Yes," John said. "I'm her neighbor."
"I see," the surgeon said. "She's out of surgery."
Alive. She's alive.
John breathed a sigh of relief. "She is?"
"Yes," he said, "but she did have quite a bit of damage."
He didn't want to know. If he knew then he would have to think about every implication and his mind would traipse down the rabbit hole. "Can I see her?"
He shook his head. "We need to stabilize her. May be a while."
It was surgeon speak. He had said the same script to families that he wanted to leave him alone while he worked on a lost cause. The wife whose husband had suffered a massive heart attack or the parents whose son was critically injured in a motorbike accident. It meant that the case was dire and there was a long road ahead.
"I see," he said as he backed away.
She was alive.
He didn't want to know anymore.
She was alive. That was good enough for now.
