AN: My gosh, it's been exactly a year since I have updated this story and I am truly, truly sorry for anyone who has been waiting on me to post a new chapter! But, good thing is that the wait is over! I finally got around to writing this chapter and it, clearly, took much longer than I had intended. I hope you enjoy!
CJ&J
I AM SHERLOCKED
Chapter Seven:
I went home after that.
Mrs. Hudson was kind enough to call for a cab, though she adamantly reminded me she was, in fact, "not your housekeeper."
We talked shortly on the curb, listening to the bustling activity of the city and looking to the gray sky and wondering if rain was on the way. It was so hard to tell. The London sky was unchanging. Stoic, like a statue.
Or perhaps a high-functioning sociopath.
The cab ride was, gladly, uneventful. Though, I was still upset over the conversation I had with Mycroft. Everytime I relived that discussion, the more pressing my heartbeats became. I started to feel as if the walls were closing in on me; like I was trapped.
It may as well have been me in that padded cell.
Mycroft definitely held the advantage. His invasive-albeit, impressive-use of surveillance cameras and well-dressed spies made it difficult to get anywhere without the Holmes brother knowing about it. Even more frustrating was knowing all too well that Sherlock was locked up in an unmovable facility which meant Mycroft only needed to look in one area.
Needless to say, I wasn't going to be able to pull this off alone. I'd need help.
Lots of it.
I sighed upon shutting the front door, relieved to be back home and away from Baker Street.
I had shed my coat and dumped my wallet and phone onto the nearby desk on my way to the water closet. I felt...contaminated. Like I was wearing the skin of someone long since gone.
Even though London was far behind me, I could smell the smoky musk of the city lingering about me. I looked in the mirror and I caught sight of a strand of Mrs. Hudson's gray hair stuck to my jumper.
Unable to bear it anymore, I slipped off my shirt, watching my dull eyes shrink from what felt like a surge of panic. I raked my hands through my hair, yet the clammy feeling over my chest never left.
Without a second to waste, I started the shower, digging myself out from the rest of my clothes, humming periodically to keep myself from screaming.
I didn't want to go back there. I didn't want to be that person. Not that person. The one who stood there, watching Sherlock on that rooftop.
I felt so dirty.
The sensation mimicked that of being caked in blood too well. Yet, even with no blood there, I couldn't stop my hands from rubbing frantically at my arms, my neck, my face.
Anywhere that his blood had splattered.
Steam filled the room, and I knew the water was still too hot to be comfortable, but I couldn't wait. I couldn't physically nor mentally contain the horror building inside my mind. I had to get rid of it. Now.
I stepped in, foot turning an angry shade of red at the extreme heat. I didn't even react. I didn't care. My back bore the brunt of the heat, feeling like blisters would form, and I just stood there.
I just stood there, running my hands over my crossed arms again and again and again. Staring at my scarlet feet, I watched the water wash it all away.
Late in the afternoon, the weather, at last, chose an objective and diligently slaved away to reach it; to flood the streets of England. A heavy downpour quickly became the result of a drowsy drizzle earlier in the day, and it didn't appear as if the rain had any intention of stopping.
I didn't plan on leaving the quiet solitude of my apartment anyway, but the monotonous drone of the drops of rain against the hard pavement and roof became a reminder of the silent life I was living.
A life of feeble existence.
Wasting away.
I gave myself a minute more to gaze out into the hazy, vast openness outside, then pulled the curtains close.
The scent of damp leaves invaded my mind regardless of the fact I had barricaded myself indoors. I kept rubbing my arms, as if rain had soaked through my clothes. It felt dank and uncomfortable, the heaviness of swollen particles in the air mixing with my breath…
But none of that was real.
None of this could be real. I couldn't feel the rain. There was no blood. Sherlock didn't die.
Yet, every night, all I see is Sherlock's body. Dead.
I shuddered thinking about it. Was I sick? Was I a horrible person for imagining my best friend as a corpse on the ground with his head smashed in? Was I wrong for wishing it could be reality? For wishing Sherlock really was dead? For wishing that I could finally sleep at night and know in my heart that Sherlock was gone and that I could wake up the next day and continue living?
Was I crazy for resenting the fact he was still breathing?
But the more I dwelled on the fact, the more uncertain I became. Uncertain that it was Sherlock's fault. Unsure that it was anyone's fault but my own.
The man huddled away in the psych ward, the one who resembled Sherlock so much, so painfully much, was right. I was lost. I was so bloody lost without him.
Every waking moment of my miserable lingering since that day, has been spent thinking about him. Sherlock. About his quick, witty insults. About his careless appearance, and his keen, icy eyes and the way they'd crinkle just ever so subtly in approval when his freakishly precise predictions would evoke a gasp of surprise. About how he tried to hide his smirk when he knew I'd tag along, no matter how absurd things became.
About how he'd irritate me ceaselessly but always have my back.
Always.
I dragged my hands over my pallid face and sighed. A long, soul-searching sigh.
The rain outside poured away.
I had a few phone calls to make.
I turned the paper cup in my hands, enjoying the feeling of warmth spreading to my fingertips.
The gloomy weather had not passed and day was quickly becoming evening.
I glanced at my watch for the umpteenth time. Only five minutes had passed, but it felt like an eternity.
The door of the cafe opened with the jingle of small, silver bells. My eyes darted to the entrance, chest filling with relief and then crashing with disappointment at the sight of an annoyed businesswoman. She groaned disapprovingly as her umbrella made a puddle on the floor.
Feeling more dejected than I would've liked to admit, I took a sip of coffee and tried to concentrate on preparing myself for what was about to happen. I had already gone over every scenario in my head at least a thousand times, but the pessimist in me could not be satisfied.
There were three most likely possibilities: he would accept, he wouldn't accept, or he would think I'm a bloody insane person and make sure no one would help me.
There was also a fourth possibility, one I had purposely ignored. I prayed the conversation would not fall into this category as it involved the eldest Holmes brother.
I didn't necessarily enjoy Mycroft as a person or even a thought, but I dared not underestimate him. If it so happened that Mycroft had contacted-
As soon as the prickling fear seized my senses, the bells chimed and the sound of rain pounding against the sidewalk increased in clarity.
I furtively glanced around my shoulder to catch a glimpse of who had just entered.
It was Lestrade.
I checked my watch.
Ten minutes late.
The graying Detective Inspector looked nervously around the interior of the room. His dark brown eyes darted to every face he could immediately see and froze when he spotted me.
It wasn't difficult to interpret the hesitation in his body language, but after another moment of tense silence, he treaded as casually as he could manage over to the seat opposite of mine.
It was when he sat down and we stared at each other for a few seconds more that I noticed how long it had been since I had last seen him. His hair had more flecks of silver along his hairline than I remembered and the wrinkles between his brows seemed more severe.
He must have been looking at me the same way for the aforementioned wrinkles crinkled in scrutiny and the corners of his thin mouth dived. "Jesus, John, you look bloody awful!"
"It's great to see you, too," I muttered with annoyance.
"I'm sorry," he added. "I just...I hardly recognized you when I walked in. You been doing okay?"
I almost laughed at his innocent question, but I was too tense to even move. "Lestrade, I have something very important I need to do and I need your help to do it."
"You sounded pretty urgent on the phone. Are you in some kind of trouble?"
"No. Not exactly," I thought this would be so much easier. I thought I could just spit out the words and be strong, but the truth was I needed Lestrade's help. Desperately. Without it, I doubt I'd be able to pull this off.
He looked so concerned, but I didn't need pity. I needed to seem as functionable and sane as I could. I needed his trust and allegiance. Not his criticism.
"John?"
"Oh, sorry. Did you say something?"
Lestrade peered at me with a sympathetic gaze and I could feel my blood running cold. "I came here because you said you needed to talk to me. I just want you to know that I'm here and I'm ready to listen. Don't worry about me, just say what you have to. Okay?"
I was stunned. I always believed Lestrade to be a decent man, but never had I imagined something like this. I didn't know what to say, so I settled with an uncomfortable "okay…"
It must have been too awkward to live up to Lestrade's standards and he leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and clasping his hands together like some therapist.
"Depression is a touchy subject, but no one should ever be afraid to admit it-"
"I'm not depressed!"
The entire cafe fell silent. Lestrade was looking at me with a blanched face.
I stopped pressing my hands onto the table and hid them in my lap instead and looked somewhere I didn't feel so judged. "I'm not…" I said quietly. "I didn't call you here to be diagnosed," I breathed between clenched teeth.
Lestrade finished flashing a sheepish smile in the direction of watching faces. He looked back with a more solemn gaze, just an inkling of embarrassment. "Sorry," his voice was low.
I stole a few seconds more, calming the bristling of the muscles along my spine. "I need a favour. A huge one."
The Detective Inspector did not say a word, but I knew there were doubts bouncing around in his head.
If Mycroft had said anything to Lestrade, I was certain a look of realization would have struck the man's features. Yet, there was nothing there to see except for dread and anxiety.
"I need a distraction."
Lestrade narrowed his eyes. "Like...a hobby?"
I swore I could feel the circles under my eyes sink lower into my flesh. "No." More confusion. "I need a diversion." Still confused. "A performance."
At last the graying man seemed to grasp the tiniest bit of understanding. "What exactly are you planning on doing?"
It was now or never. No matter how tight my stomach twisted at the thought of Mycroft listening in or finding out about my one chance to see him, I had to trust in the person before me. In Lestrade. There was no other way.
"Sherlock is alive."
Everything was still, frozen in place like a picture. We held our gazes; Lestrade's brown eyes wide with incredulity and shock clashing against my certainty.
We still did not speak, even as Lestrade opened and closed his mouth several times, always losing his words. His brows furled over his eyes, his scrutiny clear as he rummaged through the shelves, looking for a shred of a lie in my eyes. But he could find none.
"What?" Is all he managed to croak.
"Sherlock survived. His funeral was just a facade. A device Mycroft used to hide…" my voice trailed off. I couldn't bring myself to explain the condition of Sherlock's mind. I couldn't even taste the words to begin to describe it.
Lestrade didn't notice. I could tell he was too stunned by the fact the consulting detective was still breathing.
"All this time…" he murmured, his eyes tracing the grains of the wood table as if he were reading scripture. "I can't believe it."
"He's alive," I pressed the matter onwards. I needed to get him back on track. "I need your help to contact him."
Lestrade laughed. Out of astonishment or happiness, I was too anxious to tell. "Why do you need help to contact him? Where is he?"
"He's…" I dreaded the words. "He's in the Mental Institute."
"The Mental Institute? What-" his eyes widened. "Did he… damage…?"
"I don't know," I blurted out. I hated the idea of seeming curt, and I sympathized with him. I remembered all too clearly the shock and confusion and anger I felt when Mycroft pulled me aside that day. "All I know is that I need to see him again. The problem is Mycroft."
"Mycroft?" Lestrade spoke the name with unfondness, giving me hope. "What does he have to do with anything?"
"He told me he'd arrest me if I went near Sherlock," I could feel my blood boil. "The details of why aren't important," I added quickly. The last thing I needed was for Lestrade to think I was as weak as Mycroft perceived me to be.
Though, I couldn't deny that perhaps he was right.
"He's really alive," he leaned back in his chair, the corners of his lips pulled up in a smile. Somehow, I could tell it was the first for a long time.
"Yes."
My heart thumped loudly in my chest and I felt small. Shrinking smaller and smaller beneath Lestrade's gaze. There was nothing more desperate than clinging on to hope by a thin, thin thread that could be severed by just one word.
I was holding on tight. So, so tightly. Lestrade knew.
But unlike Mycroft, Lestrade had a different wiring. He was not built on practicality and sensibility. Those were not the foundations on which he placed his priorities. No. Lestrade was not Mycroft.
And he was not me. He did not have a deep understanding of Sherlock. Of me. He did not comprehend our companionship or the way we worked. Though frustrated and condescended by the arrogance of Sherlock more than once, he never failed to see him as a friend. And by extension, he respected me. But he would never have made some of the choices I made.
I could barely stand it any longer. I felt like a child awaiting the final say of his parent.
The final say was law.
Lestrade breathed in deeply, dropping his gaze and raising his eyebrows as if to shrug. To throw sensibility to the wind.
"What did you have in mind?"
I grinned. I actually grinned. "Thank you."
The next chapter should not take as long to be posted and will have much more excitement, I promise!
Don't forget to R&R! I love reading your comments and I do take suggestions to heart!
