Define Vulnerability
Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.
It took me long to finish this new chapter. RL was kind of difficult and I couldn't manage to work on the story because the topics were all a bit too close to home. I am sorry for the long wait and grateful for you for staying with me nevertheless.
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Chapter 41
Monday
Monday morning John and Mary got up early to get to the surgery in time.
Sherlock was nowhere to be seen and therefore John decided to call him later to make sure he'd get up in time to meet Lestrade at the hospital.
Greg had texted them the day before and told them the victim was not ready to be interviewed until Monday late in the morning and that he expected Sherlock to be ready to be picked up at 10:00 o'clock in the morning.
Of course Sherlock had called Lestrade back and tried to find out more about why she wasn't fit to be questioned and if the doctors didn't understand this was urgent. He also tried to get some information or any news at all about the leak. But Lestrade had been frantically busy with the other case they still had to work on and had told Sherlock they'd talk later.
Sherlock rang him twice again but Lestrade hadn't picked up. About that fact the detective was not amused, which could probably be heard in Mrs Hudson's kitchen very clearly.
John just grinned at him and hinted at how often Sherlock had ignored Greg's or his calls in the past when he was busy and he'd better not complain therefore.
Sherlock had sulked a bit but then returned to explain several of his theories about tobacco ashes to Mary who was listening as if she was really interested.
So when they left the house as silent as possible, John decided he'd call and make sure his flatmate was awake at 9:00.
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At 9:00 the ringing of his mobile made Sherlock literarily jump out of the bed in surprise.
He wanted his old mobile back, but it was no longer available at stores and Lestrade refused to get the original one from the evidence storeroom. Not even Mycroft wanted to help him get it back. He had already thought about nicking it - or looking for a used one on ebay.
Quite drowsy he reached the kitchen, no one was there, it was an empty ugly sensation.
This was the first time John had to go to work since…
Phone in hand, he stood there for a moment, listening with uneasiness for the sound of emptiness.
The flat felt dead - not good.
The lingering remnants of a nightmare wavered through his consciousness, there had been death, but other than that, he couldn't remember.
He felt awful, more tired and stiffer than the days before.
Everything hurt, his mind felt misty. From the nightmare?
"Sherlock?" John's voice came out of the phone and he almost dropped it.
Right, it had rung and he must have picked up - automatism.
"Ja."
"You okay?"
"Ja, mir scheint die Sonne aus dem Arsch."
"What? Sherlock, is that you?"
Oh, that might have been a bit rude. Not good.
He should go right back to bed.
Option meant to risk dreaming again.
Bad option.
"Sherlock? What is wrong there?" John sounded perplexed, voice raised.
"Nothing, I'm fine," he cleared his throat. "Bad dream, I guess."
"What was it about?"
"I don't know… something from the time in Hamburg, maybe?"
"What language was that? German, then? What was the translation?"
"Ehm, sarcastic comment about being fine when asked and it is obvious not the best moments to ask. Maybe like 'I'm peachy.' or something."*
"So what's wrong?"
"Nothing. I just regret that I tried to sleep."
"Right. Lestrade will pick you up in an hour to see Sandra Herman."
"Who?"
"Jesus, Sherlock it's the name of the latest victim, are you awake at all, yet?"
"Nooo."
"Then go get a coffee and try to wake up… and try to figure out a mechanism that allows you to finally remember names, it would help you in real life profoundly."
"What for? Names are irrelevant. I like Mrs Hudson no matter what her name is, and I don't like Anderson, and I wouldn't even like him if his name was Hamish."
"What?" John was laughing. "Was that actually a compliment? That's kind of a really odd way so see that group of topics."
"I don't know. Compliments are relative."
"Okay. Your ability to wander off the subject has improved, congrats. I have to go, next patient is waiting. Lestrade will be there shortly, have a shower."
"Why?"
"Oh, Sherlock, don't… just do it."
"'kay."
He was on his way to the bathroom when he remembered John usually finished his phone calls with a greeting, he should have waited for that. But he continued to head for the shower and finally, the warm water managed to wake him up and wash away the bad remnants of the night.
Clean felt good and fresh, removed the numbness and made him feeling a bit more like he was in fact residing in reality.
On one hand he felt stupid being waken by John, on the other he was glad for every single tiny sign that John was alive and well.
He knew he was a mess right now, the past hour had been another proof of it. It became clearer and clearer and John was still with him. He was grateful, but that vague knowledge that he was, made something in him feel like bursting about that fact, burning and tight in his chest. He tried to wash that away, too, but it only faded to the background a bit.
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Lestrade picked him up and shortly after that they were at the hospital with the young woman's doctor.
Sherlock stood by and watched Greg talking. Instead of listening to the boring conversation he deduced the man's activities from last night.
Interesting.
"Come on!" Lestrade tipped his shoulder and when Sherlock blinked the doctor had turned away and was walking down the hallway.
"That way," Lestrade led him down the corridor, where in the distance another doctor left a room and vanished around a corner.
Sherlock blinked, trying to get out of his thoughts and back into what was happening around him, he was really groggy today.
Something was not quite as it should be.
He couldn't… the man in the distance - his posture had been the opposite of his profession. Usually most doctors were self-confident and educated, and their posture showed that, or at least a certain amount of it, but even though his clothes said 'doctor' his posture said something else Sherlock couldn't identify.
Maybe he should stop analysing every detail that crossed his way and concentrate, he tried to blink the fog in his mind away, but of course it was no use.
Lestrade had asked for him to come, he was welcome to investigate, he should try to concentrate and not mess this up, too. He had screwed up enough things for a whole year in the past two weeks.
Concentrate!
"So how are you doing?" Lestrade asked.
"Do you really need to ask this question?"
"No."
"What?"
Did he mean it was actually obvious or that he wasn't interested, or was it just small talk? "Could you actually ask what you want to know?"
"That bad?"
"Lestrade! I didn't say anything!… Except that I uttered my confusion."
"'xcatly. Room 215," the DI nodded towards a room and Sherlock turned left, opening the door three seconds later without knocking.
He entered, Lestrade following a few steps behind him.
"You're supposed to knock, courtesy, Sherlock."
Lestrade hadn't even shut the door after them when Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks.
Something was off, but he couldn't grasp it.
"Mrs Herman? We're here to ask you some questions about your ordeal," Lestrade started when Sherlock slowly stepped closer to the bed.
Something smelled more like an operating theatre than a hospital room.
Lestrade approached, too but the young woman didn't react.
She was pale and looked like sleeping, and very small in her bed, even smaller than Sherlock remembered from when she had been on her sofa. His gaze automatically went to the monitor that was displaying her oxygen level and pulse rate.
The consultant detective frowned and then sucked in air in surprise, those numbers were not good, not good at all.
Before Lestrade understood what was happening Sherlock had jumped forward and hit the call button.
Next he dragged back the bedcover with a forceful movement.
"Shit, Sherlock, what are you doing?" Lestrade seemed badly surprised.
He uncovered the young woman's chest and revealed two stab wounds in her chest, one slightly right from the breast bone which looked superficial, but the another wound was nearby and bleeding profoundly, as if the first try to stab her had hit bone and a second try was necessary.
He had not smelled an operating room but her blood… Cellar…
Sherlock's mind froze.
Not good.
He tried to shove the thought away but only a fraction of a moment later he had to fight stunning nausea.
Desperately he fought to concentrate on what was happening again.
Sherlock felt everything happen in slow motion.
He turned around and ran after the only person he had seen in the corridor, the odd looking doctor.
Concentrate on running!
The smell of her blood in the air brought the smell of his own blood to the forefront of his mind, the smell was like in the dungeon, like the blood oozing from him and the dying rat. Nausea rose.
No time for that!
Lestrade gasped in surprise when Sherlock passed him on his way out, running after the potential stabber.
This must have happened only seconds ago.
The monitors started whining in alarm the moment Sherlock passed the door.
The only way to go other than the corridor was towards the stairways.
Sherlock found himself once more stand in a stairway listening for footsteps.
Nothing could be heard.
He had managed to run down two flights of stairs when he realised it was no use, it would be wise to call security, have the hospital in lockdown and see the CCTV material.
He listened carefully for another few seconds, to make sure.
No footsteps, no panting, no fleeing villain.
The fake doctor must have already reached where he wanted to go, left to flee through another ward, where his traces might get lost faster.
Sherlock had barely turned around to get up the stairs again when he realised his knees were shaking… he barely managed to grab hold of the banister and then knelt on the fist step to remain stable.
He needed to get up there, make sure security was called and…
Pale mint green disorientation swirled down the steps in front of him, the fake black marble mocking him.
Up, he needed to get up!
The smell of blood once more assaulted him, where was it coming from?
Something was off.
He felt sick. This was not good!
Get away!
He needed to get away!
The urge to flee was overwhelming, but seconds later he knew there was something more important!
Remember!
Lockdown.
He managed to get to his feet, but the moment he took the first step the door above him flew open and the aggressive sound made him jerk back in surprise. He felt the miasmic panic rush through his body.
Who was up there?
He barely managed to lift his head before he heard Lestrade yell.
"Sherlock!"
A moment later the DI was next to him, grabbing his upper arm.
"What happened?"
"Lost him."
"What?"
"Lockdown… get security! He went down the stairs… We need the CCTV footage, close all doors, have them look for him… Lock all doors."
When Lestrade didn't react immediately Sherlock shook him off.
"Go!" he yelled and the DI hurried up the stairs, running back into the ward.
Sherlock felt his pulse in his throat.
Uncomfortable.
Breathing to fast.
Slowing down was an effort.
This felt ugly.
He was sure it was panic he was feeling… or anxiety? Was there a difference… did it matter? It didn't.
He needed to slow down, he couldn't be discovered in this nasty state.
In order to make his transport comply he forced himself to only take half the breaths he wanted to.
It made him feel like suffocating at first, but gladly the feeling could be dialled down by the force of will.
It took a conscious effort and about six long and hard minutes to make his pulse and his breathing return to an almost-normal state.
During those he just stood there, stoically refusing to sit down or allow his body any more leniency. It did not deserve any for failing him like this.
He finally tried to move up the stairs he felt dizzy, probably from the sudden movement, but the sensation ebbed fast. When he found he clenched his teeth he made a conscious effort to relax his jaw, it reminded him off Mycroft.
It took a few moments to adjust but then he was able to walk safely, though the intense uneasiness of his rebelling stomach remained.
Meticulously, he straightened the jacket and the coat; trying to do the same with his mind was less successful.
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*Though I overall really don't like german translations here is one line I need to mention, one where the translation is better than the original line:
'From dusk till dawn' (Spoiler ahead!), the main character just watched his brother die and the female main character asks him how he is. In English he says. "Peachy." As I understand that it's ironic, but actually the pure meaning of the word might have been used when saying it not sarcastic, too.
In the german translation he says "Mir scheint die Sonne aus dem Arsch." which means "The sun is shining out of my arse." The line became kind of famous, but I didn't know it. When I first heard one of my flatmates use it (as many people do) I thought it was another saying I didn't understand. I am really not good with proverbs and stuff and therefore had to ask what it meant. Well, my flatmates made me watch the film with them then.
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So, thanks for reading.