(First off: I want to apologize for the delay in the final chapters. I've been out of town visiting friends so I haven't had much time to write. But I wanted to thank EVERYONE who commented and gave kudos. I cannot believe the feedback I've gotten. I didn't expect any. So thank you all, like, bless you and your families and your existence. It has seriously left me with huge smiles and sometimes tears because I just can't even believe how kind you all are. I'm glad that you've liked this story, it's really encouraged me to continue even when I lacked inspiration for it. I'm excited about the final chapters, and I'm a bit nervous, too. I hope I don't botch it up. Thank you again for all the love!)
Follow you down to the red oak tree
Will you wait for me there until someone comes
To carry me, carry me down
See I have not, I have not grown cold
I have stole from men who have stole from those
Then somebody laughs like it's all just for hell
Though we could not be saved from the depth of the well
Names get carved in the red oak tree
Of the ones who stay and the ones who leave
I will wait for you there with these cindered bones
So follow me, follow me down
Dark
It's so very dark
But then there's the light
And the bright and the bright
You can hear it like metal doors creaking
The aching scratch of the corroded steel being rubbed against another slab of steel, the grooves magnified by the bright darkness
You can hear it like the screech of reality just out of reach
Blood is pumping far too fast
The pain is shooting through each of your cells
The anguish of a million years of noise is tearing at your flesh
You feel the stab in your bones, in your heart
That heart you thought you didn't have
Everything out of focus
Now there is motion, far, far too much motion
And what is that sound oh God that sound
Everything is burning and screeching and then there's a light
Oh, but you cannot see because it is far, far too bright
Suddenly you see it, there's a room, you're trapped in it, it's oppressive in its small size, you see the doors unhinging and flying around, you see the ghosts of a thousand tortured souls dancing in your vision, you see the blood, oh the blood, of a thousand men you think you have killed, and it's covering you, and it's drowning you.
And then there is silence.
Sherlock!
Oh God but the demon has come for you, what will you do?
Will you run or will you face it?
But is this the Devil?
This is not some God, this is not some bittersweet faith
What is this face, what is this face?
Jesus, no, oh, God no.
No, no you can see it now. This is the face of an Angel. Does that frighten you? Yes, possibly.
For what is this Angel here? Does it bring hope, does it bring security?
No, it may be an Angel, but it is no saint.
What have you done to it?
Oh, God, the torturous sound. Blood is boiling and yet so cold, so very, very cold.
That face.
What have you done, then, Sherlock? Why would you deserve an Angel? Why would you deserve some God, some faith? No, no, that's not it, and you know it.
No, it's a need, a desire. A belief. It is necessary for this Angel. You are tainting this Angel, Sherlock. What mighty power have you exerted on this Angel to cause its desire to sear through its veins, its desire for you to scorch its heart?
Oh, but of course.
Danger.
You would make the Will of God into some perverted malevolent force.
Just remember what you've done, always.
Remember how you've brought them so far down.
Do not think it necessary for your survival. You are wretched, and in your wretchedness, you have brought misery to your Angel.
Why, then, does your Angel keep coming back for you?
Oh, then there it is again, that searing, searing darkness drowned out by the light, the bright, the screeching of the universe.
You hear it all the time, though, don't you?
You hear it every day, every night.
You're a proper genius.
And it burns you.
I know, Sherlock, and I'm so sorry.
Reaching.
God, no.
Into the darkest light.
Good night
Sherlock Holmes
Beep
Beep
Beep
A single jagged red line.
A rhythm.
What is a rhythm if it is out of sync?
Not even Sherlock would have the answer. It seems preposterous. It still is a rhythm, he would say.
But Sherlock doesn't know everything.
"How is he?" The unassuming girl with the brown hair tied up chewed her lip.
"Nothing's changed." The older woman with the greying hair and worry lines replied, tutting.
"…What about-"
"He won't even eat."
"Oh." Pause. "What are we going to do?"
"Wait. Oh, dear, I can't bear to…"
"I know. But we have to try." The younger girl stroked the older woman's arm.
"We never even talk." The older woman laughed a little.
"I barely even talked to John…"
"And now?"
"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, you have no idea."
"I think I do."
"What if he…?"
"Don't think that way. We mustn't. Remember, if anyone's stubborn enough to survive a gunshot and a concussion, it's him."
They laughed uneasily to themselves.
"Has Greg been round?"
"Oh, yes, he came in with them. He called me after. He was so upset."
"Well, of course."
"No, but, because of John, too."
"Oh?"
Mrs. Hudson tsked.
"They wouldn't even let him in the ambulance."
"Why not?" She cast a nervous look on the landlady.
"Not family," she replied, using air quotes and shaking her head.
"As good as…" Molly mumbled.
"That's what the detective said, but…at least they let him stay."
"I think John'd bring the whole of England down until they did."
"He'd do his best until they both could, those silly boys."
Silence.
"Do you think they…?"
"Oh, who knows. They don't even know, do they?"
A chuckle.
"Sherlock doesn't like an unsolved puzzle. He'll come back just to figure it out."
"Hopefully for more than that."
"Oh, now, has there ever been anything else he wanted… needed so badly to understand?"
"I don't know. You know him better than I."
"I don't think so. I don't think any of us do. Aside from John."
"He's an anomaly, isn't he?"
"The very best kind." Mrs. Hudson smiled slightly.
"What did it… feel like?"
"What?"
"Thinking he'd… actually died."
Mrs. Hudson looked at her with pain.
"It felt like England had fallen."
John sat.
He sat and sat.
He leaned forward, then sat back again.
"Please, please just-,"
"No, John. Come with me."
Knees buckling. Falling in and out of consciousness.
"I'm a doctor, please, I'm a doctor."
"John."
"Please, let me come, please-"
"Don't."
"No, he's my friend, please-"
Hands gripping arms, holding his body back and up.
"Jus- just let me-"
"Someone help me. Donovan."
More hands.
"No!"
Knees giving out.
Falling.
"Get him in the van, we'll take John to the hospital."
"Sir, is he injured?"
"I'm not sure. He's not-"
"He's unconscious."
"I didn't-"
"Meet us there, please. We may not have time to get another van."
"Yes, okay, alright. Donovan, grab his legs."
Fussing.
They were fussing.
No.
"I'm fine."
"You inhaled some God awful gases for a very long time, Doctor Watson. You are very much the opposite of fine."
"Jesus, look, I'm breathing, I'm conscious, I am aware, just let me go."
"We have to check your-"
"I am a bloody doctor, I know that my heart is pumping and my lungs are working."
"Yes, and your friend may be dying."
John pursed his lips.
"I'm sorry, Doctor Watson. I cannot let you go until we do a thorough check and run some tests."
John said nothing.
"And just in case you're thinking of running off…" she glanced sideways at Lestrade, standing in the doorway.
"John." He nodded.
"Greg, please, just-"
"There is nothing you can do for now, John. You should rest."
"I'll bloody well rest when I know that man is-" John caught himself and clenched his jaw.
"He's taken care of. And Sherlock is, as you know, not waking up yet. You. Should. Rest."
Bloodshot eyes, tousled hair, weary frown.
Captain John Watson sat with one hand clenched on his knee and the other gripping the semi-soft synthetic fabric of a corner of the hospital sheet. The machine beeped out a heart rate, a beat meant to reassure, but all it seemed to do was cause worry. John had forgotten how to blink. Perhaps he feared that if he blinked, the sleeping alabaster visage in front of him would fade away. Even more than it already had.
Lestrade quietly opened the door and took a step into the room.
"John," he began, clearing his throat.
Silence.
"John, please, will you just come out for an hour?"
Steady breathing. Fist clenched.
Lestrade sighed, rubbing his brow with a weathered hand.
"Can I at least bring you food?"
John turned and looked at him, the bags under his eyes more pronounced than usual by the shadow of his brow.
"I'm fine." John looked at him blankly, barely moving his lips as he spoke.
Lestrade gave up and walked back out into the hallway.
"Did you have any luck?"
"I think I'd have to handcuff him and physically drag him out."
"Maybe we should…"
"You know he'd still fight, Mrs. Hooper."
"We could try."
"Oh, the poor dear hasn't even moved in days…"
"Mrs. Hudson, would you mind getting a cup of tea? Maybe we could do an intravenous-"
"Don't be ridiculous."
"What other ideas have you got?"
Molly hung her head.
"Nothing."
The three friends turned to look when they heard that familiar posh drawl by the help desk.
"You are to replace the files you have with these…"
They saw a folder emerge from his briefcase.
"…and you are to appropriate myself and Doctor Watson with all access and power of Attorney…"
"-Sir we cannot simply-"
"I assure you, you can."
He turned on his heel, leaving behind a startled nurse, to walk toward the group of concerned faces.
"Mr. Holmes," Lestrade nodded at Mycroft, straightening up slightly.
"Oh, do call me Mycroft. How is my brother?"
"Nothing's changed since you came last."
"Including the leniency of the staff," Mycroft said with raised eyebrows.
"Sherlock always spoke as though you had all the power," Mrs. Hudson said with a kind smile.
"I occupy a minor…" he sighed. "I do my best. The hospital just likes to misplace my orders."
They turned back to the window that separated them from the sleepless and the sleeping men.
"I tried to drag him out for a sandwich, or a pint or something, but-"
"It's not your responsibility, Detective Inspector," Mycroft gave him an understanding look, leaning on his umbrella, the feel of the handle on his palm displacing a bit of his anxiety.
"This isn't like John, though," Mrs. Hudson spoke around the fingertip she was nibbling on.
"This isn't a normal circumstance," Molly said, fiddling with her hair.
Silence.
"Visiting hours are over in five minutes." The stern expression plastered on the face of the nurse said she was being serious this time. Contrary to the last three times she had stated the exact same thing in the space of twenty minutes. Lestrade looked to her with an impatient smile.
"Can't he stay, at least?" Lestrade asked with a glance toward John.
"I've told you before, it's against policy. He'd have to be family," the nurse replied with a sigh. Lestrade shook his head with a huff.
"He's as good as."
"Love, I'd let him, but…" she shrugged.
"All he's going to do is… he's just got an empty flat to go to."
"Unless you think he'll hurt himself, in which case we'd need to hospitalize him-"
"Oh for God's sake, he's not going to be a danger to anyone, but he's a wreck. I certainly can't get him to do anything aside from sitting there."
"I'm sorry." She started to walk away, but Lestrade called after her.
"Has he improved, at all? Can you tell me anything?" She looked at him and then down to the chart in her hand.
"We don't know when he will wake up. He probably won't have any internal damage but…"
"What?"
"He had a lot of drugs in his system, a blow to the head, and a gunshot wound. You do the math. Odds are, he'll get better. He just needs time."
"Yeah, it's the ambiguity of your answer that makes me nervous."
"I know." She stared at him for a moment and then disappeared around the corner. Mrs. Hudson came out of Sherlock's room and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"It's been days, maybe he'll finally get some proper sleep." She sounded comforting, but her face was etched with concern. She went into the room and Lestrade watched her take John's hand in her own and speak to him quietly. John hung his head and rubbed his eyes, nodding. Just like the last three nights. He walked out in front of her and Lestrade offered him a weak smile. John's glance flicked toward him and then back to the ground. Jesus
