I cannot apologise enough for how long this has taken me, but i have been extremely busy with work, and with a show i was in and just general life stuff! i hope this lives up to expectations, and thank you all of you for reading etc. i can't tell you how much i appreciate it!
Enjoy!
John had sent Mary and Elizabeth home soon after updating her on the Slaney situation, his daughter reluctantly leaving the sleeping Sherlock. John had only half taken in the heart warming scene, his mind going over all the worries about Slaney like a tornado in his brain, but still found himself quite heartened by his daughter's enamour to Sherlock.
John slumped down into the chair next to Sherlock's bed, surveying his friend in the half-light that came with a darkening sky. The storm outside was still ensuing, and its vicious attitude seemed rather fitting for the circumstances.
John sighed, "You really can't do things by halves. Can you, Sherlock? No, you can't. First you end up comatose, now there's a druggie on the loose who has a bloodlust for you. Things are never boring with you, are they mate?"
John leaned forward and squeezed Sherlock's hand for a moment, careful of the cannula. He had no thoughts about going home that night, not when there was a man on the loose who wanted Sherlock dead, not even when Mycroft was placing some men to guard at Sherlock's door. He had to be there, of that he was certain, because Sherlock always ended up in trouble without him.
John slowly came to awareness the next morning at the rough shake of his shoulder. He jumped in the chair, bleary eyes discerning the outline of Mycroft standing before him, and when he'd rubbed the sleep out of his eyes he realised the elder Holmes brother was wearing an expression of amusement.
"I do applaud you for you soldierly night watch over Sherlock, John, even when he is already heavily guarded."
John shot him a glare, rubbing at his aching neck. Hospital chairs really were not comfortable enough for sleeping in.
"Spied on anyone yet?" he asked, voice rough from sleep.
Mycroft shook his head. "No, although we have not yet spotted Ethan Slaney on any CCTV. It seems this man is rather clever at disappearing when he wants to, then again he is rather sneaky."
John frowned: how did Mycroft know that? "Right…"
"He's on the Police records for multiple crimes as a young adult, mainly breaking and entering, robbing and so forth. He spent three years in prison when he was twenty one." Mycroft explained. "It seems he must have learnt some tricks over the years."
"Yes, unfortunately." John said, Slaney's tarnished past not surprising him.
"Quite so. Luckily, though, we spotted Jeffrey Straker last night."
John's eyebrows shot up, "Really?"
Mycroft nodded, "Interestingly he was 'at the scene of the crime', just standing against a shop wall, smoking a cigarette for a while. He was gone by the time my people got there, but at least we know he might still be in London. As for Slaney, he could be anywhere."
John hummed in thought, "strange that he should so openly show his face."
Mycroft frowned, "This man is probably arrogant enough to show his face and know that we're watching, proud at what he has done to my brother." Something in Mycroft's tone made John look up at him in surprise. A secret brotherly love for Sherlock had seeped into it, and it made the side of John's mouth turn up slightly.
Mycroft coughed, and the moment was broken. "We will continue to look out for both of them of course, John. Now, I suggest you go and get some breakfast and phone your wife, seeing as that's what husbands are meant to do, isn't it?"
John frowned, fighting a smirk, "Err, yes, I suppose…."
"I shall stay with Sherlock until you return. The Prime Minister was rude enough to cancel on me at the last minute." Mycroft announced, his ever-present umbrella tapping on the floor.
John rose from the chair, feeling surprised at Mycroft and his actions. Mycroft took his seat in one swift move, sitting straight backed and pulling out his phone. John pondered over to the door slowly, looking at the two brothers, Mycroft absentmindedly tapping his umbrella against the floor and Sherlock lying prostrate next to him.
"Right…." he muttered, leaving the room.
"I have people watching our parents, of course." Mycroft said, directing his words to his brother, not taking his eyes off his mobile screen, all reports on Slaney and Jeffry Straker coming back negative. "Although I do not think either Slaney or Straker poses a threat to them, seeing as it's you they are after, and you're not going anywhere are you, Sherlock?"
Mycroft turned to his little brother, taking in his pale and still face and scrutinising it. His brother did seem truly and deeply stuck in a coma. Mycroft sighed, and turned back to his phone.
Exactly twenty two minutes later Mycroft was shocked to hear the beeping of the heart monitor quicken, Sherlock's pulse coming rapid, his breathing speeding up. Mycroft swiftly put his phone away, and leaned forward, frowning. Surely coma patients didn't do this sort of thing? It was almost as if his brother were having a nightmare: his fingers kept twitching, and his brow was creasing ever so slightly. Mycroft took a firm grip on the hand nearest to him.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?"
He kept squeezing Sherlock's hand, thinking that perhaps the physical touch might make him more aware. Was this his brother waking up?
Alas, after a few more moments of this restlessness Sherlock fell back into the still and emotionless sleep of a coma patient, and Mycroft sighed, releasing his grip and making a mental note to tell John about this. John would want to know.
Sherlock became aware again lying on the floor next to the doors that lead to consciousness. He thought back to John's words, "He might still be out for revenge on Sherlock. We'll have to be very careful." How long had it been since that had happened, what was going on around him now?
"Slaney," he muttered, trying to desperately think where this man might be. Ethan had had many girlfriends over the time Sherlock had known him, and almost every time Sherlock had made it his duty to end the relationship; a snide comment here, a deduction there. It was rather fun. Now, he realised, this might be coming back to bite him in the arse…
"Slaney," he muttered again, still mulling over his thoughts over. He was so lost in them that he almost didn't notice when the door to his right swung open, the door that he had first seen when he'd reached the landing.
The loud squeak of its hinges grasped his attention, and he sat up slowly, still feeling terribly achy, his headache still not budging. How tedious. It reminded him of the migraines he had suffered as a child, the ones that had viciously developed as the information in his brain got too much, before he could control it. He was sure those memories were locked in the deepest depths of his mind palace, along with most of the rest of his childhood.
Cautiously Sherlock clambered to his feet, leaning heavily on the wall and he staggered to the open door. He peered inside: all was dark; he could not discern anything at all. Breathing heavily and blinking rapidly Sherlock took the plunge, stepping into what he hoped wouldn't send him further back into his mind. Then again, he was one to take risks.
His shoes slapped against a hard floor, and Sherlock staggered in what he approximated must be a forward direction. He didn't want to venture too far and get lost, how mortifying, but before he could even think about which direction he should go in, a deep and, to most people, unsettling laugh came out of the darkness.
Sherlock squinted, trying to discern which direction it came from, but the laugh seemed to be echoing around him, and then suddenly steps could be heard, loud and confident steps, and the laugh turned into words.
"Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, look what I've done to you." And then Slaney appeared out of the dark, face to face with Sherlock and wearing a smug expression. Slaney shrugged, "I can't say I'm not proud."
Sherlock's breathing got more ragged in anger as well as pain. Slaney observed him up and down, still looking smug. "Why are you in my Mind Palace?"
Slaney locked him in a cold hard stare. "I think we need a talk, don't you?"
Was this his mind trying to give him more information? Or was it simply trying to torment him? Sherlock sniffed and returned the stare, "Yes, I think perhaps we do."
"Well then, I'll go first shall I?" Slaney said, and Sherlock indicated with a nod of his head that he should proceed. "Tell me, Sherlock, how does it feel now that I've messed up your life?"
Sherlock frowned, "You haven't 'messed up' my life: I'm only in a coma."
Slaney shrugged, "Well, you do have a point; the desired objection was to kill you. Then again, I'm sure there's time enough to still do that."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Oh, please." This man was in his head, created by his brain, what did he know?
Slaney laughed, "You should listen to me Sherlock, these aren't just empty words and you know it. I'm out there right now, finding a way to get to you, and all you can do is lie in a hospital bed, stuck in your mind. Look at you, so weak and defenceless. Oh, this is an excellent time for me to have some sugar sweet revenge."
Sherlock tried to control his quickening breathing. "How much more do you want? You've just told me I'm stuck in my mind and apparently 'weak', are you really so hung up about some drugs?"
Suddenly Slaney grabbed the lapels of his coat and shook him roughly. Sherlock couldn't suppress a groan, blinking as stars appeared in front of his eyes. "It wasn't just the drugs, Sherlock. I've spent ten years moving from place to place, hoping not to be noticed by the sodding Police. You cost me five girlfriends, all for the sake of you showing off, you arrogant arse!"
Slaney shook Sherlock again before releasing him from his grasp. Sherlock's legs buckled beneath him and he slumped to the floor, breaths ragged, and groaning in pain. Slaney looked down on him in disgust.
"You…can't hurt me…"
"Oh no, I can't Sherlock, no, not really." Slaney leaned down patronisingly. Sherlock tried to meet his eyes through the shower of stars falling in front of his eyes. "But the real me can. And you know he will. Be warned."
And with that last warning, Slaney walked off into the darkness, shoes clicking on the ground. Sherlock groaned, dragging himself across the ground in what he hoped was the way to the door. He was so tired, so bloody tired after that, but he couldn't afford to be defenceless in here, not when he was apparently defenceless in the 'real world' too.
Finally he caught a dim glow coming from the landing, and he climbed to his unsteady feet, stumbling more than walking until finally he reached the doorway, collapsing out of it and hearing it slam with a heavy thud. He made his way to the double doors again, leaning up against them, breathing heavily. He needed to warn John, needed to tell him that it was very likely Slaney would be coming after him…..
But before he could do anything, Sherlock slumped to the floor, utterly spent and losing to another kind of darkness.
"John," Mycroft said immediately upon John's re-entering Sherlock's room. John looked at him in confusion, as the elder Holmes brother's tone had held an unusual hesitancy.
"Hmm?" he asked, coming forward to Sherlock's bedside.
"My brother just exhibited signs commonly associated with a nightmare: rapid pulse, slight motor movement."
John just stared at him, trying to process Mycroft's words. "But…he shouldn't….coma patients don't…"
"And when have you thought my brother ordinary, John?" Mycroft said, his usual aloofness slowly returning to his voice.
John huffed, assessing the monitors. If Mycroft hadn't just told him what he had witnessed, John would never have thought it had happened at all: Sherlock was as unresponsive as ever.
John stopped himself short of asking Mycroft whether he was sure of what he'd seen, and instead said, "Well, this is…good, excellent really. I mean, this could mean he's waking, Mycroft."
Mycroft stared at his brother, scrutinising him. "Well, let us hope for that. Perhaps my brother dear could shed some light onto the whereabouts of our friend, Mr Slaney."
John hummed in agreement as Mycroft rose from the chair, "Now, I must continue on my business. A killer isn't going to catch himself, is he?"
John nodded, "No, of course. Try and find him, will you?"
Mycroft turned from his position by the door, "Of course, Doctor Watson. Good day."
And with that, Mycroft left.
John sighed, turning to sit in the chair recently vacated and putting his head into his hands. He had insisted his wife stay at home with Elizabeth until Slaney and Straker were found, and as much as he hated taking away her right to visit Sherlock he couldn't bear the thought of his wife and child in danger as well as his best friend. John wished that he could protect all of them at once, but it was too much for one man.
He looked over at Sherlock, "Come on, Sherlock."
Rain had just begun to patter against the window when John's thoughts were broken by the arrival of Kiera, one of Sherlock's regular nurses.
"Hello, Dr Watson, Sherlock." She greeted, going over to check Sherlock's chart and his monitors, checking everything was in order. "Terrible weather at the moment, isn't it?"
John nodded once, "Yes, this storm never seems to stop."
"Maybe you choose a good time to go on holiday as it were, Sherlock." Kiera joked, looking over at Sherlock. John chuckled, and Kiera smiled at him.
"His monitors showed an occurrence earlier on, elevated heart rate and brain activity. These are positives signs, Dr Watson." She assured. "Well, of course you know that…" she added, realising her mistake and shuffling awkwardly away from the bed and from John.
John felt a pang on guilt mixed with second-hand embarrassment in his stomach. "But I appreciate your concern all the same. How are things going for you?" he asked, trying to bring up the casual conversation she and he shared every time she came to check on Sherlock. John had heard all about Kiera's trouble with the bank, and her mother's hip operation. Now he was to hear all about the boyfriend.
"Well, we've only been going out for a while, but he's very caring, he has a great interest in my work." She nattered on whilst checking Sherlock's drips. "And he's got this look about him that makes me so…." She sighed, and John coughed awkwardly. "…and his eyes just sparkle."
John stared, trying not to laugh as he imagined what Sherlock might think of his nurse. "Well, you sound very happy." He said awkwardly, and Kiera seemed to snap out of her trance, smiling weakly at John in apology.
"Everything looks fine, Dr Watson, someone will be back later to check again now that his condition has changed somewhat."
Kiera was on her way to all but fleeing on the room when suddenly a clamouring came from outside Sherlock's room. John heard shouts and cries, and leapt up from his chair, pushing Kiera out of the way and throwing the door open. There was one thought on his mind: Slaney.
"Stay with Sherlock!" he shouted at Kiera before running from the room. If Slaney was there, John was going to protect Sherlock from him no matter what harm it caused his own self. Sherlock was his best friend, by god he would do this.
Sherlock was shaken from the darkness by a loud sound, almost like a crash. He sat up suddenly, head spinning and heart racing. He looked around, getting his bearings, and his heart missed a beat when he saw that the doors to consciousness were open, actually open. All he could see on the other side was white light.
"John." He muttered.
Raising himself on trembling legs he grabbed onto the banister, pulling in a short and sharp breath before throwing himself through the doors.
His body met the floor with a thud, but instead of the cold hard floor of the stairwell the floor was softer, springier. Almost like a mattress. Sherlock peered around him, seeing a corridor lined with a number of doors. Sherlock raised himself up on his arms, blinking hard against the white lights shining in his face. He could hear everything around him, could hear shouts and then John ordering someone: "Stay with Sherlock!"
Oh no. No, no, no. Sherlock knew what this was: this was Slaney. He was closer than ever. In fact, Sherlock knew he would be in his room any second. John. John couldn't be there. Slaney would harm him. Sherlock had to get out his head!
"John!" he called, desperately opening one of the doors on the right, his body protesting at the sudden movement. He was met with the smug, leering face of Slaney, and Sherlock recoiled, moving away from the door, trying the adjacent door on the left, and there was Slaney again, Laughing at him.
"Well, well. Well done, Kiera. Ah, Mr Holmes, there you are. So nice to see you again." Said a voice, and Sherlock froze. Slaney. Slaney was in the room with him. Was John there? What had Slaney done to John? Sherlock felt utterly defenceless. Oh, for god's sake if he could just get out!
Sherlock cried out in frustration, trying the next door, and the next, until all but one door was open. Slaney leered at him from all sides, and Sherlock threw himself at the last door, the shining white lights getting brighter around him, increasing the pounding in his head, his limbs feeling leaden.
"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, look at you. Look what I've done to you." Slaney jeered, and Sherlock could hear him from behind the door, clearer than he had heard anything for a while. He was close, so close.
"Oh, it is a shame that you aren't awake for this, Sherlock. I would have loved to have seen your face."
"NO!" Sherlock growled, grasping at the door handle, pulling and pulling at it until it gave way, until Sherlock was thrown forward with the force of the motion. Suddenly he found himself falling, then the feel of a mattress under him, the sharp sting of an IV line in his hand, the dull throbbing pain of his body abused and unused.
Sherlock suddenly realised he had closed his eyes against the blinding white lights, and he cracked them open, a task almost as hard as breaking through the door and into consciousness. Bleary shapes met him, which formed into an unfocussed figure, which finally resolved itself into the face of Slaney, leaning over him, a murderous grin shaping his lips, raising his arms, holding a large white object. A pillow, Sherlock realised in his bleary state, as Slaney shoved it roughly in his face. And through Slaney's laughter, Sherlock thought that he could hear rain.
Hope you enjoyed, please review etc.
sorry if it seems a little repetitive with the Sherlock bits, but that's all gonna change! and sorry if Slaney seems ALOT like Moriarty, but i couldn't help it coming through!
Happy Reading! TheBritishBourbon x
