Greetings, and welcome back for another chapter of Choosing Love! ^_^
Thank you to Brown Eyed Gril-62 and sweetmarly for their thoughtful and encouraging reviews! Thank you also to everyone who favorited, and/or followed my story. I hope you enjoy this next installment!
Trigger warning: Some of this chapter is from the point of view of the killer, and they aren't very...sane, or nice. Just FYI.
Chapter 8: Denial and Delusions
"You can't hide out in here forever, you know."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, a gesture that Molly, thankfully, could not see, as he was examining a slide of bacteria under a microscope. He'd come to Barts to evaluate the strain of bacterial infection that was the end of Mr. Wallingford. Something about the case still did not sit right with him. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he'd deduced all there was for anyone to deduce. There was the chance he could learn something in this research that would be helpful in other cases, or , even better, that he'd stumble across something that would break open the case once more.
"Jesus you are such a child."
Sherlock lifted his head to make a note on the pad of paper beside him, still ignoring the morgue assistant. He'd chosen Barts as his location because of the resources at his fingertips here. He could order certain supplies for research at 221 B, and had often done so, but for something simple like this, Barts was easier… although he may have to rethink that conclusion if Molly was going to continue to be disruptive like this…
"I will never know what possessed you to order John out of your life like that, but you will regret it, Sherlock. He loved you!"
Sherlock's face was a mask of neutrality as he stared unseeing into the microscope, but his mind whirled with activity.
Regret? He already did. But, even if he had it to do all over again, Sherlock wasn't sure he'd choose any differently. His love for John wouldn't change him, hadn't changed him. John had adapted to fit very neatly into Sherlock's world for a time, but not without a cost.
Sherlock had not missed John's looks of disappointment about interrupted dates, his exhaustion on long cases, or the lengths John had gone through to save Sherlock's life, risking his own on more than one occasion.
Sherlock closed his eyes and concentrated intensely on his breathing until he had better control of his emotions. Giving Molly any kind of attention now would only encourage her, and giving her any inkling of the truth would be disastrous.
Where once there had been a chorus of voices asserting or assuming that John and he were a couple, now they all seemed to be joined as one, encouraging Sherlock to make amends and bring John back.
If Sherlock loved John less he might try, but the more he considered his own feelings, in the deepest part of his mind palace, the more he recognized the depth of his affection and devotion. John was more important than cases. It was a terrifying, but undisputable fact, and that fact alone stilled his hand.
John would have taken steps by now to stabilize his life, he might be pursuing happiness, and may even…
Images of the love mark on Marcus's throat, the mark that had come from John flashed across his mind's eye and he almost winced. It was painful; it hurt to imagine John with someone else. They had never been a couple, but even before he'd been honest about the nature and depth of his own feelings, Sherlock knew he'd been possessive of John. It was hard not to be when John had brought so many good things into his life.
Sherlock had fought John, about the eating, the sleeping, and especially about anything sentimental, but at the same time he'd been grateful for it. Sentiment had never been easy for Sherlock, especially now. John had seen that, and acknowledged the sentiments Sherlock did have, even if he would never admit them.
There were very, very few people Sherlock allowed himself to get close to, and even then only to a point. It wasn't about avoiding liabilities on a professional level, but on a personal one. Moriarty had known who Sherlock had really cared about, and had threatened them all. It would be an easy thing for any advisory to figure out. No, it was Sherlock's own lack of comfort being vulnerable, of allowing someone to affect him past a certain point. John, in his own unassuming way, had slipped right into Sherlock's heart anyway,
Sherlock had heard some saying once, that one could not control who one fell in love with, only what one did about that love. He barely remembered it; he'd paid so little attention. Now he wondered if there wasn't some truth in it; if everyone had less control than they realized. He couldn't not deduce, it was who he was. Doing anything else would have been a fruitless exercise… He was a consulting detective, he was in love with John Watson, and as painful as it may be, he was not going to pursue John. Objectively, John's best chance of happiness was away from Sherlock.
This didn't stop Sherlock's mind from wandering, especially when Molly, or Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade, or even Mycroft were bombarding him with unwitting reminders. One of the other reasons he'd selected Barts as his location of research today was the hope he could escape the constant prodding's of Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, and Lestrade. Molly had, until Sherlock's complete dismissal of John, taken to ignoring him. Now she was becoming more aggressive. She had cut him out of frustration on the same day he'd met Marcus…
She was yelling at him now, but he hadn't been listening. She was venting her own anger and resentments about unrequited affection out onto him. He'd never asked her to fancy him, and as such had been very insensitive to her feelings. That was no great surprise, he was insensitive to a great many people's feelings. It was brilliantly effective during a case and outside of cases it kept the tedium to a minimum.
Sherlock had received countless lectures about the way he treated people, including Molly. He'd ignored them all. He thought he'd deleted them all and yet…
"There are lives at stake, Sherlock. Actual, human lives! J-just so I know, do you care about that at all?!"
"Will caring about them save them?"
John's shoulders fell slightly but his face was resolute in his moral certainty as he shook his head. "Nope."
Sherlock blinked away the memory, not wanting to recall the argument. Now that John was gone Sherlock found himself more distracted than ever. Part of him rebelled at the thought that John was never coming back, but wanting couldn't, and in this case, shouldn't change things. He was going to keep his distance. It was, perhaps, the one unselfish thing he'd ever done.
Because of his own internal distraction, and the incessant nagging of others, Sherlock had been avoiding cases. He'd always been persnickety about the way he selected and worked cases, but his recent avoidance was not part of the game. He would have to return to cases eventually, and the sooner the better. With time, everyone's insistence on John's return would evaporate. If he was very, very lucky, perhaps he would find a way to silence his own thoughts on the matter.
Slowly Sherlock stood, and turned to face Molly. She had quieted for the moment, but her breathing was elevated and she was glaring daggers at him. In other circumstances he might have attempted to lay a hand on her shoulder, or take one of her hands in his, but today that was not going to illicit the desired emotional response.
"I'm sorry I hurt you, Molly," he said quietly. She stiffened, almost gasping, and her eyes widened in shock. "Love is not really my area. Although I do not believe you love me. You are instead enamored with the idea of love, and of me. You don't need that kind of connection to be happy or satisfied, and if you can be happy as you are, you will be in a better position to form a healthy, lasting partnership."
Sherlock paused for a moment and although Molly worked her jaw slightly no words came out, only a small strangled sound.
"I apologize also for disturbing your workspace. I will clean the slides and leave." Sherlock turned back around and immediately made good on his promise. He cleaned the slides properly, and stored them. He even straightened the work area. When he pulled on his coat in preparation for leaving, five minutes later, Molly still had not spoken or moved. Sherlock nodded once to her as he straightened his collar. "Goodnight Molly."
Sherlock tugged open the door and stepped outside the morgue, making his way to the street outside, equally as perplexed by his own actions as the woman he had just left. He didn't waste his time on niceties, he never had. All the lecturing in the world hadn't altered his behavior before…
Sherlock knew behaving well wouldn't bring John back. John would never know what had just happened, and should never know, no matter how 'good' Sherlock might ever behave. He had thoroughly examined why reconciliation wouldn't be beneficial for John, and still he found his behavior altered… It was unfortunate that Molly had taken a liking to him, and he had been unkind, but apologizing wouldn't change the past and would detract from any current or potential cases.
Only cases, as much as he may want to deny it, weren't his only objective anymore, and knowing John Watson had brought out parts of himself he'd completely written off as useless…
Sherlock opened the door to 221 and bounded up the steps. He was nearly inside his flat when Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs after him.
"Yoohoo! Sherlock! Is that you?"
Sherlock cringed and bit back a sarcastic comment about being a burglar. He glanced over his shoulder and called back, "Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I'm on a case."
"Oh." That 'oh' made him want to cringe all over again; it was filled with pity, sympathy, concern, and every other emotion that Sherlock currently found suffocating. He didn't wait for any further comment; he strode forward into 221 B and shut the door behind him. The comments would stop eventually. It was human nature, a subject he prided himself on being an expert of.
Sherlock scanned the flat, his gaze settling on his laptop, peeking out from under a pile of documents and other papers. Nodding to himself, Sherlock strode toward the desk, brushed the papers away with a sweep of his arm, and started hacking.
His research at. Barts, as interrupted as it had been, hadn't revealed anything he didn't already know. If there was anything in the case of Mr. Wallingford's death, a lead might be found by examining Charing Cross Hospital directly. Of course a trip in person wouldn't be nearly as revealing as what he could find electronically. The scene of the crime, if there had been one, was hopelessly contaminated. Here, from behind his own computer, he could hack medical records, security cameras, personnel files, death records, autopsies, and more.
The security for Charing Cross'selectronic hub was laughable; he was inside in less than a minute. Sherlock started with a detailed review of Mr. Wallingford's death and autopsy records…no new information there. Next, Sherlock examined the old security camera feeds around the time of Mr. Wallingford's surgery, and death. There was a lot of data to compile but nothing that seemed to give solid credence to the idea of murder or malpractice.
When specifics surrounding Mr. Wallingford failed, Sherlock broadened his queries. He brought up death records for the last several months and compared them. There was a slight upward trend in hospital deaths, but nothing drastic, nothing truly out of the ordinary. There was no pattern in time, gender, age, or cause of death.
Frustrated, Sherlock moved over to examining staff files. He should have started here in the first place. There was always a chance Mr. Wallingford's murder had been more general, rather than personal.
Sherlock waivered for a moment when he was confronted with the sheer amount of data the personnel files contained. He had known what he was getting into, that relevant data would have to be, for the most part, hand counted, as the indicators of a potential murderers were not charted or documented so thoroughly as deaths and the causes thereof. There had been nothing solid in this case to indicate foul play, and his time was too valuable to waste.
Still… what did he have to lose? He had no promising experiments at the moment, and barring late night self-referrals he had not accepted new cases for a worrying amount of time… He could practice his skills on the data before him until the morning, then return one of Lestrade's numerous texts or phone calls asking for assistance. The mounting concern evident in the texts and messages he received from both Mycroft and Lestrade rankled. The fastest way to quiet them both, would be to return to his own version of 'normal.'
Lestrade had sent him information on the most basic of cases recently, the pity he felt for Sherlock readily apparent. It was a good thing for both of them that he actually had a case above a six in his queue. No matter how hard up he was, Sherlock would never, ever work cases even the Yard could solve.
Resolved on his course of action, Sherlock began reviewing Charing Cross'semployees. His leads had been so few that he wanted to be as thorough as possible. Any senior employee was suspect as they would have had more time to develop a grudge or vendetta against Charing Cross. Likewise the newer employees required review because, at least in the case of Mr. Wallingford, the possible nefarious actions were scarcely three months old. Senior employee or recent hire, Sherlock examined every file, practicing his profiling skills.
Hours passed in a state vaguely better than general tedium, that is to say Mrs. Hudson's walls were safe for the moment, but there were no new leads. Sherlock clicked through the electronic database of present employees, scanning names, interview questions and responses, psychological evaluations (if they were present), and other personal information.
Sherlock glanced at the time, grateful it was close to 7am. This wasn't the best of distractions, but it would do for another two hours until Lestrade would call, as he had been in the unfortunate habit of doing every morning for the last week. Sherlock clicked to the next page of files and felt his heart stutter in his chest as his eyes locked on a name halfway down said page.
Watson, John H. Physician.
Sherlock opened the file reflexively, eagerly, and before he could think better of it. His chest tightened when John's picture loaded on the screen, along with the rest of his employee file. For several long minutes Sherlock could do nothing but stare at the picture and deduce.
John was tired, sleeping less than five hours a night when he functioned best at the textbook eight. He was happy about the job. Excitement and determination both played on John's face, and Sherlock instantly understood him. Just as he had suspected, John had sought to stabilize his life, and part of that had included securing more regular employment. It made sense. His work at the surgery had trickled down to a very limited part time schedule over the past year.
Guilt stabbed at Sherlock's conscience. He was the cause of the sleepless nights. He was a significant part of the reason that, while genuine, John's smile barely touched his eyes. John was happy, was taking steps, but part of his actions were simply going through the motions.
Sherlock fingers shook and he ached to make things right, but he reminded himself he already was doing everything in his power. John was taking his steps, and Sherlock needed to stay back and let it happen.
Sherlock's eyes darted down the page in front of him, noting John's new address. Safe older building not far from Charing Cross. That was promising. A short commute generally lead to greater overall satisfaction with one's employment and one's personal life. Sherlock riffled through his mind palace for everything he had on John's building. Those were owned flats, not rented. John had decent savings, but not enough to buy. Was he living with a new flatmate? Most likely.
Sherlock's fingers were poised over the keys of his laptop, ready to research the building John was living in, find the owner's name, and run an extensive background check… but he stopped himself. Not because it might be considered rude or invasive, those considerations rarely even registered with Sherlock. No, he stopped himself because he trusted John and he knew himself.
John had served in a war zone, he had been shot. He knew how to take care of himself, how to survive. Sherlock, on the other hand, was tenacious. He followed every clue where it led regardless of the consequences. If he began investigating John's flatmate he wouldn't leave it alone. He would push and push until he was all but stalking them, looking for a flaw, a failing, and John would figure it out eventually.
Again it wasn't John's possible anger or lectures that gave Sherlock pause, it was the pain such a meeting might cause. Leaving 221 B had been more than difficult for John. Sherlock knew that John loved him, that John still loved him, and because he loved John back, he couldn't bring himself to hurt John any further, not if he could help it.
Instead, Sherlock found himself shifting his focus. He reviewed the scheduled shifts for the day, his heart stuttering when he found Johns' name on the roster. This was bad. He was afflicted by every chemical reaction, inconvenience, and judgment impairment he'd ever railed against when deigning to discuss love…and he didn't care. As much as the current situation pained him and as much as it distracted from his work, Sherlock knew he wouldn't change his feelings even if he could. That was dangerous, because it made him start to wonder how things might have been different, if only…
Desperate for a distraction from that line of thinking, Sherlock put his fingers to work and hacked Charing Cross's security cameras. This wasn't really a solution, but it was the least damaging alternative. A video feed opened on his screen and he shifted through several different cameras and angles, searching for the one doctor he needed to see.
Sherlock's lips quirked in an almost smile when John's image finally filled the screen. His heart calmed, and his breathing evened out. His fingers twitched with the repressed urge to touch the screen.
He didn't sigh like some love besotted teenager…but idling his time like this was almost as bad. Even so, he couldn't make himself turn away. Mycroft would know he'd hacked Charing Cross's security cameras and would try, and fail, to restrict Sherlock's access to said cameras. Mycroft would then phone him, and would even come to visit after a time, but those were all consequences for another day.
Sherlock watched John greet his colleagues, he watched him tend to his patients, and he watched him completing his documentation. He read John's lips as he spoke, because the video offered no sound, and he watched John's hands quickly and deftly assess and sooth those in his care. It should have been tedious, but it wasn't. Sherlock felt his pulse quicken and his head spin as the neurochemicals associated with love pulsed into his blood stream.
Sherlock knew John well, and, after several minutes, began to use that knowledge in conjunction with his lip reading skills to try to beat John to the correct diagnosis for his patients. It was a poor replica of a conversation, but it was something. Time bled away like sand through an hourglass.
When Lestrade's daily call finally did come, Sherlock very nearly missed it.
He strolled through the corridors of the familiar hospital with a smile on his face. It was hard to think of how much had changed since he was a boy. As a child he would run rampant through the halls pestering the staff with endless questions, examining all the equipment he could get his hands on, and dreaming of the day when he would take his father's place.
For all the great expectations placed upon him, he almost hadn't achieved his birthright. It wasn't from a lack of commitment; no he'd earned his medical degree as soon as they would let him. He'd been full of such unrealistic hopes and dreams of making a difference, while also growing his father's business. It was those very idealistic plans that had motivated him through most of his younger years that sickened him now.
Up until his young adulthood he had railed against the cold distance in professional politics. The thought of showing preference to someone because they were rich or powerful but not because they were useful or valued as a person had seemed like the end of all common decency. He'd been determined to break the barriers and show everyone that he could be genuinely engaging with patients and investors alike, while also being true to himself. He'd offered up his heart freely and it had been ripped from him in a crucible that left him forever changed.
Where his previous modesty had made confident self-presentation a trial, now it was easy. He had a smile for every person that crossed his path, a genuine one that reached his eyes. He worked hard to gain the trust and respect of everyone around him. Before he had rebelled against the seemingly heartless side of business, but now he utilized his social skills and reputation to do what had to be done and, more than once he'd had others thank him for a cutthroat business maneuver simply because of the way he had presented it to them, and how he had acted.
He touched other people more easily now; won their hearts and confidence. While he didn't shy away from the necessities of his business, which before had seemed so revolting, he completed his tasks with an apparent warmth and empathy that smoothed the way and left nothing but good feelings in his wake. He was, in some respects, almost everything he had ever hoped to be: a doctor, a business man, someone who appeared to balance the demands of his job and push forward for the betterment of everyone involved, and caring had made all the difference in the world.
When he was younger he had the majority of the skills he now applied so ruthlessly, but the fact that he had cared about making a difference, getting things right, and making other people happy had destroyed all his efforts. He'd been too hesitant or nervous to make a strong impression and was left floundering, barely on the edge of other people's consciousness. Now, he didn't care. Not about people, not about his patients, not about any part of the world at large. He was freed from the fear of getting it wrong and now, when he did seem to err, whether by accident or design, it made him seem more approachable, relatable, and added to his overall charm. In the place of all the lofty goals of his youth, a single and consuming goal had taken their place: revenge.
He would have revenge if it was the very last thing he ever did.
It didn't matter what happened to him, if he was killed at the end of everything it would almost be a blessing. Before he died, though, he would end every single person that had ever contributed to his suffering. He wasn't after petty rivalries, those had all been burned away by his greater focus. A very specific group of people had contributed significantly to his suffering, and he was in the process of returning the favor. Several people were already dead thanks to his careful planning.
His smile widened at the thought and he nodded at a passing orderly who waved back at him with an answering smile. It had taken him a very long time to feel joy because of other people's pain, but now it was the only joy left to him. The foolish, reckless boy he had been was irreparably broken by the complete destruction of everything he had ever cared about. He had railed against it, had fought every step of the way to keep some scrap of hope, connection, love, but they had all been taken from him, and those that had at one time crushed him with no more thought than one would take in crushing an insect had already begun to feel the effects of their actions.
He was smarter than he'd ever been given credit for, and he had been careful. He'd moved slowly, built himself up and established a spotless reputation. He'd made a point of moving slowly and varying his methods. It was absolutely vital that no one saw him coming, that his actions held no pattern and would not be detected. He would not be denied. Not now. Not after waiting for so long.
His last victim had been so much fun. He'd toyed with him for months. A little poison here, a different poison there; nothing too strong, just enough to make him miserable. Then he'd introduced a powerful infection. The victim had been getting so many shots and infusions it was easy to slip in the contaminated medication. He hadn't given the injections himself, but it had been all too easy to contaminate the needles after they had been prepped. Other people had likely been slightly inconvenienced because it had been necessary to contaminate multiple needles. The doses had been relatively small, but frequent enough to destroy his victims already weakened immune system. When death had finally come, it had left his victims body as wasted as his morals.
He had attended the funeral, naturally. It was necessary to appear to 'show support' for such an important and influential patient. He was very good at controlling his expressions, and had made all the appropriate gestures of sadness and condolences, while secretly preening over his success.
Enough time had passed that he could now move again. He had another victim slotted for death, and while her death would be quick, it would also be agonizing and personal. This would be one of the few deaths which he would administer personally. He'd been exacting about selecting this specific time, a time he was known for being on rounds throughout the hospital, so it wouldn't look suspicious that he was walking the halls. He had selected a time when staff were not scheduled or expected in the patient's room, between nursing assessments, and a time when there were mostly new residents on staff. They still had the regulation amount of practiced physicians, but the residents would be the first ones on scene and anything amiss would be easily overlooked or the blame placed elsewhere.
He turned the corner into a corridor that was, as expected, unoccupied. He slipped quickly into his victims room, an easy smile on his face. His victim was sleeping, to be expected given the sedatives the victim was on for pain management. The dose was within the guideline, but he had used his administrative privileges to change the amount ordered, and how often, without leaving a trace.
He slipped the needle from his pocket, uncapped it and drew in a sizable amount of air. Then he gathered the patient's intravenous line in one hand and pressed the needle into the medication port. His eyes narrowed in wicked satisfaction as he quickly depressed the plunger and just as quickly plucked out the needle and turned away. The pocket of air had a reasonable distance to travel before it made it through the tubing and into his patient's blood stream, not long, but just long enough for him to make his exit. He capped the needle and slipped it back into his pocket with one hand as he pushed open the door with the other. The hallway was still empty, as planned. His revenge was too important to leave anything to chance. He heard the wailing of the code alarm attached to the patient's monitors just as he slipped inside the stairwell, and his smile widened.
