Chapter Nine: Home Is Where the Heart Is
Sherlock looked down at the chip, a look of disgust on his face. It read 'I O U'. Of course, as if almost burning my brother alive and trying to get my only friends to catch me escaping a burning building isn't enough. He thought malevolently.
Mycroft stared at him from the hospital bed, new, fresh, raw skin covering the majority of his body; all except his politically perfect face. A little bit of therapy and a chip removal has allowed him to not react violently to his brothers' face.
Sherlock twiddled the chip, throwing it up in the air and catching it before stowing it in his pocket. The timid sensation Mycroft's intense stare gave him could not be lessened by distractions. Sherlock felt uncomfortable providing his full attention, knowing what Mycroft had to say, but knew their meeting could not adjourn before he heard his brother speak. To speak requires full attention, according to Mycroft.
"Sherlock, Moriarty is just going to go after John now, you know." Mycroft said in a brittle voice.
'Nice to see you too, brother. Glad you didn't die when you jumped off that building, just to let you know, the article I read on it in my cushioned chair at the Diogenes Club was truly biased. What a shame.' Sherlock mocked Mycroft in his head defectively. He glanced at his brother's amputated foot shamefully, and then reverted back to providing his full attention.
"You need to protect him." Sherlock began to feel rage rising in him.
"Isn't that why I jumped off the damn building to begin with? So those assassins living on every side of our flat wouldn't kill him?" Sherlock spat.
"Dear brother, we are no longer dealing with any assassin, we're dealing with the world's smartest man and most dangerous criminal, one who somehow managed to survive a bullet to the head – unless you've figured out how he did it." Mycroft replied evenly. Sherlock scowled.
And what could your government goons have possibly done so that you can assuredly say that we aren't dealing with any assassins?
Sherlock had circled around Moriarty himself – there nothing hiding on the back of his head to release blood (with the trigger of the gun as a remote), and the gun wasn't a fake. But Sherlock could not know for sure what had happened because he had closed his eyes. He pressed both his palms against his forehead, squeezing his eyes tightly shut.
"No, I haven't a clue."
"Of course you don't." Mycroft's tone remained neutral. "I have nothing left to say except to reiterate that you need to protect John, you need to tell him you're alive - and soon - so that you can properly keep him out of Moriarty's grasp. You need him, Sherlock, maybe more than he needs you." Mycroft's clear eyes glinted, was that emotion? The man that told me that caring is not an advantage? Is this a 'last wish'?
Irene had warned Sherlock outside that every wound on Mycroft's body was riddled with infection, and his wounds were extensive. Some of the infections were severe, but they believed he would make it through. Sherlock did not need to hear this, he had clearly identified the worst infections Mycroft had and mentally prescribed him with the proper medication. Mycroft would doubtlessly survive, especially with his connections to the best doctors around.
Mycroft expressed doubt, though. He implied that Sherlock needed John to look out for him as an older brother, in place of Mycroft's constant spying with cameras and even phone taps. What deep signs of caring.
Sherlock did need John to help him, not a question to it, but John had, as of late, been safer without Sherlock. Friends protect people. John had said it himself. The fact that Sherlock needed John was irrelevant, because to protect John, John needed Sherlock to stay away.
To reassure himself that his brother would not be left in poor care, Sherlock stole a doctor's lab jacket, name tag, and overall attire. He left the nurses specific instructions on what to administer Mycroft and to obey only these instructions, 'a government official's life is on the line'. Irene watched the whole scene, admiring and amused.
They truly were masters of disguise, Sherlock thought, remembering to question Irene.
Lestrade's fingers wrapped tightly around John's wrists, his grip was unexpectedly strong for such an exhausted, overworked man. John yanked to free himself, pulling from his shoulders, half-crazed and half desperate to jump straight into the fire.
"NNNNO" He hissed through clenched teeth. Lestrade's feet started to slip on the loose, sandy ground and John pulled the pair of them forward in a Clydesdale manner. Lestrade fell back as John freed his hands and flew toward the flames.
John could not feel the hot metal fry the skin on his palms as he shoved the door back. He hardly acknowledged the white-hot searing pain that began to lick at his skin; horrible, fiery skeleton arms grabbing at his loose clothing and clinging, the vicious fingers teasingly stroking through to his moist, sweaty back. He was only aware of Mycroft – a soldier never leaves a man behind.
Suddenly, John felt it all. The horrible fingers of fire ensnaring him. The smoke beginning to fill his lungs, clouding his mind in an ashy haze. The strength to cough was long gone; the strength to resist the tugging sensation pulling him backwards was nonexistent.
"Are you out of your bloody mind?" Lestrade sputtered. Both men grasped their knees, doubled over, heaving desperately for air. John batted out the small flames still clinging to him hopefully, as if they were trying to keep him as another victim. Lestrade regained his grip, holding John around his arm, which was tense and ready to spring into an animated sprint as soon as John could push the smoke from his throat. "You're not going anywhere. Wait for the fire department."
John gave Lestrade a steely glare.
The cool air soothed his scorched back; his front was being warmed by the glow of the factory, which was completely engulfed by flames. The heat made his burnt hands ignite in pain - John desperately wanted to clench them and enclose the unbearable blistering heat emanating from under his skin, but knew the agonizing consequences. Instead, he compressed his lungs, deflated his chest, and pulled his rib cage inward until his sternum ached from the pressure. He stood there, trying his hardest to force his body to implode as he watched Mycroft's chances of escape dwindle to none. The roof gave a low groan, tilting inwards briefly before crashing down.
John shut his eyes tight, knitting his eyebrows together and casting his head down. The wail of sirens became barely audible in the distance, but Lestrade did not make a comment to assure John that Mycroft would now be pulled out by professionals with masks and fire-proof suits. He only stood next to John, letting his grip loosen and his hand fall to rest on his own hip, symmetrical to his other hand. His head too, like John, fell down from its strong and reassuring, high-chinned position.
Any measurement of time could not be applied to the following period. Suited fire-fighters shoved past the bested men. An ambulance pulled up behind the pair, faceless hands pulling them back, treating them, asking questions, but Lestrade and John could not hear or feel. They were numb to time, place, and feeling; they only observed all the action around them, like watching a silent play. The actors played their parts well, executing the scene perfectly. Through shock-addled eyes, the process alternated from figures whipping around the site in a blur to slow, highly defined motion. The break of daylight broke this trance, and John and Lestrade suddenly became aware of what had happened.
Firefighters had sifted through the rubble, scouring the remains for any sign of a burned corpse. Their chief stood in front of John and Lestrade, scrunching up his pale and soot-smeared face in the suns glare. The ambulance had apparently disappeared in the time that-had-no-effect. The firefighter spoke, wringing his gloves anxiously in his scarred hands.
"There was no body."
The four words struck John like a brick wall.
"Alright. Thanks, Chief." Lestrade croaked. The sooty man closed his eyes and pressed his mouth tightly shut, nodding in understanding. John wasn't sure what the man was understanding. "Let's head out." This was spoken to John.
The blogger cocked his head to the side. "What?"
"Home. Let's get you home."
Lestrade pulled up next to John's dingy, cramped flat. Oh. He thought. Was he expecting 221B, Baker Street?
The answer is yes.
John wordlessly parted, Lestrade too consumed by a long text on his phone for a goodbye.
John hung his coat without even glancing into the dim flat, turning around to face a sight that made him nearly jump out of his skin.
He lurched from the horrid vision, calling to Lestrade, screaming, practically crying out for him. John didn't realize until his fists slammed on the roof of the car that Lestrade was already by his side, eyes wide and terrified.
John led him into the flat.
From the moment they walked in, the stench of death seeped into their nostrils. The first thing John would have seen, had he not hung his jacket, would have been a man, slumped at his desk, one stiff hand with fingers dangling over the keyboard to his laptop, ready to dance across the keys to describe an adventurous day but held above the keys by the hesitation and self-doubt his depression brought on. The man's face was even posed to reflect John's expression entirely – deep in thought, engrossed with wordless ideas behind his eyes, mirrored through every line on his face.
As they move forward, two more bodies were positioned in a Watson-manner. One sat at the edge of a chair, one hand on a cane, frozen in the middle of opening his hand to re-clench the handle, a subconscious habit John suddenly became aware of.
The other lay on top of John's bed. Hands entwined behind his head and a bullet wound straight through his chest – the shirt was still stained with blood. His eyes were open and gazing at a fixed point between him and the ceiling, also absorbed by his thoughts – possibly a nostalgic one (based on John's reminiscent thoughts while he lay awake in bed during insomnia-riddled nights). This victim was the only one with an obvious cause of death.
On John's bedside table was a note, horrible scrawling handwriting in thick, heavy ink.
"This man's bullet was meant for you, John Hamish Watson." John shivered slightly. "You are lucky that Mycroft had all these wonderful friends of mine stopped, or else you wouldn't have made it very long. In fact, you're lucky that Sherlock jumped off of St. Bart's, or you would've died right then and there.
You're forever in debt to the Holmes brothers, aren't you, John?
Mycroft still managed to make it this long, though he is in pretty bad conditions at the hospital. I'd visit while I still had time, if I were you. Then again, you could always just hang around here and make friends with your new roommates.
I'll see you very soon, Doctor."
The note wasn't signed. It didn't have to be.
John felt queasy, the floor gently tilted from left to right underneath him, he wondered how Lestrade stood so steadily. John stowed the note hastily in his pocket, noticing for the first time his hands were bandaged.
"Carbon Monoxide." Lestrade said after ten minutes had passed in silence.
"Hm?" John replied.
"The bodies were positioned with carbon monoxide. 'S why they're so rigid."
"Right."
Lestrade's team busted through the door in a loud congregation. John took this opportunity to slip past and leave as they got busy.
Again, his feet carried him back to Baker Street, and John let them. He craved safety, an asylum of familiarity filled with warm and comforting memories. Mrs. Hudson was not in, but John was thankful. He didn't want to give any explanations or excuses for his return, he didn't want to sit and talk over tea either. John only longed for the familiar smells of experiments-gone-wrong, even if they were faded and stale.
He closed the door behind him, hoping that if anyone discovered he was back in his rightful dwelling they would not bother him. John sat in his favorite chair and closed his eyes, letting himself slip into a trance.
