Chapter Ten
I was back in the flat and sitting in the bathtub. How had that happened? How did I get there? There was blood in the bath, running off my wet clothes, and I could feel the insuppressibly strong bubble of tears just beneath the surface as confusion and frustration welled up.
Finally, for the first time since my childhood, I let go and I began cry in earnest. I'm not ashamed to say that I was frightened. In fact, I was terrified and utterly overwhelmed by it all.
This was the final proof; I was a freak. In fact, I was worse; I was probably a murderer. I might have killed my best friend, and even if I hadn't then I would have to leave 221b. How could I ever face him again? And that was only if I hadn't choked the life out of him. How would I cope without John?
Guilt washed over me and I dropped my head into my hands. The sobs must have gotten louder because there was a soft click and the bathroom door opened slowly. Lestrade's head appeared, hesitantly, around the doorway and he peered down at me,
"Sherlock?" He spoke in a hushed voice, gentle and soothing. He was probably expecting me to start frothing at the mouth, if startled. Really, I didn't trust myself not to lose it. I couldn't be sure of anything anymore; I was out of control. Lestrade brought me back from the brink gently, coaxing me to calm down with gentle shushing noises, before asking, "Is that you? Or is it one of the… others?"
I shook my head, ashamed that he even had to ask that,
"It's me. Oh God, I can't even be sure of it myself, but I think it's me." He had stepped into the light, no longer a shadowed silhouette, and I could see that his nose had been stuffed with wads of tissue to stop the bleeding. It was crooked now, bending to one side, and clearly broken. I would have to get Mycroft to pay for cosmetic surgery, or it would never look right again. Both of his eyes were blackened and blood was spread around an ugly gash on his forehead, from where he had hit the fireplace, "I'm so sorry… I can't… I can't control it—"
"Stop beating yourself up about this, Sherlock. It's not your fault; it's alright—"
"No, it's not!" He flinched slightly at my shout and I recoiled, shrinking further in on myself, "I'm so sorry, for everything. I could have killed you, Lestrade." He smiled, a hint of the carefree Lestrade showing through for a second,
"It'll take a lot more than that for you to take me down."
He crouched down beside the bathtub and reached out to push the curls from my face, like a father with his young child; his every movement was soft and tender and measured – so as not to startle me. When he spoke, it was little more than a murmur, but it was utterly convincing, "It's not your fault, Sherlock." I tried to open my mouth, "No, listen to me now. You're sick, and that isn't your fault; that's your father's fault. You can't help it that these personalities are taking control of you, so you need help. John and I are going to provide that as best we can, but you have to get professional help as well."
"I will, I promise. I promise I will." He looked surprised, "What's that look for?"
"I've known you five years, and you spent the entirety of that first year as an addict refusing help. I never thought you'd give in so easily."
"I've never tried to kill my closest friends before."
He pulled me in for a hug before I could refuse – not that I would have. I simply let the warmth and sharp tang of aftershave reassure me, to let me know that he was alive. He enveloped me in the comfort I so desperately craved, and I couldn't stem the flow of tears into his blood-stained shirt.